The Cry of the Sloth

by Sam Savage

  I know what you are thinking, because I know how your mind works when it comes to my ideas. You are going to say, “What about the flowers? You said there seem to be flowers in that vase-like object in the window. I suppose you had flowers sprouting out of your head. Ha ha.”

  To this I respond: Why do you say those are flowers and not, say, feathers? For the nonce, instead of flowers, why not imagine an Indian headdress—how would that look? I don’t remember owning one of those, but I don’t remember not owning one either. In fact, I said those stalk-like things looked like flowers only because one expects flowers in a vase; but if it is a head, then they look like feathers. And if they look like feathers, then that thing is a head, a forlorn little head with its nose pressed to the screen.

  Exhibit Two. Once again a car stands at the center. This time it’s a station wagon of a make I can’t identify. Papa and some man I don’t recognize are standing behind the car. Each is holding a large fish by the gills, holding it high for the camera. Both are smiling, though the fish the other man holds is definitely larger than Papa’s. I try to see whether Papa minds, but the photo is too small. I do, however, notice that the other man is holding his fish a little higher than Papa, which, considering his fish is heavier, might mean that he is prouder, or maybe just that he is stronger. At this period Papa was probably not very strong. He looks overweight and flabby. There are bags under his eyes, as if he were having difficulty sleeping, as he did later on after the psoriasis got out of control. You can see a lake on the other side of the car. At first glance, mesmerized by the fish, a casual viewer probably would not notice much else. But if he continues to look, as I did, especially if he uses a magnifier and applies the grid principle, he will eventually notice that something—or someone—is in the back seat of the station wagon. It looks at first glance like a large spaniel. Since we owned a series of springers, this interpretation cannot be ruled out with absolute certainty. On the other hand, it could just as well be the head of a boy wearing one of those hats with fur-lined ear flaps, with the flaps untied and hanging down. Once again, the mere fact that I don’t remember such a hat cannot be used to exclude it, since I don’t remember much of anything. If everything we do not remember did not exist, where would we be? Of course it seems to be a rather hot day for a fur hat, but maybe I was already self-conscious about my head being perhaps a trifle too small. Besides, why would a dog be sitting inside the car on such an obviously pleasant day? Is the dog angry because it didn’t catch a fish? Does it sulk? Does it have tantrums?

  Exhibit Three. This photo does not at first seem to be of anyone I know. For a third time a car occupies center stage, now locked in tight embrace with a panel truck. The photo shows the aftermath of a collision between a dark four-door sedan and a mid-sized delivery vehicle. The sedan has got the worst of it, grill and right fender hideously crushed. A policeman is leaning in at the window of the sedan, apparently talking to a person seated behind the steering wheel, though that person is concealed from us by the glare of the sun on the windshield. A sizeable crowd has gathered on the sidewalk across the street in front of a small store; I can tell it’s a store by the Coca-Cola sign above the door. At first glance the crowd seems to be composed only of grown-ups. I do not, however, let myself become discouraged by this impression, and I continue to work my way step by step across the grid: yes, that really is a shoe, that really is a hat, that really is an elbow. And that, oh yes, that is a very small face. It is peering out from behind the voluminous skirt of an enormously obese woman. It is the face of a boy with blond hair, a furtive boy with blond hair who evidently does not want to be in the picture, or else he would not be hiding behind the fat woman’s skirt; he would be out gawking with the rest of the folks. I know I would be out gawking, unless … And of a sudden the curtain rises, the entire scene shifts and becomes an altogether different scene, as in those drawings where a rabbit morphs precipitously into a duck for no other reason than that someone has remarked, “That’s a duck.” In similar fashion, the moment I said to myself, “That is not a picture of a traffic accident,” the car and the truck fell away, became just incidental clutter in the foreground, while the face of the boy—now more frightened than furtive—lurched into prominence at the exact center of the photo, leaped forth, so to speak, as the true subject of the picture. Clearly this photo was someone’s attempt to establish documentary proof (for Mama? for the Truant Officer?) that the boy was not where he was supposed to be (in school? at the dentist?). I tremble with excitement, I close my eyes, and Peg’s little face, squinting from behind her box camera, floats into view. And there she is crawling under the house, where I am curled in the dirt next to the chimney, and if she gets any closer I am going to kick her.

  Apart from my detective work, things here are not shaping up. My novel, which was meant to be comic, is not turning out as I envisaged. It has acquired an overlay of desperation which I doubt readers will find funny. And I spend too much time not doing anything. I sold the television last week. I don’t turn on any lights unless I really have to. I find I can do most things in the dark, and I seldom read or write after sunset. I would like to say, “I sit in the dark and ponder,” but I don’t; I sit in the dark and fret. The rest of the time I sit in the blue and fret. I don’t know how things have arrived at this sorry pass. (I say that, and I see the “things” struggling up a narrow trail in the high mountains toward a pass that is already blocked by snow.) Which decision was the wrong one? Or were there five wrong ones, or a thousand? People like to say that each moment presents us with a fork on our life path: I sit at my desk instead of going to the window, where perhaps I would have been hit by a brick, or going for a walk in the park, where I would have met a beautiful woman, a mugger, a man selling insurance, or no one at all; walking to the store, I turn on this street rather than that street; and everything is different forever. Have you ever wondered if the same thing might be true in the other direction? Going backwards, there are also choices to be made every step of the way, each item revived in memory only the first link of a new mnemonic chain, and every new chain recreating a different past, constructing a different album of photos, unpacking another box of forgotten treasures—a different past, which must of necessity be the past of a different present, a different future, a different person. The floor seems to drop away beneath us. A thousand personalities crowd onto our little stage. I see now that I can say anything I want.

  I find myself crying about Mama.

  I fret about the literary festival. I foresee a complete bust. I seem to make enemies right and left. Meanwhile the house grows increasingly unmanageable. I had put almost everything up in boxes, but then I had to take it all out again. Now I am trying to put it back in again. I feel overwhelmed by disorder. I don’t know where it’s coming from. Beneath the sills? Through the cracks in the floorboards? Out of the light fixtures? The heat vents? It feels like an invasion of devouring ants. I open my mouth and they swarm out of it all over my shirt.

  Love,

  Andy

  ¶

  Dear Dahlberg,

  Doing those kind of things to your body is not going to make you a writer. NO ONE wants to hear about them. You MUST find someone to help you. But I am not that person. While I wish you happiness and good fortune, I am not going to open any letters you send in the future. Don’t waste your time as they will fly straight into the trash can.

  Andy

  ¶

  To the Editor:

  I read with interest the stimulating letter from Dr. Hawktiter on the subject of Andrew Whittaker, in which he points out how fortunate we are to have a writer of Mr. Whittaker’s caliber in our midst. That is certainly the case. And it is true even for those of us who are not aware that he is here, for there is something to be said for living in a cultured community even if one does not partake of it personally, choosing TV over the stimulus of a good book. That is their right. However, I am not concerned here with Whittaker the controversial author. Let others jud
ge his literary merits. Let others criticize if they dare his courageous support of struggling artists. No, I am concerned not with Andrew Whittaker, but with Andy, the man who lives across the street.

  Six years ago an automobile accident snuffed out the lives of my husband Rob and my infant daughter Clarissa Jane and left me paralyzed from the waist down, confined to a wheelchair. One doesn’t know how one goes on living after a tragic event like that, but somehow one does. And one can, thanks to small things like bird songs and game shows, and, let me add, thanks to big-hearted people like Andy. The day I came home from the hospital, he was there, a stack of books in his arms. I remember his gentle smile and the moisture in his eyes when he looked at my face, which was terribly mutilated. It was Andy who that very afternoon went through the closets and drawers and carried away all Rob’s suits and shirts so I would never have to face those reminders of happier days.

  How many times over the years since have I heard the merry jingle of the doorbell announcing one of his impromptu visits? He always does the shave-and-a-haircut thing on the bell. I laugh to think of it. Such a boyish thing to do, and yet so endearing. He possesses, how shall I put it? a spiritual bounciness that is totally contagious. After his visits I would find myself scooting about the house in my chair until the battery was quite dead. And my attendants love him too, especially the young girls, to whom he shows an old-world courtesy, though even the old ones are cajoled into allowing an occasional peck on the cheek. Dear old Andy. One day he comes with a loaf of raisin bread that he has baked himself, another day it’s a single flower plucked from the park or an autumnal leaf that has caught his eye and that he hopes will bring me a little pleasure, light a match, as it were, in the dark corridor of my days. At other times, particularly on rainy days when there is nothing to be seen out the window, he will read to me from the classics, his sonorous voice wafting from room to room as he strides about the house in dramatic renditions of Ahab or Blind Pew or Count Dracula. He sometimes frightens the young attendants with these performances. We hardly know our gentle friend. But of course it’s all in fun, and eventually they come back inside.

  And then there are the marvelous meals he drops off in foil-covered plates, complete with a glass of either rouge or blanc as the dish may require. He has a discerning palate, though perhaps a bit overbearing when it comes to Indian spices. But this is so much his character that I never say anything, preferring just to do my best and drink a lot of water. Sometimes he stops by just for a little chat, and once when I had swallowed an eraser he saved my life. One of my great regrets is that I had no other children besides Clarissa Jane (and of course now it’s too late). Such a pleasure it would have given them to have “Uncle Andy” drop by for a romp on the rug. As it is, my little dog Charlie is crazy about him as are all my nieces and nephews, though they rarely visit now. Their mother still blames me for Rob’s death, though it was his idea for me to drive. And I was in a lot better shape than he was. Only my cats remain standoffish with Andy. Perhaps this is not because they don’t like him but because they really do, and they sense that he is allergic to them. Poor Andy, he is allergic to so many things, not just cats and trees and flowers, but even to something like Pledge furniture polish which most people consider innocuous despite the warning on the label. You would be amazed at how many people use Pledge. Andy says he feels completely surrounded by it. Many a time I have looked out my window (I often sit at my window) and have seen Andy in one of Rob’s suits, worn now and shiny at the knees, leaning against a telephone pole, his nose streaming, while he struggles to catch his breath. And this is the man certain people would harry from pillar to post! I think we should all join Dr. Hawktiter in saying down with that!

  Sincerely,

  Dyna Wreathkit

  ¶

  TO ALL TENANTS: MANAGEMENT HAS RECEIVED NOTICE FROM THE FIRE MARSHAL CONCERNING BICYCLES, STROLLERS, AND TOYS IN THE HALLS. THESE ITEMS ARE HAZARDOUS IN HALLS AND NEAR STAIRWAYS AND MUST BE KEPT IN YOUR APARTMENTS OR IN THE BASEMENT AT ALL TIMES. ITEMS FOUND IN VIOLATION WILL BE TRANSPORTED TO THE SALVATION ARMY.

  THE MANAGEMENT

  ¶

  Dear Mr. Freewinder,

  There is really no need for apologies. I understand perfectly that your first duty is to American Midlands, and well it should be, for I dare say there is no finer bank of its size anywhere, especially now that you have that big new sign. I think making it out of bricks was a grand idea. Bricks, especially stacked several rows thick like that, convey a feeling of solidity, which the people who have entrusted their savings to you must find comforting indeed. I can’t imagine how a sign made of wood—I am thinking of the plywood trifle they have over at First National—could reassure to the same degree. I wonder if the story of the three pigs had any influence on your decision to go brick. If it did, then you will probably think, when you read what I have to say, that I am like the foolish pig who built his house out of straw. If this turns out to be the case—and that will be for you to judge—then Whittaker Company might be so fragile at this time that it would be cruel and unwise of the bank to puff on it—unwise, because if it falls down, you will be left, to use a popular expression, holding the bag; and cruel, because there is someone inside. Inside and hard at work, and not, despite what you have been told, “cutting corners” in order to go “gadding about.”

  In better times I would have had my secretary scurry right over with the document you requested. Unfortunately, she has taken a powder, as the saying goes. To New York City, where she has ambitions of becoming an actress. That is not my fault, and I, personally, lay the blame on the movie magazines she found at her hairdresser. What do you think? As for the document, I must reluctantly report that I have not been able to find it in the mess. And now I would like to take a moment to say a word about that, about the mess.

  It has been accumulating gradually, even relentlessly, a little each day since she bolted. Two years and sixteen days. Do you have any idea how long that is? To get an idea of the scope of it you have only to look at my desk. It is piled so high with “stuff” that I am not able to use it as a desk anymore. When there is something I must write, I am forced to stand and hold the paper up against a wall. In order to maintain some order I have tried from the outset to prevent the stacks from repeatedly sliding off onto the floor by applying bits of tape. This has been only partially successful and has had the drawback that when a stack finally does go, it goes all at once. Being held together with tape, it topples right over like a felled tree rather than just losing a portion off its top, its crown, as it were, as would otherwise be the case and as sometimes happens to trees in storms, especially pine trees. The presence of the tape also means that I cannot just peek into the middle of a stack and see what is in there. I would first have to dismantle the whole tower, and that, because of the tape, cannot be done without tearing. Some of the stacks have become so tall that I don’t see how the dismantling, if I decide to go that route, can be achieved without creating an even bigger mess, the avoidance of which was, after all, the point of taping in the first place.

  Of course if I knew for certain that your document was inside one of the stacks, I would have no qualms about just going at them a stack at a time, hacking and tearing my way through until I found it. But that is not the case. And just imagine how bad we both would feel if, at the end of it, I came up empty-handed. For we are not talking here about just a few thousand loose papers strewn across the floor; we are talking about thousands of loose papers with bits of sticky tape attached to them. Just picture people, perhaps children, desperate to get to the bathroom, having to cross over all that, the soles of their shoes picking up paper after paper. And though none of these papers may turn out to be the document you want, they are still important papers, poems and pieces of short stories and book reviews and the like, over which creative writers have sweated blood or worse, even if they, the papers, are, as of course they will be by that time, crumpled and sticky. And what do you think those people, now tho
roughly irked and exasperated, are going to do with these important papers once they are in the bathroom with the door locked? I know you will agree that before letting this happen we have an obligation to dig to the bottom of every other possible hiding place, no matter how dubious or remote.

  The filing cabinets, for example. Five sturdy steel ones. Together they contain seventeen drawers, if we still count as “drawer” one which has lost its front part or “facing” (the part that had the handle), and which is now a kind of sliding tray. I suppose, in the case of this one, “ex-drawer” might be better than “drawer,” in which case the sum of genuine drawers drops to sixteen.