Typical (13 page)

—Mr. Desultory can’t jump out the window in his beloved simple time, no binary easy time that, a debit-credit St. Vitus dance before a skyscraper window; the Depression’s not for him, maybe something earlier, wax seals come to mind, quill pens and ink, no, not more ink, trouble there, before
writing
would be safer, rocks, fires, elephants, and not elephants that evoke global economic ecologic politics ivory wars Greenpeace ozone acid rain what to do what to do what to do, no, elephants and plenty of them, maybe more than you want to see, but let’s leave that alone, impossible idea
surplus herd
in ancient times, elephants, plenty of them, yes: elephants with hair on them, don’t even have to call them elephants if they have hair on them, or
enough
hair, all elephants have hair, bristles coming out of their deep rubber flesh like
wire
—how much hair was the cutting-off point, made you a mastodon, cut the girls as it were from the boys, sheep from goats, dainty modern pachyderm from the woolly mammoth?

Mr. Desultory must continue to regress, it won’t work, he can go all the way to the Big Bang and still not manage two consecutive or consequential—no, just sequential, two … okay: Big Bang,
BANG
! Is Mr. Desultory in it or not in it? Does he go
that
way into the black hole, whatever that is and if one may enter it, or
this
way into the light of day, elephants with or without hair, Boorum & Pease in ink or pencil, windows to be jumped out of or to be restored—here, perhaps, his error, or not his, somebody’s, Fate’s or Accident’s: if he had gone
that
way, through the black hole at the beginning of time, at the moment before which there was no decision but after which there was no deciding, he would not be in the difficulties he is in today. There would be no problem. It, the Bang, was a larger, simpler, if in a sense higher window than the later double-hung one in the Depression, and he wishes he had jumped, or been sucked, through it.

Almost.

F
ROM A LINE OF FAMOUS
men I am, and of armoire and men I sing, and my father doesn’t have a goddamned thing to do with it.

My coffee cup leaks! The girl, if you think she’d check to see if the cups leak at the takeout. No. And walk eight blocks without noticing, without the cup falling through the bag. If my father
had
a goddamned thing to do with it, he doesn’t
now,
and I’d like to see the bastard who will say it to my face.

An excellent wool blazer contravenes the wit of planned obsolescence to the utmost. An excellent wool blazer nearly obviates, forever, the
new
wool blazer. Do you think my father had a goddamned thing to do with it? I don’t even think
his
father had a goddamned thing to do with it.
The Wall Street Journal
may well be an excellently written paper but I do not find it helpful. It is of marginal use to me. I don’t care for it. I don’t care to be
buzzed,
either. We can, if we want to, stem the tide of technological tackiness, we can have the girl just get up and knock and lean in, or present herself with dignity and inform you that someone wishes to speak with you on the string and Dixie cup. What is so wrong with
that?
Do you think I’d stay here if my father had a goddamned thing to do with it? Stay? Remain? Hold prideless untenable sinecure when of I sing … really, there’s nothing wrong with
lineage,
that is how you win the Kentucky Derby and the
only
way you win the Kentucky Derby—if my father had a goddamned thing to do with it I’ll eat … Mister Donut here, I’ll eat that box of Mister Donut. She got the white, choke you to death you breathe wrong, High-Level Corporate Exec Dies of Inhaling 10X Confectioner’s Sugar,
Wall Street Journal,
page 6. If my father
had
a goddamned thing to do with it, it’s water over the bridge now, spilled milk under the dam. Anybody who tells you he did is a high-water asshole who’s jealous. How
could
he have had a goddamned thing to do with it if I tied his shoes for him, in the end? When you tie an old man’s shoes, he does not have a goddamned thing to do with it. Not a
god
damned thing.

There are times in my life when I wonder what is the struggle for, what is the sacrifice all about. There are considerations beyond the simple and obvious question of why are we nonprofit. They go deeper than that. They go all the way to the foundation of altruism itself. I wonder about that. I seriously pause some days—is it worth it? If there was a
shade
of truth that my father, whom I see to this day in his pajamas and untied shoes ready for me to get him ready for a board meeting, too embarrassed to have anyone but me know, had a goddamned thing to do with it I’d quit, naturally, quickly spontaneously and combustively with vigor dispatch and hortatory glory of distinguished men from good clubs and better backgrounds breeding will out, out, out, he had not a thing to do with a thing, not a whit with a whit, or I’m a monkey’s uncle, and I’m not a monkey’s uncle.

Miss Jacobs, please come get this coffee mess off my desk, prepare to retrieve lunch, Russian dressing on roast beef, and inspect the cups well before you take one step toward this office bearing liquids of any kind, is that clear, is it understood, is it
clearly understood?

On thin ice, Miss Jacobs,
Mizz
Jacobs, her predecessor having had the misfortune to abuse the string and Dixie cup and be overheard remarking “gives the air of a man perpetually emerging from a barbershop” (she had literary aspirations, I’m afraid)—I asked who has the air of a perpetual emergent from a tonsorial parlor and she
blushed.
You understand. Let her go, let her go, let her go. Had to, had to, had to.

L
ISA SMOKED HER FIRST
Bingo card unnoticed. She coughed, coughed considerably, but not as much as one might expect smoking cardboard, and her condo neighbors could hear her coughing through the walls, but it sounded not unlike their own rheumy hacking and gasping and they never fathomed she had taken to smoking her Bingo cards. She never
won
at Bingo and the decision to smoke the losing cards—not just burn them—was a deep, involuted response to her lack of luck.

She had a mynah bird that did not talk and that had lost so many feathers to his ineradicable mite problem that he looked more like a desert lizard than a bird.

Her refrigerator would regularly fail to close by one-quarter of an inch, which was enough to perish the perishable and the compressor.

Her curtain rods sagged in the middle so badly that her drapes slid from the sides of her windows into the middle of the span.

One day four of forty hair curlers refused to let go and she had to use scissors to get them out.

She had a beautiful daughter.

She could no longer effect a long-distance phone call.

The television one day blinked and then showed her a tiny, shrinking, green pupil in the middle of the dark screen. The repairman, whom she secured by yelling at as he drove down the street, said he could not fix her set.

“Why not?” she asked.

“It’s tubes,” he said.

Potatoes were a staple of her diet. One day she experimented with how potatoes bounce on linoleum. They bounce pretty well and are not damaged much.

Toast impressed her as a waste of time. Bread was
already
cooked; you eat it or you do not.

Socks, likewise, seemed superfluous, if one has shoes.

She liked football and was
absolutely certain
that she could have been an excellent off-tackle slant-type power runner in a wishbone or two-back set.
44
was her number.

Forty-four was her bra size, too. This had held her back in life, she felt.

The salt air outside had corroded the aluminum frames of her windows to the point she was afraid to open them for fear of not being able to close them. They, the frames, had little white pocks on them, reminiscent of chenille.

Under her sink was a rattrap she could not set, for her nerves, and a rat. She baited the trap for him and fed him, safely and humanely, from the harmless little copper bait seesaw. She wondered if the rat knew
she
knew the trap was just a … just a whatever a sprung trap you continue to bait is. Perhaps he thought it a rather cruel thing to do, or maybe he got a kick out of it, or maybe he just ate the cheese, period. It was hard to know what a rat thought. Once, she put a small wad of wet toilet paper on the bait seesaw and he ate that, too, or at least took it off somewhere with him. All in all, she thought of him as a good sport, a good sport under the sink, and took comfort in it. She resisted the idea that he ate in fear, held his breath before biting the cheese. But she resisted equally the notion of feeding him on a saucer instead of the little bait seesaw—that was openly feeding a rat. He was not a dog. The rat under the sink was not a dog. The rat under the sink who could eat on a guillotine and find a use for or even eat toilet paper was not a dog. You could discover what a dog did with toilet paper, wet or dry. A dog is no rat. The rat is in possession of a dignity of desperation, and not
the
dignity of desperation, for there are many dignities of desperation. There is the desperate dignity of smoking the Bingo card which represents your millionth consecutive loss at Bingo, which is not even a true gamble. There is the desperate dignity of sweltering in your apartment with its closed windows because the event of window-frame failure, caused by electrolytical erosion of aluminum, will admit of the whole, giant ocean but blocks away and of all the destructive power of the sea, its swallowed cargoes and lives and lighthouse failures and fogs and seas higher than ships and icebergs and scurvy and sailors spreading syphilis and the entire trunk of doom that is Davy Jones’s locker two blocks away. This is just one of hundreds of desperations of dignity, not opening your windows.

A dog may have dignity, but not a desperate dignity. No dog, save those very first ones to perceive the domestication plans, has ever been possessed of a dignity of desperation. It is arguable that the kind of poodle whose nails get painted purple by Lisa’s condo neighbors can have a desperation, often betrayed by its nail-clicking dancing irrational barking skin problems self-mutilation visits to dog psychologists etc., but this, too, is not a desperation of dignity. This is clearly a desperation of
indignity,
and why Lisa likes a rat under the sink, not a dog.

I
N A FLOOD WE
had, a poet I know came walking down the riverbank, just as I recovered from the river itself a woman—I was in it grabbing the good things a flood can bring, which might sound a bit dangerous but isn’t, really, if you place yourself on a sandbar, as I had, or in an eddy closer to the bank, as had a buddy of mine who’d come over to drink beer and watch the flood with me until we decided to get
in
it and grab loot—the poet asked me (and I know he was able to see that I was holding what he had to perceive as a drowned woman, he could see her back, broad and pale, as she rose up out of the dark water more or less into my arms, and I mean rather gradually and smoothly, as though she were tipping up on her toes for a kiss, so amorously and languidly in fact that I was not alarmed at the immediate prospect of kissing a dead woman, in fact the issue of her medical condition did not cross my mind, what crossed my mind was
beauty,
which Itself I thought I was beholding—
Beauty
—though in the upper corner of my landward eye I could see my beer buddy beginning to look alarmed, seeing me, as he was, stare without alarm into the eyes of what he also had to think was a drowned woman,
without alarm
hardly being correct, I should say without the
kind
of alarm one is expected to display in these circumstances, for I was undergoing a most profound alarm, a perhaps uncommon despair you can have if you find yourself, as I was finding myself, holding a woman so stunningly beautiful you do not even perceive that she is
wet,
let alone dead, and now I think that she was
not wet:
a heart-stopping dread comes over you that this will not last, this look she gives with her eyes that says we could have been an item, you and me, her eyes dark and a bit widened, widened you think by her precise knowledge that a huge love is possible here in all senses except the real, and you do not dare even kiss a woman in these situations for fear of somehow shortening or spoiling the little time you have, time which is already beginning to collapse as you see your beer buddy upstream starting to wade down, you can tell, to get you back to your senses, your time together which you elect to protect by letting her go back into the flood with one giant shoulder-slumping sigh of resignation before he gets there, and her flowing hair blends into the tea-colored water, and she joins the common flotsam of tires and cows and appliances and light bulbs, and your beer buddy stops, more stunned)—and the poet asked me, when she was gone, “Why is this water so dark?”

And then he asked if we saw
his
wife earlier come down the riverbank, and though we did, we did not answer, could not answer—I know of no way to answer a question like that, yet kneeling, facing upstream, with what has happened to me going downstream: in fact he requires no answer, he knows that his pallid wife is ahead of him, and not far enough ahead to be lost, and he is therefore indifferent to one’s rescue, or whatever I did, with whatever I had, dead woman or mermaid. This is the notion I have, kneeling, as close to drowning the poet as he ever needs anyone to be. I know something about this uncurious poet, I can be most uncurious myself.

Before she arrived, I watched with careful indifference the baby dolls, bicycles, hair dryers (the institutional dome type—very little in a good flood makes sense), a piano with a deer on it … Yet what one
watches
is the water—swirls, slicks, butter-colored suds. As a consequence, women can surprise you.

I know some poets who would have leapt into the water and watched the face of this visionary woman disappear, uttering the same pained gasp I did, asking only, “Is it over—between you two?” before diving in headlong downstream after her. And some poets I know would not have asked but thrashed thigh-deep to her and taken her roughly by the hair from your very embrace.