Antigravitas by M.V. Montgomery

ANTIGRAVITAS

ALSO BY M.V. MONTGOMERY Joshu Holds a Press Conference Strange Conveyances Dream Koans

antigravitas M.V. montgomery

thumbscrews press pittsburgh

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editors of Bananafish, The Fiction Week Literary Review, Frostwriting, Gemini, ken*again, Metazen, Mirror Dance, Queen Vic Knives, St. Somewhere, and Sugar Mule, in which some of these stories first appeared.

Copyright Š 2011 by M.V. Montgomery. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Book Design: Daniel Casebeer Cover Design: Tim Montgomery (tjmontgomery.com) Cover Image: Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1879) First Edition: February 2011 www.pearnoir.com

FOR ADA, WHO WATCHED ALL THOSE BUFFY EPISODES WITH ME

ANTIGRAVITAS

LOCATION SCOUTS

5

SEEING SO CLEAR

7

THE DEVIL

9

MELLOW DRAMAS

15

THREE STORIES WITH MORALS

21

SIX STORIES THAT END ABRUPTLY

26

PARADE ROUTE

35

MARK TWAIN IN OUTER SPACE

36

VERY FINE ARTS

58

ALL WE ARE

62

EIGHT CHARACTERS I CREATED TODAY

73

TEACHING NIGHTMARES

76

THREE SPELLS

83

THREE FLARF

86

GHOST GIRL

89

GULFPORT

92

THE HOTEI OF ROYAL STREET

99

THE HILL PEOPLE

101

THE WERE-BEAST

103

SEASON 2: EPISODE 23

105

FLASH IN THE PAN

107

STORIES WITH AFTERTHOUGHTS

113

JUST SAY NOH

119

MAN OF THE WORLD

123

MANY WORKING PARTS

125

ENVOI

129

LOCATION SCOUTS

I was driving around town with a location manager, scouting for an appropriate suburban house to use as a setting for a movie based on my book Dream Koans.

After hours of winding streets which seemed to circle back on each other, most with nicely kempt yards and homes, we finally found what we wanted: a house set back from the street with a wide porch and a crawl space. A large oak tree loomed over the yard, permitting only mottled sunlight, and one limb hung threateningly over the roof. The grass was long, dotted with dandelions and crabgrass.

So we rang the bell. It was answered by a middle-aged couple who did not appear too eager to talk—either with us or with each other.

The LM explained our purpose, the likely film dates, and the small remuneration involved. At that part, the man’s interest seemed to increase slightly.

His wife, on the other hand, was not looking too pleased. For what kind of movie is this? she asked.

The LM nodded toward me. It’s a drama, I said, a little creepy-scary, about strange doings afoot in suburbia…

I knew it! the woman interjected, giving her husband a withering look. I told him to get his sorry ass out there and cut the grass!

SEEING SO CLEAR

My parents were justifiably proud, having bought a car as a present for my brother and his family. It was the kind of gift none of us had ever received.

Rubbing my forehead, on which I must have received a nasty bump the day before, I got up from the couch to join the others in the front room.

I perceived right away that there was something more to the gift: it was really a gesture to assure my brother’s new wife, a Haitian immigrant, that she had been accepted into the family.

I didn’t take any pictures. I was seeing things so clearly, and felt so attuned to the day’s events, that I thought forgetting them impossible. Instead, I helped my parents perform their little subterfuge of forgetting where they had placed the present and searching around the house before suggesting we all go out to the garage.

The car was a used Mazda coupe, light tangerine and black. While the usual hysterics ensued, I drifted over to a shelf, where I noticed the bill of sale. I could tell it had been left out for any doubters to see.

I rejoined the group—my parents sipping coffee and smiling in two

lawn chairs in the foreground, others taking pictures and talking in the garage, my brother and his wife examining the car in the background.

Although she was trying hard not to let others know it, I saw at a glance that my sister-in-law was unhappy about the color.

I whispered to my brother that they could wait a year and a half or so, then find some pretext to repaint over the tangerine.

He frowned. What are you, some kind of a mind reader? Then he told me I had better go inside and take a look in the mirror. So I did.

A large eye was blinking in the middle of my forehead.

THE DEVIL

The whole idea for this story occurred to me the other day while I was vacuuming. The latch on the vacuum cleaner base was broken, so at the time, the handle was lying on top of whatever cushion there was in the bag. I had left the switch in the “on” position, so when I plugged in the cord, the bag heaved full of air, and the vacuum rose up off the carpet as though it had been brought to life.

Anyway, here is the story.

Suppose a clone C is brought up in a deeply religious background, perhaps Catholic. This background convinces him and others that he does not have a soul; he is mere organic machinery. C is alone. He has been forced to separate himself from human society because he is different. Furthermore, C feels alienated from other clones, who do not share his existential funk. C ardently believes in heaven—he just thinks he has nothing to send on to there.

An objection to the premise might come here. Would a “deeply religious” family ever bring up a clone in the first place? Well, probably not. C could not be considered God-made, and a fundamentalist would surely argue that the equation Godmade-man-made-clone cannot be reduced to God-made-clone. Still, in my story I need a conscientious clone, and in fiction anything is possible: look at Galatea.

It is by now common knowledge that in the future, clones will be a slave class.

Now many might posit, here, that C must have the rudiments of a soul because he is experiencing emotions that go into the makings of a good one; for instance, piety and humility and empathy. There can be no doubt that when we next find C in hermitage in a cave, he is the most spiritually stricken of individuals.

Here, C has turned in desperation to all the religious texts, tracts, and commentaries he can get his clone hands on. He reads everything from the Vedas to Kahlil Gibran; he reads eighteenth century spiritual autobiographies, nineteenth century Russian novels, and twentieth century self-help books. He learns everything ever written about the attainment of the soul; i.e., how one can go about this.

Most of the theories recommend self-reflection, not of the angstridden variety, but instead stressing awareness of shared humanity and communion with one’s brothers. So C fumbles around trying to befriend the other clones, but they are all a dullard class really, content to mull around like oxen while their ditto-masters yell for better copies. (This last line should be studied; it’s loaded with humor.)

C’s somewhat dispirited attempts to convince his docile fellow-clones that they are all brother-parts to one giant clone-soul fail. And since C is convinced that the whole project is pointless anyway (how can a bunch of no-souls add up to anything?), he heads back to his cave for another go at it.

Once there, he turns his attention to the sticky question of humanity.

Being a clone and of the servant class (see 2), he is prima facie inhuman. To somehow join in with the members of human society—that, indeed, is his only hope. But in the future world, resistance is feudal (pun alert). Clearly, C has a few steps missing in his Jacob’s ladder.

Game over for C? 10

Within a few days, his longtime acquaintances notice a change in the person of C’s former master. (If you haven’t already guessed what has happened, don’t worry; the hints in the next sentence grow increasingly more direct.) He seems more crisp and formal with them; he becomes absent-minded, often forgetting names and faces; he severs all ties with friends outside his own home; it is as though he had died and a clone had taken his place.

Which really happened. The master’s death had not been due to natural causes, of course, as the alert reader must have come to suspect. I suppose a clarification is in order here: some might have concluded naively that C, in keeping with the mystical communicative property, might have hoped to gain his master’s soul by killing him.

Nothing so crude as that, I can assure you. The method of killing, though necessarily brutal, was hardly spiritually crushing. C—you must remember, a religious clone—even insisted on giving his master a decent burial. What, then? The answer is simple: C, by taking his master’s place in human society, did so in the hope of conjoining his life to others, to thereby share in the Oversoul.

All these machinations may seem the dealings of a madman. I won’t lie to you: C had gone a little stir-crazy in the cave. Not to say that the murder was unplanned; on the contrary, it was shrewdly calculated to serve an express theological purpose, viz., the eventual attainment

I use this term as I would “Human-Soul” or “Human-Spirit.” C may or may not have read Emerson, but the reference is not strictly confined to Transcendentalism. Cp. Brahman-atman, Buddha-nature, or jen.

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of C’s own soul. Which begins to explain why the present story is called “The Devil” instead of just “The Prodigal Clone.”

Friends of the old master, finding the new one a little distant (which is not to say they suspected anything, for who would have believed such cleverness in a clone?) withdrew from him socially. C became desperate that he was losing the link to humanity that he so desperately wanted and needed.

Fortunately, his master had been quite wealthy and had access to all the resources a clone could need if he had just murdered his master and wanted to acquire friends. Ergo, the treacherous clone began to throw parties in the true Dorian Gray tradition. The mansion would fill up at night but empty just before daybreak, at which hour C could be seen pacing the balcony, watching the last of his guests leave. During his bleaker moments, he began to suspect that his guests were not truly interested in him or in his company, just in his dwindling wealth. They hardly gave him a second thought; they shared nothing with C of their deeper selves.

C decides, one morning from his balcony, to try to appeal to the better half of the people. That night the guests found the gates of the mansion locked for good. Late-arriving partygoers, however, were speedily rerouted to a nearby chapel in small groups. Therein the clone was beginning the next phase of his career. His voice thundered out accusingly upon the drunken revelers until they fell into Note that C cannot have been damned for this deed, because he technically has no soul to damn as yet. The usefulness of murder in soul-development is well documented; cf. Dostoevski’s Crime and Punishment or The Brothers Karamazov (both works, coincidentally, C was said to have read).

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his arms, sobbing.

The clone was not—as the guests initially thought—yelling at them.

Rather, he was using them as a test audience for his speeches. C, indeed, had a natural talent for oratory. He had sifted religious books so many times for clues to soul-acquisition that he could recite them from memory. And the range of C’s erudition was equally impressive: he could quote from the Bible or Hermann Hesse, e.g., at will.

How shockingly the high-sounding talk affected his listeners during those early nights! C rocked the casbah until not a single hiccupping reveler was left standing.

The great evangelist, C (not, incidentally, his popular name) eventually became a social institution all to himself. The super-church he founded struck worship into the hearts of millions of adherents. He spoke out against clones, so effectively that their manufacture was outlawed. C even had his own Sunday morning show, and thanks to the miracle of satellite television, had his message beamed worldwide. The government teetered on the brink of theocracy; in South America, there was whispered mention of a Second Coming.

EPILOGUE The story’s not over till it’s over, however. The awful thought hit C suddenly one day as he was helping to raise charitable contributions in order to buy a private jet for one of his new interns. It was not a thought per se, but just a quote. It went something like this: “To influence another is to give him one’s own soul.” C immediately dropped his scoop and pail and retreated to the sacristy to think.

He had influenced people, surely. What a fool he had been! All the 13

while that he had believed he was gathering souls together, perhaps all he had actually done was to disperse his own fledgling soul—over millions of people. Breaking into a cold sweat, C began to realize the truth of the situation. What was to be done?

He hated, really, the thought of giving it all up. Wasn’t there some way he could remain in power, yet cease to influence?—Nyet! Though C might conceivably spend the rest of his life simply deferring to others, by this time his words—his very mannerisms—were dutifully copied by hundreds of millions of adherents. It would be impossible to preserve anything originally his from such a sharp public eye. He would go into hiding, then.

He would go into hiding, seek to blend anonymously with the rest of humanity, never to let a word slip or gesture escape which could reveal itself as his own. Disguised, he could safely soak up all that others had to say, embrace their wit and creativity, all the while passing on little sayings and jokes everyone had heard a thousand times.

C picked up his money bucket and then paused, sighed. A life like that would require a lot of private comic release.

An old man walking down the crowded steps of the church tripped over a foot that appeared to have been stuck out deliberately. He rose painfully to his feet, staring wildly all about him. “The Devil—!” he exclaimed.

14

MELLOW DRAMAS

I: JENNY I had just ended my shift as a prep cook in the college cafeteria. I can’t begin to tell you how many vegetables I’d chopped or eggs I cracked.

Now I stank head-to-toe of stale grease. I was in a good mood, though—I had come to the end of my shift. My partner Fanto was also relieved. To his chagrin, I had been singing along to the tunes on his oldies radio station.

I was standing there in my towel, still humming, when Deener (Nadine) came over, upset. She was the cafeteria manager, late forties, never married, and very country, from a small farm near campus.

She asked, Did you hear? Did you hear? About the protest last night at the Rose Garden?

I had heard something, had even been invited to join the protest by friends, but this was impossible because I had to get up so damn early. Furthermore, it all seemed so trivial. What possible harm could come from naming a flower after a former president? A Bush rose?

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Deener, a flower buff, had shown up for the ceremony in full regalia with her little niece Jenny. As usual, she was now talking a mile a minute. Did I know that Jenny had leaned in too close to one of the students waving signs and gotten knocked to the ground?!

Finally realizing that a male employee was standing in front of her in a towel, she blushed crimson and left to tell someone else about her big night.

I stepped into the shower, turned on the water jets, and started humming. Then it hit me: the whole thing was just like a song.

So I sang: I took my little Jenny to a party last night At ten o’clock it ended in a heckuva fight When someone hit my Jenny she went out like a light Poor Jenny!

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II: DFW Castaway on a desert island with my former colleague David Foster Wallace and a small writers’ group. We were staving off boredom and to amuse ourselves, resorting to our old bags of tricks.

I had rigged up a clearing with some Halloween special effects, some firelit galloping horsemen and echoing coconut-shell hooves— cheesy, but the others whistled. One wheelchair-bound author who resembled Steven J. Hawking stammered, H-h-high contrast!

I was too busy finishing DFW’s island novel. It was written on journal pages neatly arranged in a binder.

In the penultimate chapter, the author made a reference to the cool feeling of a freshly sharpened pencil. I couldn’t help checking the small school pouch clipped into the binder. Sure enough, a finely ground pencil there (a miracle in this desert place!).

I removed it and nestled it into the OK-sign of my finger and thumb as I finished the rest of the book, which made several self-reflexive references to the act of writing. Somehow, holding the pencil gave me an added sense of participation and vicarious completion.

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DFW was lounging in a hammock nearby, wearing a turban on his head like the English poet William Cowper. Afterwards, we discussed how sometimes you read other works just to transcend your own creative funk.

I told him that I had never gotten so immersed in anything which simultaneously made me just want to put it down and start writing my own damn book. He looked pleased with this and told me it was the best compliment he’d received.

EPILOGUE We escaped our hellish Gilligan’s island in a newly-repaired small plane and were about to rejoin civilization. But as we prepared for descent, I noticed some sections of a jumbo jet flying past the window like chunks in an asteroid belt.

Someone flipped on a radio report about a terrorist attack. It certainly didn’t take any of us creative geniuses to put two and two together.

Suddenly, we felt a bump and metal tearing. The nose of our plane jerked downward as if yanked by a string.

We began a spiraling descent as more fuselage whizzed dangerously close. The situation was dire!

DFW smiled a rare smile. Guys, don’t worry. This couldn’t possibly get any more melodramatic.

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III: ZHU FONG I held my new daughter in my arms. She was crying as we stood outside the adoption center but began to look even unhappier as I shifted from one leg to another and rocked her in place to the soothing Muzak.

Are you taking me back?

No dear, never.

Where’s New Momma?

She’s off to get the car for us.

Why does it say Zhu Fong on your glove?

It’s just a brand. (I patted her very softly on the head.)

Will I have a brother and a sister?

You may one day have a brother and sister. What names do you think they should have?

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“Never” for my sister. “Zhu Fong” for my brother.

I can totally see that, I said. And we could all get in the car and drive to Zhu Fong’s football games. And the announcer would say, There goes Zhu Fong with the ball! Zhu Fong breaks free! Zhu Fong to the 40…Zhu Fong to the 30…Zhu Fong to the 20…Zhu Fong to the 10…

But she was already fast asleep.

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THREE STORIES WITH MORALS

I: PARABLE OF THE T-SHIRT A man once had a favorite t-shirt. When he was not at work, he wore it everywhere, running errands, mowing his grass, going into town, etc.

One day, he decided to visit the community pool, and since he had sensitive skin, left on the shirt the whole time. The next morning, as he did his laundry, he received a most unpleasant shock: his beloved shirt had turned green!

Flash-forward several months. The man has not been the same since.

After seeking to remove the stain many times, he has given up. The once-lovely shirt is now deployed as a cleaning rag.

The man uses the rag many times to clean his kitchen floor with cleansers redolent of pine. He uses it many times to clean his bathroom floor with powerful bleaches. Yet throughout this period, he feels as though part of his life is missing.

One day, as he lifts the rag out of the cleaning bucket to wring it dry, he feels a strange exhilaration. Excitedly, he spreads the rag out and holds it up to the light. Yes: all of the green is gone. The beloved t21

shirt has been restored!

Moral: Love will find a way.

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II: PARABLE OF THE DVD PLAYER An absent-minded professor comes to the end of his fall term, and, after much self-scrutiny, decides that he needs to unwind. So he goes to the video store, and, bypassing the Classic movie section for the nonce, voyages out into the New Releases.

As it happens, it is just the season for the release of the summer blockbusters. Somewhat guiltily, the professor chooses a DVD title featuring superheroes from 1950s comic books and takes it to the counter.

Then he brings it home and places it into his DVD player. After a mistrial or two, and after having navigated many unfamiliar buttons and screens, he somehow gets the movie to play.

The plot starts out typically enough, with a jump right into a chase scene and a spectacular explosion. The professor settles back into his chair to ride this audience-grabber out.

But what happens next causes him to freeze. The director begins talking over the scene, giving information about the logistics of filming the explosion, the need to protect the actors, to coordinate with 23

stunt doubles, etc. The professor can hardly believe his ears!

And then, in an even more Brechtian development, one of the principal actors begins to lend his own perspective, and a meta-dialogue develops between director and actor. The excited professor believes he has stumbled upon a poststructuralist bonanza!

Moral: You used to be able to watch this sort of thing for a nickel.

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III: PARABLE OF THE PRINCESS CRUISE A man on a Princess Cruise stumbles a bit while coming on deck.

A lovely woman in a sunhat asks him if he has gotten his “sea legs� yet.

Mystified, the man says nothing but begins to circulate strategically among the other passengers, asking them if they know where he can find a pair of sea legs. They just smile, rather unhelpfully, and tell him to keep on walking.

Moral: What an idiot.

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SIX STORIES THAT END ABRUPTLY

I: BITTEN BY A TREE I was staying at a Gulf resort with a beach and an indoor ice rink. I spent most of my day skating until it became second nature to me; in fact, when I returned to my room, I kept my skates on without really being aware of this.

The next morning I was up and off to the skating rink again, not really dressed for the occasion, wearing the tank top undershirt I had slept in, but determined to get some time in before the place was overrun with tourists.

I got out on the ice and skated a few laps—then sure enough, a children’s class came out and began practicing.

So I exited the rink and headed out to the beach, carving deeply into the sand with my skates, not wanting to take them off just yet.

I tested the water. It was lukewarm, so I dove right in.

A family with some young kids was frolicking nearby. I tried to avoid them, heading out from shore, but they splashed right over to me. I guess I must have nicked one of them.

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Excuse me sir, a child called after me, very agitated. Was you just bitten by a tree?

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II: HATCHLINGS It was my first day as an apprentice on the kitchen staff of an exclusive hotel.

I was assigned to pull around a cart of exotic animals. In a top tank were fish, bright orange and yellow tang. On the next level was a large lizard that hissed and clawed at its bars. Below that was a large egg about to crack—I thought I could hear a muffled shriek.

I wheeled the cart past a dozen sous-chefs who looked up at me and shook their heads. Last at the counter was the master chef, a touchy fellow often difficult to please.

To my surprise, he greeted me with a smile. Then, in one skilled movement, he scooped some hatchling fish out of the tank, saying that the octopus special-of-the-day was no longer fresh and needed replacing.

He shook his head at the lizard, declaring it already too large and temperamental to eat. Then another shriek came from the egg, causing him to frown.

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That’s a bald eagle! he boomed. You need to take it out of the restaurant and release it into the wild immediately!

Things got a little frantic then. I pulled the cart back through the kitchen as fast as I could, weaving in and out through the gauntlet of sous chefs, who cursed and waved their knives in the air.

The lizard smashed against the bars, looking like it could break out at any time, while the egg shrieked again, quivered, and began to crack.

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III: HOW MEAN A THING’S A KING I was in a play, playing the part of old King Kreon, who figured into little more than a death scene at the end.

Perhaps for that reason, or to avoid overthinking my lines, I wasn’t anywhere near the theatre an hour before the performance. I was puttering around the garden at the side of the house, not even fully dressed.

Suddenly I heard footsteps behind me and the stage manager’s sharp voice: It’s time for you to die, Your Majesty.

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IV: JUNK DEALER A junk dealer off Bourbon Street sold me a warped and peeling console hutch (three-part shelves and drawers). Although I had no way to move it and heard some background snickering, I was taken with the intricacy of the design and the decorative panels on the bottom—a series of hand-painted portraits.

Eventually, I wheeled my purchase off in a borrowed wagon. I paused before an antique dealer’s shop. He dusted off an inscription at the bottom and told me that the piece had been crafted in France in the late 1800s and was now worth $40,000.

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V: MENTOR My old film professor. She could always read others so well, understanding that when ordinary people rose to a dramatic occasion, they generally made clumsy actors.

After we had spoken at the reunion and I held our embrace perhaps a beat too long, she simply remarked, You should meet my niece.

Then she added, by way of explanation: Some women are just looking for men who will pick up their clothes around the house.

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VI: SLUICE RIDE My daughter Rina and I were out morning shopping when we heard music coming from across the plaza. So, a stop there first.

We got out of the car to find an artificial mountain with a log ride. A man was testing out water jets that cascaded and looped around the mountain three or four times. The place was not open yet. Another man stepped into a DJ booth and started a broadcast for a music station popular with kids. Neither paid us any attention.

It was just too tempting—much more exciting for Rina than the prospect of trying on shoes. So we slipped through the gate while the DJ began his usual palaver. We climbed the stairs, found a flatbottomed log, and pushed off.

Down we went! And I have to admit that the element of trespassing added its thrill, enhancing our bumpy and uneven progress to the bottom.

There, a crowd rapidly gathered around the DJ stand. Several young women brought presents because the DJ had announced over the air that it was his birthday and he was inviting all his listeners to a party 33

at Log Mountain. They all held beautifully wrapped boxes with ribbons that stood up like the ears of cute pets.

With a shout, Rina and I came crashing to the bottom, soaking everyone in a huge flume of spray.

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PARADE ROUTE

I had taken advantage of a holiday weekend to give my daughter Rina her first driving lesson. Naturally, we sought out deserted roads and country highways to practice on. And this was proceeding well, and Rina’s confidence was building, until she turned off a rural route and we ended up at a small town square.

To her great chagrin, we had arrived smack in the middle of a parade. There was a float covered with flowers just ahead of the car and a large tractor behind us pulling a hay wagon full of waving kids. I almost choked on the French fries I was eating!

What do I do? What do I do? Rina intoned desperately.

Seeing the tractor bearing down on us, I said, Just keep moving.

I looked out at the crowd waving along the square. I couldn’t help waving back. Don’t worry, honey, this can’t go on forever, I said, patting my daughter’s arm.

She relaxed slightly and even forced a grin at some kids who were yelling at us to throw them some candy.

To appease them, I rolled down my window and tossed them the remains of my fries.

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MARK TWAIN IN OUTER SPACE

I. I arrive on the planet surface—am immediately disappointed—my battle against gravity—a digression concerning the naming of constellations By the look of things, I had arrived too late for the planet’s funeral.

The soil had already been cremated, and set back on the geological shelf. I was disconsolate. I had hoped for a better vacation spot, nothing fancy mind you, just a garden to stroll around in, with a swimming pool, and some interesting animals to name. And—if it wasn’t too much to ask—maybe a lonely siren, and a reasonably priced saloon.

Now I realized, sadly, that I had been done in by my own greed. For, gentle reader, the planet had hung for me like an apple for me in its distant, tantalizing orbit. And I had coveted it—coveted it over a span most humans can only dream of sinning across.

My coming had created quite a stir of things. For the longest time, I could see nothing but the dust clouds that had heralded my arrival.

As for myself, I soon discovered I would have no more trouble with gravity on this planet, than I did on Earth. This was disheartening, 36

too. Because even if I couldn’t have had my garden, I might have been able to comfort myself by turning the planet into my wild gymnasium and soaring about it in fifty- and hundred-foot leaps. For fun, I could have lifted my ship over my head, tossed it hand to hand, or bounced it up and down like a child’s ball—I could. Or perhaps I might have played the evil alien from outer space and stomped out a few Lilliputian villages for my own amusement. I choked to think how I had been cheated out of doing all the wonderful things my imagination conjured up for me.

In vain, I tried to stride across the planet’s surface like a colossus, succeeding only in wrenching my legs. In vain, I leapt around, flapped my hopeful arms, and thought lofty thoughts, but did not find myself elevated in any way.

I blush to think of the spectacle I must have made of myself, performing all of these actions in ridiculous slow-motion. I can only find consolation in speculating that any intelligent being watching might not have possessed arms or legs, to know how better acquainted with mine I ought to have been. Or if he had, perhaps he would have taken some pity on me and offered his assistance—as I was apparently in considerable distress, having forgot my calling as a featherless biped.

It was a bad poet’s sun: the color of a five-ball. So little out of the ordinary, that I set it down here for the scientific rather than the literary record. To compose a panegyric upon it would be like sticking a peruke on the town drunk and declaring him a district judge.

I observed, after all the destruction and turmoil that I could modestly attribute to my landing had subsided, that a steady sirocco was 37

blowing. It might become significant to note here that I was struck by the impression that this was just the sort of breeze to have blowing on your side if you were carrying on an argument with your neighbor across the street.

I also thought I might have caught sight in the distance of a small shape rolling and bouncing by. But at the time, I dismissed this evidence of my eyes. I was feeling tired and somewhat dizzy from my recent attempts at levitation, which had re-taught me the old lesson that my humanity was a burden I must carry.

I looked again, but all I could see for miles around was the ashen sand—well, and a couple of cacti. But there was no sign of life that I could see.

I considered an immediate return to the ship, where I could read all about hacking through tropical jungles or trudging across desolate plains without having to experience such pleasures firsthand: for such is the wonder of the novel. But in my heart, I knew that once back in space, I would only fidget and toss my books aside, then pace up and down in front of the viewer screen, upon which each star would take on different personalities as my cabin fever set in—appearing, at first, as a novelty—then as a breathtaking firework—then as a beautiful woman—then a terrifying eclipse—then a member of the family.

My imagination would run wild, seeing individual stars as part of yet-to-be charted constellations. It was a childish habit of mine to sketch such constellations, connecting the dots on paper, then standing back to determine whether the tracery resembled anything to me.

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During the past week, however, there had been a growing dearth of stars on the screen, and my opportunity to make connections became more infrequent. It had gotten to the point where I had begun to just doodle, drawing lines from the dots to nowhere in particular. I apologize for any harm I may have caused future explorers who may attempt to navigate by my charts—but as the universe is endless (so far as I can tell), the patterns might eventually turn up somewhere; in which case, my ready-made constellations could be put to good use.

I hate to digress any further—especially from myself—but as any writer worth his salt must have as his goal the universal edification of mankind, perhaps a further observation may be tendered here.

The fact is, my scribbles are really no less outlandish than the everyday constellations with which the indulgent reader is already familiar. It is impossible to guess what could have possessed the minds of the poets who went about naming the stars—excepting, of course, that simple genius who christened “Crux” and “Triangulum.” All one need do is to look at other star configurations, to see that through no stretch of the imagination can most of these be reconciled with their names. “Ursa Major” and “Ursa Minor,” for example, look more like a cuttlefish and a pig, respectively, than a matching set of bears.

In the course of a diligent study, I have examined this problem further.

I am convinced that the proper names of the following constellations should be as follows: “Bootes”—the Kite; “Acquila”—the Teepee; “Perseus”—the Peacepipe; “Pegasus”—the Courthouse; “Leo”—the Golf Course; and “Draco”—the Deathmask of Ramses II. Before taking issue with any of my replacement names, the astronomer and general reader alike must bear in mind that I have seen all 39

of these constellations recently, up close.

II. I spot another movement on the horizon—make camp for the night— an introduction to the Free People—some personal reflections Instead of moping about, I decided to head for town. I was monarch of all I surveyed, but the time seemed ripe for abdication. The poetaster sun had risen to its most sublime zenith and was waning melodramatically; the cacti refused to do anything but stand at attention; I had seen more activity in empty museum cases. Out of the goodness of my heart, I kept giving the ashen sand its freedom, rubbing it from my eyes and releasing it from my mouth’s clamped Bastille.

Imagine my surprise when, about a mile from the ship, I saw several shadowy shapes racing across the horizon. My eyes blinked open—my jaw dropped—I drew in a lot of sand. Then the shapes were gone!

My first inclination was to duck back into the ship immediately. Then I heard an inner voice that was either science or foolhardiness calling me, and I found my courage.

Then I put my courage away, wiped my lips, and did the only thing a rational creature could do in such a situation: I drew my gun.

A mile or two onward, and I had just about convinced myself that the long confinement in the ship, combined with the afternoon in a torrid climate, had sautéed my brains. My exhaustive struggle with 40

the elements was about over, so far as I was concerned—on the one hand, my sojourn on this planet had borne no relationship whatsoever to a romantic adventure tale. On the other hand, I had easily gathered enough material to return to the ship and make one up.

Ahead of me, I saw what appeared to be a few scattered tumbleweeds.

One of them rolled in my direction a little. With a start, it occurred to me that these must have been the rolling shapes I had seen before on the horizon—the objects of my long chase.

Well, I’ll bet I was disappointed then. To relieve my fury, I pulled out my gun and fired off several shots at one of the tumbleweeds, which burst into flames and vaporized.

I thought it only my imagination when I heard a noise like the one a table makes when dragged across the floor—a wooden screeching.

I decided to take a nap before heading back to the ship. There was a brackish pool of chemicals off to one side, but I did not trust the water qua water. I took a few gulps from my canteen instead. Then I curled up next to a couple of tumbleweeds that didn’t look as if they snored, and promptly fell asleep.

I must have dozed for hours. My sleep was enhanced by a gentle crackling noise that seemed to emanate from a congenial distance away from me, like a campfire. My translator was in my breast pocket, and at one time or another during the course of my nap it must have switched on, because gradually the campfire noise began to sound like several whispering voices.

Is it sleeping?

41

It is restless.

Will it burrrn us?

It is sleeping.

We must kill it!

I looked around me but could see nothing my canteen and the tumbleweed, and since mistrusting my senses had become almost second nature to me on this planet—sort of a way of keeping myself company, you might say—I fell back asleep.

A little later, I had a dream that I was hiking through a forest and the vines were whipping against my arms. Shortly afterwards, the impression of pain seemed to take upon a distinct vivacity, though I still believed the forest was only an idea in my head. Gradually, however, the distinctness of the agony I ventured to say I was feeling, grew acute enough that I believed I had support for a tenable hypothesis—namely, that the source of my torture was in the external environment! I yelled aloud in my excitement over this important metaphysical discovery.

“Stop! No more!”

I was surrounded—oh yes, I opened my eyes now. Around me my ring of tumbleweed attackers rolled and bounced away.

I relaxed, considerable. The tallest of them was only knee-high to me, and besides, I still had my gun, which could end the game quickly if I ever got tired of punting them across the terrain.

I pulled it out, now, and began to woo the bushmen with a little advanced technology, firing at a nearby cactus, which sizzled and va42

porized.

I now held the floor, and began to address the frightened sagebrush assembly.

“My friends,” I said, “fear not. I come in peace, from a planet up space quite a ways. Now, I don’t intend to hurt you boys, but I do recall having more pleasant awakenings in the past, and a man can only stand so much. So if you are rational creatures, like myself, I beg you to kindly forbear from such physicality in the future.”

Well, I’ll bet the bushmen were sorely penitent then, asking me over and over if they had hurt me. They had a peculiar way of talking, always inviting a yes-or-no answer to their questions, but never answering my own, instead rolling away from the subject, true to their contour, and to my great exasperation.

It was only by exercising a good deal of patience (and such exercise does not come naturally to me) that I learned that the tumbleweeds would come around to my question if I plied them with general statements first, such as “You are dry”—to which they might reply, “We have roots”; or, “You seem happy and free”—to which they might bemoan the fact that they had no politicians.

Upon learning this trick, I was subsequently able to find out a good deal about their way of life. Their name for themselves is the “Free” (in the sense of “free-moving”) people, or the “Rollers.” Their lifestyle is a peculiar nomadic one. The Rollers do not eat or photosynthesize; their only nourishment is obtained through groundwater.

About once a month or so, for a stretch of six or seven days, they must “put down roots” to refuel. During this interim they can not 43

readily extricate themselves, for the water table is extraordinarily low, and the taproots sunk into the ashen sand run deep.

Despite their name, the Free people exercise little actual control over their own trajectory. They tire easily of turning more than a few somersaults during a single sally, preferring to blow with the wind when making trips of any substantial distance. Though by the same token, the greatest fear of any Roller is being seized by a mighty sirocco and “blown away” forever.

The Rollers—if the reader considers their spare lifestyle, and the limited say they have in steering themselves toward a destination of their own choosing—are surprisingly selective of company. They often jockey for the same refueling spots and play a spirited game of “poison” trying to bump undesirables off a claim. It is not at all uncommon for a Roller to starve to death by eradication rather than spend an entire week refueling next to one of his unloved brethren.

In fact, I learned that I was somewhat of a hero to the tribe I had just encountered, as the tumbleweed I had shot earlier turned out to be an irrepressible old gaffer who was keen on the filibuster. This proverbial long talker kept all the boys (they numbered twelve or thirteen, if memory serves me correct) writhing and straining at their roots for five solid days with a few tomes of autobiography, plus a travelogue revealing how that part of the country had looked in his younger days, back when a tumbleweed was a tumbleweed.

All major altercations among the Rollers develop out of unfortunate circumstances such as these. I held it as a high mark of their sage ingenuity, that the Rollers have actually invented methods of killing one another other despite their ridiculous shape. Crude is their 44

technology in comparison with ours—and wholly lacking in any advanced weaponry with which to mercifully speed up wars—but I shall refrain here from glorious ethnocentrism.

Roller wars take a great deal of patience, and choreography. I was lucky enough to be witness at one of these contests. It had arisen when five Rollers camped at a prime watering spot held by five members of the opposing party. The two sides lined up, as if for a square dance.

Next, one at a time, a member of each contingent rolled out into the middle of the desert floor, colliding as zestily as possible with the enemy. He would return to the line after that. The governing rule was that whoever sparked first, lost. I do not think it likely that the Rollers were evolved from asbestos.

The Roller war was not designed for the spectator, if I may editorialize for just this once. I began to drowse off as the combatants took turns at each other for hours, trying to get the sparks flying. I did not complain, though. Even if my fingers were aching from having to rewind my wristwatch—and I am not one prone to exaggeration.

Finally, my patience was rewarded—doubly, in fact—when two of the combatants began to spark and smoke at the same time. Then I watched, in great surprise, as they both returned to their sides and set the whole convention on fire!

At this time, I was informed by a companion of mine, who had noticed my astonishment, that such an outcome was not uncommon in a Roller battle. The casual tone in which he disclosed this fact to me alarmed me a little, and diminished my opinion of his species’ 45

shrewdness somewhat. Because what good could a war accomplish, if both sides were annihilated? I thought to myself. Who would be left holding the real estate?—to claim righteousness?

I shook my head—it was all beyond the understanding of a miserable primate like myself. To me, the square dances appeared to be nothing but turkeys, and straw.

III. I become the talk of the town—some further reflections upon the Rollers—the tale of “Sir Kutus, wandering through the Desert”—I draw a vast multitude—a sermon with too much fire, and not enough brimstone The Rollers are exceeding fond of storytelling, and are atrocious liars.

I was instantly a celebrity. They would beg me to recite tale after tale and had a predilection for all stories of desert wanderers, from the Crusaders to the Legionnaires, from Moses to Christ to Mohamet.

To please them, I made up the story of Sir Kutus, below, of which they were prodigious fond.

At first I thought it my diplomatic duty to teach the Rollers something about myself and the planet from which I hailed. After a time, however, I began to notice they seemed not to care, one way or the other, whether I was relating to them the factual truth. Apparently, the Rollers had been spinning such increasingly fantastic yarns to one another to stave off boredom that they had long ago lost the faculty of being able to tell the difference.

46

I confess that I had often dreamed of finding such an audience. The Rollers would literally root at my feet for a week or more at a time, during which interval I could get away with just about any piece of rhetorical high coloring ever invented by myself or my fellow authors.

One day I attempted to design a tale specifically for my Roller friends.

I lived to regret that day; this tale, which was about a knight named Sir Kutus, was so successful that, from that point forward, the Rollers would hear of no one else but their new hero.

As the reader might be curious to see this tale—and as nothing short of an operation could eradicate it from my memory, at this point—I present here a partial synopsis.

The Tale of Sir Kutus, Wandering through the Desert A strong wind came one day to the place where a young Roller and his family were refueling and blew the child, whose roots were shallow, out from his resting spot. His firmly-rooted father and mother watched, fixated, as the cruel wind carried their son far away. Later, they would search for him far and wide, but they never found the child again.

The orphaning zephyr blew the young Roller to a kingdom at the other side of the world. He bounced over the moat, and bowled and tumbled right up the castle drawbridge into the heart of the childless Queen. This Queen would have adopted the child then and there had the young lad permitted her, but he held out hope that someday he would be reunited with his birth parents. He vowed to set off into the world to find them when he was mature enough.

47

This day finally came. The Queen shed plentiful tears, begging him to stay, but the Roller felt this pilgrimage was a thing he must do. So the Queen managed a smile then, and knighted her little tumbleweed, giving him the name Sir Kutus. She equipped him for his long journey, made him promise to write whenever he could; and sobbing, wished him a good wind. Then he tumbled out of her sight.

Sir Kutus hereupon had many brave adventures...

Though he travelled far and wide, he could not discover any word of his lost family. Many years passed; Sir Kutus had long since come of marriageable age. One day he put down roots next to a young female roller of about the same age. She was very beautiful, but jealously protected by her guardian, a distant uncle.

This was a bitter old bramble who had lost his own son years earlier, and the memory of that loss caused him to despise all young Roller men he saw; especially those, like Sir Kutus, who threatened to rob him of his charge. So he forced her to extricate her pretty self from the refueling spot which she had occupied with her gallant knight...

Well, in some accounts, she simply pines away for love (and lack of fuel) and dies; in others, Sir Kutus turns out to be the Old Bramble’s son, and succeeds in marrying the fair damsel, but only after wandering through the desert for months first, composing a lot of sickly love sonnets and stabbing them onto cacti. He finally attempts an elopement with the “Burr of his Heart,” but her uncle—the old bloodhound—sniffs out their little rendezvous, and lies in ambush for our hero—who is spared at the last moment when the uncle recognizes a birthmark—or spots a scrap of swaddling blanket Sir Kutus wears on his helmet as a token—thereby triggering a memory of the gummy smile of the lost infant (I frequently modified these details for my own amusement). Because, though the plot was simple enough, after a while the Rollers at my feet would hear nothing else; they thought 48

“Sir Kutus” was the greatest thing that had ever tickled their ears; it was their Iliad, their Beowulf, their Thousand and One Nights.

Of course, I modified the ending in all sorts of ways, too, first by making the young damsel just a little more beautiful, and the uncle just a bit more lusty, so that the latter attempts to force her into marriage with himself, and has to be thwarted by the honor of Sir Kutus’ right arm. That was a nice touch of chivalric romance, but I soon tired of it. So in the scuffle I caused Sir Kutus to kill the irascible old fellow, then later learn he has slain his own father—when he recognizes a scar, or sees something in the gummy leer which recalls the kind smile of his lost pater. Now I had the stain of Greek tragedy upon my hands! That was depressing, so I changed it up again—this time it was the young female roller who turned out to be the lost son in disguise, and I entertained myself with a comedy.

I had begun to believe in the arbitrariness of all story endings, when the tale is only a stanchion between someone else’s boredom and entertainment. In a final burst of inspiration, I finally made the uncle, in a mad fit, come to believe he was his own son. I wasn’t sure what I had then—but it sounded Russian, and I did not doubt it would win me great fame, and a reputation for possessing profound depth of vision.

I’ll wager I farmed out every inch of that tale that I could. I began to roll out bale after bale of new characters, planted acres of symbols and other literary embellishments—so that now I had foils to Sir Kutus, antagonists to Sir Kutus, picturesque landscape descriptions, and, for the benefit of the Rollers—or so I thought—long passages of moral instruction.

49

In truth, the simple tumbleweeds did not always savor the exotic sauces that I poured over the feast of “Sir Kutus.” I discovered in them an alarmingly limited vocabulary, and a kind of musical inattention which attached itself to the sounds of words rather than to their meaning. So my attempts to improve them fell somewhat short of success.

By this time, I was packing in huge crowds. The group I had originally taken up with was just finishing its refueling, so members were soon able to tag along after me, bouncing with mad abandon like a spilled plate of peas.

My dozen followers increased by hundreds more. I did my best to entertain them with stories in the afternoons and early evenings.

From a technical standpoint, this was growing more difficult every day—I now had to shout to be heard by the whole assembly.

So when, leading my thistle flock along one day, I came upon a steep precipice rising up from the desert floor, I believed I had found my ideal venue. Instructing the Roller brethren to wait below, I climbed slowly to the top of the exhausting monadnock.

I paused, wheezed, and panted at the top, in respectful appreciation of the breathtaking spectacle. From my new vantage, the round shapes of the Rollers below resembled the heads of a vast human multitude.

The sun poured hot on the ashen sand. I felt grateful for a protective overhang. And then I spoke, my voice resonating like Roland’s horn.

50

“My friends, my Roller cousins,” I began. “What is your pleasure?”

With a single rasping voice, the crowd demanded its Barabbas; its Sir Kutus. Their drone projected across the desert, scaled the magnificent cliffs, overwhelmed me on all sides. I was impressed, to put it mildly.

But I had decided to warm up the Rollers with a few anecdotes first to put their credulity in the right place for a new ending I had devised to their favorite tale. In it, the old uncle marries the Queen who sponsored and knighted Sir Kutus. They adopt the young female Roller as their daughter. Sir Kutus returns to the kingdom after years of lonely crusading, and his marriage is arranged to the princess.

But the knight discovers the new king is his true father, and thus it is now impossible for him to marry the princess, his royal sister. In a fit of madness, Sir Kutus goes berserk, slaughtering everyone in the castle.

To start off, I told the crowd an anecdote I once heard from an old Yuma Indian. This ancient spoke sadly as he related how a nervous young doctor, newly arrived from the East, had once visited his tribe.

The doctor glanced around the village, apparently searching for someone or something, but too embarrassed to ask for directions.

Finally, the green young fellow appeared to spot what he was looking for, walking over to a toothless old Indian mule trader who was grooming one of his animals for the market.

“Can I look at his eyes?” snapped the doctor.

“OK,” said the mule trader. So the doctor examined the mule’s eyes, but evidently saw something there he didn’t like, because as he pulled 51

up each lid, he shook his head and mumbled something under his breath.

“Can I look at his teeth?” he asked next.

“OK,” said the mule trader again. So the doctor looked at the teeth, but again saw something he didn’t like, because as he pulled up each lip, he shook his head and mumbled again.

“Can you walk him around in a circle?” he asked then.

“OK,” the old trader said. “You buy him then?”

“Buy him! Who said anything about buying him?” the doctor retorted. “Why, this is positively the sickest horse I have ever seen!”

I asked the old Yuma what it was about this story that made him so sad to tell it. He answered me that this particular anecdote had spread like wildfire through his village and to the neighboring villages as well. It was soon on the lips of every trader, translated into dozens of different tribal languages and dialects, and recited across the entire territory. It had spread so quickly that alert cavalry scouts scented a conspiracy, believing the natives were attempting to organize. In self-defense, they ransacked a few of the central villages involved, including the old Yuma’s.

The Rollers squirmed noticeably; they were always profoundly impatient to hear the latest news of their hero Kutus. But the sound of my own voice carrying was so exhilarating, and the precipice so novel a trumpet to my vanity, that I decided to warm the Rollers further with a few Horace Greeley stories.

52

I told them the anecdote of Horace Greeley and Hank Monk, which, within a six-year span during which I crossed and re-crossed the Sierras between Nevada and California, I had heard four hundred and eight-two times. Even that one failed to take hold on my audience; the Rollers began to sway in restless anticipation, and to rasp among themselves.

So I decided to limit myself to just one further anecdote in order to prevent an uprising—this final tale, of my own devising. It had occurred to me a few months back as my ship was leaving the Earth’s orbit, and several of the books I had taken along with me had begun to float in solution due to the lack of gravity.

“This made me ponder, my good Roller friends, whether a controlled test might be designed to determine the weightiness of authors in general. Particularly, for those American authors for whom no similar test had been made in the past, as had been done for authors in other countries, by such rigorous scientists as Rabelais, Cervantes, and Swift. Perhaps, I thought, it was because no such trail had as yet been conducted, that the title of ‘The Father of American Literature’ had yet to be awarded.

“So, for my next voyage, I was careful to take along some literary works of my most famous predecessors and colleagues. I had, among other tomes, one volume each of Irving’s and Hawthorne’s stories; the collected essays of Emerson; Walden by Thoreau; and miscellaneous works by Cooper, Crane, and Whitman.

“All these I placed on a long table which I had set up under the high vault in the central area of the ship. Then I sat down to a hasty breakfast of buckwheat cakes and syrup. The syrup was of my own con53

coction, a special blend of ingredients gathered from the Mississippi Delta and Southwestern regions of the country. It was ‘space food’—I had known it to glue pancakes together with such gravity-defying tenacity that the stack had to be carved from, like ham—and if any dripped onto the plate, the customer would be obliged to eat that, too.

“Also by my side I had placed a large notebook, in which I normally made sketches of my constellations, or jotted notes from my travels.

In this book I planned to record my observations.

“Events began to transpire even before I could saw off my first bite of pancake: I heard a hearty hail of volumes against the steel vault of the ship. My surprise was great—and sorrow greater, the reader may rest assured—to find that such a venerable author as Cooper had been the first to meet his fate. His Leatherstocking tales had all bolted for the ceiling with as much team spirit as a chain gang in an escape attempt; though the one about the Mohicans, I noticed, was the last to go.

“I observed one book at the highest point of the ceiling, thumping and putting up the fiercest fight of its life to get out. It was that noblest of savages himself, Deerslayer. For fear that he might puncture a hole through the ceiling with his famed marksmanship, I decided to give him his freedom and quickly opened the hatch. When I did, he shot up quicker than Indian corn—and, if he had decided to turn tail then and fall back to Earth a meteorite, I am certain he would have carved out a new ocean.

“If Cooper’s poor showing surprised me somewhat, imagine my distress to see Irving go next, who would have been such a neat choice 54

for the Father of our literature: a Washington to match Washington.

But we must remember how familiar these first writers had to be—to keep their correspondents happy, they could not use an ink less light than drollery.

“Crane flew away without much ceremony. Emerson fought a losing battle to keep his tenant, Thoreau; but he himself did not budge at all.

An interesting phenomenon occurred with Hawthorne’s Twice-Told Tales: those pieces containing darker tales of our Puritan ancestors seemed to want to take root in the very table, while some of the lighter tales seemed to mutiny from the rest of the book, finally wresting themselves altogether free. The resultant mass was too slight to hold out much longer.

“This phenomenon was in direct contrast to the performance made

by Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, which rose as one body, in their entirety, as though making an offering to the heavens. I had not brought with me any Poe, whom I was not sure qualified as an American author at all; and almost sheepishly, I realized I had forgotten to take along any Melville. Certainly I recognized his greatness, his humanity—I had just never purchased any of his books for my own library.

“I experienced such transportations of joy, as cannot easily be described, when I saw that the great Emerson himself was the last of the competitors to remain behind. The great Concord hymnist lifted his hoary head and riffled his pages as if from a casual nap. Then he rose with dignity and unmatched gravitas from the table, hovering few inches above it.

“The experiment was done; I had found my champion of letters—or so it seemed. Because just then I happened to glance over at the other 55

end of the table, and there saw a single page that had slipped out of my memoirs. It had not budged.

“I blinked my eyes in amazement. I had thought the tone of this piece to be very congenial indeed; it contained, certainly, some of the gentlest and mildest statements of fact I had ever uttered. “’This cannot be!’ I told myself.

“I tried blowing on the paper, coaxing it to rise like a snake charmer—still nothing.

“I begged; I blew again; I cajoled. ‘Can this mean, then’—I shouted in astonishment—‘what it appears? Am I truly more deserving of the prize than all these other worthies’—I gestured wildly in the air—‘more deserving than Irving, than Hawthorne, than the mighty Emerson himself?’

“I puffed up like a bullfrog with pride—I was in such a state of ecstasy! For the moment, I could accomplish nothing further but practice the acceptance speeches for my laureate, and hold the pose I wanted carved on all of my statues.

“While all this time, the page from my memoirs remained motionless on the table.

“My eyes filled with tears of joy—I could hardly regain my composure. But finally, I strutted over to read and commit to memory this single page which had destined me for greatness.

“It was then I noticed that the paper had become discolored around 56

the edges. I examined it more closely, and discovered that it had fallen into a puddle of my obstinate pancake syrup!—It could in no way be freed by my efforts to tear it away, and unless I cared to eat the table along with the rest of my breakfast, would remain stuck there forever!

“My friends, that page I wrote remains on my desk still, though it is now a memento to presumption and vanity only.”

Well—now I was prepared to joust with Sir Kutus. But it had all been too much for the Rollers. While I spoke, they began squirming uneasily, then bumping and scraping against each other to get to the exits. Sparks began to fly every which way, and before I knew it, the desert floor below me was covered over in a single sheet of fire...

57

VERY FINE ARTS

I: FOUND ART I am commuting on the interstate when a small truck pulls into the lane ahead. The truck is an off-white color with a name like Bepoe Construction Materials on the side. My first reaction as a driver is to express irritation, but suddenly I check that impulse.

On the back of the truck, the driver has stacked two columns of pre-packaged sheetrock. The packages have a diagonal logo cutting across the edge. They have been placed one on top of the other to form a perfect V. Or almost perfect—the left ray of the V is slightly staggered by a small bundle on top that projects slightly outward.

The whole thing is hit just right by the morning light: the smooth white frame of the truck, the modernist gray-green V, the ripple effect at the top.

Then another truck in the next lane, a light red, pulls even with the first one, showing it off in still better contrast. I am almost overcome.

I honk my horn in appreciation.

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II: LE MOT JUSTE A colleague lends me a book to read over break. I am excited because I have been searching for it for some time.

I thank him so effusively that I begin to mix up my words. Now I’ll really be a busy camper! I say.

No, wait—I mean, I’ll be a happy camper, and busy as a bee!

He tells me not to worry, that I’m certain to be a busy camper, too, with all those bees.

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III: A LITTLE TONE PAINTING I am half-listening to a classical symphony and indulge in a little tone painting. The scene is an early morning in the garden; nature is resplendent.

The woodwinds suggest birds gently alighting on seeds and flowers in the garden, and then flying merrily away.

The horns and strings suggest bounding chipmunks and bunnies, who are no doubt interested in the garden vegetables.

The bass and percussion lines suggest soldiers marching toward the garden.

The clash of cymbals suggests that the soldiers are now firing upon the chipmunks and bunnies.

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IV: SPORTS REPORT Did you manage to catch the U.S.A.-Ghana soccer match? As the evening lengthened in Rustenburg, shadow “x”es, perhaps 15-18 feet wide, spread out at the feet of each player. You could see the narrow “x”es crossing in and out of the circle in the middle of the field, back and forth across the two white lines, all around the goal box. When the players clashed, the “x”es formed a fretwork, then broke apart again.

The pitch was neatly trimmed in alternating kelly and lima green stripes, and there were other colors, too: the bright whites of the American players; the orange jerseys of the Ghanians with their asymmetrical yellow stripes, like tiger claws; the bright blue of the official; the scurrying yellow FIFA sideline attendants; and those rogue goalkeepers in their blacks and blues.

And they say we Americans can’t appreciate soccer!

61

ALL WE ARE

So a butterfly flaps its wings or whatever, and suddenly I’m in my car, lining up next to two girls in a convertible. The song on the car stereo insists, No I don’t have a gun, and I unconsciously start singing along.

I look over at the girls who are pointing in my direction as they pull away, ponytails trailing in the breeze. * Short hair, scar, I’m not much to look at, I guess. I’m pretty normal, kind of boring, actually. I don’t recall if I was ever popular or anything in high school. For most people, I guess the answer lies between yes and no. Personally, I don’t remember much about anything, not even how I got the scar. It runs from the bottom of my mouth to just above my right eyebrow, making me look like a real zipperhead. * I’ve tried a shrink who told me go backwards to go forward and an elderly guru with a gap-toothed grin who told me to be thankful, whatever wiped out my memory did me a huge favor. His name is Mr. Char. I still see him sometimes and bring him a bag of groceries from the co-op.

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* It’s not much later, in the little apartment I share with my cat Mephistopheles, that a strange feeling comes over me. Like I might be wasting my time being this person with the warehouse job that doesn’t occupy too much of his brain.

I’ve started writing for the past few months when the big cheese isn’t looking, just random ideas that come into my head, mostly empathetic thoughts going out to my fellow man, if you want to know the truth. But with some satanic stuff thrown in just to maintain a healthy balance. * And so I do a mirror check. I’m super scrawny, anemic looking. I tend to get bored eating food. The taste wears off after the first few bites and then you might as well be munching drywall.

Maybe I’m some kind of parasite and just haven’t found the right host yet?

On second thought—those organic calf brains at the co-op are kind of tasty. * Today, the blue eyes staring back in the mirror don’t quite seem like mine. They are more like two transplanted organs out of a B-movie starring Vincent Price. Dead-man eyes supplying visuals from a past identity, one I need to find out more about.

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* I hate that I just wrote that. It sounds totally gay. * I’ll skip to this next part. I eventually find myself in a plastic surgeon’s office, telling him to lose the scar. He has asked me to bring in a picture of myself before the “disfigurement,” and of course I don’t have one, so he has to feel up my skull like he’s searching for a missing link.

I guess it is lucky for me he is this older guy from the Fifties who kind of resembles Mr. Drysdale on “The Beverly Hillbillies.” He glares at me with a pissy expression on his face then gets down to business. * Next thing is, I discover the voice.

My way of unwinding is totally antisocial, drinking some brews and strumming along to tunes on the FM stations, mostly oldies from the seventies and eighties, on a guitar that cost me two weeks’ takehome pay.

Like I said earlier, pretty boring. I have always had a decent voice though, not like some of those contestants on “American Idol” who get lost in the no-man’s land between singing along to tracks and singing solo.

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* Maybe it is the invisible man wrap I am wearing that emboldens me.

Or makes me yell louder just so I can hear myself through the gauze.

It’s a couple weeks after Mr. Drysdale. I’m in my apartment, in the middle of a new song. Out of nowhere comes this exorcist voice that startles even me.

Once the Damien voice kicks in, I begin playing around with it. I have to quit after an hour or two because the growling kind of makes my stomach hurt. Probably it’s a primal aggressive response that generates a lot of stomach acid. * If you’d care to flash-forward another two months, I am looking in the mirror again, but now I’m seeing a new face. The scar is gone and the hair has grown out, a blond so light you’d swear one of the Beach Boys dumped a whole bucket of Clorox over it. I have a little tuft of a goatee, flecked with white. And for the first time I can remember, I like what I see. At least, looking at me wouldn’t make the average person puke.

Some strands of past lyrics start to come back at this point, almost on a subconscious level, like proto-memories. The Gothic scariness of being stuck at Grandma’s house when you’re a little kid; the terrible realization that your dad is not a superhero; or just wanting to keep things righteous with the girlfriend.

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* I have a new job now, at a Guitar Center, of all places. Customer service is not exactly my specialty, but I get a lot of stares, and that’s kind of a welcome change. I’d be lying if I said it gets old after awhile.

It’s only been a little while. And the customers aren’t so bad. Waiting on them is kind of like a rehearsal for real life. * Yeah, people are pretty cool. My heart goes out to them sometimes. * My co-workers I don’t really understand, on the other hand. Kids whose lives are centered around technology, video games, cell phones, and iPods. Just buying into the system, if you ask me, and racking up enough debt to remain there forever. They actually talk about things like going on cruises with their parents. * I’m starting to hang out at the occasional club. I’ll pay the cover to sit at the bar and listen to the band, but rarely stick for the second set. Unless someone is covering the Ramones or something like that.

I’ll hang around to finger the cords on the edge of the counter and maybe peer over my sunglasses at the bartender if she’s hot. * Once, at the Guitar Center, I pretend to be demonstrating an expen66

sive model. I pick it up and play a letter-perfect “Serve the Servants.”

A crowd of about twelve is watching me curiously. This is a kind of cool, but not entirely pleasant experience for me. I feel like Koko the monkey being ogled at through the glass by an army of linguists.

I leave work that night wondering if entertainers aren’t the true latterday saints for constantly interacting with people, signing autographs, sacrificing their normal lives. I think for some reason of Mr. Char, his basic good nature and consideration for others, at least until the Alzheimer’s kicked in. It must be a real blow for a person like that to realize he is divorced from his optimal self, sapped of the energy to keep on giving. * I perceive that there are many people out there feeling alone. I’d like to bond with them in a way I can’t really explain. I’ve been practicing into the night lately and have started to wonder if it would be cool to try to hook up with a band. * I consider an open-mike night, then catch myself. I’m still in the process of synchronizing the Damien voice with the guitar. If I miss a beat, it will be a joke, like watching the subtitles trying to catch up with the kick-ass martial arts action in a Bruce Lee movie. * No, I know it sounds corny, but I set my sights on the karaoke bar.

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* The first night there I’m just listening at a little table by the kitchen while the other patrons get their buzz on. It’s the usual Thursday crew of after-workers and regulars cranking out the oldies and applauding way too loudly for each other. I’m looking at the playlist, which includes lots of grunge songs I can growl like “Pennyroyal Tea” and “Lithium.”

I’m wearing light shades, a lumberjack shirt that’s big enough to swim in, with a Pixies t-shirt underneath for moral support. I’ve been nursing the same beer for over an hour now, doing a better job of that than an LPN. The cocktail server barely glances at me when she kicks open the double doors leading into the kitchen.

I get my courage up when only two or three other tables are left, and without removing the shades, take the microphone and kick into “Dumb.” Simple song, easy to manage. So of course I almost screw it up, because I’m squinting at the monitor when I don’t need to. I fall into the trap of the rhyme scheme and start to follow Lesson learned with Soothe the burn instead of Wish me luck. But I recover quickly.

And I don’t look up at all until I’m finished. * Apparently, a large table of co-workers sitting near the stage is in the right demographic to have recognized it. They are clapping and calling for an encore. The DJ tells me why not, I’m the first person who’s been in tune since the end of happy hour.

So I kick into “Pennyroyal Tea,” intentionally not looking at the 68

words so I don’t lose my place. The sunglasses are off now. I need to concentrate because the new voice is about to make its public debut.

When I hit the refrain, it really catches the attention of the tablesitters and even the cocktail server, who pauses and watches me. I make it through the whole song without hitting a false note, despite the fact that the front table has been generating more than its share of raucous feedback. * I finally finish and hand the microphone back to the DJ, who is real complimentary this time, mentioning something about a contest Saturday night. I’m heading back to my table when this woman pulls at my sleeve and rasps, “Kurt, Kurt, come join us!”

I pause for a moment. When I look back at her, point blank, she goes catatonic, repeating, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God!” I thank her but am out the door before she can summon a friend. * Friday, I take a day off work to rehearse for the contest. First prize is five hundred bucks, not too shabby.

I practice and practice until I reach the point where I’m sweating like Richard Nixon after chasing Checkers around the block all day. Then suddenly, I just sit down in the middle of the rug and think about nothing. I don’t mean I blank out entirely. I actually feel super alert, like my nerve endings are sticking out of my skin like broken strings.

I’m just thinking about nothing in particular.

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* Only later do I actually reflect back on all the elapsed time and remember the feeling that came to me of raw energy. Like my ectoplasm could explode in a million directions at once. * On Saturday, it’s naturally way too crowded to even sit, so I hang out at the back and watch the other contestants. I’ve paid the entry fee and listed “Lithium” as my first song, saving “Smells Like Teen Spirit” for the next round if I make it. Wise strategy? Time will tell.

The contestants are mostly pretty decent. You’ve got your typical lineup of Mariahs and Shanias and Garths. They are all dressed up and accompany their performances with lots of hand gestures. Not that many people pay attention to me when my turn comes, so I don’t feel too much like test meat. I just focus on the song and get it right. * I guess I must have been in the zone or something, because ten minutes later, I can’t remember a thing about the performance. Honestly.

I find myself dancing with one of the Shanias, who’s really friendly in that country sort of way. I don’t tell her I don’t care much for the real Shania, who ripped off Aerosmith’s “Uncle Salty” for her first big hit.

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* At about 10:00, the DJ cuts in and says that it would be a good idea for me to stick for the next round. Happy trails to my dancing partner. * This time, I shake out the hair and stare out at the crowd before the song starts up. The first guitar riff comes up, and I begin counting beats carefully. Load up on guns and/ Bring your friends/ It’s fun to lose/ And to pretend, I begin, without much effort. Kind of appropriate lyrics for a karaoke contest, I can’t help thinking.

I continue on through the string of hellos and how lows, slowly coming alive and edging out toward the audience members with a familiarity I can’t explain. * I get an immediate reaction. Then I really nail the chorus, screaming into the mike and exploiting the sudden break for all the shock value it’s still worth. Audible cries go up of “Kurt! Kurt!”

During the next verse, I back up and lower my head. I’m definitely inhabiting the space of the stage now, trying to project that sense of camaraderie outward to the audience, which, despite including my remaining competitors (a few), is dancing and applauding.

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* I writhe around and scream some more. The irony is that the song isn’t really about having 100% fun. I think it’s more about the downside of having to perform on demand. I have totally mixed feelings about it, I guess you could say. * A half hour later, I am five hundred dollars richer. * I’ve shaken some hands and gotten quite a few invitations for drinks from some pretty affectionate people. But instead, I am being pushed back up to the stage for an encore. “Lithium” begins for a second time, and the crowd engulfs me. By the middle of the first verse, my self-consciousness has melted away.

A sudden rush of energy rises up from my abdomen and courses through my chest and neck, all the way up to my forehead. I have a foolish grin on my face, no doubt. * Kurt Cobain said it best: “All in all is all we are.”

I think I know what he meant.

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EIGHT CHARACTERS I CREATED TODAY

LAK I had not seen Lak in quite a while, quite a while. Before we met for lunch, he told me he had an announcement to make. I played out several scenarios in my head that involved him—he was going to go through with his arranged marriage; he was going to rejoin corporate America and move across the country; or he was going to bag it all, shave his head, and rejoin the Buddhist monastery.

I sort of forget now what his news was—we had so much catching up to do! That Lak. What a crazy guy.

JOANIE I just love this character. I decided to make her up as soon as I saw her at the next table in the restaurant, wearing a batik dress and a bangle on her arm and discussing the menu with a shaved-headed man who could never, ever be good enough for her. Not for my Joanie.

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THE SNAKE At a committee meeting, one member passed around her cell phone displaying a picture of a large snake she had just encountered outside the building.

It looked harmless enough to me—a grey rat snake. But the picture prompted other committee members to discuss snakes they had encountered and their zero tolerance policy. For a minute there, I thought someone would move that we all get up and head into the woods with pitchforks and torches ablaze. Our meeting had become an unholy cabal!

MY EX I never did get the whole post-divorce antagonist thing, though my ex really went on the warpath there for awhile. In the NY Review of Books, I see an article by a writer she knows and decide to save it for her. Who knows—people can change and change back.

JILLIAN After the divorce, my ex pretty much absconded with all the friends, but Jillian sent me a note today out of the blue along with a link to her blog. I clicked on the link and thereby renewed the acquaintance, vicariously, of someone whose sense of humor I had always appreciated, a sort of female David Spade.

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OLIVER He stopped by my office, as usual, when I was rushing to get to my last class, and asked me about a CD he had lent me—had I had a chance to listen to it?

I tried to give him a short review of the music while I gathered my papers together. Did I mention that Oliver is gay and kind of dotes on me? Not that I encourage him—I mention the fact only in case a reader feels this story has no love interest.

THE BOSS I was summoned to his office for my annual review, which involved a close examination of my paperwork, and was chagrined to discover that the boss had misplaced my file. Now, for a minute there, didn’t I feel just like the Kafka character K in The Castle?

LINDEN I don’t know what business he might have been about when he walked into the office reception area toward the end of the day and took up a position outside a professor’s door. Perhaps he hoped to appeal a grade, but my colleague was long gone. When I left the office, he still remained rooted to the spot—a lost cause, an existential hero.

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TEACHING NIGHTMARES

I: EGG BATH For a Spring project, I had asked my students to bring in some plastic eggs. I thought we could decide what we wanted to do with them later.

First order of business was dumping the eggs into a large metal tub.

Some students were a little loath to do this because they had wrapped the eggs in Easter baskets, but the rainbow effect of mixing so many different colors and sizes changed their minds.

I was somewhat overcome, too. After the students had returned to their seats, I couldn’t help lying down in the tub of eggs and relaxing for a moment—it was just too tempting!

After a long pause, I started to call on individuals. Corey, what do you think the class could do with all these eggs? No answer. An art project? A community hunt for kids? I suggested. Still no answer—odd, I could have sworn Corey had been in class today.

I tried calling on others while still nestled comfortably in the tub.

Cynthia? Jacob? Antoine? Charlotte? Nothing.

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Alarmed, I sat up suddenly, plastic eggs spilling over the side. There was no one left.

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II: LITERAL-MINDEDNESS Groups of employees were excitedly traversing the library stacks as I sat reading. They whispered to each other in hushed tones. After a while, I deduced that they were all competing in a scavenger hunt.

One group in my vicinity became excited when it saw bear and owl decorations on a shelf. It’s the bear! It’s ‘a row of stuffed owls’! they hissed to one another. Yet they seemed completely baffled by the next clues directing them to “search the grove” and “find a symbol of life.”

After they stood there flummoxed for several minutes, I began to glower at my book and make little study grunts. They got the message and went outside to find their grove.

Curious, I got up, went to the shelf, and scanned a few volumes under the owls. One of these, produced by The Grove Press, was a Dictionary of Symbols.

I took it down, reflected, and then started to look up symbols of life.

I didn’t have long to wait; as soon as I opened the book to “ankh,” a thin blue envelope popped out. It was sealed, no doubt containing a 78

check or certificate for the winning group.

I replaced envelope in book and book on shelf and then gathered up my things. In good cheer now, I left.

Outside, the tensions of the hunt had mounted. Several employees were gathered around a copse of young trees.

Some group members attempted to climb up while others pulled them back, scolding them that the limbs would break.

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III: SING IT Students were taking turns in my class making singing presentations.

I tried to squeeze in one more report before the hour was up.

An older student stood up and showed the class an old promotional photograph of himself as a teen idol with big eyes—his billing had been “the Kewpie Doll.”

He crooned a couple of songs, the second taking the class period to nearly 7:00. Some students rose to leave, looking up at me apologetically.

Then another adult learner jumped up to join the faded idol. She launched into a long anecdote about John Chapman as a prelude to performing a folk ballad.

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IV: TEA TIME It was time to collect research essays, and I was amazed at my large class turnout. Usually there were a lot of no-shows on this day and even more excuses. But this group was seated and ready when I walked in the door.

All had neatly bound essays on their desks. I was pleased but also a little put off: what a lot of grading!

I hadn’t blocked off anything else for this hour but collecting the essays, usually a drawn-out process, so I wondered if I should stall a little. Since I was making tea, I asked if anyone wanted a cup. Then I procrastinated further by transferring the brew into a tall carafe, stirring it, and pouring it out into little condiment cups.

Simultaneously, I answered questions. One student asked me if copies of sources were really needed. Though I knew they weren’t and my syllabus was simply out of date, I told him to go ahead and turn them in.

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Another student, obviously pleased with her essay, asked me if I would like her to write a self-evaluation, and I said no, not necessary.

Here, won’t you have some tea?

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THREE SPELLS

I: SPELLS FOR CONFOUNDING DEVELOPERS Summoning storm to spoil a groundbreaking Luring a surveyor into a marshy area Invisibility spell: blueprints, plats Aversion spells—Home Depot, Lowe’s Spells to shut down power and power tools Nail- or staple-gun run amok spells Locater spells for snakes, wasps, termites How to cause blisters, sunburn Spell to attract birds to roost in HVAC units Spells to bring kudzu people to life Calling out a Druid army Opening a door to nowhere Basic invocation: Brick-busting Demons

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II: SPELLS TO PROGRESS RAPIDLY IN TRAFFIC Summoning phantom passenger for carpool lane Honking aversion spell for horns Telekinesis spell for lane shifts ahead Repulsion spell to reduce traffic congestion Water-on-highway illusion for other drivers Remote airbag-inflating trick (revenge spell) How to “draft” behind cars that aren’t there Locater spell: fairy roads not listed on MapQuest Charms for improving gas mileage Spells to shut down cell phones Spell to make a headset sprout horns Opening a lane to bliss Basic invocation: Tire-changing Demons

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III: SPELLS FOR THE PREVENTION OF AGING Conjuring funhouse and “skinny� mirrors Reverse locator spell for former classmates How to send rain of frogs to a class reunion Transformation spell: age twenty Transformation spell: age thirty Spells for wrinkles, bags under eyes, chin flap Exorcism: old man front-butt Money spell: 401K, 403B, IRAs Binding spells for children and grandchildren Banishing spells for children and grandchildren Using a pocket watch to stop time Charms for reversing Nature Basic invocation: Compliment-paying Demons

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THREE FLARF

I: HELP ME TO UNDERSTAND YOU, VAMPIRE Please help me to understand you better!

When vampires choose someone to feed on, they don’t look for people who are offering to be donors because. . .?

I found a vampire for you, but forgot to keep him out of the sun . . . o well.

It helped me to understand you a bit better to know why you did it, in your own words.

Can you help me to understand you? Are you here for my brain? Oh, yeah!

Can you hold off a vampire with a sun lamp?

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II: SORRY DUDE, NO PUN INTENDED Sorry dude, I’m still sad to this day because he was a big part of my childhood and I loved him to death (no pun intended).

Sorry dude, but that was dreadful, all the right notes but no feeling behind the notes. But don’t fret (no pun intended).

Sorry dude, but you don’t have the right to ruin someone else’s trip (no pun intended).

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III: THE MIGHTY CLOSED-TOED SHOES You took one look at me and said, “Oi, you’re getting a pedicure, why are you wearing close-toed shoes?”

Is it that I don’t become one of those mightier-than-thou types who think they are superior?

It’s hard to find cute close-toed shoes that I like, so tell you what: the pedicure is mightier than the sword.

The kids and I have one pair of close-toed shoes (tennies) and only a little leather. Everyday moments:: mightier than a sword.

“I baptize you with water; but he who is mightier than I is coming, the Thong.”

Ironically, she wore close-toed shoes the entire cruise.

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GHOST GIRL

I was staying at a B&B in a tucked-away corner of a major city. It was run by an elderly couple—by the old man, rather. His wife, I discovered, was barely able to rise from her chair. She did not appear disabled. Rather, both she and her husband seemed in the grip of a great sorrow.

Without having to pry overmuch, I learned they had lost their granddaughter Mary Ellen several years before.

She might have been kidnapped, the old man told me, falteringly. Yet they never had been asked for any ransom.

Later I went on a walk around the back lot, where I saw a small pond with a sign reading “Warning: Deep Drop-off,” a cluster of black locust trees, and a guesthouse in a state of dilapidation.

Behind the guesthouse was a neglected garden plot where I thought I saw a boxer scrabbling around in the dirt. But I was interrupted by a little girl in a checkered dress who motioned me over to the side of the house, as if she had something important to show me.

She pointed toward a window well. Gleefully, she told me to look inside. So I bent over and cleared away some vines, then reached 89

down and retrieved a small metal chest no larger than a shoebox.

You found it! You found the treasure! the girl said, clapping her hands.

Look inside!

I opened the box. Or it practically opened by itself—a hinge was broken. In it, I saw a collection of small items, toys, and doll dresses.

Also some loose dirt and some mold.

You can’t keep this one, the girl said, removing a sparkling doll dress from the box. You can have those. Then she skipped around the side of the house.

I tried to follow her but only found the boxer, who spotted me and whined.

Good boy, I said, reaching down to pet him. For some reason, my hand passed right through his head.

Suddenly, it all made sense: this girl had died, probably accidentally, and her grandparents couldn’t live with that truth. Perhaps they felt guilt over not having been more watchful at the time, but more likely, they were simply in deep denial over the loss of a cherished child.

With the little girl’s treasure chest under my arm, I headed back to the front desk of the B&B. There I confronted the old man. Hadn’t his granddaughter died, and hadn’t he killed her boxer to keep it away from the body?

Seeing his granddaughter’s things, he bowed his head.

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Why? I persisted.

Just then his wife crept slowly out of the back room, a frozen look on her face. She asked her husband if I had brought any news back today about Mary Ellen.

Not yet my dear, not yet.

I waited until this awkward moment had passed. Then I said, I’ll just be checking out now.

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GULFPORT

My dad had arranged a few sticks of furniture to remind us of home.

A fold-out table, two kitchen chairs. They looked forlorn out there in the woods, but when we sat across from each other, I closed my eyes and tried to ignore everything else: his tattered ball cap, his mudstreaked face, the scraggly beard that made him look like the Wild Man of the Bayou.

He slept in a discarded pup tent and curled himself up to half his length. The tent provided only the illusion of insulation with an opening at the top where mosquitoes and flies could get in. But his body temperature probably remained too low to attract many bugs.

Wrapped in an old blanket, he tried to goof around and pass the whole thing off as some big post-Katrina sleepover adventure.

But I would sob after I left him. It all seemed beneath human dignity. * When the storm hit Gulfport, we dutifully joined the long line of slow-moving cars. I lay in the back seat under a mound of bedding Dad had whisked me off in, still in my pajamas, and we listened to the reports of the hurricane on the radio.

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It was scary but kind of exciting to see other families in their vehicles, with the state guard trying to keep everyone moving, sometimes bringing out a tank of gas to a stalled car. We eventually made it to a Red Cross Center and were given vouchers for a hotel. That was fun too, since I had never stayed in one. Lots of other kids enjoyed the strange holiday from school.

Then I would catch a glimpse on TV of our coastline and some of the houses and get a bad feeling I would never be able to go home. I was right. When it was finally safe to go back, we only found swamp where our neighborhood had once been. * After seeing me off to the school bus stop, Dad would sometimes go down and chip mud off our roof or crack open the stuck windows in the hope that would dry out the house. He also made a game out of treasure hunting, promising to look for lost toys and bring back anything he could. I was young enough to appreciate every mustyhaired Barbie or stuffed bunny or ball, fascinated by their war-torn condition, although each kid in the trailer park had been given a donated toy after the storm and again at Christmas. But I accepted my father’s finds as the gifts they were rather than as hard-won mementoes of my childhood.

He soaked all the toys in a bleach bucket first. That would get out the dankness, but leave them covered in black spots.

Dad not only lost his home in the storm but also his job, at a factory that would never reopen. Maybe if he had abandoned his house-salvage project earlier or if we had progressed further through the rings 93

of FEMA assistance, he would have found it possible to get back on his feet. As it was, he would waste hours landscaping around the trailer park or helping volunteers unload trucks, feeling better that way about receiving assistance, or hoping to advertise his usefulness among them and come into a job that way.

Then he got sick—he said, from all the chemicals in the trailer park— and before he could ever quite get back on his feet, the assistance ran out and we were being evicted. * I’m not sure of all the logistics, but I’ve never doubted that my Dad loved me and did everything he did out of concern for me. I know he fought to get us on a list for public housing with the Mississippi Regional Authority but was told the federal funds had dried up and the wait list included over five thousand names. Then, after he got sick, he started talking with the volunteers about putting me into foster care, just until he got back on his feet again. I know he never foresaw a change like that becoming permanent; he just wanted me to have a house, a yard, and a stable life.

So I eventually went to live with Mrs. McIntire, a widow, in a brand new subdivision. And I started high school.

Twice a month, my dad drove out to visit. He still had the car, which would noisily announce its arrival and cause Mrs. McIntire to look dubious, but I would hop in and try not to notice the lived-in smell it had, because it provided us the freedom of some father-daughter space.

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We would head to a state park and walk around. Dad always brought something to eat. He could even become jocular, firing questions at me about school and Mrs. McIntire’s and looking more or less content with my answers. Or teasing me about boys or being old enough to drive soon, and how the roads would no longer be safe.

I tried to solicit more information from him, whether he had found a new job, whether he was taking care of himself. Then he would become defensive and change the subject. * This went on for about four months. One day Dad didn’t show, but I got a call on a borrowed cell phone. He told me the car had broken down en route and he’d been forced to abandon it on the highway. He couldn’t afford a tow. But he was not too far from my area and said he’d think of something. He asked to speak to Mrs. McIntire—who agreed, under the circumstances, to a late visit that day.

Dad did show up at the door in person, dirty and unkempt. We went on a walk around the subdivision. He made appreciative remarks about the neighborhood and its natural borders and became a little gruff only after I asked him what he intended to do next. * That’s how he first came to be living in the woods near the Poplar Stream subdivision.

This neighborhood is gradually being hewed out of a no-man’s land on the edge of town. It really does live up to its name by having a 95

brook that cuts through the middle and into a wooded area, past the gate, builder’s dumps, and honeysuckle vines.

Dad’s visits at the door stopped when Mrs. McIntire started to object. He had nowhere to take me, no car, and there was nothing but highway connecting us anywhere.

Perhaps Mrs. McIntire feared that she would eventually be forced to invite him in, but Dad seemed equally alarmed by that possibility and the questions which might ensue. Besides, he was Mrs. McIntire’s biggest fan, always singing her praises and reminding me how fortunate I was (though he didn’t really know her). * A couple of weeks later, he caught me when I was out in the back yard reading a book and motioned me over. He whispered that he was now living nearby—quite close—and that I should drop by and visit him when I could.

I grew excited and tried to ask him where, but he hushed me, worried that Mrs. McIntire might catch us. Then he pointed toward the far line of pines and my heart fell.

After finishing the dishes that night, I excused myself to Mrs. McIntire and went out for a walk.

I never went past the edges of the subdivision. None of the neighbors ever did; actually, they rarely even walked down the block. They mostly commuted back and forth between their workplaces and McMansions and led comfortable lives indoors.

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It was kind of eerie stepping into the woods alone. There were briars that were a little hard to see and fire ant mounds to avoid. Vines covered everything else.

I did not make my way very quietly. As soon as I thought I was far enough in, I tried calling softly, “Dad?” Almost immediately I heard an equally soft, “Lissa Honey?”

A lanky figure emerged out of the wall of green and gave me a rare, embarrassed hug. * I saw Dad at least once a week afterwards. I told Mrs. McIntire I was taking up jogging, and she accepted this as part of a teenage girl’s obsession with weight.

She might have grown a bit suspicious, however, when at the same time my appetite seemed to increase, and leftover buns and cheese and fruit began to disappear.

I tried to keep my thefts as petty as possible. Dad was too proud to accept food that didn’t look like leftovers.

Building had started up again on the edges of Poplar Stream: Phase II. “What will happen to you then?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “Mightn’t reach this far. Or’t might. I guess I’ll have to 97

leave you for a while longer. See if the economy’s started to pick up.” * That was two years, three months ago. Driving school, tests and dissections, high school cliques—I survived them all, though without making a lot of new friends. I often feel like an old lady hanging around Mrs. McIntire and her cats and her garden.

Though she’s always been a gracious guardian, especially after Dad left, I am sometimes a little resentful of her, too—not rich, but living in a house that could easily shelter a large family, and probably spending enough on cat food alone to feed several third-world kids.

I know it’s not her fault. She was kind enough to take me in, much more than most would do.

Although this is the Deep South, it does get cold here in winter and we have sudden squalls. When a flood hit our county this past summer, the Poplar Stream stream rose, flooding basements and knocking over trees in people’s yards.

Of course, I have lived through much worse. And I know that no act of God ever would or could separate me from my father. Only shame could do that. I wish we could banish shame forever along with port authorities, hurricanes, and gated communities. *

I know that wherever my father sleeps, he is thinking of our little bungalow in Gulfport. And he is ready to get up at any time of night to comfort me from bad dreams.

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THE HOTEI OF ROYAL STREET

Halloween: New Orleans. A half brother my wife rarely saw was a denizen there. But he had reached an age where he wanted to become more involved in the family.

We met him at a corner shop and he took us on a brief tour of his neighborhood. Then, as we passed near his dwelling, he suddenly vanished.

We waited out in the street for several minutes but couldn’t help getting caught up with a group of passing masqueraders and led down to the square, where we watched some street performers for a while.

Then, feeling something was unsettled, I took my wife’s arm and led her back.

Her brother was standing on the street corner wearing an eye patch.

He offered us a bowl filled with jelly licorice candies shaped like skulls. * Later that trip, our daughter took the car on an errand and didn’t immediately return to our bed and breakfast. We waited and waited.

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I became somewhat upset that my wife had trusted our little girl to negotiate unfamiliar and potentially dangerous streets alone.

We tried leaving a message with her half brother, who apparently never answered his phone. But left without a car, about all we could do was wait.

Then a woman came calling at the door. She was disheveled-looking and said she was my brother-in-law’s girlfriend. She was worried about him because he never left the apartment without telling her.

Before we could get any more information from her, she excused herself to use the restroom and locked herself in.

After fifteen minutes passed, we began to worry about her, too. This had become intolerable—waiting to see which door would open first! * Fortunately, it was the front door. My daughter and her newfound uncle burst in laden with grocery bags and gifts. My wife and I were stunned.

My daughter dumped a bag into my arms and told me to act useful.

We were still milling around in the entryway when the bathroom door opened. Out stepped the woman, completely transformed from a street person into a true beauty.

You look good, my brother-in-law told her, putting down his bags to give her a hug. Don’t worry—this party is just getting started!

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THE HILL PEOPLE

By a roadside gas station, many miles from here, I saw a large lobster-like creature giving birth. Dozens of purple pods started appearing on nearby bushes as it gasped and heaved.

As I watched, the purple pods began subdividing into two colors, red and blue. Then the proprietor came out and poured gasoline over the blue pods.

I later learned that I was in a small town settled by the Hill people, who had sprung from the red pods. They displayed no discernable differences from humans other than appearing remarkably large and hale.

On second thought—they might have had an extra propensity for violence. I saw a television clip of “Hill basketball” that involved a fist fight between players, coach, and even a father-son pair. But it was hard to tell whether this was a real game or a parody.

Their sworn enemies were the blue faces. I witnessed a hunt for one.

The blue face was squatting in a deserted shack and ended up killing a Hill deputy.

The fugitive had red markings around one eye. They found him be101

hind a pile of furnishings.

When shot, he bled a purplish blood which he smeared vengefully over the fallen deputy, burning blue circles into his skin.

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THE WERE-BEAST

A hound dog, my friends decided.

They had captured this stray animal in the park. For some reason, I was left holding it there on a rope leash while the gang went off looking for a nonexistent owner.

Upon closer examination, the dog turned out to be a were-beast with an elongated snout like a collie’s, a mane of human hair, and viciouslooking eyes.

It seemed to be held in a kind of half-moonlit spell: if not provoked, it might remain silent, but given the slightest movement or flicker of fear, it would become capable of quick destruction.

The were-beast glared at me, threateningly. I have never been much good in a stare-down. So I reflexively backed off a little, and surreptitiously (I thought), my hand strayed to my pocket for anything I might use as a weapon.

The beast caught this movement and rose on its haunches. I began to backpedal. It charged.

I made a little sidestep, reached out, and jabbed a silver pen into a 103

hard nostril.

Somehow this did the trick. The beast loped off into the trees, dragging its leash and howling.

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SEASON 2: EPISODE 23

“Eat, Prey, Love�

Xander is told that he is a slayer too, but he is probably only being set up by Spike. His first attempted staking backfires when the vampire turns out to be just a pale nerd.

Another student cries out for help on a rubbish heap in a forgotten corner of the high school, where real vampires soon will be attracted by the smell of blood.

Meanwhile, many vamps are openly cruising through Sunnydale on motorcycles like Valkyries, unchecked. Where is Buffy?

She is in a bakery, eyeing wedding cakes moving past on a conveyor belt.

After a beat, she grabs a plate from a nearby stack, neatly snaps off a stake-like segment, and jabs it into a passing confection.

She removes a chunk of the cake, lifts it up to her lips, and licks off the frosting.

Cut to other end of the conveyor belt, where the sagging remains of 105

the cake emerge. Voiceover Buffy: Aww Cakie, I thought you would put up more of a fight.

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FLASH IN THE PAN

OPENING REMARKS It wouldn’t be so bad if you were about to give a talk, and suddenly a bear walked in. You could always lead off with, Good evening, Ladies and Gentle Ben. BAD START Library books were strewn in the forest near campus. I picked one up. The title was “How to Save the Earth,” or something like that.

BIG TIPPERS? I flipped to ESPN and saw a cow-tipping competition in progress.

Points were being awarded for speed, form, and “bounce.”

I grumbled and reached for the remote. Yet another so-called “sport!”

Just then, some animal-rights activists who had been standing in the background broke free and tried to overturn the sportscasters’ 107

booth. The poor outnumbered former-jock announcers struggled hard to defend their turf.

I forgot all about changing the channel. This had all the makings of a true competition!

BIRD BIKES I watched as two teens walked away from the bus stop, cutting across an industrial area where a couple of bicycles had been abandoned on a junk heap.

One salvaged a bike with loose handle bars that pumped back and forth as he rode, making his elbows flap like duck wings. The other found a bike with a springy seat that caused his head to bob up and down like a chicken’s.

BREAKFAST MENU bomblette: miscellaneous assortment of refrigerator leftovers folded indelicately into an egg outer-layer. crepes boozette: thin, absorbent pancake creations reputed to be a hangover cure. orange peek-hole tea: a beverage so weak one must check to see if the teabag “dropped.” potatoes “o’greaty”: any particularly uninspired, starchy tuber 108

accompaniment to a meal. transblendered: a smoothie which is neither discernibly vegetablebased nor fruit-based. the colonel’s frank confession, or war is hormel “It was back when your grandpappy was devotin’ himself to the preservation of the Onion. I had enlisted late, so had to pack’n’wrap quickly to ketchup to the resta them hotdoggin’ fellas. Eventually, I mustard up the courage to link up on the firing range. It was then I received this,” he said, not without some relish, pointing to the stilltender spot on one of his buns.

INVISIBLE FENCE (SONG) dog driven mad by invisible fence/dog driven mad by invisible fence/ invisible fence, invisible fence/dog driven mad by invisible fence facing up to obstacles that he can’t see/ panting on the ground, will to be free/ dog driven mad by invisible fence/ dog driven mad by invisible fence shock collar!

I WANT to be already settled into the rounds of knowing someone:/ no super109

charged passion, just the voice from the next room,/ and the awaiting buzz of domesticity. late-nite adages Brain, brain, go away. Come again another day.

The squeaky wheel gets the axe.

Early to bed, and early to rise, deadens the body and reddens the eyes.

Parting is such sweet-sorrow pork.

Horses are a bunch of neigh-sayers.

Don’t be a Marcus Will-be.

Where there’s smoke, there’s microwave popcorn.

This would work? That would work? Time to come out of the “would work.”

Whoever dies with the most poetry in his head wins.

LAUGHTER YOGA Two root beers were walking down the street (inhale) and one of them got mugged (exhale) After falling through the laundry chute, I tried to escape (deep breath) but found myself hampered (exhale) My daughter smiled when I told her I had “ripped” my first disk (deep breath and hold it) Hey, what’s so funny, I asked her. These things can take a long time to heal (let it ALL out) When I die, I hope to be buried in a kitchen garden (deep breath and hold it) The vegetables there will synthesize my atoms, and when they are eaten (keep holding) I can live on in others (let it ALL out) My officemate is sorting papers so noisily while I am typing this (inhale) that I de110

cide to nickname him Russell (exhale slo-o-owly. Please remain still for thirty seconds. Now just try to relax. Good!)

OPPOSITE SEX I woke up in bed the opposite sex. I was about to shake my head to clear it when I stopped and thought, Wait, this could get interesting.

THE OSCAR GOES TO BECKETT What the business, and why worry? Your name goes here to authorize. Thanks for the whattie. I’d like to spank the thing-putter and the ogler, all the people who will make this pass. Grrr. So many others to spank!

Never enough. Outward and onward. Never enough. Now pull the curtain on his shame. Standing there in the . . . whatever. The suit he was born in. Antarctically. Please pull the curtain. Put out his lights, play the wake!

A miss on each arm, they escorted him off. Gave him the old softarm. Missed and dismissed. Made him play the piper while they danced their tune. In & out, then rolled him up in a carpet. Comme il faut. All Comme il faut.

PLEONASM It has taken me some time to get this said, this matter I am bring111

ing to your attention. For surely two persons of discernment must broach such a subject deliberately, having lived a great while suppressing any illusions, casting out graven ideals. All the same, an appointment of sorts might be fashioned, during which topics of a personal nature may be discussed, at your pleasure, well within the normal timeframe it takes to eat a dinner. And should this proposal meet with your approbation, a timetable could be set for the very near future, perhaps as early as Friday. scientia et humanitas Absolute Zero worked in a lab/ and kept his test tube in a rack./ His conclusions were few, his methods: precise/ they didn’t stray far from the tack./ Carrying tray, his assistant, Ms. Rae,/ countermined his design by freak chance/ The resulting explosion melting them close/ and causing the doctor to dance.

WHO WANTS PIE? At Thanksgiving, we were all painfully sitting around the living room after our feast when the doorbell rang. No one wanted to get up. Finally, I crossed over to the door to greet our guest, saying, Come on in and meet my distended family.

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STORIES WITH AFTERTHOUGHTS

I: believe it or not, it’s done I was waiting around for the final proof of my book to arrive after much wrangling about the design. When word came over the phone that it was done, I demanded it be sent to me immediately—I had waited long enough!

I stepped outside to greet the courier. He arrived in his gym shorts, huffing after crossing the entire campus, and handed the book over like a runner’s baton. I took it from him without a word.

On the crowded cover were three blurred photos taken at a reading, making me look like a cross between Samuel Johnson and Frederick Douglass. The inside text, over which I had taken the strongest artistic stand, was also devoid of any white space. Instead, the student editor had crowded icons and pictures next to each poem.

The whole thing resembled a Ripley’s Believe it or Not Comic.

Because I had insisted upon a Spartan textual arrangement and design, this version was so over-the-top it actually put me at a loss. It was covered in print so dark that the ink bled everywhere and looked like it would come off in my hands.

Yes, it was just like having blood on my hands.

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II: the cabinet of dr. calamari?

One of the rugby players staying at the house, from New Zealand, said he had a brother he hadn’t seen in awhile who was a bartender down on Lexington Avenue and he wouldn’t mind going there. Feeling responsible for my guests’ entertainment, I offered to drive.

A small group headed down to the garage to wait. I grabbed my keys and started to lock up, then noticed a huge spider crawling around the house. It was green, the size of a catcher’s mitt. I searched the ground for a stick to stab it with, but not quickly enough: the spider was gone.

But then hundreds of baby spiders dropped down from the top of the wall, and I spied a couple of other creatures humping their way across the lawn, a lobster-size scorpion and a blue squid.

I pursued the lobster with the stick and shouted over to my neighbor Barry to take care of the other creature. Sure, said Barry, who trotted over with a ladder and used it to squash the squid.

By this time I had forgotten all about the outing to Lexington Avenue. Instead, following my misgivings, I crossed over to the pond.

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There I was shocked to see a teeming mÊlange of alien creatures— more blue squids, giant puffballs, and dozens of other insect-crustacean hybrids inching up on shore.

I finally called out for assistance to the rugby players, who came jogging up. Together, we began pitching rocks into the watery stew, but these seemed to have little effect.

And then I had my great inspiration: I wonder how these things would taste?

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III: hill o’ beans Taking a shortcut to a café with my Native American friend JW. The setting was the French Quarter. We tried to take a shortcut through a square but were impeded by a giant mound of coffee beans.

JW said, That looks like fun. I agreed: when else are you going to have a chance to climb a mountain of coffee beans?

So we scampered right to the top—but alas. The recent rain had left pools of black liquid everywhere. I tried to make light of the situation, joked that at least no other storms were brewing. But JW slipped and fell, staining her dress.

And I slipped too, and then she fell again. Eventually, we both gave up and just started sliding and rolling until we reached the pavement.

It didn’t amount to much, that hill of beans in New Orleans.

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IV: the pizza is a symbol of unity I had a dream in which one pizza symbolized another pizza. It was Saturday night. I was at a restaurant eating with my daughter Rina when we were interrupted by her mom, who apparently had made other plans. She was motioning through the window for Rina to come out to the car.

That night, before the dream, I had discussed going to Mellow Mushroom with Rina after her play finale on Saturday. But then, over the phone, in the mysterious background of the call, I heard murmurings and sensed her mom would prefer we go out Sunday night instead.

So—the pizza we were interrupted from eating in the dream SYMBOLIZED a pizza we might be rescheduled to eat! Crazy as it might sound, the Saturday-dream pizza was actually a sign, or a portent, of a rescheduled-to-Sunday pizza.

Wow!!! I must have been holy tripping or something!!!

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V: the vicar At a movie rehearsal. Although this is a first run-through, some technical people are making the rounds. And music is being cued up at all the strategic moments, including church music to herald the arrival of the Vicar (my own small part). Distracted, I miss my cue for an initial, throwaway line before finding my spot on the page.

A quick glance around reveals that the other actors are looking at me quizzically. They each hold a different color-coded copy of the script.

Apparently, my character has been written out of this scene.

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JUST SAY NOH

I: a host of lilies At the zendo, the theme of the Master’s talk had been, Come take your place now. He expressed this imagistically by describing a host of water lilies on the surface of a pond.

My fellow monks joined hands in our circle, but my friend Sung felt no electricity. He simply walked away until this communal exercise finished.

When I implored him to return, to stay and connect, to show Master that we in fact had become his host of lilies, he scoffed. He told me I would never achieve satori if so bossy.

So I decided to walk alone to the temple, feeling that I, at least, was ready to join the elite. En route, I passed a pack of wild dogs but showed no fear—they ignored me as I ignored them.

Then I heard a growl directly behind me and couldn’t help looking over my shoulder. As soon as I did, I realized I was not yet ready.

Sung had been right.

I ran back to find him for a game of cards.

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II: SKY DRAGON It came to pass that the emperor, who owned Heaven, put a tax on the skies. Pagodas could only be built so high. Kites must respect a moderate elevation. Even flocks of birds were cursed if they blocked His Eminence’s view.

A huge levee was placed on bonfires and even sacrificial smoke. This upset the ancestral spirits, who could no longer be so honored. For forty days, they sent no sun, just squalls and flooding. The citizens began to lose farms and homes.

Furious, the emperor ordered that he be carried out into the courtyard. With great ceremony, he addressed the dragon of the sky, commanding it to stop the rain.

On the winds blew. Outraged, the mighty ruler told his attendants to lash him into his sedan chair. He would outlast this storm.

Suddenly a huge gust carried him and his chair up into the sky, where he remains to this day, an angry constellation.

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III: THE YELLOW EMPEROR’S WIFE The ancient river had flooded onto the embankment, making my route all but impassable.

Crossing the other way was a young Chinese woman. She saw me carrying bundles so assumed I must be a servant like herself. Her accent and refined manners suggested she waited upon members of the landed class.

She encouraged me to accompany her back to the estate if I sought a better position. As she guided me, I was somewhat surprised to see she had no trouble picking her way amid the floodwaters, which seemed to retreat before her.

We made it back to a vast set of rooms in an old building in a city neighborhood that had fallen onto hard times.

An introduction to her master followed—this old woman, who was introduced as a wife of the Yellow Emperor, seemed intrigued by my eyes, which might have struck her as less ordinary than my other features. She asked me several questions about my ancestry.

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At our parting, however, I inadvertently insulted her. She offered me her ring to kiss, and I did so. But when she told me that she was a direct descendant of the River God, I couldn’t hide a look of surprise.

Summarily, I was dismissed to my quarters. As I left, I heard the Yellow Emperor’s wife angrily raising her voice, summoning the river to rise still further and obliterate the evils of the surrounding city.

I couldn’t help thinking of all the poor and innocent in the vicinity.

Therefore, as my temple master once taught me, I paused and concentrated all of my energy on a single word: No! Soon I heard a cry in the inner courtyard, followed by an explosion and rising smoke. Time to exit.

In the street, all the servants including the young woman had gathered. Now she seemed discomposed, distraught.

I left them there and returned to my quarters to retrieve my things. I wanted no further part of this strange household!

En route two looters fell upon me. I was barely able to evade them and to rush inside, where I locked and bolted the door.

A shame, I heard one foiled bandit say. That woman owned some books so old they contained only shadows and sounds.

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MAN OF THE WORLD

I was an Irish Man of the World, which is to say, rather a free spirit.

As I was just explaining to a lady of my acquaintance, my parents always advised me to take advantage of my opportunities. But being rather neglectful, they failed to warn that half the opportunities to come one’s way were bad.

So fortunes were made and lost, and I visited and left places rather quickly, until one day I found myself in the former Yugoslavia.

I was taking my evening nap when up an embankment straggled a father and son, freshly escaped from a prison camp, and on their last legs.

They led me to an old vehicle abandoned nearby with the tires shot out, under which they had stowed two bicycles. How I missed the bikes myself I do not know.

They climbed aboard to make their break for the border, but the son could barely stand, let alone balance on two wheels.

So I hit upon the expedient of riding alongside and holding him up.

Until his father too dropped out of the race and urged me on ahead, thinking a foreign escort was his son’s best chance.

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Sad to say, we left him there and continued on to the border, where a train was scheduled to depart.

As things stood, my finances were rather limited, but I offered the station lady the bikes, a handful of coin, and a wink, proudly flashing my Irish passport and lamenting the present state of the economy.

Then just for leavening, slipping in a reference to my mother, declaring that her last wish was to behold him, her poor deaf-mute grandchild, and to clasp him in her arms just once before she died.

So we did end up on that train, where I met the lady of my acquaintance, an American social worker, who informed me she would take steps toward the family’s reunification.

Meantime, I could leave the poor boy in her charge—look at him, wasn’t he hungry, and communicating perfectly well with that plate of potatoes and eggs.

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MANY WORKING PARTS

I thought I had arrived too early for the community theatre production. Props and equipment were being carted everywhere. Yet the writer-director, a one-man operation, had already taken the stage to answer audience questions.

Someone asked him about the production coming together as a whole, and he looked at her as though this was the biggest non sequitur he had ever heard.

I offered something about a series of dramatic monologues better lending themselves to individual preparation, knowing that my teenage daughter had attended no dress rehearsals and fretted over her costume in the car until the last minute.

He replied, Yes, but you still don’t get it. Perhaps he meant that even the dramatic vignettes themselves were supposed to just spontaneously “happen� on stage?

I may have made the mistake of asking if I could help with the performance in any way, or just naturally fell in to assisting. The next thing I knew, I found myself helping a third grader cart a set piece he had just built but could barely lift.

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We made it to the stage and placed the awkward construction off to one side. There was no stage manager on site, so without another hand or two, the boy’s hard work would probably never have been seen. But he was happy now.

I continued out to the back lot, where the director was pointing to a large fake palm potted and tipped on its side. The children there were unable to lift it upright, so once again, I lent a hand.

I whistled: this tree had to be almost thirty feet tall. The director motioned me to follow him with the pot. We ended up near a busy street corner.

He pointed to a light post, motioned his arm up and down, and said, I see something happening there. Then he exited.

I set the palm against the post for support. The trunk flexed, the fronds braided around the pole, and somehow the whole thing held.

I walked back along the street to the main entrance. A Russian teen was stationed at a refreshment stand selling beverages. I asked him how it was going.

Ruefully, he pointed to a half-painted griffin mounted on a high wall near the entrance gate and admitted, I didn’t quite finish. Now his sales were too brisk to allow him to finish the job.

Automatically, I asked if I could assist.

He said he wasn’t supposed to leave the till—but, smiling crookedly, 126

added that he had run out of beer and perhaps I could bring him more.

I left him, actually thinking I might help. It didn’t dawn upon me for another minute or two that the teen had been lying, just testing to see if I would actually be gullible enough to bring him back alcohol.

When our paths crossed again, he was already packing up. He seemed in a hurry and waved me off when I asked him if he had ever finished his artwork. I can’t worry about that anymore, he said.

I stopped to briefly assist a group of little girls in cone princess hats who were trying to rehearse by themselves.

By this time, the play must have started. Perhaps I should have been more concerned about missing my own daughter’s scene. But as I wended my way through the concession stands and craft booths, I started to feel part of the performance myself.

I hummed as I passed a grill where student volunteers were struggling to keep up with a hungry crowd’s demands; sang as I passed a mother trying to pin back too-long sleeves while her pouting daughter held out her arms; swelled as I passed a whole miniature shipyard of props being hammered and kids rehearsing and parents shooting video while shouting out spontaneous suggestions for choreography.

I see you’re in the play now, too, the director said, from somewhere behind me.

I told him that this had to be the grandest community production I 127

had ever seen—although it seemed highly unlikely that it could all come together or find an audience.

Everyone is in the audience, he said. Just as everyone is in the play.

You’ve been the Man in the Crowd, a stagehand, a set decorator, a gullible fool, a line coach, and, I must say, a rather painfully-pitched primo divo. If you want to direct, like all of the other parents here, you may.

He made as if he were about to vanish in a cloud of smoke or something.

I protested: But nothing ever gets completed! People start off with one task and end up with another! And no one ever gets it quite right and no one ever has enough time.

Silently, he handed over his much-worn copy of the production schedule to me.

There were so many cross-outs and multi-colored arrows covering it that it looked like an old anatomical drawing.

Congratulations, now you’re the producer, he said.

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ENVOI: THE LAST TIME I SAW HITCHCOCK

he was affable, polite, semi-retired and almost svelte, shuffling away from the podium where he had just shared his reminiscences with a class of eager film students.

He chuckled as he recalled the sometimes glib insertions of one script collaborator into three celebrated films, dryly observing that the man had always been overfond of literary allusions. Then he had trouble recalling a name of a bit player and thought it might have been Bernardo, but that didn’t sound quite right to him, so I raised my hand and offered that perhaps he meant Beradino, reading this reference straight out of the textbook I had smuggled in.

The great director made a little frown, neither acknowledging me nor standing corrected, remarking only that It might have been Bernadino. And then fielding no further questions.

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M.V. Montgomery is an Atlanta professor and writer. He is the author of two books of poetry, Joshu Holds a Press Conference and Strange Conveyances, and one book of flash fiction titled Dream Koans.

This new work of the “avant-Goth” features a ghost girl, a devil, a were-beast, pod people, several vampires, a dragon, an astronaut Mark Twain, a zombie Kurt Cobain, and a wild man of the swamp.

Stylistically, it consists of short stories, “chained” flash fiction, flarf, parables, magic spells, minimalist folktales, a synopsis of a nonexistent TV episode, and a story that may actually be an essay.

M. V. Montgomery is a twenty-first century Borges—a comparison I don’t make lightly. His vivid images and open, powerful language will follow you off of the page. With surprise encounters with zombies, Mark Twain, extended family and the people across the street, Antigravitas speaks to everything from selfjudgment to the creative process. This is the story-lover’s dream come true.

—Megan Arkenberg, editor of Mirror Dance After reading M.V. Montgomery’s new collection, I shared it immediately with a friend. I couldn’t keep it a secret. For days my friend and I discussed.

We couldn’t decide whether or not these stories were to be taken for dreams or reality. There are ghosts, certainly. And human clones, and tumbleweed entities. But what humanity there is behind these imaginings! What surprising vulnerability from the consciousness of this storyteller!

In the end, my friend and I decided, it matters not what can and does happen in this book, but merely that it happens for the reader, that it happened for the writer. For when you encounter these sentences, you come to know M.V. Montgomery himself, and the experience is haunting.

—Nicholas Maistros, editor of Palooka

Thumbscrews Press