The Tragedian

SUSANNA: Ei la destina

Per ottener da me certe mezz'ore...

Che il diritto feudale...

 

FIGARO: Come? ne' feudi suoi

Non l'ha il Conte abolito?

 

 

Part One: In Medias Historia

 

Precisely at noon Edward Stevens awoke alone, as almost always he did: that is to say, at noon, and alone. He stretched his arms straight up in the air, with his eyes upon a precise point on the ceiling, then he stretched his arms out across his bed. He shook his arms out and jumped out of bed, his silk pyjamas rustling and hissing like a summer sprinkler.

He trod down the stairs of the townhouse in which he resided about half of every year, with the balance of his time spent either touring the provinces with his troupe or vacationing or making films in the south of France. When he reached the bottom of the steps, Gladys brought out his breakfast tray to set it upon the sideboard beside the dining table. Edward sat down, and breakfast was served to him.

"Much business to attend to today, sir?" she asked.

Edward sighed. "I don't believe so. I will be seeing the same people, doing the same things, rehearsing the same lines. Performing, day after day, night after night."

"That's a shame."

Edward smiled. "I'm sure something will change my mood. There's always hope."

Two hours later he arrived at the Bijou Theatre. The stage manager, John, took his cane and top-hat to Edward's dressing room as the latter proceeded to the seventh row where George Nobbs the director was smoking cigar after cigar as he marked and circled, in red, moments he felt had been amiss during the previous night's performance.

Edward said, "Hello, George. What's new?"

The director coughed. "Did you see the couple leaving during the second act last night?"

Edward clutched his tie. "Some people left?"

The director pointed to a page. "Precisely here."

"Maybe they had an appointment."

"Maybe the beginning of the act stank."

"If you have any suggestions-"

"I fired Agnes."

"You fired Docella?"

"No, I fired the actress who played Docella. There's a difference."

"Of course there is. But how can I play the wine-glass scene without a Docella?"

At that moment a young woman popped up as if from out of nowhere. "I've got the lines down, Mr. Director."

"Miss Mahew, please meet our leading man, Edward Stevens."

She stuck out her hand. "I've always loved your work, Mr. Stevens."

Edward too her hand. "Thank you. Have you performed much before?"

Miss Mahew blurted, "No, not at all! I mean, I'm fresh out of acting school."

Edward looked to the director. "Acting school? There are schools for acting now, George?"

"I understand so, Edward."

"How odd! How novel! How ... twenty-first century! Well, Miss..."

"Please: Helen."

"Well, Helen. You're about to become part of our little troupe. The world of theatre is a very special world. We have our own customs, and our own rituals. You'll get the hang of it."

"Hot dog!"

Edward looked to the director, who shrugged. "A lot to learn," said Edward. "We should get started. Come to my dressing room, and I'll break you in."

"Sure!"

Edward nodded to the director as if he was about to embark on a regrettable task. "Give us an hour," said Edward. "I have to break ... Helen in."

The director said, "Yes. Go break her in." And coughed.

 

 

Part Two: The Young Ones

 

Under late capitalism, the female body is surveilled by a vast panopticalization of state and social apparati in methods both concealed and revealed by terms such as 'education,' 'labour,' 'sexualities,' 'vocation,' and even 'vacation'. We would be remiss to delimit our interests to just one female-gendered body out of billions--which would have the effect of marginalizing the all-but-one--but such is the nature of post-colonialism that all cannot be seen at once; we are forced, by the logic of Althusser et. al., to stay within the prisonhouse of language: though we can be as near as possible to the walls of the aforementioned jail.

Thus we are forced to use the language of the colonialist sexist racist oppressors when we are forced to say that Dani Thompson, twenty-six years of age according to cultural determination, was furiously re-underlining and re-annotating The Order of Things when her roommate Helen came home that day at around six.

Dani ceased her research to say to her, "How did it go?"

Helen flopped into their easychair and drew her knees up to her chest. After a moment she said, "How did what go?"

"Your first day, as a big-time actress. Remember?"

"Of course."

Pause.

"So how did it go," pressed Dani.

Helen slowly said, "Not ... too well."

Dani set her volume of post-structuralist wisdom aside. "So, tell. Were you exploited?"

"I.... You've heard of their main actor? Edward Stevens?"

"No. I don't pay attention to the State Theatre."

"He's their main actor. He took me to his dressing room ... and had sex with me."

"What?"

"He had his way with me. Said, 'This is how you join.'"

"Jesus, did he rape you?"

"No. He was pretty violent about it. I struggled but he wouldn't let me go."

"That's rape."

"No, I've been raped before. Many times, and it was always nice."

"When?"

"You know Pete."

"Your boyfriend?"

"Yeah. He rapes me all the time, and it's never violent."

"He does?"

Helen cuddled up her knees tightly and smiled. "Yeah!"

"I never knew!"

Helen frowned. "But you're the one who told me it was rape."

"Say what?"

"You said, All sexual intercourse is rape."

"How's a social construct like me supposed to know anything like that about this stuff? So this actor, he was violent with you?"

"Yes, very."

"That was rape."

"So what was the stuff with Pete?"

"I don't know, but it wasn't rape."

"Then why did you.... So what should I do?"

"Call up a rape crisis centre."

"Do you know their number?"

"No, but it must be in the phone book. Maybe under social services or something."

 

 

Part Three: Popular Actor a Rapist: Source

 

Helen Mahew, an actress at the tender beginning of her career, went to the Metropolis Intelligencer newspaper office earlier today to assert that she had been raped the day before at the State Theatre in Metropolis by famed actor Edward Stevens during a bizarre ritual whose meaning has not thus far been revealed to anyone's satisfaction.

In the office, Helen said to the nearest person who appeared to have any authority (turned out to be a proof-reader), "I have something to report. Something ... newsy. Do you know what I mean?"

"The general editor's office is right over there," and he was not being misleadful.

Helen knocked on the office door. The general editor, J.T. by name, looked up and said, "Yes?"

"I have something I think you'd be interested in. 'Yesterday,' um, 'I was sexually assaulted by Edward Stevens the actor.'" (She had carefully rehearsed this line.)

J.T. said, "Wow." He got on his phone. "Jones! Grab Smith and get in here!"

Jones and Smith were suddenly there.

Helen told them, as best she could, the whole bizarre story.

Smith said, "Have you been to any other paper?"

"No."

Jones cried, "Great Gotham, this is a scoop! J.T. keep her here! Don't let her out of your sight!"

Smith cried, "We're gonna go get us a comment from Mr. Big Actor Guy before anyone knows Dutch about it!"

Jones and Smith left the office of the Metropolis Intelligencer, hopped in their Ford sedan, and sped off.

Jones said, "This is going to be great!"

Smith said, "Right where we want him!"

"We could even use psychology on him!"

"Maybe even reverse psychology on him!"

"Where you were on the night of!"

"Mr. Hotshot!"

"Been waiting my whole life for this!"

"Imagine his face!"

"Innuendo, wick-dipping and sleaze!"

"Goddamn rapist prick!"

"I hope he gets the needle!"

"He's a great poison in the world!"

"I can see the headline now!"

"And the byline! Us!"

"Morning paper!"

"Maybe even a special edition!"

"Even if we write slowly: A Special Edition!"

"Send five copies to my mother!"

"The theatre is ruined for me now!"

"Movies too?"

"Movies too!"

"I'm with you! no more movies for me neither!"

Jones hit the brakes and the car skidded to a halt. "Wait!" he cried. "We can't do this."

"Why not? What's the problem?"

"The problem is tomorrow."

"What's the problem with tomorrow?"

"Brunch."

"What brunch?"

"It's the brunch of the Metropolis Club. We're going, remember?"

"Yeah, so what?"

"The speaker of honour is none other than Mr. Edward Stevens."

"Sheesh, that would make it really awkward, wouldn't it?"

"We'd be blackballed for sure!"

"Our careers would be effectively over!"

"No more cocktail party invites!"

"Say goodbye to the kickbacks!"

"No more pull with City Hall!"

"I bought a new jacket and everything!"

"Win some, lose some," said Jones, who was a man.

"Let's go home," said Smith, who was a woman.

 

 

Part Four: The Fourth Part

 

Oh, okay. Got it. Good morning and welcome to the fourth chapter of.... What's the name of this story again? [Laughter.] Yes, "The Tragedian." You're all looking pretty wide awake out there. Why do computer geeks give each other Christmas presents on Halloween? It's 'cause Dec 25 equals Oct 31! Is this thing on? [Slow clapping.] So here he is, Mr. Edward Stevens, and here you are, watching and waiting. Something's going to happen. Can't you feel it?

Edward had been roused from his slumbers at the unkind hour of nine to attend the assembly. He stood up, notes in hand (he must have considered it worth the bother to memorize something for a single soon-to-be-forgotten performance), and left the head table of business leaders and politicians who were applauding him in a most soberly manner. He ascended the dais, shook hands with the President of the Metropolis Club, and waved to the crowd. He was familiar to most, for they were mostly the sorts who went to events, theatre, ballet, opera, and so on, and his National Theatre was known far beyond the walls of that hotel and deep into the nameless nation in which they resided.

"Thank you. Thank you. I don't recall when I was last honoured in such a manner. Yes, I've met royalty, presidents, czars, caliphs, and so on, but there is something special about being honoured in one's own nation. I suppose you want to hear something of theatre, something of art, indeed ... something of life! Yet, how to sum it up? Are we not all players? Ah, I see your faces, don't worry, I won't bore you with that line! Down, Will! Yet, I think he was onto something fundamental. How do we come to know the inner lives of others, or even of ourselves?"

"Let's talk about Helen Mahew!" came a shout from the right side of the room, third table out. Everyone turned to look.

Edward covered his eyes to see; Smith and Jones, who were sitting way in the back, gasped.

Smith said, "Who let him in?"

Jones said, "Like a fish out of water."

Edward hadn't been expecting such an Elizabethan interruption, and so his guard was most entirely down. He said, innocently enough, "Excuse me, who are you? What are you doing here?"

The figure stood up. Few in the room knew him by name; more knew him by reputation; half didn't know him at all. Expecting this, he introduced himself.

"Hi, this is Tommy T. Track, a blogger with crisiswhatcrisis.com, and I also have a half-hour radio show on CTNX, home of the Metropolis Mandrakes. Edward Stevens we all know, or mostly know, or mostly think we know. He's an actor, some say one of our greatest, and he performs at the National Theatre here in Metropolis. It's a grand place, chandeliers, red carpets, the works. It should be grand: one hundred million--of your tax dollars--per year go toward the running of it. Ski BC 2014. Make fresh tracks in BC this winter.

"But you know what happened? I don't know if you're going to believe it or not. I kind of can't believe it myself. This man, this actor, has made a habit of rape. That's right: savage, brutal, rape. He raped a young woman just yesterday. The evidence is being collected by the police as we speak. How many women has he raped? Only time will tell. Now don't you find it shocking that this man is praised--hallowed, even!--by the establishment? Scotiabank. You're richer than you think.

"Hallowed, adored even, by people who all go to one another's parties and events. Did they know? It would be almost impossible to believe that no-one knew. So, who knew? The political class, which I see here? The media class, also well in attendance? Oh, and what about my favourite: the journalism class. All of it swept under a fine plush rug, all these young girls chewed into and spat out. Doesn't it make you feel disgusted? Don't you want to see some justice done? Slim your wallet without turning your world upside down. Bellroy.

"So I ask all you good people. Does anything about this sound right or proper? Our greatest actor, a tragedian no less, rutting with women a third his age. You wouldn't catch King Lear doing that, no would you? But this girl--she could have would up playing Cordelia, no less! His own character's daughter! This is a massive, massive scandal, folks. No two words about it no matter how tender they sound, no matter how iambically they trip off the tongue. This is really the most disgusting charge I've ever made; and believe me, I've made plenty. Learn how to turn $100 into $181 every 60 seconds! Free software!"

 

 

Part Five: Lawyered

 

Aliquam vitae hendrerit metus! Nullam convallis varius ornare! Morbi quis mauris ac velit auctor lobortis ac sed mi! In at fermentum nulla! Maecenas condimentum turpis vel odio consectetur mattis!

As chaos ensued, some organizers, apparently of the Metropolis Club though they could have been free-range organizers, pushed a speechless Edward Stevens through the cinderblock hallway lined with cardboard boxes and discarded dusty electronic equipment which was the rear half, the closer-to-reality half, of the hotel banquet room, and out an alley door where Edward beheld, quietly idling, a long black limousine. A hand emerged from the rear-most smoke-tinted window. The index finger of the hand remained in place as the rest of the digits closed. The index finger twitched enticingly. Edward approached. A fatty face came into view, saying, "Get in."

Edward slipped into the limousine which started going someplace. The man beside Edward said, "I saw it all from the centre of the room; You need my help."

"Do I?"

"Yes. I am an attorney. George Pudpie's the name, and touchy cases are my game."

Edward was looking out the window. "What did it mean? What did that strange man mean?"

Pudlpie said, "I've handled this sort of case before."

"I'm sorry; I have a case?"

"Damn right you do! Weren't you listening? You've been accused of rape."

"There's been no rape. I didn't rape anyone."

"Be that as it may, you should take me on as your attorney right now, before you say another word."

"Why?"

"Because attorney-client secrecy kicks in, from that moment on."

"Ah, then anything I say is in the strictest confidence? Where are we going?"

"My headquarters, beneath Mt. Metropolis. Yes, strict confidence."

"You've had other clients?"

"I can't tell you that. I can't tell you anything. That's the way law works. It's silent, and it's deaf."

"If I agree, can you tell me anything?"

"Nope! It's all hush-hush."

"Not even a reference?"

"Nope! Some attorneys would, but not me. I'm a better attorney. Let's say the wife sends me out for a carton of milk. I go out, come back in fifteen minutes. She asks, 'Did you get the milk?' and I have to say, because I'm such an excellent attorney, 'I can't tell you that. There's attorney-milk privilege involved. If I was to betray a carton of milk, what's to stop me from betraying a homicidal maniac? Really, what could be done? The carton has rights, so just knock it off.' Of course I don't have a wife so the whole thing's hypothetical."

Edward was shaking his head slowly. "They simply don't understand. That's got to be the answer. It's funny, really. They just don't understand."

"Now let's say I buy a telephone pole. Doesn't matter what for...."

"Stop the car. I want to get out."

"You're refusing my services?"

"I suppose so. I don't need an attorney. Truth will be my judge."

"Good luck on that! Well, fine. James, stop the car."

Edward got out of the car and ran off madly.

 

 

Part Six: Oasis

 

It's the breath that slows one, now isn't it? Know what I mean, mate? You can run, but you have to stop sooner or later. I was never much of a runner. Others, you know the ones, have to keep in shape. Like actors. Like that Edward Stevens chap. You hear what he's done, now? He raped young actresses. Dozens of 'em. Makes you sick doesn't it? Me, I never got rape. I mean, don't it hurt your prick to stick it in some un-aroused pussy? Wouldn't there be an awful lot of chafing? I guess some things are important to some blokes. Oi, I think that's him now.

Sardi's restaurant was unusually enpty when Edward came through the door out of breath. His eyes turned this way and that, as if afraid to see someone he knew; but the only person he saw was the waitress, an ex-actor named Janice, once a minor player in the National Theatre. He appeared to be glad to see her, and he waved. She same over, same mousy brunette as ever.

"Hey, Ed, how you doing?"

She appeared not to know what had happened less than an hour earlier. Ed happily said, "I'm very well, thanks. Sounds like you've got a bit of a cold."

"Yeah," she sniffed. "Just you today?"

"Just me today."

She led him to a fine table, sniffling.

"Bourbon, please. I need bourbon."

"Something wrong?"

"Janice, I've been accused of rape."

"What?"

"I know. Isn't it crazy? Someone has misinterpreted the theatre."

"I guess so."

"Your nose is running."

She could have snorted the phlegm back into her nose, but she didn't. Instead she dabbed at her nose with a handkerchief.

Edward said, "You know what it's like."

"I remember."

"Take you and me, for example. I wasn't harsh with you, was I?"

"No, no."

"What we had that first day, it wasn't rape, now was it?"

"No, no. So anyway, what will you be having?"

Edward smiled. "This is like an oasis. Hmmm. I think I'll have the linguine bolognese."

"Coming right up."

"And the bourbon, of course."

"Yes, bourbon."

Janice poured out a big glass of bourbon for Edward and brought it to him. She went to the kitchen, sniffling loosely and wetly, and ordered the linguine. She cleaned some glasses snifflingly as the dish was being prepared. Sniff-sniff, sniff-sniff. The cook rang the domed bell and she went into the kitchen to get the plate. She told the cook to go off for a smoke. When he was gone, Janice with a jerk of all her effort drew all the snot and mucus up her nose and into her throat; she nearly choked. Then with a great rumbling from her deepest being she pushed all the mucus and phlegm into her mouth--it was quite a mouthful!--and with one thick push expelled it onto the linguine. She caught her breath, wiped her mouth, and took the dish out to Edward.

Oi!

 

Part Seven: The Tragedian

 

By the time Edward finished his linguini sputumese, hysteria was in full swing. The feminists had detected all sorts of systemic systematizations of systems against sisters, the libertarians had nearly pissed and moaned themselves to death with all their twaddle about so-called 'due process', the bloggers had referenced and cross-referenced citations re Edward Stevens going all the way back to the dark ages of 1998, and the newspaper reporters had already chosen their pens from their pen-racks. In one of the greatest-ever episodes of narrative telescoping, mobs with pitchforks bought from pitchfork stores and torches bought from torch stores were running the streets, shouting, "Come out, Edward!" Cars were crashing, babies were crying, innuendos were floating, jaws were literally dripping with bile, and Hephaestus was sealing up a tomb in which Aphrodite was busy blowing Ares. But that is another story.

Edward downed the rest of his bourbon and paid Janice, with a nice tip, of course.

Janice looked toward the door. Seemed there was something of a commotion going on outside in the streets. Maybe, just maybe, an angry and homicidal mob had formed with the intent to lynch Edward. My!

"Okay, see you later," she said.

Edward walked outside, seemingly unawares of the ruckus. Then someone pointed to him and screeched in an ungodly way.

Edward clutched his coat as a gang of ruffians (the Consolidated Union of Perverted Eroticists [CUPE] in fact, who were angry that their good name had been sullied, and by someone without a card no less) started after him.

Edward ran. The pursuing mob grew larger and larger. An abandoned warehouse! Just the place!

Edward breathlessly got into the warehouse and hid behind some skids. Voices outside: "He went in the warehouse! Cover the exits!"

Edward moved up to the second floor. The voices cried, "He must've gone up to the second floor! Let's get on the second floor!"

Edward moved up to the third floor. The voices cried, "He must've gone up to the third floor! Let's get on the third floor!"

Edward moved up to the fourth floor. The voices cried, "He must've gone up to the fourth floor! Let's get on the fourth floor!"

Edward moved up to the fifth floor. The voices cried, "He must've gone up to the fifth floor! Let's get on the fifth floor!"

Edward moved up to the sixth floor. The voices cried, "He must've gone up to the sixth floor! Let's get on the sixth floor!"

Edward moved up to the seventh floor. The voices cried, "He must've gone up to the seventh floor! Let's get on the seventh floor!"

That was as high as the warehouse went. Edward cowered in the north corner as the mob gathered around him, torches ablaze and pitchforks ... apitched. They wanted his blood and he knew they wouldn't leave without it. So, like Peter Lorre climactically in M and like Simon Oakland anticlimactically in Psycho, he spoke.

"People! Listen to me! You don't understand! It's a process, it's a historical theatrical process! The young ones, they come to us, they want to be part of a tradition of two thousand years. Marlowe did it to Shakespeare and Shakespeare did it to Ford, Socrates did it to Plato and Plato did it to anyone he could get his hands on! It's a close bond, what we have in the theatre; it has to be a close bond! It cannot stop, it can't ever stop! And I.... And I get the blame for it? Blame every actor who has ever existed, because this is how it is! Maybe I got a little rough, sure. That's my only sin! You people, you ordinary people, you have no idea what it takes to be an actor! You don't know the emotional commitment necessary for our creativity! You can't understand.... You'll never understand...."

The mob had heard enough. They fell on Edward, and Actaeon, looking on from Hades, understood the meaning of fury.

In Memoriam Evelyn (who probably would have hated most of this)

In the beginning, when God began making the universe, he said, "Let the speed of light be precisely 299,792,458 metres per second, in the vacuum," and the speed of light was set at precisely 299,792,458 metres per second, in the vacuum. And God saw it, and it was good.

And God said, "Let there be five regular polyhedrons; let there be the tetrahedron, the cube, the octahedron, the dodecahedron, and the icosahedron," and lo there were five regular polygons in the universe, and God saw his geometry and God saw it was good.

And God said, "Let there be a molecule, call it deoxyribonucleic acid or what you will, and let it enclose genetic instruction for use in the development of all known living organisms; let most of them be formed in a double helix," and there came to be deoxyribonucleic acid enclosing genetic instruction, mostly formed in double helices; and God said it was good.

And God said, "Let there be conic sections in everything, revealable using the calculus; let there be hyperbola, parabola, ellipse; give the ellipse uniform in radial distance the name of circle," and there were hyperbolas, and parabolas, and ellipses, and God said, "Very good."

 

*

 

-Say, did you hear the one about the time when a Catholic Priest, a Lutheran Minister, and a Reformed Rabbi decided to all go together to Rome for an Ecumenical Council by catching at such and such an airport an airplane that in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean lost power first to one of its engines then to another of its engines then to another of its engines causing it to rapidly lose altitude and the captain to get onto the loudspeaker and tell everyone that they'd jettisoned all the baggage but still the place was too heavy so it was a life or death thing that three of the passengers by his calculation would have to jump out with parachutes and an inflatable life-raft so everyone wouldn't die and did you hear that the Priest, the Minister, and the Rabbi naturally volunteered and jumped out the plane and found themselves in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean in a life-raft that got quickly surrounded by sharks and did you hear about them running out of food and how they rationally discussed cannibalism?  

-No.

-Oh. Well, if you ever do, could you let me know what the ending is?

 

*

 

Mon: Smith as he starts out his front door in the morning, hears a voice in his head say, "It looks like rain. You'd better take your umbrella." Smith grabs his umbrella.

Tues: Smith as he starts out his front door in the morning, hears a voice in his head say, "It looks like rain. You'd better take your umbrella." Smith grabs his umbrella.

At work, he says to Jones, "A voice in my head wants me to take umbrellas when it appears rain threatens."

Jones says, "You're lucky."

Wed: The voice in Smith's head says, "You stayed up too late last night, and now look at you."

"You're right," says Smith.

Thurs: Smith is told, "You should be nicer to Jones. He means well."

Smith tells Jones, "The voice in my head has told me to be nicer to you."

"Why?"

"The voice says you mean well."

"The voice is right."

Fri: The voice says, "You thought I was gone, didn't you? I haven't gone anywhere. I've merely started addressing you in the second person instead of the first. I will speak; you will listen. I hope you know well enough to obey. You obey."

"Smith says, "Yes, mother."

 

*

 

Previous episode.

"Four hundred thousand dollars. And it's all ours, baby."

"Tremaine's onto you. And he's got your laptop."

"Stop! We're on the same side!"

"Tremaine's in a coma. A tree fell on him."

"A tree?"

"Now where did you come from?"

"Ever have a dream?"

"Oh give it to me baby!"

"Check with your pharmacist. I'm pregnant. It's triplets."

"Man, how am I gonna pay for this?"

"Fort Knox."

"Shit, man, that's only in the movies!"

"Yeah, it's only in the movies. That's 'cause no-one ever tried!"

"We got it!"

"Will you look at that. An honest to goodness witches' coven!"

"All hail Satan."

"They saw us! The witches, they saw us!"

"They'll never find us."

"Yeah, right."

"Look at this chart."

"Wha? We're brother and sister?"

"We've got to find mom!"

"This is one rockin' spaceship."

"The secret's in the rockin' fuel!"

"Let me get this straight. We can go backwards in time."

"Only one way to find out."

"You're telling me Jimbo's the murderer?"

"Opportunity, motive. It all fits."

"Jimbo murdered Helen too?"

"Part of a cover-up higher up."

"How high?"

"Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States."

"Open up!"

"Drop it!"

"Run!"

"Run!"

"Run!"

 

*

 

Imaginary Snakes

 

It was just like the beginning of every Hill Street Blues episode except that it involved imaginary snakes. (Many of the snakes there would have understood the metaphor, having had been at least once inside the head of some person who'd had at one time or another seen the television program Hill Street Blues.)

"Okay, snakes, settle down, your assignments," said Sgt. Gomez, dropping down on his desk a manila folder which he proceeded to open. "Lts. Fletcher, Robinson, Jones. Coil yourselves all up in the head of one ... Stanley Patterson. He's on a bender, sleeping on his couch. Scare him."

Fletcher hissed, "Coil all up? Fuck that. I'm going after his throat!"

Gomez hissed, "Just try to scare him, Fletcher. We're over-quota for cardiacs this month."

"Fine, fine."

"Tritch, Malanga, Connor: a five year old. Named ... Helen Dorsett. Kid isn't afraid of real snakes yet. Make him afraid."

Malanga hissed, "Why do I get all the kids?"

"Luck of the draw, my man. Okay, Jones, Pike, Newton: ward psychos at Huntington Institute. I want to see 'em go crazy."

"Why's that?" hissed Newton.

"Just for kicks, man. Okay, go. And let's be scary out there."

 

*

 

Synecdoche

 

Here I am, just as you see me. Just one page: one in ten thousand or so. Feel free to skip me by. I'd skip me by if I was you. Even if you look at me carefully, you'll forget me in a day or two. This is what insignificance is like. Look what's before me: a gag about imaginary snakes. Look what comes after me: a gag about a bicycle. And here I am, not saying much, just one in ten thousand or so. There I am, in a vast field of flowers taller than me. If you're not looking for me, I can't even be seen. Just another bundle of words, using the word 'just' just too often. I'm an infertile placeholder. I can't be anything more than I can be, now can I? Pass me by, or forget in a day or two. Nothing to see, folks. Just a bunch of words. I don't even know if the ten thousand are worthwhile even. It could well be that that ten thousand is just one of ten thousand ten thousands. But I shouldn't slight sight unseen the rest. It's just me. I'm the worthless one. Just me.

 

*

 

When I reached the crossroads I knew I should have stayed at my girlfriend's house that night. I might have even boinked her again. But no, I had to ride home through the driving snow down that long and lonely country road that ran the distance from her house to mine, all eleven miles of it.

Must've been midnight when my front wheel slipped. Fortunately my Schwinn was only going so fast. Into the snow I fell to sit, thinking. I had to get on! My med final was next day! I pulled my transistor radio from my pocket and turned it on.

The announcer said quite matter-of-factly that a lunatic had escaped from the state insane asylum. He was dangerous, and he had a hook instead of a right hand.

I stood quickly. The asylum was nearby. I had to get out of there! I hopped on my bicycle and rode as fast as I could, like lightning, never looking back.

Finally I was home. Home! I slipped my bike into its place in the med school rack and went around behind it to lock it up.

And there I saw, hanging from my rear fender, four bloody hooks.

 

*

 

"I've got to get the angle. I've got to get the angle."

Perry White cried, "Superman!"

Superman leapt into Mr. White's office in a single bound.

"Got some reporting for you! Press release! From the Health Institute! About young people in ERs with self-inflicted wounds! From cutting themselves!"

Superman stroked his bold chin. "Is this about ... tattoos?"

"It's up to you!"

Superman leapt out of the office before Mr. White slammed his door.

Superman leapt to the Institute. He grabbed and read the press release in half a second. "These numbers! It's mostly girls! The Internet must be to blame!"

The Director came out to see him. "You want to interview me?"

"Yes! These numbers: three quarters girls! Why do you think that is?"

"Actually, we're not sure."

"Could it be something that starts with the letter I?"

"Incisions?"

"No! The Internet!"

"We have no proof of anything like that."

"The Internet is destroying my newspaper! Please, blame the Internet!"

"Sorry, I can't misrepresent my work. We at the Institute...."

Blabbedy blabbedy blah blabbedy blah.

Superman bounded away in disappointment. "Dammit! No confession! I'll have to end my piece with, 'Some experts blame the Internet.' It's my only hope!"

 

*

 

Evelyn

 

Today was the funeral of Evelyn Faulk.

I'd known her for thirty years. She was Frank's sister.

She cried a lot back then. That is to say, she was easily moved by things.

She once told Frank I was a little too weird for her. But that was a very long time ago.

I guess it was five years ago that their mother died. I went to the reception but not the funeral. At this reception, the person I ended up talking to for the longest time was Evelyn. She'd been through cancer treatment and was pretty bald. We talked about what she was doing at York University. It all sounded pretty interesting and I could relate to it.

I don't know if I was the only person who would talk to her or if she was the only person who would talk to me. Maybe both.

And now, the cancer has done her in.

Today was the funeral of Evelyn Faulk. There was a reception afterwards to which I was invited. I didn't go to it. There are some pathetic reasons why I didn't, but I want to highlight one here.

Without Evelyn, who would I talk to?

 

*

 

O, how you've longed to be someone else!,

 

Not trapped in your personal trap

(If only for a day!)

To be lost in the world,

To be he there, to be she there,

To be anyone but yourself!

Rita Hayworth, delivering mail,

Sandra Gillespie, running the world,

Ichabod Crane, learning about fire,

X, dead in the first trimester!

To be free, as I've said, of your traps

(I redd Tahiti is lovely this season),

To be younger, maybe even to be older,

Just to be not you, in your damn lot!

You're stuck, know, with your one life;

Tomorrow you'll have your past

Intact, on awakening, same old

Lot, boring really,

&c, &c, &c, &c, &c.

Look at that kindling there,

In that corner of your hut,

Dry and ready,

Lusty for fire,

Personified and like your simplest mind.

And all it takes is Will

To cook it all

Holocaustically

Just to become someone else!

But just as the foundation is always fetishized

By television cameras after any major farmhouse burn

So your soul will stay with you wherever.

 

Solace where?

Stuck you?

Solace in the eyes of your neighbour,

Seeing 'stuck' in her eyes,

Whether Rockefeller, whether crack whore.

 

*

 

How did we know we were in an existential film?

It wasn't something I'd dare discuss with my mechanic, but I think he wondered about it too. I could be mistaken.

I shouldn't talk about him. I don't know what went on in his head. I can't prove anything was going on in his head. (This mood of mine tells me again: we were in an existential film.)

I knew we were in an existential film because I didn't have a name. Also because I never smiled, we never discussed anything aside from our car, and the girl we had with us I had no interest in. If the mechanic needed fucking, that was his drive. It wasn't my drive at the time. Maybe it never will be.

It's all about acting, see, there in an existential film. "What's my motivation?" is the simplest question to answer from inside an existential film. My motivation was to be a driver; the mechanic's motivation was to be a mechanic. Nothing else.

It's all props, see. The cars, the roads, the bodies, my body, the car. They're all forced to exist. And existence is enough; barely enough; sufficiently enough; enough, enough for themselves.

 

*

 

A Touch of Evil

 

Are things getting better or worse?

I'd say they're staying the same, for one reason.

Humans are uniquely capable of evil.

I've never met an evil dog or an evil cat.

But what is this evil? Wherein does it rest?

I'd argue it rests with intelligence.

Evil manifests itself in trickery.

Which is why stage magicians always wear black.

And why witches make potions in the popular mind.

Evil does its deeds in the darkest of nights.

When it can jump out and yell boo.

It's a simple matter (unless it's tautological).

How to slip someone a five when they think it's a twenty.

It's all a matter of getting an unfair advantage.

As if no-one is really going to notice.

There's lots of opportunities for this behaviour.

And I don't think it increases, decreases, like fashion.

Cursed by knowledge, by knowledge that accomplishes evil.

You can make a scam out of pretty much anything.

This theory I think needs more work on it.

But everything I do could have used a little more work.

I consider it to be one of my most charming aspects.

I'm not immune. I have it too. My original sin.

 

*

 

The police and firetrucks screamed in. Neighbour birds dared down through the wind to gawp and comment in their bathrobes. Who had survived, who had died?

Sgt. Crow pushed through the crowd. A plainclothes told him, "Happened too quickly. The wind picked up the nest and they had no time to unfurl their wings."

"Casualties?"

"Just one. The daughter. Broke her neck."

"That's a shame."

Crow knew there was nothing to do; nothing but 'community outreach.' He looked for the grieving family. There they were, huddled under huge blankets that must have been well over seven inches square.

Suddenly another bird approached. Aspiring politico gadfly Al Pigeon, who immediately challenged Crow.

"You've done it this time, Crow."

"The wind was to blame."

"She didn't deserve to die!"

"It was an accident!"

Pigeon turned away in disgust. Oh, look, a television camera. He shoved through.

"There's a lot of broken lives, and hearts, this evening.

"Negligence had been done, and the powers do nothing.

"My organization will work with whoever it takes to right this injustice.

"A whole nest has been blown out of a tree! A family, shattered!"

"We need to come up with a way to conquer the wind!"

 

*

 

The New Tamburlaine: A Novel

Book Two

PART ONE

Chapter Two

2.

 

Frederick Stout, meanwhile, had travelled down to see his favourite kitchen wench Dixie Dee. He grabbed her from behind, all over, saving her behind for a more intimate touch.

"Ah, begone ye dirty dog!" she giggled.

"Come to my room."

"Once I've finished shining these 'ere chamber-pots I will!"

Stout Stout stoutly left the kitchen in a snidely twinkle. Up the stairs he hopped, stopping only at the fourth landing to remember what had happened which would lead to something happening. And that's when he heard the scratching--the scratching of his name itself.

"Stout, Stout," the scratch scratched.

"Who is it?"

"It's me."

"Who are you?"

"I'm a mystery to drive things onwards."

Stout thought. Weren't these chapters shorter before? This should be over by now. What in the world is happening?

The scratch said, "The world has changed, Stout. Where can I meet you?"

"I've kind of got a groove to plow in a couple minutes."

"How long will that take?"

"I suppose an hour."

"Cheeky monkey. I'll come to your room in an hour. Make sure you're alone."

Stout went to his bedroom and waited.