“How can a communist do endorsements in the U.S. of A., anyway?” asked Judith Prietht. “There are death-penalty rules against that, in Russia, I thought.”
“She’s not Russian anymore,” said Lenore.
“Oh, right, she’s the one whose father just defecated.”
“Defected.”
“That’s the one!”
“Right.”
“I gotta go. I gotta go do P.R. at Fuss ‘n’ Feathers Pets,” Peter Abbott said. “The minute we get competent access to the tunnels, you’re going to get satisfaction, I’m telling you straight out right now. ”
“How comforting.”
“Take care.”
“Kopek Spasova… goodbye!” called Judith Prietht.
“Adios.”
“I’d like to see that,” said Lenore. “Frequent and Vigorous.”
/d/
Every year in August Monroe Fieldbinder took a vacation and took his family deep into the woods to a lake in the Adirondacks. On this particular day Monroe Fieldbinder stood alone at the edge of the clear clean cold Adirondack lake, his fishing line limp in the clear water, and stared across the lake at a vacation house burning in the woods above the opposite shore. Fieldbinder listened to the distant crackle and watched the black plume of smoke spiral up into the crisp blue sky. He saw shrouds of twirling sparks and the tiny figures of the house’s occupants running around yelling and throwing buckets of water onto the edge of the inferno. Fieldbinder pulled his white fishing hat over his eyes and grinned wryly at the chaotic scene. and grinned ryly at the scene.
/e/
“Get him down! Get him down!”
“Got him.”
“Get him down, Shorlit!”
“I gotcha.”
“God, what a racket.”
“God.”
“We need Wetzel. Ring Wetzel.”
“He’s out of his mind.”
“Just hold him, Wetzel’ll be here.”
“We’re gonna have to wrap him.”
“He’s right, go get a wrap. Wetzel, go get a wrap, run!”
“jesus.”
“It’s OK, it’s OK.”
“Is he gonna be OK?”
“Can you just stand back, please?”
“Got in the cab, wanted to go to the Loop, I says OK, I’m doin’ like he asks me, I get to Wacker and LaSalle and he starts screaming like that. I didn’t know what the hell to do.”
“You did the right thing. Please go stand over there. Shorlit, how you doing? You got him?”
“Barely. Shit.”
“Strong little guy.”
“Out of his mind.”
“He flipped. He just totally fucking flipped out. Thought I was gonna have an accident getting him here.”
“It’s OK, it’s OK.”
“He’s gonna tear his throat out.”
“Let’s just get the wrap on him.”
“Roll him over.”
“Ow! Little bastard.”
“Sshh, it’s OK.”
“Get the arm.”
“Ow!”
“Roll him back. Wetzel, roll him back.”
“I got him.”
“Tighten it. Careful, his ribs. One more.”
“Gotcha.”
“Jesus God will you listen to that.”
“Get him in. Wetzel, carry him. Shorlit, get a gumey with leg straps. ”
“I gotcha.”
“Christ, he weighs about ninety pounds. He’s a skeleton.”
“Can’t you make him stop?”
“You’re going to have to get back out of the way.”
“Thorazine?”
“I want Thorazine, 250 c.c.’s. Get a rubber, he may swallow his tongue. Shorlit, get the door.”
“It’s OK, sshh, listen we’re here to help.”
“How can he keep it up? He’s gonna stroke.”
“Get a rubber.”
“Put him down.”
“Jesus.”
“Straps.”
“Thorazine.”
“Give me access to an arm, Shorlit.”
“Come on.”
“Forget the rubber till we get him out. He’ll bite your finger.”
“People are gonna think we’re killing somebody down here.”
“Been drivin’ a cab seventeen years.”
“Please wait outside.”
“Never seen any shit like that.”
“Wetzel.”
“Let’s go, pal. You can wait out here.”
“Go with the orderly, please.”
“It’ll kick, wait a second.”
“Jesus.”
“Look at the eyes. They roll over. They’ll roll back when it kicks.”
“It’s kicking.”
“Thank God.”
“My ears are ringing.”
“Holy shit.”
“You better get a drip ready. Call up on five and fill them in, Cathy, OK? First get the drip.”
“Shit.”
“Thanks, you guys. Shorlit, you want to see if he’s got ID?”
“I’ll roll him over.”
“It’s pretty much kicked.”
“Christ, he wet his pants.”
“I’m going to call up and let Golden know we didn’t murder anybody.”
“No ID.”
“Check his chest. A necklace, tags.”
“Umm…”
“Undo him. It’s OK, it kicked.”
“I’m gonna go call. Try to find ID, then take him over to Series Start.”
“Jesus.”
“Hell of a start to the night.”
“Here’s a necklace.”
“Pretty nice one.”
“ ‘To JB From LB.’ ”
“His eyes are back, anyway.”
“It’s OK.”
/f/
Just a troubling flash of the Queen Victoria dream, last night. Just a strobe of a florid patch of red dough, curled in scorn. A new one, though. Sinister. Lenore is not unresponsible. This one should make Jay’s day.
I am driving in Mexico, in a Lincoln. The air conditioner is broken. It is unbearably hot. I am wearing a wool suit. The suit is soaked with perspiration. The sand of the desert is black. I have reservations at a motel. I pull up to the motel and park by a cactus. There are scorpions. The motel sign says NO VACANCY, even though it’s in Mexico. But I have a reservation, and I assert that I do to the desk clerk standing behind the counter in a lobby that smells like a burp. The desk clerk is an enormous mouse, with a huge handlebar mustache. The mouse is wearing a faded woolen Mexican poncho.
“I have a reservation,” I say.
“Sí,” says the mouse.
The mouse leads me through a hole in the wall (eat it, Jay, I defy you not to eat it up) to a room that is lovely and air-conditioned and perfect and complete in every way except that it has no sheets on the bed.
“Gee,” I say, “there are no sheets on this bed.”
The mouse looks at me. “Seor,” he says, “if you sheet on my bed, I will keel you.”
We both laugh, and the mouse punches me in the arm.
/g/
“Good moming.”
“Good morning. How are you this morning?”
“I’m just fine, thanks, Patrice. Shall we begin?”
“Oh, please.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“Oh, no.”
“What is your name?”
“My name is Patrice LaVache.”
“What is your married name?”
“My married name is Patrice Beadsman.”
“How old are you?”
“I am fifty years old.”
“Where are you?”
“I am at a sanitarium in Madison, Wisconsin.”
“What is the name of the sanitarium?”
“….”
“Whom do you look like?”
“I look like John Lennon.”
“Why?”
“I am sharp-featured and wear round John Lennon glasses and have brown hair in a ponytail.”