“How’s business, Ben?”
“Insights, insights, let’s see. Insights. Ho. Hah! Ho ho. Yes. It’s coming to me. I think he’s got it. Oh yes. Sure. Wonder Woman fights crime with her bracelets, right? Well, what is this if not a variation on the old theme that diamonds are a girl’s best friend? The envelope that film comes back in — I’m Flesh of Fotomat — is really only a sort of origami of paper boxes made in the image of the suitcase. Think, Patty, think. The yellow outside envelope has a little punched-out paper handle. Then there’s a wide white envelope inside — this is the suitcase proper — with little photographs printed on it. These are emblematic of the travel stickers one finds on steamer trunks. If you open it up you’ll find a little slip, a pocket where the negatives go. Just like the puckered pockets on the raised lid of a suitcase. Just like it. Why? Why this shape? Because, because, my dear Patty, because a photograph is a holiday thing. More pictures are taken on summer vacations than at any other time of the year. There’s a relationship between travel and photography. So, there’s this subliminal suggestion on the photo lab’s part that pictures and trips and the paraphernalia of trips — luggage, the suitcase — are all interrelated. We say ‘take a picture,’ we say ‘take a trip.’ The film ‘comes back’ from the drugstore. Eureka! Eureka City! What we’re dealing with here — film, vacations, life’s golden goddamn highlights — is memory, the illusion of eternity, the hint of resurrection. Memory ‘comes back,’ too. Pictures ‘come back’ and people ‘come back’ from their trips. That’s why they pack those damn photographs in those damn envelopes like that. So that’s, that’s one insight.”
“All right. Cereal boxes!”
“Cereal boxes, cereal boxes, let’s see. Yes. A family food. Breakfast. The cereal box is designed to be breakfast’s centerpiece, to stand there in the middle of the kitchen table. While Father reads the nutrition panel on one side of the box, Mom can look at the spoon premium on the other side. Meanwhile, the kid studies the cartoon on the back and learns about the toy. I haven’t figured out the front yet. Yeah, I have. The front is the title, the name. Kellogg getting in its licks.”
“Well—” Patty said.
“I know. I’m not too crazy about that one myself.” They were both silent for a moment.
“Do my ass,” she said. He did her ass.
“You know,” he said, “what we’re talking about here is shapes. You know what I think? I think the cereal box, the film envelope, the salad dressing, packs of cigarettes, the cartons they come in, all packages really, the mustard jar, the jelly, the bottle of ketchup and the carton of milk, everything, the pack of gum, the stick, the bag of potato chips, yeah, the bag of potato chips, the, what was I going to say? Yeah. The bag of potato chips, the box of strawberries, the ice-cream cone, the whatchamacallit, Fudgicle and Popsicle, the candy bar, yes, yes, the candy bar like a kid’s ingot, the candy bar, I could go on forever. Tomatoes in their cardboard and cellophane boxes, the bottle of nail polish with the little brush attached to the cap, tins of shoe polish, right? Loaves of white bread?”
“What’s the point? You’ve been talking for hours.”
“Wait. Don’t mix me up. What was that last one? Loaves of white bread. Decks of cards. Huh? Decks of cards. Wristwatches in their boxes. Three or four bananas with a strip of green tape around their middle and, uh, men’s shirts with those little pins always in the same places and lollipops and the ridges on licorice and, my God, automobiles, airplanes, cuts of meat—Kansas City strip, New York, porterhouse, chuck roasts, chops, cutlets — I mean Jesus, Patty (patties, Patty!), the animals aren’t built that way. Those are just arbitrary shapes. Why isn’t gum like a wafer? Why is it always a stick of gum? Why a bag of potato chips? Why wristwatches? I mean, this is it, there’s going to be a breakthrough here tonight.”
“You’re not doing my ass.”
“I can’t do your ass and concentrate on the breakthrough. All right. Did I say lipsticks? Lipsticks. Spaghetti boxes, boxes of soda straws, you know how there’s always a little window in the box? You remember seeing that? I don’t know if they still do that but they used to. Postage stamps! With their serrated edges. Well sure, I know, that’s functional so you can tear them off the sheet without ripping them. But that’s not the real reason, because you have the example of money, too. Why are there milled edges on dimes, quarters and half dollars but not on really small change like pennies and nickels? Why?”
“Why?”
“Traffic lights. Red. Amber. Green. The world over. Ethiopia and Iran. Ohio and Tasmania. Canned goods. The label goes all the way around. Top to bottom. Wall to wall. Why?”
“Why?”
“Uniforms — cops’, soldiers’, firemen’s. The metal badge on the front of a bicycle. Bicycle pedals. Who said that bicycle pedals have to look the way they do? Shoes! Sixteen holes for the laces. The laces. A pair of shoelaces. Think how they’re wrapped. The little armband of paper. Spools of thread and balls of yarn.”
“Toilet paper.”
“Toilet paper, right. Kleenex, Puffs. Paper napkins. Baby powder with those round holes punched in the top like a solar system. Tubes of toothpaste. Why not a jar of the stuff? Tubes of toothpaste but jars of cold cream. It could have been the other way around, you know. Yes, and money could be serrated just like postage stamps. As a matter of fact, it would be easier for banks to handle if it came that way. They could give you a sheet of money and you’d tear the bills off yourself. Jesus, Patty, do you see? Are you with me on this, Insight Lady?”
“What?”
“We read shapes. The culture is preliterate!”
“You think?”
“Sure. I think so. It’s tactile, a blind man’s culture. White canes and dark glasses. Or umbrellas wouldn’t furl left to right in both hemispheres. There’d be more variety in dog leashes. In our belts and boots. It’s never been taken for granted that anyone can read!”
“You think?”
“Why books have dust jackets.”
“Gee,” the Insight Lady said.
“Why bulbs look like pears and how the world got its curly tail. Nobody. Nobody ever. Nobody with money invested ever took it for granted that a single mother’s son of us could read. They think we’re so dumb. We are so dumb. And they are, too. So we get these symbols. The mustard jar a symbol and the candy bar a symbol, too. We live with molds, castings, with paradigms and modalities. With recognizable shapes. With—oh, God—trademarks like the polestar. I could go it alone in an Estonian supermarket. We live in Plato’s sky!”
“That’s a hell of an insight,” Patty said.
“It’s a farsight.”
“It’s a faroutsight.”
“Tactile.”
“Good, Ben.”
“Oh, God,” he said. “Tactile, tactile,” he said. “Men. Paradigms. Modalities.”
“Yes.”
“Women. The Finsbergs. The world like a chunk of Braille. Tactile.”