A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (2 page)

There was quiet. Then he said:

“
Oh. Oh. That
’
s not what I expected. That
’
s not ... what I expected.
”

Then he left the room, and the painting with me.

p. 217: When we would drive past a cemetery we would click our tongues and marvel, unbelieving. Especially the big ones, the crowded one, obscene places, so few trees, all that gray, like some sort of monstrous ashtray. When we went by Toph could not look, and I looked only to know, to reconfirm my own promise, that I would never be in such a place, would never bury anyone in such a place—who were these graves for? Who did they comfort?— would never allow myself to be buried in such a place, that I would either disappear completely—

I have visions of my demise: When I know I have only so much more time left—for example if I do in fact have AIDS as I believe I probably do, if anyone does, it
’
s me, why not—when the time comes, I will just leave, say goodbye and leave, and then throw myself into a volcano.

Not that there seems to be any appropriate place to bury someone, but these municipal cemeteries, or any cemetery at all for that matter, like the ones by the highway, or the ones in the middle of town, with all these bodies with their corresponding rocks—oh
it
’
s just too primitive and vulgar, isn
’
t it? The hole, and the box, and the rock on the grass? And we glamorize this process, feel it fitting and dramatic, austerely beautiful, standing there by the hole as we lower the box. It
’
s incredible. Barbaric and base.

Though I should say I once saw a place that seemed fitting. I was walking—I would say
“
hiking,
”
if we were doing anything but walking, but since we were just walking, I will not use the word
“
hiking,
”
which everyone feels compelled to use anytime they
’
re outside and there
’
s a slight incline—in a forest above the Carapa, a tributary of the Amazon. I was on a junket, with a few other journalists—two from
Reptile
magazine—and a group of herpetologists, a bunch of chubby American snake experts with cameras, and we had been brought through this forest, on an upward-meandering path, looking for boa constrictors and lizards. After maybe forty-five minutes under this dappled dark forest, suddenly the trees broke, and we were at the top of the trail, in a clearing, over the river, and at that point you could see for honestly a hundred miles. The sun was setting, and in that huge Amazonian sky there were washes of blue and orange, thick swashes of each, mixed loosely, like paint pushed with fingers. The river was moving slowly below, the color of caramel, and beyond it was the forest, the jungle, green broccoli chaos as far as you could see. And immediately before us there were about twenty simple white crosses, without anything in the way of markings. A burial ground for local villagers.

And
it
occurred to me that I could stay there, that if I had to be buried, my rotting corpse heaped on with dirt, I could stand to have it done there. With the view and all.

It was odd timing, too, because earlier that day, I was almost sure I was leaving this world, via piranha.

We had anchored our boat, a three-story riverboat, in a small river cul-de-sac, and the guides had begun fishing for piranha, using only sticks and string, chicken as bait.

The piranhas took to it immediately. It was a cinch—they were jumping onto the boat, flopping around with their furious little faces.

And then, on the other side of the boat, our American guide,
a bearded Bill, was swimming. The water, like tea, made his underwater limbs appear red, making all the more disconcerting the fact that he was swimming amid a school of piranhas.

“
Come in!
”
he said.

Oh God no way.

Then everyone else was in, the chubby herpetologists were in, all their limbs in the bloodred tea. I had been told that piranha attacks were extremely rare (though not unheard of), that there was nothing to fear, and so soon enough I jumped from the boat and was swimming, too, relatively content that, even if there was some feeding frenzy, at least my odds were better than if I were in the water alone^while the fish were gorging on someone else, I
’
d have time to swim to safety. I actually did the math, the math of how long it would take the fish to eat the other four people vis-a-vis how long I
’
d have to get to the riverbank. After about three or four minutes, each one panic-stricken, trying not to touch my feet to the muddy ground, keeping my movements minimal so as not to attract attention, I got out.

Later, I tried out one of the guides
’
dugout canoes. After a few of the herpetologists had failed to stay afloat in it, I was convinced that I, being so very agile, could paddle and keep it afloat. I got in the tiny canoe, steadied myself, and paddled away. And for a while I did it. I set off from the main boat, downriver, alternating sides with the small paddle, the very picture of skill and grace.

But about two hundred yards down the river, the canoe began to sink. I was too heavy. It was taking in water.

I looked back to the boat. The Peruvian guides were all watching, were hysterical. I was sinking into the brown water, the current taking me farther downstream, and they were laughing, doubled over. They were loving it.

The canoe tipped, and I fell in, at this point in the middle of the river, where it was much deeper, a darker shade of brown. I could not see my limbs. I climbed onto the capsized canoe, desperate.

I was sure I was gone. Yes, the piranhas over there by the main boat had not touched us, but how could you be sure that out here, that they wouldn
’
t take a nip from a finger? They often nipped fingers and toes, and that would draw blood and from there...

Oh God Toph.

I was there, and the canoe was sinking again, capsized but sinking under my weight, and soon I would be wholly in this river again, the river infested with piranhas, and my thrashing would draw them to me—I was trying, trying to keep it to a minimum, just kicking my legs, staying afloat—and then I would be picked at slowly, chunks from my calves and stomach, then, once the flesh was torn, and blood ribboning out, there would be the flurry, a hundred at once, I would look down and see my extremities overcome by a terrible blur of teeth and blood, and I would be picked clean, to the bone, and why? Because I had to show the entourage that I could do whatever any Peruvian river guide could do—

And I thought of poor Toph, this poor boy, three thousand miles away, staying with my sister—

How could I leave him?

p. 218: [M]y mother read a horror novel every night. She had read every one in the library. When birthdays and Christmas would come, I would consider buying her a new one, the latest Dean R. Koontz or Stephen King or whatever, but I couldn
’
t. I didn
’
t want to encourage her. I couldn
’
t touch my father
’
s cigarettes, couldn
’
t look at the Pall Mall cartons in the pantry. I was the sort of child who couldn
’
t even watch
commercials
for horror movies—the ad for
Magic,
the movie where the marionette kills people, sent me into a six-month nightmare frenzy. So I couldn
’
t look at her books, would turn them over so their covers wouldn
’
t show, the raised lettering and splotches of blood—especially the V. C. Andrews oeuvre, those turgid pictures of those terrible kids, standing so still, all lit in blue.

p. 414: Bill and Beth and Toph and I are watching the news. There is a small item about George Bush
’
s grandmother. It is apparently her birthday.

We debate about how old the grandmother of a man in his late sixties must be. It seems impossible that she
’
s still breathing.

Beth changes the channel.

“
That
’
s disgusting,
”
she says.

p. 427: [S]he was living in a sort of perpetual present. Always she had to be told of her context, what brought her here, the origins and parameters of her current situation. Dozens of times each day she had to be told everything again—What made me? Whose fault am I? How did I get here? Who are these people?—the accident recounted, sketched in broad strokes, her continuously reminded but always forgetting—

Not forgetting. Having, actually, no capacity to grip the information—

But who does? Fuck it, she was alive and she knew it. Her voice sang the same way it always did, her eyes bulged with amazement over the smallest things, anything, my haircut. Yes, she still knew and had access to those things that had been with her for years—that part of her memory was there, intact—and while I wanted to punish those responsible, would relish it and presumed that I would never tire of it, being with her, so close to her skin and the blood rushing beneath it, drains me of hatred.

The music from the pool changed.

“
Ooh, I like this song,
”
she said, doing a zig-zag with her neck.

Finally, this edition reflects the author
’
s request that all previous epigraphs—including
“
The heart
’
s immortal thirst to be completely known and all forgiven.
”
(H. Van Dyke);
“
[My poems] may hurt the dead, but the dead belong to me.
”
(A. Sexton);
“
Not every boy thrown to the wolves becomes a hero.
”
(J. Barth);
“
Everything will be forgotten and nothing will be redressed.
”
(M. Kundera);
“
Why not just write what happened?
”
(R. Lowell);
“
Ooh, look at me, I
’
m Dave, I
’
m writing a book! With all my thoughts in it! La la la!
”
(Christopher Eggers)
—be removed, as he never really saw himself as the type of person who would use epigraphs.

·
August 1999

CONTENTS

Rules and Suggestions for Enjoyment of This Book.............vii

Preface to This Edition..................................ix

Acknowledgments....................................xxi

Incomplete Guide to Symbols and Metaphors..............xxxviii

PART I.

Through the small tall bathroom window, etc.............................1

Scatology—video games—blood—
“
blind leaders of the blind
”
[Bible]—some violence—embarrassment, naked men—mapping

PART II.

Please look. Can you see us, etc......................................................47

California—ocean plunging, frothing—Little League, black mothers— rotation and substitution—hills, views, roofs, toothpicks—numbing and sensation—Johnny Bench—motion

PART III.

The enemies list, etc..........................................................................71

Demotion—teachers driven before us—menu—plane crash—light— knife—State of the Family Room Address—half-cantaloupes—so like a fragile girl—old model, new model—Bob Fosse Presents

PART IV.

Oh I could be going out, sure ........................................................105

But no. No no!—the weight—seven years one
’
s senior, how fitting— John Doe—decay v. preservation—burgundy, bolts

PART V.

Outside it
’
s blue-black and getting darker, etc........................123

Stephen, murderer, surely—The Bridge—Jon and Pontius Pilate— John, Moodie, et al.—lies—a stolen wallet—the 99
^th
percentile— Mexican kids—lineups, lights—a trail of blood, and then silence

PART VI.

When we hear the news at first ...................................................167

[Some mild nudity]—all the hope of history to date—an interview— death and suicide—mistakes—keg beer—Mr. T—Steve the Black Guy—a death faked, perhaps (the gray car)—a possible escape,
via
rope, of sheets—a broken door—betrayal justified

PART VII.

Fuck it. Stupid show, etc.................................................................239

Some bitterness, some calculation—Or anything that looks un-us—more nudity, still mild—of color, who is of color?—Chakka the Pakuni— hairy all the crotches are, bursting from panties and briefs—The Marina—The flying-object maneuver—drama or blood or his mouth foaming or—a hundred cymbals—would you serve them grapes? Would that be wrong?—
“
So I
’
m not allowed
”
—Details of all this will be good