Pricksongs & Descants (18 page)

9

Her soft belly presses like a sponge into his groin. No, safer on your back, love, he thinks, but pushes the thought away. She weeps in terror, presses her hot wet mouth against his. To calm her, he clasps her soft buttocks, strokes them soothingly. So sudden is the plunge, they seem suspended in air. She has removed her skirt
.
How will it feel? he wonders.

10

Martin, without so much as reflecting on it, automatically takes the self-service elevator to the fourteenth floor, where he works. The systematizing, that
’
s what
’
s wrong, he concludes, that
’
s what cracks them up. He is late, but only by a few minutes. Seven others join, him, anxious, sweating. They glance nervously at their watches. None of them presses the
“
B
”
button. Civilities are hurriedly inter changed.

Their foolish anxiety seeps out like a bad spirit, enters Martin. He finds himself looking often at his watch, grows impatient with the elevator. Take it easy, he cautions himself. Their blank faces oppress him. Bleak. Haunted. Tyrannized by their own arbitrary regimentation of time. Torture self-imposed, yet in. all probability inescapable. The elevator halts jerkily at the third floor, quivering their sallow face-flesh. They-frown. No one has pushed the three. A woman enters. They all nod,
harumph
, make jittery little hand motions to incite the doors to dose. They are all more or less aware of the woman (she has delayed them, damn her!), but only Martin truly remarks—to himself—her whole presence, as the elevator resumes its upward struggle. The accretion of tragedy. It goes on,

ever giving birth to itself. Up and down, up and down. Where will it end? he wonders. Her perfume floats gloomily in the stale air. These deformed browbeaten mind-
animals. Suffering and insuffer
able. Up and down. He closes his eyes. One by one, they leave him.

He arrives, alone, at the fourteenth floor. He steps out of the old elevator, stares back into its spent emptiness. There, only there, is peace, he concludes wearily. The elevator doors press shut.

11

Here on this elevator, my elevator, created by me, moved by me, doomed by me, I, Martin, proclaim my omnipotence! In the end, doom touches all! MY doom! I impose it! TREMBLE!

12

The elevator shrieks insanely as it drops. Their naked bellies slap together, hands grasp, her vaginal mouth closes spongelike on his rigid organ. Their lips lock, tongues knot. The bodies: how will they find them? Inwardly, he laughs. He thrusts up off the plum meting floor. Her eyes are brown and, with tears, love him.

13

But—ah!—the doomed, old man, the DOOMED! What are they to us, to ME? ALL! We, I love! Let th
eir flesh sag and dewlaps tremr
bl
e
,
le
t their odors offend, let their cruelty mutilate, their stupidity enchain—but let them laugh, father! FOREVER! let them cry!

14

but hey! theres this guy see he gets on the goddamn elevator and its famous how hes got him a doodang about five feet long Im not kiddin you none five feet and he gets on the—yeah! can you imagine a bastard like that boardin a friggin pubic I mean public elevator? hoohah! no I dont know his name Mert I think or Mort but the crux is he is possessed of this motherin digit biggern ole Rahab see—do with it? I dont know I think he wraps it around his leg or carries it over his shoulder or somethin
jeezuss!
what a problem! why I bet hes
k
illt
more poor bawdies than I ever dipped my poor worm in! once he was even a—listen! Carruther tells this as the goddamn truth I mean he
respects
that bastard—he was even one a them jackoff gods I forget how you call them over there with them Eyetalians after the big war see them dumb types when they seen him furl out this here five foot hose of his one day—he was just tryin to get the goddamn knots out Carruther says—why they thought he musta been a goddamn jackoff god or somethin and wanted to like employ him or whatever you do with a god and well Mort he figgered it to be a not so miserable occupation dont you know better anyhow than oildrillin with it in Arabia or stoppin holes in Dutch dikes like hes been doin so the bastard he stays on there a time and them little quiff there in that Eyetalian place they grease him up with ho
’
gfat or olive oil and all workin together like vested virgins they pull him off out there in the fields and spray the crops and well Mort he says
he
says its the closest hes ever got to the real mccoy jeezuss! hes worth a thousand laughs! and they bring him all the old aunts and grannies and he splits them open a kinda stupendous euthanasia for the old ladies and he blesses all their friggin procreations with a swat of his doodang and even does a little welldiggin on the side but he gets in trouble with the Roman churchers on accounta not bein circumcised and they wanta whack it off but Mort says no and they cant get close to him with so prodigious a batterin ram as hes got so they work a few miracles on him and wrinkle up his old pud with holy water and heat up his semen so it burns up the fields and even one day ignites a goddamn volcano and
jeezuss
!
he wastes no time throwin that thing over his shoulder and hightailin it
ou
t
a
there I can tell you! but now like Im sayin them pastoral days is dead and gone and hes goin up and down in elevators like the rest of us and so here he is boardin the damn cage and theys a bunch of us bastards downin around with the little piece who operates that deathtrap kinda brushin her swell butt like a occasional accident and sweet jeezus her gettin fidgety and hot and half fightin us off and half pullin us on and playin with that lever zoom! wingin up through that scraper and just then ole Carruther jeezuss he really breaks you up sometimes that crazy bastard he hefts up her little purple skirt and whaddaya knowl the little quiff aint wearin no skivvies! its somethin
beautiful
man I mean a sweet cleft peach right outa some foreign orchard and poor ole Mort he is kinda part gigglin and part hurtin and for a minute the rest of us dont see the pointa the whole agitation but then that there incredible thing suddenly pops up quivery right under his chin like the friggin eye of god for crissake and then theres this big wild rip and man! it rears up and splits outa there like a goddamn redwood topplin
gawdamighty
!
and knocks old Carruther
k
apow
!
right to the deck! his best buddy and that poor little cunt she takes one glim of that impossible rod wheelin around in there and whammin the walls and she faints dead away and
jeeezusss
!
she tumbles right on that elevator lever and man! I thought for a minute we was
a
l
l
dead

15...

They plunge, their damp bodies fused, pounding furiously, in terror, in joy, the impact is

I
, Martin, proclaim against all dooms the in destructible seed

Martin does not take the self-service elevator to the fourteenth floor, as is his custom, but, reflecting upon it for once and out of a strange premonition, determines instead to walk the four teen flights. Halfway up, he hears the elevator hurtle by him and then the splintering crash from below. He hesitates, poised on the stair. Inscrutable is the word he finally settles upon. He pronounces it aloud, smiles faintly, sadly, somewhat wearily, then continues his tedious climb, pausing from time to time to stare back down die stairs behind him.

ROMANCE OF THE THIN MAN AND THE FAT LADY

Now, many stories have been told, songs sung, about the Thin Man and the Fat Lady. Not only is there something comic in the coupling, but the tall erect and bony stature of the Man and the cloven mass of roseate flesh that is the Lady are in themselves metaphors too apparent to be missed. To be sure of it, one need only try to imagine a Thin Lady paired with a Fat Man. It is not ludi crous, it is unpleasant No, the much recounted mating of the Thin Man with the Fat Lady is a circus legend full of truth. In fact, it is hardly more or less than the ultimate image of all our common everyday romances, which are also, let us confess, somehow comic. We are all Thin Men. You are all Fat Ladies.

But such simplicities are elusive; our metaphors turn on us, show us backsides human and complex. For observe them now: the Thin Man slumps soup-eyed and stoop-shouldered, seeming not thin so much as ill, and die Fat Lady in her stall sags immobile and turned blackly into herself. A passerby playfully punches his thumb into her thigh, an innocent commonplace event, and she spits in his eye.

“
Hey,
lady!
”

“
Right in his eye! I saw her!
”

“
Wh
at kinda circus is this, anyway
?
”

“
She
’
s probably not fat, just wearing a balloon suit!
”

“
Come, darling, don
’
t get too close to the Fat Lady, something
’
s wrong with her.
”
.

Children cry, and lovers, strangely disturbed, turn quickly away from them, seeking out the monkey cage. Whoo
!
the Image of all our Romances indeed!

Yet perhaps—why yes! surely!—the signs are unmistakable; a third party has intruded.

Madame Cobra the Snakecharmer?

The Incredible Man with the Double Joints?

The Missing Link?

No, our triangle is of a more sinister genius. Our villain is the Ringmaster.

“
We thought he
’
d understand. We were open about it The circus life is a good life, but it
’
s a tough one, too. A man
’
s gotta be a man.
”

“
Get of? that diet, Fat Lady, says he. The pig. Okay, okay, I say. But he doesn
’
t believe me. He moves in on us! Can you imagine?
”

“
I was in the Strong Man
’
s tent. I had twenty-five pounds up in the air, which for a Thin Man ain
’
t bad. I
’
m pretty proud of it and when he comes in I say: Hey! look at that muscle! I
’
ll show you muscle, says he, and kicks my poor ass all over that tent He shouldn
’
t do that. I got a very fragile spine.
”

“
Tape measure, calory charts, scales, everything. Don
’
t take his beady eyes off us day or night I ain
’
t allowed to sweat, my Man can
’
t exert hisself. What
’
re we supposed to
do?
”

“
Like animals, that
’
s how he treats us. Livestock. Checks her teeth, hefts her udders, slaps her on the bare nates when she
’
s on the scales. No heart at all. She
’
s crying, but does he care? Eat! he says. Eat! You gotta let a woman be a woman, I believe that.
”

It comes to this, then: that not even Ultimate Heroes are free from fashion. The Thin Man has wished to develop muscles, further to excite his Fat Lady
—

“B
uilds stamina, too. Helps your wind.
”

And the Lady has attempted to reduce to be more appealing to her Man—

“
And I had my heart to think about. You understand.
”

Now, were the Ringmaster a philosopher, he might have avoided the catastrophe—for, as in all true romances, and surely in the Truest, there is a catastrophe. He might have been able to convince the couple with a merest syllogism of the absurdity— indeed the very contradiction!—of their respective wishes. But, far from being a philosopher, he indulges in the basest of trades (and is thus the best of villains!): he is a trafficker, a businessman, a financier, a Keeper of the Holier Books.

“
Philosophy! You want philosophy? I
’
ll give you philosophy! Okay, okay, so they
’
re romantic symbols, I understand that, I
’
m not stupid, but what they symbolize, buddy, ain
’
t Beauty. It
’
s like that old fraud Merlin the Prestidigitator said when he came to try and softsoap me: Who can blame them if they see outside themselves symbols of their own? There
’
s something in all of us, Mr. Ring master, he says, that rebels against extremes. Hell, I can follow that. And being a symbol: who wants it anyway? Narcissism, that
’
s all it is.
But what the fuc
k
else do you thin
k
a circus is all
about?
Philos
ophy! Philosophy my ass! And the same goes for human nature! Want me to wreck my goddamn business? Listen! If the Fat Lady were not the fattest and the Thin Man the thinnest in the world— we
’
re talking first principles now, buster—no one would pay to see them. Where are all your goddamn noble abstractions when the circus collapses and we
’
re all of us out on the streets?
Adaptation
, boys and girls!
Expediency
! And to hell with nature!
”

Things do not work out as well, however, as the Ringmaster has anticipated. The Fat Lady in her gloom loses her appetite and begins to waste away. The Thin Man stops eating altogether and must be held in an upright position all day by props; And even the Ringmaster, normally of such stable even if unpleasant temper, grows inexplicably fidgety in the long fumbling nights alongside the couple
’
s troubled bed.

“
She can
’
t sleep, the poor dear. Whimpering all night long. I try to soothe her best I can, but my hands, so to speak, are tied.
”

‘“
One squeak of the bedsprings and on come the lights!
”

“
The man
’
s a nut!
”

“
He looks down at my Man and says: That
’
s one muscle too many! And throws cold water on it—
”

“
All night in a cold wet bed!
”
At last, the Ringmaster negotiates a highly favorable contract of exchange with a rival circus, by wh
ich he is to acquire an Ambassa
dor from Mars and a small sum of money for the waning Fat Lady. Another couple weeks, he thinks, and she would have been worth less. Hoo hee! a miraculous deal, a work of genius! Giggling softly (and no doubt meanly) to himself, he drops off that night into a comfortable slumber, the first in weeks, the bed beside him heaving fretfully the while with the parting anguish of the distraught lovers.

“
It wasn
’
t murder, it was a revolution.
”

“
A revolution of
love!
”

As one, the entire complement of die circus arises at midnight—

“
Now!
”

“
Freedom!
”

“
Equality!
”

“
Clobber the fuckin lech!
”

—summarily executes and inters the Ringmaster alongside the deserted country road (castrating him symbolically in the proc
ess—
circus people are born to symbology!), and installs the Fat Lady and die Thin Man as Representatives of the Common Proprietorship.

“
We were all agreed. The Thin Man and the Fat Lady, in fact, were the last to know.
”

“
An Ambassador from Mars indeed! Did he think we had no pride?
”

So joy reigns in the circus f
or weeks. Every performance con
cludes with a party. The two lovers
’
happiness seems to radiate magically, attracting new masses
of spectators, all of which aug
ments, in turn, their happiness. It is indeed a paradise. The Thin Man exercises without compunction and quickly reaps a sturdy little pair of biceps. The Fat Lady, all aglow, switches
calorie
charts with the Thin Man, and within a week loses one of her several chins. Everyone, including the Thin Man, remarks on her beauty. Love is the word of the day. Circus people are basically good people. Their hatred for their former Ringmaster subsides, the souvenir taken from him is fed to the lions, and he is soon forgotten altogether. In a new day, there is no place for old resentments.

“
I mean, you go along for years, see, thinking you got a Ring master on accounta you gotta have one. Ever seen a circus without a Ringmaster? No. Well, that just goes to show how history can fake you out!
”

It was beautiful! All of it just
happening!
Acts coming on spontaneously, here, there, it was
wild and exciting and unpredict
able!
”

“
Suddenly it hits you, see. All your life you been looking at circuses and you say, that
’
s how circuses are. But what if they ain
’
t? What if that
’
s all a goddamn myth propagated by Ringmasters? You dig? What if it
’
s all open-ended, and we can, if we want to, live by
lo
ve?
”

“
We even started enjoying each other
’
s acts!
”

“I
rode the elephant once!
”

“
Who says clowns gotta take pratfalls alia time? I learned to play in the band and train a bear and ride a horse through a fiery hoop!
”
But, just when the picture is pinkest, bad news: it becomes all too apparent that fewer people are visiting the stalls of the Thin Man and the Fat Lady, and those that do pass through, do so hastily and with little interest.
“
Okay, so they
’
re happy, so they
’
re in love. So what? You see one lover, you seen
‘
em all.”

At first, everyone stubbornly disregards the signs. The parties go on, the songs and the celebrations. The Thin Man lifts weights as always, and the Fat Lady diets. Their glad hearts, though gnawed at a bit by apprehension, remain kindled by love and joy. One could almost say it was the romantic legend come true. But finally they can no longer ignore the black-and-white truth of the circus ledger, now in their care. Somewhere, apparently, there is a fatter lady and a thinner man. Their new world threatens to crumble.

“
We didn
’
t wanna hurt their feelings, you know. We kidded them a little, hoping they
’
d take the hint.
”

“
Why couldn
’
t they just love each other for themselves?
”

“
For the good of the whole circus, we said.
”

In their van one night, doubt having doused for the moment the flame of passion, they agree: the Fat Lady will restore her castoff corpulence, the Thin Man will return his set of barbells to the Strong Man. They re-exchange
calorie
charts. They begin in earnest to win back their public, found to
be an integrant of their attach
ment, after all.

It is not easy. Worried by business reverses, the Fat Lady must work doubly hard to lay on e
ach pound. And the Thin Man dis
covers that his little knots of muscle tend to sag instead of disappear. But they are driven by the most serious determination. The eyes of die circus are upon them. Momentary reverses only steel them more to the task.

“
Chocolates! For me? It
’
s been so long!
”

“
With love.
”

“
But now that you
’
ve seen me like this, will you truly love me when I
’
m fat again ?
”