Brutally Haggard, Part 8

Historical Reluctance

Since the time of his “coronation” Rectanglo had been loath to dress less than fully and properly. However, during the week of the Bipedalism Festival, he found it necessary to adopt the guise of an average peasant (or “common man” as Rodney says). To this end, he secretly procured a pair of faded jeans that were too long for his legs and had acquired much wear on the cuffs from being stepped on. The seat of these jeans was too big for his butt and hung slackly. In addition to the jeans Rectanglo obtained a t-shirt with a well-washed and cracked iron-on transfer depicting an anthropomorphized horse dressed in the uniform of an American footballer. The legend printed in a font designed to mimic the scrawl of some angry demon below the horse was “WE GONNA FUCK YOU UP!!” The ensemble was completed by white athletic socks, expensive and elaborately detailed running shoes, and a baseball cap with a patch on the crown reading “ALCOHOLIC… AND LOVIN’ IT!”
Thus outfitted Rectanglo had himself driven down to the corner of Warmonger Square and dropped off.
“Meet me back here in three days.” He instructed the driver as he got out of the car.
“Sir, don’t you want to take a change of clothes? A toothbrush?”
“Ronnie,” Rectanglo informed the man. “That would be an obvious give-away that I wasn’t legitimately one of these people.”
Now alone, Rectanglo sauntered down to where a crowd was watching a scantily-clad young woman on a mobile stage jump around and speak of her intense desire to “do it” with an unnamed person while men in various funny animal costumes circled about her. Rectanglo bought a hot dog from an angry, but garrulous vendor and pretended to eat it by means of a special tube connected to a shopping bag.
He nearly gave himself away when, talking to a local, he was caught staring into the window of a bookshop.
“That big man carried the ball… hey, watcha lookin’ at?” His interlocutor demanded.
“Oh, sorry.” Replied Rectanglo. “I thought that woman in there was naked.”
“Yeah.” The other man chuckled. “Some of them bookworm women is freaky.”

Few Options

Forced into a dark alleyway that proved to be a dead-end, Rectanglo realized too late that the gang of teenagers had followed him. Of course, with his great strength he was not afraid of being bested by them. No, he feared being revealed. All his preparations would have been for naught, his experiment ruined. At the terminus of the alley, an oily black hole full of the smell of piss, surrounded on three sides by grimy brick walls reaching up to a waning crescent, Rectanglo quickly debated what to do. He rejected hiding in a trash container as little time remained before they were upon him. Instead, he did the only thing available to him: grabbing the exposed pipes on one of the walls, he clambered up as fast as his thirty-six-year-old frame would allow. Some twenty feet in the air, he levered open a tall window and threw himself inside.
Rectanglo landed rather painfully on a wooden floor in a dark room smelling of mold and spent flashbulbs. He stayed prostrate, tensing his left knee against the throbbing that passed through it and listening to the ignorant, violent youths below searching the alley. After perhaps two minutes, he rose and went to the door that led out of the room. Beyond he could hear the sound of voices and music. Brazenly, he slipped out to find himself in an art gallery.
It was an opening night reception. Two artists, one a painter, the other a sculptor, had filled the large room with their works. Rectanglo mingled in with the crowd, jerking the cap off his head and regretting his plebeian attire. He walked about admiring the paintings, but sneering at the sculptures, which were pieces assembled from garbage and electrically wired, turning them into large, ungainly lamps.
Rectanglo came across the sculptor surrounded by friends, gabbing about his music career. It was more difficult to find the painter, who was hiding in the corner, furtively sipping whiskey from a half-pint bottle concealed in his pants.
“I don’t know what to do.” He confessed to Rectanglo.
“Well, you can quit or you can go on.” Rectanglo advised. This advice, however well-meant or even how true it may have been, was not received well.

Impacted Affectations

“You’re not wearing a bow-tie!” My wife questioned; nay, challenged my choice of neckwear on this, the anniversary of my birth.
“As a matter of fact, I am.” I said, tugging the tie into shape.
“Then I’m not going.” The little lady announced. She tossed her socks on the bed and began to make herself comfortable.
Now, in the past I might have implored her to fall into line, perhaps even caved in and changed to what my wife referred to as a less-pretentious tie, begging and jokingly cajoling her to still accompany me. Not tonight. During the twenty-four hours prior to the above exchange, I had undergone a sea-change in my whole mentality. This alteration was symbolized, I felt, by just such an accoutrement as the bow-tie and my bold insistence on wearing it.
“Suit yourself.” I told her. I smiled insanely at myself in the mirror.
She had not been happy, but had decided to indulge me (seeing as how it was my birthday) and join me and the bow-tie. We sat atop a fully functioning interpretation of Dr. Seuss’ crunk-car. Another indulgence, but one which my wife took to quite readily, still refusing to look at me, lest she catch sight of the tie.
It was a black tie, covered with red and white mounted knights.
Due to the change that had come over me (or rather, that I had caused to come over me) I was not disturbed by the lingering bad feelings that I could sense within my wife. Indeed, I refused to allow myself to be bothered by them. More, I could no longer be disturbed by much of anything.
Although the ride in the crunk-car bad been the fulfillment of a thirty-year-old fantasy, it had been uncomfortable. My hair had gotten mussed by the humid breeze. Out butts were jarred by the machine’s lurching steps. We both agreed that more work would have to be done to the crunk-car before it was acceptable. Yet even this could not break my stranglehold on impassive happiness.
“You’re so calm tonight.” My wife said as we descended from the machine and began walking to the restaurant. “Are you resigned to the fact that after today you are officially middle-aged?”

Kiplough Selects a Work of Art

Don Kiplough, cash in hand, approached the starving artists’ sale with a giddiness he would have been hard-put to explain, should someone aware of his state asked him just why he felt so.
Perhaps it was because he felt that, in undertaking the purchase of a real painting by a real painter, one whose name signed on the work actually meant something, he was making a big decision, one that exemplified the change that had come over him since his exposure to the Bolsis people and their technology. He felt alive to the possibilities of art and the choices available to him, that much is certain. Stuffing his money into a pocket of his bog coat, he entered the warehouse through the balloon-ringed door.
“Sculpture!” He thought suddenly, seeing many pieces scattered among the framed canvases. He realized that this, too, was within hiss grasp. He walked about with a silly, pothead smile on his face, examining everything. As opposed to the usual dreck to be found at such sales (lighthouses, old sea captains, primitivist farm scenes, and tap-dancing fish) there were many idiosyncratic expressions and one-of-a-kind portraits that, while perhaps inept, were at least engaging.
A selection of triptychs by a bearded, nervous man sitting huddled on a folding chair particularly appealed to Kiplough. After he had looked at everything (he was a careful shopper) he came back to them in the nervous man’s pegboard booth.
“I like your work.” Kiplough said, working around to transacting business.
“Thank you.” The man said, his head vibrating to each enunciated sound.
“What does this one mean?” Kiplough asked, pointing at one of the triptychs.
“I have no idea.”
“But you of all people must have some idea.”
“None.” The man buried his face in his bony hands.
“But…” Kiplough was confused. He had been taught that everybody did everything for a reason. Eventually he settled on a pair of drunken policemen carved from wood. The price was right.

Cary Grant A Permanent Calendar Fixture
Each month I turn over my wall-mounted calendar and replace picture, which is of some scenic spot, with photographs of individuals who either are heroes of mine to a greater or lesser degree, or who exemplify qualities I currently am trying to acquire. In a little over a week as of this writing the month will change once again and the pictures, which right now are of Jackson Pollack, James Joyce, Gustav Klimt, and Hassan Nasrallah, will have to be superceded by others. In all likelihood, although I never know until the first of the month actually comes, one of the new persons on the calendar will be Srila Prabhupada, the founder of the International Society of Krishna Consciousness. I am not a Hindu, not even a theist, but I have long wanted to start my own cult. In this I admire Prabhupada, but not only for that. From what I have read he was a man of purity and devotion, qualities I aspire to. I want to be a holy man. All of this in my own, atheistic, idiosyncratic, self-mythologizing system, of course.
As for the other persons to accompany Prabhupada, I don’t know yet. He won’t occupy the space alone. The only time I did that was when I covered a barn in Maine with a single large picture of Richard Nixon. No, I think I will install Jack London, Gore Vidal, Orson Welles, or Emma Thompson. As I say I won’t really know until the day. I may begin reading a book by somebody and, taken with it, put the author up there. For instance, I found out that Ernie Kovacs wrote a novel. I may read it and obtain his picture somewhere. But then, I think I already used Kovacs six months or so ago.
Hanging from the bottom of the calendar is a folder for bills and useful phone numbers. This folder always is in view no matter the month and so I put someone there who should also always be in view. As you already know from the title of this piece that person is Cary Grant. I like Cary Grant, but not so much for the reasons one might expect; i.e. his looks, charm, style, etc. No, it is more that he acquired all of those qualities. He set out to invent himself, as I have tried hard to do with my identity. I try to improve on what I was handed. Heroes are important in this regard. I have never had a hero yet who did not disappoint me, yet as examples or yardsticks they are useful.

The Unfortunate Surfacing

“Leader,” Mr. Brogan addressed me, having knocked on the door to my private cabin and put his head in at my invitation. “We’re surfacing.”
“How lone before we breach?” I asked. I had been reading a year-old issue of the Marinade Digest, but now looked up from it.
“Imminent, Leader.”
I closed the magazine and got to my feet.
“Very good.” I said. “I’m coming.” I indicated with a waggled finger that I would follow the man to the bridge of this submarine boat, the Prabhupada.
The captain was just peering into the periscope as I entered the bridge.
“A clear sky, by the look of it. Something odd about the…” He commented. Someone must have made some subtle, unheard sign to the captain that I had entered, for he broke off his narration to offer me a look.
“No thank you.” I decline. I then asked if we could have a look with our unaided eyes, up on the conning tower.
“Surely, Leader.” The captain replied. Together with Mr. Burnhep and Mr. Flozen we climbed the ladder to the open air.
“That smell…” Mr. Flozen said.
“Something odd about these waters.” Said the Captain.
“It’s a sea of brandy.” I announced coldly, definitively.
“Are you sure?” The captain broke the silence that had followed my remark.
“I know the smell of many liquors.” I replied.
“That’s why the moonlight reflects so strangely off its surface.” He said.
“The viscosity.” I affirmed.
“Look, Captain!” Mr. Burnhep cried. We all looked in the direction the man indicated. What met our eyes was horrifying. A large man, indeed, a giant, nearly as big as our submergible vessel, lay face down in a dead man’s float some dozen feet from our hull.
“He drowned.” The Captain said as we examined the body. “A shipwreck, do you think?” He asked, turning to me.
“No, Captain.” I replied in as self-consciously a dramatic a manner possible. “He tried to swim across this sea.”

A Government’s Denial

Working in tandem with the Director General, the Presidium was composed of approximately a dozen different departments. One of these, the shadowy Department 37, was controlled by a committee of five senior delegates. This committee had been convened in public session to discuss the rumors of invasion from another world that had been spreading through the city for the past few weeks. The committee’s meeting hall, not designed to hold a crowd of interested observers, was hot and dense with members of the press, the fortunate citizens who had been able to get a seat, and the slightly less fortunate who stood tightly together against the walls. The unfortunate throng outside received word from persons with their ears pressed to the closed doors of the hall, who passed it back.
“Enough of these preliminaries.” Mrs. Scrod, one of the delegates on the executive committee cut through Mr. Gold’s opening statement, which had been composed almost entirely of expressions of gratitude at seeing such a stunning display on the part of the citizenry of interest in the business of the department.
“Let’s get on with the reason for this unprecedented open meeting of the executive committee.” Mrs. Scrod continued.
“Very well.” Said Mr. Gold. “Mr. Fudgin, I believe you have the statement of official opinion. Would you read it, please?”
“Thank you, Mr. Gold. Let me first also express my deep gratitude at the members of the public who had today…” Fudgin, a stoop-shouldered mumble-mouth with a dirty-looking moustache was interrupted by an irritated grunt from Mrs. Scrod.
“This then is the statement of official opinion.” Fudgin picked up a stapled bundle of papers, only the first of which had anything printed on it.
“’There is no invasion, imminent or otherwise, being planned by persons from a world outside out own.’” Fudgin read the key part of the statement. “’In fact,’” he continued. “’Although our scientists tell us that the existence of other worlds is a possibility, we believe that Shedge and its environs is the only world that actually exists.”
“Then where do all those crappy TV shows come from?” Shouted a young man standing far at the back of the room.

Collected Squirrels

Out in the woods Mavez Abuelia, blindfolded and bound, had been captive for what she estimated was at least two hours when she was finally allowed to see her abductors.
“Are you hungry, Ms. Abuelia?” One of the squirrels asked as the female journalist gazed in astonishment at him and his associates.
“No.” Mavez gasped.
“Surely you must be thirsty then. Tackwell, pour our abductee a refreshing cup of tea.” The squirrel-ma (for such he was, being a little less than five feet tall, and having slightly humanoid hands and features) directed one of the others.
“Who are you?” Mavez asked.
“My name is Brank. But perhaps you were referring to…us?” Brank gestured about him at the comfortable room and the three other squirrels in it beside himself.
“Yes.” Mavez nodded.
“I see that the Director General of Shedge does not even confide in his new bride. He and the most senior delegates to the Presidium have known about us for years. Of course, this has been kept a secret from the people of Shedge. You see, Ms. Abuelia,” Said Brank, squatting on his haunches before the prisoner as she sat on a teal green sofa of modern design. “It is in actuality we who control the woods, not the scattering of humans who run the tourist complex near the city wall.”
“But what about the ground dwellers?”
“Oh, yes, there are a few primitives who live on the ground, but again, that is fairly near the city wall. The forest is far more extensive than the Shedgeans are permitted to know. So is the ocean, for that matter.”
“Why are you telling me all this… secret knowledge?” Mavez asked.
“Because the time is drawing near for the people of Shedge to discover the truth about many things, the least of which is out existence.”
The cup of tea, a cunning and, as Brank had said, refreshing infusion of roots and leaves, was brought in and held to Mavez Abuelia’s lips. Over the next half hour she heard more of the squirrels’ plans.

We Know What the Innuendoes Mean

Frick, silenced by the definitive “no” from the articulated mouth of the idol, spent some weeks in a near-funk. Then, revived during a routine walk from his back door to the edge of his property and back by the sudden flash of the phrase “Fake it” through his mind (and probably as much the walk itself as well), he began to take steps to make his vision a reality.
“I’ll come right out and say it:” One of Frick’s neighbors told a couple of others. “He’s insane.” They were standing at the juncture of three yards; Frick was but one of several topics of local interest they discussed.
“Probably.” Janson, one of the other neighbors, coughed and shifted his stance with discomfort at such straight talk.
“What about this barbecue fundraiser for the community fire department?” The third neighbor changed the subject.
Oblivious Frick, in his newly made costume of red pants, carpet remnant vest, and hat made of a paper sack, practiced conversation with the puppet on his left hand.
“This is my Monday costume. There will be one for each day of the week, once I’ve finished construction.” He told the puppet (tentatively named Boogin).
“What do you think the idol with say when he finds out?” The puppet asked.
“I no longer recognize either the reality of the idol or the legitimacy of the belief system surrounding him.” Frick replied, delighted that he had at last voiced these liberating words—and to such an important personality as Boogin, the spokesman for the Synthetic School of Thought.
Frick’s wife, long-suffering Georgia, bore all these doings with the indulgence of an ocean liner the improper use of shuffleboard sticks, until the day came when Frick announced that he would quit his job at the forge and pursue his dream of attracting followers.
“I would rather you start drinking again.” Georgia said.
“You would, eh?” Frick shook a talisman of great power at her in a menacing manner.
Perhaps after she had read his book, Frick thought later as he worked on it. He found it harder to codify his ideas about existence that he had expected. The thought “fake it” came back to him reassuringly.

Five-Legged Chair

“What is the fifth leg for, Toadsgoboad?” A young woman near the front of the seated crowd before me asked. There were some titters from the audience, but these petered out quickly enough when they had had time to ponder the woman’s question more closely.
The chair I sat upon had five legs. A gift from the Frawley, one of the tribes of the squirrel-people, I had not had a chance to use it in the year since its presentation until now, on the occasion of my lecture series at the university.
The topic of the lecture on that day was purism, its benefits and detractions. Personally, although ideally a purist in my approach to my life, in art and art criticism, however, I have always (as far as I can remember) fought against purism. It was a difficult lecture to get through, not only because I was so confused on the subject, but because I was extemporizing, using only the most meager of notes.
Luckily, I had brought along quite a number of visual aids. Little did I know that the chair was to be the most impressive of the lot.
“I appreciated your question.” I told the previously mentioned young woman (one of dozens) as she approached the dais after the lecture.
“I knew you would want it asked.” She was thin; dressed in tight, well-washed jeans and a long-sleeved button-down; a pale yellow ponytail drawn not too forcefully back from her high-cheekboned face. I merely smiled in response as I autographed the various products pushed at me by these knowledge-hungry youths.
No time for dalliances with the sexually desirable or the intellectually interesting, I returned to my quarters alone to commune with the powerful forces that indwell me, toting the chair on my back.
“Why does that chair have five legs?” Someone shouted at me as I made my way across the campus.
“Why indeed?” I thought. Was it really to do with anti-purism? What exactly, I asked myself, was the opposite of purism? Back in my room I looked myself hard in the mirror.
“‘High-cheekboned?’” I questioned.