Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas
Leading the happily dazed animal out of the room, you pause by the tarot table. Most of the deck has been knocked onto the floor by now, making it impossible, alas, to isolate from the scatter the card that AndrE had impulsively snatched. You do glimpse a corner of the Nommo card, however, and it spurs you to hasten your departure. To Mrs. Kudahl, whose curlered head is hanging out of her doorway as if on a string, you call, Happy Easter. The Fathers a frog, the Sons a tadpole, the Holy Ghost is swamp gas.
THREE TWENTY-SEVEN P.M.
You anticipated difficulty in stashing AndrE in the trunk of the Porsche, but as soon as you toss in the carton of Popsicles, he bounds right in behind it. He does screech a bit when you slam the lid, but the racket gradually subsides. It is only when you pat the trunk with satisfaction and turn away that you notice the squad car parked across the alley. Drat, you think. Drat to the sixteenth power!
Its a Barbary ape, you call. It hates the rain.
Smokey is rolling his eyes and shaking his head. I didnt see nothing. Did you, Cecil?
Cecil will not even look in your direction. Cecil, in fact, is staring at a row of overflowing garbage cans as intently as if he had a grant to study the effects of acid rain on used kitty litter. I didnt see a goddamned thing, he growls. It is the voice of a defeated man.
All the way down Queen Anne Hill you keep checking your rearview mirror for flashing blue lights, but none appear and you proceed swiftly. Through downtown, the brisk pace continues, for the rain has driven the majority of the homeless and the criminal off the streets and into doorways and various makeshift shelters, where their trash fires hiss at the weather. Nevertheless, you select Third Avenue over the usually more teeming First, a route that carries you close to the Werewolf Club, where the coming attractions, you note, are the Drunk Drivers and the Tijuana Diaper Service. Naturally, the club reminds you of your last conversation with Q-Jo, but it would take more than that memory to tar your current glad mood.
Rain, that thin gray sheriff, has also served its coldhearted eviction notices to the crowd outside the Sorrento. Those who have not sardined into the lobby have returned to their cars or their homes. Scarcely a dozen still stand in the open courtyard, but among them is Diamond. He is soaked, to be sure, but hardly lonely or forlorn. Engaged in animated conversation with an attractive middle-aged Asian woman, his match-strike of a grin sulfurs the soggy air.
Fortuitously, a minivan has just vacated one of the limited parking spaces on Terry Avenue, and you nose right into it, beeping your horn to attract Diamonds attention. Eventually, he notices you and strides blithely over to the Porsche, his long hair, heavy with moisture, swinging to and fro, batting raindrops aside right and left.
I was in the neighborhood, you say, powering down the window.
Yes. Yes, indeed. Me, too. For some reason, you dont mind the mockery in his smile.
Im surprised youre still here. Whats going on?
Well, the good doctor came back about twenty minutes ago. Not a very imposing figure, less so in person than on TV, and apparently hed been sucking the sake cork again. He spoke with us briefly, though none too coherently. Showed us a plastic jar full of something that looked like the spinal fluid of a scarecrow. The enema elixir. The anal ambrosia. He indicated that aside from spring water, boiled brown rice, and beta-carotene, theres nothing in it except a pinch of coffee. Anybody could produce it if they were cognizant of the precise proportions.
Thats too bad.
Why do you say that?
If the word gets around that there really isnt any secret formula that can be patented and protected, then the Nikkeis waterwings are going to pop tomorrow; and if Tokyo joins us in the octopuss garden, whos left to play lifeguard? Were pacing the bottom in cast-iron shoes.
Youre forgetting the nozzle. Without Yamaguchis special nozzle, the formulas just so much dirty dishwater.
One little enema nozzle cant prop up a world economy. It is only the second time you have ever used the word enema in mixed company, but you are too distracted to blush. Drat! Well, anyway, would you like a lift home?
Sweet of you to inquire, pussy nougat, but I think Ill hang around here awhile longer. Yamaguchi inferred that he might come back and talk to us about the possibility of treatments after he changes suites. The hotels moving him up to the seventh floor penthouse. For security reasons. Its not likely to do me much good in Timbuktu, but I feel I should be cognizant of available alternatives.
You cant just wait out in the rain. Youre drenched. Get in the car for a minute. Ill turn the heater on.
Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, sings Diamond. Zip-A-Dee-Ay.
FOUR P.M.
In the beginning was the thing. And one thing led to another.
The simple but enduring truth of that abridged version of the first chapter of Genesis is demonstrated once again in the cockpit of the Porsche, a space in which you, the general public, and the vast majority of German automotive engineers would have deemed it impossible to have full-fledged sexual intercourse-but you remove your Exxon sweatshirt with which to dry his hair, he slips his tattooed hand inside your silk shirt, the windows conveniently fog over, and one thing leads to another.
Still, for the rest of your life, it will remain a mystery to you how the two of you managed it. But manage it you do, with vigor and tenderness and at considerable length. Snorting and whinnying, the white pony comes over the hill, trotting at first, then at a gallop, and just keeps coming and coming, until it reaches your front yard, where it kicks up its heels a few times and then lies down lazily and rolls in the clover. (Q-Jo was right: those other occasions had been false alarms, processed cheese, laugh tracks, and placebos.) The condensation on the windows gives you an exaggerated sense of privacy, but the way the Porsche was rocking at the apogee of your ardor, everyone in the neighborhood-thank goodness the cops have gone-must have guessed that something untoward was transpiring in that little sports car, and poor AndrE must have felt as if he were going over Niagara Falls in a barrel.
Whats so funny, Gwendolyn?
Mmm. Nothing. No point spoiling a perfectly good post-coital reverie by informing Diamond there is a monkey aboard. Even after she has given her body, a girl must keep some secrets. You snuggle up to him. Larry, you say dreamily.
Yes?
Tell me about the good ol days. Tell me about the eighties.
He sighs. Ah, hoptoad. So, what did he expect? By now he surely must know you are not the type to inquire of a partner if it was good for him, too? He sighs again.
You sigh, as well. If you wont tell me about the boat I missed, then tell me about one I stand a chance of catching.
Well, theres always the nature boat, the art boat, the sex boat, the intoxication boat. Theyre bobbing at the end of nearly every pier, just waiting to ferry us across our personal doldrums, societal whirlpools, and institutional sewage lagoons. Why, the best of them can even cut the tides of mediocrity.
The sex boat had provided a more rewarding voyage than you ever thought possible, but you are ashore now, you have got your land legs back, and never at any time have you had art or nature or intoxication in mind. You untangle your panties from the gearshift. They prove so difficult to acrobat into that you can scarcely believe how easily they came off. When you have gotten yourself somewhat back together, you look Diamond in the eye. And then you spill your beans. You outline for him your oil futures play.
As you might well imagine, you say when you are done, I cant begin to meet the exchange minimums for buying marginal securities in a lot large enough to be worthwhile. But as you suggested yesterday-was it only yesterday?-there may be a way to journal around it. Theres got to be. Larry? You kiss him on both stubbled cheeks and then on the mouth. Do you suppose you might … ?
Maybe. Perhaps. Let me think about it. Frankly, the prospect strikes me as less unethical than irrelevant. Its about as enticing as a cup of cold coffee and a stale croissant. But Ill lapidate it for a while in the old cerebral gem tumbler. Fair enough? In
return, Uncle Larrys going to insist you do some lapidating of your own. Some lapidating and some laps. As in swimming. Because every one of those boats I mentioned is leaky, to one degree or another, and the boat youre waiting for may have already sunk. So much the better. It could be time to abandon ship and get back in the water. Or at least onto the pad. So, wipe that manipulative, avaricious entreaty off your chops and listen up to a tale or two.
Okay, Uncle Larry. As long as you put it that way.
FOUR FORTY-FIVE P.M.
I noticed, says Diamond, that you were admiring the bloom of my manhood.
I was not!
Even an inadvertent peek would have informed you that Ive been circumcised.
So? Youre Jewish, arent you?
Im precisely as Jewish as you are Welsh. Anyhow, its amusing how we associate circumcision with the Jews. The practice was originated by the Egyptians. Moses, who, of course, was raised in the Egyptian court, commanded the Israelites to circumcise their sons, either because hed become convinced that it was good hygiene or because, since hed had his own wick trimmed, he viewed it as an expression of loyalty to him and solidarity among the rebels. Any way you slice it, benign genital mutilation was a feature of pre-dynastic Egypt-were talking five thousand years ago-and the traditions, rituals, and body of knowledge based on the Sirius star system originated in the same area at about the same time. Today, certain Bozo and Dogon ceremonies that are centered around Sirius also involve rites of circumcision. To these tribes, the act of circumcision symbolizes the orbit of Sirius B around Sirius A.
Pardon me, but isnt this maybe another case of males trying to attach cosmic significance to their peepees?
Heh! It has to do, smarty-pants, with the elliptical path of the knife. Besides, the peepee, as you so ingloriously label it, already has innate cosmic significance, as does your own sweet plumbing, for reasons both ecstatic and procreative. In many, if not most, folk traditions, the peepee and the vagina are associated with frogs. Frogs are associated with mushrooms, mushrooms are associated with genitalia, and all three-frogs, mushrooms, and sex organs-have their indirect connection to the stars. I bring this up merely to demonstrate how intertwined these matters are. Its so complex I hardly know where to begin.
Gee, if its that complicated, if its going to, you know, tax your brain, please dont feel obligated to continue on my account.
Diamond starts to reply, then pauses and cocks his head. Gwendolyn, Im aware that this is a late-model, luxury automobile, but by any chance do you have mice in the trunk?
You fake an incredulous and insulted expression, but your ears detect the rustling, too; and although the Porsches cockpit is already heavily perfumed with the comingling of male and female nectars, not to mention the burnt-sugar aroma of Twisters daddys leaves, your nose is starting to pick up the unmistakable essence of monkey.
FOUR FORTY-EIGHT P.M.
Ill be back in a flash, says Diamond. You worry that he is going around to the rear to investigate your cargo, but through the condensation on the window glass, you make out his ghostly silhouette loping across the street toward the hotel. When he returns a few minutes later, he announces, with some relief, that he has not missed anything, that Dr. Yamaguchi is still upstairs, probably sleeping off lunch. Reiko will yell for me if he shows up. He flicks a drop or two from the chisel of his nose. Im going to miss this rain in parched ol Timbuktu.
Best reason Ive heard yet for going there. Come to think of it, its the only reason Ive heard for going there.
I went there because I thought it was as far as one could go; a value-free, time-free refuge from the shit-storms of commerce and information. However, since the universe is made of information, what I ended up doing, under the impetus of a new data base, was shedding one layer of meaning and exposing another. It was an infinitely deeper, more resonant layer, though, and it revealed my naive travel impulses to have been divinely inspired. Gwendolyn, you seem to be familiar with Sirius.
Isnt everybody? The Dog Star. Brightest star in the sky. Only eight-point-five light-years away.
Six. Eight-point-six.
You shrug. Thats what they say. Looks more like eight-point-five to me.
Diamond studies you. He cannot tell for sure if you are joshing. Youve scoped it?
Why, of course, you say boastfully. Scoped Sirius B, too.
Then you must have had a well-made scope. Sirius B is so relatively tiny and so overwhelmed by the light of Sirius A that its completely invisible to the naked eye and wasnt even discovered by astronomers with telescopes until late in the last century. Youre aware of that, I gather?
Uh, more or less.
But are you aware that people in Africa-ancestors of the Bozo and Dogon-knew Sirius B as long as five thousand years ago? Not only knew of the existence, the exact location, of this star that the naked eye cant see, but knew, also, the exact shape of its orbit around A and how long it takes to complete that orbit? Incidentally, it takes approximately fifty years, and contemporary Bozo still have ceremonies that adhere to fifty-year cycles. Furthermore, B, like all white dwarfs, is extremely heavy and dense. The stuff its made of is so unlike ordinary matter that theres nothing in our solar system to compare it to. The Bozo, whore largely illiterate and never have possessed astronomical instruments of any kind, know that, as well. The knowledge was handed down to them by their ancestors. Needless to say, when I heard about this, it altered the trajectory of my life.
But why? Thats what I dont get. I mean, okay, its kind of interesting, its an intriguing mystery, like how did they build the pyramids and who figured out the connection between the human subconscious and those symbols they put on Q-Jos tarot cards, and which came first, the chicken or the egg-but, hey, what difference does it make? What does it have to do with anything? Our family life, our careers, our health and well-being, our personal finances: none of these things are affected in the slightest. Most of us have to concentrate on the realities of everyday existence, Larry. Maybe you have the luxury to become obsessed with some forgotten supermarket tabloid enigma, but the rest of us dont, and frankly, I think you are the worse for it.
Ah, Gwendolyn, while it may be true that everyday existence is the tirl of dull, repetitive activities that you infer, its just one layer of a many-layered cake; and if it seems an exercise in pointless mediocrity, maybe thats only because most who live it are too narrowly focused to perceive its underlying kaleidoscopic density.
Or too darn busy. Besides, I never said it was pointless or mediocre.
Dont interrupt. Ill concede, however, that theres a dominant consensual reality, and even the broad-minded dont venture too far from it. Yes, Ill concede that. Yet the very fact that certain Africans, thousands of years before the invention of the telescope, could accumulate precise information about an obscure, invisible star, that fact strongly suggests that theres a rip in the fabric of consensual reality, a crack in that rational structure that wed like to believe holds things together. And that crack calls many of our most fundamental beliefs-historical, scientific, and religious-into question. If Sirius B could be familiarized without telescopes, couldnt molecules or atoms be familiarized without microscopes? And if these feats of perception are possible, what then is impossible? The Dogon and Bozo, by the way, have always claimed that Sirius is a three-star system, that theres also a Sirius C. So far, modern astronomy has found no evidence of it.
Well, if its there, theyll find it. And theyll have a logical explanation for it. Ill bet they already have a logical explanation for how the Bozo knew about Sirius B. Now, dont they?
Are you kidding? Conventional scientists wouldnt touch that problem with a ten-foot grant. Of course, not a dime of grant juice would ever be made available for such study. Therere no apparent commercial or military applications, and, anyway, riddles of this sort scare scientists right out of their lab coats. Theyre as cowed by the big-time mysteries of the universe as the guy on the street and are only too happy to sweep them under a rug.
There has to be a logical explanation.
Youre half right. At its macro and micro levels, the universe is no more logical than the stock market. But there is an explanation. The few good minds thatve addressed the issue have arrived at the same conclusion: the ancestors of the Bozo got their detailed knowledge of Sirius, as well as the content of their complex cosmology, from visiting aliens. Yes, hoptoad. Yes, indeed. Theyre talking the ol extraterrestrial contact.
At this moment, as if on cue, AndrE lets loose a barrage of unearthly jabber. You force an extended laugh, pretending that you are ridiculing the suggestion of spacemen in Bozoland, but Diamond is not fooled by your cover-up.
What in pre-shrunk hell was that?
That noise, you mean? Oh, probably a space alien, ha-ha-ha.
Gwendolyn!
Well, how am I supposed to know what it was? Its the streets of Seattle out there. These days youre liable to hear just about anything. Could have been the rich boys up to their tricks.
But of course. The rich boys. Theyve added impressions of early Tarzan movie soundtracks to their fiendish repertoire. He rakes you with his cat-claw smile. It sounded like it was right behind our seats.
Maybe sound carries in the rain. I dont know. AndrE must have polished off all the Popsicles and either has a bellyache or is demanding more. In any case, theres nothing you can do about it now. You just hope Diamond isnt reading your mind. Its stopped, you say, crossing your fingers. So, what were you saying about extraterrestrial contact?
Grumbling like W. C. Fields at a kindergarten picnic, Diamond returns to his narration.
FIVE OH-TWO P.M.
The argument that the early Bozo couldnt possibly have gotten into the cosmic cookie jar without outside help wouldnt hold quite so much water, so to speak, if there werent a record of extraterrestrial contact in the oral history of the tribe.
Seriously? They actually claim they were visited by little green men?
Green, maybe. Little, no. The Nommo were at least as tall as us.