The Water-Method Man

  NARRATOR (Bogus voice-over): The president is forty-three, once-divorced, now remarried, B.S., M.S., Ph.D. in botany, Yale. He has four children of his own. He is chairman of the State Democratic Committee ...

  (The president follows a group of students into a building; the students walk on in, but the president stops to wipe his feet)

  NARRATOR (V.O.): He is opposed to having the police on campus; although he believes firmly in private property and has repeatedly asked the Free Farmers to leave, he will not call in the police ...

  (Medium close-up; sync sound; interior, day; president's office. The president speaks directly into camera)

  PRESIDENT: Why call in the police? The real farmers around here will take care of it ...

  The bulk of the new footage has to do with the leader of the Free Farm, a character named Morris. One night a lot of real farmers come to the Free Farm and maul Morris. The police interview the nameless girlfriend of Morris, a witness to the mauling.

  (Medium shot; sync sound; interior, night; police station. Morris's girl wears farm overalls over a great soft pair of breasts in an old T-shirt that we've previously seen Morris wearing. The girl is talking to a police sergeant in the station, and a police secretary is taking notes)

  GIRL: ... then I couldn't tell what they were doing to Morris, 'cause one of them knocked me down - you know, talking dirty to me. And one of them reached under me - I was lying on my stomach - and he pinched me in the tit. (She lifts her breast to display the part pinched.) It's clear it's what they really want from us, of course. Just fucking! That's really all. They pretend they hate us, but they really want our asses, man. Oh sure, they hit me, knocked me down and all, but what they were really after was a cheap feel. You know, their wives with bras and girdles on all the time, and their hair in curlers - it's natural for them to go around wanting it all the time. But they just feel so threatened by us - at least they responded that way to Morris ...

  POLICE SERGEANT: Exactly how did they respond to Morris?

  GIRL: They just beat the shit out of him, man.

  POLICE SERGEANT: Did Morris provoke them?

  GIRL: Morris? You've got to be kidding! Morris asked them to turn on with him! Morris just doesn't know how to fucking provoke anybody ...

  There follows a lot of dismal footage of the mauled, hospitalized Morris in traction. Finally, the rest of the Free Farmers have to get police protection because the real farmers raid them again and shotgun all the tomato plants. 'Police protection' entails the police removing all the Free Farmers from the Free Farm.

  When Morris is released from the hospital, he goes around the village conducting a kind of autopsy on the deserted Free Farm. He asks all the town farmers whether they really would have shot anybody, or whether in time they might have grown to tolerate the Free Farm. This is all pointless, since there is no more Free Farm, but apparently it is important for Morris to get the answers.

  (Medium shot - fade in, from dissolve; no sync sound, music over; exterior, day; village firehouse. Morris, on crutches, is with his girl. They are talking with the fire chief, but there is no sync sound. The music is Neil Young's 'After the Goldrush'. Although Morris is doing all the talking, the fire chief keeps looking at Morris's girl. Medium shot; no sync sound, music over; exterior, day; farmer's house. Morris and the girl are talking with one of the real farmers, possibly involved in the mauling. The girl holds up her breast, probably referring to the pinch. Morris is friendly; the farmer is cautious. Medium shot; no sync sound, music over; exterior, day; general store. Morris and his girl sit on the steps of the general store. They are drinking Pepsi; Morris talks enthusiastically, but the girl seems fed up with him. Another angle - to include the kids' psychedelic Volkswagen panel truck; sync sound, music fades. Morris and his girl, about to depart. They are getting into the truck. Morris talks directly into camera; his girl holds his crutches for him)

  MORRIS: They wouldn't have shot us. Maybe they would've beaten us up again, but they absolutely would not have shot us. I feel we're much closer to them now; there's some communication happening. (He turns to his girl) You can just feel it, can't you?

  GIRL: They would have blown your goddamn head off, Morris ...

  The plan of the film is to close with the college president's comment.

  (Medium shot, moving; sync sound; exterior, day; Parents' Day picnic. Through a formal picnic spread, past many neatly attired parents, all smiling, nodding hello, the president moves like a Pope bestowing blessings. He is eating fried chicken, and manages to do so in an unmessy way. The camera moves closer to him, coming in over his shoulder. He suddenly turns and faces camera. At first he is startled; then he turns on the charm, speaking seriously, as if renewing an old, tireless subject)

  PRESIDENT: Do you know what really encourages me, even with such things going on all around us? Well, I'll tell you something about these kids ... and it's very encouraging, really. They live and learn, that's what they do. They really do ... and that's what encourages me. They just live and learn, like all kids, anywhere, anytime ...

  Then Kent came in with the beer and cheese. He'd been cameraman for a lot of the new footage and was eager to see how he'd done.

  'Did you show it already?' he asked.

  'It stinks,' Ralph said. 'The whole thing. It's just awful.'

  'It isn't very good,' Trumper agreed.

  Kent unwrapped the cheese as if it were his failing heart. The camera was bad, huh?' he said.

  'The whole thing is terrible,' said Ralph.

  They sat there, wondering what went wrong.

  'It was the fucking camera, wasn't it?' said Kent.

  'It's the entire concept,' Ralph said.

  'The people are awful,' Trumper said. 'They're so obvious.'

  'They're simple,' said Ralph. 'There's nothing complex about the people.'

  'How about the girl with her tit-thing, though?' said Kent. 'That was great, wasn't it?'

  'It's the politics and the cuteness and the rotten humor that will make it awful in every way,' Ralph said. 'At least that's part of it.'

  'Can I see the footage, please?' Kent said. 'At least I should see the damn stuff.'

  'You won't even like your camera work, Kent,' Ralph said.

  'You didn't like it, Ralph?'

  'I didn't like anything,' Ralph said.

  'How's the editing?' Kent asked.

  'Not fair talking about editing when Tulpen isn't here,' Trumper said.

  'It hadn't really been edited yet, anyway, Kent,' Ralph said.

  'Yeah, Jesus, Kent,' Trumper said.

  'OK, Thump-Thump,' Kent said. 'How's the sound?'

  'Adequate,' said Ralph. 'Thump-Thump gets better and better, technically speaking.'

  'Right,' said Trumper. 'It's my imagination that goes nowhere.'

  'Right,' said Ralph.

  'Look,' Kent said. 'Can I please just see the fucking footage for myself?'

  So they left him rewinding reels in the studio and walked out onto Christopher Street, headed for coffee at the New Deal.

  'All I want to do in a film is describe something worthwhile,' Ralph said. 'I hate conclusions.'

  'I don't believe in endings,' Trumper said.

  'Right, right,' said Ralph. 'Just good description. But it has to be personal description. Everything else is journalism.'

  'If the New Deal is closed,' Trumper said, 'I will absolutely shit.'

  But it was open; they sat with two mugs of black espresso with lemon peel and rum.

  'Let's scrap the film, Thump-Thump,' Ralph said. 'It's the same old thing. Everything I've done is extroverted, and I need to make an introverted film.'

  'Well, it's up to you, Ralph,' Trumper said.

  'You're a bundle of opinions, Thump-Thump. That's what's so exciting about you.'

  'It's your movie.'

  'But suppose you did the next one, Thump-Thump. What would it be?'

  'I have no plans,' Thumper said, observing the lemon peel in his coffee.
/>
  'But what do you feel, Thump?' Ralph asked him.

  Trumper cupped his coffee mug with his hands. 'Heat,' he said. 'At the moment, I feel heat.'

  What do I feel? he asked himself later, groping through Tulpen's dark apartment, encountering her clothes with his bare feet.

  A bra, I feel a bra under my left foot there. And pain? Yes, pain; my right shin goes ker-crack against the bedroom chair: that's pain.

  'Trumper?' from Tulpen, turning over in bed. He crawled in beside her, reached out for her, held on.

  'A breast,' he said aloud. I feel a breast.

  'Correct,' Tulpen told him, wrapping herself around him now. 'What else do you know?' she whispered. Pain? Well, yes, her teeth nipping his belly; her kiss rough enough to turn his navel inside out. 'I missed you,' he told her. They usually left work together.

  But she didn't answer him; her mouth shut on his sleepy life; her teeth worried him, and her thighs suddenly seized his head so tight that in his temples he felt his pulse pick up. His tongue touched her, and in her mouth he reached for her brain.

  Then they lay lapped by the cold neon lights from the aquariums. Odd fish darted past them; slow turtles surfaced, keeled over and sank sideways. Trumper lay trying to imagine other ways to live.

  He saw a tiny, translucent, turquoise eel, its inner organs visible and somehow functioning. One organ looked like a little plumber's helper; it plunged down, sucked up, and the eel's mouth opened to belch a tiny bubble. As the bubble rose to the surface, other fish investigated it, nudged it, sometimes broke it. A form of speech? Trumper wondered. Was a bubble a word or a whole sentence? Perhaps a paragraph! A tiny, translucent, turquoise poet reading beautifully to his world! Trumper was about to ask Tulpen about this odd eel, but she spoke first.

  'Biggie called you tonight,' she said.

  Trumper wished he could send up a perfectly lovely bubble. 'What did she want?' he asked, envying the eel's easy communication.

  'To speak to you.'

  'She didn't leave a message? There's nothing wrong with Colm, is there?'

  'She said they were going off for the weekend,' Tulpen told him. 'So if you called and no one was there, not to worry.'

  'Well, that's what she called for, then,' Trumper said. 'She didn't say anything was wrong with Colm.'

  'She said you usually called on the weekend,' Tulpen said. 'I didn't know that.'

  'Well, I call from the studio,' Trumper said. 'Just to talk to Colm. I thought you'd just as soon not hear ...'

  'You miss Colm, Trumper?'

  'Yes.'

  'But not her?'

  'Biggie?'

  'Yes.'

  'No,' Trumper said. 'I don't miss Biggie.'

  Silence. He scanned the aquarium for the verbose eel, but couldn't find him. Change the topic of the bubbles, he thought. Quick.

  'Ralph wants to scrap the film,' he said, but she was staring at him. 'You know, Down on the Farm?' he said. 'The new footage was awful. The whole idea is so simpleminded ...'

  Tulpen said, 'I know.'

  'He talked to you already?' Trumper asked.

  'He wants to do a personal film,' she said. 'Right?'

  'Right,' he said; he touched her breast, but she moved away, turned her back on him, tucked into a ball.

  'Something complex,' Tulpen said. 'Introverted and non-political. Something more private right?'

  'Right,' Trumper said, worried. 'I guess he told you more about it than he told me.'

  'He wants to make a film about you,' Tulpen said.

  'Me?' he said. 'What about me?'

  'Something personal,' she mumbled into the pillow.

  'What?' Trumper cried. He sat up and roughly rolled her over into his lap.

  'About how your marriage busted up,' Tulpen said. 'You know, good description? And about how we're getting along ... now,' she said. 'And interviews with Biggie, how's she living with it, you know? And interviews with me,' Tulpen said. 'About what I think ...'

  'Well, what do you think?' he shouted; he was furious.

  'I think it sounds like a good idea.'

  'For whom?' he said nastily. 'For me? Like some kind of therapy? Like going to a fucking shrink?'

  'That might not be a bad idea, either,' she said; she sat up beside him and touched his thigh. 'We've got enough money for it, Trumper ...'

  'Christ!'

  'Trumper!' she said. 'If you really don't miss her, what's going to hurt about it?'

  'It's got nothing to do with hurting,' he said. 'I've got a new life now. Why go back?'

  'What sort of new life?' she asked. 'Are you happy, Trumper? Are you going anywhere? Or are you happy where you are?'

  'I've got you.'

  'Do you love me?' she asked. And he thought of the turquoise eel's bubble for that! - a terrible whirlpool rising, the other fish getting out of its way.

  'There's no one else I'd rather be with,' he said.

  'But you miss Colm. You miss your son.'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, you can have another one, you know,' she said angrily. 'Do you want a baby, Trumper? I mean, I could produce one, you know ...'

  He looked at her, shocked. 'You want a baby?'

  'Do you?' she yelled at him. 'I can give you that, Trumper, but you've got to really want one. You've got to let me know what you want of me, Trumper. You can't just live here if I don't even know you!'

  'I didn't know you wanted a baby.'

  'That's not exactly what I said, Trumper.'

  'I mean,' he said, 'you seemed sort of aloof, kind of independent - like you didn't want me too close.'

  'Which is how you want it, isn't it?'

  'Well, no, it's nothing to do with how I want you to be.'

  'But how do you want me?' Tulpen said.

  'Well ...' he said, fumbling, a bubble too heavy to rise. 'Well, just like you want to be, Tulpen.'

  But she turned away from him. 'You want things cool, right?' she said. 'Sort of detached, not committed, free ...'

  'Goddamn!' he said. 'Do you really want a baby?'

  'You first,' she said. 'I'm not putting out something for nothing. I could put out, Trumper. I can get involved,' she said, looking up at him. 'But can you?'

  Trumper got up and walked around the aquariums, looking through the tanks at her. A fish darted down her cleavage, algae moved in her lap.

  'You're not doing anything,' Tulpen said to him. 'You've got no direction, there's not a plan in your life. There's no plot to it, even.'

  'Well, I'd make a bad movie then, wouldn't I?' he said. He was looking for the turquoise eel and couldn't find him.

  'Trumper, I'm not at all interested in what kind of movie you'd make. I don't care about the damn movie, Trumper.' Looking at him staring at her through a fish tank, she snatched the sheet around herself angrily. 'Stop looking at my crotch when I'm trying to talk to you!' she screamed.

  He bobbed up above the tank, peering down at her. He was genuinely surprised: he'd just been looking for the eel. 'I wasn't looking at your crotch,' he said, and she fell back on the bed as if she were finally exhausted from sitting up.

  'You haven't wanted to go away for a weekend,' she said. 'People just don't live in New York without at least wanting to go somewhere.'

  'You know that little see-through eel?' he said, poking around in one of the tanks. 'The turquoise one, the very small one?' She popped up from under the sheet and stared at him. 'Well, I can't find him,' he said to her. 'I think he was talking ... I wanted to show you ...' But her stare cut him off. 'He talked in bubbles,' Trumper told her.

  Tulpen just shook her head. 'Jesus,' she whispered. He went over to the bed and sat down beside her. 'You know what Ralph says about you, Trumper?' she asked him.

  'No,' he said, angry. 'Tell me what fucking old Ralph says.'

  'He says you don't come across, Trumper.'

  'Come across?'

  'No one knows you, Trumper! You don't convey anything. You don't do much, either. Things just sort of hap
pen to you, and they don't even add up to anything. You don't make anything of what happens to you. Ralph says you must be very complicated, Trumper. He thinks you must have a mysterious core under the surface.'

  Trumper stared into the fish tank. Where is the talking eel?

  'And what do you think, Tulpen?' he asked her. 'What do you think's under the surface?'

  'Another surface,' she said, and he stared at her. 'Or maybe just that one surface,' she said, 'with nothing under it.' He was angry, then, but he stood up lightly and shook his head and laughed. She kept watching him, though.

  'Well, you know what I think?' he said, and he peered into the tank, wondering what he really did think. 'I think,' he said, 'that the tiny turquoise eel is gone.' He grinned at Tulpen, then, but she was not amused and turned away.

  'Then that's the second one I've lost,' she said coldly.

  'Lost?' he said.

  'Well, I put the first one in another tank and he disappeared.'

  'Disappeared?' Trumper said; he looked around at the other tanks.

  'Well, something ate him, obviously,' Tulpen said. 'So I put the second one in a different tank so he wouldn't be eaten by whatever ate the first one. And, obviously, something else ate this one.'

  Trumper put his hand in the tank, groping all around. 'So they ate him!' he shouted. He looked and looked, but there wasn't a shred of turquoise, not even a dollop of the strange plumber's helper which had inspired the little eel's poetry. Trumper slapped his hand on the water surface; the other fish bolted, fled in terror, collided with each other and glanced off the glass walls. 'You bastards!' Trumper screamed. 'Which one of you did it?' He stared fiercely at them - the lean yellow one with a blue fin, the evil-red round one. He stabbed into the tank with a pencil.

  'Stop it!' Tulpen yelled at him. But he stabbed and stabbed, trying to lance one of them against the glass. They had killed the poet! The eel had been pleading with them - bubbles for mercy! And they had eaten him, the fuckers.

  Tulpen grabbed Trumper around his middle and pulled him over on the bed. He thrashed out at her and snatched the alarm clock off the night table, flinging it at the murderous fish tank. The aquarium was thick-walled; it cracked and began to leak, but it didn't shatter. As the water ran out, the smaller fish were pulled up against the crack by the current.