Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

  Suddenly, standing there holding all that cumbersome weight, I felt awful. It was as though it was three o’clock in the morning, and all the anxieties of the day, freed now of the qualifications of the light, had taken me over in the dark. And yet the street showed with the brightest of suns.

  “Listen,” I said quietly, “my name is McIntyre. I am a newspaper man. I was born in Massachusetts. My Social Security number is 15- 100- 369. My dogtag number is 1234567983, and according to the Geneva Convention this is all I have to say. Besides, what have we here, an immoral equivalent for warfare?”

  “Very good, McGoahead,” he said. “Very good, indeed. Watch it, though, you almost slipped that time. But you can’t get out of it so easily. I know you too well, baby. You’re one of those who love humanity real good, like a proper Christian should. You help the poor and the needy and you contribute to the care and feeding of the unknown heathen hordes abroad. You love everybody and anybody until you see their faces, or hear their voices raised in passionate description of the truth of their own condition. But then, baby, your love goes limp. Your sterling ‘integration of personality’ tarnishes and cankers, and then Uncle Sugar grabs the scatological imperative and hides himself like foxes in holes. At the first sound you tell yourself, ‘Oh, oh, they’re suffering so hugely that they must hate me! Why can’t they be more considerate? That’s what you do.

  “One could be suffering all of the anguish of the world, baby—and suffering for you; quietly, sans self-pity, sans self-indulgence and with an admirably heroic silence which, if you merely heard about would move you to tears. You’d be so moved that you’d even add up your bank account immediately, looking for possible charity deductions. And you’d consult the welfare associations and the philanthropic foundations to aid him. You’d become a whirlwind of emotional action. Yes! But just let the silent sufferer show his true face, or speak what is truly on his mind—then my-oh-my, how you’d put him down. Oh, but you would! What right has he to complain? you’d scream. Who the hell does he think he is, you’d say. Why is he crying out for snow when ever so many Americans must suffer the slings and arrows of too much good fortune? Does he think he’s better than anyone else? That he has more claims upon humanity? Let him freeze his instincts as we’ve frozen ours! Let him prepare himself to face his face. Let him discipline himself and forget his extremist behavior on both sides, front and rear, top and bottom, and then, other things being equal, perhaps, in time, when the circumstances are propitious, the frost on the old banana, the lily without dew, he shall be truly as purely driven and snowed as we. But not with all of this against him! History was against him in the beginning and so was Jehovah—look at his birthrate, his crimerate, his heartrate, his deathrate, raperate, sweatrate, B.O.- rate, his you-name-it-and-I-reject-it-rate….”

  I shook my head, filled with a heavy sadness. So much bitterness.

  “Oh, don’t give me that, baby! Don’t try to pretend it isn’t so. Oh, yes and quite right, you’re a man of high principles. Your ideals soar up to the stars, and you hear the tragic music of the spheres with a wan smile as you go forth each day to do your duty in the public press. And what a duty you do!

  “Oh, I know you, baby. I remember two years ago when they found that head floating in a jar of alcohol sitting in the middle of the road out there. The sheriff brought it and sat it alongside of me, and the photographers took pictures and the sightseers came and gawked. Imagine, they propped it beside me! I wanted to die right then and there. Cast out my sight, take a vow of silence. But when I read how you reported it, baby, I wanted to …”

  Oh, no! I thought, moving again. Oh, no! Could this be true? Had I written about such an incident? How could I be sure, with all the news that flowed over my desk during any given day?…

  “You told the world that a lab specimen had been placed there in the street by medical students who were playing a joke! Well, you knew better and I certainly knew better. Because there isn’t a medical college within three hundred miles. Not even a clinic. And what’s more, everyone in town knew whose head it was. Yes, and I knew that beautiful boy because he had struck me with a ripe tomato only a few days before. Everyone knew him because he was so free and full of lovely fire. He made everyone nervous with his joyful laughter. So he paid, you might say, for his freedom with his head. Which is rare enough these days, for his head to merit being placed in a museum along with Bishop Berkley’s and Injun Jody’s. The problem, though, is that we’ve failed to put such acts behind us.

  “But did you tell the truth, McGowan? Did anyone tell the truth? Don’t sputter, McGowan—because I might just ask if you were intimidated the first time you saw your father in the bath, lying there like a raw, becalmed whale, soapsuds glistening him over, and his nasty mast flying an amorphous flag of foam….”

  “What the hell are you saying?” I yelled, “You … you—”

  And suddenly he lay on the porch staring up at me like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  “McIntyre!” It was McGowan calling from a distance. “Help me, McIntyre! Help me get him off my back!”

  I didn’t look around. “To hell with you,” I called. “And damn both of you and the jokers who produced you!”

  And yet, still feeling a compulsion to complete the job, I bent once again and struggled with the heavy, unhandy weight of McGowan’s burden.

  This time the jeering began immediately.

  “Easy there, baby, ahm most sore and weary, I’se most worn with care. Did it ever occur to you, McGowan, that I might be fatigued and sorely driven? Pained in body, perplexed of mind?”

  I eased him along, thinking, A sad case of metal fatigue.

  “None of that!” he said.”If I were you, baby, I wouldn’t try to make jokes. You haven’t the temperament, nor the necessary psychic distance. Your experience has been too protected, insulated, and bland. You don’t associate the disassociated quickly enough. So, of course you have no idea of my troubles, so why should I waste my time asking? Well, I suffer nevertheless. In fact, I’m in worse shape than that cartoon of the poor heavy-laden cow that has stepped on her own teat, the one which so amused you and your vulgar friends. Yes, indeed, baby. I tell you no lies, I suffer immeasurably and unceasingly. And do you know why? I’ll be pleased to inform you, baby; I carry the weight of society on my shoulders. You just think about that, baby; and you’ll see that it’s true. It’s not you, not the President, not the political gang, and not the preachers, but yours truly. I carry the stinking weight.

  “And do you know why? It’s because there are certain little necessities which must be taken care of, certain small costs of civilization—and I am nothing if not civilized! So someone has to pay the fee, there are many fees, baby, and I have picked up the tab for far too long. I’ve suffered long and patiently, but now I’ve become tired of trying to teach you by example to be honorable and manly. I have now lost faith in my appointed role, so that you must understand that the check—my check—is long overdue and the balance is upset and the hockey’s piled high as an elephant’s eye….”

  I inched along, thinking: It’s no more than a buzzing in the head, an aural hallucination. Remember the mask of coconut husks that frightened you when you were a boy with its nighttime judgments on your daytime conduct? It must be something of that order—but what could have shaken you up, McIntyre?

  “I’m speaking to you, baby!” the groom yelled, sending a blast of hot air past my ear. “I said! What would you do if your daughter brought home a chocolate—no, a gingerbread—boy? Throw him in the oven? Answer immediately!”

  I tensed, lowering him to look into the face with the mocking grin.

  “My question frightens you, baby? Or is it the answer which is bounding around in your head this very instant? Be so kind as to reply, and don’t leap to conclusions—I might not like it.”

  I strained along once more, suddenly taken with an idea I dared not utter: Since he thinks I’m McGowan, I’d have loved for him to marry “my” daughter,
because it would surely get him silenced. Melted down, rolled into ingots, made into the small screws and bolts of some vast anonymous machine….

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, baby; I’m already part of the machine and a more important part than you recognize. Now what about the gingerbread boy? You don’t intend to answer? Well, what am I to expect, when there has been such a general decay of manners in this country? Haven’t you noticed the smell? So forget it, your answer wouldn’t matter because nothing would be changed. I refer, of course, to the gingerbread boy, who is, after all, substantially cake. A true cookie, McGowan; thus it’s all a matter of taste. So why not sweets to the sweet? Let your daughter take her choice, vanilla or chocolate. Be at least as liberal as the good Marie, the maiden who lost her head. And so allow me, then, another approach. Agreed?”

  He stared into my eyes, waiting. I didn’t answer.

  “Answer me this: Is it preferable for a queen to marry her brother as against surrendering herself to the butcher boy? Surely you can answer that one, McGoback; aren’t you constantly referring to your English background? Of course. Purity is all, after all, isn’t it? So keep the good stuff in the family. Isn’t that it? Well enough, but remember this, baby, even chastity belts were made of iron. As too are prison bars, barriers, bridges, chains, cannon, and cannonballs….”

  Suddenly I realized that I was no longer on the porch but was inching him along a walk leading to the porch. It was odd, and in my surprise I relaxed my grip.

  “No, none of that!” he cried. “And don’t go getting peevish. I remind you of these matters simply because you’d like to view me as no more than a natural resource. Isn’t that true? Isn’t such a view consoling? Convenient? Oh, you needn’t speak, baby; I’ll take a simple nod of the head to mean ‘Amen’ as the darktown strutters say on Wednesday nights. Yes, but it might be even more convenient to consider me as Mister Andy Jackson’s ace in the hole…. A novel idea, that, don’t you think? Well, he put me down like an old pawtater: Planted me deep but now is later. Now Ii yam a coymantater.”

  I struggled silently along, sweat pouring down my face, my biceps aching.

  “Giving me the silent treatment, eh? Very well, be stiff-necked if you like. I must confess that I find some truth in your view. For I am quite resourceful. You’ve hit upon a basic truth, only you miss the fact that there are gradations and hierarchies and contradictions in these matters. Nor must one forget to consider process. Oh, yes, baby, process is ever so important. It isn’t always where you start or where you arrive, but how you get there, and all too often the process of arriving is more satisfactory than the arrival itself. Here you have the arousal, the tension, the friction, and satisfaction of most expectations. You take it easy, baby—that’s good policy in many things—but take it! And that too is process.

  “Oh, yes, process is ever so important, baby. It makes for change. In truth, it’s the swing and flow of change. And I should know, because I’ve been through many changes. I’ve undergone, in other words, many, many metamorphoses….”

  What is this thing called? I thought, making slow progress, moving an inch at a time. What is his name, and who put the curse of speech on him or the plague of voices upon me?

  “It’s true, baby. Don’t you recall the time long ago when I was the boy serving on your mother’s boat? You should; you envied me my cozy position so much, you were almost wild—and especially when you guessed my importance. It was a tea party when she made you go Minsky. You were quite young, but afterwards you guessed quite correctly. Jack was in the pulpit and I was in the boat. In fact, I was the captain of that fine craft. I had no credentials, of course; but even so, you couldn’t understand why you couldn’t have the job. Imagine, and you a mere babe! With no powers of control! Not to mention the social, the technical, or climatic considerations which you couldn’t possibly have mastered. Nor the danger. For although you wouldn’t believe it, baby, it was a highly dangerous pre—I mean work, occupation—with working conditions that were far from the best. Ask Joe Curran! Ask Captain Bradley—not that I would have cared for a union shop! But consult Sugarhips, the seaman. Or Johnny Velasco. They both knew, they trod the deck!

  “What’s more, little recognition went with the job. Not even a uniform. In fact, I worked in the damp, exposed to the elements during all those stormy voyages and without shoes or overcoat. And let’s not mention the heat and all the roar. No, nor the stench when her bilge was stirred up! I manned the pump! I swabbed the deck! I was the lookout in times of storm!

  “Yes, baby; but these were minor problems beside the aggravation your father caused us. Understand me? Try, it isn’t too difficult. Besides it’s time you faced up frankly to the ABC’s of it. And, oh, what a butchery blunderer he was! Coming in drunk, staggering limber-legged and cockeyed all over the place. Boasting like a clown. And then collapsing at the very moment when he should have had his best sea legs. It was just as well that you weren’t ever allowed along, baby. You would have died of shame. And what a bad example he set you. There were the times, too, when the moon was full and he’d get frantic and come barging in wearing rough-weather gear and sou’wester, playing Captains Bly and Ahab rolled up in a single slicker. The crud! And then instead of navigating as a proper captain should, he’d brush me out of the way—I’d have to run for my very life, I tell you. Oh, yes, and after knocking me out of the way he’d try to push a hole straight through her bottom! What he did to that poor dear craft! And such lousy craftsmanship! And him having the nerve to boast of being the captain of his fate!

  “I tell you, your mother was ofttimes disgusted with his conduct. Often disgusted! And what would you have done, baby, on those occasions when, after he’d molested some poor woman in the town and been frustrated for his pains, he’d come plunging in trying to make his getaway with those two irate, uncouth, redheaded, evil-tempered Irish bulls on his drunken heels? With him screaming ‘police brutality’ and those red-faced clowns sweating and puffing as they chased him up and down and below decks and all? Funk out? Scream for outside help? Choke up? You’d have yelled for old black Joe playing his banjo in the basement! Yes, you would’ve, baby, and ole Joe would’ve.

  “You would have simply flipped over the side. You’d never have thought to call on me, and I was right there, trying to keep neutral in such a family ruckus. Well, I knew how to turn the brute around. Yes, indeed. And not with soft answers or turning the cheeks, but with the utmost firmness. Eye to eye! Chin to chin! He’d knock on the door but he wouldn’t get in. Not even on deck. Oh, don’t be misled by my size, baby; it’s character that counts. Besides, I’ve always been quite manly—as your mother well knew. Shall I show you my muscle? No? Perhaps later, when you’ve been properly instructed…. Besides, I’m all muscle.

  “So, as I say, I kept him from becoming a complete beast—ha-haaa! And what an ugly animal he was! You knew it too. No conscience what-so-ever! And did he ever thank me for keeping the family together? Did it make him more considerate, more human? Do fruit flies practice continence? And such complaining to your poor mother to get rid of me, to de-captain me! And him going to Dr. Reich and all that nursery mumbo jumbo of sitting in a canless can to change his luck! Imagine! I tell you, baby, I had a rough time of it. Yes, and with you wanting to kill me from sheer ignorant envy.

  “Fortunately, though, your mother wouldn’t hear of it. And why should she, since I did, after all, serve an admirable purpose? And I must admit that I served her rather well whenever it was my opportunity and pleasure to do so. In truth, and if it wasn’t a bit immodest, I might say, entre nous, that during all those trying years it was I who kept the family intact. Nor should you misunderstand me, baby; for in spite of all the unpleasantness involved in leaving the old man behind, we had some most delightful sails together. We most certainly did. Just your mother and I. With me in my proper place, of course, in the little Amour Propre as she called the little craft, and delightful times were had by all.

  “It was up the la
zy river in the moonlight while your old man lay drunk and sleeping on the shore. And in the summer when the heat was gone and the gentle breeze came with the cool of the night on the lake, and with your old boy boozing in his cups—that was the very best time of all. I’d be in command then, like the boy who stood on the burning deck from whence all else had fled—Hot peanuts! Hot peanuts!—braced against her gunnels, and she relaxed and powdered from her bath, resting in the stern and trailing her gentle fingers in, shall we say, the limpid lapping of the lake? For with me she could man the craft alone. No messy roll calls. No fruitless inspections. No blanging bells, no pip-squeak bos’un’s pipe, only me, baby, rowing her merrily on and on; through the singing shadows beneath the slender trees, and so gently down the stream that she would swoon!

  “It was really a delightful duty, mon enfant. And such delightful sighing sounds she made as bye and bye we reached that farther shore. You know? It was always the same; the row, the sail, the sighing sound, and then such sweet exhaustion!

  “And here’s something else you didn’t know, baby: She called me her ‘little man,’ and I was proud. And sometimes her ‘darling darky darling.’ And again her ‘handsome African commodòro’ and ‘Otello mio’—how do you like the swing of that? And in especially pensive moods it was in quick succession ‘Oh, my jigging Joy Boy, Master of my Solitude, Dark Secret Delight, Gypsy Lover, Cellmate, Joy Rocker, and Dirty Richard.’ And once in a moment of classical exuberance she called me her Jockey Boy of Artemesion!