Going For a Beer

  What happens next, however, could not have been anticipated. The Cartoon Man swoops down, snatches up the Stick Man and Stick Woman, and flies them back to their stick world. They are shot at as they lift away, but without consequence; tragedies only happen in the human world and they are soon out of it. How did you know we were in trouble? I saw it on television. In the cartoon world? We get the same programs. The Stick Man feels like weeping when he sees the stick world again, though he never wept before; something the humans taught him. Many things will be different now. Expressing his gratitude, he remarks that the Cartoon Man has served as a kind of miraculous deus ex machina. I’m not a fucking deus of any kind, man, replies the Cartoon Man. I’m just a superhero. It’s what I do. It gives me a surge. They invite the Cartoon Man to stay for supper in the stick world, but the Cartoon Man declines, saying the place makes him itchy. I need a place I can sink my teeth into, as you might say. Let me know, though, the next time you’re back in the neighborhood. Not soon, says the Stick Woman, having locked her double-elbowed arm around the Stick Man.

  When the Cartoon Man has gone and the Stick Man and Stick Woman are embracing once more, tab to slot, in the old stick world way, the Stick Man sighs and says: A little while ago I decided to imagine the Garden of Paradise. Just to feel like I was home again. And I did, but it was darker than I remembered, and I saw that dangers lurked there, and I was afraid. In the past I have, whenever I wished, imagined fear, but now it’s inside me without my imagining it and I know it will never go away. It is the darkness of the human world, says the Stick Woman. We have brought it back with us like a kind of shadow. We never had shadows before. Yes, but I don’t think that’s what I’m afraid of. I’ve always known the human world was a sad place where lives are short and meaningless and mostly wasted, and where the fear of death drives humans either to madness or despair unless they find some means of distracting themselves, which, if it’s not lethal, is a kind of benign madness. That’s what they call the human comedy. In fact, it’s their gentle crazed distractions that I have mostly taken pleasure in expressing here in the stick world, and it has often made it beautiful. The humans really only asked me to do what I’ve been doing all along, though they made me take up many aspects of their lives I had never imagined before. Some of them left me very sore at heart. And the trouble is, now that I have lived in their world, truly lived there, I don’t really like it any more. And if I don’t like it, how can I find pleasure in imagining it? The darkness I saw in the Garden of Paradise was an omen of an absolute darkness setting in. And when it does, then what? That’s what I’m afraid of. The Stick Woman grips his hip bar tenderly, her round head on his shoulder bar. We need another world, she says. Yes. But there is no other.

  GOING FOR A BEER

  (2011)

  He finds himself sitting in the neighborhood bar drinking a beer at about the same time that he began to think about going there for one. In fact, he has finished it. Perhaps he’ll have a second one, he thinks, as he downs it and asks for a third. There is a young woman sitting not far from him who is not exactly good-looking, but good-looking enough, and probably good in bed, as indeed she is. Did he finish his beer? Can’t remember. What really matters is: Did he enjoy his orgasm? Or even have one? This he is wondering on his way home through the foggy night streets from the young woman’s apartment. Which was full of Kewpie dolls, the sort won at carnivals, and they made a date, as he recalls, to go to one. Where she wins another—she has a knack for it. Whereupon, they’re in her apartment again, taking their clothes off, she excitedly cuddling her new doll in a bed heaped with them. He can’t remember when he last slept, and he’s no longer sure, as he staggers through the night streets, still foggy, where his own apartment is, his orgasm, if he had one, already fading from memory. Maybe he should take her back to the carnival, he thinks, where she wins another Kewpie doll (this is at least their second date, maybe their fourth), and this time they go for a romantic nightcap at the bar where they first met. Where a brawny dude starts hassling her. He intervenes and she turns up at his hospital bed, bringing him one of her Kewpie dolls to keep him company. Which is her way of expressing the bond between them, or so he supposes, as he leaves the hospital on crutches, uncertain what part of town he is in. Or what part of the year. He decides that it’s time to call the affair off—she’s driving him crazy—but then the brawny dude turns up at their wedding and apologizes for the pounding he gave him. He didn’t realize, he says, how serious they were. The guy’s wedding present is a gift certificate for two free drinks at the bar where they met and a pair of white satin ribbons for his crutches. During the ceremony, they both carry Kewpie dolls that probably have some barely hidden significance, and indeed do. The child she bears him, his or another’s, reminds him, as if he needed reminding, that time is fast moving on. He has responsibilities now and he decides to check whether he still has the job that he had when he first met her. He does. His absence, if he has been absent, is not remarked on, but he is not congratulated on his marriage, either, no doubt because—it comes back to him now—before he met his wife he was engaged to one of his colleagues and their coworkers had already thrown them an engagement party, so they must resent the money they spent on gifts. It’s embarrassing and the atmosphere is somewhat hostile, but he has a child in kindergarten and another on the way, so what can he do? Well, he still hasn’t cashed in the gift certificate, so, for one thing, what the hell, he can go for a beer, two, in fact, and he can afford a third. There’s a young woman sitting near him who looks like she’s probably good in bed, but she’s not his wife and he has no desire to commit adultery, or so he tells himself, as he sits on the edge of her bed with his pants around his ankles. Is he taking them off or putting them on? He’s not sure, but now he pulls them on and limps home, having left his beribboned crutches somewhere. On arrival, he finds all the Kewpie dolls, which were put on a shelf when the babies started coming, now scattered about the apartment, beheaded and with their limbs amputated. One of the babies is crying, so, while he warms up a bottle of milk on the stove, he goes into its room to give it a pacifier and discovers a note from his wife pinned to its pajamas, which says that she has gone off to the hospital to have another baby and she’d better not find him here when she gets back, because if she does she’ll kill him. He believes her, so he’s soon out on the streets again, wondering if he ever gave that bottle to the baby, or if it’s still boiling away on the stove. He passes the old neighborhood bar and is tempted but decides that he has had enough trouble for one lifetime and is about to walk on when he is stopped by that hulk who beat him up and who now gives him a cigar because he’s just become a father and drags him into the bar for a celebratory drink, or, rather, several, he has lost count. The celebrations are already over, however, and the new father, who has married the same woman who threw him out, is crying in his beer about the miseries of married life and congratulating him on being well out of it, a lucky man. But he doesn’t feel lucky, especially when he sees a young woman sitting near them who looks like she’s probably good in bed and decides to suggest that they go to her place, but too late—she’s already out the door with the guy who beat him up and stole his wife. So he has another beer, wondering where he’s supposed to live now, and realizing—it’s the bartender who so remarks while offering him another on the house—that life is short and brutal and before he knows it he’ll be dead. He’s right. After a few more beers and orgasms, some vaguely remembered, most not, one of his sons, now a racecar driver and the president of the company he used to work for, comes to visit him on his deathbed and, apologizing for arriving so late (I went for a beer, Dad, things happened), says he’s going to miss him but it’s probably for the best. For the best what? he asks, but his son is gone, if he was ever there in the first place. Well . . . you know . . . life, he says to the nurse who has come to pull the sheet over his face and wheel him away.

  THE GOLDILOCKS VARIATIONS

  (2013)

  Aria
>
  Genters the unoccupied cottage. Porridge, chairs, beds. Too hot, too cold, too high, too wide, too hard, too soft. Just right. G eats, breaks, crawls in. The owners return. An intruder!

  G, wildflower picker, enters the snug little cottage in the woods, knowing or not knowing whose it is, the owners absent as if by arrangement. Three pots of porridge, three chairs, three beds. Too hot, too cold, too high, too wide, too hard, too soft. Just right. The rule of three. G eats, breaks, crawls in. The owners return. There has been an intruder!

  G, restless by nature, is picking wildflowers and chasing butterflies in the woods when, in a particularly lonely spot, she comes upon a snug little cottage. She may or may not know whose it is (there are stories). She peeps through the keyhole. The owners seem conveniently to be away, so she enters. There are three pots of porridge on the table, set out to cool. She tastes them: too hot, too cold, just right (she eats it up). There are three chairs. She sits on them: too high, too wide, just right (she breaks it). She is sleepy. Upstairs, there are three beds. She tries them: too hard, too soft, just right (she crawls in). The owners return. There has been an intruder! They have expected this.

  G, restless butterfly chaser, enters the little cottage in the woods, probably knowing whose it is (there are stories), the owners absent as if by arrangement. Pots of porridge, chairs, beds. Too hot, too cold, too high, too wide, too hard, too soft. Just right. The rule of three. G eats, breaks, crawls in. The owners return. The intruder they have anticipated has arrived.

  G enters the unoccupied cottage. Porridge, chairs, beds. Too hot, cold, high, wide, hard, soft. Just right. G eats, breaks, crawls in. The owners return. An intruder. But where is she now?

  First variation

  She is in the kitchen of the snug little cottage she has come upon in the woods, lifting the lids of the three porridge pots on the table, each in a primary color as if there were some rule about it. She does not know whose cottage it is, but while picking flowers she has seen a family of wild things and supposes it must be theirs. Was it improper to intrude upon their home while they are away? Or are they away so that she might intrude? G has read and been read stories about such cottages and their beastly occupants and has been guided by them, and is guided by them now as she tastes the pots of porridge with wooden spoons to test their temperature. One too hot, the next too cold, the little one just right. She probes the meaning of this and believes she sees it, and she knows now what will follow. There will be chairs—there are chairs!—and beds and rude awakenings. She picks up the smallest chair, excited by the wild things’ smell, and dances with it, imagining other dances yet to come.

  Second variation

  The B family are also dancing, B1 and B2 slowly rising and falling from foot to foot, B3 leaping with abandon, exhibiting his youthful virtuosity. They have seen G passing by, her eyes lit with exhilarated anticipation, wildflowers in her golden hair, and they, too, have felt the exhilaration. While the other two chatter excitedly about what they will find and do when they return, B1 ruminates about past intrusions, other little butterfly chasers and thieving old crones and, in the storied days when there were only bears and foxes in the world, the mischievous vixens. Mostly, though, he thinks about the restless golden-haired girls, and he lifts one foot and then the other. B2 also remembers them. Indeed, the cottage is haunted by their fleeting presences. Somebody has been sleeping in my bed: something she will say and hear again today. B3 says he wants to eat this one. It is against the rules, B2 says. All the more reason, B3 says, and bounces about, gleefully trampling wildflowers and scattering butterflies. Watching him, B1 supposes he himself must have been like that once upon a time, and hops a wistful hop.

  Third variation

  Someone has been tasting my porridge! . . . tasting my porridge! . . . my porridge! Someone has been sitting in my chair! . . . sitting in my chair! . . . in my chair! G, tucked in, listens to the wild things recite their lines as they emerge from the brambly woods and march three times around the cottage (the rule of three!), repeating the words precisely, though in their different voices, each just a step behind the other as in a childish round. The leader has a rumbly old voice, deep and growly, and the followers, too, have growly voices, though not so deep. Someone has been lying in my bed! . . . lying in my bed! . . . in my bed! She is that someone, curled up under the coverlet in the smallest one, the one just right, knowing what ought to happen next, not knowing if it will. It is very exciting and she is determined not to fall asleep, but she does, as if overtaken suddenly by a spell. Someone has been tasting my porridge! . . . tasting my porridge! . . . my porridge! B3 knows he is the unlucky one, his porridge will be eaten, his chair broken, his bed invaded, but though the grip of the past on the present is fierce, variations can happen. It would earn him a fearful cuffing, but new endings can be imagined, old rhythms broken. He has seen her. A tidbit, but succulent. Someone has been sitting in my chair! . . . in my chair! . . . my chair! B3, B2 believes, is suffering from the delusions of the young, unable to see that change itself is changeless, new rhythms mere resortings of the old. For what has not been imagined and, imagined, done? She has no sympathy, however, for the intruder. In the past, such creatures were impaled on church steeples, and she would not mind if they did that now. B1, leading them around the cottage on their final turn with his deep rumble, would agree with B2 about change, but he knows that the illusion of changeability generates desire, and the tender agitation of desire is what makes life possible. See B3 now, bouncing about, gleefully leaping and laughing. Of course, there is also the inescapable conflict of desires . . . Someone has been lying in my bed! . . . in my bed! . . . in my bed! Their ceremonial march completed, they enter the cottage.

  Fourth variation

  Lying sound asleep in the little cottage’s littlest bed, the one just right, G has a dream of dancing with the wild things. She is wearing no clothes because she is also a wild thing. They recognize her as one of their own, and they love her and share their porridge with her, and she loves them. She dances with each of them in turn and, one by one, laughing joyfully, they lift her high and set her gently down again. She feels like a beautiful princess, princess of the wild things, lifted up to be adored. And then one of them does not lower her, but continues to hold her high, so high she can see the roof of the cottage and the tops of the trees, and she is suddenly frightened and begs to be let down, but they are only laughing in their rude barking way somewhere far below. She is falling! She wakes. Where is she?

  Fifth variation

  The intruder’s exciting smell is everywhere, but they know where to find her. B3, hopping about like his tail is on fire, wants to leap straight to the finale, but B1 insists on adherence to form, starting with the telltale wooden spoons standing in the porridge pots, though he agrees to hurry along, his ponderous obduracy scarcely concealing his own agitation. They rush trillingly through the porridge tasting and chair sitting, B3 bouncing back and forth impatiently, B2 standing stolidly in the middle, performing as obliged, but minimally, without ornament, and then B3 sings out (he is already bounding up the stairs, B1 and B2 on his heels): Somebody has been sitting in my chair, and has broken it all to pieces! In their bedroom, they sniff briefly at their coverlets (arousing! dangerous! delicious!) but skip the recitations to gather around the bed of the sleeping golden-haired intruder. Slowly, as her eyes open, their faces break into broad toothy smiles.

  Sixth variation

  She wakes. Where is she? She remembers entering the cottage of the wild things, as if invited, and sampling porridge, chairs, beds—but was it all a dream? No, there they are, leaning hugely over her, showing all their teeth. Someone has been lying . . . lying . . . lying . . . , they growl, . . . in my bed! . . . bed! . . . bed! The biggest one with the deep gruff voice has been leading them, but now it is the smallest who goes first. And here she IS! . . . IS! . . . IS! Then they all laugh uproariously, but it is not a very nice laugh, more like ferocious barking. She smiles hopefully, pulling th
e coverlet up to her chin, and the wild things commence to shuffle slowly, ceremonially, around the bed. She would be encouraged by this dance, if that is what it is, were it not for the savage glitter in their eyes. She recalls now her dream of dancing with them. Something bad happened. Does she have any clothes on?

  Seventh variation

  They have heard the stories about girls with golden hair, about their divine resplendence, their demonic powers. These stories and their embodiments haunt their lives. B2 is particularly afflicted by such creatures and wants to see this one impaled on the church steeple like the thieving old crones of the past. Bygone tales also haunt B3, who wishes to be free of them, by whatever means, once and for all. B1, more comfortable with tradition, prefers to welcome the intruder into the family circle, each member free to use her in turn as they please, he leading, they following. He plucks her out from under the coverlet, lifts her high. She is still wearing her clothes, but he removes them with a swipe of his paw to make her more like one of the family and then dances a cheerful little jig with her. She is making a noise that might be laughing, or else screaming, one can’t be sure.

  Eighth variation

  G was so happy when she discovered the wild things’ cottage. It was like a story coming true. After the obligatory peek through the keyhole, she had entered and found everything just as she had imagined: porridge, chairs, and beds, three of each, following the rule. So, joyfully—G is the very essence of joy—she did all she was supposed to do, eagerly awaiting the adventure to follow. It was very exciting, even their smell was exciting. To crawl into their beds was like crawling into a warm cave in the forest. What a surprise when they lift the coverlet! She knew of course what usually happens. She has seen the open window. But this time, she believed, would be different. This time she would stay to see what happens next. Perhaps, however, she thinks now, soaring naked through the pungent air, the stories misled her. She believed the wild things would be just like her. They are not.