—No, Loon, I didn’t.
—Sure you did.
—I did?
—Of course.
—Thanks, Lone, you’ve been a sweetheart. I wish I could talk to my wife this way.
8.
Basically, the Loon was a gentle soul and tried always to hurt no one. But to avoid exploitation, to keep from becoming “passive,” as they say, he was forced to develop certain stratagems. He developed these early in childhood, and because they worked, kept them into adulthood. As can no doubt be observed, one thing he was very good at was “Changing the Subject.” He was also good at “Non Sequitur” and “Petitio Principii.” If none of these worked and it looked like he was going to be forced into a choice between hurting someone and being exploited by him, he still had two, somewhat extreme, stratagems left: “Fawning,” and, if that failed, “Total Surrender.” Social scientists have called this last stratagem “Self-objectification,” turning one’s self into something else, in Loon’s case, the exploiter’s self. This didn’t matter to the Loon, however, because, for him, it was a question of survival.
9.
That afternoon, the king learned of the barbarous death of Prince Egress. He first called the Loon at four, but wasn’t able to rouse him until six-fifteen, when the sun’s setting set off a gong inside the Loon’s head. Still drowsy, he answered the phone.—H’lo?
—Oh, Lone, Lone! They’ve killed my baby! Egress, the wild and woolly one, gone, gone, gone! cried the king.
—Who did it? the Loon asked.
—I did it, l’Ange! I’m the guilty one! the king hissed into the receiver.—Ask my wife, he added.—She’ll tell you.
—Have you asked her?
—No! God, no! These deaths of our children have riven us as a wedge splits a fallen tree. Just when we were really getting it together, too, he said wistfully.—Comfort me, Loon! the king commanded.—Comfort me! My wife doesn’t understand me!
—I once knew a man in Oregon who hadn’t any teeth, not a tooth in his head. Yet that man could play on the bass drum better than any man I ever met, the Loon said soothingly.
—Do you think so? the king asked.
—Of course.
—You know, I should have connected this to that kinky green-suited guy in the first place! You’re a genius, Loon! I’ll have him arrested immediately!
10.
—H’lo, Egress. The Loon knew who was calling even before he had picked up the phone. He was getting ready to go to bed and was sleepy and cross.
—Oh, Loon, my Lawn, my angel! Doom, doom, doom! the king bellowed.
—He got Orgone, eh?
—Yes, Orgone, my pride, my joy, my Crown Prince, my dauphin! Dead!
—And it’s your fault, I imagine.
—Yes, yes, yes. My fault, the king cried excitedly.—Comfort me, Loon! I need you to comfort me. I need you.
—You need me? the Loon asked, incredulous, and wary, too.
—Oh, yes, yes, yes. I used to think of you as my weakness, but now that it’s clear to me how much I am hated by my wife, I think of you as my strength.
—That doesn’t follow, the Loon said.
—No matter, it’s true! asserted the king.
—Okay, then. It’s not your fault because you did everything you could, the Loon reasoned.
—Yes, you’re right, you’re right. I did everything I could, the king said.
—Listen, Egress, it’s early, so I’ve got to get some sleep.
—Of course, of course. I’m sorry, I forgot.
—G’bye.
—’Bye. And, Loon, kiss-kiss.
—Kiss-kiss-kiss, the Loon answered. Then he hung up, and, feeling a bit antic, wrapped himself in a flag and went to sleep in a corner of the bathroom.
11.
—Oh, Your Majesty, your puissance, I’m deeply flattered by your proposal that I accompany you on your pilgrimage to the Empire State Building, but, really, no one so kingly, so majestic, so all-puissant, so inspiring, so inspired, so chosen, so exalted, so with-it, so hip, so heavy, so together, so tough, so mean, so fancy, so witty, so refined, so sensitive, so enlightened, so manly, so kind, so sunny, so benign, so wise, so benevolent, so flexible, so awesome, so handsome, so clean, so sexy, so potent, so resourceful, so brave, so balanced, so sane, so stable, so innovative, so talented, so considerate, so disciplined, so skilled, so patient, so independent, so deliberative, so wealthy, so restrained, so young … needs me!
—I don’t know, maybe you’re right, the king said. Kiss-kiss.
—Kiss-kiss-kiss, the Loon answered, letting out a long sigh of relief. If the king’s taking off on a guilt trip, let him travel alone, he thought.
12.
—Loon! I’ve changed my mind. I need you. Either you accompany me on my pilgrimage to the Empire State Building or I’ll kill you.
—I’m yours! the Loon cried.
9
1.
The king showed up at the Loon’s tree house just before dawn, and if the Loon hadn’t been expecting him, he probably wouldn’t have recognized him. He had shaved off his bushy beard and had cut his hair short, rather clumsily, it appeared, with a knife. He looked a little psychotic. He was dressed in a burlap grain bag with holes cut in it for his head and arms and a length of half-inch rope tied around his waist for a belt. He was barefoot. In a small bundle, he had a wooden begging bowl, a string hammock, and a brick-sized bar of solid gold which he said was his Atonement Gift. Evidently, he intended to present it at the Empire State Building.
—Jesus, you’re really dressing down for this, aren’t you? the Loon observed.—Is it okay if I wear something a bit fancier?
—Whatever, was the dour reply, so the Loon put on a powder-blue, wet-look jumpsuit with a long gold scarf tied at the throat.
2.
It was already evident, from the king’s appearance, that the journey was going to be arduous.—Maybe I’d better bring my credit cards, the Loon suggested hopefully.
—Whatever, the king replied.
After taking a quick peek into the king’s bundle, the Loon packed one for himself—begging bowl, string hammock, offering (a thumb-sized block of Moroccan hash), plus a few extras: the Ten Essentials (see p. 25), and his packet of internationally honored credit cards.—Well, he announced,—I’m ready.
The king murmured,—Whatever, and they started out across the park, heading in an easterly direction, toward Fifth Avenue. They hadn’t traveled more than thirty or forty yards, however, when the sun came up. Immediately, the Loon hung his hammock from two small maples, wrapped himself in his U.S. Army blanket, and dropped off to sleep.
The king looked at his companion, shrugged and said,—Whatever, to himself and sat down on the ground to meditate. He certainly was a Changed Man, and no one was more aware of this fact or more impressed by its significance than he himself, he meditated.
3.
The first obstacle they encountered was the jungle. It was a dark and moonless night. They could hear the roars of the hunting beasts and the high-pitched wails of the hunted. A small, magenta bird with its head torn off fell at their feet.—I think we’re in the jungle, the Loon said.
A large, dark jaguar crossed the path a few feet in front of them, dragging with its mouth the broken, bleeding carcass of a spotted fawn, while a pair of hyenas, delirious with barking laughter, followed after. The heavy, moist air was filled with feathers, fur, and the smell of blood. At the river, crocodiles were catching unwary drinkers, peccaries, small deer, armadillos, yanking them into the slow, muddy waters, tearing them apart and devouring them. Snakes fell to the ground with rubbery thumps and rushed slithering after lizards, rodents, small apes, to crush and swallow them.
At last, the sky began to silver at the eastern edge, and they saw a trading post, where they quickly went in and enjoyed a sumptuous Polynesian meal.—Good old American Express! toasted the Loon, raising his rum-filled coconut.
4.
They were crossing the des
ert. In the moonlight, the sand was like a sea of silver grain. The king, plodding through the sand, silently beat his breast.
—You know, Egress, the Loon said to him,—I was wondering. After you’ve paid this penance, what then?
—Whatever.
—Jesus Christ! the Loon exclaimed petulantly.—You haven’t said anything but “Whatever” since we left! I suppose that’s part of the penance, too!
—Whatever, repeated the king, and, in heavy silence, slogged on.
5.
Scaling and crossing the Great Snowy Mountains was neither easy nor painless, especially the way they were dressed. At the Divide, they were hit by a blizzard and for three days huddled in a snow-cave, waiting out the storm. They surely would have frozen to death or starved, had they not, on the second day, been joined by a small band of Abenakis. The Indians were fleeing the genocidal persecution of Abenakis that had followed the deaths of Princes Egress, Dread, and Orgone, violent deaths in which the tribe was slightly implicated. Their leader, named Horse, was wearing a jukebox. The others were dressed in the usual flashy, slightly tacky, Indian costumes. They had corn, venison, maple syrup, bread, birch beer, quail, baked potatoes, raisins, apples, and some good New Mexico grass—plenty for all, though the king accepted only a few crusts of bread, which he washed down with snow-melt.
—He’s trying to get tight with God, the Loon explained to them.
Ah, the redmen nodded, understanding. They, of course, did not recognize the king, and the Loon wisely thought it best not to tell them.
6.
Horse and the Abenakis led them down the eastern slope of the Great Snowy Mountains to the plain, where they parted company. The Indians headed south to New Mexico; the Pilgrims headed north to the Empire State Building, the prime shrine in the religious life of every believer in the Empire State. At one time or another during their lifetimes, most true believers managed to make it to the great, stone spire, to worship there in awed silence, perhaps even to join in the traditional penny-dropping ceremony afterward. The king’s all-consuming passion was the dropping of his gold brick. He pictured himself standing humbly at the top, head bowed, dropping his fifty-pound offering over the edge into the windy, abysmal space below, and at that precise instant, the very hand of God Himself would reach down from His perch to touch him on the nape of his neck, forgiving him, freeing him to return home in a 747 jumbo jet, King Egress the Hearty, home again, victorious, self-transcendent, a truly enlightened despot! A grateful people; a gracious ruler: It would be his finest hour!
7.
On and on they walked. Until they came to the sea, and here they had to stop. The Loon stripped and ran into the foaming surf, delighted with the chance for a moonlit swim. He laughed and splashed and called to the king, but got no response. The king sat down on the beach and waited. Finally, the Loon came out of the water, giggling and rubbing his body to warm it.—Terrific ocean, Egress! You ought to try it. Wash some of that roadfilm off.
Nothing. What a drag, the Loon thought. If he weren’t such a good walker, I’d think he had tired blood.—Okay, ol’ buddy, he said to the king,—how’re we going to get across? This is your trip, so navigate, please.
Just as the king was about to say—Whatever, a large, silent boat appeared out of the shadows. The boat was of Egyptian design, constructed entirely of papyrus reeds, and was being poled along in the shallow water by a dwarf-like gondolier singing Wagner at the top of his voice. He saw the pilgrims and pushed his sturdy craft in to the beach.—Gif a lift? he queried.
—Do you take credit cards for payment? the Loon asked back.
—Ya, all kinds! Ve got da cross-now-pay-later plans for effrey-buddy! Climb aboard! he sang, and they did, the Loon somewhat apprehensively.
8.
On the crossing; which took a little over fourteen weeks, the king began to come out of his grim withdrawal. The first break came early the first night out. The dwarf, who seemed an excellent sailor, was whistling aft, busying himself with knots and scrimshaw. The king and the Loon lay on the foredeck, watching the full moon rise out of the ink-dark sea.—This afternoon I dreamed of disaster, the king informed his companion.
—No kidding, the Loon said.
—I saw a bloody moon hanging in a white sky. I saw a museum sculpture garden with all the statues carefully beheaded. I saw four sets of bloody handprints upon a white wall, and every hand was missing the middle finger. I saw two rooks fly into the sun, and only one returned. The king lapsed into a thoughtful silence.
—So what are you going to do? the Loon asked, studying the moon with affection.
—I don’t know yet, but I’m beginning to think that my wife had something to do with the deaths of my sons. It’s still only a feeling, but a strong one.
—Can you dig that moon! the Loon said rapturously.
9.
The third night out, the king walked onto the foredeck and saw the Loon lying on his belly, watching the moon rise out of the sea again. The king crept up behind his friend, dropped to his knees, undid the Loon’s blue jumpsuit, spread his buttocks, and silently sodomized him.
Finishing, he uncoupled and fell away. He leaned against the mast and began to talk about his childhood, which, to the Loon, sounded awful. The king, however, was speaking with fondness and the kind of hazy nostalgia that often comes over a man on a long sea voyage.
10.
After ten days at sea, the king talked constantly of his wife, the queen, and her nefarious plots against him and his sons. Also, he screwed the Loon at least once a night, much to the erotic delight of the boatman.
—I guess you don’t feel so guilt-ridden anymore, eh? the Loon panted.
—Not really, the king said, zipping up the Loon’s jumpsuit.—But after all, isn’t that what a pilgrimage is for?
11.
One night on the foredeck, the king, leaning exhausted against the mast, waxed slightly philosophical:—I think that guilt, once perceived, i.e., experienced, is a passion, to be spent, like other passions. The meanings of most things, of passions, certainly, lie wholly in their enactments or in analytical description, i.e., reenactment of those things. The point of human life, when it comes right down to it, is simply to provide content for the otherwise empty forms of reality. The basic difficulty of human life is in knowing when a particular form has been sufficiently filled, or perceived, experienced—knowing when an experience has become redundant. Thus, most of the “good” life is an exercise in good taste, and I do mean ethically.
—Is it safe to assume, then, that you no longer feel guilty? the Loon asked wearily.
—Right! the king said, surprised.—You know, Lon, for a kid with no college degree, you certainly can think abstractly.
—Thanks, said the Loon.
12.
After one hundred days at sea, they docked in Liverpool, where they caught a train to London, a cab to the airport, and a jumbo jet for home, first-class.
—Good old American Express! the king said, raising his champagne glass in a toast.
—Yay, said the Loon quietly. He was thinking of the block of Moroccan hash he had brought as an offering for the Empire State and how much he was going to enjoy smoking it when he got back to the tree house.—Yay, he said, clinking the king’s glass with his own.
—Kiss-kiss, you little devil, said the king happily.
—Kiss-kiss-kiss, answered the Loon.
The king lit a large Cuban cigar.—“Yay,” huh? Heh, heh, heh. God, Loon, that’s rich! You’re such a disgusting faggot, the king said chuckling.
10
REMEMBER ME TO CAMELOT
A Novel
by Naomi Ruth Sunder
1.
“Be good to Kay,” Rex instructed his eldest son, Bif. “Your mother’s never been on her own before, she doesn’t know how to take care of herself, son,” he explained to the boy.
I stood somberly in the center of the living room with Hunter and Rory, fighting back the tears, proud of
our three little boys, our little men, but proudest of Rex, my husband, because I understood the deep pain he was feeling at this, the moment of his departure. He was leaving us—perhaps forever.
Our country in her need had called him from the side of his loved ones, and he had no choice but to go. Rex was a major in the Air Force Reserve, and his unit had been activated for combat duty in Vietnam, which at that time I couldn’t even have located on a map. They needed all the veteran pilots they could get, and Rex, in Korea more than a decade earlier, before Bif was born, had been one of the best in the skies. He had been almost legendary, and, as he leaned down to kiss me good-bye, I saw him wink away a tear with a brave grin, and I knew that he was still one of the best.
We kissed, long and joyously, and then he patted each of us on the top of the head and walked out the door to the waiting car.
2.
It was true, what Rex had said to Bif—I had never been on my own before, and I didn’t know how to take care of myself. I had been the only child of protective parents, raised in Sarasota, Florida, where, as a fifteen-year-old girl trying out for the cheerleading squad, I had met Rex. He was two years older than I, a junior and the captain of the football team.
We fell in love that autumn, the season I made the cheerleading squad and the football team went undefeated, and from the first, ours was a love that never wavered or wandered off center. Rex was everything I wasn’t, and thus it was only with him and through him that I felt completed. He was stern and disciplined, sophisticated yet rough-hewn, gentle but at the same time demandingly straightforward.
And there was a sense in which I completed him, too, for I allowed him to be tender and naive, shy and insecure—character traits he otherwise would have been ashamed of and would have denied himself.
3.
As soon as Rex graduated from Sarasota High, we got married. It was the summer of 1950 and the second half of the twentieth century had just begun. How were we to know that war with the Orientals would break out and, within a year, with me pregnant, would separate us?
Rex went to Texas as an Air Force cadet and earned his wings in record time. I closed up our little apartment, put our wedding gifts and furniture in storage, and went home to live with my mother and father. Three weeks after Rex had left Texas for Korea, I gave birth to our first son, Rex, Jr., whom Rex in his letters instructed me to call “Bif,” the name by which he had been known when he played fullback for Sarasota High.