Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me (6 page)

“Shhhh! Holy Christ, Paps, that’s Harold Wong.”

“Number-one son?”

“He’s coxy on the Olympic crew.”

“Oh splendid, splendid.”

Agneau leaning forward confidentially: “Is it a very long tale?”

“Are you queer?”

“What?”

“I just want to know where you’re at. If you have homosexual tendencies?”

“—Me?” A finger at his heart.

“He’s drunk,” explained Fitzgore, bending over in a desperate whisper, trying to keep the others from hearing too much. “I thought you were hungry, for God’s sakes.”

Pappadopoulis picking up the steak in his hands and tearing away a huge chunk with his incisors. “Mmchhnmm.” All around the room attention shifting to the main course. Perhaps they’ll try to maim me before coffee. Eat well first.

He devoured the food on his plate, refilled it, ate again, refilled and ate. Long silences, clattering dish noises. He wet the tip of his forefinger and moved it smoothly around the rim of the half-filled glass, making a high-pitched whining sound that was barely discernible, then drank some of the water and did it again, altering the pitch. “What’s that noise?” asked Peel from the head of the table. He drank off another inch, dipped his finger
and tried again. “E. Above high C.” Fitzgore paling, unable to eat beside him.

Hot fudge sundaes for dessert, anything to impress the rushees, Gnossos having two, saving the fudge for last. Might have to spend the night in jail, bread and water, maybe get hit by a truck going home. Always eat well. Nutrients squirming in the marrow of Anglo-Saxon foodstuffs. I’m in a room full of robots. Be careful. You are what you eat.

He reached into his jacket pocket and took out the second lamp-dried cigarette, lighting it before Fitzgore could take notice, burning half away with a single inspirational puff, holding the smoke down, adding little sips of sharply sucked-at air. His shoulders hunched, his eyes bulging, the house officers beginning to mumble uneasily, someone coming over to talk to Fitzgore, report me. Exhale. Beautiful, no smoke. Another puff, almost gone, weee. Fitzgore sniffing.

“What’s that you’re smoking, Paps?”

No time to talk, saturate lungs. All that spongy fiber swilling. Listen to your nerves hum. Yes.

Oh yes.

Fitzgore telling them secretly he’ll get me out. Not quite, babies. Fifty to one, but they don’t know the Shadow. Disappear.

“Wooooooooooooooo . . . ”

Fitzgore jumping up, “Okay, Paps, let’s go, that’s enough—”

“Wooooooo-HOOOOOOOOOO!”

“PAPS!”

“SHAZAM!” He was up on the table, making a noise like a thunderclap, then with a bound into the middle of the dining room, pointing a finger at Harold Wong. “Beware the monkey-demon, Wong.” Then to all the startled faces, their every expression chilled stiff, interrupted: “Lock your doors, gang. Bolt your bedroom windows. He may be the house mascot now, but in ten years, zoom, back to Peking, a commissar. Swoop . . . ” He was out the door, flapping his wings like a bird trying to fly. Steps behind him.

Flee. Where? The Cutty Sark. Swish, up the stairs, three at a time. Voices following. Which room? Here. Into the closet, ho ho.

He found the bottle beneath the pile of shirts, drank it down a full third of the way, and tucked it upside down into his belt, forgetting to put the top on, the cold whiskey running over his leg, into his sock and shoe. What a waste. Carnage. Should be more. Under the shirts? No. Cheap bastard. Take some clothes instead, box of cufflinks. Old Spice toilet water, kill the liquor smell. What’s this? Holy God, an enema bag! Take it, one
never knows. Voices closer, searching for me. Footsteps in the next room. Wait for the whites of their eyes. Just outside the closet now.

Bang! The door flew open, three strange faces and Peel. Scare them. “HAAAAAA!”

They fell back with shock, knocking into each other. He was past them, swinging the enema bag over his head like a lariat. On the stairs again, through the Tudor living room, where little groups were gathering in front of the silver samovar, chattering like gelded contralto chipmunks.

“Zaaaap, you’re all sterile.” Out the front door, into the street. Ho ho. Where to? Sanctuary. Portable womb. Preferably with a view. Up, up, and awaaaaay.

Superman winging over Metropolis, cape fluttering in the wild wind. Safe as long as no one pulls any Kryptonite out of a lead box. Wheeeeee, down the cinder path behind the law school, people passing, jumping out of the way. And a good thing too. The Man of Steel infallible, X-ray vision, sees your every move. Out on Academae Avenue now, blinking lights, neon gases in fragile tubes, chart your viscera in the tiny ion chains. Left foot sloshing from the liquor. Holy shit, the police. Doorway.

He hovered back in the secure entrance to a photography shop until the swiveling red light was safely gone. Not too many people in the streets. A half-familiar figure strolled casually by, turning the corner from Dryad Road, peering into the closed shop windows. Her hair bound by a brass clasp, wearing green knee-socks, loafers, humming to herself, complete. She walked away, toward the campus, arms folded in front of her. Who?

But beware the monkey-demon when your interest shifts.

He turned and looked sharply over his shoulder, ready to surprise the waiting assassin, and found instead a photograph of Heffalump blinking at him in the reflected red light from Student Laundries, Humphrey Bogart pose, cigarette dangling off the lower lip, one eye half closed in haze, smoke polarized in the photographer’s clever lamp. Beaver teeth. Blink, blink, blink.

Down the street then, down the hill, fuzz all gone, flee from whatever follows, looking left and right, where the hell was it, anyway? There, white Swiss drolleries, 109. Up the steps to the door. Straighten tie. Ring. Feet coming.

“Yes, please.”

My God. Yellow-eyed Benares face peering at me. Say something. “What’s happening?”

“I beg your pardon, please?” Long hair, cherry soda in the bony hand? Dressed in a gauze coat. He’s drunk.

“Must’ve rung the wrong bell. Looking for Pamela is the thing.”

“You are Mr. Pappadopolum, of course, yes?”

Of course. Nearly. Also the Dracula. But how did you know? Guard your jugular. “You’re Mr. Muttu?”

“Rajamuttu, to be sure,” in the clipped, liquefied singsong accent. “When you move your belongings, you must come and pay to me and my wife a particular call.”

“Sure thing. Perhaps—” the door closing in my face?

“Goodnight, then. Miss Pamela is assuredly no doubt at home.” Gone. Jesus.

He tiptoed around the porch and peeked in through the bamboo shades. She was sitting alone on the Navajo rug next to the fireplace, eating a TV dinner. Spooning the thawed, reheated food out of its partitioned aluminum tray. Creamed corn, beef with gravy, whipped potatoes. Eyes like a water spaniel. Tap on the pane. She’s looking up. Can’t see me, too dark out here. Press nose against glass. Don’t be afraid, ducks, it’s only Rubberface.

He went to the door and waited.

“Why, Mr. Evergood, hello again. Whatever do you have with you?”

“Little gift is all,” handing her the Old Spice toilet water, trying to hide the box of cufflinks and the enema bag. Her missing eyebrows penciled on.

“Well. Thank you. Coming in, are you?”

“Just passing by, thought I’d see how your packing was getting along.” Ooof.

“You smell rather like a distillery,” letting him pass. Turn around slowly, smile; for Christ’s sake, don’t breathe on her. “Coming from a party?” was her question.

“Always. Part of my condition. And my name is Pappadopoulis.”

“Yes, you said something like that earlier; I thought you were joking, surely.”

Five syllables, too many for a proper-sounding name. Three appeals to the conditioned ear. Buckingham. Bolingbroke. Butterball. Man, chaos all over the pad, boxes, books left out, ladies’ things. That photograph.

“Your husband?” he asked slyly, pointing.

“Fiancé. He graduated last year, from the ag school.” Spoken with little enthusiasm. Still wearing that kimono thing, kitty-fluff, high heels.

“Listen, just go on and eat, don’t mind me. Nothing like a little energy.” Ought to have a fire in here, make it cozy. White bear rug. Black Mass.

Between beef bites, the Japanese robe falling open slightly so he could see the single hair on her chest.

“Are you really a student here, Pappadopoulis? I trust you don’t mind my asking?”

“As soon as I register. Why?”

“You hardly seem the type.” Looking at me. Ho ho, edge of the wedge.

“I’m not. Can’t be classified is where it’s at. Certainly better than screwing around out there, though,” with a nod to the void, marking time beyond the Athené city limits. The Scotch pure ambrosia. Paregoric less groovy after eating.

“I’m not sure I understand. How better?”

“Everything all Orgone Boxish. Little microcosm thing happening.”

“No responsibility, you mean.”

“Check.”

“Rather fascinating, all the same.”

Be humble. Lie. Intense Brando look: “Umm, when are you going to be married?”

Hesitating with a spoonful of creamed corn halfway to her mouth, looking vacantly over her shoulder: “I’m not terribly certain. He has a farm, you see, hybrid Iowa corn. Depends on the rainfall and that sort.”

“Jesus.”

“Why Jesus?”

“That part of the country, is all. Man-eating sows and B-47’s. Walked across half the state last August, no one gave me a ride.”

“You were alone?”

Look sad: “Always. Made the same mistake continually. Got hung up in the provinces, had a couple of beers, walked too far out on Forty, the cars won’t stop. You have to walk to the next town, right? Bombers over your skull, seas of chemical grain is where it’s at. Supposed to be very fertile, they tell me, but it all looks barren. You know. Too rich. Creamy. Exploited, wasting with fat. God Bless America. Cheers.” Toasting her, have another sip. She’s interested.

“What’s it like, running about like that?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Surely it must, if you do it. Dispensing with bears, hitchhiking.”

Finished her last spoonful, whoopee. Never thread anyone while they’re eating. “Can I make a fire?”

“Yes, go right ahead. You may as well pour me a drink while you’re up, if you don’t mind.”

And another one for me. And wouldn’t you like to be carried off to Margate or Brighton, some whitewashed cottage with British roses in the window boxes, wood and iron doors six inches thick. Turn off the lamp.

“What did you do that for?”

Careful now. “Takes away from the firelight.”

“Ah.” Then, “You’re not truly an astronomer, are you? That was all part of the Evergood business, yes?”

“Stargazing is all.”

“I thought so, you’re far too lyrical.”

“The conscience of my elusive race gives not a fig for me, baby. But I endure, if you know what I mean.”

“Must you be so cryptic?”

Always present a moving target. “Define a thing and you can dispense with it, right? Come here.”

“No. Not yet, I mean. I want to know more about you.”

“Sure thing. But you have a hair on your chest and it has me up-tight.”

“Ohhh. What a horrible thing to say.” But the flash in her expression not repelling. Move closer. Touch her arm. There. Put down the enema bag.

“Your skin is creamy. Jergens Lotion and all.”

“Please, I asked you not—” Neck, try neck with fingertips. Ho, see her eyes close, what did I tell you. Knee?

“Please—”

“You’ll like it.”

“You’re too sure.”

“Practice.”

“Really, how awful—”

My Christ, no boobs at all. Not a goddamned thing. But that hair. What a glorious flaw. Try the thigh.

“Oh please, you don’t even care about Simon.”

“Simon?” Going religious?

“My fiancé.”

“Check.” Kissing her throat: oh, feel the squirm.

“You’re so terribly vulgar.”

“I’m going to
move
you, baby.”

Take a sip of Scotch, push her back. I knew it, I just knew it.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Oh so drunk. Kimono away, nothing to her.

“What are you doing?”

“Mmmmmmm.”

“Ohh.”

“MMMMM.”

“But my heels are still on.”

“Ahhhmmmmm.”

“Ohhh, you’re disgusting.”

But you love it. Jesus, I’m still dressed. Maneuver carefully, keep her on the floor. Jacket tight. There. Hell with the shirt. Pants.

“Wait, do you have one of those things?”

My God, in the parka pocket. Lie: “Yes.” Pants down, too tight to get over shoes, ivy league fashion. Leave them.

“You don’t have any underwear on?”

“Never use it.”

“Are you circumcised?”

“Look.”

“Oh, you’re not.”

“Catholic.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Why?”

“I read something once, about cancer.”

“I’m Immune. Here you go.”

“Ohhhhhh . . . ”

“I’m going to move you all over, baby.”

“Oh!”

Climb up. Her eyes wild. Maybe insane. No such luck. Easy there. There. There.

“Ummmm.”

Take a sip of lush, don’t hurry things. “You want a drink?”

“What? Now?”

“Here.”

“No. No, just hurry along.”

Little sideways action. Oh, feel her legs. Heels need spurs. Easy, easy easy easy. Going to be fast.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

“Mmmmmm,” what rhythm? Night in Tunisia. Charlie Parker. Timpani. Close now. Wooooo. Faster . . . 

“Oh God . . . ”

No invocations, baby, Gnossos right there. Closer now.

easy

easy

easy

unh.

Unhh.

UNH!

“Ooooo.”

“There.”

“God.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you—get it on all right?”

“What?”

“The thing.”

“What thing?”

“The contraceptive thing.”

“I didn’t really have one.”

“What?”

“Lust overcame me.”

“WHAT?” Pamela lurching away from underneath, rolling off to one side. Seed thick with lush and paregoric, better say something sweet.

“Paregoric.”