Flying to America (15 page)

At the housing development, which was gauche and grand, Buck came upon a man urinating in the elevator, next to a man breaking windows in the broom closet. “What are you fellows doing there!” Buck cried aloud. “We are expressing our rage at this fine new building!” the men exclaimed. “Oh that this day had never formulated! We are going to call it Ruesday, that’s how we feel about it, by gar!” Buck stood in a wash of incomprehension and doubt. “You mean there is rage in Akron, the home of quadratic love?” “There is quadratic rage also,” the men said, “Akron
is
rage from a certain point of view.” Angel food covered the floor in neat squares. And what could be wrong with that? Everything?

“What is the point of view there, to which you refer?” Buck asked dumbly.
“The point of view of the poor people of Akron,”
those honest yeomen chanted, “or, as the city fathers prefer it, the underdeveloped people of Akron.” And in their eyes, there was a strange light. “Do you know what the name of this housing development is?” “What?” Buck asked. “Sherwood Forest,” the men said, “isn’t that disgusting?”

The men invited Buck to sup with their girls, Heidi, Eleanor, George, Purple, Ann-Marie, and Los. In the tree, starlings fretted and died, but below everything was glass. Harold poured the wine of the region, a light Cheer, into the forgotten napery. And the great horse of evening trod over the immense scene once and for all. We examined our consciences. Many a tiny sin was rooted out that night, to make room for a greater one. It was “hello” and “yes” and “yes, yes” through the sacerdotal hours, from one to eight. Heidi held a pencil between her teeth. “Do you like pencil games?” she asked. Something lurked behind the veil of her eyes. “Not . . . especially,” Buck said. “I . . .”

But a parade headed by a battalion of warm and lovely girls from the Akron Welcome Service elected this tense moment to come dancing by, with bands blazing and hideous floats in praise of rubber goods expanding in every direction. The rubber batons of the girls bent in the afterglow of events. “It is impossible to discuss serious ideas during a parade,” the Akron Communists said to Buck, and they slipped away to continue expressing their rage in another part of the Forest.

“Goodbye!” Buck said. “Goodbye! I won’t forget . . .”

The Welcome Service girls looked very
bravura
in their brief white-and-gold Welcome Service uniforms which displayed a fine amount of “leg.”
Look at all that “leg” glittering there!
Buck said to himself, and followed the parade all the way to Toledo.

3.

“Ingarden dear,” Buck said to the pretty wife of the mayor of Toledo, who was reading a copy of
Infrequent Love
magazine, “where are the poets of Toledo? Where do they hang out?” He showered her with gifts. She rose and moved mysteriously into the bedroom, to see if Henry were sleeping. “There is only one,” she said, “the old poet of the city Constantine Cavity.” A frost of emotion clouded her fuzz-colored lenses. “He operates a juju drugstore in the oldest section of the city and never goes anywhere except to make one of his rare and beautiful appearances.” “Constantine Cavity!” Buck exclaimed, “even in Texas where I come from we have heard of this
fine poet. You must take me to see him at once.” Abandoning Henry to his fate (and it was a bitter one!) Buck and Ingarden rushed off hysterically to the drugstore of Constantine Cavity, Buck inventing as they rolled something graceful to say to this old poet, the forerunner so to speak of poetry in America.

Was there fondness in our eyes? We could not tell. Cadenzas of documents stained the Western Alliance, already, perhaps, prejudiced beyond the power of prayer to redeem it. “Do you think there is too much hair on my neck? here?” Ingarden asked Buck. But before he could answer she said: “Oh shut up!” She knew that Mrs. Lutch, whose interest in the pastor was only feigned, would find the American way if anyone could.

At Constantine Cavity’s drugstore a meeting of the Toledo Medical Society was being held, in consequence of which Buck did not get to utter his opening words which were to have been: “Cavity, here we are!” A pity, but call the roll! See, or rather hear, who is present, and who is not! Present were

                  
Dr. Caligari

                  
Dr. Frank

                  
Dr. Pepper

                  
Dr. Scholl

                  
Dr. Frankenthaler

                  
Dr. Mabuse

                  
Dr. Grabow

                  
Dr. Melmoth

                  
Dr. Weil

                  
Dr. Modesto

                  
Dr. Fu Manchu

                  
Dr. Wellington

                  
Dr. Watson

                  
Dr. Brown

                  
Dr. Rococo

                  
Dr. Dolittle

                  
Dr. Alvarez

                  
Dr. Spoke

                  
Dr. Hutch

                  
Dr. Spain

                  
Dr. Malone

                  
Dr. Kline

                  
Dr. Casey

                  
Dr. No

                  
Dr. Regatta

                  
Dr. Il y a

                  
Dr. Baderman

                  
Dr. Aveni

and other doctors. The air was stuffy here, comrades, for the doctors were considering (yes!) a resolution of censure against the beloved old poet. An end to this badinage and wit! Let us be grave. It was claimed that Cavity had dispensed . . . but who can quarrel with Love Root, rightly used? It has saved many a lip. The prosecution was in the able hands of Dr. Kline, who invented the heart, and Dr. Spain, after whom Spain is named some believe. Their godlike figures towered over the tiny poet.

Kline advances.

Cavity rises to his height, which is not great.

Ingarden holds her breath.

Spain fades, back, back . . .

A handout from Spain to Kline.

Buck is down.

A luau?

The poet opens . . .

No! No! Get back!

“. . . and if that way is long, and leads around by the reactor, and down in the valley, and up the garden path, leave here, I say, to heaven. For science has its reasons that reason knows not of,” Cavity finished. And it was done.

“Hell!” said one doctor, and the others shuffled morosely around the drugstore inspecting the strange wares that were being vended there. It was clear that no resolution of censure could possibly . . . But of course not! What were we thinking of?

Cavity himself seemed pleased at the outcome of the proceedings. He recited to Buck and Ingarden his long love poems entitled
“In the Blue of Evening,” “Long Ago and Far Away,” “Who?” and “Homage to W. C. Williams.” The feet of the visitors danced against the sawdust floor of the juju drugstore to the compelling rhythms of the poet’s poems. A rime of happiness whitened on the surface of their two faces. “Even in Texas,” Buck whispered, “where things are very exciting, there is nothing like the old face of Constantine Cavity. Are you true?”

“Oh I wish things were other.”

“You do?”

“There are such a lot of fine people in the world I wish I was one of them!”

“You are, you are!”

“Not essentially. Not inwardly.”

“You’re very authentic I think.”

“That’s all right in Cleveland, where authenticity is the thing, but here . . .”

“Kiss me please.”

“Again?”

4.

The parachutes of the other passengers snapped and crackled in the darkness all around him. There had been a malfunction in the afterburner and the pilot decided to “ditch.” The whole thing was very unfortunate. “What is your life-style, Cincinnati?” Buck asked the recumbent jewel glittering below him like an old bucket of industrial diamonds. “Have you the boldness of Cleveland? the anguish of Akron? the torpor of Toledo? What is your posture, Cincinnati?” Frostily the silent city approached his feet.

Upon making contact with Cincinnati Buck and such of the other passengers of the ill-fated flight 309 had survived the “drop” proceeded to a hotel.

“Is that a flask of grog you have there?”

“Yes it is grog as it happens.”

“That’s wonderful.”

Warmed by the grog which set his blood racing, Buck went to his room and threw himself on his bed. “Oh!” he said suddenly, “I must
be in the wrong room!” The girl in the bed stirred sleepily. “Is that you Harvey?” she asked. “Where have you been all this time?” “No, it’s Buck,” Buck said to the girl, who looked very pretty in her blue flannel nightshirt drawn up about her kneecaps on which there were red lines. “I must be in the wrong room I’m afraid,” he repeated. “Buck, get out of this room immediately!” the girl said coldly. “My name is Stephanie and if my friend Harvey finds you here there’ll be an unpleasant scene.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Buck asked.

Having made a “date” with Stephanie for the morning at 10
A.M.
, Buck slipped off to an innocent sleep in his own bed.

Morning in Cincinnati! The glorious cold Cincinnati sunlight fell indiscriminately around the city, here and there, warming almost no one. Stephanie de Moulpied was wearing an ice-blue wool suit in which she looked very cold and beautiful and starved. “Tell me about your Cincinnati life,” Buck said, “the quality of it, that’s what I’m interested in.” “My life here is very aristocratic,” Stephanie said, “polo, canned peaches,
liaisons dangéreuses,
and so on, because I am a member of an old Cincinnati family. However it’s not much ‘fun’ which is why I made this 10
A.M.
date with you, exciting stranger from the sky!” “I’m really from Texas,” Buck said, “but I’ve been having a little trouble with airplanes on this trip. I don’t really trust them too much. I’m not sure they’re trustworthy.” “Who is trustworthy after all?” Stephanie said with a cold sigh, looking blue. “Are you blue Stephanie?” Buck asked. “Am I blue?” Stephanie wondered. In the silence that followed, she counted her friends and relationships.

“Is there any noteworthy artistic activity in this town?”

“Like what do you mean?”

Buck then kissed Stephanie in a taxicab as a way of dissipating the blueness that was such a feature of her face. “Are all the girls in Cincinnati like you?” “All the
first-class
girls are like me,” Stephanie said, “but there are some other girls whom I won’t mention.”

A faint sound of . . . A wave of . . . Dense clouds of . . . Heavily the immense weight of . . . Thin strands of . . .

Dr. Hesperidian had fallen into the little pool in vanPelt Ryan’s
garden (of course!) and everyone was pulling him out. Strangers met and fell in love over the problem of getting a grip on Dr. Hesperidian. A steel band played arias from
Wozzeck.
He lay just below the surface, a rime of algae whitening his cheekbones. He seemed to be . . . “Not
that
way,” Buck said reaching for the belt buckle. “
This
way.” The crowd fell back among the pines.

“You seem to be a nice young man, young man,” vanPelt Ryan said, “although we have many of these of our own now since the General Electric plant came to town. Are you in computerization?”

Buck remembered the endearing red lines on Stephanie de Moulpied’s knees.

“I’d rather not answer that question,” he said honestly, “but if there’s some other question you’d like me to answer . . .”

vanPelt turned away sadly. The steel band played “Red Boy Blues,” “That’s All,” “Gigantic Blues,” “Muggles,” “Coolin’,” and “Edward.” Although each player was maimed in a different way . . . but the affair becomes, one fears, too personal. The band got a nice sound. Hookers of grog thickened on the table placed there for that purpose. “I grow less, rather than more, intimately involved with human beings as I move through world life,” Buck thought, “is that my fault? Is it a fault?” The musicians rendered the extremely romantic ballads “I Didn’t Know What Time It was,” “Scratch Me,” and “Misty.” The grim forever adumbrated in recent issues of
Mind
pressed down, down . . . Where
is
Stephanie de Moulpied? No one could tell him, and in truth, he did not want to know. It is not he who asks this question, it is Mrs. Lutch. She glides down her glide path, sinuously, she is falling, she bursts into flame, her last words: “Tell them . . . when they crash . . . turn off . . . the ignition.”

Bone Bubbles

b
ins black and green seventh eighth rehearsal pings a bit fussy at times fair scattering grand and exciting world of his fabrication topple out against surface irregularities fragilization of the gut constitutive misrecognitions of the ego most mature artist then in Regina loops of chain into a box several feet away Hiltons and Ritzes fault-tracing forty whacks active enthusiasm old cell is darker and they use the “Don’t Know” category less often than younger people I am glad to be here and intend to do what I can to remain mangle stools tables bases and pedestals without my tree, which gives me rest hot pipe stacked-up cellos spend the semi-private parts of their lives wailing before 1908 had himself photographed with a number of very attractive young girls breasts like ballrooms and orchestras (as in English factories) social eminence Dutch sailors’ eyes subsequently destroyed many of these works