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UNDERGROUND VOICES: FICTION
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JEFFERY KURZ
The Letter Talking
Toxic Friday came early and nobody knew why. Most were too busy to even
notice until it was too late. And now it was way too late.
Manfredi had been using all the toilet paper rolls, which was pissing people off, even those who believed that he was, as he put it, “perilously” close to uncovering the
secret of the universe. Or universes, depending on what mood you found him in during a
discourse.
You had to try to keep Manfredi talking, is what I am saying. Otherwise he’d get lost. There was too much going on, he kept saying, and the pressure of being so close, so
“perilously” close, was getting to him. The day after Toxic Friday, which was really
Wednesday, I stopped by to see if I could talk him out of a roll.
“I don’t think I’ve got any to spare,” he said, thoughtfully. He grabbed his chin as if to hold a beard, but he didn’t have a beard. It was hard to imagine anything growing on
that baby face. Manfredi was 45 but he looked 12. Go figure.
“I’d like to help you Henry but I don’t know if I can. What color is your shit?” I told him I didn’t know, that I’d been holding it in. That’s what the visit was for. Come on, doctor.
“Well,” he said. “Mine was blue. Not actually all blue, but a bluish tint. Can’t figure out what that means. Not in any of the books.”
“It means we’re all screwed.” I was looking around at all the rolls of toilet paper, most of them suspended from the ceiling by fishing line. Each one held an important, specific spot. They meant
something, I understood that. But I wanted to grab one and run like hell.
“I don’t know, maybe,” he said. “How’s Miss Wu holding up?” “Miss Wu is freaking out,” I said, suddenly realizing I’d been turning the door knob back and forth in my hand, probably since I’d arrived.
“She cries.” “Girls cry, but Miss Wu is strong. I think she will pull through.” Miss Wu is very definitely not going to pull through, I said. Except I wasn’t sure if I said it out loud.
“Very strong, very strong, very strong.” Manfredi disappeared into the dark shadows of the room. The toilet paper rolls, like muted Japanese lanterns, cast a soft white, flat glow. I had no idea how he was doing
that.
“Come back, Henry, okay?” Manfredi’s voice came muffled from some back closet. “When these babies start unraveling all will become clear.”
Unraveling is not a good word for me, and for a minute I thought Manfredi was purposely trying to throw me off the trail. Why else would he say such a thing? Bastard. I
was going to go strangle him or something but I didn’t want to go any further into the
room and my insides were hurting like hell. Gall bladder, probably.
I left the room without getting what I’d come for, which was one stinking roll of toilet paper, and failure made me break into a sweat. Not a running sweat, just sort of
little beads everywhere. I figured the only thing that could save me now was a visit to
Miss Wu, whose voice was like a soft pillow.
By the time I reached her room my heart was pounding. The hallway was shifting, as if we were on the deck of some ship, swaying back and forth, and it was hard to keep
balanced in front of the doorway. If this was the result of Toxic Friday it was hard to be
sure. No one had ever lived through one, as far as I knew. So I was an explorer of sorts,
leading the way into the dark unknown of toxicity, piloting the ship that was the hallway.
“Henry, you don’t have to knock so hard.” The voice was gentle, and soft, like a whisper. I thought of lilacs. How did you know it was me?
“You’re the only one who comes to my door.” The door lock clicked, and a shaft of green light entered the hallway. I stepped back to get out of its way. “What is it, Henry? Is everything all right?”
“Manfredi’s got all the toilet paper. I tried to sneak one out of him, but who knows what would happen?”
I still couldn’t see Miss Wu from behind the door. I thought maybe she was trying to keep away from me. I looked at my hands to see if there was anything threatening.
They were empty. “I arrive unarmed,” I announced. My heart was still clinging to my
ears.
“Henry, I don’t think I could let you in, armed or not,” she said. Her voice was a flower. Miss Wu was a sweet woman, of uncertain age. You had to get a good look at
her, and I never had.
“Maybe you could come out here for a moment.” “You know I can’t do that, Henry.” I liked the way she said my name, mostly because she always made a point of saying it, every sentence, practically. There was something extraordinarily reassuring
about that. Please, Miss Wu, let me stay with you forever.
“Manfredi says you are strong.” There was a long pause, a pause so long it hurt. “Why would he say that?” “Beats me. Maybe you guys had an arm wrestling match or something.” “Silly Henry. The doctor doesn’t have time for arm wrestling matches.” “No matter. I told him we were all screwed.” “Why would you say that?” “Toxic Friday, except it came early. Merry Christmas.” My hands were shaking. There didn’t seem to be anything I could do to get them to hold still. Hold still, hands. There. No, that’s not it. Hold still, I command you. “I’m
losing control of the Enterprise,” I said, to no one in particular.
“Henry,” Miss Wu said, as if she’d been thinking about something for a long time. “Have you forgotten to take pill #1?”
“Which one is that? “#1” “Oh, that one. I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ve forgotten to take the famous pill #1. I do not remember if I’ve forgotten. The famous pill #1 has always presented a particular
dilemma, of sorts. I simply do not have a grip on those types of questions today. Not
today.”
“Maybe you should try your room. Maybe it’s waiting for you there.” “I don’t think I want to go back to my room,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I do not, as a matter of fact.”
“What, Henry? What's wrong with your room?” I was leaning with my back against the wall, my shoulder just inches from the shaft of green light. I did not want them to touch.
“There’s nothing wrong with my room. Per se. Do you know what ‘per se’ means?
“I don’t think so.” “It means as far as I can figure out there’s nothing wrong with my room. I don’t get enough light at sunset. I don’t get any light at all at sunset, as a matter of fact. Hard to
do unless the sun decides to set in the north. That’s where all my windows face. I thought
it would be good in a magnetic field sense, but it hasn’t worked out that way.”
“Maybe it has, maybe if you go back there things will be better than they seem.” “I don’t think so. I think that’s where Toxic Friday started. And if it has I can never go back again.”
“I think you should try,” she said. “I think things will be a lot better.” “Maybe you could go with me.” “To your room?” “Yes, just to see if everything’s okay. You wouldn’t mind doing that, would you?”
Miss Wu and I had known each other more than a year, and I figured, what does she have to lose?
“You know I can’t do that, Henry. You run along now. This door’s already been open far too long.”
The green light shifted, and then snuffed out, as if it had been sucked into the room. I’d forgotten to ask Miss Wu if she had any toilet paper.
My insides, probably my upper intestine, were pumping and about to burst. I knew that with a sort of certainty. But I couldn’t stand there all day, and I knew Miss Wu,
having been once summoned, would not respond to another knock on her door.
I stood in the hallway and tried to gather my bearings. The place was like a labyrinth, sometimes. It never felt familiar, even though I’d spent every minute of the last
year here. You had to wonder about a place like that.
It being about midnight, and having been summarily dismissed by Miss Wu, I had no place left to go but my own room. This presented a problem. I hated my room. Hated
it more than anything I’d ever hated in my life. Besides, I didn’t have any freaking toilet
paper there. I stood outside my room, I don’t know, ten minutes. Maybe it was ten years.
It occurred to me that I may have been standing there, in front of my room, my entire life.
Or that maybe I was dead, and that standing in front of the doorway to my room was my
afterlife. Or perhaps I simply hadn’t caught up to the fact that I was dead, and maybe
entering through the door was a way of accepting it. I stood there and thought about these
possibilities, and sweat began to drip down my cheeks. I am not a healthy man, in the
sense of being fit the way you see on TV, and so even the slightest exertion can throw me
into a sweat. Sweating runs in my family. I believe I had a grandfather who sweat like
crazy. My doctor said it’s no big deal. But then again he says a lot of things are no big
deal. What kind of doctor is that, I’d like to know? It’s ALL a big freaking deal doctor!
Along with my sweat I was feeling a piercing pain in the abdomen. I began to think my appendix was about to burst, but the pain was emanating from a place a little
higher than the appendix ought to be. Phantom pain may account for that, I considered,
but there was also the possibility of another source. The gall bladder, perhaps. In my
condition, the gall bladder was certainly not out of the question.
After some deliberation and a considerable amount of what the people with notebooks call the fight or flight response, I managed to barge my way into my room. By
barge I mean I threw my shoulder into the effort, like Starsky or Hutch or some cop on a
stakeout. Once inside things were as bad as I expected, although I had to stand at the
doorway for about an hour to arrive at that conclusion (and even having arrived there
wasn’t sure I’d arrived with certainty).
It’s a difficult matter, rating how much you hate something. Love does not require such examination. When you love you love with consummation. With hate it’s different;
you have to figure everything down to the last detail. I hate the carpet, I hate the curtain, I
hate the bathroom tile. That sort of thing. This is what I have to do, every freaking time,
when I come home.
That is, if I can step inside the door. I have spent many nights outside, in the hallway, because I could not advance across the precipice of my own domain. That, as it
turns out, is how I first found out about Toxic Friday, so in some kind of perverse, really
f-ed-up kind of way I suppose I should be grateful. But mostly what I want is to get out of
here.
So here I was, halfway through the door, so to speak, and having thrown myself into a frenzy just to get that far, when I realized I’d spent all this effort to get someplace I
didn’t want to go -- and I thought, there’s a secret in here somewhere. Can we count cross
purposes? What the hell am I doing? So naturally my thoughts turned to planning my
escape. I was trying to coordinate this effort in my mind, gathering brain cells for the
final march is what I used to call it, when I saw that there was something on my bed.
It was a note, or looked like one. But I had to get over to the bed to make certain. This presented a dilemma, since I had just been marshaling all my forces for a move in
the other direction. I do not take to these changes of plan well, at least not immediately.
So I suppose there was another half hour involved here.
It was a rectangle of white, luminous on the bed sheet, which was also white. White on white; and I could see my name like a beacon. I wanted to sit on the edge of the
bed and relax. But this did not seem within reach, so I stood and gathered the note.
“Dearest Henry. It has been a long time since we have had to write to you in this fashion. Which is in your favor. It is important to emphasize that, because we feel there
are times, many times in fact, in which we do not receive the type of credit that we
would, rightfully we think, consider our due. But this is not a popularity contest. If it
were we would surely not do all that well, considering that we have to, more often than
we care to count, make decisions that are decidedly not all that popular, at least among
those who are affected more or less directly by our decisions. We want to be as clear as
possible about that, and hope you understand. We are not trying to make you feel bad.
It is, in fact, entirely in the opposite direction that we wish to operate. In short, we want
you to feel good, or at least better.
“Which brings us to Pill #1. It has not escaped our attention that you, dearest Henry, have not been exactly -- and here it should be noted that we are looking, devoting
considerable time in fact, toward coming up with a precise word -- exactly (oh, the word
escapes us!). Henry, why aren’t you taking Pill #1?
“It is a good pill, in the sense that a pill can be good, which we feel is the case, or at least possible, or at least existing in the realm of the possible. Good pills do not come
easily, or cheaply, and it is our wish to point this out to you in case you have missed its
salient features. On your night table Pill #1 has been waiting. Waiting and waiting, and
we fear your attempts to disguise the fact (conclusive, we feel) that you are not taking Pill
#1 may be in violation of our agreement (we are currently in the process of looking this
up). Take your pill, or there will be trouble.
“Not really. We were simply taking a moment and trying to be tough. Sometimes you have to be rough in order to get results. Certainly you, with all the troubles in your
life, can understand that. We are trying to reach some kind of agreement, some common
ground, and this is an open invitation.
“Which brings us to Miss Wu. When it comes to the subject of Miss Wu, we know what you are thinking. And please do not try to be funny about it. We don’t really
want to discuss the subject at all. But since it’s been brought up (not by us) there seems to
be little choice. Suffice it to say, at the very least, that were Miss Wu requested to take
Pill #1 (and we are not suggesting that she has been, or will be) we doubt there would be
the type of resistance that we are experiencing now. Take inspiration therefore, we
suggest, from your Muse. And please try to take Pill #1. For it is a good pill, Henry, one
that you will find on your night cabinet, where you have been finding it every night since
you volunteered (here we do not want to engage in the type of debate we’ve encountered
with a few (not you, we wish to add) about volunteerism, which we think is a
commendable activity, and it besmirches the very notion of service when one starts to
knit-pick, don’t you agree?) There are other subjects we would like to discuss, but at the
moment we feel that enough is enough. We hope you agree, and that the next time we
have to make contact it will be under more pleasurable circumstances. With all sincerity.”
It wasn’t even signed. Usually, somebody will sign something like that, considering how personal it is and everything, and considering the tone and such, and it
makes you wonder sometimes, exactly what the freak is going on. It was not like I had
ever done anything with Miss Wu that you could consider improper. I’d never even seen
the woman in person. By that I mean in the flesh, so that you could actually touch
somebody if given half the chance. But they were not interested in giving anybody so
much as half a chance, and it was clear to me that they’d been infected. And if they could
be infected, anybody could. And so it was no wonder what had happened, no wonder we
were all going to lose it. We were, as I had been telling anybody who would listen, all
screwed. Every single damn one of us.
Here’s how it would happen. First, in all likelihood, with the left foot. For some it might be the right, but that would probably depend on this right brain left brain business
that I am no good at figuring out.
Let’s just say it could be either, but more likely the left. And basically what would happen is you’d lose control. Not all at once, that would be too goddamn kind. In fact,
you wouldn’t even notice it at first. Then probably what you’d notice is the foot sliding a
bit on the pavement as you walked, lagging just a microsecond behind. If you noticed it,
you’d know you were screwed. If you didn’t, you were still screwed; you just had peace
of mind about it a little longer.
Peace of mind is what it was all about, was what I figured. The question was maintaining a mind at rest, the kind of Zen bullshit the letters were always talking about.
“Henry, you have got to get some balance,” they would say. Which, of course, is
impossible when the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing. Which is what
was happening to me. Sitting on the bed, with the pages of the letters in hand, by which I
mean both hands, it became clear to me that each of my hands, and by extension my
arms, were not in concert but acting independent of one another. My right arm tingled in
recognition of this independence and I became amazed at my ability to hold on to
anything more than a single sheet of paper at all.
I put the letter on the bed sheet and proceeded to test myself for a brain tumor. I closed my eyes and touched my nose with my right index finger, bringing the arm in a
wide arc. I then did the same with the left forefinger, and the results were likewise pretty
good, by which I mean I hit the target. I figured that sitting on the edge of the bed while
performing this exercise could be constituted as cheating. So I performed them again, this
time standing up. Then I performed them again, standing on one leg and then the other. I
discovered I had major balance issues.
I’m not exactly what you would call in shape. Though I like to think for a man my age, 38, things could be a lot worse. I could be dead, for example, but sometimes I think
that maybe that would not be worse because then you wouldn’t be worrying about
anything, right? You’d be dead, and hopefully that means your days of worry are at an
end. I decided, with some difficulty, that it was time to take a look in the mirror.
I can’t see anything when I look in the mirror. By that I mean that I see me; but I don’t receive any information that you could describe as meaningful, from it. So I guess
you could say it’s a waste of time. But I feel sometimes that you are honor bound to try,
if only because it’s you and you owe yourself some measure of respect. If that sounds
like the letter talking, you’ve caught me. That damn letter, sneaking into my brain with its
dubious commitments, its call to arms to care. I don’t care; I fear. And there’s a big
difference, although the end result is probably the same. I’d still be in this stupid place,
waiting for some freaking toilet paper so I could take a shit, finally, and be rid of this
pain. Maybe. It’s worth considering that the pain may have a different source,
unconnected to the movement of bowels. We are fragile beings and tough at the same
time. It’s not easy to kill yourself. I keep trying and it hasn’t worked yet. I’ve asked
Manfredi about this, and he says I haven’t even begun to try. “Henry,” he says. “I have
never met anyone with a stronger desire to live.”
This is bullshit. I do not have a desire to live. And I also do not have a fear of death. What I have, Herr Doktor, is a fear of life. Fear of life is much worse, at least
while you are alive. Who knows how you feel about things when you are dead? See the
difference? Probably not. I can’t get most people to capture that reasoning, the simple
truth behind it. But this is what impending bowel movement will do to you.
I was staring at the ceiling, the extremely white ceiling, with every light on in the room. When I say every light I am referring to the precisely five lights: one that came
with the room and the four which I possess, and which I plan to donate to the room when
I am gone. I do not mean to be mysterious about this. I am not talking about checking out
in the ultimate sense. I’m talking about getting the hell out of this place.
So when I do, the room will have no more use to me. Who needs a room in a house you’re never going to return to? And I am going to get out, as soon as possible. In
the meantime I was staring at the ceiling.
And then at some point I fell asleep. The reason I recognized this is that I had a dream.
I don’t want to give the impression that I haven’t had women. I have had women. Plenty of them, in fact, although I suppose it all hinges on what you mean when you say
plenty. Let’s just say I’ve had my share. And if you’re the type that demands specifics
you can try about five on for size. Five relationships and I’m not even 40, and I figure
you’ve got to subtract at least 15 years while a guy’s busy trying to figure out what
the hell is going on. And of course the last year has been a waste, at least as far as the
opposing gender is concerned, and probably about a year before, during which time I had
other things to worry about, or I guess you could say I just wasn’t all that interested.
Sally. That’s my favorite name, and if you have to ask why you don’t understand the nature of things like favorite names. Or favorite anythings for that matter. I can’t
stand it when people ask you to explain. My favorite color is blue. Why? Who the hell
knows? And who the hell cares?
But Sally’s different, because I went out with her just because of her name. I’m not saying she was crummy to look at or anything. She had her assets. All girls do. I’m
just saying she took a little getting used to, and the name helped. So try to figure that one
out.
Or don’t. I don’t really care one way or another. The point is that not even a girl like Sally would give a second look to me now, now that I’d been poisoned and expected
to turn green at any moment. Either that or yellow. I kept checking my eyes for signs of
rheumatism. Nothing yet, but it was all a matter of time.
Looking into the mirror, I’ve found, is an entirely unreliable way of checking for such things. Or checking anything for that matter. You simply can’t see crap looking at a
mirror, because what’s inside you keeps getting in the way. I know my eyes burn, for
example. They feel like they’re on fire every day, all the time. So you’d think that would
show up in an examination in front of the mirror, but no such luck. All I get is this pudgy
faced fellow with a receding hairline, around the temples. And I think, who the hell
would want to go anywhere near this guy?
Some of these things occupied my mind while I was in bed, pretending to try to get some sleep, because pretending is about as close as I can get. But mostly it was just
feeling raw, like some wild animal must feel. All immediate experience and no
opportunity to consider what it all means. That was me on most days, thanks to the toxic
nature of my existence.
According to my calculations, I had gotten precisely no sleep in about three hours of lying on the bed. The dream meant nothing. The guys who write the letters say it’s
because I don’t engage in the activity of sleeping, by which I assumed they mean I don’t
bother to get under the covers. But that’s something I can’t quite bring myself to do. It
means getting inside of something, and once you’re inside something there’s no
guarantee you’ll ever be able to get out. Take where I am at the moment as a classic
example. This is what happens when you make a mistake and can’t find your way out of
it. So put that in your sleep pipe and smoke it.
I want it recorded that I took a good hard look at the canister containing the collection of Pill #1 before I headed out the door. It was on the night table, under the
mirror, and I thought I’d sneak a quick peek to make sure I hadn’t grown an extra head
during the night. I hadn’t. It was the same old flabby faced Henry staring back at me,
with each of his features on the wrong side. But I was grateful to see I hadn’t grown
significantly older in recent days, because I figured that was likely to happen to a life
deprived of sleep and toilet paper, which I now resolved to pursue with a determination
even Manfredi would be impressed with.
First I had to do something about the pile of papers, which were scattered over the bedside, like a row of tipped dominoes, as if their trail were leading to something. I found
I didn’t have the energy to pick them up, so instead I edged around them, making my way
into the bathroom. I thought it would be worth one last check, one good last check, to see
if there was any toilet paper. There wasn’t, but it was worth the check. It has happened
before. Then I looked in the mirror and saw nothing.
The clock on my mantle, near Pill #1, was broken, I discovered. Either that or it was simply in a state of dysfunction, which is something I could identify with, owing to
the neighborhood I lived in. The second hand was still moving along, but the others were
stuck at about 1:20, which would have put me in bed for ten minutes, which was highly
unlikely considering I’d had this feverish freaking nightmare involving ants crawling up
my spine. It was a recurring dream, I guess you could say, and it totally freaked me out,
because I am not one for crawly things.
The memory of the dream put me in a fit. My heart rate jumped, I’m pretty sure of that, and I thought, I’d better go get help. So by the time I knew the next thing I was out
in the hallway, heading for Miss Wu’s. Except I wasn’t intending to pay Miss Wu a visit.
Visits to her should be kept to a minimum, I’ve learned. Miss Wu may have the smell of
soft pillows but that doesn’t mean she can’t be hard now and then, and odds are you don’t
want to take the chance that she will be in one of her moods. Manfredi was much more
predictable, probably because he was absolutely certifiably nuts, whereas with Miss Wu
there was some doubt.
“I don’t think you’ve got that right,” said Manfredi, responding to my knock on his door. “This is not the social services division. Oh, Henry. It’s you.”
“Were you expecting someone else?” It was supposed to be a joke, but I’m afraid my voice betrayed me, lending a little more sincerity than I was planning to deliver.
“I never expect anyone, Henry. Anyone or anything. As a scientist I never want to be prepared.”
He waited, watching me intently, but I didn’t notice that for a minute. Rolls of toilet paper were dangling around his head. It was like he had mad curlers on or
something.
“Don’t you want to know why I never want to be prepared?” he asked. “Actually, I had a question.”
“I never want to be prepared because that will give me a predilection or, even worse, an expectation. When you expect something to happen it can be very dangerous,
Henry. You’re bound to be disappointed, for one thing. And for another, the mere a
expecting is sordid. It demeans us to want something, by its very nature. Most people
don’t seem to have an understanding of that, which is why I hardly ever talk to anyone.
But you, Henry, are so dutiful and kind, if I may say so, in your constant attention toward
me and my work, although I can’t imagine why a young man like yourself would be
caught up in such esoteric study, when clearly you could be out scavenging for something
better. Women come to mind, and in particular a certain Miss Wu, who -- I have heard
you say -- contains a certain element not unlike roses. Or perhaps that was mistaken. It
was maybe the quality of something else to which you were referring. No matter, Henry.
She’s a fine woman and you should be off with her.”
Manfredi had never spoken to me like this, and I figured it was a direct result, somehow, or perhaps an indirect result of a direct cause, in this case Toxic Friday, that
had caused him to go off his marble.
The world is orange, I wanted to say to him, just to see what would happen. “The world is orange, Doctor.”
“Of course it is. Why would it be anything else? Listen, Henry, I’d love to stand here and chat about these things. Discourse is food, after all. But there’s this little matter
of the universe I’ve been attending to, its nature and the multi-stratified flavor of its
elements so I should have to ask you to move on.”
“You have no idea what you’re saying.” “What do you mean?” “You’re a crazy fuck. You’re out of your freaking mind.” Manfredi considered this for a moment. He did that thing with his chin, rubbing it between his fingers. “Now listen, Henry,” he said. “If you’re going to be rude it will get
us precisely nowhere. Nothing ever good came of ill manners. I can tell you that for a
fact.”
I gave this considerable thought, and did the thing with the fingers and chin myself, just so Manfredi could see I was being sincere, totally freaking sincere about
things. “Look,” I said. “You’re fucking nuts. What’s the deal with all this toilet paper?
What does all that mean unless you’re totally off your gourd?”
“A gourd would come in handy, actually,” he said. “If you come across one, Henry, please be sure to secure it for me, would you? I could make great use of a gourd,
now that you mention it.”
“Sure,” I said. “The next time I see one, it’s yours. Now, look, Doctor. About the toilet paper...”
“It signifies potential gateways into the fourth dimension ..." “All I want is one roll ..." “Every one holds its own unique, distinct possibility.” “I won’t even use the whole thing, but dammit it all, I need one.” “You can’t have it, Henry. You have to consider the higher purpose here.” There was something funny about the way my teeth felt. It was the way my tongue pressed against the roof of the mouth, a familiar landscape that had always
seemed as alien as the flip side of the moon. Where is that ridge from, the one that lines
the edge of the front teeth and dissipates as it hears the incisors? There is something
entirely creepy about the insides of the mouth, and for a moment I could allow myself to
experience it as the only world available to experience, as if the entire planet of existence
were interior, not of thought, but of sensory examination. You cannot feel your liver,
unless you pound it into pain, nor any other organ or interior landscape of the body,
unless something is going wrong and the nervous system is trying to alert you of said
fact. The only inside of you that you can touch is the mouth, and what a strange world it
is.
“Henry?” Ugh, said the moose to his shepherd. Ungawa, said his bride. Do you want me to say something that is going to make sense? No can do, Monsieur testosterone. Having
said all these things I would like to take a bath, if it is only too long to say goodbye and
for the most part we can make do without anything, including parting. Include farting.
Put that into your calculations, if you could be so kind. It won’t take a minute, and for
that I would be eternally grateful, or eternally grapefruit depending on your point of fruit.
This was not going to go well with the acting academy, to whom my gratitude is
insufferable. Help me find a way to say the things that are so hard to find. Help me say
something.
Keep me talking, because there is no other way out. Take the effort to say something. That is what the letters are always saying, after all. That and Pill #1. Let’s take it together, you and I. Togetherness is a lonely topic.
You can have dreams that you are flying. You can do it, after all.
“Henry,” said the Doctor. “Tell me about Toxic Friday.” Hey Stephane. Lighten up. That’s what they all say. At which point do you think advice about Toxic Friday would be particularly penetrating?
Do we want to say these things or is it okay to just think them and move on? No matter. Bulls will be bulls. Excuse me, monsieur le director, but exactly, precisely at what point do you expect me to care?
Manfredi seems to be taking this all in, no matter how it’s being presented. Which, as should be obvious about now, is beyond me. I tell the doctor to take a nap. Or
make it snappy. It doesn’t really matter which. Hello you beautiful boy. Time to bring the
basket in.
“Henry, why don’t you come in and sit down. I’ve got something I want to show you anyway.”
It occurs to me that there may be toilet paper in the bathroom as well. You may wonder why it took so long to arrive at this fairly obvious notion, and for that I have no
defense. I am simply not feeling well. So would you mind handing out a break. Would a
little kindness and understanding be all that difficult?
Manfredi appears to take this in intuitively. This is why some people are doctors and some people, like you and I, are not. We are all in the same cage after all.
It was way too late. That was the point, after all. And it didn’t matter if you were a doctor or not, because everybody’s a doctor, in one sense or another. And nobody is, in
the same sense. If that is a contradiction you can’t handle, tough darts.
I ask Manfredi if I can use his bathroom, which I suspect may be a mistake. There’s this innate politeness about me I find annoying. Why is it that everything I do is
wrong? Why can’t I do something right, or, more importantly, why can’t something work
out in my favor, just freaking once?
“I have no problem with your using my bathroom, Henry.” Manfredi is distracted, as if I’ve already left the room and he’s already trying to figure out what to do next. I head on over to his bathroom, before he can change his
mind. But guess freaking what? When I get inside there’s no freaking toilet paper in
there. Can you believe that one?
I guess I should have expected this. For a moment I consider getting violent, extremely violent. Not against any person or anything. That part of my training has been
completed (robot voice). So now, how about a little loving kindness (nice Henry voice),
or better yet, how about some nice freaking toilet paper. A couple of the smallest,
thinnest sheets will do.
“Doctor,” I say upon exiting the bathroom. “You’re out of toilet paper.” Manfredi actually laughs at this one. Very freaking funny. “Henry,” he says. “If there’s one thing I have, and have in abundance, it’s, as you say, freaking toilet paper. I
understand that you are trying to avoid saying fuck when you say freak. Did somebody
teach you that, do you mind if I ask?”
“Freaking right.” “Very funny. You are a guy to make one laugh, that’s for sure. Let me ask you a question, Henry. Exactly what is it about toilet paper that you covet so much?”
“I’m sorry, doctor. But what do you think?” “What I think doesn’t really matter as much as your assumptions. Now I figure you think you need toilet paper in order to, shall we say, tie your shoes. But what makes
you think toilet paper is an essential part of tying your shoes? Most people would just go
ahead and tie them. But no, for you, Henry, everything has to be perfect. You won’t even
think about tying your shoes without toilet paper. I submit that here is an essential part of
your mania.”
“I don’t have any mania.” “We all have a mania, Henry. Discovering our particular, individual mania is what it’s all about. That’s what makes the world go round.”
“What, craziness?” “In a sense, precisely. Without madness we couldn’t survive. Not one of us. Even those who presume to be the caretakers need madness, more than they realize. Actually,
some of them don’t realize they need it at all, and they are the poorer souls of all. We
should feel grateful.”
“That’s all fine and good. But I have a problem.” “And that would be?” “We’re being poisoned.” “Of course we are! Why should we be any different?” It’s Christmas, thought Henry, no longer being me. Why should I care about any of this? Why should anything matter? Go ahead, kill me. Make me write bad checks.
“Why should I care?”
“Henry, I think it’s time to see Miss Wu, who, as you say, is of the nature of soft flowers, or something like that. It’s time to leave me alone, Henry. Move on, and get
better.”
“There is no getting better,” said Henry, who still did not belong to me. I am not what he was, nor should I be. It’s Christmas, after all. He who died for our sins, and our
sins are many. Let us have it like this forever and ever, amen. Say that with grace. Glory
to God in the highest.
Henry left without toilet paper, though he could have grabbed all he wanted. He could have taken down the universe and made it his own. It occurred to Henry that the
universe was made of stuff he could have wiped himself with, and the thought made him
thankful. We are the stuff of stars. We are the stuff of shit. Same difference.
However, Miss Wu was not going to understand. Even if she allows me to see her, thought Henry, now thinking clearly and in the grace of the All Mighty. Help is on the
way.
Henry stood at the precipice and decided it was a good place for some solid thinking. He checked his pulse and wondered about things like hypertension. How fast
was the blood coursing through his veins? Only Miss Wu could tell, and only he could
help.
Jeffery Kurz lives in Connecticut. He is a Meridian Rock-Journal reporter and his previous work has been published in Salon.com |
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© 2006 Underground Voices |
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