Thomas Disch - 334

“Tralla goody ala troddy chaunt. Net nosse betnosse keyscope namallim. Zarbos ha zarbos myer, zarbos roldo teneview menevent. Daney, daney, daney sigs, daney sigs. Chonery ompolla rop!”

Or:

“Dabsa bobby nasa sana dubey. Lo fornival lo fier. Ompolla meny, leasiest mell. Woo—lubba dever ever onna. Woo—molit ule. Nok! Nok! Nok!”

Shrimp’s hangup was having babies—first the begetting, with the sperm; then the foetus growing inside her; finally the completed baby coming out. Since the Regents’ System had gone into effect it was a fairly widespread syndrome, compulsory contraception having hit many of the old myths and icons with hurricane force, but with Shrimp it took a special form. She had enough psychoanalysis to understand her perversion but she went on having babies anyhow.

Shrimp had been thirteen years old and still a virgin, when her mother had gone to the hospital to be injected with a new son. The operation had had a doubly supernatural quality—the sperm had come from a man five years dead and the result was so clearly intended to be a replacement for the son Mrs. Hanson had lost in the riot: Boz was Jimmie Tom reborn. So when Shrimp had fantasies of the syringe going up into her own womb, it was a ghost that filled her, and its name was incest. The fact that it had to be a woman who did it for her to get excited probably made it even more multiple incest.

The first two, Tiger and Thumper, had not presented any problems on the rational level. She could tell herself that millions of women did it, that it was the only ethical way for homosexuals to procreate, that the children themselves were happier and better off growing up in the country or wherever with professional attention, and so on through a dozen other rationalizations, including the best of all, money. Subsidized motherhood certainly beat the pittance she could get killing herself for Con Ed or the even deadlier fates she’d met after she’d been fired from that. Logically what could be better than to be paid for what you craved?

Even so, through both pregnancies and the contractual months of motherhood she suffered attacks of unreasoning shame so intense that she often thought of donating herself and the baby to the charity of the river. (If her hangup had been feet she’d have been ashamed to walk. You can’t argue with Freud.)

The third was another story. January, though she was willing to go along with the thing on the fantasy level, was firmly opposed to the fantasy being acted out. But going in and filling out the forms, what was that but enjoying the fantasy at an institutional level? At her age and having had two already, it didn’t seem likely that her application would be approved, and when it was, the temptation to go in for the interview was irresistible. It was all irresistible right up to the moment that she was spread out on the white platform, with her feet in the chrome stirrups. The motor purred, and her pelvis was tipped forward to receive the syringe, and it was as though the heavens opened and a hand came down to stroke the source of all pleasures at the very center of her brain. Mere sex offered nothing to compare.

Not till she was home from her weekend in the Caribbean of delight did she give any thought to what her vacation would cost. January had threatened to leave her when she’d heard about Tiger and Thumper, who were then ancient history. What would she do in this case? She would leave her.

She confessed one particularly fine Thursday in April after a late breakfast from Betty Crocker. Shrimp was into her fifth month and couldn’t go on much longer calling her pregnancy menopause. “Why?” January asked, with what seemed a sincere unhappiness. “Why did you do it?”

Having prepared herself to cope with anger, Shrimp resented this detour into pathos. “Because. Oh, you know. I explained that.”

“You couldn’t stop yourself?”

“I couldn’t. Like the other times—it was as though I were in a trance.”

“But you’re over it now?”

Shrimp nodded, amazed at how easily she was being let off the hook.

“Then get an abortion.”

Shrimp pushed a crumb of potato around with the tip of her spoon, trying to decide whether there’d be any purpose in seeming to go along with the idea for a day or two.

January mistook her silence for yielding. “You know it’s the only right thing to do. We discussed it and you agreed.”

“I know. But the contracts are signed.”

“You mean you won’t. You want another fucking baby!”

January flipped. Before she knew what she was doing it was done, and they both stood staring at the four tiny hemispheres of blood that welled up, swelled, conjoined, and flowed down into the darkness of Shrimp’s left armpit. The guilty fork was still in January’s hand. Shrimp gave a belated scream and ran into the bathroom.

Safe inside she kept squeezing further droplets from the wound.

January banged and clattered.

“Jan?” addressing the crack of the bolted door.

“You better stay in there. The next time I’ll use a knife.”

“Jan, I know you’re angry. You’ve got every right to be angry. I admit that I’m in the wrong. But wait, Jan. Wait till you see him before you say anything. The first six months are so wonderful. You’ll see. I can even get an extension for the whole year if you want. We’ll make a fine little family, just the—”

A chair smashed through the paper paneling of the door. Shrimp shut up. When she screwed up the courage to peek out through the torn door, not much later, the room was in a shambles but empty. January had taken one of the cupboards, but Shrimp was sure she’d be back if only to evict her. The room was January’s, after all, not Shrimp’s. But when she returned, late in the afternoon, from the therapy of a double feature ( The Black Rabbit and Billy McGlory at the Underworld) the eviction had already been accomplished, but not by January, who had gone west, taking love from Shrimp’s life, as she supposed, forever.

Her welcome back to 334 was not as cordial as she could have wished but in a couple days Mrs. Hanson was brought round to seeing that Shrimp’s loss was her own gain. The spirit of family happiness returned officially on the day Mrs. Hanson asked “What are you going to call this one?”

“The baby, you mean?”

“Yeah. it. You’ll have to name it something, won’t you? How about Fudge? Or Puddle?” Mrs. Hanson, who’d given her own children unexceptionable names, openly disapproved of Tiger’s being called Tiger, and Thumper Thumper, even though the names, being unofficial, didn’t stick once the babies were sent off.

“No. Fudge is only nice for a girl, and Puddle is vulgar. I’d rather it were something with more class.”

“How about Flapdoodle then?”

“Flapdoodle!” Shrimp went along with the joke, grateful for any joke togo along with. “Flapdoodle! Wonderful! Flapdoodle it’ll be. Flapdoodle Hanson.”

Flapdoodle Hanson was born on August 29, 2024, but as she had been a sickly vegetable and was not, as an animal, any healthier, Shrimp returned to 334 alone. She received her weekly check just the same, and the rest was a matter of indifference. The excitement had gone out of the notion of babies. She understood the traditional view that women bring forth children in sorrow.

On September 18 Williken jumped or was pushed out of the window of his apartment. His wife’s theory was that he hadn’t paid off the super for the privilege of operating his various small businesses in the darkroom, but what wife wants to believe her husband will kill himself without so much as a discussion of the theory? Juan’s suicide, not much more than two months before, made Williken’s seem justifiable by comparison.