Thomas Disch - 334

“I know! The movie we saw on teevee the other night when Mom wouldn’t shut up, the Japanese movie, remember? Do you remember the fire festival, the song they sang? I forget the exact words, but the idea was that you should let life burn you up. That’s what I want. I want life to burn me up.

“So that’s what heaven is then. Heaven is the fire that does that, a huge roaring bonfire with lots of little Japanese women dancing around it and every so often they let out a great shout and one of them rushes into it. Whoof!”

“One of the rules in the magazine was that you can’t mention other people by name. Otherwise I could just say, ‘Heaven would be if I were living with January’ and then describe that. But if you’re describing a relationship, you don’t let yourself imagine all you could and so you learn nothing.

“So where does that leave me?

“Visualize, it said.

“Okay. Well, there’s grass in heaven, because I can see myself standing in grass. But it isn’t the country, not with cows and such. And it can’t be a park, because the grass in parks is either sickly or you can’t walk on it. It’s beside a highway. A highway in Texas! Let’s say in nineteen-fifty-three. It’s a clear, clear day in nineteen-fifty-three, and I can see the highway stretching on and on past the horizon.

“Endlessly.

“Then what? Then I’ll want to drive on the highway, I suppose. But notby myself, that would be anxiety-making. So I’ll break the rule and let January drive. If we’re on a motorcycle, it’s scarcely a relationship, is it?

“Well, our motorcycle is going fast, it’s going terribly fast, and there are cars and gigantic trucks going almost as fast as we are. Toward that horizon. We weave in and out, in and out. Faster we go, and faster and faster.

“Then what? I don’t know. That’s as far as I see.

“Now it’s your turn.”

“What do I feel? Angry. Afraid. Sorry for myself. I don’t know. I feel a bit of everything, but not— Oh, this is silly. I don’t want to be wasting everyone’s time with—

“Well, I’ll try it. Just say the one thing over and over until— What happens?

“I love you. There, that wasn’t so bad. I love you. I love you, January. I love you, January. January, I love you. January, I love you. If she were here it would be a lot easier, you know. Okay, okay. I love you. I love you. I love your big warm boobs. I’d like to squeeze them. And I love your … I love your juicy black cunt. How about that? I do. I love all of you. I wish we were together again. I wish I knew where you were so you’d know that. I don’t want the baby, any babies, I want you. I want to be married. To you. For all time. I love you.

“Keep going?

“I love you. I love you. I love you very much. And that’s a lie. I hate you. I can’t stand you. You appall me, with your stupidity, with your vulgarity, with your third-hand ideas that you take off the party line like— You bore me. You bore me to tears. You’re dumb nigger scum! Nigger bitch. Stupid! And I don’t care if—

“No, I can’t. It’s not there. I’m just saying the words because I know you want to hear them. Love, hate, love, hate—words.

“It isn’t that I’m resisting. But I don’t feel what I’m saying, and that’s the truth. Either way. The only thing I feel is tired. I wish I were home watching teevee instead of wasting everyone’s time. For which I apologize.

“Somebody else say something and I’ll shut up.”

“Your problem,” he told her, as they were rocking home in the RR after the big nonbreakthrough, “is that you’re not willing to accept your own mediocrity.”

“Oh shut up,” she said. “I mean that sincerely.”

“It’s my own problem, just as much. Even more so, perhaps. Why do you think I’ve gone so long now without doing any work? It isn’t that if I started in nothing would happen. But when I’m all done I look at what I’m left with and I say to myself, ‘No, not enough.’ In effect that’s what you were saying tonight.”

“I know you’re trying to be nice, Willy, but it doesn’t help. There’s no comparison between your situation and mine.”

“Sure there is. I can’t believe in my pictures. You can’t believe in your love affairs.”

“A love affair isn’t some goddamn work of art.” The spirit of argument had caught hold of Shrimp. Williken could see her struggling out of her glooms as though they were no more than a wet swimsuit. Good old Shrimp!

“Isn’t it?” he prompted.

She plunged after the bait without a thought. “You at least try to do something. There’s an attempt. I’ve never gone that far. I suppose if I did I would be what you say—mediocre.”

“You attempt too—ever so visibly.”

“What?” she asked.

She wanted to be torn to pieces (no one at the Asylum had bothered even to scream at her), but Williken didn’t rise above irony. “I try to do something; you try to feel something. You want an inner life, a spiritual life if you prefer. And you’ve got it. Only no matter what you do, no matter how you squirm to get away from the fact, it’s mediocre. Not bad. Not poor.”

“Blessed are the poor in spirit. Eh?”

“Exactly. But you don’t believe that and neither do I. You know who we are? We’re the scribes and Pharisees.”

“Oh, that’s good.”

“You’re a bit more cheerful now.”

Shrimp pulled a long face. “I’m laughing on the outside.”

“Things could be a lot worse.”

“How?”

“You might be a loser. Like me.”

“And I’m a winner instead? You can say that! After you saw me there tonight?”

“Wait,” he promised her. “Just wait.”

“Bulgaria!” Milly exclaimed, and it took no special equipment to know that her next words were going to be: “I’ve been to Bulgaria.”

“Why don’t you get out your slides and show us,” Boz said, clamping the lid gently on her ego. Then, though he knew, he asked, “Whose turn is it?”

January snapped to attention and shook the dice. “Seven!” She counted out seven spaces aloud, ending up on Go to Jail. “I hope I stay there,” she said cheerfully. “If I land on Boardwalk again that’s the end of the game for me.” She said it so hopefully.

“I’m trying to remember,” Milly said, elbow propped on the table, the dice held aloft, time and the game in suspense, “what it was like. All that comes back is that people told jokes there. You had to sit and listen for hours to jokes. About breasts.” A look passed between them and another look passed between January and Shrimp.

Boz, though he’d have liked to retaliate with something gross, rose above it. He sat straighter in his chair, while in languid contrast his left hand dipped toward the dish of hot snaps. So much tastier cold.

Milly shook. Four: her cannon landed on theb & O. She paid Shrimp $200, and shook again. Eleven: her token came down on one of her own properties.

The Monopoly set was an heirloom from the O’Meara side of the family. The houses and hotels were wood, the counters lead. Milly, as ever, had the cannon, Shrimp had the little racing car, Boz had the battleship, and January had the flatiron. Milly and Shrimp were winning. Boz and January were losing. C’est la vie.

“Bulgaria,” Boz said, because it was such a fine thing to say, but also because his duty as a host required him to lead the conversation back to the interrupted guest. “But why?”