Stephen Wright - Meditations in Green

She stepped warily into the room. “I can feel his presence. It hangs about like greasy smoke. It clings.”

“Yes, well, there have been a couple ‘incidents’ since last we spoke.”

“Let me sit down.”

“Trips found Sergeant Anstin and is at present feverishly engaged in plotting against the man’s sanity and life. I, on the other hand, have begun hallucinating freely, even during daylight hours.”

“What a pair.”

“The Aquarian Abbott and Costello.”

“I thought you had turned over a new leaf.”

“Apparently it had bugs on the bottom.”

She smiled. Dimples and the chipped tooth. I loved that tooth.

“At least your eyes, I see, are relatively clear.”

“Walden ponds of limpidity.”

“What’s this head business?”

“My botanical life has become a shade unruly. Things grow whether I want them to or not. I try to pretend not to notice. They keep growing. Now I’m trying to pretend to be used to them. Motley faces gloating off the walls, broad green fingers reaching out. I don’t know what’s gone wrong. I have a session with Arden next week.”

“I knew this would happen sooner or later, stuff growing right out of you, you’ve always been so full of shit.”

“Everyone is so sympathetic.”

“People in your condition should not be indulged.”

“What condition is that?”

“Vegetopsychosis. Donahue did an hour on it last month.”

“Did you know your eyes have got these soft maroon crescents under them?”

“A new look I’m experimenting with. Haute Fatigue. The fashion for today’s up-to-the-minute woman.”

“Like you’ve had an injection under each lid.”

“A bitch of a week. I’ve an ‘incident’ to report, too. You know the world goes on out there…”

“Coherent as a stroke victim.”

“…yes, and hemorrhaging is everywhere. This is a story from work. Did you catch me on TV Monday?”

“Trips and I were at a Marshall Thompson film festival. You were on television?”

“Channel 4 Action News.”

“Someone planted a bomb at the welfare office.”

“No, not yet.”

“Your supervisor leaped from her window.”

“Don’t we wish.”

“Is this a tale of woe and desperation? You know how much I like those.”

“You’ll be in ecstasy over Altoona Brown.”

“Altoona?”

“She has a brother Scranton.”

“And a sister Towanda.”

“How did you know?”

“It’s one of my favorite states.”

“Mrs. Brown is a remarkable woman. She’s got eight kids seven months to nineteen years. She’s got arthritis, bad teeth, and a dream she will meet a man at the laundromat who’s got a bed and money she can share. She hasn’t got a job or a live-in husband. Anyway, last Monday Charles, the father of at least half the children—she can’t be more specific as to number—showed up at the door, knocked her down, stole every cent in the house, which was every cent she had, and left threatening to return at the end of the week for more. She didn’t know what to do. That night Charles broke in, locked her in the bedroom with him, and apparently initiated a resumption of conjugal activity. In the morning she called me to ask for money. I told her if she came down to the office, filled out some forms, we could probably give her some food stamps and pay her utility bills. But no cash. Charles got on the phone. He said no one was leaving the apartment until he got some money, the woman and the kids were getting free money and he, who hadn’t had a job in six years and couldn’t get one because of a poor work record which wasn’t his fault at all but was due to his liver that had had jaundice when he was a poor little baby, he wanted his share too. He also said that I was a white cunt bitch. My supervisor called the police. An hour later the police called me. Mrs. Brown wished to speak with her case worker in person. I went down there and stood in front of a door while Mrs. Brown asked me to look after her children. She was certain they’d get good care from me because I wasn’t one of the ones who spoke with disrespect or spied on her home. Charles yelled that I was a white cunt bitch. He told the police he wanted lots of money and for him and the woman to be flown to Algiers where Eldridge Cleaver went before God messed up his mind. There were negotiations. The police said he could have his money and plane ticket right after the hostages were released. Charles shouted out that he was going to tie up Mrs. Brown, hang her from the ceiling, and give her a spin. Whichever kid her head happened to be pointing at when she stopped, that’s the first kid to go out the window. Charles was having a real good time. By midafternoon, realizing he was going nowhere, he said everyone could leave if he could just be allowed one decent meal with his wife before going off to prison. He wanted a thick porterhouse medium rare, a baked potato with sour cream, a green salad, and one bottle of Chivas Regal with ice.”

“Chivas Regal?”

“International financiers sip it in magazine ads Charles had seen. The police said they’d be glad to serve him as soon as the children came out. Almost immediately there was a sound of sharp blows and Mrs. Brown began screaming. The police took down the door. Charles was standing in the middle of the room with a belt in his hand. Mrs. Brown was seated on the couch with the children gathered around her. ‘I guess I’m caught,’ Charles said. Everyone was smiling, even the babies. It was a big joke. All the way down the stairs and out to the wagon Charles kept asking if they’d settle for a hamburger, just one burger and a Coke, that’s all he wanted before being shut away.”

“Did he get it?”

“He got an official knee in the crotch.”

“A great menace weighs over the city.”

“So you’ve told me.”

“There’s gross vegetation coming up through the pavement, the lobsters are crawling out of their tanks at Captain Jack’s Loins and Claws.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“You’re known now, you’re a heroine of the evening news.”

“I was on for fifteen seconds.”

“Every slimy creep and cheesehead with a portable TV is gonna be after you. The Dolly Doughnut of Social Services. The phone’s never gonna stop.”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“I’ll have to shadow you all over town, skulk around corners, a wrinkled trench coat and a rolled-up newspaper.”

“Oh no you won’t.”

“In my pocket the hand’s friend, a packed Luger.”

“You see, this is what happens when that maniac hangs around. Guns, paranoia, delirium. He’s gonna pop out of a closet any minute, isn’t he?”

“I think he’s out touring local wrecking companies. He mentioned something about the beauty of smashed windows, twisted steel. The aesthetics of junk. Salvage yards as museums.”

“And where does he sleep, in a Dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant?”

“He’s here, on and off.”

“Why, I would like to know, is he even at large?”

“He’s not as bad as you think.”

“This is the guy who masturbated on the television. Right on the warm screen.”

“Maybe he liked the show.”

“Maybe he hated it. God, you people.”

“Someone’s got to be there to talk, to listen at least.”

“He’s a terrorist. Like Charles. He shouldn’t be out on the streets.”

“Who should?”

Later that night we fell into bed and learned that painted patterns on the wall were not always dependable magic. The bedclothes severed her legs. Shadows tore scoops of flesh from her side. The moonlight burned her face. Outside in the street the sirens wailed all night long.

After my return from foreign fields there were periods when things (lampshades, door knobs, bathroom mirrors) began to move with unusual velocity. The trees wriggled more than the wind required, the walls performed a visible suspiration, faces defied resolution. I stood on a long metal bridge, back braced against a concrete post, and watched the traffic until my eyes hurt and my jaw ached from the action of the chewing gum.