Katherine Dunn - Geek Love

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The debate is over glands. Should mammaries and testicles be included in progress? (Should they be amputated?) And if so, at what stage of progress, as a final liberating gesture or as preliminary preparation …?

Different committee members present arguments, pro and con, then Arty decides

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Today’s conclusion — glands should be included in progress. Order to be taken under advisement by Arturo — decision to be handed down later

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Case of Admitted #264: Logan M., thirty-four years old — has tithed smallest fingers on each hand. Personal history: Second son of moderately successful insurance salesman and a nurse, raised in Kansas town, pop. 850

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Midwestern University and Chicago. Master’s degree in social work. Six years as welfare case worker, no advancement. Three years as juvenile counselor. Two children. Wife (now living in Grand Rapids with kids) has filed for divorce

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Arturan Administrator Theta Moore says Logan M. was rational when admitted but has slipped during progress

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Logan M. lives in a seven-year-old Chevrolet sedan, leases wheelchair. Appears daily at

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A.M

. in show camp with big plastic bag full of day-old bread, used and discarded burger buns, pie crusts, etc. He goes to the cat wagon, parks in front of the screen, and spends an hour or more watching the tigers, leopards, and lions. He scatters the pastry leavings on the ground in front of the cat cage

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Logan M. no longer communicates verbally except to sing — in a cracked falsetto—“Up to the Land of Kitties!” repeatedly

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CASE DISPOSITION

: Arturo says Logan M. will go to the Missouri Arturan rest home (Camp #2 near Independence) and will be denied further progress because, Arty says, “He’s off his nut.”

Conscious decision making is a requisite for progress

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Arturo Binewski, in conversation with N. Sanderson:

“… if they hang around in groups and avoid outsiders it’s not my doing. People generally stick with those who agree with them, anyway

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“… Isolation is a standard cult technique but I don’t use it. It’s standard procedure to get the poor buggers in a low moment, hustle them off to the boonies, and surround them with a strong-arm/soft-spiel combo. How could I do that? I’m a traveling show! Do I seal them into trains and add cars as I make converts? Colonies or communes or reservations are expensive and hard to manage. I’ve got a weird civil service-style bureaucracy taking hold as it is, and it’s a pain in the ass. I don’t mind being lord of all I survey but I don’t want to have to work at it. It just wouldn’t be practical

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“As it is, I don’t need all that crap. For what I’ve got to say, the more exposure the folks have to the outside world, the better

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Feed ’em newspapers, TV, world reports. Tell ’em about terrorist attacks, mass murders, disease, divorce, crooked politicians, pollution, war and rumors of war! Then go ahead and tell ’em that only fools and half-wits join my outfit. The first half of the news cancels out that particular message. Let the relatives and lovers loose on ’em. All they can stand. Because it’s the world that drives them to me. You news guys are my allies. Those soggy wives and cheating husbands and nagging, nutso parents are my best friends

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“Didn’t you, yourself, turn your back on the whole caboodle? Say the hell with it, and walk away? Truth is, I don’t need tricks and traps and brainwashing because I’m giving the poor sorry sons-abitches what they crave more than air

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“See, there’s a difference between advertisin’ and proselytisin’, Norval honey. All I have to do is let ’em know I’m here and what I stock — corrective surgery! And cheap at the price!”

Arturo Binewski, in conversation with N. Sanderson:

“… No. No children. My minimum age limit is twenty-one and I’m thinking about raising it to twenty-five very soon. Once in a while we get some maniac who wants his nine-year-old son or his four-year-old daughter enrolled. No indeed. Not my meat

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“Figure it this way. You will anyhow. You been hanging around politics long enough. I was brought up in a country that claims you’re innocent until you’re proven guilty. We protect children because they have not yet proven themselves to be hamstrung shit-holes. Granted, the odds are lousy that they’ll turn out any other way but it’s been known to happen. Isn’t that how you figure it? Seeing how you think I’m punishing all these folks anyway?

“But here, I’ll tell you another way to look at it too, just for fun. I figure a kid doesn’t choose. They don’t know enough to choose between chocolate and strawberry, much less between life and limblessness. Say, just for argument’s sake, that I’m really serious in my own mind about what I offer. Just say I really think this is a sanctuary. Well, the whole deal depends on choice. I want people who know what life has to offer and choose to turn their backs on it. I want no virgins unless they’re sixty years old. I want no peach-cheeked babes who may be down tonight but will have a whole new attitude after their morning bowel movement. I want the losers who know they’re losers. I want those who have a choice of tortures and pick me

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“I counted up the converts two nights ago and we’ve got a Fully Blessed roll of 750 in three years and another 5,000 who have worked past their first ten digits. You got to figure there’s something going on here. We’ve got something the folks want.”

Dr. Phyllis had been working all morning. Arty had given out promotion certificates like cookies all week long. The novices were singing in the hospital trailers, where they watched over the ones who had been promoted that day. Arty was sunbathing on the roof of our van and I sat beside him watching the gentle stir of the midway waking. The awnings were pumped out. The lights all went on at once. The redheads were everywhere, starting the popcorn machines, blowing up balloons at the helium tank, leaning into the greasy vitals of the Mongoose & Cobra ride to make sure the music was synchronized with the lashing of the chairs that the norms would jounce in. The gates were open and the first townies were gawking in at the booths.

On the other side of us, the show camp spread. A line of delicate laundry tossed transparent frills from one of the trailers that housed the redheads.

Far down at the end, where the Arturan camp began, was Doc P.’s white van near the infirmary. All morning there had been a line at the infirmary door as the promoted waited, with their certificates of advancement rubber-stamped in blue ink, for their turn with the Doc. The line was finally gone.

Arty saw her before I did and made a flapping fart-sound out of his lips. He was on his belly with his head lifted. I swiveled to look along his line of sight. Dr. Phyllis was marching toward us. She had a straight alley ahead of her and her eyes were fixed on us. Arty ducked his head and lay flat. I watched the cloth of her mask suck in and out against her mouth as she strode along.

“She knows you’re up here,” I muttered spitefully. Arty rested one cheek on his blanket and glared at me. She was beside the van now.

Arty sighed. “Send the elevator for her.”

I scuttled for the small platform and stood on it. “Coming, doctor!” I called. I waved at Arty as I pushed the descent button.