Joseph McElroy - Women and Men

The mugs for herbal tea. Bowls of dried fruit. Some apricot oil. Panasonic consciousness full of rest-energy tactically positioned around the Body-Room. The sound of her vacuum going on under her hand draws the phone into it, and she’s picking up in a second, hoping no cancellation, though la-de-da she is quite able, thank you, to T.R. (Take Rejection, or, by Cliff, Transcendental Rotation) which might be what she is doing as she listens for a moment of agitation (as opposed to energy) to Rima (It’s me again) demanding to know why Grace mentioned her to a sleazy Cuban fortunedealer (One turn deserves another, Rima) (And what was Rima’s last name?) until she said goodbye against the dark shrillness of the wiry voice that would have to be consigned to Grace’s answering service — it was forty-five minutes to the Men’s Group anyway — Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, Rima, say what you will, do what you will, love ya body, ‘bye! and the dark shrillness ("So who is under house arrest, Grace? that woman Wing is dangerous!") turned off here yielded some dark blank there at the door, which had buzzed — with no warning from the lobby — asking for her light and the goddess’s to bend inside someone who had come early, and the vacuum standing in the middle of the new brown carpet.

But the face, the familiar head of Santee/Spence — whatever the last name of this Ray dude proved to be — greeted Grace in the peepscope and she knew she had been getting set for this unknown, wherever his body was.

"Hi, Ray!" — the opening door brings him in moistening his lips, blinking his eyes, taking off his clothes as if rehearsed, and talking as if he has been here a dozen times. Light-brown hair and thin beard, body lean but soft, and darker than his narrow face. "We have friends in common," he is saying, hanging his suede jacket and pants on a hook, lining his boots up, displaying a curiously arresting and confident design on the back of his western shirt as he turns away to raise his knees out of his underpants. And on impulse picking up his manner, Grace says what’s only impulse as unexplained as light, "Yeah, one of them won’t be here tonight," while "You don’t say," said the man, turning his persistent face toward her and ripping the snaps of his shirt open and seeming to reply before she feels finished with her words yet she knows in the midst of this unknown man who doesn’t belong that he won’t demand to know who that is — and she might not volunteer "Larry," the former owner of a bike in the employ of Ray and Turnstein, supposedly, though Turnstein is in Senora Wing’s pocket obviously and the two of them are ready for membership in the Til Eulenspiegel Society who, after all, might well be rehearsing that reputed opera where the let in sign hangs if Grace cared beyond slight fear, only slight fear. "Just as well — it might be my alter ego," Spence/Santee observes, and Grace, as the buzzer rings in another much-too-early member of her first men’s group, asks, "So which is it? Spence or Santee?" only, hearing the silence behind her, to find staring through the peephole at her the young minister Ave (for Avery — the nickname is important to him) and suddenly there with him two others of the group like twenty or thirty others; so that to know what it is like to be them she might have to be just herself here where the thermostat for obvious reasons is kept high, and leave to his own resources that Prince, that Navachoor or Navajo Prince she knows she also is, wherever he is, approaching, pausing to experiment with the resting energies of the northern buffalo tongue, continuing among all and sundry, welcoming them when he was the one arriving: until, as she hauled open the door, she heard Spence with that insidious cheerfulness say, "You know Jim Mayn, I think, don’t you?"

j. Logged in at nine a.m., concerned about answering machine bought and provided by Santee/Spence. Concerned about risk in lying to mother that phone # of Independent Messenger Unit = Turnstein Messenger Service new number. Concerned about breakdown of negotiations on Messenger Union due to Maureen leaving for Bonita Springs, Florida, plus freaked at George’s stated intent to take over organizing and enroll so-call normals as well as so-call retards (who are now said to know something going on in City nobody else does), while Maureen did not threaten to come back from Florida but sent postcard via Miss Kimball to the effect that any union confined to retarded messengers discriminated against them. Concerned (What do you mean "concerned"? asked Gustave later) that Spence/Santee get hold of log with these records, because silence is golden as mother said. Concerned that messages and/or other materials to be transported by messenger run by Gustave from foundation to opera singer Luisa and from her to dirty old warehouse-theater next door are watched by Santee/Spence. (Why are you "concerned"? said Gustave; maybe we take on another non-bike messenger since you do the biking.) Still little space to breathe. Here at 8:10 a.m. to board bike; then to Turnstein & Wing’s picking up two job-destination to-from pairings — to be fast-slowed by sandwiching with own up here at log H.Q. to be split with Gustave who’s late again in subway rush not reading correctly a single-door opening. Build on knowns always. Mother and social worker will rescind work and bike if they learn of same. Build on this risk. Build on known contacts. Take messenger-related materials from place of origin to place of destination along known routes. Deal with known obstacles arising in lane-related routes. Spence/Santee is friend to Independent Messenger Unit, but is known to deal with Turnstein & Wing, who deal with Jimmy B. like he is messenger bringing bad news unknown to him when really he’s picking up information so he’ll go someplace else and pick up messages or transit materials to take to someplace else, good news or bad.

Jimmy you are the light of my life, said Santee, meeting head of Independent Messenger Unit wheeling bike out on morning message-sandwich job combining own work with T&W fast-slowed messages. Jimmy, could you take this to the same young woman at the foundation? said Spence, though "Santee" was name in upper left of large envelope, which without complaint was put in large twin-shoulder bag out of sight along with log notebook now carried everywhere with proprietor of IMU.

But the young woman named Amy sent material to, and rec’d it from, young woman Jean, who received at least two enclosures from Sarah Mayn, one jointly sent Jean by Sarah and very small woman named Lincoln that heard of Turnstein through Miss Kimball, who no longer uses Tumstein but uses IMU, so business improves.

Georgie did not make mother believe in the bike; she does not believe her son could ride one with his retard and his limp; she does not feel the flow.

Asked Santee what sign meant outside warehouse next door. Didn’t answer, then said he would ask; said, Probably just business, you know.

Was rushing to Turnstein’s near noon and after locking bike by Korean fruit and vegetable boxes was accused by Senora Wing of monkey business and taking much too long. Turnstein’s twins could be trained to carry messages, she said.

k. Would tape-record, but don’t rely on speaking. Gustave reported Georgie said Kimball-related bike was stolen and he had been roughed up by Georgie outside foundation but held on to large manila envelope taken to opera singer Luisa’s who was crying and took material from envelope and replaced it and sent it on to consulate of South American nation on Second near Forty-fifth Street — but first sat back down at piano and played song for Gustave, good fast-slow beat, about words being made of breath and breath of life the coinage of your brain, for love of Grace my pulse keeps time with yours — a long song and Gustave sat down in his coat on a rickety little chair, and the lady Luisa had a loud voice that could be very soft and she cried again while she was singing but she was smiling.