Percival Everett - Erasure

“Here, let me help you,” the skinny woman said. Her bony knuckles pressed into his adam’s apple and he could not breathe. She fought with the button for several minutes and finally got it through the stiff hole. “There.” She stood away.

Tom looked at the mirror and saw someone else. The contrast of the white shirt against the altered hue of his face was unsettling and confusing. He felt like a clown. “Do I have to wear this stuff on my face?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so, doll,” the red-haired woman said. “I’m afraid so. Rules are rules. You wouldn’t want to confuse the folks viewing at home, now would you?”

The skinny woman knotted a tie around Tom’s neck, tightening it enough to squeeze his throat with the stiff collar.

“Are you ready?” This from Blanc who leaned suddenly into the room. “Hey, you look great, absolutely terrific. “He walked a circle around Tom. “Nice job, girls. Real nice. He looks just right. Tom, I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Me, either.”

Blanc laughed loudly. “You hear that, girls. ‘Me either.’ This Tom is a funny one.” He stopped and put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “It’s time, Tom. It’s time to play Virtute et Armis.”

Tom stood and followed Blanc out of the room and down the inner hallway to another door. A red light was on outside the door. They entered and there before them was the set of Virtute et Armis. Tom’s breath caught in his throat. For the first time, he was nervous. He had to win this game. He just had to win. But he also knew how this game worked. It wasn’t up to him. He had to be careful, not slip up anywhere. He was here in the studio, standing at the threshold of his future.

The studio lights were harsh. The cameras stood like hulking gorillas in front of the set. Tom had the feeling his makeup was melting and he wondered if his face was striped. There was Jack Spades, big as life, his slicked-back hair shining like it had batteries. He was wearing a plastic bib and looking over his note cards while the skinny woman from the makeup room powdered his brow. And there was the big circular board laid out on the floor, the squares of different colors appearing to Tom as his coming obstacles. His opponent was sitting in a recliner on the other side of the studio. He was receiving a manicure from a woman with long brown hair. He was a handsome man, blond with chiseled features. Tom watched as Blanc and Spades chatted. The two men looked concerned about something, one shaking his head and then the other. At one point during their conversation, Blanc pointed over at the white contestant in his recliner. Tom felt a profound loneliness. He watched the audience file in and find seats. They were all white, all blond and all staring at Tom, an ocean of blue eyes.

Jack Spades left Blanc and walked over to Tom. “Jack Spades,” he introduced himself. “Welcome to the show.” His smile was somehow too bright, too clean, unreal. He shook Tom’s hand. “I want to wish you luck. Just relax. I’m sure you’ll do fine and be a credit to your race.”

Spades walked away and was replaced by Blanc. “It’s time for you to go over and take your place,” Blanc said. “You’re supposed to stand on the red mark. When in doubt, just look for the red mark on the floor. You’ve seen the show, so you’ll know what to do. Just listen to Jack and watch the director. He’s the one in the baseball cap. Look at the camera with the red light on when you give your answers. Now, go get ‘em, Tom.”

Tom walked onto the set and took his place, carefully toeing the red mark. The lights fell on him and he could no longer really see the faces in the audience, but he felt the eyes watching him, could hear their breathing. The theme music poured in and Jack’s opponent was introduced. “From Elkhart, Indiana, a social worker and part-time blues musician in area night clubs, father of two and president of the PTA and his neighborhood association, Hal Dullard.” Hal Dullard waved to the television audience. “And from Mississippi, Tom Wahzetepe.” The camera stared at Tom and he stared back. “And now, your favorite gameshow host, the gamemaster of Virtute et Armis, Jack Spades.”

Jack Spades came trotting out and greeted the audience. “Let’s jump right into the game,” he said. “Mr. Dullard, if you would, please name a primary color.”

“Green,” said Dullard.

The studio audience gasped collectively.

The stunned Spades cleared his throat and said, “I’m afraid that’s not an acceptable answer.”

“Tom,” Spades said. “What is anaphase?”

“Anaphase is the phase of nuclear division characterized by the movement of chromosomes from the spindle equator to the spindle poles. It starts with the separation of the centromeres and ends with the termination of the poleward movement of the chromosomes.”

“That’s correct,” Spades said. “One square forward for you.”

“Mr. Dullard, in the Bible, who slew Goliath?”

“That would be Solomon.”

Again the studio audience moaned. Tom looked over to see Blanc holding his face in his hands.

“Incorrect,” Spades said. “The answer is David.” He shuffled to the next card. “Tom, name the poem from which come the following lines, then name the poet and tell us something about him”:

Weep for the tender and delicate onesWho barefoot now tread upon thorns,Drawing water for barbarians,Felling trees at their commands.

Tom paused for a second and saw a brief smile flash across Blanc’s face, then he said, “The lines are from the poem ‘Lament on the Devastation of the Land of Israel.’ The poet’s name is Joseph Ibn Abithur. He was born in the middle of the tenth century. It is claimed that he gave an Arabic explanation of the Talmud to the Caliph al-Hakim II. He was known mainly for liturgical works, prayer books of Catalonian and North African Jews.”

Blanc’s face was blank.

Spades shook his head and said, “Correct. One square.” He then announced a commercial break during which several makeup people ran to him and attended to his perspiring brow.

Blanc made quick, long strides over to Dullard and seemed to be yelling at him in a whisper. Though they were only two squares away, Tom could not hear what was being said. He sensed hostility in the studio audience.

The director counted backwards with his fingers from five and pointed at Jack Spades.

“Welcome back,” Spades said. “Mr. Dullard, let’s see if we can’t get you moving here. Please name the first president of the United States of America.”

“Thomas Jefferson.”

“Wrong,” Spades said, unable to completely hide his annoyance. “That’s wrong.”

“Tom, what is a serial distribution field?”

“It is a field that must be built when installing a septic system on sloping land. It possesses level trenches dug along the contours of the land, each lower than the next. Connections from trench to trench are set up to transfer the sewage to the lower trench only when the sewage in the trench above reaches the top of its gravel fill.” Tom thought to stop, but added, “And so, the first trench of the system must operate to full capacity before the second trench receives any flow. Also, there is no need for a distribution box.”

Blanc looked as if he might scream. He looked anxiously back at the unsettled audience.

“Correct, one square,” Spades said.

Dullard did not know that a gorilla was a primate. He did not know the abbreviation for Avenue. He did not know what a male chicken was called. Soon, Tom had nearly made his way around the circle and was about to lap Mr. Dullard. The studio audience had stopped breathing. Blanc was chewing aspirin like candy. Spades was sweating so badly that no amount of attention from the puff-wielding staff could hide it.