Robert Coover - Origin of the Brunists

In the kitchen, Vince found Etta spreading mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “Now, you put that away, damn it! That boy’s gonna have dinner with us today, or, so help me God, he ain’t never gonna step foot in my house again as long as I live!”

“Please, Vince. Don’t shout.” She was already starting. Big wet tear rolling down her round cheek.

“Well, okay,” he said, feeling clumsy and hurt and angry all at once. “But I mean it.” Angie stood in the doorway, her face pale, her lip turned down. “Now, don’t you start, too,” said Vince. The front door slammed. Vince ended up eating Easter dinner alone.

Who? Jones, Duncan, Fisher.

Poker game.

Day of the Bunny and the Risen Son.

Legion Hall, over the Woolworth.

Nothing else to do till traintime.

How? hmmm. Inebriatus. With large coins. Very large coins. But not large enough, no. And with very limber preadamite pasteboards. Jones with four of the prettiest boys in his hand he has seen all night.

“This place is deader than my hotel,” observes Wallace the red-eyed Fish, he of the shiny pate and pink dewlaps. “Where is everybody?”

“Must be Sunday,” responds Dune the droop. “Raise ye three.”

“So it is,” Jones informs them, consulting his timepiece. “Five of the clock.”

“Aha,” says Wally wagging head wisely. “Morning or evening?”

“Make it five, then,” ups the looselimbed Duncan, shoving two coins additional into the pot with his elbow. “Of the cock.”

Fisher squints through blooded orbs as Jones meets five, raises five. “Fuck you, dear Father!” he declares parsimoniously and folds. “It is finished!”

“You are risen,” Jones reminds the remaining bettor.

Coke calls.

“Four infant jesi,” announces Jones the eternally damned, spreading his jacks with ritual flourish. “Read ’em and lament!” Rakes in the gold and silver as Coca Dunca blasphemes beneath breath.

Jones deals, Dune reels, Fish spiels: “I thirst.”

Jones passes jug, coolly faces five: two Negroid damsels, the anus of spades, and a twosome of nondescripts. It is then he, Jones, who advances three pieces of silver, and it is they, Duncan and Fisher, who, emitting bodily threats, respond in kind.

Further negotiations are momentarily interrupted by the pitter-patter of boots on the stair.

“Hark!” soundeth Jones. “One comes!”

“Get some more money in this fucking game,” smirks Fish, spreading cruel innkeeper’s lips in undisguised avarice.

Indeed, such is the case: it is the jester Chester Johnson with ready if not ample funds. “By God!” he cackles. “I thought I seen a light on up here!” He is welcomed with tripartite joy: one rumbling belch apiece. “How many days you guys been up here?”

“Yea, unto forty-two generations,” returns Jones and, retiring the two nondescripts from further participation, prepares to offer seconds. Of the which, Dune reluctantly accepts an individual, whilst Walleye petitions with desperation for four.

John’s chestless son, stirring the straw on knobby skull, lifts from the fundament two empty flagons bearing birds sinister, then two more, scrutinizes with beady balls. “Man! you guys done put it away!” is his typically superfluous commentary. Bald Fish produces a fifth fifth still vivifiable. This he straightarms into lean eager face, the which releases: “Well, by damn now! Whose party?” Jones nonchalantly slides four coins forward, covering the misfortune of two new nondescripts.

“Lou’s,” reveals the multiloquent hotelier, meeting the challenge of four.

“His last night in town. Wants some spendin’ money to take with him up to the big city,” is the more complex revelation of Cokedunk the old minero, and likewise replies with four, adds three.

“Hey, no shit, Lou baby? You all buggin’ out on us?” interrogates Johnson, and tips bottle greedily in apparent fear of an immediate exodus.

“The eight thirty-five,” says Jones, meets three, farts, raises four. “Passage is procured. It is a matter now of history.”

“Aw, shit, I ain’t got nothing,” Fisher the flushed and fleshy affirms and fades.

Dune eyes Jones, eyes cards, eyes Jones, eyes cards, eyes Johnson slaking interminable thirst, eyes own terminable funds. “I gotta piss,” he trows and cedes. Jones gathers.

“Tonight! Well, what the hell, Jonesy? You git a offer summers or somethin’?”

“Cheese, old comrade, I have been fired.”

“Fired!”

“Fired. Dismissed. Bounced. Cashiered. Exiled. In brief, this is farewell. Summarily, I have been passed the shaft.”

Fisher flings five to each while curses are laid upon the head of Just-in Miller. Jones discovers two hoary old studs and a pair of sevens, promising, if not the end, at least an in. They wait. Duncan, however, returns not. Chester, still motile, investigates. “He’s sawin’ ’em off on the crapper” is his not overly voluminous report, and once again they are three.

Hands pass.

Fog descends.

Gains are lost.

Heads weigh and sag.

“Hey, Lou baby,” reaches Jones from afar the seedy voice, “I ain’t anxious to see ye cut out, man, but it’s eight-thirty.”

Jones, with incredible fortitude, stands. Straight proceeds he unto the crapper, deposes the Duncan, and employs the venerable instrument. Returns.

“Say, listen, Fish, let’s us see old Jonesy off, whaddaya say?” It is the irrepressible Johnson, as usual, talking.

Fish, bleary, seeks Johnson’s face, nods, and “Great idea!” cries before collapsing backwards to the floor.

“Well, Jonesy,” Johnson concludes, “it’s you and me.”

“Never, my friend, have the prospects been more cheering.”

Concludes, of course, is imprecise. That lean sonuvabitch never concludes. Unto the frugging station he without cease declaims. He has employed Good Friedegg in visitation upon the Brunuts and must intricately reveal the data of his consequent sainthood. “You’re leavin’ this fuckin’ town jist in time, Jonesy. It’s the goddamn end a the world in jist seven days.”

“West Condom, Cheese, is not the world.”

Soggy and lumped stand Jones and Johnson afoot the termite-crudded platform, awaiting Old Destiny. She arrives with a wheeze and a blackgrease groan at 9:17.

Jones boards her, as Johnson fades in a chorus of effusive well-meaning obscenities. “We’ll git ol’ Tiger for ye, Jonesy!” is the last he hears. The old girl leaps forward with a jolt, topples Jones over possessions. Fat conductor splits worthless goddamn sides in contemplation of the Fall. Jones recovers, shoves bill into laughingbuck’s quaking midriff, “Just plant those bags somewhere,” he belches, “and cram it.” Then, briefcase under arm, he lurches, pissed, to club car.

Jones alone.

Meditation.

Festival still of the goddess Eastre, last year of our Lord.

Destiny’s club car.

Why? The authoritative source withholds further comment.

On his butt, rye beside. High as a bloated angel.

Jones is goddamn glad to get out, says Jones. Upward and onward to the big city, man. Tips rye to that. Water Closet. Pull the chain.

Opens briefcase, flips caressingly through photos. Hayseed bandy-legs in, Jones covers. Hayseed reposes bony hunkers at distant end, minds own matters, whatever they might horribly be. Jones re-eyes photos.

Story: that fabled day of the boom’s lowering, the Brunist special. Jones is in darkroom just off job-room working up gore pix of car wreck. Enters heroic protagonist to jobroom, quiff in hand. Jones observes, unseen, through speedgraphic viewfinder and darkroom window. Little gift, touch here, touch there, big itch all around. Protagonist struggles with conversion-from-cult pitch which twitches quiff to drop drawers, switching protagonist’s premises the which can only lead to syllogistic fuck: beautiful beautiful beautiful! Jones nearly leaps ecstatic out to congratulate, but lovingly operates instead voyeuristic camera eye. Splendid prelim thrashing about very photogenic and then, little quiff delirious afloat on cloud of imminent glory sacrifice, protagonist suddenly stands off (human interest shot of deceived crotch pathetically petitioning) and resumes with unanticipated fury his from-cult brief, accenting phoniness self-delusion marriageneed and godmadness, all of it an exquisite torture, Jones the while seizing his own balls and jumping silently for joy — but then, instead of quashing the quiff, protagonist stands ladylike by as she jumps into rudiments of clothing and barefoot staggers out door, and then, and then , O farewell manly virtues! protagonist weeps . Ugh!