Robert Coover - Gerald's Party

‘No, Bunky’s playing “the Lady in Red,” and she’s really in great form! Regina tried to upstage her by swooping in wrapped in nothing but herself, but unfortunately her birthday suit’s about fifteen years outa fashion!’

‘Yeah, I just saw that on the box!’ laughed the man in the gray chalkstriped suit, joining us from the TV room, an empty glass in his hand. ‘The poor toad!’ Steve, lurching blindly to his feet — reaching down for his cap just a moment before, he’d taken a chop in the neck, a kick in the ribs, a drink thrown in his face — crashed into him. ‘ Whoa! ’ the man whooped as his glass went flying, and Kitty, ducking (Bob, watching her, reached for his revolver), said: ‘Are they showing it on TV?’

‘Yeah, the best bits anyway, along with — hey! talk of your show stoppers!’ he hooted, picking up his glass and pointing at me. ‘You really tumbled for that old chestnut!’

‘Whuzzat?’ Charley grinned, swiveling his big head back and forth between us: it was the only part of him that still worked, the rest seemed totally immobilized. Bob had relaxed again, was showing Howard some of his own drawings of the crime scene.

‘A stage sticker!’ the guy in the chalkstripes laughed. ‘The old collapsible pick trick — ha ha! he really cut a gut!’

Charley’s face sagged. ‘Whuzz funny ’bout that?’ he wanted to know. ‘ ’Assa fuckin’ trazhedy! ’

‘Well, certainly they show skill, sensibility, a consciousness of form and architecture,’ Howard was expounding, peering down at arm’s length through Tania’s narrow spectacles at Bob’s drawings. ‘But they lack, what can I say, a certain density, mythic complexity, innovation …’

‘Argh …,’ groaned Vic as though, were he at all rational, in mockery, ‘say it … kaff! ain’t so!’

‘How about, uh, percipience?’ Bob asked hopefully. The kitchen door swung open and Woody and Cynthia came in, holding hands. ‘If by percipience you mean a discerning eye for detail, yes,’ acknowledged Howard, ‘but true intuitive apperception: not yet.’ Bob looked a bit downcast, but Gottfried, removing his pipe from his mouth (over his shoulder, the gigolo had Steve in a hammerlock, and the other guy was kicking him in the stomach), leaned intently toward Howard and said: ‘Ah! you’re interested in myth, then …?’

‘Gerry, thanks for the party,’ Woody smiled, as Bunky’s older friend took the monkey wrench out of Steve’s back pocket and shoved it in his mouth, ‘but we’ve got to be going.’

‘So soon?’

‘You’ve been very kind,’ Cynthia said, and gave my hand a squeeze, her own hand knobbled with rings. There was a soft flush in her cheeks and just above her cross-strapped bra, partly hidden by the vulgar fur she wore around her shoulders. ‘We both appreciate it.’

‘Hey, you’re not goin’, are ya, Woodpecker?’ Charley protested. Beside him, Howard was talking to Gottfried about orchestral renderings of symbol and prophecy, and the dark roots of creation, Vic wheezing and blowing agonizingly below. ‘Night’s still young, goddamn it! Like you’n me!’

‘I’m afraid so, Charley. I’ve got a big case tomorrow, and now all of Roger’s damned work besides. Sorry.’ Cynthia let my hand go.

‘An immersion into mystery, don’t you see, into pain …’

‘So what’s … next, Howard?’ Vic gasped. ‘The old — hah! harff! — “language of the fucking wound” —?’ He was getting testy again. His face was haggard, bleached out, his mouth gaped, blood stained his blue workshirt darkly and his pants were wet with urine. ‘The artist-as-visionary shuh — whooff! — shit?’ Howard’s eyes were watering up in anger. I too felt unaccountably annoyed (he was still clutching that silly fork) and turned away to watch Bunky’s friends haul Steve, kicking, still eating his monkey wrench, out of the room toward the front door. All that hard-won wisdom, that shrewd and stubborn intellect, turned to pudding in the end: a lesson I really didn’t need tonight. ‘You’re a fuh — fooff! shit! — fucking whore, Howard!’

‘Have you seen Noble, by the way?’ Woody asked, raising his voice to be heard. Bob, staring deadpan at me, winked. As did Earl Elstob, wandering in, when Charley asked him: ‘What? Back awready, Earl?’

‘Ah, I think he—’

‘Yup, well, huh! as one rabbit — shlup! — said t’other: This won’t take long, yuh huck! did it?’

‘Last I saw,’ said the guy in the chalkstripes, ‘your coz was in high gear — even his gold eye was lit up and blinkin’ like a turn signal!’

‘I see. Well, Noble deserves a little fun. If you see him, tell him I’ll call him in the morning.’

‘What I — huff! whoo! — hate,’ Vic rattled on fiercely, ‘is fucking contrivance! Triviality, obfus … obfuscation …’

‘Poor old Jack the Forker,’ said Scarborough morosely, coming in from the living room with Gudrun. ‘Still at it, is he?’ He held a bottle up to the light. ‘Tenor’s farewell,’ remarked Gudrun. She was smeared randomly with greasepaint, though her hands were principally scarlet: as she rubbed her nose (‘ … All that — wheeze! — “all-is-vanity” horseshit!’), she moustachioed herself. ‘Bah!’ Scarborough pitched the empty bottle over his shoulder impatiently. It hit the doorframe, clattered into the TV room.

‘There’s more underneath—’

‘I want … lucidity … Authen — gasp! — ’

‘Uh, huh! you seen sister?’

‘What do you suppose this one could do?’ Gudrun mused, looking Bob over.

‘Ole Glad’s relaxin’, Earl! Don’ worry, you juss zip up there’n ’n joy yourself.’

‘Well, he sure as hell can’t dance,’ muttered Scarborough, squatting.

‘Yuh, I thought I’d just leave it open so’s I don’t hafta — huh! — lose time!’

‘Could you repeat that?’ Gottfried asked, bending toward Vic. It was true, I saw it now: he did have a tape recorder.

‘What I want … in art … is a knowing …’

‘ Everything’s … changed …,’ Mavis intoned gravely. She was on her feet now, leaning against the wall, legs spread wide, eyes staring zombielike into some remote distance. Bunky’s young friend, back and breathing heavily, took a swig from the brandy bottle, handed it to the older man. ‘I seem to remember … a statue …’

‘Say, yuh know what’s — yuh huh! — worse’n pecker tracks on your zipper?’

‘… A knowing moral center! ’

‘… Of ice … with mirrors for eyes …’

‘Well, who doesn’t?’ snapped Howard, glancing contemptuously down at Vic (‘… And a little man where the heart should be …’), Gottfried sidling in between the two men with his mike. ‘But that’s simply too narrow a view of art. Every act of creation, no matter how frivolous it might seem, is, in its essence, an act of magic! ’

‘Ah, that’s very good,’ said Gottfried, stopping up one ear against Mavis behind him. Gudrun clapped her scarlet hands, as Scarborough, rummaging around in the shelves below, came out with a bottle of Tennessee sourmash. ‘But by “magic” do you mean—?’

‘ … Showing his behind … ’

‘No, goddamn it, that’s … too narrow a view … of action!’ Vic cut in, snorting and spluttering. ‘It takes a long … a long — shit! can’t seem to …’ As he sucked in air, it made an awesome bubbly sound, rattling through him as though ripping everything apart in there. His eyelids fluttered open, but his eyes were rolled back, unseeing, half-screened by his unruly gray hair. ‘… A long time to find out … that the only magic in the world … is action! ’