Donald Barthelme - Paradise

“Drunk, too.”

Simon trudges back upstairs and telephones the hospital.

And what if we grow old together, just the four of us? The loving quartet? What if we raddle together? They of course raddling at a rate less precipitant than my own. I have a quarter-century advantage, in terms of raddling. He’s WAD, as the medical students say, Whirling Around the Drain. What kind of old ladies will these old ladies be? Veronica will be, as ever, moody. She’ll do something immensely foolish, like writing a book. The book will be an extended meditation on the word “or,” or the road not taken, or the road taken but not enjoyed, or the road taken and enjoyed to the fullest, a celebration of “or” not less fun-some than Kierkegaard’s. Twelve people will read the book. Four will write her letters. I will read the book but not write her a letter. “Good work,” I will say to Veronica, clapping her on the shoulder several times to signal hearty congratulation. “That type…” The book will have been set in Bulmer, a typeface most eloquent, anorexic Bodoni but speaking nevertheless. Veronica will bring me my toddy as I sit by the fire, two pints of tequila laced with capers and a little gunpowder. She’ll kiss my knee, which will probably, by this time, resemble a drill bit. I’ll place my claw in her hair, now red and a very convincing red thanks to improved Dupont manipulation of the Periodic Table. The old folks at home.

Dore will come in and demand to know where my penis has got to. I don’t know, I’ll say, it was there yesterday, more or less. You call that there, she’ll say, scornfully, and I’ll say, I am a poor relic, a poor husk, a leftover, a single yellow bean covered with Cling Wrap sailing on a flawed plate through the refrigerator of life. Yes, she’ll say, excuses, you promised us Eden, you did, I remember, not anything you said in so many words but by implication, you implied that we would be happy forever together… I didn’t! I’ll say, or scream, I always said that things would turn out badly, consult the records, look at the transcript, you have no right to —

“It’s the fault of men. As a group.”

“They don’t want us to bloom and flower.”

“Trying to keep all the prosperity for a few self-selected individuals. Men.”

“I’ve endured it on every side.”

“Whole societies have taken glee and satisfaction from heckling, humiliating and scourging me.”

“Thought I heard a skunk barking.”

“They are tearing me apart with their defamations that whole worlds chuckle about.”

“I think we should buy some cars or something, Firebirds and Cutlasses.”

“The inconsequence of your thought is a burden to me.”

“Stick a screwdriver down your throat if you mess with me. A big screwdriver.”

“Gotta get that bird’s nest on the ground.”

“You can start, in America, with just a nickel, and pretty soon you have a dime!”

“I’ve been busy, sorting buttons, one thing and another.”

“Polishing the doorknobs and getting the fug out of the corners.”

“A few rows of figgers I’d like you to check over.”

“Used to be able to stay up all night and roar. Can’t do that now.”

“Wash my fingers frequently, bubbling in responses to forms and questionnaires.”

“We watched a movie in which a giant chandelier visited the earth and a lot of little green wimps hung about the edges of the frame, cooing.”

“Yeah I saw that one.”

“Guy came up to me on the street, black guy, he says, ‘Can you spare a quarter for an American citizen?’ “

“You gave it to him.”

“How could I not?”

“Caught in the cognitive squeeze.”

“Pink always struck me as sordid.”

“He’s got those little spots on his hands.”

“Burns. From cooking fried chicken. The grease jumps.”

“If men knew what they were doing, they would cringe with fear.”

“Older people should be treated with respect, not much but some.”

“That’s really a very fine attitude toward older people. I admire you for that.”

“It’s hard to be bright and fresh when you’re too old.”

“You can accidentally shoot your dog. I’ve known cases of that.”

“Old men with canes gimping down the sidewalk. White hair and bent heads.”

“I dreamed about this pony last night. Very engaging pony. We kept it in Simon’s room.”

“They found more rabid skunks. Two in Brooklyn Heights and one at the World Trade Center.”

“If they get here, how will they get here?”

“From Brooklyn, they have to walk over the bridge. From downtown, all they have to do is walk up Hudson Street.”

“They could be on Hudson Street already. We wouldn’t know.”

“They could be in the graveyards. Hiding out in the graveyards behind the sagging stones. We wouldn’t know.”

“If they bite you then you’re dead.”

“No you have to have shots in the stomach. Forty-two shots in the stomach.”

“What they do is bite your domestic animals, your cats and dogs, and then your domestic animals bite you. Or they bite other domestic animals and eventually somebody bites you. Or your children.”

“I’m going to stay off the streets.”

“No just wear boots. Then if one approaches you you can kick it.”

“What does a skunk look like? I’ve never seen one.”

“It looks like a wallaby except that it has a different kind of head. Less attenuated. They’re black.”

“I’ve only seen them squashed on the road.”

“Maybe we should put chicken wire over the windows.”

“I think we’re getting into a panic here. Just wear boots.”

“Let Simon deal with them.”

“Do you think he’s brave?”

“No I don’t think he’s brave. But I think he’s smart.”

“If he’s smart why doesn’t he make us happy?”

“Who can make us happy? I mean if you look at it realistically.”

“He said his wife finally asked him to stop introducing her to people as ‘my wife.’ “

“That’s not unreasonable.”

“One day there won’t be any wives any more.”

“Or husbands either.”

“Just free units cruising the surface of the earth. Flying the black flag.”

“Something to look forward to.”

“Do you really think so?”

“What about the children?”

“Get one and keep it. Keep it for yourself. Hug it and teach it things. Everything you know.”

“But they need fathers, in theory. That kind of quality, that kind of rough quality…”

“I forgot about boys.”

“Reminds me of thick lumber stacked on the back of a truck, held down by chains —”

“How can we leave him?”

“How can we not leave him?”

“He’s gracious and good.”

“He’s not the only pebble on the beach.”

“It’s an impossible situation.”

“But I like it.”

“The thing is, whether we believe in ourselves or not.”

“It’s like three people reading a magazine at the same time.”

“But we’ll never see him again.”

“We’ll send postcards.”

“Little satisfaction in that.”

“Well you can’t have everything.”

“Something is better than nothing.”

“The thing is, we just have to have the courage of our convictions.”

“Well I’ve learned this: To make progress, you have to give up something.”

“How do you know that’s true?”

“It sounds right. It includes pain.”

“I have hope,” Simon says. “Not a hell of a lot of hope, but some hope. You need tons of hope simply in order to function. Got to think that everything will work out. I don’t think that’s condescending. I hope it’s not condescending. I’ve dealt with young people before. I taught Sarah to roll her eyes and groan, when she was four, we rehearsed it. She was attempting it already, herself, but she hadn’t got it right. My father believed in the Second World War, a good choice. I believe in bricklayers but even bricklayers get things wrong, you specify a course of contrasting brick, vary the pattern of headers and stretchers and they misread the blueprints. I don’t want to be condescending. Trees have integrity, can’t go far wrong with a tree. You want to make a building look good, budget heavily for trees. A bird in the tree is better than a kick in the prosthesis. That’s all I mean. Thank you and good night.”