Donald Barthelme - The Dead Father

Then perhaps he regards you kindly.

Series of failed experiments.

You have performed well under difficult conditions.

Animals in which the brain strangles the esophagus.

Years not unmarked by hideous strains.

Willfully avoided gathering to myself the knowledge aforementioned.

And when not surly, pert.

The letter a failure but I mailed it nevertheless.

It’s wonderful and reduces the prison population too.

I was surprised to see him in this particular bar.

Very young he’s.

Parts of hero all over.

Many of them connected by legal or emotional ties.

Stares calmly at something a great distance away.

Clanging his balls for us.

Pop one of these if you’d like a little lift.

A ringbolt buried in the concrete, he tripped.

Embankments sewn with gracious blooms, heliotrope.

Not sure I understand what the issues are.

Do you want chocolate or strawberry?

Strawberry.

Strawberry’s best.

That’s your opinion.

Get a handle on it one way or the other.

Pressure has been continually building.

That’s your opinion.

Your hands and tongue.

Where do you like it?

An elegant way of disposing warning sirens.

I don’t think it’s so damn elegant.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

Riding the two-legged horses.

Gimping off into the future.

Warmly refused on all sides.

File after file of wooden soldiers marching through a low doorway. Got their heads knocked off.

You and I talked about this once.

There was brought forth and placed before him by four strong men a beef properly cooked over the flames.

There’s just one thing a simple little rule.

Regarding their loved ones with hatred.

To partake of this al fresco party.

Where can a body get a pop around here?

Everyone was very enthusiastic.

He is a perpetual drudge restless in his thoughts.

He’s not bad-looking.

The reindeer, man, and snowflakes were cut.

Tears some meat from his breast and puts it on a bun.

You’re safe with me.

If this is what you believe you are wrong.

Dejected looks, flaggy beards, singing in the ears, old, wrinkled, harsh, much troubled with wind.

Everyone is very enthusiastic.

Darkening the skies above the walkers.

Poring over diaries and memoirs for clues to the past.

Most people conceal what they feel with great skill.

Not getting anywhere not making any progress.

God may surprise me.

Outside there’s bright sunlight on the snow.

Stumble at noon as in the twilight.

There’ll always be another chance tomorrow.

Hoping that this will reach you at a favorable moment.

Old coins, statues, rolls, edicts, manuscripts.

Colder weather coming and then warmer.

Not getting anywhere not making any progress.

Control is the motif.

That and splashes.

Photo …

Nine o’clock?

Ten o’clock.

I have to have bed check for the men at ten o’clock. What about eleven o’clock?

I think I can make eleven o’clock. Let me look in my book.

She looked in her book.

Eleven o’clock, then, she said, writing a note in her book. Under the trees?

Under the stars, said Thomas.

The trees, said Julie, looks like rain.

If no rain, then the stars, said Thomas. If rain, then the trees.

Or the hedge, said Julie. Wet and dripping. Mulchy.

What are you arranging? asked the Dead Father. Could it be an assignation?

Nothing, said Julie. Nothing you should concern yourself about, dear old soul.

The Dead Father flang himself to the ground.

But I should have everything! Me! I! Myself! I am the Father! Mine! Always was and always will be! From whom all blessings flow! To whom all blessings flow! Forever and ever and ever and ever! Amen! Beatissime Pater!

He is chewing the earth again, Julie observed. One would think he would tire of it.

Thornas began singing, in a good voice.

The Dead Father stopped chewing the earth.

That is one I like, he said, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his golden robe.

For thine, Thomas sang, in a good voice, is the kingdom, and the power, and the glo-ree, for-EVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVWVVVVVVVV-er…

That is one I like, said the Dead Father, I have always liked that one.

Thomas stopped singing.

By the way, he said, let me have your passport.

Why? asked the Dead Father.

I’ll take care of it for you.

I can take care of my own passport.

Many people lose or carelessly misplace their passports, Thomas said. I’ll take care of it for you.

Very kind of you but not necessary.

A lost or misplaced passport is a very serious matter. Many people are extremely careless with their passports especially older people.

I’ve always been very careful with my passport.

Especially older people who are sometimes vague or forgetful, a concomitant of advancing age.

Are you suggesting I’m becoming senile?

Ghastly look of the Dead Father.

Oh no, said Thomas. Not senile. Not for a moment. I just thought it might be better if I took care of your passport. We are crossing frontiers and all that. Let me have your passport.

No, said the Dead Father. I will not.

I knew an old person once who lost or misplaced his passport, said Thomas. Stopped by the border police, at a certain border, he could not find or locate his passport. There he was at the border station, frantic, digging through his suitcases, patting himself on the chest, turning out his pockets, and then back into the baggage. The amused tolerance of the border guards turning into impatience, others waiting behind him in line, assorted loafers and jeerers loafing and jeering. Not to mention members of his own party nervously drumming fingertips on every available surface. The entire group was forced to turn back and return to point of origin, all because this old coot had thought himself able to take care of his own passport.

The Dead Father reached inside his cloak and produced a worn green passport.

Thank you, said Thomas. You see? It’s bent.

Inspection of passport in which sundry creases were seeable.

Only a little bent, said the Dead Father.

The individual’s passport is the property strictly speaking of the governing government and therefore should not be bent, even a little. A bent passport makes suspect the competence of the passport holder.

I don’t like this, said the Dead Father.

What? asked Julie. What, dear old man, don’t you like?

You are killing me.

We? Not we. Not in any sense we. Processes are killing you, not we. Inexorable processes.

Inexorable inapplicable in my case, said the Dead Father. Hopefully.

“Hopefully” cannot be used in that way, grammatically, said Thomas.

You are safe, dear old man, you are safe, temporarily, in the mansuetude of our care, Julie said.

The what?

The mansuetude that is to say mild gentleness of our care.

I am surrounded by creepy murderous pedants! the Dead Father shouted. Unbearable!

Thomas handed the Dead Father the pornographic comic book.

Now now, he said, no outbursts. Read this. It will keep you occupied.

I don’t want to be kept occupied, said the Dead Father. Children are kept occupied. I want to participate!

Not possible, said Thomas. Thank God for the pornographic comic book. Sit there and read it. Sit there with your back against that rock. Thank the Lord for what is given to you. Others have less. Here is a knapsack to place between your back and the rock. Here is a flashlight to read the pornographic comic book by. Edmund will bring your Ovaltine at ten. Count your blessings.