Stanley Elkin - The Dick Gibson Show

Feelings’ other was never for me. Erection was extension, not tropism. I was born sexually intransitive, a sort of mule, but complete too. Or now complete — since that old man complete. Anyone would have done: the girl I was with that night, men, whores, boys, wives — anyone. Or anything: my prick lapped by dogs, flies walking the white underside of my arm, tight squeezes, the warm pressure of the bathwater, Foot-Eeze machines, spot- reducing machines, whirlpool baths, a fast trot on a warm day on a good horse over rough ground!

And I was no more grateful to the man than I would be to the fly or the horse! And I wasn’t reciprocal; I have never wished to hold or mount or touch or taste another human being. Oh my body’s buttons, oh its levers, oh its zones! I want hands on me, in me, breath in my ears, fingernails on my back, a tongue at my toes, cunning massage. And I’ll tell you something else: it’s too damn much work to jerk off. Though after the old man I at last knew what to think of: why me, why myself! After the old man I couldn’t look at my naked reflection in the full-length mirror in the bathroom without getting excited!

So that’s about it, quizzer whizzer. I’ve lived with bad men, men so bad they’ve never wanted anything from me in return.

[He winks at State Assemblyman Victor Ash.]

DICK GIBSON: You’re killing yourself for your sins?

MEL SON: Foo on my sins. Nah, what do they amount to? Lust and sloth. Nah. I’m killing myself because my gloss is going, because I’m heavier, because my hair’s falling out, because my teeth are rotten and my breath is bad. Even dirty old men draw the line somewhere. I will not live without pleasure. Where’s the solace, eh? I’ll put a ball in my balls. That’s it! Up my testicles to death. Whoops, confession’s over. I’m back in the trance.

DICK GIBSON: This is terrible. Will he do it?

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Of course he’ll do it.

DICK GIBSON: [There is still the possibility that it is all a joke, but he is caught up in the strange program, the strangest he’s ever been on. Not really understanding how they’ve worked it, but suspecting — where were the telegrams? — that the show might not be going out over the air at all. (The engineer, given great powers, emergency powers, one of those like tugboat captains or bombardiers, say, who rise to command for brief interims, or secret servicemen who under certain conditions tell Presidents what to do, bishops crowning kings while the kingdom floats leaderless and unmoored — ultimate privilege hiding in them, all the more awesome for its ordinary invisibility and its provisional quality— could have cut all of them off the air whenever he chose.) But even if it wasn’t actually going over the air — and he still had the feeling that it was — it might be on tape, and even if it wasn’t on tape there was still the studio audience to think about, and even if they were all deaf as well as dumb, then there was still Behr- Bleibtreau and Mel and himself. The show must go on. And this, he thought, is all I have for principles.]

When? (softly) Shouldn’t we try to take the gun away from him?

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: If you struggle with him you could be killed yourself.

DICK GIBSON: Mel? (no answer) Mel? (nobody home) Mel. (out to lunch) Mel, it’s Dick, (closed for the duration) Mel Son. (Nobody here by that name; try down the street.) Professor Behr-Bleibtreau. (This sotto voce: in the style of the outnumbered, the beleaguered, two pals in ambush) (This is serious, Professor. That gun could go off any minute. Maybe if we could get him to keep talking … Why don’t you release his tongue again?)

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: (It’s too late, but that gives me an idea. There may still be a way.)

DICK GIBSON: (Is it a long shot?)

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: (Yes.)

DICK GIBSON: (Is it risky?)

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: (Yes.)

DICK GIBSON: (Is it one chance in a million?)

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: (More or less.)

DICK GIBSON: (What is it? A man’s life’s at stake. It may be worth a try.)

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: His life for your silence!

DICK GIBSON: Hey, what is this?

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Your silence for his life. An even trade.

DICK GIBSON: Hey, cut it out. Come on. Hey!

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Shh.

DICK GIBSON: (fiercely) The show must go on!

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: It will.

DICK GIBSON: I must be on it! The show must go on and I must be on it. I’m the show.

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: But you’ve got nothing to show. I’m taking your voice.

DICK GIBSON: No.

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Yes. I’m having it. I’m shoving it down your throat. Give it up. Let him live.

DICK GIBSON: What are you talking about? No!

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: They’ll board up your mouth like plate-glass smashed by the thieves. I’m taking your voice, I’m making you still.

DICK GIBSON: No. What do you think this is? No!

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Some reticence there.

DICK GIBSON: The show—

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Hold it down. People are sleeping.

DICK GIBSON: I will not hold it down.

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Dummy up, Dicky.

DICK GIBSON: I will not dummy up.

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Stow it. Break off.

DICK GIBSON: I will not stow it. I won’t break off.

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Unutter! Muzzle! Give me your word you’ll give me your voice.

DICK GIBSON: [He means to speak but can’t think of anything to say. Perhaps he can do the alphabet, and go on to numbers. He can’t remember the alphabet. What’s the first number? That’s it: First is the first number.]

First!

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Be mute, you turtle. You giraffe.

DICK GIBSON: (faintly) First … and … another …

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: I have your voice. I almost have it. I have the others’ and I’m getting yours.

HENCEFORTH I CONTROL THE BROADCAST PATTERN OF THIS PROGRAM. I ENGINEER THE ENGINEERING. I USURP THE SIGNAL. I DIRECT IT AND REDIRECT IT. I WHISPER … (and we are blacked out in New England). (in a normal voice) I’m changing the sound patterns. I raise my voice … (He raises his voice.) AND I AM HEARD ACROSS THE MISSISSIPPI. COME IN KANSAS, COME IN CALIFORNIA. (to Dick Gibson) Now. Give me your voice, give up the rest of it. The voice is the sound—

DICK GIBSON: of the soul! (determined) You’ll never get it. Not as long as I wear this solid-blue tie in this white-walled studio. You ought to wear glasses; you’ve buttoned your sweater wrong.

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: (ferociously) The Virgin Mary sucks!

DICK GIBSON: The opinions expressed on this program are those of Dr. Behr-Bleibtreau and not necessarily those of this station or of the sponsors. I repeat, Dr. Behr-Bleibtreau’s opinions are his own and not necessarily those of the Naval Air Reserve or Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires.

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: It’s useless, Gibson. I’ll have your silence. I’ll get your voice.

DICK GIBSON: Want to bet? (to the panel and guests in the studio) Let’s hear it. Everybody sing. Let’s hear it. You, Jack. One word. Say the word. Pepper? Come on, Pepper, old pep pot. You’re the lady. Ladies go first. A word. A noise. No? Not yet? Catch your breath, dear; I’ll get back to you. Bernie? Say something in Latin, Doc. Recite a prescription. Mel? Give us a sigh, Mel. Give us a lovegroan. Somebody cough, for Christ’s sake! What? No one?

BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: They can’t help you. I’ve only been playing up to now. I’ve been teasing you. The rest is real.

Are you ready? Listen:

I do the sailors’ knot in your vocal cords. I twist your tongue, I tie it. I give you pause, lump in the throat, I give you stammer and smoker’s cough. I give you sore throat and ache your tooth. I give you harelip. I chap it. I huff and I puff and the roof of your mouth comes down. I murder your breath. Shush, man. Hush. Mum’s the word. Soft spoken, there. Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright. Speak softly and carry a big stick. Still waters run deep. Quiet Please, Hospital Zone.