Kurt Vonnegut - Hocus Pocus

When those seasoned troops went ashore, that was when they commenced firing. They were stingy with their bullets. There would be a bang, and then silence

for several minutes, and then, when another target appeared, maybe a bleary-eyed householder coming out his front door or peering out a window, with or without a weapon, there would be another bang or 2 or 3 bangs, and then silence again. The escaped convicts, or Freedom Fighters as they would soon call themselves, had to assume, after all, that many if not most households had firearms, and that their owners had long daydreamed of using them with deadly effect should precisely what was happening happen. The Freedom Fighters had no choice. I would have done the same thing, had I been in their situation.

Bang. Somebody else would jerk backward and downward, like a professional actor on a TV show.

The biggest flurry of shots came from what I guessed from afar to be the parking lot in back of the Black Cat Café, where the prostitutes parked their vans. The men who visited the vans that late at night had handguns with them, just in case. Better safe than sorry.

And then I could tell from the sporadic firing that the Freedom Fighters had begun to climb the hill to the college, which was brightly lit all night every night to discourage anybody who might be tempted to do harm up here. From my point of view across the lake, larkington might have been mistaken for an emerald-studded Oz or City of God or Camelot.

You can bet I did not go back to sleep that night. I listened and listened for sirens, for helicopters, for the rumble of armored vehicles, for proofs that the forces of law and order would soon put a stop to the violence in the valley with even greater violence. At dawn the valley

was as quiet as ever, and the red light on top of the water tower on the summit of Musket Mountain, as though nothing remarkable had happened over there, winked off and on, off and on.

I went next door to the Warden’s house. I woke up his 3 servants. They had gone back to bed after the Warden charged up the hill in his Isuzu. These were old, old men, sentenced to life in prison without hope of parole, back when I was a little boy in Midland City. I hadn’t even learned to read and write, probably, when they ruined some lives, or were accused of doing so, and were forced to lead lives not worth living as a consequence.

That would certainly teach them a lesson.

At least they hadn’t been put into that great invention by a dentist, the electric chair.

“Where there is life there is hope.” So says John Gay in the Atheist’s Bible. What a starry-eyed optimist!

These 3 old geezers hadn’t had a visitor or a phone call or a letter for decades. Under the circumstances, they had no vivid ideas of what they would like to do next, so they were glad to take orders from almost anybody. Other people’s ideas of what to do next were like brain transplants. All of a sudden they were full of pep.

So I had them drink a lot of black coffee. Since I was worried about what might have happened to the Warden, they acted worried, too. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have. I did not tell them that there had been a mass prison break and that Scipio had been overrun by criminals. Such information would have been useless to them, would have been like more TV. They were sup-

posed to stay where they had been put, no matter what in the real world might be going on.

Those 3 were what psychologists call “other-directed.”

I took them over to my house and ordered them to keep the wood fire in the fireplace going, and to feed Margaret and Mildred when they got hungry. There were plenty of canned goods. I didn’t have to worry about the perishables in the refrigerator, since the air in the kitchen was already so cold. The stove itself ran on bottled propane, and there was a month’s supply of that science fiction miracle.

Imagine that: bottled energy!

Margaret and Mildred, thank goodness, felt neutral about the Warden’s zombies, the same way they felt about me. They didn’t like them, but they didn’t dislike them, either. So everything was falling into place. They would still have a life-support system, even if I went away for several days or got wounded or killed.

I didn’t expect to get wounded or killed, except by accident. All the combatants in Scipio would regard me as unthreatening, the Whites because of my color-coding and the Blacks because they knew and liked me.

The issues were clear. They were Black and White.

All the Yellow people had run away.

I had hoped to get away from the house while Margaret and Mildred were fast asleep. But as I passed my boat on my way to the ice, an upstairs window flew open. There my poor old wife was, a scrawny, addled

hag. She sensed that something important was happening, I think. Otherwise she wouldn’t have exposed herself to the cold and daylight. Her voice, moreover, which had been rasping and bawdy for years, was liquid and sweet, just as it had been on our Honeymoon. And she called me by name. That was another thing she hadn’t done for a long, long time. This was disorienting.

“Gene—” she said.

So I stopped. “Yes, Margaret,” I said.

“Where are you going, Gene?” she said.

“I’m going for a walk, Margaret, to get some fresh air,” I said.

“You’re going to see some woman, aren’t you?” she said.

“No, Margaret. Word of Honor I’m not,” I said.

“That’s all right. I understand,” she said.

It was so pathetic! I was so overwhelmed by the pathos, by the beautiful voice I hadn’t heard for so long, by the young Margaret inside the witch! I cried out in all sincerity, “Oh, Margaret, I love you, I love you!”

Those were the last words she would ever hear me say, for I would never come back.

She made no reply. She shut the window and pulled down the opaque black roller blind.

I have not seen her since.

After that side of the lake was recaptured by the 82nd Airborne, she and her mother were put in a steel box on the back of one of the prison vans and delivered to the insane asylum in Batavia. They will be fine as long as they have each other. They might be fine even if they didn’t have each other. Who knows, until somebody or something performs that particular experiment?

I have not been on that side of the lake since that morning, and may never go there again, as close as it is. So I will probably never find out what became of my old footlocker, the coffin containing the soldier I used to be, and my very rare copy of Black Garterbelt.

I crossed the lake that morning, as it happens, never to return, to deliver a particular message to the escaped convicts, with the idea of saving lives and property. I knew that the students were on vacation. That left nothing but social nobodies, in which category I surely include the college faculty, members of the Servant Class.

To me this low-grade social mix was ominous. In Vietnam, and then in later show-biz attacks on Tripoli and Panama City and so on, it had been perfectly ordinary for our Air Force to blow communities of nobodies, no matter whose side they were on, to Kingdom Come.

It seemed likely to me, should the Government decide to bomb Scipio, that it would be sensible to bomb the prison, too.

And everything would be taken care of, and no argument.

Next problem?

How many Americans knew or cared anyway where or what the Mohiga Valley was, or Laos or Cambodia or Tripoli? Thanks to our great educational system and TV, half of them couldn’t even find their own country on a map of the world.

Three-quarters of them couldn’t put the cap back on a bottle of whiskey without crossing the threads.

As I expected, I was treated by Scipio’s conquerors as a harmless old fool with wisdom. The criminals called me “The Preacher” or “The Professor,” just as they had on the other side.