Ken Kesey - Demon Box

I looked up from the book almost in time to catch the card table he had knocked over trying to hop into his too-tight Levi's. Pens and pencils and paper clips scattered among the peanut shells and paper cups on the floor. He kept right on hopping and rapping. "As you might imagine, with that kind of hat-in-hand approach, it wasn't long before Fung was back at his position at the university – simultaneously teaching his new works and at the same time denouncing his older efforts as mere maunderings of a misled mind. Mainly trying to keep his profile low and that doghouse distant, if you get the picture."

I nodded again. I actually was beginning to get a picture of the man behind all this fancy scrimshaw of history, an image faint but fascinating.

"Then the old maestro, Papa Mao, begins to lose his grip on the podium, not all at once but enough that Mama Mao and her quartet can grab the baton. And, merciful God, the tune that they strike up! It's so erratic and discordant and downright heartlessly juggernaut cruel that even old Fung the Fox can't figure how to stay out of its way. It's like a thundercloud of noise and confusion blasting out in all directions, a poisonous black cloud, boiling with terrible bolts of power and gouts of gore and shrieks of agony, rolling bigger and blacker until it closes over all China, over art and music and the modern sciences, over the poor nation's history as well as its future, and over Dr. Fung Yu-lan."

The preacher had delivered this diatribe while balancing on one foot and trying to buckle a Uniroyal-soled sandal on the other; now he seemed to give up. He stood barefoot, the sandal dangling and his face downcast, strangely weary.

"Anyway, nobody has heard from the old teacher in more than fifteen years. Nary publication nor postcard. Foof. Not even an obituary. Foof and nada. Intriguing, huh?"

"Does anybody suppose he's still alive?"

"Nobody in the philosophy department of Cal, I can assure you! They've already got him comfortably catalogued and shelved away in the minor-league stacks along with all the other nearly-made-it-bigs. He was probably offed ages ago, everybody supposes, and even if he wasn't rubbed out by that first big purge of intellectuals – I mean big like millions, we're just now finding out; maybe not more than Hitler but right up there with the likes of old Joe Stalin – they maintain that the chances of a man his age surviving that time of turmoil are slim and nil."

"How old would he be?"

"I don't know." He raised his foot and slipped on the sandal. "Old. There must be a bio in the book."

I found it in the introduction. "Born in Canton, during the Chino-Japanese war, in 1894. That would make him… eighty-seven! Slim, nil, and none my supposition, in a country with the shortest life expectancy in the world."

"Oh, no, not anymore! For whatever misery he caused, Papa Mao's reforms have practically doubled the lifetime of the Chinese citizen. So Doc Fung could still be around somewhere, still waffling, still trying to reconcile the undeniable logic of Marxist dialecticables with the un-pin-able-downness of the free spirit."

"Still in Dutch in China?"

"Almost certainly still in Dutch in China. By now he'd probably be branded a booklicking toady by the new gang, see?"

"I see," I said, beginning to get yet a clearer picture of this old oriental fox. "Yeah, it is intriguing, but I don't see how I could work it into my sportswriting trip. Where's the pertinence? What's the meaning? The moral?"

"Hey, I don't know," the minister answered from inside the black turtleneck he was pulling over his head. His face emerged from the frayed collar shadowed by that look of weariness and defeat again. He heaved a heavy sigh. "Maybe it means that He Who Waffles East and West Waffles Best. Maybe that's the moral. But, shit, shipmate, I don't know what it all means. That's why I want you to find old Fung. Then you can ask him. Answering questions like that is what he's trained at."

He headed for the door, his face down.

"C'mon, let's hit the streets. I need a beer. And I know a couple bibliophiles around the Telegraph scene that might have information more recent than mine."

Trying to cheer him out of his downcast mood, I complimented his pretty new church as we passed. He wouldn't even turn to look at it.

"I hate the prissy pile of shit," he said. "It looks like some kind of chapel boutique. No spirit, no spirit at all. The woolen mill maybe didn't have a fancy fucking spire but it did have some spirit. Remember? We used to get some fierce stuff spinning in that old mill. Marches. Sit-ins. But no more. No more." He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked faster. "I liked it the way it was – funky but fierce."

"Why'd you get it refurbished then?"

"I didn't! It was my bosses, the California Ecumenical Council and so forth! Did you happen to see a couple years ago when I got awarded the Presidential Commendation? For our Runaway Ranger Program? That's what started it. The AP ran a shot of our kids on the back porch. When the diocese daddies saw what an eyesore they had representing their faith in Berkeley, they all shit bricks. I think they used some of those very bricks on that facade back there. If my backhouse hadn't been hid by all those morning glories they'd have shit another pile and bricked it over too. It's all part of the city council's integrated policy for the beautification of Berkeley – brick those eyesores over. It might not heal the sore but at least it hides the pus, is the policy. You'll see what I mean."

I did, as soon as we reached Telegraph district. There were as many patch-pantsed street people as ever, but the pants were cleaner, and the patches seemed more a product of fashion than necessity. Coffeehouses that once seethed with protest songs as black and bitter as their espresso now offered sweet herbal teas and classical guitar. I saw panhandlers buying Perrier water and Hari Krishnas wearing pantsuits and wigs to aid them in their pitch for donations. Nondescript doorways where spectral dealers with hooded eyes once hissed secret questions – "Assid? Sspeed? Hashisssh?" – now were openly decorated with displays of every kind of absurd apparatus, and the dealers sung out their wares like carny barkers: "Bongs bongs bongs! Freebase without fuss when you buy from us! Our paraphernalia will never fail ya!"

Even those pitchy clots of young bloods you used to see playing bongos back in alleyways had been cleared up. Now the clots coursed right along with everybody else in the mainstream, carrying big chrome-trimmed ghetto blasters that played tapes of bongos, I had to shake my head.

"I see what you mean, yep."

The minister gave me a wry grin. "Fruits and berries, brutes and fairies," he sang in a sad voice. "Hot and hysterical and hopin' for a miracle. Did you hear that Cleaver is Born Again? Did you hear that they are trying to change the name of Earth People's Park to Gay People's Gardens? Oh, what has become of our Brave New Berserkeley of Yesterday, comrade?"

I couldn't even guess; and the Telegraph bibliophiles had no more information about what had become of Fung the Philosopher than I had about Berkeley the Brave. And these citizens here in Beijing have been just as little help. Since landing in China more than a week ago I have hit on every English speaker I could collar, but the name hasn't struck the slightest spark. Our smiling guide, the very faithful and conscientious and ominous Mr. Mude, even denied having ever heard of any Chinese citizen with such a ridiculous name.

Then, ironically, this same Mr. Mude furnished the first ray of hope that the old man still lived. Exasperated by my continued inquiries after the missing teacher, Mude had stood in the door of our little tour bus before allowing us to get off at the main gate of the University of Beijing, where we were going to check out their athletic department. Frowning darkly, he had advised that it would be better if such questioning were curtailed during the remainder of our sojourn through the People's Republic. Better for all concerned. Then, smiling again, had added -