John Domini - Talking Heads - 77

Their conversation — loosened up, quieted down — came round to Kit’s relationship with the boy’s mom. Corinna had told Arturo that Kit was a good boss, yeah really a good boss, but he liked another woman in the office better. “My Mom says she’s pretty, this other woman.”

“Pretty?” Kit made sure the boy saw his smile. “Arturo, the last thing that woman would like to be called is pretty. ”

“Yeah, right. I heard she’s a punk rocker. But my Mom said that — that you kind of like that.”

“Oh I see. Men like me, they like women like her.”

“Right. Punk rockers, you know. Strange women.”

“Well I’m here with your Mom today, aren’t I? Think about it. I’m not gallivanting around with any strange women today.”

The boy fell silent awhile. He was working on the Hulk’s face, an American Indian face really, with strong cheekbones and a cliff-like lower lip.

“My Mom’s not pretty,” Arturo said then.

Kit denied it. He sat up from the puzzle, the subject deserved a pause, but the son repeated himself. “She might be pretty in the Dom Rep where she’s from. But in America she’s not pretty.”

“Aw, Arturo. Anybody can see what an effort she makes. Your Mom’s a woman who really cares about appearances.”

“Yeah right. Appearances.” Frowning, the boy put in the superhero’s black eye. “But when you look at my Mom you never see a movie star.”

“Well, your Mom’s not trying to be a movie star.”

“Someone really pretty, right?” Arturo turned his small, sober face towards Kit. “When you see them you think of a movie star. Maybe sometimes you think of somebody on TV, but that’s the same thing.”

Kit felt so close to the boy, so wrenched open by these last jam-packed days, he might already have put together what the kid was thinking. It had to do with the Mom unattached as far back as her son could remember, plus the pop-sexy decade the kid had grown up with. “Arturo,” Kit tried, “nobody ever marries someone because they look like a movie star.”

He’d been half-afraid the boy would start sneering again. But Arturo looked pensive, trying to understand.

“And kids,” Kit went on, “as for kids, well. I never met a kid yet who looked like a movie star.”

Now there was a sneer Kit could live with. A sneer that was nine-tenths smile. Kit grinned back, he even patted the boy’s shoulder, and after a moment he offered another good thought or two. “Your mother’s just fine, Arturo. There’ll be somebody for her, for both of you.” Kit strained to sound real, to make what he was saying come across as better than empty promises, and in so doing he recalled, for what felt like the first time in hours, precisely what had brought him here. The deal with Corinna. The unspoken test.

“Now myself—” he chuckled, straining to come across—“I’m taken, you know. I have a wife.”

The doctor knocked twice, careful to get an invitation before he put his face in. And Halsey kept his tone neutral. Only once did his voice possibly betray something, a hint of a joke when he said, Looks like you two had a nice quiet time in here . Kit wouldn’t blame Arturo if he sneered at that. But in fact Kit wasn’t paying much attention to the man. Rather it had come home to him again how unlike Monsod this was. No banging, no bellowing every time somebody opened a door. Here, instead, it felt like the last minutes before his wedding. Then too he’d sat alone in a small room with a boy, an unmarried friend from his hunting days, until a soft-spoken older gentleman came in and said that it was time.

Here too there were women in tears. Corinna sidled in behind the doctor, pinching the corners of her purse, and in the moment before Arturo went skipping into her arms, Kit could see that the mother had been crying. He could see that and a lot more, a look as complicated as the one she’d shown him back in Halsey’s office, before he’d gone off with her son. Pleading, angry, at a loss — and still willing to try.

MUSEO OF THE SAINTS

A Guide for Tourists .

Diorama #21—St. Hardnose of the Bricks

The scening depicts blesséd Snigr. Hardnose late on a day, deep in masturbation over telefono and random papers.

It is to notice the overcoat. Although stained with stains from many millions of other times, overcoat must cover Snigr. Hardnose even nevertheless in his glass offizzio, which very hot place with the sun coming all over the window. It is to signify awareness of the miserable Hell Clown which is Man.

Where else was Kit going to go? As Happy Hour came on, January’s dark-already Happy Hour, he was back behind his desk calendar and table teepees. He was explaining what he’d decided to do about the paper to remaining interested parties. There was the woman who handled his layout and pasteup. There were the printers over in Somerville.

What else was he going to do? Winning back Corinna’s trust had felt terrific, sure. The young mother had been so touched that, on the way from the counselor’s, again her accent deepened. Kit you a goo man, really a goo man. You like Jimmy Carter, like ol JC on the TV — you a goo’ man and you don even know . Corinna agreed to stay with the paper at three-quarters time, temporarily. She would take a smaller paycheck, temporarily. Felt terrific. Arturito wasn’t the only boy getting therapy today. Likewise, when Kit poked Corinna’s child goodbye, a poke in the belly goodbye, the kid was quick to grab Kit’s finger but careful not to hurt it. The most loving touch he’d felt since his tumble with Bette down at the Cottage.

Nonetheless, two minutes after saying goodbye, Kit stood gulping down a soft pretzel from a vendor in the Government Center T station. He was waiting by the tracks for the trains downtown. Where else, what else? The worm was on his back. Already he could think of a hundred more useful ways he might have spent the last hour.

He had to come up with the money. He had to stop wasting time running around having emotions. Or sitting at his desk lost in the streaks of reflection along the glass.

To notice coat belt undone with tip on the floor, this is to think of the naked flesh we have hair to, and hapenis which drags on the ground beneath all.

It is to notice as well cowpoke decoration, the “tabletop Indian dwelling,” which is caked to fronting glass. The scening depicts cowpoking of mistical critter, “jackalhope.” It is to signify the critters we who are all Hell Clowns must strive forever to poke.

On the first issue, Kit himself had pitched in with Sea Level’s layout and pasteup. He’d spent a couple of hours over the T-square, the blue pencils. Today, the contractor was willing to cancel her next appointment without charging a fee. The printers, however, had already turned down work in order to keep their machines free for Number Two. Kit, sighing into the phone, tried to get the shop owner to cut him some slack.

“You know,” he tried, “my wife tells me that pretty soon we’ll do all this on computer. Layout, printing—”

The printer cut in: “These days even the wife don’t work for free.”

The wife. Kit suffered a brief, grim image of what he’d be doing if he’d gone home. Mooning from room to room, having emotions. And when he roughed up a budget that included the printer’s cancellation charge, he didn’t seem to have cash left for Corinna’s February paycheck.

Did Kit still have a paper or not? A paper and, at the same time, his conscience?

It is to notice the black telefono and the white papers, instruments of dooty. The black one stands up firm and three-dimmental over the soft cumly white one laying two-dimmental with its angle showing. In other words, we have the cunjuntin of two happisits. Two happisits, and one inside the other. This is to signify how in the struggle of everyday toilet we must be brought off as often as potent.