J. Lennon - The Funnies

The crack about the bread machine took the wind out of him. He slumped back against the table. We were in the same boat: about to make a buck and glad of it. I had heard rumors that there was going to be an Emerald Forest television cartoon; in it, the Lairds were said to be heterosexual and a new character was in the works, a fast-talking chipmunk with a Japanese accent. Tyro had not publicly denied this.

“No, I still like it,” I said. “Really.” I reached out and touched the arm of his leather jacket. I couldn’t feel a real arm under there. “Hey, do you know Sybil Schimmelpfennig?” I surprised myself at how fluidly the name rolled off my tongue, like a much-rehearsed line from a German opera.

“‘Sybil’ Sybil?”

“Yeah,” I said. I pulled the drawing she had made me out of my pants pocket. “She said people are going to be drinking at the hotel bar. You ought to go.”

He took the drawing and gave it a cursory look before handing it back. “I hear she’s a man-eater.”

“I kind of doubt that,” I said.

* * *

I spent the rest of the afternoon walking around, looking for Art Kearns. He was supposed to be at a debate about the thematic shift in comics after the second World War, but somebody in the Blue Room told me he had laryngitis and was roaming the Ballroom floor instead. The Ballroom was set up as a huge fair, with booth upon booth of comics dealers, merchandise hucksters and collecting freaks arranged in long rows. A few people from the sci-fi conference had wandered in, and loomed near the outer-space-related comic books, pawing over piles of rarities and obscurities tucked into acetate envelopes. I didn’t see Art Kearns anywhere, although I hadn’t seen a recent photo and was looking, mostly, for an old man wearing glasses.

Several times I thought that the experience would be a lot more fun with Susan around. She would have stories about people. We could get some food together, and probably she would pay for it. My missing her had manifested itself, thus far, only in terms of doing things — looking for people, eating, taking in the novel or unusual — and was therefore, I thought, safe. At the same time it seemed unwise to dwell on her. What difference did it make, I thought, if I was with her or by myself? I could have a good time alone.

And so I did, sort of. I polished off the final hours of the day sitting on a canvas stool next to one collector’s booth, reading. The collector had only “Art’s Kids” paraphernalia, and had apparently gone to high school with Kearns in West Lafayette, Indiana. He was a willowy, grayhaired old man with a high, mirthful laugh, and he let me flip through everything.

There was one, a full-color Sunday strip, that I read over and over. In it, Dogberry is lying on the floor, waiting to be fed. He licks his chops, scans the room just like an ordinary dog. Then, exasperated, he walks to the kitchen, opens the cupboard, takes out a can of food, opens it with an electric can opener, and dumps it into his own bowl, where he sets upon it with delighted relish. The thought bubble above him reads: “Persistent problems demand extraordinary measures.”

As I walked out to the lobby to meet Bobby, that’s what stuck with me: persistent problems demand extraordinary measures. That, and the image of a dog, your common retriever, effortlessly manipulating a human tool with his clumsy paws, steadying the rotating can with a single extended toenail.

Bobby pulled up alone. He was wearing a pair of pleated khaki slacks, a green golf shirt and elaborate running shoes, and looked like someone he’d hire to spray insecticide on the lawn. The air conditioning in the car was going full blast and it chilled the evaporating sweat off my arms fast enough to make me swoon.

“Bobby!” I said. “It’s great to see you.”

“Good!” He patted my leg, just above the knee, then used the same hand to scratch his nose. He pulled out onto the road and pointed us toward Bridgewater proper. “So!” he said, frowning. “A conference, eh?”

“My editor thought it would be a good idea.”

“Sure, sure. Cartoons and all.”

“You bet.”

There was a tape playing on the radio of some New Age music accompanied by the sound, alternately, of crashing waves, a rainforest and wind. It was like being whisked from Nantucket to Borneo to the Canadian prairie, over and over. With growing horror, I realized that we had already exhausted our supply of conversation, and I fell into a mild panic. “What’s this music?” I asked Bobby, whom I had never known to listen to any music at all.

“This? Oh, my, uh, doctor recommended it. Because I get a little tense. While driving.”

“Of course.”

“I have another one. Whale song. Pretty serious stuff.” He nodded, agreeing with himself. I noticed the cassette box lying nearby and picked it up. It was by a man named Benni Magnussen, who was pictured on the cover: long, permed blond hair and a placid Scandinavian smile. He looked slightly depraved. Bobby and I spoke at once, for perhaps the first time ever.

“You first,” I said.

“Oh no, you.”

“Well, I was just going to ask about Nancy and Sam. Are they doing well? How is Nancy’s pregnancy?”

“They are fine,” he said, frowning. “Nancy went to her female doctor last week and everything is checking out okay. Sam is a real dear.” I saw his fingers uncoiling, coiling again around the wheel.

“And you?”

“I am also fine.”

“No, I mean what were you going to say?”

He started. His hair, always the same length, was very still, cupping his head in thick combed waves. It was beginning to go gray and I was pleased to see that he wasn’t coloring it. “I…well…I talked to Mal yesterday.”

“Ah.”

“He says Mom isn’t doing very well.” He looked at me now, his small eyes pleading.

“I suppose she isn’t.”

“So I guess you see her…often,” he said.

“Fairly. Not enough, I guess.”

He pushed out a theatrical sigh. “Well, enough, not enough. I wonder if she really wants to see us, being so, well…You know how she is.”

I wasn’t sure what he wanted. “What do you mean?”

He sniffed and turned his head to the side window, and I could see the neat wide V his hair made as it tapered down his neck. I bet he got it cut about once a week, and I could see him, rigid in the chair, his eyes squeezed shut, surrounded by the sound of electric clippers and hit radio. “I mean,” he began, then started over: “I mean, maybe it upsets her too much, seeing all of us. I wonder if perhaps it might be best not to be bothering her all the time. She has everything she needs.”

I opened and closed the empty, pristine ashtray. “Actually,” I said, “Pierce and I are talking about bringing her home. So she can spend her last days there, with us.”

“Oh, no no no!” said Bobby, keening over the sound of Benni Magnussen’s crashing waves. “I’d advise you very strongly against that. You don’t know what you’re getting into, there.”

“Well, I’d at least like to wait until after I get through with my cartooning classes. I’ll have more time when—”

“No, I mean not at all.” He was all business now, his voice taut with authority. “I think it’s a terrible idea. She cannot get adequate medical care at home. She will die in misery, in pain.”

“It’s not like we’re going to just dump her on the sofa and leave her there, Bobby.”

“Of course not. For God’s sake.” He shook his head.

“We have some idea.”

He turned to me, angry. “Do you know you’ll have to do things like treat bedsores? You’ll have to take her to the toilet and, and wipe her?”