J. Lennon - The Funnies

The last few weeks before my final submission to Burn Features, I felt much like Napoleon must have in the last days before invading Russia: suffused with visions of glory and power, with occasional distraction by a vague sensation of unease. My submission date had taken on the burnished gleam of legend, deep in the future history of my imagination, as the time when everything would become clear to me and my life would hoist its backpack onto its shoulders and set off, once and for all, onto its True Path.

Of course I recognized how stupid this was. Over those weeks I worked as hard and long as before, but now I had a heightened sense of this work as inherently absurd in its repetitiveness, the frenzied lever-yanking of a hormone-crazed lab rat. Rationally speaking, handing it in seemed to have no chance of solving anything, but my emotions had turned it into a talisman that I was foolishly convinced would protect me.

The work I filled my time with didn’t always have anything to do with the strip. I kept drawing my mother in this new, slightly disturbing cartoon style, and the images I created stayed with me all through the day: her hunched, vulture’s curve in her wheelchair, the rare stoop over her walker, the miserable wrinkle she made under a sheet. I hung out a lot at Ivy Homes. The nurses were getting to know me, and meanwhile Pierce and Mal were hard at work preparing the house for her presence, preparing her for it as well. That plan, anyway, seemed to be working.

Bitty and I often came to the home at the same time, and while I drew she read magazines and looked over my shoulder. She was mum about her pregnancy and about Mike, and I had no reason to press the issue; it did seem, however, that she felt more comfortable with me now that I knew, as if that confession was a piece of her I was carrying for safe keeping. And this was fine with me: it was so light that it felt like a piece of myself.

Wurster seemed to notice that I wasn’t concentrating, but he didn’t say anything about it. In the past months he had gotten to be less severe, more contemplative: a new Brad. I didn’t much miss the old one. Once, during the last week of our classes — I was to have a few days off to do the final drafts of my submission cartoons — he told me, right in the middle of a lesson, to stop drawing.

“Why?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. He was looking at the paper in a funny way, as if something was crawling across it. “Just stop.”

I sat back in the chair, and felt the muscles in my back loosening. “Okay.”

“There,” he said.

“There what?”

“How does that feel? Not drawing. Does it feel better than drawing?”

I shrugged. “I suppose.”

He stood up, leaned past me and pulled open the window, which during my stint here had never been opened. Dust filled the room, and a gooey, filthy sort of light. He squinted into this light for a while, saying nothing. Then he turned to me. “Let’s go outside.”

“Why?”

“Let’s just go out.” He picked my jacket up from the floor and handed it to me.

It was really fall now. It had that smell. Leaves were getting the fragile jitteriness that meant they were thinking about taking the plunge. We sat in the scraggly grass, enjoying the yard’s only patch of sunlight, and scootched around after it as it moved.

“Can I ask you something?” I said to Wurster.

“Shoot.”

“What did my dad pay you for this?”

He sighed. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I promised him I’d teach you. I didn’t want to break the promise.”

“You’re doing this for free?”

He made a face. “It was a long time ago. I owed it to him. And besides,” he said, his voice softening, “it was…instructive, working with you. I learned some things.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding,” Wurster said.

And that was all he would say on the subject, and I never would find out what it was he owed my father for. In retrospect, I’m glad he didn’t tell me. The older I get, the more reluctant I become to judge my father, or anybody else, so terribly harshly. But that’s later.

The only other change in those last few weeks was in my relationship with Susan: I had fallen in love with her. At least I thought I had, anyway; I was reluctant to get close enough to find out for sure, the way you’re reluctant, while enjoying a balmy and empty beach, to look too closely at the sign that might or might not say NO TRESPASSING. The possibility of love was thrilling to consider, but its implications were overwhelming. Susan and I ate together, slept together. She did her laundry at our house. But the emotions went unaddressed, and I was aware that she was waiting me out, and that her willingness to wait was finite. Our relationship was a beautifully wrapped gift that, when you listened closely enough, went tick, tick.

The day I went to the post office to mail away my two weeks of Family Funnies, Ken Dorn was waiting for me. He was leaning against the self-service counter, reading a paperback book. He looked up at me and smiled politely, much in the way you would smile at a man you’ve invited into your office to fire, and said, “Timmy Mix. What a surprise!” His goatee was fully in now, as neatly trimmed as a fairway.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“It’s nearly eleven,” he said. “I was certain you’d be here by ten-thirty.” He pointed to my package, which had the words DO NOT BEND stamped on it in dark red block letters. “What have we got here?”

“Matzoh.”

“Har, har. Just in time for Passover.”

He followed me into the line, which was long. Everyone in it seemed to have the same cold, and kleenex fluttered before the regiment of noses like a dozen flags of surrender. “So, Tim, any chance of letting me check out the drawings?”

“They’re all packed up,” I said.

“Come on, for your old pal Ken? They can seal it up again at the counter.”

I gave this some thought. “Stand a couple feet back,” I said. “No touching.”

“All right, all right. I wasn’t going to spoil your little party.” He backed off and crossed his arms smugly over his chest.

I pulled each drawing out slowly, held it up before Ken Dorn, and slid it back into the package before taking out another. Ken seemed to lose his snotty affect; the sneer disappeared from his face and he studied each drawing carefully, with a kind of scholarly detachment. I sealed them away and tucked the envelope under my arm.

“So,” I said.

He nodded. “Those are good,” he said with real sincerity. “I’m impressed.”

I waited for pride to sweep me off my feet, but it never came. I was too far resigned to what fate would bring to care what Ken Dorn thought. The sentiment was touching, though, from such an insidious little man.

“Well, thank you,” I said. “That’s very kind.”

“I mean it, they are very good.” He shrugged. “Not that it’ll make a difference.”

I was less suspicious of the content than the delivery: the supercilious whimper had crept back into his voice. “What do you mean?” I said.

“I mean, it’s a done deal. The Family Funnies is mine.”

“I haven’t even mailed these, Ken.”

“No matter. I played nine holes with Burn yesterday. I’m as good as hired.”

We moved forward in line. I was fuming. I said, “You came all the way to Riverbank to tell me that?”

“Mixville,” he said. “And hey, Timmy, I thought you’d want to know. It’s important news, isn’t it?”

“If it were correct,” I said, loudly enough so that several people turned their heads, “it would be news. As it is, it’s just idle speculation. You’re bluffing.” I couldn’t bear to look at him.