William Gass - Omensetter’s Luck

There was coming toward him now, its body pondering, its temples glowering, a beast, burthenous with shadow. Furber winked. Mat's shoulders were too heavy for his buck. Frowns pinched his eyes. Undo — and a totter of limbs, a clatter of bones in collections. Oh he was always such a weighty man. "Yet His burthen is light." But Mat dragged his shadow like a sled and fragments of dancehall song pierced Furber's head.

Imagine my distress

if you undo my dress.

for if you do,

oh me! undo—

for if you do,

oh my! untie—

then I'm undone,

I must confess;

I'll simply die

without my dress.

He felt strangely adrift again. A shadow flew under his feet. It was curious — this floating. Better watch it. Hair lapped Mat's ears.

So if you do,

oh me! undo—

so if you do,

oh my! untie—

Mat was habitually heavy-hearted, morosely kind, distinctly dull in that sense, slow and gloomy; his center of gravity seemed to Furber near his knees.

consider that my dress

fits tight across my chest;

has hooks and eyes,

and bows and ties,

has pins and clips

clear to my hips,

Furber had withdrawn from his skin but he was still cold. Unhappy hands, fallen out of pockets, fluttered in greeting. Greeting? The sky fled without moving. Mat came slowly on.

and is difficult to press

so very difficult to press.

Yet somewhere in that ponderous person lived a lively fancy… yes — as a mouse might nest in a bear or a bird in a beaver. Thus Mat was curious, though a dreadful prude, and if he would gossip only when he felt obliged, he was frequent and unfalling in the discharge of his duties. He was fond of popular philosophy which he badly misconstrued, and once he had embarrassed Furber with a gift of some tracts on Eastern mysticism and the occult which he had acquired while a carter in Chicago in his youth.

If you insist

that I divest

the dress that clasps

me to its breast,

and guards my honestness,

and shields my honestness,

Despite Mat's reputation for having what barbers, shaving, call a light touch — a quality unusual, even irrelevant, in smiths — he regularly broke things: chairs, crocks, dishes, cooking pots and tools.

then whatever you may do

do to yourself too—

He was proud, in addition, that his thoughts were sometimes deep; that his mind was, on occasion, devious; that he saw through people, or around them, which was often the greater feat; and that he had a flair for finding affinities, however different and bizarre their outward forms (Pimber and Omensetter were a natural pair, he always said) which his friends pronounced both exact and remarkable.

for that's the golden rule,

the golden, golden rule—

To Furber, watching Mat's unwilling progress up the street, he represented the perfect pulley, for a gentle tug at one end would move a mountain at the other, or raise an unwilling Lazarus from the dead.

and when we're finally through,

this maid shall ask of you,

that whatever has been done,

as a gentleman,

whatever has been done,

you redo.

First, however, it would be necessary to get in. Furber had been standing for some time motionless, his mind asleep, and now both men leaned toward one another like two sticks thrust weakly in the earth. The street was strangely empty, the store fronts seemed painted on a drop, and Furber had the feeling that they might rise out of sight any moment, the scene change suddenly — and then what? a desert might surround them or a jungle… hummocks of snow or the restless terrain of ocean. Through his uneasiness he recognized the need for strength and motion, and grasping himself, regained his stature. Normally small and thin, he seemed pulled by his own will through his black coat sleeves and trouser legs and stiff white tube of collar until he was as tall as he thought he ought to be, the total of his body and his shadow so completely cast together that Mat could scarcely have distinguished the separate figures that made the sum.

Ah, Matthew, here you are at last. I feel a chill, he said.

The lengthy ah, Mat's name swimming in his breath, the ladybook language, the preacher's tone: the stage. Standing too long, he'd struck a false note; his determination drained away through his feet. Consequently Watson put his back to Furber's eye. Mat's shirt was stained and the sides of his face were streaked. Matthew, Furber crooned. Matthew, he bellowed. Matthew, Matthew, he chanted, filling his head with the sounds that meant smith, as if these sounds would give him some hold on their object. Didn't a man grow like his name in the long run, and wasn't there a piece of him wedged in it, between the syllables, like meat in a sandwich? How else could you know that the noises fit? It's what finally does those famous people in, his father used to say, wagging a long, plump, finger; every time you're thought of, a part of you gets used. It's slow erosion. Death from simple use. Double U and T. That was his father's life, his father's motto. Wear and wear. And then we're through. It's simply Double U and T. Too much Double U and T. A hole pokes through, he used to say, as through a shoe. And then we're through. Over and over and over he'd say it, wearing the edges of his teeth away. What shall we do? what shall we do? Furber was removed — giddy — all awobble. Another of his father's newspaper truths: where are liquor and tobacco? why, they live in habit's hollow. Over and over and over. If each man were in his syllables somewhere, he could be reached that way. And touched. Over and over. Loved? What did it matter? He could be chewed and swallowed. Jethro, for instance… or Matthew. He knew true habit's hollow. Omen-What if Romeo's name were Bob? Or Jethro. What if Jethro's name were — what? a wise adviser, a fluent liar, a slippery spier, a loud woe-crier, a God-denier with his soul on fire-no-what if his name were — what? But you couldn't wear out Romeo. He grew with each repeating. Omensetter. Simpson. Suppose it were Simpson. Or Henry Pimber. Or Olus Knox. A pig wallow — that was habit's hollow. Stitt. Tott. Chamlay. I've your name here, bucko, with my spit around it — how do you like that? Hatstat. Flack. Cox. Hawkins. Cobb. Well there might be something in it. Still another of his father's newspaper truths: thou shalt not take the name of the Lord they God in vain. Were there one, He should have slain… Had there been, He would have… My will be done. And thrust the lightning home. Suppose God's name was Simpson. Suppose, all this time, through all this hoot and hollering, He was Simpson. Unhearing. That would explain.. everything. Hey there, Simpson! Hey hey! Not opportune. My name's not Jethro Furber. You've the wrong man once again. It's Joe Pete Andy. It's Philly Kinsman. What would that be like to be? Kinsman. Any. To slip away to a new life. And so be safe, from Double U and T.Ah. There was Backett Omensetter, then. He'd worn that man to a shadow, if this was true; his name could only call a ghost.

Silly Billie

has a belly

big as Marge

and large as Nellie.

Matthew Omensetter. The two of them were twins of a kind, Furber saw that now; they possessed a terrible similarity, and he felt further weakened.

… the treasures that she carried

were mostly deeply buried…

To be Philly Kinsman… to swim in a river of trees… the sun asleep on the grass, in the weeds… oh god, he was going to die and never

… the belle of the Spanish Main…

Matthew Omensetter. Both were large-bodied gentlemen, always moist like river clay, darkening their shirts with designs as they worked, speaking in streaks and splotches.

I shall never marry

a maid who is a fairy;