William Gass - Omensetter’s Luck

she'd be too military,

and I've no taste for war,

or ….. or ……

for I've no taste for war.

Both were clay-skinned, too, their deep tans yellowy; and they had thick tropical hair that fell untidily over their foreheads, though Mat's was oftener cut and not so coarse — that was the difference.

And I shall never tarry

with a girl who's lost her cherry;

of her virtue I'd be wary,

despite my taste for whores,

ors ….. ors ……

despite my taste for whores.

Besides there was a looseness about Omensetter's fleshy parts, not exactly unpleasant, he had to admit, not puffy or like skin that's bubbled from the bone as paper does sometimes from plaster, but rather as if the muscles were at ease there, children asleep in their comforts—

"What do you want?" Is that it? Is it thus he addresses his minister? with a you. While I cry: ah, ah Matthew, ah… while I cry: ah, the gospel author's name, that name, you, instead, say: "what do you want?" Well, he would not answer. He'd topple silence on them like the temple. He would not answer to a you.

Simple Samson went to the fair,

all of the Philistine people were there.

I want — I want to be Philly Kinsman. Orcutt. Cate. Mossteller. Jenkins. Amsterdam. He recognized the wickedness and strength of the temptation, but he was sometimes overcome by the incredible sweetness of life, the warmth, the softness of his imaginary women, their skin so white and luminous with comfort.

But a wise apothecary

bid me once be chary

of girls who tipple sherry

and sleep the day indoors,

ors ….. ors ……

and sleep the day indoors.

In order to survive the silence he would have to think of darkly distant and dissimilar things: the Antarctic, camels, Bogota. Mat's thumbs were hooked to the tops of his trousers, so Furber tried to turn his thoughts to the wood thrush, then to Sardanapalus the king. The blacksmith's belly was large for all his laboring and it was puffing faintly beneath the cloth.

Her nipples bright as berries,

my maiden's great mammaries,

will yield milk like the dairy's,

till I've no taste for more,

or ….. or ……

till I've no taste for more.

The silence was a cross, but Furber resolved to share it, and he saw with pleasure that Mat had begun shifting his weight, leg to leg, like a bear. It was God's work, God's good work, Furber thought; he'd stand like this forever if necessary, like a holy image, though his church denied him images — well damn them and their dreary doctrines for that — all right then, like a mute accusing witness, an everlasting reminder…

And down where she is hairy,

I'll cage my wild canary,

a songbird legendary,

till it can sing no more,

or ….. or ……

till it can sing no more.

Mat's left hand flew to his face and clawed it roughly, then fell to his side with a slap. His right still clung to his pants like a bat to a rafter, Bogota… Bogota, Colombia.

It would be futile to say: as a man, I don't matter. I don't. I don't matter. But remember what I mean, for the body of every symbol is absurd. Tell me: how did Jesus pee? Who will preach on this point? Who will address himself to this question? Did He? Oh yea, Sisters and Brothers, He did. He peed the same as you do. Certainly the same, Brothers. Fully as well, too. Yea, fully as often. A pale straw-yellow stream. It's more likely He was circumcised than He was wispy bearded, weakly blond, girl whiskerless, a boy at twenty though a man at ten, a carpenter each inch a king. He was, in sum, an ordinary Son of God, the average kind, in all ways pious, meek, contentious, thin. Food wedged in His teeth, for instance; His skin blistered. Empty, His belly rumbled; stones cut His feet. Consider a moment the chemistry of The Last Supper. And when hung on the cross, between the thieves, He felt no differently the kiss of His nails than they did theirs. I can assure you of that much. Happy to do so, Sisters; happy… so happy, Brothers. So much, too, you're this God's equal. He made His wind like anyone. His buttocks coughed, and I can imagine He was tempted, relieving Himself, to spatter the spider who'd bit Him. His body made Him humble, yet He was piss proud. What sense to say Hé had one otherwise? What sense? But futile. Yea, Brothers — bombaddybast. They've scrubbed Him, drained His fluids, wiped up His colors, ironed out His creases. Beautiful Jesus — the embalmer's pride.

And Furber then, to pass the time, thought salt, thought dill, thought vinegar. At least he should look at me, he should have the courage. Myrrh. Myrrh. Watson drew air harshly through his nose. If he spits… But Furber could not take the risk.

I want to speak to you about a matter, he said, briskly folding up his arms.

It's late.

I know it's late. There's time.

Is there? It's late. I've got a lot to do.

There's time enough, all the same.

I've got to wash and eat. I've had a heavy day.

There's time, I say.

Well what then? about what?

But Furber secured his chest in his arms. Do not answer questions. He wrote "rudeness" on one side of a line. There was Ptolemy, Seleucus, Perdiccas, Gonatus, Cassander — all kings, and Furber cast his eyes down the empty street. They weren't real, they were echoes of buildings. It was as though the morning had been so exhilaratingly cool and clear and sunny that the boards had shouted away their substance, and now, from those earlier hours, only these images had been reflected to the afternoon.

I think I'd better wash. I've got a lot to do.

Got. You've got.

Mat swung about and stared at Furber, blood coloring his face.

Well, he said in a moment, squinting, I really have.

He paused to tilt.

What was it you wanted?

Yes, blink, Furber thought. You've never seen me before. I'm new, a stranger, and my dark clothes dazzle. Mat's tone had altered — that was something. Furber warned himself to move cautiously, not to carry matters too far. This was a contest he didn't dare lose, and his man was restless, uneasy and restless, anxious, worn, not just physically, but spiritually strained, worn and anxious in his heart. Yet he'd have to go far to win, fantastically far, and his confidence was gone. It had disappeared the moment it was called on, despite his careful preparations. Doubt made his voice weak and Mat did not respond to Omensetter's name. Ashamed, Furber repeated it, but Watson did not answer. His head wagged and the tail of his shirt fluttered. How much — the question flew in Furber's ear — how much was Watson paying Omensetter for his help? Could he afford such a man? It might be a matter worth pursuing. But I want to be Philly Kinsman. Furber allowed himself a sigh. There'd be loyalty to be undone, rectitude, Mat's sense of Omensetter's use, his antagonism (and now that this had shown itself so plainly, it proved to be so much greater than he'd guessed — but why? why?), and how many buttons more?… faith? trust? belief? each less, each easier, that, too, was something; then plenty of straightout foolishness and ignorance, he could be sure of that. Not. so simple, either, to free him from the mulewood he was made of. It was well Mat was weary, it would be will against will. Centipedes, he sang without conviction-waiting. Aphids, slugs. Then Eglon came — a Moab king. Jeroboam. Nadab. Baasha. Elah. Zimri. Omri. Ahab. "And Eglon was a very fat man." He was surrendering again.

It's treacherous weather. Don't you feel a chill?

The forge is banked.

Mat's voice remained weary and dispirited, scarcely polite.

Let's stand beside it, Matthew. I'll be warm enough.

A double-edged dagger of cubit length was well devised and gartered cunningly to the thigh of Ehud the assassin, deliverer of Israel. When Ehud was privately with Eglon in his summer parlor, bringing as he said a message to the king from God, he drew the dagger from its nest and with his left hand, for he was an utterly left-handed man, buried it beyond the haft in the king's belly, a belly so enormously fat that it was not possible to draw the dagger forth again, and it had to remain there instead, death's bone driven deeply, while the king's stools spilled on the carpet in the king's surprise. At first no hue and cry was raised, for Ehud fastened the chamber when he fled so that the king lay shut from his servants in his arbor as though (as they thought) he were answering to a call of nature. Such was the joke God made of Eglon then, and thus was Israel delivered that time.