by George Chambers
Padredos: What we've got here is a naked, greased-up fat man spread-eagled on a stand-up lunch table in the dinette section of an establishment called Apothocary Global in a city of some size and a river runs through it. The fat man, who goes by the name of Motherboard, aka Chick, aka Pooch, was attacked by a rash as he was holding forth with his friends who, evidently, gather at AG for lunch on a more or less regular basis. After this attack, his friends caused him to be disrobed and set upon the table whereupon they took to greasing him down. There he lies now, a chromium plated, double-skinned napkin dispenser for a pillow, more or less restrained by the ladies as they perform certain chant, and other exercises to rouse his sleepy phallus which, earlier in this lunch, Chick claims to have faced. We refer you to the "I have faced my phallus" chunk above. Our other best sense of coherence at this moment is that all of these goings-on are happening simultaneously. that there is no narrative here, although, to be sure, within the non-narrative are tales quite familiar as conventional stories to almost any ear, such as, for example, the shocking story that Sonnerfrator tells Motherboard's kid, see above chunk, a story, if I may say so, I am more and more grateful for the clarity of, given subsequent obfuscations and detours multiple which give no hint whatsoever of any saving linearity. Mamba: Well esaid, Padredos! Bot, hawnie, chew can't ged wed talking like dat! Padredos: What? Mamba: Nod whad, wed...wed, chew no, si? Padredos: What? Mamba: Hey, hombre. What ease these guy blowing on my moofin? Chew insalt Mamba! Padredos: Blowing on your muffin? You crazy? Would I blow on your muffin? Mamba: !Yo no se! ?Quieres? Rumbero: Comeon, kids. Easy, easy. You have made a masterful descriptive effort, Padredos. Mamba, you have also made an important contribution. It is true that the descriptor removes her or himself from the "bath," as it were, of experience. That's what she said, Padredos. You misheard her; she did not misspeak. Mamba: Thad's ride! I esaid chew can't ged wed! Chick: I'm cold, I'm freezing! I'm hungry! I want something to eat that tastes like its good for your body. Maybe if you girls would talk nasty to my little friend in the bush it would happify him. You know, when Bartok came to the States with Ditta. No, I don't mean that! I'm cold, cold! This pillow is hard on my head! The rash sweeps about me like the Black Plague, on ear, on wrist! Look! Somebody get me some Fritos and one of those sausage cakes! Clown! Talk nasty to my penis! You know, threaten it. Bang dirt! Clown: You know, we're all real people here, folk who like to get it on and do it and get real and all that, but there is a decorum that prevails always at our noon proceedings that this request breeches. I don't approve of the tone of your remarks, Chick. Furthermore, I don't like the word "penis." It's too, too, too medical, too, ah, specific. It's like anus, maybe all words than end with the s sound. Popcorn Girl: Ah, shuttup, Clownie. Sappy, sappy. Blow, dirt on that pepperoni, slice thin, quick fry. Who's for pizza? Padredos: While they assault one another, I'll continue with my description of Apothocary Global and environs, the lost art of our century, a craft that was corrupted during the Reagan administration. When the cancerous section cut from his gut was displayed on national television in 1985, description was dealt the coup de grace. Outside our swinging plate glass bullet proof doors, where, in winter the sooted snows pack the walks and wall against us, in the brick amphitheatre where Clown performs her comedies to row upon row of unresponsive vulgarians, one may.... Control: I don't know why the girls like this guy! Popcorn Girl: Off, Control. At least he's not like you. Control: Which is? Popcorn Girl: Your the kind of guy who wears condoms not like the rest of us so we won't die.... Mamba: Controlie! Chew mean. querido, chew wear a hat on chore banana? Control: I hear all kinds of traffic on my bridge, all kinds of noise. I'll be plucking eyes soon, I'll be burning the sand beneath your feet. Popcorn Girl: He wears rubbers because he doesn't like to be that close to women, I heard him say it to Baby Doll who was jacking him off for a quarter in the alley. Clown: Wow. Rumbero: I want a world that includes Control The Troll but I hadn't realized just how far under the bridge, as it were, he is. The rest of us sexheads are in a pretty narrow boat are we not? I never personally felt so close to all manner of deviationists as I have until just now. There are folk in this world who do not wish contact with flesh other than their own and not even that, I suspect. Control: You're chumming the waters, Rumbero. A little more bait and we'll have shark. Crib: You know, the Doc's onto something here. There's all of us sexheads dieing to get laid, busting ass for a piece of any ass...and then there's creeps like Control who breaks out a Trojan so Baby Doll can milk his pud. Clown: It really is this chunk of the text that I think we ,should leave untranslated. If they want, interested folk can get information like this from other sources which I won't name here. It seems to me that even the noble Mr Corn, aka Kornei Chukovsky, would agree with me. Mr. Corn: Okh, nelegkaia eto rabota - iz balota tashchit' begemota! Rumbero: Well said, Corny. To continue, however: my point is that we form a very narrow band on a spectrum I now realize. Whereas before, shall we say, I would have imagined that lubricating assholes would have been an activity remote from my own experience and practice and therefore liable to all sorts of emotional, fear-laden assaults on my part, I now see these fellows as occupying a bit of gunnel right next to mine in this canoe. Control: May you capsize! May the jackshark chow down on your cock! Clown: I really see no need for this information. Hypertext is always selective, always concerned with promulgating it's own truths and with fostering a renewal of the reforming status quo. The goal of all activity is rest. We strive to achieve the state of the dead center, do we not? Padredos: It's true that when you meet a person like Control vou lose the avidity of your interest in fringe sex practices and are apt to see them as closely allied with your own deviations and therefore normal and unremarkable, but I want to insist that description is the issue here and I want to go forward with a realization of the minimall outside our doors, the minimall which contains the brick playhouse where Clownie struts her stuff, since that is the function of description. Mamba: Chew no, Padredos, thees words chew esay are chewing each awether, si? Chick: I wish I had something to chew on or someone would chew on me. While you all go on debating these baseless debates, I am stretched on this cruel rack, starving, my rashes racing about like sharks in a freshly chummed sea, my phallus on report to missing persons and my self-esteem diminishing like a barometer before a low pressure trough. What I want to discuss while we wait for my phallus to take heart and put up an appearance is the New Impermanence of this glorious world. We can now safely call this old-fashioned talk about immanence and transcendence...that's an old dead scale. The social world, my friends, is finally on fire. Everything is fuel for its own consummation. Skim: Oh, G-d G-d G-d, isn't there something like a maypole around here we can shove in Chick's crotch and pretend he's got an erection? If we don't, he'll go on and on and on, banging his New Impermanence. Youth Farm: How come no one is looking at me? Isn't there something thrilling about my silence and passivity that you find attractive, perhaps in the way a plate glass window on a store is attractive to an attractive woman? Don't you thrill to the idea of such an intense passivity of flesh? Doesn't a presence such as mine stir a romantic agony to possess through me that untouched aspect of yourself? I don't understand how you can go on and on so about this greased sow on the table when you have such a specimen as me, all horse, before you. Mamba: Chew no, thees boy I bet has the goods! !Que! We leeft op Cheeck we sleep Youd Efarm onder heem and pop! how chew esay goes thee weezel! Popcorn Girl: I'd love to see his thing, wouldn't you? Clown: Don't talk like that. I'd love to see it. I do see it. See it along his thigh, that confident mounding from the crotch to the knee? I hate talking this way but passion overwhelms me, it burns away my natural hypocrisy. Mamba: Chew no girls, in the Kubaa of Batista and so on we had lods of stoff like dees for chew gringos. One show at the Tropicana muy popular was thees stawed poking showgirls, my mama was trumpet in the all-girl band she told me mawech. Chew gringo sexcreeps like thees stuff, nod my romantic esteping through you, si? Chick: Ah, ah, ahh.... Mamba: Que es, Cheeck? Chick: Ah, ahh, ahh ahh ahh! Menem: Ha, ha, ha. Popcorn Girl: Say, Mendez! Where have you been? Chick: Ah, ahh, ahhh! Menem: I sleeped out to buy a book, ha ha Cheek's fats he's shake like chelly, ha ha. Chick: Ahh ahhh, ahhh-ah-ah! Mamba: Cheek nino mio esta excited! Eat ease thee thorn of love, si? Rumbero: I think he's going to sneeze. Chick: CHOO! ah, ah, ahchoo! CHOO! AHCHOO! Ahhhhhhhhhhchoo. Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah.... Menem: !Que estornudo! Clown: What do you say, do you say what a nude? A nude is a painting. This on the table is a mass of fat tissue, sneezing. Chick: I sneeze therefore I am! Padredos: Oh no! Not again! Menem: Stuff chore ears! Skim: If I hear that story again I'll vomit my Cheerios and Pepsi. Control: I'll kick him over the moon! Crib: Ansefakuna. Popcorn Girl: What, what? Rumbero: His paternity tale, you know, the story of the sneeze. Popcorn Girl: Oh, that one. Eminently forgettable. Let's undress Youth Farm, slowly. Youth Farm: Well I haven't heard your story, Chick! Clown: You will. Why don't you take your trousers off and get comfortable? Mr Corn: ---,-. ---,- --- -- ------- ----- -- ----- --- --------- -- --- --- -- ----- -- --- ---- ---- ----- --- . Mamba: Esay, look here on Cheek's skeen. I drawn the nail of passion over hees back, que! Padredos: Wow! Will you look at that welt. Do it again, Mamba. Mamba: Hokay. Wadtch, I do a tic tac toe graph! Chick: Heyyyyy! Padredos: Look at that! Shall we play? Rumbero: Wait a second, let me look at this, this is...feel those welts which Mamba's fingernail raised! I've heard of this, it's very rare, very rare. It's a writer's disease. Khalil Gibran suffered it I think, and Charlotte Gilman...and Mrs. Beach too! It's coming to me, it's on the tip of my tongue! Chick: Ahh, ahh, CHOOOOO! The moment of my conception! Papa! Youth Farm: What's he talking about? Padredos: The sperm hits the egg at 4am. It's the only time he sneezes. Youth Farm: That's the story? Clown: Well, he draws it out, he really occupies it, as they say, but
that's the essential Proppian of it. Rumbero: Dios mio. Close to the end of the world everyone is talking like Wittgenstein. Clown: Why don't you loosen your tie, Youth Farm dear boy, you're among would-be friends. Chick: Each year at this time, the collision that created me repeats itself! I wake upon a visitation of my father, always at 4am! A sneeze heralds my waking! and there remains a fragment of my father's presence. In this case, a page from his account book! Thus also commences the season allergic! Rumbero: That's it! Dermatographism! That's what Chick's got! It's quite rare! You be O Mamba and I'll be X. Mamba: Hokay! Chick: I sneeze! Therefore! I am! I am created! Rumbero: X. Mamba: 0. Que! Look at thees welts! Look! Zero rising! Chick: One can't help but wish that one's social member would rise as easily as one's welts. Rumbero: X. What a fine case! A renewable writing surface! Look! Magic! Already my X is disappearing, becoming invisible...invisible writing! Mamba: 0. Rumbero: X. Mamba: 0. Youth Farm: These people are playing tick tack toe on Chick's back. Chick: Do you suppose when the letter X sinks into the surface of my skin it stays there somehow, latent x's and o's ready to be summoned? Mamba: Chew ween, Rumbero! Rumbero: X marks the spot! Chick: Quick, somebody cover me! Here she comes! She's coming through the scanner! Skim: The Avenger! Crib: The OT! Mr Corn: ---- ---- ------! Menem: Bad lock! Popcorn Lady: Where's Chick's clothes. where are Motherboard's threads! Youth Farm: What are you all so exercised about, I don't see a thing! Padredos: There, see the gate just inside the plate glass doors? Youth Farm: Ok, so? Padredos: Just under the scanning beam. see her? The short lady in the business suit? Youth Farm: I do! A black dwarf, dressed in black, carrying a black purse! Padredos: Well, everyone says that who doesn't know her. We call her The Avenger, The Old Testament, Bad Lock, TOT...she's out to do us in. Chick: Oh! Mamba: Que! Rumbero: Voyez! Chick: Ohh! Skim: The bird! Crib: The bird! A white heron rising from the marshy rushes by the low riverbank! Padredos: That's my job, kid! I'm the Descriptor here! Chick: Cover it! She's coming this way, she's lowering her glasses, from atop her wig to her eyes!
Padredos: My g-d, look at it! Mamba: Cheek! Chick: Ohhh! Skim: It's bent! Crib: It's crooked! Clown: I've seen, everything! Chick: Ohhh! Padredos: It's not that it's so large but that it's bent, about 35 degrees, that's the phenomenon of it. It's the Peroni Syndrome, I think. Menem: Whay chew esay, chew esay Peron? Chew spic of querido Juan in thees manner? Chick: Ohh, ohh! Padredos: Peroni, Peroni. Skim: Pepperoni. Crib: Pepperoni. Padredos: Une femme apparait! Youth Farm: Je crois le voir encor! Mamba: Dios mio! Popcorn Girl: How can we tattoo it with our felt tips! Chick: Cover it! She's looking this way, voyez her eyes magnified in her thick lenses! Son voile se souleve! Rumbero: Her veil is parting! La foile est a genoux! Clown: We're beginning to kneel! We're helpless before it. la deesse! [[[Staging Note: Directors will want to ensure the ordered complexity of this high moment. Actors must be thoroughly drilled. The slightest misstep could destroy the illusion we seek to effectuate here. TOT moves toward the altar where Chick lies naked, his roused, bent penis a cause for wonder and amazement. As she approaches the altar, she slowly parts her veil, and adjusts her glasses. Those gathered about Chick sing in praise of this much wished for moment and also in astonishment and anxiety lest TOT discover the true occasion (namely, that these priests and virgins have gathered about Chick to decorate his cock with felt-tipped pens), since TOT serves as landlady of Apothocary Global and is ever threatening to evict this band of noontime reveler's. Note also, that the players are singing snatches of a lovely hymn to brotherhood from The Pearldivers. This must be sung reverentially, with no parodic coloration whatsoever.]]] TOT: Hey! Clown: She sees it! Hide it, hide it! Somebody sit on him! Popcorn Girl: Sit on him yourself. I'm not that horny! Help me up, spread my skirts! Mamba: O vision O reve! TOT: Hey! Ensemble: Oui, c'est elle, c'est la deesse/ Plus charmante et plus belle/ Oui, c'est elle, c'est la deesse/ Qui descend parmi nous/ Son voile se souleve/ Et la foule est a genoux.