TISSUE
James Sallis
1: at the fitting shop
Can I help you sir; you seem to have lost your way?
Why yes, thank you, I'm looking for the plumbing shop. Certainly, sir. That would be, let's see, department fifteen-bee. Up this aisle, turn right, right again at Canned Goods, left and keep bearing left around Magazines till you get to Needlework, go through Hobbies and Crafts and take the corridor down through Exotic Foods, then aisle eighty-three—and you're there. Simple. You might want to pick up a compass at Sporting Goods—that's on your way, swing back right just past Suspenders, big stuffed bear, you'll know it when you're there. Makes things a little easier . . .You do have a map?
Uh yes. Yes, thank you very much.
Matson.
I beg your pardon?
Matson: my name. My card. Give me a ring if you need any further help. Number's down there, use one of the house phones.
Thank you very much.
No thanks necessary, son, it's my job.
Ah, pardon me. Is this the plumbing shop—down there?
Ha. Sorry, kid, you're in the wrong wing. Up that way. Garden Tools—next floor up. You can take the escalator at Stamp Redemption, elevator at Cosmetics, or walk up just past Archery. Me, I'd prefer the walk—takes you right smack through Tupperware, that'll put a smile on your face.
Sir . . .Sir? Could you tell me, is this how I get to Garden Tools?
Afraid not, Sonny. You're way off course. Look, you go down there and ask that guy in the pink shirt. He'll show you the way to Power Tools and from there you're okay, got a straight shot. Sure thing.
Ah . . .Sporting Goods? Can you tell me which way to go—right, or left?
Well, I'll tell you. You could take that right down into Tall-n-Slim, then come back around Canned Goods Imported till you get to Stationery and pull another right there. Or you could follow that left fork there on to Belts and Neckties, work your way over toward Lavatories and go down on the Autolift. But if I were you, I'd go back along this aisle till I got to Stamp Redemption, then I'd make straight for Lay-Away and cut across Carpets-and-Draperies to Complaints. That's the quickest way to get to Hardware, from here anyhow.
Hardware? That's what I want to ask for, then—fifteen-bee?
You bet.
Sorry, but you gave me a fright. You the new helper?
Ah, no. I'm looking for Hardware. Fifteen-bee.
I see . . .well, you're in the basement, you know.
No, I didn't.
Well, you are.
I see. Could you tell me how to get to Hardware, then?
That'd be fifteen-bee, right?
Yes sir.
Well son, I'm not sure; haven't been up there for months myself. Since last Christmas as a matter of fact. Had to go up for some shopping then, though. Waited till late at night 'fore I'd go up. Near as I can recall . . .you got a map?
Yes sir.
Let's have a look then . . .yeah, that's it. Look, somehow you gotta get back up to Coffeepots-n-Cannisters—that's on Level Four about halfway down Aisle twenty-eight-cee, next to Lingerie, see? You can find that by yourself now, can't you, just look for the nekid women. I mean, you can get there with the map?
Well, I think so.
Good boy! Sure you can, that's the spirit. I reckon you'll make out okay; you've got lots of spunk for a youngster, and that's what it takes.
Yes sir. Thank you very much, you've been very helpful.
Don't thank me, son—you'd do the same for me. We gotta help each other out, don't we. I mean, what else is there? Man can't help a guy that's in a jam, what else matters?
Won't you take a seat, son? You look a little tired. Here, this one, with the pink arms. Gives you a good view. Notice how the indirect lighting sparkles on all the chrome fittings—it took four engineers and two interior decorators ten weeks to get that effect. You really do look tired, you know. Shouldn't push yourself that way; there'll be time enough for that when you're older. Take care of yourself, enjoy your youth while you've still got it.
I'm sorry, thank you. I had some trouble getting here.
No wonder, either: that's last week's map you've got there.
O. But this is Hardware?
Right!
Department fifteen-bee?
You bet!
Where they sell the penises?
Sure thing!
Finally . . .
Ah, you'll pardon my asking, son, but you do have a certificate? From your parents, I mean, testifying to your age—and of course notes from your teacher and minister. I'm sorry: rabbi. The law requires it, you see, and . . .ah yes, that's right, everything seems to be in order. Now. Just what style did you have in mind?
Well, I really hadn't given it much thought. I don't know a great deal about all this, I'm afraid. Uh, what would you recommend?
Well sir. Of course it's difficult to form an accurate judgment without knowing the person, I mean really knowing him, if you get my meaning. That is to say, the essential him—all the little qualities and quirks that make up his whole, his personality. But judging from your apparent physique, and from certain mannerisms which I've noted already, I would go so far as to suggest that one of our Sassafras Tangles would not be too terribly amiss. And it is one of our more popular models, quite a serviceable style . . .a hunch, of course—but intuition is often to be relied upon, especially when it comes of long experience, familiarity with the product. The shape of the face and buttocks is a particularly useful indication. And the hand of course.
I see. Uh, would it be too forward of me to ask a more, uh, personal recommendation?
Ahhhh. Of course, I understand. Well, personally I go for the Polish Sausage—quite stylish, never out of vogue, the upkeep isn't as demanding as some. Also, formally, I find it compelling: a certain purity of line, simplicity, an essential honesty. The floor manager would swear by the Mushroom Arrow, though, and that's one of the best recommendations you can get—I mean, from a man who really knows his trade, knows what is available. The Arrow particularly fits the jauntier, dashing sort, I feel.
Uh, could I, do you suppose . . .
Certainly sir!
Yes . . .that is very nice.
We have one of the finest fitters in the trade. It is exquisite, isn't it? Truly exquisite. A man feels proud, with a product like that,, the result of a totally committed craftsman. Exquisite.
It certainly is. A Polish Sausage . . .
Shall I measure you for one then, sir?
Well, I'm not quite sure, I mean I haven't seen any others. Do you suppose I could see a few modeled? Perhaps that would help in the final decision?
Why certainly, sir. Keiris: the models!
You are most kind.
A fine choice, sir. The Mandrake Special, in red, with full attachments. Possibly the best-tooled model we make, and we make the best in the business. Each one finished by hand—an absolute triumph of craftsmanship. No: of Art!
I believe that I'll be very happy with it.
Yes sir, you'll be most happy with it. I can personally assure you of that. You'll find it quite durable, and with care it will bring you many years-even a lifetime!—of pleasure. Simply return it once a month for adjustment; and should anything go wrong—the least malfunction—we will repair it free of charge or, in more serious cases, replace it entirely. Just like a Zippo.
Zippo?
A cigarette lighter, sir. Like our Mandrake Special, the hest available.
Ah. I'm too young to smoke, you know. Though perhaps I'll take it up now . . .
Yes sir, that might he nice. Well, I believe that's everything, then. You'll find lubricant, spare screws and washers—also instructions relating to cleaning, maintenance, minor repairs and adjustments—in the complimentary kit that comes along with the Mandrake Special. And the usual instructions on how to use it to full advantage, of course. Your parents will be billed to the sum of five dollars and eighty-seven cents; and if you don't mind, sir, I'd like to add that I think they'll be very proud of your choice, very proud indeed.
I hope so. Thank you very much, again, for your advice. You've been most helpful.
My job, sir. More than a job: my duty. Keiris! My assistant will show you out, sir: he knows a shortcut. And I believe you will be passing Wine Cellar and Smoke Shop on your way, should you like to stop in there for a quick purchase or two before we close.
Yes, perhaps I will.
It's been a pleasure to serve you, sir.
Yes, thank you. I believe you have made me a very happy man this afternoon.
I hope so, sir. We do our best.
2:53rd american dream
Sunday and just like all the other Sundays: clouds hung in the sky like jowls or wattles, sky gobbled up air, its feet moved in the grass, it was going to rain. The children had already eaten by the time they got up.
In housecoat (brown check, Neiman Marcus) and slippers (gray plaid, Penneys) Mr. More walked into the living room (he looked like a Viking departing his ship) kicking aside the scattered bones as he came, noticing on them the marks, the scrapings of teeth.
"Damn," he said at last, standing in the center of the room, shaking his great sleepy head. (He looked like a bulls-eye surrounded by the rings of furniture bones children.) "I wish you kids could understand how hard it is to get good help these days, then there wouldn't be any more of this. You're using them up at an awful rate, you know: do you realize this is the third time this month? Bedford Hills, Children, is running out of maids." And then, because the speech was over, because it was nine in the morning, because he'd run out of words, because he looked like a Viking, he said it again. "Damn."
"We're awful sorry, Pop," Tom, the oldest, said. A trickle of blood ran down the hinge of his chin and splashed onto Tonto's palomino. Always a slow eater, littlejim was crouched under the coffee table, gnawing at a knuckle-bone. "But we were hungry, awful hungry. And we got tired of waiting for you and Mom to get up."
Mr. More rubbed thoughtfully, sleepily, at the Brillo-stubble of his cheek and chin; his hand came away scratched to a red rash. "Well, I suppose that's understandable," he said. "But get this awful mess cleaned up before your mother sees it."
An exemplary team (one envisioned now the yapping pursuit, the bringingdown, the snarled devouring) the children set to work, piling bones onto a red wagon, mopping at the blood with Scottowels. Tim, the youngest, leaned in a corner with the towels jammed onto his arms, going click-click each time one of the others pulled one off.
Mr. More turned around three times and went back into the bedroom. The book she had been reading last night was lying open on the bed (stories Jewish and Zen, yang and yin, fat and thin) with a broken back, but his wife was nowhere to be found. He walked around the room, opening drawers and doors looking for her, climbed up on a chair to look down into the light fixture (king-of-the-hill on a pile of bodies and pieces of body, a single live cyclops fly stared back at him and waved one of its eyelash legs frantically: j'accuse, j'accuse). Finally, catching a glimpse of taffeta foot from his maple perch, he realized she was sleeping under the pillow. He jumped flat-foot over the foot rail—shouting Hai! and Hing!—and came down in a crouch on the Beautyrest.
He reached down and lifted the pillow. "The children ate the maid," he said, and dropped the pillow back.
Minutes later it suddenly lurched and fell onto the floor. His wife stretched slowly and turned over (slowly). "Poor Griselda . . ."she said to the suspended ceiling with all its tiny sound-absorbent holes.
"No, Dear. They ate Griselda last week. This was Olga."
"Poor Olga . . ." She pulled the covers up over her and he could hear her sobbing down in her dark warm cavern. He dived headfirst onto the pillow, got up and went to the closet, which perforce yawned open. (A thin slice of darkness being closed on, now, by irregular white boxes ranked on the shelf above, the line of clothes anchored with clothespins to the adjustable bar below.) He thrust his hand, quickly, in and—quickly—out: jaws of clothespins snapped, a hanger fell rattling out of the bundle in his hand. (The closet was now in need of a new lower-left bicuspid.) His hand braved the depths of a box and emerged with a pearl-white shirt. He began dressing, diagonally, from the imported clockwork left sock to the hand-stitched right cuff and the tortoise-shell elephant.
He was standing at the mirror, filing down his teeth, when Tim came and stood in the doorway behind him. Tim was dressed in balls of bread which he had glued all over his body after slicing off the crusts. He looked like a renegade dandelion.
"Okay, Pop, it's all cleaned up," he said. "We saved some for you, though—it's in the frig."
"Right . . .look, I'm not too hungry. Why don't you kids have it later? You can make a sandwich or something." (Page 119: "Parents must sacrifice for their children.")
Tim looked dubious. "We got catsup?"
"Sure thing."
He tilted his head. "Pickles?"
"Big sweet ones." (Page 143: "Often the child is reluctant to accept this sacrifice; a careful air of nonchalance on the parent's part is the most satisfactory, and the most effective, response at these times.")
"It's a deal!" and he shot away, out into the living room to tell the others, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs to find his way back.
In the mirror Mr. More saw his wife bound out of Her bed (36×72: the covers flapped like brown bats), race across the cold Montina squares like a cowardly Queen, and dive like perhaps Ty Cobb beneath His (40x80: the floor was 3-D, no goggles required, sparkly pearls in yellow phlegm). "Kamikaze cantcatchme!" she yelled in transit. Then, sweetly, from under the bed: "You remember when the kids brought that puppy home last week . . . ?"
He opened a drawer and replaced his toothpick-file in the case among the rest, just below the rat's-tail and just above the camel-hair navel-lint brush, slipping it into its loop like a toe into Indian sandals. (His pride was the two-foot-long emery board he'd bought off an elephant manicurist when the circus was in town.)
"Sure do," he said. "And a sweet, soft little thing it was, too."
"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" Her hand crawled out from under the bed, crept across the linoleum—then went scuttling back sideways, back under the bed, leaving behind something that looked like a misanthropic butterfly: her rainbow bra. The games were beginning, the Sunday games. The games. "But they wouldn't eat a thing afterward, remember? They're just going to have to start eating regularly, Bruce." She always pronounced his name to rhyme with cruise. "Three meals a day, no snacks, get their vitamins, get their iron. Can't let them wreck their health." Again the hand came creeping out only to dash back to safety. But it left behind, this time, two sharp rubber cones with plastic warts on the ends. The warts, Mr. More thought, were like hard pink raisins. Or like, perhaps, Bing cherries impaled on the ends of ice-cream cones.
"I think you're right," he said to his wife. "I'll talk to them about it this evening." He opened the velvet-lined jade-and-ivory case which squatted with springy S legs on top of the dresser, as though it were about to hop off. He took out his Sunday eyes and put them on. They were made to resemble the eyes of a potato ("The potato is an innocent fruit") and were gold, 23 carats fine (the 24th part being constituted of tiny silver stars). They stuck out from his face like mutant, misshapen corkscrews. He turned his face from side to side, admiring himself in the mirror. "Yes-sir," he said, "first thing this evening." (Page 654: "The casual ease of early evening is the most propitious time for family conference, and the dinner table perhaps affords the most comfortable and accessible opportunity.")
This time the hand rushed out (nails clattering on the floor) and crept back (dragging its thumb). A tempo was being established. Smack in the center of one of the Montina squares now, floating in the phlegm, were two mounds of collapsing flesh. Two dimples with Scripto erasers inside, Mr. More thought. Or demitasse saucers with little prunes on them inside the darker cup-ring. Or a plastic dog dish. A pale smear of blood tracked back toward the bed, mixing already with the phlegm, thinning the fluid, which then overflowed into the room, bearing chunks of pearl that whirled and spun like leaves, clicking against the doors pipes bureau bed shoes.
"And they'll listen, too," Mr. More said. "Or no more TV." (Page 4: "The simplest punishment is often the most effective.") He removed hair eyebrows ears and put on his skullcap (ibid.). Then he stood staring in the mirror for several seconds. Finally, he reached up and removed his nose, moving it to the tip of his chin. Much better. Much better. A timbre to match the tempo.
Again the hand: the dash, the creeping retreat. So bold, so coy, so like a Restoration lady. Lace pants this time: a small pile of cobwebs on the floor. As he watched they dampened, dissolved, joined the blood and phlegm, strings of stuff like seaweed. The floor was yellow going orange, of a starchy consistency. That is to say, sticky.
"I think that's enough, don't you, Dear?" Mr. More said. "Shouldn't you stop now?" He walked back to the mirror and, one by one, unsheathed his teeth. They clicked, one by one, into the porcelain sink, almost invisible. White. White.
"Are you ready then, Darling?" his wife said. And then the surrender, the sweet surrender, ahhh, as one by one her legs came sliding across the floor and bumped with soft thuds (like huge spaghettis) into the waterpipes, splashing the orange blood-phlegm up onto the base of the walls to water the orchids blooming there. Sucking sounds. A toe fell off, and the toenail off that. Mr. More picked the nail up and put it in his pocket; it would make a good pick when, later, he played his harp, plucking the strings one by one.
He kicked the legs aside.
"Yes, Darling, I'm ready," he said.
"Then call the children." (Page 456, right before the good parts: "Whenever and wherever possible, satisfy the children's curiosity as to what goes on behind closed, adult doors; at all costs, avoid deepening this curiosity, this wanting-to-belong.")
Mr. More called the children and together they hauled her body up onto the bed—it was covered with cobwebs—and he beat her with the olive branches and peeled willow wands he kept in the cupboard while the children watched and applauded. She screamed magnificently this time; her body oozed phlegm and later gave out great clouds of dust that looked like brown feathers.
Later he played the harp with his teeth and the children applauded again. And after that, with toothpicks and red wax off Gouda cheese, they put her back together again. However. That is to say, all but one hand and a toenail. Mr. More kept the toenail and had a ring made out of it. And they finally found the hand when, late that night, it crawled into bed with one of the children (Tom, the oldest).
That night at dinner (veal in ketchup and chowder in powdered milk) he gave them all a stern talking-to (op. cit.). And the next day, Monday (which was, incidentally, Columbus Day), he hired a new maid. She had white white teeth and flat nails, her hips were like a saddle, her nipples like chianti corks.
Genevieve was her name and the children loved her.
Afterword
à les étrangers
It's March 16, 1970. Ten in the morning, three hours' sleep, the telephone rings. Harlan has somehow, how the hell, found out where I am. He's calling from the other side of the States, has to have this afterword, "Get to a typewriter somehow and get it to me tomorrow." And, Do you have a woman in bed with you; No, she had to go to work—and he's off the line. So I'm sitting there on the bed half-awake trying to remember what he said. I'm not used to being up before two or three, and New York mornings are worse than most. And they're all pretty horrible.
Now I'm at Port Authority on my way out of New York. Thinking about a poem by Tadeusz Rózewicz,
I am twenty-four
led to slaughter
I survived
—and something Wallace Stevens
said, that when belief in external reality collapses we must feed upon our own minds. But: how long will they last. I just called my agents. No news? No news. I'm on my way out of town again. Are you reachable?
It's two in the afternoon. I'm writing this on Algonquin stationery, which is where I was staying when Harlan found me; on a credit card because I've had no money for months now. The stationery's on a Mickey Spillane novel and there's a book of French poetry, Guillevic, under that. Friends came in from London (where these stories were finally written) yesterday. I'm leaving for the Continent, and Poland, in a few months but have to go to Nashville first, on business. On the way here I stopped off on 42nd Street to buy a new knife. A sign on the shop window read Ici parlons Français and the clerk and I spoke Spanish as he showed me the case of knives. An Italian stiletto; you can use the blade-lock to make it work like a switchblade, just as fast. New York terrifies me.
—And that, Harlan, is somehow what it's all about.
Pokój. Mitość.
James Sallis