the annotated edition

Transcription

THE ANNOTATED EDITION
COVER: McNally Jackson Books has always been one of my absolute favorite bookstores in New York City. When it opened in 2004,
I was working a few blocks away and was able to stop by frequently. At first glimpse, Ryan Bradley’s design for the cover of my novel
reminded me of a book that I would’ve ogled atop a table at McNally Jackson. And now that I’m more familiar with the design, it also
subtly reminds me of the Akron Museum of Art’s Wall Drawing #1240, Planes/Broken Bands of Color by Sol LeWitt, which I consider to
be the second greatest piece of art in all of Ohio behind the Cleveland Museum of Art’s The Crucifixion of Saint Andrew by Caravaggio.
©
Copyright 2014, Scott Navicky. Released under a Creative Commons
license; some rights reserved.
Printed and distributed by the Chicago Center for Literature and
Photography. First electronic edition: February 2014.
Cover: Ryan W. Bradley
This collection is available in a variety of electronic formats, including
EPUB for mobile devices, MOBI for Kindles, and PDFs for both American
and European laserprinters, as well as a paperback version and a special
deluxe hardback edition. Find them all, plus a plethora of supplemental
information such as interviews, videos and reviews, at:
cclapcenter.com/humboldt
To my buoyancy: Sarah, who appears in chapter XXXIV;
and Daniel Lion, who is mentioned in chapter XXXIX
When people ask me how my wife and I came up with the name Daniel Lion,
here’s what I say: it’s 30% from Stockhausen (my current neighbor is a classical
musician, and when I told him this, he exclaimed: “Stockhausen! No one listens
to Stockhausen!”); 30% from Thus Spoke Zarathustra’s Three Metamorphoses
(while brainstorming baby names, I was rereading all of Nietzsche’s mature
works in correct chronological order); 30% Midsummer’s Night Dream (around
this time I attended a free performance in Columbus Common); and 10% Snoop
Lion (Lighters Up!).
ooo !
This is where the novel’s two epigraphs would appear
had they not been written in invisible ink.
I
How Humboldt was brought up on a beautiful farm in Ohio
and how he was driven away
“In a castle of Westphalia, belonging to the Baron of Thunder-ten-Tronckh, lived a youth, whom
nature had endowed with the most gentle manners. His countenance was a true picture of his
soul. He combined a true judgment with simplicity of spirit, which was the reason, I apprehend, of
his being called Candide.” —The opening lines of Candide, or Optimism
As a writer, James Joyce was “quite content to go down to posterity as a scissors and paste
man.” I like to think of myself as a combination magpiethinker, creative misreader, and “heavy
borrower.” Whenever I feel guilty about my borrowings, I remind myself what the Sage of Concord
said in Quotation and Originality: “Only an inventor knows how to borrow.” (Thanks, Waldo!) It’s
fitting that my first borrowing is from Candide, or Optimism since Voltaire’s novel plays such an
influential role in the plot, structure, characters—in short, everything—of Humboldt, or The Power
of Positive Thinking. A quote from Voltaire even provided the genesis for my decision to write a
novel. While researching the History of Western Thought (more on this later), I came across the
following quote: “I have never made but one prayer to God, a very short one: ‘O Lord, make my
enemies ridiculous.’ And God granted it.”
Once upon a time in Winesburg Ohio, there lived a young boy on whom nature had bestowed the gifts of a gentle disposition, solid
judgment, and complete openness of mind. Because of these gifts, the boy was called Humboldt, or so many people around
Winesburg thought. Others speculated that the boy was called Humboldt after Humboldt County. The boy himself believed that
he was called Humboldt after Humboldt County until the day he discovered that of all of Ohio’s eighty-eight counties not a
single one was named Humboldt. Had he been named after a county, it was more likely that he would have been named Holmes
or Wayne. There was even a slight chance that he would have been named Tuscarawas Tim. Humboldt was glad that he was
Humboldt and not any of these other people. He was particularly glad that he was not Tuscarawas Tim, as he was aware that
the ancient Indian word Tuscarawas meant “open mouth.” Humboldt was as far from being an emptyminded openmouthed
blabberboy as he was from Humboldt County, California.
As a fledgling farmboy, Humboldt spent the majority of his days outside amongst the oxygen and unhurried hydrocarbons.
During this time, Humboldt would amuse himself with the task of thinking. Thoughts were the tool that he used to till his brain’s
terrain in hopes of understanding the world around him. Humboldt liked to think, although he doubted he was any good at it.
Some days, Humboldt thought about what life would be like as Tuscarawas Tim. He thought about waking early in the morning
and revving up his mouth as if it were the antiquated John Deere riding mower that his father kept in their dilapidated barn. Once
revved, he would ride out into the day, diligently chewing ears as if they were unsuspecting leaves of long grass. Howyadoing?
Mightyfineweatherwe’rehaving butthelocalnewscastersaidit’ssupposedtoraintomorrow. Iheardthatyourmotherhasgoutthat’sa darnshameforshe’s
astrongwomanandgoodfriend. Didyahearaboutthe shootingoverinSummitCounty?Loverspat. Husbandlostbothtesticles.
Soybeans are the second most plentiful crop in all
of Ohio, or so I’ve been told. But here’s the thing:
while growing up in Ohio, I was surrounded by acres
of soy plants and I didn’t know what a soybean
looked like. I never knew what a soybean tasted like
until I moved to Brooklyn and started eating sushi
(of course, in sushi restaurants, they aren’t called
soybeans; they’re called edamame beans). And I
never knew what soymilk tasted like until I moved
to New Zealand and started drinking soy flat whites.
In my mind, soybeans are an example of something
that is everywhere and nowhere.
6 | Humboldt: Or, The Power of Positive Thinking
When Humboldt wasn’t thinking about himself as someone else, he
was thinking about something else. Many days, Humboldt thought about
days. He thought about how there would always be days, stretching flat and
boring towards the pink horizon like the flat and boring fields of his father’s
farm. Humboldt could never think of life without days, just like he could
never think of life without the flat and boring fields of his father’s farm.
Some days, Humboldt thought days were tiny and plentiful like
soybeans. Other days, he thought they were big and lumpy like soy pods.
Other other days, he thought days were like soy leaves: sprouting one on top
of another, which was sprouting on top of another, which was sprouting
on top of another. Weeks were like rows. No, months were like rows. No,
days! Days were like rows and each plant was an hour. No, each plant was a
minute and each soybean was a second. Nooo, each soybean was a moment: a
tiny measureless soy entity that stretched, flat and boring, towards life’s pink
lifeless horizon!
So many days. So many soybeans. So much sameness: the same pink
lifeless horizon, the same flatness, the same boringness of the dayness. Nooo,
of the soyness!
Days and days and days. Living was akin to being a compulsive eater
and life was akin to one of those crass all-you-can-eat buffets that cluster
around major highway exchanges and attract obese people like roadkill
attracts vultures. And just when you thought you had eaten enough days
and you couldn’t possibly stuff one more down your throat, you were served
another day. And after that day: another day. And after that another day:
another another day.
Life was a crass all-you-can-eat day buffet. No, life was a casserole
served at a crass all-you-can-eat day buffet. No, life was a row of soy leaves
sprouting on top of one another. Nooo, life was a casserole; a casserole made
of days and soybeans; a casserole whose blandness stretched to the horizon
and attracted obese vultures!
The casserole fields. The pods of life. And inside: daybeans!
So soymany! So tiny. So big! So empty. So full! So green. So soyboring!
Sooo overwhelming!
Inevitably, Humboldt would become so overwhelmed by the soyness
of the dayfields that he would have to lie down. And in those same flat and
boring green fields, he would stretch his arms and legs like fleshy pink leaves
sprouting towards the lazy lifeless horizon. When he awoke hours later, with
mud caked in all of his facial orifices and flies flapping aimlessly around his
now open eyes, Humboldt would have forgotten all of the day’s thoughts on
days. His forgetfulness freed him to begin thinking about days in the same
way on the following day. And when he stepped into this new day, Humboldt
quickly realized that it was, in fact, the same day.
On the days that he was not thinking about days, Humboldt often
thought about his mother; or rather, he often thought about how he didn’t
think about his mother. Humboldt thought about how he never thought it
was strange that he had never known who his mother was. For Humboldt,
it was not fatherhood, but motherhood that was a mystery. But this mystery
was not Eleusinian in scope or Agatha Christian in tone; it was simply a
mundane matronly mystery. And it was not that Humboldt’s mother had died
in childbirth or anytime soon thereafter. No, as far as he knew, his mother
was alive and well. Whenever he questioned his father about the woman with
whom he had procreated, Humboldt always received the same faraway look.
This faraway look was always followed by the same awkward silence, which
was followed by the same loud sigh. And then, his father would say the same
thing: “South.”
Humboldt was not by nature a questioning soul. He considered followup questions rudely invasive. This meant that he never knew if his mother had
moved south, if the marriage had gone south, or if her name had been South.
Another reason why Humboldt never asked his father follow-up
questions was he feared that if he pressed further, his father’s pause would
As any Junior High School English teacher in Ohio will
tell you, the town depicted in Winesburg, Ohio is not
actually Winesburg, Ohio: it’s the author’s hometown
of Clyde, Ohio, which is nowhere near the real
Winesburg, Ohio. For years, I avoided Winesburg,
Ohio because I mistakenly thought that it was filled
with tales of small town hokum. Since I had spent so
much of my adolescence surrounded by small town
hokum, I saw no reason why I should spend my time
reading about it. I finally read Winesburg, Ohio while
living in Portland, Maine. Wow, was I wrong! It’s a
wonderful book.
awkwardly stretch for days. Such a thing had happened once when Humboldt
had asked his father if he knew who Sherwood Anderson was. After his usual
long thoughtful silence, his father answered: “writer.”
Without thinking, Humboldt blurted out: “What did he write?” As soon
as the words left his mouth, Humboldt knew he had made a terrible mistake.
By the time his father finally answered this follow-up question, Humboldt was
three-quarters finished with the essay Hands, concerning Wing Biddlebaum.
This is not to say that Humboldt was an exceptionally curious soul
either. He didn’t really care about Sherwood Anderson and he never mustered
up enough dedication to finish reading his concerns over Wing Biddlebaum.
It is entirely possible that Humboldt would have finished Anderson’s essay,
and perhaps even his entire book, had his copy of Winesburg, Ohio not been
confiscated by an angry librarian who worked in the Winesburg branch of the
Holmes County Library. This confiscation had taken place after Humboldt
had absentmindedly attempted to walk out of the library with the book.
Humboldt never would have guessed that such a small library would have
such a big alarm. As the alarm angrily scratched its fingernails across the
ceiling, Humboldt patiently attempted to defend himself against the librarian’s
accusation of intellectual property theft.
—YOU CAN’T STEAL WHAT SOMEONE ELSE HAS WRITTEN!!!
the angry librarian screamed over the screeching alarm.
—I’M NOT TRYING TO STEAL ANYTHING! I’M JUST
CURIOUS! Humboldt screamed back.
—BUT YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE CURIOUS ABOUT
LITERATURE!!! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE SERIOUS!!!
—BUT I AM SERIOUS! SERIOUSLY CURIOUS!
—YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE SERIOUSLY SERIOUS!!!
—I’M SERIOUSLY SERIOUS ABOUT BEING SERIOUSLY
CURIOUS ABOUT THIS BOOK!
—BUT YOU HAVE TO GET A LIBRARY CARD BEFORE YOU
CAN GET A BOOK!!!! the librarian screamed, grabbing Winesburg, Ohio and
giving it a determined yank. For an elderly woman, the librarian had an iron
grip, which Humboldt attributed to years of strength training with a rubber
date stamp.
—BUT I ALREADY HAVE THE BOOK! Humboldt screamed,
yanking back.
—WHAT’S HAPPENING? cried a confused little old lady who was
fearfully clutching a stack of picturesque Jodi Picoult novels.
—IT’S AN AIR-RAID!!! screamed an elderly gentleman, who
Humboldt recognized as the same elderly gentleman referred to by locals as
Crazy Pete. On most afternoons, Crazy Pete could be found seated on a bench
in front of the local 7-Eleven. Whenever anyone neared, Crazy Pete would
bare his front teeth and emit a rapid stream of loud sucking noises, as his
eyeballs swam wildly within their sockets. Guess what animal that is, Crazy Pete
would ask once his facial features regained their human qualities. The correct
answer: rabid squirrel.
Crazy Pete’s appearance in the library only made the already confusing
situation more confusing. What was he doing away from his natural habitat?
Was he researching rabid squirrels? If so, perhaps Crazy Pete wasn’t so crazy
after all. Perhaps he played a vital role in the community’s ongoing fight
against rabidity.
—BUT YOU NEED A CARD TO CHECK OUT A BOOK!!! the
librarian screamed, emphasizing the words ‘card’ and ‘book’ with short
determined tugs. As she tugged, her face twisted into a look of muscular
intensity most commonly associated with professional arm wrestling.
—BUT I DON’T WANT TO CHECK THIS BOOK OUT! I WANT
TO READ IT! Humboldt shouted, tugging back.
—EVERYBODY DOWN TO THE BASEMENT!!! yelled Crazy Pete,
who was exhibiting much more commanding sanity than normal.
—THE BASEMENT? ISN’T THAT WHERE THEY KEEP THE
GIRLIE MAGAZINES? the confused little old lady questioned, her confusion
obviously growing. And no one really could blame her for choosing a fiery
death from above rather than descending into a dark basement with Crazy
Pete.
—BUT YOU STILL NEED A LIBRARY CARD!!! screamed the
librarian, ignoring Crazy Pete’s repeated gestures toward the basement stairs.
—BUT I DON’T WANT A CARD!
—I DON’T WANT TO DIE! yelled Crazy Pete, who was not helping
the situation.
—I DON’T WANT GIRLIE MAGAZINES! yelled the confused little
old lady.
—WHAT?
—GIRLIE MAGAZINES!
—GIRLIE KAMIKAZES?
—YOU NEED A CARD!!!
—CARDIKAZE?
—I WANT A BOOK!
—KAMI-FUCKING-KAZE!!!!!!!!
The conversation continued in this annoying fashion until Humboldt
finally capitulated, his ears aching from the screaming above and his throat
aching from the screaming within. Also his shoulders were beginning to ache
from the librarian’s repeated attempts to angrily yank the book out of his
hands. Humboldt’s fear was that the slim Signet Classic paperback with the
charming Americana folk art painting on the cover would be torn viciously
in half, and he was surprised that the librarian was less concerned about the
book being ripped to shreds than being stolen.
Humboldt’s release caused the librarian to stumble backwards, toppling
a shelf of young adult fiction.
—MAN DOWN! TAKE COVER! Crazy Pete shouted as the librarian
fell.
—MADAM? DON’T THINK TALKING FRENCH IS GOING TO
GET ME UNDER THE COVERS, YOU PERVERT! shouted the little old
lady with rising indignation.
As the librarian crashed to the ground, the alarm abruptly stopped.
In the piercing silence that followed, Crazy Pete shuffled away, muttering
something about a better target being the New Philadelphia mall. The
confused yet relieved little old lady quickly shuffled in the opposite direction,
still clutching her stash of Jodi Picoult novels. Their departures left Humboldt
alone with the librarian’s angry cursing. Humboldt kindly offered to help pick
up the piles of paperbacks with their innocent uplifting covers, but before he
could start cleaning up the mess of juvenilia, he was roughly ejected from the
library and warned never to come back. This warning was unnecessary as
Humboldt had already decided that reading books was not worth the hassle.
Contributing to this decision was the fact that he had also found Anderson’s
prose dull, especially when compared to the excitement of the alarm, the
angry cursing, and the librarian’s overexaggerated cinematic swan dive.
Furthermore, Humboldt disliked reading. He enjoyed words, but it was
often difficult to keep his mind from wandering whenever he began reading
An Early Childhood specialist once diagnosed me as large groups of them. An Early Childhood specialist had once diagnosed him
“developmentally delayed” (read: mentally retarded) as “horticulturally dyslexic.” Whenever Humboldt saw a word with double
because I was slow to speak.
oo’s in it, like look or book, the tiny circles would remind him of two soybeans
sweetly packed in a pod. And once this thought flashed through Humboldt’s
frontal lobe, other round letters began to resemble soybeans. Words like
onomatopoeia and photography would startle Humboldt with their size and
plumpness. And it wasn’t just plump words that surprised him. Once the
visual dislocation of his “horticulture dyslexia” had been sparked, every tiny
o, in every tiny no or so, began to grooow. Extra letterbeans began sprouting
everywhere. In American history class, Humboldt would stumble over names
like Herbert Hoooover, Calvin Coooolidge, and both Roooosevelts. In Science
class, unnatural compound elements would crystallize in his mind with the
formulaic equivalents H2O15 and CO32. Even math class was not immune to
such dyslexic trickery as zeroooos would grow at a rate that confounded the
Exponential Law of Growth.
But Humboldt’s worst class was English; he was awful in English. Not
only did his “horticulture dyslexia” cast him as a chronic misspeller, he was
also an endemic inventor of words. And the words he didn’t invent, he misused
and abused. He routinely used the incorrect word at the incorrect place in
an incorrect sentence. He would conjoin unconjoinable words and console
inconsolable words. And this was to say nothing of his prose stylings. Every
writing exercise Humboldt completed was returned to him with phrases like
“PLODDING!!!” or “TOO PEDANTIC!!!” or “PEDESTRIAN!!!” tattooed
in big red letters in the margins. For Humboldt, writing was as exhausting
as harvesting extra letterbeans. Inevitably, his mind would drift out of the
classroom and float, educationally unencumbered, back to the vast flat leafy
fields of his father’s farm.
Farming made Humboldt happy, as did days, soybeans, and thinking.
Silence also made Humboldt happy. Humboldt liked to think about silence;
what it looked like, where it came from, and how he and his father spent the
majority of their days together in it. Theirs was a stretching silence; a growing
season of silence that engulfed them both like pondwater surrounding a
swimmer. It was a swimming silence, an ebbing and flowing of the pond of
life. It was a swallowing silence, but it was not the silence of the swallow, who
chirped incessantly from his perch, but rather the silence of the perch, the
widemouth swallower who was, in turn, swallowed by the silence of water.
While it was uncommon for Humboldt and his father to speak to each
other while farming the fields together, it was not uncommon for Humboldt’s
father to periodically emit a loud grunt, followed by the exclamation:
“Edamame.” He would then shake his head in disbelief, as if the existence of
such a word was the darnest thing he had ever heard.
During their silent hours together, Humboldt often thought about his
father. He wondered what his father’s thoughts felt like. Did his father think
about silence in the same way he did? And what about days? Did he ever
think about their soyness or sameness? And what about his son? What did he
think about him? Did he ever regret not naming him Wayne or Holmes? And
why had he once told his son that when he was born, he looked like a slimy
soybean freshly shucked from a fleshy pink pod? The thought of being a human
“Plant a radish.
soybean always made Humboldt squeamish. Did it mean that his father was
Get a radish.
disappointed to have not produced a son who was produce? Or perhaps, he
Never any doubt.
had expected a more lucrative crop, like a radish or a turnip. Whenever these
That’s why I love vegetables;
thoughts crept into his consciousness, Humboldt comforted himself with the
You know what you’re about!
knowledge that his father loved soybeans. And the fact that his father had
been so intently staring at his newborn son, comparing his appearance to a
Plant a turnip.
legume, helped explain why he had forgotten to notice the woman who had
Get a turnip.
just given birth. When Humboldt once questioned his father about South’s
Maybe you’ll get two.
That’s why I love vegetables;
appearance, he received the usual longthoughtful pause, followed by the usual
You know that they’ll come through!
loud sigh. And then a single word was spoken: “Hair.” After another long
pause, his father continued speaking in an oddly pensive voice.
They’re dependable!
—Lots of hair and not just on her head, he said.
They’re befriendable!
And this was how Humboldt thought of his mother: a large, fuzzy,
They’re the best pal a parent’s ever known!
nondescript
mental image of maternal hair. But to be honest, Humboldt
While with children,
seldom
thought
of his mother. He mostly thought about soybeans and days
It’s bewilderin’.
and
how
happy
he
was being around both. And he thought about silence and
You don’t know until the seed is nearly grown
the
Edamame
family
whom his father found so disdainful.
Just what you’ve sown…”
Humboldt often thought that he might be better at thinking if he had
—“Plant a Radish” from the musical The Fantasticks been allowed to continue school. He knew that education was important,
although apparently not for him. He harbored particularly fond memories
of his eighth grade teacher, Mrs. Featherweight, who Humboldt considered
to be one of the most intelligent people in all of Holmes County. And since
his world only consisted of Holmes County, Humboldt considered Mrs.
Featherweight one of the most intelligent people in the entire world. Mrs.
Although I often seem like a pussy, I actually come
from a distinguished boxing family. My grandfather,
John Navicky, was a two-time Golden Glove
winner from Gary, Indiana, who brought up World
Welterweight Champion Tony Zale on his undercard.
If I ever happen to meet Joyce Carol Oates, I’m
planning on telling her this (in addition to being a
prolific novelist, she’s also a boxing historian), and
I’m willing to bet she’ll be impressed. My father was
an amateur boxer. I was taught how to box at a young
age. I was also taught how not to fight. The solar
plexus corresponds to the third button on a man’s
shirt. A quick jab, driving the knuckle underneath the
button, will result in an immediate doubling over and
a dizzying loss of breath. This should effectively end
any escalating altercation.
Sigmund Freud stubbornly refused to believe that
Shakespeare was the author of his plays; instead,
he was convinced that they had been written by
Edward de Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford.
This theory was invented by J. Thomas Looney in
Shakespeare Identified (1921). A major flaw in what
is now known as the “Looney hypothesis” is the fact
that Edward de Vere died in 1604. This means that
he wrote eleven plays, starting with King Lear, while
dead. Harold Bloom discusses Freud’s agon with
Shakespeare in a number of his books, including
the chapter “Freud: A Shakespearean Reading” in
The Western Canon: the Books and School of the
Ages. Within this chapter, Bloom muses, “How could
Freud, possibly the best mind of our century, have
fallen into such zaniness?”
Featherweight was so intelligent that she was the only person Humboldt knew
smart enough to cut her own hair, which, as she often mentioned to the class,
was not only financially advantageous, but also a great timesaver if done
while reading. Humboldt could always tell when Mrs. Featherweight had cut
her hair the night before because she would appear in class with a splotchy
scalp and strands of fallen human hair strewn atop her shoulders. During the
course of the year, Humboldt became adept at differentiating between human
hair and the cat hair that covered every available inch of Mrs. Featherweight’s
clothing. An unabashed catlover, Mrs. Featherweight often incorporated cats
into her lectures; for example, during her lecture on Renaissance Italy, Mrs.
Featherweight described how Galileo had invented the telescope solely for
the purpose of rescuing neighborhood strays and would’ve never pointed
the contraption heavenward had it not been for a frisky calico kitten, named
Copurrnicus, who bumped the lenshaft skyward with her slinky, silky butt.
Not only did Humboldt consider Mrs. Featherweight one of the most
intelligent people in the entire world, he also considered her one of the worst
dressed people in the entire world. During her lectures, Humboldt was often
distracted by violent clashes of mint green, rawhide leather, and lush purple.
It was not uncommon within the same blouse for pinks to pummel reds while
menopausal blues danced with orangutan orange. And all of these vivid colors
were painted against Mrs. Featherweight’s skin like abstract art on a fleshy
pink canvas. Humboldt suspected that Mrs. Featherweight was colorblind and
he knew that it was impolite to mock the blind, even if they were wearing
brown shoes with green socks. He also suspected that Mrs. Featherweight’s
fashion sense was an offshoot of her genius, like Albert Eisenstein’s hair, van
Gogh’s bloody ear, or Leonardo da Vinci’s handwriting. During her lecture on
Leonardo, Humboldt was able to easily envision the King of the Renaissance
wearing blue sandals with mismatched socks, red glasses, and an ill-fitting,
billowy green toga embroidered with orange hummingbirds as he hunched
over his desk diligently drawing a crude backwards helicopter.
Mrs. Featherweight particularly loved world history and Humboldt
found her lectures on the topic captivating. After all, it was from these
lectures that Humboldt learned about the world outside Holmes County. For
example, he learned about the Mayan calendar, the Calendar Islands, and the
movie Calendar Girls, starring Helen Mirren. It was also from these lectures
that Humboldt learned that Versailles was a palace in France, Julius Caesar
a person in Rome, and Caesar’s Palace a casino in Las Vegas where Mrs.
Featherweight’s ex-husband had once gambled away the family’s retirement.
What Humboldt particularly loved about Mrs. Featherweight’s genius was its
quirky, uncategorizingly unchronological quality. One day, the class would
learn about the Middle Ages; the next day, they would be discussing Middle
Earth, and the following lecture would focus on the Middle West. And this is
to say nothing of the theoretical leaps that occurred daily within each lecture.
One minute, Mrs. Featherweight would be describing a solar eclipse; the next,
detailing the potential lucrative future of investments in solar energy; and the
next, demonstrating how the buttons on a man’s shirt can be used to swiftly
identify his solar plexus, which, she insisted, is particularly useful when your
ex-husband appears unannounced and intoxicated in your garage, claiming to
be in search of “his” gardening tools.
Some weeks moved so rapidly and haphazardly that Humboldt’s mind
struggled to stay afloat. During those weeks, as he sought sleep, questions
swam through his consciousness. Who were Jason and the Argonauts?
Humboldt knew that they were associated with a boat, but which boat? Were
they the band that continued playing as the Titanic sunk? Or were they the
handsome, doomed fishermen in A Perfect Storm? And what about the Mound
Builders; who were they, why did they disappear so stealthily after doing such
a shoddy job, and how did this behavior differ from modern-day building
contractors? And what about Sigmund Freud? Did he write On the Origins of
Species or was it The Wealth of Nations? Or did the Earl of Essex really write
them both? And why had Julius Caesar been castrated? Was it because of his
Miseducation (also known as learned ignorance)
fascinates me. My own most memorable moment
of miseducation involves a high school English
teacher’s assertion that George Washington was a
revolutionary sex machine. “He slept here. He slept
there,” I remember this teacher saying on numerous
occasions. “He was the Father of our country in
more than one way.” Hearing such a statement led
me to believe that Washington was an ancestor to
Saturday Night Live’s Bill Brasky, who reportedly
“sired a baseball team, an orchestra if you count
the bastards!” (Those Bill Brasky skits are some of
my all-time favorites.) It was twenty years before I
learned the truth about His Excellency’s potency. He
didn’t have any children; in fact, he was most likely
either sterile or impotent.
Okay, this joke is probably only funny to people
from Southeastern Ohio. It references the region’s
two most famous favorite sons. William Boyd, best
known as Hopalong Cassidy, was born just outside
of Cambridge, Ohio. William Gable, best known as
Clark, was born in Cadiz, Ohio.
This reference to Raphael’s School of Athens
inaugurates the novel’s shadow narrative. The
catalyst for including of such a narrative was the
following quote from Ulysses: “Why is the underplot
of King Lear in which Edmund figures lifted out of
Sidney’s Arcadia and spatchcocked on to a Celtic
legend older than history?” Of course, Ulysses itself is
a spatchcocking of epic proportions, combining The
Odyssey’s narrative structure, Hamlet’s philosophical
undertones, and the biographies of both the author
and William Shakespeare. Humboldt, or The Power
of Positive Thinking’s shadow narrative involves
a chronological timeline for the development of
western civilization. This timeline includes the
agricultural pastoral of Mesopotamia (Winesburg),
the birth of knowledge in Ancient Greece (Humboldt’s
schooling), and the decline of culture in the Middle
Ages (college). From college, the progression surges
through the Renaissance, the Rise of Islam, the
Baroque Era, the Enlightenment (also known as the
Age of Revolutions), the Romantic Era, Modernism,
and the Post-Modern Moment. The progression
ends, to borrow a phrase from Harold Bloom’s The
Western Canon: the Books and School of the Ages,
in the “Chaotic Age.”
forbidden love of Héloïse? Or was that Shakespeare?
Many mornings, Humboldt awoke determined to ask Mrs. Featherweight
a question about the previous day’s lecture, but his determination was quickly
swept aside as Mrs. Featherweight jumped immediately into a new lecture
on Hopalong Cassidy’s character in Gone with the Wind, Benedict Arnold’s
favorite breakfast, or the discovery of King Tut’s tomb in Area 51.
The more interest Humboldt exhibited towards Mrs. Featherweight’s
lectures, the more interest Mrs. Featherweight exhibited towards him. Many
times as he passed her desk after class, Mrs. Featherweight would stop him
with the same polite question.
—Did you like today’s lecture, Humboldt?
—Yes, ma’am.
—And what was your favorite part?
—I liked the painting of the homeless guy sleeping on the steps.
—That wasn’t a homeless man, Humboldt. That was the great cynic
philosopher Diogenes the dog.
Humboldt nodded skeptically. He was pretty sure that he could tell
the difference between a man and a dog. Mrs. Featherweight was obviously
thinking of the wrong painting, but he knew that it would be rude to correct
her mistake. He also knew it would be rude to stare too intently at her bright
turquoise scarf, red glasses, and large dangly green earrings that resembled
windchimes.
—Diogenes, Mrs. Featherweight continued, was such a respected
philosopher that Alexander the Great asked him to be his teacher.
—He asked a dog to be his teacher?
—No, Humboldt. He was only called “the dog.”
—Why would somebody called “the Great” ask somebody called “the
dog” to be his teacher?
—Because he was a famous philosopher.
Humboldt watched as Mrs. Featherweight adjusted her turquoise scarf,
looping it around her neck and pulling it taut as if she were tightening a tie.
Her movements were accentuated by the fact that she had recently painted her
fingernails pink.
—Then why wasn’t he called “the Great,” Mrs. Featherweight, instead
of “the dog?”
—Because he lived like a dog.
—So somebody called “the Great” wanted to learn how to live like a
dog?
—That’s right, Humboldt. Alexander the Great thought that Diogenes
possessed true wisdom.
Pink met green, as Mrs. Featherweight removed an earring and
attempted to straighten one of its chimes that had become twisted during the
storm of her lecture.
—Alexander the Great thought living like a dog was true wisdom?
Humboldt thought about this idea for a moment. I guess that explains why he
wasn’t called Alexander the Smart.
Her windchime fully operational, Mrs. Featherweight tactfully changed
topics.
—Do you think you would’ve liked to have lived in Ancient Greece,
Humboldt?
Humboldt thought for a moment.
—No, Mrs. Featherweight. Too many homeless people.
—Those weren’t homeless people, Humboldt. Those were philosophers.
Humboldt watched as Mrs. Featherweight stabbed her earlobe with the
thin pin in search of its hole. The movement added an air of danger to their
conversation.
—What’s the difference, Mrs. Featherweight?
Still stabbing, it was Mrs. Featherweight’s turn to lapse into a thoughtful
pause.
—I don’t know, Humboldt. I don’t know.
“There are times that walk from you like some
passing afternoon / Summer warmed the open
window of her honeymoon / And she chose a yard
to burn but the ground remembers her / Wooden
spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms”
—“Passing Afternoon” by Iron & Wine
—I think I’d rather just live here in Winesburg, Mrs. Featherweight.
The only philosopher here is Crazy Pete. He lives like an animal, but it’s not a
dog; it’s a rabid squirrel.
—That’s nice, Humboldt. Good-bye. I’ll see you tomorrow.
—Good-bye, Mrs. Featherweight. See you tomorrow.
After Mrs. Featherweight’s class ended for the year, Humboldt was
looking forward to continuing his education. He wanted to learn more about
the world outside of Winesburg, but then an odd thing happened on what
would have been his first day of ninth grade. On that day, Humboldt was
escorted out of Winesburg Middle School by the principal, Mr. Tendergast,
who kindly explained to him that Amish children were not required to
attend school past eighth grade. Mr. Tendergast then gave Humboldt a kindly
principalian shove in the back and slammed the school’s heavy door behind
him. Never one to question authority, Humboldt returned to his father’s
farm, where he found his father hard at work pruning a particularly unruly
bougainvillea vine.
—Am I Amish? Humboldt asked his father.
While undoubtedly a man of few words, Humboldt’s father was not
stupid. He knew that a child of a Jewish mother was Jewish, regardless of his
father’s Jewness. Thus it made sense that the same was true of being Amish.
And since he could not remember who Humboldt’s mother was, let alone her
ethnicity or religious convictions, he concluded that it was entirely possible
that his son could be Amish or Jewish or both. And perhaps, Humboldt’s
father explained, Mr. Tendergast knew something that they did not and when
in doubt, it was best not to question authority. Humboldt’s father ended his
musings over his son’s potential genealogy with a loud grunt, an exclamation
of “Edamame,” and a confused shake of his head.
Humboldt never really missed school, but he constantly worried that
the vast knowledge he had already accumulated in his eight whole years of
schooling was slowly slipping away. One day soon, Humboldt feared his
knowledge would all be gone, spent like a spendthrift’s purse at Caesar’s Palace.
On that terrifying day, Humboldt would be forced to declare himself bankrupt
of knowledge and enter the debtor’s prison of stupidity, like a character in a
Charles Darwin novel. Whenever Humboldt felt knowledgeless, he comforted
himself with the memory of Mrs. Featherweight’s lectures. He also comforted
himself with the thought that stupidity, like red hair and obesity, was genetic.
And while he knew nothing of South’s intelligence, Humboldt was certain
that his father wasn’t stupid. A stupid man could not own one of the largest
farms in Holmes County, or so Humboldt told himself. Humboldt also told
himself that a stupid man could not possess the vast culinary knowledge that
his father possessed. To Humboldt’s amazement, his father had apparently
memorized millions of recipes for things like soybean stew, soy speckled dick,
and something that Humboldt had taken to calling “kamikaze casserole.”
Humboldt also told himself that stupid men were not able to have girlfriends,
as women were too intelligent to date ignoramuses. Humboldt suspected that
he was not supposed to know about his father’s girlfriend, but in reality he
would have been pretty stupid to have not known. It was that obvious.
Edna the Onion Bringer lived in downtown Winesburg. Twice a week,
she would ride her rusty greenish army-issued bicycle out to their farm with
a basket full of fresh onions. Humboldt never knew where these onions came
from or why Edna brought them with her when she visited. Humboldt only
knew one thing for certain: he hated onions. He hated their vulgar bulbous
shape. He hated their purple color, sticky feel, and papery peel. He hated
their zesty permeating flavor. But most of all, he hated their eyeassaulting
nosetingling stench.
Humboldt could smell the stench of onions long before he spied Edna
pedaling down their dirt driveway or heard her loud panting. Once she saw
Humboldt, Edna would rrrrring the dainty whirling rrrrringer of her bikebell
and wave with frantic friendliness. Such waving never failed to cause her
bicycle to list dangerously from side-to-side.
In Henry IV, Part 1, Prince Hal asks Falstaff to lend
him his sword, only to discover that the fat knight is
carrying a bottle of wine in his sheath.
Having gone great lengths to avoid creating a
protagonist who is a thinly veiled, romanticized
version of myself, I must admit that this is one
characteristic that Humboldt and I share. My eyes
and sinuses are extremely sensitive to onions.
Seldom can I ever chop up an entire onion without
my eyes stinging and watering to such an extent that
I am forced to retreat to the bathroom and bury my
face in a towel. And just recently, I cut into a farmer’s
market onion and the resulting assault was so
intense that I feared that I might lose consciousness.
Waving back, Humboldt wondered why the army had made the tactical
blunder of issuing bicycles like hers. Why would any soldier want to ride into
battle on such an unstable contraption? As he watched Edna struggle through
the waves, Humboldt envisioned entire bicycle brigades being mowed down
on the field of battle, the naked and the dead piling atop the awkward and
the clumsy. He saw bellicose generals, with tiny shiny jewelry strewn across
their chestbarrels, bemoaning their government’s decision to cut the military
budget.
—I asked for tanks, damnit! TANKS! one general screamed at another, his
face bloated with anger.
—The G-D civilians have cut our budget again! They’re probably trying to
fund FREE SCHOOL LUNCHES and AFTERSCHOOL PROGRAMS! the other
general screamed back, the veins in his thickneck bulging gallantly.
—Have you ever tried to go into battle carrying nothing but a FREE SCHOOL
LUNCH? You might as well have A BOTTLE OF WINE in your sheath! the general
yelled, the heroic hairs of his well-manicured flattop bristling bravely.
—Have you ever tried to drive a TANK through an AFTERSCHOOL
PROGRAM? It’s a TACTICAL DISASTER! the other general yelled in response,
the blood vessels in his eyes bursting boldly.
—I’m sick and tired of this country’s Education Industrial Complex! the
general hollered, his trapezoids taunt and twitching.
—This is a TOUR OF DUTY, not the Tour de France! Sell off the surplus of
those G-D bikes to little old ladies, STAT! the other general hollered, his nostrils
flaring aggressively.
—WAIT UNTIL I TELL MY BIOGRAPHER ABOUT THIS!!!!!
With this scene of Hollywood heroics playing in his head like an old
movie, Humboldt would stop whatever he was doing and dutifully walk
towards the driveway. On this walk, he would often encounter his father.
While they walked side-by-side in silence, it was not uncommon for Humboldt
to resolutely mutter “onions” under his breath at the same time that his father
resolutely muttered “sex.”
When she could see the whites of their eyes, Edna would tightly
squeeze the handbrake and the bicycle would squeal to a stop, negating any
chance of a sneak attack. Once stationary, Edna would smile at them both.
She was a pleasant woman, plump and genuine, who was not unattractive
by the standards of Holmes County, even when sweaty and panting heavily.
Once she had unclasped her helmet and hung it on her handlebars, Edna
would pass her large basket of onions to Humboldt. The three of them would
then walk into the house together: Humboldt holding his breath, his father
holding his silence, and Edna happily rapidly talking about some mundane
feature of her day, week, ride, or life. Her lady chatterly presence was a stark
contrast to the usual cloud of silence that hung over the house.
As Edna and Humboldt’s father ventured up the front staircase,
Humboldt would position himself at the kitchen sink, dreading the task at
hand. As the loud, strange noises began above him, Humboldt would begin
peeling onions. It was not long before his eyes started to sting and pour. Big
wet tears slid down his cheeks and plopped into his pile of peelings. Humboldt
knew from experience that if he attempted to dry his eyes, they would only
sting worse. As the stinging and sobbing continued, Humboldt did his best
to hold his breath. He visualized himself discovering the light-switch for his
lungs and flipping it off. His breathing stopped. The stench stopped. After a
moment of breathless bliss, his mouth burst open and every gasp afterward
filled his nostrils with a fresh blast of onionsmell. There was no escape. He
was a prisoner in the gulag of an onion.
The noises above Humboldt’s head would sometimes grow so loud that
he had trouble concentrating on holding his breath and remembering to not
wipe the tears from his tingling eyes with the back of his sleeve. And then the
noise would stop and the house would regain its quietude. But this silence
was usually shortlived; inevitably, the noises would start up again. Although
he never knew the exact particulars of the act, Humboldt deduced that sex
involved two people being alone in a room making an ungodly racket. And
because the human brain is a confusing labyrinth, it was difficult for Humboldt
to think about sex without the putrid aroma of onions ghosting through his
nostrils.
Humboldt never spoke much to Edna after her onions had been peeled.
He would usually be standing in the kitchen, his eyes full of tears, as she
staggered down the front staircase, her eyes full of tears. After tearfully smiling
at each other, Humboldt would watch Edna’s fuzzy greenish outline travel
down their driveway and rrrring its way out onto the main road.
One afternoon on her way out the door, Edna paused in between the
old Frigidaire and the large wooden cabinet where Humboldt’s father kept
bags of beans and dried spices. In a soft voice, she spoke to Humboldt.
—Good luck at college, Humboldt.
It took a moment for Humboldt to realize that he was being spoken to.
Edna’s whisper could have easily been missed in the din of loud sniffling. Good
luck at college, Humboldt? The words seemed to be illogically glued together, as
if spoken by one of those strange foreign exchange students that appeared
sporadically on other people’s porches.
Unaware that Edna had already disappeared out the back door and was
bicycling down the driveway, Humboldt turned around and politely addressed
the empty space in front of the Frigidaire.
—Thank you, he said, his eyes full of oniony tears.
Later that night, over a dinner of soybean and onion casserole,
Humboldt asked his father if it was true that he would soon be attending
college.
—Yes, his father replied, not lifting his eyes from his plate.
His father’s nonchalance was almost reassuring to Humboldt. And
while it was normally not in his nature to ask follow-up questions, Humboldt
decided that this development warranted further examination.
—When?
—Tomorrow.
This answer surprised Humboldt and he decided that another followup question was warranted.
—Shouldn’t I finish Junior High School first?
Humboldt’s father shook his head and continued eating.
—Homeschooled, he mumbled.
Humboldt found the news that he had been homeschooled almost
as surprising as the news that he was scheduled to start college in less than
twenty-four hours. He didn’t remember being homeschooled any more than
he remembered applying for college.
—Are you sure I was homeschooled?
Humboldt’s father nodded.
—Everyone’s schooled at home, even this casserole.
Humboldt took a bite of his homeschooled casserole. He chewed
thoughtfully and thought chewfully, but he didn’t feel any smarter. Humboldt
had never thought about change before. Was this what it tasted like? And
what did change look like? Did it stretch and grow like silence and days? Was
it small like a soybean or large like a watermelon? And where were its gusty
breezes? The air in the dining room was deathly still.
—How did this happen?
—Edna. She’s the guidance counselor at Winesburg High School.
She helped me fill out your application. And congratulations, you graduated
summa cum laude.
In addition to feeling proud of his unknown academic excellence,
Humboldt felt confused. He had never heard his father speak so eloquently,
and this eloquence made Humboldt wonder if their casserole really had been
homeschooled. Humboldt was also confused about Edna. In addition to free
onions and sex, Humboldt never realized that she was also providing his
father with guidance. Guidance? Didn’t she have difficulty guiding her bike
down the driveway?
—Edna thinks you’ll do fine at college.
What did Edna know about college? College was a foreign country.
When people spoke of it, they lowered their voices, as if they were discussing
something terrible. From these whispers, Humboldt had learned that when
someone went to college, they never came back! Sure, they were sometimes
granted parole for a holiday or a month in the summer, but when this parole
was over, they were gone. Gone. College disappeared people.
If these were indeed the winds of change and he a ship and college the
seacoast, Humboldt was certain that he would run aground! Shipwrecked and
stranded, Humboldt foresaw himself alone on that distant shore, unprotected
and vulnerable, like a wailing illtempered baby amidst a tempest.
—Why can’t I just stay here? Humboldt asked his father. I don’t want to
be a college student; I want to be a farmer.
Humboldt’s father shook his head again.
—Foreclosed. Subprime mortgage. Housing bubble, he said, before
adding “Edamame” and shaking his head in dismay.
—But what does any of that mean?
Humboldt’s father shrugged.
—I don’t know. Nobody knows. That’s why you have to go to college.
After a couple of weeks, you should be smart enough to know what we have
to do to save the farm. Your acceptance packet is near the front door.
Humboldt spent the rest of the meal silently brooding over forprime
In the opening chapter of Ulysses, Buck Mulligan subclosure bubble houses. His father was silent too. Perhaps he too was
implores Stephen to “give up the moody brooding.” moody brooding over futurebubbles. Once he had silently said good-bye to
his casserole, Humboldt said good-bye to his father.
As he casually leafed through the stack of papers that had been left for
him on the table next to the front door, Humboldt felt a hand tenderly touch
his shoulder.
—Son, never forget that the goal of college is to learn how to think like
everyone else. Don’t be one of those damn fools who goes to college to learn
how to think for yourself.
Humboldt thanked his father for this piece of fatherly advice and
promised that he would not try to learn how to think for himself while at
college. And then Humboldt was banished from the farm he loved.
Once outside, Humboldt could still see the wobbly line that Edna’s bike
tires had carved into the dirtskin of their driveway. Humboldt followed this
line towards the main road. At the end of the driveway, Humboldt paused
near a soy patch. Bending his knees, Humboldt lowered himself to plant level
and took one last look at the sprouting leaves and the tiny packed pods. Off in
the distance, through the dense canopy of leaves, Humboldt could still see the
illuminated windows of his father’s farmhouse. Without thinking, Humboldt
twisted a single soy pod from its stem, staring at it quizzically before putting
it into his pocket. He then continued his forward march down the driveway,
eventually merging with the aggressive vehicular confusion of the main road.
This reference to Martin Guerre inaugurates the novel’s theme of the Self v. the Unself. This is fitting as the story of
Martin Guerre inaugurated our modern fascination with the self. Martin Guerre and his family lived in the small village
of Artigat in Southern France. In 1538, he married Bertrande de Rols. They were both most likely around the age of
fourteen at the time of their wedding. For eight years, the couple struggled to cope with Martin’s impotence. Then one
day, an old woman “appeared suddenly as if from heaven” and lifted the spell. Bertrande conceived immediately and
a son, Sanxi, was born. (This explains the joke about the return of Martin’s Guerre’s sex drive.) Two years later, Martin
abandoned his family for Spain. Eight years after he disappeared, another man, named Arnaud du Tilh, appeared in
Artigat claiming to be Martin Guerre. The ruse worked so well that the imposter climbed into Martin’s bed. After almost
four years of faux marriage, Martin’s uncle grew suspicious and brought a lawsuit against the imposter. The jury was
just about to acquit the impostor, when the real Martin Guerre walked into the courtroom on a wooden leg.
II
How Humboldt Entered College, Obtained His Class Schedule,
and Found His Room
I’m not the only writer who has been obsessed with the story of Martin Guerre: Montaigne was too. As a young judge
at the Parlement of Bordeaux, Montaigne followed the trial and was actually in attendance when the imposter received
his public sentencing. What fascinated Montaigne about Martin Guerre’s story were the questions of self-identity that
arose during the legal proceedings. How can anyone prove that he is who he says he is? To quote Natalie Zemon Davis
in The Return of Martin Guerre: “in a time without photographs, with few portraits, without tape recorders, without
fingerprinting, without identity cards, without birth certificates, with parish records still irregular if kept at all – how did
one establish a person’s identity beyond doubt?”
Before Montaigne, no one attempted to establish their identity through their inward characteristics. Identity was purely
an outward phenomenon and outward phenomena could be faked. Montaigne explicitly mentions Martin Guerre’s
saga in his essay “Of the Lame.” This essay was included in John Florio’s English translation of Montaigne’s Essais,
which Shakespeare is very likely to have read. Harold Bloom even goes as far as to surmise that this is the very book
that Hamlet is reading when Polonius interrupts him in Scene II. Shakespeare was fascinated with false identities,
as well as what Stephen Greenblatt dubbed “self-fashioning.” From Shakespeare onward, establishing self-identity
through inwardness has become Western Culture’s premier preoccupation. In other words, the self is internal, not
external. But without Martin Guerre, none of these ideas might have ever existed.
Sandwiched between the dawn of youth and the yawn of adulthood, college was the Middle Ages, or so Humboldt thought. But upon
his maiden voyage to an actual college campus, Humboldt was shocked to discover how wrong he was and how right he was.
College was not metaphorically the Middle Ages; it was the Middle Ages. And thanks to Mrs. Featherweight, Humboldt was well
acquainted with this golden era of human existence. He was familiar with Feudalism and knew how dirty the dirt poor really
were. He also remembered that the goal of the Crusades was to rescue Jerusalem from a tyrannical Muslim government that
demanded taxation without representation. He knew about the song of Capitalism, the rise of Roland, and the return of Martin
Guerre’s sex drive. He also remembered how Dante was a funnylooking man who wore a funnylooking red nightcap that was so
small it squeezed his brain while he slept, causing feverishly vivid nightmares.
But why had Mrs. Featherweight told Humboldt’s class that the Middle Ages had ended? Ended? The era’s defining
attributes, its squalor, poverty, aggressive Christianity, and uncleanliness, were all alive and well at college. (Although chivalry did
indeed appear to be dead.) And these antiquated attributes were not only alive and well: they appeared to be thriving.
Upon entering the collegetown’s gate, Humboldt immediately found himself in the heart of a sprawling plague-infested
medieval village. Trash littered every inch and alleyway. As he crossed the street and entered a sunken concrete courtyard teeming
with traffic, Humboldt noticed scholarly serfs roaming the streets in rags, ingesting food not fit for farm animals. Beggars, ravished
with malnutrition and moaning loudly, stumbled past him. Red eyes stared out of sunken sockets, as pale limbs peeked out of
gothic porticos. He saw cankerous open sores and heinous marks of medieval torture. All around him, human flesh exhibited
horrible traces of being scarred, burned, and branded by steel. It was the mark of Cain, again and again.
Judging from these marks, most of the male studentserfs had been arrested and branded for common acts of skullduggery
16
All of these tattoos are “drawn from life.” My sisterin-law has a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder; a
college roommate’s wife has a black panther on her
shoulder; I saw the squid tattoo on a waitress who
used to work in Sonny’s in Portland, Maine; and the
sadomasochistic pig on a leash is from a waitress
who used to work at Club 185 in Columbus, Ohio,
which is where I scribbled down a good deal of my
initial sections. And as for those redtail hawks…
This is the only reference in the book that I know
absolutely nothing about. I can’t tell you a single
thing about Fulcher of Chartres. I simply needed a
funny medieval name, so I looked in my Arts and
Humanities textbook and found this one.
The Wexner Center for the Arts, which was designed
by Peter Eisenman, has to be the worst building in
the history of architecture. When it won the 1993
National Honor Award from the American Institute
of Architects, the jury called the building “the
Lenny Bruce of architecture.” If you’re not familiar
with Lenny Bruce—and who is these days?—he
was an irritating and abrasive comedian who was
most famous for not being funny. There is only one
reasonable excuse for how atrocious the architecture
of the Wexner Center is: Eisenman must have been
drunk when he designed it. How else can you explain
the fact that, before the building celebrated its
twentieth anniversary, it had to close for a three-year,
$15.8 million “retrofitting?” In her 2005 article on the
museum (“Extreme Makeover: Museum Edition”),
Robin Pogrebin describes the renovation process as
“essentially: Do Over.”
(“THUG LIFE”) or impersonating superhero royalty, as depicted by the
replication of their coat of arms; on the other hand and arm, females were
most commonly branded for illicit carnal relationships with animals, such
as redtail hawks, butterflies, and black panthers. Humboldt even spied one
woman who had apparently copulated with a squid and another who was
guilty of engaging in sadomasochism with a pig.
Humboldt knew that only the most insidious of criminals would be
marked in such a damning fashion. He decided that these criminals must not
only be insidious but woefully incompetent in their criminality; otherwise,
how could they have been caught and marked in such abundance? As part of
their sentencing, these inept criminals must have been condemned to college
to better learn the craft of theft.
Interspersed among the emaciated beggars and the inept criminals
were vacanteyed vassals who appeared well-fed, veryveryvery well-fed. They
were so well-fed, in fact, that Humboldt wondered if they were being fattened
for feastday. He envisioned a large medieval banquet table overflowing with
huge hunks of human flesh. Fatty pheasant knees, hairy hamhocks, dimpled
cockles, ample American thighs, and calves so plump that they dwarfed
normal drumsticks. It was a feast for a carnivorous king and his cousinqueen.
Everywhere Humboldt looked, he spied more feastday flesh. It billowed
beneath ill-fitting robes. It hung in rolls underneath chins and clung to the
backs of necks. FlipFlop, FlipFlop was the sound of these waddling giants as
they waddled past in packs. Humboldt was surprised by how satiated these
creatures appeared. Bloated by the beef of intelligence, these vacanteyed
vassals appeared unaware of their own repulsiveness.
Unaware? No, they appeared proud of their preposterous girth. Because
they waddled with a martial air, Humboldt wondered if these creatures were
Beefeaters. This made sense. The extra padding on their hands, feet, knees,
elbows, stomach, and ankles resembled the fleshy armor of an indestructible
army, whose duty it was to protect the collegetown.
Beefeaters? Nooo, better yet: Bowling Soldiers!
Humboldt envisioned a single Bowling Soldier being rolled down upon
the field of battle, his wide girth wiping out an entire squadron of Vikings in
one rapid rotation.
By Jove, here they roll, Humboldt heard the famous Viking chieftain Erik
the Dead yell, watching in horror as his army was pulverized and bowlerized.
Retreat! Retreat! Every illiterate hornhelmeted heathen for himself ! Retreat! By
the love of Cnut the Great! Back to Vinland! Back to Finland! Back to Vikinland…
RETREAT!!!!
Across the killingfield stood Fulcher of Chartres, who was gleefully
shouting:
Onward! For the love of Charlie Montaigne! Onward, ye merry Christian
Murderers! Onward to Constantinople! Onward to Istanbul! Onward to Istantinople…
ONWARD!!!!
The Mongrels had stallions, the Moors catapults, the Romans helmets,
and the Greeks a colossal hobbyhorse, but the collegiate army fought with
flesh: fleshy fumpahs, drill sergeants with dunlaps, entire battalions with
batwings the size of boulders. Such an army’s expansion was unstoppable.
When they besieged a fortified castle, no kitchen, dining hall, or pantry was
safe. They burst through drawbridges like buttons, squeezed through lancet
windows like toothpaste through a tube, and drained moats with a single
ferocious cannonball. When the assault was finally over and these Bowling
Soldiers had tasted victory, they celebrated by ripping down delicately
embroidered tapestries and using them like disposable napkins to maliciously
wipe their triumphant mouths.
Such grotesque imagery made Humboldt shudder. He felt cold. Perhaps
he had already contracted the plague. Feeling faint, he stopped in the shadow
of a gigantic redbrick castle’s towering turrets to check his body for boils.
Although undeniably boil-free, Humboldt could do little to ease his
mind. When his thoughts were not preoccupied with the conquests of Bowling
Soldiers, they were fixated on the idea of millions of knowledgefarmers
A “beautiful auto-de-fé” appears in Chapter Six of
toiling away in dark corners, tilling the soil of their malnourished minds,
Candide, or Optimism. Voltaire based this chapter on
while gnawing at their dirty fingernails. He saw these subterranean creatures
an actual auto-de-fé that took place after the Lisbon
huddled around each other for safety, their hooded heads bent at the same
earthquake of 1756.
For a man with a super-sensitive sniffer like myself,
life in the Middle Ages sounds awful. No modern
plumbing, public defecation, livestock roaming the
streets, and rotting corpses everywhere. And even
when there weren’t visible rotting corpses, there
were shallow mass graves, where peasants were
buried in five layers “like lasagna.” And while all of
this was going on, the collective decision was made
for everyone to stop bathing. Here’s how Norman F.
Cantor describes the situation in In the Wake of the
Plague: The Black Death & the World it Made:
“Frequent bathing was proscribed as dangerous
by the medical profession: You opened your pores to
the airborne disease. Europe entered the pungent nobath era, which lasted until the disappearance of the
plague in the mid-eighteenth century. Even Napoleon
Bonaparte rarely bathed; instead he had a massage
with French cologne each morning, a lifestyle common
to the European nobility by 1400…”
Wait, did Norman F. Cantor just say that
Europe’s “pungent no-bath era” ended in the mideighteenth century? Is that a typo? Shouldn’t that
sentence read: “Europe entered the pungent nobath era, which continues to this very day?”
One of the creepiest things about the pestilence that
killed off one-third of Western Europe’s population
in the Middle Ages is that we still don’t know much
about it; for example, we don’t really know where it
began. Most scholars agree that it began somewhere
in Asia and was spread westward by the Mongol
army. In 1347, the Mongols attacked the walled city
of Caffa, which was a thriving port on the Crimean
Sea. When it became obvious that they couldn’t
take the city because their ranks were so ravished
by the plague, the Mongols began catapulting
infected corpses over the city walls. This unsanitary
act is thought to be the disease’s introduction to
Western Europe. Here’s how the event is described
by Gabriele de Mussis in Historia de Morbo:
“The dying Tartars (Mongols), stunned and
stupefied by the immensity of the disaster brought
about by the disease, and realizing that they had
no hope of escape, lost interest in the siege. But
they ordered corpses to be placed in catapults
and lobbed into the city in hope that the intolerable
stench would kill everyone inside.”
On the list of “Biggest Dick-Moves in the
History of Mankind,” I’m pretty sure that catapulting
plague-infected corpses into a city ranks near the top.
Because everything in the Middle Ages stunk so
bad, medieval physicians were convinced that the
plague was a miasma, or airborne illness. To ward
off infection, people were instructed to carry around
bouquets of flowers. Whenever a foul odor drifted past
your nostrils, you were supposed to bury your nose in
your flowers. Et Voila! You don’t have the plague! Such
behavior explains the “a pocketful of posies” line in the
children’s song “Ring Around the Rosies.”
attentive angle, their bloodred eyes straining to read by a candle’s dim light. In
his mind’s ear, Humboldt could hear a haunting medieval monophonic chant.
Read, learn, obey…
Humboldt’s nightmares were interrupted by a large herd of fraternal
vassals who stopped and lingered nearby. Humboldt observed their
mannerisms and intently listened to their conversation. At first, these vassals
seemed to be speaking a foreign tongue, but soon Humboldt deduced that
they were indeed speaking a form of American English; although, it was not
a particularly desirable one. The tales that Humboldt happened to overhear
were outrageously immoral. They were filled with drunken revelries, heroic
feats of aggression, and sexual conquests that were dubious in their consensual
nature. These stories were punctuated with loud bouts of masculine laughter,
ritualistic slapping of hands, and loud cries of “way to go, bro!” Humboldt
was beginning to feel scandalized at hearing such sordid tales, but then he
realized that what he was hearing were probably just verbal recitations from
The Canterbury Tales or The Decameron.
Moving away from the gregarious group, Humboldt noticed a strange
white scaffolding that was erected around the castle. This scaffolding was in the
shape of a geometrical grid and appeared to serve no purpose architecturally.
Because of its architectural uselessness and prominent placement over the
concrete courtyard, Humboldt assumed that the scaffolding was used for the
burning of heretics. He envisioned many a festive auto-de-fé taking place in the
very spot where he now stood. In his mind, Humboldt saw pulsating crowds
pushing towards the scaffold in hopes of catching a glimpse of the doomed
heretic in his humiliating paper mortarboard. Up the geometric scaffolding
the heretic climbed, babbling violent heresies about higher education. And
if these babbled heresies became too pointed, if, say, they mentioned the
outrageously unnecessary costs of college, or the predatory aspect of student
loans, or the nurturing acceptance of date rape, or the utter uselessness of
English departments, the heretic’s tongue would be bridled with steel pins
and he would babble no more. As the crowd cheered, the heretic would be
hoisted onto the scaffold and the flame lit below. And in the murderous blaze,
the cruel truth of higher education would become apparent. This truth was
so terrible that no administrator, graduate assistant, or professor would dare
utter it, with or without tenure.
Humboldt’s imagination was so intense that, for a moment, he
thought he smelled his own imaginary auto-de-fé. In reality, what Humboldt
was smelling was the most overwhelming argument that college was indeed
a plague-infested medieval village: the stench. The wind accelerated and
Humboldt became aware that the smell of body odor, urine, and stale beer
hung over the collegetown like an oozing layer of ozone. Could rotting flesh
infected with Black Death have smelled any worse? Would the smell of
burning hair from a heretic or the corpsewagon in the midday sun not be an
improvement to the putrid reek of college?
Humboldt’s nostrils were assaulted, overpowered. Even the plagueravished Mongrel army, charging down the slopes of the Himalayas on their
murderous stallions, would have been repelled by the potency of this wretched
smell. It was a smell that would’ve made Genghis Khan cry out for mercy and
beg for a bar of Irish Spring. How could anyone be expected to learn in such
a smelly environment? Humboldt could barely breathe, let alone think. To his
outraged nostrils, the stench of scholarship outonioned onions.
A few steps beyond the castle’s scaffolding, Humboldt spied a small
flower garden. He hurried over and snatched a bouquet of semi-wilted flowers,
which he pressed underneath his nose.
William Oxley Thompson, who was the fifth president
of the Ohio State University, was born in Cambridge,
Ohio. Erwin Frey’s sculpture of Thompson is located
on the Oval, directly in front of the library that bears
his name.
Humboldt is standing on the edge of the Oval,
looking west. The two towers are the Lincoln and
Morrill dormitories, the river is the Olentangy, and the
colossal Coliseum is Ohio Stadium, better known as
“The Horseshoe.”
Humboldt is standing in front of the William Oxley
Thompson Memorial Library.
His flowers firmly in place, Humboldt joined the surging flood of
students who were continually crissing and crossing the campus. As he
walked, Humboldt noticed that the castle with the geometric scaffolding
belonged to the Humanities clan. No more than one hundred paces away,
Humboldt was shocked to see another castle. According to the banner that
hung over its entrance, this castle belonged to the Glenn clan, kinsman of
Public Affairs. And no more than one hundred paces away from this castle,
Humboldt was shocked to see more castles. As he passed, Humboldt read
the names of each castle: the Haggerty clan, the Hayes clan, the Hopkins
clan. Humboldt envisioned bearded landbarons clad in plaid, murderous
warriorkings so confident in their distinguished ancestry, thick arms, and
thicker accents that they didn’t seem to care that they were dressed like women.
Humboldt couldn’t believe that so many familial fortresses were within an
arrowshot of one another. So many castles, so little degrees of separation.
Humboldt had always imagined medieval castles being separated by miles
of unkempt heather and bog, but here they were rubbing stone shoulders
together. No wonder territorial warfare was so endemic in the Middle Ages. If
the Ambrosian chants of one clan were too loud or the mummings of another
too outrageous, there was no way to avoid tribal war.
As Humboldt crisscrossed the campus, he also spied hundreds of sleek,
metallic spinning wheels. He assumed this was how the local mercantile
economy kept the population perpetually clad in cotton. Sweatpants,
sweatshirts, tee-shirts, shorts, visible undergarments, pajama bottoms:
Humboldt had never seen so much cotton. In a collegetown, cotton was
currency. And everyone looked so comfortable with their soft flesh, fashion,
and expectations.
As he continued crissing and crossing the campus, Humboldt hoped
to stumble upon some form of local authority: a town burgher or perhaps
a pope. Failing to find such a figure, he crossed the campus again and then
again. Every crissing and crossing brought him into the shadow of another
castle, but his search was popeless.
Another criss, another cross and Humboldt discovered a hulking
bronze sculpture of a popish looking ox of a man, dressed in his nightgown.
This sculpture scowled down at the sinning serfs with the stern face of a cruel
cardinal.
Another criss, another cross and Humboldt shuffled underneath a
monastery whose red Romanesque tower rose magnificently above the
treeline. So far, Humboldt had only encountered scantily clad bawds and
he assumed that all the chaste virgins must be kept inside this consecrated
cloister.
Another criss, another cross and Humboldt found the pond where
apparently the peasants bathed. Near the watersedge, Humboldt saw the ruins
of an ancient amphitheater. He assumed this was where the local players
performed their festival plays and ancient tragedies, such as The Bacchae,
Oedipus the King, and The Fall of Tressel. Beyond this pond, he spied the
spires of two distant towers, the waters of a navigational river, and a colossal
Coliseum that he assumed was used as a gladiatorial killing field. But still no
pope.
Another criss, another cross and Humboldt was staring skyward at a
huge scholastic monastery library that reminded him of Alexandria. Inside,
he assumed, muted scribes were toiling away, plagiarizing books containing
all of the known world’s ancient wisdom. He imagined determined scribblers
scratchscratchscratching the back of knowledge.
Finally, after hours of searching, Humboldt joined a long, slowmoving
line that wound its way towards a fleet of tables marked ‘Registration.’
Seated at each table were members of the local gentry. When his time came,
Humboldt found himself in front of an obese nobleman and gentlewoman,
who grinned at him with hungry smiles.
—Oh, isn’t that sweet, said the nobleman. This nice young man has
brought us flowers.
This comment sent both faces into a fit of fleshquaking laughter.
Peeking out from his portable flower garden, Humboldt was confused; what
were they laughing at?
—We’ll have to fight over them, replied the gentlewoman.
More lionroaring laughter followed. The more the two creatures quaked
and roared, the more confused Humboldt felt; what were they laughing at
now?
—We’re just kidding with you, the nobleman explained once he stopped
shaking and quaking.
—We like to joke around with students, interjected his companion. We
find it helps students feel more comfortable.
Humboldt found this explanation puzzling as the awkward laughter
had provoked exactly the opposite effect on him.
—Are you here to pick up your class schedule?
Humboldt pondered this question for a moment before answering.
—No, I’m here to learn how to think like everyone else.
Humboldt’s reply sent another jolt of electric laughter through the air.
The gentlewoman tilted her head skyward, exposing a flab of flesh underneath
her chin that bobbed up and down with each avalanche of laughter.
—That’s a good one, sniffled out the gentlewoman once her laughter
began to lessen.
Humboldt waited patiently. When the tide of laughter began to go out,
he lowered his flowers and spoke again.
—Am I at the wrong place?
—You most certainly are, the gentlewoman explained in a mockserious
tone. The goal of college is to teach students how to think for themselves; not
how to think like everyone else.
HA! Humboldt thought. He knew better than to believe this and he
quickly deduced that he was being tested.
—But I already know how to think for myself, he replied. In fact, I do
it all the time.
—You might think that you know how to think for yourself, but you
really don’t.
—I don’t?
—No, you don’t. How could you? You haven’t been properly taught
how to think for yourself yet. The only true way to think for yourself is for
someone to teach you how to do it. Does that make sense?
—No, not really, Humboldt replied.
—See, the nobleman answered with smug confidence, it’s a good thing
that you’re here then, right? Do you have any idea what your major might be?
—My major?
—Yes, your major; your focus. What are you interested in? Or what kind
of career might you like to pursue after college?
—I want to save my father’s subprime farm from a foreclosure bubble.
—That’s good, exclaimed the nobleman. I’d recommend you be an
Agricultural Financial Litigation major.
—Okay. But what’s that?
—Saving farms from foreclosure, the gentlewoman answered matterof-factly. Now that you’re in college, you’ll need to start using the most
confusingly incomprehensible language possible. This will increase your
confidence and let people know how smart you really are.
Humboldt nodded thankfully. This is wonderful, he thought. He was
already learning how to save his father’s farm and he had not yet even attended
his first class.
After inquiring his name, the nobleman produced Humboldt’s schedule.
Before handing it over to Humboldt, the nobleman explained the coded
message that was printed on the tiny piece of paper.
—On Monday, Wednesday, Fridays you have Nutrition 120: The Science
of Food at nine o’clock, followed by English 112: New Cynicism at ten. In the
afternoon, you have Religion 100: The American Religion. On Tuesday and
Thursday afternoons, you have Physical Education 310: Professional Arm
Wrestling at two o’clock.
—That sounds like a wonderful schedule, exclaimed the nobleman’s
companion. None of those classes have anything to do with your major, but
I’m sure you’ll be memorizing tons of fascinating useless trivia and learning
lots of convoluted language in each class.
The nobleman handed Humboldt’s schedule across the table.
—And here’s your registration packet, said the gentlewoman, producing
a thick envelope, which she thrust towards Humboldt. Inside, you’ll find your
room assignment, a campus map, and some other goodies. Okay? Well, I
think you’re all set.
—And don’t forget, the nobleman interjected. No matter how rigorous
your classes are, always make time to stop…
He and his noble companion began snickering in anticipation…
—And smell…
The snickering intensified…
—THE ROSES!
HAHA… AHAHAHA… HAHA…. AHAHA… HAHAAA…
HAAAAAHHHHAAA!
Their laughter was still reverberating around the registration hall as
Humboldt quickly retreated towards the nearest exit.
Once outside, Humboldt felt happy. He was officially an official college
student. Osmosis was in the air. The sun shone, the grass grew, and the trees
too. And Humboldt knew that he would grow too. He would grow large
with knowledge. Thinking about the growingness of his knowingness excited
him. The Middle Ages were an exciting time to be alive and Humboldt was
happy that he had not missed them. He was also happy that he was not an
emancipated beggar or a Bowling Soldier. And most importantly, he was
happy that he had not contracted the plague, yet.
III
How Humboldt Became Acquainted with Elle le Noise
and Rich Thunderton
After registering for classes, Humboldt spent the rest of the afternoon searching for his dorm room. As far as Humboldt could tell,
the campus appeared to be one continuous labyrinth of long corridors, sharp turns, and identical doorways. The drab institutional
interiors that he continually encountered, with their sterile flourishes and dim lighting, made Humboldt question whether he had
taken a wrong turn (or twelve) and mistakenly wandered into a mental hospital.
On his quest to find his room, Humboldt’s progress was repeatedly impeded by studentserfs carrying outrageously large
pieces of furniture. Humboldt crawled over couches, outmaneuvered Ottomans, and lunged over loveseats. Bags of laundry
rolled past him like freewheeling boulders speeding downhill. And if his path wasn’t blocked by free-floating furniture, it was
blocked by some elaborate technological entertainment gadgetry. Each bigflat screen that Humboldt passed was substantially
bigger and flatter than the screen he had just seen moments before. As he squeezed against a wall to allow passage for yet
another technological barge, Humboldt realized that the majority of students on campus must be majoring in some kind of visual
entertainment.
And this is nothing to say of the kitchen appliances! A million microwaves sailed past, resembling antiquated television sets.
Following in the wake of these many microwaves was a parade of sleek white coffins that Humboldt realized were refrigerators.
These were thirsty serfs, Humboldt thought as he paused near a lonely waterfountain. Crockpots, tabletop grills, toaster ovens, air
conditioners, and dehumidifiers all passed, dragging their long cordtails.
All of these objects were swallowed by the hungry gaping rectangular mouths of a million different-yet-identical doorways.
Where did all this stuff come from? Was it plunder from some recent military conquest? And where was it all going? Surely,
Humboldt assumed, most studentserfs would be too busy studying to spend their evenings slow crockcooking pot roasts, toasting
22
bagels, microwaving godknowswhat, and grilling meat indoors.
Finally, the insurmountable barricade of a fullsized red suede chaise
lounge blocked Humboldt’s path. There was no getting around it. For a long
time, Humboldt patiently stood staring into the velvety red cushioning as if it
were a passing train and he stuck at a railroad crossing. As he watched, two
sweaty studentserfs struggled to domesticate the mighty plush beast.
—Push, Pull, Push… PULL!!!
The stubborn suede beast didn’t budge.
—Pull, Push, Pull… PUSH!!!
Still the silky seat refused to be tamed.
—PushPULLPush, PushPush, PullPUSHPull…PUSHPULL...PUUSH!!
Finally, with the studentserfs groaning and the chaise lounge grating,
the entire groaning grating group was swallowed in one giant gulp. With the
impediment suddenly gone, Humboldt found himself staring face-to-face
with the loveliest vision of girlhood he had seen in all his days of boyhood.
—What a beautiful bouquet of flowers! Can I have one?
In the harsh phosphorescent glare of the hallway lighting, the girl’s hair
looked bright brown. Her nose was small; her chin was small. She was small:
small like a kitten, small like clothes worn by a baby, small like something
wanting to be picked up and held.
Humboldt timidly held out the entire bouquet.
—Really? I can have the whole thing? That’s so sweet.
The beautiful girl accepted the beautifully wilted bouquet with a smile.
Staring at her smile, Humboldt noticed that her teeth were endearingly
crooked, almost jagged. But through this crookedness radiated a genuine,
compassionate intensity. Her smile was like watching a bird with a broken
wing struggle to fly or a gnarled old tree limb twistingtwisting towards the sun.
Humboldt felt a strange connection with that crooked smile, that wounded
doomed bird, and that nasty old halfdead tree.
—Are you looking for your room?
Humboldt, who was now holding his breath, nodded.
—Do you have your registration packet? I’ll help you find it. It took me
forever (pronunciation: for-EV-ver) to find mine. Here, let me have a looksee.
O, your room is just down the hall from mine! Isn’t that wonderful! I think our
hallway is one of the loveliest on campus. C’mon, it’s this way (pronunciation:
tisa-way).
The beautiful girl beckoned and Humboldt happily followed. As they
walked together, the chattering continued.
—Did you see the size of that chaise lounge? I didn’t think it would
fit! Who brings a chaise lounge that BIG to college? And what happens if it
doesn’t fit or it’s too big for your room? Do you have to sell it? Or give it away
to a homeless shelter? That must be how homeless shelters get all their fancy
furniture.
The more the girl talked, the more Humboldt forgot about the stench,
the Middle Ages, the institutional hallways, the awkward laughter, his father’s
farm, the chaise lounge…everything.
—My name is Elle, by the way.
—I’m Humboldt.
—Humboldt? That’s a funny name!
The girl snickered briefly, before a look of embarrassment flashed
across her face.
—But I’m not making fun of it, she said quickly. I think it’s a sweet
name. And who am I to make fun of anyone’s name? I have the funniest name
of anyone I’ve ever met. I’ll tell you my name and you tell me if it’s not the
funniest name you’ve ever heard, okay?
Humboldt nodded in agreement; or rather, he would have nodded in
agreement had he been given the time to nod in agreement.
—Elle le Noise. Isn’t that the funniest name you’ve ever heard? It’s
French, but I’m not. I mean, I’m not from France. Actually, it’s not really
French; it’s French Canadian. My family’s from Montreal, but they’re
I was born into a family of displaced Chicagoans.
Before moving to Cambridge, my parents lived in the
suburb of La Grange. Whenever anyone questions
my Chicago heritage, I tactfully point to both my last
name and my Dopp kit.
The Great Chicago Fire occurred in October 1871.
The musical Chicago tells the story of a showgirl
who kills her lover in cold blood. In the recent movie
version, John C. Reilly does a great rendition of
“Mister Cellophane.”
originally from France, but I’m not. I mean, I’m not French, or Canadian, or
French Canadian. I’m from Chicago.
Chicago? Humboldt thought. Say something clever about Chicago! His mind
was burning, as if his thoughts were being consumed by a great fire. What did
he know about Chicago?
Wait! His mind was not burned blank! The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre:
didn’t that symbolic coupling of love and death occur in Chicago? And wasn’t
Chicago the City of Brotherly Love? Nooo, that was Philadelphia. Chicago
was not the City of Brotherly Love or any other kind of love; Chicago was the
City of the Gatling Gun and the Grieving Widow. Chicago was the city where
beautiful showgirls killed their lovers in cold blood and fled to Broadway. In
Chicago, love was a damp cigarbutt squeezed between a mobster’s teeth as
he squeezed off a round of ammunition into an unsuspecting crowd. Like
alcohol during Prohibition, love was forbidden and dangerous in Chicago.
Not a badger or a buck, love was a bull in Chicago.
—Are you nervous about starting college? I am! Super nervous! Super
Duper nervous! I think my roommate hates me. Have you met your roommate
yet? I hope he doesn’t hate you like mine hates me. But how could he hate
you? You seem so sweet! And these flowers are so beautiful! You’re not like my
brother. He’s a real jerk. He goes to this school too. He’s an upperclassman.
He’s a junior.
Overhearing herself, Elle laughed quietly.
—That’s funny because he is a Junior. He’s a junior and a Junior. Isn’t
that funny? His name is Ned. Ned le Noise Junior. You’ll have to meet him
sometime. He’ll probably be a jerk to you. He’s a jerk to everybody; that’s just
how he is.
Humboldt had never heard anyone talk so fast, so much, or so
beautifully. As he remained silent, the stream began to trickle off.
—Well, here’s your room.
The two of them stopped in front of an open threshold.
—My room is just down the hall on the right. When you’re all moved
in, come down and see me, okay? I know my roommate hates me. You’ll be
able to sense it immediately. See ya! Come visit me soon, okay?
Humboldt didn’t, but he didn’t have the time to tell her. He almost told
her, but she spoke so fast and then she was gone. He didn’t. He didn’t think
her name was funny. He thought it was the most beautiful name he had ever
heard. And he thought that the hallway they shared was the most beautiful
hallway on campus. And he thought that the college they shared was the most
beautiful college on the world’s campus, although it still stunk.
Much to his surprise, upon entering his dorm room, Humboldt found
it already fully furnished. And he found the furnisher stretched out on a
fullsized red suede chaise lounge that was crammed into a corner. When he
saw Humboldt, the furnisher leapt from his seat and bounded across the room
to meet him.
With his chubby round face and puffy hands, Humboldt’s first
impression of his roommate was that he resembled a gigantic baby. The
eager approach, coupled with the intimidating girth, caused Humboldt
to momentarily consider fleeing for his life; but for the sake of collegiate
congeniality, he thought better of it.
—Are you Humboldt? I’m Rich. Rich Thunderton. But everybody on
the football team calls me ‘Gummy,’ because I look like a big Gummy Bear.
Looks like we’re roommates, huh? Gladtameetya.
The charging giantbabygummybear engulfed Humboldt in a friendly
fleshy hug. As he felt the wet warmth of friendship wash over him, Humboldt
was glad that his roommate did not apparently hate him.
—I hope you don’t mind that I’ve already moved in, and I hope you
haven’t brought a chaise lounge or a fullsized refrigerator or a microwave or
a 32 inch plasma flatscreen TV, because I’ve already brought mine. I couldn’t
get ahold of you to ask what you were bringing, so I just figured I would bring
everything. My father can always take whatever we don’t want back to D.C.
Do you need any help moving your stuff in?
—My stuff ? Humboldt answered awkwardly.
—Yeah, your stuff. You know: your clothes, laundry basket, bedding,
ab machine, microwave, solo-flex. That kind of stuff.
—O, Humboldt answered hesitantly. You mean that kind of stuff.
—Yeah, that kind of stuff. Need any help bringing it in?
An awkward silence engulfed the room, as Humboldt’s confusion grew
in equal proportions to Rich’s amazement.
—You didn’t bring any stuff ? Rich finally asked, breaking the silence.
Whoa, really? That’s crazy.
—How’s stuff going to help me learn? Humboldt asked.
—Learn? Rich repeated in an incredulous yet still friendly tone. You’re
not here to learn; you’re here to live. Having your stuff helps you feel more
comfortable. And the more comfortable you feel the better you’ll be able to
learn.
—O, Humboldt answered, feeling more comfortable with the idea of
stuff. So stuff doesn’t get in the way of learning; it actually helps you learn?
—That’s right, Rich answered. The most intelligent people in life are
also the most comfortable. You’ll see.
As if to further emphasize his point, Rich retreated to the chaise lounge
and unfolded his flesh upon its surface. He leisurely folded his arms behind his
head and crossed his stubby legs at the ankles. His fleshy face had that smug,
empty look that Humboldt had often observed in dogs that were unaware that
they were being watched. Two soft rectangles of hair licked either side of his
round face and a prepubescent patch of fuzziness hung between his nose and
upper lip.
—Whereya from? Rich asked comfortably.
—Winesburg.
—Whoa, that sounds like a party town! You must be a big drinker. I like
to drink, but I can usually only drink six to eight beers at one time. That’s one
of the things I’m most excited about learning this year: how to drink more. I
especially want to learn how to drink in the morning before football games.
Have you ever tailgated?
Humboldt shook his head.
—You’re going to love it! Everybody around here loves it. It’s great! I’ve
done it before, but I’m not sure I was very good at it. The secret is finding the
best parking lot. Once you’ve solved that mystery, it’s easy. You just show up
early and get drunk. Sounds like fun, right?
Humboldt nodded in agreement, although nothing about waking up
early and getting drunk in a parking lot sounded particularly enjoyable to him.
And he felt that it was unwise to inquire why such behavior was associated
with learning.
—But where do you go to the bathroom? Humboldt asked.
—There’s one down the hall, Rich said, motioning to his left.
—No. I mean, early in the morning when you’re drinking beer in a
parking lot. When you have to use the bathroom then, where do you go?
Rich flashed Humboldt a look of disbelief, as if he had never considered
such an asinine question.
—You just find a place. Where do farmers go to the bathroom, early in
the morning, when they’re out working their fields?
This analogy made sense to Humboldt, although he saw few similarities
between farming and getting drunk, or between fields and parking lots.
—Are you going to this afternoon’s scrimmage? Rich asked, as he
labored to his feet. It’s going to start soon.
—I don’t know, Humboldt answered honestly.
—I am. Actually, I’m on the football team, Rich said with obvious
pride. I’m the sixteenth nosetackle on the varsity depth chart.
Humboldt didn’t know what this meant, but he assumed that he should
act impressed.
—Shouldn’t you be scrummaging? Humboldt asked.
—You mean scrimmaging? Naw, the other fifteen guys are dressing. I
just get to watch. Want to come with me?
—Sure, Humboldt replied. Do we have to get drunk in a parking lot
beforehand?
—I wish! Rich appeared impressed by Humboldt’s willingness to
embrace the sacred ritual of tailgating. We won’t get to do that until the
real season starts. You’re going to love the football games here. It’s a great
stadium. The fans are great. The team’s great. And the surrounding parking
lots are spectacular. Football’s the most exciting sport on the planet. It’s super
exciting to watch. But before we go, let me give you something.
As Humboldt waited, Rich rooted around in his closet. After much
digging, he extracted a large, soft-looking bulk of bright red cotton.
—My dad bought this for me this morning, but it’s too small. Do you
want it?
Humboldt eyed the soft bulk of redness skeptically.
—It’s a sweatshirt, Rich said, sensing his roommate’s confusion.
—What’s a sweatshirt?
—Whoa, you don’t know what a sweatshirt is? You wear it. Here, try it
on. Tag goes in the back.
Rich handed Humboldt the cottony mass. It was surprisingly soft
to touch. After a moment of palpable hesitation, Humboldt hoisted the
sweatshirt over his head and onto his torso.
—It’s warm, isn’t it?
Humboldt nodded warmly.
—I love sweatshirts, Rich confessed. They’re so versatile. You can wear
them anywhere: to class, to the gym, to a fancy restaurant, to a job interview,
to bed, to play softball, to graduation, to a keg party in a parking lot, or to
a funeral. And the best part about sweatshirts is that they’re like bumper
stickers. You can advertise anything you want on the front of them. That way,
people can get to know you without having to waste time talking to you. Isn’t
that great?
Humboldt nodded emphatically. People silently getting to know him as
he walked past? No blabbering? No lawnmower mouths revving their engines?
No mindless chitchat? Humboldt found this scenario very pleasing. Without
having to say a word, everyone on campus would know him. He would
assert his identity through cotton. He envisioned morning showers of “Hello
Humboldt,” “Good Morning, Humboldt,” and “Bonjour, Monsieur Humboldt.” And
all because of his new sweatshirt. Humboldt wished that he had learned about
sweatshirts sooner. He also wished that he had learned about stuff sooner. But
no matter, he was learning it now. Humboldt was beginning to enjoy learning;
he even thought that learning might be more enjoyable than thinking.
Remembering what Rich had said about the advertising capability of
sweatshirts, Humboldt glanced down to observe what was being advertised on
the bumper sticker of his chest.
—O, he observed.
—That’s right, Rich said as he pulled on an identical bright red
sweatshirt and headed for the door.
—O! Let’s go!
IV
How Humboldt was introduced to the sport of football
and what his impressions were
I was raised in a notorious family of neurological nerds. During my childhood, my uncle was
a practicing neurologist in Pennsylvania, while my mother was (and still is) a specialist in the
field of providing support for students with dyslexia, ADHD, and other learning disabilities.
Because of such nerdiness, my family takes brain development seriously, talking about it at
the breakfast table like other families talk about meaningless celebrity gossip. At a young age,
I was disallowed from playing football. And as a member of the local YMCA Youth Soccer
League, I was also not allowed to head a soccer ball. I distinctly remember the afternoon that
my mother pulled me out of line for “header practice.” As anyone who has ever played YMCA
Youth Soccer knows, “header practice” consists of your coach ricocheting a soccer ball off
your forehead. When my mother explained her rationale to my befuddled coach, his response
was: “Lady, I’ve been heading a soccer ball my whole life and my brain’s fine.” Riiiiight. Because
that’s how it works. The next year, my mother and father volunteered to coach the team. Not
only were we wildly successful, I was never asked to compromise my brain development by
bouncing a large, rapidly-moving object off my underdeveloped frontal lobe ever again.
On their walk to the stadium, Rich pointed out every enticing parking lot and pontificated on the merits and demerits of each for
early morning drinking. Humboldt felt lucky to have such an observant and intelligent roommate, and he trusted Rich’s judgment
regarding parking lots. But Humboldt did not trust Rich’s judgment regarding football; in fact, Humboldt even went so far as to be
mildly upset with Rich for lying to him about football. Football was not exciting to watch. It was boring: god awfully, tortuously,
infuriatingly, braindestroyingly boring.
To Humboldt, the objective of the game appeared to be bludgeoning the other team’s underdeveloped frontal lobes into
submission. Before Humboldt and Rich arrived, each player had been heavily swaddled in packing material. Humboldt was glad
that he had missed this aspect of the game, because he suspected that it took hours for each player to properly wrap, tape, and pad
every inch of their ample bodies.
When the whistle blew, a group of heavily swaddled brainbludgeoners would charge an opposing group of heavily swaddled
brainbludgeoners. These groups would collide, headfirst. Choreographed carnage would ensue, as participants attempted to fall
to the ground at precisely the same spot at precisely the same time. Bodies would pile up as if they were being bulldozed into a
mass grave. After a few frightful seconds, all action would stop and each participant would peel himself from the heap of bodies.
Unpeelable participants stayed prone, writhing in pain, clutching at body parts, and moaning loudly. A great effort was made to
scrap these participants from the field as quickly as possible and bury them on the sidelines. As the wounded were being discarded,
the unwounded formed a tight circle on the field, with one participant kneeling at the center. Humboldt assumed that the purpose
of this circle was to collectively discuss the longterm effects of head trauma and debate how much headache was too much
headache.
27
The greatest advantage that rugby has over
American football, from a spectator’s perspective, is
its continuous play. For an example of how exciting
continuous play can be, search YouTube for a video
titled “Most Entertaining 3 Minutes of Rugby Ever
ǁ Highlanders vs Chiefs- Tim Nanai Williams Try.”
There’s a couple of things you should notice while
watching this video. First, the match has been going
on for over an hour (the clip starts at 62:04). So both
teams have been playing for a long time. Second,
the score is 28 – 27. So this has already been a
highly entertaining game of footy. Third, a bevy of
All Blacks feature prominently in the clip: Ben Smith,
Ma’a Nonu, Aaron Smith, Liam Messam, Sam Cane.
And finally, the player who eventually scores the try
Tim Nanai-Williams (who I think resembles a Maori
Bruno Mars) has a serious case of the stomach flu
and that’s why he looks like he’s about to die after he
crosses the tryline.
The two men who are “camping and reading” are
Walter Camp and Bill Reid. Camp played college
football at Yale from 1876 to 1882. He also served
as the school’s head football coach from 1888
to 1892. In his book The Big Scrum: How Teddy
Roosevelt Saved Football, John J. Miller writes,
“more than anybody else, he [Camp] deserves the
title as football’s founding father.” As a sophomore
at Harvard, Reid had scored two touchdowns in
a rare victory against Yale. In 1901, at the age of
twenty-six, Reid was hired as head football coach
at his alma mater. His seven-thousand-dollar salary
was considerably higher than the salary of any
faculty member and almost as much as the school’s
President. Both men were invited to the White House
as part of President Roosevelt’s “Football Summit”
on October 9, 1901.
Orlando Pace played offensive tackle for the Ohio
State Buckeyes from 1993 to 1996. He was the first
overall pick in the 1997 NFL Draft and went on to
play thirteen seasons in the NFL, primarily with the
St. Louis Rams. At Ohio State, whenever Orlando
Pace shoved a defensive player to the ground and
fell on top of him, it was called a “pancake.”
All around Humboldt, the crowd waited patiently for the falling to
resume. Leisurely, they engaged each other in banal conversations, drank beer,
and bandied clever insults back and forth. While the rest of the crowd appeared
perfectly content waitingwaitingwaiting, Humboldt found the waiting
excruciating. Couldn’t each team hurry up their huddled, secretive communal
conversations? Couldn’t the spectacle be more continuous? Did the action
have to stop every time somebody fell down? Couldn’t somebody instruct the
brainbludgeoners on how to better maintain their balance? Interspersed among
the brainbludgeoners were hundreds of angry, redfaced blowhards. These
unsavory characters spent the entire game screamingscreamingscreaming.
The head blowhard screamed at his assistant blowhards, who in turn
screamed at their technicians, who in turn screamed at their statisticians, who
in turn screamed at the training staff, who in turn screamed at their wives. But
most of all, everyone screamed at the brainbludgeoners, regardless of which
team they played for, and the referees who kept absentmindedly dropping
their hankies on the field. Surely, Humboldt thought, one of these blowhards
could take a moment from their screaming regime to remind their team about
the benefits of balance and the necessity of maintaining a healthy physical
equilibrium.
As he waitedwaitedwaited, Humboldt’s mind wandered over the origins
of such a strange spectacle. The only logical genesis was a combination of
gang violence and severe narcolepsy. Somewhere in the history of America,
two gangs of angry overweight narcoleptics must have encountered each
other on a grassy field.
Isn’t it your nap time, chubby! the members of one gang taunted the other.
Your mother counts sheep! the other gang taunted back.
Oh yeah? [yawning angrily]
OH YEAH!!!! [furiously stifling a yawn]
F…yawwwwn…you!
Me? F…yawwwwn…YOU!!!
Back and forth the insults flew until finally the antagonistic humiliation
became too great and one angry overweight narcoleptic bull-rushed his
antagonizer.
It’s all I can stands and I can’t stands NO MORE! he screamed, his muscles
twitching, his drowsy eyes aflame with anger.
But on his charge, this angry bullrusher fell down, sound asleep.
Spurred on by this unsuccessfully bold charge, another narcoleptic charged
and fell asleep. Then another and another. The pillowy ground shook with
the reverberations of rapid-eye movement, as the sky filled with snores.
Bodies harmlessly bounced off each other. Sleeping narcoleptics awoke and
charged again. Finally, the altercation ended with one gigantic fleshy mound
of exhausted, snoring sportsmen, all dreaming in unison of each other’s
sheepcounting mothers.
Somewhere nearby, two young men sat camping and reading over a
picnic lunch of Harvard Ham Sandwiches and Yale Pickles. The two men
observed the thrilling spectacle with unabashed awe. Why should narcoleptics
have all the fun? they thought and a new sport was born. The only thing that
was missing was early on-set dementia, but that was quickly rectified.
Humboldt’s thoughts were interrupted by a frenzied cry from the crowd.
While daydreaming, he had missed a particularly pulverizing play. Rich, who
appeared to be loving every frenzied moment, pulled on Humboldt’s sleeve
and pointed to a slowmoving hulk of a man.
—See that guy, Rich said.
Humboldt followed Rich’s fatfinger and nodded.
—That’s Orlando Pancake. He’s the starting nosetackle.
Humboldt watched Orlando Pancake waddle aimlessly around the
field. How could someone so obese be expected to tackle noses? Wouldn’t he
be better equipped to combat chafing thighs or bulging bellies?
—So, if he damages his frontal lobe and the other fifteen nosetackles
damage their frontal lobes, that’s where you’ll be playing? Humboldt asked.
—That’s right, Rich answered. Watch him on this play. He’s going to
pull
right
for a sweep and block downfield. He moves like a cat, but he’ll run
Apologies to Roland Barthes, who died after being
run over by a laundry truck.
you over like a laundry truck.
Humboldt watched with rapt attention as the ball was snapped and a
few frontal lobes collided like armored cars out of control. In the middle of
the collision zone, the ball carrier fell forward an inch or two and Orlando
Pancake fell directly on top of him. Humboldt was unaware of exactly what
breed of cat moved in such a pathetic fashion. Perhaps, Rich meant that he
moved like a cat that had been run over by a laundry truck.
—Magnificent, Rich whispered in Humboldt’s ear.
—What I don’t understand, Humboldt whispered back as the
participants were righting themselves and slapping each other on their
respective round rumps, is why students who are supposed to be in college to
learn are so intent on damaging their brains?
Rich appeared to be momentarily confused by Humboldt’s question.
Then his emotions slowly morphed from confusion to pain and from pain to
indignation.
—So, you’re one of those people, aye? Rich said with suspicion. The
same thing can be said about any college sport. What about tennis elbow? It’s
the same thing. If you hurt your elbow playing tennis, you can’t take notes,
right? If you sprain your ankle playing basketball, you can’t walk to class,
right? Those things all affect your learning. Sure, football might damage your
brain, but your brain isn’t the only part of your body responsible for learning,
right?
—Actually, I think it is, because…
Before Humboldt could finish his sentence, a tremendous roar went
up from the crowd. The frontal lobes of two brainbludgeoners had collided
with such force that they both momentarily appeared to be paralyzed.
The crowd held their breath anxiously. When it became obvious that both
potential paraplegics were able to wiggle their extremities, a groan of
disapproval erupted from the stands. While the entire stadium waited for the
choreographed falling to resume, the two non-paralyzed players were dragged
from the field and deposited callously on the thin burial strips that flanked
both sidelines.
V
How Humboldt was introduced to college classes
No author can casually reference an imaginary flying stuffed parrot without acknowledging a
heavy debt to Gustave Flaubert. (In a non-essential aside: Flaubert loved Candide, claiming
to have read it “twenty times… and still I reread it.”) Flaubert’s parrot famously appears at the
end of his short story A Simple Heart. According to legend, while writing this story, Flaubert
borrowed a real stuffed parrot from a museum in Rouen and kept it on his desk. This parrot
is the focus of Julian Barnes’ novel Flaubert’s Parrot. Few authors have monopolized an
inanimate object like Flaubert has the stuffed parrot. Yet others have come close; for example,
Dostoevsky with those wallets that travelers hang around their necks, Nietzsche with a tuning
fork, Herman Melville with rope, James Joyce with a hatrack made out of reindeer antlers,
Shakespeare with the bull’s eye of an archery target, and David Sedaris with stuffed owls.
Humboldt did not think that anything on earth could be as boring as watching football until he attended his first college class. Eager to
learn, Humboldt made it a point to arrive early and sit in the very first row. His unwavering attentiveness was a stark contrast to his
fellow classmates, who slumped in their seats, pulled their hats down over their bloodshot eyes, or absentmindedly doodled away
class time. Humboldt never doodled in class; he was too engrossed in learning. Another reason why Humboldt never doodled in
class was because he never carried anything to doodle with or to doodle on. He just sat in the front row, his hands clasped politely
atop his desk, listening.
Listening appeared to be essential to learning, much more essential than thinking. How could anyone be expected to think
with all that noise emanating from all those professorial orifices? The sheer volume of verbiage astounded Humboldt. As the flood
of verbiage poured into both ears, Humboldt fought to keep his mind from wandering. He constantly reminded himself of his
father’s advice about learning how to think like everyone else. Listening had to be the best way for students to learn how to think
like their professors; otherwise, why would students be forced to endure the tedium of nonstop talking? Humboldt was resolved
to listen as intently as possible. He would simplify his mind and become a human parrot. And when the skies above his father’s
farm parted, Humboldt saw a giant version of himself beautifully enfeathered and squawking mightily the mantra of… Nooo! He
was thinking again. He was supposed to be listening…
Avoiding thinking was particularly difficult for Humboldt in Nutrition 120: The Science of Food. Humboldt found it difficult
to concentrate on the material because so much of its terminology was in Latin; or perhaps it was Esperanto. Either way, Humboldt
was remiss that he had never learned how to listen to either language.
Somewhere amidst the steady stream of polyphonal polyphenols, prosaic probiotics, and charging carbohydrates, his
nutrition professor, who was an obese older woman, asked the class if anyone knew what the most important word in the science
of nutrition was. Finally, Humboldt thought, here was a question that he knew the answer to! The most important word in the
science of nutrition had to be “food.”
30
Thorn & Black’s Funeral Parlor is not located in
Winesburg; it’s actually in Cambridge, Ohio. For a
funeral parlor, I’ve always considered its name to be
very Shakespearean.
“The slave revolt in morality begins when ressentiment
itself becomes creative and gives birth to values:
the ressentiment of natures that are denied the true
reaction, that of deeds, and compensate themselves
with an imaginary revenge. While every noble
morality develops from a triumphant affirmation
of itself, slave morality from the outset says No to
what is “outside,” what is “different,” what is “not
itself”; and this No is its creative deed. This inversion
of the value-positing eye—this need to direct one’s
view outward instead of back to oneself—is of the
essence of ressentiment…” —Friedrich Nietzsche,
On the Genealogy of Morals
WRONG! The correct answer was “calorie.”
At first, Humboldt mistakenly thought that “calorie” was simply the
Latin word for “food,” but then he learned that “calories” were not food;
they were in food. Humboldt found this to be very bizarre, and he wondered
if he had ever eaten a “calorie” before. But then he learned that he had eaten
a “calorie” before; in fact, he had eaten hundreds of thousands of them.
Humboldt felt very proud of himself for having unknowingly eaten so much
of such an important thing. But then Humboldt learned that “calories” were
not supposed to be eaten; they were supposed to be counted. And they were
especially supposed to be counted when eating food-like substances. Humboldt
found the concept of food-like substances to be even more confusing than the
concept of “calories.” Apparently, food-like substances were nonfood food.
Upon hearing this, Humboldt immediately thought of the plastic fruit that
tastefully decorated the window displays at Thorn & Black’s Funeral Parlor
in Winesburg.
Firm in his resolution to begin thinking like everyone else, Humboldt
decided that he would stop eating food and start counting “calories.” He also
decided that, next time he was in Winesburg, he would look inside a soybean
to see what a “calorie” looked like. He might even attempt to count how
many were inside each bean. And since he was there, Humboldt thought it
might be a good idea to visit Thorn & Black’s and inquire about the possibility
of consuming their food-like substances.
Even though they did not exist, Humboldt realized that “calories”
were everywhere. These nonexistent, nonsensical nonentities were not just
confined to the science of nutrition; they also floated into Humboldt’s English
112: New Cynicism. In this class, Humboldt learned that ideology was a kind
of “calorie;” it did not exist, but it was everywhere and in everything. And
just as the most important aspect of nutrition was not eating food but rather
counting “calories,” the most important aspect of enjoying literature was not
reading books but rather counting ideology. Like “calories,” ideologies were
meant to be both counted and weighed.
An essential tool in the counting and weighing of ideologies was
something called ressentiment. Seated in the front row, his hands happily
clasped atop his desk, Humboldt did his best to hide his displeasure. Now he
had to learn to listen in Latin, Esperanto, and FrenchGerman?
Ressentiment was essential to the enjoyment of literature because it
helped the reader self-identify. An unself-identified reader could not begin
cultivating an interest in serious literature because they wouldn’t know where
to start; although, Humboldt suspected page one might be a good place.
Humboldt’s English professor, who reeked of tweed and apparently lived in a
pompous patch of corduroy, advocated that each student take a moment and
self-identify themselves before they began their class discussion.
—I’ll help you get started, the professor stated smugly. Begin by
answering this question: who am I not?
Who am I not? Humboldt thought to himself. The name that instantly
materialized in his mind belonged to that blabbermouth Tuscarawas Tim.
Was this what his professor meant? Before he could contemplate the answer
to this question, Humboldt’s mind flooded with the names of other people
Humboldt knew he was not: Crazy Pete, Crazy Horse, Orlando Pancake,
Edgar Allan Poe, Sherwood Anderson, Hans Christian Anderson, Anderson
Cooper, Bradley Cooper, Bradley Pitt, Benjamin Button, Walter Benjamin,
Big Benjamin, Prince Harry, Harry Belafonte, and his Uncle Benjamin who
lived in Bellefontaine. The list kept growing until it included the name of
every person on earth except Humboldt. Tuscarawas Tim had been swept
aside and all that was left was a confusing whirlpool of unself possibilities.
Perhaps sensing Humboldt’s struggle, the smell of tweed floated over
to Humboldt’s desk to inquire how his process of self-identification was
progressing.
—I think who I am not is everyone on earth who isn’t I, right? Humboldt
asked in a confident tone.
During my senior year at Denison University, I
took a class on Shakespeare. One afternoon while
discussing Othello, I remember a girl pontificating
on how Queer Theory could explain Iago’s hatred
towards Othello. (This was the 90s and identity
politics were out of control!) So let me get this
straight: Iago, whose hatred was so intense that
it caused him to become impotent, was sexually
attracted to Othello, who was so in love with himself
that he forgot to consummate his marriage? Wow!
Thank you. That explains everything!
“Cheerleading is the power of positive thinking
transported to the academic realm.” —Harold
Bloom, The Western Canon: the Books and School
of the Ages
The views and opinions expressed in this novel
are not necessary those of the author or his family.
Between the two of them, I believe my mother and
wife have read all of Ann Patchett’s novels.
Somehow the African-American spiritual “Swing
Low, Sweet Chariot” has become the official chant
of England’s national rugby team. Whenever the
Poms play, this chant echoes continuously around
the stadium. Nothing unites the international rugby
community like disliking England.
In the summer of 2012, the Brooklyn literary
community was all a-twitter over Martin Amis’ recent
relocation to the borough. At the same time, the
borough’s basketball community was all a-twitter
over the New Jersey Nets’ recent relocation to
Brooklyn. Somehow, in my mind, these two stories
got confusingly intertwined. Had the Nets hired
Martin Amis as their head coach, I wondered. What
did he know about basketball? Could he get Iso Joe
and D-Will enough touches? Would he require Crash
Wallace to read Lionel Asbo? And what about Kris
Humphries’ brief, turbulent relationship with Kim West
(née Kardashian)? Would it appear as fodder for one
of his future novels? And what was his relationship
with the team’s minority owner Jay-Z like? Jay-Z: “Yo
coach, keep it gangsta on the Knicks tonight, iight
G?” Martin Amis: “Cheerio, old chap!” Of course,
none of this ever came to pass; but in retrospect,
Amis wouldn’t have been any worse of a head coach
than either Avery Johnson or P.J. Carlesimo.
As he emitted a low grumbling sound, the professor tugged on the wellgroomed tweed fuzz that hung below his chin.
—Hmm, that’s a very interesting hypothesis, he replied tweedily. Think
of it this way: who or what are you ideologically opposed to?
Humboldt nodded knowingly even though he had no idea what those
words meant together. Who or what was he ideologically opposed to? Hans
Sherwood Anderson? No. Edgar Orlando Poecake? No. Bradley Cooper’s
Pitt? Nooo. The only person who Humboldt could think of was the banker
who was foreclosing his father’s farm. When Humboldt told his professor
about this banker, he was surprised to learn that it was the correct answer.
—Now you’ve got the hang of it! Let’s just assume that this banker is
a heterosexual white male. That means you’re a Queer Theory Non-GenderSpecific Feminist. See how easy that is?
Humboldt nodded as the professor handed him a pair of pink pompoms.
Looking around the room, Humboldt noticed that every other student had
also been given a pair of pompoms. Some of these pompoms were pink like
his, while others were white, brown, yellow, orange, or black.
—Whenever the class discussion touches upon Queer Theory NonGender-Specific Feminism, wave these in the air and make a hell of a ruckus.
Got it?
As Humboldt nodded, the tweed smell retreated back to the front of the
classroom and the professor addressed the class as a whole.
—All right, let’s begin our class discussion. Everyone ready?
A roar tore around the room, as everyone clutched their pompoms and
nodded with great expectation.
—We’ll begin with some analytical cheerleading. Let’s start with
Raymond Carver.
Old white pompoms exploded skyward to cries of: “HoooRAY!!!”
—Very good. What about Jonathan Saer Foer?
Green, broccolishaped pompoms shook with vigor to cries of: “FoooAY!!!”
—Joanne Rowling?
Wizardry pompoms affixed to broomsticks quidditched the sky to cries
of: “JayKAY!!!”
—E.L. James?
Pervy pompoms affixed to sextoys shook seductively: “HornAY!!!”
—Suzanne Collins?
Pompoms mounted atop crossbows shot towards the ceiling: “HunGRAY!!!”
—Toni Morrison?
Black pompoms resembling Oprah on a badhairday shook belovedly:
“ToNAY!!!”
—Stephen King?
Lobstershaped pompoms clawed the sky: “ScareRAY!!!”
—Ann Patchett?
Confederate flag pompoms shook operatically: “PatchAY!!!”
—Ian McEwan, Irvine Welsh, Zadie Smith, John Banville, and Martin Amis?
Pompoms emblazoned with the Union Jack rose to shouts of: “UKAY!!!”
Swing looooow sweet chariot… [the Poms chanted] Coming for to carry me
hoooome…
—Michael Chabon, Nicole Krauss, Paul Auster, Jennifer Egan, and
Martin Amis?
Pompoms resembling bagels and basketball nets shot into the air to
shouts of: “BKAY!!!”
No sleep ‘til… [the B Boys shouted beastily] da-na-da-NANA…
BROOKLYN!!!!
—William Shakespeare?
[Silence]
Professor Drinkwater is modeled on Candide’s Dr.
Pangloss, who was a “professor of metaphysicotheologico-cosmolo-nigology.” A “drinkwater word”
is any word that attempts to describe something so
obvious that it renders description impossible.
VI
How Humboldt made the acquaintance of the learned
philosopher Professor Drinkwater and was introduced to the
philosophy known as the Power of Positive Thinking
This section is a misreading of Harold Bloom’s The American Religion.
Because he enjoys thinking of himself as a creature from a different era, Bloom
refers to himself as a brontosaurus. Professor Drinkwater is not intended to
be a parody of Harold Bloom; rather, he is intended to be a parody of an
academic who travesties Bloom’s theories.
Having already learned how to count “calories” and tally ideologies, Humboldt wondered how much more time he needed to spend
at college. Shouldn’t he return home immediately? Certainly these two powerful ideas alone would be enough to save his father’s
farm from a foreclosure bubbleburst.
Yes! He would return to Winesburg! He would save the farm! But first, he would say good-bye to Elle. Nooo, first he would
attend a class for Religion 100: The American Religion and then he would say good-bye to Elle and then he would race home and
save his father’s farm.
As he sat in the front row, his hands politely folded atop his desk, Humboldt was pleasantly surprised to see Elle seated two
rows behind him. She waved energetically and smiled when their eyes met. Upon seeing this smile, Humboldt was instantly glad
that he hadn’t left college yet.
Religion 100: The American Religion was taught by a large man who lumbered into the classroom like a brontosaurus in
baggy pants. Jowly and growly, everything about this learned professor appeared large; he had a large voice, large bushy eyebrows,
and large ears from which bloomed large black hairs.
—My name is Professor Drinkwater, the brontosaurus bellowed in a slightly labored voice that sounded like he had just
lumbered up numerous flights of stairs.
As the class watched and waited, Professor Drinkwater gulped down a few gallons of air before continuing.
—The objective of this class is to learn, what I call, the American Religion.
The American Religion? Humboldt was skeptical about how such a thing would help him save his father’s farm. In truth, the
American Religion seemed smaller and more inconsequential than a “calorie.”
33
“Nothing could be further from the American Religion
than the famous and beautiful remark by Spinoza
in Ethics: “that whoever loved God truly should
not expect to be loved by God in return.” —Harold
Bloom, The American Religion
—The American Religion begins with the acceptance that whoever
loves God should always expect to be loved by Him in return. Otherwise,
what’s the point? God hates pointlessness; all of the gospels are very clear on
this point.
Humboldt was struggling to maintain a firm grasp on his concentration,
as he could feel his mind’s will to wander straining against its confines.
—The most essential element of the American Religion is not love; it
is knowingness. The American Religion is not a Christian ‘believing that’ or a
Judaic ‘trusting in;’ it is a knowing. The American Religion does not believe or
trust; it knows. Knowingness is the Plymouth Rock of the American Religion.
This declaration instantly snapped Humboldt’s wayward mind back to
attention. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Knowingness sounded even
more important than learning or thinking. With his heart racing, his mind
percolating, and his interest peaking, Humboldt nodded along in vigorous
affirmation.
—In this class, you’ll be taught how to emancipate your selfishness,
seek isolation in intense individuation, and require the presence of others only
as an audience for your own self ’s glory. You will also learn how knowingness
can give meaning to meaninglessness and put an end to endlessness, which is
the eternal quest of all religions.
Humboldt continued nodding along with the rising rhetoric. It was
almost as if he could feel the knowingness surging through his synapses.
—So, what do we know? Professor Drinkwater continued. We know
that we are puppies. We know that God is a puppymaster who loves puppies,
even naughty ones. Thus we can assume that God loves everything we do;
otherwise, He would not allow us to do it. We also know that love is good.
And because we know that love is good, we can say that everything we do is
good. In other words, we can say that it’s all good. Our faults, our violence,
our cruelty, our harmful desires and shameful behavior…it’s all good. Pain,
poverty, selfishness, and suffering…it’s all good. Such logic is the basis of the
philosophy known as the Power of Positive Thinking.
The Power of Positive Thinking?
Yes! Humboldt thought triumphantly, that will undoubtedly save the farm!
Humboldt was so overjoyed that he felt like leaping from his chair and racing
home to Winesburg immediately. And while he was there, he reminded
himself to look inside a soybean to see what a “calorie” looked like.
After class, Humboldt and Elle walked back to their dormitory together
discussing the Power of Positive Thinking. They both agreed that Professor
Drinkwater had to be the most intelligent professor on campus. And since
Humboldt’s world consisted solely of campus, he had no qualms about
voicing his opinion that Professor Drinkwater had to be the most intelligent
man in the entire world. His knowingness dwarfed the knowingness of anyone
he had ever met. Professor Drinkwater made Mrs. Featherweight appear to be
a batty old color-blind bore.
Moments after they had said good-bye to each other, Humboldt was
overcome by the knowingness that he and Elle would spend the rest of their
lives together emancipating their selfishness and glorifying their own selves.
This scenario replayed through Humboldt’s mind all night, with each rerun
being more wonderful than the one before. It’s all good was the last thought
that passed through Humboldt’s exhausted head as he lay fully clothed on his
naked mattress.
VII
Elle’s’ plea and Humboldt’s’ promise
Dark Was The Night is the name of a 2009 compilation album, which includes a beautiful duet version of
Vashti Bunyan’s “Train Song” sung by Feist and Ben Gibbard.
That night, as he lay in bed dreaming about calories, Humboldt heard a loud knock on his door. Rich was sound asleep and snoring
loudly. When Humboldt opened the door, he was surprised to find Elle standing in front of him, wearing Magilla Gorilla pajamas,
tears streaming down her face.
—Can we talk? she sniffled out.
The two of them quietly relocated to a large, communal study lounge at the end of the hall. Because dark was still the night,
the lounge was empty. Humboldt decided that this was not the ideal time to discuss his knowingness that they would be spending
the rest of their lives together.
Between loud sobs, Elle explained how she had just spoken to her father on the phone.
—Our family has lost everything in the recent economic downturn, she sniffled out, pausing to loudly wipe her nose on her
sleeve.
Humboldt was surprised at how adorable this unhygienic act appeared.
—My father said that I’ll have to drop out of school unless I can think of a way to make a lot of money fast.
Elle gently put her hand on Humboldt’s knee.
—I know you don’t have much money, she said, but if you could help me, I’d be forever indebted to you.
To Humboldt, being forever indebted to someone sounded like a marriage proposal, and his knee twitched happily in
agreement.
—I do.
—You do? You mean: you will?
35
Elle’s demeanor improved instantly, as it was obvious that Humboldt’s
answer was a great relief to her.
—I knew I could ask you, she said joyously. You’re just the sweetest boy
I’ve ever met. And just remember: I’m willing to do anything with anyone.
At hearing this, a faint odor of onions ghosted through Humboldt’s
nostrils.
With Elle’s spirits lifted, the two happy hallmates stayed up late talking
in the study lounge. When Humboldt finally walked Elle back to her room,
she was noticeably more cheerful. Pausing outside her door, Elle thanked
Humboldt again for agreeing to help her. She then reached up and gave him
a goodnight kiss on the cheek, which caused Humboldt’s knee to twitch with
jealousy.
As he walked down the hallway back towards his room, a thought
strutted through Humboldt’s mind: it’s all good. Professor Drinkwater was
right. Had his father not been threatened with losing the farm, Humboldt
would’ve never been banished to college. And had he never been banished to
college, he would have never met Elle. And if her father had not lost all of the
family’s savings in the recent economic downturn, she would not have asked
him to help her make a lot of money fast. And if she would not have asked
him to help her, he would have never gotten that kiss on the cheek. And now,
they were forever indebted to each other.
Married.
Humboldt was still thinking about how good it felt being married as
he resumed his fully-clothed position on his naked bed. Beside him, Rich
was still snoring loudly. Just as before, the last thought that crept through his
consciousness before the blackness of sleep beckoned: It’s all good.
VIII
How Humboldt made the acquaintance of Elle’s’ brother,
Ned le Noise, Jr.
Later that night, as he lay in bed dreaming about ideologies, Humboldt again heard a loud knock on his door. Rich was still sound
asleep and snoring louder than before. Upon opening the door, Humboldt was surprised to find a snarling, surly face that looked
vaguely familiar.
—Are you Humboldt? the surly face snarled.
Humboldt sleepily replied that he was.
—Are you dating my sister?
Humboldt sleepily replied that he was, although he decided not to mention their recent marriage.
—I thought so. I’m her brother, Ned. We should probably get to know each other, right? Be friends and all that.
Something in his voice didn’t sound particularly friendly. In fact, each word appeared to be slowly marinated in malice.
Humboldt almost took offense with Ned’s tone of voice, but then he remembered that he was from Chicago. Humboldt assumed
that everyone in Chicago spoke with a snarl.
—Would you like to go down the hall to the study lounge? I was just in there with your sister.
Humboldt looked forward to strengthening the bond between himself and his new family, even its most malevolent
members, but his gesture of friendship did little to alleviate Ned’s snarliness.
—No. I have a better idea. My fraternity brothers and I are having a pledge party right now. Why don’t you come along?
Brothers? Perhaps Ned already knew about their marriage!
—Sure, Humboldt replied, although he had no idea what a pledge party was.
—I was hoping you’d say that, Ned said with a snarly smile. Here, put this on.
Humboldt closed his eyes and allowed Ned to roughly slide a black hood over his head. The engulfing blackness was like a
violent form of immediate sleep.
—Don’t worry, Ned snarled. I’ll take good care of you.
37
IX
How Humboldt pledged a fraternity
and learned the secret of their secret handshake
’ fraternity reminded Humboldt of his Nutrition 120: The Science of Food class and he was happy to join an
The name of Ned’s
organization as health conscious as Carbo Phi Drates. Another thing that made Humboldt believe that Ned’s fraternity was serious
about healthy living was the fact that the dingy basement in which he and the rest of the pledge class were now huddling reeked
of the earthy, healthy smell of manure. While the other pledges could be heard audibly gagging, Humboldt was glad to be
surrounded by such a fresh smell after having endured the daily stench of scholarship.
The smelly basement was cold and damp. The cold sting of morningair intermingling with the smell of manure reminded
Humboldt of the many mornings that he had risen to work the fields of his father’s farm before sunrise. But seldom on these
mornings would he have been wearing nothing more than a blindfold and his underpants.
Being familiar with feces, Humboldt was comfortable plunging his hands into a bucket of manure and smearing the letters
of the Greek alphabet on his chest. For every mistake made, Humboldt felt the cold sting of a stern smack from a leather strap.
Being of French descent, (Smack!) Humboldt was surprised that the le Noise family (Smack!) was so obsessed with learning the
Greek alphabet (Smack!) but he was happy to have married into such a diligent (Smack!) rigorous (Smack!) meticulous (Smack!)
academic family. (Smack! Smack!)
Once their bodies were completely covered in manure, the pledges were hosed off, although Humboldt wondered how
much good this did as the water pressure was so weak, not to mention warm and salty. The bucket of ice water that was dumped
over his head did a much better job of cleaning off the manure.
After this second shower, the “maggotfaggots” (apparently the Greek word for “pledge”) were herded up to the roof. Once
on the roof, everyone was instructed to take off their underpants, but leave on their blindfolds. In the surrounding darkness,
38
Humboldt felt a rope being roughly tied around his genitalia. Tied to the other
end of the rope, Humboldt was told, was a brick. A loud authoritative voice
explained to the “maggotfaggots” that the meaning of this “exercise” was to
learn trust, although Humboldt doubted how much exercise he was expected
to do with a brick tied to his genitalia. Surely, he was not expected to jump rope
or do jumping jacks? But before Humboldt had the chance to ask a question
regarding his expected exercise routine, the brick that was tied to his genitalia
was thrown off the roof. As he awaited the brick’s landing, Humboldt hoped
that no unsuspecting passerby was passing by the house. To be struck by a
flying trustbrick would certainly result in an instant, ignominious death. And
there would be no way for Humboldt to conceal his guilt, as his genitalia’s
fingerprints would be all over the rope in question. His genitalia would be
forced to take the witness stand and testify to…
THUMP!
As the brick bounced off the unsuspecting earth, Humboldt listened
intently for any sound of human distress. Thankfully, he heard no moaning,
no groaning.
—BACK DOWN TO THE BASEMENT, MAGGOTFAGGOTS! the
loud authoritative voice screamed.
Apparently, the trust exercise was over.
Having been herded back into the basement, the “maggotfuckfaces”
were instructed to clean up, get dressed, and drink an entire large aluminum
barrel of cheap American beer. Only once this barrel was completely empty
would the entire “herd of maggotshit” be allowed to leave the basement. As
the other pledges drank with wild urgency, Humboldt thought about how
hygienic Elle’s brother’s brothers were. Did they take a warm salty shower, a
cold icy shower, and a regular shower every morning? This seemed extreme,
even for the French.
Since the basement was blacker than a barn, Humboldt didn’t realize
that he had put on the wrong sweatshirt until the pledges had finished their
barrel of beer, walked up the stairs, and discovered themselves in the middle
of a loud family gathering. Most of the people at this gathering did not smell
like they had taken three showers that day. The sweatshirt that Humboldt was
mistakenly wearing advertised three funnylooking, nonsensical letters.
Disappointed by his carelessness, Humboldt began searching the family
gathering for his sweatshirt. He decided that if he was wearing someone else’s
sweatshirt, someone else must be wearing his. Humboldt was afraid that
everyone at the family gathering would assume that this sweatshirted other
person was really Humboldt and that he, in turn, was really someone else.
Humboldt was afraid that people would begin to believe that there were two
Humboldts on campus: himself and his unself sweatshirted self.
Humboldt diligently searched every room of the gigantic mansion for
his missing sweatshirt. He spied lots of sweatshirts that looked like they could
have been his, but how could he be sure? Finally, Humboldt peeked into the
laundry room, which he assumed was a logical potential hidingplace. As he
peered into the dark room, he was surprised to see a familiar face.
—Orlando Pancake? What are you doing in the laundry room?
The hulking shadow appeared startled by Humboldt’s voice.
—Who? Orlando blurted out as he furtively searched the room.
—Orlando?
—It’s nice to meet you, Orlando, the confused nosetackle said politely.
In the dark, the footballer’s wide furtive eyes reminded Humboldt of
the headlights on a tractor. Humboldt deduced that Orlando had mistaken his
identity because he was wearing the wrong sweatshirt.
—No, Humboldt corrected, I’m not Orlando. You’re Orlando.
—I’m in Orlando?
—No, you are Orlando. You’re in the laundry room.
—I am? Orlando furrowed his brow in a confusing look of heavy
concentration. This look of consternation continued until the confused giant
loudly snapped his fingers. I remember now! I’m in the kitchen! I was looking
At the age of four, Jerry Garcia lost two-thirds of his
right middle finger in an accident chopping wood. (Is
it me, or does four seem a little young to be chopping
wood?) Garcia’s mutilated hand became a symbol
for DeadHeads, who used to mimic it while holding
their hands aloft during concerts.
for something to eat!
Humboldt shook his head. No, you’re in the laundry room. You’re
actually sitting on a washing machine.
Orlando looked between his legs. Yo! This is the biggest blender I’ve
ever seen! Just think about how much guacamole you could make in this
motherfucker!
—That’s not a blender. It’s a washing machine.
—Why is there a washing machine in the kitchen?
Sensing that Orlando’s confusion was beyond repair and fearing the
same fate for the washing machine that he was sitting on, Humboldt offered to
help his new footballfriend find the kitchen. After easing him off the washing
machine, Humboldt allowed Orlando to drape the heaviest arm he had ever
felt over his shoulder. This arm was so heavy that Humboldt felt like he was
carrying a wounded water buffalo to slaughter. Together, the precarious duo
navigated their way out of the laundry room and into the crowded houseparty
sea.
After struggling a few steps, Humboldt and his human baggage were
swarmed by a gaggle of footballers, who surrounded them like a huddle.
—Yo, O? Where you been, bro?
—Dude, we’ve been looking all over for you!
Humboldt was relieved to feel his shoulders unburdened. Thanks for
finding him, bro! YoudaMAN! Humboldt was not relieved to feel the rhythmic
drumbeat of repetitive goodnatured slaps upon his back, each one of which
reminded him of his ignorance of the Greek alphabet.
When the huddle broke, Humboldt discovered that a new arm had slid
over his shoulders.
—Are you friends with Orlando Pancake?
Humboldt nodded.
—For how long?
—Since the laundry room.
—That’s cool, bro. And you’re pledging our fraternity?
—Yes, Humboldt answered.
—I’m glad to hear that. I’m the fraternity’s President. Come with me. I
want to show you something.
The Fraternal President led Humboldt up a flight of stairs and away
from the rowdiness below. They ended up in a quiet room whose walls
were lined with Greek letters and framed mugshots of young, overdressed
whitecollar criminals.
—We only show the secret of the secret handshake to a very, very small
number of pledges, you understand? That’s how we keep it a secret. Here,
hold out your hand.
Humboldt did as he was instructed.
—There it is.
Humboldt looked down at his hand, which was still dangling in midair, untouched.
—There what is? Humboldt asked, feeling as confused as Orlando
Pancake.
—The secret handshake.
—But we didn’t shake hands.
—That’s the secret! The secret of the secret handshake is that it doesn’t
exist. But people think it exists. So if you tell a person that you know the secret
handshake, you can give him any old dumb handshake and he’ll think it’s the
secret handshake. You can give them the snap & pop, the turn & twist, the
twinkle the keys, the sprinkle the lawn, the dangling pinkie, the shaker, the
shocker, the sailor on shoreleave, the hairy Garcia: anything you want. That’s
the beauty of the secret of the secret handshake. Unless the person you’re
showing it to already knows the secret, he won’t know the difference. Get it?
Humboldt nodded.
—But here’s the thing: you can’t go around telling everybody the secret
of the secret handshake, otherwise it won’t be a secret anymore. You can only
tell a very small number of important people. Got it?
Humboldt nodded again. Only a very small number of important people?
Who might this include? His father? Yes. Mrs. Featherweight? Maybe. The
banker who was threatening to burst the prime bubble of their farm? Most
certainly! Humboldt was sure that imparting such forbidden knowledge
would have a dramatic impact on any legal proceedings.
—Welcome to the fraternity, brother, the Fraternal President said as he
shook Humboldt’s hand with what Humboldt assumed was a combination of
twinkling the keys and the sailor on shoreleave.
As he followed the Fraternal President back towards the throng of
partygoers, a thought struck Humboldt’s mind with the force of a leather
strap: was this the secret of all secret fraternal organizations? Did they simply
exist only because people thought they existed? Were the Masons magicians,
the Shakers snakeoil salesmen? Was the secrecy surrounding such fraternal
organizations nothing more than meaningless mumbojumbo?
And as he stood on the stairway’s landing, a second thought suddenly
struck: how far did all this mumbojumbo go? Where did it end? Did any
fraternal organization really exist or were they all secret handshakes?
Fraternities, political parties, multinational corporations: were these all
pressed flesh and nothing more? Did fraternity even exist? Or was this another
nonexistent everpresent neverpresent entity, like a “calorie?”
Liberté, égalité…calorié?
Observing the sweatysea below, Humboldt realized that these partygoers
weren’t interested in fraternity; they were only interested in fulfilling their
carnal desires. If wolves could invent secret handshakes and teach them to
gazelles, they would. Tigers too. There was no fraternity in wolfhood or
tigerdom. Fraternity was a hoax, a pox, a hocuspocus. Everyone here was
here for themselves. Humboldt decided that he would be here for himself too.
But what did he want? He wanted to save his father’s farm; and thanks to the
secret handshake, he now felt confident about his chances of success. He also
wanted to help Elle. But how?
As if conjured like a genie rubbed from a thoughtbottle, Humboldt
spotted Professor Drinkwater standing in the corner of the living room,
emancipating his selfishness amongst a large circle of female undergrads.
Humboldt couldn’t believe his good fortune! Here was the most learned
philosopher on the campus of the world! Certainly, if anyone could help him
help Elle, it was a man as intelligent as Professor Drinkwater.
Humboldt reached the eminent philosopher just as the group of female
undergrads was dispersing in disgust. As he approached, Humboldt noticed
that many of these females exhibited looks of revulsion, and he assumed that
Professor Drinkwater had just said something so intelligent that they had
found it offensive.
—Professor Drinkwater?
—Yeah what, the professor answered crankily. I suppose you want me
to get tested too?
—No, I’m not here to test you. I’m in your Religion 100 class.
—Are you that idiot that sits in the front row without any books,
notebooks, or even a goddamn pencil?
Humboldt was pleased that Professor Drinkwater remembered him
and answered that yes he was indeed that idiot.
—Well, what do you want?
Humboldt nervously held out his hand.
Professor Drinkwater initially eyed the outstretched hand with a thin
veil of contempt. As Humboldt watched, the professor’s expression changed
from contempt to confusion to caution as his eyes darted between Humboldt’s
outstretched hand and his sweatshirt. Finally, a look of knowingness swam
across his face.
—Is this…I mean are you offering to show me the…you know…[in a
low conspiratorial whisper] the secret handshake?
Humboldt nodded, his hand still poised.
—Well, you know, as an undergrad, I often contemplated joining a
fraternity. But in the end, I was just too busy with my studies. And as this
particular fraternity’s academic advisor, I do consider myself a member of the
fraternity, but nobody’s ever offered to show me…you know…[lowering his
voice again] this.
Professor Drinkwater concluded his monologue by grasping Humboldt’s
hand with relish. As the professor eagerly studied his movements, Humboldt
sprinkled his lawn and shook his shocker.
—So there it finally is, Professor Drinkwater said in awe. After all these
years…
While Professor Drinkwater’s mind was still occupied with awe,
Humboldt seized the opportunity to speak.
—Professor, I had a question regarding the Power of Positive Thinking.
I have a friend who is in desperate need of money. She says that she’s willing
to do anything with anyone. Do you think you could help her using your
Power of Positive Thinking?
While he may have been initially daydreaming, Professor Drinkwater’s
attention snapped back to reality upon hearing the phrase ‘anything with
anyone.’ He pressed his lips together in concentration and lightly tapped the
side of his nose with his index finger.
—I see. Yes, I believe I can, Professor Drinkwater said slowly. I believe
I understand what you’re asking, and you’ve come to the right person. But
in order for me to help your friend using the Power of Positive Thinking, I’ll
need to know one thing: is your friend attractive?
—Oh yes, Humboldt assured Professor Drinkwater, she’s the most
beautiful girl on campus. Her name is Elle le Noise. She’s actually in your
Religion 100 class with me.
A strange look flashed across the learned professor’s face.
—Did I say something wrong, Professor?
—Oh no, not at all, Professor Drinkwater answered, regaining his
composure. I’ve actually found that such a thing is beneficial to this kind of
endeavor. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be sure to call your friend into my office
and we’ll discuss the situation. Does this sound satisfactory?
—Very much so, Professor. Thank you.
Hearing Professor Drinkwater’s acceptance buoyed Humboldt’s heart.
He trusted Professor Drinkwater. Humboldt knew that only a fool would
refuse to trust such an intelligent person. Intelligence could always be trusted.
Intelligence was not inconstant; it was as firm as a brick. And trust was the
bond that tied that brick to your genitalia. This is what Humboldt had learned
on the roof of his fraternity house earlier that evening. If tied properly, trust
was snug and safe. Sure it may chafe some; but in the end, as that brick soared
earthward, hurdling itself towards the unforgiving concrete below, trust was
an unshakeable unbreakable bond. Trust was a wonderful thing, even if
it involved a blindfold and the threat of genital disfigurement. Trust was a
must, Humboldt thought as he began, once again, to search the rowdy family
gathering for the person who had stolen his sweatshirt.
X
How Humboldt attended an urgent meeting
involving women in trouble
The next day, Humboldt noticed a pink flyer taped to a tree. He then noticed that the same pink flyer was taped onto every tree
on campus. On this flyer was drawn a militant black fist. Underneath this fist was scrawled: Urgent Meeting to Discuss Women in
Trouble. Even though Humboldt felt confident that Professor Drinkwater and his philosophy of the Power of Positive Thinking
would be more than enough to help Elle, he decided to follow the arrows and attend this urgent meeting.
The meeting had already begun by the time Humboldt awkwardly opened the large squeaky door and eased himself into
the crowded room. As heads turned in unison, Humboldt couldn’t help but notice how the majority of these heads were shaven
and attached to female bodies clad in camouflage army jackets.
—What do YOU want? barked a camouflage jacketed woman in a totalitarian tone.
Mistakenly thinking that this woman was talking to someone else, Humboldt silently slid into a chair in the back row of the
small auditorium.
—Hey, FRAT BOY, the totalitarian barked even louder than before. I’m talking to YOU!
—Me? Humboldt asked innocently.
—Yes. YOU! the totalitarian yelled, her flat-top bristling with aggression. What do YOU want? This isn’t one of your FRAT
PARTIES!
The not-so-subtle malice surrounding the phrase ‘frat parties’ reminded Humboldt that he was still wearing someone else’s
Carbo Phi Drates sweatshirt.
—It’s okay, Humboldt replied. I’m a Queer Theory Non-Gender-Specific Feminist.
This announcement pacified and/or thoroughly confused the crowd and the grumbling and glaring abated. The auditorium’s
43
attention returned to the front of the room where the militant speaker
proceeded to spend the rest of the meeting not discussing how to help women
in trouble, but rather comparing men to farm animals, most specifically pigs.
By the end of the meeting, Humboldt thought this comparison was extremely
unjust to pigs. Sure, pigs were filthy animals, but they never sexually harassed,
oppressed, or submitted each other to the indignity of unfair wages. As far
as Humboldt could tell, most pigs weren’t even paid wages. Also, pigs never
forced each other to shave their armpits or legs. Pigs were gentle, filthy
creatures. Men, on the other hand, were more like goats. No, chickens. No,
prairie dogs. Nooo…
Humboldt was still struggling to create the perfect barnyard analogy,
when the meeting splintered into action groups. Humboldt’s action group
consisted solely of him and the flat-topped totalitarian.
—So why are you really here? the totalitarian growled. Looking to
score?
Humboldt assured his actiongroup partner that he was not interested in
playing football.
—I have a friend who’s in trouble, Humboldt explained. And I’m trying
to help her by using the Power of Positive Thinking.
—The Power of Positive Thinking? HA! the totalitarian snorted with
disdain. That’s just another name for the oppression of women.
—It is?
—It is! There’s nothing positive about the power of oppressive thinking.
You probably don’t read National Geographic, but if you did, you’d know that
women are being oppressed all over the world: Bangladeshi, Myanmar,
Pakistan, for example.
—My friend doesn’t go to any of those colleges, Humboldt explained.
She goes to this school.
—For a woman, the totalitarian continued, life is struggle and every
day is a fight for equality.
—With pigs? Humboldt asked.
—With MEN!
—But aren’t men pigs?
—YES! Men ARE pigs!
—So wouldn’t being equal with a man be the same thing as being equal
with a pig?
—WRONG! That’s what those male-chauvinist pigs in the media want
you to think. We don’t just demand equality, we demand JUSTICE!
—Well, my friend doesn’t need equality or justice, she just needs money.
And she says that she’s willing to do anything with anyone to get it.
Hearing this lessened the totality of the totalitarian’s totalitarianism.
Her aggressive illtemper dissipated and she actually smiled shyly.
—As a woman, I think I know what to do.
—You do? Humboldt asked excitedly.
—Yes. A woman can take better care of a woman than a man. What’s
your friend’s name?
—Elle le Noise.
—I’ll be sure to get in touch with her. My name’s Louise, but everybody
on campus just calls me Lou.
—It’s nice to meet you, Lou.
—It’s nice to meet you, too.
“What birds were they? He stood on the steps of the library to look at them, leaning wearily on his ashplant. They flew round
and round the jutting shoulder of a house in Molesworth Street. The air of the late March evening made clear their flight, their
dark darting quivering bodies flying clearly against the sky as against a limp hung cloth of smoky tenuous blue.
He watched their flight; bird after bird; a dark flash, a swerve, a flutter of wings. He tried to count them before all their
darting quivering bodies passed: Six, ten, eleven: and wondered were they odd or even in number. Twelve, thirteen: for two
came wheeling down from the upper sky. They were flying high and low but ever round and round in straight and curving
lines and ever flying from left to right, circling about a temple of air.” —James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Magpiethinker: (n) An artist who creatively borrows from other artists. I first encountered the word magpiethinker
when my thesis adviser at the University of Auckland, Dr. Len Bell, used it to describe Vilém Fluesser. Or maybe
it was Walter Benjamin. I don’t remember for certain because I was too busy scribbling the word into my
notebook and, in true magpiefashion, scheming on how to steal the word for myself.
XI
How Humboldt decided that he loved college,
made the decision to never leave,
and then was forced to f lee as an accomplice to murder
James Joyce kept a notebook of epiphanies.
All of these works are examples of Early Renaissance art. In 1401, Lorenzo Ghiberti won the
commission to decorate the bronze doors of the Baptistery in Florence. Donatello began sculpting
his graceful David in c.1430. And in c. 1490, Leonardo da Vinci created his Vitruvian Man drawing.
In 1417, a bookhunter named Poggio Bracciolini discovered a copy of Lucretius’ poem De Rerum Natura in a monastery
in central Germany. (While the exact location of the discovery is unknown, many scholars believe it occurred at the
Benedictine Abbey of Fulda.) Lucretius’ once popular poem had been out of circulation for centuries. Poggio’s discovery
was instrumental in the formation of Renaissance thought. According to Stephen Greenblatt’s The Swerve: How the World
Became Modern, “the culture in the wake of antiquity that best epitomized the Lucretian embrace of beauty and pleasure
and propelled it forward as a legitimate and worthy human pursuit was that of the Renaissance.”
Humboldt, or The Power of Positive Thinking’s imaginary subtitle is Ode to Stupidity.
What birds were these? Magpies? Humboldt stood on the steps of the library to look at them. They flew roundandround the jutting
shoulder of a nearby clocktowered castle. The air of late evening made clear their flight, their darkdarting quivering bodies flying
clearly against the sky as against a lit television screen of smoky tenuous blue.
Humboldt was a magpiethinker. He watched their flight, bird after bird: a dark flash, a swerve, a flutter of wings. He tried
to count them before all their dartingquivering bodies passed: Six, ten, eleven. Were they odd or even in number? Twelve, thirteen:
for two came wheeling down from the upper sky. High and low, roundandround they flew. Circles curving upon circles. Left to
right, right to left, bird upon bird, circles upon circles.
As Humboldt watched these circlingsoaring birds, a thought thrilled his heart. It was a wonderful, joyous thought. It was
what a cleverer man might call an epiphany. When this thought struck, Humboldt too felt like soaring. He felt lighter than a feather,
more dynamic than aerodynamics. He felt himself transformed into a human helicopter. Nooo, he felt himself transformed into
Leonardo’s Vitruvian Man, vigorously flapping his arms and legs. This sensation must have been what men experienced during
the rebirth of the Renaissance. Ghiberti’s golden doors were opening. David’s golden sculpture of Donatello was striking its sassy
pose.
And it had all begun with a single, solitary spark: a tiny thought, no bigger than a swerving atom. And this thought was
this: He, Humboldt, was stoopid. He was stoopid for having wasted so many pages in the book of his life thinking about days. He
was stoopid for wanting to waste the rest of that book as a farmer. Days were childsplay, farming was for fools. Humboldt rejoiced
in the knowingness that what was wasn’t; what is is. He was stoopid no longer. He had banished all thoughts of days and farming
from his mind. From here until the horizon, he would only concern himself with the growingness of his knowingness. Knowingness
45
This image of the Goddess of Fortune is pinched
from Boethius’ Consolation of Philosophy. According
to Simon Critchley’s The Book of Dead Philosophers,
“the bludgeoning of Boethius connects the Classical
world to Medieval philosophy.” Boethius’ book
plays a humorous role in John Kennedy Toole’s A
Confederacy of Dunces.
After killing the Minotaur, Theseus was able to retrace
his steps out of the labyrinth by using a ball of thread,
not a piece of toilet paper stuck to his sandal.
would become his days, his soybeans.
Humboldt was still determined to save his father’s farm, as he had
promised. But now he was equally determined not to live there. He would
live the rest of his days here, in college. College made Humboldt happy.
He enjoyed counting “calories,” tallying ideologies, and emancipating his
selfishness. He enjoyed fraternity, although he knew it was nothing more than
a secret handshake. He also enjoyed being married to Elle and he was happy
helping her. He was happy that Professor Drinkwater and Lou were helping
her too. As was his bestfriend, Rich Thunderton. When Humboldt had told
his roommate about Elle’s dilemma, Rich had been particularly willing, to the
point of being obnoxiously eager, to help. College was Humboldt’s new farm,
his new home. Why would he ever leave?
For the first time in his life, Humboldt felt lucky. As he stretched out
on his naked mattress, his eyelids heavy with luck and learning, he saw the
Goddess of Fortune standing before him, smiling. Humboldt was astounded;
she must have been fifty feet tall! Beside her stood a golden wheel that she
spun giddily. As he lay in his dormcell, he could hear the goddess speaking to
him in a voice that sounded oddly familiar.
Humboldt?
—Yes, Goddess of Fortune?
Ye are not one of the luckiest men on earth; for the luckiest men on earth are
born with astounding intelligence like Professor Drinkwater.
—Yes, Goddess of Fortune.
And ye are not one of the second luckiest men on earth; for the second luckiest
men on earth are born with astounding beauty like Elle, had she been born a man.
—Um, okay.
But ye, Humboldt, are one of the third luckiest men on earth; for the third
luckiest men on earth are neither intelligent nor beautiful, but they are neighbors to
both.
—Neighbors, Goddess of Fortune? I’m afraid I don’t understand.
Ye are blessed with the luck of proximity.
The Luck of Proximity? Humboldt scanned his drowsy mind trying to
remember exactly who Proximity was and what role he played in ancient
mythology.
—Proximity? Do you mean that Proximity, Goddess of Fortune? Didn’t
he kill the Minotaur?
Yes, Humboldt. Proximity killed the Minotaur.
The Luck of Proximity! Humboldt was overjoyed to hear this. In his
mind, he envisioned himself clad in ugly ancient sandals, stealthily tiptoeing
through the musty corridors of a dimly lit labyrinth. In one hand, he held a
bloody sword; in the other, a highly ornate shield. From the heel of one of his
sandals trailed a long, navigational piece of toilet paper.
Here Minny Minny… Here Bullybullyboy… Here Minos Minos… Here
Babybabybull…
With a spin of her golden wheel, the Goddess of Fortune shrunk into a
familiar shape.
Did you enjoy today’s lecture, Humboldt?
—Yes, Goddess of Featherweight.
And what was your favorite part?
—I liked the part about the whiny guy in prison.
That wasn’t just any whiny guy, Humboldt. That was the great medieval
philosopher, Boethius. He was bludgeoned to death by Theodoric the Great.
—Bludgeoned to death? Is that what happens to philosophers when
they don’t get tenure?
Yes it is. Do you think you would’ve liked to have lived in Medieval Europe
during the reign of the Ostrogoths, Humboldt?
Humboldt thought for a moment before answering.
—No, Goddess of Featherweight. I think I’d rather stay here in college.
In most of my classes, I get bludgeoned by boredom, but I don’t think it’ll kill
me.
That’s nice. Good night, Humboldt.
—Good night, Goddess of Featherweight.
It’s all good, Humboldt thought sleepily after his dreamvision
disappeared. This comforting thought was like a blanket to wrap around
himself or a pillow to lay his head upon. But since Humboldt had neither, he
resolved to wrap himself up in the Power of Positive Thinking, and lightly lay
his head upon the soft logic that he was destined to stay in college forever.
Humboldt was sound asleep, dreaming of how he and Elle would raise
their family in a dorm room, when Rich Thunderton burst into the room in a
highly agitated state.
—Humboldt! Wake up! he shouted. HUMBOLDT! WAKE UP!!!
As his eyes fluttered opened, Humboldt became aware that Rich’s
gigantic babypaws were violently rocking him back and forth.
—Humboldt! Wake up! We’ve gotta get out of here, he yelled. We’ve
gotta get out of here…NOW!
Although Humboldt’s brain was still bogged down by the heavy fog of
sleep, he was able to formulate a simple, necessary question.
—Why?
—Why? Because I just killed Professor Drinkwater!
I drove east on Interstate 70 between Columbus and Cambridge so many times while composing this manuscript that I decided to include a highway
scavenger hunt. On the page, this scavenger hunt begins with the phrase “new ark” and ends with the word “Cambridge.” On the road, it begins with
the Newark exit at mile 129 and ends with the Cambridge exit at mile 178. An observant reader/passenger should be able to locate twenty things. Some
of these things are easy: “a lake filled with buckeyes” is obviously Buckeye Lake. Others require a basic knowledge of the area; for example, you’ll need
to know Muskingum University’s mascot, as well as the proper pronunciation for the name of the town ‘Gratiot.’ Fancy having a go? All of the following
items appear around the Buckeye Lake exit at mile 129:
•
•
•
•
•
•
New ark [Answer: the town of Newark]
Lightless lighthouse that resembled a barbershop pole [Answer: the black and white striped Buckeye Lake watertower]
Plastic peaks of an outhouse [Answer: the reststop that my sister-in-law once vomited in while we were driving home for Christmas]
A lake filled with buckeyes [Answer: Buckeye Lake]
A town of thorns [Answer: Thornville]
An arboretum for dogs [Answer: Dawes Arboretum, where my wife and I had a portion of our first date]
Pretty asy so far, aye?
From here, things get more difficult. The following items appear after mile 129:
XII
How Humboldt and Rich Thunderton fled Ohio,
crossing the State Line
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
Motorcycle churches = mile 161 [Answer: the billboard for the Rushing Wind Motorcycle Church]
Exotic animal rental = mile 154 & 155 [Answer: the two billboards for The Wilds, which appear on either side of Zanesville]
Greying shot = mile 141 [Answer: the town of Gratiot, which is pronounced “Gray-SHOT”]
And what if some of these dangerous creatures were ever to escape? = mile 153 [See footnote below]
Zebra brothers = mile 158 [Answer: the sign for Zembra Bros., which (I think) sells heavy machinery]
Aggressive fish engaged in senseless fisticuffs = mile 168 (Answer: the sign for Muskingum University, whose mascot is the Fighting Muskies]
Buffoonish bison carelessly browsing shelves of local pottery = mile 163 [Answer: Zanesville Pottery]
Horny lions hording pornography in their dens = mile 144 & 176 [Answer: three signs for the Lion’s Den Adult Superstore, two of which flank the
Cambridge exit at mile 176. I’ve always wondered: why two signs? Wouldn’t one be enough?]
Domed cathedral = mile 155 [Answer: Zanesville’s St. Nicolas Catholic Church, which is located on the eastern edge of downtown Zanesville]
Graveyard teeth, affordable dentures = mile 156 [Answer: the sign advertising Affordable Dentures that hovers over Greenwood Cemetery just east
of Zanesville]
Old empty school buses = mile 159 [Answer: the old school bus that always reminds me of the bus from Into the Wild]
There was no new concord here; this was an encumbered land = mile 169 [Answer: the exit for New Concord/Cumberland]
—O, I am the most miserable creature on earth! Rich wailed as his large creamcolored SUV caromed east along Interstate 70.
As Rich wailed, the SUV’s engine roared in agreement.
—All I ever wanted to do was play football and drink beer in parking lots and now look at me. I’m a fugitive. A criminal on
the lam! I’ll never play football again. My parents will probably disown me. O, misery!
As the wailing continued, the SUV weaved in and out of traffic, accelerating erratically. Whenever a slowmoving vehicle
blocked its path, the angry SUV would give the unsuspecting vehicle a caronoscopy with callous fury.
Helplessly seated in the passenger’s seat, Humboldt felt as if the narrative of his life was accelerating out of control too.
Faster and faster and faster, but to where? What would become of his languid prose, his unhurried hydrocarbons? Would he too
be forced to disown his former self ? Banished first from home and now from college, would Humboldt ever be Humboldt again?
And if not himself, what self would he be? Would he have to become an outlawed unself ?
—O, miserablemiserable me!
Onward they sailed, wailing. It was as if Rich’s heart was resting its heavy head upon the guilt pedal of his dreamcolored
SUV. The heavy head of its heart? The guilt pedal of a dreamcolored SUV? A caronoscopy? Humboldt realized that he was still half asleep.
The SUV was racing and so too was Humboldt’s mind, racing to return to the depths of slumber. Amidst the racing, Humboldt’s
eyelids accelerated downward. He heard the wailing, sailing. He felt the sailing, wailing. He knew they were on a doomed voyage.
Racing to slumber, wailingslumberinglumberingsailing…
Ahoy sailor! Are ye sailing around the Cape of Good Hope? Have ye seen…
Sorry to interrupt ye, Captain, Humboldt said, removing a scrimshawed whalebone pipe from between his scurvyinfected lips.
But did ye say the Cape of Good Hope?
Aye, aye! I’ll chase the White Whale round Good Hope, and round the Horn, and round the Norway Maelstrom, and round perdition’s
flames before I give up chase.
Blasted quadrant, Humboldt angrily shouted as he threw the fragile navigational device upon the ship’s hull, where it shattered
48
Ahab’s mention of being “dismasted” has led some
critics to surmise that he was castrated either by
Moby Dick’s initial attack or in the accident that
occurred not “very long prior to the Pequod’s sailing
from Nantucket” when “his ivory limb having been
so violently displaced, that it had stake-wise smitten,
and all but pierced his groin.” Castration would
further explain the intensity of Ahab’s murderous
monomania.
In “The Quarter Deck,” Captain Ahab nails a golden
Spanish doubloon to the mast of the Pequod,
promising it to the first sailor who “raises Moby Dick.”
“Have we made it across the vast plain of night?”
—Anne Carson, Nox
While driving east from Columbus to Cambridge, a
good example of such a farmcastle appears at mile
137.
“Noctis gentes: nightpeople” —Anne Carson, Nox
This is a combination of Hamlet’s opening lines.
and slunk into the sea. We’re supposed to be bound for the Cape of Positive Thinking!
Have ye seen the White Whale? It was the White Whale that dismasted me and
gave me this pegbrain.
The speaker emerged from the ship’s shadows and Humboldt saw that
he had a wooden peg for a frontal lobe.
I’ve seen plenty of White Whales, Captain. Avast ye around, for ye are heading
in the wrong direction! Behold, behind ye lies the ocean of Ohio. That vast watery
wasteland is the White Whale’s favorite feeding ground. Ye will find more White
Whales in Ohio then anywhere on this wetgrave of a globe.
The pegbrained Captain sneered with joy.
The deed is done! Yon ratifying sun now waits to sit upon it. Death to Ohio!
God hunt us all, if we do not hunt Ohio to its death!
Cries and maledictions against Ohio were heard all around the ship.
Angry sailors raised their murderous, antiquated whaleweaponry and swore
in unison. After exhausting their profane cargo, these sailors drank from
communal pewter. Humboldt’s cheers mingled with those of his shipmates.
As the crowd began to disperse, Humboldt leaned against the ship’s
hull. As he stared down into the watery depths, his eyes became transfixed on
a strange shimmering of pink and green. Mesmerized, Humboldt watched the
shimmering as it shimmied just below the surface. What kind of fish was this?
A giant tuna? A squalid squid? As Humboldt was pondering these possibilities,
a woman’s head popped from the placid waters. The curious creature smiled
at Humboldt and addressed him in a familiar voice.
—Did you enjoy today’s lecture, Humboldt?
—Yes, Mrs. Featherwhale.
—I liked the part about the two guys sleeping in the same bed together.
—Those weren’t just any two guys, Humboldt. Those were Ishmael
and the fearsome Maori warrior, Queequeg.
—That’s a pretty clever onomatopoeia for a squeaky bed.
—Do you think you’d like to live on the swirling maelstrom of the
Atlantic Ocean, Humboldt?
Humboldt thought for a moment, staring thoughtfully across gallons of
smoothsea. Off in the distance, he saw the dying spanishgold sun nailed to the sky.
—No, Mrs. Featherwhale. I think I’d get seasick, especially if I had to
sleep in a squeaky bed with some guy covered in prison tattoos.
—That’s nice, Humboldt. Enjoy being on the lam.
—Thank you, Mrs. Featherwhale.
Rolling hills rolled past like rolling waves rolling ankles. Why breakneck
speed; why not breakankle? The hills were watching Humboldt watching
them. Zoom zoom zoooooming.
—O, damnation! I am the most miserable creature on earth! My father’s
a lawyer! He’ll know what to do! Goddamn, Ohio…
Humboldt was awake. The wailing continued unabated.
—I’m too young to go to prison! I’ll never play football again…
Rich’s erratic driving made it difficult for Humboldt to observe the
scenery as it fastforwarded past his window. At first, all he could see were tiny
illuminated stretches of pavement that were greedily gobbled up by the SUV’s
hungry mouth. Humboldt had never seen a road so big and so stoplightless
before. Other roads were like tiny streams; this was a roaring river. No, this
was an inland estuary. Nooo, a concrete canal! As they sailed up and down
on the concrete current, barely pausing to breathe or think about bathroom
breaks, Humboldt tried to figure out where they were.
The canal began flat and narrow, but soon it yawned open, engulfing
them in the nothingness of night. As they crossed this vast plain of night,
Humboldt stared out into the surrounding blackness. Austere farmcastles
clung to the ground, separated by grassy miles of moats. He imagined
nomadic nightpeople, clustered around these farmcastles, keeping watch over
the darkness.
Who’s there? Nay answer me, stand and unfold yourself…
If you’re interested in visiting an authentic
Southeastern Ohio drive-thru liquor store, I
recommend either Sav-A-Step, which is located on
Route 40 just east of New Concord, or Mr. G’s on
Cambridge’s Southgate Parkway.
On the evening of October 18, 2011, an exotic
animal collector named Terry Thompson freed
eighteen tigers, seventeen lions, eight bears, three
cougars, two wolves, one baboon, and a macaque
from his compound west of Zanesville. Once the
animals were free, Thompson surrounded himself
with raw chicken and committed suicide. Forty-nine
of the animals were shot dead that night by local
law enforcement officers. No humans were injured.
News of this bizarre event travelled as far as the New
Zealand Herald. When my Kiwi friends asked me if
I knew anything about what happened, I replied, “I
know that it ain’t no secret that big, fat wildebeests
have been walking the streets of Zanesville for
years!” A section of Thompson’s compound is visible
just north of Interstate 70 at mile 153.
Zanesville High School’s mascot is the Blue Devils.
But darkness was not the only thing Humboldt saw unfolding around
him; there was also deathness. Scenes of flashing flesh and death littered the
swallowing darkness. On both sides of the canal, Humboldt saw the carcasses
of dead animals, twisted and mangled. Next to these gruesome cadavers,
Humboldt spied the blackrubber coils of hundreds of hungry snakes. The
frequency and placement of these corpses puzzled him. Where were they all
going? As his eyes fluttered shut, Humboldt envisioned hundreds of doomed
animals in a deathmarch to some terrible new ark.
As the dreamcolored SUV continued its zoomzooming, Humboldt
sleepily opened his eyes again. He saw a lightless lighthouse that resembled
a barbershop pole and the plastic peaks of an outhouse so gigantic that he
assumed it must be for traveling elephants. But more than anything, Humboldt
saw darkness and confusion. Strange signs flew past his window so quickly that
his slumbering mind struggled to make sense of them. A lake filled with buckeyes?
A town of thorns? An arboretum for dogs? Such signage appeared as nonsensical as
the idea of food being celebrated for its rapidity instead of its ingredients.
Surrounding these signs, Humboldt could make out naked trees
standing at attention like expectant kindling. Rising above the treeline were
exhibited gigantic museumquality works of Pop Art, advertising oddities
like motorcycle churches, drive-thru liquor stores, and exotic animal rental.
Why would anyone want to rent an exotic animal? Humboldt thought sleepily as
they flew past a graying shot of buildings. And what if some of these dangerous
creatures were ever to escape? In his mind, he saw zebra brothers recklessly driving
heavy machinery, aggressive fish engaged in senseless fisticuffs, buffoonish
bison carelessly browsing shelves of local pottery, and horny lions hoarding
pornography in their dens.
Humboldt’s eyes fluttered open. A city-state! He lazily gazed upon
the brilliant glow of a mercantile economy as it illuminated the dark sky’s
blacknightness. He saw a wide river, open plazas, and the beautiful soaring
red titles and marble ribcage of a domed cathedral.
It was Florence!
Abandon all profanities, ye blue devils, or prepare to cast them into the flames!
When Humboldt closed his eyes, he saw the flames of these great
fuckfires licking the nightsky.
Cast ye profanities into the bonfire, sinners!
Curses rose from sinning esophaguses like smokestacks, soiling the
nightsky with their filth.
Fuckdicklickerassholemotherfuckerfatherfuckercuntstainfuckwadtwat!
Humboldt watched these profanities as they burst into flames, their
charred remains dancing and flickering as they floated heavenward.
Wheeling east, the dreamcolored SUV zoomed past enormous metal
moving coffins filled with the death of yet another local business. Humboldt’s
eyes went dark again and his mind filled with images of empty storefronts
and boarded up businesses stretching across small towns like trashy tattoos
on aging, obese bosoms. Soon, all that would be left of these towns would
be graveyard teeth, affordable dentures, and old empty school buses that
had been driven into the wild and abandoned. Regardless of what the signs
suggested, there was no new concord here; this was an encumbered land. Man
v. Road. Compassion v. Concrete. Transience v. Permanence. The Human
Heart v. the Roaring Engine. The lines were already drawn; the battle had
begun. Roadkill: it was everywhere and it was spreading…
Humboldt opened his eyes again. What pisspot of a stinking little town was
this? Verona…no. Pisa…no. Venice…nooo…Cambridge? That didn’t sound
very Italian.
What say ye, Savonarola, shall we incinerate this sinful place with the flames of
our profanity? YES, let us! Shitopia! The Shitty-State of Fucklorence! Brunelleschi’s
Throne! The Pisstine Chapel! The Stool of Athens! Burn, ye haven of heretics, ye
harem of harlots! Burn, ye whoredom of a hometown…. BURN!
As they sailed obliviously onward, a thought tucked itself under the
blanket of Humboldt’s dreamconsciousness. This thought grew from a mantra
that Humboldt had often heard repeated during his youth: “there is nothing to
do in Ohio.”
Silly, sinners! Behold: indisputable evidence that there IS something to do in
Ohio: flee. Thus Spoke Savonarola.
Flee? But to where? Humboldt had never even considered crossing the
And I knew I’d made a horrible call / And now the State Line. To him, the State Line was like the Berlin Wall; it was a relic of
state line felt like the Berlin Wall —“Crooked Teeth” an old war that had once raged across the Midwest. Churchill, Stalin, and
by Death Cab for Cutie
James A. Garfield, fearing that the Midwest would grow too powerful, cruelly
realigned the region. The guillotine of geopolitics sliced entire towns in half.
East Liverpool, East Berlin: West Virginia, West Berlin. The State Line was
an oldstone wall from a cold old war. How could they possibly breech it?
Nooo, the State Line was not the Berlin Wall; that wall was too small.
The State Line was the Great Wall of China! Back within some sillynamed
Dynasty, Ohio had built a giant wall to keep out mongrel marauders from West
Virginia and Pennsylvania. A beautiful serpentine stone creature, it slithered
up great green mountains and slunk down deep valleys. It cut through the
countryside, carving up hills like hams. It crossed yellow rivers and dammed
brown lakes.
—O, damnery! O, miseration! Bellaire? Christ, are we going the wrong way?
As the dreamcolored SUV accelerated, Humboldt’s heart accelerated
too. What if Rich didn’t see the State Line? Surely such a thing must have
happened to an aloof West Virginian mongrel or two. Riding downhill on
a ferocious Shetland pony, his vision obscured by the morning mist and the
meathelmet that bobbed up and down on his misshapen forehead, it would
have been easy to miss the wall looming in the distance. Humboldt pitied this
aloof West Virginian mongrel. He envisioned him coughing wildly with a
strange strain of some deadly virus, his loud phlegmy coughs interrupted by
emphatic shouts of Viva Kenny Khan!
Cough, cough…
Viva Kenny Khan!
Cough, cough…SMASH!
Humboldt’s eyes shot open. East Liverpool, fifteen miles!
This is the title of Philip Roth’s first collection of short Good-bye, Columbus, Humboldt thought. Good-bye, Winesburg.
fiction, which won the 1960 National Book Award.
Next to him, Rich was still wailing, but now his words poured from his
mouth in wild, incoherent explosions. It was as if he was speaking Mongolian.
—My father’s a prison! He’ll know my lawyer! Goddamn, football! I’m
too Ohio to go to Bellaire…
As Humboldt closed his eyes again, the mongrel West Virginians
continued their charge.
Good-bye sweatshirts, Humboldt thought. Good-bye Queer Theory NonGender-Specific Feminism.
—My father’s Ohio! He’ll know my football! Goddamn, lawyers! I’m
too Bellaire to go to prison…
Good-bye Calories. Good-bye Trust. Good-bye Secret Handshakes.
Humboldt opened his eyes and there it was: the State Line. It looked
unlike any wall he had ever seen before. It arched its steel back like an angry
cat. Humboldt pressed his eyes back into their dark lair, squeezing them tightly.
The SUV wasn’t slowing down. Rich didn’t see the wall! He was
actually going faster!
—My father’s a football! He’ll know prison…
They were entering the iron cat’s mouth! It was coughcoughSMASH time!
—Viva Kenny Khan! Humboldt shouted hysterically.
An awkward silence descended upon the SUV as they eased over the
Ohio River and entered West Virginia.
XIII
’ capital
How Humboldt arrived in the nation’s
Soweto is the name of a section of Johannesburg, South Africa. The name Soweto does
not mean “spear of the nation”; it’s actually an abbreviation for South Western Townships.
The phrase “Spear of the Nation” is the English translation for the name of the armed wing
of the African National Congress, which was co-founded by Nelson Mandela in June 1961.
Because of its violent opposition to apartheid, “Spear of the Nation” was categorized as a
terrorist organization by both the South African and United States governments.
Humboldt was dreaming of silver and gold. Somewhere between one end of Pennsylvania and the other, he had fallen into a deep sleep.
He was unaware of precisely where this fall had occurred, as central Pennsylvania looked identical to western Pennsylvania, which
looked identical to eastern Ohio. Humboldt remembered entering a tunnel and then all was blackness, a deepdark blackness, a
sea of blackness.
Land, Ho!
The cry went aloft.
Land, Ho!
Humboldt raised his eyes leeward (or was it starboard?). In the distance, he spied a giant flag of green and gold, waving
wildly in the wind. As he watched, these waves transformed into the wavy topography of green hills and golden beaches. They
had circumnavigated the Cape of Good Hope: this was South Africa.
Humboldt opened his eyes and observed how their ship sailed into harbor upon the tide of apartheid. All was dark.
Moving against the darkness, Humboldt felt blackthoughts emanating from black bodies: Zulus. We must be traveling through
Soweto, Humboldt thought sleepily. Soweto: spear of the nation.
The creamcolored SUV turned a corner and the scenery shifted back to green and gold. The streets shone. Light skipped
across gilded sidewalks and glided down tinted exteriors. Humboldt had never seen anything so sparkly. It was an alabaster
paradise. The inhabitants of this paradise surrounded themselves with wealth and reconciliation.
Still drowsy, Humboldt became aware that Rich was speaking to him.
—Do you understand? Are you awake? Listen: there’s a restaurant around the corner called The Swindler Tavern. Go there
52
and get a seat at the bar. I’ll talk to my father and then I’ll meet you there,
okay?
Humboldt nodded as the creamcolored SUV slowed to a stop next to
the curb. As soon as he exited the vehicle, Humboldt became aware that Rich
had dropped him off on the apartheid side of the street. Still half asleep,
Humboldt lurched into a fiercelooking Zulu warrior.
—Hey, Homes. Watch yo’self.
—Holmes? How did you know I was from Holmes County? Are you
from Holmes County?
—County? the Zulu replied. Yeah, I just got out of there.
Humboldt was surprised to hear this.
—Oh really, what part?
—East Wing: Misdemeanors and DUIs; I did thirty days.
Humboldt had never heard of either of these cities and assumed that
they must be located south of Winesburg, perhaps near Millersburg.
—Hey Homes, can you spare a dollar so I can get something to eat?
Humboldt froze in fear. He didn’t have any rand; all he had in his
pocket was the tiny soybean that he had plucked from his father’s driveway
on his way to college. Thinking quickly, Humboldt started to chant the only
African phrase he knew.
—Ali Kumbaya! Ali Kumbaya! Ali Kumbaya! Ali Kumbaya! Ali Kumbaya!
This chanting appeared to momentarily appease (or confuse) the Zulu
and Humboldt was able to hurry across the street to the non-Apartheid side.
XIV
How Humboldt said good-bye to Rich Thunderton
and met Senator Dick Small (R, Idaho)
In addition to greasy comfort food and lukewarm beer, The Swindler Tavern served family-sized portions of television. Every available
inch of wallspace was covered by the machine’s unmistakable square serving dish. Tiny television machines even decorated the
bathroom walls above the urinals. Amidst this orgy of visual stimulation, Humboldt sat unhappily munching peanuts. He was
having difficulty deciding where his eyes should rest. Should he watch sports, sports, or sports? Or news, news, or news? The
only television that wasn’t spewing sports, news, or a combination of the two, appeared to be showing a dated situational comedy
involving the fake interactions of fake people in a fake bar.
Humboldt appeared to be the only person in the bar who found the gaudy flashyness distracting. Everyone else was
worshipping the screens, entranced by their banality. All around him, people were enjoying their visual overindulgence. But for
Humboldt, it was difficult to say what was more unpleasant: the excessive visual pollution or the excessively salty peanuts.
When Rich finally appeared, he looked much more relaxed. And Humboldt was glad to see that he was no longer wailing,
as he doubted that The Swindler Tavern was the kind of establishment that embraced wailers. After some awkward seat shifting,
Rich slid a stool next to Humboldt. When he spoke, he used a low conspiratorial tone that reminded Humboldt of Brutus Booth
and his gang.
—I talked to my father, Rich whispered. He’s going to take care of everything. Since you’re the only person who really
knows what happened, I need you to promise me that you’re not going to squeal.
Humboldt paused. Could he promise such a thing? As a man, was he not a pig? And from experience, he knew that pigs
squeal.
—You’re not going to squeal, right? Rich asked more forcefully.
54
—No. I’m not that kind of a pig, Humboldt admitted.
—So, you’re not going to say anything, right?
Humboldt didn’t say anything.
—Right? Rich asked again.
—Oh, right. I thought you meant right then.
—Good. So here’s the plan: I’m going to go back to Ohio and make
sure everything’s okay. You’re going to stay here and wait to hear from me.
Now no matter what happens, you can’t go back to Ohio until you hear from
me, okay?
Stay here? Humboldt thought. At this vulgar bar full of television
worshippers? Ohio was his favorite feeding ground; Ohio was his home. It
was also the home of his collegefarm and Elle.
Perhaps sensing Humboldt’s discomfort, Rich continued in a kinder,
gentler conspiratorial tone.
—I know. It’s going to be tough. But I promise, I’ll be back soon and
everything will be okay. You just have to trust me on this, okay?
Hearing the word “trust” made Humboldt’s genitalia constrict slightly,
as if encircled by a noose.
—Okay, Humboldt answered. I trust you.
—Good. So how much money do you need?
Humboldt confusingly looked around the bar before answering.
—I guess just pay for all the peanuts I’ve eaten.
Rich laughed with great relief and jovially slapped Humboldt on the
back.
—That’s what I like to see. You still have your sense of humor. How
about ten thousand dollars?
Ten thousand dollars? A large number materialized in Humboldt’s
mind: $10,00000000. Gazing upon so many zeros was amazing. The number
resembled a gigantic soy pod clinging to a tiny vertical stem. How could
something so small hold such gigantitude? The soybeans from that single pod
alone could make a casserole that would feed the entire town of Winesburg!
It was like an all-you-can-eat zero casserole. With that large of a soybean and
the invisible hand of capitalism, he and his father could open their own allyou-can-eat buffet and put those other crass establishments out of business.
Rich seemed anxious for an answer and Humboldt’s growing silence
did little to ease his anxiety.
—Okay, fifteen thousand.
Fifteen thousand? The soy pod was so heavy that it was making its stem
bend: $15,000000000. It would have to be harvested soon; but how many men
would that take? Humboldt envisioned hundreds of short, stout day laborers,
each supporting a single bean on his shoulder. With slow steady steps, they
carried their precious cargo into the barn. And once inside, the shell had to be
sliced through with a chainsaw.
—Okay, okay, Rich said. Twenty. Twenty thousand. What do you say?
Twenty thousand dollars. I can’t give you anymore.
Humboldt noticed that Rich was holding out his hand in a pleading
manner.
—C’mon, buddy. Twenty thousand dollars? What do you say?
—Okay? Humboldt said, shaking Rich’s fleshy, sweaty palm.
—I knew I could count on you! Just wait here. I’ll go get the money.
As Rich left, Humboldt’s attention floated back to the television
machines. Didn’t everyone have television machines in their homes? Why
come to a bar to watch more television? Why not just stay home? Did The
Swindler Tavern serve a different recipe of television? And who were these
hungry teleconsumers? Humboldt casually surveyed his surroundings. The
bar was filled with an amiable crowd of Afrikaans; there was not a single Zulu
in sight. The Zulu bars must be on the other side of the street, Humboldt thought.
When Rich reappeared, his awkward attempts to look inconspicuous
made him all the more conspicuous. With an air of fauxnonchalance,
he sauntered back to his seat and with the subtle dexterity of an elephant,
This phrase references the unlawful handiwork
taking place in Caravaggio’s 1594 painting The
Fortune Teller.
The first novel I ever wrote, The Hand on Malcolm:
How Impotent Old Men Screw the Country, was a
political satire in which every politician possesses a
penis name like Dick Limp, Dick Rambunctious, Dr.
Dick Dangledead, M.D., General Dick Bustedbarrel,
and Vice President Dick Despicable. Part of my
inspiration for such linguistic phallocentricism was
the knowledge that Long’s Motel in Cambridge was
once owned by a man named Richard Long, who
everyone around town used to call “Dick.”
attempted to shove a large wad of moneypaper into Humboldt’s pocket.
—Here you go, buddy, Rich said as his flabby hand fought to free itself
from Humboldt’s pocket. And remember: Mum’s the word.
—Mum’s the word?
—That’s right. Mum’s the word. And remember: don’t go back to Ohio
until you hear from me, okay?
Humboldt nodded knowingly.
At seeing Humboldt’s benign affirmation, something in Rich’s face
changed. Gone was the fauxnonchalance. Gone was the fear. What Humboldt
saw instead was a look that he didn’t recognize. Was it guilt or gratitude?
—Thanks, Humboldt. I really appreciate this, Rich said with genuine
tenderness. And I’m sorry that…. He stopped in mid-sentence. I mean, take
care of yourself, okay?
And with that Rich Thunderton walked out of his life. As Humboldt
watched, he waddled his way towards the door, guiding his girth through
shallow alleyways of unoccupied space.
Rich’s abrupt departure left Humboldt feeling…? He didn’t know what
he was feeling. Illuminated by the glow of neverendingsports, Humboldt
struggled to find the right word to describe what he was feeling. Oh wait,
here it is: unconcerned. Rich’s father was a lawyer and Humboldt knew that
the word “lawyer” meant “trustworthy” in Latin. Lawyers could always
be trusted to do what’s best; that’s why everyone loved and respected them
so much. Humboldt loved and respected lawyers too. And he trusted them
almost as much as he trusted friendship.
Rich’s seat had only been unoccupied for a moment before an amiable
Afrikaan slid into it. He was an older man with florescent white teeth and
a head full of silver hair. Bearing his teeth, the man flashed Humboldt a
friendly, aggressive smile that reminded him of a hungry animal. Because
of his age and appearance, the smiling stranger made Humboldt think of the
heroic Boers and their woeful war.
—Excuse me, the Boer said. I couldn’t help notice your sweatshirt.
Harvard, class of ‘32. The name’s Richard, but everybody in this town calls
me Dick.
Dick the Boer extended his hand in a gesture of friendship.
—Would you like a normal handshake or the secret handshake?
Humboldt asked politely.
—You know the secret handshake?
—Oh sure. Here it is, Humboldt said, grasping his new neighboer’s
hand and performing a bouncing baby followed by a flawless fortuneteller’s
farewell.
—So that’s the secret handshake? I always wondered about that, Dick
the Boer said. Nobody at ‘arvard would ever teach me it and there were even
rumors that it didn’t exist. And now after all these years…. Dick the Boer’s
voice trailed off.
Dick the Boer flashed Humboldt another friendly wolfhungry smile.
—To be honest, young voter, Dick the Boer continued, I like the way
you operate. I was sitting down at the end of the bar and I couldn’t help but
notice how skillfully you exhorted money from your friend. Quite frankly, I
was impressed. That’s a useful skill to have in this town. I could use someone
like you on my staff. Why don’t you come work for me?
Dick the Boer handed Humboldt a thin, firm whiterectangle. On
the front of this whiterectangle was written: Senator Dick Small (R, Idaho).
Underneath these words appeared more words: Chairman of the Ways & Means
Committee.
Since the Senator had given him a piece of paper, Humboldt thought it
would be polite to reciprocate. He carefully extracted a piece of moneypaper
from the wad that Rich had so awkwardly shoved into his pocket and casually
passed it to Senator Small, who seemed momentarily taken aback.
—O, well…thank you. It’s always refreshing to meet someone who
knows how this town works, Senator Dick said with another wolfhungry
smile that was followed by a playful wink. Go buy yourself a nice suit with
lots of pockets and then stop by my office tomorrow morning. Okay?
—Okay, Humboldt answered agreeably.
Before burrowing his way back into the crowd, Senator Dick paused.
—You’re going to have a bright future in this town, young voter. I can
feel it. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Hearing this made Humboldt happy. No one in Ohio had ever told him
that he was going to have a bright future. All anyone in Ohio had ever told
him was that he was Amish and that there was nothing to do in Ohio. Maybe
being banished from Ohio was not such a terrible thing after all. Maybe Ohio
wasn’t his kind of town. Maybe this kind of town was his kind of town.
Washannesburg, Humboldt thought, my kind of town.
XV
How Humboldt went to work for
Senator Dick Small (R, Idaho)
’ office was a mundane, untidy bureaucratic affair. Framed photographs crookedly clung to the walls, as furniture faced
Senator Dick’s
each other at off-angles. At the far end of the room, there was a large baywindow that offered a sweeping vista of Washannesburg
and its surrounding sprawl. Underneath this large window, Humboldt spied the Senator seated behind a mundane, untidy
bureaucratic desk. The top of this desk was cluttered with paperwork, old coffee cups, and other miscellanea, including the
Senator’s forehead.
—WAKE UP, DICK! barked the secretary who was shepherding Humboldt into the room.
As if responding to a bell, the Senator’s head snapped off his desk, his hand shot towards the door, and a smile stretched
between his tan cheeks.
—Good morning, young voter. Nice suit. That’ll be all, Debbie, thank you, the sleepy Senator said with a wave of his hand.
Rising from his chair, Senator Dick circled around his desk to address Humboldt directly.
—There’s no reason to offer you a seat, right? I know you young voters are all about action. So let’s get started, shall we?
Are you ready?
Humboldt said that he was, although he was unsure about exactly what he was ready for.
—Good, the Senator replied, handing Humboldt a small lapel pin. All you need is this. Just pin it somewhere visible.
Not wanting to appear impolite, Humboldt peeled off another piece of moneypaper from Rich’s wad and handed it to the
Senator in exchange for the lapel pin. As he did this, Humboldt couldn’t help notice how wide Senator Dick’s eyes became at the
sight of such a large pile of potential campaign finance.
As the Senator greedily shoved the piece of moneypaper into his pocket, Humboldt carefully affixed the pin to his lapel
without pricking himself.
—That looks great, young voter. Let’s get to work.
Senator Dick flung an arm around Humboldt’s shoulders, and together they walked out of the office and began navigating
the Capitol Building’s labyrinth of long, untidy bureaucratic hallways.
58
—That pin you’re wearing will let everyone know who you work for.
As Chairman of the Ways and Means Committee, every lobbyist in town
wants to speak with me. That’s where you come in.
—So, you want me to schedule appointments? Humboldt asked.
Humboldt’s question sent the Senator into a flight of laughter.
—Young voter, I like your sense of humor. You’d be surprised at
how many people in this town don’t have one of those. Go ahead and call
it whatever you want: “scheduling appointments,” “arranging sit-downs,”
“having pow-wows.”
Humboldt was confused.
—So, you don’t want me to schedule appointments?
—If that’s what you want to call it, go right ahead, the Senator replied
cheekily.
—But is that what you want me to do?
—Yes, the Senator said with a playful wink.
—So, you want me to schedule appointments?
—Yes, said the Senator. No, what I want you to do is listen.
—Listen? But shouldn’t these lobbyists be talking to you?
—Yes, they should be talking to me. But no, they shouldn’t be talking to
me.
Humboldt could feel his confusion growing.
—So, you want me to have these lobbyists talk to you but not talk to
you?
—Exactly.
—I don’t understand, Humboldt was forced to finally admit. What are
we talking about?
—Speech.
—So you do want to talk to these lobbyists?
—No, not speech: speech.
—Not speech speech?
—Exactly.
As they spoke, Humboldt became aware that they were being watched.
Greedy eyes peered out from every dark crevice and around every corner.
These watchers were so non-nonchalant that they reminded Humboldt of
prostitutes. They wanted to be noticed; they wanted attention. They were
desperate.
—I’m afraid I still don’t understand, Humboldt admitted.
—In this town, Senator Dick explained, money is speech.
—Money is speech? Humboldt asked incredulously. I thought money
was money and speech was speech?
This question sent Senator Dick into another long flight of laughter.
—Sure. Money is money. Speech is speech. Government is government.
Democracy is democracy.
Humboldt stared at the Senator. Why was he still laughing?
—I’m joking! It’s all money! Money is everything! Money is money.
Money is speech. Money is government. Money is democracy. Money is
“civic responsibility.” Money is the soles of your shoes, the air you breathe,
the hair on your ankles. Money is that little pause before you sneeze. Money
is your first yawn in the morning, your last kiss goodnight, and everything in
“We are such stuff as dreams are made on.” between. Money is the stuff dreams are made on. Daydreams and pajamas!
—Shakespeare, The Tempest
From your morning coffee to your mourning coffin, life is money and money
is life. Can’t you see? We live in a Moneyocracy! The U$A. The $enate. The
$upreme Court. Ulysses $. Grant. This is Moneytown, Moneyville, Casa del
Money, ese! Money is everything. It’s all money, understand?
Humboldt was struck by how much Senator Dick’s philosophy sounded
like a monetary version of the Power of Positive Thinking.
—It’s all money? And money is speech? Humboldt repeated.
—That’s right. Your job is just to listen. And don’t worry about doing
your job well; the lobbyists will make it easy. They’re rascals, scoundrels.
You’ll see.
South Africa’s national rugby team is named the
Springboks. In my rough draft, I mistakenly spelled
the word with an “x.” Whoa, I’m glad I caught that
mistake! Otherwise, it might’ve made Bismarck du
Plessis very angry, and you wouldn’t like Bismarck
du Plessis when he’s angry.
The duo stopped in front of the Senate Chamber.
—This is where all the Senators sleep during the day. It’s imperative
that we sleep all day because we’re always so exhausted from our long
nights listening. If you need me, this is where I’ll be. And don’t worry about
interrupting anything; nothing ever gets done in here.
Senator Dick slowly removed his arm from its perch atop Humboldt’s
shoulders.
—Good luck, young voter. Collect as much speech you can. I’ll see you
back in my office at eight p.m. sharp.
Senator Dick’s departure left Humboldt feeling alone and confused.
Money is speech? And his job was to listen? But how? Humboldt had no idea
how to listen to moneyspeech. Was he to stuff moneypaper into his ears?
Should he buy a tape recorder and learn shorthand? Or perhaps a stenograph?
What about a stethoscope? And what if he and money didn’t speak the same
language? Where would he find a translator?
While these questions swam through his consciousness, Humboldt still
felt hungry eyes watching him. Beedy eyes. Greedy eyes. Standing there alone
in the hallway, he felt as vulnerable as a newborn springbok on the great plains
of the Serengeti. He was surrounded by a cabal of predators: hyenas, jackals,
dingoes, lobbyists. They were all watching him, stalking him. Humboldt was
being hunted.
Humboldt tried to appear carefree as he made his way towards the
watering hole of a nearby drinkingfountain. What was he afraid of ? After all,
there were other animals about. Big animals commandeered great swathes of
floorspace as they lumbered by in large packs, while small animals darted past
in frantic abandon. Humboldt knew that he should feel safe amongst such an
active community. Standing over the waterfountain, Humboldt bent his neck
to drink. He felt the cool liquid surge into his mouth and down his throat.
As he raised his head, a lobbyist struck. Humboldt felt a large wad
of speech slide into his front pocket. “BIGmilitary,” a voice whispered into
his ear. When Humboldt turned to thank the lobbyist for “scheduling an
appointment,” he was gone. Off chasing another prey, Humboldt assumed.
So, this is how democracy works, Humboldt thought with amazement.
As Humboldt became more adept at his job, he was surprised at how
simple democracy really was. One white pebble, one black pebble, and an
obnoxious amount of green pebbles. Humboldt soon learned that no place
was safe from democracy; it stalked him everywhere he went. Lobbyists
found him in elevators, public parks, cafeteria lunch lines, even in the toilet.
They hunted him in parking garages and chased him down deserted hallways.
Humboldt even suspected that some of them snuck into his bedroom at night,
as it was not uncommon for him to discover large wads of speech stuffed
underneath the Carbo Phi Drates sweatshirt that he used as a pillow.
At all hours of the day, there was a steady stream of stealthy hands and
sweaty wads, plunging speech into every available pocket. In crowded public
spaces, it was not uncommon for numerous hands to be thrusting speech
simultaneously into different pockets. And if all pockets were currently
occupied, Humboldt would feel his pantleg lift and a sweaty wad of speech
would be tucked into the top of his tubesock. And the strangest part was that
since they were already speaking, most of these lobbyists never even bothered
to say a word.
In the beginning, Humboldt was nervous about keeping track of all this
speechless speech. How could he possibly remember which whispered words
went with which big wad of speech? But night after night, Senator Dick never
asked for any specifics; he never seemed to care. In fact, whenever Humboldt
attempted to pass along anything a lobbyist had whispered into his ear, the
Senator would roll his eyes and groan with irritation.
—Novice lobbyists! he would exclaim in an angry tone. Only a fool
confuses speech with speech. A true lobbyist knows that if he doesn’t get
what he wants, it’s not because he’s not speaking enough; it’s because he’s not
giving us enough speech. More speech: that’s the ways and means of getting
“Bigness is a curse. It is too bureaucratic, too
autocratic, too top-heavy in making decisions,
too remote from the ground, and too ubiquitous
in our present state of corporate socialism or
state capitalism… Bigness is also too addicted to
concentrating power, and too inimical to competiton
and democratic processes. Our economy is being
crippled by all these companies that are ‘too big to
fail.’ Bigness all over the world spells omnicide over
time.” —Ralph Nader, Only the Super-Rich Can Save
Us!
During Leona Helmsley’s 1989 trial for federal income
tax evasion, a former housekeeper testified that she
had once heard Helmsley (aka “the Queen of Mean”)
say: “Only the little people pay taxes.”
what you want in this town. More speech: that’s the bedrock of democracy.
Such conversations usually occurred after 8:00, when Humboldt and
Senator Dick reconvened in the Senator’s office to count the day’s speech. As
the Senator waited anxiously, Humboldt would unburden his bulging pockets,
socks, and skin atop the Senator’s desk. Once fully unburdened, the two of
them would begin the arduous task of speechcounting.
Onemillionthreehundredthousand words…. Onemillionfourhundredthousand
words…. The number kept rising like a biblical tide that lifted all yachts, while
drowning the yachtless.
As he counted stacks upon stacks of speech, Humboldt learned the
blessing of BIGness. BIGwar. BIGdefense. BIGbusiness. BIGbanks. BIGfood.
BIGenergy. It was a wonderful time for BIGness to be BIG. And Humboldt
never doubted the fact that such BIGness was too BIG for failness. But just to
be sure of this, BIGness was always desperate for insurance, and not just any
kind of insurance: BIGinsurance. Sometimes, Humboldt was amazed at how
such BIGness could be so unsure of itself.
Even though the stacks of speech that grew upon Senator Dick’s desk
were undeniably BIG and were constantly growing undeniably BIGGER,
every night, when the counting was complete, Senator Dick would utter the
same phrase: “chumpchange.” Some nights, he would follow this phrase with
a derogatory comment about how his grandmother used to make more speech
selling handmade lanyards at her nursing home.
After sleeping all afternoon in the Senate Chamber, Senator Dick was
invigorated come nightfall. Once all the “chumpchange” had been counted,
he would stretch his arms and flex the curvature of his spine like an athlete
preparing for the starter’s gun.
—Now, Senator Dick would proudly announce. It’s time to do some
real listening.
He would then greedily race off into the night.
Humboldt never raced off into the night. When his workday was done,
Humboldt returned to the house he shared with the rest of Senator Dick’s
staff on K Street, where he would spend the remainder of his evening trying
to avoid his housemates. Humboldt lived with a loud, aggressive bunch of
Afrikaans, who were forever squabbling about entitlements, austerity, and
something called “taxes.” As far as Humboldt could tell, “taxes” were a
kind of fine imposed on little people for being little. Every night, Humboldt
would hear his housemates arguing over the same thing: who was to blame.
Some of his housemates were intent on blaming everything on someone,
while others were equally intent on blaming everything on everyone. But no
matter the argument, both sides always agreed that little people were to blame.
Humboldt never partook in these arguments. He knew that everything was
money: arguments were money, blame was money, and little people were
money too.
At night, while resting his head on the pillow of his Carbo Phi Drates
sweatshirt and trying to ignore the sound of constant squabbling, Humboldt
no longer thought about the flat, boring greenfields of his father’s farm. He
now thought about the flat, boring knowingnessfields of college. Why hadn’t
Rich returned? When he had said “wait here,” had he meant that exact barstool
at The Swindler Tavern? Was he there now? Was he waiting for Humboldt there
as Humboldt was waiting for him here?
And who else was waiting for him? Was Elle? Did she ever think of
him? Did she know that his cheek was still thinking about the soft wet pressure
it had felt on the night that her lips had pledged their enduring indebtedness to
him? Did she ever think about how happy she had made his knee feel on that
same night? Would he ever see her again? He hoped so. Would she ever touch
his knee like that again? His knee hoped so.
It’s all good, Humboldt reassured himself. And in the final moments before
sleep overtook him, Humboldt’s knee twitched, ever so slightly, in agreement.
XVI
How Humboldt was reunited with his beloved Elle le Noise
One afternoon, after having just received a sweaty wad of speech from BIGprison (or was it BIGpharm? He never could tell the
difference between those two) Humboldt was crossing the rotunda when he heard a familiar voice calling his name. It was a
sweet, beautiful voice and hearing it made his knee twitch. Glancing across the rotunda floor, Humboldt saw a sweet, beautiful
hand waving madly at him. Humboldt’s pounding eyes couldn’t believe his amazed heart; it was Elle! What was she doing in
Washannesburg?
As usual, the rotunda was teeming with lobbyists and their indentured servants. The floorspace was so crowded that the
two reunited friendlovers had to struggle to successfully inhabit the same millimeter. As it so happened, they met almost directly
atop the governmental seal, where Elle happily leapt into Humboldt’s unsuspecting arms.
—I’m so happy to see you, she began breathlessly. So happy! So happy? No, so surprised! What a wonderful surprise! I
didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. Rich told me that you weren’t coming back, but he didn’t say it was because you got a job
on Capitol Hill. He’s so silly sometimes.
Why had silly Rich told her that he wasn’t coming back? Humboldt thought. But before he could contemplate this thought any
further, he felt a big sweaty wad of speech being shoved into his back pocket.
—Wow, Elle continued still in his arms. A job on Capitol Hill; I’m sooo impressed. But why shouldn’t I be? You always
seemed so smart and so sweet. I can’t wait to hear all about what you do. How long have you been here? Jeez, I can’t believe Rich
didn’t tell me that you were working on the Hill. Don’t you just love it here?
Before Humboldt could answer any of Elle’s questions, he felt a big sweaty wad of speech being thrust into one of his front
pockets. This time, Elle noticed the insertion and flashed Humboldt a questioning look.
—Who are you working for? she asked, freeing herself from their embrace.
—Senator Dick Small, Humboldt answered.
Elle’s widening eyes registered her amazement.
62
“While there is a lower class, I am in it; while there is
a criminal element, I am of it; and while there is a soul
in prison, I am not free” —Eugene V. Debs
On June 16, 1918, four-time presidential
candidate Eugene V. Debs spoke at the state
convention of the Socialist Party of Ohio., which
was held at Canton’s Nimisilla Park. Over 1,200
people were in attendance, including a government
stenographer who was compiling evidence against
Debs. The United States was currently at war with
Germany, and the Socialist Party was opposed to
American intervention in the conflict. Two weeks later,
Debs was arrested in Cleveland, Ohio and charged
with violating the Espionage Act. On September 14,
1918, Debs was sentenced to ten years in prison.
He was almost sixty-three years old at the time.
The above quote is taken from his address to the
jury during his sentencing hearing. As Prisoner No.
9653, Debs was the Socialist Party’s candidate for
President for the fifth and final time.
Kurt Vonnegut loved this quote from his fellow
Hooiser, reproducing it on the dedication page of
Hocus Pocus. Not only is that novel dedicated to
Debs’ memory, the story’s protagonist is named
Eugene Debs Hartke. And in Timequake, Vonnegut
describes Debs’ quote as a “moving echo of the
Sermon on the Mount.”
—Senator Richard Small? The Chairman of the Ways and Means
Committee? Nooo way!
Just then the sound of someone loudly tearing a roll of duct tape
became audible behind Humboldt. A moment later, he felt the firm stickiness
of a big sweaty wad of speech being firmly pressed against the small of his
back. The forcefulness of this campaign contribution awkwardly propelled
Humboldt forward. As he lurched towards her, Elle peered over Humboldt’s
shoulder searchingly.
—Gosh, I feel so embarrassed asking, but do you think you could help
me again? I’m here working with a Single Payer action group and it would be
so wonderful if we could get Senator Small’s backing. He’s such an influential
Senator. We’ve tried to schedule an appointment with him [Humboldt winces]
but he won’t return our phone calls. Do you think you could talk to him for
me?
—Sure, Humboldt said, waiting.
—Really! You would do that for me? I mean, for us? That’s wonderful!
Did you know that one hundred and twenty Americans die every day because
they lack proper health insurance?
Humboldt shook his head, waitingwaiting.
—Isn’t that terrible? All those innocent people die because our current
healthcare system is pay or die, while Single Payer is everyone in, nobody out.
Did you realize that?
Humboldt shook his head, waitingwaitingwaiting.
—And did you know that Single Payer is not only the best available
healthcare reform, it’s the only healthcare reform that will both control costs
and cover everyone?
Humboldt shook his head, waitingwaitingwaitingwaiting.
—And the majority of the American people want Single Payer
healthcare, and so do the majority of doctors, nurses, and health economists,
did you know that?
Humboldt shook his head, waitingwaitingwaitingwaitingwaiting.
—Isn’t that amazing? Do you realize that the only people who oppose
Single Payer healthcare are politicians?
Humboldt shook his head, waitingwaitingwaitingwaitingwaitingwaiting.
—And do you know why they oppose it?
Humboldt shook his head, waitingwaitingwaitingwaiting.
—They fear the insurance companies and the pharmaceutical industry;
they fear losing their campaign money. Isn’t that awful? It’s like my boss says:
while there is a lower class, I am in it; while there is a criminal element, I am
of it; and while there is a soul without healthcare, I am not free. Isn’t that just
wonderful? It’s so poetic, right? I feel super embarrassed asking you for help
again, but you’re so sweet and I just love you so much. If you could talk to
Senator Small for me, I would be even more forever indebted to you than I
already am. Did you ever think that could be possible?
Humboldt shook his head, waitingwaitingwaitingwaitingwaiting.
—You know, Elle continued. I don’t think I ever properly thanked you
for helping me before. I was so worried, but now everything’s fine. Thanks to
you. And I don’t have to do that…you know…I mean, I don’t need the money
anymore.
—It’s all good, Humboldt replied.
—It is all good, Elle said, as she excitedly propelled herself towards him
on her tippytoes. It’s just like what Professor Drinkwater always says.
Says? Humboldt thought. Shouldn’t that be in the past tense?
As Elle watched, another big sweaty wad of speech was thrust into one
of Humboldt’s pockets.
—I’m sure you probably already have plans, but if not, a bunch of
us are going to The Swindler Tavern tonight. I go there all the time. It’s like
the best place in the city to connect with people, but you probably already
know that. I would be sooo happy if you could come. But if not, I understand.
You’re probably really busy. Do you think you’ll be able to talk to Senator
Small today? Do you want to have lunch tomorrow? Let’s meet back here, in
this exact same spot, tomorrow. Okay?
—Sure, Humboldt said, no longer waiting.
—Same time?
—Sure.
—I’m super excited! O, there’s my boss. He’s going to be super excited,
too. Gotta run.
With adorable haste, Elle reached up and gave Humboldt a quick kiss
on the cheek.
—I’ll see you tonight maybe or else tomorrow definitely. Okay?
—Okay.
Elle waved goodbye, as she fought her way through the crowd and
disappeared.
Another kiss! Humboldt was hoping that might happen, but that was
not what he had been waiting for. He was waiting for Elle to give him a sweaty
wad of speech and she never did. There was no way Senator Dick would even
consider meeting with her group without a big sweaty wad of speech. Senator
Dick insulted and dismissed anyone, anything, or any idea that didn’t come
wrapped in green and gold. He was even dismissive of things that did come
wrapped in green and gold because they weren’t wrapped in enough green and
gold. BIGness was never BIG enough because BIGness could always become
HUGEness. But HUGEness was never HUGE enough because HUGEness
could always become BIGGER HUGE.
For the second time in his life, Humboldt felt sorry for Elle. She didn’t
know how democracy worked. He assumed that she knew that talk is cheap,
but she was apparently unaware that speech is expensive. Democracy was pay
or die. How could Elle not know that? This was obviously not her kind of
town.
But wait, Humboldt thought. He had forgotten about the Power of
Positive Thinking! This could be her kind of town, with his help. Now that
they were both working in Washannesburg, they would have togetherness.
And as their togetherness grew, Humboldt would explain to her the blessing
of BIGness. He would explain to her how money is speech and how little
people are to blame. Over time, her knowingness would grow and this would
become her kind of town; it would become their kind of town. And when that
happened, Humboldt knew that all would be good.
Even though he had doubted it initially, Humboldt was enjoying life in
Washannesburg even more than life on his collegefarm or his father’s farm. In
his mind, he saw vast fields of inequality stretching towards life’s pink lifeless
horizon. Amidst these fields, he saw he and Elle happily harvesting green and
gold, while humming the bouncing ditty:
Pay or die.
Pay or die.
O why, O why,
Must everything be
Pay or die?
Standing in the rotunda, surrounded by the swarm of warm, sweaty
democracy, Humboldt smiled as this pleasing refrain cycled through his mind.
He was happy in Washannesburg. He was happy spending his days listening
to speechmoney. He was happy working for Senator Dick. And now, Elle was
here too. This made him happiest of all.
This is my kind of town, Humboldt thought as he felt his pantleg rise and
a sweaty wad of speech press against the top of his ankle. Why would he ever
leave?
XVII
What became of Senator Dick Small (R, Idaho)
’
and how Humboldt was forced to flee the nation’s
capital
for the safety of Iraq
That night, when they met to count the daily “chumpchange,” Humboldt noticed that Senator Dick appeared particularly
illtempered.
—I couldn’t get a wink of sleep in the Senate Chamber, he complained. Some damn fool from Nevada spent the entire
session snoring like a buzz saw. What an ass! I was tempted to filibuster his goddamn snoring. Do you have any idea how painful
it is to sit in the Senate Chamber all day long and not sleep? You get nothing done. People who don’t respect other people’s right
to sleep in the halls of government shouldn’t be allowed to participate in democracy. And tonight I’ve got a full schedule of real
listening ahead of me. So let’s hurry up.
Humboldt quickly unburdened his daily speech atop the Senator’s desk.
—Look at this, the Senator said dismissively. Chumpchange! My grandmother used to make more speech selling her used
underwear in the nursing home.
As the Senator continued complaining, Humboldt divided up the huge stacks of speech and started counting. He was
diligently approaching fivehundredthousand words, when the Senator broke his concentration.
—Son, he said. What’s your agenda?
Fourhundredfiftythreethousand words…. Fourhundredfiftyfourthousand words…
—What?
—I said: what’s your agenda? All of my other staffers are pushing some agenda. Hell, everybody in this whole goddamn
town is pushing some agenda. Everybody wants “a seat at the table.” And if they already have “a seat at the table,” they want a
better seat, or a bigger table, or they want to sit next to someone else. Everybody wants to “climb the ladder,” even though nobody
65
knows where the damn thing goes. A corner office, a higher tax bracket, a
bigger car, a better suburb, a more beautiful trophywife with more expensive
plastic surgery: everybody in this town has something that they’re willing to do
anything to get. That equation is the engine that drives democracy: everybody
= something + anything. So, what’s your something?
Before he could respond, Humboldt heard Senator Dick grunt painfully.
—O damn, I just gave myself a papercut. Who knew a thousand dollar
bill could be so sharp? Anyway, back to what I was saying. What’s your
agenda, son? What’s your something?
—I don’t think I have a something agenda.
–Nonsense, Senator Dick said, stifling a yawn. You have to have
something.
Humboldt paused his speechcounting. He tried to think about his
something agenda, but all that occupied his mind was the strange equation:
everybody = something + anything. Was that algebraically correct? Was it some
kind of governmental calculus? Would solving such an equation necessitate a
calculator or could you just use your fingers? And why was the Senator calling
him “son” instead of “young voter?”
—I guess, Humboldt finally answered. My something agenda is the
Power of Positive Thinking.
—That’s good.
—It is good, Humboldt agreed. In fact, it’s all good.
—It’s all good? I like that, son, the Senator responded sleepily. That
sounds like an excellent agenda to have. In fact, I should tell my speechwriters
to start incorporating that phrase more frequently. When people are happy
deceiving themselves, it makes our job so much easier. If everything is good
and good is good enough, why should anything change?
Humboldt nodded in agreement. As he did so, he rose from his seat
and casually walked over to the baywindow. How should he begin? Humboldt
thought as he folded his hands behind his back and stared into the gathering
twilight of the bluehour. Against the darkening bluesky, the white marble of
the city’s mausoleums of democracy glowed gorgeously. Where to start?
—There is something else, Humboldt finally said. I ran into an old
friend of mine in the rotunda this afternoon. Her name is Elle le Noise and
she promised to be forever indebted in marriage to me once.
Humboldt stopped and listened; the Senator was quiet. Was this a good
sign or a bad sign? Humboldt couldn’t tell, so he continued cautiously.
—When I told her that I worked for you, she asked me if I could talk
to you about meeting with her actiongroup to discuss Single Payer healthcare.
She said that one hundred and twenty doctors, nurses, and health economists
die every day because they lack proper healthcare.
Humboldt stopped again and listened; Senator Dick was still quiet.
Maybe this was a good sign.
—But, Humboldt continued, she didn’t give me any speech. [He
winced] I was hoping you’d still consider meeting with her and her friends.
I could even donate some of my speech, if that would help. She’s obviously
a novice lobbyist, who doesn’t know how this town works. It’s not really her
fault; this just isn’t her kind of town. But I think with my help, it could be her
kind of town. It could be our kind of town. I could teach her that speech is
money; I’d be willing to do that. I could help her learn to listen. I think the two
of us could be happy together here in Washannesburg.
Humboldt paused one final time; Senator Dick was still quiet. This did
not seem to be a good sign. Outside the window, the bluehour was darkening
as blueness was steadily draining from the nightsky.
—I think, Humboldt continued, it would be good if you agreed to
meet with Elle and her actiongroup friends. In fact, I think it could be all
good. I hope you’ll consider it. I told her that I would have an answer for her
tomorrow.
Humboldt paused, squeezing his eyes shut. He was not looking forward
to the Senator’s response. A disapproving silence hung in the air for what
Asleep in death; so shall you be for all / That’s left
of time, exempt from grief and pain —Lucretius, De
Rerum Natura
Dick Cheney was hired as C.E.O. of Halliburton
without having ever worked a day in the business
world or the private sector: he was simply hired
because of his political connections. In his July
5, 2001 New Yorker profile on Cheney (“The Quiet
Man”), here is how Nicholas Lemann describes the
hiring: “The way [Cheney] got to be chairman of the
Halliburton Company, supposedly, is that he was on
a fishing trip (fly-fishing, of course) on the remote
Miramichi River, in New Brunswick, with a bunch
of big corporate names… After a long, silent day,
he decided to turn in early. The businessmen were
sitting around talking and the conversation turned to
how Halliburton needed a new C.E.O. After a while,
somebody said, “What about ol’ Cheney?” Since he
was asleep in the lodge, he couldn’t gruffly protest
that he’s never worked in business… so that was it,
he got the job.”
seemed like an eternity. Finally, this silence was broken by a loud groan.
Definitely not a good sign, Humboldt thought as he continued to stare out the
window.
When he finally turned from the window, Humboldt realized that
Senator Dick’s silence was not due to disapproval, but rather death. In horror,
Humboldt noticed that blood was still pouring from a thick papercut on the
Senator’s wrist. Brightliquid redness was everywhere: soaking through the
stacks of “chumpchange,” pouring lazily off the tabletop, and pooling in giant
puddles on the floor. Still in shock, Humboldt stared at the revolting mess of
blood, money, and democracy.
After giving himself a papercut, Humboldt realized that the Senator
must have fallen into a deep sleep from which he would wake no more. It was
all happening so quickly that Humboldt didn’t know what he should think
or feel. Pity began to invade his heart, but as he approached the desk, being
careful not to step into any bloodpools, Humboldt observed something strange
in the Senator’s deadpaleface. He noticed how the corners of the Senator’s
mouth were upturned slightly. He had died happy! No longer feeling pity,
Humboldt suddenly felt…overjoyed! The Senator had lived a long life, and he
had died doing what he loved best: counting speech. He had lived and died by
the politician’s creed: greed.
After depressing the Senator’s lifeless eyelids, Humboldt stealthily
crept from the corpse’s office. I’ll just let him sleep in death, exempt from grief and
pain, Humboldt thought. On his way out the door, Humboldt decided that he
should probably alert security (or someone with a mop) about the Senator’s
untimely passing. He knew from experience that a security guard was usually
stationed near the rotunda at this time of night.
Night had fallen and the hallways of the Capitol Building were
deserted. The day’s busyness of daily business had been swept away by
nocturne stillness. The wildlife that had once roamed so freely was now gone.
As Humboldt made his way towards the rotunda, all he could hear was the
persistent squeaking of his shoes.
SqueakSqueak. SqueakSqueak.
And then halfway down the hallway, Humboldt became aware of a
second squeaking sneaking up behind him.
SqueakSqueak. SqueakSqueak. SqueakSqueak. SqueakSqueak.
The squeaker was quickening his pace. A nocturnal hunter! Now was
not the time for listening, Humboldt thought, quickening his pace.
SqueakSQUEAK! SqueakSQUEAK!
But the pace behind him quickened too.
SqueakSQUEAK! SqueakSQUEAK! SQUEAKsqueak! SQUEAKsqueak!
Humboldt had to escape. He diverted his route around corners,
up stairs, down escalators, and through open doorways. And still, the
shadowsqueaker persisted in his pursuit. Finally, Humboldt paused behind an
unruly, overgrown plant that decorated a bank of elevators. Camouflaged by
the decorative foliage, Humboldt held his breath and listened: no squeaking.
He was safe.
—Excuse me, the plant said. You work for Senator Small, don’t you?
Drat!
Humboldt watched as the unruly leaves parted to reveal the firm, jutting
jawline of a familiar flat-topped lobbyist, whose sand tan face and eager smile
were unmistakable.
Not thinking that this was the appropriate time, place, or person to
divulge the news of the Senator’s recent death, Humboldt simply nodded in
affirmation.
—I thought you looked familiar. My name is Hal Burton. I work
for a company that’s always on the lookout to hire well-connected political
aficionados like yourself. I can guarantee you that you’ll make ten…no, a
hundred times more money working for us than for Senator Small. All you
have to say is the word.
Humboldt nodded knowingly. He knew the word.
“Cheney has none of the easy extroversion of the
typical politician. Instead, there are those long—to
the uninitiated, uncomfortably long, and forbidding—
silences. ‘He’s the coldest fish there is,’ one person
who has dealt with him says.” —Nicholas Lemann,
“The Quiet Man” (The New Yorker, July 5, 2001)
—Mum.
—Pardon?
—Mum, Humboldt repeated. Mum’s the word, right?
—That’s right, Hal said with a confident smile. I appreciate a man
who knows how to be discrete. My private jet is waiting. Why don’t you join
me? I’ll make a phone call and everything will be finalized before we hit the
tarmac.
Through the dense foliage, Hal Burton extended his hand. As he shook
it, Humboldt realized that its muscularity felt familiar.
—Welcome aboard, Hal said, squeezing Humboldt’s hand with a
joyfully firm grip. I guarantee that this will be the best decision you’ll ever
make in your adult life. We depart for Iraq in 0200 hours.
XVIII
How Humboldt flew to Iraq
and what his thoughts were during the flight
These were Henry James’ dying words.
During Voltaire’s lifetime, the origin of syphilis was generally thought to be the Caribbean.
So this is adult life, Humboldt thought as he scrutinized the thin, firm whiterectangle bearing his name. He recognized his name
and the name of Hal Burton’s company, but he did not recognize the word “CEO.” What did that word mean? The more he
stared at the letters, attempting to decipher their secret, the more he could feel his horticultural dyslexia working, or maybe it
was the scotch. CEOOO. He tried to focus on the letterbeans. CEOOO. What did that mean? Change Eatinghabits Ohio? No,
that didn’t sound right. Cheeky Everything Offender? No, that just sounded silly. Chief of England? Nooo, everyone knows that
England has a She King. Chief of Everything? Yes, that had to be it! That explained why the other passengers on the flight were
so friendly to him and kept complimenting his discretion. In truth, Humboldt was not trying to be discrete; he was just thinking
about adulthood.
So here it was at last, the distinguished thing. As an adolescent, Humboldt had spent many hours wondering what adulthood
would be like and now he knew. Adulthood was a whiterectangle, a private jet, and scotch. Adulthood was also assuming the role
of Chief of Everything. As Humboldt stared out his dirtyeggshaped window, he thought of all the little people below him. He felt
sorry for all those whiterectangless, scotchless, private jetless little people. No wonder they were taxed and blamed for everything.
Humboldt had expected to feel nervous about flying for the first time, but he didn’t feel nervous at all. He felt calm, but maybe
that was the scotch. Sure, when they pulled into or out of port, it was nervewrecking; but once they reached the cruisosphere, the
trip was so smooth that Humboldt wondered why, for so many years, humans insisted on traveling by boat. Wouldn’t Columbus
and his crew have been happier flying? Wouldn’t their voyage have taken substantially less time? Humboldt’s stomach shuddered
thinking about that wavy vesselvoyage: updown, updown. Those sailors must have been thankful for scurvy, as it allowed them
to take their minds off their seasickness. And how relieved those sailors must have been when they finally reached the Caribbean
69
I once discovered a bar in Williamsburg, Brooklyn
that had mistakenly priced its Johnnie Walker Blue
Label at $12 a drink. Yup, that night got “Malcom
Lowry” real quick.
“On the north, enclosing the region with a superb
sculptured wall, are the two mountain masses of
the Cairngorms and the Monadhliath mountains,
between which the powerful Spey thrusts itself like
a spear into a closing door.” —Aeneas MacDonald,
Whisky
Aeneas MacDonald was the pseudonym of
George Malcolm Thomson, who didn’t want his real
name to appear on a book about alcohol for fear of
displeasing his mother.
This passage is indebted to the section in Ulysses
where Leopold Bloom drifts off to sleep.
This phrase, which is Latin for “I will not serve,” is
generally attributed to Lucifer. It appears prominently
in both Ulysses and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young
Man.
The following imagery comes from Constantine P.
Curran’s 1904 photograph of James Joyce, which
graced the cover of my copy of A Portrait of the Artist
as a Young Man...
It’s actually a yachting cap. In fact, according to
legend, it’s the same yachting cap that he was
wearing when he first met his future wife Nora
Barnacle.
When questioned what he was thinking about while
the photograph was being taken, Joyce replied, “I
was wondering would he lend me five shillings.”
and were able to start swapping Catholicism for venereal diseases.
Actually, Humboldt envisioned his voyage as being akin to Columbus,
only backwards. It was as if he were traveling in reverse. Humboldt was
excited by the thought of discovering the Old World, as well as the prospect
of discovering (and possibly destroying) undiscovered cultures. With each
refueling stop, his excitement grew: Cordoba, Vienna, Constantinople. They
were getting close.
To Humboldt, all the sheikhs and shrieks of the Ottoman Empire were
thrilling to think about. How many wonderful inventions had been patented
during that inventive Empire? Algebra, arabesque architecture, turbans, the
zero. And what had Catholicism invented during this same time period? Zero!
Not the nonexistent number, but the nonexistent thing itself. No, that wasn’t
entirely true: the Celts had invented scotch. This thought made Humboldt
wrinkle his nose in disgust. The scotch that he and his fellow passengers were
drinking was not “smooth,” “dry,” or “full-bodied.” And most of all, it was
not “blue.” It was actually the same shade of muddy brown as the Killbuck
Creek, which thrusts itself through Holmes County like a spear into a closing
door.
When Humboldt’s scotchheavy eyelids slunk downwards, wonderfully
exotic Ottoman names filled his imagination: Sinbad the Sailor and Tinbad
the Tailor and Jinbad the Jailer and Whinbad the Whaler and Nibad the
Nailer and Xinbad the Phtailer.
Going to a dark beanbed there was a square round Sinbad the Sailor
roc’s auk’s soyegg in the night of the bed of all the auks of the rocs of
Darkinbad the Brightdayler.
Where?
Non Serviam!
Excuse me, Humboldt asked politely.
Non Serviam! I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call
itself my home, my fatherland, my church, or my corporation.
Putting aside the important dreamdocuments that he had just been
reading, Humboldt folded his hands politely atop his large, stately dreamdesk.
He was seated in his corner office surrounded by expansive views of the
Ottoman Empire. As Chief of Everything, part of his job was to hear workers’
grievances and before him stood a fellow who was obviously grieved.
This griever was the very picture of defiance. He was smartly dressed
in the attire of a workingman: coat, vest, collar, and slacks. Atop his head
sat some kind of strange regional hathelmet. His hands were shoved into his
pockets, causing his hips to flare like angry nostrils. His head was angled
slightly to its right, as if paused while dodging a punch. His cocked head gave
off a cocky air. But most of all, defiance shone from every glare from his fixed
stare and firm mouth. His was the look of a man about to ask for money,
whether it be a loan or a raise. Funny, Humboldt thought, this jerk doesn’t
look Turk.
And furthermore, sir, you have been stealing from me.
Stealing? Humboldt tried to look surprised and hurt, although this was
a common grievance directed towards him.
Yes, said the iratishman, stealing! Words, my writing style, entire passages!
All stolen from me!
Well, Humboldt interjected in what he hoped was a kindly, authoritative
tone. This is a very serious accusation. Theft is a grave matter and it won’t be tolerated
in this company. I’m going to have to form an internal taskforce of external consultants
to investigate and expedite the matter thoroughly. Depending on the recommendations
of this taskforce, I can assure you, sir, that you will be fully compensated. But, please
keep in mind, we are reconquering the Old World here and that’s no easy task. Things
inevitably get stolen. You won’t believe how many pens and boxes of paperclips
disappeared during the Reconquista. Hell, an entire squadron of staplers was pinched
during the siege of Vienna. And we once caught an Arab gentleman and his Janissary
friends attempting to wheel a full-sized copier out of the back door of the Hagia Sophia.
It was, as I’m sure you can imagine, quite the scandal.
Humboldt the Lawgiver’s speech did little to appease the griever.
Clongowes Wood College is an Irish Jesuit all boys Clongowes! the irate griever shouted, as he angrily brushed past
boarding school, which James Joyce attended. The Humboldt’s desk.
school features frequently in the beginning sections Had he been carrying an ashplant, Humboldt might have had to call
of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.
A favorite personal accessory of James Joyce, an
ashplant is a British-style walking stick made from an
ash sapling. In Ulysses, Stephen famously totes one
around Dublin and uses it to destroy Bella Cohen’s
chandelier.
James Joyce named his literary alter-ego, Stephen
Dedalus, after the mythological builder, craftsman,
and handyman who designed the Minotaur’s
labyrinth. According to legend, the original Daedalus
also fabricated a pair of wings out of feathers, string,
and wax.
“Never looked. I’ll look today. Keeper won’t see.
Bend down let something fall see if she.” —James
Joyce, Ulysses
While contemplating Greek sculpture, Poldy
wonders how anatomically correct they are—you
know—down there. He decides to find out by ogling
the nude sculptures at the National Museum. Finding
a public work of sculpture and sneaking a peek at its
bum is always a highlight of my annual Bloomsday
celebrations.
In Genius: A Mosaic of One Hundred Exemplary
Creative Minds, Harold Blooms calls Leopold Bloom,
“the most complete representation of a person in
prose fiction.”
Even though everyone in Dublin, himself included,
considers him a Jew, Leopold Bloom is not Jewish.
Both his mother and grandmother were Irish
Catholics.
This is a reference to the two most famously
obscene scenes in Ulysses. In Episode 4, Leopold
Bloom graphically defecates in an outhouse. And in
Episode 13, he has a go on Sandymount strand.
for security. But instead of striking him, the griever opened his window and
slithered out into the Ottoman air. As Humboldt watched, he soared towards
the sun on wetwater wings.
Strange fellow, Humboldt thought. I must remember to have him fired.
Humboldt picked up the important dreamdocuments that he had been
reading before he had been so rudely interrupted.
Where was he?
“$385 million contingency contract by the Department of Homeland
Security?”
No, he had already read that.
“An undisclosed governmental contract to construct and run military
bases in secret locations?”
No, he had read that too.
“$7 billion governmental contract to construct detainment cells?”
No, that was old news.
His eyes continued scanning down the page…
O, here’s where he left off:
“$2.5 billion governmental contract to answer the following question:
Did you enjoy today’s lecture, Humboldt?”
—Yes, Mrs. Feathercontract.
—I liked the part about the guy going to the library to look at the
statue’s butt.
—That wasn’t just any guy, Humboldt. That was Leopold Bloom, the
most complete representation of a person in 20th Century Western literature.
—Was he Amish?
—No. He was half Jewish, half Irish.
—Well, Humboldt muttered, that doesn’t sound so complete to me.
—Do you think you would have liked to have lived in dirty old Dublin,
Humboldt?
Humboldt thought for a moment before answering.
—No, Mrs. Feathercontract, I think I like indoor plumbing and sanitary
beaches too much.
—That’s nice, Humboldt. Enjoy your flight into adulthood.
—Thank you, Mrs. Feathercontract.
XIX
’
What Humboldt (CEO) learned about Hal Burton’s
company
during the flight to Iraq
Kellogg Brown & Root (or KBR, Inc.) is an engineering, construction, and private military
contracting company, which was once a subsidiary of Halliburton.
“Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the
macintosh?” —James Joyce, Ulysses
Humboldt awoke to the sound of loud squabbling. At first, he assumed that he was back on K Street, listening to his housemates debate
who was to blame, but then he remembered that he was on a mission to reconquer the Old World.
In addition to Hal, three other adults were traveling on their private jet: Kellogg, Brown, and Root. Upon boarding,
Humboldt had been introduced to each adult, but he couldn’t remember who was who. Did Brown have black hair or was that
Root? Did Kellogg wear glasses or was that Brown? And who was the lankylooking galoot in the macintosh, Kellogg or Root?
—It’s an outrage, Kellogg (?) was saying as Humboldt awoke.
—No, it’s more than that; it’s a damn crime, screamed Root (?).
—A travesty! added Brown (?).
Noticing that Humboldt was awake, Hal quieted the squabbling.
—Gentlemen, let’s hear what our CEO has to say on the subject, shall we? We were just discussing noncompetitive no-bid
governmental contracts, Hal explained to Humboldt.
—They’re outrageous, Kellogg (?) interjected hotly.
—Criminal, screamed Root (?).
—A travesty! repeated Brown (?).
Hal held up his hand to quell the interruptions.
—Here’s the question, Hal said. Since these are supposed to be noncompetitive no-bid contracts, why should we have to bid
on them?
—Do you know how much money we waste on photocopies alone preparing those bids? At ten cents a page, it must be close
72
to four dollars. And that’s not even counting the cost of staples, paperclips, or
spiral binding, said Kellogg (?).
—Four? Try eight, corrected Root (?).
—More like ten! shouted Brown (?). Why should we be required to
spend ten dollars of our own money to secure a $385 million Department of
Homeland Security contract? It’s supposed to be a no-bid contract, for God’s
sake!
—Look, added Root (?). I understand that the government can’t just
write us a blank check, but why can’t they give us their bank account number?
That way, we can just go in whenever we want and take whatever we need.
—They should give us their bank account number AND write us a
blank check, yelled Kellogg (?).
—Gentlemen, gentlemen, Hal said, peacekeeping. I think you’ve made
your opinions on the question known. Let’s hear from our CEO.
All eyes turned expectantly in Humboldt’s direction.
—I think, Humboldt began cautiously, sleepily. I think…it’s money.
—What’s money? either Kellogg or Root asked.
—Everything.
—Everything?
—Yes, Humboldt continued. Everything: I think money is everything.
Money is noncompetitive no-bid contracts. Money is photocopies. Money is
staples. Money is money. Money is speech. Money is government. Money
is democracy. Money is the shoes of your souls, the air on your ankles, and
the hair of your breath. Money is that little sneeze before you pause. Before
I became an adult, I used to believe in the Power of Positive Thinking. It’s all
good, I would often think to myself. And while I haven’t totally given up on
that belief, I also believe that it’s all money.
When Humboldt finished his speech, all that was audible within the
cabin was the gentle hum of the airplane’s dual engines.
Finally, Brown (?) broke the silence.
Angler is Dick Cheney’s nickname. It’s also the title —Good work, Angler, he said to Hal. I think you’ve found the perfect
of Barton Gellman’s 2008 biography of Cheney.
man for the job.
—I agree, Hal said, turning to Humboldt. And now you’re probably
wondering what we do. Our company began as a small oilfield service company
in Texas: refineries, dual-use drilling equipment, pipe-lines, firefighting,
that type of work. We’ve since grown to encompass logistics, military
infrastructure, and the construction of military bases. We’re peacekeepers,
really. As long as there’s a war going on, we’re at peace. Think of it this way:
we keep the war’s peace. Just recently, we were awarded two noncompetitive
no-bid contracts from the American government. The first is for a project
called “Restore Iraqi Oil.” According to this contract, the government pays us
to rebuild important infrastructure belonging to the Iraqi oil industry: pretty
straightforward. The second contract is for a project called “Destroy Iraqi
Oil.” Once this infrastructure is rebuilt, the government pays us to destroy
it. And then the government pays us to rebuild it again and so on and so on.
For example, as part of “Destroy Iraqi Oil,” the government pays us to set
wellfires. Once these fires are raging out of control, as part of “Restore Iraqi
Oil,” the government pays us to firefight them. Once the flames have all died
out, we get another contract to reignite them and so on and so on. I think you
get the idea. And because of inflation, each contract is a few billion dollars
more than the one before.
—What are we visiting this trip, Angler? Root (?) inquired.
—We’ve got a pretty light itinerary this time, Hal responded. A couple
of refineries, maybe a pipeline or two.
—We’ve destroyed and rebuilt some of these refineries so many times
that I’ve completely lost track, admitted Kellogg (?).
—But don’t worry, Hal assured Humboldt. We won’t be required to do
any construction or deconstruction ourselves. We don’t even have to light a
match. We’re just here for photo-ops. We’ll take some pictures, shake some
hands, shake our heads either sadly or victoriously, and go home.
—You can’t win noncompetitive no-bid contracts without the right
kind of photo-ops, explained Brown (?).
—And those photos aren’t cheap to develop either, Kellogg (?) grumbled.
—And one more thing, Hal continued. All of our sites contain private
runways. It’s safer that way. You can never interact with too few locals. We
just fly in, smile, and fly out. It couldn’t be safer.
As Hal finished speaking, Humboldt became aware that their plane was
angling itself earthward.
—Gentlemen, Hal said, it feels like we’re starting our descent. We’ll be
on the ground in Iraq in no time.
XX
How Humboldt, Hal Burton, Kellogg, Brown, and Root
were all killed in Iraq
Once their plane had pulled into port and docked, the cabin burst into a buzz of primping, prepping, and other photoworthy preparations.
Brown (?) straightened his tie and extracted a mustard seed from his teeth, as Kellogg (?) fixed his hair and Root (?) prepared his
trousers for landing.
When the trio was properly primped and prepped, Hal opened the cabin door and a bright Ottoman sunsword sliced
through the cabin.
—Welcome to Baghdad, gentleman, Hal announced. Let’s make this quick.
Kellogg, Brown, and Root pranced into the sun, leaving Hal and Humboldt momentarily alone in the plane.
—After you, Mr. CEO, Hal said, swinging his arm in a polite gesture towards the open door.
—No, I insist. After you, Humboldt replied, remembering his manners.
—Thank you.
As soon as he left the cool sanctuary of their private jet, Humboldt became aware of why Sinbad the Scribbler had not titled
his memoir Arabian Days. The inferno was so hot that it almost physically assaulted Humboldt, pushing him backwards. Who
knew that heat could be so hot? “Scorching,” “roasting,” “baking”—none of these words even came close to describing the sensation
Humboldt felt as he trailed behind his four coworkers. And when he wasn’t thinking about the heat, Humboldt was struggling
with the glare. How close to the sun were they? Were they swimming upon its surface? “Squinting,” “straining,” and “blinking” were
about as useless as “scorching,” “roasting,” and “baking.” The Arabic language, Humboldt decided, must have one thousand and
one words to describe “squint” and another thousand and one for “scorch.”
Humboldt was struggling with the glare so much that he narrowly avoided colliding with Hal’s stationary backside. The
75
group had stopped in what would have been the shadow of a large building
had the blazing sun not been positioned directly overhead.
—I thought we were scheduled for a rubble photo-op, said Root (?).
—Me too, seconded Brown (?).
—Who handled the logistics for this trip? inquired Kellogg (?).
—We did, answered Hal.
—But if this refinery hasn’t been destroyed yet, that means…
“A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened Before Kellogg (?) could complete his sentence, a screaming came
before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.” across the sky. It had happened before, but there was nothing to compare it to
—Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow
now. The hot got hotter, as the glare grew greater. Sound and fury engulfed
them, as the furious inferno exploded in anger.
KaBOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!
—Humboldt?
Humboldt heard the inferno softly whispering his name.
—Humboldt?
The act of opening his eyes was excruciating.
—Humboldt?
As his eyes peeled open, Humboldt became aware that he was lying on
the ground. Smoke filled the sky. A heavy weight lay in his lap. It was Hal.
—Humboldt?
—Yes, Hal? Humboldt whispered back.
—Promise me that you’ll go to Connecticut and tell my wife that I love
her.
—Okay, Hal. I promise.
—And promise me that you’ll tell my new girlfriend that I love her. I
met her last week at The Swindler Tavern. Her name is…
Before Hal could continue, he drifted off into the deepsleep of death.
For a brief moment, Humboldt felt a flare of pity, but then he remembered
that Hal had lived a long life and he had died doing what he loved best:
profiteering off keeping the war’s peace. Instead of pity, Humboldt actually
felt jealous. Hal was now safe from glare and heat.
Why be unhappy, Humboldt thought. A man who doesn’t exist can’t be
unhappy. Being dead was just like never having been born. Humboldt smiled
at this thought, as he laid his bloody head back upon the bloody pavement and
“Since death prevents this, and forbids
waited for deathless death to sweep his life away.
existence to him who might incur discomfort,
know that there’s nothing for us to fear in death,
that a man who doesn’t exist can’t be unhappy,
that for him it’s just as if he’d never been born,
once deathless death has taken his life away”
—Lucretius, De Rerum Natura
XXI
How Humboldt died and what his impressions were of death
“Is this nothing?
Why then the world and all that’s in’t, is nothing,
The covering sky is nothing, Bohemia nothing,
My wife is nothing, nor nothing have these nothings,
If this be nothing.”
—Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale
Lucretius called the unexpected, unpredictable
movement of matter a clinamen or “swerve.”
So, this is nothing. The world and all that’s in it: nothing. Thoughts: nothing. Winesburg: nothing. Soybeans: nothing, nor nothing
have these nothings, if this be…but wait, Shakespeare: nothing.
Nothingness gathered and scattered Humboldt’s mindlessness. Nothingness wasn’t darkness, because darkness was
something. And nothingness wasn’t night, because night was also something. And nothingness couldn’t be described in words,
because words were something. Nothingness was [void].
As Humboldt stared into [void], he saw millions and millions of tiny soybeans all traveling downward, like rainfall. These
soymillions were descending in a straight, orderly path of decay. Here today, tomorrow decay. The sight reminded Humboldt of
a gigantic, cosmic beaded curtain.
But as he watched, one soybean wobbled.
(Why did it wobble? No one knows. Why did the others not wobble?)
This wobble exhibited no epic proportions, no tragic dimensions. It was really no bigger than a chinaman’s sneeze.
AAAHHHH CHUWWW!
But with this sneeze, everything changed. The wobbler struck its neighbor and drove it from its downward path. This
neighbor struck another and another and another; this continued until the universe, instead of resembling a cosmic beaded
curtain, became a raging whirlpool tornado of soybeans bouncing off, into, and against each other. Some clung, some sprung
back. Some moved now one way, now another. Soybeans sundered in every direction. It was motion, gloriously errant motion
in the immensity of space! And this motion never stopped. How could it? To rest was to be struck afresh. All was eternal
fusion and dissolution. And amidst the flowaway and decay, the sum of all things was perpetually renewed. Old became new;
77
“If you can hold on to and repeat to yourself the
simplest fact of existence- atoms and void and
nothing else, atoms and void and nothing else, atoms
and void and nothing else- your life will change….
The Spanish-born Harvard philosopher George
Santayana called this idea—the ceaseless mutation
of forms composed of indestructible substances—
“the greatest thought that mankind has ever hit
upon.” —Stephen Greenblatt, The Swerve: How the
World Became Modern
“Man is indeed an object miraculously vain, various
and wavering” —Montaigne, Essays
Montaigne was an obsessive reader of
Lucretius, as is apparent from the fact that his
Essays include over one hundred references to De
Rerum Natura. (Shesh! And I thought I was a heavy
borrower!) In December 1989, a man named Paul
Quarrie bought a copy of De Rerum Natura from
Hesketh and Ward, the Antiquarian Booksellers
of London. A librarian at Eton College, Quarrie
inspected the book and noticed that Montaigne’s
signature was written underneath another larger
signature on the book’s cover. Quarrie contacted M.A.
Screech, who was then a Senior Research Fellow
at All Souls College in Oxford. Their collaboration
resulted in the publication of Montaigne’s Annotated
Copy of Lucretius: A Transcription and Study of the
Manuscript, Notes, and Pen-marks.
death became renewal. Driven by the collusion of confusion and collision,
these tiny soybeans were sentenced to an eternal existence of meaningless
wandering within the [void] profound.
But wait, we wobble too. Driven by the collusion of confusion and
collision, we too are sentenced to an eternal existence of meaningless
wandering within the [void] profound. Our errant motion never stops. We
cling and spring back. These soybeans are not simply soybeans; these soybeans
are us! This endless combining, recombining, and decombining of soybeans
sculpts us. Miraculously vain, various, and wavering, humans are a hill of
soybeans. Every man diminished! Every man replenished! The bound man
eternally rebounds, as the rebounding man is eternally bound. To live is an
astonishing thing. Listen again: the immensity of space, the [void] profound,
the perpetual particle, the collisions, the collusions, the confusion, the rigid
entanglement, and finally: the radiant release.
And all because of one little wobble, one tiny chinaman’s sneeze.
—AAAHHHH CHUWWW!
Humboldt’s eyes shot open.
Did I just sneeze? he thought.
Do the dead sneeze?
XXII
How Humboldt made the acquaintance of Marty
“[T]he extraordinary sentence “I am dead” is by no means the incredible statement,
but much more radically, the impossible utterance.” —Roland Barthes on Edgar
Allen Poe, as quoted in Jacques Derrida’s “The Deaths of Roland Barthes” in
Psyche: The Inventions of the Other (Volume 1)
Humboldt was somewhere, but he didn’t know where. His eyes were open. He was lying on something, but he didn’t know what. He
got up. He listened. All was silent. He looked for someone, but he didn’t know who. All was empty.
Standing there alone, surrounded by silence, Humboldt felt a terrible longing to be near other people. He walked through a
portal, down a deserted hallway, and up a flight of stairs; he didn’t know where he was going. On the next floor, he found more
doors, portals, and hallways, but still no people.
Who built so many hallways for so few people? Humboldt wondered.
And then he saw it: another hill of soybeans.
This hill was sitting quietly by himself on a bench at the far end of the hallway. Humboldt approached the bench in
silence. He sat down in silence. Neither hill of soybeans spoke nor even looked at each other; they both just stared straightahead.
Humboldt’s longing for human nearness began to dissipate, even though he couldn’t think of a single word to say. For a long time,
that’s how they sat: two silent beanhills.
Finally, Humboldt broke the silence with an impossible utterance.
—I am dead.
This extraordinary sentence was followed by more silence.
Turning his head slightly, Humboldt directly addressed his beanhill benchmate, this time repeating the utterance in the form
of a question.
—I am dead?
—Yes, you are dead, the stranger said.
79
In college, I read Hannah Arendt’s Eichmann in
Jerusalem. At the time, I found the book fascinating;
but over the years, I’ve become very weary of
Arendt’s perspective.
“Dunbar was lying motionless on his back again with
his eyes staring up at the ceiling like a doll’s. He was
working hard at increasing his life span. He did it by
cultivating boredom.” —Joseph Heller, Catch-22
There are two unforgettable scenes in
Catch-22. The first is when Yossarian reads the “grim
secret” of life (“man is matter”) in Snowden’s entrails.
The other is the image of Dunbar lying on his back
in a hospital bed attempting to prolong his life by
cultivating boredom. According to this theory, since
the most boring moments of life seem to last forever,
if you structure your life so that it consists of nothing
but boring moments, it’ll feel like you’re living forever.
—And this, Humboldt said looking around, is hell?
—Yes.
—I never expected hell to have such bureaucratic architecture.
—Evil is banal, why shouldn’t hell be bureaucratic?
—Are you sure this isn’t heaven?
—Yes.
—How can you be sure?
—Because heaven doesn’t exist.
—But hell does?
—Yes.
—How can you be sure?
—I’m here, aren’t I?
—But how, Humboldt continued, can one exist and not the other?
—Because there is no other here but here and here is hell.
—But what about there?
—Where?
—There, Humboldt said. If here is hell, can’t there be heaven?
—No, the stranger replied. Because once you get there, there becomes
here and here is hell.
—But why should we stay here?
—Because there is no other place but here.
Humboldt thought for a moment about the stranger’s idea of there
becoming here and here being hell.
—Well, he finally said. I’m not going to stay here.
—Where are you going to go?
—Where? There. Anywhere! Anythere!
—I think you’ll find that once you get there, anywhere becomes here.
—That’s what I used to think, Humboldt said. When I lived in Ohio, I
thought all was Ohio. But then I left.
—And when you left, did you not discover that all is Ohio? Do you not
think at this very moment there are two people sitting on a bench in a deserted
hallway in Ohio discussing the hell that surrounds them?
Humboldt fell quiet again, pondering the idea that all is Ohio and Ohio
is hell.
—Who are you? Humboldt finally asked.
—I’m just another helldweller.
—And what are you doing sitting alone in this deserted hallway?
—I’m waiting on my Superior.
—You are?
—No, answered the stranger. I’m on STAYWOL.
—STAYWOL?
—A solider can’t be absent without leave, the stranger explained, if he’s
not absent. So I’m always present. I never leave these hallways. Every day, I
find a different hallway and sit there for as long as I can.
—But you can’t stay STAYWOL forever, can you?
—One day, my commitment to this place will be over and I’ll be free to
leave.
—But don’t people see you? Humboldt asked. Don’t they ever question
what you’re doing?
—Sure, all the time, replied the stranger. And I always say the same
thing: “I’m waiting on my Superior.” No one has ever questioned that answer,
except you. Who are you?
Humboldt reached into his pocket and was surprised to discover that
he was still in possession of his business cards. Why would I need these in hell,
he thought, as he slid one off the stack and passed it to his fellow helldweller,
who scrutinized it quickly.
—So you’re a war profiteer? Another vulture?
—Not really, Humboldt replied. I’m just a pig. And we don’t really profit
from war itself, we profit more from the noncompetitive no-bid governmental
contracts that come from war.
—And isn’t that illegal?
—Isn’t what illegal? Humboldt asked. War?
—Yes, replied the stranger.
—Nothing’s illegal in hell, right?
—Should a war profiteer be admitting such things to a stranger?
—It’s okay, Humboldt assured his benchmate. I’m the Chief of
Everything. Plus, I’m dead.
—You’re not really dead, said the stranger.
—I’m not?
—No, you’re just metaphorically dead.
—Is that why I still have my business cards?
—Yes.
—And what does it mean to be metaphorically dead?
This is a Mumia Abu-Jamal quote about America’s —It means that you’ve allowed yourself to support a cause that, in your
Criminal Justice system.
heart, you know is wrong. When that happens, you die. Every day afresh: a
new death. Death becomes you.
The thought of becoming death shook Humboldt out of his catatonic
state.
—If I’m not dead, he exclaimed, why should I stay here in hell? I have
a private jet!
—If you have a private jet, you can leave whenever you want, said the
stranger.
—But what about you?
—I don’t have a private jet. I can’t leave until my tour is over.
—Yes you can, Humboldt said in his most authoritative voice. I’m the
Chief of Everything. Go find your Superior. Give him my business card and
tell him that I’ve hired you as my intern.
—You would do that for me?
—Yes, Humboldt said. Yes, I would! What’s your name?
—Martin, replied the stranger. But everyone calls me Marty.
—Okay. Marty, meet me on the tarmac as soon as you can. We’ll depart
for some new hell in 0200.
XXIII
’ story,
Marty’s
with a lengthy discussion on bookwormish criminality
This is a Strom Thurmond joke.
—My father abused me, Marty began. And my mother abused me. And my sisters and brothers all abused me too. When I went to
church, my priest abused me. When I went to school, my teachers abused me. People said “have friends,” so I had friends and
they abused me. People said “play sports,” so I played sports and my coaches abused me. People said “have a girlfriend,” so I had
a girlfriend and she abused me; in fact, she abused me more than everyone else combined. The birth of tragedy, for me, was the
tragedy of birth. And as I was being abused, I kept hearing the same refrain: It’s for your own good.
Humboldt and Marty were comfortably seated in Humboldt’s private jet, speeding away from the death and destruction
of the Ottoman Empire. Because their departure had been so abrupt, neither traveler had time to change his clothes; Marty was
still wearing his military fatigues, while Humboldt was still in his bloodstained suit. Although his ears were ringing and his head
still stung, Humboldt was happy to be retracing his prior flight path. He was also happy to have cleared the cabin of muckwater
scotch and cigar smoke, not to mention Hal, Kellogg, Brown, and Root. Humboldt found Marty to be a much more enjoyable
travel companion. Early in the flight, Humboldt had explained to Marty his rapid rise to the position of Chief of Everything.
He had also told him about having eaten from the casserole of homeschooling, being banished to college, the Power of Positive
Thinking, and working for Senator Dick. He decided not to mention Senator Dick’s death, since he was unaware if anyone had
discovered the greedy Senator’s rotting corpse yet, and he knew that it was not uncommon for a Senator to maintain his seat
for years after having died. Humboldt’s honesty had created an atmosphere of calm personal equality within the cabin. Without
pomp or deception, Humboldt and Marty found themselves speaking freely, openly, and scotchlessly. Humboldt was enjoying
their conversation so much that he had completely forgotten that he was still covered in blood.
—And why? Marty continued. What was the cause of all this abuse? I’ll tell you: the invention of the novel. Why was
82
In The Brothers Karamazov, a memorable scene
involving Mitya and Alyosha occurs in a deserted
gazebo.
Normally, I try to avoid punning on other author’s
name: it just feels cheap. But after forcing me to
endure names like Darby Suckling, Chick Counterfly,
and Revd Cherrycoke, I think I can be forgiven for
the above pun. Plus, I like to think that Shakespeare,
who possessed a great will when it came to name
puns, would’ve been impressed by this pun.
For the entire length of time that it took me to write
this novel, a borrowed copy of Miranda July’s No
One Belongs Here More Than You: Stories sat unread
on my wife’s nightstand. The book languished there
so long that, whenever I noticed it sitting unloved
among the books that I knew would never be read, I
couldn’t help humorously thinking: No One Belongs
There More Than You.
“In short, he became so absorbed in his books that
he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his
days from dawn to dark, pouring over them; and
what with little sleep and much reading his brains got
so dry that he lost his wits.” —Miguel de Cervantes,
Don Quixote
the goddamn thing ever invented if no one was ever going to be allowed the
time to read it? Why was I ever taught how to read in the first place if I was
never intended to do so? From the moment I learned to read, my life became
a perpetual struggle to stop me from reading. Every hour of every day, I
was told to go somewhere: to church, to school, to practice, to work, to the
movies, to bed. And once I was there, I was told to do something: confession,
homework, freethrows, jobs, cunnilingus, sleep. After I had gone everywhere
and done everything, there was never any time left to read. I didn’t want to go
and do; I just wanted to read. But day after day, my reading habits resulted in
abuse from the goers and the doers. Is wanting to read so wrong?
—No, Humboldt said, shaking his head.
—I agree, but the goers and doers didn’t. They treated me like a
criminal. I had to steal minutes from the day to read. I would creep into the
lavatory with Ulysses or hide in a deserted gazebo with The Brothers Karamazov.
I was forced to go in search of stolen time to read In Search of Lost Time. I
would pinch hours from my lunchbreaks; every day, I would pinch on and this
was how I read Against the Day.
Inevitably, like any criminal, Marty continued, I was caught. My
precious moments were snatched from me, my paradise lost. Whenever
people caught me, they abused me. In the shitter again with Joyce? Reading Tolstoy
instead of doing your homework? Homework? Busywork! My abusers accused
me of terrible things. They called me names like “lazy” and “selfish,” but I am
neither; I read voraciously and unself myself in the most selfless prose. My
abusers accused me of “wasting my life” and said that I would “never amount
to anything.” But what did I care about such things? All I wanted to do was
place my eyes upon the page and feel the weight of words upon my mind.
Doesn’t a criminal have the right to remain silent? Where were my
Miranda Rights to read Miranda July? My abusers and accusers hounded
me as if I was the Baskerville bitch. My home became a halfway house, and
my life a kind of house arrest. Branded a repeat offender, the situation grew
intolerable. Finally, I was summoned to appear before a guidance counselor. I
begged for mercy, but she still sentenced me to college.
—Not college, I pleaded. Anywhere but college! I don’t want to go to
college! I don’t want to do busywork! All I want to do is read!
—But that’s what you’ll do in college, my guidancegiver counseled me.
You’ll be required to read lots of books.
—But I don’t want to be required to read. I don’t want to read textbooks,
trite short stories, pompous student editorials in silly school newspapers, or
miles of meaningless academic prose. I just want to read what I want to read.
If I go to college, my professors will abuse me. They’ll force me to read what
they want me to read. My days will be filled with busywork, my nights with
workstudy. I’ll be forced to do the hard labor of homework from morning to
night and from night to morning, without interruption. There’ll be no time
left to read! And after doing so much busywork, the moisture of my brain will
be so exhausted that I will lose my wits.
—You can read on the weekends, my guidancegiver said.
—The weekends? The weekends! The weekends are not enough! Do
you know how many weekends it would take to read Don Quixote?
—And you’ll have your summers free.
—My summers? The summer is not enough! I could maybe read
Juneteenth and July, July in one summer, but nothing more.
—You can be an English major!
—Anything but THAT, I cried inconsolably. English majors are fed
short stories for every meal! With that kind of diet, my love of reading will
surely die of starvation.
But alas, what did she say? That infernal sentence that, to me, sounds
like a gavelpound: It’s for your own good. My sentence was pronounced: four
years. And on top of this sentence, I was fined thousands of dollars to be paid
in tuition. When I went home and told my father what had happened, he said,
“It’s for your own good.” But when I told him about the fine, he abused me.
I was told that our family didn’t have that kind of money to spend on a lazy
ne’er-do-well like myself. And then another sentence was passed: the military.
The military, he said, would pay my fine. He said once I fulfilled my military
commitment, my college commitment, my work commitment, and my family
commitment, I would be free to spend the rest of my life reading. If I’m lucky,
I’ll be able to read As I Lay Dying as I lay dying. And all for my own good.
Good: I have grown to detest that word. Good is a godword; it can be used by
anyone to justify anything.
—But, Humboldt interrupted, were you abused in the military?
—Yes, Marty answered. The generals abused me. The drill sergeants
abused me. The supply officers abused me. Even the privates abused my
privates. But no one ever abused me as much as my girlfriend. In fact, I was
much better abused in the military than anywhere else because no one in the
military ever said that they were abusing me for my own good. At least the
military had the decency to admit that I was being abused for someone else’s
good. But I had less time to read in the military than ever before, so I started
going STAYWOL.
—But you weren’t reading when I saw you, Humboldt said.
—Yes I was, corrected Marty. I was reading My Life & Hard Times. I hid
My Life & Hard Times by James Thurber is one of
only two books that I absolutely recommend to the book inside my uniform when I saw you approaching.
everyone. John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of
Dunces is the other.
XXIV
How Humboldt and Marty approached the coast of New York,
philosophizing all the way
“City character is blurred until every place becomes more like every other place, all
adding up to Noplace” —Jane Jacobs, Death and Life of Great American Cities
“If you prick us, do we not bleed?” —Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice
—There is something I want to ask you, Humboldt said as he and Marty continued their voyage together. Back in Iraq, you said “Ohio
is Hell.” You seem to know Ohio pretty well.
—Yes, answered Marty.
—And you also said “All is Ohio.”
—Yes.
—So was Iraq really Ohio?
—Yes, answered Marty.
—But how can anywhere be Ohio but Ohio?
—You ask about anywhere, but what about anyhere? Anyhere is hell. Ohio is hell. Thus anyhere is Ohio.
—And what about anythere?
—Anythere becomes anyhere, once you get there. Thus anythere is also Ohio. Anyplace is noplace but allplace.
—Anythere is Ohio, Humboldt repeated thoughtfully.
—Iraq was hell, Marty continued. Ohio is hell. Thus Iraq was Ohio.
—I guess that’s logical, Humboldt responded. But surely, the people are different.
—Were they? What wall separates Ohio from all? Walls don’t exist in nature; we build them. And then we spend the rest of
our lives dusting them with a featherduster while bemoaning our isolation. What is an Ohioan? Prick us, do we not bleed? Place
a plate of food in front of us, do we not feed?
—Us? Humboldt asked. Do you mean that you’re from Ohio?
85
Schwarzkommando is the name of the group of
Africans from Südwest, led by Oberst Enzian, who
are attempting to assemble a V-2 rocket in Thomas
Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow.
“For greed and power, nothing is ever enough.”
—Ralph Nader, Only the Super-Rich Can Save Us!
—Yes, Marty said. I’m from Ohio.
—So that’s how you know so much about Ohio! What part of Ohio are
you from?
—I’m not from the city by the sea or the rivercity; I’m from the great
autotropolis on the flatplain.
—I’ve heard of that place, Humboldt mused politely.
—That city was a hell to which I can never return. I was banished
because I refused to enlist in their army.
—Their army? Humboldt asked. But I thought you did enlist in the
army.
—In the American army, yes, Marty replied. But I refused to enlist in
the automotive army.
—The automotive army?
—Yes. The automotive army is more dangerous than any dictator,
more murderous than any mafia. It rules the region. Its minions kill, maim,
and torture with reckless abandon. Only stoplights can stop them; only
noparking signs are stupid enough to oppose them. The automotive army, and
their sportscarzkommandoes, controls everything: the police force, the justice
system, even the jails. And like the severed pinkie fingers of the yakuza, you
can always identify a sportscarzkommando by his automotive appetite. A
sportscarzkommando is a voracious consumer. His roar is MORE! MORE
roads! MORE fuel! MORE cars! MORE…MORE! Anyone interested in the
quietude of a contemplative life cannot live amongst such loud, insatiable
animals. It was only a matter of time before the automotive army came for
me. If given the chance, they would drag me from my bed, tie an automobile
around my ankles, and drop me into a highway. I would rather experience the
horrors of war than endure the roars of MORE!
Although Humboldt found some (if not all) of Marty’s language
confusing, he identified with what he was saying. Often while growing up in
Winesburg, Humboldt had been amazed at how people treated their cars like
large, clunky chrome children. They doted on them: washing, cleaning, and
feeding them constantly. And just like proud parents, these (what had Marty
called them?) sportscarzkommandoes swelled with self-importance when
boasting of their chrome child’s achievements, such as high scores on a fuel
efficiency reportcard or making the Honor Roll of Car & Driver’s Four-Star
Ratings.
—I’m from Ohio too, Humboldt admitted. And I too have been forever
banished.
—So we are both banished from the land of our birth.
—Yes, Humboldt replied forlornly.
—I think we’re both lucky, Marty said. We should be praising our good
fortune.
—I might agree, Humboldt said, if it were not for the fact that the most
beautiful woman on earth, my forever indebted wife, is still in Ohio.
—What? Has she not abused you?
—No, admitted Humboldt. Not once.
—Has she not betrayed you?
—No, admitted Humboldt. Not once.
Humboldt then explained to Marty how he had met the beautiful
Elle le Noise and how she had asked him to help her find a way to make
a lot of money fast. He also explained how he had reconnected with her in
Washannesburg, only to lose her again, but not before she had pledged to be
forever indebted to him for a second time.
—And now, Humboldt said sadly, I fear that I will never see my
beautiful forever indebted wife again.
—Again, I think you’re lucky, replied Marty.
—Lucky? I am surely one of the most miserable and misfortunate
creatures on earth! How can you say that I am lucky?
—She’s a Molly, replied Marty. An Aldonza.
—An Alonzo?
I first encountered Michelet’s quote “woman is a
religion” in Ulysses Annotated: Notes for James
Joyce’s Ulysses by Don Gifford with Robert J.
Seidman.
This imagery is from Caravaggio’s Madonna di
Loreto.
“Stendhal, psychologist of passion, charmingly
emphasizes that everything in love that is not
sickness is vanity.” —Harold Bloom, Genius: A
Mosaic of One Hundred Exemplary Creative Minds
Shakespeare was fascinated by mirror-image words
and letters. According to Helen Vendler’s The Art
of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, his favorite letter in the
alphabet was “w.” He also loved near mirror-image
words, especially when they used his favorite letter.
An example of such a word is “willow” and, as it was
commonly spelled in Elizabethan printing, “widdow.”
—Beauty is a bruise and a woman knows exactly where to poke.
Women are cruel and abusive creatures. They are Mademoiselle Machiavels:
manipulative and untrustworthy. Man may be the pope, but woman is the
Protestant Reformation. A man can protest all he wants; but in the end, he
must reform. And what is a man to a woman’s eye? A fly! She allows him
to buzz around her. She might even allow him to land on her and rub his
greedylegs together. But sooner or later, she will surely swat at him. Once
swatted, another fly will be allowed to orbit her aura. Buzz, rub, SWAT! That is
the lover’s sadsong.
—Well, Humboldt grumbled. You’ve never met Elle.
—No, replied Marty. But what’s the use? I apologize if I’ve insulted
you. A man in love delights in his own loveblindness. Woman is a religion and
her lover a weary pilgrim with soiled soles and unclean knees. If you promise
not to abuse me, I’ll promise not to abuse your pilgrimage.
Humboldt readily renounced his grumblings and both men promised
not to abuse the other.
—And now, Marty said, subtly changing the subject, we have spoken
of love, hell, and Ohio. Only a single question remains. Your squire must
inquire: what is to be our next destination?
—Connecticut, answered Humboldt. I promised a friend who died in
my arms that I would visit his wife and tell her that he loved her.
—AH HA! Marty exclaimed triumphantly. Here’s a chance to test my
theories on love! Mark the wealthy widow! Nothing shows a woman’s true
character like the fear of being alone. Women cannot endure even the slightest
smell of loneliness. When a wench catches a whiff of the lonelystench, she
will cling to any man like he was Queequeg’s coffin. Mark the grieving widow,
I say! If I am wrong, I’ll renounce all that I have said of love. I will renounce
the opinion that love is nothing more than abusive fudge covered in abrasive
chocolate. I will no longer quote Schopenhauer’s belief that marriage is
like groping for a snake in a sack full of eels, nor will I quote Stendhal’s
charming quip that everything in love that is not sickness is vanity. Mark the
grieving widow like Shakespeare marked the word itself! If she is virtuous,
pick any woman on the street and I will kneel before her, abase myself, and
beg forgiveness.
—And if you’re right? Humboldt asked.
An assured smile slowly sauntered across Marty’s face.
—If she is not virtuous, you must kneel before what I love; you must
buy me a book.
—What is it, Humboldt asked, that makes you love books so much?
—Books wound me, Marty replied. They enrage me. They even bring
me to tears. But they never abuse me. When abuse becomes reality, the only
balm is unreality. When life becomes intolerable, literature offers a new life.
—But don’t you get bored?
—Yes, Mary replied. I get bored with life.
—No, Humboldt corrected. I mean, don’t you ever get bored reading?
Don’t you get lonely?
—Yes. I find life lonely. I find life full of dull characters who spout
pedantic thoughtbubbles and behave like caricatures. Do such caricatures
have presence? Perhaps, for a short while; but when they leave us, do they not
also leave our consciousness? Take, for example, your beloved Mademoiselle
le Noise. At this very moment, can you convince me that she exists any more
than Lady Macbeth? Without presence, aren’t they both simply characters of
the imagination?
—Lady Macbeth? Wait, wasn’t she a murderer? Isn’t that why she had
to bleach her socks?
—No. She was the cause of a murder. But what I was saying, Marty
continued, is that when presence is gone, all that remains is substance. Can a
literary character lack substance? Yes. Can a real person? Yes, most definitely.
So who’s to say that one is more real than another?
—So is that what you love about books? Their substance?
“This little essay is a great declaration of war; and
regarding the sounding out of idols, this time they
are not just idols of the age, but eternal idols, which
are here touched with a hammer as with a tuning
fork.” —Friedrich Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols
I love making Nietzsche mustache jokes.
Precisely determining Nietzsche’s nationality has
always been a notoriously slippery endeavor. He was
born in the small village of Röcken, which is near
Leipzig. At the time of his birth, Germany had not
yet been unified into a nation-state. Since Röcken
was in the Prussian Province of Saxony, Nietzsche
was born a Prussian citizen. Before accepting his
professorship at the University of Basel, Nietzsche
renounced his Prussian citizenship. This renunciation
left Nietzsche stateless. Later in life, Nietzsche
apparently decided to invent his own imaginary
homeland. In Ecce Homo, he announced, “I am a
pure-blooded Polish nobleman, without a single
drop of bad blood, certainly not German blood.”
“To unname the precursor while earning one’s
own name is the quest of strong or severe poets.”
—Harold Bloom, The Anatomy of Influence: Literature
as a Way of Life
Back in 2012, if you were employed within
the field of publishing in any capacity (literary agent,
small press, university press, etc.) chances are that
you received a query letter that began: “If literary
influence is the struggle to unname a precursor while
earning one’s own name, as Harold Bloom theorizes
in The Anatomy of Influence, my literary agon is most
clearly with Voltaire…”
“Nietzsche uses very precise new terms for very
precise new concepts.” —Gilles Deleuze, Nietzsche
& Philosophy
—Yes, Marty replied. Characters gain substance by being substantially
abused. Just think of Don Quixote, Poldy, Mitya, or the innocent ingénue
Candide. And that’s to say nothing of the abuse that authors often endure.
Shakespeare, Cervantes, Joyce, Nietzsche: the list is endless.
Marty’s desire for substantial reading reminded Humboldt of his own
desire for substantial thinking. Was it possible that Marty thought about books
as much as he thought about thoughts?
—I would like to talk literature with you, Humboldt replied, but I’m
afraid I don’t know how. All I learned at college was how to shout out the first
thing that pops into my head whenever someone mentions a book.
—That’s okay, Marty responded kindly. I’m used to that.
—So, who was Candide?
—He’s the protagonist of a famous satire.
—O right, Humboldt said. Call me Candide.
—No, Marty corrected, that was Ishmael. Candide is the main character
in a satire written by Voltaire.
—O right. Voltaire, the parrot.
—No, that was Flaubert.
—Where?
—France.
—O right. The Tale of Twin Cities.
—No, Marty corrected, that was Garrison Keiller. You don’t read
much, do you?
—No, replied Humboldt. I read a few pages of Winesburg, Ohio once,
but that’s about it. But I do remember a few things about Fred Nietzsche that
I learned in 8th grade. Wasn’t he a part-time piano tuner, who had a mustache
the size of Germany?
—Technically Prussia, Marty corrected.
—Have you read much Fred Nietzsche?
—Yes, Marty replied. He is a precursor that I struggle to unname. It
was Nietzsche who taught me that new words are needed for new ideas.
—A book full of new words? Who would ever want to read something
like THAT? Humboldt cried. I think I’d rather join the army!
XXV
What happened to Humboldt and Marty
upon arriving in New York City
Idlewild was the original name of John F. Kennedy International Airport.
My first apartment in Brooklyn was on Grand Street between Bedford and
Berry. From out of my bedroom window, I could watch one of my neighbors
train pigeons from the roof of his building on South 2nd Street. Watching
someone train pigeons can be quiet beautiful: it always reminded me of the
cover of Wilco’s Sky Blue Sky album. But regardless of how beautiful it was,
I could never help thinking, ‘Wow, that’s gotta be a lot of poop!’
I wonder which of these low economic housing developments is Connecticut? Humboldt thought as he stared wildeyed out his window
during their descent into Idlewild Airport. He was amazed at how far the city’s concrete sprawl spread. Huge concrete crops
stretched for miles. From his vantage point, all Humboldt could see of these crops were their ugly square tops. And what was
strewn all over these rooftops? Humboldt peered intently out his window.
Chicken coops?
Humboldt couldn’t believe his eyes! Who was raising chickens in such an unforgiving environment? What were they fed:
concretefeed? And where did they graze: in the gutter?
As the passing rooftops drew steadily closer, Humboldt realized his mistake. These were not chickencoops; they were
pigeoncoops! Over and over again, he saw pigeoncoops covered in the graffiti of pigeonpoop.
Humboldt was in awe of the city’s BIGness. No, its vastness. No, its peopleness. The city was a big, vast peoplefarm.
Nooo, its pigeonness! The city was a big, vast pigeonfarm! New York City: the peoplepigeoncity. As Humboldt watched, the city
transformed itself into a gigantic concrete birdcage full of peoplepigeons. These strange creatures spent their days foraging for
food and desirable reproductive qualities, while continually defecating on each other. At night, these peoplepigeons were kept
in tiny cages that were geometrically stacked on top of each other. Once a day, these cages would open, causing a swarm of
activity. Having been exquisitely trained, millions of peoplepigeons would fly in precise circles for hours. At first, this constant
circlingcirclingcircling appeared meaningless, but upon closer inspection, it became obvious that the meaninglessness of the
circlingcirclingcircling was the meaning. Once all the daily circlingcirclingcircling was complete, the exhausted peoplepigeons
would return to their cages for their evening rest. And the next day, the routine would be exactly the same: more cages, more
89
meaningless circlingcirclingcircling, and finally: rest unto rest.
Once their circling was complete and their private jet had achieved a
stationary position on their private runway, Marty turned to Humboldt.
—Do we have a plan for traveling to Connecticut?
—Yes, Humboldt replied confidently. We’ll just ask the first
friendlylooking person we meet how to get to Connecticut.
—And what if we never meet a friendlylooking person in this city?
Marty asked skeptically.
The plane’s door was flung open and the duo descended a flimsy, metal
staircase. Once on the ground, they began their measured march across the
tarmac towards the bright lights of a distant terminal. Humboldt was still
pondering the answer to Marty’s question when he heard an effeminate voice
calling his name from across the tarmac.
Humboldt! Monsieur Humboldt! Bonjour! Mr. Humboldt!...HELLOOO!
Scanning his surroundings, Humboldt noticed a small, fleshy flag
waving. Upon closer inspection, this flag wasn’t a flag at all; it was a limp
wrist holding a white handkerchief. Waving up and down, the limp wrist and
handkerchief looked like a fluttering pigeon that had just ingested an AlkaSeltzer tablet.
The limp wrist was attached to a portly gentleman, who was wearing
an illfitting paisley shirt. At first, Humboldt mistook the paisley pattern for
a large sagging, sweaty piece of luggage. As the waving continued, the figure
labored across the tarmac, dodging baggage handlers and miniature motorized
trains loaded with mounds of baggage.
Mr. Humboldt! Hello!.... HELLOOO!
The shouting and waving continued until the artful dodger stood no
more than a handshake away. Out of breath and sweaty, the dodger thrust a
greasy palm towards Humboldt in a gesture of friendship.
—Mr. Humboldt, I assume, the dodger said in choppy bursts. I didn’t
learn of your impending arrival until the very last minute. I was at a fundraising
gala for the City Opera and I had to tell my driver to drive fortissimo to get here
on time!
Humboldt felt the warm squeeze of an unwanted handshake.
—It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, the dodger said obediently.
After shaking Humboldt’s hand, the dodger paused to gently wipe
the sweat from his forehead using his white handkerchief. As he did so, his
demeanor turned from gaiety to melancholy.
—And words cannot convey the depth of sorrow my heart experienced
when I heard of Hal’s passing. He was a dear friend and a close personal
confident. We shared a strong unspoken bond. I say “unspoken” because we
only communicated via fax. But still, I miss his faxes dearly. Actually, the last
conversation we had via fax was about hiring you. You must have made quite
an impression on him.
—He made quite an impression on me too, Humboldt replied, thinking
of Hal’s deadweight in his lap.
—Heavens, the dodger exclaimed as gaiety returned to his fleshy cheeks.
I’ve completely forgotten my manners. Please forgive me. My name is Chester
K. Chesterton, but you can call me Chesté. That’s French for Chester. I’m the
company’s New York City cultural attaché. Perhaps, Hal told you about me?
—Well, I’m considered to be one of the most knowledgable cultural
connoisseurs in the entire city.
Chesté the attaché turned his attention to Marty.
—And you, sir? he asked with a slight note of disdain. Are you Mr.
Humboldt’s bodyguard?
—He’s my intern, Humboldt said firmly. And he’s not to be abused.
—I won’t dream of abusing him! Chesté said with forced enthusiasm.
But I’m afraid I’ve made reservations at Aurora, and they do have a strict
dresscode. Military fatigues are out of the question. Is there anything in your
luggage that might suffice? I would hate to have to relinquish our reservations.
According to Cicero’s Paradoxa, just before the
Roman army besieged the Greek city of Priene, the
residents of the town began fleeing with all their
worldly possessions. One man walked among the
crowds empty-handed: the philosopher Bias of
Priene. When stopped and asked why he wasn’t
carrying any of his belongings like everyone else, the
philosopher replied, “All that is mine I carry with me.”
This was the single most difficult quote to footnote.
I first encountered this quote when it was written
on the inside of one of the small notebooks that I
used to carry with me around New York City. But,
of course, that notebook is long gone. And googling
quotes from the Roman Empire is an arduous task.
I’m a devoted literary tourist. As such, I have a
strange preoccupation with locating exactly where
authors used to live. And before you ask: yes,
I’ve (almost) been to J.D. Salinger’s house in New
Hampshire. (Damn you, Yankee Speed-bumps!)
Betty Smith, the author of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,
used to live at 702 Grand Street, which is between
Graham and Manhattan Avenues. My first address in
Brooklyn was 154-56 Grand Street, which is on the
other side of the BQE from Smith’s old home.
—We don’t have any luggage, Humboldt said.
—You don’t have any luggage? No baggage? Chesté the attaché asked
with great amazement.
—All that is ours, Marty said, we carry with us.
—Good heavens! That’s simply remarkable, Chesté replied. I never tire
of learning tips from successful businessmen. O my word, there is blood on
your sleeve, sir! But not to worry! Not to worry! I’ll take care of everything.
There is a Paul Smith boutique shop just down the street from Aurora. I’ll make
a phone call and, with any luck, we’ll still be able to make our reservation.
A large cellphone was soon pressed to Chesté’s ear. As he spoke loudly
into it, Humboldt and Marty had a moment to converse between themselves.
—Quite an obsequious, obnoxious, oily fellow, don’t you think? Marty
asked.
—Yes, agreed Humboldt. But let’s just let him attaché us around town
until we can find Connecticut. How obnoxious can getting culturally attachéd
be?
Humboldt quickly learned the answer to this question. After getting a
new wardrobe at Paul Smith, the trio ventured down Grand Street to Aurora.
Even though the restaurant was only four blocks away, Chesté insisted that
they take the company car.
—You can never be too careful in Brooklyn, he explained.
—Yes, grumbled Marty. After all, these are the mean streets of Betty
Smith.
Aurora was not as pretentious as Humboldt expected and the restaurant
would have yielded an enjoyable evening had it not been for Chesté’s behavior.
—I come here every night, he explained breathlessly. The staff is like
family to me.
—You tip your family members? Marty grumbled.
But Chesté didn’t hear Marty’s grumblings, as he was already racing
across the restaurant to kiss every server, bartender, and busboy awkwardly
on both cheeks. After observing the revolting spectacle, both Humboldt and
Marty were reluctant to eat.
—Sergio! Sergio! So GOOD to see you again! Marco! Marco! I didn’t know
that you were scheduled to work tonight. José! José! Underlay! Underlay! Keep
the agua coming! It’s so GOOD to be amongst family again!
Becoming aware that Humboldt and Marty were frozen near the front
door, Chesté turned and gestured dramatically for them to join him at his
table.
—Marco makes the best Bombay Sapphire Martinis in town. Don’t you,
Marco? Bellissimo! Bellissimo! You just absolutely must try one! Or a Perfect
Manhattan! His Perfect Manhattans are absolutely to die for! We simply must
order one.
Wildly flapping his limp wrist above his head, Chesté began yelling
across the restaurant.
—Marco! Marco! Three Bombay Sapphire Martinis! I told them that you
make the best in town! And three Perfect Manhattans. No, make that six! Six
of each!
Turning his attention away from the bar, Chesté began gesturing wildly
towards the nearest waiter.
—Sergio! Sergio! Always so bellissimo to see you again. And you’ve
trimmed your beard. It looks bellissimo! Just bellissimo! Are there any specials
tonight? Of course there are! What a silly question for me to ask! You must
forgive my silliness and tell us the specials immediately. We’re just dying to
hear them! Quickly! Quickly!
Sergio opened his mouth to begin recounting the daily specials, but
Chesté continued his boorish booming.
—Sergio is the best waiter in town! And he does Spoken Word poetry
at a coffeeshop in the village on the second Wednesday of every month!
His poems are enchanting! Simply enchanting! They make me wish I knew
Italian. AH, but here he is! Sergio! Sergio! The SPECIALS!
This coinage does not belong to me; it came from
CCLaP’s Jason Pettus.
Satori is a Japanese term that translates into
enlightenment or awakening. In Harold Henderson’s
essay on Matsuo Bashō, which appears in An
Introduction to Haiku, satori is described as a
“realizing of reality.” Early in his career, Roland
Barthes connected the term to the study of
photography. In my Master’s Thesis, Slavery &
the Single Perspective: Nietzsche Perspectivism,
Propaganda, and the Photographic Plague, I declare,
“any attempt to understand photography is an
attempt to understand satori.”
I’m an avid New Yorker reader, and I’m very proud of
the fact that I don’t let my copies pile up. According
to Christian Lander’s Stuff White People Like,
subscribing to New Yorkers but not reading them is
the 114th determiner of being white. In the book, it
appears between Che Guevera and Non-American
News Sources. (Crap, I like both of those two things
too!) All of the cultural events that appear within this
and the next section were featured within The New
Yorker. As for my comments regarding the magazine
itself, all I can say is that I fear that I have shot mine
arrow over the house and hurt my favorite magazine.
Sergio began his culinary Spoken Word performance, with Chesté
interrupting him after every item.
—Their mozzarella di bufala is imported daily from Italy! So is their
burrata…. Of course, all of their pastas are handmade on the premises….
They only serve organic locally grown organically local produce…. Of course,
their meats are hormone and antibiotic free and their Italian wines are all
diodynamic.
Once Sergio disappeared into the kitchen with their lengthy order,
Chesté’s enthusiasm began to wane.
—Gentlemen, I must apologize, he said in his normal voice. You are
so stoic and calm and here I am all a-flutter. I’m sorry. Food is my passion! I
won’t deny it; I’m an Epicurean.
—An Epicurean? Marty asked with a raised eyebrow. Have you read
much Epicurus?
—I’ve read some of his columns in Gourmet Magazine.
—Epicurus, Marty replied coldly, only ate bread and water. On feast
days, he would request a pot of cheese.
—How delightful, exclaimed Chesté. I bet he requested the most
sumptuous pot of imported organic fior di latte!
—It sounds like you’re confusing Epicurus with Dom Deluise, Marty
grumbled. You might want to start describing yourself as Deluisional.
Seated between Marty and Chesté, Humboldt felt the flame of hate
burning brightly on both sides. As he looked down at his untouched Bombay
Sapphire Martini, he noticed an olive staring intently up at him like a
disembodied eyeball. As he stared back into the reddishgreen eyeball, satori
struck and he heard Hal’s voice.
We’re peacekeepers. As long as there’s a war going on, we’re at peace.
Humboldt raised his martini glass to his lips. Smiling towards Chesté,
he took a tiny sip. His face contorted violently, as a burning dingleberrysting
scorched his throat. The painful unpleasantness of the drink made scotch
seem like a cool, refreshing drink of water. When he had finished swallowing,
Humboldt was sure to rotate the hideous eyeball away from him.
—You’re right, he said once his face returned to normal. That has to be
the best martini in town.
—I knew you would love it! Chesté said joyously. I’ll order three more!
Humboldt spent the remainder of the meal endeavoring to keep the
war’s peace, which wasn’t easy. After the meal’s second course, sensing that
Marty was considering stabbing Chesté with a leftover bone from a half-eaten
braised pork rib, Humboldt defused the situation by asking Marty if he had
read much Betty Smith. As Marty explained his thoughts on A Tree Grows in
Brooklyn, Humboldt happily watched as Chesté grabbed the potential deadly
weapon and loudly slurped the marrow from the core of its deathbone.
But no man can keep the war’s peace forever. Finally, once the second
helpings of desserts had been cleared from the table, Marty’s anger boiled
over. The catalyst for this boilover was a smug, satiated question from Chesté’s
still moist lips.
—Is there anything else either of you gentlemen may desire?
—Yes, Marty snapped, your library card!
—My library card? Chesté responded. I’m afraid I don’t understand.
—You have a library card, I assume, Marty replied. Give it to me! I
refuse to endure another moment of your presence without a book!
—But, I don’t have a library card, Chesté sputtered out.
—You consider yourself one of the most culturally refined men in the
city and you don’t have a library card?
—No…I’m so busy, Chesté continued sputtering. I’m so busy being
cultural that I don’t have time to read. No, that’s not true. Every morning, I
make sure to read the headlines from The New York Post, but that’s about it.
—Unbelievable, Marty exclaimed in disgust.
Obviously feeling insulted, Chesté attempted to save face.
—But…but…wait…I do have a subscription to The New Yorker! HA!
The views and opinions expressed in this novel are
not necessary those of the author or his mother. Not
only is Jill Lepore one of my absolute favorite New
Yorker contributors, she’s also one of my mother’s.
Quite Enough of Calvin Trillin: Forty Years of Funny
Stuff is the title of Trillin’s 2012 collection of short
humor pieces.
Jeez, I love the title of this book.
So there’s proof. A subscription! To The New Yorker! I never read anything
from it; I just let the magazines pile up underneath my Ikea furniture. I find
that they make the most sophisticated piles of any magazines on the market!
No, that’s not true. Once last year, I read one-third of an article about some
obscure musician that no one ever listens to. And I remember one-third of
the author’s name: Something Something-Jones! And I was once tempted to
read an art review by Peter Schjelroalddahl. And I remember that a friend
once recommended that I read a history article by Jill Lebore. And I’m sure
that I’ve considered reading a Talk of the Town by Hendrik Hendrikberg, or
a profile by Ian Fleming, or the wood of James Prose. But not Calvin Trillin,
I’ve had quite enough of Calvin Trillin.
After taking a long drink from his umpteenth Bombay Sapphire
Martini, Chesté continued triumphantly.
—See! he exclaimed proudly. I am culturally refined! I have a
subscription! To The New Yorker! I love that magazine. It’s an institution, really.
And I’ve said nothing of the cartoons. I just adore those cartoons! They’re
like little cultural icons. The humor is so dignified and sophisticated. I still
remember the imagery from one of the cartoons that appeared recently; it was
a squealing seal over a bed. Hilarious! What an unforgettable seal! And what
an unforgettable list of writers: Thurber, White, Tilley, Washington Irving! I
just adore The New Yorker!
Continuing his peacekeeping mission, Humboldt took advantage of
Chesté becoming overcome by his passion for The New Yorker.
—If you don’t have a library card, I’m sure you can procure one by
tomorrow morning. Marty, what book would you like?
—Another Bullshit Night in Suck City.
XXVI
How Humboldt and Marty were further
culturally attached around New York City
Valhalla is the name of a town in Westchester County, New York.
Rheingold Beer was originally brewed near my old apartment in Bushwick.
The next morning, Chesté appeared in the lobby of Humboldt’s hotel, wearing a similar shirt emblazoned with a different paisley
luggage pattern. In one hand, he held a copy of Nick Flynn’s memoir; in the other, a pair of tickets. Once again, he was oily and
breathless.
—Great news! Great news! I’ve spoken with Henriette Burton. She’s in Hawaii until Friday. While we await her return, I’ve
taken the liberty of scheduling a full slate of cultural events. And I must say, there are some spectacular events taking place in the
city this week. Opera! Classical Music! Broadway! I’ve even booked us front row seats for a reading at a bookstore in Brooklyn,
Chesté said, smiling smugly at Marty.
Marty missed Chesté’s gesture of reconciliation, as he was already reading.
—But tonight, gentlemen, Chesté continued proudly. We travel to Valhalla!
—Is that in Connecticut? Humboldt inquired.
Although he may have mistakenly thought that Valhalla was in Connecticut, Humboldt was no fool when it came to opera.
Growing up in Winesburg, he had often heard people speak fondly of the Ohio Light Opera Company that performed every
summer in the nearby town of Wooster. And while he himself had never personally attended a performance, the stories he had
heard about pirates, butterflies, and promiscuous overweight men sounded enchanting.
But what was the difference between light opera and heavy opera? Like most Ohioans, Humboldt never knew. But after
taking his seat in the front row of Lincoln Center’s Metropolitan Opera House, the answer to this question became obvious: any
production that weighed less than forty-five tons was considered light opera.
Before the performance began, Chesté whispered a few explanatory words into Humboldt’s ear.
—The name of what we’re about to see is Das Rheingold. It’s the first installment of Richard Wagner’s masterwork: The Ring
Cycle. The action takes place in a brewery in Bushwick. I consider the piece to be an example of opera at its very best and I think
Joseph Goebbels would agree.
94
“Gotterdammerung, the final installment of Lepage’s
Ring, arrived in January, rounding out what must
be considered a historic achievement. Pound for
pound, ton for ton, it is the most witless and wasteful
production in modern operatic history.” —Alex Ross,
“Diminuendo” (The New Yorker, March 12, 2012)
While casting about in hopes of securing a book
jacket quote, I queried Harold Bloom. The following
day, I received a response. Having recently suffered
a broken rib, Bloom announced that he was “out of it
for a while.” Being the self-proclaimed “Bloomolatorin-Chief,” you can imagine just how thrilled I was to
receive this personal response.
Humboldt was tempted to relay Chesté’s whisperings to Marty, but
when he turned, he noticed that Marty had cleverly angled his book towards
the footlights and was diligently reading. Humboldt thought it was best not to
interrupt him.
—Behold the machine, Chesté continued whispering, as he pointed
towards the hulking array of oversized piano keys that covered the stage.
Those twenty-four moving planks undulate into the waters of the East River,
twist into a staircase, and evoke the fortress of Valhalla. Pound for pound, ton
for ton, that machine is the most inspired work of hydraulics in the history of
modern opera. Just think of what Verdi might have accomplished, if he had
only possessed a better working knowledge of fluid mechanics.
Humboldt nodded politely, although he felt confused. What did “fluid
mechanics” have to do with opera? Shouldn’t the knowledge of such things be
confined to knowing what combination of tea and honey best battled a sore
throat?
—The entire production, Chesté continued, cost sixteen million dollars!
And to think, it was almost derailed by the conductor’s spinal surgery.
—For sixteen million dollars, Marty grumbled, not lifting his eyes
from his book, you’d think someone could design some hydraulic planks that
undulated into a backbrace.
At first, Humboldt thought that spending sixteen million dollars on
a fancy staircase sounded like a tremendous waste of money, but then the
performance began. He was shocked at how talented “the machine” was.
Not only did it undulate and twist, it also knew how to sing! Its ever-present
mechanical whining added rich, atonal depth to the surrounding action. And
that was not all—the machine also knew how to play the snare drum! As it
sung and spun, “the machine” clanked out a persistent pulse that kept the
opera’s rhythm surging forward.
During intermission, Chesté noticed a friend standing alone across the
atrium. After waving his limp wrist in welcome, he hurried Humboldt across
the crowded space for an introduction.
—This is so exciting! Chesté began. Humboldt, I would like you to
meet my friend Harold. Harold is one of the most powerful literary agents
in the city. Harry, you have to hear Humboldt’s lifestory; it’s a guaranteed
blockbusting bestselling memoir.
—Really, Harry said with interest. I’ve had some success recently in
that genre.
—He’s just being polite, Chesté exclaimed. Success? He’s Wagner and
Barnes & Noble is his Bayreuth. Go ahead, Humboldt, just give him a brief
synopsis of your lifestory.
Even though he was still wondering why Wotan had offered his sisterin-law as payment to his building contractors, Humboldt briefly explained
the trajectory of his life. He explained how he had grown up on his father’s
farm, eaten from the casserole of homeschooling, attended college, fallen in
love, and worked for Senator Dick (R, Idaho). He also mentioned how he had
become the CEO of Hal Burton’s company. He concluded his narrative by
explaining how he had recently been killed and resurrected in Iraq.
As Humboldt unfurled his lifestory, he couldn’t help but notice Harold’s
eyes widening with alarming speed.
—Isn’t that a remarkable story, Chesté said once Humboldt had finished.
I mean, you’d have to be a pretty uncultured, unsophisticated Nibelung dwarf
not to want to publish a book like that!
—I agree, said Harold. Truly extraordinary! Any publisher would be
an idiot to turn down such a story! I’ll greenlight it tonight! We’ll have it on
shelves in a month! Promotional tour, bookclubs, front table at The Strand,
backcover blurb from Harold Bloom (rib health permitting), a glowing review
by Michiko in The New York Review of Books, it could all be finalized before the
curtain comes down! But I just have one question for you before we start: do
you have any pets?
Humboldt was confused.
In September 2011, Jill Abramson became the first
female executive editor of The New York Times in
the paper’s one-hundred-and sixty-year history. Ken
Auletta’s profile of Abramson (“Changing Times”)
appears in the October 24, 2011 New Yorker. That
same month, Abramson’s book The Puppy Diaries:
Raising a Dog named Scout appeared on shelves.
To quote Auletta, “Say what you will about the grayer
days of the Times in mid-century, but it was always
hard to imagine James Reston writing a book about
a beloved household pet.”
—Pets? he asked. No, I don’t have any pets.
—Well, Harold said, flashing a look of literaryagentagony. Do you
have a story about how your golden retriever was hit by a truck and you saved
his life or visa versa?
—No.
Another look of literaryagentagony.
—How about a story about how you saved your Labrador Retriever’s
marriage or visa versa?
—No.
More literaryagentagony.
—Have you ever raced in the rain with a dog?
—No.
—Shat in the snow with a cat?
—No.
—Hugged a horse in a hailstorm?
—No.
—Well, Harold continued. Do you know anything about hirsute
ceramics, wanky wizardy, vampire abstinence, Swedish technobuggery, shady
sadomasochism, or murderous futuristic teenage forestry?
—Have you, or any of your pets, ever been shot in the face, cut off your
own arm, cheated your way into victory in the Tour de France, or compared
a high ranking national politician to Hitler?
Humboldt again shook his head.
—Have you, or any of your pets, ever had an abortion, a sex change,
slept with a member of the Allman Brothers, or all three, perhaps at the same
time or during the same hospital visit?
Once again, Humboldt shook his head.
—I’m sorry, Harold said. I just don’t think your book is worthy of being
published.
Before turning his back in disgust, Harold handed Humboldt a stock
rejection letter that had been printed on cheap paper.
As the floorlights dimmed, Humboldt followed Chesté back to their
seats, still holding his rejection letter.
Why were books about pets the only books worthy of being published?
And what about operas? Was pressure from his literary agent the reason why
Wagner decided to change Alberich into a dragon?
The next evening, Chesté took Humboldt and Marty to see the second
installment of The Ring Cycle. As they joined the surging crowd of people
that was riotously spilling into Foxwoods Theater, Humboldt stared up at the
glowing marquee and was shocked to notice that someone had forgotten to
translate the opera’s title into German. In his mind, he quickly corrected this
oversight as best he could: Spider-Herr: Turn Off das Dark.
As the trio positioned themselves in the front row, with Marty again
choosing to ignore his surroundings in favor of reading, Chesté began
whispering to Humboldt.
—This is the most expensive Broadway show ever staged. It cost sixtyfive million dollars!
Sixty-five million dollars? Humboldt thought. That made Das Rheingold
look like Das Cheapogold. Why had they wasted an entire evening on such a
gargantuan garagesale priced opera?
—This musical is so popular and so tight, Chesté continued, that it
has been in previews for twelve weeks. It’s guaranteed to win a Tony Award
for Best Preview. The plot is more confusing than Das Rheingold, but don’t
worry, I’ll explain the subtleties to you. Actually, there aren’t any subtleties;
it’s just two and a half hours of fakefighting and stadium rock. The entire
production is composed of showstopping fakefights, as Spider-Man battles a
slew of villains: Arachne the Evil Spider, Doctor Octopus, the Green Goblin,
the Broken Ankle, Kraven the Concussion, and Interno Bleedo.
—It sounds like after spending sixty-five million dollars on spandex
This quote originally appeared in Terry Teachout’s
review “Spidey’s Green Glimmer of Hope” (The Wall
Street Journal, June 15, 2011). John Lahr’s review of
the much-maligned musical (“Wall Crawler”) appears
in the February 28, 2011 New Yorker.
John Cage’s “4’33” debuted at the Maverick Concert
Hall, near Woodstock, on August 29, 1952. The
pianist was David Tudor. For many years, while his
music wasn’t making any money, Cage supported
himself through his love of mushrooms. He cofounded the New York Mycological Society and
supplied mushrooms to various elite restaurants
around New York City, including the Four Seasons.
All of this information comes from Alex Ross’ article
“Searching for Silence” (The New Yorker, October 4,
2010).
and rope, they didn’t have any money left over for a script, Marty grumbled as
the houselights went down.
During intermission, Chesté once again noticed another friend standing
alone across the lobby. Another limpwrist wave led to another hurried
introduction.
—What a wonderful surprise! Humboldt, this is my friend Oñ-ree from
Jersee. Like me, he’s quite the cultural connoisseur. What do you think of the
musical, Oñ-ree?
—Just stunning, Oñ-ree from Jersee replied enthusiastically. It’s the
best looking mediocre musical I’ve ever seen!
—I couldn’t agree more, gushed Chesté. Oñ-ree, didn’t you go up to
Maverick last weekend?
—I did! I did! I went up there to attend a performance of John Cage’s
masterpiece “4’33.”
—Stunning, said Chesté. You do know that’s where the piece was
originally performed?
—Bien sûr, monsieur, replied Oñ-ree. I am a Cageoholic!
—And how was it? Chesté asked.
—Absolutely breathtaking! The concert hall is a gorgeous old building
made of oak and pine, all roughhewed like a barn.
—No, corrected Chesté. I mean, how was the performance?
—Utterly dreadful! The pianist forgot the whole damn thing! She
couldn’t even remember a single note. It was really quite sad. She must have
been drunk or high on mushrooms.
—What a travesty!
—I know! I know! I understand that such musicians are supposed
to be mavericks, but still a certain amount of professional decorum must
be maintained. I mean, even those hippie guitarists and bongodrummers
who provided the godawful soundtrack to that infamous upstate orgy were
coherent enough to remember their songs!
—She’ll never work in Woodstock again!
—I’m afraid not. She’s probably already been run out of town by the
good people of the Dharma Belt.
Oñ-ree’s story gave Humboldt hope that the orchestra for Spider-Herr
would collectively forget all the notes for the silly stadium rock songs within
the show’s second act, leaving the audience within the glorious silence of a
surrounding stillness. But it was, alas, not to be. The lights dimmed and the
orchestra began fakefighting with their instruments once more.
When the fakefighting and orchestral clanging finally ceased, Chesté
leapt to his feet, emphatically shouting: J’adore Julie Taymor!
As he was doing so, Humboldt felt a slight nudge under his ribcage and
heard Marty whisper his opinion of the musical into his ear.
—Longer than Parsifal, but not as funny.
The following afternoon, Chesté attachéd Humboldt and Marty
to the Museum of Modern Art, where Humboldt was shocked to stumble
upon the very same pianist who had been run out of Woodstock. As a form
of public humiliation, this poor pianist was apparently being forced to sit
in the museum’s soaringboring atrium until she remembered the work. To
Humboldt’s eyes, this punishment appeared practically medieval, but the
rest of the museumgoing hordes found it captivating. A chair and a simple
wooden table were arranged in the atrium and crowds of people queued up
for a chance to mock, jeer, and stare at the forgetful pianist.
As they passed through the atrium, Humboldt cast a pitying glance
towards the poor pianist. He noticed that she was still wearing the concert
gown from her illfated performance. She looked weary and exhausted; it was
obvious that her public torture was taking its toll.
—What an inspirational work of human endurance, Chesté murmured
in a churchwhisper as they passed through the atrium. This is really the first
time that a major museum has embraced a performance artist’s body of work.
That was fine, Humboldt thought. He had no trouble embracing a
The views and opinions expressed in this novel
are not necessary those of the author. I’m actually
a big fan of Marina Abramović’s work, and I’m
very disappointed to have missed her 2010 midcareer retrospective at MoMA. And to prove that
I’m not demeaning Abramović or her work, next
time Imponderabilia is exhibited in a museum, I’ll
volunteer for a shift.
performance artist’s body of work, but did he have to embrace that artist’s
body too? This thought passed through Humboldt’s mind as he stood staring
at the two naked figures who had positioned themselves on either side of the
doorway that led into the exhibition. After a moment’s hesitation, Humboldt
decided to simply pass between the two figures without embracing them. As
he navigated towards a naked man napping with a skeleton for a blanket,
Humboldt became aware that Chesté was no longer at his elbow. When he
turned to locate his lost attaché, he was surprised to see that, because of the
girth of his cultural knowledge, Chesté had gotten himself awkwardly stuck
while attempting to pass through the doorway.
—Magnificent, Chesté said as he grunted loudly, struggling for his
freedom.
[Grunt, grunt, struggle]
—Truly unforgettable…
[Grunt, struggle, grunt]
—Just imagine the lucky collector…
[GRUNTINGstrugglingstruggling]
—Who is able to display a work like this in his…
[GruntingstrugglingGRUNTING]
—PRIVATE COLLECTION!!!
With a final loud grunt, Chesté tumbled into the exhibition hall. From
where he was standing, Humboldt could tell that the piece had moved him
and visa versa. Before resuming their post, the two naked people were allowed
a moment to towel off and regather their composure.
—Imponderabilia, Chesté read from a nearby wall label. What an
arresting work of art!
Because Chesté had been so arrested by the exhibition’s initial work,
Humboldt was able to stay one performance piece ahead of him. As he gazed
politely at all the naked performance sculptures, Humboldt could hear Chesté
behind him loudly exclaiming outrageous adjectives while staring hungrily at
each naked body. As Chesté was ogling a naked woman who was apparently
learning how to swim while hanging on a wall (“Ravishing!”), Humboldt
quietly relocated to an unoccupied spot overlooking the museum’s atrium.
Far below him, he was amazed at how the crowd for the public humiliation
was growing. As they had passed through the museum’s lobby on their way to
the corporate sponsorship desk, Humboldt had noticed that the entrance fee
for “little people” was $20. Observing the crowds below, Humboldt couldn’t
believe that the city was filled with so many “little people” who were willing
to pay such a high price for such low quality art. Or perhaps, all the “little
people” were really corporate sponsors being culturally attachéd around
town, like him.
While contemplating the relationship between corporate sponsorship
and bad art, Chesté sidled up next to him.
—That piece is called The Artist is Present. And that’s the artist who’s
present, Chesté said, pointing a fatfinger towards the forgetful pianist. Her
name is Marina Abrawnwench. She’s planning on sitting in that chair all
day, every day, for the entire run of the exhibition. That’s over seven hundred
hours. It’s stunning, don’t you agree?
—Is one person sitting in a chair really performance art? Humboldt
asked.
—Oh yes, replied Chesté. But only if it’s the right person sitting in the
right chair located in the right atrium. Otherwise, it’s just boring.
Humboldt nodded. From his vantage point, it certainly looked boring.
—And call me a performance artist, Chesté exclaimed in surprise. It
looks like our friend has finally found a cultural event that interests him.
Following Chesté’s gaze, Humboldt was shocked to see Marty, his
nose firmly glued in his book, in the queue of people who were waiting for
chairtime across the table from Marina Abrawnwench. As Humboldt and
Chesté watched, Marty was ushered into the open chair, where he happily sat
reading his book in silence, completely oblivious to the fact that he was sitting
“The indefatigable scholar Didymus of Alexandria
earned the nickname Bronze-Ass (literally, “BrazenBowelled”) for having what it took to write more than
3500 books; apart from a few fragments, all have
vanished.” —Stephen Greenblatt, The Swerve: How
the World Became Modern
In April 2012, my parents drove to Bentonville,
Arkansas to visit the Crystal Bridges Museum of
American Art. They were so enchanted with the
experience that they wrote a letter detailing their
pleasure. A few days later, they received a personal
‘Thank You’ note from Alice Walton.
in such close proximity to the brazen Balkan bronzeass.
After one trip to MoMA, Humboldt would have happily avoided art
for the rest of his life, performance or otherwise, but the following evening
Chesté insisted that they spend some time galleryhopping around Chelsea.
Apparently the neighborhood was full of contemporary art, but Humboldt
failed to see any of it. All he saw were crowds of hideously dressed people
crammed into tiny whitewall gallerycubes. As the three of them hopped from
gallery to gallery not looking at art, Humboldt began to wonder if there really
was any real art to be seen in the city or if Alice Walton had indeed bought it
all and had it shipped to Arkansas.
Humboldt was still pondering this question, as he attempted to secure
an unmolested view of a work of art that turned out to be a doorway. Fearing
that at any moment two naked people would appear and position themselves
within the doorframe, Humboldt turned quickly to flee. But the gallerycube
was so crowded that he couldn’t move. He bumped into a hideously dressed
person in tightbright pants and then another and another. Pinballing between
tightdenim and loose plaid, Humboldt felt like he was drowning in the
Chelseasea. Momentarily losing his sense of balance, Humboldt bumped into
a work of sculpture, dislodging it from its pedestal. As the sculpture toppled to
the floor, Humboldt froze in panic. Trampled instantly, the piece was ruined!
Alice Walton would never buy it now!
Humboldt felt awful. How could he have been so careless? Because
of his carelessness, a serious work of high quality art had been completely
destroyed. Feeling humiliated and ashamed, Humboldt bent down and began
gathering the leftover scraps. As he picked up a ratty old piece of garbage that
was affixed to cheap taxidermy with foulsmelling glue, the soiled mess stuck
to his hand. Yuck! No wonder galleries didn’t want people touching the art,
Humboldt thought as he vigorously shook his hand free. Maybe destroying
such a piece of art wasn’t so bad after all.
But before Humboldt could think any more about the sculpture he had
destroyed, he was rudely swept aside by a group of welldressed, aggressive
Southerners.
—I simply love it, y’all!
—I’ll have it shipped to Crystal Bridges immediately, Miss Walton.
—YEE HAW!!! the group shouted joyfully in unison while thrusting
their ‘Hook ‘em Horns’ skyward.
A few of these ‘Hook ‘em Horns’ hit Humboldt, causing him to
momentarily lose his balance again. Careening off another sculpture,
Humboldt crunched a pile of dirty taxidermy underfoot while heading
towards the gallery’s exit. As he left the gallery, Humboldt could hear a chorus
of Southern voices praising the pile that he had just stepped on.
After fighting crowds of gallerygazing grazers for hours, Humboldt
was relieved when they finally entered a spacious gallery on Twenty-Seventh
Street, which was totally devoid of people.
—This is one of my absolute favorite galleries in the city, Chesté
whispered to Humboldt as they entered. Before moving to Chelsea, this was
one of the oldest galleries in SoHo.
—Why is it empty? Humboldt whispered back.
—It’s always empty, replied Chesté. No one ever comes here.
—Maybe everybody thinks they’re still in SoHo, Marty grumbled.
—There’s the owner, Chesté said, pointing to an elderly woman who
was chatting with a group of employees behind a long wooden desk.
Humboldt peered at the figure. Why did she look so familiar? Where
had he seen her before? And then he remembered! She was one of the villains
in Spider-Herr: Turn Off das Dark. She had played the old Art Hobgoblin.
—I’ll have to introduce you, said Chesté.
But before he had the chance to instigate an introduction, the old Art
Hobgoblin flew into a villainous rage at one of her employees.
—Scott, you’re fired! she screamed. Get out!
—Well, that’s surprising, Chesté said. I know that guy. He’s been
Hilton Als’ review of this production (“The Black
Man Cometh”) appears in the October 5, 2009 New
Yorker. In this review, Als is particularly critical of
Philip Seymour Hoffman’s portrayal Iago. According
to Als, “watching his loud, bloated performance, you
can’t help wondering if he’d just graduated from the
Al Pacino School of Acting. He shouts every other
sentence…”
This passage is not intended to be a negative critique
of Paul Auster’s novels, none of which I’ve actually
read. If you’re interested in reading a negative
critique of Paul Auster’s work, I recommend James
Wood’s article “Shallow Graves” (The New Yorker,
November 30, 2009), which is one of the most
negative reviews I’ve ever read. While I’ve never read
any of his books, I have seen Paul Auster read from
his work numerous times. Each time I saw him read, I
was struck by what a pompous asshole he appeared
to be. While living in New Zealand, I happened
across an article in the New Yorker detailing how
people keep their marriages interesting (or at least
I think that’s what the article was about; I can’t find
the damn thing anywhere). This article mentioned
how, during readings, Auster’s wife, novelist Siri
Hustvedt, gets turned on by her husband’s “authorial
persona” (read: pompous assholery). So let me get
this straight: while Paul Auster is up at the podium
acting like a total dick, his wife is in the crowd getting
randy? Wow, novelists are weird! Hustvedt’s most
recent book is titled The Shaking Woman or A History
of My Nerves.
C’mon. That’s your author photo? I mean, seriously?
The views and opinions expressed in this novel are
not necessary those of the author. I actually enjoy
reading postmodern novels.
working at this gallery for over eight years. I remember when he started as a
rather boozy summer intern.
The screaming continued.
—You’re fired, Scott! Get out! You’re FIRED! Getout! Getout…NOW!!
As the bewildered and besieged employee made a mad dash towards
the front door, he paused momentarily in front of the group.
—Would you mind, he said to Humboldt, saying good-bye to my
coworkers for me?
—Sure, responded Humboldt. You look familiar. Are you from Ohio?
Before the humiliated ex-employee could answer Humboldt’s question,
the old Art Hobgoblin unleashed her ferociously dainty shih tzu, who began
barking murderously while sashaying across the floor. And then, like a fluffy
cannonball, the furry ball of fury exploded towards the group.
—Shit, yelled the humiliated ex-employee as he bolted for the door.
—Perhaps we should leave too, Chesté yelled in fear.
Outside the gallery, Chesté herded the three of them into the company
car and told the driver to take them into Brooklyn. As they pulled away from
the curb, they could still hear the murderous barking and see the distant
shadow of a figure sprinting west.
—Tonight, Chesté said smugly, Paul Auster is reading at Bookcourt. I
think that should interest someone.
—Perhaps, Marty said without lifting his nose from his book.
—Of course, Chesté continued, it wouldn’t have been my first choice, but
I like to be flexible. My first choice would have been to attend a performance
of Othello at the Public Theater. I assume you’re familiar with Othello?
—From this time forth, Marty muttered, I never will speak a word.
—Well, this new adaptation is directed by Peter Sellars, who is a
visionary genius. The entire town is raving about how loud the performance
is. The actors shout their lines with the intensity of a man passing a kidney
stone. It promises to be an enchanting evening of murder, betrayal, and CAPS
LOCK. And according to Sellars’ interpretation, Othello is actually sleeping
with Iago’s wife. That’s the cause for Iago’s hatred.
—How visionary, Marty replied. Who’s credited as the show’s
Executive Producer, Iago?
To Humboldt, Brooklyn looked a lot like Manhattan, only hillier. And
Brooklynites looked a lot like Manhattanites, only hillbillier. The reading at
Bookcourt took place in a crowded, booklined room that was prowled by a fat
bookloving cat. Once again, the trio positioned themselves in the front row.
They were so close to the stage, in fact, that Humboldt could read the title of
the book that the author was holding from off its spine: The Brooklyn Follies.
Next to them sat a striking Norwegian woman who shook with excitement
during the entire reading. She shook so much that Humboldt began to wonder
about the history of her nerves.
Other than the shaking woman and the bookloving cat, Humboldt did
not find the reading very interesting. The author oozed a pompous, arrogant
persona and he paused frequently to stare out over the audience with his dark
brooding eyes. He did this so frequently that Humboldt wondered if he was
simply reminding everyone that he had dark brooding eyes.
—Isn’t this thrilling? Chesté whispered to Humboldt.
Overhearing this comment, the author flashed his dark brooding eyes
disdainfully towards the trio.
—And what a powerful authorial persona, Chesté whispered.
Another disdainful darkbroodingstare was flashed in their direction.
—You know, continued Chesté, he’s considered America’s premier
postmodernist.
More broodingstaring. More disdainful. Darker.
—What’s postmodernism? Humboldt asked.
Most broodingstaring. Most disdainful. Darkest.
—Crap, answered Marty.
XXVII
How Humboldt, Marty, and Cheste sailed to Connecticut,
with a discussion of lovestench
’ been thinking about something you said that I would like to disagree with, Humboldt said to Marty as they sat next to each other
—I’ve
in the back of the company limousine.
Across from them, Chesté was sound asleep and snoring loudly. Despite their protestations, Chesté had insisted that he
accompany them to Connecticut, claiming that the drive through the Bronx was too dangerous to be undertaken without a
cultural attaché. After so much diligent attachéing, Chesté was obviously exhausted and Humboldt took advantage of this time
alone with Marty to voice a dissenting opinion.
—Disagree with what? Marty answered. That postmodern literature is crap?
—No, Humboldt said. I agree with that.
—That performance art is crap?
—No, I agree with that, too.
—That that godawful musical about that flying spider in his underwear was crap?
—That that godawful opera about those flying Rheinspiders in their underwear was crap?
—Well, Marty asked, what is it then?
—I would like to disagree with your philosophy regarding women and the lonelystench. I think it’s unjust. Don’t you
believe that everyone, regardless of sex, fears the lonelystench?
—Perhaps, replied Marty. Everyone who defines themselves through their relationship with others certainly does. Such
101
people need an audience to authenticate the existence of their created self.
After spending so much time together in New York City, Humboldt
was very adept at translating Marty’s philosophizing into English.
—And who are we, Humboldt asked, if not a created self ?
—An uncreated unself ? Marty suggested.
—All I know, Humboldt said, is that before we met, I was experiencing
the most profound loneliness. I felt like I would disintegrate if I didn’t interact
with another human being. Perhaps that feeling was what you might call the
lonelystench. But I wasn’t afraid of it; I was driven by it.
—And what exactly was driving you? Was it not fear?
—No, Humboldt replied. I think it was love.
Marty snorted loudly at the mention of the word. This loud
snort caused Chesté to momentarily open his eyes. Huh? What’sgoingon?
Whoturnedoffthedark? he mumbled, before repositioning himself and falling
back into a snorefilled sleep.
—So, Marty said, you’re suggesting that the lonelystench is really the
lovestench?
—I’m just suggesting that love is love, regardless of stench or
circumstances.
—Hmmm…. That’s an interesting philosophy, admitted Marty. But, of
course, you are a man in love.
Upon hearing the word, Humboldt’s mind magnetized towards the
memory of his beautiful forever indebted wife, Elle le Noise. Was she still
in Washannesburg? At this moment, was she standing atop the seal in the
Capitol Building’s rotunda, wildly searching for his face in the crowd, or
perched atop a barstool at The Swindler Tavern? And most importantly: did
she ever think of him?
—But answer me this, Marty said. When you were driven by what I call
the lonelystench and what you call the lovestench, were you not dead?
—Yes, admitted Humboldt.
—So perhaps the proper analogy is this: a man in love is a dead man.
Humboldt thought about this analogy. Would he object to being dead
if it meant being dead together with Elle? Being dead together didn’t sound
so terrible, he had to admit. He and Elle would probably make an adorable
deadcouple. He envisioned them lying together in a doublewide coffin,
smiling ghoulishly with decaying faces, as rigor mortis further twisted their
interlocked fingers.
—Yes, Humboldt said. I guess I would agree with that.
—I think Schopenhauer would too.
—Are you still planning on marking the grieving widow? Humboldt
asked.
—Yes.
—Don’t you think that’s unfair? I mean, do you really think that a
grieving widow’s behavior is the best way to formulate a general opinion
about womanhood?
—Yes, answered Marty. We can’t control events, but we can control
how we respond to them.
—But is that just?
—Are women always just with us?
—No, Humboldt replied. But if just one woman is just, is that not just
enough?
—For a man in love: yes. For a philosopher: no.
Humboldt nodded in agreement.
—I’m glad I’m not a philosopher, he said.
XXVIII
How Humboldt, Marty, and Cheste met Henriette Burton,
the Greenwich Wench
“Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave,
That I, the son of a dear father murder’d,
Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell,
Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words”
—Shakespeare, Hamlet
—Henriette! Henriette! My heart, it breaks!
Obviously no longer asleep, Chesté leapt out of the limousine and immediately threw himself into the arms of the woman
who was awaiting their arrival in front of an imposing castlemansion. From his vantage point within the limousine, all Humboldt
could see was a pair of very thin ankles hovering above a murderously sharp pair of black stilettos. Humboldt assumed that these
ankles and black stilettos belonged to Henriette Burton.
—I must, Chesté continued extravagantly, unpack my heart with words! The very thought…
—Shut up, Chester! the ankles barked, freeing themselves from Chester’s paisleypressing embrace.
As Humboldt watched, the murderous stilettos slowly clicked their way towards the open door. The next instant, a head
thrust itself through the doorportal. With a cold, determined stare, the grieving widow peered into the limousine. Both Humboldt
and Marty froze.
—Which one of you is Humboldt? the head asked in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.
Neither spoke. As the silence stretched awkwardly towards infinity, Marty lifted a finger and pointed hesitantly towards
Humboldt.
—It’s so nice to meet you, the head said. Please come inside.
Nothing in Henriette’s tone suggested the word “nice.” In fact, her demeanor was meaner than Humboldt had expected,
muchmuch meaner. Does she blame me for Hal’s death? Humboldt wondered. Did she somehow know that he had insisted on
Hal exiting their private jet before him? Should he have offered Hal mouth-to-mouth resuscitation? That sounded extremely
unhygienic, especially in the desert. Instead of locking lips, should he have offered to fan Hal with his business cards, or soaked a
103
“Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral baked meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.”
—Shakespeare, Hamlet
Gertrude and Claudius were married two months
after King Hamlet’s death.
“He left her his
Secondbest
Bed.
Punkt
Leftherhis
Secondbest
Bestabed
Secabest
Leftabed
Woa!”
—James Joyce, Ulysses
“In the first draft of his will, Shakespeare made
itemized bequests to his children and relatives
and to others in Stratford and London but omitted
his wife. A sentence was later inserted: “Item, I
gyve unto my wife my second best bed with the
furniture.” —Don Gifford with Robert J. Seidman,
Ulysses Annotated: Notes for James Joyce’s
Ulysses
“Iagogo! How my oldfellow chokit his
Thursdaymornun. Iagogo!” —James Joyce, Ulysses
The cry “Iagogo” may be the most baffling
word in a book full of baffling words. The cry
ushers forth from “the face of William Shakespeare,
beardless... rigid in facial paralysis,” which appears
in Bella Cohen’s mirror “crowned by the reflection of
the reindeer antler hatrack in the hall.”
Here’s how Harold Bloom explains this odd
scene in The Western Canon: the Books and School
of the Ages:
“Shakespeare the precursor mocks his
follower, Stephen-Bloom-Joyce, in effect saying:
“You stare in the mirror, trying to see yourself as
me, but you behold what you are: only a beardless
version, lacking my onetime potency, and rigid in
facial paralysis, devoid of my ease of countenance.”
towel in scotch and pressed it against his forehead?
Or maybe Hal’s wife was tortured by doubts regarding her husband’s
love for her. Perhaps he hadn’t told her enough. When it came to reiterating
such things, Humboldt was aware that most men never knew how much
nausea was considered ad nausea. Or maybe it had been such a long time since
Hal had told his wife that he loved her that she had simply forgotten. In that
case, Humboldt felt confident that his recounting of Hal’s dying words would
be a welcomed relief. And once relieved by Humboldt’s words, Henriette
Burton would warmly welcome him into her heart and home.
Refusing to wait for her male companions, the grieving widow walked
slowly towards the door of her mansion. Her walk was the walk of a woman
who knew she was being watched. It was not suggestive or enticing: it was
commanding. Watch if you want, the walk said. I move with purpose.
As Humboldt listened to Henriette’s stilettos click their goodbye, he
couldn’t help but notice the fact that she wasn’t unattractive. Yes, she was
old, but not that old, right? Yes, she was cold, but not that cold, right? As
these thoughts swirled through his mind, Humboldt felt a shudder of pity
pass through his body. This shudder began at the soles of his feet and rode
the escalator of his spine to the penthouse of his brain. What else rode that
escalator of thought? A tragicviolent death? A grieving widow? Cold funeral
baked meats? A warm empty bed? (But for how long?) Something was rotten
in the state of Connecticut. Humboldt decided that he would quickly fulfill
his promise and recount to the grieving widow Hal’s dying words and then he
would leave as soon as possible. What would be so hard about that?
Henriette was waiting for the trio in the entranceway just inside the
front door. If Humboldt hadn’t been so nervous, he would have noticed that
the mansion was stately but tasteful, large but not McMansiony. Art clung
to the walls, golden sunlight to the air. Clean marble encased them like a
nutshell. But Humboldt wasn’t observing any of this; he was simply thinking
about saying what he had to say and then fleeing.
To everyone’s surprise, when the group reconvened in the entranceway,
the first person Henriette spoke to was Marty.
—Down the hall. Third door on the left. That’s where you’ll find the
library.
Understanding that he was being instructed to go there immediately,
and none too displeased about this, Marty nodded in appreciation and
disappeared down the hall.
—Chester, go amuse yourself.
—Yes, my heart. But before I go, allow me to endeavor to express…
—GO!
With Chester’s abrupt, flustered departure, Henriette smiled towards
Humboldt. Yes, it was a predatory smile, but not too predatory, right?
—Humboldt, would you be so kind as to accompany me into my
chamber?
Had there been a bed in the room? Humboldt never could remember.
There might have been a bed, but it was just as likely that there might not have
been one. How difficult is it to agree on such a simple question? Either there’s
a bed in the room, or there isn’t. It’s a bed! Such a large cumbersome piece
of furniture is impossible to hide, unless it’s a hide-a-bed. And this begs the
question: what kind of bed was it? Was it his Bestabed? (Most certainly not.)
His secabest? (Perhaps.) His Leftabed? (Most definitely.) And where was the
Firstbest bed? Maybe he left her the second after she had killed the first. After
all, who was it but she that had murdered his bed? She was not a bedwidow,
she was a bedmurderer! Bedgogo! He left her his Secondbest bed. It sounds
astonishingly cruel. But why? Can any of us expect anything more from life
than a secondbest bed? And who knew this better than he?
Humbug on such bedbug thoughts! We’ll never know. Such questions
are destined to forever be pointless mutterings. But before any of these thoughts
can be thought, a first thought must be thought. And this first thought is: was
there a bed? Humboldt never knew.
Once they were alone in Henriette’s chamber, Humboldt’s mind began
racing. Not only was he thinking about the existence (or non-existence) of a
bed, he was also wondering why there were pieces of carpet hanging on the
wall. He was also thinking about his wager with Marty. But most of all, he
was thinking about onions. Onions? Why did the room smell like onions?
Tormented in both mind and nostril, Humboldt decided to quickly
blurt out what he had to say.
—Hal wanted me to…
—To hell with Hal, Henriette shot back as she reclined (or did not
recline) on her bed, which was (or might not have been) in the room.
—But, he…
—To HELL with Hal, she repeated more forcefully. I don’t want to talk
about him. Hal got what he deserved: Hell. Life with Hal was Hell and now
Hal’s in Hell. It’s fitting, don’t you think?
Having been so aggressively interrupted, Humboldt fell silent.
—That’s not what you expected me to say, is it? You expected…. What?
More tenderness? Do you know what Hal used to call me?
Henriette paused, allowing her question to grow claws.
—The Greenwich Wench.
After announcing her nickname with no small amount of pride,
Henriette stretched out alluringly (or didn’t) on the bed that might not have
been in the room.
—Isn’t that sweet? I don’t want to talk about Hal, Henriette repeated
as she motioned for Humboldt to come sit next to her on the (potentially
nonexistent) bed. I want to talk about you. You’re married, I assume, but
you’re not wearing a wedding ring. Why not?
—I don’t have one, Humboldt admitted as he sat down (or didn’t sit
down) next to Henriette.
—You don’t have one of what? A wife or a wedding ring?
—A wedding ring, Humboldt answered. My forever indebted wife
never gave me one.
—And you expect me to believe that?
—Yes, Humboldt replied. Because it’s true.
—Husbands are always so truthful, aren’t they? Would you like some
scotch?
—No. I hate scotch.
—And you expect me to believe that?
—Yes, Humboldt replied. Because it’s true.
Henriette (who may or may not have been lying on her back) appeared
momentarily taken aback.
—First, you expect me to believe that you’re married, but your wife
didn’t give you a wedding ring? And now you expect me to believe that you,
my husband’s protégé, hate scotch. What kind of man are you?
—A pig.
—A pig? Henriette repeated curiously as she caressed (or didn’t caress)
the satin sheets that may (or may not) have been on the bed that may (or may
not) have been in the room.
—Yes. A pig, Humboldt replied.
—My husband’s protégé doesn’t drink scotch and admits that he’s a
pig? Henriette repeated the words in a confused tone. But enough about my
husband! I don’t want him even entering our conversation!
Entering the conversation? What about entering the room! As Humboldt
stared in amazement, the ghost of Hal appeared in the chamber, covered in
blood and Iraqi oil. In his deadrighthand, the specter eerily held out a bloody
business card.
If Henriette was so intent on keeping the ghost of her husband out
of their conversation, why was she so unmoved when it entered the room?
Humboldt saw the ghost, why didn’t she? Why was she not bending her eye
on vacancy and holding discourse with the empty air?
—Speak to her, Humboldt, the ghost of Hal intoned.
—How is it with you, lady?
—How is it with me? How is it with you? You seem distracted almost to
the point of madness. What are you staring at?
—At him, on him! Humboldt blurted out, pointing to Hal’s ghost. Do
you see nothing there?
—Nothing at all.
—Nor did you hear nothing? Humboldt asked, resuming his mad
pointing.
—Nothing but ourselves, Henriette answered. Humboldt, it’s all right.
We’re alone.
Maybe he was mad. And maybe his madness had melted Henriette’s
cold exterior.
—It’s all right, Henriette repeated tenderly. I can help. I know the signs
of Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome.
They were standing now. (Where the hell had that bed gone?) Henriette
reached out and gently took hold of Humboldt’s hands. Contrary to her
cold exterior, her hands felt warm and soft. Under the warmth of her gaze,
Humboldt almost forgot about the ghost of Hal, the disappearing bed, and the
overpowering stench of onions that filled his nostrils.
—Don’t refuse me, Humboldt, Henriette said softly. We both need each
other. To refuse me would be to murder me.
—What ho!
The loud cry shook Humboldt’s mind back to the present. A rat, he
thought.
—What ho!
The wallcarpet fluttered noticeably.
—What ho…. O hello! Chester exclaimed embarrassingly as he burst
into the chamber. Sorry to interrupt.
Henriette quickly removed her hands from Humboldt’s grasp.
—Yes, Chester, she said coldly. What is it?
—Wonderful news, my heart! I’ve secured us four tickets to tonight’s
opening gala for the new American Wing at the Boston Museum of Fine
Arts. It promises to be the most glamorous evening in Boston since some local
sports team won their independence. We simply cannot miss it!
Henriette turned to Humboldt.
—The decision is yours, Mr. CEO. Would you rather stay here with me
and recover from your PTSS or shall we all go to Boston?
Stay here? Humboldt thought. With the ghost, the onionstench, and the
disappearing bed? The decision was easy.
—Let’s go to Boston, he said.
—Outstanding, Chester exclaimed. I’ll have the limousine readied.
—Not the limousine, Henriette commanded. It’ll be too crowded. We’ll
have to take two cars. Humboldt and I will go in one: you and Marty, in the
other. Is that acceptable, Mr. CEO?
Humboldt winced slightly. Who was going to keep the war’s peace
between Chester and Marty? But before he could answer this question,
another more pressing question flashed through his mind: who was going to
keep the war’s peace in his car?
—Okay, Humboldt replied sheepishly.
—Good, answered Henriette. We’ll leave immediately.
XXIX
What Marty, Chester, Henriette Burton, Humboldt,
and the Ghost of Hal spoke of during their respective drives
from Connecticut to Boston, as told through the
postmodern narrative device of theatrical dispersion
This chapter follows the route I used while moving from Brooklyn to Portland, Maine.
Scene I
Setting: A black Cadillac SUV speeding up Interstate 91 towards Hartford. Chester and Marty are seated in the backseat with
oceans of space between them. Both are ignoring the other and staring disinterestedly out their respective windows.
Chester:
Connecticut is beautiful this time of year, isn’t it?
Marty:
Hmph.
[A cloud of silence again settles over the backseat]
Driver:
[in a thick Irish accent] Every’ting all right back there, me lads? You’re quieter than a priest on trial.
Chester:
Yes, everything’s fine. We’re just admiring the scenery.
Driver:
The scenery? For fuck’s sake, we’re driving through New Haven!
Chester:
[coldly] Yes, thank you. We can see that.
107
[More silence as the dreary deserted parking lots, rusty old trainyards, and
crumbling old brick buildings of New Haven pass]
I’m surprised you’re not reading.
Marty:
I can’t read in a moving car; I get motionsickness.
Chester:
I guess we’ll have to just chat the time away.
[There is a hint of rancor in the way Chester enunciates the word “chat”]
Marty:
I was hoping that one of us would fall asleep soon.
Chester:
I’m sure we can find some conversational topic that might
interest us both. What are your thoughts on New Haven?
Marty:
[looking out his window] If this is New Haven, I would hate to
see Old Haven.
Chester:
What were your impressions of New York City?
Marty:
It was hell.
Chester:
Hell? Do you mean like Hell’s Kitchen?
Marty:
No. I mean hell like Hell. Like Iraq with less sand and more
expensive footwear.
Chester:
[taken aback] Well, was there any part of the city that you
enjoyed? The food? The culture? The people?
Marty:
Yes: the leaving.
[Both passengers return to aimlessly staring out their respective windows]
Chester:
Well, what are your thoughts on…the Knicks?
Marty:
I think they stink.
Chester:
Staten Island?
Marty:
Stinks worse than the Knicks.
Chester:
Woody Allen’s movies?
Marty:
They stink worse than Staten Island.
Chester:
The soda ban?
Marty:
I think it sounds like something out of a bad Woody Allen
movie.
[More silence, more window staring]
Chester:
Well, what are your thoughts on…killing your boss?
[Upon hearing Chester’s odd question, Marty’s aimless stare is pulled away
from the window and his eyes register a look of surprise]
Marty:
What do you mean?
Scene II
Setting: A white Cadillac SUV speeding up Interstate 91 towards
Hartford. In the backseat, Humboldt and Henriette Burton are
seated next to each other, separated by a normal allotment of
seatspace. In the passenger seat sits the bloody ghost of Hal,
who is still holding a bloody business card towards Humboldt.
Henriette:
So, tell me about your forever indebted wife.
The Ghost: Speak to her!
Henriette:
Is she pretty?
The Ghost: SPEAK!
Humboldt: The last thing that Hal said before he died was that helovedyou!
[The words travel out of Humboldt’s mouth at the speed of a speeding SUV]
Henriette:What?
Humboldt: He made me promise to tell you that. It was the last thing he
said before he died.
Henriette:
[coldly] How sweet.
[The SUV is traveling over a smooth patch of highway and Humboldt is
hoping that their conversation will progress with equal smoothness]
[in a cold, straightforward tone] Was that really the last thing he
said?
Humboldt:Yes.
Henriette: He didn’t say anything else? Perhaps, something about a
girlfriend?
[Glancing towards the front seat, Humboldt notices that the bloody ghost of
Hal is holding a decomposing indexfinger over his bloodless lips and wildly
shaking his head back and forth. To Humboldt’s diseased mind, every shake
of his deadhead splatters a mixture of blood and brains across the windshield]
The Ghost: Don’t speak!
Humboldt:No?
Henriette:Swear?
The Ghost: Swear!
Humboldt: [stumbling over his words awkwardly] I mean…it’s all rather
hazy…there was so much glare and PTSS…
The Ghost: SWEAR!
Humboldt: Okay! Okay! The last thing he really said was to tell his girlfriend
that he loved her. But that was right after he said the same thing
about you.
[In the front seat, Hal’s ghost is frantically trying to turn the radio dial to full
volume, but the knob doesn’t respond to his deadfingers]
“I really love you more than that / But I’m half man,
other half alley cat.” —“That Bird Has a Broken
Wing,” by Sun Kil Moon
This song is where I pinched the name for my
own dopplegänger: “some tool named Brad.”
Henriette:
I thought as much! Let me tell you something about your friend
and mentor. Hal Burton was an alley cat with a million dollar
collar. He treated women like money. They all had pockets that
he wanted to plunge into and he could never pile up enough of
them.
Do you know what the love of his life was? Scotch! If he was
drinking scotch and a beer walked past, he wouldn’t even bother
fingering its glass. But if a woman walked past, up went the alley
cat’s tail. He would prowl, howl, meow, and scratch himself. All
in a pathetic attempt to squeeze his body onto her windowsill.
He made a fool out of me. But how was I to know any better?
When we first met, he told me that he had recently lost the
love of his life. He said that she had died suddenly of a brain
aneurysm on the streets of Park Slope. He tricked me into
feeling pity for him. Just think about that: pity for an alley cat!
It was years before I learned the truth about the “love of his
life:” she was a syphilitic whore who was sleeping with three
other men while they were “dating.” But by the time I learned
this, I was stuck. The world is full of alleys, but the caught
housecat must stay at home. Who do you think turned me into
the “Greenwich Wench?” Because of Hal, I turned into a bitter,
shunned woman.
“No later undoing will undo the first undoing.”
—James Joyce, Ulysses
Stephen utters this quote in the Scylla and
Charybdis section in regards to Shakespeare’s
marriage to Ann Hathaway.
Marriage is an undoing unto death. And no subsequent undoing
can undo the first undoing. I should have learned that from my
parents’ marriage. My mother always hated my father because
he loved golf more than her. She used to say that their marriage
would have been more fulfilling had she been born with golf
balls for ovaries. For over forty years, their marriage bed burned
with hatred. The flame was so intense that I sometimes think
my life suffered third degree burns…
[As her voice trails off, Humboldt notices that the corners of Henriette’s
mouth are trembling slightly. She turns her face away from Humboldt. As she
stares out the window at the passing scenery of New Haven, Humboldt stares
at her. All around her, Humboldt sees the dreary deserted parking lots, rusty
old trainyards, and crumbling old brick buildings of marriage. There is no
haven here. The marriage of Henriette’s parents was no Old Haven; and hers,
no New Haven. They were both No Haven]
I suppose you’re going to disagree with me now. Go ahead, tell
me how wonderful your marriage is. Or maybe, you’ll agree
with me and regale me with stories about how unbearable it is.
I don’t know which would be worse. When a woman talks to
a man about marriage, why should she expect anything more
than an echo chamber? Well, which is it?
[Perhaps Humboldt’s response would have been more intelligent had he
heard more than half of Henriette’s monologue. When she began speaking,
Hal’s ghost had stuck his decomposing fingers into his ears and started loudly
singing “lalalala LALALA…” Apparently, Humboldt was the only person in
the SUV who was able to hear this annoying sound. Because of the ghost’s
loud “lala LAing,” Humboldt was confused about what Henriette had just
said, but he didn’t think it would be polite to ask her to repeat it all. Do
alley cats really have golf balls for ovaries? And is Park Syphilope really the
name of a neighborhood in Brooklyn? Somehow that sounded fitting for a
neighborhood bordering the Gowanus Canal]
Well? I’m listening!
Humboldt: I don’t…know…
Scene III
Setting: The backseat of a black Cadillac SUV now speeding up
Interstate 84 towards the Massachusetts border. Ghostless.
Marty:
[surprised] What are my thoughts on killing my boss? I haven’t
thought about it, really.
Chester:
Of course you have. Ever since Cicero stabbed Caesar, every
employee on the planet has dreamed about killing their boss.
Bosses are obnoxious creatures and they deserve to die.
Marty:
[awkwardly] I’m not sure I’m comfortable talking about this.
Chester:
Okay, I’ll change the subject. What do you think of Mademoiselle
Burton?
Marty:
I think she’s a cold fish.
Chester:
And what do you think of me?
Marty:
[eyeing his seatmate skeptically] I think you’re a warm fish.
Chester:
[with rising indignation] Insults are reprehensible! I simply
cannot stand them!
Marty:
[calmly] I wasn’t insulting you. You asked me a question; I
answered it. I think you’re a warm fish.
Chester:
[calming himself] A warm fish, aye? Well, perhaps I am.
Perhaps that’s not such an insult after all. There are certainly
worse things to be in this world than a warm fish. And let me
ask you this: do you think it’s possible for a cold fish and a warm
fish to fall in love?
[Chester’s stream of consciousness continues flowing before Marty has the
chance to answer the question]
Of course it is! Just think about how many fish there are in
the sea! They can’t all be the same temperature, right? Cold
fish, warm fish, slightly chilled fish, lukewarm, broiled, baked,
sautéed. Of course it’s possible! But I’ll need your help.
[Before continuing, Chester pauses and flashes Marty a determined look.
When he resumes speaking, it is in a measured, conspiratorial tone]
Before we continue with this, there is something you must
know. I am a man who harbors a terrible secret. This secret is
the great shame of my life, my mark of Cain. It’s more than a
mark, really. It’s like a tattoo: a tattoo of an albatross. You’ll
despise me for it. But I must tell you. If you are to help me, you
have to know my secret. The truth must out…
Scene IV
Setting: White Cadillac SUV now speeding up Interstate 84 towards the
Massachusetts border. The Ghost absentmindedly staring out
the window.
Henriette:
You don’t know? What do you mean, you don’t know?
Humboldt: I mean, I don’t know how I feel about marriage. I really don’t
know anything about it. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel
or what I’m supposed to do. I never had a marriage growing
up and now it feels too late to learn. It’s all very confusing. I
guess my marriage could be a great undoing, but it could also
be a great doing. Or it could be a great doing undoing a greater
undoing. I just don’t know. Was there anything to undo before
I got married? Was I already undone or done? I’ve never asked
myself these questions before. Maybe I should have. Maybe
I should have asked myself back when it happened if I was
undoing an undoing, but now that it’s done, I’m done; so it
stands to reason that I must’ve wanted it done and that’s why
I did it. And once something’s done, you can’t undo the done
or do the undid, right? Once the deed is done, the done is deed.
And once the done is deed, it’s dead. So now the done and the
deed are dead, right? I guess that sounds right, right? See, I just
don’t know.
[As he stops speaking, Humboldt notices that the corners of Henriette’s
mouth are still quivering; in fact, they are quivering now more than before]
I’m sorry. I’m wasn’t trying to upset you.
Henriette: No, you’re not upsetting me; you’re making perfect sense.
That’s the most intelligent thing a man has ever said to me
about marriage. Your wife must be a very lucky woman. Is she
pretty?
Humboldt: Yes. She’s the prettiest girl in all of Ohio.
Henriette:
And do you think she’s trustworthy?
Humboldt: Yes. I think she’s the most trustworthy girl in all of Ohio.
Henriette:
[vacantly echoing Humboldt’s words] In all of Ohio…. We’re
almost out of Connecticut. Good! Why did he always return?
Why didn’t he just stay away? What did he want? I guess home
is where the scotch is.
[Henriette is quiet for a moment before continuing]
You despise me now, don’t you?
Humboldt: No, not at all.
Henriette:
But you will. And you should. I’ve done something terrible,
something worth despising. I have to tell someone what I’ve
done; I have to tell you. My heart can hold the secret no longer.
The truth must out…
Scene V
Setting: Black Cadillac SUV now speeding north by northwest on
Interstate 90 nearing Boston.
Chester:
So here it is: my secret, my great shame… [dramatic pause] I’m
from Ohio!
[After exclaiming “his secret, his great shame,” Chester bursts into tears]
Marty:
[baffled] You’re from Ohio? That’s your secret?
Chester:
[continuing to sob loudly] Yeeeeees! You mustn’t tell anyone!
I’m so ashamed! I only pretend to be a sophisticated cultural
connoisseur. I’m really just a college dropout from Ohio. And
not just any college dropout, I dropped out of… [beginning
to wail] COMMUNITY COLLEGE! And my father…my
father…was A FIREMAN!
[A torrent of emotion bursts forth from Chester]
Marty:
[confused] What’s wrong with being a fireman?
Chester:
I’m so ashamed.
Marty:
And what’s wrong with being from Ohio? I’m from Ohio too.
Chester:
But I’m from Zanesville.
[Marty winces at hearing this. He knows that Zanesville is a notorious shitpot]
You must despise me. You must think I’m a fake, a phony. I
didn’t understand a single word of Das Rheingold. Why were all
those fatties so angry at each other? I even fell asleep halfway
through the second act.
Marty:
It’s okay. I fell asleep halfway through the first act.
Chester:
And I don’t even know the difference between mozzarella di
bufala and burrata.
Marty:
Who cares?
Chester:
I care! I just want people to think that I’m rich; that’s all I’ve
ever wanted! I don’t care about being intelligent! I don’t care
about being cultured! I just want people to think that I’m rich!
I want to live richly! See, I truly believe that I’m a rich man
trapped in a poor man’s body.
[Marty winces again. He knows that that cliché is a bigger shitpot than
Zanesville]
And don’t you see? Now I can. Now I can live richly! Now
that Hal is dead, I can marry Henriette. Warm fish, cold fish,
remember? No, she doesn’t love me, but she doesn’t hate me
either. Or at least, she doesn’t hate me any more than she hated
Hal. That’s a promising start, right?
Marty:
I guess.
Chester:
I’ll throw myself at her feet! I’ll beg and she’ll pity me. I’ll weasel
my way into her life with pity!
[Chester’s demeanor darkens]
But who am I kidding? I know Henriette. She’ll want to marry
someone rich and successful, someone like Humboldt. Perhaps
they’re already married. [shouts] Driver, do they have drive-thru
marriage chapels in Connecticut, or are those just in Las Vegas?
Driver:
[in a thick Irish accent] If you lads want to get married, me best
mate has an uncle who’s a deacon in Natick. Twenty minutes
and it’ll be done before you can finish yer Guinness.
Chester:
Thanks, driver. I wasn’t asking for us.
Driver:Sláinte.
Chester:
Anyway, we have to make Humboldt disappear. He’s your boss;
he’s my rival suitor. We must be rid of him. Once I marry the
wealthy widow, I’ll have more money than either one of us can
imagine. If you’re willing to help me, you can have anything
you want. I’m desperate. Please say you’ll help. I’ll give you
anything you want.
Marty:
[takes a moment to consider Chester’s offer] Okay. Just buy me
a book.
Chester:
I will! Of course I will! I’ll buy you the most magnificent book
you’ve ever seen. Just name a book and it shall be yours.
Marty:
I, Claudius.
Chester:
What a splendid title! The deal is done; the deed to come!
Good! Now, here’s my plan. We’ll only have one chance to kill
Humboldt in Boston…
Scene VI
Setting: White Cadillac SUV now speeding north by northwest on
Interstate 90 nearing Boston. Ghost singing loudly in the
passenger seat.
The Ghost: Ninety-nine bottles of scotch on the wall. Ninety-nine bottles of
scotch…
Henriette: But before I tell you my secret, let me ask you a question: what
do you think of me?
Humboldt: [awkwardly] I think…you’re very tall?
The Ghost: Take Highland Park down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of
scotch on the wall…
Henriette:
Do you think I’m cold?
Humboldt: [obviously lying] No, not at all.
The Ghost: Ninety-eight bottles of scotch on the wall. Ninety-eight bottles of
scotch…
Henriette:
Do you think I’m cruel?
Humboldt: [another awkwardly obvious lie] No, not at all.
The Ghost: Take Edradour down, pass it around, ninety-seven bottles of scotch on
the wall…
Henriette:
Do you think I’m capable of murder?
Humboldt: [less awkwardly] Yes! I mean, maybe?
The Ghost: Ninety-seven bottles of scotch on the wall…WHAT?
[Upon hearing Henriette’s question, the ghost grows quiet]
Henriette: Nothing increases a woman’s murderous capabilities like
marriage. For an unfaithful husband (and are there any other
kind?) marriage is a minefield. It’s true. I poisoned his wells!
His wells! His water of life: poisoned by me! I poisoned his
scotch! Had Hal not died in Iraq, he would have died here and
it would’ve been me who killed him.
The Ghost: Speak!
Humboldt: Wait, didn’t you offer me a scotch this afternoon?
Henriette:Yes.
The Ghost: SPEAK!
Humboldt: Was it poisoned?
Henriette:
No, I wouldn’t dare. I ran out of arsenic before the Islays (I
think). I was going to serve you a Lagavulin fifteen-year, which,
I’m fairly certain, is completely arsenic-free.
Humboldt: So you were offering me your Lagavulin?
Henriette:
Yes, but you refused. I would never hurt you, Humboldt.
[Henriette gently places her hand atop his. Once again, Humboldt is surprised
by its warmth]
You must believe me, Humboldt. I would never hurt you. But
my murderous capabilities have not been quelled. Robbing a
wife of the right to murder her husband is unjust and I seek
justice.
Humboldt: Justice? What kind of justice?
Henriette: Vigilante justice! Is there any other kind? I need your help,
Humboldt. I need you to help me kill…
Appeal to the Great Spirit by Cyrus Edwin Dallin. The
figure depicted in this sculpture is not Narragansett,
but rather Sioux. The Narragansett were a prominent Setting: Native American tribe in Rhode Island around the
time of the Pilgrims. The name Squanto Sockalexis
is a spatchcocking of the name of a Native American
Chester:
who befriended the Pilgrims at the Plymouth Colony
and Louis Sockalexis, who was one of the first
Native Americans to play professional baseball.
Sockalexis was born on the Penobscot Reservation
near Old Town, Maine. He played three seasons for
the Cleveland Spiders, which subsequently changed
their name to the Cleveland Indians. Chief Wahoo is
the team’s controversial logo.
The Battle of Brooklyn, which is also known as the
Battle of Long Island, was the first major engagement
of the Revolutionary War. In terms of soldiers, it
was also the largest battle in the entire war. Things
didn’t go so well for George Washington and his
Continental Army.
Think about this for a moment: what is the single most
revolting thing you’ve ever eaten in a bar, restaurant, Marty:
or coffeeshop? For me, it was a prosciutto panini
from what used to the Boston Beanstock Coffee
Chester:
Company in the North End. This panini was so bad
that it has gone down in infamy as the “Great Grey
Meat Sandwich.” And the maddening thing about
this culinary mishap was everybody in Boston knew
that the Beanstock was the best coffeeshop in town.
It’s not like I was eating at the Long John Silver’s in
East Cambridge.
The phrase “casually disemboweled” comes from
Jane Jacobs’ Death and Life of Great American
Cities. It is her way of describing the effect that
Marty:
automobiles have had on downtowns and other
once populous neighborhoods.
Scene VII
Black Cadillac SUV entering the costly, unnecessary depths of
the Big Dig.
It’s a well-known fact that the food in Boston is dangerous. It
began with the Pilgrims. Out front of the Museum of Fine Arts,
you’ll see an equestrian sculpture of Squanto Sockalexis, the
big chiefyahoo of the fearsome Narragansett tribe. The work is
titled Appeal to the Great Spirit. He’s praying to the Great Spirit…
for edible food!
During the American Revolution, the food in Boston was used
as a devastating weapon. Our independence was won as much
in the kitchens of Beacon Hill as the battlefields of Brooklyn.
Once a British soldier got a taste of the food in Boston, they
were bound to be on the next boat back to Birmingham. Can
you imagine that? Scores of Red Coats with green gills and
soupsour stomachs, longing to return to the culinary delights…
of English cooking! The food in Boston was so bad that the
British had to fill their ranks with Hessian mercenaries. Heaven
knows what they eat in the country of Hesslandia: boiled
bearfur and weeds, I suspect. But even these Hessians and their
ironstomachs were no match for Boston’s sustained assault of
revolutionarily bad food.
But hasn’t that changed now?
Not a jot! The Spirit of ‘76 (minutes in the microwave) is still
alive and well in Boston kitchens. If we can convince Humboldt
to eat enough Bostonian food (baked beans on toast, fried
bologna sandwiches, putrid prosciutto paninis) he’ll get such
a case of rotgut that he’ll be incapacitated for months, if not
years. It’ll be death by casual disembowelment! And what
employee doesn’t dream of disemboweling his boss? And as his
bowels casually disintegrate, I’ll have the opportunity to woo
the wealthy widow. That’s my plan. What do you think of it?
I think all that’s missing is a poisoned chalice and rapier.
Chester:
Really? You think she might enjoy that?
Marty:
It’s a kind of sword.
Chester:
You mean, like a skewer?
Marty:
Sort of.
Chester:
Scrod skewers! That’s an excellent idea. So you’ll help me
casually disembowel Humboldt?
Marty:Sure.
Chester:
Good. Stay close to me in the museum. We’re almost there.
Scene VIII
Setting: 116 | Humboldt: Or, The Power of Positive Thinking
White Cadillac SUV entering the costly, unnecessary depths of
the Big Dig. Ghost napping.
Henriette:
What is a marriage contract if not a license to kill? Marriage
gives a man ownership over his wife’s life; why shouldn’t it give
a woman ownership over her husband’s death? Murderous in
marriage, must a widow become a willow in grief ? Has your
pretty wife ever been unfaithful to you?
Humboldt: No. [pause] At least, I don’t think she has.
Henriette:
And if she has? Would you not seek vigilante justice?
Humboldt: No. [pause] At least, I don’t think I would.
Henriette:
“There is nothing so fine and legitimate as well and
duly to play the man.” —Montaigne, ‘Of Experience’
You don’t think you would because you haven’t thought about
it! You’re a kitten who hasn’t found his claws yet! But you will.
Once the seed of infidelity has been planted in a married mind,
it grows with hideous haste. Soon you’ll find yourself thinking
of nothing else. The soil of your mind will erode and all you’ll
be left with is the bedrock of human emotion: rage. One day,
you’ll realize how right I am. You’ll play the fool, duly and well.
If you promise to help me now, I’ll promise to help you then.
Humboldt: Help you how?
Henriette:
In marriage, a private investigator is better than a two-car garage.
But what’s best of all is an unhired henchman. I’ll be yours, if
you’ll be mine. Here…
[From her purse, Henriette extracts a thick manila envelope and hands it to
Humboldt]
My private investigator has already compiled a list of all
my husband’s past paramours. It’s a pathetic assortment of
ragamuffinsluts: strippers too stupid to get hired at Starbucks,
hussies who wouldn’t know the difference between a hardware
store and a health spa, willing waitresses lubed up with trans fat,
and intern whores galore. Take a look…
[Humboldt opens the manila envelope and begins gazing over the grainy black
and white photographs. There really isn’t much to look at, a halfdozen halfturned heads all wearing dark sunglasses and holding coffee cups. None of
the photographs elicit much of an emotional response. Most of all, Humboldt
is surprised at just how mundane dirty laundry really is. To him, these are just
a bunch of strange blurry photographs of a bunch of strange blurry strangers.
And then Humboldt happens to thumb his way to the final photograph in the
stack. He can’t believe his eyes! How could Elle have forgotten to tell him that
she had a twin sister! What wonderful news, Humboldt thinks with a smile. He
has never had a slutty sister-in-law before.
Noticing his smile, Henriette peers over Humboldt’s shoulder and grunts
loudly in disgust]
O her! She was Hal’s last ragged slutamuffin. She’s a particularly
obnoxious tart from Ohio with a name so stupid that it would
shame a crap novelist. Promise me, you’ll find her first. And
once you’ve found her, promise me that you’ll contact me, so I
can come murder her.
[Henriette gently removes the photographs from Humboldt’s hands and
returns them to their manila lair]
Humboldt, you know that I’m rich and available. I’ll give you
anything you want. Just say you’ll help me. Just promise me
that you’ll help me find these whores, starting with her.
[Henriette holds up the photograph of Elle’s twin sister]
Humboldt: [absentmindedly still thinking about having a slutty sister-inlaw] Sure. I’ll devote my life to finding her.
Henriette:
Good. We’re almost to the museum.
During the French Revolution, notorious
international hell-raiser Thomas Paine was a
member of both the French National Convention
and the Committee of Nine. When the Jacobins
seized power, Paine and his fellow Girondins
were arrested. Paine himself was imprisoned from
late December 1793 to November 1794. While
stewing in the slammer, Paine blamed his former
friend George Washington for the delay in gaining
his freedom. His anger boiled over in a letter to
Washington, in which he hissed: “treacherous
in private friendship, and a hypocrite in public
life, the world will be puzzled to decide, whether
you are an apostate or an imposter, whether you
have abandoned good principles, or whether you
ever had any?” When this letter was published in
America, it ruined Paine’s reputation. History has
shown that the real culprit for Paine’s dilemma was
not Washington, but rather Gouverneur Morris,
who had a long history of political animosity with
Paine. At the time of Paine’s incarceration, Morris
was America’s envoy to France.
Washington at Dorchester Heights, by Gilbert Stuart
XXX
What happened to Humboldt, Marty, Chester,
and Henriette Burton at the gala opening
for the new American Wing at the
Boston Museum of Fine Arts
I ain’t saying George Washington was a Gold Digger, but he wasn’t messin’
with no broke widows!
This coinage does not belong to me; it came
from CCLaP’s Nicolette Amstutz.
If George Washington had been
a NBA head coach instead of a
war general, he would have been
fired early in the Continental
Army’s campaign due to his
extremely poor won/loss record.
Humboldt had never seen such a stately, presidential horse’s ass. Glancing at the wall text, Humboldt read the name aloud: “George
Washington.” After being forced to endure so much bad art in New York City, Humboldt was relieved to be standing in front of a
big, beautiful painting of a big, beautiful horse’s ass. The work’s asscraftsmanship was astounding, and Humboldt wondered how
many hours the artist had labored as an assprentice before mastering his asscraft. As for the portrait of Washington, he looked
as dour and sour as ever. But what do you expect? Having to pose next to a horse’s ass couldn’t have been pleasant. And portrait
sessions back in those days were notoriously long; the Father of Our Country might’ve been standing next to that ass for hours.
And just think about all the other things General George could have been doing with his time, like losing Revolutionary War
battles, not getting Thomas Paine out of prison, and courting old wealthy widows.
After his experience in New York, Humboldt expected the MFA’s opening gala to be a surging sea of artlovers. And
upon entering the museum, his fears were instantly confirmed. The museum was chelseacrowded. Swimming against the tide,
Humboldt felt a flurry of elbows to his ribs, kicks to his shins, and forceful shouldershoves. As he was bounced, shouldered, and
elbowed, Humboldt realized that the aggressive crowd was not interested in looking at the art; they were simply fighting their way
towards the open bar.
As he tried to extract himself from the crowd, Humboldt accidentally bumped into an old whitehaired gentleman, who was
wearing a Brooks Brothers suit. Humboldt’s heart leapt with excitement! Here was his chance to interact with an authentic Boston
Brahmin!
—Pardon me, sir, Humboldt said politely.
—Faack off! And get the faack out of my faacking way! Go to faacking New York if you faacking want to look at art, you
artloving FAACK! the Brahmin yelled as he shouldered Humboldt out of his way.
As he caromed through the crowd, Humboldt smiled. This interaction was exactly how he had expected rich Bostonians to
treat people.
During all the surgingelbowingshouldering, Humboldt had gotten himself separated from Henriette. Instead of going in
search of her, he decided to wander through the galleries of the new American Wing by himself, or so he thought.
119
—There’s the asss that won the revolution. A real revolutionary
rumpjumper, aye? Just imagine it: His Impotency charging downhill into
battle bassackwards, using that rump as a battering-ram! Those poor Poms
didn’t stand an asss of a chance!
Turning away from the painting, Humboldt tried to discover who was
addressing him in such a strange, slurry manner. Across the room, he spied
a pair of mischievous eyes intently fixed upon him. These eyes belonged to
a handsome drunkard, who was seated at a silversmith table. With his right
hand, the stranger cradled his chin, his thumb pressing gently into the flesh of
his cheek; with his left hand, the drunkard was holding a teapot.
No, wait. That was a painting! Who was speaking to him?
How strange, he thought. No one’s here.
And then Humboldt happened to glance floorward. Hovering around
Humboldt’s knees was a funnylooking fellow, who was wearing a tiny Brooks
Brothers suit with a brightgreen tie. As the little person spoke, every word
Paul Revere, by John Singleton Copley.
misted out of his mouth covered in a cloud of alcoholbreath.
—Ppphillips Exeter? the little drunkard asked as he teetered back and
forth dangerously.
—No, my name is Humboldt.
—You Exeter boys, the little drunkard said with a chuckle. You’re
always so modest.
The little drunkard widened his eyes to full capacity and stared up at
Humboldt. Even glassy-eyed, Humboldt was shocked at the greenness of his
pupils.
—Are you [hiccup] enjoying the new wing, friend?
—Yes, Humboldt replied. Very much so. But why does it smell like
baked beans?
—HA! the little drunkard laughed loudly, the force of this laughter
almost toppling him over. The whole town smells like baked beans, my boy!
Cotton Mather’s to blame! One if by land. [hiccup] Two if by beans!
The strange little drunkard threw his arms around Humboldt’s thigh to
steady himself. As he spoke, his eyes rolled away and his lids lowered in revelry.
In The Book of Basketball, Bill Simmons ranks the —I simply love the founding fathers, don’t you? They were our Greatest
1986 Boston Celtics as the greatest team in NBA Generation of Celtics. [hiccup] The Sons of Cousy. Red Adams and his cousin
history.
Tommy. Behind his backside, people used to call Tommy “His Reboundity.”
[hiccup] Robert “The Chief ” Revere. Larry Birdcock. Abigail McHale. What
a team! Boston, my boy, is [hiccup] the Athens of America, but only when the
Olympics were going on. [hiccup, hiccup] Only when drunken discusthrowers
prowled the streets and vomited on the steps of the Acrapolis. [hiccup, hiccup,
smile] Harvlympia, my boy. [hiccup] The Oracle at Mount Beaci.
Abigail McHale? Harvlympia? What was the little drunkard talking about?
Humboldt feared that at any moment, the little unstable fellow would either topple
over and destroy something priceless or cover the room in projectile vomit.
—Did you sneak in here? Humboldt asked, freeing his thigh from the
drunkard’s embrace.
The little drunkard just smiled happily up at Humboldt.
—Did you? he replied.
—I mean, Humboldt continued, are you supposed to be here?
Another happy smile.
—Are you?
—Yes, Humboldt said with confidence.
—Reeeeally?
—I mean, Humboldt said with waning confidence, I think I’m supposed
to be here?
The little drunkard flashed Humboldt a knowing wink.
—Lost your friends, aye?
—Yes.
—Beware of friends bearing plates of fried cheese.
—What? Humboldt asked.
The little drunkard repeated himself ominously.
I personally endorse all of the scotch varieties
mentioned within this story (with the exception of
Glenarsenic). If you’re looking for an introduction to
drinking scotch, you could do a lot worse than using
my novel as a guide. And to further help you along,
here’s a list of my absolute five favorites varieties:
#1 Highland Park (scotch aficionado Michael
Jackson said it best when he dubbed Highland
Park the “greatest all-rounder in the world of malt
whisky”); #2 Edradour (since this scotch hails from
Scotland’s smallest distillery, it’s extremely difficult
to find in bars; your best bet is to order a bottle online); #3 Glen Garioch (pronounced “Glen Geery,”
this distillery claims to be Scotland’s oldest license
holder (1785); I think Glen Garioch’s eight year is the
best value on the market); #4 Laphroaig (Jackson
describes this Islay malt as “the most medicinal
of malts” and the quintessential “love it or hate it”
scotch: I drink it primarily in February); #5 Caol Ila
(this Islay malt is a great way for a scotch drinker to
educate himself on what is known as “finish,” which
is how a scotch lingers and develops on your palate:
Caol Ila has an unmistakable peppery finish).
Revere Beach was America’s first public beach. The
summer I lived in Boston, I used to frequently swim
there.
—Beware of friends bearing plates of fried cheese.
Before Humboldt had a chance to reply, he heard the sound of someone
calling his name from across the gallery.
—Humboldt! Humboldt! HELLOOO!
Humboldt turned to see Chester at the far end of the room, waving his
limpwrist frantically.
—We’ve been looking all over for you. And here you are looking at…
the art?
When Humboldt turned to introduce his new friend, he was amazed to
see that the little drunkard with the green tie and the glassy greenemerald eyes
was gone.
—You must be absolutely starving, Chester said as he gently placed his
hand on Humboldt’s arm. Let’s go get you something to eat.
—I’m not really that hungry.
—Nonsense! You must be famished! Down in the New American Café,
they have the most delicious menu in town: scrod stuffed with baked beans,
quahog stuffed with baked beans, even baked beans stuffed with baked beans!
They also serve Mystic River oysters, Natick chicken nuggets, and Potatoes au
East Boston. And I can assure you that the chef makes the best fried cheese in
town! You simply must try some! Just follow me.
As the duo passed through the galleries towards the central staircase,
Humboldt heard his name being called again.
—Humboldt! Humboldt!
When he turned this time, he saw Henriette approaching, a drink firmly
cemented in both hands.
—Humboldt, you must be parched. The bar has a marvelous selection of
scotch: Glen Garioch, Caol Ila, Talisker, Glenarsenic. But then I remembered you
don’t drink scotch, so I ordered you a Sex on Revere Beach. Here you go, Henriette
said as she thrust an odd, orangecolored highball into Humboldt’s hand.
—How marvelous! Chester exclaimed as he took Humboldt firmly by
the arm.
As if on cue, Henriette grabbed Humboldt’s other arm and, like a prime
suspect within a police investigation, he was forcefully led towards the central
staircase.
It was Marty’s voice!
—Humboldt, where are you going?
—I’m hungry and thirsty, I guess? Humboldt responded.
—Wait. I have to speak with you.
—Where’s your book? Humboldt asked.
Marty rolled his eyes in disgust.
—It’s impossible to read in this city! Not more than ten minutes after
we arrived, some drunkard spilled an entire pint of Sam Adams Boston Swill
all over me. My book was ruined. I’ve had to spend the entire evening reading
the wall text. It’s really quite dreadful prose.
As he spoke, Marty freed Humboldt from the clutches of Chester and
Henriette. He also tactfully removed the highball glass from Humboldt’s hand
and handed it back to the Greenwich Wench.
—I need to speak with you for a moment in private, Marty said.
—Sure, answered Humboldt. I’ll meet you two, he said to Chester and
Henriette, in the atrium in a moment.
After grumbling their acceptance, the two grumblers disappeared,
leaving Humboldt and Marty alone in the gallery. But before Marty could
begin speaking, another voice was heard calling out Humboldt’s name.
—Humboldt? Humboldt!
Another voice? Humboldt thought. Who else did he know in Boston?
XXXI
How Humboldt was happily reunited with the brother
of his beloved, Ned le Noise, Jr.
The views and opinions expressed in this novel are not necessary those of the
author. I love the MFA. I also love the story about how Holland Cotter’s parents
used to drop him off, unattended, at the MFA, while they ran their Saturday
morning errands in Boston.
—Ned! Humboldt exclaimed with joyous surprise. What are you doing here?
—I’m the museum’s deputy-vice-assistant-curator for Contemporary Art, Ned said matter-of-factly. What are you doing
here?
—Galaing? Humboldt answered. It’s good to see you, brother.
Ned’s demeanor visibly soured upon hearing the word “brother.”
—Did you sneak in? Ned asked with a snarl.
—No, I was invited, Humboldt said.
To prove his point, Humboldt reached into his pocket, extracted a business card, and handed it to his brother brother-in-law.
—What is this? A joke?
—No, Humboldt responded. I think the art in this museum is very high quality. But I did have a question. Why is it called
the “new” American wing? What’s “new” about it?
—What’s new? Ned echoed with indignation. The museum has added over one hundred thousand square feet to its original
footprint. It’s no longer one-quarter the size and one-sixteenth the quality of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
—Yes, I understand that, Humboldt continued. But the art; what’s “new” about the art?
—What’s new about the art? Ned repeated with rising indignation. The museum has some of the most exciting names in
contemporary art: Martin Johnson Heade, John Singer Sargent, Ellen Day Hale.
Humboldt had to admit that artists who had three names were more exciting than those with only two.
—And don’t forget, Ned continued, we have a stunning collection of work by Childe Hassam.
122
John Hancock, by John Singleton Copley.
Watson and the Shark, by John Singleton Copley.
Copley’s canvas depicts an actual event that
occurred in 1749. One morning while swimming
in Havana harbor, a fourteen-year-old cabin boy
named Brook Watson was attacked by a Great
White. As the result of this attack, Watson lost his
right leg. As an adult, Watson became a prosperous
businessman and politician, whose career included
stints as director of the Bank of England and Lord
Mayor of London.
Samuel Adams, by John Singleton Copley.
Boston’s Ye Olde Union Oyster House claims to have
popularized the toothpick in America.
It’s easy to condemn the British for their role in the
Boston Massacre; after all, they did open fire into a
crowd of unarmed civilians. But just think how pissed
off you would be if you were hit in the face with a
snowball packed around a rock, not to mention a
club.
Humboldt also had to admit that the name “Childe Hassam” was pretty
exciting to say, although he doubted whether a mere child, even one with an
exciting name, would be able to produce museumquality works of art.
—And don’t forget John Singleton Copley, Ned added with excitement.
He’s one of the most influential contemporary artists working in America
today. He’s right up there with Serra, Stella, John Jaspers, and that guy who
threw his Cuban girlfriend out the window. Did you see Copley’s portrait of
Paul Revere dressed as an artisan? Did you notice how contemporary it is?
He’s dressed in a plain white linen shirt without a cravat or wig. And he’s
holding a teapot; you can’t question the modernity of a teapot. Teapots were
among the most complex objects any silversmith made. And that painting was
created the same year as Revere’s famous Sons of Liberty slopbowl. You don’t
get any more contemporary than that!
—You don’t?
—No, you don’t! Or what about Copley’s portrait of John Hancock
in his ultra-contemporary bobwig? Or his depiction of the penultimate scene
from the movie Jaws? That’s so contemporary, it’s almost postcontemporary!
—Postcontemporary?
—Yes, Ned continued. But my personal favorite is the artist’s rendering
of Sam Adams.
As is often the case when pompous-sounding people begin speaking
loudly in a museum (or among a large gathering of drunks), Humboldt was
aware that a crowd had begun to congregate around he and Ned. This crowd
was listening greedily to everything Ned said, in hopes of learning something
about the paintings that they had no interest looking at.
—Copley’s portrait, Ned continued, shows Sam Adams at what he
himself considered to be the greatest moment of his life: the day he invented
the toothpick. Once this invention had been made, Adams went to show it off
to the Royal Governor Thomas Hutchinson. As he was demonstrating how
to use his new invention to dislodge food from between those hard-to-reach
teeth near the back of your mouth, a confrontation erupted over the Boston
Massacre. Adams demanded that no British soldier be allowed to use his new
invention. When the Royal Governor denied his demand, Adams flew into a
fury and demanded the expulsion of all British troops from Boston. Within
the painting, Copley depicts Adams pointing to the menus for Ye Olde Union
Oyster House and The Barf in Hand Tavern. It is as if he is saying, “If any British
soldier attempts to use my new invention while consuming atrocious food
within these establishments, they shall be hit in the face with a rockysnowball!”
—Yes, Humboldt said, not wanting to upset his brother brother-in-law.
But didn’t that take place in 1772? Is that considered contemporary?
—It is here in Boston, Ned exclaimed proudly.
Upon hearing this declaration, Ned received a gracious smattering of
applause from the gathering crowd.
XXXII
How Humboldt was forced to lee the gala opening
for the new American fWing at the
Boston Museum of Fine Arts
after having killed the brother of his beloved,
Ned le Noise, Jr.
Wonderland is the name of the T stop for Revere Beach. The name
comes from an old amusement park that was once located near
the beach.
Kevin Youkilis played for the Boston Red Sox from 2004 to 2012. While living in Boston, I used to see Youkilis jerseys
everywhere, on both men and women. I don’t know much about baseball, but I do know two things about Kevin Youkilis:
first, he’s from Cincinnati, Ohio; and second, his last name sounds like a STD you might pick up in East Boston.
’ right, brother, Humboldt said politely.
—I guess you’re
Once again, Ned’s demeanor noticeably darkened at the causal, fraternal association.
—Oh, I get it. You’re probably one of those guys who likes performance art, he sneered.
—Well, you have to admit that performance art can be arresting.
—Arresting?
—Yes, even moving. Performance art can move a viewer and a viewer can move it.
—Oh, Ned said with a snarl. I get it; you’re a New Yorker! Well, let me tell you something about New York City: it’s no
Wonderland. Rats, cockroaches, minorities: they’re all there swarming just beneath the city’s surface. Why do you New Yorkers
think that you’re so much better than everybody else? Is it because your mayor is a modern John Hancock? Is it because your
subway system has more than four lines, or because your women don’t wear baseball jerseys to fancy restaurants? Well, guess
what? I think a woman wearing a Kevin Youkilis jersey is sexy! Hell, I even think it’s sexy when a woman has youkilis!
Ned’s sudden shift from art and culture to women reminded Humboldt of Elle. Would she look attractive in a sports jersey?
Did she have youkilis?
—Do you think I should buy Elle a Kevin Youkillus jersey?
Humboldt’s question appeared to enrage Ned more than the words “brother” or “New York City.” As Humboldt watched,
Ned’s face twisted into a murderous scowl.
—What the hell did you just ask me? he said menacingly.
—I just asked if you thought I should buy a Kevin Youkillus jersey for Elle, Humboldt repeated.
124
Because of his diminutive stature, blonde hair, and
fierce intensity, Alexander Hamilton acquired the
nickname the “Little Lion of Democracy.” In 1791,
he began a three-year affair with Maria Reynolds. To
my knowledge, he never engaged in carnal relations
with Esther Edwards Burr.
John Adams once called Alexander Hamilton “the
bastard brat of a Scotch peddler.”
—You’ve got a lot of nerve talking to me about my sister, you…you…
you…Alexander Hamilton! Ned shouted. Do you have any idea the scandal
you’ve caused!
Humboldt was taken aback to hear his brother brother-in-law accuse
him of being Alexander Hamilton. Thanks to Mrs. Featherweight, Humboldt
knew all about the little lion of democracy’s illicit affair with Aaron Burr’s
mother. Even in the face of such an insult, Humboldt endeavored to continue
keeping the war’s peace.
—I understand that we should have talked to someone in your family
before we got married, but it all happened so fast.
—MARRIED? Ned screamed. Ned’s sudden increase in volume was
attracting an even bigger crowd of lookyloos.
—What are they shouting about? one drunken old lookyloo whispered
to another.
—Alexander Hamilton.
—MARRIED! Ned screamed again. I’ll never allow my sister to marry
such a rustic dimwit like YOU! You have no ancestry! You have no lineage!
None of your relatives ever fought at the battle of Dorchester Heights! You’re
the bastard brat of a Soy Peddler! You’re nothing! Your family’s nothing! All
you have is this faacking business card!
To emphasize his insult, Ned flung Humboldt’s business card back in
his face. After making contact with a surprised eyebrow, the card fluttered
down and disappeared underneath a large pedestal displaying a wide array of
silverwork by Paul Revere.
—It’s okay, Humboldt said calmly. I have a whole pocket full of those.
You don’t have to worry about losing that one.
—MARRY MY SISTER! Ned continued to scream. Over my dead
body! I’ll make sure that you never see my sister again! You ruined her! You
bastard!
After yelling this final insult, Ned struck Humboldt in the face with his
fist. The staggering intensity of the blow caused Humboldt’s brain to have an
aneurysm and he died instantly.
Or rather, the staggering intensity of the blow would have caused
Humboldt’s brain to have had an aneurysm and he would have died instantly
had it not been for Marty, who had been watching the exchange faithfully
and at the very last moment, thrust a large round silver salver on which Paul
Revere had beautifully engraved a coat of arms in the way of Ned’s murderous
fist. Ned’s fist struck the salver with such velocity that his arm recoiled in
knucklypain.
—What’s going on? the drunken old lookyloo whispered again to her
neighbor.
—I don’t know. I heard them saying something about performance art.
—O how delightful! the old lookyloo answered. Malcolm Rogers is
always talking about the need to collect more contemporary art!
—Here, Marty yelled as he threw Humboldt a large silver coffeepot
with a striking, slender blackhandle. Watch out!
Humboldt turned just in time to see Ned murderously wielding an
antique porringer. The little funnylooking saucepan was aimed directly for
Humboldt’s head. With a loud clang! Humboldt deflected the blow and the
antique porringer went sailing. A moment later, Ned was swinging a new
weapon: a large heavy tankard. With his coffee pot, Humboldt was again able
to clang! away the blow.
—Is this an example of Deconstructivism? the drunken old lookyloo
whispered to her neighbor.
—I think so.
—I’LL KILL YOU! Ned was still shouting as he reached for a pair of
silver sugar tongs and a tongue scraper with chamfered edges.
Before he could grasp these dangerous weapons, Marty quickly grabbed
the Sons of Liberty slopbowl and domed him with it. As Ned struggled to free
himself, Marty flashed Humboldt an expectant look.
—Strike him down! Marty commanded.
—Look, Humboldt said absentmindedly, there are a bunch of names
written on the outside of this bowl. Humboldt tilted his head to get a better
look at the bowl’s shiny surface.
—Strike him down! Marty repeated.
—The Glorious Ninety-two, Humboldt read aloud. We, the members
of the Massachusetts House refuse to…
—STRIKE HIM DOWN OR WE SHALL NEVER LEAVE THIS
TOWN!!!
Hearing this snapped Humboldt’s mind back to the present. Never leave
Boston? he thought with anguish. Spend his whole life among the beanstench,
the vomitous baseballbaffoons, and the scrod? This terrible thought vanquished
Humboldt’s gentle disposition. At that moment, Humboldt didn’t want to be
gentle; he just wanted out of Boston!
As Marty lifted the Sons of Liberty slopbowl from Ned’s head, Humboldt
swung his coffee pot with all his revolutionary might. The silverpot struck
Ned’s face like a cannonshot. Blood flew everywhere, as Ned fell dead.
—We must flee, Marty said as he desperately grabbed Humboldt’s arm
and began leading him through the crowd.
—Well, I just don’t understand performance art, the drunken old
lookyloo whispered to her neighbor with confused disdain. Why does it
always have to be so violent?
—That’s Deconstructivism, my dear. It’s the violence of the new!
As he and Marty fled across the Shapiro Family Courtyard, Humboldt
heard his name being called.
He turned to see Henriette, who was still holding his glass of Sex on
Revere Beach.
—Where are you going?
—I’m sorry, he replied. I have to flee.
—I understand. Please, don’t forget me, she pleaded. And don’t forget
your promise.
—I won’t, Humboldt said as he felt a manila envelope being firmly
pressed into his hands.
A few more steps and Humboldt once again heard his name being
shouted from afar.
—Humboldt! Humboldt! HELLOOO!
Humboldt turned to see Chester approaching him with a large platter
of foulsmelling fried foodlike substances.
—Where are you going?
—I’m sorry, Humboldt responded. I have to flee. Thank you for all your
attachéing.
—The pleasure was all mine, sir, Chester said obsequiously. Would you
care for a bite to eat before you go?
—No, thank you.
—No sir, thank you! And thank you, Chester whispered loudly to
Marty. Thank you! Thank you! I owe you a book!
And with that, the duo fled across the courtyard, down the steps below
John Singer Sargent’s contemporary mural Architecture, Painting, and Sculpture,
Protected by Athena from the Ravages of Time, and out the museum’s front door.
Once safely surrounded by the evening’s nightair, Marty directed
Humboldt to where their black Cadillac SUV was waiting.
—Where to, me lads? the driver asked in his thick Irish accent as the
duo leapt into the backseat.
—Anywhere! Humboldt shouted. Just drive north! NORTH! To
Canada! Take us to Canada!
For years, “B.O.D. is G.O.D.” was an Irish rugby chant involving former captain Brian O’Driscoll. In my opinion, B.O.D. is the second greatest center in
the modern game, behind former All Blacks captain Tana Umaga and slightly ahead of former Wallaby Sterling Mortlock. Unfortunately, for many Kiwi
rugby fans, myself included, B.O.D. will forever be associated with the embarrassment of the 2005 British & Irish Lions tour of New Zealand. The media
hype surrounding this tour was intense. As team captain, much of this attention centered on B.O.D. Having recently moved to New Zealand, this was my
first significant international rugby event. The first Test match between the Lions and the All Blacks is still the most crowded I’ve ever seen a pub for a
rugby match. Forty seconds into this match, B.O.D made a tackle and promptly violated the Cardinal Rule of Rugby, which is don’t muck around with the
tackle ball area. Although he had no chance of winning the ball, B.O.D. attempted to singlehandedly counter-ruck over the ball. This act of insanity caught
All Blacks Keven Mealamu and Tana Umaga by surprise and they both instinctively cleared B.O.D. out of the ruck using the proper technique of lifting a
player’s leg and flipping him onto the turf. But because Kevy and Tana acted simultaneously, and without knowledge of what the other was doing, B.O.D.
found himself in the awkward position of being lifted airborne by each leg and driven to the ground. The force of this movement, which is often mistakenly
referred to as a “spear tackle,” dislocated his shoulder and ended his tour. The aftermath of this accident was ridiculous. B.O.D. claimed that he had been
targeted intentionally and was lucky to escape with his life. The Lions coach, Sir Clive Woodward, backed up B.O.D. and compiled video evidence (à la
the Zupruder Film) to support these wild claims. The English media portrayed Mealamu and Umaga as blood-thirsty savages (they’re actually two of the
kindest, gentlest people you’ll ever meet) and were outraged when they received no punishment from the citing commission. (At the time, there were no
laws against lifting a player off the ground and failing to dispose of him carefully.) Lost in all this hoopla was the fact that the All Blacks won all three Test
matches by the combined score of 107 to 40. (Ouch!)
XXXIII
How Humboldt and Marty escaped to Canada,
’
or rather didn’t
“– Let him remember too, cried Mr Casey to her from across the table, the language with
which the priests and the priests’ pawns broke Parnell’s heart and hounded him into his
grave. Let him remember that too when he grows up.
If I Should Fall From Grace with God is the name of The
Pogues’ third album. It’s an okay album; I prefer Rum,
Sodomy, & the Lash.
– Sons of bitches! cried Mr Dedalus. When he was down they turned on him to betray him
and rend him like rats in a sewer…”
Mr Casey, freeing his arms from his holders, suddenly bowed his head on his hands with
a sob of pain.
– Poor Parnell! he cried loudly. My dead king!
In Ulysses, “Patrick W. Shakespeare” is
humorously listed as an Irish hero.
He sobbed loudly and bitterly.
Stephen, raising his terrorstricken face, saw that his father’s eyes were full of tears.”
—James Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Charles Stewart Parnell was the leader of the Irish Parliamentary Party. His supporters
believed that the Chief, as Parnell was affectionately known, was the only man capable
of emancipating Ireland from English rule. James Joyce’s father was a staunch Parnellite.
’
—Every’ting
all right back there, me lads? You’re quieter than a bunch of priests sitting in the front row of a comedy club.
As the black Cadillac SUV sped out of the dark, unnecessary depths of the Big Dig and began sailing underneath the cello
strings and huge white wishbones of Zakim Bridge, the familiar thick Irish accent broke the cloud of silence that had settled over
the backseat.
—O, everything is not all right, Humboldt wailed, plucking at the cello strings of his heart. I am the most miserable creature
on earth! I’m ruined.
—Fallen from grace with God, aye? Well, I won’t take it too hard. As that famous Englishman once said, “There’s a special
providence in Spiro’s fall.” Just ask Jerry Ford, aye? [Well-intentioned laughter] Lord have mercy on me kneecaps! Jerry Ford!
[More laughter] He was a real Chevy Chaplin of a Commander ‘n Chief, aye me lads?
Failing to receive any accompanying laughter, the driver’s tone shifted from playful to pious.
—If you ask me, lads, there’s a special providence in any fall, whether it be a fall from grace or a simple fall on yer face.
And take comfort, lad, no fall will ever be as painful as the fall of my countryman, my Commander ‘n Chief, the great uncrowned
King of Ireland: Abraham Lincoln Parnell.
Upon mentioning the man’s name, the driver respectfully removed his tweed cap.
—The Great Emancipator, he was; or, almost was. More than any man, he stood poised to end Ireland’s Civil War and
unite north and south. Just imagine that, me lads, the men of Munster embracing the lads of Leinster and not just at scrum time.
Then we’d really see if B.O.D is G.O.D., aye me lads? Eye, it would’ve been a glorious sight and might’ve even brought a tear to the
eye of the great cloverpicker in the sky. Erin go bragh and keep the ball in hand, boys! But alas, our wicked kinsman Patrick W. Satan
127
O, where to begin with Wayne Barnes, aka “The Most
Hated Man in New Zealand Rugby?” This moniker
stems from the 2007 Rugby World Cup, during which
Barnes refereed the Quarterfinal between the All
Blacks and the host country France. Depending on
your perspective, one of two things happened that
night: either Barnes made a few mistakes like any ref
is prone to do, or he was an inexperienced twat who
got overwhelmed by the magnitude of the situation
and inexplicably, inexcusably froze. One thing from
that night is certain: the All Blacks weren’t awarded a
single penalty in the final sixty minutes of the match.
This is rather unheard of seeing how rugby matches
only last eighty minutes! Barnes’ most glaring
mistake occurred at the 68th minute when he (and
to be fair, his touch judges too) missed an obvious
forward pass that resulted in France’s matchwinning
try. Do I blame Wayne Barnes for the worst loss in
the history of New Zealand rugby? No. The All Blacks
made some serious tactical and selection blunders.
And having lost both of their flyhalves during the
match, I seriously doubt if they would’ve been able
to win the entire tournament. But do I hate Wayne
Barnes? Fuck yeah! Why not? Bloody wanker! I’m
joking. I don’t hate Wayne Barnes. I actually feel
sorry for him. Search YouTube for “Wayne Barnes
knocked down after being hit in the face by ball!”
Holy Forward Pass! That might be the greatest falcon
in the history of footy!
Sweets of Sin is the name of the smutty novel in
Ulysses that Leopold Bloom purchases for Molly.
Parnell’s political career ended in scandal when
it was discovered that he had been engaged in a
ten-year affair with Katharine (“Kitty”) O’Shea, who
was the wife of one of Parnell’s fellow members of
Parliament. O’Shea was granted a divorce from her
husband on November 17, 1890 and she and Parnell
were married seven months later. On the day of their
marriage, the Irish Catholic hierarchy circulated a
letter stating, “by his public misconduct [Parnell] has
utterly disqualified himself to be… leader.” Parnell’s
scandal split the Irish Parliamentary Party in two and
effectively killed any chance of Ireland gaining its
independence. Four months after he was married,
Charles Parnell died of a heart attack in his wife’s
arms.
Jesus’ brother, James the Just, is an important figure
within the study of Gnostic literature. A number of
James’ gospels were discovered at Nag Hammadi.
After Jesus’ death, it appears that followers of James
came to loggerheads with Pauline Christians.
While living in Portland, Maine, I frequently took a
Concord Trailways bus down to Boston for daytrips.
This name is a play on Jonny Wilkinson, whose trusty
boot won England the 2003 Rugby World Cup.
wouldn’t allow it. Eye, he’s a scoundrel, but a damn fine referee; at least, he’s
better than Wayne Barnes. That yellow baastard knows a ‘ting or two about a
fall. Like me oldfellow used to say: the devil died because he tried to unionize.
Well, after the match, Parnell tasted the sweets of sin. When the press got a
whiff of it, by jaysus, they crucified him. They buried him, lads, just buried
him. And it didn’t end there. The greedy cloverpickers got ahold of his corpse
and buggered it. Just imagine that, me lads: men of the cloth buggering a poor
corpse. And what for? Why did the great man fall? It pains me to tell you,
lads, but it was all because of an illicit affair with another man’s cat. O’Shea!
O’Shame!
The driver paused to wipe a tiny tear from his Irish eye. Once this had
been accomplished, the tweed cap was plopped back atop his crown with a
dainty flourish and a note of mischief returned to his voice.
—But a fall, me lads, can also be a creation; at least, that’s what the
ancient agnostics like James the Just and Tim the Timid taught. According to
‘tem, there was no pre-fallen paradise: the fall was all. In the beginning, the
Lord sayeth, “Let there be a Fall.” And we fell. We fell in darkness, terrible
darkness. And we fell in chaos, terrible chaos. Our screams made the spheres
cover their ears. We flailed and flailed as we wailed and wailed, me lads. And
as we were flailing and wailing, the Lord thinketh, “Those poor baastards
haven’t got a place to land.” So, he invented…land! The Lord invented mud
because he needed a place for us to thud! Isn’t that the damn queerest creation
story you’ve ever heard, me lads? Every last one of us—me, ewe, even the
great uncrowned King of Ireland—a thudder!
To illustrate his point, the driver loudly slapped his thigh with the palm
of his right hand. The sound of assaulted legflesh made both Humboldt and
Marty jump in surprise.
—Noe, I wouldn’t worry about yer fall, me lad. We all fall. And in every
fall, there’s an act of creation, even if it’s only the creation of a brooze.
The driver’s rambling, thighslapping raconteurship had whisked away
the clouds of silence, but now a new meteorological system had moved in to
take its place: clouds of confusion. Within these clouds, Humboldt glumly
looked out his window. Boston was gone. Good riddance. At that precise
moment, their SUV was speeding past a hulking bus whose flanks were
emblazoned with the words: Concord Trailways. Inside the belly of this metallic
beast, Humboldt could see dozens of silent faces staring straight ahead, dimly
illuminated by the soft dancing blueglow of tiny television machines.
—It’s not just that I’ve fallen, Humboldt explained quietly. I killed
someone.
—A murderer, aye? A criminal on the lam! Well, I wouldn’t worry too
much about that either, me lad. If the good Lord didn’t want us to murder
each other from time to time, he wouldn’t have given us hands and teeth. Noe,
murder can sometimes be a fine affair. Had Robes not killed Pierre, the Shit
King would still be having his day in the Sun, aye? And had Michael Collins not
killed half of Brixton, Ireland would’ve never gained her halfindependence.
Nobody remembers poor Jonny Bullshitson or any of those other poor sods
from Brixton whose scrotums Michael tore off with his teeth, but everyone
remembers Michael. Jaysus, he was a terror! He’d put any’ting in his mouth
and give it a vicious bite. May he, and his sharp teeth, rest in peace.
Thoughts of Michael Collins made the driver once again piously
remove his tweed cap.
—No, I ‘tink the good lord will forgive ya for yer murder, as long as
the yellow baastard deserved it and you didn’t bugger the corpse. You didn’t
bugger the corpse, did ya?
—No, Humboldt answered. I didn’t bugger the corpse.
—Well, there ya go, me lad! You’ve got no’ting to worry about! The
Lord is a grand forgiver and he loves a good sinning.
The tweed cap returned to the driver’s fleshy head with a flourish.
—And never forget, he continued, “Thou shall not bugger corpses.”
The Lord hates buggernecrophilia. Ahem.
At the end of this impromptu sermon, the driver crossed himself and
blessed the steering wheel.
Another cloud of confusion descended upon the back seat. Humboldt
was beginning to wonder if their driver actually spoke a different language
than English, or maybe he was speaking in tongues.
—I know what yer thinking, me lads. Yer thinking: how did such an
intelligent man end up being a chooffeur? Am I right?
—Well, you don’t seem like a normal chauffeur, Marty admitted.
—And our other chauffeur was from Africa, added Humboldt. I don’t
think he spoke more than two words of English.
—Well, me lads, I’ll share me secret with ya: I’m not really a chooffeur.
I’m a philosoffeur. And what I study is more enlightening than Euclidean
geometry or Archimedean archery; I am a student of the rood. That’s all life
is, me lads: traffic patterns. You go in one direction and then ya stop. You
go in t’other direction and then ya stop. On ramps, off ramps, exchanges,
rest stops, roundabouts: it’s all so logical, it’s almost bloody Roman. On the
rood, every’ting happens for a reason. You stop because you need to stop.
You turn left because you need to turn left. See that sign? That sign tells us
that Newberryport is ten miles away. And why does that sign exist? Because
Newberryport is ten miles away. Reason rules the rood. And with reason
comes the grand feeling of being in control, and that feeling is a lovely ‘ting!
Mankind’s love of reason is the reason why we all say that every’ting happens
Chaosophy is the title of a book by Félix Guattari.
for a reason. Because without reason, there’s nothing but chaoseason! And all
the philosoffeurs agree that chaoseason is bad and reason is goode. So when
all is reason, like it ‘tis on the rood, you can truly say that all is goode. And
that’s the goal of life, me lads. That’s the philosoffee known as the Power of
Positive Driving.
The Power of Positive Driving? Humboldt’s mind and body shot to
attention. Why did that sound so familiar?
Tacked to the back of the driver’s seat, beneath a cumbersome plastic
sleeve, was a copy of the driver’s chauffeur license. Humboldt scrutinized the
name: Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Drinkagua.
—You have a unique name, Humboldt said as he read the chauffeur’s
name aloud.
—Eye, replied the driver. Reading me license, are ya? Well, don’t worry,
lad, you can just call me Fergus.
Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Drinkagua? Something about that
ridiculous Irish name struck Humboldt as familiar. And behind that ridiculous
fake Irish accent, something even sounded familiar.
And then satori struck.
—Professor Drinkwater?! Humboldt blurted out, unable to contain his
amazement.
Humboldt’s amazed blurt caused the SUV to swerve dangerously
towards the Newberryport exit. An angry carcophony exploded around them,
as brakes slammed, horns honked, and curses flew. For a moment, Humboldt
was sure that they would lurch awkwardly off the highway and into the famed
old feminist enclave, but Fergus (or Professor Drinkwater) was able to regain
both his vehicular control and his composure. Once the lurching, swerving,
and swearing was under control, Fergus (or Professor Drinkwater) removed
his Irish tweed cap and wiped his brow with the palm of his hand.
—Thank the lord, we’re still in Massachoosetts and everybody drives
that way; otherwise, the police would be on us like shite on sacrament.
People who live in Maine call overly aggressive drivers Massholes, God bless ‘em! Lord, it’s been ages since anyone’s called me by
with Massachusetts license plates “Massholes.”
that name, lad.
—It is you! Humboldt exclaimed happily. I thought you were dead!
—Deed, aye? I guess maybe I was, Fergus said as he replaced his tweed
cap and steadied the wheel.
—You were?
—Eye. What’s so strange about that, lad? People experience creative
secondbirths all the time.
—Really?
—Eye. And the good lord knows that I was never casketed, just
castrated.
—You were castrated? That’s fantastic! Humboldt exclaimed with joy.
—Yeah, I guess so, Fergus replied sadly.
—It’s just like you always used to say, Humboldt continued. It’s all
good.
—Yeah, I guess so, lad. But sometimes, I wish I had me balls back. But
enough of that.
—Why did you leave college?
—Leave? Fergus asked incredulously. I never left, lad. I was fired! Once
word got around campus about me castration, I was summoned to appear
before the Academic Dean. That yellow baastard interrogated me like he
Grand Inquisitors make memorable appearances in was the Grand Inquisitor of Granada. [lowering his voice to sound stilted
both The Brothers Karamazov and Candide.
and academic] Without genitalia, how can you expect to maintain appropriate
relationships with your students? [resuming his normal (i.e. fake) Irish accent]
Lord have mercy on me, Grand Dean, sir; I’ll have to begin cultivating
relationships based on learning and respect, instead of sex. [lowering his voice
again] That’s precisely what we’re afraid of; if one academic begins cultivating such
relationships, the idea might spread campus-wide. [normal (fake) voice] What a
glorious idea, sir! [low voice] Glorious? It would be an academic endemic! The old
learning dynamic of sex and power would be totally ruined!
Fergus ended the performance by angrily flashing the windshield the
universal hand symbol for “You’re fired:” the cobra.
—And to ‘tink, all those years that I was sneaking in and out of dorm
rooms, sorority lounges, and parked cars, it never occurred to me that I was
doing exactly what the college wanted me to do, teaching sex and power
“The tragedy is when you’ve got sex in the head dynamics. Sex in da head! And the minute I could no longer perform me
instead of down where it belongs.” —D.H. Lawrence “scholastic duties,” I was fired. First I lost me balls, and then I lost me job!
Fergus shook his head and the SUV momentarily slowed to a normal
pace.
—I was ruined, me lads! For fook’s sake, I had spent me whole life
being a teacher; I don’t know how to do any’ting else. And I didn’t want
to learn; that’s why I became a teacher in the first place. I’m allergic to
learning! I started drifting between odd jobs that felt like teaching—herding
cattle, babysitting, spoonfeeding infants, even motivational speaking—but all
of those jobs required too much effort. I finally realized that I couldn’t do
any’ting. All I was good at was unmotivational speaking. Disenfranchised
and diseducationalized, I turned to drink. One afternoon in an Irish pub,
a bartender mentioned that a car company around the corner was hiring
chooffeurs, but you had to be Irish. I quickly changed me name, read some
George Bernard Shaw essays, ate a head of cabbage so me breath would reek
during the job interview, and I got the job! And the rest, as they say in Ireland,
‘tis history!
The speedometer began climbing again.
—And to tell you the truth, me lads, driving a cab is a beautiful ‘ting.
It’s like tenure with tires. It’s like teaching, really. People sit down; I tell ‘em
what they want to hear; and then I drop ‘em off. And when they leave, they
‘tink they’ve travelled a substantial distance, but really they’ve just been sitting
on their arse letting somebody else do all the bloody work. That’s college for
ya, lads! But enough about college! Let’s talk about Canada, aye? What’s in
Canada, me lads?
Humboldt and Marty flashed each other a look of confusion.
—Mooses? Humboldt replied tentatively.
—Maple leaves? Marty suggested.
—Or is the plural: Meeses?
—What about mullets?
—Eye, all good answers, me lads! And we’re about to find out, aye? See
that bridge?
Fergus pointed to a large, twisting metal structure that leapfrogged a
slim body of water.
—On the other side of that bridge, me lads, is Canada.
Humboldt and Marty again flashed each other a look of confusion.
From their vantage point, the bridge appeared to begin its leap from
Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
—Canada? Marty inquired skeptically. Isn’t Maine on the other side of
that bridge?
—That’s right, lad. The Maine part of Canada. Or at least, that’s what
those Quebeçois baastards would like you to ‘tink. Thanks to them, none
of the bloody road signs around here make a damn bit of sense. Ogunquit?
Kennebunkport? Biddefrog? Jaysus, every bloody sign is written in half
English half Frog. But don’t worry, me lads. I know the way to Portréal. We’ll
be eating poutine and drinking bluebeer before you can sing the opening lines
of the ‘teem song to Titanic.
XXXIV
How Humboldt, Marty, & Fergus found
‘A Whole Lotta of Love’ in Portreal
(Alternative Chapter Title : Delirium)
French Letters is what English soldiers called condoms during WWII. The phrase filtered back to England after the war.
According to legend, when Napoleon first met Goethe, he shouted, “Voilà un homme!”
This quote appears in Nietzsche’s Ecce Homo: How One Becomes What One Is.
Bonjour! Je desiré to speak avec vous about French Letters. Ah, oui [wink, wink], vous know about French Letters. Maybe, vous
have utilisés them yourself ? C’est scandalous, n’est pas?
Je m’appelle le lettre H. Je suis le première letter pour beaucoup du noms like Hugo, Houellebecq, Huysmans, et Humboldt.
Ah, oui [happy sigh]. Monsieur Hugo. Voilà un homme! Ce qu’un écrivain! Il a écrit novels de beau prose.
Et oui [happy sigh]. Monsieur Houellebecq. Voilà un perv! Ce qu’un écrivain! Il a écrit novels de beau porno.
Trop mal [sad sigh]. Monsieur Humboldt n’est pas un écrivain. Il est simply un character from un novel sans beau prose ou
beau porno. Et l’author de ce novel [autre sad sigh] parle française très shitty. What can je peux dire? L’author de ce novel, like his
character, est un Américain Idiot. C’est vrai. Il n’aime pas les jeunes filles avec airy armpits, aughty attitudes, au appy memories.
HA!
Mon Dieu!
Regardé what I just did: “airy armpits,” “aughty attitudes,” et “appy memories?” C’est très drôle, n’est pas? Vous
questionez: où est vous? Où est la lettre H? En français, la lettre H n’existe pas! Je suis un ghost, like le pere d’amlet! Je suis la
lettre de l’existentialism. Je suis silence. Un word écrit totalement de moi would sound like l’air around un baguette ou le sound
immediately après un headbutt du Zidane. Et un conversation spoken totalement de moi would sound like that famous song by
Simone de Beauvior and Art Sartre: Le sound de silence.
C’est une belle thought, n’est pas?
Viva silence!
Viva la lettre H!
132
“Women are knitters” is a quote from Napoleon. In
The Brothers Karamazov, this phrase is uttered by
Kolya, the precious fourteen-year-old.
HHhH is the title of Laurent Binet’s debut novel.
This lovely couple is my brother Jefferson and his
wife, Sarah, who used to host an annual party on
February 14th. In addition to being Valentine’s Day,
this date was also our grandfather’s birthday. Perfect
Manhattans were our grandfather’s favorite drink.
The following section is a description of the 2010
“A Whole Lotta Love” party, which my wife and I
attended.
Allez les bon temps rouler is French for “let the good
times roll.” The phrase is most commonly associated
with Cajun revelries such as fais do-dos and Mardi
Gras. Associating this phrase with Portland, Maine is
supposed to be a joke; Portland is most definitely not
a “let the good times roll” kind of city. I suspect that
the growth of Portland’s nightlife was permanently
stunted by the temperance movement. Maine was
one of the first states to pass a temperance law in
1851, almost seventy years before Prohibition went
into effect nationally. And people in Portland are
still proud of the fact that they live in the state that
gave birth to Prohibition. (Wait, remind me again
why Prohibition was a good thing?) The state also
gave birth to the term “bootlegger.” After Portland
went dry, savvy entrepreneurs carried flasks tucked
into their knee-high boots. I would imagine that it’s
extremely difficult to “let the good times roll” when
you’re drinking from a flask that smells like some
stranger’s sweaty boot.
Some weirdo really used to do this in Portland.
Portland, Maine is a small city with a large
concentration of unsavory characters. I have no idea
where these people come from (maybe they are exiled
French Canadians), but I do know where you can
usually find them: they congregate along Congress
Avenue, which is the city’s main thoroughfare.
While living in Portland, I rode the bus every day.
It was not pretty. My morning commute involved
catching the #8 Peninsula Loop to the METRO Hub,
where I transferred to the #6 North Deering.
Viva moi!
Je suis le Napoleon de l’alphabet! (Les femmes tricottent! HA! HA! Ce
qu’un petite jerk!)
Et just think: if plus personnes used French Letters, the world would be
a beaucoup quieter place. C’est une très belle thought, n’est pas?
Pas plus war. Pas plus stupidité. Pas plus Américain blabbercans!
[snicker, snicker]
Simplement…
—Humboldt?
SILENCE!
—Humboldt?
Silence, s’il vous plait!
—Humboldt, are you awake?
Non… Non… NON! Il n’est pas “HHHumboldt.” Il est “umboldt!”
—Humboldt?
C’est tout! Au revoir, Américain blabbercans! Au revoir, idiots! Enjoy
de votre novel très shitty!
Humboldt opened his eyes slowly. He was lying on a bed in a nondescript
hotel room surrounded by sweeping vistas of a PortCity. In one corner of
the room, Marty was quietly reading a book. Squinting against the slanting
afternoon sunlight, Humboldt was able to make out the book’s title from off
its spine: HHhH. As his eyes continued to fight foreclosure, Humboldt became
aware that Fergus was speaking to him.
—Humboldt, me lad. Are ya awake?
Humboldt nodded sleepily.
—Goode, because I’ve got goode news for ya, lad. I was down at the
local Irish public house, Bull Weeney’s, and I met a lovely couple who invited
us to their ‘teem party tonight. And the ‘teem of the party is “A Whole Lotta
Love.” Sounds like fun, aye? Do you want to go, lad?
—Sure, Humboldt answered, still halfasleep.
—Good on ya, lad! Start drowning your sorrows and you’ll have
forgotten all about that pesky murder in no time. As the local Quebeçois say,
let the bons temps rouler, aye?
The first thing Humboldt noticed upon leaving their hotel was the
seapigeons. They were everywhere: circlingcircling high in the sky, strutting
across streets, even perched atop the soaring façade of the Portréal Museum
of Art. In the museum’s entrance plaza, Humboldt was shocked to see a
family of friendly seapigeons nesting atop the arms, shoulders, and head of a
strange pigeonloving man.
When Fergus saw this pigeoncovered pigeonlover, he snorted with
disdain.
—Quebeçois Seafrogs! Don’t look them directly in their beady oyster
eyeballs, me lads. They’re smarmy devils and they swarm all over this city.
They’re bloody everywhere: roaming Congress, riding the public transport,
even roasting their socks in the atrium of the library. The Quebeçois are a
foulsmelling, grufflooking bunch.
As they continued up the street, Fergus motioned with his head towards
a large group of grizzled old French Canadians who were aimlessly milling
underneath a sign for Joe’s Smoke Shop.
—No goode, lazy Seafrogs! If you’ve smelled one, you’ve smelled ‘em
all, Fergus continued. That’s what the lobsterloving locals say. The whole town
is crawling with lobsterlovers. The bartender at Bull Weeney’s even convinced
me to order a Lobster Roll for dinner. Did ya know that lobsters are entirely
filled with mayonnaise, lads? Ain’t that the darnest ‘ting you’ve ever heard?
An entire crustacean filled with Miracle Whip! Ya just snap off the tail, spoon
it out, and let the bons temps lobster roll, aye!
The trip to Bull Weeney’s had obviously loosened Fergus’ tongue,
although it was not so tightly wound to begin with. As the trio climbed
Congress, he continued to regale the group with reconnaissance he had
gathered from the local pub.
—I swear the good lord loves a prosperous Public House; it’s like an
When I first moved to Portland, this bartender information center. The bartender was a friendly bloke with a grand, handlebar
worked at The Downtown Lounge. Later, he tended moostache. He was a right wealth of knowledge. According to him, this city
bar across the street at Norm’s Bar and Grill.
is famed for its locavore food movement. There’s even a restaurant that serves
While living in Portland, my apartment was located
on West Street, in a building named The Pilgrim. If
you’re facing The Pilgrim, my apartment was on the
second floor at the left edge of the building’s façade.
West Street terminates at the Western Promenade,
which is the best spot in the city to watch the sunset.
In high school, my French name was Thomas.
hairsotto made with local hair. And the city is also famed for its oldavore
food movement. There’s a great septuagenarian supper club in the West End,
named.... I can’t remember the name, but I know it rhymes with ‘crapola.’
Even though we’re walking south, that’s where we’re headed, me lads: the
West End. It’s supposed to be a grand place. According to me bartender
friend, scones in the West End are more expensive than houses in the East
End. Ain’t that the darnest ‘ting, lads?
As Humboldt was wondering how a café could get away with pricegouging their customers on scones, he narrowly avoided running into a
guiltylooking Seafrog, who was exiting a store called XXXVideo.
—And what a lovely couple to invite us to their ‘teem party, Fergus
continued. She’s a student and he’s a teacher. And the ‘teem of their party is
love. ‘Tis a beautiful ‘teem. And there’s a bloke who knew a ‘ting or two on
the subject, aye?
Fergus pointed ahead of them to a sculpture of a bearded Zeus encircled
by heavy traffic. Instead of sitting on a cloud, the sculptor had depicted the
local deity seated on a highbacked chair, his right arm resting casually on its
sturdy back. And instead of a thunderbolt, in his left hand, the figure was
holding a curled, softbound book of poems.
—‘Tis the city’s favorite son: the great poet, Henry Wadsworth
Lovefellow. Eye, he was a real DownEast Don Juan.
Humboldt could only glance at the statue quickly, as the trio was forced
to navigate a perilous street crossing that led into the land of overpriced
scones.
—And up ahead, lads, Fergus said as they crossed the street, are some
fellows that love fellows too.
Fergus nodded casually to a tightly packed scrum of men huddled
underneath a sign for Blackstone’s Pub. A stinkcloud rose from the scrum, as
the lovefellows vigorously puffed and sucked on lit cigarettes.
—In Europe, Fergus said in a hushed tone, they’re called fags.
Humboldt held his breath as they passed through the cloud of fagsmoke.
—Don’t worry, me lads. ‘Tis not much farther now.
Other than the stinkcloud, the evening was calm and fragrant. The
cool nightair was brisk and, as he breathed deeply, Humboldt even detected
a subtle hint of garlic. After being cooped up in an automobile all afternoon,
Humboldt was enjoying the fresh walk and the stretching air.
Lovefellows? Were they lovefellows? Humboldt thought as he continued to
sniff and stride through the night’s stillness. Glancing to his right, Humboldt
saw a long, lovely treelined street. At the end of this street sat the setting sun.
It was the deaththroes of daylight: the blue hour. As Humboldt watched, faint
rays of pink and orange were sucked from the sky like the final puffs from an
all-but-extinguished fag. Watching the color drain from the sky, Humboldt
couldn’t help but think of himself as a lovepilgrim sailing off in search of
some enchanted isle.
Think? Humboldt thought. When was the last time he had done that?
Lately, he had been revving the lawnmower of his mouth like that blabberboy
Tuscarawas Tim. But there in the faint final rays of the downwest sun,
Humboldt promised himself that he would begin thinking again. And he
would begin soon. Humboldt longed for the humble depths of thought. And
what should he think about? Showerless Quebeçois squalor? No. Overpriced
scones? No. Murder most mundane? Nooo.
—Thomas Street, me lads. What a clever French name, aye? We turn
here, Fergus said, directing the group to the left.
At the end of the street, a door opened and a threshold was crossed. A
polite knock revealed a crowded apartment filled with the aroma of candles,
the din of diverse conversations, and A Whole Lotta Love. And what was love
“Beerbeef trample the bibles. When for Irelandear.
Trample the trampellers. Thunderation! Keep the
durned millingtary step. We fall. Bishops’ boosebox.
Halt! Heave to. Rugger. Scrum in.” —James Joyce,
Ulysses
James Joyce suffered from keraunophobia.
This fear was the result of being told as a child that
thunder was an angry God inflicting his wrath upon
humans. A single thunderclap occurs in the Oxen of
the Sun episode.
without alcohol? As soon as Humboldt entered the apartment, a gigantic glass,
filled with a reddish amber liquid, was thrust into his unsuspecting hand.
—Have you ever had a Perfect Manhattan before? the thruster inquired.
—Once in Manhattan, Humboldt answered. Brooklyn, really. But it
was less than perfect.
—That’s so clever! the friendly hostess replied. Would you like me to
show you around?
Humboldt nodded in agreement and followed the hostess as she passed
through an open doorway into a crowded livingroom. As he did so, Humboldt
was aware that Fergus had anchored himself near the kitchen counter, within
arm’s reach of an ample swathe of alcohol; and, like a bookmoth drawn to a
wordflame, Marty had anchored himself in front of a nearby bookshelf.
—This is the livingroom and out there is our sun porch, the friendly
hostess explained, motioning towards the front of the crowded room.
In addition to the crowd of people, the room was also home to a
particularly large potted plant that reminded Humboldt of a green, leafy
octopus.
—Would you like to write a loveletter? the hostess asked as she thrust a
piece of paper into Humboldt’s open hand. We’re asking everybody to write
one. And it doesn’t have to be to your current love, it can be to anyone: a
former teacher, your mother, an old friend, an old flame, anyone you want.
—Okay, Humboldt answered hesitantly.
—Great! When you’re done, we’ll tape your letter up on this wall. That
way everyone can read it.
And with that, the hostess disappeared back into the crowd, leaving
Humboldt alone with his pen, paper, booze, and thoughts. Being careful not
to spill his unsipped drink, Humboldt sat down on a nearby red sofa, sinking
deep into its plush pillows. Once his body and booze were perfectly balanced,
Humboldt reached forward and placed his piece of paper on the coffeetable in
front of him.
A loveletter? Humboldt thought. He had never written one of those
before.
His first thought was to ask for help, but upon surveying the room,
Humboldt noticed that Marty was busy scrutinizing An Arsonist’s Guide to
Writers’ Homes in New England and he assumed that, in the kitchen, Fergus
was doing the same thing to a bottle of Irish whiskey. Best not to interrupt
them, Humboldt thought. Plus, what did they know about love? Fergus was
testicless and Marty’s philosophy on the topic was repulsive.
What to say? And who to say it to?
Thinking it might provide a spark of inspiration, Humboldt took a tiny
sip from his Perfect Manhattan. Instead of inspiration, the sip provided a spark
of revulsion. Thunderation! The taste of alcohol was so overpowering that it
made Humboldt wonder if the recipe called for anything other than alcohol
mixed with alcohol. As the burst of booze rushed to Humboldt’s head, he felt
a wave of dizziness wash over him. Forcing himself to concentrate on the task
at hand, Humboldt focused his mind back on the blank page.
How to start?
“A former teacher, your mother, an old friend, an old flame…”
Humboldt picked up his pen and began writing.
Dear Mrs. Featherweight,
I have been assigned a homework assignment to write a loveletter and I don’t
know what to write. What is love? [sip] I remember how you once said that the invention
of love was the engine that drove the Industrial Revolution. [sip] That makes sense.
One minute, you’re in a canoe, paddling along in the river of life and the next minute,
a steamengine roars past and overturns your canoe and you fall into the river and get
all wet and furious. Is that love? [sip] Or maybe, the invention of love was more like
the invention of photography. One minute, you think that you’re a three-dimensional
person with a unique personality and the next minute, a photograph roars past and
overturns your facecanoe and you fall into the river of life, realizing that you’re really
This is a twofold joke. First, Nietzsche was an extremely
industrious writer. In the final productive year of his life,
he dashed off The Wagner Case, Twilight of the Idols, The
Antichrist, Ecce Homo, and Nietzsche Contra Wagner.
Second, there’s a good chance that the poor guy died a
virgin.
O, what to say about John Ruskin’s wedding night with
poor Effie Gray? Much has been said on the topic, but to
my knowledge no one has ever attempted to explain the
situation by quoting former Secretary of Defense Donald
Rumsfeld:
“There are known knowns; there are things we
know that we know. There are known unknowns; that is to
say, there are things that we now know we don’t know. But
there are also unknown unknowns—there are things we do
not know we don’t know.”
The “known knowns” of Ruskin’s wedding night
include the fact that the marriage was never consummated.
The “unknown unknown” is why.
According to an
apocryphal art history rumor, John Ruskin, who was an
expert on classical painting and sculpture, was skevved
out by the sight of his wife’s pubic hair. I tend not to believe
this story. I think the situation had more to do with “known
unknowns.” By this I mean the strange sexual norms of the
Victorian Era. Like seemingly very man who lived during this
odd era, John Ruskin was a total nutcase when it came to
sex. And while I don’t believe the “pubic hair hypothesis,” I
did once write a poem about it. Since no one else is willing
to publish any of my poetry, why not reproduce it here?
John Ruskin Upon Spying His Wife’s Pubic Hair
For the First Time On Their Wedding Night
What is that?!
A CAT?
I was expecting
hairless bliss
and instead I get this!
My dear, I have studied art
from around the globe
I think I should know the secrets
that a woman’s body holds.
Great Greek romantic sculptures
present such an elegant air
and down there?
BARE!
I have been to Venice
I have seen the Venus of Botticelli
and I am sure that there is not
one single strand on her belly
In all my years of praising
the Pre-Raphaelites
never have I seen such
shaggy sights
I am aghast to have
chosen a mate
who chooses to groom herself
in such an unnatural state
Enough!
My lover please cover
that tuff!
You see, the Victorian era is one of
refinement and delicacy
not, not…
shrubbery!
Look at the row you’ve created
but don’t fear, my dear,
I still love you so
yet off to my study, I must now go
leaving this night unconsummated
just a two-dimensional smile with no gravity. That makes sense, too. [sip] Why didn’t
anyone love that great industrialist Fred Nietzsche? Was it because of his mustache?
I remember it from the photograph you showed us of him. It was pretty big. [sip] He
seemed like a lonely guy. Is not being in love the same as being lonely? And is not being
lonely the same thing as being in love? [sip] Are being in love and being lonely just
different ends of the same mustache? Is love really just one big mustache? Some people
think mustaches look good, but other people think they look stupid and still other people
think they look itchy. Is that love? Is love itchy? [sip] I wish you had given our class
a lecture on love. I find the topic very confusing. [sip] And before you ask: no, I don’t
think I would’ve liked to have lived in England during the Industrial Love Revolution.
It was too loud, too steamy, and had too many factories. Is love loud? Is love hardwork?
Is being in love like working in a factory? [sip, sip]
Humboldt’s pen paused and his eyes scanned over what he had written:
“paddling along the river of life in a canoe,” “love is a mustache,” “love is like working
in a factory?” Who was writing this crapola? This didn’t sound like a loveletter;
it sounded like Mark Twain’s murmurings after one too many Brandy
Alexanders. Taking another sip from his Perfect Manhattan, Humboldt
angrily crumbled up his loveletter and threw it into a nearby trashcan.
What to write? And who to write it to?
Another small sip floated past his lips, as the instructions again floated
through his consciousness: “a former teacher, your mother, an old friend, an
old flame…”
Humboldt picked up his pen and began writing again.
Dear South,
Do you have a mustache? [sip] The reason I ask is that I’m trying to write a
loveletter and this got me thinking about Fred Nietzsche’s mustache and that made
me remember all of your hair. Maybe love isn’t a mustache, maybe love is hair, lots
of hair. Maybe the more hair a person has, the more love that person has. [sip] Why
didn’t John Ruskin think about this on his wedding night? [sip] Hairy armpits, hairy
legs, hairy heads, maybe these people just have more love than other people. Maybe
love makes hair grooow. Maybe love is like fertilizer for hairgrooowth. And if this
is true, does it mean that the human heart is covered in hair? [sip] You must have
a very hairy heart. Is it soft to touch like a puppy or prickly like a pear? [sip] Does
your soft hairypuppyheart belong to you? The reason I ask is because I remember how
sometimes puppies get confused and runaway from home. And after they runaway,
they can’t remember how to get back and then they have no other option but to start
living someplace else and when this happens, their new home becomes home and their
old home just becomes someplace that isn’t home. [sip] Is this what happened to you?
Did your hairyheart runaway from Ohio? And after it ranaway, did it get lost? When
hairyhearts leave home, do they become lonelyhearts? [sip] Hair grows, love grows,
puppies grow: loneliness must grooow too. Does anything ever shrink? Is a lonelyheart
a shrinkingheart? Does your lonelyheart ever miss the hair of home? [sip, sip]
Humboldt’s pen paused again, as his eyes scanned over what he had
written: “love is hair,” “soft hairypuppyheart,” “your lonelyheart missing the hair
of home?” Who was writing this crapola? This didn’t sound like a loveletter; it
sounded like the silly doggiewoggie whisperings of a drunken Jack London.
Taking another sip of his Perfect Manhattan, Humboldt angrily crumbled up
his loveletter and tossed it into the trashcan.
To hell with former teachers, mothers, old friends, and old flames, Humboldt
thought.
With a determined hand, Humboldt picked up his pen again and began
writing.
Dear Elle,
Do you think love is more like the Industrial Revolution or hair?
After curving down to the question mark’s solitary point, Humboldt’s
Hey, this character sounds familiar…
Okay, now this character really sounds familiar…
“By rose, by satiny bosom, by the fondling hand,
by slops, by empties, by popped corks, greeting in
going, past eyes and maidenhair, bronze and faint
gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft Bloom, I
feel so lonely Bloom.” —James Joyce, Ulysses
pen froze. It wouldn’t budge. His mind was blank and he panicked: writer’s
block! Instinctively, Humboldt did what any blocked writer is taught to do:
guzzle booze. A deep swig caused Humboldt’s face to contort wretchedly. His
eyes squeezed, his cheeks tweaked, and his head swiveled slightly, in agony,
towards his shoulder.
Looking up amidst his torment, Humboldt’s squeezingtweakingswiveling
face met an equally squeezedtweakedswiveled face. As he had been diligently
working on his loveletter, Humboldt had failed to notice that a girl with
big eyes and a big Perfect Manhattan in her hand had sat down across the
coffeetable from him. As their boozebattered faces met, the stranger flashed
Humboldt a timid smile.
—It isn’t easy, is it? the smiling stranger said.
—Do you mean drinking these Perfect Manhattans?
—No, I mean writing a loveletter. But drinking this Perfect Manhattan
isn’t easy either. I just took a big gulp because I thought it might help me think
of something to write, but all it did was burn my esophagus.
—Me too.
—Does your drink have as much alcohol in it as mine?
—I think they all do.
—Well, I guess that’s appropriate, the smiling stranger said. I used to
live in Manhattan and it’s full of drunks. My name is Sarahbelle Michelle, by
the way.
—I’m Humboldt.
—Nice to meet you, Humboldt. Who are you writing your loveletter
to?
—My forever indebted wife, Humboldt answered. Who are you writing
your loverletter to?
—My forever indebted husband, Sarahbelle Michelle replied with a
giggle. My old balls and chain. [more giggling] He’s in the kitchen right now
talking scotch with some guy who’s speaking in an atrocious Irish accent. Is
your wife here?
—No, Humboldt said in a deepseashadow.
Sensing that she had ventured into an uncomfortable zone of
conversation, Sarahbelle Michelle awkwardly fidgeted in her chair and
adjusted her blank piece of paper atop the coffeetable’s surface.
—Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I guess that makes writing your loveletter
even more difficult.
—Yes. And it doesn’t help that I don’t know what love is.
Humboldt’s comment sent Sarahbelle Michelle into a loud fit of giggles.
As she giggled, she covered her mouth and nose with her hand.
—I’m sorry. What you just said reminded me of a lyric from a bad
eighties pop song.
—So, I’m not the only person who feels that way?
—Nope. You and Foreigner.
—That’s amazing! Because I am a foreigner: I’m American!
Humboldt’s newfound friend flashed him a look of confusion.
—Don’t be silly, she said. Everybody knows what love is.
—They do?
—Of course they do. Sometimes they just don’t know that they know.
Just search your feelings and whatever is strongest, that’s love. Pretty easy,
huh?
—I guess so.
—I better go save me husband, Sarahbelle Michelle said in her best
fake Irish accent, before he’s under yonder table, aye? Good luck with your
loveletter, lad.
—Thanks, Humboldt said, looking down at what he had already
written.
Do you think love is more like the Industrial Revolution or hair?
That sounded stupid and deserved death by scrawling. Underneath this
ugly scrawl, Humboldt started fresh.
Dear Elle,
Love is not like the Industrial Revolution. Love is not like hair. Whenever
someone tries to say what love is, they sound stupid; so I think love is someone stupid
saying something stupid. [sip] That sounded stupid, didn’t it? Whenever I think
about love, I don’t know what to say and I start blabbering like a fool and words start
cannonballing down the tongueslide that runs from my brain to my mouth. Whenever
I think about love, all my thoughts come tumbling out and all my thoughts have gout.
[sip] That sounded stupid too. [sip] I don’t want to think about love anymore. I don’t
want to blabber on like a fool. I just want to say this: You. That’s the only thing I can
think to say about love that doesn’t sound blabberfoolish. [sip] You: whenever I think
about You, my heart starts to beat and this beating causes a great surge in my body.
You: the lovesurge begins and it’s like a bloodflood. You: the bloodflood begins and
I’m standing in Killbuck Creek and the water is rising and I don’t know how to swim
“I still want to drown, whenever you leave.
and I’m drowning. You: thoughts of You are like oxygen. No, thoughts of you are like
Please teach me gently, how to breathe.”
buoyancy; they lift my head above the surface and I can breathe again. [sip] But my
—“Shelter,” by The xx
body’s heavy. I’m too many pounds of pure fishflesh and I’m pulled underwater and I
can’t swim and I’m drowning all over again. [sip] You: I feel the buoyancy again. [sip]
Buoyancy, breathing, oxygen: maybe love is all of these things. Maybe everything that
isn’t love is simply stench: lifestench, workstench, wealthstench, peoplestench. [sip] I’m
beginning to sound like a fool again, aren’t I? But I’m not so foolish that I don’t know
this: surgingdrowningbreathing is better than not surgingdrowningbreathing. I know
breath bests death. I know that love is everywhere like hair, but love is not hair. I know
that the lovesurge leads to the bloodflood. And I know that I’m a fool. [sip, sip] You:
the fool, the flood, and love…
“Muddy Hymnal” is the final song on Iron & Wine’s
The Creek Drank the Cradle.
While living in Portland, I heard Brock Clarke read
at Longfellow Books. And get this: he brought
two six packs of Narragansett tallboys. I was very
impressed by that gesture!
Apparently, my wife donned such a jumpsuit during
the ‘A Whole Lotta Love’ Party that we attended
in 2011, but I don’t remember it. My forgetfulness
could be due to having consumed one too many
Perfect Manhattans, or I could’ve just been in the
other room at the time.
My wife’s performance within this dancecircle has
become the stuff of local legend.
Humboldt’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud blast of music.
“I ain’t saying she’s a Soy Digger, but she ain’t messin’ with no broke niggas…”
Up until that moment, the party’s soundtrack had been a quiet, woodsy
mix of rural folk, quaint singalongs, and muddy hymnals. But now the
campfire’s crackle had been replaced by rapidfire percussion, as rural folk
gave way to urban funk.
“Get down girl, go’head get down… Get down girl, go’head get DOWN!”
As he surveyed the party, Humboldt noticed that a dancecircle had
formed near the doorway to the kitchen. Much to his surprise, this circle even
included Marty, who was standing on the periphery, subtly shaking his hips to
the beat while still engrossed in Brock Clarke’s combustible narrative.
“Cutiedabomb, met her at a collegefarm with a baby Louis Vuitton under her
other arm. She said, “I can tell ya farm; I can tell by ya charm.”
Humboldt’s head began bobbing up and down to the beat. He had to
agree, it was an infectious rhythm. A path was cleared from the bedroom and
Sarahbelle Michelle appeared wearing a full-body pink jumpsuit. This sight
surprised Humboldt so much that, for a moment, he thought he was seeing a
booze-induced hallucination.
“Fo’ kids and I gotta take all they badasses to Wagner? Ok, get ya kids but then
they got their friends, I put ‘em in the Benz, theyallgottapen…”
Big Pink anchored the center of the dancecircle and began moving in
a strange fashion. It was a kind of dancing, Humboldt had to admit, but not
a kind that he had ever seen before. It was more like prancing or the strange
movements of a person attempting to evade a particularly insistent bumblebee.
“Eighteen years, eighteen years: she got one of yer kids, she got you for
eighteenyears. I know somebody paying child support for one of his kids, his
babymomma’s collegefarm is bigger than his…”
The prancingdancing continued. As Humboldt watched, Big Pink
began walking backwards while waving her arms up and down as if she was
trying to quickly paint a picket fence or coax a stubborn genie out of his
bottle.
“You’ll see ‘em on TV, any given Soyday, win a Casserole and drive off in a
Hyundai…”
Spinning around to face the dancecircle, pink legs began kicking rapidly.
What follows this sentence is a lengthy borrowing
from the “Delirium” chapter in The Brothers
Karamazov. But don’t read too much into this
borrowing: The Brothers Karamazov just happened
to be the novel that I was reading while writing this
section.
The kickdancing reminded Humboldt of how Bob Fosse might’ve defended
himself had he ever been attacked by a group of aggressive ninjas.
“She was supposed to buy your shorty Tyco wit yo money…”
In between legkicks, Big Pink noticed Humboldt sitting by himself and
anxiously motioned for him to join the dancecircle.
“She went to the doctor and got Lypo wit yo money…”
Humboldt froze!
Me? he soundlessly inquired while pointing towards his breast. Big Pink
nodded her head in affirmation.
“She walking around looking like Michael wit yo money…”
Humboldt grimaced with fear; no one had ever asked him to dance
before.
“Should’ve got that insured at Geico WIT YO MONEY!!!”
But Big Pink’s insistence was not to be denied and Humboldt slowly
rose from his cushiony confines and approached the dancecircle.
“If you ain’t no chump holla: ‘We want Pre-Nup! We want Pre-Nup!’ Yeeeeah,
it’s something that you need to have, because when she leaves yo ass, she’s gonna leave
with half.”
Before Humboldt could reach the dancecircle, an over ambitious
spindrop&pop caused a dangerous sway. As the song continued, Big Pink
stopped perplexed in the middle of the circle.
—I feel weak, she said in an exhausted voice. Forgive me, I feel weak, I
can’t…. I’m sorry…
She bowed to the dancecircle.
—I’m sorry…. Forgive me…
—She’s had a drop, a voice said. The lady, the pretty lady’s had a drop.
—She’s drunk, another voice added giggling.
—Humboldt, help… Sarahbelle Michelle said weakly as she swooned
into his arms.
Humboldt caught the swooning pink body, steadied it, and rushed into
the apartment’s bedroom. The party in the livingroom continued to thunder
on, thundering all the more after they had left. Humboldt laid the limp pile
of pinkness on the bed, making sure that there was a pillow underneath her
head.
—Did you finish your loveletter? Sarahbelle Michelle asked quietly.
—I think so.
—Did you say everything you wanted to say?
—I think so, but I’m afraid that I sounded like a fool, Humboldt said as
he knelt on the floor beside the bed.
—That’s okay, Sarahbelle Michelle murmured. Love does that to
everyone; love makes fools out of us all. That’s part of the magic.
—Really? That’s part of the magic?
—Yes. And in life, there are worse things to be than a fool. Just look at
me. I must look ridiculous in this pink jumpsuit.
—No, you look adorable.
—Maybe if I was ten.
—Where did you get it?
—I don’t know. They made me wear it.
Big Pink closed her eyes helplessly and seemed to fall asleep for a
moment. A car alarm had been ringing somewhere far away and suddenly
it stopped. Humboldt’s eyes were fixed upon the sleeping figure. He did not
notice how the car alarm had stopped ringing, nor did he notice how the
music from the next room had suddenly stopped as well; instead of songs
and a drunken racket, a dead silence fell suddenly, as it were, over the whole
house. Big Pink opened her eyes.
—Do you think you’ll ever see your forever indebted wife again? she
murmured.
—I don’t know, Humboldt replied.
—I hope you do, she said in a soft voice.
—I hope so, too.
—I hope you’re happy together. I hope you have a long life together
being forever indebted to each other. Life is so long; that’s why it’s so important
to be in love. If you’re not in love, it’s just…length.
—I agree, Humboldt said.
Suddenly, a strange fancy stuck Humboldt; he fancied that Big Pink
was looking not at him, not into his eyes, but over his head. She was staring
at something intently and with a strange fixity. Surprise, almost fear, suddenly
showed on her face.
—Humboldt, who is that looking at us from over there? she whispered
suddenly.
Humboldt turned and saw that someone had indeed entered the room
and was watching them. More than one person, it seemed. Humboldt jumped
up and quickly went towards the door.
—Come out here, please, one of the intruders said to Humboldt not
loudly, but firmly.
Humboldt stepped out from the bedroom and stood still. The livingroom
was full of people, but not those who had been there before; these were quite
new people. Not partygoers, these were men of severity. They wore dark
suits and darkserious looks upon their faces. Humboldt noticed that none of
these new guests were writing loveletters or drinking Perfect Manhattans. A
momentary shiver ran down Humboldt’s spine and he drew back.
—Gentlemen…. What is it, gentlemen? Humboldt started to say, but
suddenly, as if beside himself, as if not of himself at all, he exclaimed loudly,
at the top of his lungs:
—I un-der-stand!
A young man in spectacles came forward. Stepping up to Humboldt, he
began speaking in a dignified manner, though a little hurriedly, as it were.
—We must have…in short, would you kindly come over here, to the
sofa…. It is of the utmost necessity that we have a word with you.
—The brother! Humboldt cried in a frenzy. The brother and his
blood…I un-der-stand!
And as if cut down, Humboldt fell more than sat into a nearby chair.
—You understand? He understands! Malfeaser and monster, the
country’s blood cries out against you! one of the men suddenly roared. The
roaring man was so angry that his face erupted into an ugly shade of purple
and he began to shake all over. With purpose, he approached Humboldt
menacingly.
—But this is impossible! cried the bespectacled young man. Not like
that, not like that sir! I ask you to allow me to speak alone…. I would never
have expected such an episode from you…
—But this is delirium, gentlemen, delirium! the angry purplefaced man
exclaimed. Look at him: in the middle of the night, at a house party with a
married woman, covered in his country’s blood…. Delirium! Delirium!
—I beg you as strongly as I can to restrain yourself for the moment,
another man whispered rapidly to the angry purplefaced man, otherwise I
shall have to resort to…
But the angry purplefaced man did not let him finish. He turned to
Humboldt and firmly, loudly declared:
—It is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest by the FBI. The
charge is Corporate Malfeasance.
He said something more, and the young man too, but Humboldt,
though he was listening, no longer understood them. With wild eyes, he
stared around at them all…
XXXV
How Humboldt moved to Niggatown, USA
Humboldt was scratching his head again. The routine was always the same: starting behind one of his ears, he would slowly scratch his
way up to his crown. Once his fingernails successfully reached the summit, the scratching would assume a circular motion, as if
carving out a baldspot. Having never been a headscratcher before, Humboldt didn’t find the activity particularly enjoyable, nor did
he enjoy the reason behind it. Humboldt’s headscratching had begun in response to being swallowed, digested, ingested, and shat
through the bowels of America’s criminally unjust criminal justice system. Somewhere during his neverending torment of trials,
mistrials, and retrials, Humboldt began harvesting hair follicles for a bald crop, and now he couldn’t stop.
To Humboldt, the criminal unjustice system was a bewildering wilderness populated by trees shaped like question marks.
Why were judges so concerned with “The Law” and so unconcerned with human beings? [scratch] What kinds of knowledge do
law-abiding citizens draw from when judging lawlessness? [scratch] If experience is the best teacher, why is ignorance deemed to
be the best judge? [scratch] Why is addiction treated like fiction? [scratchscratch] Is it because the words rhyme? [scratchscratch] And
from where exactly does authority get its authority? [scratchscratchscratch]
Humboldt found all of these questions scratchworthy. Once the questioning began, Humboldt’s consciousness flooded with
question marks. Why was punishment viewed as a good thing when done to other people, but a terrible thing when enacted upon
the self ? [scratchscratchscratch] What was the difference between rehabilitation and retaliation? [scratchscratchscratchscratchscratch]
And exactly what language do lawyers speak? [scratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratch]
After almost Yul Brynnering himself, Humboldt decided to stop. But he did not decide to stop headscratching, he couldn’t
really control that; he decided to stop thinking. To Humboldt, the criminal unjustice system appeared to be a litigious labyrinth
composed of millions of courtrooms, corrals, corridors, and crazed caped crusaders. The best way to successfully navigate this
labyrinth, Humboldt finally realized, was by not thinking. Thoughts were not welcome within the field of criminal unjustice.
141
Criminal unjustice only embraced due process of law, obedience, and avarice.
Justice may not be blind, but the obedience it demands is.
Once Humboldt stopped thinking, he discovered that the idea of justice
was much easier to understand. Justice simply meant doing exactly what you’re
told, when you’re told to do it. And if these two simple demands are ignored,
justice meant incomprehensible cruelty and outrageous acts of violence. In
this regard, not much had changed since Boethius was bludgeoned.
Humboldt was thankful that he had not been bludgeoned to death yet,
but he knew that if a judge demanded it, for whatever reason, he would be
forced to bare his buttocks blindly and obediently.
In addition to judgebludgeoners, Humboldt was also required to show
blind obedience to the members of his “legal team.” And although he obeyed
their every command, Humboldt refused to refer to his “legal team” as his
“legal team.” He preferred to call them his “pack of scoundrels.” This pack
was composed of a smarmy cabal of lawyers, paralegals, clerks, and assistants.
Once he had stopped thinking, Humboldt happily followed this cabal into
each successive courtroom and down each successive corridor, where they
would collectively turn corner after corner after corner after corner within the
mighty maze of justice.
Since each member of his “pack of scoundrels” was as crooked as
Richard Crookback, Humboldt assumed that at least one of them would
be adept at navigating such a crooked maze. But this was not the case.
The scurrilous scoundrels were just as incompetent at navigating the maze
as Humboldt was. Together, they constantly made wrong turns, reached
deadends, filed complaints, and doubled back. Once doubled back, they would
make another wrong turn, reach another deadend, file another complaint,
double back again, make another wrong turn, file another complaint, double
back again, reach another deadend, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. There was even a
name for such incompetent legal plodding: billable hours.
The only thing Humboldt appreciated about his “pack of scoundrels”
was that, thanks to their collective decades in Law School, each member was
proficient in a wide array of headscratching techniques. Whenever the maze
became too confusingly labyrinthine, the group would stop, and after filing
the appropriate complaint, they would begin scratching each other’s heads
like a group of grooming baboons in the rain forests of Brazil.
After numerous wrong turns, Humboldt would inevitably find himself
in yet another courtroom. He had been courted so frequently that he couldn’t
tell the difference between a District Court, a Circuit Court, a Court of
Appeals, and a Court of Squeaky Heels. And apparently, there was one court
in the country that was so supremely crooked that it had garnered the moniker
“Supreme Court.” But when Humboldt circuited through this court, he
failed to notice anything particularly supreme about it. To him, the Supreme
Court appeared just as crooked and selfserving as any other court. The only
apparent difference was that, in Supreme Court, the mugs of the legal thugs
were slightly more smug.
During his numerous trials, Humboldt had been sentenced a dozen
times. All of these sentences had been overturned, after which he was served
a fresh dozen of re-sentenced sentences, which were all promptly overturned
as well. Fines had been issued, only to be refined, refused, or rejected. His
frequent requests for bail were frequently denied, but then another court
rejected this denial and he was granted bail, but then another court denied
this rejection and his bail was revoked, but then another court overturned this
revocation and bail was again granted, but yet another court overturned this
overturning and reinstated the past revocation that rejected the initial denial.
[scratchscratchscratch]
Finally, in an act that struck Humboldt as extremely symbolic, a
supremely exasperated judgebludgeoner threw his hands skyward.
—Just give us two million dollars and we’ll call it “justice.” Okay?
This exasperated exclamation struck Humboldt as not unreasonably
unjust, but when his “pack” went to pay this bailbribe, they discovered
that all of Humboldt’s bank accounts had been frozen. Of course, this
meant that Humboldt’s ability to pay their legal fees was also frozen. Once
this realization was made, Humboldt’s “pack” caught a sudden chill and
disappeared immediately. (Humboldt assumed that everyone had simply
raced home to get their winter jackets.) Taking advantage of being left alone
in the courtroom, Humboldt explained to the judgebludgeoner that since he
found the idea of “justice” so confusing, not to mention expensive, it might
be a wise idea for him to go someplace quiet to think for awhile. Surprised
by such straightforwardness, and disappointed that he would not be receiving
his requested bailbribe, the judgebludgeoner graciously granted Humboldt’s
request. And before this sentence could be overturned, revoked, rebuked,
repealed, appealed, denied, or frozen, Humboldt raced from the courtroom
and began his life as a black college student.
Like many incoming freshmen, Humboldt was forced to make numerous
college visits before his eventual destination was finalized. During these visits,
Humboldt was shuttled between colleges like a highly sought after high school
athlete. Like white colleges, Humboldt realized that black colleges were forprofit institutions and thus fought to keep enrollment high. The first black
college Humboldt visited was a supermax college. At this black college, his
dormcage was the size and shape of a standard bedroom closet, and he was
allowed one hour of solo exercise a day. From there, Humboldt was shuttled
to a superdupermax college, where his dormcage was the size and shape of
a standard kitchen cabinet, and he was only allowed thirty minutes of solo
exercise a day. And from there, he was shuttled to a supersuperdupermax
college, where his dormcage was the size, shape, and smell of a common
portable toilet, and he was only allowed ten minutes of solo exercise a day,
each second of which was ominously counted over a loudspeaker through the
familiar cadence of “one Mississippi, two Mississippi…”
Thankfully, after all of these visits were over, Humboldt was allowed
to attend a normalmax college, where he settled into a casual daily routine
of discipline, punishment, humiliation, and if there was any time left in the
day, learning. Even being able to devote so little time to learning, Humboldt
was shocked at how rapidly his learning curve expanded. Why didn’t white
colleges embrace cultural differences? Why did they enforce so much
sameness, whiteness, and blandness?
Pondering these questions convinced Humboldt that he should write
his dissertation on the similarities and differences between black and white
colleges. He even conceived of a thesis sentence, which read: The primary
difference between a black college and a white college is the length of their
sentences.
As he diligently mopped floors and scrubbed toilets, Humboldt compiled
a mental COMPARE and CONTRAST list between the two institutions. On
the CONTRAST side, in addition to the length of their sentences, Humboldt
noted:
•
•
•
Bars on windows
Amount of laundry
Amount of niggas
In the COMPARE column, Humboldt noted a long list of subtle similarities,
such as:
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
Similar architecture
Similar sadistic tendencies
Similar menacing presence of authority
Similar fraternal organizations
Similar fashions
Similar body art
Similar disinterest, bordering on revulsion, towards behavioral change
Most of the rap references that appear within this
section are self-explanatory, but this probably needs
some unraveling. Big Bank Hank was a member of
the Sugarhill Gang, who were the first rap group
to have a hit single with “Rapper’s Delight.” Hank
was the friend and manager of another rapper,
Grandmaster Caz, who was a member of Cold Crush
Brothers. Caz’s nickname was Casanova Fly. Before
recording “Rapper’s Delight,” Hank approached
Caz and asked him if he could take a look at his
rhyme book. At the time, nobody was making any
money from rap music, so nobody was concerned
with issues of plagiarism, copyright, etc. So Hank
proceeds to pinch a rhyme from Caz’s rhyme book,
failing to notice that the rhyme is centered around
spelling out Caz’s nickname. Such behavior is
obviously why nobody ever called him “Big Brain
Hank.” OK, fast forward three decades: Rick Ross,
a high profile Los Angeles drug kingpin, is sitting in
prison. From another inmate, he hears that there is
a rapper out of Miami who’s using his name. At first,
he’s flattered; but then he hears that this rapper is
also modeling his persona around events from his
own life. And to make the story even more bizarre,
this faux Rick Ross (who anointed himself “the Teflon
Don”) used to be a corrections officer. So the real
Rick Ross is a former convicted drug trafficker, who
has turned his life around and has become a leading
voice against the drug trade, while the faux Rick
Ross is a former corrections officer, who has turned
his life around and has become a leading voice in the
glorification of the drug game. This just goes to show
you that sometimes rap is stranger than fiction.
This reference is to Kanye West and Jay-Z’s
collaboration Watch the Throne (2011). I know that
both rappers are fond of admiring their work, but
shouldn’t someone have told them that this album
title sounds like they’re—you know—admiring their
work?
In regards to this last item, Humboldt was surprised at how little
students at both institutions were willing to change their behavior. On the
whole, students appeared content to leave both institutions as exactly the
same person as they were when they entered, except for an occasional neck,
cheek, or knuckle tattoo.
The more Humboldt thought about his COMPARE column, the more
it grew. In addition to his initial list of similarities, Humboldt also noted an
overlapping preoccupation with the protection of property; although, in white
colleges, this preoccupation focused on intellectual property, while at black
colleges the focus was primarily on personal property. And along these same
lines, while white colleges repeatedly stressed disciplining the mind, black
colleges focused on disciplining the body.
And the COMPARE column didn’t stop there. Academically speaking,
another subtle similarity was each institution’s obsession with high school
diplomas. White colleges demanded the possession of such a diploma, while
black colleges apparently demanded the exact opposite. In fact, Humboldt
had heard the rumor that more than half of all niggas without a high school
diploma were destined to enroll in a black college at some point in their lives.
Another remarkable academic similarity between black and white
colleges was the curriculum. Math was a popular subject at both institutions;
although, at black colleges, students weren’t so concerned with algebra or
calculus, but rather the simple addition and subtraction of years. Chemistry
was also a popular subject at both institutions; although, at black colleges,
students weren’t as interested in learning the Periodic Table as they were in
discovering what chemicals could be mixed together to produce Toilet Wine.
English was also a popular course of study at both black and white colleges.
At white colleges, this popularity tended towards creative writing, while at
black colleges, it was more geared towards creative storytelling. Humboldt
learned a great deal of new vocabulary words from these stories; for example,
he learned the difference between a gank and a shank, a shank and a skank, a
skank and a shark, and a shark and a shrink.
Another similarity that Humboldt listed within his COMPARE
column was the degree structure of both institutions. In the black college that
Humboldt was currently attending, the majority of younger students were
pursuing their B.A. (Back Again) degree. In addition to these students, there
was a large number of older students who were fulfilling the requirements for
a Masters of Incarceration Arts, which was also known as a societal M.I.A.
degree. The really old students were studying towards a PhD: Probably here
‘til Death. Humboldt also noticed an exorbitant amount of law students on
campus, but these students weren’t interested in pre-law, so much as post-law.
Most of these post-law students were hard at work writing dissertations on
specific procedural errors that had arisen during their own trial.
But the most obvious similarity between black and white colleges was
the fact that the majority of students at both institutions tended to completely
disregard their studies in favor of socializing. And regardless of race or place,
the primary topic of these conversations was always the same: sex, sports, and
music.
Unlike students at a white college, who listen to a wide array of crap
music, the students at Humboldt’s college only listened to one genre: rap.
Because of this hyperfocus, Humboldt had learned a great deal about rap
music; for example, he had learned the difference between Jeezy, Weezy,
Breezy, and Yeezy. He had also learned that Drizzy loved Weezy because of
Young Money, but hated Breezy because of RiRi. And thanks to the many
hours spent talking rap music, Humboldt knew that the Teflon Don was guilty
of the most outrageous case of identity theft since Big Bank Hank. He also
knew that when two great rappers collaborate, the result can be toilety. And if
ever asked his opinion of the subject, Humboldt had no problem articulating
his opinion that Big Sean was bigger than Fat Joe, although Fat Joe was fatter
than Big Sean. And while they were both big, Humboldt knew that neither of
them was notoriously so.
One bleak afternoon, with thoughts of rap music incarcerated within
his consciousness, Humboldt circled the gray interior of the collegiate quad.
Why hadn’t Weezy been crowned King of the South? Sure he was Lil’, but he was
undeniably bigger than T.I. Was his failure to assume the throne due to the
fact that he wasn’t South enough? Is the ATL more South than Weez Orleans,
although the exact opposite is true geographically?
Humboldt pondered these questions as he shuffled along gray walls
atop gray ground underneath a greatgray sky. Thoughts of Lil’ Wayne made
Humboldt remember the last conversation he had with Marty. After his arrest,
Humboldt had used his one phone call to reach out to Marty and ask a favor
that only consisted of two words: find Elle. It had been so long since he had
last seen her that Humboldt felt like he was drowning again. And now that he
knew that Professor Drinkwater was not dead, Humboldt suspected that he
could safely return to Ohio. And if he could return to Ohio, he could return
to Elle. Buoyancy. But first, he had to find her. After all of his squandered
wanderings, Humboldt longed to finally settle down and spend the rest of his
life with his beloved.
—And what should I do once I find her? Marty inquired faithfully.
—Bring her to meet me, Humboldt replied.
—Where?
Humboldt paused. Where could they meet? His current black college
wasn’t romantic enough. Neither was Ohio. And Humboldt didn’t want to
go back to Washannesburg, Iraq, New York, Boston, or Portréal. He needed
someplace new, someplace special. He needed a city where the lawlessness of
love could thrive and the malfeasance of marriage could survive. He needed
the perfect place.
—Bring her to meet me… Humboldt said and paused.
—Yes?
—Meet me…
—Where?
—In New Orleans.
Meet me in New Orleans. It sounded like something Satchmo might say.
The thought of the Tremé made Humboldt tremble. Could Marty be there
right now? Could he have already found Elle and convinced her to accompany
him to the Big Easy? Were they eating étouffée together and awaiting his
arrival? And how soon until Humboldt could meet them there? How soon?
How soon? What did I do to be so Black & Blue?
—What’s up, H Money?
Humboldt’s thoughts were interrupted by the sudden appearance of
a friendly oldhead, named Doom, who had been one of the first students to
befriend Humboldt upon his arrival. A bond had quickly developed between
the two after Doom had learned what Humboldt was doing time for.
—Shiiit, nigga! I’m doing time for the same damn thang, Doom had
said. Except my shit wasn’t Corporate, my shit was straight Street Malfeasance.
Doom was a known squawker and a voracious reader. When he wasn’t
referring to Humboldt as “H Money,” he was usually calling him “Humboldt
Humboldt” after the pervy protagonist of some sexbook. But what Doom
loved reading more than anything were magazine articles about the criminal
unjustice system. After reading these articles, Doom would pass along
factoids to anyone who was willing to listen. These factoids were usually so
demoralizing that they explained his nickname.
Humboldt enjoyed Doom’s company, but he could never remember if
he was Muslim or Mormon; he was pretty sure that the correct answer was
Muslim.
—As-salaam alaikum, brother Doom, Humboldt replied, bowing with
respect.
—Yo, you wanna hear some shit?
All of Doom’s information comes from Adam
—Lay it on me, brother.
Gopnik’s article “The Caging of America” (The New
—Did ya know that more niggas are on probation, parole, or in prison
Yorker, January 30, 2012).
today than were in slavery in 1850?
On the night of December 9, 1981, William Cook and
his childhood friend and business partner Kenneth
“Poppi” Freeman were driving home along Locust
Street in downtown Philadelphia. Cook is Mumia
Abu-Jamal’s brother. According to Cook’s signed
affidavit, Poppi always carried a .38, and he was
carrying this weapon with him that night. At the
corner of Locus and Juniper, Cook noticed that they
were being followed by a police car, whose lights
were flashing. Cook pulled his Volkswagen over to
the south side of Locust. Cook exited his vehicle and
got into a verbal confrontation with Police Officer
Daniel Faulkner. This confrontation was instigated by
the fact that Officer Faulkner could give no reason for
pulling over Cook’s vehicle. Officer Faulkner struck
Cook in the head three times with his flashlight.
Cook did not retaliate. (In his affidavit, Cook states,
“I am not that stupid. I never hit a cop.”)
Bleeding profusely from his forehead, Cook
went back to his car to search for his vehicle
registration. Cook kept all such paperwork in his
backseat. (Cook: “I am not an organized type and
I didn’t keep papers in the glove compartment. The
back seat had a lot of papers and [other] things…”)
Cook sat down in the driver’s seat and swiveled his
body so his head was pointed towards the back of
the vehicle. While his head and body were turned, he
heard gunshots.
The first thing Cook noticed when he turned
his head was that his passenger-side door was open
and Poppi was gone. Cook exited his vehicle and
saw Mumia running towards him. He noticed that
Mumia wasn’t holding anything in his hands. Cook
heard another shot and saw Mumia stumble forward.
According to Mumia’s signed affidavit, that
night, he had parked his cab on the corner of Locust
and 13th Street and was filling out his log/trip sheet
when he heard gunshots. He looked in his rearview
mirror and he recognized his brother “standing in
the street staggering and dizzy.” He left his cab and
began to run towards his brother. As he ran across
the street, he saw a uniformed police officer, with a
gun in his hand, turn towards him and discharge his
firearm.
According to Cook’s affidavit, “later Poppi
talked about a plan to kill Faulkner. He told me that
he was armed on that night and participated in the
shooting.”
On May 13, 1985, Kenneth Freeman’s body
was found in a vacant lot in downtown Philadelphia.
He had been handcuffed, stripped naked, and
tortured. No investigation into Freeman’s murder has
ever been undertaken. To this day, Kenneth Freeman’s
death is listed as “natural causes: heart attack.”
May 13, 1985 is the same day that the Philadelphia
Police Department attacked and bombed the MOVE
household at 6221 Osage Avenue.
Black Jesus was Earl Monroe’s streetbasketball
nickname.
—No shit?
—Welcome to Niggatown, USA: the city of the confined and controlled.
Congratulations, motherfucker, your home is now the second largest city in
the United States of AmeriKKKa. It’s like Pooh Bear says, this shit right here
is the Holocooncaust. Just look at that nigga Mumia. Everybody on the street
knows Poppi Freeman pulled that trigger. But the Voice of the Voiceless is still
in Niggatown, USA. What’cha think about that?
—Makes me jealous of Native Americans. They get all the cheap ciggys
they want, and their prisons don’t have walls.
Doom laughed.
—Careful what you wish for, he intoned ominously. You might find
yourself in one of those “prisons without walls” before you know it.
—What do you mean? Humboldt asked suspiciously. Like every
resident of Niggatown, USA, Humboldt knew that Doom was a notoriously
reliable source of institutional gossip.
—I hear them sharks are circling yo’ ass again.
—Now THAT’S some shit, Humboldt replied.
—Better watch yo’ ass, Doom warned. Them sharks got sharp teeth.
—Thanks for the heads up, brother.
—No problem, H Money. Keep it real.
Doom shuffled away, no doubt looking for another ear to pour his
factoids about Niggatown, USA into. Once he was gone, Humboldt continued
his solitary stroll around the quad. He was disappointed to hear that the
sharks were circling his ass again. Ever since Humboldt had been swallowed
by the beast, a rotating colony of suit-wearing sharks had constantly splashed
around him. Each suitshark was armed with a bulging briefcase and a barrage
of questions. And regardless of what they called it, Humboldt did not find
these questions, or the people posing them, very appealing. Every single
suitshark promised him the same thing: home.
Home? Where was home? For Humboldt, home was his dormcage, his
daily walks around the quad, and the darkening afternoon sky. To be honest,
black college wasn’t that bad. Humboldt enjoyed the camaraderie, the creative
storytelling, and the lengthy discussions of rap music. The food was no worse
than Boston, and his job mopping floors and scrubbing toilets was no worse
than most jobs in New York City.
But what Humboldt enjoyed most about black college was all the time
he had to think. It was a pity that he didn’t really have anything to think about.
He could no longer think about days, because days didn’t exist. Days were
decades. Instead of days, there was only one neverending, everexpanding day:
the deathday. Within the deathday, hours were as useless as hors d’oeuvres
and minutes as mundane as the mating habits of meeses. Attempting to count
either was like a corpse counting “calories.” An enduring sameness permeated
every day, every hour, every minute. And this terrible sameness was destined
to rule the deathday until the day of death.
Was he institutionalized? This thought made Humboldt smile. He hoped
so. Humboldt saw nothing wrong with institutionalization. College, marriage,
work, joining the army, owning an automobile, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera:
weren’t these all institutionalizing institutions? Humboldt suspected that he
had always been institutionalized. The only difference was that now he had
found the perfect institution for his institutionalization. And if that wasn’t the
definition of home, Humboldt didn’t know what the word meant. Niggatown,
USA was his home now. Congratulations, motherfucker.
—What’s up, you honky-ass, honky biznatch?
Humboldt’s thoughts were again interrupted by a familiar voice, which
he instantly recognized as belonging to his cagemate, Blackjesus. A booming
bullhorn, the volume of Blackjesus’ voice matched the volume of the man it
belonged to. Blackjesus was a mountain of a man, whose girth almost had
to be squeezed into their dormcage, which left little room for Humboldt.
Other than this noticeable lack of personal space, sharing a dormcage with
Blackjesus was easy. He was clean, considerate, and endearingly jovial, except
This section is heavily indebted to Bill Simmons’ The Book
of Basketball.
In The Book of Basketball, here’s how Bill Simmons
describes the rumor that Lebron James left Cleveland
because former teammate Delonte West had an affair with
his mother:
“So after Game 3 [of the 2010 playoff series against
the Boston Celtics], Delonte fell apart and something
happened to LeBron. My take: either the rumor was true,
or the rumor was untrue but still submarined the team just
with its potency (and everyone scurrying around trying to
squash it). Just don’t tell me nothing happened.”
I politely abstain from venturing my opinion about
whether or not such an affair occurred: nothing good is
ever going to come from that conversation. But what I am
quite vocal about is how disappointed I am that I can no
longer watch Delonte West play. He was a solid ball player,
who, at times, even reminded me of myself. I too was an
athletic scorer with a smooth stroke, a bizarre appearance
(West looks like a deranged pirate: I wore goggles and
knee-high socks), and a proclivity for extreme moments
of unhinged, uncontrollable unpredictability. (West suffers
from Bipolar Disorder: my first basketball nickname was
“the Kamikaze.”)
Linsanity was the name bestowed upon the twenty-six
game stretch in early 2012 when a back-up back-up point
guard from Harvard, named Jeremy Lin, took New York City
by storm. In his first ten games of significant playing time,
Lin averaged 24.6 points and 9.2 assists, while shooting
49.7 percent from the field. Those numbers are insane,
especially considering the fact that the guy had begun
the season in the D-League. Lin became the first player in
NBA history to score at least twenty points and have seven
assists in each of his first five starts. And it was not like he
was putting up these numbers against bums, he did work
on Deron Williams, John Wall, and Kobe. A knee injury
put an abrupt end to Linsanity. After the season was over,
Lin jumped ship, signing a contract for ridiculous money
with the Houston Rockets. Because it was so completely
unexpected, happened so fast, and disappeared so
abruptly, Linsanity left Knicks fans everywhere wondering if
they had been dreaming, or if the entire episode had been
staged by Spike Lee for a new romcom.
New York Knicks star Carmelo Anthony is married to former
MTV VJ Alani Vazquez, who goes by the nickname La La.
The Darantula is a nickname of Kevin Durant.
Because of his physical stature, soft touch, and uncanny
scoring ability, Kevin Durant is often compared to my alltime favorite NBA player: George “The Iceman” Gervin.
In the 2012 NBA Finals, Durant’s Oklahoma City Thunder
were defeated by the Miami Heat.
Days prior to the start of the 2012-13 NBA season, the
Oklahoma City Thunder shocked the basketball universe
by trading reigning Sixth Man of the Year James Harden
to the Houston Rockets. In return, the Thunder received
a package of future draft picks and players that included
Kevin Martin. The Harden/Martin swap became the epitome
of a ‘Love It or Hate It’ deal. The ‘Hate It’ faction wondered
why OKC would break up the core of such a talented young
team the year after they had reached the NBA Finals. On
Grantland.com, Bill Simmons penned up a long rant
titled, “The Harden Disaster: Not only did Oklahoma City
destroy something beautiful, they just handed the Western
Conference to the Lakers.” (Simmons later admitted how
ridiculous this title appears in retrospect.) Personally, I
loved the trade. At the time, the Thunder was my favorite
team and Martin, my favorite player. It was like OKC GM
Sam Presti had made the deal just to make me happy.
Why does every athlete with the last name Martin and a
first name that begins with the letter K have to be referred
to as “K-Mart?” Not only is this nickname meaningless, it’s
already been used for Kenyon Martin. So I’m spearheading
a national campaign to get Kevin Martin a new nickname.
As a novelist, I don’t expect much of a legacy, but I
would be thrilled if two things happened. First, the word
‘wordscoundrel’ became as common as the phrase
Catch-22. And second, my ‘The Heartbreak Kid’ campaign
was a success.
(next page)
on the days that he missed his daughters’ birthday parties. On these days,
he would mope around their dormcage like a bear with a thorn in its paw.
Such mopey moments were so frequent that Humboldt wondered how many
daughters Blackjesus had and how he could keep all their birthdays straight.
Blackjesus wasn’t a squawker, but he was a known snorer. Numerous
times a night, the sound of an airplane engine preparing for takeoff would
fill Humboldt’s dreamconsciousness. Once this sound began, Humboldt
had no other choice but to rouse Blackjesus with shouts of “Jesus! JESUS!”
Awakening the sleeping giant was never easy. Finally, after the umpteenth
shout, Blackjesus would startle himself awake amidst a stream of drowsy
questions. “Huh? What? He here?” Once he realized that Jesus hadn’t been
resurrected in their dormcage, Blackjesus would grumble an apology,
accommodate Humboldt’s polite request to roll over, and promptly begin
snoring again.
Snoring aside, Blackjesus treated Humboldt with respect. At times, he
even appeared delighted to have a white cagemate. During these moments,
he would playfully taunt Humboldt with nicknames like “Wigga,” “White
Devil,” and “Scooter Libby.” After doing time in white college, Humboldt
was unfazed by Blackjesus’ verbal hazing.
—Yo, bring your honky ass over here, Blackjesus boomed as he
motioned for Humboldt to join a large group of students who were sprawled
across two picnic tables.
—What up? Humboldt responded as he approached the group.
—I was just telling my niggas here that yousa baller and they ain’t
believin’ me.
—You ball? one of Blackjesus’ niggas asked Humboldt.
—Been ballin’ all my life, Humboldt replied.
—Yo, go ahead, Blackjesus baited the group. Ask him a question. I’m
telling you, this motherfucker knows his shit.
—Okay, replied a student named Killa Mike. Do you think da Pirate
fucked da King’s mom?
—After Game Three, both of them Grant Hills went Tyrone, Humboldt
answered. Something had to go down.
—I told you, Blackjesus said proudly, this motherfucker knows his shit!
—What about Linsanity? another one of Blackjesus’ niggas shouted
out.
—No, Humboldt said, shaking his head. I don’t think he fucked da
King’s mom.
—But do you think he can mellow Mello?
—Can’t nobody mellow Mello but La La.
—That’s my boy! Blackjesus shouted.
—What about the Darantula? Is he fo’ real?
—He’s ice, man, Humboldt answered. That’s why the Heat melted
him.
—What about the Harden deal? Was that a mistake?
—No, Humboldt replied. The Heartbreak Kid is gonna keep breaking
hearts for OKC.
—The Heartbreak Kid? Who calls K-Mart that?
—The fans of any team he plays against. Nice kid, nice smile, no tats:
people want to love him. But if he’s playing your team, he’s breaking your
heart. That’s why he’s called the Heartbreak Kid.
—Russell, then Wilt? another one of Blackjesus’ niggas shouted out.
—Only if you’ve got a bean for a brain, Humboldt responded. If you
know anything about ballin’, you know the correct order is: Black Yahweh,
Kareem the King, and then Russell da Role Player.
Blackjesus kept smiling as it became obvious to the group that his
protégé was fluent in the urban dialect of ballin’.
—What about Dwight? Is he really Showtime?
—Not when it’s Foultime.
—And what about MJ? Will we ever see another MJ?
Somewhere deep inside the glittering bowels of Los Angeles, Bill
Simmons reads this sentence and flashes a look of bewilderment
normally associated with Cleveland Cavaliers draft picks. He
pauses the VHS recording he’s watching of the ’86 Celtics. (He’s
already watched every Celtics game from this season a hundred
times, but now he’s trying to determine if Larry Bird recorded more
“stocks” the day before or the day after trimming his moustache.)
Simmons rereads the sentence. His face gets red, and he
begins shouting in rapid, Tourette’s-like bursts:
“For the love of Kevin McHale’s ARMPITS… Bill Russell!!!…
WINNER!!!… Greatest EVER!!!… Invented the blocked shot…
ELEVEN championships!!!!”
Nothing bakes my beans more than Celtic fans that
colonize the memory of Bill Russell like the Dutch colonized South
Africa. Celtikaans don’t care about Bill Russell: they’re just using
him to glorify their favorite team. For example, take the claim that
Russell invented the blocked shot. That’s just plain silly. Every
time I hear this, I’m reminded of how Kiwis claim that their country
invented jogging. Bill Russell didn’t invent the blocked shot; he
was just the first player to thrive in a defensive system that utilized
blocking shots to their full potential. And what system was that?
Glory to the Celtics! (Eer aan die Celtics!)
And as for those vaulted eleven championships, is
there a more irreverent individual statistic in the history of
irreverent individual sporting statistics? First, Russell won those
championships between the years of 1957 and 1969. Suffice it to
say that things were a little different back then. (And if you don’t
believe me, just ask Mamie Eisenhower!) And second, regardless
of what Celtikaans say, winning a championship is not a good
determiner of individual brilliance. Championships are won by
organized groups of individuals, not by individuals themselves. And
what organization won those eleven championships? Glory to the
Celtics! (Eer aan die Celtics!)
So why do Celtickaans pretend to love Bill Russell so
much? Could it be that they feel guilty for the racial abuse that he
was subjected to as a player? Abuse that didn’t just happen on
the road, but also at home, in his house. Perhaps. But here’s what
I think: deep down in their hearts of darkness, every Celtickaan
knows that over-emphasizing Russell’s impact on the court deemphasizes his impact off the court. Bill Russell the man who
battled American apartheid was much greater than Bill Russell the
player who battled Wilt Chamberlain.
And as for Wilt, I suspect people hate him because, like
Yahweh, he’s an impossible to understand. (Why was Wilt so
preoccupied with not fouling out of games? Who knows? Why did
Yahweh break Jacob’s hip?) But for all of Wilt’s strangeness, his
one-hundred point game is still the greatest determiner of individual
brilliance in the history of the NBA. Even with the three-point
line, the shot clock, strength and conditioning coaches, personal
trainers, rule changes, technological advancements, and a watereddown league (C’mon, does Charlotte really need another team?),
no one has ever come close to breaking Wilt’s record. It’s the one
individual statistic that has not become irrelevant with age. And
while it doesn’t possess the same grandeur, Kareem’s record for
most career points comes in second for most relevant individual
statistic.
Dwight Howard’s 2012 departure from the Orlando Magic was a
mismanaged “Dwightmare.” After months of juvenile behavior,
insincerity, and behind-the-scenes bickering, Howard was traded to
the Los Angeles Lakers, aka Showtime. For years, Dwight Howard
was my favorite professional basketball player. And regardless of
what my wife might say on the subject, I never had a “man-crush” on
him. So what if I used to fantasize about us dominating two-on-two
games at the Cambridge City Courts and then going shoe shopping
together at Foot Locker in Zanesville’s Colony Square Mall? What’s
so wrong with that? That’s just what imaginary basketball BFFs do!
As of the start of the 2012-13 NBA season, Dwight Howard’s career
free-throw percentage is 57.7, which is pretty atrocious.
“54-46 (That’s my Number)” is the title of a song by Toots and the
Maytals. In the world of Jamaican reggae, Toots and the Maytals
are comparable to The Rolling Stones. And within this analogy, “5446 (That’s my Number)” is akin to “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.”
Formed in 1961, (one year before The Stones) The Maytals initially
overshadowed The Wailers. This was so early in the history of
reggae that the genre didn’t even have a name yet; The Maytals’
1968 single “Do the Reggey” was one of the first songs to ever use
the word ‘reggae’ in its title. And again like The Rolling Stones, Toots
and the Maytals are still going strong. I saw them perform at the
Alrosa Villa on April 9, 2013.
(next page)
Humboldt shook his head solemnly.
—We’re more likely to see another MLK than another MLJ.
The group nodded in agreement.
—What about…
Before the question could be finished, a familiar aggressive bark was
heard echoing around the quad.
—Prisoner #54-46! STAND BACK!!
Upon hearing this bark, all of Blackjesus’ niggas stiffened, especially
Humboldt. 54-46, he thought, that’s my number. Upon hearing his numbername,
Humboldt slowly took a step away from the group.
—Prisoner #54-46! STAND BACK!!
As Humboldt took another step backwards, a female campus security
guard appeared at his elbow. Her eyes hidden behind a pair of reflective
aviator sunglasses, the security guard scowled menacingly at the group.
—Prisoner #54-46, exercise is OVER! You’ve got an appointment with
Dr. von Strudel. STAND BACK! TURN! WALK!!
Humboldt grimaced. Dr. von Strudel was the college shrink. Talking
psychobabble on the couch was not nearly as enjoyable as talking ballin’ on
the quad. But there was nothing he could do. After acknowledging the group
with a nod, Humboldt turned and shuffled after the campus security guard.
As the two of them were walking away from the group, a sly comment
was shouted in their direction.
—Damn, girl. After looking at you, I need to shrink.
Upon hearing this, the security guard abruptly stopped, spun around,
and angrily retraced her steps towards the picnic tables. As she walked, she
slowly unholstered her baton.
—Who said that? the security guard demanded as she began slapping
her baton menacingly into the palm of her hand.
—Who said it? Blackjesus asked innocently. Or who was thinking it?
—Don’t toy with me, Prisoner #18-330. I’ll put you in the hole.
—I think that’s the whole idea, Killa Mike chimed in.
—Pipe down, all of you! Men are pigs. When are you going to learn
that a woman can take better care of a woman than a man?
After piping down the pigs, the campus security guard made a brisk
aboutface and walked away authoritatively. Briskly brushing past Humboldt,
she continued on her determined path.
Men are pigs? A woman can take better care of a woman than a man?
Humboldt stood dumbfounded, trying to remember where he had heard such
phrases before.
—Prisoner #54-46, the guard shouted over her shoulder. ONA MOVE!
Barked out of contemplation, Humboldt hurried to catch up with the
security guard. When they were finally shoulder-to-shoulder again, satori
struck.
—In college, Humboldt blurted out, did people used to call you Lou?
The security guard stopped again. As she slowly swiveled to face him,
Humboldt could see his reflection in the round saucers of her aviator sunglasses.
Scratching his head, he watched himself watching himself, scratching his
head. With deliberate slowness, the guard removed her sunglasses and stared
disapprovingly at him.
—How did you know that?
—We were once in a Feminist action group together, Humboldt replied.
Back then, I was a Queer Theory Non-Gender-Specific Feminist.
—And you’re not anymore? Lou asked suspiciously.
—I…don’t…know, Humboldt stuttered. I haven’t really thought about
ideology since I left college. I’m not sure ideology even exists outside of
college. Are you still a feminist?
Lou nodded her head solemnly.
—I wouldn’t be working here if I wasn’t. This is the perfect place for a
feminist. What are you doing here?
—I’m a corporate CEO. This seems to be the perfect place for those,
This phrase is associated with the MOVE
Organization, which is a Philadelphia-based black
liberation group. In their over forty year history,
MOVE has suffered two high profile attacks by the
Philadelphia Police Department. The first of these
attacks occurred on August 8, 1978. This attack
resulted in the unjust imprisonment of the MOVE 9.
A young radio journalist, named Mumia Abu-Jamal,
reported on the trial of the MOVE 9 for the National
Public Radio-affiliate WUHY. The second attack
occurred on May 13, 1985. After the attack ended in
an armed standoff, a police helicopter dropped two
one-pound bombs on the roof of the organization’s
house at 6221 Osage Avenue. These bombs resulted
in eleven deaths. This reckless act also resulted in
Philadelphia acquiring the nickname “The City that
Bombed Itself.”
too.
—Look, Lou said lowering her voice. If you ever need anything. I
mean, if you ever need anyone dealt with, just talk to me. Got it?
—Word, Humboldt replied solemnly as he stopped scratching his head.
As the two feminists walked back towards the belly of the beast,
Humboldt thought about justice. Administering justice through judgment?
Expecting rehabilitation through retaliation? Demanding peace through pain?
Couldn’t all such ideas be described as non-gender-specific queer theories?
Justice was a queer thing. Why were so many people enamored with it?
And why was it so unfriendly? To Humboldt, friendship seemed more just
than justice. Friends didn’t judge one another; they accepted each other’s
malfeasant tendencies without passing judgment.
Thinking about friendship made Humboldt smile. And as he smiled, his
hand instinctively began scratching its way crownward. In a moment, his hand
knew that it would be shackled to its twin and a long, unforgiving chain would
bind them to a set of ankleshackles. Once this occurred, headscratching would
be impossible. But for now, for this fleeting moment within the neverending
deathday, Humboldt’s hand was free to happily scratch away.
XXXVI
How Humboldt was psychoanalyzed by Dr. Trudy von Strudel
’ a pleasure to see you again, Prisoner #54-46. Please make yourself comfortable.
—It’s
Dr. von Strudel always began each session by advocating that Humboldt make himself comfortable, and then she proceeded
to devote the remainder of the session to making him feel as uncomfortable as possible. To Humboldt, psychoanalysis was more
uncomfortable than having his wrist and ankles shacklechained together. Humboldt’s feelings of discomfort began the moment he
stepped into Dr. von Strudel’s office, which was a cold, drab slab of four stone walls. Dr. von Strudel obviously devoted more time
to the reductive overdetermination of her patients than she did to interior decoration. In one corner of the office sat a cluttered
desk; in the other, a ratty, tattered old couch. The only decorative flourish was a tiny window that offered a glimpse of a tiny cube
of sky.
At Dr. von Strudel’s prompting, Humboldt stretched out on the rattyold couch, being careful not to directly expose any
of his flesh to its crusty cushions. He swung his right leg atop the couch and folded his right arm behind his head. His left foot
stayed flat on the floor, which meant his left arm was left dangling awkwardly in midair. Having no other place to fix his eyes,
Humboldt stared at the tiny square of sky. During this late afternoon hour, the sky was a softshadowy bluegray. Humboldt didn’t
feel particularly comfortable, but he knew that once the session began, he would feel muchmuch more uncomfortable.
Adding to Humboldt’s discomfort was the fact that Dr. von Strudel spoke with a ridiculous Swedish accent that reminded
him of an old cooking show. It was impossible for Humboldt to take psychoanalysis seriously when, at any moment, he expected
Dr. von Strudel to begin joyously shouting “hurleyburleyfergusbergus” while tossing carrots into the air.
—Are you comfortable? YA?
Humboldt nodded.
150
—Would you like to begin? YA?
Humboldt knew that he was not allowed to answer this question
honestly, so he just nodded another lie.
—Good, Dr. von Strudel said. I’d like to pick up where we left off at
the end of our last session together. Have you given any more thought to my
suggestion? YA?
—No, Humboldt answered.
—You haven’t? Dr. von Strudel replied with noticeable irritation.
—It just doesn’t make any sense to me, Humboldt continued. Why do
I have to create an anxiety, if I don’t have one already?
—Because, Dr. von Strudel answered curtly, that’s how psychoanalysis
Karl Kraus, a contemporary of Sigmund Freud, works. We have to invent an illness, before we can develop the cure. Does that
described psychoanalysis as “itself the illness of
make sense to you? YA?
which it purports to be the cure.”
—Not really.
—Well, think of it this way: we have to create the mythology of the
mind, before we can map it. Does that make sense? YA?
—No, Humboldt answered. Why can’t I just be who I am?
—That’s not an option, Dr. von Strudel answered while shaking her
head.
—Why not?
—Because you’re a work of fiction. YA? You don’t know who you are:
you just think you do. The only way to truly know who you are is by inventing
an identity through anxiety and then fixating on that identity. So, let’s run
through some potential anxieties and see what sticks. YA? As a child, did you
ever experience sexual fantasies involving your mother?
Hadn’t Dr. von Strudel just insisted that she wanted Humboldt to feel
comfortable? How could he possibly feel comfortable answering a question
like THAT?
—No, Humboldt answered. I never knew my mother.
—Hmm… veeery interesting. As a child, did you ever contemplate
parricide? YA?
—Does that mean owning a parrot?
—No, that means killing your father.
—Killing my father! Why would I want to do THAT?
—I sense that you’re avoiding the question. YA?
—No! I just thought the word had something to do with parrots.
—Hmm… veeery interesting. As a child, did you ever fantasize about
owning a parrot? And were these fantasies ever sexual?
Humboldt couldn’t help feeling more uncomfortable with every word.
Why did Dr. von Strudel think that everything was sexual? She thought about
sex as much as everyone else in Niggatown, USA thought about rap music.
—No, Humboldt answered.
—Hmm… veeery interesting. As a child, did you ever fantasize about
your brothers or sisters owning a parrot?
—No. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters.
—Did you ever fantasize that you did have brothers and sisters?
—No.
—Hmm…veeery interesting. As a child, did you ever fantasize about
having an imaginary friend?
—No, Humboldt answered hesitantly.
Dr. von Strudel pounced on Humboldt’s hesitation.
—I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me. YA? Did you ever
fantasize that you and your imaginary friends were having imaginary sex?
—WHAT? No! Humboldt answered. I was just thinking that sometimes
I used to think about what life would be like if I had been born with another
name.
Dr. von Strudel’s eyes widened and she immediately sat up in her chair.
Under her breath, Humboldt heard her whisper: “YA! A breakthrough!”
—And tell me, Prisoner #54-46, does this person with another name
have a name?
I first learned about depersonalization while surfing
the web in preparation for a Counting Crows concert.
I was shocked to learn that the band’s lead singer
Adam Duritz suffers from the disorder. He wrote an
article about living with depersonalization, titled “The
Lonely Disease,” which was posted on the website
for Men’s Health on April 17, 2008.
—Yes. His name is Tuscarawas Tim.
Under her breath again, Dr. von Strudel whispered: “A doppelgänger,
YA? Magnificent!”
—And what is Tuscarawas Tim like?
—He’s exactly like me, except that he has a different name.
—What else?
—He talks more. He’s a real talker; he loves to talk.
—Hmm… veeery interesting. Is Tuscarawas Tim in the room with us
now? Can I speak with him?
—WHAT? No! He’s not in the room with us now, because he doesn’t
exist. He was never born.
—Hmm… veeery interesting. You say that a man doesn’t exist, but you
also say that he has a name and loves to talk. How can a man who doesn’t
exist have a name and love to talk? Do you see the anxiety here? YA?
—I guess, Humboldt answered. I mean, he only exists in my thoughts.
—Well, I think we’ve made a real breakthrough today, Dr. von
Strudel exclaimed proudly. It seems obvious to me that you’re suffering
from depersonalization, which is classified by the DSM-IV as a dissociative
disorder.
—I am?
—YA! You are. Depersonalization is an anomaly of self-awareness,
an alteration in the subjective experience of reality. [Hurleyburleyfergusbergus]
Patients who are afflicted with the disorder often have difficulty distinguishing
between reality and unreality. As the real world becomes less real, these
patients feel like they’re living “in a dream.” [Furleyfurleyburlygirlie] They
feel “detached” from their own lives. And they often feel like life is “slipping
away.” [Curlycurlycurlygirlie] In the end, the recognition of the self breaks down
and patients have trouble differentiating between real and imaginary people.
[Untemglibenglaussenglauben] In some cases, they even have trouble accepting
that they themselves are a real person and not an imaginary being. Does this
sound like an anxiety disorder that you might like to have? YA?
—I guess it sounds better than experiencing sexual fantasies involving
my mother or wanting to kill my father, Humboldt admitted.
—Good, Dr. von Strudel purred. I will note on your chart that you now
have depersonalization. Congratulations.
—Thank you?
—After experiencing such a breakthrough, Dr. von Strudel continued,
it’s a shame that this will be our last session together.
—Really? This is our last session?
—YA! Haven’t you heard? Your sentence has been overturned.
Tomorrow, you’ll be a free man.
A wave of confusion washed over Humboldt’s mind.
—Really? I mean, is this real or am I dreaming? Am I really about to
detach myself and slip away from the reality of this reality?
—YA! That’s the depersonalization! Please Prisoner #54-46, or should
I say… [Dr. von Strudel glanced down at his chart] Humboldt. Please promise
me that you’ll get help for your depersonalization; it can be a very serious
disorder. And I don’t want you to depersonalize too much.
As she was speaking, Dr. von Strudel tenderly placed her hand on
Humboldt’s shoulder. The surprise sensation of touch caused Humboldt to
quiver. Dr. von Strudel had never made physical contact with him before. This
tender act made Humboldt question the reality of the moment all the more.
—Okay, Humboldt replied. I promise. I promise that I’ll try not to
depersonalize too much.
—Thank you, Prisoner #54…I mean, Humboldt. And good luck on the
outside. YA?
Humboldt nodded politely as he peeled himself off the tattered couch.
—YA.
XXXVII
A lengthy account, complete with psychoanalytical analysis,
of the dream Humboldt experienced after drinking
Toilet Wine on his final night in black college, as well as a
less lengthy account, without psychoanalytical analysis,
of what happened to Humboldt after he graduated from
black college and was allowed to return
to his non-existent home
Public Address Announcer: Welcome to Hot 97’s Summer Jam! Are ya’ll ready to get this PARTY STARTED? Yo, put your hands
together for DJ Doom and MC H Money!!!!
(As loudspeakers bump The Ed Lover Dance, MC H Money and DJ Doom appear onstage wearing matching black sweatsuits,
Kangols, unlaced Adidas sneakers, and thick dookie chains. The rapture that bursts from the crowd is unrestrainable, like a storm.
Numerous young black teenagers unload the clip of their semi-automatic weapons into the air.)
Semi-automatic weapons: Blacka! Blacka! Blacka!
(Like a swarm of murderous metallic wasps, the bullets discharged from these weapons follow gravity’s rainbow and rain
down on a nearby Tea Party rally, instantly killing an entire group of NRA fanatics, all of whom die in ecstasy.)
Tea Party Rhetoric: White Power! White Power! White Power! White Power!
Dying NRA member #1: (in orgasmic revelry) AHHHH, it’s like a warm shower!
Dying NRA member #2: (in orgasmic revelry) OHHHH, live by the gun; die by the gun!
DJ Doom: Yo Yo, New York City: I can’t HEAR you!
(Because of his age, Doom only has partial hearing in one ear. The crowd accommodates his request and ratchets up the
volume. The skyward semi-automatic weapon fire continues, as does the Tea Party’s racial belligerence and the deathgroans of
the dying NRA members.)
Semi-automatic weapons: (louder) BLACKA!!! BLACKA!!! BLACKA!!!
Tea Party Rhetoric: (louder) WHITE POWER!!! WHITE POWER!!! WHITE POWER!!!
Dying NRA member #3: (in orgasmic revelry) GOD BLESS AMMERRRGH!
(During the cacophony, numerous young black females tear up pictures of Usher and fan themselves with the torn scraps.
Mistakenly believing that these pictures had been of the Pope, an angry group of Catholics stage a protest outside Madison Square
Garden.)
153
Catholic Protesters: (intoning monotonously) Mea Culpa!
DJ Doom: Yo Yo, Brooklyn: I can’t HEAR you!
(The crowdstorm reaches seismic intensity and the foundations of
the Empire State Building shake, causing a steel ramp to dislodge from the
building’s spire. This ramp, which was originally designed as a skyway for
deboarding blimps, falls directly atop the angry group of Catholic protesters,
killing them instantly.)
Catholic Protesters: (intoning monotonously) Mea Squasha!
(Unaware of the mounting deathtoll around him, H Money liquidates
his vocal chords with a DMC-sized swig from a forty ounce bottle of Toilet
Wine 45. Having finally heard the crowd, DJ Doom begins his normal warmup routine.)
DJ Doom: Yo Yo… put YOUR HANDS in the AIR and wave ‘em like
you just don’t CARE. And if your black ass has been incarcerated, somebody
say: O YEAH!
Crowd: O yeah!
Catholic Death Groans: Mon Dieu!
Tea Party Rhetoric: White Power!
DJ Doom: O YEAH?
Crowd: O YEAH!!!
Catholic Death Groans: O YEAH!!!
Tea Party Rhetoric: O YEAH!!!
(Waves of young black teenagers rush to nearby tattoo parlors to
hurriedly get inked for bicep tattoos of Superman’s logo surrounding the letter
H. With their boyfriends temporarily gone, female shouts are heard rising
above the crowdstorm.)
Ghetto Queen #1: H Money, you’s my baby’s daddy!
Ghetto Queen #2: He ain’t YO baby’s daddy; he’s MY baby’s daddy!
Ghetto Queen #1: He ain’t YO baby’s daddy, ‘cause I know you’s still
fucking with RayRay’s broke ass!
(The two ghetto queens begin provoking each other with aggressively
stereotypical black female headshakes, scrunched facial features, and
dismissive handgestures. A third female voice interrupts the fray.)
South: He might be your baby’s daddy, but he’s my daddy’s baby!
Ghetto Queen #1: What you got girl: a perm?
Ghetto Queen #2: And girl, you gotta wax that mustache or else you
ain’t never gonna score you a baller.
(Violent catfights erupt all over the arena. During the hissing, slapping,
and hair grabbing, H Money steps centerstage. Lifting both arms skyward, he
attempts to form an H with his index finger and thumbs. Having obviously not
practiced this complicated handgesture beforehand, H Money is awkwardly
unable to form the letter correctly. Not realizing that H Money has no idea
what he’s doing, the crowd mirrors his strange hand motions.)
Translation of strange hand motion in Esperanto sign language: UP
YOURS!
(In the back of the arena, a group of deaf Esperantos take great offense
and angrily storm out of the concert.)
Angry Esperanto #1: (in sign language) This is whack!
Angry Esperanto #2: (in sign language) Let’s bounce!
(Outside Madison Square Garden, the group of angry, deaf Esperantos
encounters the carnage of squashed Catholic protesters.)
Angry Esperanto #3: (in sign language) I’m notorious; I’ll crush you
like a jelly bean!
(Back inside Madison Square Garden, the crowd continues its
screamstorm. On stage, H Money flashes his goldplated knuckle rings, which
glitter gloriously. Fans with 20/20 vision are able to read the letters “Humb”
If you search Spotify for “Humboldt Dream Sequence across the knuckles of his right hand and the letters “Oldt” across his left. As
Rap Songs,” you’ll find a playlist of all the songs the crowd teeters in anticipation, H Money takes a deep breath and starts to
referenced in this section.
spit da truth.)
I am a notoriously avid Notorious B.I.G. fan. My love
of Biggie is partially due to the fact that I knew about
him before anyone else. As I proudly tell anyone who
is willing to listen, I was listening to the Notorious
B.I.G even before he assumed the moniker Notorious
B.I.G. How did a white teenager from Southeastern
Ohio know so much about an unknown rapper from
Brooklyn? Here’s the story: like every other young,
white rap fan in the early nineties, I loved House of
Pain. In 1993, they had a hit single from the movie
Who’s the Man?, which motivated me to buy the
movie’s soundtrack on cassette tape (ouch, that
dates me!) The first song on the tape was “Party &
Bullshit” by an unknown rapper named Big. Around
the same time, I stumbled upon a short profile on
the same rapper in Vibe Magazine. The next year,
Big changed his name to the Notorious B.I.G and
released Ready to Die. Once that album dropped,
everybody became a fan. And here’s the thing: I’m
still a Biggie fan. Next time I’m in Brooklyn, I plan to
make the pilgrimage to Country House Diner for a
“T-bone steak, cheese eggs, and Welch’s grape” in
his honor. And I hate grape juice.
My favorite line from LCD Soundsystem’s “Losing
My Edge” is: “I was there when Captain Beefheart
started up his first band. I told him, “Don’t do it that
way. You’ll never make a dime.”
I like to think that James Joyce would have particularly
enjoyed this “scissors and paste” juxtaposition.
In the Circe episode of Ulysses, while Leopold
Bloom is busy building “the new Bloomusalem,”
the mysterious man in the macintosh, who Bloom
spotted earlier in the day at Dignam’s funeral, springs
up through a trapdoor and points an accusing finger
at Bloom. This figure cautions: “Don’t you believe
a word he says. That man is Leopold M’Intosh, the
notorious fireraiser. His real name is Higgins.” This
bizarre quote has been spatchcocked onto the
chorus from Redman’s “I’ll Be Dat.” If you’re ever
on-line with nothing to do, I recommend watching
the video for this song on YouTube. In my opinion,
it’s one of the funniest rap videos ever made.
Stop whatcha doin’
‘cause I’m about to ruin
the image and the style that ya used to.
I look funny
but yo I’m makin’ money see
so yo world I hope you’re ready for me.
(DJ Doom drops a crazywackfunky beat)
Now gather round
I’m the new fool in town
and my sound’s laid down by the Underground.
I drink up all the Toilet Wine ya got on ya shelf
so just let me introduce myself
my name is HUMBOLDT,
pronounced with an Umboldt.
(As H Money keeps the dice rolling, the Summer Jam Concert Cam
slowly pans across the front row, which is full of rap royalty. A microphone
is thrust into each royal face. The first face that appears belongs to a stern,
mousy man with a wide nose and a pencilthin mustache.)
Rakim: (with stern E.F.F.E.C.T) He’s a smooth operator, operating
correctly.
(Next to this mousy man appears a lightbrownround face, which flashes
the screen a wide smile with iconic dimples and dry lips.)
LL Cool J: (after licking his lips numerous times) He’s something like a
phenomenon. His tongue’s a chisel and this competition’s a sculpture.
(Next to the roundbrownsmiley face appears a face whose frown is as
strict as a raised fist.)
Chuck D: (fighting the power to criticize) Yo, he’s bumrushing the mic.
(A withered old gargoyle, wearing a Viking helmet and a clock around
his neck, thrusts his face into the camera over Chuck D’s shoulder and yells:
Yeah, Buoy!!! Next to this gargoyle stand the two highest mountainpeaks in all
of Brooklyn: Mt. Busta and Mt. Biggie.)
Busta: (opening his mouth crocodilewide and shouting like a hyperactive
child in need of Prozac) Woo Hah!!!! He’s got the mic all in check!
Biggie: (half closing his lazy eye and sounding like a lackadaisical child
in need of a nasal decongestant) He makes my style seem more played out
than Arnold and “whatyoutalkinabout Willis?”
(Next to these two towering figures stands a diminutive, older white
man with disheveled hair and an unruly five o’clock shadow.)
James Murphy: (fearing that he has lost something) Am I supposed to
be here?
(Before the Concert Cam can alight on anyone else, a random hater
interrupts the proceedings by grabbing the mic and shouting into it like a mad
rapper.)
Random Hater: Don’t believe a word these people say. That man is
Tuscarawas Tim, a notorious malfeasant. His real name is “He ain’t shit”
because every time he’s in the hood, niggas be like: “He ain’t shit!”
(A sizzurp sipping rapper from the Chi appears. He grabs the
microphone from the random hater and ejects him from the scene like a teddy
bear from a spaceship.)
Yeezy: I’m really happy for ya. Imma let you finish, but I gotta say that
there will always be haters, that’s just the way it is. Hater niggas marry hater
bitches and have hater kids.
(The final face in the front row belongs to a woman with a towering
towel wrapped around her head and thick metal rings encircling her neck.)
Erykah ba Strudel: This entire fantasy is veeery sexual, YA? Look at that
microphone that he keeps putting up to his mouth. Is it not phallic, YA? The
narrative thrust of rap music is overrun with feelings of male inadequacies
and repressed…
(Before she can finish her analysis, a loud roar erupts from the crowd.
When the roarstorm finally dies down, H Money introduces his next song.)
H Money: This next song is dedicated to all the principals that told me
that I was Amish, to all the people that lived above the buildings that I was
malfeasin’ in front of that called the police on me when I was just tryin’ to
make some money to feed my corporation, and all the niggas in the struggle.
It’s all good, babyBABY!
In rap vernacular, a pigeon is a desperate woman
who hangs around the club at closing time, hoping
to ensnare a man who’ll pay her bills. The word was
coined in response to TLC’s song “Scrubs.”
It was all a dream
I used to read The New Yorker magazine
Harold Ross and Wallace Shawn up in the limousine
Hanging pictures on my wall…
(Before H Money can finish the line, the stage is bumrushed by a horde
of hungry pigeons. These pigeons squawk and flutter around H Money,
pecking at his flesh, palpating his pockets, and pulling on his dookie rope.)
Biggie: (still sounding congested) Yo, they playing that nigga as close as
butter played toast!
Yeezy: Looks like he’s gonna need that Pre-Nup!
Childish Gambino: The same thing happened to me at LSU!
(None of the black people in the crowd listen to Childish Gambino.)
H Money: (desperately trying to finish the song) I went from negative
to positive and IT’S ALL GOOD…
(In the middle of the pack of hungry pigeons, H Money spies a parrot.
His blood instantly boils.)
H Money: (shouting wildly) 187 on a motherfucking parrot!
(In a fit of murderous rage, H Money runs across the stage and swiftly
strangles the parrot with his microphone cord.)
Slick Rick: (lifting his eyepatch and adjusting the illfitting mink coat
that’s draped over his shoulders) Yo, looks like that nigga’s gonna get deported!
Shyne: (firing his gun in the air) That’s gangsta!
T.I.: (firing his semi-automatic weapon in the air) Live your life, playa!
D.M.X.: (firing his gun at someone’s foot) RUFF!! RUFF!!!
(As parrot blood seeps across the stage, the crowd goes silent and the
lights of Madison Square Garden go dark.)
Public Address Announcer: Welcome to Hot 97’s Summer Jam Jury!
Are ya’ll ready to get this PARTY STARTED? Yo, put your hands together
for Defense Attorney Doom and the defendant: H Money!
(The courtroom roars as Humboldt slides into the witness stand. He
and Doom are still wearing their Kangols, dookie ropes, and knuckle rings,
but they have traded their black sweatsuits for business suits. While this
“Street Legal” fashion looks ridiculous, they look more professional than the
prosecuting attorney, who is wearing a gigantic bloodsplattered parrot suit.)
Defense Attorney Doom: Yo Yo, third circuit district court of appeals,
I can’t HEAR you!
Gravitas Gavel: Pound! Pound! Pound!
The Honorable Judgebludgeoner: Order in the court! Order in the
court! The Prosecuting Parrot may begin questioning the witness.
(With a loud squawk! and a flap of his wings, the Prosecuting Parrot
rises from his seat and approaches the witness stand.)
The Prosecuting Parrot: Corporate Malfeasance, Collegiate
Malfeasance, Cultural Malfeasance, Colloidal Malfeasance, Connubial
Malfeasance, Convivial Malfeasance and now parricide. Is there any
malfeasance that you haven’t malfeased?
Defense Attorney Doom: Objection, your honor! My client is convivial
in the extreme.
The Honorable Judgebludgeoner: Sustained.
The Prosecuting Parrot: Where does it stop? Is there anything in this
country that you’re not intending to slander? Or is it your intention to demean
and ridicule everything?
Defense Attorney Doom: Objection, your honor! Just look at my
client’s demeanor: he’s not a demeaner. (Humboldt smiles obsequiously at the
judgebludgeoner) Plus, my client has not made a single demeaning comment
about competitive waterpolo.
The Honorable Judgebludgeoner: Overruled. The witness will answer
the question.
(From his many trials, Humboldt has picked up a basic working
knowledge of Latin. And whenever asked to take the stand, he is able to
pepper his answers with legal phrases.)
Humboldt: I don’t mean to be a demeaner…. Ergo, if I’m a bona fide
demeanor, I try to do it in good faith…. Cui bono? Not me…I’m not benefiting
from it.
The Prosecuting Parrot: You expect this court to believe that? You expect
us to believe that you’re not benefiting from your demeaning personality?
Humboldt: Yes. People think I’m obnoxious: I realize that. I also realize
that people wish that I was more Nabokovian.
The Prosecuting Parrot: (grumbles) You’re not very Nabokovian.
(The ghost of Vladimir Nabokov appears in the courtroom carrying a
butterfly net and covered in butterfly blood.)
The Ghost of Vlad the Butterfly Impaler: Mort de Butterflies!
Humboldt: I’m not an in extremis person, it’s just that there’s so much
that I don’t understand. And when I don’t understand something, I think
about it…in extremis. I don’t understand why thinking makes a person persona
non grata. I can’t stop having thoughts, can I?
The Prosecuting Parrot: But can’t you just keep them to yourself ?
Humboldt: No, because then I wouldn’t have anything to talk about.
I avoid assaulting people with obligatory listening. I don’t squawk. I don’t
snorespeak. I don’t engage in caveat listenor.
The Prosecuting Parrot: But couldn’t you try to be more observational
and less confrontational? Couldn’t you try to be less critical of everything?
Humboldt: I could try, I guess. But who denies that there is erratum all
around us? And some of this erratum is in flagrante delicto. Everyone can see
that, right? Ergo, why don’t we do more about it? Is it because to some people
this in flagrante delicto is really in flagrante deliciouso?
The Prosecuting Parrot: Are you mocking the very foundations of
criminal justice by inventing nonsensical Latin phrases?
Humboldt: (ignoring the question) Civil justice, communal justice,
natural justice: I don’t oppose any of these things. I’m just contra… jus stupido.
The Prosecuting Parrot: (sarcastically) So you think justice is stupid.
“But thus do I counsel you, my friends: distrust all in Humboldt: I distrust anyone in whom the urge to punish is great. I also
whom the impulse to punish is powerful.” —Friedrich distrust anyone wearing a parrot suit.
Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra
(Humboldt’s final sentence obviously ruffles some judicial feathers.)
The Prosecuting Parrot: (angrily) Fiat.
(Upon finishing his interrogation, the Prosecuting Parrot returns to his
table, begins nesting, and promptly falls asleep.)
The Honorable Judgebludgeoner: The defense will now have the
opportunity to cross-examine the witness.
Defense Attorney Doom: I only have one question, your Honor.
The Prosecuting Parrot: (drowsily) Squawk, squawk, snore…
Defense Attorney Doom: (to Humboldt) Can you prove to me that you
do not not exist?
Humboldt: (indignant) Of course I can! That’s a silly question. If I
did not not exist, how could I be wearing this dookie rope? (Humboldt looks
down and notices that he is no longer wearing his thick gold chain.) Or, how
could I be wearing these knuckle rings? (Humboldt looks at his knuckles; the
glittering “Humb” and “Oldt” are gone.)
Defense Attorney Doom: I can’t hear you?
Humboldt: (confused) Maybe, I do don’t exist. Maybe, it’s true. Maybe,
I am just a work of fiction.
Defense Attorney Doom: I can’t HEAR you?
The difference between reality and unreality plays an Humboldt: (pensively) Lately, I’ve been thinking about the reality of
important role in the photography theory manuscript unreality and the unreality of reality. It’s pretty confusing stuff, really. But I feel
that I’m currently working on, which is titled Three confident saying that right now is an example of real unreality. Nonexistence
Essays on Imagereality.
“It is thus at the level of this denoted message or
message without a code that the real unreality of
the photograph can be fully understood.” —Roland
Barthes, “Rhetoric of the Image”
“A specific decision has been taken since the Essays
of Montaigne. When the latter went to meet Tasso,
there was nothing to assure him that all thought was
not haunted by the ghost of unreason.” —Michel
Foucault, History of Madness
is not an option, right? How could I have thoughts if I don’t exist? Ergo, I exist.
Defense Attorney Doom: Maybe, you’re just crazy.
Humboldt: Are you suggesting that all thought is haunted by the ghost
of unreason? (pauses) I’ve actually thought about that too. (pauses again) If
all thought is ruled by unreason then I’m an unreality. Ergo, I can’t be trusted
to judge if I’m crazy or not. Ergo, I can’t be trusted to judge if I exist or not.
(falls silent)
Defense Attorney Doom: No further questions, your honor.
The Honorable Judgebludgeoner: The prosecution may call their first
witness.
The Prosecuting Parrot: (awakening with a squawk!) The prosecution
calls: Tuscarawas Tim.
(Humboldt gasps. Tuscarawas Tim? But he doesn’t exist. As Humboldt
watches in amazement, the door at the very back of the courtroom opens
and a shadowy figure begins slowly walking down the center aisle. With each
slow step, the shadow grows. When he gets close enough to the defense table,
the figure turns and scowls at Humboldt. He is obviously not convivial in the
extreme. Still scowling, the scowler takes the stand.)
The Prosecuting Parrot: Please state your relationship to the accused.
Tuscarawas Tim: He’s my doppelgänger.
(Now that Tuscarawas Tim’s features are no longer in shadow,
Humboldt is shocked by how much they look alike. They could be mistaken
for identical twins, except for the fact that Tuscarawas Tim has a goatee, an
eye patch over his left eye, and stronger jaw muscles.)
The Prosecuting Parrot: And what is your opinion of the accused?
Tuscarawas Tim: I think he is an identity thief and a slanderer.
The Prosecuting Parrot: A slanderer? What has he specifically said?
Tuscarawas Tim: He has repeatedly called me a “blabberboy” and a
“lawnmower mouth.”
(Humboldt panics. Why wasn’t his Defense Attorney objecting to such
damning testimony? Humboldt turns and gazes upon Doom, who is happily
nodding and smiling at every word. Suddenly, Humboldt realizes that Doom
has completely lost his hearing; he really can’t hear what’s being said!)
Humboldt: (rising to his feet) Objection, your honor! The witness is a
depersonalized person. I conjured him during a psychology session. I mean, I
conjured him long before that session, but nobody knew he existed until then.
Tuscarawas Tim: (childishly) You’re a depersonalized person!
Humboldt: (equally as childish) Am not!
Tuscarawas Tim: Are too!
Humboldt: ME? Really?
Tuscarawas Tim: Yes, you. Scoundrel!
Humboldt: (feigning innocence) What have I ever done to you?
Tuscarawas Tim: Nothing.
Humboldt: (feigning indignation) Well, I don’t see what you’re so upset
about then. Your Honor, can we all just go home now? Or rather, can those of
us with a home go home now?
(Humboldt’s question receives no response. When he glances towards
the bench, Humboldt notices that the Honorable Judgebludgeoner is no longer
paying attention to the proceedings. In front of him sits an open briefcase full
of money, and the judgebludgeoner is greedily counting stacks of hundreddollar bills and stuffing them inside the pockets of his judicial robe.)
Tuscarawas Tim: Think about it, dummy: Nothing.
Humboldt: I don’t even know what that means. Is that like the number
zero?
Tuscarawas Tim: No, nothing is not like the number zero.
Humboldt: Is it like empty space?
Captain Snegiryov (aka “Whiskbroom”) utters this
cry to Alyosha in The Brothers Karamazov.
“Hamlet, revenge!” is the only surviving line from the
Ur-Hamlet, which is how scholars refer to the version
of Hamlet that predates the tradition version by over
a decade. Apparently, before the appearance of the
tradition version, “Hamlet, revenge!” was something
of a playgoers joke. In 1596, Thomas Lodge wrote of
“the ghost which cried so miserably at the theatre,
like an oyster-wife, Hamlet, revenge!”
In Shakespeare: the Invention of the Human,
Harold Bloom surmises that Shakespeare wrote
the Ur-Hamlet no later than 1589. This theory goes
against the majority of Shakespearean scholarship,
which maintains that the Ur-Hamlet was written by
Thomas Kyd. According to Bloom, an early version of
Hamlet was “added to the repertory of what became
the Lord Chamberlain’s Men when Shakespeare
joined them in 1594…. They never acted anything by
Kyd.”
Nietzsche’s quip about precious metal versus lead
has forever soured me on the use of epigraphs, but I
see nothing wrong with imaginary epigraphs. I like to
think that there are two epigraphs written in invisible
ink on the opening page of Humboldt, or The Power
of Positive Thinking. The first is from Horace’s
Satires: “what forbids us to tell the truth, laughing?”
(Okay, so I’ve never read anything by Horace; I
found this quote in Nietzsche’s Ecce Homo: How
One Becomes What One Is.) The other quote is from
Drake’s guest appearance on the song “No Lie:” “We
don’t talk shit, we just state facts.”
Tuscarawas Tim: No, nothing is nothing like empty space.
Humboldt: Then what is it?
Tuscarawas Tim: It’s me! Nothing is my world! I’m nothing. You were
given everything: an existence, a name, a family, a farm, an education, a
future; I was given nothing. You don’t know how lucky you are. But it was
never enough for you, was it? You always wanted more: more money, more
education, more love, more success, more imagination, more thoughts, more
words.
Humboldt: (feigning tears) You’ve pierced me, sir. Pierced me to tears!
Tuscarawas Tim: Scoundrel! Squanderer! You were given everything
and you squandered it. Your bank account is frozen. Your education: frozen.
Your future: frozen. Your heart: frozen. Your very existence is frozen.
Humboldt: (feigning a shiver) It is cold in here.
Tuscarawas Tim: You’re an insult to me. I was never given any of the
opportunities that you were. I had to work for all the imaginary things I’ve
ever achieved in my life: my imaginary education, my imaginary family, my
imaginary future. I had to climb the imaginary ladder to become an imaginary
CEO of an imaginary corporation.
Humboldt: And is your company hiring?
Tuscarawas Tim: Not for anyone with a non-imaginary felony on their
permanent record.
(Humboldt winces dramatically.)
Humboldt: Look, Timmy. I’m not a bad person. I’m sorry I stole your
identity, but it was an accident. Just like killing Ned was an accident.
(The bloody ghost of Ned le Noise, Jr. appears and staggers around the
courtroom. In his right hand, he holds a bloody porringer.)
The Ghost of Ned: Hamlet, Revenge!
Humboldt: And I’m sorry that I abandoned Elle, but that was an
accident too.
(A celestial vision of Elle seated on a cloud, her face streaked with
tears, floats into the courtroom.)
Celestial Vision of Elle: Humby, my love, my indebtor. I forgive you.
Come back to me.
(Humboldt’s knee twitches slightly. Tuscarawas Tim’s jaw muscles
clench angrily. Defense Attorney Doom smiles deafly. The Prosecuting
Parrots squawks squawkingly. And looking up from his briefcase full of
money, the Honorable Judgebludgeoner tilts his head and attempts to look up
Elle’s cloudskirt.)
Humboldt: Accidents happen all the time to me. That’s just who
I am. I am the stuff that accidents are made on. (Humboldt smiles at his
Shakespearean wit) Please accept my apology, T.T.
(An angry hater appears in the courtroom balcony and points an
accusing finger towards Humboldt.)
Angry Hater: Don’t believe a word he says. That man is Amish, a
notorious cheese eater. His real name is #54-46.
(A Jewish rapper from Toronto appears next to the hater.)
Drizzy: (sings) Why don’t you just fuck off and do us a favor, because
you sound like a hater.
(After singing this lyric, Drizzy hits the hater in the face with a bottle of
vodka. The hater falls from the balcony, landing atop the bloody ghost of Ned
le Noise, Jr.)
The Ghost of Ned: Hamlet, Rev…OOOMPH!
Celestial Vision of Elle: Nedaertes!
(Marty, book-in-hand, appears seated next to Doom at the defense
table. Squinting, Humboldt is able to read the book’s title from off its spine:
The Interpretation of Dreams.)
Marty: (looking up from his book) This is simply dreadful stuff.
Humboldt: (feigning magnanimity) I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything.
I apologize to you all.
Tuscarawas Tim: Stop it, scoundrel. Apologies are obnoxious. And
don’t call me T.T.
Humboldt: I really don’t know what you want me to say.
Tuscarawas Tim: I don’t want you to say anything. Words are for
scoundrels.
Humboldt: Words are for scoundrels?
Tuscarawas Tim: Yes. Words are like psychology.
Humboldt: (perplexed) Really? I don’t understand.
(Dr. Trudy von Strudel appears dressed as a county bailiff.)
Bailiff von Strudel: All rise for the Honorable Judge Psycho von Babble.
Psychology is a science. A science, I tell you, a science! It’s like meteorology,
but without the meteors. And wouldn’t you agree that this entire fantasy is
veeery sexual, YA? Dreams about courtrooms exhibit repressed sexual urges
of control and sadomasochism.
Tuscarawas Tim: (ignoring Bailiff von Strudel) Words are a stick with
“But psychology, gentlemen, though a profound thing, is still like a stick with two ends.” —Fyodor two ends that you can use to beat people.
Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
(Lou appears, menacingly pounding her baton into the palm of her
hand while scowling at Bailiff von Strudel.)
Humboldt: I thought words were just words.
Tuscarawas Tim: Don’t you see, dummy? Can’t you see your words in
the world?
Humboldt: My words in the world? (covers his eyes and peers mockingly
around the courtroom) Sorry, I can’t see ‘em.
Tuscarawas Tim: Scoundrel! Wordsticks are worse than nightsticks.
They can be used to justify anything, no matter how cruel or stupid. Wordsticks
bludgeon people every day. You can beat a person with words and then call it
“justice,” or “government,” or “freedom.” Wordviolence: that’s what I want
you to see in the world.
Humboldt: (thinks for a moment) Yes, I actually think I’m beginning to
understand. I don’t want to beat anyone over the head with a wordstick any
more than I want to be beaten over the head with one. What about laughter? I
know it’s not very Nabokovian, but so what? Humor is not a hammer: humor
is a featherduster.
(Ticklish laughter is heard from the galley. In the balcony, a bald
Frenchman with a hawkish nose and a volatile air spins around as if to face
his enemies.)
The Man with the Iron Laugh: (candidly) Ticklez l’infâme!
This is a creative misreading of Voltaire’s famous battle cry “écrasez l’infâme,” or “crush the infamy.” Bailiff von Strudel: The act of tickling can be veeery sexual. YA?
Tuscarawas Tim: That’s a tempting theory for scoundrels. If you truly
understand what I’m saying, why are you still speaking? You slander me, abuse
me, and call me a blabberboy. Can’t you hear your own lawnmower revving?
The only difference between you and me is that my words are imaginary:
yours are real.
Humboldt: I don’t know what you want me to do. Take a vow of silence?
Tuscarawas Tim: Why not?
Humboldt: Because the rest would be silence, and I would be left totally
alone with my thoughts.
Tuscarawas Tim: So stop thinking.
Humboldt: (mockingly) Stop speaking? Stop thinking? Really? Is that all?
Tuscarawas Tim: No. There’s something else.
Humboldt: What?
Tuscarawas Tim: Nothing.
Humboldt: (exasperated) We’re back on that again, are we?
Tuscarawas Tim: No. I mean: Nothing. I want you to become Nothing.
Humboldt: How?
Tuscarawas Tim: Depersonalize yourself.
Humboldt: You want me to depersonalize myself ?
Tuscarawas Tim: YA!
Gravitas Gavel: Pound! Pound! Pound!
The Honorable Judgebludgeoner: This court has reached a verdict. The
defendant is found guilty on all accounts and is hereby sentenced to “Death
On the eve of the 1983 playoffs, Moses Malone
confidently predicted that his team, the Philadelphia
76ers, would win all three of their playoff series in
four straight games. Malone’s prophecy is one of my
father’s all-time favorite sports moments.
by Jordan.”
(As the sound of bereft wailing echoes around the woodpanel walls, the
crowd goes silent and the courtroom goes dark.)
Public Address Announcer: Welcome to Salt Lake City! Are ya’ll ready
to get this PARTY STARTED? Yo, put your hands together for your Utah
Summer Jam Jazz!
(Humboldt slowly becomes aware that he is standing in the middle of
a basketball court, surrounded by screaming white people in heavily starched
shortsleeve shirts. He experiences a sensation similar to that of an ancient
gladiator standing in the middle of the Coliseum, except that he is surrounded
by screaming Mormons instead of Romans.)
Brigham Caesar: Friends, Mormons, Sisterwives, lend me your
daughters!
(Nearby, Humboldt spies Blackjesus sitting courtside between two large,
black men. All three of them are wearing elaborate headsets and speaking
into phallic microphones. The two large black men are completely bald, while
Blackjesus is wearing a horrible toupée.)
Toupéed Blackjesus: It’s Game Six at the Delta Center. The Utah Jazz
are clinging to a one point lead with twelve seconds left on the clock. The
Jazz, and their stars Karl Malone, John Stockton, and Humboldt Hornacek,
are desperately trying to force a Game Seven to keep their title hopes alive.
But standing in their path are the Chicago Bulls, who are trying to clinch their
sixth championship in eight years.
(Humboldt pulls on his shorts. Why are they so skimpy? Why wasn’t he
given a baggy, billowy pair like his black teammates are wearing?)
Toupéed Blackjesus: (turning to his right) Mumbles, we know that this
final play is going to come down to Humboldt guarding Jordan. How do you
evaluate Humboldt’s defensive capabilities, narrative capabilities, and literary
creativity on a scale of one to ten?
Mumbles Malone: (thinks for a moment) Fo’… Fo’… Fo’...
Toupéed Blackjesus: That sounds about right. (turning to his left) And KG,
does Humboldt stand a chance at stopping Jordan in these final twelve seconds?
KG: (screams) Anythang is possssaaaaaaaabullllll!!!!!
Toupéed Blackjesus: (surprised) Really?
KG: (more reserved) No. That nigga’s toast.
(Continuing to pull on his shorts, Humboldt looks down at his jersey. Is
his number really 444? Aren’t basketball players only allowed two digits? And
why does his jersey read Utah Jazz? Shouldn’t it read the Utah Cults? Is there
any jazz in Utah? Humboldt is still thinking about Jelly Roll Joseph Smith and
Lorenzo “Slow Hand” Snow when he becomes aware that Michael Jordan is
slowly dribbling the ball in front of him while staring at him like a hungry,
homicidal lion.)
Jordan: (with murderous intent) Rrrrr! Must vanquish…. Rrrrr!
(Maybe the team’s name doesn’t mean music, but sex, Humboldt thinks
as Jordan continues dribbling the ball menacingly. There was obviously lots
of sex in Utah, especially among polygamous fundamental Mormon family
members. Humboldt glances quickly into the crowd and sees the dull eyes of
hundreds of inbred children staring at him with great expectation.)
Darryl: Don’t let him score, Humboldt! Me and my thirteen brothers
and sisters are counting on you!
Another Darryl: Stop him, Humboldt! Me and my stepdaughterwife
are counting on you!
Another Darryl: If the Jazz lose, I’ll be forced to marry my sister and
I’m already married to two of my cousins and three of my aunts!
(At the end of this row of Darryls, Humboldt spies Elle wearing a Steve
Kerr Chicago Bulls #25 jersey.)
Elle: (surprised) Humby, I didn’t know you were a baller.
Humboldt: (equally surprised) I didn’t know that they sold Steve Kerr
jerseys.
Jordan: (murderousness rising) Rrrrr!!! Vanquish…. Rrrrr!!!
(Was it too late to switch and guard Toni Kukoc? And where was Bryon
Russell? Wasn’t he the team’s designated ‘Jordan Stopper?’)
Toupéed Blackjesus: Michael against Humboldt. Twelve seconds…
eleven…ten…Jordan drives right…
(Jordan lowers his shoulder and lunges to his right. Humboldt, and his short
shorts, sticks to him like a Mormon family to governmental assistance. Jordan
doesn’t have anywhere to go! Humboldt has him completely covered, blanketed.
The game is over and all of the state’s many Darryls will go home happy!
As their bodies collide momentarily, Humboldt feels an open hand
press against his right buttcheek.
That’s odd, Humboldt thinks, especially here in Utah.
But before he can do anything, Humboldt feels a forceful buttshove and
his entire body caroms forward. He slips and stumbles. He can’t regain his
balance. He is running out of time.)
Darryl: No!
Another Darryl: No!
Darryl von Strudel: YA!
(Humboldt’s stumbling is humbling. His balance is buggered. He can’t
stop stumbling.)
Elle: Be careful, Humby!
(Humboldt stumbles forward, stumbling out of his dormcage.
Humbling, stumbling, and slipping: he knows he is dreaming. He knows this
isn’t real. So why can’t he stop stumbling?)
Elle: Don’t rip your shorts, Humby!
(As he stumbles, Humboldt mumbles goodbye to Blackjesus and thanks
him for the Toilet Wine. He keeps stumbling. He stumbles across the quad. He
can’t regain his balance. He lunges towards Jordan, but it’s too late. With all
of Mormondom watching, the ball hangs viciously in midair.)
Darryl: Noooooo!
Another Darryl: Noooooo!
The Prophet Darrylphi: NOOOOOOO!!!!
(Humboldt stumbles past the gate. He has graduated. His time in black
college is over. The game is over. The series is over. Jordan’s career is over [or
should’ve been]. His dream is over.)
—Humboldt?
Humboldt’s momentum suddenly stopped and he opened his eyes. He
was standing outside the gray walls that encircled the quad. Lou was standing
beside him; she was speaking to him.
How could his dream end in the middle of the day, as opposed to the
middle of the night? And why wasn’t he still in bed?
—Take care of yourself, Lou said with a smile.
Humboldt was shocked. He had forgotten how pretty Lou’s smile was.
—Thank you, Lou, Humboldt replied. You too.
—There’s your ride, Lou said, motioning towards a black limousine
that was parked across the parking lot from where they were standing.
Humboldt turned towards the limousine and when his eyes returned,
Lou had disappeared.
Still feeling slightly confused, Humboldt crossed the parking lot towards
the awaiting limousine. A door opened, and out popped a familiar looking
suitshark. Although Humboldt couldn’t remember the suitshark’s name, he
recognized his face. With so many suitsharks circling him, Humboldt never
could remember much about any one in particular, including this one. But
this particular suitshark never struck Humboldt as being the smarmiest of the
smarmy bunch.
—Nice to see you again, Humboldt, the suitshark said. Congratulations,
you’re going home.
—Thanks, Humboldt replied. I’m sorry: I’ve forgotten your name.
—Udonis, the suitshark said, holding open the limousine’s door.
Udonis Udolt.
Humboldt nodded politely as he slid into the limousine’s dark interior.
Udonis Udolt? he thought. What a strange name.
—We have to make a quick stop in Houston, Udonis said, climbing into
the backseat next to Humboldt. After that, you’re free to go wherever you want.
—Houston?
—Board of Directors meeting, Udonis explained matter-of-factly. But after
that… (he shrugged and lifted his open palms skyward) anywhere you want.
—Okay, Humboldt replied. New Orleans.
—Is New Orleans home? Udonis asked casually as the limousine
roared to life.
—No.
—Where’s home?
—I don’t have a home.
Udonis flashed Humboldt a look of confusion. Looking past his
companion, Humboldt gazed upon the fleeting vista of his former home. He
saw the coldgray walls, the watchtower, and the windowindowindows. It all
looked so familiar, so inviting. Deep in his memory, Humboldt was reminded
of the evening he had left his father’s farm. His nose remembered the smell
of the cool nightair and his fingers remembered the weight of the tiny soypod
that he had plucked from its stem at the end of their driveway. Humboldt
realized that that tiny soypod could never go home again either. It was like
he was that tiny soypod. Unexpectedly plucked from his stem, Humboldt had
been thrust into the pocket of life. And as life kept him in its pocket, he did
the same to his tiny soypod of self. As the limousine slowly pulled out of the
parking lot, Humboldt’s home receded. Another home, he thought, that I’ll never
go home to again.
—Where were you born? Udonis asked politely.
—I was born on a farm in Winesburg, Ohio.
—Why not go back there?
—It’s gone: foreclosed during the housing bubble. It was my duty
to save it, but I failed. Life just got in the way. I went to college; I went to
Washannesburg; I went to Iraq; I went to New York; I went to Boston; I went
to Portréal, but I never went home again. [pregnant pause as Humboldt stares
out the window] Ohio? The center of my life is as empty as the nothingness
encircled by that giant O. I have so many questions about Ohio that the word
might as well be spelled ?hio. I don’t know if my father’s farm is still standing.
I don’t know if my father is still standing. [another windowstaring pause] I
don’t know if my forever indebted wife still lives in ?hio. I don’t know if she
still thinks about me. I don’t know if she knows that I now know what love
is. I don’t even know if she knows that I killed her brother. [windowstaring
pause: blackcollege receding] When I left ?hio, reality started to unravel. I
don’t even know if any of this is real. Maybe, it’s all unreality. Maybe, my
doppelgänger is right, maybe I should depersonalize myself. Maybe, I already
have. [windowstaring pause: blackcollege gone] But ?hio was real once: I know
that for a fact. Sometimes I wish that I had never left the reality of my father’s
farm. I wish I was back there harvesting soybeans, drinking soy sarsaparilla,
and eating kamikaze casserole. [windowstaring pause: nothingness] When I
used to ask my father what happened to my mother, he would just sigh and
say “South.” Is that what he says about me now? Have I gone south too?
When Humboldt stopped speaking, he noticed a tear running down
Udonis’ cheek. This surprised him; he knew that suitsharks usually don’t show
any emotion unless obnoxious amounts of money were being discussed.
Slowly, Udonis removed a silk handkerchief from his breastpocket and
gently dried his eyes. Once his handkerchief was properly repocketed, he
shook his head and let out a loud sigh.
—Edamame.
XXXVIII
Humboldt’s’ conversation with his father, Udonis Udolt,
which might be occurring on the front porch
of their farmhouse in Winesburg,
on the front porch of a Wal-Mart,
or on a flight to Houston
“The heaventree of stars hung with humid nightblue fruit.” —James Joyce, Ulysses
The notyet death of day, the notquite birth of night: it was the Blue Hour. For a thinking man, the Blue Hour is a pulsating reminder
that oxygen is an ocean. Off in the distance, heat lightning flashed like special effects on a bluescreen. The nightair was thick with
humidity. Sweetness clung to the sky like overripe fruit. It was a delicious time of day, as the skypeddler sold his nightfruit at the
bluemarket. A pear in the air, a peach out of reach. The setting sun was a Honeydew melon sliced in half by the horizon. To sleep
now was to go to bed hungry.
Against the darkening blue canvas that stretched across the sky, all of the earth’s colors became more vibrant. Everything
was amplified at this hour: the blueness, the stillness, the thoughtfulness. Even the crickets were amplified; they roared with the
intensity of static electricity. Bright beams of bouncing horizontal light playfully swam in the space between the bluesquare of
sky and the greenbrown ground. The painted sky was a reminder that the long hours spent harvesting words and ignoring their
violence were over.
But soft, my heart, not a word more, except this: Blue. And over there: blue too. Surrounding you: blue. Blueverything.
Blueverywhere. Blue.
It was all good. It was all blue.
Shoulder to shoulder, Humboldt and his father were sitting on their front porch in rocking chairs that were as firm as
rocks. Sitting atop the tray table that was awkwardly balanced atop his knees was a plastic cup full of soy sarsaparilla that tasted
like icewater. Humboldt was happy to be home again and so was the tiny soypod in his pocket. They were both smiling genuine,
joyous soysmiles and enjoying the evening’s bluestillness.
Had he forgotten that his father’s name was Udonis? Humboldt took a sip of sarsaparilla and searched his memories of youth.
164
This section is a spatchcocking of pictures from
The People of Walmart website and David Sedaris’
essay “Standing By” (The New Yorker, August 9,
2010). This essay also appears in Sedaris’ book Let’s
Explore Diabetes with Owls.
All he could remember calling his father was “father.” And had his father ever
known that his name was Humboldt? Hadn’t he always just called him “son?”
Maybe, South had named him. Maybe, she had been from California and he
was named after Humboldt County. And when she left, maybe she took his
name with her.
A hippy stewardess with a beehive hairdo emerged from the house.
As the battleships of her hips passed in dangerous proximity to Humboldt’s
shoulder, she inquired: “Your trash? Your trash?” Humboldt instinctively
grabbed his glass of soy sarsaparilla. When the stewardess and her intrusive
hips were gone, Humboldt and his father turned to each other.
—HowHow diddid youyou becomebecome aa lawyerCEO? father and
son blurted out simultaneously.
After a moment’s awkward pause, Humboldt tried again.
—How did you get into Law School? Did you have to put on your
application that you were homecolleged?
Udonis smiled and shook his head.
—Didn’t you ever notice that my law degree was framed and hanging
in the living room above the mantel?
—That was your law degree? I thought that was a piece of Nana’s
needlework!
—Needlework? Udonis laughed. That’s not a bad way to describe what
goes on in Law School. For years, I never noticed it either. By the time you
were born, I had totally forgotten about Law School. It’s funny; if you don’t
work in the legal field, the legal field ceases to exist: the Laws of Man are
subsumed by the Laws of Nature. And what’s even funnier is that being a
lawyer is not that different from being a farmer, except the work smells worse.
—So you were never a real farmer? Humboldt asked.
Udonis shook his head again.
—Your grandfather, Ebenezer Udolt, died the day after I graduated
from Law School. Since I couldn’t remember if I had any brothers or sisters, I
just took over the farm. I didn’t have a lick of experience. You never realized
that? You never thought it was odd that all we were ever able to grow were
soybeans and a couple of wrinkly basil leaves? And you never thought that it
was strange that we just let all of our livestock die of old age instead of taking
them to slaughter? After awhile, all we had was deadstock.
—I do remember burying a lot of goats, Humboldt admitted.
—The whole town was laughing at us behind our backs. They would’ve
laughed in our faces, but they were too afraid of a potential lawsuit.
—So, you’re not upset with me for losing the farm? Humboldt asked. I
feel like I should apologize.
Udonis shook his head once more.
—Apologies are obnoxious. Anyway, I should be the one apologizing
to you. A parent has no right to force his dreams onto his children, especially
if they involve complex real estate litigation. I never should’ve made you go to
college. I’m glad you dropped out. And I’m glad the farm got bulldozed and
turned into a Wal-Mart. Good riddance! Good riddance to farming! Farming
is a thing of the past. Now that we have Wal-Mart, our country doesn’t need
farms. And now that human beings don’t have to waste their time farming
anymore, we all have more free time to do the things we love, like sue the
people we hate.
Humboldt realized that he and his father were no longer sitting on
their front porch. They were now sitting on the front porch of a gigantic WalMart, passively watching a parade of ugly, cheap people wearing ugly, cheap
clothing. Humboldt’s soy sarsaparilla had morphed into a supersized fatty
sugar drink. The hippy stewardess with the beehive hairdo walked past again.
—Your trash? Your trash? she asked matter-of-factly.
With each passing repetition, the stewardess’ inquiry sounded less like
a question and more like a statement of fact.
As the stewardess’ sashaying hips plunked past his shoulder, a faint
odor of onions wafted through Humboldt’s memory.
—What ever happened to Edna? Humboldt asked.
—Edna?
A familiar faraway look momentarily flashed behind Udonis’ eyes
and Humboldt feared that this look might be followed by an unbearably long
pause.
As Udonis searched his memory, a slovenly adultescent with a ratty
haircut, a stained shirt that read: “Pimpin’ IS Easy,” and a valley of visible
buttcrack shuffled past them.
—Edna, Humboldt prompted. You remember Edna. She used to ride
her bike out to the farm with a basket full of onions and then you would have
sex with her.
—Oh right, Edna! Now I remember, Udonis exclaimed, trying to ignore
the sight of a flabby woman who was wearing a skimpy bikini top and hot
pants with the giant letters “JUI” scrawled across one buttcheek and “CY”
across the other.
—Well? Humboldt asked.
—Well what?
A woman walked past wearing what appeared to be nothing more than
a baggy tee-shirt and a pair of underwear. Where were her pants? Had she
forgotten to put them on this morning? Or was she looking to buy a pair and
wear them home? And how could she be comfortable? Wasn’t she experiencing
the same kind of constant rear draft that horses felt while being transported in
horsetrailers on the highway?
—Are you two still together? Humboldt asked.
—No.
—What happened?
—It was quite the scandal. It turns out that Edna was married. One
morning, while I was at the Farmer’s Market, her husband smelled her onions
on my breath. I never knew a zucchini could be so painful. I sued him, of
course: really put the screws to him. The case ended up being settled out of
court for two thousand dollars worth of damages, which was paid in onions.
—That’s a lot of onions.
—I only kept a dozen or so. I gave the rest away to the Winesburg Boys
& Girls Club. They’re probably still eating onions to this very day.
—Winesburg had a Boys & Girls Club?
Udonis paused in thought, as a man with a mullet, who was wearing
American flag overalls without shoes or an undershirt, proudly walked past.
—Well, Udonis finally answered, I gave them to a bunch of boys and
girls. It seemed like they were in a club.
Both Humboldt and his father paused to avert their eyes as an eightyyear-old woman with tons of flabby tattooed flesh walked past wearing a
camisole and a pink tutu.
—How did you become CEO? Udonis asked. You know, you’re
technically my boss.
The phrase Chief of Everything flashed through Humboldt’s
consciousness.
—I don’t know. It just happened. One day, someone with a firm
handshake handed me a stack of business cards with my name on them.
—That sounds logical, Udonis replied.
A skinny, wrinkly old man walked past in a tee shirt proclaiming “Leg
Rests” with arrows pointing to his shoulders. Looking away, Humboldt took
a sip from his fatty sugar drink.
—Your trash? Your trash.
—Son, Udonis said quietly. If apologies weren’t so obnoxious, I would
apologize for not being a better father. I just never knew what I was supposed
to do. I guess that’s why I was always so quiet. I was paralyzed by fear and
forgetfulness. I want to make it up to you.
—Okay, Humboldt answered as an obscenely obese woman in a billowy
Ben Roethlisberger Pittsburgh Steelers jersey and hotpink hotpants walked
past.
On June 3, 2013, I attended a David Sedaris reading
at the BookLoft in Columbus, Ohio. Near the end of
the event, Sedaris mentioned that he is a connoisseur
of inappropriate tee-shirts. But he said that he wasn’t
interested in your run-of-the-mill inappropriate
tee-shirts, like ‘Discount Gynecologist’ or ‘Orgasm
Donor.’ What he likes is really inappropriate teeshirts. Of course, once we heard this, everybody
in the crowd wanted to know what an example of
a really inappropriate tee-shirt was. At first, Sedaris
was reluctant to cite an example. According to him,
when he had recently mentioned such a tee-shirt
at a reading in Atlanta, the shirt was deemed so
inappropriate that he had received a smattering of
boos. Once we heard this, we really had to know!
After some playful prodding, he mentioned this shirt.
—Is there anything I can do for you?
—Are these billable hours? Humboldt asked.
—No, Udonis answered in a fatherly tone. Purely pro bono.
—Well, Humboldt answered. I could use some advice: I’m in love.
Udonis winced. Humboldt couldn’t tell if his father was wincing
because of what he had just said or because an obese ten-year-old boy with a
pubestache had just walked past wearing a shirt emblazoned with the words:
“50,000 Battered Women and I’m Still Eating Mine PLAIN?!”
—Love is lawless, son. It’s really outside my jurisdiction, Udonis
explained. Is there anything else? Perhaps something more practical?
—I need to get to New Orleans. I’m planning on meeting my forever
indebted wife there.
—Okay, Udonis said with cheerful enthusiasm. New Orleans is an easy
drive from Houston. After the Board of Directors meeting, I’ll take you there
myself.
At that moment, an obese woman walked past completely shirtless.
As Humboldt and his father stared with unintended awe, they noticed that
the woman had pulled her skirt up so high that she could tuck the gigantic
cannonballs of her breasts underneath its elastic waistband. Who were these
people? Humboldt thought. Where did they come from? And who was giving them
fashion tips?
—Son, Udonis said while still staring. I’m serious when I say this: I
want to start being the father I never was.
How could a person want to be a person that never existed? Humboldt found
this thought perplexing. Was his father trying to depersonalize himself, too?
The stewardess sashayed past again, bouncing her hips from shoulder
to shoulder.
—You’re Trash. You’re Trash!
Before Humboldt could ask his father more questions, an authoritative
voice boomed through the loudspeakers, announcing an inflatable furniture
sale in aisle sixteen, as well as their impending descent into Houston.
Upon completing my rough draft, Houston was the only
city mentioned in Humboldt that I hadn’t actually lived
in or visited. This didn’t concern me much because I
figured how hard is it to make fun of Houston? In June
2013, at the insistence of an old college roommate, I
visited the Bayou City for the first time and found the
city to be absolutely charming.
Yao Ming, who was an astounding 7’6, played eight seasons for the Houston Rockets.
XXXIX
What became of Humboldt in Houston, followed by
a brief account of how Humboldt traveled to New Orleans,
confused the city with Cleveland, declared himself a deranged
beigneteur, and was reintroduced to performance art
Hakeem Olajuwon, who was listed as 7’0 but was really
closer to 6’10, played seventeen seasons for the Houston
Rockets. His nickname was The Dream. Olajuwon’s fancy
footwork in the post, which acquired the handle “The
Dream Shake,” has become the stuff of NBA legend. As
a child, my favorite NBA player was David Robinson, so
I don’t know why I’m telling you to do this, but if you
want to watch Olajuwon at his most destructive, search
YouTube for ‘Olajuwon dominates Robinson.’
After seven years in the league, Olajuwon changed the spelling
of his first name from Akeem to Hakeem. After just three years in
the league, Ralph Sampson, who was once hailed as “the next
Wilt Chamberlain,” disappeared.
David Adickes’ Winds of Change sculpture is positioned in
the middle of Concourse C in Houston’s George H. Bush
Intercontinental Airport.
Was Houston real? And if so, what was real about it? Its congested traffic and flying cockroaches? Its bulging bayous and raging
restaurateurs? Its zonelessness and claims of being a port city, even though it isn’t located anywhere near a visible body of water?
And what about its skyline: was that real? And if so, why was it so big, so boring, so Queens? And speaking of skyscrapers, were
the city’s two most recognizable towers really a gigantic Chinaman with an evil kungfu face and a nightblack Nigerian who made
dreamshakes? (And what ever happened to Akeem? His career ended quicker than Ralph Sampson’s.)
And perhaps most confusingly, while walking through the George Bush Intercontinental Airport, had Humboldt really seen
a huge, heroic bronze statue of the notoriously nerdy ex-President on the dancefloor? Why had the sculptor decided to depict the
dancing dork flinging off his suit jacket, while sliding to the left like his leg was broken?
And what about Humboldt’s meeting with the Board of Directors: had that been real? And had it really only lasted a matter
of minutes?
The global headquarters for Hal Burton’s company was located in an ugly, bland building near the airport. Before the
Board of Directors meeting began, Humboldt was graciously introduced to seemingly every employee in the building. He shook
hundreds of hands, offered hundreds of empty hellos, and brewed hundreds of pots of smalltalk that were as unsatisfying as
cheap coffee. He also politely looked at hundreds of photographs of every conceivable breed of dogbabyfamily, photographed
at every conceivable angle, while wearing every conceivable item of clothing. He smiled at dogs in diapers, babies on leashes,
adultolescents in ugly Hawaiian shirts, and entire families stranded on beaches like bleached whales.
When this tour of duty was done, Humboldt was shuttled into a bland conference room that offered sweeping vistas of every
clogged, congested major highway exchange for miles. Off in the distance, he could see the faint skyline of Queens. Seated in this
168
conference room was the Board of Directors. Humboldt’s arrival meant more
handshakes, more empty hellos, and more smalltalk about dogbabyfamilies.
Once all this corporate formality was out of the way, the meeting began and
Humboldt was promptly fired.
—Because of the negative publicity generated from your recent trials…
(Was it Humboldt’s imagination or was the Board of Directors speaking
to him in a single loud, authoritative voice?)
—Our shareholders have demanded that heads roll.
Humboldt realized that the head in question was his.
—You understand, the Board boomed, this has nothing to do with your
performance; it’s purely publicity driven. Think of it as cosmetic.
Humboldt had never thought about the cosmetic possibilities of a
severed head. In his mind, he applied some rouge to his paledead cheeks and
a streak of bright red lipstick to his lifeless lips.
—Under your watch, the Board continued, we’ve seen record growth.
Couple this with substantial decreases in expenditures, particularly scotch,
and you’ve been one of the most successful CEOs in the history of this
company.
Humboldt’s garish, rolling severed head smiled.
—Because you’ve been so successful, the Board continued booming,
we’d like to ask you to nominate your successor.
After thinking for a moment, Humboldt nominated Doom, whom he
knew was experienced in the kind of street malfeasance necessary to run a
successful multinational corporation.
—Doom? the Board boomed. That’s a good name for a corporate CEO.
We’ll be sure to have him acquitted, released, and hired this afternoon.
Humboldt envisioned Doom standing in front of a shareholders’
meeting, screaming, “I can’t HEAR you!” This mental image caused another
smile to twist upon his deadlips.
For severing his head, Humboldt was informed that he would be
receiving a severance package, which was completely useless until his bank
accounts thawed.
—In closing, is there anything you’d like to say to us? the Board inquired
politely.
Staring out at the congested intestines of Texas travel that were barely
visible underneath the thick smogclouds, Humboldt felt his thoughts become
congested. He didn’t know what to say, but he felt obligated to say something.
—Other than my days spent on my father’s farm, emancipating my
selfishness in college, working for Senator Dick, on the lam, and attending
black college, my days associated with this corporation have been the happiest
of my life. I’m glad Hal hired me. I’m also glad that Hal didn’t marry me,
because no one wants to be married to an alley cat with a million dollar
collar. And as long as our government continues to wage illegal wars on poor,
defenseless countries, I’m sure that this corporation will have a bright future
keeping the war’s peace.
When he had finished speaking, Humboldt reached into his pocket and
extracted his stack of business cards.
—I guess I won’t be needing these anymore, he said placing the stack
on the table in front of him.
—No, boomed the Board. We’ll get a no-bid governmental contract to
recycle those!
As the sound of awkward laughter reverberated around the conference
room, Humboldt’s corporate head was severed from his corporeal body. Now
headless, Humboldt once again circled the room, shaking everyone’s hand
while politely reheating any leftovers from their previous smalltalk.
Upon leaving the conference room, Humboldt was paraded back
through the company’s headquarters, stopping at every desk and cubicle to say
goodbye. He shook everyone’s hand again, made a final pot of smalltalk, and
took a final look at any new photographs of dogbabyfamilies that may have
materialized since his last visit. And once all of this had been accomplished,
The Rothko Chapel is located in Houston’s Museums
District, next to the Menil Collection.
Mike Royko was a beloved Chicago newspaperman.
Being displaced Chicagoans, my parents have
always spoken highly of Royko.
Depending on your perspective, Samuel Beckett is
either an “exquisite latecomer” of the Modern Era
(Harold Bloom) or the father of Postmodernism.
In January 1938, Beckett was stabbed in the chest
by a Parisian pimp named Prudent. At a preliminary
hearing, Beckett inquired about the motives behind
the attack, prompting Prudent to famously reply,
“Je ne sais pas, Monsieur. Je m’excuse.” (“I do not
know, sir. I’m sorry.”)
“Since that’s the way we’re playing it…
(he unfolds handkerchief)
… let’s play it that way…
(he unfolds)
… and speak no more about it…
(he finishes unfolding)
… speak no more.
(He holds handkerchief spread out before him.)
Old stancher!
(Pause.)
You… remain.
(Pause. He covers his face with handkerchief, lowers
his arms to armrests, remains motionless.)
(Brief tableau.)
—Samuel Beckett, Endgame
Pogue Mahone is a famous Irish phrase that means
“kiss my arse.”
Humboldt depersonalized himself from the corporate world.
Now that there was no longer a stack of business cards in his pocket,
who was he? What was he supposed to say when someone asked him that
question? Did a man lose his identity when he lost his job? Humboldt found
himself pondering these questions as he walked the vacant streets of Houston.
The blazing desert sun assaulted him with such unbearable intensity that
he was reminded of Iraq. To escape the sun and its heroic heat, Humboldt
entered a small brick building that advertised itself as a chapel. Having never
been inside a chapel before, Humboldt didn’t know what to expect.
As his eyes adjusted to the interior’s dim glow, Humboldt became
aware that he was standing in the middle of an immense, empty octagon. An
overhead skylight was the room’s only source of illumination. In the center
of the room, wooden benches were arranged in a tight square. In addition to
these benches, spiritual beanbags dotted the floor.
On the cold, concrete walls hung fourteen large, drab monochromatic
murals, whose colors ranged from black to brown to blackish brown to
brownish black to blackish black to just plain old black. Thanks to Mrs.
Featherweight’s lectures on American art, Humboldt knew that these murals
belonged to the movement known as Photorealism. He also remembered the
name of the artist: Mike Royko. A notorious hard drinking, hardknucked
artistic knucklehead, Royko became famous for his atmospheric touch, subtle
intensity, and love of softball. Humboldt appreciated Royko’s work, and he
was aware that transposing photographic images with precision onto a canvas
was no easy task, especially when the photographs in question were totally
monochromatic images of the night.
Royko’s murals depicted that time of night most associated with Night:
the Black Hour. The Blue Hour having been wiped from the sky, nothing
was left but invisible air and immeasurable depth. During the Black Hour,
night was a swallowing abyss, the moon an uncaring croissant, and the earth
a pitiless pit.
An old man with fierce eyes and rough wrinkles lowered himself onto
the bench next to Humboldt. Trying not to stare, Humboldt noticed that the
stranger was holding his chest, as if nursing a pimpwound. After a moment of
silence, the stranger leaned towards Humboldt and whispered into his ear.
—You CRIED for night; it comes. (Pause. He corrects himself) It
FALLS; now cry in darkness. (He repeats) You cried for night; it falls: now
cry in darkness.
—That’s rather dour, don’t you think? After all, we’re in chapel.
—No, we’re on earth, the stranger replied. There’s no cure for that.
No cure for what? Humboldt didn’t understand what the wrinkly old
whisperer was talking about. When he turned to ask for an explanation,
the stranger was gone. In his place, Humboldt found himself staring into a
familiar set of taut jaw muscles.
—Old stancher! Tuscarawas Tim seethed.
—O what do you want? Humboldt irritably asked his doppelgänger.
Come to apologize?
—Apologize for what?
—For testifying against me in imaginary court!
—O that, Tuscarawas Tim answered with a disinterested wave of his
hand. How can you be so sure that I wasn’t testifying for you?
—You’re a rogue! Humboldt exclaimed angrily.
—Pogue Mahone! his doppelgänger shot back.
—Talking to you is impossible! You’ll say anything, as long as it’s
imaginary.
—So? Tuscarawas Tim replied. Are you listening to all the ridiculous
real things that are being said around us?
Humboldt quietly turned his attention towards the room’s other
inhabitants.
—They’re so spiritual, a man with a ponytail who was sitting crosslegged
atop one of the spiritual beanbags whispered.
Notoriously slippery in translation, schadenfreude is
German for “pleasure derived from the misfortunes
of others.” This is probably my favorite joke in the
entire novel.
This popular New Orleans greeting has always
confused me. Apparently, it doesn’t mean “where
are you,” so much as “how are you.” According to
Urbandictionary.com, the phrase originated as a
way for musicians to greet one another on the street.
So technically, the phrase means “where are you
playing at.”
Although I was born and raised in Cambridge, I often
claim to be a de-facto citizen of Cleveland. As a child,
I spent many summers visiting my grandparents, who
lived on the corner of Cornwall and Roslyn in Rocky
River. My relationship to Cleveland is described in
The Kid from Cambridge.
Café au Lait was supposedly invented at New
Orleans’ famed Café du Monde. Mr. Coffee was
invented in Cleveland when Samuel Glazer and
Vincent Marotta contracted two former Westinghouse
engineers to create a home version of a commercial
coffee dispenser. One of these engineers, Edmund
Abel, was related to my grandmother via marriage.
(My grandmother’s brother married his sister.) You
know how every family has a kooky distant relative?
According to my mother, in her family, “Uncle Ed”
was that kook. People on the Ellenberger side of
my family still enjoy laughing about the time that he
supposedly built a small aircraft in his living room,
only to realize that it was too big to fit through the
front door. Kooky or not, my family takes great pride
in telling people that we’re related to the inventor
of Mr. Coffee. And why not? Just imagine a world
without Mr. Coffee? Yeah, it ain’t pretty.
For the remainder of the novel, New Orleans and
Cleveland are intentionally jumbled together.
Lil’ Wayne is from New Orleans: Cleveland is crawling
with Lithuanians.
—They’re so religious, a woman with a ponytail who was sitting
crosslegged atop the other spiritual beanbag answered.
—They’re so meditational; I feel the experience cleansing my soul, a
man with a receding hairline who was sitting on a nearby bench whispered.
—They’re so peaceful; I can feel my soul touching the pure heart of the
sacred, a woman with a receding hairline who was sitting on a nearby bench
answered.
—Wordscoundrels, Tuscarawas Tim tersely muttered. They’re all just
in here because of the air-conditioning. But they feel the need to say something.
They need to justify their presence somehow.
—So what? Humboldt asked. What’s the harm in that?
—What’s the harm in that? It’s air pollution! Noise pollution! And
worst of all, it’s not real.
—You’re not real, Humboldt snapped back.
—So what? Tuscarawas Tim echoed mockingly. What’s the harm in
that?
—You’re trespassing in my thoughts.
—I think you’re starting to enjoy my imaginary presence. At least I’m
more interesting than that dreadful Mrs. Featherweight. That batty old bird
thought Schadenfreude was Sigmund’s brother.
—Don’t be silly, Humboldt answered irritably. Mrs. Featherweight knew
exactly who Schaden Freud was. Look, I don’t have time for this imaginary
conversation; I have to get to New Orleans.
—Really? Tuscarawas Tim answered with a knowing smile. Where
ya’t?
When Humboldt’s eyes floated back to the surrounding murals, he
was shocked at what he saw. No longer a dreary mix of black and brownish
black, the canvases were now an explosion of green, purple, and gold. And
the surrounding walls were no longer cold concrete; they were now covered
in the alluring decay of peeling paint and worn wood. Everywhere he looked,
Humboldt saw the signs of decades of decadence and decay. From his neck
dangled a tangle of plastic beads; in his hand, he held a pinkplastic cup, in
which floated a giant pink straw. Somewhere nearby, a trombone was blowing
a funkyrusty tune that was accompanied by a burst of bullets from a snare
drum. Hearing the sound of approaching bronze horsehooves, Humboldt
turned to see an equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson lifting his hat (and
horse) in greeting.
—Howdy stranger, the genial general said in a warm Southern drawl.
—Howdy Injunkiller, Humboldt replied, saluting the statue with his
plastic cup.
In the hand not clutching his crunkjuice, Humboldt became aware that
he was holding his father’s business card. He vaguely remembered his father
dropping him off in the French Quarter and promising to return as soon as
he could. This departure had left Humboldt alone. Alone in New Orleans.
Alone in the heat and the crowded streets. Alone amongst the iron-wrought
balconies and sunfaded shutters. Alone and aimless. Alone with his thoughts.
To Humboldt, New Orleans looked like an upsidedown Cleveland. Lake
Pontchartrain was a southern cousin to Lake Erie. The mighty Mississippi:
the curly Cuyahoga. Bourbon Street: Whiskey Island. The mansions of St.
Charles: the sausagemakers of St. Clair. The flat stretch of the Bywater: the
bywater stretch of the Flats. Brazen pirates: robber barons. Rustic plantations:
rusty factories. The invention of Jazz: the perfection of Polka. The creation
of Café au Lait: the invention of Mr. Coffee. A Streetcar Named Desire: a
streetcall “The River’s on Fire!”
Squeezed in between Lake Road and Tchoupitoulas was the meat of
the American Muffuletta. It was a grand societal sandwich: revered by some,
reviled by others, and the spread that held it all together was poverty.
As he shuffled down streets, Humboldt encountered poor immigrants
from the Eastern Bloc of Africa. Home for them were strange countries like
Niggaslovia and Lilwayneania. These immigrants spoke strange languages,
The Tremé is a neighborhood in New Orleans: wore strange clothes, and grew strange, funnylooking facial hair. They
swarmed over neighborhoods like Trémont, Rocky Riviére, and the Faubourg
Tremont is a neighborhood in Cleveland.
Hough. Were these strange people so different from one another? Doesn’t
Riviére, which is French for “river,” is a common poverty breed camaraderie?
surname in New Orleans; as mentioned before, But there was something else, something greater than poverty that
Rocky River is a suburb of Cleveland.
As Cleveland’s most recognizable thoroughfare,
Euclid Avenue is mistaken for Bourbon Street.
At the age of twenty-one, I was bitten by the Green
Fairy. My history drinking absinthe is chronicled
in The Strange Historical Occurrences of a
Southeastern Ohio Absintheur. Like scotch, learning
how to drink absinthe requires some initial tutelage.
To begin with, it’s essential to know what kind of
absinthe you’re drinking. All modern absinthes
fall into three categories: Historic, Authentic, and
General. To be considered Historic, an absinthe
must be distilled in an original Belle Époque distillery
using antique alembics. For obvious reasons, such
absinthes can only be created in specific regions of
France and Switzerland. Any absinthe that is distilled
using proper methods and traditional ingredients in
a non-Belle Époque setting is considered Authentic.
The final category is where things get murky. General
absinthes are not distilled: they’re created in a lab
using maceration. Because of such questionable
origins, many absintheurs spurn General absinthes
as inauthentic imposters. While I don’t drink them
myself, I see nothing wrong with a novice absintheur
seeking out a General absinthe for a “first date.”
My favorite Historic absinthe is Émile Pernot
Vieux Pontarlier. Bottles of Vieux Pontarlier are easy
to spot on the shelf because their label is emblazoned
with an image of Independence Hall; or at least, that’s
what I’m always reminded of when I see the image.
Vieux Carré Absinthe Supérieure is my favorite
Authentic absinthe. Distilled in Philadelphia, Vieux
Carré comes packaged in a lovely ornate decanter
that is destined to become the centerpiece of any
liquor collection. The other absinthe that I commonly
recommend is Lucid Absinthe Supérieure. Lucid is a
reasonably priced, easy to find absinthe created by
T.A. Breaux, the chemical mastermind behind Jade
Liqueurs. Although it is technically American, Lucid
is considered Historic because Breaux produces it
in the famous Combier distillery in Saumur, which,
in addition to being a working distillery, is also an
absinthe museum. Many absintheurs disparage Lucid
and I can see why: it has its flaws, especially when
compared to more expensive brands. But I harbor
a great deal of respect for Lucid: its availability and
affordability can’t be discounted in any assessment
of its flavor profile. For a Historic absinthe to be so
reasonably priced and plentiful in the United States
is something to celebrate. Bravo, Ted Breaux!
These lines are from Aleister Crowley’s essay
“Absinthe: The Green Goddess.”
In July 2012, Cuba Gooding Jr. got in trouble with the
police for repeatedly shoving a female bartender at
the Old Absinthe House.
This was one of Aleister Crowley’s nicknames.
bonded these two beleaguered cities together. The Creole and the Clevelander
were brought together by the brotherhood of suffering. Wherever he went,
Humboldt heard rumors of a recent catastrophe that had threatened to
destroy both cities. One was a disaster; the other, a Decision. One had caused
a flood; the other, a flood of tears. Both had struck with deceptive stealth.
Preparations had been made, but they were meager. When the catastrophe
struck, the result was total devastation. Homes and favorite sports teams
were decimated, as no one could keep the waters or the losses from rising.
Large, national organizations offered aid, but it wasn’t enough. (It never is.)
Mistakes were made. (They always are.) Money was allocated elsewhere. (It
always is.) The government, like the NBA, is known for its largeness not its
largess. (Marketing only takes a moment; maintenance, a lifetime.)
In the end, the suffering was simply forgotten by everyone except the
sufferers. The media moved on, the masses moved on, the money moved on:
only the suffering stayed. The sufferers tried to go back to the life they had
known before the catastrophe, but that was impossible. Suffering changes
people. This change starts slowly; one person realizes it, then another and
another. With each realization, a new reality seeps across city streets until
it becomes sweeping. And the new reality is this: I don’t exist anymore; my
life has been swept away. Suffering depersonalizes people. Sufferers become
caricatures of howling human creatures whose howls are no longer heard.
People start to disappear. The city is alive, but its inhabitants are the livingdead.
No longer belonging to the daylight, these are nightpeople now. At night, you
can hear the howling silence and see the shuffling. After any suffering, there
is always shuffling. When a person is swallowed by the abyss of their own
suffering, what can they do except shuffle around? This insufferable shuffling
goes on unto death. And now Humboldt had joined their ranks; he was
shuffling amongst the shufflers, howling amongst the unheard.
—Humboldt, old chap! Fancy a drink?
Humboldt was shuffling down Euclid Avenue when he heard a voice
calling out to him from inside The Old Absinthe House. Humboldt recognized
the voice by its thick English accent. It belonged to a jovial, bald mystic, who
Humboldt had befriended during his shuffling.
—Come, keep me company in this dim corner! We’ll sit together
while the Green Hour glides past and dream that we are no longer in the city
accursed.
The Green Hour? Humboldt had never heard of such a thing; he assumed
it was a British tradition like High Tea or colonialism. Since he had nowhere
to go and nothing to do, Humboldt passed through the threshold of one of
the tall, slender doors that opened directly onto the street. Once inside, he
maneuvered his way past a malevolent moviestar roughing up a waitress, and
slid into a chair across the table from the English mystic.
—Garçon, the mystic hollered, raising a fleshy finger in the air. A glass
of the Green Goddess, por mon ami!
—Do you have a tab started? the bartender asked disinterestedly.
—Yes, replied the Englishman.
—And what’s the name on the card?
—The name on the card is: The Great Beast 666. It’s a Mastercard.
An elegant glass, with a cinched waistline, materialized in front of
Humboldt, who eyed the offering skeptically. It appeared to be empty. Had
the bartender forgotten to include his drink?
Upon closer scrutiny, Humboldt realized that beneath the cinched
waistline was a round belly full of faintly emerald liquid. A strong herbal
aroma of alcohol lifted from this liquid. Humboldt was perplexed; his drink
resembled neither the muddy waters of scotch, nor the ambient amber of
Absinthe was originally sold as a medicinal elixir that
cured everything from epilepsy and kidney stones
to colic, gout, and headaches. With its decadent
history, it is difficult to believe that absinthe has
cured more headaches than it has caused.
In Ulysses, this phrase is uttered by Lynch just
after Shakespeare’s face appears in Bella Cohen’s
hallway mirror. The phrase is a central motif in The
Strange Historical Occurrences of a Southeastern
Ohio Absintheur.
Professor Avenue is a street in Cleveland’s Tremont
neighborhood: Andrei Codrescu was a longtime
professor at LSU.
Andrei Codrescu, who wrote New Orleans, mon
amour: Twenty Years of Writing from the City.
a Perfect Manhattan. To Humboldt, the drink appeared almost medicinal.
Thinking that perhaps his companion had mistaken him for a man with a
head cold, Humboldt lifted the glass to his lips. But before he could take a sip,
the Englishmystic stopped him.
—Not so fast, old chap. You Americans are always in such a rush with
your slush. We must be careful not to upset the Goddess, for she is vengeful
and full of gall. Have you ever chased the green fairy before?
—O beware, mon frère. She is the greeneyed monster which doth mock
the meat she feeds upon. She can unmoor a man and drive him to madness,
but it is a particular kind of greenmadness. She can poison a man and make
him sick, but it is a particular kind of greensickness. Less like seasickness, the
greensickness is a kind of lovesickness. I assume you have been sick with love
before?
—Good, the Englishmystic replied. To appreciate absinthe, you need to
know a thing or two about love.
As Humboldt watched, the mystic eased an ornate slotted spoon over
the rim of his glass. Atop this spoon, he gently balanced a cube of sugar.
Perched in the middle of their table, like an alcoholic altar, was a large glass
fountain with four tiny spigots protruding from its belly. Once the glass was
ready, the Englishmystic gently slid it underneath one of the spigots and
tenderly turned the tap. A steady cadence of water dripped directly onto the
sugar cube, slowly splattering across its surface, before sliding seductively into
the glass below.
—She is known by many names: The Green Torment…
[Drip]
—The Green Fang…
[Drip]
—Green Death…
[Drip]
With each drip, Humboldt watched the faint emerald liquid in his glass
tremble and transform.
—But words cannot describe her.
[DripDrip]
—Only your eyes can describe her.
[DripDrip]
—Behold, the Englishmystic whispered with reverence.
[DripDripDrip]
—Viva le vampire!
After this final series of drips, the liquid in Humboldt’s glass exploded
into a storm of turbulent swirls. Humboldt stared at the spectacular moment
of alcoholic alchemy in amazement…
—Humboldt, cher! Fancy a beignet?
Humboldt was shuffling down Professor Avenue when he heard a voice
calling out to him from inside Café du Monde. Humboldt recognized the voice
by its thick Eastern European accent; it belonged to a scholarly Transylvanian
transplant that Humboldt had befriended during his shuffling.
—Come, keep me company in this touristy corner. We’ll sit together
and beignet the day away.
Beignet the day away? Humboldt had never heard of such a thing and
he assumed it was a Transylvanian tradition, like borscht or pounding stakes
into people’s hearts. Since he had nowhere to go and nothing to do, Humboldt
passed underneath the café’s iconic greenstriped awning and eased himself
into a chair across the table from the transplant.
—Garçon, the transplant hollered, raising a slender finger in the air.
Another order of beignets, pour mon amour!
A plate that appeared to contain the remnants of a smashed snowglobe
materialized in front of Humboldt, who eyed the offering skeptically. Had the
chef forgotten to include his beignets?
On the morning of his murders, Lanfray actually
drank two glasses of absinthe, followed by a glass
of cognac, a brandy-laced coffee, some crème de
menthe, and seven glasses of wine. That evening, he
returned home and consumed another liter of wine.
Lanfray was actually depicted as a deranged
absintheur. The story of his murders and subsequent
trial is recounted in The Strange Historical
Occurrences of a Southeastern Ohio Absintheur.
Upon further inspection, Humboldt realized that what he had initially
mistaken for a mound of artificial snow was actually a blanket of powdered
sugar, and beneath this blanket were three pillows of fried dough. After some
determined burrowing, Humboldt extracted one of these pillows and lifted
it towards his mouth. But before he could take a bite, the Transylvanian
transplant stopped him.
—Not so fast, cher. You Americans are always in such a hurry. We must
be careful not to snort more than we savor. Blow on it first, the Transylvanian
transplant advised.
With a burst of breath, Humboldt dispersed a cloud of sugar into
the atmosphere. This sugarcloud twinkled magically for a moment before
tumbling towards the tabletop. Humboldt took a tentative bite. Despite the
dispersion, powdered sugar still shot up Humboldt’s nostrils and splattered
across his cheeks. As he chewed, Humboldt felt a sticky smile stretching
across his face.
—Are you aware that what you’re doing was once illegal?
Humboldt shook his head, spraying a stream of sugar in every direction.
—One summer afternoon in Switzerland, a farmer named Jean Lanfray
murdered his pregnant wife and their two daughters. During the ensuing trial,
it was discovered that on the day of the murders, Lanfray had consumed
two beignets, an éclair, half a dozen glazed doughnuts, some cinnamon
twists, and four bearclaws. When he returned home, his sugar rush turned
into a sugar rage. Lanfray’s trial sparked a media frenzy. Even in the face of
such astounding sugary excess, the media depicted Lanfray as a deranged
beigneteur.
As he listened, Humboldt extracted a second beignet from where it was
buried. With another burst of breath, he dispersed its sugary excess into the
convivial atmosphere.
—Lanfray’s trial was like the Dreyfus Affair, only chewier. His
conviction sparked an international witch hunt. After Lanfray was discovered
swinging in his cell, four hundred thousand French citizens signed a petition
stating that beignets make men crazy, provoke diabetes and obesity, and have
killed thousands of people. Within five years, beignets were banned across the
globe…
The Englishmystic quickly turned off the spigot and they both watched
the dramatic metamorphosis that was taking place within Humboldt’s glass.
As the glowing greenspectacle grew, the liquid turned from clear to cloudy,
translucent to turbulent. What was once emerald was now ethereal.
—Absintheurs call it: the louche. It’s a natural chemical reaction, the
Englishmystic explained.
To Humboldt’s amazed eyes, the louche appeared to have unlocked
something invisible within his glass. What had once been imprisoned was now
free: what had once been lucid was now elusive. The louche was a loosening,
a realignment of chemical properties. It was a breaking of the bonds that
bind, a shifting of the self.
Removing the accoutrements, the Englishmystic carefully pushed the
glass towards Humboldt.
—Go ahead, he said mischievously. She is yours.
Humboldt took a hesitant sip. The initial punch of alcohol was
powerful; but once it passed, there was a seductive sweetness. This sweetness
was flowery, but not too overpowery. By his second sip, Humboldt was bitten.
As he slowly sipped, Humboldt could feel the greenpoison dripping into his
mind. Every sip was a drip; and with every drip, his thoughts trembled.
Home…
[Drip]
Houston…
[Drip]
Decisions…
[Drip]
Disasters…
Huey Long, who was the high profile governor of
Louisiana from 1928 to 1932. The motto for Long’s
Share Our Wealth program (“Every Man a King”) is
shouted by Stanley Kowalski in Streetcar Named
Desire. Huey Long is referenced often in my one-act
play Mr. Heath Ledger is Dead (A Comedy).
Ignatius J. Reilly, the protagonist of John Kennedy
Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces. A wayward lute
string features prominently in the novel’s opening
scene.
Throughout his career, Shakespeare exhibited two
unhealthy obsessions: the fear of cuckoldry and
a morbid fascination with human bodies being
consumed by worms after death.
“Didn’t He Ramble” is the opening track on Kermit
Ruffins’ 2009 album Livin’ a Tremé Life.
Frenchman Street is in New Orleans’ Faubourg
Marigny: Cleveland is crawling with Polish men.
[Drip]
Depersonalization…
[DripDrip]
Words cannot describe it…
[DripDrip]
It can only be described with the eyes.
[DripDripDrip]
After this final series of drips, Humboldt’s mind exploded into a storm
of turbulent swirls. As the greenpoison swirled through his mind, Humboldt
felt his thoughts louche. What was once clear was now cloudy. It was as if
the chemical properties of his mind were realigning. No longer imprisoned
by thoughts, his mind was now free. Thoughts were poison; the greenflood
banished them with a single swirl. It was the greenglorious end to the blueness
of the blackday. Only sensation survived. From now on, Humboldt was
determined to only think of one thing: no thing.
A short, shouty man in green silk pajamas appeared in Humboldt’s
consciousness, shouting: “Every man a thing!” With a greenswirl, Humboldt
dissipated the decadent little dictator.
Nooo, thoughts were not poison; thoughts were the sugar of life. Highfructose thoughtsyrup was the principle ingredient in everything. Thoughts
sweetened life. The human mind was a sugar factory, churning out pounds of
sugarthoughts. These thoughts accumulated atop everything like powdered
sugar atop a beignet. But was life supposed to be sweet? Didn’t too much
sugar make you sick? Sugarthoughts were causing the world to become flabby.
Teeth were rotting like corpses strewn in the Caribbean sun. Blood pressure
was bursting like an antiquated levee.
Life is not sweet; life is as bitter as wormwood.
Until that very moment, Humboldt had never questioned his
sugarthought intake; it was the only diet he had ever known. But now he
realized that with a single burst of breath, this mindmound could be dispersed.
A fat, shouty man in a green hunting cap with floppy earflaps appeared
in Humboldt’s consciousness, shouting: “Every thought a lute string!” With a
whoosh, Humboldt dissipated the dunce.
Glazed memories of home? Cinnamon truth twist? Decisionclaws?
Disasterholes? With a whoosh, all of these sugarthoughts were dispersed into
the atmosphere. Before his eyes, a sugarthoughtcloud twinkled magically for
a moment before cascading into oblivion.
This cascading sugarthoughtcloud was like a shovelshower of dirt
descending upon a coffin. In his imagination, Humboldt saw mounds of dirt
piled high atop beignetcoffins.
What was love? [A greenswirl washed these words from his mind.]
What was the meaning of life? [With a whoosh, these words were gone,
too.]
Life was the airy embrace at the end of a nonexistent race. Upon
crossing the finishline, a coffin was hung around every competitor’s neck.
And above this coffin was written: worms welcome.
Climb inside, Nothing said. Close the lid upon your head. Come cry in
darkness.
SLAM!
[blackness]
Only once this had occurred, Humboldt realized, would he be truly
alone. Not alone with, but alone without: without his thoughts, without his
flesh, without his friends. Humboldt was determined to turn off the spigot
of thought and disperse his mindmound. He longed for the day that his mind
became a blank, black canvas, for only then would his life louche into night
and his night be consumed by nothingness.
Was he becoming a deranged beigneteur? His trial had begun long ago;
when would it end?
—Hey Naa!
Humboldt was rambling down Polishmen Street when he heard a
familiar voice calling out to him from inside a rickety, old music bar. He
Kermit Ruffins, whose weekly Thursday night gigs recognized the voice by its raspy local accent; it belonged to a jolly jazz
at Vaughan’s Lounge in the Bywater were a New trumpeteer, who Humboldt had befriended during his shuffling.
Orleans institution.
—It’s almost showtime! Come on in and do the Palm Court Strut!
The Palm Court Strut? Humboldt had never heard of such a thing. But
since he had nowhere to go and nothing to do, he followed the trumpeteer’s
call and passed through the bar’s crumbling threshold.
—Jazz is the soundtrack to life; it’s pure joie de vivre, the jolly trumpeteer
said,
flashing
Humboldt a big barbecueswingin’ smile. You can listen to it on
Kermit Ruffins’ backup band is named the BBQ
record,
but
you
only live it live.
Swingers.
As Humboldt’s eyes adjusted to the bar’s dim interior, he noticed that
a makeshift stage had been constructed in the front corner. On this stage,
Humboldt watched two large black men, a drummer and a bassist, fiddle with
their instruments in preparation.
—Life is like one long jazz song and everything we say is just scatting.
When the music stops, that’s when you start feeling Black & Blue.
With his empty hand, the jolly trumpeteer slapped Humboldt on the
back.
—Get yo’self a drink, man. And enjoy the show.
The small, crowded room was abuzz with anticipation. Moving
confidently through the crowd, the jolly trumpeteer navigated his way towards
the makeshift stage where his accompaniment was waiting. Once positioned
in front of the microphone, the trumpeteer lifted his horn to his lips and
blew a genial greeting. The pitterpat of the highhat joined in, followed by the
steady, rhythmic thump of a bassline. On cue, the crowd began swaying to the
rhythm. Lowering his horn, the trumpeteer stepped up to the microphone and
began to sing in the low, froggy voice of a ruffian.
Do the Palm Court Strut
And swing your butt
The Palm Court Strut
Swing your butt
Swing it to the left
Swing it to the right
Swing it to the one that you love all night
SWING YOUR BOOTY,
ALL NIGHT LONG!
Standing near the bar, Humboldt began swinging his booty left and
right, as instructed. As the song continued, a thunderstorm struck with
ferocious intensity. The soothing sound of the rain as it pounded down upon
the roof blended together with the rhythmic bassline.
As the music intensified, Humboldt closed his eyes and swam through
the sound. The drum solo blended into the rain solo, and, in his mind,
Humboldt began to scat along with the rhythm.
All the while, the river’s bile, the rich boated, the bloated floated, the saddled
paddled. And all this joie de vivre empties into the seavre, eventuallyvre
What ever happened to the person that Humboldt had once called
Humboldt? That person’s life had once possessed such a magnificent trajectory;
but when it shattered, he shattered. And when the pieces of this shattered self
scattered, they stretched across the nightsky like shrapnel. Shiny shards of
his former self formed an encircling entrapment. Everywhere he looked, he
saw the funhouse reflection of this former Humboldt stretching towards the
horizon.
When he lost his job, he initially feared that he had lost his identity. But
over time, he realized that this identity was never his to keep. A job was like a
business card: it was intended to be given away. Upon becoming unemployed,
what Humboldt had really lost was his place. This loss was akin to losing your
place in a hefty book. You can find the precise page, even the exact word,
where you left off, but you can never quite recapture the moment the loss
“Lucretius urged an end to all unrealities, religious
and erotic illusions among others.” —Harold Bloom,
The Anatomy of Influence: Literature as a Way of Life
Hushpuppy is the name of the five-year-old
protagonist in the movie Beasts of the Southern
Wild. In the movie, the character is played by
Quvenzhané Wallis. At age nine, Wallis became the
youngest nominee ever for an Academy Award for
Best Actress. Tino Sehgal’s performance piece This
Progress was exhibited at the Guggenheim Museum
from January 29 to March 10, 2010. Lauren Collins’
profile on Sehgal (“The Question Artist”) appears in
the August 6, 2012 New Yorker.
St. Joseph Street is in New Orleans: Villa Angela
St. Joseph is a high school in Cleveland. During
my senior year, VASJ defeated us in the Ohio High
School State Basketball Division II final.
My son’s name is Daniel Lion. We call him “The Little
Lion.”
occurred. That moment is gone forever. Unconcerned by such a disruption,
most readers simply continue the story. Characters evolve; love blooms and
fades, as lives intertwine under the comforting drone of dialogue. But squint
upon the spine and you’ll discover that this is a work of fiction. Pitterpatpat,
Nothing laughs, echoing the sound of dirt cascading down upon a coffin.
Renounce unreality, reader. Close the book. Now that Humboldt knows
that this he isn’t him, that this him isn’t his, he will. No more fiction. No more
plot progression. No more character development. Nothing but the incessant
laughter of Nothing. Close the book. Close the coffin’s lid. Scat along with the
pitterpat of life’s highhat.
—Hi, my name is Hushpuppy. This is a work by Tino Sehgal. May I ask
you a question?
Humboldt had been shuffling down Villa Angela St. Joseph Street,
sweating. To escape the stifling humidity, he had crossed the first threshold
he encountered. This threshold opened onto the atrium of a huge, red brick
warehouse. As he began shuffling around the cavernous interior, a small,
inquisitive brighteyed child with a bushy afro appeared next to him.
—May I ask you a question? Hushpuppy repeated.
—Sure, Humboldt said, momentarily taken aback. Go ahead.
—What is progress?
—Progress? Humboldt repeated the word absentmindedly. Progress? I
guess progress is just moving forward.
—You mean, like advancement?
—Sort of. But more like walking.
—Like what we’re doing now?
The two conversationalists were slowly ascending a curving, white
ramp.
—But what about culturally? What is cultural progress?
—Cultures don’t have legs, so they can’t really walk.
—Does this mean they don’t advance?
—I guess it does.
The duo continued their slowsteady pace up the gently curving ramp.
—Maybe progress is just a fancy word for aging, Humboldt continued.
Maybe it’s a way for wordscoundrels to ignore the fact that we’re all decaying.
Every day, every way: decay. But if we call it “progress,” it sounds like things
are getting better.
—Do things ever get better?
A pained look flashed behind Humboldt’s eyes, as he quickly glanced
away. With her big, expectant brighteyes, Hushpuppy was a charming child;
she exuded as much preciousness in her personality as she did fuzziness on
her head. With her lips pursed and one of her tiny eyebrows raised slightly,
she patiently awaited Humboldt’s answer.
But Humboldt didn’t answer her question; he was too busy wondering
why his life had been so vacant of children. To him, children were like little,
exotic wild animals. Many times, he had observed them in their natural
habitat, but he had never actually gotten close to one. What were they? Although
they aped adults, children were less like apes than…what? Skittish gazelles?
Scottish grouses? Little lions? Nice mice? Nooo, these little strangewonderful
creatures were less like them and more like us. In fact, they were us, before the
decay started to nibble us away.
—Do things ever get better? Hushpuppy repeated politely.
—Um…
Humboldt stalled as another pained look flashed across his face.
Having returned from his imaginary Child Safari, he felt awkward vocalizing
the answer to this question to such a small, brighteyed child, but he figured
she would have to learn it sooner or later.
—No, things don’t ever get better, but they don’t get worse either. Things
just get.
Humboldt paused, as his mind began to louche. He could feel his
thoughts beginning to swirl around his head. He wanted to say the right thing;
he wanted to tell this charming, brighteyed child the truth.
—Maybe things do get better, Humboldt corrected himself. But this
betterment is so minuscule that it’s impossible to measure. It would be like
using a telescope to measure the path of a millipede on the moon.
—Wordscoundrels, Hushpuppy repeated. I like that word; did you
make it up?
—No. My doppelgänger did.
—Doppelgänger? What does that mean?
—It’s Cajun for “double walker.”
—Doppelgänger, Hushpuppy repeated. I like that, too. What’s your
name?
—Humboldt.
At that moment, the duo became a threesome. A figure who was
considerably older than Hushpuppy appeared from behind a temporary wall.
As the trio stood together, Hushpuppy began introducing Humboldt to the
newcomer.
—This is…
—HUMBOLDT?!!! the newcomer shouted suddenly.
—NED?!!! Humboldt shouted back. I thought you were dead!
It was now Hushpuppy’s turn to appear momentarily taken aback by
the situation.
—You two know each other? she asked tentatively.
—Yes, Ned answered.
—Before I killed him, Humboldt explained, we were brother brotherin-laws.
—O, Hushpuppy replied awkwardly. I guess that could be considered
progress, right?
With a quick smile, and an even quicker “good-bye,” the small,
confusedeyed child skirted away.
—What are you doing here? Ned asked as the duo continued to ascend
the ramp.
—Shuffling, Humboldt replied. What are you doing here?
—Padding my performance art résumé; I’m a professional performance
artist now.
—You are? Humboldt answered with astonishment. I thought you
hated performance art.
—I did, Ned admitted. But our performance at the MFA received
such glowing reviews that I quit my job as deputy-vice-assistant-curator and
devoted myself full-time to performance art. I’m on the circuit now.
—The circuit? Humboldt asked.
—You know, all the usual places: Venice. dOCUMENTA. São Paulo.
Basil. Dak’Art.
—Dak’Art?
—It’s in Dakar.
—O right.
—All of my performances, Ned continued, follow the template that
I appropriated from your work: I let spectators beat me unconscious using
objects from a museum’s permanent collection. The Improper Bostonian called
my work “a creative commentary on the relentless, aggressive acquisition
practices that are rampant within our current museological milieu.”
—What does that mean?
—I don’t know, Ned answered. But what I do know is that without you,
I wouldn’t be a performance artist. I owe my entire career to you. I want to
thank you for that.
—You’re welcome, I guess.
—Hey, I’m doing a performance tonight at NOMA; it’s part of
Prospect.3. Why don’t you come along?
A new pained look flashed across Humboldt’s face. To him, having
nowhere to go and nothing to do sounded better than enduring an evening of
performance art. But what Ned said next changed his mind instantly.
—My sister’s going to be there.
Humboldt was so surprised by what Ned had said that his mind
instantly went blank. He didn’t remember agreeing to attend the performance,
saying good-bye to Ned, or floating down the ramp in revelry. He didn’t
remember smiling absentmindedly to Hushpuppy, as he exited the huge, red
brick warehouse. And he didn’t remember returning to the stifling humidity
of Villa Angela St. Joseph Street. All Humboldt could remember was thinking
that progress was simply being alive; and, if you did happen to die, progress
was happily not staying dead.
Lee Circle is in New Orleans: University Circle is in As he turned north towards University Circle, Humboldt also
Cleveland.
remembered thinking this: love is performance art. No one understands it, but
everyone is forced to embrace and endure it. The rude disparage it, while the
brave praise its “relentless, aggressive acquisition practices.” As he shuffled
up the street, Humboldt happily thought about Elle. He would go to NOMA.
He would endure the performance and be reunited with his beloved forever
indebted wife. And afterwards, they would sweat their lives away together,
happily forevering their thereafter.
Where’s the Moon, There’s the Moon is the title of a Where’s the moon, there’s the moon, Humboldt thought joyfully. Although
book of poetry by Dan Chiasson.
the sweltering sun was still shining, Humboldt pointed the telescope of his
mind towards the surface of the nonexistent moon. As he watched, the
millipede moved a millimeter.
Progress.
XL
How Humboldt was reunited with Ned, Fergus, Marty,
Rich Thunderton, his father, and Elle in New Orleans
Humboldt is standing on the very spot where A Confederacy of Dunces begins. This
spot is 819 Canal Street, between Bourbon and Dauphine. This address used to be
home to the D.H. Holmes Department store, but it’s now the Chateau Bourbon hotel.
(Ignatius would not have been happy about that!) Because of the location’s importance
to the novel, and the novel’s importance to the city itself, there is a statue of Ignatius
J. Reilly in front of Chateau Bourbon. I’ve always been impressed by this statue. What
other fictional characters have a work of public sculpture devoted to them?
The Cleveland Browns are northern Ohio’s beloved professional football team.
The Mississippi “is the longest river in the world- four thousand three hundred miles. It seems safe to
say that it is also the crookedest river in the world… An article in the New Orleans Times-Democrat,
based upon reports of able engineers, states that the river annually empties four hundred and six
million tons of mud into the Gulf of Mexico- which brings to mind Captain Marryat’s rude name for the
Mississippi- the Great Sewer. —Mark Twain, Life on the Mississippi
The Green Hour, white powder, red feathers, bluebeards, purple haze, gold bullion, yellow jack, code black: color was inescapable
in this city.
Humboldt was standing at a trolleystop just above Euclid Avenue, watching the sun glide down the giant waterslide of
Canal before plunging into the Cuyahoga. All around him, as color drained from the sky, colorful characters reveled in the dying
of the day. New Orleans was a draining city. Nooo, New Orleans was a drain. Six million tons of mud annually trudged through
the city on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. Because of this mudsludge, the true color of New Orleans was the Browns.
With so much filth, it was hard not to be swept up in the drainage of the crookedest river in the world, or as some rude men
called it: the Great Sewer. Every pebble, every piece of trash that travels downriver trudges through New Orleans. Every particle
of pollution, every barge and boat, every ounce of iron ore, every pound of pulverized pumice from Pennsylvania arrives atop
heaving gallons of silt and spit. Every dockhand, every deckhand, every riverman disembarks here. Riffraff on rafts, unwanted
lagniappes, empty canoes full of fallen leaves, galleons of green dye, barrels of blood, busted boilers, Lovejoy’s printing press,
John Brown’s bullets, Jeff Buckley’s body: what hasn’t been carried along by the river’s song?
Somewhere in St. Cloud or Chicago or Cairo or Hannibal, MO, a boy carelessly places a tiny toy boat atop the river’s
serene surface. In a flash, the mischievous vessel escapes. As the careless child cries on shore, the tiny craft made of wood and
wonder drifts away. As the waters churn, the toy boat suddenly realizes that there is no going home; its journey has begun. At
first, the momentum is agonizingly slow. Bouncing up and down in the current, its brilliant paintjob ablaze in the summer sun,
the little boat begins to make new friends. Dirty pieces of driftwood nudge a silent greeting; otters paw playfully at its painted
surfaces; kingfishers tenderly kiss its underbelly. When the little boat bobs close to the shoreline, tiny arms reach out to grab it. For
180
a surprised child near the shoreline, this is a wonderful moment of discovery.
But soon, these tiny arms begin to recoil. Roughing it has roughed up the little
boat. Its paint has peeled; its prow is damaged and dented. The little boat
realizes that it is no longer a toy; it has become weathered and old. When
it passes the shoreline now, only a single word is spoken: driftwood. Time
has taken from the little boat the one thing that it couldn’t bear to lose: its
boatness. Robbed of its most precious possession, nothing is left but to finish
the journey. (Notice that the little boat no longer refers to this journey as “its”
journey: the journey never belongs to the boat.)
Fish this tiny vessel from the river. Hold its weathered lips to your ear.
What do you hear? What does this presumptuous piece of driftwood desire to
say about its life?
Only a single word is spoken: Progress!
Down, downcast, downhill, downwind, downtrodden, downtheriver,
downthedrain…
Progress!
—You got any identification, mister?
—What? Humboldt asked, looking down on a shiny police badge
affixed on a dull, blue cap.
—Let me see your driver’s license, the wan little policeman demanded
suspiciously.
—I don’t drive. That’s why I’m waiting here for the streetcar.
Before the policeman could respond, a low rumbling became audible
off in the distance. As Humboldt watched, a clanging relic creaked around
This imagery comes from Robert Frank’s 1955 the corner and crawled in his direction. As the streetcar pulled alongside his
photograph Trolley.
stop, faces slowly began to materialize in open windows. Humboldt gazed up
at these faces, which were, in turn, gazing back at him. A middleaged man
with black skin and a face full of sorrow dangled his right hand across the
windowsill. In front of him, crammed together into a single seat, sat two welldressed childanimals; brother and sister, Humboldt assumed. Seated in front
of these childanimals was a matronly woman. As Humboldt stared at her, she
raised an eyebrow in annoyance and twisted the corners of her mouth down
into a frown. Voyeur, her eyes exclaimed with contempt.
—Are you local? the policeman pestered.
—I guess, Humboldt answered anxiously. I mean: yes. I observe the
Green Hour and beignet the day away; isn’t that what locals do?
Hoping to free himself from further interrogation, Humboldt hopped
across the trolley’s threshold before he had time to properly count out his fare.
This hurried hop left him in the awkward position of standing in front of the
driver, fumbling in his pocket for correct change. As he stood there, Humboldt
became aware that his fumbling was holding up the entire streetcar.
—Canal to Carrollton, the driver announced as Humboldt continued
fumbling.
—Sorry, driver. Humboldt mumbled apologetically. I’ve got the fare in
here somewhere.
—Well, hurry up, me lad. You’re holding up the Power of Positive
Public Transportation.
The Power of Positive Public Transportation? Why did that phrase sound so
familiar? And where had he heard such a ridiculous fake Irish accent before?
—FERGUS?!!!! Humboldt shouted with astonishment.
—Humboldt, me lad? Fergus replied equally astonished.
—Driver? a passenger shouted less astonished than irritated. What’s
the hold up?
—Jaysus! Fergus hollered in response. What’s the bloody rush? The
good Lord named it the Big Easy for a reason!
—It’s the terroriss, an older passenger shouted. They’re ruining our
public transportation.
With an air of growing desperation, the wan little policeman thrust his
head into the streetcar and pointed a menacing finger at Humboldt.
—You come with me, he said. We’re going down to the precinct.
—It’s the terroriss, the old man shouted again.
—Are you calling me a terroriss? the policeman asked, redirecting his
menacing finger towards the old man. I’ll take you in, too. You better watch
who you’re calling a terroriss.
—Let that old man alone, you dirty cop, a woman hollered. He’s prolly
someone’s gram-paw.
—I am, the old man said proudly. I got six granchirren all in charter
school. Smart too.
—Driver! Let’s GO! shouted the irate passenger.
—Jaysus! Sorry, badgeman. I’m on a tight schd’ule, Fergus said as he
pulled the lever and hastily slammed the streetcar’s door shut.
—The police are all terroriss, the old man muttered as the bellowing
metal behemoth lurched away from the curb.
—About time, driver!
—Jaysus! Go back to Jersey, you pushy baastard!
—Before the terroriss, these streetcars were always on time!
—Fergus? What are you doing here?
—Waiting for you, lad. You never told us where to meet ya.
—Us? Humboldt exclaimed. You mean Marty’s here, too?
—Of course, lad. He’s in the back, reeding.
And sure enough, as Humboldt carefully navigated the center aisle
towards the rear of the car, he spied Marty, book-in-hand. Squinting as he
approached, Humboldt was able to read the book’s title from off its spine: The
Sense of an Ending by Djuna Barnes.
—We didn’t know where to meet you, Marty exclaimed after the two
old friends had joyfully embraced. So we figured you’d have to take public
transportation sooner or later.
—What a wonderful idea!
—Where ya’t? Marty inquired.
—I’m wonderful, Humboldt replied. Just wonderful.
—I’m surprised to hear that. Fergus and I followed all of your trials in
the newspapers. They sounded dreadful.
—They were, Humboldt agreed. They were dreadful, absolutely
dreadful. But they were also wonderful. Had I not been found guilty of
Corporate Malfeasance, I would have never been reunited with my father.
—We also read that you were fired from your job.
—I was, Humboldt admitted. And that too was dreadful, absolutely
The views and opinions expressed in this novel are dreadful. But it was also wonderful. Had I never been fired, I would have
not necessary those of the author. As I’ve mentioned never been allowed to leave Houston, which is a dreadful place.
before, I really like Houston.
—Worse than Ohio?
—No, Humboldt responded, but no better. As you once taught me: all is
Ohio and Ohio is hell. Houston was hell. Thus, Houston is Ohio. But enough
of Houston, what of Ohio? The last time we spoke, you were intending to
journey there. How is Ohio?
North Galvez, me lads, Fergus’ voice announced fuzzily over the loud
speaker.
—As obese, ignorant, and arrogant as ever, Marty replied. It is a truly
dreadful place.
—Wonderful! And Fergus, how is he?
—As obese, ignorant, and arrogant as ever. He is a truly dreadful travel
companion.
Jefferson Davis Parkway, me lads.
—Wonderful! Humboldt repeated, his excitement building. And what
of Elle?
A sudden screeching filled the streetcar, which caused both Humboldt
and Marty to grimace simultaneously. After clanging and banging its way up
Canal, the streetcar was taking its mighty right hook onto Carrollton Avenue.
When the screeching ceased, Humboldt continued.
—Ned told me that Elle is here in New Orleans. You must have found
her. Is she still the most beautiful girl in the world? Is she still forever indebted
“O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful
wonderful! And yet again wonderful, and after that,
out of all hooping!” —Shakespeare, As You Like It
There was a time when numerous people in my
immediate family (who shall remain nameless)
revered Jonah Lehrer. Succumbing to pressure
from these family members, I agreed to read Proust
was a Neuroscientist. But I just couldn’t get into it.
What primarily troubled me was how a book about
the relationship between neuroscience and art
could be written by someone who was neither a
neuroscientist nor an artist. After one-hundred pages
or so, I gave up. (Anyone who knows my reading
habits knows how atypical such behavior is: I never
abandon books without finishing them!) Other than
my confusion regarding Lehrer’s credentials, what
I remember most from Proust was a Neuroscientist
is its chapter on George Eliot’s appearance and her
failed relationship with heartthrob Herbert Spencer.
Even though he was incredibly ugly, Charles
Bukowski seemed to do all right with women. And
I’m sure he would’ve slept with George Eliot.
to me?
—Yes, Marty answered evasively.
Bienville Avenue, me lads.
—Yes? Humboldt asked. Yes what?
—Yes, we found her. And yes, she is here in New Orleans.
—O wonderful and most wonderful wonder! And yet again wonderful…
—No, Marty forcefully interrupted Humboldt’s revelries. This is surely
the most dreadful wonderful of all.
Humboldt was taken aback to hear Marty say such a thing. How could
being reunited with his beloved forever indebted wife be the most dreadful
wonderful of all?
—How so? Humboldt asked cautiously.
—Place a peach long enough in the sun and it will wither, Marty
explained in a philosophical tone. Place a piece of wood long enough in the
storm and it will weather. Place a woman long enough in the world and she
will age and grow angry.
—Yes, Humboldt agreed. This is true for everyone, except Elle.
Marty shook his head solemnly.
—She is withered, weathered, angry, and old. She has soaked up too
much of both the sun and the storm. She is sunken, sullen, and sad. Her
beauty is gone. She is ugly now.
Orleans Avenue, me lads.
—Ugly?
As Humboldt repeated the word, his mind began to recoil. To him,
the thought of someone as beautiful as Elle becoming ugly was almost
unthinkable.
—How ugly?
—Have you read any Dostoevsky?
—No.
—Any Dickens?
—No.
—Ever seen a photograph of George Eliot?
—No.
Last stop, me lads: City Park. Everybody off.
—Well, Marty continued, suffice it to say that her ugly is incomparable.
Hearing this plunged Humboldt into an abyss of quietude. As he
followed Marty down the center aisle, he wondered how such a thing
could happen. How could someone as beautiful as Elle become as ugly as a
sunsoaked peach or a damp piece of driftwood?
Outside the streetcar, Fergus stood waiting for the duo.
—Did ya tell him, lad? he asked Marty.
—Yes.
—Good on ya! Well, lad? Fergus asked, turning to Humboldt. What
are yer thoughts on the matter?
—Handsome or ugly, Humboldt said. I am a man of honor and it is my
duty to love her still.
—Good on ya, lad! That’s the spirit! If the good Lord intended us to
hate ugly, he never would’ve made Bukowski such a Bogart. And how about…
the other ‘ting? Fergus asked, turning back to Marty. Did ya tell him about the
other ‘ting?
—Not yet.
—There’s more? Humboldt asked with horror.
—I’m afraid so, Marty answered.
—Is it dreadful or wonderful?
—Dreadwonderful? Marty answered hesitantly.
—Don’t worry, lad, Fergus said, placing his hand on Humboldt’s
shoulder. The other ‘ting will negate the first ‘ting and you’ll be back to no
‘ting in no time. And don’t worry, I’ll be back to pick you lads up after the
performance.
After making this announcement, Fergus hurried back into the safety
In The Anatomy of Influence: Literature as a Way
of Life, Harold Bloom surmises that the Fair Young
Nobleman may have been a composite character
created from a doubling of Southampton and
Pembroke. Later in the same chapter, Bloom says,
“There is a tradition that Shakespeare purchased his
share in the Lord Chamberlain’s company of actors
with a thousand pounds borrowed from his patron,
the earl of Southampton.”
“The note of banishment, banishment from the heart,
banishment from home, sounds uninterruptedly from
The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward till Prospero
breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the earth
and drowns his book.” —James Joyce, Ulysses
John Wilkes Booth obviously felt a strong personal
connection to Marcus Junius Brutus. Both his father
and eldest brother were named Junius Brutus Booth.
Five months before he shot the President, John Wilkes
performed alongside his brothers in a production of
Julius Caesar to raise funds for a Central Park statue
commemorating the three-hundredth anniversary of
the playwright’s birth. Junius Brutus Booth, Junior
played Cassius; Edwin Booth played Brutus; and
John Wilkes played Mark Antony. At the end of the
play, Antony speaks an emotional eulogy for Brutus,
calling him “the noblest Roman of them all” and
claiming that, of all the conspirators, only Brutus
acted for the “common good to all.” This information
is from John F. Andrews’ article “Was the Bard
Behind it?” (The Atlantic Monthly, October 1, 1990).
Upon turning forty, Shakespeare wrote, in rapid
succession: Measure for Measure, Othello, King
Lear, Macbeth, and Antony and Cleopatra.
of the empty streetcar. With a roar and a clang, the streetcar pulled out of the
station, leaving Humboldt and Marty alone on the platform.
Across the street from where they were standing, Humboldt spied a
towering equestrian statue of a stern warrior astride a prancing horse. As
they slowly crossed the street, Humboldt casually stared up at the statue. The
brazen bronze warrior was depicted confidently sitting up in his saddle: his
right hand on his hip, his left gripping the reigns. The figure’s facial hair struck
Humboldt as humorously oldfashioned, as did his Confederate flat hat.
—What’s the other thing? Humboldt asked quietly as they passed
through the statue’s shadow.
—That, Marty answered, pointing up towards the preening general
atop the prancing horse.
Written across the monument’s pedestal was a name. In a confused
voice, Humboldt read the name aloud.
—P.G.T. Beauregard? He’s the other thing?
—Yes, Marty answered. Beauregard: the beautiful look. He’s part of the
Holy Trinity: Lee, the father; Davis, the son; Beauregard, the gallant ghost.
—I don’t understand, Humboldt said as they circled the statue.
Across the street, City Park beckoned. Announcing its entrance were
two short, marble columns connected by a manicured semi-circle of flowers.
Framed between these columns, off in the distance, sat a squat, stately structure
with a marble colonnade: NOMA. Two roads, resembling receding railroad
tracks, connected the park’s entrance to the distant museum. Reaching their
destination would require a long walk along Lelong Drive.
—Some call it the Cult of the Lost Cause, Marty began as they crossed
the street and entered the park. It starts by falling in love with an idea. After
awhile, this idea grows to become a romantic illusion. The more you look
upon any romantic illusion, the more beautiful it appears; the more beautiful
it appears, the more you look upon it. Eventually, this beauregard gives birth
to an idealized existence. But an idealized existence is always a lost cause for
it is destined to be destroyed by reality.
—What are you talking about?
—Betrayal, Marty answered as NOMA’s façade crept closer. Betrayal is
a sword that strikes twice. Twice the South was betrayed: once in war, again
in Reconstruction. It was the same for Shakespeare. He was betrayed once
by Southampton, whose bed led to Lord Chamberlain’s stage, and again by
Pembroke, who was his failed attempt at Reconstruction. The second wound
is always a reminder of the first; a reminder that we are all chained to our
mistakes; a reminder that repetition is a hellish nightmare from which we
never wake. Once is to wound: twice is to tomb. The third betrayal is nothing
less than death.
—Are you saying that Shakespeare fought in the Civil War?
—I’m saying that Shakespeare was the Civil War: brother against brother,
tragedies of blood, battlefields in your own backyard. Like banishment, a
note of betrayal sounds uninterruptedly from Verona onward till Prospero
circumcises his staff and submerges his book. It doubles itself in the middle
of his life. It fathers Falstaff, sours the sonnets, and kills the comedies. And it
appears in infinite variety everywhere in the world that he has created.
—But what does any of this have to do with the Civil War? Humboldt
asked impatiently.
NOMA was almost upon them. Humboldt could read the heavy
banners that hung between its columns, colorfully accenting the museum’s
entrance urns and architectural flourishes.
—Booth may have fancied himself a Brutus, Marty continued, but he
was wrong. Lincoln was no Caesar and Ford’s Theatre, no Pompeii. No single
play, the Civil War was the bloodbath that began when the Bard buried his
thirty-ninth year. The death of the great gaunt king was the dying of good
King Duncan: “So clear in his great office that his virtues will plead like
angels, trumpet-tongued.” A good man killed for an unjust and unjustifiable
claim: “Awake! Ring the alarm bell. Murder and treason!”
Wave by New Orleans sculptor Lin Emery.
“Legend, still current in Shakespeare’s time, assigned
to King Edgar the melancholy distinction that he rid
Britain of wolves, who overran the island after the
death of Lear.” —Harold Bloom, Shakespeare: The
Invention of the Human
Spider by Louise Bourgeois.
LOVE, Red Blue by Robert Indiana.
Heroic Man by Gaston Lachaise.
Nearing NOMA, the duo walked past a piece of modern sculpture that
was sticking out of a lily pond like an umbrella in a mixed drink.
—After this murder, Ulysses S. Grant is cast as the reluctant avenger,
the weary warrior who is destined to surround himself with wolves. William
Tecumseh Sherman accepts his role as a moral pyromaniac, setting ablaze
the great unwalled cities of the South, as if they were Othello. The great
arithmetician, Robert E. Lee, survives the heavy curtain, but with a reputation
weak and maimed. Jefferson Davis is a small but dignified role for an actor
with a strong voice. Totally inconsequential: Montano.
The entrance to NOMA was now only a few yards away. As Humboldt
glanced to his left, he spied a sign proclaiming the Sydney and Walda Besthoff
Sculpture Garden.
—This only leaves Beauregard, Marty continued. What was his role?
A Creole O? No, he is the mercenary who survives his misfortune. The
murderous Macbeth? No. The betrayed Banquo? No. But his is a part that
must be played. Look long upon his features and the facts of his life. After
being born in a sugarcane arcadia, he achieves wealth and recognition. With
an unstained name, he dies in his own bestbed. The beautiful look belongs
to the Bard himself. Only he sees reality for what it truly is: a betrayer. Only
he knows that reality destroys all illusions, regardless of their beauty. Booth,
Brutus, Lincoln, Lear, Lee, Duncan, Davis, Grant, Othello: they all leave this
earth unsatisfied, just like the many millions who are casually slaughtered
upon both stage and stream. All are betrayed: all are destroyed. Only the Bard
and his beauregard survives.
—I don’t understand a word you’re saying, Humboldt professed. Are
you speaking Creole?
The two friends stopped in the shadow of NOMA’s vaulting façade.
They were only a few feet away from the marble steps that led inside.
—Let destruction not lead to destruction, Marty warned.
—What does that mean? Humboldt exclaimed in exasperation. What
does any of this mean? And what does it have to do with Elle?
With a wince, Marty finally delivered his lines.
—She is set to marry your best friend, Rich Thunderton. They have
shackled themselves together like prisoners of war. They have learned to
parrot the language of love and speak it like scoundrels. With rotten smugness,
they call their material comfort “happiness.” And with unseemly arrogance,
they call their mutual dependency “love.” Your cause has been lost. Your
beautiful illusion has been destroyed. Her love is no longer yours. You have
been betrayed.
When he had finished speaking, Marty waited patiently for a response.
When it became apparent that none would be forthcoming, he spoke again.
—I’m sorry, he said quietly. I’m sorry I had to tell you like this. And
I’m sorry that I had to be right about here being hell. You’re a good person,
Humboldt, a good friend. You don’t deserve this.
After offering his apologies, Marty glanced over Humboldt’s shoulder
and a shock of recognition registered in his eyes.
—If you don’t believe me, seek the source. She’s there, Marty said,
pointing behind Humboldt towards the sculpture garden.
Humboldt turned and, sure enough, there was Elle, sitting quietly
in the sculpture garden. To her right was a gigantic bronze sculpture of a
creepycrawly spider with long, spindly legs. To her left, Humboldt spied a
square arrangement of red letters that spelled LO atop VE, with the O slightly
askew. Unnoticed, Humboldt approached like a Heroic Man. As he neared,
he tentatively reached out his hand.
—Elle?
Upon hearing her name, Elle lifted her eyes from her BlackBerry.
Although he had been warned, Humboldt was immediately repulsed by how
ugly she had become. Her skin was more withered and wrinkled than he had
expected, her cheeks more sunken, and her eyes more burnt with bloodstains.
When she recognized him, a broad smile stretched across her face. As it did,
Humboldt noticed that even her teeth were more crooked than he remembered.
—Humby! Elle exclaimed. It really is you! Ned said you were in town,
but I didn’t believe him. It’s been so long!
After safely stowing her BlackBerry in her pocket, Elle leapt from her
seat and lunged towards Humboldt with the obvious expectation of receiving
an awaiting embrace. Humboldt’s initial response was to recoil in horror,
but he quickly regained his composure. But even composed, he couldn’t
help thinking that their embrace lasted an awkward eternity and involved an
excessive amount of unwanted skin-on-skin contact.
—It’s been so long! I can’t wait to catch up. How have you been? Are
you still living in D.C.? I heard you were in prison.
Elle returned to her seat and gestured for Humboldt to join her. Once
seated, Humboldt noticed that he could still see the creepycrawly bronze
spider hovering just above Elle’s right shoulder. From this perspective, the
sculpture resembled a wingless mosquito poised to strike.
Politely trying not to stare at either the spider’s creepycrawliness or
Elle’s ugliness, Humboldt smiled nervously and averted his eyes downward.
His nervous smile ignited a new stream of conversational questioning.
—How’s Marty? How did you two meet? He’s so sweet. I’m so glad
you sent him to find me. And I can’t believe you’re still friends with Professor
Drinkwater…I mean, Fergus. Fergus! Isn’t he silly? Speaking in that ridiculous
Irish accent and rambling on about all that silly Irish history. What a hoot!
Did you know that he still believes in the Power of Positive Thinking? He told
me that. Do you still believe in it? I do! And because of the Power of Positive
Thinking, Fergus even said that he’s not angry with Richie for castrating him.
Isn’t that wonderful?
One of the spider’s outstretched, spindly legs twitched noticeably at the
mention of the word ‘Richie.’
—O, Elle said catching herself. You do know that Richie and I are
engaged, don’t you? Did Marty remember to tell you? You’re both invited to
the wedding, of course. Isn’t it wonderful? We’re so happy together. And look,
here’s the ring he bought me.
Elle proudly thrust her left hand towards Humboldt. Across one of her
“I know you can’t hold out forever / Waiting on a diamond and a tether” —“A Diamond and a Tether” wrinkled fingers was affixed a diamond and a tether. The spider’s long leg
by Death Cab for Cutie
twitched ominously again.
—You’re so quiet! How have you been? I heard about Senator Small’s
death. That must’ve been very traumatic for you. I thought that I might be
able to help you overcome your grief, but before I saw you again, I heard you
were hired as CEO of some oil company in Texas! You’re so smart! I always
knew that you were going to be SUPER successful. And don’t worry about
prison; I’m sure that’s a great résumé builder for any CEO. How was prison?
Did you get along with your cellmate? Do you have any tattoos? Richie talks
about you often. [twitch] I know he’s really looking forward to seeing you
tonight. [twitch] After the performance, we’ll all have to go out for dinner: me,
you, Ned, Richie, and Marty. [pause] You and Marty are still together, right?
—We walked here together.
—That’s wonderful! Are you two happy?
—Marty? Happy? Marty hates everything. He’s convinced here is hell.
—Well, New Orleans is very humid this time of year. And I’m sure
having his partner in prison wasn’t easy for him.
—Partner? Humboldt asked curiously. Marty’s my intern.
—Isn’t that adorable! What a sweet pet name! I sometimes call Richie
“my porcupine” because he can be so prickly with me. [twitch] How did you
two meet?
—We met in Iraq. After I died, I met Marty in a hallway.
—O, Elle said with tears welling up in her bloodstained eyes. That’s so
romantic!
—It is?
—O Humby, Elle said with watery eyes. I know I shouldn’t be talking
like this. But I’m so happy to see you. I want you to know that I respect the
This is a misreading of Ulysses’ famous final line.
“The possibility of this impossibility derails and
shatters all unity, and this is love; it disorganizes
all studied discourses, all theoretical systems and
philosophies. They must decide between presence
and absence, here and there, what reveals and what
conceals itself.” —Jacques Derrida’s “The Deaths
of Roland Barthes” in Psyche: The Inventions of the
Other (Volume 1)
fact that you’re a very private person.
—I am?
—Yes. But I also want you to know that it’s okay. I know. Richie told
me all about it. [twitch] You can talk to me. After you left school, I was
heartbroken. I just sat in my room and cried and cried and cried. I was so sure
that you and I… [Elle smiles and giggles awkwardly] I know it was silly, but I
was so young. Finally, Richie told me. [twitchtwitch] He said that you didn’t
like to talk about it and that he was your only confidant. I was shattered, and,
I’ll admit, a bit angry at first. But I understand… [smiles again] O Humby!
Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you allow me to believe that you and I…
[her voice fades off]
—You thought… [Humboldt stutters] You thought? You & I?
—It’s silly, isn’t it?
—I thought…
—O Humby… [Elle smiles knowingly] Please tell me you didn’t.
—I did.
—O Humby. Please tell me you aren’t.
—I am.
—O, Humby! [Elle tenderly places her hand on his knee; Humboldt’s
knee smiles] I was afraid something like this might happen. I feel so sorry for
you. It’s okay. You can talk to me about it. We’ll talk like we used to talk. Do
you still remember that night we talked in the dorm lounge?
—Yes, I do.
—I still remember it, too. We can still talk that way. I won’t tell anyone.
Okay?
—Okay.
—You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?
—WHAT?
—Rich.
—In love with Rich? You thought… [Humboldt pauses in confusion]
—Yes?
—You thought that I thought… [the confusion grows] But I thought…
You & I… that night in the dorm lounge…
—Yes?
—Yes! That’s it: Yes! I said Yes and I meant Yes and I thought Yes
meant that we were Yes together. I thought Yes meant that we would always
be Yes together. Yes means Yes, right?
—I guess. But what about what Richie said?
—He lied to you.
—But you left.
—I left because I had to leave.
—And you never came back.
—I never came back because I never could come back. But I’m back
now.
—Back where?
—Back here… [Humboldt motions to the space between them]
—But you can’t be back here… [Elle motions to the space between
them] Because you were never here in the first place.
—But, I was always here… [motioning again] I was always thinking of
you, thinking of us. I was always here in my mind.
—That isn’t good enough, Humby. You can’t be here in your mind, you
have to be here in your here. And you never were and Richie was.
—But if I wasn’t here… [a note of desperation seeps into his voice]
Where was I?
—I don’t know. I never knew. Some other here, some other there. I don’t
know. I just know that you weren’t with me, physically.
—Is that all love is: a physical presence?
—Humby, no one likes to talk aimless metaphysics outside of college.
Life isn’t lived metaphysically and marriages aren’t for metaphysicians. Richie
was always there. He was always a physical presence.
“Love is like lightning,
Strikes only one time,
But ain’t it enough?”
—“Ain’t it Enough” by Old Crow Medicine Show
“Now hereno where:
such a little
fatal pause.”
—Kay Ryan, “After Zeno (for my father)”
Remember that line in Bob Dylan’s song “Highlands”
in which the waitress accuses the narrator of not
reading women authors? Well, if she were talking to
me, I could happily respond, “You’re way wrong…
I read Kay Ryan.” Kay Ryan has been my absolute
favorite poet for years. A fantastic interview with
her appears in the Winter 2008 issue of The Paris
Review.
—A cellmate is a physical presence.
—But we’ve grown to love each other.
—That’s what cellmates do! When I was in prison, my cellmate loved
rap music and basketball, so I learned to love rap music and basketball. You
can learn to love anything, just as you can learn to say that you love anything,
but that doesn’t make it real. Love is like lightning. You can call any light by
lightning’s name, but it doesn’t mean that it strikes the same, and it doesn’t
mean that it causes the same illumination, or the same destruction.
Humboldt glanced over his shoulder at the LOVE sculpture, expecting
to see that the O had been straightened, but much to his disappointment, it
was still askew.
—Aren’t I a physical presence now?
Elle sadly shook her head.
—I’m sorry, Humby. [stifling a sniffle] It’s just too late. Things change,
circumstances change, people change.
—I guess I’ve changed. [an sadconfused look flashes behind Humboldt’s
eyes] I guess I’m not a physical presence anymore.
Elle silently nodded in agreement.
—I’m not here, and I was never there.
Elle continued nodding.
Thingscircumstancespeople change: Humboldt knew that. Physical
presence was fleeting and could change in an instant. It only took one
little, fatal pause to make now here into no where. He knew that, too.
Thingscircumstancespeople change: Yes. But what about thoughts? Do they
ever change? And without thoughtchange, isn’t all other change meaningless?
—Humboldt, you came! I’m so glad you’re here.
Humboldt’s thoughts were interrupted by Ned’s voice. When he lifted
his eyes, Humboldt became aware that a large crowd had gathered around
where he and Elle where sitting. This crowd was so thick that he could no
longer see the LOVE. Ned was standing in the center of the crowd, wearing a
strange black and gray outfit. Across his chest hung a breastplate made from
thin strips of shiny wood that had been tightly sewn together. His shoulders
supported pads of the same material. Dangling from his waist appeared to be
a set of matching dishtowels. But the most bizarre element of the outfit was
the round helmet that sat atop Ned’s head. Because of its enormous size, the
elaborate dome sat low on Ned’s forehead, partially obscuring his eyes. From
the top of this helmet protruded two golden stalks that resembled giant insect
antennae.
—Ned, I didn’t know you played rugby.
—This isn’t rugby padding, Humboldt. This is traditional Japanese
Samurai armor. It’s part of the performance.
—HA! Rugby padding, a familiar voice laughed.
It took Humboldt a moment to recognize the fleshy physical presence
that was standing next to Ned. Like his fiancée, Rich Thunderton had grown
much uglier since Humboldt last saw him. His jowly face was puffy and
flush, and large hunks of pink flesh clung to the bottom of his chin. Atop his
head sat a helmet of thinning hair. Only his fleshy, fat paws looked the same;
albeit, doubled in size. Rich looked repulsive, but even more repulsive than his
physical appearance was his smugness.
—Humboldt? It’s charming to see you again. I assume Elle has told you
the exciting news about our engagement. But there will be plenty of time to
discuss that after the performance. Did you know that, for this performance,
Ned will be using an authentic Samurai sword? It’s almost impossible to buy
such a sword in this country. And I would know, since I own two. You can
always tell an authentic Samurai sword by its blunt edge. The Japanese refuse
to export swords with anything but a blunt edge. Isn’t that fascinating?
—You’re a blunt edge, Humboldt said rising from his seat.
—I beg your pardon?
—I said: You’re a fool. What did you tell Elle about me?
—I told her the truth.
I’ve actually met the Besthoffs; they used to frequent
the gallery where I worked in New York City. They’re
an incredibly sweet couple and great patrons of the
arts.
In 2007, artist Paul Chan collaborated with the
Classical Theater of Harlem to stage outdoor
performances of Waiting for Godot in two different
locations in New Orleans, both of which had been
decimated by Hurricane Katrina.
—No, you told her your truth. You told her a Fool’s Truth.
—I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rich replied dismissively.
Standing arm-in-arm at the cusp of the crowd was an elegantly dressed
elderly couple. Their clothing was immaculate, their jewelry exquisite, and
their faces confused. But regardless of their confusion, both husband and wife
bravely exhibited pained smiles of polite obligation. The husband’s face also
exhibited odd tufts of white hair: two sprouted on either side of his scalp, two
over his eyes, and one above his upper lip.
—Sydney, I don’t know what they’re talking about, the wife whispered
to her husband while being careful to maintain her manicured smile.
—Walda, I think it’s a contemporary retelling of The Servant of Two
Masters, the husband whispered subtly out of the side of his mouth.
—Then shouldn’t one of them be in drag?
—Shhh!
—You know exactly what I’m talking about, Humboldt answered
angrily.
—Well, I told my fiancée the truth, as I saw it.
—As you saw it! Humboldt shouted. You’re a liar and a wordscoundrel.
—Don’t speak to my brother like that, Ned snarled.
—He’s not your brother. I’m your brother!
While still smiling, the wife pulled upon her husband’s arm again.
—Sydney, there aren’t any brothers in The Servant of Two Masters.
—Maybe it’s a contemporary retelling of Lear, dear.
—Well, which one is the bastard?
—Shhh!
—You and I were never brothers, Ned answered. You left. And when
you did, Rich asked if he could fill your space in our pledge class.
—You filled my space? Humboldt repeated in a confused, wounded
voice. You’re like a hermit crab; you just crawled into my space and refused to
leave. You never had an identity of your own, so you stole mine.
—I’m not a thief, Rich said indignantly. I never stole anything from
you. You left, remember?
—No, you’re not a thief because even a thief has the intelligence to
flee. You’re too stupid to flee. You are a flea! You’re a fat tick! You just sit on
everything. And when you’ve found someplace to sit, you cling. The only way
to get rid of you is to pick you off with something sharp.
The wife’s smile was beginning to wan.
—Sydney, I thought the performance was scheduled to take place inside
the museum, she whispered to her husband.
—Walda, I thought so too, the husband whispered back. But that’s
what’s great about performance art; it’s organic. You have to let it take
whatever shape it wants.
—Well, I just hope that they don’t damage any of our sculptures.
—Shhh!
—I’ve already warned you, Ned said menacingly as he placed his hand
on his Samurai sword. Don’t talk to my brother that way.
—He’s not your brother. He’s an evil bollweevil that’s trying to sit on
your sister. And I won’t allow it!
At hearing this, both Ned and Rich burst into laughter.
—Sydney, why didn’t we just have that nice young man, Paul Chan,
come back and put on Waiting for Godot again?
—Because, Walda, that’s not contemporary enough anymore.
—And Commedia dell’Arte is?
—Shhh!
—You won’t allow it? Rich repeated mockingly. Really? And who are
you?
—I’ll tell you who he is, Ned answered. He’s an unemployed, convicted
corporate felon.
—I’d rather be an honest, unemployed, convicted corporate felon in
love than a lying, fat tick.
—In love? Ned scoffed. I’ll never allow my family to suffer the
embarrassment of you marrying my sister.
—The embarrassment? Aren’t I responsible for your career as a
performance artist? Didn’t I furnish your career with a template, just like I
furnished the fat tick’s life with one? Your sister is very ugly; yet, I am still
resolved to marry her.
—That will never happen; at least, not while I’m still alive!
—Then I guess I’ll just have to kill you again!
—You may kill me again, Ned snarled as he drew his Samurai sword,
but you will NEVER marry my sister!
—Sydney, are you sure this isn’t a contemporary retelling of Romeo &
Juliet?
—Perhaps it is, Walda. That’s the organic nature of performance art.
Restrained by Deborah Butterfield.
—Well, I just hope they don’t get too organic near to our Butterfield
horse.
—Shhh!
In a fit of fury, Ned lunged at Humboldt and thrust his sword directly
into his frontal cortex. The staggering intensity of the thrust caused Humboldt’s
brain to have an aneurysm and he died instantly.
Or rather, the staggering intensity of the thrust would have caused
Humboldt’s brain to have had an aneurysm and he would have died instantly
had it not been for Marty, who had been watching the exchange faithfully.
At the very last moment, he thrust an ornate absinthe spoon, which he had
been carrying in his pocket, in the way of Ned’s murderous swordthrust. The
sword struck the spoon with such velocity that Ned was thrown momentarily
off balance.
—Here, Marty yelled as he threw Humboldt the spoon. Watch out!
Humboldt turned just in time to see Ned murderously swinging his
Samurai sword at his head again. With a loud clang! Humboldt deflected
the blow. A moment later, Ned swung again. Another clang! and the blow
was deflected. After this deflection, Humboldt quickly cocked back his arm
and struck Ned across the face with the spoon’s beautifully ornate patterned
surface. The force of the blow sent Ned staggering away from the crowd like
a drunkenman.
—O watch my Butterfield! the wife yelled nervously as Ned stumbled
deeper into the sculpture garden.
—Walda, you have to let the performance take whatever shape it wants!
—But I love that Butterfield…
—Shhh!
Veering away from the beloved Butterfield, Ned stumbled a few steps
before caroming into the LOVE sculpture. If any of the spectators expected to
see LOVE destroyed, they were sorely disappointed. LOVE is sturdy. LOVE
is steel. LOVE is not destroyed easily. Ned’s stumbling body bounced off the
Mother and Child by Fernando Botero. Is Botero’s sculpture and landed in a bloody heap near the base of a bulbous Botero
Mother & Child a good depiction of what fatherhood family portrait.
feels like? I’m not saying it is, but I’m not saying it Turning to Rich, Humboldt menacingly thrust the tip of his absinthe
ain’t either!
spoon into his jugular.
—Tell me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you, too.
—Because I’m your friend, Rich answered, shaking in fear.
—Not good enough.
—Humby, please don’t! I love him, Elle pleaded, materializing at
Humboldt’s shoulder.
—Calling self-preservation “love” is not good enough either, Humboldt
snarled, increasing the tip’s pressure.
—Son, Udonis Udolt said, materializing at Humboldt’s other shoulder.
—Father? What are you doing here?
—Your former employer is the primary corporate sponsor for
Prospect.3: I got free tickets, Udonis explained. Son, as your legal counsel, I
strongly advise against murder, in light of the dire legal ramifications of the
act; regardless of however warranted the act itself may be.
—Illegality is not a good enough reason either, Humboldt said,
increasing the tip’s pressure once more.
—Humboldt?
It was Marty’s voice.
—Yes?
—Don’t do it, Marty counseled in a dispassionate tone. It’s not worth
ruining a perfectly good absinthe spoon.
The pressure wavered.
—You’re right, Humboldt said, removing the spoon from Rich’s fleshy
throat.
—Absinthe in this country isn’t authentic, Rich whimpered weakly. It
doesn’t have enough thujone.
–Thujone is the green fairy, Humboldt corrected. It was never in
absinthe. If you ever read anything, you would know that.
—But I thought…
—No, Humboldt interrupted, that’s the thing: you don’t think. You’re a
fool and fools deserve life.
—Sydney, this is simply enchanting, the wife said, beginning to clap.
—Walda, I agree!
Soon, the entire crowd was clapping wildly.
—Sydney, the wife yelled over the clapcloud. Let’s sponsor a
Performance Garden!
—What a wonderful idea, Walda. It’ll be so organic!
As the clapping continued, Marty desperately grabbed Humboldt’s
arm.
—We must flee.
—As your lawyer, I concur, Udonis said, grabbing his son’s other arm.
Holding Humboldt firmly between them, Marty and Udonis pushed
their way through the crowd and broke into a sprint along Lelong Drive.
They fled past NOMA’s vaulting façade, past the lily pond with the modernist
cocktail umbrella, past the short marble columns and the semi-circle of
flowers, and past the monument commemorating the Cult of the Lost Cause.
As they crossed Esplanade, they spied a streetcar clanging out of the station.
—Fergus! Fergus! they shouted wildly.
—FERGUS!!!!
In response to their cries, the streetcar lurched to a stop and the door
swung open.
—Welcome back, me lads, Fergus said as the trio leapt across the
threshold. How was the performance?
—Not good, Humboldt blurted out as he struggled to regain his breath.
I think… Hhu… Hhu… I killed Ned.
—Again? That baastard just won’t stay deed, will he?
As the streetcar began moving again, Humboldt, Udonis, and Marty
sat down behind the driver’s seat, breathing heavily and sweating profusely.
Other than the sound of heavy breathing and Fergus’ fuzzy voice over the
loud speaker, all was silent.
—Hhu… Hhu… Hhu… Hhu… Hhu… Hhu…
Orleans Avenue, me lads.
—Hhu… Hhu… Hhu… Hhu… Hhu… Hhu…
Bienville Avenue, me lads.
—My forever indebted wife… Hhu… Hhu… is about to marry my best
friend, Humboldt said, still fighting to regain his breath. Surely, I am… Hhu…
Hhu… the most miserable creature on earth. We have to… Hhu… Hhu… do
something.
—We could throw them both… Hhu… Hhu… into the river, Marty
suggested.
—Or we could castrate the baastards, Fergus shouted over his shoulder.
That’ll serve ‘em right for taking me wee willy.
—Son… Hhu… Hhu… I think I can help.
—How?
—We both know… Hhu… Hhu… that I could have been a better father.
The trio grimaced as the streetcar began its screeching turn onto Canal.
—And I feel, Udonis continued once the screeching had stopped, like
I’m partially responsible for what has happened.
—With Elle?
—With everything.
Jefferson Davis Parkway, me lads.
—Son, when you needed me, I was never there. I want to make up for
that now.
—How?
“No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is
—Death by Lawyer.
Almost six thousand years old, and in all this time
—That sounds very Shakespearean, Marty muttered.
There was not any man died in his own person,
—Death by Lawyer? Humboldt repeated suspiciously. What does that
Videlicet, in a love-cause…
mean?
Men have died from time to
North Galvez, me lads.
Time and worms have eaten them, but not for love.”
—It’s really quite simple. As a lawyer, I can bring a lawsuit against
Rich
for
some outrageous crime: murder, rape, pedophilia, whatever. If I can
—Shakespeare, As You Like It
plant the suspicion in the jury’s mind that there is a single drop of African
American blood in his ancestry, he’ll be found guilty. First, I’ll demand the
death penalty; and then, I’ll agree to settle for life in prison. At the eleventh
hour, I’ll accept a plea-bargain for twenty years; he’ll be out in fifteen.
—With Rich in prison, Marty said, realizing what Udonis was
proposing, Elle will be desperate to avoid the lonelystench.
—That’s right, Udonis continued. With Rich gone, she’ll turn to you.
You’ll finally be able to be the physical presence that she needs in her life.
—And what about Ned? Humboldt asked.
—I’ll get him eight years as an accomplice; he’ll be out in six.
Next stop: Bourbon Street, me lads.
—Well, Udonis asked. What do you think?
Humboldt contemplated his father’s proposal in a pensive silence. Was
it the right thing to do? The streetcar was nearing their stop and Humboldt
knew that this meant that their journey together would soon be over.
—But, is it just?
—No, Udonis replied, but it’ll be legally binding. And in this country,
that’s more important.
The streetcar groaned to a stop, and Fergus flung open the doors.
—Here ya go, me lads.
Rising from his seat, Humboldt nodded in agreement.
—Okay, he said. Let’s do it.
—Great, Udonis replied. I’ll return to Houston tonight. The paperwork
shouldn’t take more than a few hours. We’ll have two guilty verdicts in no
time.
—No time, Humboldt echoed vacantly.
As he stepped across the trolley’s threshold and was embraced by the
darkness of night, the phrase hung in Humboldt’s head like a sign above a
coffin.
NO TIME
XLI
Conclusion
Lucky Dog hotdog carts are ubiquitous around the French Quarter. In A
Confederacy of Dunces, Ignatius does an unsuccessful stint selling Lucky
Dogs. There’s even a book about the company, titled Managing Ignatius:
The Lunacy of Lucky Dogs and Life in New Orleans.
—Lucky Dog?
Humboldt had stepped outside The Old Absinthe House for a quiet inhale of nightair. Casually glancing down Euclid Avenue,
he was shocked to see a work of art that had obviously been stolen from the Sydney and Walda Besthoff Sculpture Garden. To
steal the sculpture, the thieves had apparently just placed it on a cart with wheels and wheeled it out the front gate. And if this
act wasn’t brazen enough, the thieves were now attempting to hide the stolen sculpture in plain sight, concealing it under nothing
more than a large red and yellow umbrella.
Humboldt eyed the sculpture hungrily. Standing behind the stolen piece of Pop Art, Humboldt spied one of the perpetrators.
Although his face was partially obscured, Humboldt noted how the criminal was wearing a red and yellow striped shirt with a
matching mesh baseball cap.
Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, Humboldt nonchalantly walked over to the stolen art object.
—Lucky Dog? the redyellow striped thief repeated.
Even though he was not particularly hungry, Humboldt suavely nodded in agreement. As the perpetrator diverted his
attention, Humboldt’s eyes scoured the sculpture for damage or any distinguishing features that might help the police identify it.
The stolen sculpture appeared to be in good condition, smell notwithstanding.
—Ketchup and mustard, you scoundrel?
Lifting his eyes from the underbelly of the giant sculpture, Humboldt was shocked to recognize a familiar goatee, eyepatch,
and muscular scowl.
—You old rascal, Humboldt exclaimed with surprise. What are you doing serving streetdogs? I thought you were an
193
“It is natural to imagine that after so many disasters
Candide married, and living with the philosopher
Pangloss, the philosopher Martin… must have led a
very happy life. But… his wife became uglier every
day, more peevish and unsupportable.” —Voltaire,
Candide.
There’s something about the way Candide ends that
makes me feel very uncomfortable. Why was Voltaire
so cruel to Cunegonde? And why did he make her
marriage to Candide appear so godawful?
imaginary CEO of an imaginary company?
—I was fired, Tuscarawas Tim angrily muttered as he continued
preparing Humboldt’s streetdog. I’m surprised you didn’t read about it. It was
in all the imaginary papers.
—I’m sorry to hear that, Humboldt said blithely. How long has it been
since we last spoke?
—Has any time passed?
—Hasn’t it?
—No time.
—No relish.
—What about white onions? Humboldt’s doppelgänger asked with a
knowing smirk.
—You know better than that, you wag. Where ya’t?
—Just trying to live my imaginary life day by day.
—We should spend more time together, Humboldt said.
—I know you’re busy, his doppelgänger replied as he passed a gigantic
imaginary hotdog over the cart into Humboldt’s awaiting hands.
—I am?
—Yes, but there’s something I want to say to you.
Humboldt took a large bite and answered chewingly.
—Yews?
—I want to say…. Tuscarawas Tim paused awkwardly in search of the
right words. I want to say that I’m proud of you.
—Prouwd of mew? Humboldt answered, still chewing. Whwy?
—For refusing to become a wordscoundrel. It would be easy for you to
go around beating people over the head with the wordstick “happy.”
—What’s the pwoint, weally?
—I agree.
—And what’s mwore; I’m not weally wappy.
—I know, Tuscarawas Tim replied. But that’s never stopped anyone
before.
—Why should I unwack my weart with wwords, wight?
—See, Tuscarawas Tim said with a smile. You and I aren’t so different
after all. And now there’s only one last thing I need you to do.
—What’s twhat?
—Nothing.
Humboldt swallowed the final bite of his imaginary hotdog and used
his tiny, imaginary napkin to wipe the corners of his mouth.
—How did I know you were going to say that?
After balling up his napkin and throwing it towards a nearby trashcan,
Humboldt extracted an imaginary ten-dollar bill from his pocket and handed
it across the giant hotdogsculpture.
—Keep the change, he said, turning his back on his doppelgänger.
—An imaginary tip, Tuscarawas Tim scoffed. How European!
Before reentering The Old Absinthe House, Humboldt paused on the
corner underneath a streetlamp’s illuminated glowcircle. He understood how
finally being together with Elle, spending his days philosophizing with Fergus
and Marty, and periodically receiving free legal advice from his father would
lead people to believe that he was happy. But thingscircumstancespeople had
changed. Every day, Elle became uglier, not to mention more peevish and
insufferable. Humboldt had no wish to be with her. It had been Ned’s extreme
impertinence, coupled with Elle’s persistent pleas after Richie’s conviction
that had convinced him that he was obligated to say Yes. And Elle was not
alone in suffering changes of thingscircumstancespeople. Every day, Marty
grew more irascible and his principles more detestable. And perhaps worst
of all, even though they had all suffered horribly, Fergus continued to preach
the Power of Positive Thinking, although he openly confessed to no longer
believing the doctrine himself.
As Humboldt stood in the glowcircle contemplating his “happiness,”
a sour aftertaste of onions drifted across his palate. Gagging slightly, he
“‘All that is very well,’ answered Candide, ‘but let us
cultivate our garden.’” —Voltaire, Candide
This is the novel’s final sentence. Gustave Flaubert
commented on this conclusion: “The end of Candide
is for me incontrovertible proof of genius of the first
order; the stamp of the master is in that laconic
conclusion, as stupid as life itself.” I agree with
Flaubert. There is something truly shocking (and
even a bit haunting) about how Candide ends. The
ending is painful, but at the same time, it’s also
extremely boring.
“‘I want to know which is worse, to be ravished a
hundred times by negro pirates, to have a buttock
cut off, to run the gauntlet among the Bulgarians,
to be whipped and hanged at an auto-da-fé, to be
dissected, to row in the galleys—in short, to go
through all the miseries we have undergone, or to
stay here and have nothing to do?
‘It is a great question,’ said Candide.”
—Voltaire, Candide
The fact that God supposedly invented light before
the sun is mentioned in both Ulysses and The
Brothers Karamazov.
shook his head. His doppelgänger must have snuck a few pieces of raw onion
underneath his Lucky Dog.
Humboldt smiled as he turned from the night. Here is hell, he thought
happily. At least that’s one thing thingscircumstancespeople can never change.
Back indoors, Humboldt eased himself back into his seat and dripped
a few more drops of water into his greenglass. Seated next to him were Marty
and Fergus, who were busy cultivating their respective gardens of drunkenness.
—There you are, lad, Fergus slurred as his head teetered dangerously
from side-to-side.
Although Fergus was the heaviest drinker of the group, he was also
the sloppiest drunk. Upon achieving intoxication, he became even more
loquacious than normal, forever spewing a stew of slurry speech. On the
other hand, when Marty became intoxicated, he simply became more stoic;
Humboldt more agreeable.
—Just in time, me lad, Fergus continued slurringly. Marty was just
about to begin a lengthy disputation on morals. Go ahead, lad.
—It’s actually not a disputation: it’s just a question. I was wondering
which is worse: to be banished from your home, abused, castrated, killed in
Iraq, convicted of Corporate Malfeasance, sentenced to Niggatown USA,
downsized, and forced to endure Wagner; or, to sit here and have nothing to
do?
—That is a great question, Humboldt said pensively as he took a long
greensip.
—According to the Power of Positive Thinking, Fergus began
slurpompously, doing some’ting is always better than doing no’ting, because
after you’ve done some’ting, you can turn around and declare it “goode.” You
can’t do that with no’ting.
—That is a great answer, Humboldt said, taking another sip.
—For example, Fergus continued. If I didn’t believe in the Power of
Positive Thinking, I would have to believe in no’ting. And it’s better to believe
in some’ting that you don’t believe in, me lads, than believe in no’ting. ‘Tis the
beauty of belief.
Fergus paused to take a long greensip, and Marty pounced upon his
silence.
—So, if something’s better than nothing…
—WAIT! Fergus yelled. We’ve forgotten to talk about some’ting.
Some’ting important!
—What could that possibly be? Humboldt shouted with surprise. We’ve
spent so much time together, I assumed that we had discussed everything.
—Religion!
—What’s religion? Humboldt asked.
—It’s a justification for doing whatever you want, Marty answered
matter-of-factly.
—Is that right?
—I’m afraid so, lad. And it’s not just a justification: it’s THE justification.
—Then why would we ever talk about that? Humboldt exclaimed in
horror. Why would anyone but scoundrels ever talk about something like
that?
—JAYSUS! Fergus yelled with sudden agitation. I just realized
some’ting, lads. The Power of Positive Thinking: it comes from the bloody
Bible! That daft baastard, who built the birds and jerryrigged the jayraffes,
invented light two days before he invented the sun. Two bloody days! And when
he came up for his annual performance review, what did that rascal say? It’s all
goode!
Fergus shook his head in disbelief and fell into a moody silence.
—What I was trying to say before I was interrupted, Marty continued,
is that if something’s better than nothing, let us not do nothing any longer. For
the love of anything, let us do something. Before this night is over, let us each
resolve to do one last something.
—What a wonderful idea! Humboldt cried. But what?
—Anything, Marty answered. Each of us will think of something, and
no matter what that something is, we’ll all pronounce it “good.”
After nodding in agreement, the table was consumed by the contemplative
sounds of collective thinking, drinking, and solemn chinstroking.
—I’VE GOT IT! Fergus shouted. Bossing people around!
—Bossing people around is good!
—I agree!
—I will return to college!
—College is GOOD!
—I agree, concurred Marty. College is by no means a bloated, wasteful,
useless, obsolete institution of the past. And our belief in its importance is by
no means ridiculous.
—I will return to teeching! Fergus announced proudly.
—But what about your genitalia? Humboldt asked.
—Surely, me lads, there is a scientist somewhere in this great country
who knows how to create a prosthetic penis. And if not, I will offer me wee
willy as a guinea pig. Once I’ve got me fake willy, I’ll be welcomed back into
academia with open legs.
—But don’t you hate teaching?
—Yes! But I love bossing people around, so it’s all goode!
—That is a wonderful idea, Humboldt exclaimed. What about you,
Marty?
After a stoic moment of intense contemplation, an idea flashed behind
Marty’s eyes.
—I’VE GOT IT! Marty yelled. Liberating people!
—Liberating people is good!
—I agree!
—I will return to the military!
—The military is GOOD!
—I agree, concurred Fergus. The military is by no means a bloated,
wasteful, useless, obsolete institution of the past. And our belief in its
importance is by no means ridiculous.
—As soon as our military invades another poor, impoverished country
full of minorities, I will enlist and take part in the genial genocide.
—But don’t you hate the military?
—Yes, cried Marty. But it’s all good!
—Humboldt, me lad, what about you?
Humboldt tried to focus his mind by staring deeply into his glass of
greenpoison. He could feel his mind louche, as thoughts began swirling
around his synapses. What was once cloudy was becoming clear.
At the end of Song of Myself, Walt Whitman —I shall contact Henriette Burton, and then I shall depersonalize us
“disintegrates, like Rocketman in Gravity’s Rainbow.” all.
—Harold Bloom, The Anatomy of Influence: Literature —Depersonalization is good, exclaimed…
as a Way of Life
—I agree, concurred…
An apotheosis of greenglasses.
Clink
They drink.
XLII
Epilogue
I first encountered Hume’s quote in Simon Critchley’s
The Book of Dead Philosophers.
St. Philip is a street in the French Quarter: St. Ignatius
is a high school in Cleveland.
—Do you remember Mrs. Featherweight’s lecture on the Enlightenment?
Humboldt was walking down Euclid Avenue, Tuscarawas Tim at his side. The streets of New Orleans were almost deserted.
It was the blackest hour of the darknight.
—Of course I do. I remember how Thomas Edison was from a small town in Ohio.
Tuscarawas Tim shook his head, while groaning loudly.
—Arrrgghh! Sometimes I think your brain is the shape of Ohio. I mean the Scottish Enlightenment. On his deathbed,
David Hume said that when he heard a man was religious, he concluded that he was a rascal; although, over the course of his
entire life, he admitted to having known a handful of some very good men who were religious.
—Well?
—Just think of it: a handful.
—So, what of it?
—How many men can you hold in your hand?
—None, I supposed. Is that what you’re trying to tell me? Are you trying to convince me that I should agree with Hume’s
hymn?
—No, Tuscarawas Tim answered. I’m trying to convince you that what Hume said was too long. It needed editing. He
should’ve taken out the word “religious.”
The duo stopped on the deserted streetcorner of Euclid and St. Ignatius. Out of the darkness materialized a bar resembling
a condemned Creole cottage. The building’s exterior was a beautiful mess of peeling paint and sagging wood. As he stared inside,
197
Humboldt could see a few faint candles flickering.
—What? Tuscarawas Tim asked impatiently.
Humboldt gazed inside the bar with longing.
—Haven’t you had enough already? You’re really becoming quite the
lush, aren’t you?
Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop is located at 941 Bourbon Humboldt simply shrugged, continuing to stare into the bar’s pitch
Street, on the corner of Bourbon and St. Philip.
blacksmith interior.
—O go ahead. I’ll wait out here.
Disappearing from his doppelgänger, Humboldt entered the bar through
an open stormdoor. A large freestanding stone fireplace, supporting a ceiling
of exposed darkwood beams, dominated the rough interior.
Humboldt settled into a seat at the bar and vacantly scanned the bottles
in front of him. What did he want?
—Hi cher, the female bartender said with a smile. What’ca drinking?
—I don’t know.
—Well, take your time.
As Humboldt continued to ogle bottles, a group of loud locals entered
the bar and surrounded him with their conviviality. As they chatted with one
another, the bartender dutifully poured beers into plastic go-cups. When the
transaction was complete, one of the men slapped a fistful of dollars down on
the bar.
—Thanks, he said loudly as the group headed for the exit. See ya soon,
South.
Had he heard it? Was it real?
The bartender’s back was to him. As the cash register rang and sang,
Humboldt stared at the explosion of frizzy hair that surrounded her head like
a halo. It was hair that reminded him of home.
—Figure out what you’re having, sweetie?
—Good, because it’s almost chuckingout time.
—Did you ever…. Humboldt began awkwardly. I mean, was there once
a time…
Humboldt panicked: the words won’t come out!
—What’ca having, the bartender asked with pointed determination.
—Ohio?
—Ohio?
—Yes, Humboldt said, his courage building. Ohio. Did you once live
in Ohio? On a farm in Amish country. In Winesburg. Do you remember?
You left a family there. In Ohio. Do you remember? You had a son and an
absentminded husband. And a life full of soybeans. Do you remember?
—Ohio? the bartender repeated the word.
—Yes. Ohio. Love grew like soybeans. We had so much of it, we just
didn’t know what to do with it all, so we had to throw some of it away. You
have to remember. And after we threw it away, we all set sail in different
directions. We all left, but maybe we’re all still there. Still here. In Ohio. Do
you remember Ohio?
The bartender’s expression changed. Slowly, a strange look washed
over her face. As her eyes softened, they met those of her son and only a single
word was spoken:
North.
acknowledgements
This is neither an exaggeration nor a humblebrag: when I finished writing this novel, I fully
expected to be able to count the number of people who were destined to read it on two, maybe
three, fingers. This would’ve been the case were it not for Jason Pettus at the Chicago Center
for Literature and Photography. After twelve months of near-constant rejection, CCLaP was
the last publisher I queried. Had Jason said no, it was Billy Budd, The Handsome Sailor. But he
didn’t say no; he said YES. And with his YES, I was welcomed into CCLaP’s wonderful family,
which includes Lori Hettler, Nicolette Amstutz, Ryan Bradley, and more. And speaking of
wonderful families, I have never experienced anything but love and support from mine. Being
a Navicky isn’t easy, but for fook’s sake, why would anyone ever want to be anything else?
Proofreading a novel speckled with hundreds of “portmantypos” isn’t easy either, and I would
like to thank everyone who helped with this arduous task, especially my wife, mother, and best
friends: Mike Moorehead and Joyce Sampson, who humorously pointed out typos using her
index finger and camera phone. Finally, I would like to thank all the writers, poets, musicians,
and artists whose words, ideas, and (oftentimes) real names appear within this novel. Without
you, this book would be nothing more than soybeans and spelling mistakes.
Here’s a picture of Joyce using her index finger and
camera phone to point out the acknowledgement of
her using her index finger and camera phone:
These aren’t my books, but I was sure to
sneak my copy of Ulysses into this photo. It’s
lying horizontally atop the book with the red
and blue stripped spine on the shelf above
my right shoulder.
Born in Cambridge, Ohio, Scott Navicky attended Denison University and the University of
Auckland, where he was awarded an Honors Master’s Degree in art history with a focus on
photography theory. He currently lives in Columbus, Ohio.
CCLaP
Publishing
Daring writers. Exquisite books.
cclapcenter.com/publishing

the annotated edition

Transcription

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