Pull quote: in re Manny Face: “Whatever that green-tinted elf-eared B-actor greaseball is doing, Smith, I don’t like it”
“Say, Smith, I’ve got a pre-generate for you.”
“Go ahead, shoot.”
“A show-offish Peter O’Toole prancing back and forth atop an overturned train car wearing a long white duster in ‘Lawrence of Arabia’, 1962.”
“Oh, that’s easy! David Bowie!”
“Yeah, Smith, but which David Bowie?”
“Why even bother asking, Hunched Cornish, The? Clearly, it’s the ‘Station to Station’ Bowie, prefigured in ‘The Man Who Fell to Earth’.”
“Very good, Smith, very good… I think he kind of went downhill after ‘The Laughing Gnome’.”
“Yeah, but I think he finally got it back with ‘Fall Dog Bombs the Moon’.”
“You’re talking through your ass, Smith.”
The terrible and characteristic Smith silence.
But then he said:
“Okay, The Hunched Cornish, now I’ve got one for you.”
“Let’s have it.”
“Bette Davis as Mildred Rogers in ‘Of Human Bondage’, 1934, is the pre-generate for…?”
“Oh, Smith! You’re such an asshole! You know I hate her! I hate her so much, I can’t even say her name.”
“Go ahead – say it… say it!”
“Madonna.”
“Which Madonna?”
“Fuck you, Smith.”
“Come on – which one?!”
“The early Madonna. The ‘Like a Virgin’ Madonna. ‘Desperately Seeking Susan’ Madonna.”
“Let’s not go too far.”
“You’re a real shit eater, Smith.”
“Ha-ha! You’re lucky I didn’t pick Marilyn Monroe and ‘Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend’. You never would have guessed the connection.”
“She’s a real icon, Smith. Don’t you dare drag Marilyn Monroe down to Madonna’s level!”
“Ha-ha!”
“You’ve really sunk low, Smith. After burning that book, you have no spiritual grounding, no true moral compass.”
“Pshaw! Where did you get that from? Some second-rate book review?”
“Yeah, Smith, but what book? And what makes a review second-rate?”
“I don’t know. One by, say, a reader, like on Amazon or Goodreads, as opposed to say, James Wood.”
“Give me a fucking break, Smith. And, for example, in reference to what book, pray tell? And don’t say ‘The Studs Lonigan Trilogy’.”
“Okay, um, ‘The Tin Drum’, ‘The Radetzky March’, ‘The Magic Mountain’, ‘Buddenbrooks’, ‘Berlin, Alexanderplatz’, um, um…”
“Smith, those are all German books. You’ve got anything against the krauts?”
“Oh, I don’t know. World War 2, for example. And by the way, what do you mean by ‘German’ books? They’re not all German, only in the German language. Some authors are Austrian, some are Jews, and still others are both – or even more.”
“You’ve got a point there. Those Jews.”
“And now they’re collaborating with the Russians… again.”
“The Jews?”
“No – the Germans.”
“Those damn krauts. Fascist scum. I guess it’s in their blood.”
“Then there’s Tacitus’s ‘Germania’, Heinrich Heine’s poetry, Goethe’s ‘Faust’, Schiller’s ‘The Robbers’, Bertolt Brecht’s plays, Hegel, Heidegger, Hi –”
“Kafka, Smith?”
“No, Kafka’s not bad.”
“What about Robert Musil?”
“I guess Musil’s all right, too.”
“Hmm…”
Silence.
And then I said:
“Manny Face. I’d like to put those little X-s into his eyes.”
A brief startled silence, but then Smith said:
“What brings him up?”
“Whatever that green-tinted elf-eared B-actor greaseball is doing, Smith, I don’t like it.”
“He’s not green-tinted. He’s white-skinned and dark-featured without being swarthy. Actors would kill to have his complexion and looks. It’s easy to pin the greaseball label on him because of his looks and the way he moves, but that’s just jealousy. If anything –”
“I don’t want to hear it, Smith! What are you defending him for? What was all that about helping him install new windows?”
“I don’t know. Early on, when I didn’t really know anything yet, you tried to set me on him like a spy. But Face was hip to it and treated me decently, full of good nature and good will. After that, I thought he was a good guy. He’s only grown in my estimation since. And Jack Step back over at The Commix is also my friend, and he got Face his job.”
But I wasn’t paying any attention to Smith. I heard the name Jack Step, and I knew I would get him – yes, I would finally get him too. But as I write this, I’m only guessing at Smith’s words.
As Smith spoke, I fell into a trance. I can’t explain why – I couldn’t control it. A bright light flashed through my head and in a moment I was in a state of blinding rapture, and then, just as quickly, it was over.
By now, Smith was talking and talking. None of it made sense. I was covered in a sweat that was burning off my skin under a pall of flame. I stopped Smith abruptly and said:
“Smith, Face has got Tango Baby, doesn’t he?”
No reply. It didn’t bother me. It didn’t matter. I knew I was right and Smith was my friend.
“Smith – I think Face is prowling around my building, trying to case my joint right now, to find something out – he felt a sudden compulsion to do it, he himself doesn’t know why, like he’s desperate but can’t exactly put his finger on it… what is it… what’s the point… what’s he doing… taking a risk like that – a risk like that, Smith… moving around my place, slinking back and forth, like a shadow… to find out what, Smith… why?… to make his next move… to help him somehow outwit me, or stop me… ha… to help him get away – with Tango Baby. But Smith, that’s not going to happen. Smith, now I know. It’s not going to happen. Face is slick, but he’s not invisible. I can see Face, Smith, and soon, there’s not going to be any Face to see.”
“How are you going to stop him if you’re here and he’s under your window?”
“Smith, you forget. I can do double.”
I closed my eyes and concentrated on awakening my second will.
The Hunched Cornish, August 18, 2014