he could remember from yesterday, when Gretel had made him eat granola, but where did the iron come from?
When a woman like Gretel offered you a piece of something to eat, you took it. You put it in your mouth. You barely noticed what it was. Personally, he never chose to eat granola, in bars or other formats. He banished granola from his sphere. But when Gretel broke off a piece and handed it to him, he ate the granola. Readily.
He had almost no memory of lying down. It could be he’d put his mouth on the bathroom tap, though you were cautioned not to drink the water. That could account for the iron. Or blood. Had he bitten his tongue? He stuck a finger into his mouth but it did not come out red.
Was it Susan who had called the room? Probably. Few others had any interest in him. He lived a life that was neither broad nor open. Only a few days ago he had ascribed this narrowness to the committed pet lovers, but like all of his nitpicking criticisms it was, in reality, merely his own view of himself. Projection or whatever. You didn’t have to be a Sigmund Freud to see that.
He had believed, once, that somewhere outside in posterity was an impression of him—the collected opinion of the rest of the world, in a sense. The way he was seen by others was out there like a double, not his real self but a view of him that might have more truth, or more style at least, than his own. But now he knew there was nothing like that at all. You did not exist in the mind of the world as a whole person, there was nothing out there that represented you. There was no outside ambassador.
All you were to the rest of the human race was a flash or a glint, a passing moment in the field of the perceived. Parts of you struck them, parts of you did not; the parts formed no coherent image. People had few coherent images of anything. Even simple concepts, small words like dog or tree, were confusing to them: a thousand trees might pass through their memories in the split second of invocation—the white of birch or red maple or palms or small pines with golden angels holding Styrofoam trumpets.
Or all the dogs in the world. What room was there for you in this panoply?
People were like dogs and this was why they took pity on them—dogs alone all the hours of their days and always waiting. Always waiting for company. Dogs who, for all of their devotion, knew only the love of one or two or three people from the beginning of their lives till the end—dogs who, once those one or two had dwindled and vanished from the rooms they lived in, were never to be known again.
You passed like a dog through those empty houses, you passed through empty rooms . . . there was always the possibility of companionship but rarely the real event. For most of the hours of your life no one knew or observed you at all. You did what you thought you had to; you went on eating, sleeping, raising your voice at intruders out of a sense of duty. But all the while you were hoping, faithfully but with no evidence, that it turned out, in the end, you were a prince among men.
•
S omeone was knocking on the room door—knocking persistently. He had dozed off again, a glass of water on the nightstand beside him. The red light was still blinking. The knocking would not let up.
“Hold on. Hold your horses,” he struggled to say, resenting the interruption. “I’m coming, dammit.”
He stood at the door in his skivvies. He opened it, realizing in the same instant that he had powerful morning breath.
In front of him were Hans and Gretel in skimpy trunks and a flowery bikini, showing their tan, smooth bodies and cornflower-blue eyes as they smiled at him.
“I have contacted the Coast Guard,” said Hans proudly.
“Sure, right,” said Hal. “Right. Sure.”
“Good news!” said Gretel. “They will send a task force.”
“Very funny,” said Hal, and wondered if they would allow him to go brush his teeth. From the second he met them, he had basically been their
When a woman like Gretel offered you a piece of something to eat, you took it. You put it in your mouth. You barely noticed what it was. Personally, he never chose to eat granola, in bars or other formats. He banished granola from his sphere. But when Gretel broke off a piece and handed it to him, he ate the granola. Readily.
He had almost no memory of lying down. It could be he’d put his mouth on the bathroom tap, though you were cautioned not to drink the water. That could account for the iron. Or blood. Had he bitten his tongue? He stuck a finger into his mouth but it did not come out red.
Was it Susan who had called the room? Probably. Few others had any interest in him. He lived a life that was neither broad nor open. Only a few days ago he had ascribed this narrowness to the committed pet lovers, but like all of his nitpicking criticisms it was, in reality, merely his own view of himself. Projection or whatever. You didn’t have to be a Sigmund Freud to see that.
He had believed, once, that somewhere outside in posterity was an impression of him—the collected opinion of the rest of the world, in a sense. The way he was seen by others was out there like a double, not his real self but a view of him that might have more truth, or more style at least, than his own. But now he knew there was nothing like that at all. You did not exist in the mind of the world as a whole person, there was nothing out there that represented you. There was no outside ambassador.
All you were to the rest of the human race was a flash or a glint, a passing moment in the field of the perceived. Parts of you struck them, parts of you did not; the parts formed no coherent image. People had few coherent images of anything. Even simple concepts, small words like dog or tree, were confusing to them: a thousand trees might pass through their memories in the split second of invocation—the white of birch or red maple or palms or small pines with golden angels holding Styrofoam trumpets.
Or all the dogs in the world. What room was there for you in this panoply?
People were like dogs and this was why they took pity on them—dogs alone all the hours of their days and always waiting. Always waiting for company. Dogs who, for all of their devotion, knew only the love of one or two or three people from the beginning of their lives till the end—dogs who, once those one or two had dwindled and vanished from the rooms they lived in, were never to be known again.
You passed like a dog through those empty houses, you passed through empty rooms . . . there was always the possibility of companionship but rarely the real event. For most of the hours of your life no one knew or observed you at all. You did what you thought you had to; you went on eating, sleeping, raising your voice at intruders out of a sense of duty. But all the while you were hoping, faithfully but with no evidence, that it turned out, in the end, you were a prince among men.
•
S omeone was knocking on the room door—knocking persistently. He had dozed off again, a glass of water on the nightstand beside him. The red light was still blinking. The knocking would not let up.
“Hold on. Hold your horses,” he struggled to say, resenting the interruption. “I’m coming, dammit.”
He stood at the door in his skivvies. He opened it, realizing in the same instant that he had powerful morning breath.
In front of him were Hans and Gretel in skimpy trunks and a flowery bikini, showing their tan, smooth bodies and cornflower-blue eyes as they smiled at him.
“I have contacted the Coast Guard,” said Hans proudly.
“Sure, right,” said Hal. “Right. Sure.”
“Good news!” said Gretel. “They will send a task force.”
“Very funny,” said Hal, and wondered if they would allow him to go brush his teeth. From the second he met them, he had basically been their
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