things when ordinarily doing things is not my strong suit. I was ready to try doing something myself, buying a little shovel maybe, with which to keep the driveway clear of phlegm if it should come to that. Of course she drops the hose, as I might have known she would.
Father sees things in a completely different light. He is unusually animated. I suppose I should be grateful for her keister. “Chyesss!” he says. He bangs his palm on his kneepan with a jaunty, yo-heave-ho sort of gesture. He attempts that pumping gesture baseball players make as they start around the bases, a gesture I find particularly repellent. I confess I feel some satisfaction when he bangs his elbow on the standing ashtray (now used as a spittoon). He weeps.
It seems that we may be about to go to war over a point of etiquette. The headlines, in quick succession, have read:
Diplomat Spurns President’s Phlegm
Envoy “Wipes” After Formal Greeting
Ally Takes a “Wipe” at US
88% of Americans Hate Phlegm Withholders
Diplomatic Relations Collapse: US Won’t Stand for Snub War?
As a result it has suddenly become not just unfriendly but also unpatriotic to keep your phlegm to yourself.
Father is lonesome, though he would not admit it. Every time the phone rings, he perks up. For Father there are no wrong numbers.
We get a lot of calls. That is because of the Nimnick situation. I assume these callers, always foreign, are clients or customers, since they always ask for “Mr. Nimnick” or just “Nimnick”—Barney Nimnick is unheard of, as is Lance, Joachim, or Ulrich—and since they ask for him with such bright expectancy, but are not very disappointed not to reach him.
Occasionally, though, someone does seem disappointed, even distraught, and keeps repeating “Nimnick, Nimnick,” unable or unwilling to grasp that he has moved on. Then I am full of a mellow astonishment and I remind myself that even a Nimnick stirs the deepest feelings in somebody’s heart, if only in the heart of another Nimnick. A little phlegm comes up. But at this my heart changes again, and I am affronted, and turn away the caller with particular violence:
“There is no Nimnick! There has never been a Nimnick at this number!” And I hang up.
At Adventurous Electrolysis we have a little accident and have to call the electrician. The boss takes the singed client for areally nice meal and to get him soused plus whatever it takes not to get sued. I take the electrician home with me, as I have done before. Not since Father came home, however. Father bleats from his room but I ignore him. The electrician gives me a questioning look but I press my chest up against him and he relaxes.
Unfortunately, Father’s cries put me in a weird frame of mind. The electrician is shy and he waits to see what I will do, breathing noisily. I wait too, lying up against him with my meager chest against his and my chin in the soft spot at the pit of his neck, and I feel his ribs moving uncomfortably as he breathes, and with my lips I feel his Adam’s apple, and with my feet the weird shapes of his feet against mine. In the hot space under my chin a mucous ball suddenly forms.
I bring it forth and we play with it. [See Appendix 3 .] We smack it with improvised paddles, we smite it with ideations and then we bring out our special tricks. I do the one that is like winding a tetherball around a pole, the electrician does the one that is like making a little paper hat for his finger and performing Punch and Judy. We play peek-a-boo through a “cooch” in the phlegm. He “parks” his phlegm in my “domain,” I fashion a small symbolic torus for him to wear. We do poodling, purling, beading. When all is done, I am left with a souvenir in the warm hollow of the bed, a little totem or statuette. It’s not much to look at, but I like it.
There are photographs of me, too, a square and dogged figure in the “ethnic” shirts and wraps my mother saw fit to send me to school in. I
Father sees things in a completely different light. He is unusually animated. I suppose I should be grateful for her keister. “Chyesss!” he says. He bangs his palm on his kneepan with a jaunty, yo-heave-ho sort of gesture. He attempts that pumping gesture baseball players make as they start around the bases, a gesture I find particularly repellent. I confess I feel some satisfaction when he bangs his elbow on the standing ashtray (now used as a spittoon). He weeps.
It seems that we may be about to go to war over a point of etiquette. The headlines, in quick succession, have read:
Diplomat Spurns President’s Phlegm
Envoy “Wipes” After Formal Greeting
Ally Takes a “Wipe” at US
88% of Americans Hate Phlegm Withholders
Diplomatic Relations Collapse: US Won’t Stand for Snub War?
As a result it has suddenly become not just unfriendly but also unpatriotic to keep your phlegm to yourself.
Father is lonesome, though he would not admit it. Every time the phone rings, he perks up. For Father there are no wrong numbers.
We get a lot of calls. That is because of the Nimnick situation. I assume these callers, always foreign, are clients or customers, since they always ask for “Mr. Nimnick” or just “Nimnick”—Barney Nimnick is unheard of, as is Lance, Joachim, or Ulrich—and since they ask for him with such bright expectancy, but are not very disappointed not to reach him.
Occasionally, though, someone does seem disappointed, even distraught, and keeps repeating “Nimnick, Nimnick,” unable or unwilling to grasp that he has moved on. Then I am full of a mellow astonishment and I remind myself that even a Nimnick stirs the deepest feelings in somebody’s heart, if only in the heart of another Nimnick. A little phlegm comes up. But at this my heart changes again, and I am affronted, and turn away the caller with particular violence:
“There is no Nimnick! There has never been a Nimnick at this number!” And I hang up.
At Adventurous Electrolysis we have a little accident and have to call the electrician. The boss takes the singed client for areally nice meal and to get him soused plus whatever it takes not to get sued. I take the electrician home with me, as I have done before. Not since Father came home, however. Father bleats from his room but I ignore him. The electrician gives me a questioning look but I press my chest up against him and he relaxes.
Unfortunately, Father’s cries put me in a weird frame of mind. The electrician is shy and he waits to see what I will do, breathing noisily. I wait too, lying up against him with my meager chest against his and my chin in the soft spot at the pit of his neck, and I feel his ribs moving uncomfortably as he breathes, and with my lips I feel his Adam’s apple, and with my feet the weird shapes of his feet against mine. In the hot space under my chin a mucous ball suddenly forms.
I bring it forth and we play with it. [See Appendix 3 .] We smack it with improvised paddles, we smite it with ideations and then we bring out our special tricks. I do the one that is like winding a tetherball around a pole, the electrician does the one that is like making a little paper hat for his finger and performing Punch and Judy. We play peek-a-boo through a “cooch” in the phlegm. He “parks” his phlegm in my “domain,” I fashion a small symbolic torus for him to wear. We do poodling, purling, beading. When all is done, I am left with a souvenir in the warm hollow of the bed, a little totem or statuette. It’s not much to look at, but I like it.
There are photographs of me, too, a square and dogged figure in the “ethnic” shirts and wraps my mother saw fit to send me to school in. I
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