Shape of the Final Dog and Other Stories (9781101600665) (14 page)

Ignog didn't believe in the Devil. The Devil is the one with the money, Ignog. You can't come by much of it without him. Howard had once gone to a midnight event where the Devil spoke. The Devil told the audience that he hated his horns. An old millionaire in the first row asked how it was that he got 'em. The Devil said he needed a distinguishing feature. The back of his head was flattish and sloped. That too. And the goatee? A line of logic that started with his feet.

You're not a Hebrew, are you, Ignog? Ignog wasn't, but he had abiding admiration for Jews. The Devil's playground is the monkey bars of guilt and pity, Ignog; either you fly or you fall. There's nobody that won't let you down. Not a system in the universe that won't finally fail, at least the Jews know that. But the Bulldog will never let you down. Then Howard gobbled like a turkey and accelerated straight up into an inverted loop. Ignog felt weightless at the apex, apogee, or whatever it's called, then they retroflexed, diving straight down. The port engine flared fire, the Bulldog snarled and rolled over into a corkscrew. Ignog sang a high C.

But Howard was one of the greatest pilots who ever lived, and since he was dead, how could he die? What was there to be afraid of? By and large, the man invented modern aviation—all the old hands knew it; he was better than Lindbergh, Rickenbacker, Amelia Earhart, and Yeager combined.

In his research Ignog found out that, blindfolded, Howard had once executed forty-eight touch-and-goes, landings, and takeoffs consecutively (one for every state in the Union) and had only crashed once, back in '47. He got banged up pretty badly, but it wasn't his fault.

I could never make enough to be repaid for what I've lost, Ignog. Nobody can. You probably think that “love” could do it, but you would be wrong. I didn't say a thing, Ignog almost said, but didn't; he knew Howard already knew he almost had.

Socratic irony was Howard's weapon of choice, and Ignog could put it to good use. This thing would write itself. Lazard would love it. Starting with the laminated Rules of Conduct next to the bullet hole, riveted to the bulkhead.

1. English only.
   
2. Never touch the pilot or the Bulldog's controls.
   
3. Behave well in turbulence; vomiters will be ejected.
   
4. Adjust your dress before leaving.
   

You familiar with the experience of not being able to make up your mind? Ignog was. Howard held up his left hand. On the one hand I think about cutting them, but on the other I want to see how long they'll grow. He was referring to his nails. Ignog didn't want to look. It was a recurring nightmare about a witch he had as a child. Henry, for that was his name when he was young, would find himself in the dead of night hunkered on the floor of his mother's closet. He would feel a breath of cold air on his back and look up. The roof of the closet had opened like a trapdoor, and in the stormy sky above hovered a hag on a broom. Henry scrambled to get away, but with a shriek, the rod of her arm whooshed down and grabbed him by the neck. Her long-nailed fingers so tight around his throat he couldn't scream. Then, like a fish on the hook of her hand, he was yanked off the floor and hauled into the night.

Now I'm gonna tell you
my
dream. And Howard made a buzzing sound. You hear that? Ignog did. Okay, the fly is loose! Free, can go anywhere, do anything it wants. Buzzzzzzzz! I'm the richest man in the world. That's not true, Howard. Who's richer? According to
Schollup's Book of the World's Richest
, you were twenty-second. Only in the United States were you the richest. Or used to be. Howard cackled. I killed a lot of flies! Look in the glove compartment. Ignog did. Look at those pictures. Ignog did. They were drawings of flies. No, they're not, they're photos. They didn't look like photos. A page of pictures, pictures of flies engaged in valiant, mischievous, supportive, meddling, aspiring, interceding, collaborative activities. They look like drawings, Howard. They're photos, Ignog. Who took them? Robert the Hungarian. Ignog hadn't heard of him. He was that daring rascal who caught the death of that Republican soldier with his Enfield flung back behind him coming down that hillside in the Spanish Civil War. This was before poor Bob got creamed by a Commie land mine in Vietnam. He wrote me a letter. You know what it said? Two words:
Terra Incognita
. Can you beat that? It's pretty good, Howard. What do you think it means? Other than foretelling his death? I think he was referring to you. You're a smart boy, Ignog. Would you go to the cleaners for me? I'd be glad to. That's good to know, Ignog.

But Howard changed his mind; he wasn't ready for the cleaners. What he wanted was a sponge bath. Ignog wouldn't do it. Howard wasn't used to being denied—it hurt. And Howard couldn't hide it. It's nothing personal, I just can't do it. Howard could understand it, but still, it hurt. He sulked. Perhaps this was a good time to ask a sensitive question. How come he never had any children? What makes you think I haven't? Because no legitimate offspring have ever come forth to make any claims on your estate. Would you like to be that offspring, Ignog? Have me instruct a sum of money into your little mouse of an account? Of course you would. But what about something better, Ignog? Would you like to take a ride in the Goose? Sure you would. Are you serious, Howard? No. Well, maybe. We'll see.

Howard was an expert at the upper hand. But Ignog had some tricks of his own. You piss in those jars, right? That's why you keep the Kleenex around. That's not why! You drink it? I ask the questions. And no, I don't drink it. Is that what they think?

I don't know what they think, Howard, but some people say it's a remedy. Who says it's a remedy? The Aztecs. Fuck the Aztecs. A remedy for what? Their ailments. I save it. For what? You're never gonna know the answer to that, Ignog. I'm good with that. Howard didn't like Ignog saying he was good with that. And don't call me Howard. You think I care if they ridicule me? They tried to get me on that Watergate thing, but I can't be gotten. That was a long time ago, Howard. Up here nothing's a long time ago! And you're never gonna fly in the Goose, Ignog. Whatever you say, Howard. Don't call me Howard!

They're in awe of you, Mr. Hughes. Howard wasn't assuaged; he closed his eyes, dropped his head, letting go of the controls. The Bulldog tilted, went into a dive. The only thing Ignog ever flew was a kite, but he grabbed the yoke. Howard shoved him away. Don't ever do that!

Ignog needed to untie the knots in his stomach, but the plane was doing things that were making him sick. Vengeful Howard was pushing the Bulldog into transonic deeds. Ignog's eardrums felt like water balloons. He leaned forward, tried to put his head on his knees. We're going to China! Ignog said nothing. I took you for a man who was game to go. Ignog said nothing.

Are there two people in this plane, or just me? I'm right here, Howard. Prove it. The Bulldog settled down. Ignog lifted his head, looked at Howard. What about Jane Russell's tits? What about 'em? Why were they so important to you? What makes you think they were? The memos. They sold tickets those tits. And Howard almost smiled. The world sits up for a secret, Ignog. Breaking the sound barrier was the last great thing that ever happened. That stupid moon landing was a gyp, a witch on a broom would have been better. So, breaking the sound barrier made Howard happy. It wasn't me who broke it, it was Yeager, and it's not about “happy”! Being on top is what winds the clock, Ignog. Reach me one of those boxes back there.

Howard's Kleenex. To get at it, Ignog had to unbuckle. Soon as he popped the clip on his safety belt, his door flew open. A two-hundred-mile-an-hour wind whipped in. Fifty Kleenex boxes sped out into the night. Close it! Ignog is trying to, struggling to keep from being sucked out himself. Howard grabs him by the neck, strangling him. Ignog wrestles the door shut. You're a cocky little wacko, Ignog! Wasn't my fault, Howard! You wanna blame the plane?! I didn't do it. Yeah, blame the plane, but if you hadn't been here, it wouldn't have happened! If you say so, Howard. Don't call me Howard! Three-quarters of my Kleenex, gone! He figured Howard must have a secret button that opened the door. If so, he just tried to kill him. But also rescued him.

Not to despair, Ignog, one of the thieves was saved. But don't presume, either; one of the thieves was damned. And on top of it the bastard sounded like a Saint Augustine fan. Whatever he was, it would be good for the article.

Nothing wrong with being a coward, Ignog. You can't help it. That Howard made him for a coward wasn't fair. He wanted to ask him to explain, but he didn't. Howard explained anyway. You're up here acting like this is an interview, but it isn't. You don't have a clue and you know it. What you're hoping is that if we ever land I'm gonna give you some money, more money than you could otherwise have. What do you mean
if
we land? I mean I don't think you really want to. I want to, Howard. It's too late, Ignog. Shall we sing?

Ignog was shocked to realize the Bulldog seemed to be flying itself and shocked again when he noticed that Howard had an erection. You and I never learned to enjoy ourselves, but to go flying over China at night is gonna change all that. We're gonna find joy, Ignog. Shall we sing?

I'm not much of a singer, Howard. Let's give it a try. You know “Bill Grogan's Goat”? No, I don't, I'm sorry. Don't be, just pay attention. Howard leaned closer and sang. Bill Grogan's goat was feeling fine. He ate three shirts from off the line. Bill took a stick, gave him a whack, and tied him to the railroad track. The whistle blew, the train drew near. Bill Grogan's goat was doomed to die. Howard suddenly stopped singing. What do you think, Ignog? The goat gets hit by the train? Wrong. There's one more line. Howard sang it softly: Bill Grogan's goat coughed up the shirts and flagged the trainnnn.

Pretty good, eh? Yeah, it's great, Howard. You know what it means, Ignog? That if things are about to go wrong, you can change them? Good try, Ignog, but that's not what it means. That if you steal a man's shirt, you're gonna pay the price? Have you made any money, Ignog? A little, but not your kind of money, Howard. Not many have. There should be an Olympics for making my kind of money.

Howard flew high and hard. Ignog was getting used to it. That sinking feeling had diminished. Now it was the anticipation of being returned to the ground that felt like dread.
Terra Incognita.

Flying with Howard was something like no thing, not future or past, not actual or otherwise, but more dream, like an odalisque chambered in a night that would never end.

A little while longer, that's all any of you have. A little while longer? That's right, Ignog. You want more? What more is there? Up here there's more than down there. Down there it's depravity and death; I bought a city of it. Up here it's the venerable customs of the air. Which are? Inscrutability. The world has become an unmysterious place, Ignog, a Vegas. But the sky is endless, rhapsodic. Grounded you submit, but up here . . .

Before Howard could finish the sentence, the Bulldog sputtered. Oh, my. What? Quiet! Is something wrong? Ignog watches Howard fiddle the choke, crank the flaps. Both men groan as the Bulldog silently descends.

T
he name tag on her tunic read
OLYMPIA
. Three desolate blocks in Red Hook was her route. She pushed her cart up the empty sidewalk and stopped in front of a four-story tenement across the street from Abe's warehouse.

Before he came to the window to watch her, Abe was in the bathroom checking his neck. He suffered from a swelling of the lymph nodes, something akin to scrofula, the nurse at the clinic said. It wasn't as bad as it looked, didn't hurt much, but the blistering was unattractive and he didn't like being at the window when there was a flare-up.

Not that the mail lady would notice; she was across the street sorting the mail. So far Abe had never exchanged a word with her, never had the occasion to. But the Kid across the street did; he was sure of that.

Abe did his talking at the window, saying what he would say if he ever got the chance.

I'm grander than you, more glorious, and if I decide you're worth it, long-legged mail lady, I'll paint you with fire. You'll never be able to spend the wealth of my love, not in a dozen years, a dozen lifetimes!

Abe was an artist, a small beaky man, lean and fervent—at least at a distance. He even wrote her a letter once that he never sent, but couldn't find.

Everybody on the block hopes you're smart enough to take advantage of me as soon as possible. I'm taller than you . . .

He was not taller than her. Olympia was almost six feet; Abe wasn't quite five-six. And he didn't know anybody on the block, made it his business not to.

He watched her go up the stairs into the tenement where the Kid lived.

W
hat happens to the small apartment of a seldom seen father and an untidy Kid was the shape this one was in. The Kid was sprawled on the couch, one foot cocked on the cushion, the other on the floor.

He was puggish, quick-eyed, and ten. Bottle of beer in one hand, letter in the other; what he was reading was making him wince:

You have been selected by a higher being. You're the kind of woman who needs to have it put to her forcefully.

Jeeez, give me a break!

I'll make you roll over on your back, show me your soft parts. To one such as you, my science is magic.

You wish!

I'll tickle and lap your succulent vitals. The effects of my desire will ripple like moonlight on the pond of your flesh . . .

The Kid stuffed the letter back in the envelope, finished his beer, and got to his feet.

A
be was looking for a needle to sew a button on his pants when he was jolted by the knock. He froze, he waited. Whoever it was knocked again. There was nothing to do but go to the door. Abe did, opened it, and there was the Kid, holding up the letter. Abe didn't know what to do. The Kid said:

Take it.

What is it?

A letter.

So?

You send it?

To who?

Me! It was in my mailbox.

Abe took the letter, and as soon as he did, he realized he forgot to put on his pants.

Read it.

Abe extracted it from the envelope, pretended to read a couple lines.

Where did you get this nonsense?

I told you, in my mailbox.

The mail lady must've made a mistake.

There's no stamp on the envelope.

Like I said, she made a mistake.

Maybe. Maybe not.

There were people on the block who knew what Abe did, but nobody the Kid knew had ever been inside the warehouse. Abe could see the Kid was curious and stepped aside to give him a look.

He'd watched the Kid for more than a year, knew some things about his life, had gone through his trash. The Kid had watched Abe as well, seen him have an argument with a tramp once about an umbrella that Abe said was his.

The Kid slipped into the warehouse. Except for a cot and a trestle table bearing the tubes, cans, and brushes, all the wild slop of the painter's trade, the place was almost empty. But there were lots of paintings, some leaned against the wall, some were hung, all of them portraits, except for one. A dirigible grounded on a barren field. The Kid fixed on it. Abe watched him move up for a closer look.

You drink with the mail lady? I see her go into your building, I don't see her come out.

What is this, a blimp?

Yeah. What color eyes she got?

How would I know?

Brown, right?

Hazel.

Which is about the same thing.

There's green in brown when it's hazel.

You know your colors, Kid. How come you don't go to school?

I go. I just don't go outta my way to do it.

Abe didn't know any kids, never had one look at any of his paintings.

What are you gonna do when you grow up?

Interview the Crab Man.

You watch the show?

Of course.

You think it's gonna run till you grow up?

Doesn't have to. Crab Man's about to retire.

You drink with her, right? I see her go in, but I don't see her come out.

Sure you do. You see her come out. I've seen you looking.

You have sex with her?

I'm ten.

Brush up against her?

Once.

Her against you, or you against her?

Abe could see the Kid had no interest in this line of thought, so he got to the point.

I wanna paint her.

The Kid held up a thumb and squinted at the blimp like an artist appraising a perspective.

I like this blimp.

Abe watched him turn away, make for the exit. Not right letting him leave without saying good-bye, but “good-bye” wasn't right.

You like the Crab Man more than you like yourself?

No. I like myself more. But I like myself more because I like the Crab Man.

Then he went right for the door, turned back to Abe, sliced the air with the flat of his hand, and left. Abe walked over to the blimp to have a look for himself.

I like myself less than I like this blimp, which is why the blimp makes me feel good about myself. I guess that's about the same thing.

F
or dinner the Kid had boiled weenies and made himself a cocktail of vodka and pineapple juice. This was a special night. The apartment was dark except for the TV. He sat on the floor in front of it, illuminated by
The Buster Pleasely Show
. Buster was interviewing the Crab Man.

Engirdled in his amber shell, the Crab Man was all crab, except for his little flat face, which was locked in a frown. One of his eyes was missing, but his claws were large and handsome; they dangled over the box he squatted on.

Jolly Buster was a large bald man, impersonator of wide-eyed sympathy, but he had no use for anybody and the audience loved him for it. He looked up from an index card.

I have a question here from a fan in the audience: Is it true
The Crab's Welcome
was originally conceived of as a daytime kiddie show?

The Crab Man didn't like the question.

Let me tell you something, Pleasely, and the hairball halibut jawhead who wrote that question—

Please, no need to be formal, call me Buster.

I'll call you Cluster! I told this already on
Larry King
. The network didn't believe the nation was gonna embrace a crustacean. And they didn't—kitty show, pussy show, or the hamsters they rode in on; not till I started writing my own lines did
The Crab's Welcome
become a hit.

The Kid scooted closer to the screen. Pleasely stoked the Crab:

So you shut down the morning show and turned on the night, thereby snapping up the ratings. I see!

Then see if you can't get me that bowl of salt water I asked for in the green room that nobody brought me yet.

Sorry! Bowl of salt water for our guest, please!

I'll throw it in your face!

The audience roared. The Crab Man rattled his claws. The Kid took a gulp of his highball. Buster kept rolling:

But it was the writer, Ivan Detbar, that walked off with the Emmy, right?

A trap the Crab was not about to walk into:

I'm not gonna go into that. Ivan's a good man.

So are you! Dig it everybody, the Crab Man!

That got applause. The Kid tapped his glass. But neither was the Crab Man going to be a lickspittle for praise:

Bull pucky! You think everybody always loved the Crab? You think I was always on top? Overnight success? I'm here to tell you that that night took ten fucking years! Now you're making me mad!

Wild applause. Pleasely threw his arms up:

What did I do?

Keep it up, Pleasely.

Flushed and pleased, Pleasely implored the audience:

Hey, hey, don't egg him on!

The Crab delivered a thin-pitched bellyache of a whine:

I don't want an egg, I want my water!

After the laughter and applause, Pleasely downshifted:

Okay, okay, you grumpy crab. Now tell us about your costar, the luscious Little Miss Littlefield, tell us about her.

When the whistles and hoots died down, the Crab Man grumbled:

I won't tell you nothing.

Pleasely leaned closer:

You worked with her for six years. You must have something to tell.

Want me to tell you how on the set she don't wear underwear?

The audience went nuts.

Whoa! Really? How is it you happen to know this?

I happen to know this because I'm down there on the floor where you can see it! And let me tell you, Buster, Little Miss Littlefield is what you guys call a bottle blonde—the carpet don't match the drapes.

The audience cheered and jeered. The Crab Man took it further:

Remember that next time she's here pimping for the African Famine Relief.

Moans and groans. Pleasely shook his head:

My, my, do we sound a little bitter?

I lost an eye because of her.

The audience groaned again. Pleasely switched subjects:

So what do your friends call you?

I don't have none. If I did, they'd call me Pingo.

Why Pingo?

Cause I don't like Dingo!

Laughter. The rattle of claws. The Kid whispered the name, reached out, touched the screen, said it again:

Pingo.

The Crab Man seemed to sag and went reflective:

What's the difference? It's all fiddle and scuttle for a poor old crab, no big deal.

Hey, you've done pretty well for yourself, got a chauffeur, a tennis court with a pool, and a two-story mansion. Eh?

The Crab Man scoffed:

Don't confuse showbiz with real life, Buster. Yeah, sure, I can swim, but I got no interest in tennis, and I live in a cell.

Like a prison?

No, like the Maharishi, or Swami Pravakananda. When I'm not working, I'm sitting in there like a monk contemplating my riddles.

Oh, really? Please, would you tell us one?

The Kid put down his drink and whispered:

Yeah, come on, tell one, Pingo!

The Crab Man took a moment to consider, then:

What is it takes longer to go down than it does to come up?

A submarine full of Russians?

That's not funny.

The tenth beer?

Forget it.

Come on, what's the answer?

If you're attacked by bees, don't jump in the lake.

What's that mean?

It means they'll be waiting for you when you come out.

I don't get it.

You will when I sic a hammerhead on your assplate, Buster!

The audience erupted. The Crab Man scuffled around on the box like he was going over the edge. Pleasely half rose.

Where you going?!

I gotta go clean my cell.

Hold on! What about your water?

You drink it!

The applause was wild. The Kid put down his drink, lifted his arms, snapping his fingers like pincers.

I
t was a sunless noon. Mail-lady time. Abe appeared in the front window of his warehouse. He looked left, looked right, but the street was empty.

C
arriers had their special spots to endure the swelter or the cold, places to kick back, a bathroom to use. Olympia had the Kid's, at least when his dad wasn't there.

The Kid was inquisitive, a scrutinizer, and she liked him for that. Also, they could be quiet together. Because Olympia was tall, he asked her if she was part Indian. She wasn't. The week before she asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He told her he would sell beer at the ballpark. They both knew it was a lie. He'd never been to the ballpark, didn't know where it was. She wagged a finger at him.

You just better behave yourself, Mister.

He loved being with her; besides being beautiful, she was funny. She thought he was too, but they never laughed.

They were sitting on the floor. He was helping her sort the day's mail, a job that needed concentration, but he had a question to ask.

Who's your favorite superhero?

Omar the Excluded.

Never heard of him.

He's sort of like Superman, except he can't fly.

She was putting the little piles of letters they'd stacked into her satchel.

So what's so super about him?

For one thing, he comes from a destroyed planet, so there's nothing he can't survive, but still, the other superguys won't team up with him.

Why not?

Because he's a drag.

She hoisted the bag over her shoulder. The Kid got to the door before she did and opened it. He watched her hang the bag on the trolley.

Is this Omar in the old zines?

Of course.

Could I get one?

If you got the money. They're not easy to get, they only put out a few.

What about the Crab Man, you like him?

Oh, please.

Abe Zinger, the guy across the street, he likes him. He's an artist.

He's an idiot.

He's a good painter.

That didn't make a difference to Olympia; she was on her way down the hall to the front door.

He wants to paint you!

She kept going, was almost at the exit.

That's what he said. He said that you're “sensational.” And that's how he's gonna paint you.