Welcome to the Monkey House: The Special Edition (6 page)

“I thought maybe I bored you.”

“No, no,” she said gamely, “not at all. You certainly know some very interesting history.” Among other things, the Foxy Grandpa claimed to have known J. Edgar Nation, the Grand Rapids druggist who was the father of ethical birth control.

“Then
look
like you’re interested,” he told her. He could get away with that sort of impudence. The thing was, he could leave any time he wanted to, right up to the moment he asked for the needle—and he had to
ask
for the needle. That was the law.

Nancy’s art, and the art of every Hostess, was to see that volunteers didn’t leave, to coax and wheedle and flatter them patiently, every step of the way.

So Nancy had to sit down there in the booth, to pretend
to marvel at the freshness of the yarn the old man told, a story everybody knew, about how J. Edgar Nation happened to experiment with ethical birth control.

“He didn’t have the slightest idea his pills would be taken by human beings someday,” said the Foxy Grandpa. “His dream was to introduce morality into the monkey house at the Grand Rapids Zoo. Did you realize that?” he inquired severely.

“No. No, I didn’t. That’s very interesting.”

“He and his eleven kids went to church one Easter. And the day was so nice and the Easter service had been so beautiful and pure that they decided to take a walk through the zoo, and they were just walking on clouds.”

“Um.” The scene described was lifted from a play that was performed on television every Easter.

The Foxy Grandpa shoehorned himself into the scene, had himself chat with the Nations just before they got to the monkey house. “ ‘Good morning, Mr. Nation,’ I said to him. ‘It certainly is a nice morning.’ ‘And a good morning to
you
, Mr. Howard,’ he said to me. ‘There is nothing like an Easter morning to make a man feel clean and reborn and at one with God’s intentions.’ ”

“Um.” Nancy could hear the telephone ringing faintly, naggingly, through the nearly soundproof door.

“So we went on to the monkey house together, and what do you think we saw?”

“I can’t imagine.” Somebody had answered the phone.

“We saw a monkey playing with his private parts!”

“No!”

“Yes! and J. Edgar Nation was so upset he went straight home and he started developing a pill that would make monkeys in the springtime fit things for a Christian family to see.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Yes—?” said Nancy.

“Nancy,” said Mary, “telephone for you.”

When Nancy came out of the booth, she found the sheriff choking on little squeals of law-enforcement delight. The
telephone was tapped by agents hidden in the Howard Johnson’s. Billy the Poet was believed to be on the line. His call had been traced. Police were already on their way to grab him.

“Keep him on, keep him on,” the sheriff whispered to Nancy, and he gave her the telephone as though it were solid gold.

“Yes——?” said Nancy.

“Nancy McLuhan?” said a man. His voice was disguised. He might have been speaking through a kazoo. “I’m calling for a mutual friend.”

“Oh?”

“He asked me to deliver a message.”

“I see.”

“It’s a poem.”

“All right.”

“Ready?”

“Ready.” Nancy could hear sirens screaming in the background of the call.

The caller must have heard the sirens, too, but he recited the poem without any emotion. It went like this:

They got him. Nancy heard it all—the thumping and clumping, the argle-bargle and cries.

The depression she felt as she hung up was glandular. Her brave body had prepared for a fight that was not to be.

The sheriff bounded out of the Suicide Parlor, in such a hurry to see the famous criminal he’d helped catch that a sheaf of papers fell from the pocket of his trench coat.

Mary picked them up, called after the sheriff. He halted for a moment, said the papers didn’t matter any more, asked her if maybe she wouldn’t like to come along. There was a flurry between the two girls, with Nancy persuading Mary to go,
declaring that she had no curiosity about Billy. So Mary left, irrelevantly handing the sheaf to Nancy.

The sheaf proved to be photocopies of poems Billy had sent to Hostesses in other places. Nancy read the top one. It made much of a peculiar side effect of ethical birth-control pills: They not only made people numb—they also made people piss blue. The poem was called
What the Somethinghead Said to the Suicide Hostess
, and it went like this:

“You never heard that story before—about how J. Edgar Nation came to invent ethical birth control?” the Foxy Grandpa wanted to know. His voice cracked.

“Never did,” lied Nancy.

“I thought everybody knew that.”

“It was news to me.”

“When he got through with the monkey house, you couldn’t tell it from the Michigan Supreme Court. Meanwhile, there was this crisis going on in the United Nations. The people who understood science said people had to quit reproducing so much, and the people who understood morals said society would collapse if people used sex for nothing but pleasure.”

The Foxy Grandpa got off his Barcalounger, went over to the window, pried two slats of the blind apart. There wasn’t
much to see out there. The view was blocked by the backside of a mocked-up thermometer twenty feet high, which faced the street. It was calibrated in billions of people on Earth, from zero to twenty. The make-believe column of liquid was a strip of translucent red plastic. It showed how many people there were on Earth. Very close to the bottom was a black arrow that showed what the scientists thought the population ought to be.

The Foxy Grandpa was looking at the setting sun through that red plastic, and through the blind, too, so that his face was banded with shadows and red.

“Tell me—” he said, “when I die, how much will that thermometer go down? A foot?”

“No.”

“An inch?”

“Not quite.”

“You know what the answer is, don’t you?” he said, and he faced her. The senility had vanished from his voice and eyes. “One inch on that thing equals 83,333 people. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“That—that might be true,” said Nancy, “but that isn’t the right way to look at it, in my opinion.”

He didn’t ask her what the right way was, in her opinion. He completed a thought of his own, instead. “I’ll tell you something else that’s true: I’m Billy the Poet, and you’re a very good-looking woman.”

With one hand, he drew a snub-nosed revolver from his belt. With the other, he peeled off his bald dome and wrinkled forehead, which proved to be rubber. Now he looked twenty-two.

“The police will want to know exactly what I look like when this is all over,” he told Nancy with a malicious grin. “In case you’re not good at describing people, and it’s surprising how many women aren’t:

Billy was ten inches shorter than Nancy was. She had about forty pounds on him. She told him he didn’t have a chance, but Nancy was much mistaken. He had unbolted the bars on the window the night before and he made her go out the window and then down a manhole that was hidden from the street by the big thermometer.

He took her down into the sewers of Hyannis. He knew where he was going. He had a flashlight and a map. Nancy had to go before him along the narrow catwalk, her own shadow dancing mockingly in the lead. She tried to guess where they were, relative to the real world above. She guessed correctly when they passed under the Howard Johnson’s, guessed from noises she heard. The machinery that processed and served the food there was silent. But, so people wouldn’t feel too lonesome when eating there, the designers had provided sound effects for the kitchen. It was these Nancy heard—a tape recording of the clashing of silverware and the laughter of Negroes and Puerto Ricans.

After that she was lost. Billy had very little to say to her other than “Right,” or, “Left,” or “Don’t try anything funny, Juno, or I’ll blow your great big fucking head off.”

Only once did they have anything resembling a conversation. Billy began it, and ended it, too. “What in hell is a girl with hips like yours doing selling death?” he asked her from behind.

She dared to stop. “I can answer that,” she told him. She was confident that she could give him an answer that would shrivel him like napalm.

But he gave her a shove, offered to blow her fucking head off again.

“You don’t even want to hear my answer,” she taunted him. “You’re afraid to hear it.”

“I never listen to a woman till the pills wear off,” sneered Billy. That was his plan, then—to keep her a prisoner for at least eight hours. That was how long it took for the pills to wear off

“That’s a silly rule.”

“A woman’s not a woman till the pills wear off.”

“You certainly manage to make a woman feel like an object rather than a person.”

“Thank the pills for that,” said Billy.

·    ·    ·

There were 80 miles of sewers under Greater Hyannis, which had a population of 400,000 drupelets, 400,000 souls. Nancy lost track of the time down there. When Billy announced that they had at last reached their destination, it was possible for Nancy to imagine that a year had passed.

She tested this spooky impression by pinching her own thigh, by feeling what the chemical clock of her body said. Her thigh was still numb.

Billy ordered her to climb iron rungs that were set in wet masonry. There was a circle of sickly light above. It proved to be moonlight filtered through the plastic polygons of an enormous geodesic dome. Nancy didn’t have to ask the traditional victim’s question, “Where am I?” There was only one dome like that on Cape Cod. It was in Hyannis Port and it sheltered the ancient Kennedy Compound.

It was a museum of how life had been lived in more expansive times. The museum was closed. It was open only in the summertime.

The manhole from which Nancy and then Billy emerged was set in an expanse of green cement, which showed where the Kennedy lawn had been. On the green cement, in front of the ancient frame houses, were statues representing the fourteen
Kennedys who had been Presidents of the United States or the World. They were playing touch football.

The President of the World at the time of Nancy’s abduction, incidentally, was an ex-Suicide Hostess named “Ma” Kennedy. Her statue would never join this particular touch-football game. Her name was Kennedy, all right, but she wasn’t the real thing. People complained of her lack of style, found her vulgar. On the wall of her office was a sign that said,
YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE CRAZY TO WORK HERE, BUT IT SURE HELPS
, and another one that said
THIMK!
, and another one that said,
SOMEDAY WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO GET ORGANIZED AROUND HERE
.

Her office was in the Taj Mahal.

·    ·    ·

Until she arrived in the Kennedy Museum, Nancy McLuhan was confident that she would sooner or later get a chance to break every bone in Billy’s little body, maybe even shoot him with his own gun. She wouldn’t have minded doing those things. She thought he was more disgusting than a blood-filled tick.

It wasn’t compassion that changed her mind. It was the discovery that Billy had a gang. There were at least eight people around the manhole, men and women in equal numbers, with stockings pulled over their heads. It was the women who laid firm hands on Nancy, told her to keep calm. They were all at least as tall as Nancy and they held her in places where they could hurt her like hell if they had to.

Nancy closed her eyes, but this didn’t protect her from the obvious conclusion: These perverted women were sisters from the Ethical Suicide Service. This upset her so much that she asked loudly and bitterly, “How can you violate your oaths like this?”

She was promptly hurt so badly that she doubled up and burst into tears.

When she straightened up again, there was plenty more she wanted to say, but she kept her mouth shut. She speculated
silently as to what on Earth could make Suicide Hostesses turn against every concept of human decency. Nothingheadedness alone couldn’t begin to explain it. They had to be drugged besides.

Nancy went over in her mind all the terrible drugs she’d learned about in school, persuaded herself that the women had taken the worst one of all. That drug was so powerful, Nancy’s teachers had told her, that even a person numb from the waist down would copulate repeatedly and enthusiastically after just one glass. That had to be the answer: The women, and probably the men, too, had been drinking gin.

·    ·    ·

They hastened Nancy into the middle frame house, which was dark like all the rest, and Nancy heard the men giving Billy the news. It was in this news that Nancy perceived a glint of hope. Help might be on its way.

The gang member who had phoned Nancy obscenely had fooled the police into believing that they had captured Billy the Poet, which was bad for Nancy. The police didn’t know yet that Nancy was missing, two men told Billy, and a telegram had been sent to Mary Kraft in Nancy’s name, declaring that Nancy had been called to New York City on urgent family business.