"They're so cute when they're sleeping," I said. “And nice shot, by the way. The semi-mythical one-strike knockout. Perhaps you should make a series of martial arts videos. I hear it's a lucrative enterprise.”
But his mind was elsewhere. Aquiver with rage, he glared at the hated shop, one crooked finger pointed like a scorpion’s sting. My gaze followed the accusing digit to a blinking neon sign, which flashed the legend “All Things Scunci.” Hanging in the plate glass window beneath it -- and resembling nothing so much as a disembodied anus -- was an inner-tube-sized replica of a scunci. A horror of foil and floss, it dangled from the ceiling like a child's tire swing. Within the otherwise empty shop, I spotted racks and racks of scuncis of every conceivable hue and thickness, some as fine as spider silk, others nearly as thick as bungee cords. Behind the counter, a listless, bespectacled androgyne in a faded plaid button-down lounged against the wall, leafing through the previous week's issue of People. Noting the creature's close-cropped hair, I concluded that it would never need its own merchandise.
"Oh, do be progressive, Bill," I said. "Consider this yet another of the benefits of free trade: more choice for the consumer."
"And the stalls! The stalls! They're even worse!" he wailed, ignoring me again as he clawed at his hair. "Like that one over yonder! 'The Paperweight Pioneer'? What the fuck kind of name is that?"
"A right descriptive one, from the looks of it," I answered, however much I hated admitting it. The "booth" in question consisted of an unevenly stained replica chuck wagon. Instead of cookware and provisions, though, the proprietor had stocked the vehicle with paperweights of every description: crystal balls, imitation snow-globes, smiley faces, stylized buttocks -- even a few unpolished river stones epoxied to beer coasters.(These marketed as "folk art.") Perhaps sensing that he had nothing to fear from shoplifters, the owner - an obese, florid gent in a costume-shop cowboy outfit with a "Rainbow Pride" badge tacked to his vest in lieu of a sheriff's badge-- snored and started in a rocking chair that looked too rickety to bear his weight.
"I can see that this is upsetting you, Bill," I said, steering him in a different direction before he caught sight of the next booth, "Shits and Giggles." Under normal circumstances, he might have found the place amusing, but the incident with mall security had left him in an ill humor. As I was already familiar with the shop, I couldn't ignore the possibility of Bill going completely berserk at the sight. There was a fifty-fifty chance either way...
"Shits and Giggles" specialized in fecal-themed merchandise: flatware with turd-shaped handles of molded plastic; turd-shaped key-chains, paperweights, earrings and teething toys; even a pair of molded foam house-shoes, labeled "Shitheels." Not to be outdone by Wisconsin's "Cheeseheads," the booth stocked an array of headgear that, in Lovecraft's words, "I cannot and must not recall." There were bath sponges dyed brown, turd hand puppets; stuffed, plush turds; and an unspeakable board game: "Shit Happens." Worst of all, though, was a ceramic horror that appeared to be studded with peanuts. Judging by the product's name, "Rocky Road," I concluded that it was meant to be a serving dish for ice cream. Standing bolt upright behind the counter, the shopkeeper, a pale, malnourished young man, kneaded and twisted one of the plush turds, his knuckles white. His facial expression, which apparently hadn't changed since last I'd seen him, bore an unnerving resemblance to Richard Kasso's mugshot.
"Jaysus," I muttered to myself. "Guess I'm goin' back to Mangan's sister empty-handed, after all." I wished I could have shared the joke with Bill, but I thought I'd seen the shopkeeper playing in local drum circles on a few occasions. Given Bill's visceral hatred of drum circles... No. I resolved to keep the two as far apart as possible.
"Suppose we just stroll around and discuss what we've seen -- try to make sense of it?" I said to Bill. "I hear there's a new book stall on the next floor. Perhaps they'll have something interesting."
"Yeah," he said with a sigh. "I reckon gettin' all peripatetic an' readin' books beats the shit out of another goddamn assault an' battery charge."
"I couldn't agree more," I said. Looking over my shoulder, I noticed that the young proprietor of "Shits and Giggles" was holding one of his turd hand puppets aloft with one arm -- pale and twiggy as a birch sapling -- and viciously pounding it with a bony fist. His facial expression remained unchanged. In a way, I found the sight comforting -- at least Bill and I wouldn't attract undue attention...
We found the book stall, and all seemed well -- at first. The selection of titles was a little mainstream for my tastes, and I took a mild -- if immediate -- dislike to the proprietor. If it seems contradictory of me to describe a man as "cadaverous" and "corpulent" in the same sentence; then it's only because our species is maddeningly contradictory at times. His faded blue t-shirt rode up over a pale, hairless hemisphere of a belly, his wisp of a goatee hung nearly to his clavicular notch, and his eyes -- glistening but watery -- winked and blinked behind coke-bottle lenses. His hair was brownish, greasy, and drawn back in a ponytail even sloppier than my own. Worse still, a pimple in the crease just beside his left nostril fairly screamed to be expressed. The aforesaid irritants aside, though, I held my peace for Bill's sake.
Determining by his animated conversation on his cell phone, that the boy fancied himself a writer (and trying to suppress a rising surge of restless ennui), I asked if, perhaps, he had a copy of Nostromo.
"The title, sir," he snapped with ice in his eyes and voice, "is Alien. The ship was called the Nostromo. Oh, nothing, Abelard," he continued. "These dilettantes just..."
If the Celt truly labors beneath a curse (aside from his temper -- alternately mercurial and melancholic; his fondness for liquor, his propensity for violence, his dislike of order, authority and even coherence; his monstrous libido; and his loathing of gainful employment), it's his innate love of the written word.As the wild, Celtic blood of my fathers drained from my face and roared in my ears; and my hands clenched into war-club fists; I resolved in my heart of hearts and soul of souls to reprove the cretin, not for myself -- no! never for that! -- but for Chaucer and Malory, Milton and Spenser, Shakespeare and Jonson, for Swift and Donne, for Joyce, for Yeats, for Eliot, for Conrad, for Wolfe, even for Irving. (But never for Wilde. I never could abide the pretentious little faggot.) I ripped off my sunglasses, bored into his eyes with my own, and drew back as if to strike him. Despite his greater bulk, he cringed back, not even assuming a Hollywood kung fu stance.
"You and your kind," I hissed, "are an intellectual virus -- and I'm the antibody. And you call yourself a writer? A writer? Bullshit! Bullshit, I say! Your cheeks are full! Your eyes are neither hollow nor vacant, damn -- well -- damn -- uhm -- damn your eyes! There ain't the faintest whiff of booze, blood or despair about you (at that point, I launched myself across the counter, nostrils flaring and contracting by turns, in a last-minute 'reality check.' ) I've spent the last five minutes eavesdropping on your conversation, you smug philistine! I heard you say, with your own skinny lips -- and they're the only skinny parts of you, you buttery little beach ball of a man! -- that Lin Carter and Lester Del Rey were unappreciated -- for their profound insight into the human condition! What would you know of the human condition? You're more of an outcast from our species even than either of us!" I spat, grabbing for Bill -- who was no longer there. For a moment, I wished he had been; as, frankly, I didn't believe the last assertion, even as I made it. Consequently, I'd have found his menacing, homicidal glare and "Yeah, what he said!" reassuring.
Ignoring his absence, I continued: "Or perhaps you're the distilled essence of our species! Why, you miserable, technology-worshiping, fantasy-obsessed maggot! You haven't even the balls to be one of Eliot's 'hollow men,' or even the substance to grieve, as Yeats did, the conflict between man's will and his ultimate fate! You're a tragicomic nonentity! Comic in and of yourself, but tragic in that you can't apprend your own ludicrousness!
I raised my hand, but needn't have done so: his expression spoke volumes. I'd singled out a few subcultural stereotypes, but had otherwise only accused him of being human. In so doing, I'd convicted myself even as I'd indicted him. As the rage subsided, I turned to him and said "At least you have a soul, though."
"No he don't!" Screamed Bill, who had suddenly reappeared. "Lookit this shit!" In one hand was a New-Agey pop-psychology book, entitled Partial Re-Birthing Therapy. In the other was a slick hardcover entitled Aborting Your Inner Child.
"Just so Bill. Just so. Now race you to the fountain!"
I then turned on my heel and sprinted through the crowd, pausing only to point at a lone silhouette on the escalator and scream, "Stop, thief!"
"Yer on!" Bill screeched. "Last one there gotta pay the lap-dancers tonight!"
If nothing else, I'd saved a human life.
"I'm glad you're in a better mood," I said, a few moments later. "You know how I hate dealing with manic episodes on my own. It's such a lonely feeling: having so much fun, and yet being unable to share -- nay, even communicate -- it. By the way, do you suppose the mob hurt that guy? I wasn't wearing my contacts, so I had no idea that he was Middle Eastern -- until they caught him and he started pleading for his life in Farsi."
"I wouldn't worry about that, Dave-O," Bill replied. "And I wish you wouldn't feel that way. You're selling yourself short. Why, 'communicable' might as well be your middle name at times. I do understand loneliness, though. It's the performance artist's curse, as well."
As he spoke, he stared pensively at nothing in particular. A thin stream of water dribbled from each cuff of his leather jacket, and his damp pockets bulged with coins.
"Let's go, Billy-O," I said, taking to my feet. "We've business to attend to."
"Oh yeah! I nearly forgot!" he said. "But what about dessert? That's why we came here in the first place, ain't it?"
"All in good time. Did you come prepared?"
"I sure as hell did!" he said with a demented grin. Reaching into yet another of his pockets he retrieved two heavy rubber bands and two small bags of paper clips.
"Ah is purfoundly ale-yer-nated, in the romantical sense o' th' word," said he... and I believed him.
To be continued...