A Flea’S Notebook

By August Franza

Jerry Floh ('flea' in German) is invited to a Southampton mansion by influential Buzzy Powers, a guy he knew growing up when his name was Buzzy Pulsky. Jerry has a bad memory of Buzzy and now, twenty-five years later, they have met by chance. Buzzy has risen to success in Hollywood while Jerry grinds out his life as a suburban teacher with a wife, Flo, and three kids. His stay at the mansion, which lasts much longer than the agreed-upon weekend, turns Jerry's world upsidedown from which he barely escapes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499027020

August Franza

August Franza has published 27 novels and is planning to make them an even 30.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

How much?

Twenty-five-nine-ninety.

How much?

You heard me. Twenty-five… . Twenty-six, she said.

Oh, Christ.

Don’t worry, she said, we’re not going anywhere. We’ll just stay here the rest of our lives and rot.

Rot? This isn’t Brooklyn, remember.

There are other slums, she said.

In your head. It’s in your mind, Flo.

Look, Jerry, when we moved in here, we said five years, right? We’re going on eight.

So what? Is the house adequate?

No, she said. It’s inadequate, and I hate it.

What’s inadequate about it?

Everything! I’ve outgrown it. I’m not going to put another nickel into it.

Twenty-six, he muttered. That’s double what we’re paying on now.

So get a second job.

My ass.

God forbid you exert yourself.

What do you mean exert myself? What the hell’s the matter with you?

I want a new house, Flo cried. These walls are closing in on me.

What’s this second job crap?

Very simple. Teach nights, too. A lot of teachers do it. Sam does it.

Is that so? Well, I’m not busting my chops for a bigger house.

I know. I know. You’ve had eight years to prove it.

What’s bugging you, Flo?

Nothing, nothing. Call the kids.

What do you mean nothing? I walk in the door and you start!

Jerry, I just want to move, that’s all. Remember what we said when we first moved in?

Yeah, yeah. We said a lot of things, Jerry said. Where is this solutiontoallyourproblems, anyway?

Forget about it. Call the kids.

Where is it?

I said forget about it. Will you please call the kids. Dinner’s ready.

Tell me where it is first.

What’s the difference where it is?

Will you just tell me where?

Mars, Flo shouted.

Oh, for crissakes, what’s the matter with you? You have to have total agreement with all your plans?

I don’t have to do anything, Flo said. We’ll just rot here.

What about the little matter of affording it?

I’m sorry I brought it up. Now will you please call the kids and let’s eat this goddamn dinner.

He went to the front door, opened it and roared his children’s names.

StevieKathyJaaaaanet!

It was dusk and the suburban street was deserted. There was a glow in the west but Jerry noticed there were no rays of sun highlighting the blocks particular beauties. (Flo was right, there): the unkempt lawn next door with its scattered patches of green between large wastes of sand and stone; the emaciated concentration camp shrubbery; the streaked shingles of the house across the street, its Tower of Pisa mailbox and dangling-on-the-edge-of-the-world name-plate; the peeling trim and banged-in garage door of another. He thought about the sun at the beach, dropping beyond the sound, casting a blinding orange wake over the quiet water. But this was not an evening to recommend a trip.

StevieKathyJaaaanet! he roared again. Where the hell did they go?

If they’re gone off the street again, I’m gonna beat them til they’re blue, she yelled. I’ve warned them a million times.

!StevieKathyJaaaannetttt!

Here I am on a street that was just made, he thought; not like Brooklyn where all the streets were made in history, were always there, didn’t have to be thought about. Eight years ago this land was producing Long Island potatoes, scrub oak, mountain laurel, dogwood trees. The land was flat, the trees short, rising no more than ten or twelve feet into the chilly spring air which did not encourage leaves until May, sometimes the second week. Following nature’s examples, the developers built cheap but hardy ranches and colonials around surviving clusters of wan scrub oaks for the city dwellers who were able to migrate sixty miles east of Brooklyn into a simulated American TV community where the families would be raised to fight America’s wars from.

StevieKathyJaaaannnneeeetttttttt!

They emerged slowly, carelessly, from three different backyards, each preoccupied with an event, or fact, or activity. Kathy stared curiously at something in a coffee can. Stevie, dropping them from his chubby hands, counted and recounted a stack of frayed cards with the intensity of a banker; Janet rode home via her cartwheels and flips performed across the stretches of variously kept lawns.

Hey, you kids, Jerry yelled with mock authority, dinner’s ready!

They held to their own paces. As the sun sank, they looked dark and lonely to Jerry, like wanderers. He wouldn’t mind being a wanderer like them, possessed by, enchanted by some detail of a dream.

As they passed the front door, they each paused to greet their father who was wearing his familiar wrinkled sports jacket and dull cordovan loafers.

What’s in the can, Kathy?

Pretty color rocks, she said, showing them.

Yeah, Jerry said, but don’t bring’em in the house; there’s enough in the house.

Well, I want to, she said.

No. Put’em behind the bushes. Nobody’ll take’em.

She backed off the stairs with a scowl on her face and disappeared behind a large free-growing juniper bush.

What’s for dinner? Stevie asked.

London broil.

I hate London broil.

Well, you’ll eat it anyway.

No, I’m not, he pouted.

Janet, Flo said, wash up and get in here and set the table.

Why must I set the table every time? Janet shouted. What about stupid Stevie?

Don’t ask questions. Just do as you’re told, miss.

Stevie, flinging his jacket onto a living room chair, smirked in triumph.

Freak! Janet yelled. Freak! Freak!

Janet! Get in here now!

Oh, Mommy, Stevie’s always getting away with murder!

Come on… .

Janet made faces at Stevie.

Freak! she screamed.

All right, that’s enough!’ Jerry shouted. You keep this up and I won’t play tickle machine with you."

The kids moaned grievously and shut up.

*

8:55.

The martinet makes sure you see him look at the clock.

Well, there he is, Carney said. What’s the matter? They hide the expressway on you.

Tie-up, Ralph.

Apologize to Obie, not me, Ralph said. He covered your class. You better move in closer, Jerry, or stay over at Obie’s; go home on weekends.

It’s always clear sailing until… .

Don’t believe your eyes, Carney said. Read the statistics. The Island’s getting crowded. Don’t believe your eyes.

Fuck that, Jerry said to himself. I’m not leaving any earlier than I have to. Not for this job, not for you, not for Flo, not for anybody. What is this shit, anyhow? You gotta have a grip, a real grip on what’s going on, a grip on yourself when you are by yourself and you are looking at yourself and feeling the life in yourself. The flow has got to feel right If it’s not right for you, where are you? Don’t believe your eyes. Then what do you believe?

*     *     *

When you travel on the expressway daily, you begin to notice things you would never notice on a narrow two-lane, tree-lined street. Even though an immense dullness has seized you, making you wonder at exit 51 why you didn’t see 52-53-54 or 55, other objects occupy you at the edges of consciousness. Tires. Back-up lights. Nosepickers. Smokers. Talkers. Sleepers. Readers. Car finishes lavished with care. Cars that haven’t been cleaned since they left Detroit. Bumper stickers.

Bumper stickers. The only means of communication on expressways. Support this. Watch out for that. Do this. Don’t do that. Notice this. Get a load of that. Talk, talk, talk. Would there be bumper stickers if there were no expressways?

The solitary drivers all have one face. Immobile. Fur-rowed. Vacant with unshed sleep. You wonder if you’ve been seeing more St. Christopher statues than usual. You realize that this morning there’s hardly a woman on the expressway. Lullaby and good night. That’s why they live longer, don’t give me that shit. It’s all men, men with tight white collars, their jackets flapping behind them on their coat hooks like sides of beef. Unshaven men in work clothes, their bare arms jutting out like sculptures into the cool morning air.

You maneuver to make time, but soon the tie-up traps you and thousands of cars come to a halt on this concrete tongue unrolled from the city’s mouth. Across the median, heading east into the climbing sun, cars and trucks fly past insultingly.

Stall, stop, go, break, wait, wait wait. You smell fumes and

THE SECRETARY OP STATE AROSE

you wonder about all the pollution and what it’s doing to your lungs. How do they measure the amount of fumes released by these thousands of cars (and what about the guys at the toll booths?) And how did you get here, all of you, stalled on the expressway, thousands of expensive machines protected

 . . . . you gotta get a grip on… .

by St. Christopher medals?

Despite your attempt to conceal the reality, each year the drive takes you longer and is more arduous and dangerous. You know you had it coming, that February accident on the ice and snow coming off the exit ramp. Seventy miles a day for ten years will eventually lead you into somebody’s bumper, front fender, side door, not to mention grimmer things. But it’s your way of life. It’s what you bought, isn’t it? You can’t walk it; a motor scooter is out; there’s no public transportation; there’s no public; we’re all private.

THE SECRETARY OP STATE AROSE

AND WAS INFORMED OF AN

You cut out of the middle lane and slip your dented, paint-chipped Volks into the left one behind a Caddie with projectiles on its fenders. A blond man is at the wheel, his head tilted, his strong neck tight in a collar. The blond hair. Is it Buzzy Pulsky? Blood fills your face. My God, Buzzy Pulsky! When was the last time you thought of that guy? Sonuvabitch! He got married, you heard, and has a family, too, so that ought to prove something. Is that Buzzy Pulsky?

EMERGENCY CABINET MEETING.

HE, A FASTIDIOUS MAN, SHAVED CLOSE,

INSPECTED HIS CLOTHES, AND BREAKFASTED ON

POACHED EGGS, TOAST AND COFFEE.

You cruise up to the Caddie, just as close as you can get, but he’s looking the other way. Turn, you bastard. Turn and look at me now that we got steel and years between us. The rear fenders and the lights are rockets, wings, projections mounted in an attack position. You must be doing all right, seeing what you’re driving. Who just said, Don’t believe your eyes? Observe my shitload and you are observing me.

WHILE SMOKING, HE READ TWO REPORTS,

AND SCANNED THE NEW YORK TIMES.

HE WAS DRIVEN TO THE SITUATION

ROOM IN TEN MINUTES.

He was back on the old block. Buzzy’s mother and father worked and he was the only child. They lived in a basement apartment of a two story house down the block from Jerry’s. Mrs. Pulsky was a withdrawn woman whose only expression Jerry could remember was a shy smile. Mr. Pulsky was tall and serious looking. He had a dark face. Jerry heard he drank a lot and used to beat up Mrs. Pulsky.

He had trouble believing that. She would have yelled, or called the cops, wouldn’t she? Buzzy would have told him about it.

Hey, you know what? My father’s been beating my mother up again.

No, shit. What for?

Ah, she gets on his ass when he comes home drunk and he smacks her around good and hard.

No. It didn’t seem likely that Buzzy would tell him. So what did he do, suffer in silence? Your father beats up your mother: do you watch it, do you hear it? Do you make believe you aren’t home? Does he threaten you too? Mr. Pulsky was a big strong man and dark all around: hair, face, eyes. Buzzy got his blondness from his mother. He had that sorta shy smile, too.

You tell anybody about this I’m gonna break your ass. You hear me! Break your ass! Not even your best friend! This is your family and what goes on here is our business and nobody else’s!

No. Buzzy wouldn’t tell him.

Turn, you bastard, turn! Let me see you full face. Is it you?

No matter what Jerry did, the guy wouldn’t look at him. He got a profile, even a three-quarters, but not a full-face. Jerry pulled ahead, dropped a little behind, came even with him, but he couldn’t get his attention. All he needed was a second of his attention, a straight-on, full-face look and he would know for sure whether it was Buzzy Pulsky or not, the rat bastard.

THE SECRETARY OF STATE BUSINESS, RE: CUBA, 1962.

"WHO WAS EVER CONSOLED IN REAL TROUBLE

BY THE SMALL BEER OF LITERATURE AND SCIENCE?"

J.H. NEWMAN

You’ve got something there, John Henry, I’ve got to admit. You’ve got to get a grip on.

What is this shit in Cuba, now?

THE SECRETARY OP STATE A ROSE… .

Does he have thorns? Is he a red one, a white one?

What is this shit in Cuba, now?

He plunged ahead of the Caddie.

Come on, you rat bastard, look at me! Look at me!

MISSILES IN CUBA… . RUSSIAN SHIPS… .

POSSIBILITY OP BLOCKADE… .

He tapped the button on the extreme right. More Newman.

"WE ARE NOT SENT INTO THIS WORLD FOR

NOTHING… ."

The face ignored him. Was he listening, too? He was hearing it, too, maybe:

THE SECRETARY OP STATE AROSE… .

What’re we gonna get this planet shot out from under us? Turn around and go home and fuck the rest. What good would it do? Get a grip on. I gotta see if that’s Buzzy. Gotta.

Come on down to my house, Buzzy said. I wanna show you a new game I got.

He crossed the street with Buzzy. It was hot out and Buzzy just had on dungarees. His naked back and arms were brown and his hair was almost bleached of color. He was a good soft quiet guy to get along with.

The basement apartment was dark and cool. The game was in Buzzy’s room and he invited Terry to look at it on his bed. It was a Big Apple Set that Jerry had always wanted for himself.

Buzzy sprawled on the bed and so did Jerry. Then Buzzy drew covers over them and after a few quick movements showed Jerry his cock. Jerry looked at the big stiff thing disinterestedly. The Big Apple Set was what attracted him.

Jerry pushed some of the covers away.

Touch it, Jer, Buzzy whispered, g’head.

Let’s play the game, Jerry said. What’re you doin’?

Okay. Okay, in a minute. Take yours out. Let’s measure them. Come on.

Then can we play the game?

Yeah, yeah, Buzzy said huskily. Then we’ll play the game.

Jerry took his out. It was standing up stiff, too, but it wasn’t as big as Buzzy’s. Buzzy’s touched his. They were funny looking together like that.

Wait a minute, Buzzy said, taking Jerry hand and drawing it towards his cock.

Jerry pulled away. Hey, come on!

You sunuvabitch, Jerry said, even with the Caddie. Look at me. Was it Buzzy Pulsky? Would Buzzy Pulsky be driving a Cadillac?

What’s the matter with you? Jerry asked.

Buzzy pulled a blanket over himself and the bed shook. Then Buzzy was still but breathing heavily.

What’re you doin’? Jerry said.

I’m goin’.

Wait, wait, Buzzy said. Before Jerry knew it, Buzzy’s hand was on his cock.

Just lemme stroke it, come on, Buzzy said. It won’t do no harm.

It was nice. His legs were spread, his cock was up in the air and Buzzy was rubbing it. When he felt himself climaxing and spurting, he didn’t care anymore.

Holy shit, Buzzy said, Look at it go. It’s going all over the place.

Buzzy released Jerry’s cock which jumped up and down with each spasm while shooting stuff into the air.

Jeez, you hit the ceiling, Buzzy said. He pushed Jerry over on his side. Cover yourself.

Jerry climaxed on the Big Apple Set.

Hey, Buzzy said, you got the game all wet.

What is this stuff, anyway? Jerry said.

It’s just waste product, Buzzy said. It’s just getting rid of waste.

It’s all over the Apple, Jerry said.

I’ll clean it off with a handkerchief.

Buzzy put on a light.

Jeez, it’s all over the lampshade, too. You hit the lampshade. You gotta cover yourself. I could shoot across the room if I wanted to.

Let’s go out, Jerry said, buttoning up his pants. No, wait, Buzzy said, grabbing Jerry’s hands. He had a strange look in his eyes, a kind of expression Jerry had never noticed in a person’s face before. Play with the game. Turn over on the bed. G’head.

Whaddya mean?

Just for a minute. Get on your stomach and spread your legs a little. This is fun. G’head. I’ll give you the set if you want.

Jerry tried to recall what the game was all about, but he couldn’t remember. Thinking back twenty-five years, all he could glimpse was an open colorful board which captivated his interest, and Buzzy. Buzzy was bothering him.

Jerry spread his legs begrudgingly and then he felt something like Buzzy’s finger slide into his rear end.

Hey, he said, trying to turn over.

Hold it, Jerry, hold it, Buzzy said. He was begging. Just hold it a second, all right? The Big Apple Game’ll be yours.

It was an odd sensation. Not only didn’t it hurt, there was a tinge of pleasure to it.

That’s good, that’s good, said Buzzy through his labored breathing. Just hold still.

Then Buzzy was pushing faster and faster and the thing in his rear end felt harder and harder, and then Buzzy let out a yell, and then he was panting a lot.

Okay? Jerry said, looking over his shoulder.

I’m finished, Buzzy said between heavy breaths. It’s okay.

Jerry felt the thing withdraw.

Now let’s play, he said.

Yeah, yeah, Buzzy said, gagging.

Can I really keep the game? Jerry asked.

Yeah, Buzzy said, standing on the bed to clean off the ceiling. Listen, promise you won’t say anything and I’ll let you have the set for a week.

Is it gonna be ruined? Jerry asked.

No, no. It’ll dry off. This stuff doesn’t stain. It just gets a little stiff.

Wha’d you call it? Waste?

Yeah, waste. You gotta get rid of it. But if you put it in a girl, she’11 get a baby.

What was he talking about?

I’ll meet you outside, Jerry said, collecting the game. Hurry up, will you?

The guy just wouldn’t look over.

You rat bastard, Jerry yelled. Look at me!

The Caddie shot ahead and there was nothing Jerry could do about it.

Jerry kept the game longer than a week, but was that any reason for Buzzy to call his mother and tell her that Jerry was showing his cock all over the neighborhood. God, what a beating he got. Buzzy, said he never called. Why would he call?

Well, then, somebody in the neighborhood had it in for Jerry because people were getting calls from Jerry Floh saying that he’d like to fuck your old lady and that he was jerking off in front of people’s houses.

It had to be Buzzy. Who else could it be? Just because he kept the Big Apple set longer than a week? Or was it because it really did get stained and Buzzy was wrong about the waste not staining? After that, Jerry never liked Buzzy anymore. They weren’t real friends after that.

Buzzy moved out of that dismal cellar apartment with a lot of darkness and mustiness in it and moved on to Avenue N, above Rocco’s Poultry. For years after, whenever he was on the way to the bus stop, he saw Mrs. Powers staring out of one window and Mr. Powers looking grouchily out of the other, one arm on the sill and the other supporting his dark face. They were like two painted pictures there, long after Buzzy left or disappeared. They never owned a home.

Buzzy got him into his first big trouble and it was all his fault. He never really understood it, but then he was out of his life and things went on.

THE SECRETARY OF STATE AROSE

‘The plant’ was Jerry’s term for the college he taught at. He refused to mouth the euphemisms other instructors used to mask their genteel poverty. He preferred to see himself as a poorly paid bureaucrat, exploited by the public, by adminis—’trators’ and, worst of all, by a jargon completely out of touch with reality. ‘Persona’, ‘figura’, ‘mode’, ‘periodicity’, ‘archetype’ and the rest of the cant were just so many pieces of darkness. Jerry was known to be too eager to slice through intellectual self-indulgence. With this weapon, he had effectively alienated himself from most of the staff, but not enough of the student body to give anybody the kind of evidence needed to fire him.

His 8 o’clock class awaited him, if such words could be used, with their usual sleepy, brooding disposition. At the door a sentinel watched in anticipation of announcing the good news at 8:15 that Floh wasn’t bustling down the corridor with his fat briefcase banging against his leg. But after so many latenesses, Jerry was on time this morning and he turned to business without amenities.

I’ve read your papers and they’re just as bad as the last batch, he began. Some of you are not going to make it through this course because you simply don’t know how to write and you won’t make the effort to do better.

It’s a film course, isn’t it? he heard a voice say. Were they going to have that battle again or should he ignore the shot?

Now I hate to be so blunt, he continued, deciding to be deaf to the thrust, but you’ve got to face reality, even at eight o’clock in the morning. Some of you are illiterate.

A strange titter ran through the class of 31 students.

"Yes, it may sound funny, but it’s really appalling! So we’re dispensing with our discussion of WILD STRAWBERRIES and you’re going to do these papers over in class!"

Fuck! he heard from the back.

Right now! he shouted.

The class moaned so loud, he feared a rebellion.

Ooohhhh, Mr. Floh, let’s talk about the film, a voice pleaded. It was good. We’ll do these at home.

Nahh, the film sucks, he heard. It’s dull.

Come on, Mr. Floh, Larry Murray said. Can’t we discuss the film?"

Bergman’s a drag, he heard.

Was there nothing he could do?

I’m sorry, Jerry said, "but you’ll do it now! If you took your academic obligations more seriously, this wouldn’t be happening."

It’s a film course, not a writing course, John Esposito said with a transistor radio to his ear.

Look, John, Jerry said, every English course is a writing course. You ought to know that by now. Furthermore, this is a college, not a high school. You have to get that clear. Just because this is a community college doesn’t mean we don’t have standards. You’ve gotta be able to write clear, coherent prose. If you can’t do it, you can’t pass this course.

I took a film course, not a fucking writing course, he heard from the back.

"Why is it so hard to understand? You are adults, you know, and if you want to continue in this college… . Will you please shut that thing off, Esposito!"

Esposito lowered the translator, but didn’t turn it off.

There’s a report Esposito said they found missiles in Cuba. The Russians are arming Castro.

"I don’t care what’s happening! Jerry said. You’re gonna rewrite those papers, even if it’s the end of the world! Miss Downs, please give these papers out!"

Because his legs were like jelly, he was about to sit down when Esposito said, Kennedy’s talking on TV tonight.

He dragged himself to his desk.

Shut it off and keep it off, Esposito.

The world’s gonna blow, Esposito sneered, and you don’t want to know about it.

Write, Mr. Esposito, and the rest of you. Just write!

When are we gonna discuss WILD STRAWBERRIES? he heard.

*     *     *

He fell into a corner chair, sank himself into it, and raising his hand to his brow to cover his eyes, turned himself from the knots of faculty members talking, smoking, laughing. Over what, Jerry couldn’t begin to imagine. They all appeared to have one thing in common, though. Control. Plenty of control. Jerry turned away in disgust.

Hearing O’Brien’s voice, he looked up.

Feeling better? He patted his shoulder. Come on, kid.

Harry was in his fifties and he seemed continually compelled to remind Jerry of his youth.

Not so hot. Listen, Harry, thanks for covering my class. I really needed that break.

All right. Don’t mention it, Harry said. We all get under the weather. You gonna be able to make the meeting?

What is it now? Jerry asked wanly.

Big seminar. Big names. They want everybody there. Semantics, Communications, Media.

What big names?

Harry counted them off on his fingers.

I better stay then, Jerry said. But Christ, I don’t really want to.

*     *     *

He recognized the three experts from TV and the newspapers: Professor Labrev, bald, mustachioed, unkempt, looking very much like a man who is fiendishly committed to being a mess; Professor Macaron, small, suave, and tight; Professor Movitz, with flowing Einsteinian hair, Doctor of Philosophy turned movie producer. Because of his movie work, Jerry considered Movitz the most interesting, but the present hole in his soul could not even be filled with Movitzian insights. What could now, with the Russians and Americans about to collide? Jerry Floh had an earthquake in his head and his stomach on fire.

Tom Anhanger, cultural hustler and elbow-greaser, was doing the MCing. Tom took it all at face value when he dealt with people. In the classroom, with a text in front of him, Tom was all critical apparatus; a probing code-breaker. But he had it all wrong; he had it backwards; upside down. The thing was to try and break the code at the time it was being sent, not ten fifty, one hundred, or twenty-five hundred years later.

Tom looked smart and cool in his sports jacket with leather elbow patches for his elbowing. The red light went on and he smiled into the TV camera. And the video tape started rolling.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Tom Anhanger and this is The Changing Word. Today’s program deals with a revolution, an unseen revolution that is affecting you and me—the communications explosion. With us today are three important evaluators of that revolution—two in person and one via satellite. Now to introduce our guests, let me begin with, as it were, the spokesman for the communications revolution, the brilliant and controversial Professor Louis Labrev. He is currently Director of the Center for Direction in Communications at International University. Professor Labrev is the author of UNDERSTANDING COMMUNICATION, UNDERSTANDING YOURSELF, and UNDERSTANDING ME.

"Our next guest, is Professor Vito Macaron of the University of Bologna, a noted philologist and semanticist with special expertise in the English language. He is the author of THE SEMANTICS OF SEX, LANGUAGE UNDER YOUR SKIN and its sequel, LANGUAGE AT THE TOP OF YOUR PSYCHE. His new work, to be published in the fall, is entitled SILENT LEVEL ENCOUNTERS AND THE EPIDERMIS.

"And finally, on the monitor, from an isolated Pacific island, Max Movitz, the Hollywood producer, and former professor of philosophy at Heidelberg from which he fled the Germans in 1932. Professor Movitz is one of the world’s most notable pessimists.

I would now like to begin by asking Professor Labrev to summarize his position regarding the impact of the new media on our culture.

Jerry wished he had Esposito’s small transistor up against his ear so he could avoid a blind-side tackle of nuclear war. He didn’t like being the last to hear.

Professor Labrev

I first want to make it clear that I have no position. I consider myself an explorer rather than a judge or finder. Having a point of view is stultifying. It’s only a defensive position. You won’t discover a thing from having a point of view. I begin with the observable fact that we are returning to iconography and we are witnessing the death of the printed word. It created the technology of western society by creating a fragmented, linear, individualistic, culture of expansion. We are returning to the image, the allatonceness through the creation of electronic media where things are simultaneous rather than sequential, implosive rather than explosive, creative of wholeness rather than specialization, where the media are replacing limited sensory, reaction with the full interplay of all the senses. We are becoming interdependent. The world is a shtetl… .

Max Movitz

. . . . a schtinking stetl!

Professor Labrev

Well, that’s a judgment. The world is a stetl but we continue to think in our old ways even while we are being transformed.

Max Movitz

They burned the stetls down, Professor.

Professor Labrev

But from the ashes rose the phoenix of electronic media.

Max Movitz

No, sir. From the ashes has risen the Emptiness, cloaked in language such as you use.

Professor Macaron

I find your language somewhat inexact and ambiguous, Professor Labrev. I would like to put two questions to you which I think you have the obligation to answer.

Professor Labrev

I don’t consider obligations, I am an explorer.

Professor Macaron

Nevertheless they are: How do you know these things? Can you tell us how you know?

Professor Labrev

Simply look at baseball’s relationship to TV. Baseball is linear; that’s why the Dodgers moved to L.A. Because of the advent of TV, the linear experience did not fit the allatonceness of the new medium. You just have to look around you.

Professor Macaron

Your categories are not all-embracing, Professor. Sex, for instance will remain individual and a one-at-a-time activity. Of course… .

Professor Labrev

Haven’t you heard of the circle jerk, Professor? There is a prime example of allatonceness. And isn’t it interesting that the circle jerk is a creation of the age of iconography which has survived the age of print?

Tom Anhanger

Gentlemen, I would rather move on to Professor Labrev’s view that the new electronic environment devours people, eats them alive. We are cannibals, he says. He calls it the Technology of Self-Eat.

Professor Labrev

Yes. Something like peeling an onion from the inside out.

Professor Macaron

Is this what is happening to the individual?

Professor Labrev

We eat ourselves. And our neighbors.

Professor Macaron

What if I refuse to be eaten?

Professor Labrev

You can’t. That’s the allatonceness I’m talking about. All you can do is understand why you’re being eaten.

Professor Macaron

And why is that?

Professor Lebrev

I don’t repeat myself. I have no position and I don’t repeat myself.

Tom Anhanger

Professor Movitz, do you care to add anything here?

(Max is asleep in a wicker chair on his Pacific Island. A hand taps him awake.)

Max Movitz

I’m sorry but words put me to sleep. I’m sorry to say it, but Professor Labrev’s views are further indication of our descent into Emptiness. His philosophy says Don’t look. Just think. Don’t observe what this century has done!

Professor Macaron

I agree. Language is not only inexact; it is unsilent. This is the level of real meaning: the level of silent encounter.

Max was his father. Olympian. Detached. And True. Observe. Observe what the century has done. Now let us talk. Let me decode the code-makers.

Professor Macaron

I talk about silent encounter in my latest book.

Max Movitz

For six hundred pages, Professor Macaron. The world exists. Language can never meet it; never confront it; never see it. An image made by a machine is a vast improvement over man. Man cannot help lying.

Professor Labrev

No, You are merely hiding your Romanticism, Professor Movitz. I believe in Electricity.

Max Movitz

Isn’t that a position?

Professor Labrev

Position? Would you call orgasm a point of view?

Professor Macaron

You say all language is deception. Shall we be silent then?

Max Movitz

It is impossible for man to be silent, he is such a liar and he has such a need to exculpate himself. So let him talk, but let us not be childish enough to assume that the talk has any meaning.

Jerry Floh

I can’t believe my eyes. I can’t believe my ears! What, then? I ride the Expressway every day—long lonely zippers in the trousers of life… .

Max Movitz

The world exists.

Professor Macaron

Seek the silent encounter.

Professor Labrev

I have no position.

Max Movitz

Return to iconography, or pornography: it doesn’t matter.

Professor Macaron

Are you unnecessarily defended against anal intercourse?

Jerry Floh

I have a wife and a family in suburbia. I don’t know a thing about them. I don’t know a thing about myself. I teach empty kids. I’ve begun to hate. I try to rise but only succeed in crawling on my belly—and it burns. I do not love anyone. I ride lonely roads. I seek shadowy images, I’m falling down.

*     *     *

Jerry, if you don’t get up, I’m gonna get mad, Flo Floh said.

I’m dreaming, Jerry muffled.

Then, stop. Get up! Wake up! Enough, now.

I can’t, Flo.

You’ve got to, she said.

Flo was very responsible. When she said a thing, she said it. Meant it. Flo would never dive into bed the way he had. Head first. Under. No surfacing.

Who’s Buzzy Powers? she asked.

WHO?

Buzzy Powers.

I don’t know. I knew a Buzzy when I was a kid but he wasn’t Powers. Who called?

Buzzy Powers, she said bending the words with irritability. Who is he?

Wow.

Do you know him?

"I’m