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The Coming of Autumn
I have left my eyes smiling
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After Sexton
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I have heard
of old men who smoke and fart and drink beer— yellow skin like parchment lines crusty skeletons as they creak creak creak through the remainder of their lives. I have seen their children— witnessed the raw results come upon the lack of virtue in their eyes. I have met women from the Upper East Side—they don't allow shoes in the house and hold their wine glasses with three fingers, own paintings by Dali knowing simply that he's famous. |
I have seen my share
of mouths, puckered, pursed and primed for action—I've witnessed many faces in different states but always I return to their eyes. Anxiety is embedded there, sadness reigns supreme. I have wondered who discovered this variety and dropped it here to thrive. Each of them inhales and lets out the same air and none of them could understand why they have been placed here to survive, cheering for existence, then clap clap clapping—done. |
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An Event Occurring Around Twilight (As the lights go up, two men are standing around center stage wearing beat-up overcoats and patched clothing. The scene is a street corner.) Harvey: (Looking about at the ground) Do you remember the pigeons being this fat? Leonard: Huh? Harvey: I said, do you remember pigeons being so fat. I mean, say ten years ago, the pigeons didn't seem so fat. Leonard: Ten years ago, you wasn't so thin. Harvey: Nah, they're fatter than they used to be. Look at them: lazy, clumsy, waddling about like penguins. They used to be agile. They used to know how to flit out of the way when you ran at them waving a stick. Leonard: Heh. S'pose you've got a point. Maybe they feed `em all the food we ain't gettin'. Harvey: Used to be whiter too. Leonard: You ain't turnin' inta' some kinda' whinin' old man on me are ya'? Harvey: I'm jus' sayin' they used ta' be whiter. Leonard: Yeah, an' I used to have a flat, an' you used to be a shop clerk, an' in the eighteenth century people would throw their shit on you from their windows. Harvey: `Zat right? Leonard: Yeah. Harvey: Where do you get all your little facts? Leonard: Dunno. Find `em. Lyin' around. Harvey: How do you find a fact lyin' around? Leonard: With a metal detector. Harvey: That's how you find money lying around. Leonard: `Bout the same thing, ain't they? Harvey: If ya' like. (Pause. A black man in a suit walks by. Leonard jingles a paper cup containing a few coins at him. He passes in silence. Harvey looks about again.) Fat black bastards! Leonard: It's not like white people give us money. Harvey: I was talkin' about the pigeons. Leonard: Oh. Harvey: I'm hungry. (Pointing at the ground) Look at `im. He ain't hungry. He's just struttin' about happy and fat as a fuckin' Upper West Side Jew. (Squatting down to the level of a pigeon and peering across stage.) Hey! Yeah, you. Where's all the food at? Where you gettin' all the food? Look at me! You know some secret place where I can get some soup? Hey! Where're the burgers, fatty? Leonard: Get up, Harvey, this's embarrassing. You're demeaning yourself. Harvey: (Getting really heated) The old bitches at the park feed you lots a grain? You waddle about their legs eatin' what they drop on the ground? Leonard: Harvey! Get up! C'mon, cut it out. Harvey: (Losing it) You like eatin' their old lady droppings? You like that old lady smell? You think you got yourself a fine gig? Leonard: (Pulling him up) Get up! Get a grip. Harvey: (Really hysterical at this point) No! It's fine. I'll suck up to the old ladies. Maybe I ain't no fuckin' aristocrat pigeon, but I bet I can suck myself up some bird feed to eat. Leonard: (Slaps him) Chill. Harvey: (His fire gone) I'm tellin' you, Leonard. The pigeon's've got it all figured out. They beat us. We're now at the bottom of the line, just underneath pigeon. Leonard: Y'know, in Iran, they like to throw acid at women if they get pregnant before they're married. The acid usually burns out their eyes and sears the skin off their faces. They usually come out looking like undead. Harvey: Eeuuuaaah! Jesus, Leonard! Leonard: Jus' tryin' ta' give ya' a little perspective, man. (Harvey sits down on the curb. A man walks by. They hold out their cups.) Leonard: Spare some change? Harvey: (Half singing) Brother c'n ya' spare a dime. Heh. Man: `M sorry. I haven't got a cent. Harvey: Ya' got a little grain, maybe? Man: What? Leonard: Nothing. (Man begins walking away. Sound of pigeons taking off.) Man: Man! Look at all those pigeons. (He exits. Leonard pulls out a shard of mirror and begins inspecting himself. The light on the stage is beginning to turn slowly from daylight to twilight.) Leonard: I need a shave. Maybe I should cut my hair short. Ya' think I should cut my hair? It might work on me. I could have a kind of James Dean look. Harvey: (Looks at him) Hard to picture maybe t's gettin' cold, ain' it. Leonard: You say that every night at about exactly this time. Harvey: Too bad we don't have a big coat of feathers, huh? Leonard: Too bad you're losing your mind to an avian, huh? Harvey: You don't see it. They've got us overwhelmed on every front. Leonard: Fortunately for us, there isn't a war on between the bums of New York and the pigeon population of New York. Harvey: Pah! I never thought you were the type to see only the surface. (He leans his head on Leonard and dozes off. Leonard sits there for a minute or so. The light is now bluish and clearly dusky. He looks up suddenly.) Leonard: Now that there is a fat pigeon. Harvey: (Stirring) Huh? Leonard: That one's fat. Harvey: (Looking over) Goddamn. It's gigantic. Leonard: Fattest pigeon I ever saw. Ugly too. Harvey: Black as soot. (Whispering) You still got that Swiss army knife? Leonard: Yeh. Why're you whispering? Harvey: Give it to me. Leonard: For what? Harvey: Give it to me! Leonard: (Hands it to him.) Here. Harvey throws the knife deftly across the stage. There's a squawk as of a dying pigeon and then a deep, powerful gurgling noise that shakes the stage.) Leonard: (In response to the squawk) What the fuck're doing? (And as he hears the second noise) What the hell was that?? Harvey: Got `im! (He gets up and walks over to just offstage. He kneels down towards the side of the stage to inspect the corpse. Leonard eventually becomes interested and walks over.) Harvey: You wanna make a fire and roast this sucker? Leonard: That thing? I'm not putting that in my mouth. What are you doing? Oh, man, that's disgusting! Harvey: Shhh. There's something inside it. Leonard: There's what!!? Harvey: Hold on, I almost got it. Leonard: For Chrissake man, just leave the thing alone. Harvey: (Darkly) Christ's got nothin' to do with it. (Pause, then, triumphantly) There! (He stands up, his hand covered in blood. He opens his hand.) Leonard: What the hell is it? (Pause.) Harvey: It's a Susan B. Leonard: What? Harvey: A Susan B. Anthony silver dollar. Leonard: Greedy little thing. Harvey: No. Look. It's too big to fit through the beak. Leonard: How else could it have gotten there? Harvey: Check for yourself.
Leonard: (He takes the Susan B. and squats down by the corpse. Stands up. Shakes his head.)
Harvey: Dunno, man, but we're up a dollar. Leonard: That's weird, man. Harvey: Odd thing. I see why you like metal detectors. Leonard: I think we should leave it here. Harvey: I think we should take it. (He grasps Leonard's hand and begins to walk. Leonard flinches as he finds that the hand is still soaked in blood, but he follows Harvey off stage. Light fades slowly, perhaps to darkness, perhaps to a dull red.) |
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Clamp metal siding around I
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I bring in the barbecue, and Slava suddenly starts talking to me about God. "Do you believe in God?" he asks me in a casual tone of voice. Meanwhile the boys are towering over the plate with the barbecue, grabbing the steaming meat, shoving each other and aiming for the largest pieces. In a few seconds the plate will be on the floor. "Don't push," I tell them. "You're not animals! One at a time, and not with your fingers! What are the forks for, decoration? And you can only have two pieces for now." I take the plate and put it in the center of the table. They look at me with disappointment and follow its path with their eyes. I distribute the pieces myself, along with napkins. The last measure has always been useless, but why not give it another try? Finally, they start eating, and I can breathe freely, at least for a minute. I've completely forgotten about Slava and his question. He repeats it, and I answer, unwillingly: "No, but I don't call myself an atheist; that's too extreme." Before I can continue, the boy quickly snatches a few pieces of meat in addition to the ones I already gave him. "Now put those back! I said everyone could only have two, and you're not an exception." (We have to leave some for tomorrow so Mom doesn't have to cook.) Slava looks at me and snorts with contempt, as though I have pronounced the most unjust and humiliating verdict in the history of the world; after a slight hesitation, he puts the pieces back. "I'm an agnostic; I doubt his existence." Hearing this, he looks at me intently, a sly smile quivering on his lips like an unasked question, a smile of conspiracy, a subtle sign of recognition. I love his smile: it makes him look like a little fox, but now it irritates me, for it is slightly tinted with irony: apparently, he is mocking me for my skepticism. Slava won a philosophical debate when I asserted that I could not be 100% sure of anything and he proved me wrong. Now he jumps at every opportunity to remind me of the incident. I am amused at his childish attempts, for I like to be admired, and mocking me Slava is charming and entertaining. But now I am completely exhausted, and he annoys me more than anybody else, perhaps because I expect his manners to be on the same level as his philosophical theories and forget that he is just a child (The word "just" before "child" is perhaps vulgar and undesirable, for many times I have thought that a child should be almost an end in itself, with his lovely spontaneity, directness, charm, originality and the uninhibited imagination. However, my two months with seven boys in the Poconos has proved the "just" to be inevitable: watching them eat spaghetti before we introduced the so-called "rules" left as much of an impression on me as their relentless questions.) The boys are getting out of control again. They are simultaneously shouting for more iced tea and barbecue, fighting for the chocolate-chip cookies, and imitating Duke Nukem trying to save somebody from the aliens. Of course, everybody is talking, or rather, shouting, all at once, so not a syllable is comprehensible. Slava is shouting at the top of his lungs, trying to recreate the series of groans emitted by the opponent of his favorite wrestler. If I don't stop this right now, my mom will come and yell at all of us, probably me first and foremost. The climax has reached its peak, and I hear the sound of glass falling to the floor. I turn around and see a cup lying on the floor, miraculously intact. Everyone is silent. I take the opportunity to speak and assert my authority: "You are behaving like seven little pigs." (Laughter.) "It's not funny." (More laughter, shameless, outrageous laughter, that has almost overtaken me in this absurd moment, when I should be doing anything but laughing.) I make a last attempt. "Fine. Do whatever you want. Shout, break our china, turn the house upside down. I won't bother you—you're absolutely free." (Trust and amazement on the faces of the more naïve. Blatant skepticism on the faces of the more experienced, who are waiting for more to come.) The tension of both types is exasperating, and I blurt out quickly, almost too simply: "If you don't behave right now, I'll tell my mom, and none of you would get to watch the movie!" Surprisingly, this works; they don't quiet down, of course, but the chaos is subdued, and there is something faintly resembling conversation going on. They start discussing their favorite types of candy. Relieved, I pour them their iced tea and sit down to rest. "Do your parents believe in God?" Slava suddenly asks me, meanwhile pouring barbecue sauce on his plate, and, of course, spilling it on the table. "You can't pour anything without spilling it! Should've asked me! Look at what you've done! You can't do anything right!" I holler at him. He says, "I'm on my spilling streak," and smiles blithely, not assuming the responsibility. I make Slava clean the table, but he does a lousy job and of course I have to clean up everything myself. The boys are laughing and teasing him, for he, once again, has proved himself to be the paragon of clumsiness. Slava doesn't seem to care; his face is emotionless as he stares into something on the wall and suddenly remembers his question: "Do your parents believe in God?" Though annoyed at him for causing another wave of turmoil, I wonder at his persistency and feel compelled to answer. "No." I'm not inclined to continue the conversation, for I have to care about too many things at once and don't have the time for such a profound subject as God; I make my answer purposefully short to cut off the proceeding questions. Suddenly Andrei runs up to me, screaming that "Tamara told us we could have another piece of barbecue." As soon as the Gospel has permeated the ears of the crowd, I receive seven tugs on my elbow. I sigh, tell everyone to sit down, and portion the meat. It's getting late, and I feel fatigue slowly taking over my body; the boys, on the other hand, are bursting with energy. The asymmetry of our energy levels leads to misunderstandings on both sides; this realization, though enlightening, does not help the situation. "Why not?" Slava asks me as I meet his eye and give him a piece of meat. "It's too complicated," I answer vaguely, and then understand that his question did not refer to my thought about energy levels but rather our ludicrously fragmentary conversation about God. Realizing that my statement makes sense in the context of our conversation, I continue, so as not to sound dismissive and indifferent, like most people who abound in generalizations. "In Russia most people don't believe in God because it wasn't allowed. Plus, there are personal reasons." "Which are?" As I'm about to answer, I notice the clamor of the voices rising to a supersonic level. "Wait, Slava," I say unnecessarily, for this is what he has been doing for the past two hours, and proceed to see to the matter. The boys are making fun of Andrei and calling him Mrs. Underwear because he is such a crybaby. Andrei does not defend himself and starts to sob, which provokes them even further. I personally dislike him, but it is tactless and unprofessional to allow him to be humiliated by his peers, especially in my presence, as I am one of the Authority. "Leave Andrei alone. Eugene, apologize. Andrei, stop crying: they won't tease you anymore." Eugene lets out a tentative, precarious "sorry" into the empty space between me and Andrei, not looking him in the eye. Naturally, Andrei does not accept the apology, and I have to instruct Eugene on how to apologize properly. Feeling like a movie director about to shoot a double, I prompt Eugene to try again. He does, this time looking Andrei in the eye. Not feeling up to the triple, wanting to end the spectacle, Andrei reluctantly but solemnly accepts the apology. The matter is settled, the noise is subdued, and I take the opportunity to assert my authority once again and find a useful outlet for their energy. "Everybody, go to your rooms and play: tomorrow we will have a championship in all the games for a prize. No, finish eating first." But they already have; and as soon as they hear about the prize, they dash off into their rooms with the speed of light, thirsty for competition. "And if you make too much noise, I will tell my mom," I scream after them. But they are gone, at least for a while, and I am left in peace. Slava stays, though. "You will help me clean up," I say to him and then regret my decision, remembering what a mess he made with the barbecue sauce. He does not hear me; he is considering something very carefully, his green eyes staring intently at one point on the wall. Remembering our "conversation," if it could be called a conversation, I attempt to finish my thought about my parents and religion: "My parents don't believe in God because they think they have collected enough evidence to deny his existence through their experiences in life." He nods, and continues thinking about something. I feel sorry I resumed the conversation, for notably his interest in the subject has waned; he made no comment about what I've said, and suddenly I feel disappointed, in spite of the fact that I didn't feel like talking for the whole evening. I sit down at the table and have some iced tea, waiting for Slava to finish. My headache stops momentarily, and the liquid in my throat elucidates my muddled thoughts. That's what I need: rest. Rest and silence, and a little solitude. I close my eyes to retain a sense of integrity and sit still for some time, listening to my own breath. After a while I open my eyes and see Slava's teeth ripping apart the meat with a ferocity unknown, with the vigor of a hungry animal, the swiftness of a war machine. His eyes are glowing; he has just come to a conclusion of vital importance. Looking me straight in the eye, Slava says: "I don't believe in God," and makes no further comment. Somehow I feel outraged by this rabid statement, for coming from a child it seems unseemly, audacious, and radical. I am no defender of God, but suddenly I feel an obligation to protect the interest of a long-established institution shamelessly offended by an ignorant child who knows naught of the timeless debates the entity has endured; after all, anything so controversial, whether real or illusionary, demands at least some respect due to its ability to provoke the imagination and inspire works of genius. "You You have no right, Slava. You can't make such a statement. All you are doing is copying what somebody else has said, namely my parents. You don't even know the arguments on both sides, and you formed your decision based on absolutely no evidence. You have no reasons of your own, or rather, no experience to confirm these reasons. Tell me, by the way, what are your reasons?" "I simply don't believe in Him," says implacable Slava with nonchalance. "Simply is not an explanation. You're too young, Slava, and stubborn as hell." "I'm stubborn as hell," he repeats with relish and a hint of irony. "As a matter of fact, you're not only stubborn but self-indulgent." "Yes," he echoes, and takes another bite, chewing very thoroughly. Finally I understand that I am being deceived. "Finish your meal, I can't wait for you all day. And you know what, Slava, you just want why do I even talk to you? You're such a waste of time!" He looks at me and is impeccably calm, feeling no need to explain anything and looking extremely satisfied with himself, his arms crossed, his back slightly slouched. Tapping out some melody with the knuckle of his thumb, Slava stares at the pigeon designs on his plate and starts to sing a tune from the Looney Toons. The foolish tune triggers a wave of hatred rising up to my throat; by this time I positively detest Slava. Just as I am about to tell him exactly what I think of him, Slava puts his plate into the sink and leaves. He has finished his act. I wash the dishes, read, and go to bed feeling cheated. Somehow there is something highly distasteful to me about trivializing God, but then I remember that I like doing that myself and realize that that is not the issue. Remember, I say to myself, they're all "just children." That does not help me, and I fall asleep with a sinking feeling of dissatisfaction. …In my dream Slava is talking to a young man in a purple velvet suit. The latter is smiling amiably and possesses exquisite manners. Slava looks at the man out of the corner of his eye and says, "I don't believe in God," completely out of context. This time, the trick doesn't work; the young man takes a bow and says, with a broad smile, "That would be me." Slava is flabbergasted and frightened out of his wits; the young man's appearance allows for no dishonesty or frivolity—besides, he seems to be radiating energy into the opaque aura of darkness surrounding him. The young man notices Slava's discomfort and says in a gentle voice: "Don't worry. I am a god only in this reality, which is really only an illusion. Nothing is inherently real; I am a god here and a butterfly somewhere else, so you don't have to believe in me; in fact, you are right in not believing in me, for I don't exist as such. Nothing exists, only the Mind, and when you realize this you will be enlightened and become a Buddha, infinitely free, made of clear white light. And now I have to depart from this land. You won't have any idea of what I've just told you, but somebody else will. But I shall leave you now with a clear message: `Nothing is real and nothing to get hung about. Strawberry fields forever.'" Upon finishing his speech, the young man blithely disintegrates into the air, filling it with a golden light. Slava lingers for a while and then flies off into the mist. He is free. In the morning I wake up to the golden light, and instantly remember my dream. I smile, remembering the childish argument, and go to wake everybody up. Everybody is already up, however, except Slava, who likes to sleep late. When I enter his room he is already awake and dressed. "Hi Slava," I say to his blank, sleepy face. He looks at me and says, in place of the usual greeting, "I just had a dream about God." "What a coincidence," I reply, and tell him my dream. Slava doesn't comment and starts singing "Strawberry Fields," completely out of tune, as always. "Are you a hundred percent sure that the young man was God?" Slava suddenly asks me with a crooked smile. He's awake now. If he is throwing around sarcastic remarks, that means he's awake. He started singing only to distract my attention and catch me unawares. "I don't know about me, Slava, but you were definitely sure. Will you ever stop asking me these nonsensical questions?" "No," he answers plainly, and laughs his evil, mocking laugh. |