The End of Gravity is the nineteenth chapter in Alistair Vogan's novel How To Lose Your Voice Without Screaming
It was a
rainy day, hot and humid. The tires of
taxis cut tracks across the sheet of water covering the asphalt of the big
city, making the reflections of the buildings across the road look like the
paintings of Picasso. People scurried along under umbrellas, soggy newspapers
held above heads, flashing neon lights of various colors, and… a black sky. It
rained that day, the day Kingsley died.
There could
have been a bright blue sky, a big sun pushing away all the darkness, the smell
of blooming flowers and pollen in the air, and a light wind cooling their faces
that summer afternoon. There could have been a brutal dissonance, but there
wasn’t. Nothing was indifferent that day. Or, perhaps it seemed that way
because those who were most affected were connected to all those sharing the
sorrow and were blind to all things in existence that could not agree.
In any case,
he was dead. That was for sure. It was in all the newspapers and on television.
There were retrospectives. Special features. Everyone was sad in private, and
in public. The melancholy was everywhere, like air pollution. And some felt it
would never stop raining, or even, rightly, that it ever should.
Walk down
any street in that town. They haven’t forgotten. He was one of theirs.
And though he was gone, they wouldn’t let him go. Others came afterwards, were
introduced with spangle and the new jingle of the popular cigarette of the
time, or the new fast car, or the scientifically-tested detergent that would
wash away all the life between the teeth of a fork while making the dishes
shine. Others came and were paraded around as if he had not been there, as if
finally something magical was happening to them all. And some joined in in the
play, perhaps as a way to move on, to forget that they were less alive now,
that they were once again alone, and running out of time. But not in his town.
He is very much alive there, even now...
But, alas,
we’re getting ahead of ourselves.
Martha just
wanted bananas. She didn’t want a whole bunch. Just a couple. Even one banana
would do the trick, she told herself. A lot of people didn’t know it but
bananas were just filled with something that was really good for you.
There was a reason monkeys ate them. Marilyn Monroe ate bananas. Martha read
this in a magazine. Marilyn Monroe used to get up early and run through the
streets too. That’s how she kept her figure. People must have thought she was
just crazy, at first. Being the most beautiful woman in the world takes hard
work. And you have to be a thinker. Martha read this in a magazine too. Reading
had helped give Martha an edge. It gave her confidence. Sometimes people asked
her how she knew so much. She’d just shrug. When she became famous she’d tell
the world. Make it sound casual. I read, she’d say.
After her
run over the Williamsburg Bridge, as she approached the greengrocer, Martha
found herself stuck in a crowd on Avenue C that seemed to go on forever. And everyone
seemed to be sweating. She could hear chanting in the distance, something about
a cowboy. Between her and bananas, a man was yelling in the crowd. Where had
all these people come from? She wondered. It was such a big crowd.
“It is
simply genius!” the man yelled. “Open your eyes to see!” He was standing on a
box, outside the empty bookstore. Actually, he was on a soapbox, in shiny black
shoes. Pinned to the front of his freshly pressed, white short-sleeved shirt
was a nametag. Martha squinted and read it, “Welcome to Vacuum Plus. My name is
Steven.”
Who can
really afford a vacuum?
Martha thought.
An old black
man held a bible to his chest and glared at Steven from beside the box, his
box. He also looked at his watch conspicuously. He was running out of time.
Steven
continued, “He knows things no other man knows.” He could feel his certainty
growing. He glanced down at the old man with the bible and the glare. “He's a
beacon in the darkness lighting our way. Lighting the way for all the lost
children… That's right.” Then said to himself, “Yeah.”
Several
people nodded, and he noticed.
“We are the
lost children,” he declared, smiling in disbelief at how confident he felt.
Several people having just arrived shouted “Amen” to Steven’s ‘Lost children’
and in a flash the old man with the bible felt like a housewife who arrives at
a Christmas party wearing the same party dress as the more attractive younger
hostess. Steven said it again to himself as if for the first time understanding
its implications, “The lost children…”
More people
nodded.
A man in a
taxi inching through the crowd overflowing onto the street stuck his head out
and yelled, “The children must be saved!”
And it was the
perfect thing to say. It felt like the missing piece in a puzzle, the Rosetta
stone, or the final words of a spell being cast. Steven, as if waking, squinted
and used his hands to articulate, “The children of the world.”
The crowd
pushed forward. A woman raised her hands into the air. The man beside her, her
husband, noticed, and was embarrassed. He attempted to force her arm down. She
pulled her arm free, accidentally elbowed him between the eyes, and shouted,
“Yeah man!”
Steven
locked eyes with the woman then looked from face to face, “Yeah,” he said
smiling in disbelief. “Save the children, of the world. We, are the children of
the world...”
“That’s
right!” several chimed in.
“Yes. That’s
right!” another shouted.
“We are the
world...” Steven said his voice shaking, wanting to hold onto the moment
forever, but losing his focus. Too many people were interrupting. Too many
eyes. Too much information. Too much was happening.
The man who
had been holding the woman’s arm, rubbed his forehead, nodded, and he found
himself, despite himself, saying “Save the world!”
“Yeah!” the
people around him yelled, united.
“Make it a better
place...” the woman added.
And then a
hush fell over the crowd.
Closer to
the apartment, the mob seemed to grow even thicker.
There must
have been an accident, or something, Martha decided. A really huge mob and
police and an ambulance were blocking the way outside the front door of
Martha’s building. Maybe someone had jumped from the building. “God. How
terrible,” Martha said. She had the second key, used it and entered with her
bananas from the alley behind the building. She thought about taking the stairs
up to her floor – that might help her lose a few pounds, especially if she did
it every day. She pressed the elevator button and stepped in. As the door
closed she saw the backs of the patrolmen, faces pressed against the glass and
a man who looked like he had chained himself to the banister. She also noticed
someone had a greasepaint mustache. …Only in this city, she thought.
Upstairs, in
the hallway, out of the quietness of the elevator, she could make out the sound
of the mob below. As she reached for the door to her apartment she thought
about handsome Kingsley.
Would he be
home? She could knock on his door. He could open it, hear the people below and
he’d have that look in his eyes like they were both thinking exactly the same
thing. What a crazy world! They’d just stand there for a moment and listen,
shaking their heads. They wouldn’t need to say a word. It would be them against
the world. They were the only sane ones left. “What do you do, huh?” his look
would say. He’d step back from the door motioning to the apartment, Do you want
a cup of coffee Martha? Like Kirk Douglas. I was thinking of making myself a
pot. They’d sit down on his couch like old friends – her skirt would balloon
out and she’d pat it down - and she’d tell him all about her life. He’d listen,
leaning back in the couch. He’d just let her talk. She’d be like a kid. He’d
smile, or show that he was suppressing a smile – a look that said, you’re keen.
You really are Martha! You got gumption. To pick up and leave everything you’ve
ever known. Everything. That takes gumption. She’d smile, a little embarrassed
and look around the apartment. He’d realize that he’d put her on the spot,
maybe been a little to forward. He’d change the topic and ask her if she’d like
another cup of coffee. And through the doorway to the kitchen she’d watch him
at the counter, his back wide, strong. He’d turn back, see she was watching and
smile, a look of recognition. They had …something.
She could
feel his arms around her. It made her feel delicate, like a child. And safe. He
was her angel. She could smell the starch in his collar. Wanted to put her head
on his shoulder, look up into his eyes. She’d look around his apartment nervous
and a little excited. Her heart was pumping in her chest. And his hands didn’t
fumble, or tug at the clasp. He was eager, but not fumbling. She hated that. He
knew what he was doing. He was in control. And, she’d let go. As the zipper
traveled down her back she could feel the cool air of his apartment blowing
gently against her back, her skin tingling. He looked into her eyes as he slid
the dress down over her shoulders. His eyes said, it was okay.
Uh oh! She was getting that feeling! She saw
herself standing there motionless in the hallway, with the bag of bananas. She
looked at his door, her cheeks red hot. She felt as though she was standing on
the worn carpet naked. She felt exposed. She realized her mouth was open too.
She closed it, turned around stiffly and fumbled with her keys, trying to
breathe quick enough to catch up with her racing heart.
Inside her
apartment, she leaned against the closed door. She knew it wasn’t normal for a
woman to have these feelings. Still, there they were. They were hers. They
belonged to her. They made her feel overwhelmed. It sure wasn’t very lady like…
The thoughts she was having.
She turned
on the television and dropped into the couch. On television William F. Buckley
was looking up at his eyebrows, grinning arrogantly like he was five chess
moves ahead of his guest. Slouched in his chair, his right arm, bent at the
elbow, extended at a forty-five degree angle to his wrist, where his hand hung
limp.
Ivan Von
Noshrilgram, in his mid-sixties then, seemed oblivious to the host, “”The year
must have been nineteen twenty-two. September. That's when the Muse spoke to me.
Or should I say through me. That’s the way it always works. It was
without question the turning point in my life: I had found my voice as an
artist.”
William F.
Buckley looked into the camera. “Von Noshrilgram, distinguished philosopher
botanist, wild game hunter, exotic animal trainer, linguist, writer and
humanist lecturer …” he said, as if reading an obituary.
“Please, let
me finish this.” Von Noshrilgram continued, “I will never forget that time. I
suppose, some thing's you can never forget. They become part of you...They are
you.”
“Please
don’t. We’re old friends. We talked about this before we started the show,”
William said, as if Von Noshrilgram was standing on a ledge looking down.
Ignoring the
host, Von Noshrilgram looked out at Martha, “I recognize the voice of Cowboy
Kingsley. It is most certainly the voice of the Muse. I suggest we listen
carefully, for in this voice is Truth...It lights our way in the darkness.”
“I would
like to take you seriously, but to do so would affront your intelligence.”
William Buckley turned and opened his mouth, about to address the camera, but
was cut off.
“I accept
that. However, this story will change America, forever,” he said with
gravity.
William F.
Buckley smiled, resigned.
“Let me correct myself. It already
has…”
“There you have it. Celebrated philosopher
botanist, wild game hunter, exotic animal trainer, linguist, writer,
extinguished firewalker and humanist lecturer. Ivan Von Noshrilgram.”
William F.
Buckley turned to a second camera and continued to smile, now lazily. “Up next,
we have the distinct pleasure of being joined by Public Works Coordinator
Robert Moses,” he said and smiled cryptically, “And does he have good news for
those of you living in Greenwich Village.”
Martha got
up reluctantly and turned the channel. This sure wasn’t relaxing. Where were
the gosh darn game shows? Martha found herself looking at a repulsive
little creep she wouldn’t want to be stuck in an elevator with. He stood in
Central Park, gesticulating angrily. Underfed, a reactionary university type,
with his goatee and unkempt look, she could tell in a flash that he wasn’t in
show business. He grimaced as his voice echoed back at him, “Cowboy Kingsley is
a running dog...a running dog of the imperialists, of a new empire. He’s using
this “charming” little story to pacify you. You and me! You know it’s true.
Don’t be fooled! Television is the new opiate of the masses. And he is a
dancing singing clown, and we’re in a parade with sparkly hats and bells on our
feet. It’s a downward spiral from here, leading us to an untimely withering of
our intellect. We’re being lulled…” The man looked into the camera like he’d
just said something really intelligent and thought maybe his mother was
listening. He pointed, as if defying something, “But I say to you this day Mr. Cowboy
Kingsley...”
Martha
flicked the channel again and took a deep breath.
William F.
Buckley was interjecting, “Ivan, I don’t think Cowboy Kingsley is… and I’ll
give you eleven reasons why…”
Martha
snapped the channel violently again and caught the end of a reporter’s
sentence, “…Cowboy Kingsley?”
“Jeepers!”
Martha shouted. She looked at a near term pregnant woman angrily as if the
woman had kidnapped the hosts of her favourite game shows and was holding them
ransom in her uterus. The woman looked away from the camera. Martha wanted to
scratch her. The reporter put a large mic into her face, “Well, is it his?”
Martha
looked to her right hand and noticed she’d ripped the dial out of the
television. She couldn’t escape. She was trying to NOT think about Kingsley and
now every goddamn channel was talking about some Kingsley. Not her
Kingsley. Suddenly the name Kingsley was the most popular name in the world! It
was everywhere. She might as well of fallen in love with a man called “The”.
She tried to slide the dial back onto the television. At least her mother
wouldn’t ask her to repeat the name next time she told her all about her love
life. If she ever called her mother again… Martha, slouching in front of the
television, tapped the dial as if this might somehow help, her back now
beginning to ache. She switched the channel. Another newscast. It was a
newscast of William F. Buckley’s broadcast. It was four o’clock. It should have
been Flipper. Instead, it was Von Noshrilgram, the celebrated distinguished
philosopher botanist, linguist, writer and humanist lecturer looking into her
living room, seemingly tongue-tied. What was he going on about?
“Cowboy
Kingsley may be all those things, and none of them…” William F. Buckley
offered.
Martha
switched off the television. She turned and spread out the floor chart.
There was
dancing to do.
She saw the
paper bag, and the bananas. That would be her reward.
Martha
took off her clothes and let the needle drop on Herb Alpert’s Mexican Shuffle.
She began to dance. As she danced naked in her living room, the afternoon sun
bursting through the opening in the curtains and traveling around the landscape
of her body, dust rose from the rug like dry ice. She imagined Kingsley was
watching. He was sitting on her couch, his legs apart, hands behind his head,
smiling. The record skipped but Martha didn’t notice. She continued on. She
could feel his eyes on her. She was beautiful. She spun around and around, and
around again. Gradually parts of her seemed to defy gravity as they succumbed
to the centrifugal force. The room lost its corners, the light its sharpness; a
soft warm texture and hue permeated, and Kingsley took her hand. While the
music played on, as if to entertain the houseguests, she and Kingsley
disappeared, into the darkness of her bedroom.
COMING UP SOON:
Chapter 20 - Finding a Way Out
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Bruce McCullouch
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Mahmood Farra
Barbara Vogan
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Paul Marlow
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Melyat
Jagermeister8
and
Sir William Newman
editors and story consultants at The Ivan Von Noshrilgram Foundation, Antarctica.)
Copyright 2000 (Alistair Avery Vogan / the Von Noshrilgram Foundation)
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