What follows is excerpted from a novel-in-progress by Richard Gess, whose “News from Hacker City: Some Considered Opinions on the Electric Bass” appeared in last month’s Sun. The action takes place in Cambridge. As this chapter opens, the narrator has just botched the seduction of Anne, his one great obsession. Depressed, and at loose ends, he decides to drop in on an old acquaintance from Ohio.
At Paul’s door, out of breath — oh. Background. Paul Goudreau, bona fide madman. The perfect gift for Harvard from Toledo. Now it is true that I never met anyone from Harvard who wasn’t mad — if only for believing in Harvard — and your experience may well be the same, but it must be admitted that Paul Goudreau was more . . . How should we phrase it? Noticeably mad? Yes. More obviously out of his mind than most of his peers. Never violently crazy — at least not until last weekend — but just generally strange. Visions of Napoleon hats and drool form in your minds — scrap those quickly. The obviousness of Paul’s derangement lay precisely in its subtlety. He was not very unusual to look at; a mesomorph, for sure, huge-boned and somewhere over 6 feet, 5 inches, but his face was unremarkable. Conventionally square-jawed handsome, with a fastidiously trimmed little beard and a pair of aviator hornrims — a serious-young-Cantabrigian face. You can see hundreds of duplicates every day. (The ordinariness of his face is now a problem; wherever I go, for years, I’ll have to deal with seeing Paul, and with having my memory jogged.) He was no one you’d pause to stare at; it was what he said that belied his craziness. Ask him any question; he would answer it as perversely as possible, every time. “Paul, what’s it like outside?” “It’s a perfect day for a rape.” “Paul, what’s for dinner?” “Children’s genitalia, in red clam sauce.” “Paul, you wanna go get a beer?” “I’d rather go get a hooker, and beat her up. Do you want to come with me and watch?” These are all actual exchanges — those who knew Paul collected them and traded them like numismatists. All of them could be dismissed as morbid two-liners from the National Lampoon. But they can’t, really; that’s the problem. Paul’s mind actually worked that way. Reality to Paul was a vast set of interconnected bloody jests. The genitalia line, for instance; his reference there was to a mixed pasta dish. He was incapable of benign perception. And that’s why I enjoyed his company. Spending time with Paul — especially inebriate time — was always a dip into the dangerous. I say dangerous because the clinching evidence of Paul’s craziness was the fact that he had at times been known to act it out. That dangling promise of the surreal was what attracted and kept such companionship as he had. Had he actually gone out for that hooker, I would certainly have followed along as an eager spectator. That flaw of mine was what turned me into a dog-killer. But that began as Paul’s idea, as you’ll see . . . Out of breath, I knocked on Paul’s door in Quincy House. No answer at first; I knocked again and listened carefully, to hear what (if anyone was home) I might be interrupting. There was a guilty rustling, and then footsteps; then came Paul’s muted “Who is it?” “Trots and Bonnie,” I said, feeling coy; if he wasn’t opening up, I felt, he should at least get a mystery for his trouble. I heard a whispered consultation behind the door, and then Paul replied characteristically: “Well, Trots can come in and lick us for awhile, but Bonnie will have to go home.” And with that the door swung open and shirtless Paul greeted me. “Well, well, friend,” he boomed, “come right in; you’re just in time to see something interesting.” “Great,” I said, as he ushered me inside, “titillation is what I’m here for.” The room — the living room of his suite — was darkened, save for a small candle at the center of the floor. “Perhaps you’d like to carry the flame,” said Paul. “You mean the candle?” I asked. I took off my snowy jacket and draped it on what felt like the piano bench — Paul’s was the only dorm room I’d ever seen with a piano. “Yes, the flame,” he said, “will you carry the flame for us?” “Sure,” I said. “What are you doing?” “Well,” said Paul, “Roethke here — have you met Roethke, from Frankfort, Kentucky?” Roethke, mole-like, nodded in the darkness; I could barely make out his features. “Roethke’s going to break my finger for me.” “Not really.” “Oh, of course really. Roethke is definitely going to break my finger. The index finger of my right hand.” “Won’t that be painful?” “Mmm . . . Well. Initially so, I imagine. Yes.” I didn’t quite know how to continue. What are the proper questions at a self-mutilation? I supposed that some attempt at dissuasion was obligatory. “Come on,” I said, “how can you think that breaking your finger is important when my whole existence is in ruins?” “Your existence is in ruins, is it?” “That’s right. Ruins. Gone down in flames.” “So?” “So?” I felt like I was talking to Anne again. “What am I supposed to do about your ruins?” “Distract me from them. Get me high.” “Afterwards,” said Paul, “as an anesthetic. Breaking this finger should be plenty of distraction for you.” “Okay, Paul,” I said, “why must your finger be broken?” “Because I have a Spanish exam tomorrow morning —” “On a Saturday?” “Yes, tomorrow, Saturday! And I am not at all prepared. But if I break the index finger on the hand that I write with, I can hardly be expected to participate, can I.” “Uh, yea, true, but —” “Enough discussion,” said Paul. “If you will carry our flame, Roethke can break my finger quickly, and then we can tour your ruins at leisure. Agreed?” “All right, Paul. Why not? Go ahead,” I said, “I’ll carry your flame.” “Wonderful!” said Paul with a clap. Great, I thought, terrific. I felt appalled, and slightly frightened; in retrospect, though, I must admit that I would have felt let down had I succeeded in talking him out of it. I guess I wanted a show; so I took the candle from the floor and held it aloft. “Now,” I asked, “how is this going to proceed?” “Simply,” said Paul. “We’ve evolved a ritual. I hold out my right hand, straight, like this, with the fingers spread apart nicely.” He stuck out his arm like a sleepwalker. “Then Roethke takes the crucial finger and leads me to our altar — following you, as you have the flame.” “Sounds like The Golden Bough,” I said. “Where do I take you?” “To the corner, over there.” Paul circled on his heels like a weathervane and pointed his arm towards the corner where the rental refrigerator sat. “That’s our pyramid,” he said. “Lead the way.” We all lined up — me in front, with the candle dripping wax on my shoes, and then Roethke behind me leading Paul by his finger. We stood still for a moment; in our pause we noticed somebody’s Bach record drifting in through the walls, orchestrating our ritual with harpsichords. I took a step and the others followed; we moved towards the corner as slowly as we could. A small battered anvil rested atop the refrigerator; alongside it lay a heavy-looking mallet — a sledgehammer-like thing, but with a short handle and a lighter head. “Now we gather around,” Paul said. We made a half-moon around the fridge. Roethke placed Paul’s finger neatly at the center of the anvil. “Now you’ll want to keep the light steady, and closer in, please —” I took the candle in both hands and held it as close as I dared; I was worried about the hot wax, and also about the arc of the hammer. “All right,” said Paul, “I think we’re ready. Do your worst.” Roethke looked blank. He didn’t move. “Go ahead!” said Paul impatiently. “Anything you say,” muttered Roethke. As he spoke he reached for the tool. Christ, I thought, he’s doing it! I pulled back on the candle, Paul closed his eyes and tensed, and Roethke swung the mallet up — it flashed briefly in the red light — and then brought it down, grunting, on the sacrificial finger, which cracked with an incredible cherry-bomb noise beneath it. “Jesus!” I said, jumping back. “Bang!” whooped Roethke. “Ohhh, bang indeed,” moaned Paul, “those were the — whooo! — the, the bursae blowing up!” He was swaying, trying to grin but grimacing instead. The finger apparently felt much worse than he had anticipated. “Sit down, Paul,” I said, turning on a lamp. “Yes,” he replied dazedly, “yes.” He dropped to the floor and began rocking back and forth in pain. “What’s it look like?” inquired Roethke. “It looks disgusting!” said Paul. “Awful!” I knelt to have a look for myself; there was a spreading blue bruise and much swelling, and the top half of the finger was canted at a foreboding angle. “We better take you somewhere,” I said. “No,” said Paul, “no, that’s not necessary. Not now. I’m going to stand up in just a second —” “No. Don’t. Stay there.” But he was already rising weakly. “Anesthesia!” he cried, “anesthesia!” Roethke, on cue, produced a joint. “Here,” said Paul, lurching, “here, let me try to light it. This is the test.” Roethke put the joint in Paul’s mouth, and then proffered a pack of matches; Paul somehow grasped them with his right hand and transferred them awkwardly to his left. He then attempted to extricate a match. “There, you see?” he said triumphantly as the matchbook bobbled from his hands. “It doesn’t work!” “I don’t think that really needed proving,” I said. “Everything,” Paul said, “should be proven at least twice.” “Okay,” I said, “I think you’ve met that requirement. Now what?” “Well,” said Paul, “if Roethke here will — Roethke?” Roethke was halfway out the door. “Roethke! Aren’t you going to stay for the anesthesia?” “I’ve gotta go do something,” said Roethke. “I’ll see you later.” “But I haven’t even thanked you!” “That’s all right. G’night now —” Slam. “Well,” said Paul. “Well.” We were silent; a siren rose from Mount Auburn Street, but the Bach had disappeared. Paul sighed. “This does hurt.” “You admit it.” “I’m not admitting anything. Did I say I found it unpleasant?” “You were calling for anesthesia.” “Anesthesia is always in order.” “True,” I said. “True,” Paul repeated. “So,” I said, “let’s be socially correct.” “I’m ready; all I need is your assistance with the match.” “At your service.” I retrieved the matches and gave Paul a light. He toked and passed me the joint. “Ruins,” he said through his teeth. “Ruins. It’s time to talk about ruins.” I passed the joint back; he took it with his right hand, balancing it gently in his undamaged fingers. “Ruins. Ruins.”
Paul’s marijuana — or Roethke’s marijuana — whoever’s — was a severe jolt; some of the shock was probably due to my unaccustomed sobriety, but most of it was owed to the dope itself — trance-inducing stuff, rudely potent, with an odd musty smell and an oppressive weight. Ominous dope; it must ultimately be Paul’s, I thought. Only Paul would smoke ominous dope. And only Paul could smoke three thick slow-burning joints of it in one sitting. I couldn’t keep up with him; I couldn’t even finish telling him my Anne tales. I felt like I was being swallowed; the walls roared in my ears, the ceiling descended heavily, and the chair I had taken folded around me like a deep malignant rose. I was enveloped; I have no memory of anything between that point (about one-and-a-half joints down) and the point at which Paul’s continuing replies — “Yes . . . Uh-huh . . . Ah!. . .” — somehow woke me to the fact that I hadn’t been speaking. Paul hadn’t noticed; by this time he was well along into number three. “What was I saying?” I asked. “Something in Nahuatl,” said Paul. He was staring at his skewed finger. “Nahuatl?” “Yes. Nahuatl. Aztec language.” All right, I thought. I assumed that I’d casually picked up Nahuatl. Just make the shifts with him, I thought. Everything’s really elementary. “Sacrifice!” said Paul. “Human sacrifice! Exactly at the heart of their culture. Do you know the Wars of the Flowers?” “The wars of the Flowers.” Fascinating! When the Aztecs ran out of people to conquer, they staged ritual wars. Their sole purpose was to produce prisoners. For the sacrifice. It’s awesome.” Shift, I thought, pick up on him, see how he translates out. “Dread,” I said, “everywhere. Every individual devalued by mortality. Grandiose cities full of bees.” “Not true,” said Paul. “The point was the sacrifice itself.” “How so?” “The sacrifice affirmed being. It made transcendence a possibility in every life. Every citizen was equally valuable in his potential as a gift to Huitzilopochtli, or Xipe Totec, or Quetzalcoatl. Everybody counted. Although that’s not the real attraction — that’s just the concept. What mattered day-to-day to the people was the way the sun glinted inside the opened chests. The simple transfer of energy.” “So it was the esthetic that was important?” “Of course. It’s a perfection. Man assumes the deity’s role, and . . . and . . .” Paul’s thought drifted off down some hemp-banked Lethe. “Hm,” he said. “Hm.” He was shaking — perhaps from his logic, perhaps from being in pain. His pain seemed to be growing; he brought his hand to his face and winced with the effort. “God,” he said, “I think he really hurt me.” “Strange it doesn’t seem more obvious.” “Do you think we should have it looked at?” He held the crooked finger above his head, marveling at it. “It’s broken,” I said. “We’ll have to have it set.” Paul sighed petulantly. “Look,” I said, “you broke it. That’s just what you wanted. No Spanish test.” “I’m not sure of that,” said Paul. “What do you mean?” “I’m not sure. I can’t definitely remember. There may not be an exam tomorrow.” “Stoned again.” “No. Even before now. I can’t retain things anymore. I’m having time trouble.” He laughed. “Trouble with time,” he chortled. “Let’s go somewhere,” I said. “Come on.” “I don’t think I can stand up,” he said. “I don’t feel much like it either,” I noted. The dope still clamored through me, and I was worried about being sick — queasiness is my usual reaction to alcohol, and its presence here was testimony to the grim weight of Paul’s dope. “If we are going to go somewhere, we’ll have to get up,” said Paul. “You first,” I replied, over the beginnings of a nausea wave. “You’ve got to put your shirt on.” “You’re right,” Paul said, “a shirt.” He rose unsteadily, holding his hand, and shuffled to the stairway that led to the bedrooms. “A shirt and a coat,” he said, and then he disappeared upward. I stayed where I was; I was trying to will myself into stability. Shift, I thought, slow down and concentrate. You do have to get up; you’ve got no choice. Concentrate. Slowly, easily, easily . . . Pop! An electric snap came from the speakers atop the piano. A threatening basso hum followed. My stomach, startled, lifted; no! I thought, and I heard an unseen stylus bouncing onto a record. Fffrrrwwrrrssssssshhhhh — Paul had set the volume way up. I remember interpreting the hiss of the blank vinyl as a water sound — I sensed floodwaters at the windows — but then the first recorded sounds dispelled that. Percussion came first — loud cracking rim-shots on a miked snare, studio echo forming a fast backbeat, dismissing any other competition for the senses — no! I thought, but the record chose to ignore me, and a mad torrent of instruments raged forth from the Scotts. Lead guitar (mixed up, with a lot of clipped bass), pedal steel rasping in the corner (it’s Skunk! I thought, it’s Steely Dan!), bass guitar (mixed down), loud acoustic piano (Fagen! Were they playing “Parker’s Band?”), drum kit and cymbals filling all the spaces — clapping hands, overdubs, strange keyboards, dissonances — great snaking lines of music reeled out and tangled and filled the room. “Listen!” Someone close above was shouting. “Listen! Listen!” Paul? The dope? Xipe Totec? No time to find out — thousands of Fenders snarled in a coda, a tamboura-like thing glissandoed hellishly into a rest, and the voices came in, opening wide — Bodhisattva!/Would you take me by the hand? They echoed against themselves, stratifying out above the band comping frenetically beneath them — Bodhisattva!/Would you take me by the hand? The piano chorded brusquely on the first and third, and Paul came back down the stairs in tight multiples of the time — Can you show me/The shine of your Japan?/The sparkle of your China?/Can you show me?/Bodhisattva! Bodhisattva! “Listen!” Paul bellowed, part of the music now, waving his arms — I’m gonna sell my house in town! “Are you listening now? Are you listening?” Paul railed, the music defeated gravity, both of us looped to the ceiling — Bodhisattva!/I’m gonna sell my house in town! He’d donned a violent red shirt — the right-hand cuff flapped open, unbuttoned — And I’ll be there/To shine in your Japan/To sparkle in your China/Yes I’ll be there!/Bodhisattva!/Bodhisattva! “Paul,” I cried, “what are we doing?” “What am I doing, I — what am I doing, that’s your question!” He spread his arm, fingers like feathers, gliding — “It’s I that does, and I am breaking free — if you haven’t fucked it for me me!” “Paul, Paul, I —” Dias’s solo flew bebop all around us, sky-writing like the Bird himself, on fire, wilder and wilder — “Why can’t you understand?” Paul shouted. “Why can’t you?” “Paul, look, be careful, we’re levitating, and —” Bass notes far below us thickened into black cumulus clouds, obscuring the floor — Fagen and Skunk sparred maniacally on synthesizer and steel, swirling out their notes like sleet, bombarding us — “You listen!” ordered Paul. I waited; the music integrated briefly into a tall cyclone, and we skimmed along atop it until the piano banged in again, changing the pressure and leading the song back to its intro and suspending us anew. Paul closed his eyes and began a slow barrel roll, gracefully turning to the guitars — was this what he wanted me to notice? He’s right, I thought, I can’t understand — a curious sprung note came alone over drums, and then the voices returned. Bodhisattva!/Would you take me by the hand?/ Bodhisattva!/Would you take me by the hand?/Can you show me/The shine of your Japan?/The sparkle of your China?/Can you show me?/Bodhisattva! — Paul broke his roll, tilted upright, and beamed — he wanted me to try his trick. I looked down and realized that miles of air were all that stood between me and the ground, and my stomach rose again in terror. Bodhisattva!/I’m gonna sell my house in town! — the band jumped between the phrases — Bodhisattva!/I’m gonna sell my house in town! — cymbals crashed, and I began to teeter — And I’ll be there/To shine in your Japan/To sparkle in your China/Yes I’ll be there!/Bodhisattva!/Bodhisattva!/Bodhisattva!/Bodhisattva!/ Bodhisattva!/Bodhisattva!/Bodhisattva!/Bodhisattva! “Look out!” someone warned from the music, but it was too late — my balance failed and I spun downward, tumbling, as the steel chattered away in hysterical accompaniment. I fell alone; Paul still floated somewhere above me, unaccountably secure, and in my nauseated drop I cursed him for getting me into all this. What was he fucking trying to do? The Dan moved faster now, shrieking along in double and triple time, Fagen’s keyboards futilely holding the changes against Skunk’s manic velocity — everyone was approaching their limit, the end was on its way. The cloud layer was churning now, breaking up, and when I plummeted through I discovered the living room beneath it — rugs, tables, piano, sofa, the chair that I’d flown up from, all looking stable — terra firma. I was a hundred feet up and closing, falling in somersaults — the music thundered in crescendo, overdriven amps howling, great washes of drums building and breaking over the last grand mal spasms of the guitars — I somersaulted twice more and hit the floor, hard, and the music exploded and broken notes fell like hail. I ran my fingers over the carpet remnant beneath me, laying low, unable to move, but fascinated by my survival. I’m alive, I thought, and this is Cambridge, Massachusetts, and, and . . . I faded, feeling inoperative. Paul was sitting next to me looking dizzy; his good hand was at his forehead. “We were doing so well,” he said mournfully, “so well.” Motherfucker! “Hey,” I said, look! You fell too!” “True,” said Paul. “But you should — um — remember that I got us up there in the first place.” “So what,” I said. I sat up; there was a slow wheeling between my ears. Bodhisattva. “Paul?” “I’m present.” “What are you doing? What are we doing?” “I’ve remembered it,” he smiled. “What.” “Why we we did this.’’ He held out his finger. “The Spanish exam.” “No. Not the Spanish exam. It’s — well, it’s quite complex. It’s an experiment — part of an experiment. A venture into transfer-of-energy.” “Oh. The Aztecs.” “Not exactly like the Aztecs. Their flow is the reverse of what O’Donnell’s claimed to have achieved.” “How so?” “Sacrifice is transfer upward.” “Like breaking your finger. Is that what, uh . . .” “O’Donnell?” “Whoever. He does that?” “He brings it back. He applies energy by drawing it downward. By transferring it into wounds, for example, and closing them.” “So he fixes things.” I was losing the thread. “I suppose we could describe it that way. But his ultimate goal is to reverse it back upwards, under his own control.” What was he talking about? “I wanted you to know.” I couldn’t reply. “I wanted you to be aware. That I’d seen something powerful. That I think I’ve come in touch with deity.” “This is O’Donnell.” “Yes.” I listened to the walls. Hot water whispered in the pipes. Bodhisattva. “I thought the record could help you.” Showers tattooed; radios and stereos played in other room rooms. “Fat Angel” was playing somewhere, and “5-D.” I listened and remained mute. “Let’s go downtown now.” He stood up. Bodhisattva. “There’s God in the wind.” What had I come here for? His finger was changing colors. “Let’s go.” We were off.
