A.H. (from the Memoirs of Abner Hatch, written 1986 for his grandson Dudley, with love.) VI. Veteran's Day 1970 was hard for me. With your uncle Donald barely laid in the ground, I followed the parade down to the cemetery to watch the annual band concert, but I felt numb, And when I got to the show, that good-for-nothing John Popper, who used to run the grocery store down the road and had let the roof cave in and the windows cake over with grime, and had eventually gone bankrupt--well, you know him--he was doing this awful _jig_ to the music. Just got up there and danced while the rest of us tried to pay tribute to our friends and family who were gone. Looked like he'd had a few pints, he did. And while most of the good citizens were too kind to really show that they minded, I was so amazed that right there, in front of your grandmother Sue and your pop and the whole town, I sat down in awe and disgust on the headstone of my very own son, your Uncle Don. Now, later on, I went over to John--looked like he'd sobered up a bit--and I said, "Popper, where do you get off creating that kind of display?" At which point he leaned against a nearby tree, eyeing me as if we shared some kind of delicious and evil secret, and had the gall to tell me "Abner, I'd be lying if I didnt say today was a hell of a party. I could use a bite to eat." And with that he slunk off down the road. ** S.T. stimulated from p.39 of Stimulacra: A clone's life (st. martin's, 2081) by S7 Being the youngest of the seven twins, I was the progenitor's favorite. Original Suzanne (or S0, as we called her) enlivened my early life with extra wafers, oriental rugs, floral-print berets and plenty of toothpicks -- it is a mark of the character of S1, S2, S3, S4 and S6 that they never once resented me, or expressed any jealousy. It is likewise a mark of our character that we--all of us, S0 included--tortured S5 so. "You're a mutant, you're a mutant," we would sing. Of course she knew this was impossible, but cried her carcinogenic tears nonetheless. In the morning I would find my favorite toothpick behind the bathroom mirror, neatly snapped in half. ** When the tourists first came to the beaches, I had no idea what was in store for us. Little Guiseppe was 14 and Anna was 16. They had no memory of the years before the drought, and my warnings about the foreigners only fed their interest. That first summer, a large American family rented the old watch-tower at the end of the road. G. would spend whole days following them from the village to the beach to the village and back again, just watching them. They were so glamorous to him. Anna and her friends were no less impressed, but they were coy. I could see it all coming, but what could I do? When the boys were getting up their courage to talk to the foreigners, to learn some phrases in English, the older girls would paddle by in the row boat, sunning themselves, or drive the mule to the well for water, and never approached the foreign kids, but tried to draw their attention. ** R.J., they called me, later, when we sat around smoky wooden bars in Chicago and cracked jokes about our most recent girlfriends and business partners. But tonight I was R. Johnson, soda magnate, giver of root beer to children all over the world. And then the question that troubled me tonight--why? Why had I spent so much of my youth crawling through bureaucracy--yes, sir... no, sir... thank you very much, sir--pacifying my elders, then stealing their jobs through guile and trickery... was it my childhood vision of a dream beverage, with bubbles? The meetings, the rallies, my dictator-like stance against the others--I remember the day my young daughter found one of our advertisements and asked me why that man looked so mean, so hungry. All for the sake of this beer that was not beer? No--something had gone terribly wrong. I swirled my drink, watched the ice clink against the glass. Tomorrow, at the board meeting, things would be different. ** K.P. stupefied I'd say shooting the first husband was the hardest, of course, anytime anyone'd bother to ask. Easiest answer to give, surely the best match for the logic of the moral mind. But truth to tell the second (though with reflection I might even say the third) was the hardest. And it wasn't the shooting--the squeeze, the bullet boring sidewise through his neck with a kind of unpredictable slope that sent the slug through his left lung to rest inside his right (my old thirty-eight--a gift of my mama's fourth stable provider--was notorious for spitting plugs with a curve to them), that fine gray smell. It was after the shot--watching Marshall bleed all over the damn table--that it hit me. Hit me that I'd gone & done it _again_. And I knew that if I had to, I'd do it yet _again_--to some other poor man who didn't do anything but wheedle about me insisting on practicing for my act instead of scrubbing tin, who dipped into my tobacco one too many times instead of going to Charlie to buy his own. But seeing Marshall dead at the table, his face in a skillet full of cornbread crumbs, well it just made me sad. Made me see myself for the first time like--see that I was (a the ripe age of 20) turning into my mama, just like my fourth step-pa said I would. I stood and watched Marshall bleed for what must've been a good hour or two, till my knees ached & his blood reached my shoes. Whih made me ask myself, Katy Pritchard, who in the hell is going to clean up this goddamned mess if it isn't you? ** It was about this time that I had not only discovered that ordinary Elmers glue could be used as a substitute for almost any ingredient in my mothers favorite dishes (without any of my relatives noticing), but that this substitution had caused my head to expand at an unusual pace. Not wanting to suffer the humiliation and torture that would await someone with my ever expanding attributes I set out into the night, running away not only from dear loved ones but the pain and suffering that had led me to such experiments. From this day forward, I would no longer be mild mannered water Walter Nebalm of 42 Toscoloni place, saddled with the responsibilities of people with average sized heads. I was now Ned Weisblume Super Human, privey to all the privileges that accompany having such a large and ever expanding head. Of course having a new identity and enormous head was not all roses. For one thing carrying such a large head around would leave you profoundly tired. I also learned the hard way that concealing my enormous head between a pair of stereo headphones was essential if I was going to survive on the streets. ** Abner Hatch: Yes, I'll tell you, I agree completely. Arnie Painer: Yes sir, that pizzerias's got to go. AH: It's almost as bad as that wretched store John Popper's got set up there on the corner of Main and Navarro. AP: Hah! Yeah, that old thing. Makes you think, is he selling food in there or tumbleweeds? AH: Tumbleweeds? What's tumbling around in your head, Arnie? AP: I don't know, Abner, I don't know. Say, how is Sue these days? AH: She's just fine, Arnie. Her arthritis is bothering her, so she hasn't been doing much, though. AP: Oh, darn. I was gonna say I could go for one of her pies. I could bring over a bag of plums. She ever made plum pies, Abner? AH: No, I don't think she ever has. AP: Oh, well that's too bad. Say, ... AH: Damn! Arne, is that anchovy smell getting worse or is it just me? AP: No, it's pretty bad. AH: They gotta get rid of that pizzeria. AP: Hey Abner, you want to go bowling? AH: Nah. AP: Come on, how's the old arm? AH: No, no. I've got to go to the post office. AP: Oh alright. But I'll tell you one thing, if you want to go bowling, you better do it soon. AH: Oh yeah? What do you mean? AP: Ahh... uh, huh? Oh nothing. Nothing, Abner. Uh, you didn't hear it from me. AH: Alright, Arnie, whatever you say. ** G: No. S7: Don't you want to get there before sundown? G: No. S7: Let me buy that rug from you. G: No. How much? S7: Do you have others like it? G: Yes, but not identical. S7: That's ok. I'll take five. For my sisters. How much? G: (incredulous) _How_ many? S7: Five. Here. (gives him money) Now get in the car. G: (counting money, whistles.) I can walk, you know. S7: I know. I've seen you at the beach. G: Well then. S7: (drives off) ** L: Since you clones have ruled this island we've had nothing but trouble and misery! You've seduced our daughters and destroyed our culture. I will never sign an oath of loyalty to the clones. S7: Old man, you're talking nonsense. I didn't say "loyalty oath" I said "Can't you read the sign, you oily oaf?!" We clones rescued this seedy island from drying up completely and blowing away. Now get out of my way. L: My donkey and I are staying right here! You'll have to turn your car around. Honking the horn won't do any good. We'll stand here until we have liberty or until doomsday! S7: I really don't have time for this. Clones! Seize this man, and his beast. Take him to the treatment center. (L struggles as two burly clones lift him by the arms and carry him off.) L: Down with the clones! Sexual reproduction is not a crime! S7: (to the crown of islanders that has gathered) Nothing to see here. Merely a demeneted old man crazed by his addiction to fornication. But we'll fix him. ** Katy was late, which wouldn't have been remarkable except that I wasn't even sure why I was here. After 3 years of working with her husband, Katy was known to me only as a very pretty face at the office parties. "Sorry I'm late." "Not at all, my dear. I mean, it hasn't been long, and I'm sure you..." "Look, R.J., I'm going to get right down to it. This is not an easy time for me." "Well of course not, we all know how much Marshall meant to you, and..." "Right. And without him around to, you know, take care of everything, I've had to take control. Which is why I asked you to meet me. I hear your secretary recently left, and you're looking for a new one." "Well, yes, but..." "And the boys say you haven't been seeing anyone lately." "Uh ... just what are you proposing here, Katy?" "What'll it be then?" The waitress had arrived--I ordered a sandwich, though the waitress seemed distracted, had an eye for Katy--I'm not sure what I would have gotten had we stayed. She wandered off, dazed. "So we'll do it, then." Katy's tone was matter of fact as she gathered her things and stood to go. She moved around the table and kissed my cheek--"See you monday at 8." She hurried away. ** "What's the lady drinking tonight?" That was the first thing Walter asked me. It was in a saloon in New York City, maybe a month after I'd moved there. It seemed New York would be as good a place as any to distract myself from the untimely death of my sixth husband, Earl. "Kentucky Fire." "Excuse me?" "The lady's drinking Kentucky Fire." Walter didn't seem to know what to say. I figured maybe he couldn't hear me, what with those headphones on. "Is that whiskey?" Finally. Seemed to be some light sputtering on in that oversized melon of his. "Yes, darlin, it's whiskey, and the lady doesn't need you to buy her one." Well Walter damn near looked to cry, and as there's nothing more disgusting than a full-on grown man weeping in a saloon, I pushed the chair next to me out towards him with my heel. "Y'all can sit honey." He sat. "You're the first man, woman, or child to say boo to me in new York City." He seemed to be concentrating on keeping his head up. I held out my hand. "Katy Pritchard". "Walter Nebalm. But most people know me as Ned Weisblume." "How's that?" "It's a long story." His head was nearly as big around as a barrel. And it looked like it had started to sweat. He propped it up on his hands, elbows on the greasy bartop. "Well, Walter, I'm not much of a patient woman, so you'll forgive me if I don't ask to hear it." "Well. That's fine. You likely wouldn't have understood it anyway." He sniffed. I reached down and brought out Nelly, put her on the table next to my glass. She barely shone in the dim light, just a streak or two on her barrel, caught from the flourescents hanging over the billiard table. "I'm sure there's plenty you wouldn't understand neither, Walter. Ned. I like Walter better, I think." I would've hated to've shot Walter just then; he looked almost sweet. ** "That's right! Things will be different this time," I whispered into the depressed whiskey soaked board executive sitting at a booth in the darkened corner of the bar. "Who the hell are you?" the drunken R.J. growled from his seat. "Who the hell am I? Why I am the answer to all your problems..." I said as I slid into the vinyl bench across from R.J. "Ha!" bellowed R.J. moments before my head was illuminated by the dying incandescent ceiling lamp that hovered over the table like some UFO from a bad film. "My God your head ... it's going to explode!" exclaimed R.J. as he shrank back into his seat raising his arms to shield his head from the impending blast. "Lower your voice, do you want everyone to see?" I scolded him. "It's not going to blow it's the Elmers glue. It's never going to blow." "Elm... Elmers glue?" stammered a puzzled R.J. "Quiet damn it!" I screamed at him. Then leaning forward I whispered "Yes Elmers glue. This is what it has done for my head, this is what it's going to do for your board, and this is what it's going to do for you." "My god, no." escaped from R.J.'s lips. But he knew it was too late for him, and maybe the world.