“TELL ME.”
I watch Molloy writing Heck-a-Tomb! (which will eventually close out of town in Philadelphia). He sits typing at his desk for hours, never cracking so much as a smile. Ingo once again employs the time-lapse device. I count the day/night shifts out the rat-trap floor-through window. Three hundred and seven times: about ten months. Mudd comes and goes, bringing food and taking away dishes. The rat-a-tat of the manual typewriter at this speed is transformed into one prolonged and horrifying clacccccccccccck, silenced at regular but brief intervals when Molloy disappears from the room. Is he sleeping? Using the commode? One time he returns in bloodied clothes; he strips them off and burns them in the fireplace. No explanation is offered.
The single extant reference to Heck-a-Tomb! appears to be this review from a production at the King Opera House in Van Buren, Arkansas:
Review by Edna Chalmers, Theater Critic, Van Buren Press Argus:
Heck-a-Tomb!, the musical revue now in residence at the King Opera House, is an oddity that Mr. Robert Ripley might want to consider including in his next Believe It or Not radio program. He’d better act fast, however, as the performance I attended was far from a sold-out event. Seemingly modeled after the stage shows of Messrs. Olsen and Johnson, this evening of comedy and song contains very little that is readily identifiable as either. The premise, such as it is, appears to be that Bud Mudd and Chick Molloy are a pair of angry, monosyllabic Civil Aeronautics Board investigators looking into the Eastern Airlines Flight 605 crash of 1947. If you don’t immediately see the comedic possibilities of a monumental disaster in which 53 people lost their lives, you will find yourself in accord with this reviewer. The harebrained story follows the two investigators, who seem to have identical personalities and wardrobes, as they agree with each other over the cause of the accident. There are, as well, ghosts of the dead, families of the victims, and local witnesses. All of them share the same personality as Mudd and Molloy. Even the dancing girls are mustachioed.
Mudd and Molloy sit in their dressing room backstage at the King Opera House.
“You don’t understand,” says Molloy. “This show has everything.”
“It’s not enjoyable, Chick,” says Mudd. “I feel like people go out for a night on the town after a hard workweek, they want to be entertained.”
“ ‘Listen to the cry of a woman in labor at the hour of giving birth—look at the dying man’s struggle at his last extremity, and then tell me whether something that begins and ends thus could be intended for enjoyment.’ You know who said that, Bud?”
“No.”
“Soren Kierkegaard.”
“I don’t know who that is, Chick.”
“The greatest philosopher of all time.”
“OK,” says Mudd. “Still, it is the weekend, so…”
I myself am also a Kierkegaardian, in the sense that my position on the Hegel-Schlegel spectrum finds me firmly planted in a synthesis of the two opposing camps. That Fred Rush published his book Irony and Idealism: Rereading Schlegel, Hegel, and Kierkegaard on this very synthesis before I was able to research, write, then find a publisher for my own Isn’t It Romantic? Idealism and Irony: Reexamining Hegel, Schlegel, and Kierkegaard both infuriates and saddens me. I theorize Rush had experienced some sort of transfer of information from my brain to his. I am not clear on the science of this, but there is no other explanation. I notice he received his PhD from Columbia, where I am often on campus carrying my ally mattress. The thought transfer could’ve happened any one of those times.
ABBITHA L. X. Fourteen Thousand and Five is back, this time in something else diaphanous. She is so beautiful. Is she real or a creation of my mind? I can’t know. But, in any event, I love her, which, if she is a creation of my mind, is in a way a kind of self-love. I suppose it might be seen then as a kind of narcissism, but if it were narcissism, wouldn’t Abbitha just look like me, except in a diaphanous gown? Instead she is my opposite: female, beautiful, brilliant, from the future. These are the four things I am not. Maybe I’m brilliant.
“Will you do it?” she says.
“What is it about?”
“It’s a period piece.”
“What period?”
“Yours,” she says.
“So, not period.”
“Well, to me it is. But I’ve done a lot of research on your time. For example, I know that Kit Kats come in bizarre flavors.”
“Only in Japan.”
Abbitha scribbles that into her notepad.
“What’s your Brainio about?” I ask.
“The assassination of President Donald Trunk.”
“Trump.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s Trump.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve done a lot of research. Everyone in the future thinks it’s Trunk. No one thinks it’s Trump. I’ve checked. We know how important his name was to him.”
“Look, as much as I love you and it is with every fiber of my being that I do, I can’t write a book about a plan to assassinate the president.”
“You wouldn’t be writing about Trump. You’d be writing about Trunk.”
“So I have to call him Trunk in this novelization?”
“No one in my time knows who Trump is. His few remaining space hotels are called Trunk.”
“So in addition to writing about assassination, I have to sound unhinged while doing it.”
“For me.”
“I don’t know…”
“You’ll win a Brainy Award for Adapted Brainio. You’ll share it with me. Posthumously for you; I’ll be alive.”
“I don’t know—”
Abbitha kisses me. The world dissolves. She pulls away and looks at me.
“You’ll never see me again if you don’t do this,” she says.
“The Brainy is really prestigious?” I say.
“Your grave or funerary urn or water slide and/or rocket coffin will be visited by millions.”
“I’ll do it!” I say, followed for some reason by a fist pump and a freeze-frame.
I wake up with a start. It occurs to me that both in my dreams and in my waking life there exists the same question: What now? Something happens or nothing happens, and either way, I have to decide what to do next. There is no end to it. Well, no, there is one end to it, and that revelation leads me to this conclusion: “What now?” is the definition of life.
My morning is difficult. I don’t feel at all rested, and still I have to scrape an extraordinarily copious amount of dried ejaculate from the upholstery of my sleeping chair. I consider my obligations. Now I have two novelizations: Ingo’s and Abbitha’s. Both are for love, both for self-aggrandizement. But I don’t even know if Abbitha is real, and, in truth, I don’t know if the movie I’m remembering through hypnosis is real, either.
There is a select group of filmmakers of film remakes (filmremakers) whose remakes exceed the original they are remaking. Dave Cronenberg’s Fly! comes to mind as vastly superior to Neumann’s 1958 original. Similarly, Apatow’s Citizen Kane remake Citizen Funny Guy, in which Seth Rogen plays Charlie Kaneberg, a stand-up comedian who learns he’s dying and decides to start a news blog because “It’s time to stop with the jokes and start with the serious.” He wants to help make the world a better place for his children and all children everywhere, including even other countries. “The only borders,” he opines at one point, “are the borders we build in our hearts.” Later, it turns out he’s not dying, that his chart was mixed up with someone who was diagnosed as “really healthy” but now finds out he is the one dying, which is sad for that guy. So Charlie Kaneberg hands over his blog to the really dying guy, and everyone learns something about the importance of family.
I believe I can make the same positive and timely changes to Ingo’s film in my remake. As brilliant as I suspect the original was, I have the advantage of living in a more enlightened age. It is not Ingo’s fault that he wouldn’t have known a Bechdel Test if it jumped up and bit him on the nose. Might not it be fascinating to recast the film as a female version? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to see a film that finally takes women seriously? A film that states, yes, women are funny, funnier than men, and what’s more, men aren’t even funny at all. Even though the original correctly demonizes comedy. But perhaps the problem with comedy is that women are not in it. This recast film could show us a world of comedy that is kind, which is not to say that there is something inherently kind or nurturing about women. That would, of course, fly in the face of all current gender research that demonstrates there is no difference between the genders while at the same time showing a full and complex gender spectrum. This is what I hope to provide to audiences with my version of the story. Also, it will be live action. Firstly, for practical reasons. It is almost impossible that I can hope to shoot for ninety years. I likely do not have that kind of time. Secondly, acting has always been my first love, so the opportunity to collaborate with many of the great actors of our time, to even take on a role myself (Marie in this gender-reversed version? My African American ex-girlfriend?) would be the culmination of all my dreams.
OH GOODNESS ME, right there on the street, directly in my path, is Castor Collins, blind now of course, just like his brother, due to their early exposure to solar rays. Dark glasses, no cane, unassisted, as confident as you please. How does he manage? It is said that the other senses become more acute when one loses another sense, in this case sight is the other one. So perhaps through heightened hearing, smell, taste, and touch, Castor is able to navigate this crowded, dangerous environment, much as a blind ship’s captain might avoid a jagged, rocky coastline on a fogbound night using only his ears and sense of taste. It is truly amazing to see, and then it occurs to me, with some sadness, that Castor Collins will never be able to see how amazing it is, since he is blind and cannot see how amazing it is. Suddenly, he seems to be aiming right for me. I alter my path and Castor alters his, as if he is some sort of heat-seeking missile. I shift again. Castor reroutes. Soon it becomes a dance, a terrible, monstrous dance.
With a trainee beside her in her cubicle, Flotilla Del Monte watches B. on her “Castor” monitor and explains her work process.
“Sometimes I pick out a person and fuck with ’em by using Castor as my sorta heat-seeking missile. (into microphone) Slightly left, Sweetie. (to trainee) The job can get boring, so I invent games to pass my shift. To be fair to me, I only pick assholes to target. Today I’m cranky, so I’ve searched for an oncoming asshole. (into microphone) No, hon, a little more. That’s it. (to trainee) As you can see, coming right at us, twelve o’clock: a wormy little Jew. See him? Brillo beard, tiny, wet eyes like old grapes. Coke-bottle lenses. Perfect. (into microphone) Now slightly right, Castor, baby. Perfect. (to trainee) This is all the more fun because I can tell the Jew has recognized him. See his mouth hanging open like a starstruck schoolgirl? He’s trying to act as if he doesn’t care. It makes the whole thing that much funner. He’s realizing there’s going to be a head-on collision. See him turning to run? Fucking hysterical!”
I have turned to run.
Flotilla (into microphone): “Jog, hon. Street is clear. Let’s get you a little exercise.”
I glance back. Castor seems to be running after me.
Flotilla (into microphone): “Speed up a tad, darling. (to trainee) Oh my gosh, perfect! The Jew’s looking back over his shoulder. Oh, look, an open manhole straight ahead. Let’s aim for it. (into microphone) A little bit left, sweetie. Now just a smidge right. There you go. Now a quick veer left!”
I fall into a manhole.
Flotilla (to trainee): “Hole in one! It’s a game of skill. Hysterical. Slap me five.”
As I pull myself out of the river of sewage, check my ankles for sprains, I get a flash of memory—the film. Castor. The woman in Texas. He has a guide! I remember! She aimed for me! She thinks I’m Jewish! I’m very confused. Am I pulling myself out of the sewer in the film or in life? Is this some sort of conflation on my part? I need an answer. I climb out of the hole. I run after them. I need my questions answered. I want to tell her, also, that I am not Jewish. But wait…I did this very thing in Ingo’s movie. I catch up to them at the next corner.
“I am not Jewish!” I scream.
Castor cocks his head, unaware of what just transpired. But she knows. The anti-Semite knows. And she hears me in there. I know that, too. The light changes and they cross the street. I want to follow, but I don’t. I don’t know why; I just know that I can’t.
In Amarillo, Flotilla scratches her head.
“How did the Jew know I thought he was a Jew? Maybe he didn’t but was assuming. That’s the thing about Jews. They have what is called persecution complex. We learned about it in my Psychology of Jews class at Amarillo Community College and Bake Sale. It’s off-putting, just like Professor Pastor Jimminy said. Just like those hair springs they hang from the side of their heads. Anyway, it looks like he wasn’t seriously hurt, which I am glad about. I am not a Jew-hater like some of the folks around here, who still blame the Jews for all the helium mines shutting down. Let bygones be bygones, I say. (into microphone) Eat at Slammy’s. (to trainee) It’s time for one of his commercials. Castor gets a discount on his service because he signed up for the commercials plan.”
I notice more people smoking everywhere. Now I worry about secondhand smoke, also firsthand, for I am smoking, too. It concerns me, also, because with all the smoking, I can’t see very far ahead of me, which I’m worried will cause more and more of these manhole mishaps. It seems unsafe to have so many open and untended manholes in the city. Perhaps a letter to the mayor is in order. I work myself into a lather of outrage and write a letter to the mayor, whom I believe is called The Honorable Shmulie J. Goldberb.
Dear Mayor Goldberb,
Can I be the only one who has found himself (herself, thonself) inconvenienced by this recent scourge of open and untended manholes in our once great, closed-manhole city?
I give up on the letter. I sense scourge is not the best word here and I don’t have the energy to think of a replacement. So I put it in an envelope as is, unsigned, no return address. Suddenly I feel depleted; my fit of pique has me exhausted. All I want to do is strap myself into my chair and sleep forever.
A week later to the minute, I find a letter in my mailbox:
To Whom It May Concern:
It has come to my attention there has been a rash—
Rash, that’s the word!
—of untended and open personholes—
Personholes! Of course!
—in our fair city. The safety of our citizenry is of the upmost—
Upmost? That can’t be right.
—importance to me, Mamie, and each and every member of my extended mayoral family. So beginning Tuesday, March 18th, the city will place an armed guard at every open personhole within the five fair boroughs. All unauthorized fallers will be shot. It is our sincerest hope that this will address the issue in the fairest and funnest way for all involved.
MY SPEECH AT the Billy Crudup Hebrew Home for the Aged on DeKalb Avenue is a smash hit.
“TELL ME.”
A dejected, much older Mudd and Molloy, outside of a New York City comedy nightclub called The Comic Strip, are approached by a Western Union boy with a telegram:
TAKE THE NEXT BUS STOP BETTIE AND I NEED TWO MANSERVANTS IMMEDIATELY STOP START RIGHT AWAY STOP PAYMENT WILL BE QUITE SATISFACTORY STOP LIGHT HOUSEWORK STOP IN THE NAME OF LOVE LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING TO KNOW YOU BETTER STOP
SONG IDEA: WHY can’t I be a teenager in love?
ANOTHER FELLOW WALKING toward me. Is he a blind, too? Big and young with one of those haircuts that seem designed to make a person look stupid, constructed, for some unfathomable reason, to bring the top of a fellow’s head to a seeming point. He walks right at me. A game of chicken? This man is not blind, I conclude, not a tool of some anti-Semite in Texas. He is pulling his own despicable strings. Who is going to move out of the way? Not me, Goliath. I will no longer be the civic-minded one. What has it gotten me? No, I will defend, against all comers, my commitment to this trajectory. You, my pinheaded behemoth, might feign unconsciousness. But it is time for you to awaken from your pretend slumber because I will not veer. I look straight ahead, making it clear that I see you, that I have made my choice. But I will not look you in the eye. I am a Mack truck, a train on the rail. This is my path. You will need to find another. If flying fists is what you desire, then fists flying is what you shall have. Because I am over it. At the last possible moment, I jump out of his way and drop into an open personhole. An armed guard shoots at me. I swim under the fetid water until I am out of his range.
“TELL ME.”
An agent’s office. He is booking a younger Mudd and Molloy at Brown’s in the Catskills for their continued comeback. He says there’s excitement at their return, even after the catastrophe that was Heck-a-Tomb!
Now I find myself in a Catskills resort’s packed auditorium, a buzz of anticipation in the crowd. The house lights dim. Mudd and Molloy, dressed in coveralls, step onto the stage to both applause and some surprised murmurs:
“That’s him?”
“Which one?”
“One of them.”
“He doesn’t look well.”
“Which one?”
“Either one.”
The sketch begins:
MUDD: I can’t believe they made us come in the middle of the night to fix this leak.
MOLLOY: I can’t believe it, either. I’m not happy about it.
MUDD: Me neither.
MOLLOY: Well, the faster we get started, the sooner we’ll finish.
MUDD: That makes good sense.
MOLLOY: At least it makes things easier that we’re identical twins and we agree on almost everything.
MUDD: We even agree that it’s almost everything we agree on and not everything.
They both laugh at this in a high-pitched, otherworldly, African dog yap. Molloy is really laughing, and Mudd copies him. It’s upsetting.
MUDD: But I’m still not happy about the late-night call.
Cut to a shot of the audience, every mouth agape.
Barassini snaps me out of it. Time is up for today.
“Why so blue?” asks Barassini. “We’re cracking it.”
“I don’t know,” I say.
I want to add “Dad,” but I stop myself. How odd. He looks nothing like my father, who, although he, too, was a hypnotist, was a simple hypno-hobbyist who worked almost exclusively on mesmerizing chickens with chalk lines.
“Well, chin up. This is going well.”
The truth is, the monumental nature of this task has become a struggle. I don’t know if I’ll ever see the end of it.