EVERY WRITER MUST have his fun.
One has his fun and gives you some, too —
in this tale, fable, sketch, scrap (crumb?)
TWO things — a very bad memory and a most powerful imagination — were responsible for the ghastly predicament in which I find myself living today (said the One Soul in Limbo to the Other, adding, “That is, if you can call this living.”
Of the two things, the bad memory was the crucial one (the One Soul continued, the Other Soul having signified both his interest in the promised story and his own considerable boredom with the local weather.) You see, I had never been able to remember people's names. This weakness had often landed me in very embarrassing situations. Finally I decided to do something about it. I enrolled in one of the new memory schools. There I learned to remember names by forming vivid mental pictures of the objects they suggested. For instance, to remember the names of the presidents of the United States, I was taught to picture first a vast pile (in fact, a ton) of dirty clothes ready for the laundry (Washington); next, the first created man with a twin beside him (to make it Adams); and so on.
My instructor assured me that I would be able to use this method with great success, especially since he believed me to possess a very potent imagination — the sort of imagination that creates inner worlds in which a person can lose himself forever. This, alas, proved to be only too true. (The Other Soul in Limbo grunted sympathetically.)
After finishing my course the first new people I met were named Joseph Roper Barnes and Helen Nively Crum.
Such names would ordinarily have dismayed me, but now I proceeded with great confidence. I began by forming an intense mental image of two large red barns. On the wall of one of the barns I hung a coat of many colors — for Joseph, of course. Inside the same barn I suspended a long, strong rope. To the end of the rope I tied a large “R”, giving me my Roper.
On the roof of the second barn I balanced a very large cake crumb, about twelve feet in diameter. My instructor had assured me that the more ridiculous the image, the more firmly it would stick in my memory. Into the door of the barn I drove a long, keen knife. That still left over “Iy” from Nively, so since it was pronounced “lee” not “li” I pictured General Lee sitting on the roof of the barn, dressed in a fine old Confederate uniform.
At the other end of the roof I pictured the most beautiful woman in the world, dressed in a sheer Grecian tunic, and I built a little Acropolis on that end of the barn to remind me she was Helen of Troy.
There they sat with the monstrous cake crumb between them. There was no other sight or sound in the world of my inner imagining — save for a faint, eerie scurrying which vanished as soon as I listened closely. I should have been warned by that, but I wasn't. (The Other Soul in Limbo nodded and clucked.)
Instead I proudly told myself that now I was ready for all eventualities. Whenever I met my two new acquaintances, I had merely to recall the grotesque picture I had created and the appropriate names would spring to my lips. I preened myself on my achievement.
It was about two days later that, venturing into the inner world of my imagination to admire my handiwork, I began to notice the change.
The crumb was drying. Little pieces were breaking off all around and falling to the ground.
Desperately I concentrated my mind. I tried to imagine the crumb moist again. I put all sorts of strange chemicals and super vitamins into it to keep it fresh. I tried to think the little pieces back up onto the roof.
It was no use. No matter what I did, the crumb kept disintegrating.
Besides, Helen of Troy had started to wink at me and make seductive motions which distracted my attention. I tried to make her dress less sheer, but I couldn't.
Soon the crumb was scattered all over the farmyard. I rushed about with a broom and dustpan, trying to sweep the crumb together and get it back on the roof.
But just then a lot of rats — that eerie scurrying was explained now! — rushed out of the barns and ate up all the crumb and ran away across the fields. I chased them but they all got away. Walking back tiredly, I began to worry about them just a little because they were something I hadn't imagined in the first place. I hadn't been trying to remember Gregory Ratoff's name or Terrence Rattigan's I told myself — or had I?
I got back to the barns in time to see General Lee sneaking off in the opposite direction. For some reason he had taken off his uniform jacket and put on the Joseph's coat. I shouted to him. He looked back at me over his shoulder. I got a shock. Above the grotesque rainbow garment, his fine old Confederate face looked fanatical and evil.
I shouted to him again. He darted into the other barn, the one with the rope in it. I ran in after him, but he had hidden himself. I didn't stay there long. The large “R” scraping the floor dolefully as it dangled at the end of the rope made a sound that got on my nerves.
Since then I have been wandering around the barns, filled with a nameless dread.
Most sinister of all, the long keen knife has disappeared. And also Helen of Troy.
I am afraid that General Lee, in his present dangerous state, has made away with her.
Stop! Look! Good Heavens, the rats are coming back! They are as huge as sheep! It must be the effect of those super vitamins I put in the cake.
There are no more crumbs and the rats are very hungry.
I have run into the barn, but I can't close the door. The rats have me trapped. I must climb the rope to the loft!
I am halfway up the rope. The huge rats are leaping up and snapping at my heels, but they can't reach me. In a few moments I will be safe.
No hope! General Lee's face, atop that hideous coat, is peering down at me from the loft. His eyes gleam maniacally.
I am saved! Helen of Troy's face has appeared behind his. She holds the knife poised above his back. She is smiling at me.
It is a smile of cruel mockery.
She has handed the knife to General Lee.
He is sawing at the rope.
AAAYYY!