Andrew Hilger

The Picture, or Fiction Makes Strange Bedfellows

I once attended a reading where the poet said he liked to starthis poems with facts. There are twelve inches in a foot; that'sa cold, hard fact. But who set this standard? My foot isn't twelveinches. And who decided how long an inch should be. If he hadbeen less generously endowed, would inches be smaller to compensate?What if women had set such standards? Would length be such animportant concept? Are these questions relevant or did Mr. Freudinvent rather than discover them?

I like starting stories with questions.

Did Freud invent or discover sexual significance? That's whatI'm thinking as I walk through the desolate city, imagining penis-shapedprojectiles created and dropped by people who share my gender.No one has entered the danger zone since the bombing, but, drivenby fear, I have decided to risk it.

That's not a bad opening; it fixes the reader to the "I"character, and provides some degree of mystery and ambiguity.Regardless of their origins, we embrace sexual significances,so, assuming narrative finds its roots in the sex act, these firstfew lines serve as the pick-up line.

"Read here often?"

If the pick-up line doesn't work, the reader won't be aroundfor the orgasm. Anyone who's dealt with a publisher can tell youthat.

The sight of cars frozen in the middle of intersections seemsso peculiar, the city itself suffering from an arresting, debilitatingaffliction. And the silence gives me chills--no car horns or motors,no children playing, no vendors shouting. I find myself waitingfor a light to change on the corner of 16th and Walnut; everythingaround me is frozen and I'm waiting for a light to change. Everyso often, a breeze sends the smell of rotting flesh in my directionand I almost throw up. Whenever the nausea surfaces, I turn myhead and walk more quickly. The Bellevue Strafford must have beennear capacity the day of the bombing; I have to cross the streetto get away from the stench. I look to the sky thankful to havebeen vacationing with my wife at the time of the blast.

After the pick-up line goes out, the hopeful pursuer tellshis or her story. The situation needs to be set before any actioncan begin.

"Insurance is my line."

In certain encounters the dispersing of background informationand the motions of the sex can be intertwined, but I'm presentinga more traditional view of the narrative act. The teller's paststory needs to be interesting enough for the hearer to becomecomplicit in the narrative to follow. The preceding descriptionof the bombed-out city offers past narrative, the premise on whichthe story relies, the information that helps the reader decidewhether to go to bed with the narrative.

My affair, if that's what people want to call it, hadn't lastedvery long, but there was the business of the picture. I'm notthe first to say it and I won't be the last, but love (or infatuationas I gaze in retrospect) makes a person do some crazy things.I should have been wary of anyone snapping our picture, yet Idid it myself; I set the timer; I pulled Diana into me; I documentedthe adultery.

Seventy years ago, society would have frowned upon such subjectmatter. Ten years ago, we had a sexual revolution. Subtlety anddecorum and rules went out the window. Men came on to women andwomen came on to men. The nature of the narratives changed. IfHemingway were writing today, we'd know about Jake Barnes' difficultieson the first page, maybe even earlier: The title might be TheSun Also Rises, But Jake's Organ Doesn't. Sex isn't shocking anymore;it's expected.

We can trace the transformation of popular fiction into thetrash we see today to the trans-formation of how we view and dosex. In biblical times, no one uttered God's name. Moses scaleda mountain to meet "the one who is." Today, vaguenessof speech surrounds sex, not God. Dick and Jane scale a mountainto do "you know what." One could argue that God is farfrom dead in mainstream society; sex has become our God. Whetherits exaltations find their roots in sociological evolution orsociological creation, we embrace sex as a God.

Not only had I been blinded to the point of snapping the picture,I dropped a copy on her desk a few days later with some scribbleson the back: "I'll always love you! Bill."

Demonstrating a perfect flair for the dramatic, she had photocopiedmy writing and, the very next day, wrote, "Thanks so muchfor the sentiment, but I've come to realize what an egocentric,loathsome ass you are. If you come near me again, I'll personallydeliver this picture to your wife. Diana." Needless to say,we were finished. Don't get me wrong; I'm not in love with mywife or anything, but let's just say her maiden name is "Doolcamp."Her father's that mean looking son-of-a-bitch who tells America,"I don't care who says what about the leading brand; we'rethe leading brand and we're softer. I wipe with Doolcamp's, soI know why we're America's favorite. Period." He also ownsShoeland and Vegi-Mart. When you add it up, he's worth over abillion dollars and my wife's his only child, so it's pretty importantthat we stay married. My fiscal future makes it worth bravingthe radiation levels and smelling a few fried corpses. Diana andthe rest of the metropolitan area are dead, but the picture lives.

Well, the swinging single has told his/her story. The situationis set.

"Do you want to go back to my place?"

Now, there's a natural pause before the present narrative commences.If the initial encounter happened in a bar, one or both of theparticipants are taking a break in the bath-room before they leavethe bar and get down to the business of "you know what."

I stroll through the revolving doors of my building. I knewit would be desolate, but still, it's eerie, like walking intoyour grade school in mid-July. No one's on the way out for a smokeand the guard isn't at her desk. An empty building takes on sucha different personality. I walk over to the elevators. Normally,since my office is on the top floor, I only take the express elevator,but that doesn't seem to matter with no one in the building. Ipush all of the "up" buttons, and a local dings almostinstantly. I step on, reach over to press "22," thenrealize that all of the buttons are lit up. The doors close andI have to laugh; no one's in the building, I take the local andstill I stop at every floor. Then I grow a little concerned. Ithink the level of radiation in the air might be affecting theheat-sensitive buttons. But it's too late to turn back, especiallyconsidering how close I am to the picture.

The action has begun. The past stories have made the presentone a possibility. The couple has kissed or maybe rubbed up againsteach other. The wheels are in motion for an eventual climax/ orgasm.If the reader isn't satisfied, s/he will never engage in the actof reading this author again. Of course, the absolutes of sexaren't quite as absolute. Memory doesn't always tame urges; forexample, I still "read" my husband once every few monthsdespite countless forgettable past experiences.

The elevator stops at every floor and I grow more frustratedwith each pause. I just want to get the picture, destroy it andmove on. My wife is waiting at home. She had asked me where Iwas going, and I had just said, "I have things to do."She hadn't asked any other questions, so I simply left.

At the 21st floor, I start to get the queasy feeling that I'vealways felt when I've neared my office. Part of it would comefrom an aversion to work and part of it would come from knowingI'd have to see Diana, knowing I'd have to work for her. Now thatshe's dead, I thought I wouldn't feel that way, but I still do;the elevator ride evokes the queasiness like the salivation ofPavlov's dog. In a perverse way, I'm happy to be stopping at everyfloor, delaying the malaise of work, but I keep reminding myselfthat I won't be working. I just have to get that picture out ofthe building.

The queasiness/anxiety/anticipation that the narrator feelsparallels the reader's expectations. When will things take off?What will happen on the 22nd floor? Meanwhile, the author calculateswhen she should initiate the sex. To wait too long is to borethe potential partner, causing him/her to go home. The readerfears the author's climax won't match expectations. To move toofast is the equivalent of getting fresh, insulting the reader;again, s/he goes home. In this case, characters are not fleshedout and action happens without motivation. Again the potentialsex, the potential climax, goes unrealized.

Ding. The doors open to reveal an empty 22nd floor and I feela great deal of relief. I should have expected the emptiness,but it feels good when it becomes more than theoretical. I stepout of the elevator and hear some noises. A door slams shut andmaybe some feet are shuffling, but that doesn't make any sense.I decide it must be the building settling, still shaken by theintensity of the blast. The gentle breeze outside could explainthe door; an open or shattered window sucking it shut. Then Ihear something high-pitched that I can't place or explain. Thenoise stops, so I walk down the hall. Out of a ten-year habit,I turn left into my office. I don't have any reason to go in there,but I open the door anyway. Inside, sitting at my desk, is thebiggest, ugliest cockroach I've ever seen, rifling through mypapers with one tentacle, holding a Twinkie with another. He looksat me and I slam the door as fast as I can, and I try to collectmy thoughts. He looks just like I always have imagined Gregorto look in Metamorphosis.

Here, the pace of the encounter picks up. Figurative penetrationhas occurred. Still more things are happening; the mention ofKafka's story represents a trend in contemporary fiction: intertextuality.Critics like to know with whom authors sleep/read. Meanwhile,authors are growing more likely to kiss and tell. For me, theKafka reference reveals more about character than author; at firstglance, he might appear well-read, but, since scholars widelybelieve Gregor to have been a dung beetle rather than a cockroach,the character has undermined his own literacy.

Earlier, I talked about the changing nature of sex and fiction.Both can be described as "Kafka-esque"-- a term thrownloosely at almost any experiment. As authors play with narrativetechniques and levels of realism, lovers role-play and tie eachother up and swap with or include other couples. I'll spare youthe details, but I find that as my writing becomes more experimental,my sex-life grows increasingly "Kafka-esque." Basedon that revelation, I suspect that potential partners will readthis text with an odd mixture of fear and arousal.

I tiptoe down the hall, listening for my office door to creakopen, but it doesn't happen and I am gradually relieved of someof the tension. As I near Diana's office, though, the queasinessreturns, but it's juxtaposed with excitement; in a few moments,I will break free from my past.

I reach her office and open the door. A terrible stench blastsfrom the room and I hardly have time to turn my head before throwingup. Since the bomb had been dropped a few minutes past midnight,I had assumed the building would be empty, but there, on the floor,is a rotting, naked Diana. When I look closer, I can see thatshe is on top of someone-- the glasses remind me of Fred fromAccounting, but he has decayed more than his lover has.

I sprint to a window, push it open and stick my head out, suckingin the fresh air. After a few minutes, I gather myself enoughto pull my head in and look around the office. Things are notas neat as I am accustomed to seeing them. I look at her deskwhere she keeps the picture. The drawers are pulled slightly open,so I know that they aren't locked. I pull each of them open andfind papers scattered everywhere-- something Diana never wouldhave tolerated. The picture isn't there. I see a small red lightout of the corner of my eye and realize the copy machine is on.There's a trash can next to it, and from there I pull out twopieces of paper with photocopies of the picture, my arm aroundDiana, both of us smiling, "I'll always love you" photocopiedon the bottom half of the paper. I lift the top of the copier,but find no picture; then I rip up the pieces of paper and shovethe scraps into my pocket. I look down at Diana, as repulsed byher nakedness as I am by her rotting flesh, then walk out of theoffice slamming the door behind me.

We've reached a climax. Since the narrative embodies what wewant real life to be, we give the climax a great deal of timeand attention. Prior to the orgasm, a day of action can be describedin a minute. During the climax, one minute of description equalsone minute of action.

In the sports we watch, we've discovered ways to lengthen thistime period. In the narrative of a professional basketball game,the last two minutes can last for twenty-five minutes. Many fansclaim that they only have to watch these last two minutes. Football'sorgasm stretches out in similar ways. Effective quarterbacks andcoaches find creative ways to "stop the clock." It'sno wonder these sports are so popular--they boast long, intense,orgasms.

Another way in which stories derive their form from the sexact involves the post-climactic, post-orgasm time of resolution.After sex, do the lovers embrace? Who lets go first? Do they talkabout the future? How has the sex changed their relationship?Narrative must answer these questions as well. Does the villainmeet with justice? Do the characters live happily ever after?Specifically, how will Huck Finn deal with a restrictive society?Narrative solves, or at least suggests a solution to these questions.Huck "lights out for the territory ahead of the rest."Not coincidentally, many traditional comedies end with weddings,an implied conclusion for the characters. Resolutions are oftenimplied rather than shown. In this story, I devote little timeto the resolution, but when you come to the end, you have a senseof the narrator's future.

As I walk to the elevators, I taste the vomit in my mouth.I stop at the water fountain and swish water around, then spitit out. Without thinking, I push the button for the local elevators.One comes and I step on. This time only a few of the buttons arelit up and I wonder if the lights might be out on the other ones,but we don't stop at 21 or 20 or 19. I breathe a sigh of relief,anxious to leave the building, but still haunted by my failureto destroy the picture.

I feel the elevators stopping at 16, and, when the doors open,two giant cockroaches step on, sending a shot of cold up and downmy spine. They glance at me, then look at each other with slysmiles that disarm me. I feel myself shaking, but try to lookstraight ahead as if they are having no effect. Out of the cornerof my eye, I see that the one closest to me, the bigger one, holdsa stack of paper and I hear them both whispering. I watch thenumbers above the door--13, 12, 11.

At ten, the doors open again, but no one steps on. I feel thebigger of the roaches step closer to me and I think about runningthrough the doors, but, before I can act, they press shut. Nine.I feel a tap on my shoulder and my head jerks to look at the roach.It jumps back then puts its armish tentacle around the other roach.

"I'll always love you," it says in a squeaky, inhumanvoice, then both of the roaches look at me and laugh.

Enjoy your cigarette!