Miss Lonelyhearts (2 page)

The bar was only half full. Miss
Lonelyhearts
looked around apprehensively for Shrike and
was relieved at not finding him. However, after a third drink, just as he was
settling into the warm mud of alcoholic gloom, Shrike caught his arm.

"Ah, my young friend!" he
shouted. "How do I find you? Brooding again, I take it."

"For Christ's sake, shut
up."

Shrike ignored the interruption.
"You're morbid, my friend, morbid. Forget the crucifixion, remember the
renaissance. There were no brooders then." He raised his glass, and the
whole Borgia family was in his gesture. "I give you the renaissance. What
a period! What pageantry! Drunken popes...Beautiful courtesans...Illegitimate
children..."

Although his gestures were
elaborate, his face was blank. He practiced a trick used much by moving-picture
comedians--the dead pan. No matter how fantastic or excited his speech, he
never changed his expression. Under the shining white globe of his brow, his
features huddled together in a dead, gray triangle.

"To the renaissance!" he
kept shouting.
"To the renaissance!
To the brown
Greek manuscripts and mistresses with the great smooth
marbly
limbs...But that reminds me, I'm expecting one of my admirers--a cow-eyed girl
of great intelligence." He illustrated the word intelligence by carving
two enormous breasts in the air with his hands. "She works in a book
store, but
wait
until you see her behind."

Miss
Lonelyhearts
made the mistake of showing his annoyance.

"Oh, so you don't care for
women, eh? J. C. is your only sweetheart, eh? Jesus Christ, the King of Kings,
the Miss
Lonelyhearts
of Miss
Lonelyhearts
..."

At this moment, fortunately for Miss
Lonelyhearts
, the young woman expected by Shrike came
up to the bar. She had long legs, thick ankles, big hands, a powerful body, a
slender neck and a childish face made tiny by a man's haircut.

"Miss
Farkis
,"
Shrike said, making her bow as a ventriloquist does his doll, "Miss
Farkis
, I want you to meet Miss
Lonelyhearts
.
Show him the same respect you show me. He, too, is a comforter of the poor in
spirit and a lover of God."

She acknowledged the introduction
with a masculine handshake.

"Miss
Farkis
,"
Shrike said, "Miss
Farkis
works in a book store
and writes on the side." He patted her rump.

"What were you talking about so
excitedly?" she asked.
"Religion."

"Get me a drink and please
continue. I'm very much interested in the new
thomistic
synthesis."

This was just the kind of remark for
which Shrike was waiting. "St. Thomas!" he shouted. "What do you
take us for--stinking intellectuals? We're not fake Europeans. We were
discussing Christ, the Miss
Lonelyhearts
of Miss
Lonelyhearts
. America has her own religions. If you need a
synthesis, here is the kind of material to use." He took a clipping from
his wallet and slapped it on the bar.

"ADDING MACHINE USED IN RITUAL
OF WESTERN SECT...Figures Will be Used for Prayers for Condemned Slayer of Aged
Recluse...DENVER, COLO., Feb. 2
( A
. P.) Frank H.
Rice, Supreme Pontiff of the Liberal Church of America has announced he will
carry out his plan for a 'goat and adding machine' ritual for William
Moya
, condemned slayer, despite objection to his program by
a Cardinal of the sect. Rice declared the goat would be used as part of a 'sack
cloth and ashes' service shortly before and after
Moya's
execution, set for the week of June 20. Prayers for the condemned man's soul
will be offered on an adding machine. Numbers, he explained, constitute the
only universal language.
Moya
killed Joseph
Zemp
, an aged recluse, in an argument over a small amount
of money."

Miss
Farkis
laughed and Shrike raised his fist as though to strike her. His actions shocked
the bartender, who hurriedly asked them to go into the back room. Miss
Lonelyhearts
did not want to go along, but Shrike insisted
and he was too tired to argue.

They seated themselves at a table
inside one of the booths. Shrike again raised his fist, but when Miss
Farkis
drew back, he changed the gesture to a caress. The
trick worked. She gave in to his hand until he became too daring,
then
pushed him away.

Shrike again began to shout and this
time Miss
Lonelyhearts
understood that he was making
a seduction speech.

"I am a great saint,"
Shrike cried, "I can walk on my own water. Haven't you ever heard of
Shrike's Passion in the Luncheonette, or the Agony in the Soda Fountain? Then I
compared the wounds in Christ's body to the mouths of a miraculous purse in
which we deposit the small change of our sins. It is indeed an excellent
conceit. But now let us consider the holes in our own bodies and into what
these congenital wounds open. Under the skin of man is a wondrous jungle where
veins like lush tropical growths hang along overripe organs and weed-like
entrails writhe in squirming tangles of red and yellow. In this jungle,
flitting from rock-gray lungs to golden intestines, from liver to lights and
back to liver
again,
lives a bird called the soul. The
Catholic hunts this bird with bread and wine, the Hebrew with a golden ruler,
the Protestant on leaden feet with leaden words, the Buddhist with gestures,
the
Negro with blood. I spit on them all.
Phoohl
And
I call upon you to
spit.
Phoohl
Do you stuff birds? No, my
dears, taxidermy is
not religion. No! A thousand times no.
Better, I say unto you, better a live bird in the jungle of the body than two
stuffed birds on the library table."

His caresses kept pace with the
sermon. When he had reached the end, he buried his triangular face like the
blade of a hatchet in her neck.

Miss
Lonelyhearts
went home in a taxi. He lived by himself in a room that was as full of shadows
as an old steel engraving. It held a bed, a table and two chairs. The walls
were bare except for an ivory Christ that hung opposite the foot of the bed. He
had removed the figure from the cross to which it had been fastened and had
nailed it to the wall with large spikes. But the desired effect had not been
obtained. Instead of writhing, the Christ remained calmly decorative.

He got undressed immediately and
took a cigarette and a copy of The Brothers
Kalamazov
to bed. The marker was in a chapter devoted to Father
Zossima
.

"Love a man even in his sin,
for that is the semblance of Divine Love and is the highest love on earth. Love
all God's creation, the whole and every grain of sand in it. Love the animals,
love the plants,
love
everything. If you love
everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things. Once you perceive
it, you will begin to comprehend it better every day. And you will come at last
to love the whole world with an all-embracing love."

It was excellent advice. If he followed
it, he would be a big success. His column would be syndicated and the whole
world would learn to love. The Kingdom of Heaven would arrive. He would sit on
the right hand of the Lamb.

But seriously, he realized, even if
Shrike had not made a sane view of this Christ business impossible, there would
be little use in his fooling himself. His vocation was of a different sort. As
a boy in his father's church, he had discovered that something stirred in him
when he shouted the name of Christ, something secret and enormously powerful.
He had played with this thing, but had never allowed it to come alive.

He knew now what this thing
was--hysteria, a snake whose scales are tiny mirrors in which the dead world
takes on a semblance of life.
And how dead the world is...a
world of doorknobs.
He wondered if hysteria were really too steep a
price to pay for bringing it to life.

For him, Christ was the most natural
of excitements. Fixing his eyes on the image that hung on the wall, he began to
chant: "Christ, Christ, Jesus Christ.
Christ, Christ,
Jesus Christ."
But the moment the snake started to uncoil in his
brain, he became frightened and closed his eyes.

With sleep, a dream came in which he
found himself on the stage of a crowded theater. He was a magician who did
tricks with doorknobs. At his command, they bled, flowered, spoke. After his
act was finished, he tried to lead his audience in prayer. But no matter how
hard he struggled, his prayer was one Shrike had taught him and his voice was
that of a conductor calling stations.

"Oh, Lord, we are not of those
who wash in wine, water, urine, vinegar, fire, oil, bay rum, milk, brandy, or
boric acid. Oh, Lord, we are of those who wash solely in the Blood of the
Lamb."

The scene of the dream changed. He
found himself in his college dormitory. With him were Steve Garvey and Jud
Hume. They had been arguing the existence of God from midnight until dawn, and
now, having run out of whisky, they decided to go to the market for some
applejack.

Their way led through the streets of
the sleeping town into the open fields beyond. It was spring. The sun and the
smell of vegetable birth renewed their drunkenness and they reeled between the
loaded carts. The farmers took their horseplay good-naturedly.
Boys from the college on a spree.

They found the bootlegger and bought
a gallon jug of applejack, then wandered to the section where livestock was
sold. They stopped to fool with some lambs. Jud suggested buying one to roast
over a fire in the woods. Miss
Lonelyhearts
agreed,
but on the condition that they sacrifice it to God before barbecuing it.

Steve was sent to the cutlery stand
for a butcher knife, while the other two remained to bargain for a lamb. After
a long, Armenian-like argument, during which Jud exhibited his farm training,
the youngest was selected, a little, stiff-legged thing, all head.

They paraded the lamb through the
market. Miss
Lonelyhearts
went first, carrying the
knife, the others followed, Steve with the jug and Jud with the animal. As they
marched, they sang an obscene version of "Mary Had a Little Lamb."

Between the market and the bill on
which they intended to perform the sacrifice was a meadow. While going through
it, they, picked daisies and buttercups. Halfway up the hill, they found a rock
and covered it with the flowers. They laid the lamb among the flowers. Miss
Lonely-hearts was elected priest, with Steve and Jud as his attendants. While
they held the lamb, Miss
Lonelyhearts
crouched over
it and began to chant.

"Christ,
Christ, Jesus Christ.
Christ, Christ, Jesus
Christ."

When they had worked themselves into
a frenzy
, he brought the knife down hard. The blow was
inaccurate and made a flesh wound. He raised the knife again and this time the
lamb's violent struggles made him miss altogether. The knife broke on the
altar. Steve and Jud pulled the animal's head back for him to saw at its
throat, but only a small piece of blade remained in the handle and he was
unable to cut through the matted wool.

Their hands were covered with slimy
blood and the lamb slipped free. It crawled off into the underbrush.

As the bright sun outlined the altar
rock with narrow shadows, the scene appeared to gather itself for some new
violence. They bolted. Down the hill they fled until they reached the meadow,
where they fell exhausted in the tall grass.

After some time had passed, Miss
Lonelyhearts
begged them to go back and put the lamb out of
its misery. They refused to go. He went back alone and found it under a bush.
He crushed its head with a stone and left the carcass to the flies that swarmed
around the bloody altar flowers.

Miss
Lonelyhearts
found
himself
developing an almost insane
sensitiveness to order. Everything had to form a pattern: the shoes under the
bed, the ties in the holder,
the
pencils on the table.
When he looked out of a window, he composed the skyline by balancing one
building against another. If a bird flew across this arrangement, he closed his
eyes angrily until it was gone.

For a little while, he seemed to
hold his own but one day he found himself with his back to the wall. On that
day all the inanimate things over which he had tried to obtain control took the
field against him. When he touched something, it spilled or rolled to the
floor. The collar buttons disappeared under the bed, the point of the pencil
broke,
the
handle of the razor fell off, the window
shade refused to stay down. He fought back, but with too much violence, and was
decisively defeated by the spring of the alarm clock.