The Broom of the System (20 page)

Gilligan’s Isle was a very popular bar. The inside of the place was round, the walls were painted to look like the filmy blue horizon of the ocean, and the floors were painted and textured to resemble beach. There were palm trees all over, fronds hanging down tick lishly over the patrons. Sprouting from the floor of the bar were huge statued likenesses of the whole cast: the Skipper, the Howells, Ginger, and the rest, painted in bright castaway colors and all with uncannily characteristic facial expressions. The huge castaways were sunk into the floor at about chest level; their heads, arms, shoulders, and outstretched upturned hands were all tables for patrons. There was a certain amount of intertwining: Mr. Howell’s arm was wrapped part way around Mrs. Howell’s waist, Mary-Ann’s long hair brushed the plastic top of Mr. Howell’s forearm, the Professor’s thumb hovered achingly close to Ginger’s décolletage. The bar itself was made of that vaguely straw-like material that huts on the show were made of. Behind the bar at all times was one of a number of bartenders, all of whom resembled, to a greater or lesser degree, Gilligan. Once an hour the bartender would be required to do something blatantly cloddish and stupid—a standard favorite had the bartender slipping on a bit of spilled banana daiquiri and falling and acting as if he had driven his thumb into his eye—and the patrons would, if they were hip and in the know, say with one voice, “Aww, Gilligan,” and laugh, and clap.

Mr. Bloemker was sitting at the back, at Mary-Ann’s left hand, facing the front window. With him was a very beautiful woman in a shiny dress who stared blankly straight in front of her. Lenore saw them and came inside and went over to their table.

“Hi Mr. Bloemker,” she said.

Mr. Bloemker looked up with a start. “Ms. Beadsman.”

“Hi.”

“Hello. Fancy meeting ...” Mr. Bloemker looked strange and scooted a tiny bit toward Mary-Ann’s wrist, away from the beautiful woman he had been sitting right next to.

“Well Frequent and Vigorous is just over in the Bombardini Building, over there,” said Lenore, “which you can probably see, if you look over in the comer of the window, over there, with the lights on?”

“Well well.”

“Hi, I’m Lenore Beadsman, I know Mr. Bloemker,” Lenore said to the beautiful woman.

The beautiful woman didn’t say anything; she stared straight ahead.

“Lenore Beadsman, this is Brenda, Brenda, may I present Ms. Lenore Beadsman,” said Mr. Bloemker, his fingers in his beard. In front of both Mr. Bloemker and Brenda were drinks in plastic jugs shaped like pineapples, with straws coming out of holes in the top.

“Hi,” Lenore said to Brenda. “....”

“Please sit down,” said Mr. Bloemker.

Lenore sat. “Is Brenda OK?”

“Please don’t mind Brenda. Brenda is very shy,” Mr. Bloemker said. He was slurring a tiny bit. He was apparently a bit tight. His cheeks were lit up above the tendrils of the top of his beard, his nose shone, his glasses were a little steamed, and he was uncombed, a huge, obscene Superman-curl of hair lying like a giant comma across his forehead.

“I tried to call you today,” said Lenore, “except you weren’t there, and then I could only try once, because we were incredibly busy, what with horrible line trouble and everything.”

“Yes. It was a busy day.”

“I couldn’t have my father call you because he wasn’t in. He’s out for a couple of days, and apparently unreachable.”

“Yes.”

“But the minute he gets back.”

“Fine.”

“And the really big except also troubling news is that I think for sure Lenore and Mrs. Yingst and the other patients are at least still around, in Cleveland, because Mrs. Yingst’s walker was in my apartment last night, and it wasn’t before, and she left a message for me with my bird, who can suddenly talk.”

“Your bird can suddenly talk?”

“Yes. Unfortunately mostly obscenely.”

“I see.”

“To be honest, it’s not inconceivable that Mrs. Yingst gave him LSD.”

“Oh, now, I don’t think Mrs. Yingst would do something like that.”

“But then what’s going on, all these old patients just hanging around Cleveland, and not telling anybody, and staff and staff’s families hanging around, too?”

“Residents.”

“Residents, sorry.” Lenore looked at Brenda. “Listen, are you sure Brenda’s OK? Brenda like hasn’t moved once, that I’ve been able to see, since I got here.” Brenda stared straight ahead out of her beautiful eyes.

Mr. Bloemker looked blankly at Lenore. “Please,” he said, “give Brenda not a thought. It takes Brenda a while to loosen up around strangers.” He looked back down at his pineapple with bleary eyes and played with his straw. “Residents. We call them residents, you know, actually it’s at my insistence that we not call them patients, we call them residents because we try very hard at Shaker Heights to minimize the medical implications of their being with the facility. We try to minimize the appearance of illness, the importance of illness. Without much success, really, I’m afraid.”

“I understand,” said Lenore.

There was a yelp and a crash and tinkle; the bartender lay sprawled over the bar with his head in a palm-tree pot, his legs in white cotton pants waving, beer on the floor. “Aww, Gilligan,” everyone yelled and laughed, except Lenore and Mr. Bloemker and Brenda. Mr. Bloemker scratched under his beard with his straw.

“A troubling and disorienting position at the facility, mine,” he said. He looked up at Lenore. “Why don’t you help yourself to some of Brenda’s Twizzler? Brenda’s not drinking it, I see.”

Brenda stared.

“Well, I don’t really drink alcoholic stuff much,” Lenore said. “It makes me cough.”

“Here.”

“Thanks.”

“Troubling.”

“I can imagine.”

“The old ... the old are not like you and I, Ms. Beadsman. As you no doubt know, having spent so much time around ... at the facility.”

“They’re different, I agree.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” Lenore tried a bit of Twizzler, got a strong taste of gin and Hawaiian Punch, closed her eyes, discreetly spat the bit of Twizzler back out of the straw into the plastic pineapple jug.

“They are also Midwesterners,” continued Mr. Bloemker. “As a rule, almost all of them are Midwesterners.” He stared off. “This area of the country, what are we to say of this area of the country, Ms. Beadsman?”

“Search me.”

“Both in the middle and on the fringe. The physical heart, and the cultural extremity. Com, a steadily waning complex of heavy industry, and sports. What are we to say? We feed and stoke and supply a nation much of which doesn’t know we exist. A nation we tend to be decades behind, culturally and intellectually. What are we to say about it?”

“Well, you’re saying pretty good things, really; I sense some interest on Brenda’s part, too, I think.”

“This area makes for truly bizarre people. Troubled people. As past historians have noted and future historians will note.”

“Yup.”

“And when the people in question then become old, when they must not only come to terms with and recognize the implications of their consciousness of themselves as parts of this strange, occluded place ... when they must incorporate and manage memory, as well, past perceptions and feelings. Perceptions of the past. Memories: things that both are and aren’t. The Midwest: a place that both is and isn’t. A volatile mixture. I have sensed volatileness at the facility for some time.”

“Does this explain anything, do you think? Disappearance-wise?”

“I think it explains very little.”

“I’m going to give Brenda back her Twizzler. Brenda, here’s your Twizzler back, thanks a lot, I’m just not in the mood. Are you sure she’s OK? Have I offended her somehow?”

“Brenda, don’t be a stick in the mud.”

Brenda was silent.

Mr. Bloemker massaged his chin. “The average age of the residents at the facility—I did some research today at the request of the owners—the average age of the residents at the facility is eighty-seven. Eighty-seven years of age. How old are you, Ms. Beadsman?”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“So you were born in 1966. I was born in 1957. The average resident was born in 1903. Think of that.”

“Boy.”

“These people, think of the worlds they’ve been part of. The worlds. They’ve literally gone from horse and buggy to moonshot. The technological changes alone that they have stood witness to are staggering. How might one even begin to orient oneself with respect to such a series of changes in the fundamental features of the world? How to begin to come to some understanding of one’s place in a system, when one is a part of an area that exists in such a troubling relation to the rest of the world, a world that is itself stripped of any static, understandable character by the fact that it changes, radically, all the time?”

“System?”

Mr. Bloemker looked at his thumb. “Have you ever been to the Desert, Ms. Beadsman? The G.O.D.?”

“Not for quite a while, like ten years. Lenore and I actually used to go. She had a Volvo that we’d take down, do a little fishing at the edge, do the wander-thing.”

“Yes. I would like to go down and wander.”

“Well it’s easy. You can just buy a Wander Pass at any gate. They’re only about five dollars. The really desolate areas can get pretty crowded, of course, sometimes, so it’s good to get there early, get as much wandering as you can in before noon. ”

“Brenda and I may go down soon. I feel a need for ... for sinistemess. I sense Brenda does, too. Am I right, plum petal?” Bloemker carelessly chucked Brenda’s chin with his hand. Brenda tilted way back on the bench, beside Mary-Ann’s hand, until her legs hit the bottom of the table, then sat rapidly up again, vibrating a little. Lenore narrowed her eyes.

“Hmmm.”

“Another thing I must in all frankness admit to finding ... amusing,” Mr. Bloemker said, sucking for a moment on the straw in his jug, drinking at something that smelled to Lenore like another Twizzler, “although I hesitate to use that term, because it sounds as if I mean to be derogatory, which I do not. Our residents, the people who are very old now, have really made our culture what it is. And now by culture I mean this country’s culture, not Ohio’s culture, which I do not profess even to begin to understand. Particularly the women, it seems to me. We like to think the sexual revolution is a creation of our generation. That’s a crock, pardon my language. The women who are now old invented it all. Everything we profess to enjoy. The women who reside in facilities now were the first American women to cut their hair short. The first to drink. To smoke. To dance in public. Shall we discuss voting? Making money? Being economic entities? They were pioneers, these people in wheelchairs with blanketed laps.”

“Listen, are you absolutely sure Brenda’s OK?” Lenore asked. “Because the thing is I haven’t really seen Brenda move once on her own, which it occurs to me now includes seeing her chest move to breathe, or seeing her blink. What’s with Brenda?”

“The cutting of hair. That particularly fascinates me. It freed these women from a prison. An aesthetic prison. It freed them from the one-hundred-brushstrokes-a-night tyranny of the culture that ... obtained.”

“The not blinking really bothers me, I’ve got to tell you. And what’s this on her neck, here? On Brenda’s neck?”

“Birthmark. Pimple.”

“Is this an air-valve? This is an air-valve! See, here’s the cap. Are you sitting with an inflatable doll?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re sitting with an inflatable doll! This isn’t even a person.”

“Brenda, this isn’t funny, show Ms. Beadsman you’re a person.”

“My God. See, she weighs about one pound. I can lift her up.” Lenore lifted Brenda way up by the thigh. Brenda suddenly fell out of Lenore’s hand and her head got wedged between the bench and Mary-Ann’s hand, and she was upside down. Her dress fell up.

“Good heavens,” said Mr. Bloemker.

“One of those dolls. That’s just sick. How can you sit in public with an anatomically correct doll?”

“I must confess, the wool seems to have been completely pulled over my eyes. I thought she was simply extremely shy. A troubled Midwestemer, in an ambivalent relation ...”

“Nice doll,” remarked another patron, at Mrs. Howell’s elbow.

“I think Brenda and I should be going,” Mr. Bloemker said. He struggled with Brenda’s plastic legs. Brenda was wedged. Lenore helped Mr. Bloemker pull. Brenda came out, but her dress got caught on Mary-Ann’s thumbnail and ripped and fell off.

“Holy shit,” said Lenore.

“Holy cow,” said the patron at Mrs. Howell’s elbow. “Where’d you get that? Are those expensive?” Other people at different tables turned to look. Things got quiet.

“How excruciatingly ... ,” Bloemker muttered.

“Probably wise to go now,” Lenore said.

“Certainly nice to have seen you, anxiously await your father’s ...” Mr. Bloemker covered Brenda as best he could with his sportcoat and made for the door. There were whistles and claps. Bloemker broke into a run and ran suddenly into the bartender, who was coming around the side of the bar with a tray of creamy White Russians. There was an enormous crash and tinkle, and the bartender flipped over backwards and drove his thumb into his eye, and White Russian went everywhere, and a shard of broken White-Russian glass hit Brenda and punctured her and she flew out of Mr. Bloemker’s arms and went whizzing around the room, twirling, losing air, finally to land limply but beautifully in a palm-tree pot, with one leg wrapped around her neck. Mr. Bloemker flew out the door. Lenore sniffed at his Twizzler. The patrons laughed and clapped,

“Aww, Gilligan.”

“Come in. Waiting long? Busy day. I get back, am unable even to see my desk, for all the messages. Foamwhistle, leave. Remember Pupik, in Lids, and Goggins, in Jars, have to be brought to see me at the same time. Attend to it. I’ve asked you repeatedly before. A company that cannot coordinate its lids and its jars is a bad company. I do not run a bad company. Go now. Come in. Don’t jump at her, Foamwhistle, you can whisper and giggle together later. This is my time. Come in. For whatever part of your wait was my fault I apologize, although none of it was my fault. You like this? You don’t like this? I caught it. I had it stuffed. Still looks wet, to me. You? I caught it in Canada. Went up to Canada, with Gerber. Did a little fishing. Little fishing with Gerber up in Canada. Got a tan, a natural one, tell your sister that. Not there, up here, closer. Light’s terrible in here today. Why Foamwhistle can’t arrange an office that doesn’t have to depend for its light on a window is beyond me. At least I can see you up here. Are you really gray, or is it just the light? Although I like the rain on the window, I like to look out, when I find myself with a second, which is of course never. Lake looks good in the rain. Rain cleans the lake up. The sound of the rain on the window ... You like it? No? Yes? Down to business. Stonecipher got off to Amherst satisfactorily, I assume. How long has it been, three weeks? You can’t spare an hour in three weeks? I know what you’re going to say, but the Canada thing just came up. Gerber just came up with the idea. We can’t plan these things, or it looks as if we’re price-fixing or something. You, on the other hand, you have no free time? This is not simply one indefinitely broad interval of free time? How is your job? How much money do you have? Do you have money? If you do not say anything, I automatically assume you have money. Further thoughts on the issue we discussed at length the last time I saw you? No? No further thoughts? Planless, still? Distinguished graduate of Oberlin? Most highly educated receptionist and telephone operator in Cleveland history? And the firm. I anxiously await the appearance of the firm’s first book. Has the firm published a book yet? Norslan? That’s not a book, that’s advertising. Still, production is production, as I well know. Up to four-ten yet? Still four big dollars an hour? How long? No. Perfectly natural to want some sort of interval without school, without a real job or any responsibilities, I won’t even say marriage because my glasses will break, but how long? The reasonable question. Followed by the reasonable point. Wait. Wait. To love a non-nuclear relative is a good thing. To be connected ... excuse me, to be connected is good. But to imitate that relative ... in all facets ... is not good. To try to be that relative is unnatural. Thus bad. Not fair? Not true? Then, really, why purposely invite comparison, accusation? Is that the appropriate question? Why the hair, which you must know I loathe that way? The ancient dresses? What is the function of those shoes? Yes, function. I know. Wait a moment. The aimlessness after a self-consciously dazzling college career. Gramma Lenore leaves her child, my father, your grandfather, at Shaker School and flies off to England. England. Yes, I know where function comes from, after all. Yes. The irreponsibility. Your refusal, a, to go to school; your refusal, b, to put your expensive degree to renumerative use. Your refusal even to live at home. No, not really, of course there is understanding, but perceive simply that on my end too there is embarrassment and sadness. Except in the daytime ... excuse me ... except in the daytime there are only Miss Malig and myself, in that huge house. Why that look? I seethe with anger at that look, and will not even condescend to deny anymore. Your mother’s child. The aimlessness. A mindless job, punching numbers and making connections for other people. Still no romantic involvement? No? No, that doesn’t point up an important difference. Aimlessness and irresponsibility simply take on new forms as time goes by. Besides, there is Mr. Vigorous. No, don’t bother to deny involvement, bother to deny extent. I see. No real point in discussing it, is there? So then, Lenore. Right. With regard to the issue I strongly suspect has understandably brought you here, just let me say everything’s largely under control and thoroughly explainable. The thing with Gerber was incidental. The thing with Gerber just came up. Rummage did call Bloomfield. Bloemker. At my instructions. Yes. Not at all. Your not knowing what’s going on was purely accidental. The big picture and so on. I’d assumed Gramma, not to mention very probably Foamwhistle, had been keeping you filled quietly in, all along. What was going on was that some time ago Gramma Lenore summoned me to her greenhouse of a room to discuss a project. A project. A business project. Just wait. She had concepts she wanted to bounce off me. They bounced, and I was intrigued. I brought in one of our men, one of our researchers, one of our chemists, the Obstat kid? Neil Obstat, Jr.? I know you went to Shaker with him. The little lizard still has your picture in his wallet, apparently. In any event, he was intrigued, too. Gramma Lenore’s friend, the Yingst woman? Had had a husband who had done research. Pineal research. The pineal gland? No? A little round gland at the base of the brain? P-i-n-e-a- 1? Remember Descartes thought it was where mind met body, way back when, the point of mediation, where the body’s hydraulics were adjusted and operated according to the ... ? Right. Certain you must have done it in class. Yingst had theories, certain theories, in which Gramma Lenore was not uninterested, for predictably self-oriented reasons. A mutually beneficial transaction was proposed.”