The Autobiography of Red Read online

  Herakles was standing in front of her

  and he lifted her towards him like snow. Geryon saw her legs were asymmetrical,

  one pointed up the other down and back.

  Goodnight children, she called in her voice like old coals.

  May God favor you with dreams.

  XXII. FRUIT BOWL

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  His mother was sitting at the kitchen table when Geryon opened the screen door.

  ————

  He had taken the local bus from Hades. Seven-hour trip. He wept most of the way.

  Wanted to go straight to his room

  and shut the door but when he saw her he sat down. Hands in his jacket.

  She smoked in silence a moment

  then rested her chin against her hand. Eyes on his chest. Nice T-shirt, she said.

  It was a red singlet with white letters

  that read TENDER

  LOIN. Herakles gave it—and here Geryon had meant

  to slide past the name coolly

  but such a cloud of agony poured up his soul he couldn’t remember

  what he was saying.

  He sat forward. She exhaled. She was watching his hands so he unclenched them

  from the edge

  of the table and began spinning the fruit bowl slowly. He spun it clockwise.

  Counterclockwise. Clockwise.

  Why is this fruit bowl always here? He stopped and held it by the rims.

  It’s always here and it never

  has any fruit in it. Been here all my life never had fruit in it yet. Doesn’t

  that bother you? How do we even

  know it’s a fruit bowl? She regarded him through smoke. How do you think it feels

  growing up in a house full

  of empty fruit bowls? His voice was high. His eyes met hers and they began

  to laugh. They laughed

  until tears ran down. Then they sat quiet. Drifted back

  to opposite walls.

  They spoke of a number of things, laundry, Geryon’s brother doing drugs,

  the light in the bathroom.

  At one point she took out a cigarette, looked at it, put it back. Geryon laid

  his head on his arms on the table.

  He was very sleepy. finally they rose and went their ways. The fruit bowl

  stayed there. Yes empty.

  XXIII. WATER

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  Water! Out from between two crouching masses of the world the word leapt.

  ————

  It was raining on his face. He forgot for a moment that he was a brokenheart

  then he remembered. Sick lurch

  downward to Geryon trapped in his own bad apple. Each morning a shock

  to return to the cut soul.

  Pulling himself onto the edge of the bed he stared at the dull amplitude of rain.

  Buckets of water sloshed from sky

  to roof to eave to windowsill. He watched it hit his feet and puddle on the floor.

  He could hear bits of human voice

  streaming down the drainpipe—I believe in being gracious—

  He slammed the window shut.

  Below in the living room everything was motionless. Drapes closed, chairs asleep.

  Huge wads of silence stuffed the air.

  He was staring around for the dog then realized they hadn’t had a dog for years. Clock

  in the kitchen said quarter to six.

  He stood looking at it, willing himself not to blink until the big hand bumped over

  to the next minute. Years passed

  as his eyes ran water and a thousand ideas jumped his brain—If the world

  ends now I am free and

  If the world ends now no one will see my autobiography—finally it bumped.

  He had a flash of Herakles’ sleeping house

  and put that away. Got out the coffee can, turned on the tap and started to cry.

  Outside the natural world was enjoying

  a moment of total strength. Wind rushed over the ground like a sea and battered up

  into the corners of the buildings,

  garbage cans went dashing down the alley after their souls.

  Giant ribs of rain shifted

  open on a flash of light and cracked together again, making the kitchen clock

  bump crazily. Somewhere a door slammed.

  Leaves tore past the window. Weak as a fly Geryon crouched against the sink

  with his fist in his mouth

  and his wings trailing over the drainboard. Rain lashing the kitchen window

  sent another phrase

  of Herakles’ chasing across his mind. A photograph is just a bunch of light

  hitting a plate. Geryon wiped his face

  with his wings and went out to the living room to look for the camera.

  When he stepped onto the back porch

  rain was funnelling down off the roof in a morning as dark as night.

  He had the camera wrapped

  in a sweatshirt. The photograph is titled “If He Sleep He Shall Do Well.”

  It shows a fly floating in a pail of water—

  drowned but with a strange agitation of light around the wings. Geryon used

  a fifteen-minute exposure.

  When he first opened the shutter the fly seemed to be still alive.

  XXIV. FREEDOM

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  Geryon’s life entered a numb time, caught between the tongue and the taste.

  ————

  He got a job in the local library shelving government documents. It was

  agreeable to work in a basement

  humming with fluorescent tubes and cold as a sea of stone. The documents

  had a forlorn austerity,

  tall and hushed in their ranges as veterans of a forgotten war. Whenever

  a librarian came clumping

  down the metal stairs with a pink slip for one of the documents,

  Geryon would vanish into the stacks.

  A little button at the end of each range activated the fluorescent track above it.

  A yellowing 5 × 7 index card

  Scotch-taped below each button said EXTINGUISH LIGHT WHEN NOT IN USE.

  Geryon went flickering

  through the ranges like a bit of mercury flipping the switches on and off.

  The librarians thought him

  a talented boy with a shadow side. One evening at supper when his mother

  asked him

  what they were like, Geryon could not remember if the librarians were men

  or women. He had taken a number

  of careful photographs but these showed only the shoes and socks of each person.

  They look like mostly men’s shoes to me,

  said his mother bending over the prints which he had spread on the kitchen table.

  Except—who’s that? she pointed.

  It was a photograph taken from floor level of a single naked foot propped on

  the open drawer of a metal file cabinet.

  On the floor beneath lay a dirty red Converse sneaker on its side.

  That’s the assistant head librarian’s sister.

  He pulled forward a photo of white acrylic socks and dark loafers

  crossed at the ankle: assistant head librarian.

  She comes in at five sometimes to get a ride home with him. Geryon’s mother

  looked closer. What does she do?

  Works at Dunkin’ Donuts I think. Nice girl? No. Yes. I don’t know.

  Geryon glared. His mother reached out

  a hand to touch his head but he ducked sideways and began gathering up

  the photographs. The phone rang.

  Can you get that? she said turning to the sink. Geryon went into the living room

  and stood looking down at the phone

  as it rang a third time and a fourth. Hello? Geryon? Hi it’s me. You so
und

  funny were you asleep?

  Herakles’ voice went bouncing through Geryon on hot gold springs.

  Oh. No. No I wasn’t.

  So how are things? What are you up to? Oh— Geryon sat down hard on the rug.

  fire was closing off his lungs—

  not much. You? Oh the usual you know this and that did some good painting

  last night with Hart. Heart?

  I guess you didn’t meet Hart when you were here he came over from

  the mainland last Saturday

  or was it Friday no Saturday Hart is a boxer says he might train me to be

  his corner man. Really.

  A good corner man can make the difference Hart says.

  Does he.

  Muhammad Ali had a corner man named Mr. Kopps they used to hunch down

  there on the rope and write poems

  together in between rounds. Poems. But that’s not why I called Geryon

  the reason I called is to tell you

  about my dream I had a dream of you last night. Did you. Yes you were this

  old Indian guy standing on the back porch

  and there was a pail of water there on the step with a drowned bird in it—

  big yellow bird really huge you know

  floating with its wings out and you leaned over and said, Come on now

  get out of there—and you took it

  by one wing and just flung it right up into the air whoosh it came alive

  and then it was gone.

  Yellow? said Geryon and he was thinking Yellow! Yellow! Even in dreams

  he doesn’t know me at all! Yellow!

  What’d you say Geryon?

  Nothing.

  It’s a freedom dream Geryon.

  Yes.

  Freedom is what I want for you Geryon we’re true friends you know that’s why

  I want you to be free.

  Don’t want to be free want to be with you. Beaten but alert Geryon organized all

  his inside force to suppress this remark.

  Guess I better get off the line now Geryon my grandmother gets mad

  if I run up her bill but it’s real nice

  to hear your voice. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  Geryon? All right if I use the phone now? I have to call Maria. His mother

  standing in the doorway.

  Oh yes sure. Geryon replaced the receiver. Sorry. You okay? Yes. He tilted

  to his feet. Going out.

  Where? she said as he angled past her in the doorway.

  Beach.

  Won’t you need a jacket— The screen door slammed. It was

  well past midnight

  when Geryon got back. The house was dark. He climbed to his room.

  After undressing he stood

  at the mirror and observed himself emptily. Freedom! The chubby knees

  the funny red smell the saddening ways.

  He sank onto the bed and lay full length. Tears ran back into his ears awhile

  then no more tears.

  He had touched bottom. Feeling bruised but pure he switched off the light.

  Fell instantly asleep.

  Anger slammed the red fool awake at three a.m. he kept trying to breathe each time

  he lifted his head it pounded him

  again like a piece of weed against a hard black beach. Geryon sat up suddenly.

  The sheet was drenched.

  He switched on the light. He was staring at the sweep hand of the electric clock

  on the dresser. Its little dry hum

  ran over his nerves like a comb. He forced his eyes away. The bedroom doorway

  gaped at him black as a keyhole.

  His brain was jerking forward like a bad slide projector. He saw the doorway

  the house the night the world and

  on the other side of the world somewhere Herakles laughing drinking getting

  into a car and Geryon’s

  whole body formed one arch of a cry—upcast to that custom, the human custom

  of wrong love.

  XXV. TUNNEL

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  Geryon was packing when the phone rang.

  ————

  He knew who it was even though, now that he was twenty-two and lived

  on the mainland, he spoke to her

  usually on Saturday mornings. He climbed across his suitcase and reached

  for the phone, knocking

  the Fodor’s Guide to South America and six boxes of DX 100 color film into the sink.

  Small room.

  Hi Mom yes just about

  . . . .

  No I got a window seat

  . . . .

  Seventeen but there’s a three-hour difference between here and Buenos Aires

  . . . .

  No listen I phoned—

  . . . .

  I phoned the consulate today there are no shots required for Argentina

  . . . .

  Mom be reasonable Flying Down to Rio was made in 1933 and it’s set in Brazil

  . . . .

  Like when we went to Florida and Dad swelled up

  . . . .

  Yes okay

  . . . .

  Well you know what the gauchos say

  . . . .

  Something about riding boldly into nullity

  . . . .

  Not exactly it feels like a tunnel

  . . . .

  Okay I’ll call as soon as I get to the hotel—Mom? I have to go now the taxi’s

  here listen don’t smoke too much

  . . . .

  Me too

  . . . .

  Bye

  XXVI. AEROPLANE

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  It is always winter up there.

  ————

  As the aeroplane moved over the frozen white flatland of the clouds Geryon left

  his life behind like a weak season.

  Once he’d seen a dog having a rabies attack. Springing about like a mechanical toy

  and falling over on its back

  in jerky ways as if worked by wires. When the owner stepped up and put a gun

  to the dog’s temple Geryon walked away.

  Now leaning forward to peer out the little oblong window where icy cloudlight

  drilled his eyes

  he wished he had stayed to see it go free.

  Geryon was hungry.

  Opening his Fodor’s Guide he began to read “Things to Know About Argentina.”

  “The strongest harpoons are made

  from the bone inside the skull of a whale that beaches on Tierra del Fuego.

  Inside the skull is a canalita

  and along it two bones. Harpoons made from a jawbone are not so strong.”

  A delicious odor of roasting seal