Read Online Elect Mr. Robinson for a Better World: A Novel by Donald Antrim - Free Book Online
Authors: Donald Antrim
Ads: Link
history’s artifacts.
“Did the torturers leave the people on that thing for a long time?”
“Did you get taller?”
“Could you get torn in half?”
I could sense my adult audience’s yearning to raise their own inquiries, as I casually dropped the chalk in the chalk tray and returned to the podium. I watched Rita Henderson brush lint from her purple blouse. Jerry folded and refolded a napkin. Jim Kunkel chewed a toothpick. I let all these people contemplate the past. “In those days you were guilty until proven innocent.” I took another sip of water. Heads wagged, a fork scraped a plate, ice rattled.
“Questions, anyone?”
Jim raised his hand. “Pete, would you say that the past lives on in the present?”
“Certainly, brutality has long been the order of the day, Jim.”
“Yep,” he said. Then Barbara Nixon—not a bad-looking woman, incidentally—spoke up. “Mr. Robinson, are you saying that ours is a cruel culture?”
“Something like that.”
“I can’t accept that. We’re good people here. We care about one another.”
“Oh, give it a rest,” Jim growled at her.
Everyone regarded the ex-mayor.
“Excuse me?” from Bill.
“There’s no love here,” was all Jim said.
Bill told him, “I think you owe my wife an apology.”
Barbara nudged her husband, “Forget it honey, he’s just a crazy old man.”
To which Jim replied, to both or either of the Nixons, or maybe—who knows?—to the room in general, “Fuck off.”
At which point Jerry broke in and diplomatically asked, “What I want to know, Pete, is could you be torn in half on one of those racks?”
“Probably not. There were, however, methods of accomplishing such punishment.”
“Drawing and quartering,” said the ex-mayor. There was a feeling, in the room, of unease. I pressed on: “Precisely. The accused is harnessed by hand and foot to four hardy beasts of burden, which are then encouraged by drovers to walk or trot away in different directions.”
“That’s a powerful image,” said Rita Henderson. Abraham de Leon, who rumor had it was conducting an on-again, off-again affair with his friend Jerry’s wife, added, with an air of nonchalance, “Yes.”
Everyone nodded agreement. I elaborated: “It’s an image that speaks not only to physical but emotional fragmentation. We say, ‘I’m torn,’ to describe confusion over complex choices. Once upon a time, individuals who challenged received truths were literally torn by oxen or horses. Modern man’s psyche is figuratively torn by internal dilemmas posed in the struggle to escape unconscious prohibitions and taboos passed down from generation to generation.”
“Sexual taboos?” Barbara Nixon suggested. Did I see her wink? I looked back at Meredith, who was grinning. Bill Nixon was grinning too. Or sneering. Barbara didn’t seem to notice her husband’s sideways gaze on her; she smiled widely and asked, “Is that what you mean, Mr. Robinson?”
Before I could reply, Bill broke in, rudely, “Of course that’s what he means.”
“I didn’t ask you, honey.”
It was an embarrassing moment. Why can’t couples behave? I said, “Sure, sexual, spiritual, intellectual, whatever.”
“The point being that we’re not supposed to explore our true feelings, or discover our innermost selves.” This from Jim, who rose from his chair and gestured dramatically with a water glass held high; cold water sloshed over the undulating glass’s rim, splashing the carpet and threatening nearby diners, who ducked away. Jerry Henderson cautioned, “Easy with that water, Mr. Mayor,” as icy liquid splashed in a crystal arc over Tom Thompson’s crew-cut head.
“Hey, watch it,” Tom said.
Jim replaced the glass on the table and grunted, “Sorry.” Tom dried himself with a napkin. Rita Henderson clutched her husband’s hand—tightly. And Barbara Nixon looked up at me looking back at Meredith. We all listened to the decrepit voice of the ex-mayor, flatly
“Did the torturers leave the people on that thing for a long time?”
“Did you get taller?”
“Could you get torn in half?”
I could sense my adult audience’s yearning to raise their own inquiries, as I casually dropped the chalk in the chalk tray and returned to the podium. I watched Rita Henderson brush lint from her purple blouse. Jerry folded and refolded a napkin. Jim Kunkel chewed a toothpick. I let all these people contemplate the past. “In those days you were guilty until proven innocent.” I took another sip of water. Heads wagged, a fork scraped a plate, ice rattled.
“Questions, anyone?”
Jim raised his hand. “Pete, would you say that the past lives on in the present?”
“Certainly, brutality has long been the order of the day, Jim.”
“Yep,” he said. Then Barbara Nixon—not a bad-looking woman, incidentally—spoke up. “Mr. Robinson, are you saying that ours is a cruel culture?”
“Something like that.”
“I can’t accept that. We’re good people here. We care about one another.”
“Oh, give it a rest,” Jim growled at her.
Everyone regarded the ex-mayor.
“Excuse me?” from Bill.
“There’s no love here,” was all Jim said.
Bill told him, “I think you owe my wife an apology.”
Barbara nudged her husband, “Forget it honey, he’s just a crazy old man.”
To which Jim replied, to both or either of the Nixons, or maybe—who knows?—to the room in general, “Fuck off.”
At which point Jerry broke in and diplomatically asked, “What I want to know, Pete, is could you be torn in half on one of those racks?”
“Probably not. There were, however, methods of accomplishing such punishment.”
“Drawing and quartering,” said the ex-mayor. There was a feeling, in the room, of unease. I pressed on: “Precisely. The accused is harnessed by hand and foot to four hardy beasts of burden, which are then encouraged by drovers to walk or trot away in different directions.”
“That’s a powerful image,” said Rita Henderson. Abraham de Leon, who rumor had it was conducting an on-again, off-again affair with his friend Jerry’s wife, added, with an air of nonchalance, “Yes.”
Everyone nodded agreement. I elaborated: “It’s an image that speaks not only to physical but emotional fragmentation. We say, ‘I’m torn,’ to describe confusion over complex choices. Once upon a time, individuals who challenged received truths were literally torn by oxen or horses. Modern man’s psyche is figuratively torn by internal dilemmas posed in the struggle to escape unconscious prohibitions and taboos passed down from generation to generation.”
“Sexual taboos?” Barbara Nixon suggested. Did I see her wink? I looked back at Meredith, who was grinning. Bill Nixon was grinning too. Or sneering. Barbara didn’t seem to notice her husband’s sideways gaze on her; she smiled widely and asked, “Is that what you mean, Mr. Robinson?”
Before I could reply, Bill broke in, rudely, “Of course that’s what he means.”
“I didn’t ask you, honey.”
It was an embarrassing moment. Why can’t couples behave? I said, “Sure, sexual, spiritual, intellectual, whatever.”
“The point being that we’re not supposed to explore our true feelings, or discover our innermost selves.” This from Jim, who rose from his chair and gestured dramatically with a water glass held high; cold water sloshed over the undulating glass’s rim, splashing the carpet and threatening nearby diners, who ducked away. Jerry Henderson cautioned, “Easy with that water, Mr. Mayor,” as icy liquid splashed in a crystal arc over Tom Thompson’s crew-cut head.
“Hey, watch it,” Tom said.
Jim replaced the glass on the table and grunted, “Sorry.” Tom dried himself with a napkin. Rita Henderson clutched her husband’s hand—tightly. And Barbara Nixon looked up at me looking back at Meredith. We all listened to the decrepit voice of the ex-mayor, flatly
Similar Books
