Read Online Women and Men by Joseph McElroy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joseph McElroy
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belonged to be human? the inquisitor wants to know, our hands are connected to the arms of the chair, the man conducting the interrogation can’t wait, his time is worth its while, O.K., he’s said, which is it? The earphones with hard-to-beat frequencies are almost upon us while the wire for the earphones uncoils by itself, the man says he’s going to offer us some encouragement, some inducement to decide which of two things we mean. (Wide Load!)
Did we lie, then, speaking doubly?
There in our inquisitor’s eyes are shades of our danger which maybe he shares by knowing what is going to happen to us here no matter what we say maybe, or in the other room which now that we’re here becomes what this room once was, namely the next room, hear the silence, you could cut it with an electric prod, and you should; hear within the silence a high-frequency tuner rising in pitch or volume you can’t tell maybe both.
Just talk straight, honey, said Grace Kimball again and again, late in her century, tell it like Mama didn’t teach you; go public, come out (you know?—spelled TV O) be up front, like the money, everything else is guilt and manipulation.
James Mayn on another track thirty seconds away by phone, two three four five hours by air, said, Include me out of this Discussion of the Void and what is supposed to fill it; look if they get me under the lightbulb how do I know what I might say, I’m not one of your great talkers but under that kind of interrogation I might become human, I mean I might elect to survive, I’ll do what I have to do if I’m lucky, I might even make up what I’m supposed to know, I might get inspired, I’m human I don’t know how I’m going to react, I’ll say this, maybe I don’t even know my sources to divulge, maybe I can’t say what I saw or what someone said, but I would go easy on the jokes, I think, because those guys who do the interrogating have a sense of humor to begin with but on another wavelength which when it hits my skin-ends could just get into my wavelength or is it width, overloaded width? ouch, I’ll keep myself going maybe by thinking, What if I had this guy interrogating me alone man to man in a shopping-center parking lot, no secret weapons, nothing fancy, equals you know, just a couple of temporarily missing persons settling a difference.
Yeah, yeah, that’s how men settle their differences, a female voice on two firm thighs is piped in.
You mean how man, growls a male voice on two suspect knees.
A child is heard observing to a fellow child, See I had this block that was chipped, my dad threw it against the wall, there’s where it hit, he got a long-distance call from my mom, and he came back and we were working on this launch pad and suddenly he picked up this block and threw it, you see where it got chipped?
Breathe, said several people softly in unison and it was a comforting command.
In those days there were breathing problems they were called. We’ve cleared all that up by now, looking back, and that’s a promise. But in those days, from the city citizen in one’s high-rise apartment caught between the sounds of the sky and the sounds of the street, to the grand diva singing her guts out for the cheaper seats up in the troposphere interface as much as for those in the dress circle and closer in in seats so inflated they were out of sight, there were popular misconstruings as to the future evolution of our equipment, for instance what song we would be singing fifty years later. We’ve said "future" to be clear, for according to our historians picking up after our anthropologists, the past is also evolving, as the old song ("My Dreams Are Getting Better") had it, "all the time."
Looking back we found that we too had gone in for human sacrifices. To get where we were, we’d made them, and included others among us.
We have been busy. We have worked on it and some have become in fact busy bisons. But dispersed along our respiration’s warp that
Did we lie, then, speaking doubly?
There in our inquisitor’s eyes are shades of our danger which maybe he shares by knowing what is going to happen to us here no matter what we say maybe, or in the other room which now that we’re here becomes what this room once was, namely the next room, hear the silence, you could cut it with an electric prod, and you should; hear within the silence a high-frequency tuner rising in pitch or volume you can’t tell maybe both.
Just talk straight, honey, said Grace Kimball again and again, late in her century, tell it like Mama didn’t teach you; go public, come out (you know?—spelled TV O) be up front, like the money, everything else is guilt and manipulation.
James Mayn on another track thirty seconds away by phone, two three four five hours by air, said, Include me out of this Discussion of the Void and what is supposed to fill it; look if they get me under the lightbulb how do I know what I might say, I’m not one of your great talkers but under that kind of interrogation I might become human, I mean I might elect to survive, I’ll do what I have to do if I’m lucky, I might even make up what I’m supposed to know, I might get inspired, I’m human I don’t know how I’m going to react, I’ll say this, maybe I don’t even know my sources to divulge, maybe I can’t say what I saw or what someone said, but I would go easy on the jokes, I think, because those guys who do the interrogating have a sense of humor to begin with but on another wavelength which when it hits my skin-ends could just get into my wavelength or is it width, overloaded width? ouch, I’ll keep myself going maybe by thinking, What if I had this guy interrogating me alone man to man in a shopping-center parking lot, no secret weapons, nothing fancy, equals you know, just a couple of temporarily missing persons settling a difference.
Yeah, yeah, that’s how men settle their differences, a female voice on two firm thighs is piped in.
You mean how man, growls a male voice on two suspect knees.
A child is heard observing to a fellow child, See I had this block that was chipped, my dad threw it against the wall, there’s where it hit, he got a long-distance call from my mom, and he came back and we were working on this launch pad and suddenly he picked up this block and threw it, you see where it got chipped?
Breathe, said several people softly in unison and it was a comforting command.
In those days there were breathing problems they were called. We’ve cleared all that up by now, looking back, and that’s a promise. But in those days, from the city citizen in one’s high-rise apartment caught between the sounds of the sky and the sounds of the street, to the grand diva singing her guts out for the cheaper seats up in the troposphere interface as much as for those in the dress circle and closer in in seats so inflated they were out of sight, there were popular misconstruings as to the future evolution of our equipment, for instance what song we would be singing fifty years later. We’ve said "future" to be clear, for according to our historians picking up after our anthropologists, the past is also evolving, as the old song ("My Dreams Are Getting Better") had it, "all the time."
Looking back we found that we too had gone in for human sacrifices. To get where we were, we’d made them, and included others among us.
We have been busy. We have worked on it and some have become in fact busy bisons. But dispersed along our respiration’s warp that
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