Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas by Tom Robbins
The sun is rising like it isnt street legal. The sun is coming up sneaky. Finding not a single cloud behind which it might take cover, it seems hesitant, furtive, afraid to pop its clutch. The feeling is contagious. As soon as it dawns on you that this is not only a holiday but also the morning after the worst day of your life, you dive back into bed and cover up your head. If, however, you fear you will only lie there and fret, you are pleasantly mistaken. By the time the sun drags its tailpipes over the speed bump of the horizon, you are sound asleep again.
EIGHT-FOURTEEN A.M.
The Buddha is walking his dog. The dogs name is Sparky, and her leash is a long silver thread.
The Buddha is walking his dog on a golf course. Hey! Hey you! the golfers yell. Somebody please get that fat fool off the green. On the seventeenth hole, the Buddha picks a mushroom. On the eighteenth hole, he eats it.
Now, the Buddha is flying his dog like a kite. The silver string snaps, and Sparky floats away over the pitched slate roofs. Her bark is a yappy kind of thunder. She rummages in a cumulus as if it were a garbage can.
In the restaurant district, cooks bang on their pots and pans and toss scraps of meat into the air. Buddhas Dog Soup would fetch a fancy price, if they could just coax her down. Famous chefs scurry up ladders and fire escapes, striking woks with wooden spoons. The banging grows louder, louder. Then you are awake. The banging wakes with you.
Okay, okay. Im coming. Your new condo will be in a security building, complete with twenty-four-hour doormen; Belford wont be able to barge in like this. You are positive it is Belford at the door. Claiming a need to marinate her psyche in the deepest, thickest marinade for the longest possible time, Q-Jo is never, ever up before nine. Highly improbable that it would be anyone from the disco: should Posner want to can you, should Phil or Sol wish to apologize, they would attend to it Monday at work.
You are correct, of course. It is Belford. And he looks a wreck.
EIGHT-FIFTEEN A.M.
Rough of cheek, bleary of eye, Belford obviously has been awake all night. His Mens Wearhouse suit is rumpled and bloody, his nose and lips are swollen, for the first time in his adult life his hair is uncombed, and his left hand and left cuff are coated with a sticky yellow substance, the result of his having sat on the steps of his building wagging a banana Popsicle-AndrEs favorite breakfast-in the dawns early light. You are disgusted, but then you suspect that you, too, are functioning below the summit of your grooming potential. You withhold criticism of Belford while you flee to the bathroom for a consultation with the mirror.
The eyes that blink back at you are puffy and red from weeping, but aside from that, your reflection reveals nothing untoward beyond the usual surprise at your Philippine demeanor. In all these years, you still have not gotten used to it. Thanks to your mother, who was mostly Welsh, you managed to avoid growing one of those flat-bridged noses that cause all Philippine women to look like tomboys, even those with truckloads of black lace bras and two thousand pairs of high-heeled shoes. Your crisp little nose is your mothers gift, but everything else-your skin, your hair, your eyes, and mouth-came over on the gene boat from Manila Bay. While growing up, you made several attempts to home in on your heritage, to no avail. First, you were born in Oakland and reared in Seattle, in a milieu more bohemian than ethnic. Second, there was the pervasive lack of self-definition that characterizes the Philippine Islands, in general; a result of three centuries of Spanish occupation and half a century of nestling under Americas iron-feathered wing, not to mention the Japanese invasion, prolonged Chinese emigration, and two decades of drastic dictatorship. Moreover, your ancestral homeland was the only nation in that part of Asia to be colonized by the West before it had developed a centralized government or an advanced culture. While still a teenager, you decided to deal with the identity problem by ignoring your packaging and focusing on its contents, which you are convinced is Yankee through and through. It is understandable that others do not always see you as the all-American girl, but what is really annoying is the smirky way that mirrors regard you, as if to say, Who are you trying to fool? You wish you knew.
Face washed, teeth brushed, hair flounced, bladder emptied (not a whiff of asparagus enzyme to taunt you during the meeting of waters), you check your reflection again and decide that the flannel pajamas must go. Off they come. Then right back on. Better frumpy than naked, you reason, as you return to your beau.
Belford is lying on the bed, eyes closed and an expression on his face that could end three Italian operas and still have enough anguish left over to butter an existentialists toast. You lie down beside him. You wish only to comfort him, you tell yourself-as if Belford could not be comfortable with his fly fully buttoned. He grows in your hand the way money ought to grow in your account. Well, time to take some profits. Belfords eyes pop open. He scarcely can believe you are being this bold. You cant believe it, either. You are blushing, in fact, while you shimmy out of your pajama bottoms and lower yourself onto him. Ooops. A tad off-center. His burgundy knob bangs hard against your perineum. A quarter inch to the south and youd be following the path, so to speak, of Ann Louise. You raise up, adjust, and try again. This time you close around him like silo doors closing around a heat-seeking missile. You bite your lip to keep from squealing. Admit it, Gwendolyn, you needed this. You really needed this one.
Spine arched, head thrown back, your own hands cupping your breasts, squirming and jouncing all the while, you ride into the morning. Its a short ride, actually, and none too smooth, but it takes you where you want to go. As a lover, that is pretty much how you regard Belford Dunn. Cheap transportation.
EIGHT-FORTY A.M.
Q-Jo claims that you have never had a genuine orgasm. How would she know? Even with an ear against your bedroom wall, she wouldnt know. Moans and groans are not your style. On the other hand, she could be right. How would you know? What you do know is that at some point in the coital embrace, you reach a stage where you think you have been plunged waist-deep into bubbling hot chicken fat. And afterward you feel embarrassed and a little soiled. If that isnt orgasm, what is it?
Mercifully for you both, Belford falls asleep immediately following ejaculation. Careful, lest you rouse him, you slip out of bed and back into the bathroom, where you shower long and hard, as you always do after sex. Then, creamed and powdered, you stare into your closets for a while, surveying the Chanel suits, the Ralph Lauren blouses, and Donna Karan blazers, many of which are not paid for yet. The longer you stare at your wardrobe, the more strongly it occurs to you that you ought to be nice-very, very nice-to Belford Dunn.
With all the quickness in your Porsche, you zip to the Queen Anne Thriftway and return with the makings of a traditional breakfast; one of those deadly bacon and fried-egg repasts that lumberjacks (and Filipino drummers) seem to enjoy. Q-Jo claims that the thing men enjoy most in all the world is what vulgar people call a blow job. Q-Jo says, Show me a wife who doesnt suck cock, and Ill show you a husband I can steal. The very thought of it causes you to spit, albeit daintily, into the sink.
NINE-THIRTY A.M.
It turns out that Belford has given up bacon for Lent, but he relishes the eggs, even though you fried them so long and so hard that their edges are as black and lacy as one of Imeldas bras, and their yokes have the texture of gum eraser. In the process of devouring five slices of jam-lavished toast-he hasnt eaten since lunch on Thursday-he compliments your cooking to the point where you start to get annoyed. You would be annoyed even if he werent spraying crumbs. Ah, but you spoon your yoghurt and hold your tongue, and after he has done the dishes-you couldnt dissuade him-you put your arms around him and say, Now, dear, I realize you want to rush out and drive around some more, and we can do that later on, but first dont you think its in AndrEs best interest, as well as everybody elses, that we go downtown and file a report with the police?
Belford grimaces. You are rather pleased. You prefer a look of agony to his customary placid grin. I realize its the right thing, he admits
No, thats silly. You convinced the French to trust you with him. And you couldnt speak their language.
I bribed the French.
Belford! You never told me that. Well, then, theres no problem. You think the cops in Seattle would turn down your dough?
Your boyfriend, whose stock appears to be ascending in reverse ratio to IBMs steep slide, is pensive for a moment or two. Okay, he says at last. Lets go.
Maybe you ought to stop at home on the way and change clothes. It is a prudent suggestion. In addition to its bloodstains, the rumpled wad of a suit now sports about its fly an encircling white crust of dried semen and vaginal juices, like an alkali lake on the moon.
No time, says Belford, with a glance at the kitchen clock. We should get downtown and right back. Else well get tied up in traffic.
Its a holiday.
Yeah, but theres a parade at noon.
Are you kidding me? A Good Friday parade?
Not exactly, no. Its some kind of celebration for Dr. Yamaguchi.
TEN-TWENTY A.M.
You take the Porsche because you dont believe Belford is in any shape to drive. You are in less than pristine condition yourself. Oh, you look fine enough, in your Italian jeans, Anne Klein blouse, and cashmere blazer, but theres an albatross around your neck as big as Mount Rainier, the volcano whose titanic snow cone is filling the southern quadrant of the sky with such massive majesty that even lifelong Seattle residents are compelled to gawk. Of course, due to the rain clouds that customarily cling to the city like clods to a hopper, nobody gets to see the mountain very often. On the rare clear day, such as this April morning, when not so much as a cellophane pasty censors the mammary display (the frost-nipped breast of the queen of the Sasquatch?), Seattleites are caught wondrously off guard, a fact attested to by a concomitant escalation in traffic accidents. You keep one eye on the road, one on the peak, but take delight neither in technology nor in nature. In your present situation, both seem hostile, threatening forces. To your mind, an American could no longer count on either technological advances or natural resources to generate glad gobs of gelt.
Once at the Public Safety Building, you are directed to the fifth floor. There, the elevator discharges Belford and you into a small, shabby, windowless lobby. There are doors, forbiddingly closed, with signs on them that read POLICE ONLY. Everything is gray: the walls, the linoleum, the three wooden benches. You have the feeling that while it may be spring outdoors, it is always winter in the house of the law. You actually shiver. Maybe you are remembering the several occasions when your father came home with his skull split open. It couldnt have been his fault every time. When you and your little brother would ask why the cops beat him, he always answered, Brown eyes, black hair.
Around the corner, there is a reception window. The two of you dont get much of a reception. Belford is disheveled and obsequious; you, as is your custom in the presence of public servants, haughty. Persons who are haughty to porters and clerks are thought to be expressing an overt sense of superiority, although it is more likely that they are trying to widen the distance between themselves and their servers, to make the gulf so broad that fate would have logistical problems freighting them back across it. Inside every career woman who stiffs a waitress is the lingering fear that she herself might have to wait tables someday. The haughtiness is a pathetic attempt at protective voodoo.
The receptionist -she probably has a different title-is a fortyish matron who looks as if she might have spent a lot of time in a freezer locker. Her face is ashen, flat, and lopsided, like a stone-axed cut of caveman meat, a reptile steak for a prehistoric barbecue. Her eyes are spots of gristle, and her thin mouth is an ax wound in the fillet. When she learns that you are here on behalf of a monkey, it is her turn to be haughty. Dont you know the police are busy with important matters? she asks, as if you are so dumb you have learned nothing from all the cop shows on TV. You shouldve gone to animal control.
Belford turns on his Realtors charm, but she keeps repeating Animal control. Animal control. She wants to send you to what used to be called the pound to present your problem to an animal control officer: a dogcatcher in less self-important times. Eventually, poor Belford bites his busted lip and commences to fill her in on AndrEs background. He doesnt get very far before, smirking all the while and rolling her dead yellow eyes at the other clerks in the office, she rings for a detective. You have the distinct impression that she is acting out of suspicion rather than compassion. In fact, you hear her stage whisper Harborview to the girl at the next desk, Harborview being the hospital where the cops dump indigent citizens who have blown their bonnets.
For more than half an hour, you wait on one of the hard gray benches, with not so much as an out-of-date magazine to help you pass the time. You are annoyed by the delay but hardly surprised. Undoubtedly, the woman with the face of singed saurian sirloin was speaking the truth when she said there was only one detective on duty in that division. The city can no longer adequately fund its service agencies. Everywhere, everywhere, the infrastructure is deteriorating. Fiscal funeral directors circle Americas largest municipalities like buzzards, archaeologists are pointing shovels at towns that arent even buried yet. In any case, with no distractions other than Belford, you are forced to sit there and dwell on Monday mornings market, weighing whatever slim chances you think you might have to cover your badly exposed ass. A wave of nausea gasses your gobble.
When the detective finally shuffles out, Belford has the presence of mind to hand him his business card, and you quickly follow suit. The cards have a positive effect-a Realtor? a stockbroker? why, these silly shits might tip cocktails with the mayor-and the red-faced, white-haired detective, who looks like an Irish priest who has banged his nose a few too many times against the grille of the confession booth, listens politely, even interestedly, to Belfords tale.
ELEVEN-TEN A.M.
You ask me what kind of monkey is this lost monkey? Well, officer, if you know your monkeys, youll have a good idea of AndrEs description when I tell you hes a tailless macaque of the type commonly called a Barbary ape. An Old World monkey. About yea tall and yea wide. Furs a dark brown. Sweet-tempered unless provoked. Crazy over banana Popsicles, raisin bread, those little packaged apple pies-from the convenience store, you know? A regular macaque type monkey, I guess. Little or no tail. But, excuse me, officer, if thats all there was to it, we wouldnt be using up your valuable time, wed be over at animal control.
Belford pauses to compose himself, and in the interlude, the detective looks up from his notepad and stares at you. Its a hard stare. The detective is wondering, you surmise, whether a young, spotless, well-coiffured professional woman such as you could possibly be responsible for the mess en soleil around Belfords fly. How embarrassing! On the other hand, he could be glaring at you because he has his savings invested in stocks. Or is it the brown eyes and black hair? You shudder and shift your weight from left cheek to right on the derriere-numbing bench.
You see, I brought AndrE back from France. Over three years ago. Hed been in some trouble over there. A whole tub of trouble.
Exactly what kind of trouble would this ape have been in, sir? For some reason, he stares at you again. Good grief! What disgusting thoughts might this public servant be entertaining? And how can you stifle your blush?
AndrE was not a new monkey. By which I mean, he was a previously owned monkey. And his previous master was a Belgian animal trainer turned bad. Turned jewel thief, to be frank. Famous jewel thief. Or would that be infamous?
Go on. The detective apparently did not moonlight for the grammar police.
You may have heard of the guy. Kongo van den Bos. No? Really? Well, in any case, it was entirely Kongos fault. I mean, what would a monkey want with a movie stars emerald necklace or some old Aztec jade? Or the Hope diamond, for that matter? I mean,
Go on, sir.
Okay, you see, I was in France on a tour a few months after Mr. Van den Bos got himself busted. He was caught red-handed in Saint-Tropez-thats a town on the Riviera, not the sort of spot where I normally hang out, ha-ha-and it was at that time that the authorities finally realized he had trained this monkey to do his dirty deeds for him. It explained his success. I mean, you know, whos better than a monkey for getting in and out of billionaires bedrooms? Well, there was a trial, and Kongo was convicted and sent to prison. But then there was the question of what to do with AndrE. AndrE is the monkeys name. I guess there was a big to-do over it, because the authorities wanted to put AndrE to death. They swore up and down that he now had ingrained criminal habits and couldnt ever be trusted. But the animal rights groups over there intervened, and eventually they turned this poor, exploited creature over to the Saint-Tropez municipal zoo. This was about a week before my tour hit the Riviera. Well, unfortunately, AndrE was only in the zoo a couple of nights before he, uh, escaped and, uh… . Belford lapses into a sorrowful silence.
Please go on. At this point, you have the feeling that the detective is less hurried than curious. Go on, he orders, so on Belford goes.
Making annoying excuses all the while, he tells the detective how the monkey broke out of the zoo and went on a rampage. In one night, AndrE tore through half a dozen villas and nearly as many hotels, stealing watches, rings, and brooches, only the finest stuff, selecting and rejecting with the eye of a connoisseur, although sometime before dawn he snatched the false teeth from a glass of water on the police chiefs dresser. The police chief took it as a deliberate personal insult, and when AndrE was captured the next afternoon in the midst of a siesta in the crows nest of an anchored yacht, the chief vowed that the monkey would die. It was difficult to argue for AndrEs life. Heretofore, he had presumably been carrying out the commands of his master, a poor dumb beast under a villains control. Now, however, he had robbed of his own volition, had robbed discerningly, expertly, and, most of all, voluminously. (When Kongo was directing him, he seldom made more than a couple of heists a month.) Clearly no ordinary animal, AndrE was, in the police chiefs words, diabolically clever and a threat to priceless private property. Wags claimed the chief clinched his repatriated dentures as he said it. Nevertheless, animal rights activists came once more to the monkeys defense. Led by a former film star, protest demonstrations erupted all over France. Belford watched one such protest from the balcony of his hotel room in Paris. Belford saw, in the streets and on television, photographs of the condemned monkey. In his heart, Belford felt something shine, like a hot but distant planet. Involuntarily, Belford reached out toward the monkey in the picture, as if to take its tiny hand in his.