The Ridiculous Man

"Thus," he said, stabbing a bony finger at the dampened pile, "thus always to tyrants." To punctuate his statement, he gathered what saliva remained in his mouth, and let a large globe of sputum fall from his rounded lips onto the paper. Having done this, he sat back in his chair at his ease.

Andrew Mortensen Big Ideas (Don't Get Any)

Rather than dash my fist in my guest's face as I wanted to do, I politely offered him more wine. This offer he readily accepted, holding out with unrestrained greed his glass for me to fill. Having topped off his glass with the cheap red wine, I emptied what remained of the bottle into my own glass.

"You know my purpose," he said to me. It was not a question. I shrugged, indicating my ignorance of his aims, spilling in the process a dollop of wine on my thigh. I affected unconcern, watching detachedly the roughly cardioid stain spread in the fabric of my unwashed jeans. My guest chuckled and said:

"You make of yourself a botched caricature."

"No chuckling," I said, keeping my eyes focused on my stained thigh. "No smirking. No chortling. No grinning. No wry smiling."

"Ah," he said, unsuccessfully suppressing a guffaw. "Bullseye, or near enough." He held his wine glass up to the light, peering into its ruby depths. He put the glass to his lips and drank, not caring to swallow as fast as he drank, so that twin streams of wine poured from the corners of his mouth, twisting down his chin to cascade like water from a tap from his bearded chin. He leaned forward and selected with a leisurely air the top page of paper from the stack on my desk, with it wiping dry his mouth and chin. He tossed the crumpled paper aside and began reciting, in a mocking tone of voice, "There once was a man from Nantucket . . .."

"Just once I'd like to have serious conversation with you," I said, stirring my wine with one finger. "Just once."

"Ha!" he crowed. "The poet calling the kettle black!" He screwed up his features and continued his recitation of the limerick till I interrupted him by dumping my leftover wine on his lap. I fixed my eye upon him and pronounced seriously:

"My objectives are noble." For a moment I felt the weight of a laurel crown on my ears, and on my shoulders heavy folds of royal robing, sensations which passed as my guest stood and walked to the door. Theatrically he laid a hand aside his ear, wearing on his face a look of dim witted expectation. At once a smart knock sounded from the door, and my guest flung it open to reveal a herd of pigs. These he greeted with sincere gravity, bowing to each in turn, thanking them for attending the soirée. With equal gravity the pigs returned his greetings, each inclining its head to him as they passed into my room. Choosing not to acknowledge me right away, the pigs marched in single file to my bed, which they mounted with practiced ease.

"Who invited them?" I demanded when my guest had shut the door and returned to his seat.

"Shh!" he said, scandalized. "You'll insult them!"

"Damn them," I said.

"And damn you, too, sir," called out one of the pigs from the bed. Outraged, I grabbed the nearest thing at hand - a pack of playing cards - and threw it mightily in the direction of the insolent pig. The deck of cards bounced harmlessly off the wall and landed on the wide back of a sleeping sow. Another knock came from the door, and my guest sprang to open it, admitting several rather filthy goats, all of which immediately made for my desk. Once at my desk, they took turns eating large sections of the stack of paper, and, having ingested all the pages, they clattered back out the door. My guest bid them farewell, and closed the door softly behind them.

"I've a mind to lodge a complaint about you," I said to him as he returned to his seat. "There's simply no excuse for this behavior." The pigs had in the meantime opened the pack of cards, and were involved in a rowdy game of poker, using the broad back of the sleeping sow as a card table. They were betting with newborn piglets, and had amassed quite a squirming squealing pot on the middle of the sow's back.

"You do nothing but complain," my guest rejoined coolly. "You offer criticism but no solution."

"I am the lens through which myopic man may see his folly in focus," I said contemptuously. "I claim the omnipotence of authorship; I scorn and indict, I subvert and convict, I hand down judgment." A piglet thrown from the increasingly raucous poker game on the bed hit me in the belly, driving the wind from my lungs. As I gasped for breath, wheezing piteously, my guest plucked the piglet from my lap and tucked it into his shirt pocket, in which it promptly fell asleep.

"You go about everything arse-first," he said, petting the sleeping piglet. "You use cheap images of debauched mankind in hopes of drawing a cheap laugh."

"Do you know what mankind is?" I said angrily. "Mankind is the old sow that eats her farrow."

"Snide plagiarism is unbecoming for one of your upbringing," said my guest. "And you've blurred the distinctions of gender and species." The fat sow on the bed awoke with a start, shook off the cards and the piglets from its back, and alighted from the over-burdened mattress, moving to stand at the righthand side of my chair. The remaining pigs rushed from the bed and seized me, placing me backwards astride the vast back of the sow.

My guest stood, still petting the slumbering piglet, and moved to stand at the door. He laughed and said: "Envoy: love me, love my umbrella." With that he opened the door and nodded to the sow. She wagged her heavy head, acknowledging his signal, and plodded towards the door, bearing me backwards out of the room. The pigs began to sing "For He's A Jolly Good Fellow" as the sow and I passed though the doorframe into the hall, finishing the song just as my guest swung the door shut.

- Andrew Mortensen is ambitious in a way that frightens even himself. Chat with him via e-mail at admorten@umich.edu

02-25-99