The Comedy is Finished

10

Koo Davis is sick and scared, he thinks he’s dying, and he’s stuck here in some kind of awful comedy. He asks himself: Do I deserve this? His stomach is so painful he can’t stand it; in fact, he keeps passing out from the pain, particularly if he tries to move. His head hurts, his throat is on fire, perspiration streams from him and yet his mouth is so dry his tongue feels like a foreign body, some lumpy dry sausage cluttering up his head. I’m dehydrating, he tells himself, with useless medical assurance. But he’s tried asking for water, and they’ve given it to him, and he’s learned the hard way that he can’t keep it down.

But the comedy is, there’s some clown here talking to him about politics. This guy, and a woman Koo hadn’t seen before, cleaned him up and cleaned up the room and have both spent a lot of time with him ever since, and have even told him their names—or anyway they’ve told him names they’ll answer to, theirs or somebody else’s. Larry and Joyce. Joyce just stands around looking worried, in traditional sickroom fashion, but this schmuck Larry talks.

“You’re a bright man, Koo, you’ve seen a lot of the world, you must have seen the terrible inequity in the way different people live. Infant mortality in Central America, for instance, is so much higher than in the United States. Yet we all live on the same planet, don’t we? In the last analysis, we’re all a part of the same community. And the resources are there, Koo, everybody could have a decent life, enough food, proper shelter, a decent rewarding life. What stands in the way? Koo, isn’t it obvious? It’s the method of distribution, Koo, you can see that.”

And: “Did you know Thomas Jefferson said America needed a new revolution every twenty-five years? Because otherwise the country would stagnate into just another power, just another nation like all the others.”

And: “Marx tells us the means of production belong to the workers, and if you think about it you can see where that makes sense. The tenant farmer, the sharecropper, is the clearest example. His work makes the land productive. His ongoing work, clearing, seeding, crop rotation, makes the land productive for the long term and makes it increase in value in the only way that value matters, which is increased production. But he has to pay a portion of that production to someone else, who doesn’t work the land, who doesn’t have any connection with the land except a deed that says he owns it. Why does he own it? Because he bought it or inherited it from somebody who had the same relationship with it; that piece of paper. And if you trace it back, sooner or later you get to the man who started the piece of paper, and he either stole the land from somebody else or he made it his in the first place by working it. Of course land should belong to the farmer who works it and makes it productive, there really can’t be any argument about that. So let’s take the same concept into the factory.”

It isn’t bad enough that Koo is kidnapped, that he’s sick and possibly dying; he also has to be nattered at by some soapbox birdy. If I throw up again, Koo promises himself, then somehow, somehow, I’m gonna throw up on him.

Koo sleeps or dozes or loses consciousness from time to time during this endless lecture, and there are weird intervals when he’s neither awake nor asleep, but somehow floatingly present, and everything takes on the strange glow of fantasy; the calm persuasive stupid voice, the absurdity of a window facing only water, the long narrow dimly lighted room, the remaining stinks of his sickness, it all swirls together and he becomes Captain Nemo in the Nautilus, sailing through the limitless green oceans, sailing on and on, noiseless and omnipotent, gliding through the echoing ocean depths to save the world.

Yes, it all makes sense now; Captain Nemo will save the world, will give each man and woman and child his own portion of the planet, marked off on a grid, like a great monster checkerboard in green and brown, grassy green and dirt brown, green grass and brown dirt, and all the tall slender silent people with the solemn big eyes and the silent gratitude standing on the checkerboard, each person on his square, all around the world. And Captain Nemo sailing through the sky in his submarine, while the rain pours down on all the people, and the water crashes through the window, and now Koo is in the submarine, rising through yellow water toward the surface, and here he is on the hot wet sticky sheet atop the couch, with the water still imprisoned beyond the unbroken window—wasn’t that smashed? he remembers something; no, it’s gone—and the calm earnest reasonable intense committed intelligent thoughtful stupid voice going on and on.

Other times, his mind is clear, and he thinks his own thoughts within the persuasive drone. He knows this is what they call brainwashing, and he wonders if they poisoned him on purpose, to weaken his resistance. Their surprise and shock seemed real, but it could have been just an act. And in any event, what this guy is talking is straight party line, right enough.

The thing is...the thing is, the goddamn Vietnam thing might have been a mistake, and everybody now knows it was a mistake, but that doesn’t mean the worldwide Communist conspiracy doesn’t exist. It exists, all right, and now Koo’s gotten tangled up in it; they picked him, he knows they picked him, because he broke his no-politics rule. So here’s a rule about rules: Break the other guy’s rules if you want, but don’t break your own.

Those ten names he read into the cassette. A couple of them rang a bell, reminded him of headlines from a few years back, but clearly the whole crowd is part and parcel of the Communist plot. These people exist, they really do, and Koo now realizes what went wrong. The trouble was, the American government and the American intelligence community, starting from the time of Joe McCarthy and coming right on up, has played the part of the boy who cried wolf. They were seeing Commies and pinkos and fellow travelers and Comsymps and all those other chowderhead words under every bed, and the result is, too many people now don’t believe there’s a wolf out there at all. But there is, by Jesus, and just at the moment he’s got Koo by the ankle.

Joyce comes in from time to time with a cool damp cloth to put on Koo’s forehead. It helps a little, but the cloth gets as burning hot as his head within seconds. She comes in now with two wet cloths, puts one on his forehead, and swabs his face and neck with the other. Larry pauses in his monologue, and Koo whispers to Joyce (he can’t talk anymore, not with this throat), “Thanks. It’s better.”

“Good. They’ve gone to get your medicine. They’ll bring it soon.”

She’s said that before, but Koo can’t work out what she means by it. Are they going to the drugstore for aspirin? They can’t go back to Triple S, can they? “Excuse me, we’re the people kidnapped Koo Davis, we came to get his pills.” Makes no sense. Koo would like to ask her what she means, but the question won’t phrase itself; his mind wanders before he can figure out how to ask her anything.

He drifts away now while she’s still dabbing at his stubbly cheeks—he hasn’t shaved since yesterday—and when he drifts back she’s gone, the Larry doll has been wound up again, and a hint of gray smears the water beyond the window; it’s becoming tomorrow.

He went to sleep with some question half-formed in his mind, but he wakes up with another one all ready, on the tip of his tongue. He turns his head a little and whispers, “Larry.”

“—into the communal pot, and—Did you say something?”

“Question.”

“Of course, Koo.” Larry’s sincere intern’s face comes closer. “What is it?”

“Not an insult,” Koo whispers. He can only bring out fragments of the sentences in his mind. “Really want to know.”

“I understand, Koo. I promise I won’t be insulted. What do you want to ask?”

“If you like—Russia—so much—why don’t you—go live there?”

Larry doesn’t look insulted, but he does look astonished. “Russia? Koo, what does Russia have to do with anything?”

“Commie—Communist—”

“Marxist, you mean.” Larry smiles with indulgent understanding. “Marxism isn’t Russia, Koo. Russia is at least as decadent and far more repressive than the United States. What we’re talking about is a new order, something never seen on the planet before, a wedding of people and resources, and finally the salvation of the planet itself. Koo, do you think it’s an accident that the developer of the aerosol spray can was a friend of Nixon’s?”

This non sequitur is so striking that Koo can only stare at Larry in admiration. “I could use you—as a writer,” he whispers, and the door is burst open and in marches the mean one, the tough guy with the beard. Koo first notices, in amazement and sheer unalloyed pleasure and delight, that in the tough guy’s hand is Koo’s pill-case! By Christ, they’ve done it! Salvation is at hand! But then Koo notices that the guy is raging mad, and his delight turns