Izzy and the Hypocrite Lecteur

by Eliot Fintushel

Izzy and Fay were a match made in heaven. Fay was Izzy’s fresh-baked-this-morning cheese Danish and a hot cup of joe. And Fay’s Izzy, every time the matzoh balls of Fay’s little life sank to the bottom of her soucoup, old Iz knew just how to leaven them—“Kootchie-koo, Feigeleh!”—till they effervesced. They were up to their silk anniversaiy, common law of course, but they had never met each other—a lapse that Izzy, having spent twelve years of months of weeks of days bumping to the bottom of his priorities list, at long last decided to rectify.

So he gave Sarvaduhka a tinkle, his motel mogul chum in Buffalo, and talked him into a little bachelors’ vacation.

“Two weeks, Izzy? Am I Conrad Hilton? You think I can afford to have my cousin run the Lucky 3 for fourteen days during the tourist season?”

“Don’t argue, Savvy baby. You end up coming along with me regardless. This is all settled business, except for you jawjacking. Read Parmenides.”

Sarvaduhka had read Parmenides. Also Ashvaghosa and Nagarjuna, late into the night, to avoid self-abuse. “Being is,” he said, “I know. Ohkay, two weeks, on speculation I may get some female action. But we include in these two weeks date of departure and date of arrival. Fourteen days complete package. And if this has anything to do with your psychic puphula, Izzy, as God is my witness, I’ll make your face look like a papadoum.”

“Seven times two, Ducky. Done deal. Your car or mine?”

His. Sarvaduhka had a VW squareback with rust so serious that at slow speeds you could stop it by dragging your foot on the pavement through the hole next to the clutch pedal (operated by a rope). Sarvaduhka loved his squareback. It was fuel efficient. It was venerable. He burned Agarbatti jasmine incense in the ashtray. On the dashboard he had a blue soapstone elephant with a dozen arms and a plush-bottomed shakti in its lap, resplendent with rhinestones and filigree. The shakti scissored the elephant’s pelvis with splendid, long legs as she fondled his tusks. She had arm bands. She had breasts.

Plus, Sarvaduhka wanted the home turf advantage. He didn’t like the way Izzy drove. Izzy picked up hitchhikers—on principle! The mad telepath picked up everything with a thumb and took them exactly where they wanted to go. Ducky gnashed his teeth. Izzy had them riding the undercarriage and dangling from the roof rack, serial murderers and hebephrenics. Once, outside Myrtle Beach, North Carolina, Izzy’d picked up a whole family of armadillo-eating hillbillies, five of them, aged one-and-a-half to seventy-eight, en route to Florida to lug melons for the big bucks, they’d heard.

Sarvaduhka didn’t like that. “This is a motel on wheels,” he’d complained. “If I had wanted like this, I would have stayed at the 3. At least there, I have my dirty videos.” That had been their last little bachelors’ vacation.

So he picked Izzy up in his Amor Vincit Omnia squareback with the Playboy bunny deodorizer and the soapstone Ganesha.

“You’re going to meet me driving this thing?” Fay said, handing Izzy a thermos of coffee through the shotgun window as Sarvaduhka flooded the engine.

Izzy wadded a jacket behind his bad back. “If I don’t, our whole sweet life together is a fiction, Feigeleh. Is there cream in this?”

Sarvaduhka let the engine rest. “Meet?? Fiction?? I don’t want to know what you’re talking about.”

“Izzovision,” Fay couldn’t help explaining.

“Izzovision!” Sarvaduhka spat. “This is Izzy’s way of gilding his disease into a talent. Psychic abilities! Izzy, I see the future also. I see your face turning into a papadoum.”

Izzy yawned. “I knew you were gonna say that, Duke,” he said. Fay laughed. “But we’re talking about the past here, not the future.”

“Being is,” growled Sarvaduhka, and he floored it.

“Be careful, Izzy!” Fay called after him.

“I was,” he said.

* * *

They were in Erie. They were in Cleveland. They were in Toledo, just like that. Sarvaduhka started to feel expansive. “Is Fay a hot number, Izzy?”

“Sizzling. Almost more than my sacrum can take.”

“I am of the belief that the females find me attractive, Izzy. I have attractive mustaches and thick hair, not just on my head, Izzy, but all over my tight little body. I will never be bald, as you are.”

“Sarv, that patch of skin is my antenna.”

Angola. Mongo. Lagrange, Indiana. “I thought it was that single eyebrow of yours, but I don’t want to talk about psychic baloney. I am talking about female action.”

“Ah, female action!”

“That is what my bachelors’ vacation is about. We have nearly completed one day, Izzy.”

“And no sign of action. Watch the road!”

Sarvaduhka leaned on the horn and shouted something in Hindi. From the left, a bright red Porsche had swerved in front of him en route to the exit ramp. Sarvaduhka slammed the brake pedal. The three-quarter-ton pickup just behind him did the same. The truck behind that one maneuvered to the left just in front of a couple of motorcycles, and they all blasted Sarvaduhka, who thought it was for the Porsche. “The red ones!” Sarvaduhka snarled. “Always the red ones! And did you see his face? No respect whatsoever.”

Izzy was grateful to be alive. “It was an elderly woman, Sarvaduhka, a volunteer hospice worker from Duluth, if you want to know. And you were crawling halfway in the exit-only lane.”

“Pull in your aerial, Izzy.”

“You pull in yours. You don’t know nothing about who’s in the other cars or what they’re thinking. Your projections are gonna get us killed. Pull over and give me the wheel. If I die here, I won’t ever have met my Fay”—who was now, by Izzovision, in Izzy’s unique understanding of “now,” strolling the salt flats near the Bonneville Speedway, deciding to desert the rat who took her there, the one before Iz.

“I’m not tired, for your information, and it was a teenaged boy. With a safety pin in his cheek. His left cheek.”

South Bend. La Porte. Gary. Izzy shrugged and readjusted the wadding under his lumbar. He pulled his shoes off. He snoozed.

* * *

Here’s what Fay had done.

(In deference to Izzy’s meschugge clock, to hedge the issue of chronological sequence, we’ll downshift here from pluperfect into the historical present, a non-committal tense…)

Fay is going into an East Tonawanda laundromat to use the change machine for her parking meter. In the laundromat, Fay meets a laid-off tour guide from Niagara Falls, down the road. He is carrying a double washer load of underwear to the industrial-size dryer. They collide. Her mother recently deceased, Fay is anxious to leave Tonawanda, where she has resided continuously since high school. He is on his way to Wendover, Utah, where he is convinced there are golden opportunities in the tourist trade. He manages to communicate this to Fay while she helps him pick up the scattered drawers. They make change together. A relationship ensues. She sells her car. They take off in his.

Things like that happen.

All this time, Izzy is eighty miles away in Rochester, losing two fingertips to a lathe machine at Paragon Revolute. But he is aware of everything. His bald spot itches. His palisade of an eyebrow wrinkles and dips. He knows what’s going on. He knows there is a Fay in store for him when this loser shows his cards.

* * *

Sarvaduhka was no fool. Izzy couldn’t tell him how to drive, nosirree. Zoom, boy, he’d bombed down the autobahn when he was twenty-two. He’d weaved through cabbies in Calcutta and Bombay and skidded along the Nepalese border on two wheels before following the venerable wing of his family into the North American hospitality racket. He knew what was on other drivers’ minds, boy: Dog eat dog.

Show no sign of weakness. The car following him from Minooka to Morris had a grill like a piranha. It was red. Sarvaduhka passed a mile marker and counted the seconds until the red piranha passed the same spot: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mis… two-and-a-half seconds. “I knew it! Too close! Pup’hula!” he intoned, one of the three or four Sanskrit words by virtue of which he considered himself a savant—Fart!

Izzy snored. Sarvaduhka jammed the accelerator to the floor. The piranha dwindled in the rear view—Sarvaduhka chuckled and rubbed his shakti’s posterior—then roared up to kiss-butt distance again. “Damn!”

Drooling slightly, Izzy plumped his wadded jacket and settled into fetal position. Sarvaduhka squinted into the rear view. A woman driver, definitely. He craned his neck out the side to check her out in the West Coast mirror. Her windshield was tinted. Clever. Bet she hustles poker, too. He speeded up a little, then jabbed the brake pedal. SCREE! The piranha momentarily slowed, then came up even closer. “Mahapup’hula.’ Very big fart!

Izzy stirred. “Rowley Junction,” he muttered. “She dumps him in Rowley Junction. The bum’s making her pay the tab on all his coffees.” He rubbed the sand out of his eyes. “Ducky, we gotta be in Utah by Wednesday. What kind of time we making…?” Then he heard the roar of the piranha, grill to their tailpipe, and he caught the mad glint in Sarvaduhka’s eye. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Tailgating devil,” Sarvaduhka explained, eyes glued to the rear view. Sarvaduhka had another trick. He weaved all over the lane, whipping their bags from side to side across the back seat. “Give me some lebensraum, bitch woman!”

Izzy grabbed his seat. “That’s no bitch woman! Get hold of yourself, Ducky, before you kill us!”

“That’s it,”—nose to the windshield, nostrils flared like muffler pipes, knuckles white against the wheel—“she wants to kill us. That’s what she does, this she-devil, rich businesswoman with judges and senators in her pocket, never has to pay, but she doesn’t know Sarvaduhka, Izzy. No, she does not!”

“Sarvaduhka, for crissakes, you’re projecting, you maniac, and… wait a minute… and she’s taking it!” He gasped. He leaned head and shoulders out the passenger window, and looked back at the red piranha.

“What do you mean, taking it?” Sarvaduhka said, while Izzy, holding for dear life onto the window frame, performed an experiment.

First Izzy relaxed his belly the way he did to hear spacemen and trans-dimensionals and future and past conversations in remote venues. All the mind gossip spiraled down there into his solar plexus, like dishwater down the drain, leaving Izzy’s noggin passably clear. The wind whipped the back of his head. Seventy, eighty, ninety em pee aitch. He smelled cut grass and diesel fuel. He heard blackbirds rasp. He looked back where the red piranha should be with the she-devil behind her tinted windshield, and saw… nothing. “Shit!”

“What?”

“Let her pass.”

“She doesn’t want to, Izzy. What do you mean, taking it?”

“Let her pass, dammit, or him, or it, or whatever the hell you’re making that thing at present.”

“Making?” Impressed by Izzy’s sudden, uncharacteristic sobriety, Sarvaduhka gradually let up on the gas.

“There’s nothing there, Doc. It’s what I was afraid of. We’re being tailed by a womporf.”

“A womporf?” Sarvaduhka’s piranha dropped back a half-second’s worth.

“This kind of shit happens sometimes when I retro-memory.”

“Retro-memory?”

“Sarvaduhka, it’s time I filled you in on a few things.”

“She still isn’t passing, Izzy.”

* * *

Flextime

Everything stopped. “Stopped, so to speak” said Izzy. “Stopped, that is, old Duck, not the usual way, via cessation of motion, but by epoche.”

“Epoche?”

“Read Sextus Empiricus. Read Husserl.”

“I did. Izzy, I can’t breathe!” Sarvaduhka started leaning for air like a beached mackerel. Then he noticed that his blood wasn’t moving. He felt bloated. His eyes swelled to the size of a Balinese mask’s. The piranha hadn’t moved. His engine wasn’t humming. A fly about to be immolated against the windshield hung motionless above the hood, as if preserved in clear amber.

“You don’t need to breathe, Ducky,” Izzy said, “on account of we are between breaths here. We are between heartbeats. We are between vibrations of sound. Notice how quiet? We are between everything. My back feels great, for a change, by the way, but we can’t do this for long.

“I just did a little epoche. I put parentheses around your she-devil, plus your Ganesha and your tight httle bod and all of Interstate 80. This entire moment we’re sharing, Sarvaduhka, and everything in it and around it is now epocheed.”

“You are a remarkable individual, Izzy Molson,” Sarvaduhka said, terrified.

“I just subtract the is-ness out of it, see what I mean? Everything’s the same, but it doesn’t exist any more.”

“Quite so! Quite so!” He had no idea what Izzy was talking about. “We’re between. So we got a little time here. To work things out, I mean.”

“I feel like I am dreaming!”

Izzy grabbed the jacket out from behind him, unwrinkled it, and pushed his hands into the sleeves and pockets. “I thought I had a piece of a Danish in here. Never mind.” He laid a hand on Sarvaduhka’s shoulder. “I love Fay,” he said. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me, Sarvaduhka. I saw her coming on Izzovision, and I did something I oughtn’t to have. I flextimed.”

“Flextimed?” Sarvaduhka tried to smile. Maybe Izzy would try to hurt him. People who talked like this sometimes did unpredictable things, especially when you weren’t breathing or circulating your blood. He suddenly realized that his hands had left the steering wheel; he clamped them back on, in spite of the fact that the car didn’t seem to be moving.

“Flextimed. Like, I took a two o’clock and stuck it between four and five pee em, see what I mean? Watch this.”

Sarvaduhka breathed. His pulse resumed. The engine hummed. The car started moving again. The red piranha, he noticed, was gone.

“Correction. Not there yet,” Izzy said.

What was Izzy correcting? Never mind that. Quite suddenly, Elk Mountain loomed up ahead on the left, and they were crossing the Little Laramie River, just as if someone had tucked in the states of Iowa and Nebraska and stitched Wyoming onto Illinois. Also, in the back seat, ex nihilo, a curly headed teenager in a blue windbreaker was gathering up his sleeping roll, a canteen, and a khaki rucksack, army issue. He leaned his head forward between Izzy and Sarvaduhka. Sarvaduhka smelled garlic on his breath.

“Hey, Iz,” the boy said, “is this guy Sarvaduhka?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Well, watch out for womporfs in Illinois then, about 1988. He brings ’em on, Iz.”

“I know, but it’s my fault.”

“Say, would you mind picking me up about fifty miles back, in Cheyenne?”

Sarvaduhka didn’t dare look at Izzy or the kid. He saw curls and pimples in the rear view, but he tried not to focus. Mountains. Sheep. That was enough to chew on.

“Sure thing,” said Izzy. “We picked you up in Cheyenne, then. Duco, pull over and let the kid out.”

Sarvaduhka couldn’t take it any longer. “Let him out, Izzy!? He never got in!” But he pulled over. The boy got out. And as soon as he slammed the door, Sarvaduhka remembered.

He remembered the boy standing under the billboard near the Air Force base outside Cheyenne. “Give the kid a break,” Izzy had said. Now he had said it. A minute ago he hadn’t. Someone had slipped a memory into Sarvaduhka’s grey matter, like a shim in a casement. Slow and dumb as a puff pastry on a rotary display, Sarvaduhka turned to Izzy.

“See what I mean?” Izzy said. He pulled the piece of Danish out of his jacket pocket—it was there now—and started munching. “Retro-memory.”

“How did we get to Wyoming?”

“Hey, travel is a big joke anyway, Duhka. Nobody goes anywhere. Read Parmenides.”

“Being is.”

“Now you got it!”

* * *

“Izzy, can you get me some female action this way?”

“I wouldn’t advise it.”

Izzy munched. He unscrewed the cup from his thermos, a grey, stainless-steel Aladdin he would receive as a gift from Fay in about three years’ time, if everything had worked out the way he was planning. He poured himself some coffee. “Ahh!” Fay wasn’t going to forget the cream. “Want some?”

“No. What is going on? Is this still epoche?”

“Yeah. We got till the next asterisks. Then the red piranha shows up again, and I die.”

“Asterisks? Die?”

“Listen, Sarvaduhka. I knew there was a Fay in my life. Izzovision. She’s my Sun and my Moon, Duck. I just couldn’t wait and do things the usual way, see? I already knew the punch line. So I skipped the formalities. I flextimed. Shazam! There we were, happily sharing living quarters without the trouble of introductions. All of a sudden, as they say in the normal world, we had loved each other for years. But there is a price.”

“Womporfs?”

“You amaze me. Yeah, womporfs. You get them from screwing around chronologies. They don’t exactly exist, Sarvaduhka, if you catch my drift, but they take on whatever you think of them. If I’m going to have met Fay, we gotta take care of that womporf.”

“This womporf is a she-devil because of me?” Sarvaduhka asked.

“All you saw was a red car behind you, right?” said Izzy.

“Ah! And the windshield: tinted!”

“Exactly.”

“How do we dissolve it, Izzy?”

Izzy shook the cup out the window so that any remaining drops of coffee would not accumulate at the rim and drip down the next time he unscrewed it, which could have been a long time ago. They were still idling beside the road near Medicine Bow National Forest. The boy was disappearing into the woods, not looking back.

“Orthographic propulsion, Doc.”

Sarvaduhka took a deep breath. He paused to consider whether his nervous system could survive yet another channel of Izzovision. But maybe there was some female action in it. “What is orthographic propulsion?”

“You find out in the next section. Look out. Here come the asterisks.”

* * *

The Next Section

Splat! The fly was a smudge on the glass. The red piranha bore down on the squareback. Sarvaduhka felt the impact before he saw it, when the piranha rammed him from behind. “It’s not a piranha. It’s not a piranha.”—the Sarvaduhkamantra. “Am I right, Izzy? It’s whatever I say?”

“Too late!” Izzy groaned, massaging his lower back. “You’ve already made that womporf my death!”

Sarvaduhka screeched into the left lane. The piranha screamed at his tail. He tried fading right and downshifting to force the she-devil to pass him. The clutch rope tangled on the stick, and as Sarvaduhka reached down to uncoil it so he could pull the pedal back up, he noticed three thin, parallel lines of blood trickling down his right arm. “Izzy, I’m hit!”

“Oh, great. Now you’ve got her packing heat… Wait a minute.” Izzy braced himself against the dashboard as their gear ratios yo-yoed and the piranha left its racing stripe in Sarvaduhka’s door handle. Izzy leaned over to examine Sarvaduhka’s wound. “Hot damn,” he announced. ‘You ain’t been shot. These are asterisk scrapes from the points of those stars when we spilled across the scene break.”

“Scene break??”

“Yeah. Everything is aces, Doc. We’re already halfway into orthographic space!”

“Orthographic…? Yaaaaaaa!” Sarvaduhka’s forehead jerked forward and hit the steering wheel. The metal over his door exploded inward in little circles, pricking up the upholstery like crowns around the bullet holes. Simultaneously, the glass in front of Izzy perforated and cracked into a network of spiderwebs.

“Sari baby,” Izzy shouted, “please don’t think about heavy artillery. I need to have an exhumable corpse for this thing to work out.”

Now the piranha pulled alongside, hubcap to hubcap. Sarvaduhka reared up in the driver’s seat and crushed the accelerator pedal to the floor. He tried to concentrate. He tried not to project. As in the ancient mantra, taught him by a Tibetan refugee in Kathmandu:

Mi no. Mi sahm. Mi chad ching.

Mi gom. Mi sehm. Rahng bahb zhahg.

“Think not. Reflect not. Analyze not.

“Imagine not. Meditate not. Retain the natural state.”

Don’t think about the she-devil. Eat up the road. Become one with the car. Don’t think about anything. Especially not movies. Ben Hur in particular. Don’t think about Ben Hur. Don’t think about that chariot scene, for Ganesha’s sake, where the bad guy comes up alongside Charlton Heston—just like this piranha nuzzling the squareback—with those blades on the hubs of the bad guy’s chariot wheels. Don’t think about that. Don’t think about how they shear off Ben Hur’s wheels, and…

“Yaaaaa!”

The steering wheel yanked Sarvaduhka to the left as the front left wheel collapsed and the squareback scraped and clanked into the path of the red piranha. Sarvaduhka, terrified, no-ing and sahm-ing and chad ching-ing and gom-ing and sehm-ing from the black hole of Calcutta to the Kunlun Shan, saw, or thought he saw, the toothy grill of the red piranha yawn open, revealing a bloody uvula. Steel incisors, triangular, dripping aqua regia and kelp, masticated the squareback’s chassis.

“I’m a-comin’, Peigeleh!” Izzy bellowed.

The squareback tumbled into a field of bearded wheat, broken and mangled. The piranha roared off. The she-devil fired her Smith and Wesson into the air, while she laughed with her high-rolling politico pals on the cellular phone. Her hub blades retracted. The grill snapped shut. She disappeared into that flat Midwestern infinitude where the road pinches out and parallel shoulders meet.

Sarvaduhka coughed and fell out the door into a pool of fish emulsion. “Izzy! Izzy!” He groped his way through smoke, past twisted metal, to the other side of the car, where Izzy lay staring at blue heaven, his bald head haloed by sheaves of wheat that caught the long rays of twilight. “Izzy, please don’t die.”

The stink of the fertilizer. Izzy’s glazed look. His Ganesha shattered. Sarvaduhka sank to his knees. “I am a very bad driver,” Sarvaduhka whimpered.

Suddenly—retro-memory, a slug snuck into the galley of Sarvaduhka’s mind! “Duck, listen up,” Izzy had told him just before the crash, so Sarvaduhka recalled, though he had not experienced it at the time (and STET on the tenses, proofreader). “In a couple of graphs I gotta die. It’s the only way to null out the womporf. From that point on, we gotta travel via orthographic propulsion…”

* * *

Orthographic Propulsion

“…which deserves its very own section,” Izzy continued, according to Sarvaduhka’s retro-memory. Sarvaduhka blinked. Sarvaduhka considered Izzy’s corpse, considered the smoking, steaming hulk of his beloved squareback, considered running to Mummy, considered suttee, then remembered that his mummy was in Bengalore and that he wasn’t Izzy’s widow, and then he noticed the parallel lacerations on his left shoulder and arm dripping blood down onto his wrist—just like the scrapes on his right arm, asterisk welts from the leap between sections—and he figured he’d better shut down the old cogitorium and listen up, as Izzy directed. He directed his attention inward, and downward, into the paragraphs following.

“Orthographic propulsion, dear Duck, is how you travel from place to place via the text in which those places are described, see?”

“No.” But he was, in spite of himself, beginning to understand. Sarvaduhka’s world was collapsing to two dimensions. His body felt like forty-weight bond stained with tendrils of black ink, pinched by greasy fingers, skewered by eyes sliding left to right, RETURN, and left to right again. Every couple of seconds, or longer in the case of slow readers, he felt a page number bullet his margins…

“We’ve entered orthographic space, pal. It’s the only way I could settle that womporf and jimmy the past so me and Fay will have met without having been about to be having created (STET) some new womporfs, if you catch my drift.”

“I don’t.” … What if the turning pages should crush Sarvaduhka like a fruit fly, pulverizing bones, reducing him to a pinkish stain, an interlinear blotch, forever without female action, somewhere in Illinois or Wyoming, his spermatozoa useless, flat as planeria in some right hand margin, and unjustified no doubt. What if he were apostrophized or hyphenated at some vital organ or word wrapped beyond the tolerance of his vertebral column?

“See, this way, we can ride on the reader’s attention…”

“The reader??”

“…right into Wendover or Rowley Junction, where Fay dumps that Niagara Falls guy, so I can pick her up on the rebound, like I’m supposed to.”

“Izzy, I need maybe some xanax, some thorazine. Do you have something like this?”

“I can give you an ellipsis.”

“Never mind.”

“So, like I was saying,” Izzy went on, “we just travel to the right line of print and Bingo! Fay meets Izzy. Then back to your Ganeshamobile before the womporf crash, which by that time will not have happened—no piranha, no dead Izzy—with thirteen days left for female action. Whaddaya say?”

“Tell me what to do. I am a blank sheet, Izzy.”

“Not quite. First we need to get in some graphs about Rowley Junction and that. Watch yourself around the asterisks this time, ohkay?”

* * *

The bum’s name was Ralph Tout, and it was Fay’s maternal instincts that made her latch onto him. He was the kind of guy who couldn’t get his underwear from the washer to the dryer. “Let me help you,” she’d said. That was that.

Now they were in Rowley Junction, Utah, just an hour and a quarter from Wendover—rainbow’s end. Where Ralph was going to apply his entrepreneurial talent at the Bonneville Speedway, selling popcorn or miniature racing cars or chunks of salt flat or conducting tours, as he’d done at Niagara Falls right up to the time he was laid off. If you knew a few words, those foreign tourists tipped big. Sayonara. Auf wiedersehn. Ne repousses pas de pied mes petits cochons.

They were sitting in a café, by the window in back, letting Ralph’s radiator cool off. They sipped coffee. They munched Sara Lees. Fay’s treat. It was always her treat, Fay was thinking. She was nearly broke after paying for all the gasoline, motels, campsites, et cetera, not to mention his dryer in East Tonawanda, which should have tipped her off. She eyed him over the rim of her coffee cup, backlit by the late-afternoon glint off the Great Salt Lake.

He was smiling. “Coffee’s not bad,” he said.

“Mm hmm.” She didn’t like herself for hating him, as she’d started to do. Was it selfish of her to notice that he wasn’t even that good of a lover? Last night, anyway, she’d passed. He’d stayed up late watching color TV and drinking Thunderbird, while she, behind closed eyes, calculated how much money she had left from the sale of her old Chevy.

“I love this place already,” he said. “You done with that?” She didn’t respond. He took her cake. “I’m gonna make a lot of money here, I can tell.”

Fay tried to see into his soul through the large gap between his front teeth, the one that seemed so sexy at first but reminded her now of chinked mortar. He wiped his mouth with his forearm, flashing once more the faded tattoo: “BORN TO RAISE HELL.” He’d seemed nice.

“Stay put, honey,” she said, getting up. “I need to go for a little walk. I’ll be back before you finish your pound cake.”

“Sure thing, sweet stuff,” he said. “But don’t be too long. Plenty of fish in the sea, ha ha.” The diastema. She peered. But she couldn’t see the soul. She walked out onto the salt flat. She sighed.

* * *

Conditional Counter-Factual Space

“Damn it!” Izzy would have said, had he not been dead.

“What is this?” Sarvaduhka ejaculated. “Orthographic isn’t enough for you, Izzy? Are we now in a counter-factual space, a conditional? I hate inflections, Izzy! I hate moods! Sanskrit is lousy with them.” Since he didn’t know which way to face when he said it—Izzy, after all, was dead—Sarvaduhka addressed his complaint to the broad Illinois sky. It was blue all over, but just above the horizon there was a thin stratus with grey streaks descending, distant rain.

“Damn it!” Izzy would have said again. “We missed our chance. The damned scene break fell too quick. We could have snuck in there, right after Fay’s sigh.

“We? Was I there, Izzy? In Utah?”

“No, but there’s more stability in a plural, for orthographic propulsion, I mean.” Izzy would have mulled things over for a moment, while Sarvaduhka’s mind split neatly in two. The one half was thinking about grammatical forms in Sanskrit and Hindi; the other was amazed that he could be thinking anything at all with his squareback totaled and his friend totaled and his entire third dimension totaled.

Izzy would then have continued: “Look. This is done, isn’t it, to repeat the last phrase of some section at the beginning of a later one? You know, to link them up?”

“Rhetorical transitional space?” Sarvaduhka mewed.

“Something like that,” Izzy said.

“God help us, I think so.”

“Ohkay then. Get ready, Sarvaduhka.”

“How??”

“What the hell have I been talking about? Orthographic propulsion, Doc! Just keep the readers thinking about us. Do something memorable, for crissakes, so we’re both still there, riding on their attention when they cross over into Utah again.”

Sarvaduhka mounted Izzy’s cadaver, his lips on Izzy’s cold and bloodless lips, his thighs on Izzy’s flaccid thighs. He pushed his tongue into Izzy’s mouth and started humping.

* * *

She sighed…

(“We made it, Duck!”Izzy, alive in Utah, spat Sarvaduhka’s tongue out of his mouth. They were squirming in shattered, compacted salt.)

…Suddenly, Fay heard the brittle ground heave and crack behind her.

(“I do not count this as female action,”Sarvaduhka whispered.

‘I owe you, you pervert,” Izzy said, as Fay turned and started walking toward them. “Lord, you know how to get memorable!”)

She hurried toward the source of the sound. It looked like two men fallen through a sheet of salt.

A man with extremely attractive moustaches and thick, fine hair all over his tight little body, such that he would never be bald…

(“Damn you, Sarvaduhka,” said Izzy, “stay away from the narration. Stop trying to sneak your kudos into the text, you ninny.”

“I’m sorry,” Sarvaduhka said.

“We’ve got to be very careful outside the parentheses, Duke. This is my life with Feigeleh we’re operating on, and we can’t always rely on italics for cover.”)

…rose to his feet in front of Fay. He looked around in a panic, then ran off in the direction of the Great Salt Lake.

There was another man in the salt fissure, a bald man in his forties with a single ridge of a brow across his forehead. His hands were grimy, a mechanic’s hands, and the left one was missing a few fingertips. He pushed up off the false floor of salt and stood eyeball to eyeball with Fay. His feet a few inches below the salt shelf Fay stood on, he was exactly her height.

“Hey, ain’t I seen you in East Tonawanda?” the man said.

Fay thought, So that’s what I’m doing in Utah! She just stood there, looking at him looking at her with unfathomable intimacy.

“Sure I did,” he said, “outside the Wurlitzer plant when I was working there.”

“Maybe you did at that,” she said. She was beginning to feel that she remembered, not the meeting but the man, and from longer ago than Tonawanda, from far away as the heart alone can measure, so deep in the past that we think of it as future. “Did I offer you a Danish?”

“You could offer me one now.”

Fay blushed.

Somebody was banging on the window at the back of the cafe. “Who’s that?” Izzy said. “Somebody you know?”

“Not me,” she said. “Who was that other guy with you?”

“Some weirdo. Utah! Let’s walk. The name’s Izzy. I know a better cafe down the road. I’m good for coffee.”

“I think I’m going to like you, Izzy.”

* * *

“O hypocrite lecteur,

“Mon semblable, mon frere!”

—Baudelaire

* * *

Izzy was sitting in the bathroom doorway again, his chin in the traction sling eyebolted to the lintel, while Fay worked the pulleys to straighten his aching back. “Aren’t you glad you met me?” she said.

“You’re my angel, Fay,” he said. “Give it a little slack.”

“Sometimes I wonder what happened to Ralph Tout.”

“You want me to tune in on Izzovision?”

“Naw.”

“Say, how come you never asked me how I got to that place in Rowley Junction? Don’t you wonder, Feigeleh?”

“No, Izzy. I know.”

“Huh?” But the phone rang. “Help me out of this thing,” Izzy said. “That’s for me. An old friend.”

“Sure.” Delicately she released the tension rope and unlaced Izzy’s head, kissing him above the nose, as she always liked to, at the midpoint of his brow. Izzy made for the kitchen. As soon as he was out of sight, Fay rolled up the sleeve of her blouse and washed her right forearm, where the three thin, parallel tracks bled just the tiniest bit.

Izzy picked up the phone. It was Sarvaduhka, collect from Salt Lake City. Izzy looked over his shoulder to make sure Fay wasn’t listening. She had gone into the bathroom and closed the door. “Yeah, I’ll pay,” he told the operator.

“You mahapup’hula, Izzy! Some bachelors’ vacation! Where’s my squareback? Where’s my Ganesha? Where’s my female action?”

“Take it easy, Duke of Earl. Is it the same year there as I’ve got here, or are you still back at when I met Fay?”

“All I know is that it’s now, and my feet are swollen, and I am surrounded by people with multiple wives.”

“Ohkay, ohkay. I think I can fix it. But we gotta be patient here, Ducky. We don’t want a recurrence of womporfery, am I right? Just give me a couple paragraphs to think about it, see. Afterward, there won’t even have been this pause, I promise. I can just trick the reader back round to the first sentence, and then you’re back in Buffalo.”

“More orthographic monkeyshines? No, no, no! I’ve been thinking, Izzy. What if nobody ever reads this? Then there won’t be anybody’s attention to ride on from one section to another. I’ll be stuck beside your dead body in Illinois, stinking offish emulsion forever. What about that?”

Izzy excogitated. “I never thought of that, Duck. I’ll call you back.”

“Izzy…!”

And Izzy hung up, as he always does in this paragraph. Fay had sneaked up behind him and grabbed him around the middle.

“Oh, Fay, what you do to me!” he said.

What kind of a match were Izzy and Fay? I’ll tell you.

Content

Izzy and the Hypocrite Lecteur
by Eliot Fintushel