Rough Beasts
by Matt Stoltz, 2005
This isn't just a story about a briefcase; it's a story about everything that should never be in stories...but sadly is. It takes place in the main ballroom of a leading hotel on the shortest day of the year. The unnaturally harsh wind, that soars down from the snowcapped mountains, rips through the windows of the hotel and pours into the hall where men and women have congregated to smoke cigars and sustain levels of intoxication that far exceed moderation, as they anxiously wait for the morally repugnant brawl to erupt. All of these men are contending for what they believe represents the center, the center of their beliefs, the center of their existence, the center that holds everything together, but more tangibly, a briefcase. Walt Whitman, Jay Gatsby, and a man who wishes to remain anonymous are prepared to disparage each other for a beautifully crafted piece of American leather. The folks around these parts are calling it "battle royal."
I had an interview with Mr. Whitman two hours before the battle and made an attempt to discuss his strategy, but it was difficult to get through his thick wall of passionately intense, transcendental rhetoric. I first asked him about how it felt to be a part of the battle royal and he evasively said, "Do you feel lucky to be born, Ms. Didion?" I paused a little and told him, "Yes, I suppose so." Before I could offer any justification to my answer he blurted out, "I hasten to inform you that it is just as lucky to die, and I know it." I gently told him that I have never died so I couldn't make that claim and tried to move on to the next question, but he got very upset and screamed, "Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, I am large and contain multitudes!" He then proceeded to lose all line of reasoning and intelligibility by explaining to me how fratricidal war makes him sick, but he made an exception for the battle royal on account of how "churches accommodate serpents, vermin, and the corpses of those who have died from the filthiest diseases." At this point Mr. Whitman stood up, without expecting any retort or follow-up question on my part, and said, "Ms. Didion, I cannot stand this loafery any longer, if you will please excuse me, I must go bathe and admire myself." I left the interview feeling that I am comfortable with the Whitmans of this world; he is merely an idealist whose opiate is the very candor which expedites his beliefs, his beliefs which I may feel are stone dead, but, at the same time, give him reason to rise in the morning.
Mr. Gatsby, previously known as Jay Gatz, is a man of mild charm, his clothing sparkles with avarice, but his eyes show a thirst that only unrequited love could mockingly provoke. I had brunch with Mr. Gatsby in a restaurant suitable for that narrow crowd of society whose per capita income exceeds small countries. He asked me if I had ever went to one of his parties, I told him unfortunately not, and he got slightly uncomfortable then offered to take me for a boat ride. "How do you plan to win the free-for-all this evening Mr. Gatsby?"
-"Well old sport...Do you mind if I call you old sport? I made this list you see, and I've got it all planned out, first I'll...well here I wrote it down somewhere. Yes, here it is take a look for yourself."
Rise from bed..............................6:00 A.M.
Dumbbell exercise and wall-scaling....6:15-7:00 "
Run...…………………………………7:00-8:00 "
Sparring with Mr. De La Hoya...........8:00-9:30 "
Study film...................................1:00-3:30 P.M.
Obsess about Daisy........................3:30-11:00 "
Mr. Gatsby is one of those frighteningly organized people who make it a point to pencil in even the most banal activities of a day, in this case obsessing about Daisy, which, might I add, takes up the majority of his time and is the reason why I chose not to ask him about her, for had I asked Gatsby he may have given a response roughly the size of a Russian novel. Before I left the interview he offered to show me his collection of shirts, and he insisted that journalism is a profession very much underpaid and he could get me work that could allow me to "pick up a nice bit of money." I assured him that his shirts were probably some of the finest and declined both his offers on grounds that I had a lot of work to do. I think he missed the point entirely, not because he didn't understand but because he is one of those men who is childish by nature like a father who forgets his child's birthday, or a husband who forgets his wedding anniversary, or, in his case, a U.S. citizen who forgets to pay taxes.
The man who wished to conceal his identity gave me directions, or rather a treasure map on account of there not being an address, and I found myself standing near a hole next to a run down electrical building called Monopolated Light & Power somewhere in the industrial district of town. Just before I was about to leave the man appeared from the hole and showed me inside. Once we got past the initial entrance, the room opened up and I was surprised by the lighting. "One thousand three hundred and sixty nine bulbs, compliments of Monopolated Light & Power of course", he laughingly said out loud. He was very kind and very respectful throughout the interview, he asked me if I was comfortable enough, he apologized for the primitive furniture, which happened to be two buckets, and then he offered me some homemade yams dripping with maple syrup. I ate one hoping that it would put an end to this social contract of Hellos, Thank yous, and various other inchoate cordialities that we were playing out. As I ate the yam he quietly laughed a laugh that was understood by him, and him alone. I shrugged off the laugh and all its possible connotations, then, asked him about his strategy and reasons for contenting. He responded passionately and, fortunately, I brought with me a tape recorder so I can quote him verbatim.
-"How could I possibly tell you, in a few sentences, what has been building all of my life? In ten short rounds I will come to terms with my past, my memories will well up inside me, my experiences will rise up to define me and its all so much that it could fill up this wretched hole I live in and bubble forth one single, putrid belch of affirmation . Yes, yes, yes, you may ask, 'What is it worth to me?' Well, here are the facts: I may bleed, and my blood isn't any redder than the next man, and the next man, and the man after that. The belly of whale is dark and, damn it, I have enough light to crawl out of this hole and find a way. Let me spell it out for you in big black bold letters Ms. Didion", he shuffled around to find a pen and then he wrote down, "SOCIAL RESPONSIBILITY." When the interview was over I thought more about that quiet laugh and decided that this man is fighting an entirely different kind of battle, one that we may all, on some levels, be fighting.
The smoke-filled room echoed with the kind of unsettling laughter that is most easily perceived in deeply ironical instances, and in this case, doctors, lawyers, bankers, priests, judges and other "respectable members of society" jovially conversed while three men wait to be blindfolded and turned loose on one another. Interpolated with the ribaldry and unsettling laughter was a dialogue between the fighters, which reminded me of a group of kids that I came across in San Francisco during the late sixties who also reminded me of something: how dreadful it was to be me.
-"I'm thirty seven years old in perfect health, and I won't cease until I'm dead," Mr. Whitman exclaims in an effort to taunt the other contenders. "Christ! It's darker than the colorless beards of old men in this place."
-"Yes sir, I concur. Much too dark," the anonymous man said.
-"Lo and behold, Mr. Gatsby, you're as stout as a horse, I bet you posses the fury of rous'd mobs."
-"Thanks old sport, this is the best physique money can buy. Not to mention the life insurance policy that I just bought and willed to Daisy in the event of my death."
-"Let death be inaugurated! For I am the teacher of athletes and this Daisy may find herself to the teeth in gold."
Two hours and thirty minutes before the "battle royal" was to take place, a Mr. McInnes was shot once in the stomach with a pistol, and bled to death before his friends, who shot him, could reach a hospital. Coincidentally, just seconds before the first round began, a pink Cadillac convertible, top down, with a license plate that read DUNDUN smashed into the ballroom. The passenger, high on a variety of narcotics, kicked McInnes, who had already died from the bullet wound, out of the car and said, "Sorry folks, he's the one started everybody calling me fuckhead." At this point, the man saw the briefcase in his periphery sitting on the platform and stepped out of the car, picked it up and drove off. Three blocks north of the ballroom the briefcase was found by police at Berryman's Pawn Shop, the clerk refused to hand it over to authorities without paying the $13 he felt it was worth, and it was at that moment I got on a plane to California and said Goodbye to all that.