Alex in Wonderland

1

One hundred years after the ninth planet is known, all beliefs will be challenged. Every level of thought that binds a civilization together will be challenged.

Behold the Motherhead

ca. 30,000 B.C.E.

(The Book of Beliefs)

transl. Arlen Frankenstein

There are certain events we believe could never happen, but they do. Right before our eyes. They can be devastating blows, or grand accommodations, slight annoyances, or strokes of good fortune, but they always come as a surprise.

Not for Alex Toucher. For Alex the strokes of good fortune were always deliberate acts. It had been that way ever since he could remember. More often than not, it seemed as if all he had to do was think of something and it would happen. His friends were suspicious. They thought there was something weird about him, but they didn't know enough to blame it on anything other than coincidence. Alex thought it was weird, too, but it was an occult aspect of his life, not easily observable, not something he spoke openly about. What bothered Alex were the slight annoyances which, of course, he would swear were not of his doing. Who would drum up even a slight annoyance to complicate their life? He knew, though, in the back of his head, he was responsible for them. Not in a blaming sense so much as the creative sense. He couldn't think of one of the slight annoyances he had suffered that he hadn't contributed to in some way, if he was to be honest. After all, he saw Louise as the perfect example of that.

To play it safe, Alex became determined to live and let live, and mind his own business. Anonymity, that's what he wanted. It was the only way to stay out of trouble.

It was also a clown of a philosophy, and Alex was often heard to say, Here I go again, doing something I don't want to do. He was unaware of the curious law that stated: A stance against an event will bring it into play as surely as a stance in its favor. So, Alex was as cursed as he was blessed. Louise was also a perfect example of that.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when Alex graduated. He was eighteen. He was legally on his own. He went into the steel mills for a paycheck. He took classes in Business Administration, and Health and Human Services, and elective courses in Psychology that only left him with more questions. Then, with his degree, Alex transferred from the Inspection Department in the rail mill to the office of Human Resources, behind a desk. It seemed as if nothing could stop him. It was easy. Everything fell into place.

On a Friday, a pay day, Alex cashed his check at Taylor's, and daydreamed over a beer. It was seventeen degrees above zero outside. Alex and Taylor and the fat, old woman in the back booth were the only people there. Alex had worked his first month in Human Resources. He was pleased, almost giddy with the thrill of his accomplishments. He began to think he was on a roll, and he wondered what else he could make happen.

A hand fell on Alex's shoulder as Ricardo took a stool beside him. Ricardo's collar was unbuttoned and his tie was loose. His overcoat hid his new suit. He believed his appearance was the mark of an independent, hard-working business man. He came into Taylor's every day at this time, when everyone else was getting off work. Taylor always set a bagged sandwich and a mug of beer on the bar for him. He also believed that a monthly tab at Taylor's was the mark of an independent, hard-working business man. Ordinarily, Ricardo drinks his beer and chats with Taylor and hurries back to his car lot to eat. He hopes he'll sell at least one car before his long day is over.

Hiya, Alex.

Hi, Ricardo. Where is everybody?

Who knows? It must be too cold. You working tonight, or you just get off?

Oh, I'm strictly nine to five now. No more shift work for me. I'm white collar. Human Resources.

Hey, that's alright, Alex. Things always work out for you. I need to go to school myself, man. Take some business classes. I want my parents to have any car they want. That way they see I'm a success. Ricardo nodded and smiled in agreement with himself.

Ricardo, what do you think is the meaning of life?

The meaning of life? Damn, Alex. You don't ask for much, do you? I don't know. I trust in God. I go to confession. I don't think life has a meaning, Alex. It's a blessing. Blessings don't have meaning. They're gifts from God. I don't ask questions, man. I try not to attract his attention, y'know? You okay, man? You look pretty intense. You're not thinking about doing something stupid, are you?

Ending it all? No. I'm thinking about beginning it all.

C'mon, man. You been around long enough to get started by now. Look at you.

I think maybe it takes me a while to really get started. I've been changing things, but I haven't made anything better. Y'know, Ricardo, I've been thinking about trading in my car.

Sure, Alex. I'll take care of it for you. What do you want, a Caddy, another Ford?

I think I want a van. Something I can carpet and insulate and make cozy inside.

Sure, Alex. You taking a trip?

Nah. I have everything I want right here. I don't need to go anywhere.

Sure, Alex. You know me. I'll find something.

Ricardo called Alex three days later and Alex was driving exactly the van he had in mind. When spring rolled around Alex sold his parent's house and rented a walk-up over a corner sweet shop on thirty-ninth and Broadway. It was wonderful. It had a sun parlor and all the city traffic flowed by below on Broadway, and in the evening, when all the shops were lighting the street, Alex could sit and watch the people. Even at night, when there was no traffic and no one on the street, Alex liked to sit and daydream and watch the traffic light change. Life was good, the time had flown by. He was sitting pretty, he thought.

Alex wondered what it was that made things happen for him. If all he had to do was think of something, of course life would be easy. He wondered what if something came up and messed things up, but he dismissed the idea quickly. What could come up? It gave him a chill.

Alex began to wonder if he could attract a woman the same way. He daydreamed about it at Taylor's. It worked to get a job. It worked to get the van and the apartment. It even worked to get a convenient parking place downtown. Surely, it would work to attract a woman. But not just a woman. She should be a woman he liked and who liked him, a woman who knew when to take him seriously. He wanted a woman he could fall in love with. But he daydreamed more about whether or not it would work than he did about actually doing it. It scared him. There was far too much about it that he didn't understand. When it came to women there was always far too much that he didn't understand.

He talked about it with his friend, Munch. They were driving around on the outskirts of town, getting a feel for the van. He said, They all seem to want too much too soon. I've seen guys fall for that. The thought of being with a woman makes me feel like a non-swimmer walking around the pool, looking for the shallow end.

Munch was to the point. You need more experience, man. A lot of guys think that. It goes away. Y'know, when you get a car your girl huntin' territory expands and so does the number of competitors. So your car has to look good, right? It's part of the competition. So, why'd you get a van, man?

I'm not in the competition. I don't care about it.

Munch had to move the seat back to get some leg room. The visor on his side had a mirror on the back. He liked that. He ran his hand through his hair. Hey, man. When it comes to women there ain't no shallow end. That's their main complaint about men. We won't commit to deep water.

"Well, how do you know if you can do anything unless you

try it?"

That's crazy thinkin', man. I don't know if I can win the high-dive, empty pool, belly flop competition, either, but I ain't gonna try it just to find out.

That was the bottom line. Alex wasn't sure he wanted to try it. It became a shelved subject.

Alex had money in his pockets. He worked straight days now, and he had weekends off. He had time on his hands. He bought a single lens reflex camera and a telephoto lens. He moved his bed against the wall and converted the bedroom into a darkroom. He bought a photo enlarger and chemicals and developing trays. Soon there were strips of negatives and proof sheets and eight by ten prints strung all over the apartment. He enlarged some of his best shots to poster size and taped them to the living room walls. He sat for hours and studied the faces and the postures of complete strangers on the street. He was fascinated by what they did, how they sat, and how they looked.

Downstairs at the bus stop he photographed people in bus windows; an old woman in a babushka in the first window, a rabbi in another window, mill workers, kids, for the length of a bus. He enlarged each shot and taped them across the living room wall, a bus load of people. He sat for hours and looked at them.

He could have gone digital and bought all the do-dads that plug into each other for Disney-like results with color enhancement and pixels and instant prints of wallet size for the folks. But, no. Alex wanted to set the shutter speed and the exposure himself. He wanted to hear the delicate, spring-loaded clunk that let the light in for a measure of a second that set the sweaty image of a helmeted steel worker's face on film. And there was more to do in the dark room under the red safe light where people's faces appeared on paper like ghosts that had been there all along. He could burn images in, or dodge them out, over- or under-expose things. That was the craft. It was personal. That was what Alex liked. And, still, it allowed him to peek at them through his camera and stare at them on his walls.

All the while he felt a longing for company. And again he began to wonder if he could attract a woman. But he wasn't sure he wanted that much personality around him. There would be demands, rules, inconveniences, parents...

It was during a long fascination with a large print of a common alley cat that Alex said, If I didn't know better, I'd say you were a common alley cat. You shouldn't have to live in an alley.

He thought he could walk up to the cat and pick him up and drive home with it, which is exactly what happened. The cat rode home on the seat beside Alex. It was dirty and underfed and rather passive like a refugee. Alex put the cat down in the middle of the bathroom and ran a few inches of water in the tub. He put a bit of tuna on a dinner plate and squatted to watch the cat eat. The cat took its time to chew and swallow and take another mouthful. It ate everything and politely licked the plate clean. It licked its chops and looked up at Alex and captured his heart.

That's just the appetizer, my friend. First we bathe, then we eat.

The cat shivered in the water while Alex lathered and rinsed it into a clump of bones and long, wet fur. It blinked peacefully and waited out the situation. The towel produced a healthy, black, gentleman cat with great, yellow eyes, white spats, and a brilliantly white bib. And a rather handsome face, Alex thought.

Excellent, Alex said. Let's eat.

They sat on the couch after dinner and looked through the phone book for a proper name. The cat added a few finishing touches to his bath. The most dignified name Alex could find for a gentleman cat was 'Ginzburg'. The ad in the phone book said, 'Maurey Ginzburg – Carpet Cleaning'. Alex lifted the cat face-to-face with him. It hung full length in his hands and looked back at him.

You, my friend are hereafter called, 'Ginzburg'. I am Alex. We are going to be friends.

Alex got up in the middle of the night and found Ginzburg sleeping under the kitchen table. He picked him up and put him on the bed beside his pillow. In the morning Ginzburg was still there.

Alex had a question. It had dawned on him the next morning that Ginzburg was the result of his longing for companionship. What he wanted to know is, why did he get an alley cat instead of a woman? There was an answer for that, but he didn't know. There was another curious law that Alex didn't know about. Desire, at full potential, can be answered in more than one form. The answer to Alex's question came one bright Saturday morning in the form of a pretty, young woman in the lobby of the Chicago Art Institute. She was standing in the center of the lobby, waiting. He might as well have been invisible for all the attention she gave him, but her red hair took his breath away. She wore a light, summer dress and a hat for the sun. She held a small, woven clutch bag. Her gloves and her heeled sandals matched her purse and her hat. The women he knew couldn't afford to go to that much trouble to dress. Alex was in love.

He climbed the staircase and framed her below in the camera. He brought her into focus. Yes. She was very nice. She paced a few steps one way and the other but she was waiting for someone, she was facing the entrance. Oh, what the Hell? He took a deep breath and whistled a piercing trill that completely shattered the civilized deportment in the lobby of the Chicago Art Institute. She turned and looked up at him and Alex tripped the shutter. It was perfect.

Her name was Louise Thibedeau. She was waiting to meet her mother. Her eyes went all over Alex's face. He knew she was taking him in, evaluating him.

She had a nice smile. You're not at all shy, are you?

I used to be. He looked at her lips. She had kissable lips.

Why should I give a perfect stranger my number?

Don't you want to know when your picture's ready?

No. You just take pictures to meet girls. How superficial.

Wrong. I take pictures of people. You're the first girl.

Alex did everything he could to keep her mother from coming through the door. Louise seemed a bit fancy, but Alex liked her. And Louise liked Alex. There was something about him. She said, I'll give you my number, but I want the negative, too.

They talked and watched the minute hand go around the clock. When Louise was convinced her mother wasn't going to show up, they went outside to find her waiting beside one of the great lions. Her mother was well out of patience. She wasn't someone you kept waiting. She was convinced Alex had everything in the world to do with her daughter's tardiness. Louise was apologetic. She hugged her mother and introduced Alex. Alex disliked her right away.

Louise's mother was a woman who was trained in Hell to be an annoyance. There were people, relatives, who said her husband died because it was the only way he knew of to get away from her. These were the same people who shook their heads sadly when Louise moved in with Alex. In the long run it was the only way Louise knew to get away from her mother. And when Louise's mother died they commented in wondering what God would do to get away from her. Louise felt a freedom then that she had only dreamed of. Alex wasn't the only one with an inheritance. It put a different tone on the relationship altogether.

Alex's dark room disappeared literally overnight. The bedroom was a woman's domain, not a photo lab. The endless negatives and prints went into boxes and into the closet. The developing trays and the chemicals and the enlarger also went into boxes and into the closet, and the bus riders on the wall were replaced with prints of Gauguin and Matisse. In time, Alex sold his camera and all of his equipment. With their new furniture and the plants in the sun parlor, there was nothing left of Alex other than his clothes in the closet and his presence. Ginzburg went back to his place under the kitchen table. Alex hated that. He felt like a traitor, but he allowed it to happen. It gave him a chill.

The siege of Alexander Toucher's castle lasted for almost three years. Alex came home from work one day to find the occupying forces withdrawn without a trace. He knew there was something wrong the minute he walked through the door. It caught him short of breath. He thought, at first, it was too good to be true. But it wasn't. Louise was gone. She had moved out without warning, without even leaving a note. It took a while for Alex to develop an opinion about it, almost a month.

Today, under a warm, morning sky the birds are chattering in the trees, the fragrance of fresh cut grass fills Alex's lungs, and the grave stones are all even and erect in a measured stand of order and organization that only comes once in a lifetime, albeit a few days late. Hughbella, the other woman in Alex's life had died.

When the priest said, In the name of the Father, the son, and the Holy Spirit... Alex left the grave site. No point in watching them fill in the hole. He wanted to change clothes. It was absurd to wear a suit outdoors on a day like this.

Alex daydreamed through the short service. He remembered clearly the first words the old woman in the grave had spoken to him. He was sitting alone at the bar in Taylor's. It was just minutes after midnight. The TV was off, the juke box was silent. A bitter cold wind kept Taylor's drafty. Alex's feet were freezing. The old woman called him over to her booth and asked him to sit, and with an eloquence that completely belied her appearance, she said, Alexander, if you're going to be so serious about life, you might as well be an Observer, because if you're going to participate, you can't be serious.

That didn't sound right. Didn't she have something backwards? But it seemed to make sense.

She lived now indelibly in Alex's mind – the knit cap and yellow gray hair around her potato face, her fingers curled over the top of her cane like spotted roots. There must have been almost three hundred pounds of her, layered against the weather in Goodwill coats and sweaters. Alex wondered if she could even see him, if there were eyes back in those vacant, whiskered little caves.

She had always been there in the last booth like some piece of antique furniture from a past era, always so still as to be invisible. If Taylor had closed up every night and left her sitting there, it would have been perfectly appropriate. No one would have thought anything about it, and neither would she.

An observer? Alex said. What's an observer?

Don't ask questions, Alexander. I'll tell you everything you need to know.

That was when she trapped him.

She said, We need another pitcher, my sweet man.

Alex took the empty pitcher to the bar. Taylor was amused. I can't believe you're buyin' beer for that old broad. What is she, a hundred?

Believe it, Alex said.

I don't like her hustlin' my customers for beer, man.

She didn't hustle me.

I oughta get some Mayflower guys to haul her roly-poly ass outta here and have the door narrowed so she can't get back in!

Taylor set the pitcher on the bar. Two straws, or one?

You know why I come in here, Taylor? It's the snappy reparte of the quick thinking staff.

Yeah, yeah. Taylor went back to his sports page.

Alex filled the old woman's mug.

You're a sweet man, Alexander, buying an old woman a beer. And so handsome. Such pretty eyes and straight shoulders.

How come you know my name and I don't know yours?

Don't ask questions, Alexander. If you need to know my name, wait. It will come to you.

Why all the mystery? How do I learn anything if I don't ask?

Questions capture the intellect, Alexander. Curiosity is what fuels the mind. You learn only about the facade by asking questions. An Observer learns from outside the facade by not asking questions.

That doesn't make sense. What's the faca-

"Leave me now, my sweet man. Let me drink my beer in

peace. We'll talk again when you're not so full of questions. Hee, hee, hee."

"Leave you? I just bought you a pitcher of beer.

Yes. You're so good, Alexander. Now leave me, my sweet man.

Alex went back to his stool. Taylor was grinning.

She hustled me.

Taylor didn't look up. That's Hughbella for ya.

The priest caught up with Alex. Do you mind if I walk with you, Mr. Toucher?

Alex slowed down. Sorry to make you work on a Saturday, Father.

Oh, I've dispatched many souls on a Saturday, Mr. Toucher. Rain or shine, every day of the week. Some of them I don't even know. She must have been some special woman. I mean, to have only one faithful friend at the end of her life.

Yes. She was special in ways people can't even imagine.

Who was she, Mr. Toucher? What gave her life meaning?

Meaning? What is the meaning of life, Father? Your meaning.

Hmmm... The meaning of life. My friend, we all know the meaning of life, but there isn't one of us who can put it into words.

She said it was the results.

The results.

Yeah, the meaning of life is the results.

Well, that's as good an answer as any. She sounds like an interesting woman. You don't know anything about her?

She never let me ask questions, Father. She said once, her husband was old. She said he looked like all the rest of the bayou when he was up to his waist in it with his net. He was mean to her. She said he made her walk with a cane, so she stole his money and got on a box car. She got off here in Gary on a rainy, below zero night because the box car was too cold. She woke up in Mercy Hospital. They got her on her feet and put her on welfare. After that she lived in some attic apartment over somebody's garage. She became a fixture in Taylor's tavern. We talked there once in a while.

Well, if I may judge by you, I'd say she was a good woman.

Thanks, Father.

I was told the deceased, this Hughbella, was over a hundred years old.

Nah. That's just bar talk, Father.

Are you a Catholic, Mr. Toucher?

No.

Was she a Catholic?

I don't know. I don't think so. Will we still go to Heaven, Father?

The priest laughed. He patted Alex on the back. I usually dispatch non-Catholics in plain, brown wrapping paper, but they know it's from me. They'll let you in.

What more could a man ask?

Alex smiled and shook hands with the priest. There were only two cars: Alex's van and the priest's parish car. No one knew Hughbella. She had out-lived her peers and merged into that class of society people pretend not to see. Alex got into his van. It coughed and started and idled quietly. He wondered if he should wait and follow the priest out. No. He'd find his own way