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CounterPunch
January
25, 2003
Man in the Black
Suit
A
Novelini
by ADAM ENGEL
Chairman of His Own
Black Suit
Man in the Black Suit claimed to be an
IMPORTANT MAN, chairman of the board of DataCo Inc. Research
the credit of the people; research backgrounds of license applicants;
research lives of potentially dangerous "citizens."
Database, database, government monkey work.
Man in the Black Suit said I'd been recommended
highly. Who had he spoken to? The Client to whom I send my copy?
But I don't send my work to clients, I send it to the Agency.
Man in the Black Suit is a liar. He's
chairman of nothing but his own black suit. Damn his black suit.
Bizarre, a suit in this part of town. Tenements. Rats. Chickens.
Dirty children. Ubiquitous workers in and out of work night and
day thank god for all-night groceries and diners.
"If you're so important, why do
you live here?" I asked.
"Who said I lived here?" he
said.
"That's your apartment, directly
above mine, is it not?"
"Yes," said Man in the Black
Suit. "So, what's your point?"
Parable of the Dream
Angel Gymnast
Man in the Black Suit haunted my doorway.
Where could he sit but on my futon, laid directly on the floor?
The folding chair on which I work? But that is for me. I filled
two smallish glasses with bourbon. What are you doing here in
my apartment, drinking my cheap booze? I had a dream, he said,
and told me the following:
"My flying gymnast visits from abroad.
She's beautiful. She loves me. Straps, harnesses, pulleys, cables.
I fear for her safety. Bloodthirsty audience below, but she flies
masterfully. She changes to furs and denim, and goes off to explore
- I'd rather she didn't, but I'm confident of her love. She's
out for the night. She'll be back. I'm anxious.
"I hang with the boys, old high
school friends, though I don't know them. Up in Elvis's hotel
suite, I take conference calls; big deal brewing; they want to
screw us but we hang tough - I want to make this sale and take
my flying gymnast someplace warm...
"Phone calls and counter-phone calls
last for hours. Anxious drinking, smoking, nothing done - I'm
mortified. I want to kill myself.
"I return to the party of old friends
who are strangers: I've failed egregiously.
"My gymnast returns. Hasn't she
heard the news? Has she not looked at the sky and read for herself
the script of my descent? Of course! Out in the street my utter
failure and defeat are common knowledge, but she could care less
about the power prattle of the City - I'm not an insect, I'm
a person.
"Her bronze hand leads me, step
by step, to heaven..."
So what is one to make of such a tale?
A dream he actually had? I think not. A parable belched from
his sad, lonely heart.
The Dancer
A flesh and blood woman came up to his
apartment occasionally. A student at the University, not much
younger than myself. Man in the Black Suit must have been fifty.
You can hear everything in these tenements. Of course I'd hear
them. Then afterward, music, the Dancer's bare feet sweeping
his hard wood floor. Above my head. While I was trying to work.
I didn't mind.
On my way out for beer and cigarettes
he buzzed her in I watched her float ghostly through the corridor,
passed me on the stairs, she was thin, as a dancer should be,
and smelled of, oh, I don't know, flowers or some kind of perfume.
You know.
Music and Cigars
I got a buzz on up there. Scotch, cigars,
an old LP of Grandpa Jones: "They call it that good ol'
mountain dew/and them that refuse it are few..."
We were both up late in his apartment.
Man in the Black Suit had the greatest selection of country music
in the world, all on LP, and some decent Dominican Churchills.
Long, relaxing smokes. Me, I had nothing in my apartment but
my futon, a folding table, books, and my machine.
Man in the Black Suit said profound stuff,
or stuff that sounded profound, like:
"Those who can't do, leach."
and
"Do not hate, but rather use THEIR
bad energy against THEM."
and
"If goodness can be chewy and chocolaty,
who would aspire to such sticky virtue?"
and
"Where are the people going with
their heads down? They are going to work."
and
"In my youth I sowed wild words."
Shit like that.
In the Playground
Man in the Black Suit entered the playground,
women's eyes upon him. Necks stiffened. He was not supposed to
be there, for he had no child of his own. But he had heard a
boy on the swings chant, "I'm going to live to be a hundred
and seven yeeeaaaars old!" repeatedly. He approached the
child. "Do you love life that much, little boy?" Before
the child could answer, the mothers surrounded Man in the Black
Suit. What kind of question was that to ask a little boy? Who
is this weird man? Someone call the police. Man in the Black
Suit left to avoid further commotion.
Naked Lunch
Man in the Black Suit ate a sandwich.
Man in the Black Suit was naked, even in his black suit.
You Won't Have Man in the Black Suit
to Kick Around Anymore
He tried to speak; they wouldn't listen.
"They" being the half-ghosts of erstwhile children
whose shells inhabited the office buildings and ranch-style houses
of the Nation. So, Man in the Black Suit left public office.
Never to return?
Identity
Get an ID. A license. Gray Gap-Wendy's-Starbucks-
Duane-Reade- Barnes-and-Noble- afternoon. The bank. This bank
and that one. Department of Self and Others, where Man in the
Black Suit bought an identity for six dollars. He took a decent
photograph. Did not smile. Drank Coca-cola. Waited. The woman
behind the counter called his name. His laminated card was ready.
Man in the Black Suit sheathed his likeness, like a dagger, in
his wallet.
Into The Family Head.
I visited my Sister and her husband,
a man of many whiskers and hard work. Within the cubes of a modern
home clear boundaries exist. Violence and Power are partitioned,
usually, according to state or local custom. Morals delineated.
The children are feted and fed. Pizza,
pasta, crunchy-sweet cereal. The appliances are breaking. The
year is One. The family is one. Dad gets a blowjob every night.
His due. Mother acquiesces, though sometimes she is tired. Where
is the God that was promised? Where is the money? Work hard.
Study hard. They promised us candy. They promised us feathers.
The Man in the Black Suit did not concatenate
his lineage. He did not extend. Whatever began in past times
ended with him.
Hero
Man in the Black Suit shot a man (not
in a Black Suit) outside our building. The guy got up and ran
with three bullets in him from the tiny pistol Man in the Black
Suit carried against his backside, a gun not meant to kill, merely
to mortify.
The guy had tried to mug us. "Gimme
yer money," he'd said. Man in the Black Suit said, "He
has it," and looked in my direction. The would-be mugger
pointed his gun at me and in that instant Man in the Black Suit
plugged the bastard thrice in the chest. He collapsed. "Lose
the weapon," said Man in the Black Suit. The mugger tossed
away his gun.
Bleeding, gasping, he got up and ran
to the hospital, which was only five blocks away. We read in
the paper the next morning that a man, who was wanted on other
charges, admitted himself into the hospital, and eventual police
custody, with gunshot wounds, but he would not say how he got
the wounds or at whose hands. The man was in critical but stable
condition. Of course the bullets could be traced to Man in the
Black Suit's registered gun. So the two of us went down to the
police station the next day and told our story. We brought the
assailant's gun in a paper bag. It was the gun he'd used in several
other crimes. Man in the Black Suit was hailed as a hero in the
papers, though he refused to be interviewed, or to press charges
against the failed mugger. "He has problems enough,"
said Man in the Black Suit.
Study Hard
Man in the Black Suit studied Zen. Man
in the Black Suit studied Yoga. Man in Black Suit meditated.
Man in the Black Suit danced.
I Want, I Need, I
Crave
This apartment. This Studio. Six-fifty
a month. Rent stabilized. I can be alone in this apartment and
get my work done, thanks to the network, the machine. No longer
do I have to rise early to sit in some office cubicle, some cube.
I can get my work done here at home. Home being here. Such as
it is. The neighborhood is changing. So I read in the newspapers.
I don't notice much. They're up-scaling. Shoveling out the lower-income
folks and building condominiums. Maybe they'll target my building.
I don't make much money, just enough to get by. But I won't worry
for now. I have my work, and my books. There's a grocery on the
corner. I don't go out much. Once I went out often. I'm twenty-five
years old. No spring chicken. Beyond the going out stage. Once
I had women. But none of them stuck. Now I am here alone. I have
my work. I watch the people leave in the morning. The ones who
go to offices and what not. Man in the Black Suit goes to an
office, I assume, for he leaves the building every morning at
eight and returns sometime after six. I suppose I'll be like
that when I'm fifty. Living alone, as he does. As I do. But I
won't go to an office, for now there are machines to connect
me. I work at home. Sometimes, despite the machine, the connection,
I have to go into an office to meet with a client. We meet, we
talk. Then I go home to do the real work. I read the newspapers,
usually on the machine. The world does not impress me. Once...I
don't know. I was young. Would I mind terribly if the world disintegrated
this instant? Rather than this prolonged dissolution? Terminal
case. Nothing to be done, on my part anyway, but work. Books
on my shelf are full of dreams. I'm a dreamer, that's my problem.
The teachers said so, centuries ago, when I was a student. You're
a dreamer, they said. I read the sports pages. For the records.
The numbers. The conversion of deeds into minutia. I never watch
the games. They bore me. Anyway, I don't own a television. I
used to speak to my mother on the phone. But she's dead now.
She died disappointed. In me, as well as in herself. She was
not much older than Man in the Black Suit. I speak to my father,
occasionally. He doesn't work much now that he's remarried. He
chose wisely. A rich woman. They dine out every evening. I've
joined them a few times. I won't go into that now. The competition,
the deep antagonism between father and son. It's only natural.
I need a drink. I need a cigarette. I need. I need. What time
is it? I keep strange hours. I go to sleep when the workers are
leaving for their day, and I'm showered and ready for work, coffee
brewing, just as they, poor tired masses, are returning to their
homes. All of this outside my window. It's good to have a window.
Better than television. I watched a lot of shows when I was young.
My passive mind was open. Perhaps that's why I always want. Something.
I'm not sure what. I'm never sure. I want, I need, I crave.
To Each His Boswell
and the Nevermore
This is the moment of vanishing. The
momentary moment which is constant. All moments passing. Man
in the Black Suit will never leave me. Say the moment, save the
moment. Perilous. Unforgiving. Forge the moment, carry the moment.
Let me look back at the accumulation. Of moments. Soon we will
be going. Let's leave this place. Forever. Forever is forever
is a long time is oblivion. A concept that clings. Watching Man
in the Black Suit, and me, his Boswell. Boswell alone in his
apartment clinging to moments. Boswell attached to his earning
machine his connection. His living machine. His friend. Man in
the Black Suit is not his friend, merely his avocation. His subject.
Not everyone can be an artist, you know. There are starving children
in the world their mouths open like baby birds. Boswell in his
nest in the City. Man in the Black Suit about town. Time. Passing.
Time is passing. Don't think we're unaware of this. The disappearance.
No pills to take. No bills. No clinging to the nevermore.
Tap, Tap, Tapping
Man in the Black Suit said,
"And after we're gone and new life
again as long as the earth spins, until it stops, and the sun
grows dark or big bloated red as a toe with gout, then where
will your stories be, your poems, your wordy opinions? You're
a fool."
I said, "It is pleasurable to walk
the streets of the City with a buzz on, or dead drunk, for that
matter. My checks from the Agency come in the mail. I must go
to the bank to deposit them. I drink before going to the bank.
Sometimes I linger about the shops. Stop into a deli for a beer.
Sip it through a straw."
Frustration
Nothing is growing. Antagonism, anomie.
Peanutbutter stuff. Opinions of the wretched. Exercise these
thoughts. See deep. Man in the Black suit stepped on a cupcake.
Man in the Black suit polished his gun. Breathing is better than
knowing. Take a long run through the park and breathe.
The Rift
I refuse to speak of Man in the Black
Suit. I will speak (or write) only of myself.
How many men in black suits are there?
How many can there be? I remember the old black-and-white films.
Men in black suits abounded. Were they good or were they evil?
Are they tailored suits, or do they buy them off the rack?
What do the poets say of men in black
suits? Who cares what the poets say?
I was a reporter. Now I write advertisements,
marketing proposals, copy. Pays better and a lot less yakking
on the phone.
The Dancer danced a million years.
Loose and alone on my excer-cycle in
the corner of the room, I'm touched by genius.
There is no Omniscient
Author
They marry, so as not to be alone. They
work, and they are entertained. They die, one at a time, and
are alone. Fear of life, fear of death, fear of time. What happens,
happens.
Wouldn't know a poem from a shot of Novocain.
And the poets with their lightening inspiration
Muse. That is no country for us flat-liners on excer-cycles!
Peddling nowhere to receive stationary visions.
Mistuh Black Suit,
He Dead
Black in the box. Color of morning and
night.
A crowd gathered in the park to mourn
Man in the Black Suit.
Me, I might have another forty, fifty
years to go.
If I grow cold before the machine has
gleaned my teaming brain... I want a black suit; I want heaven.
Adam Engel
has suffered business suits, lawsuits, hirsutes and hot pursuits,
but never a Black Suit. This is his first novelini. One day he
hopes to write the Great American Novelini. Anyone interested
in purchasing one medium-sized black suit please contact asengel@attglobal.net.
Will accept best offer.
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