Many years ago, I was a member of a writers' group called the Moscow Moffia. One of the things we occasionally talked about was tips for overcoming writer's block, and one of the exercises was to write a story called "Tom Long's Smile". This was my rather odd attempt. No mind-altering substances were involved in the composition of this piece (That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.). To be sure, I had been reading a lot of the more experimental SF — you know, Dangerous Visions stuff. Looking back on this, it's more than a bit silly, but I refuse to be embarrassed by it. That just makes it easier to publish it on the web, since I know it will never provide any income for me. I have made minor alterations from my original manuscript, all for the better, I hope.
Under a denim blue sky, an army of carpenter ants erects a monument: a pyramid of rye bread over the tomb of the unknown pastrami. The southern face of the structure comes to life like a TV screen with a defective blue gun. Miscolored images from past, present, and possibly future flicker on the triangular viewer.
Engine trouble grounds Captain Hubert "Wit" Whitney, WW3 flying ace, who conscientiously objects to the forced inactivity—
A girl named Roxanne once again refuses an invitation to see Escape from New York with a boy named Mark—
"This is no picnic," says a man in uniform—
To which an old lady replies, "They all look alike to me"—
A slow boat to China arrives nonetheless on schedule, give or take a decade—
A man arrives on a dock and loudly proclaims: "My name is Robert. From now on the story is about me." (The scene appears to have stabilized.)
But a stray dog happens by, stops to examine a fire hydrant, and returns to Robert's side, raises a leg, and urinates on designer jeans.
"That does it!" declares the enraged protagonist. "You can find someone else for you story. I quit"—
The dock is deserted. A sudden storm comes up, lifting a Mars bar wrapper and blowing it out over the harbor. It remains airborne until it reaches a small island made entirely of garbage, then drifts lazily to land beside a new main character.
He sits on a disconnected toilet (sans seat) in the midst of the refuse, refusing to announce himself as Robert did. Nor is there a dog within sight. His name is Tom Long, and if you asked him, "How Long is it?" he would not laugh. Nor would he be angry. He might cry, but after what he's been through, that would hardly be surprising.
An artificial orange sun is sinking into the ocean mere meters in front of Tom, but he doesn't notice. A screech from a circling seagull breaks the glass silence. The bird sweeps dustily in to land near the motionless man and begins to pick at a bit of presumably edible trash.
Nothing noteworthy happens all night.—
Minutes after a reluctant dawn, a pretty brunette bounces down the stairs in a marble mansion on the outskirts of a town which is not embarrassed to have such an edifice on or under its skirts. No one else is awake but the butler, who asks, "Miss Kate, why are you up so early?"
(Don't worry, our unassuming protagonist is not forgotten. Kate is a character of some importance; the butler may or may not be. In any case, we will return to Tom Long in time for him to do something.)
She flounces toward the back door, saying, "Going boating, Carlson."
The butler picks up the phone. "I'll call the boathouse for you, Miss."
"Thank you, Carlson. You're a dear." And she dances out the door, down the hill to a private cove with a large boathouse and a small yacht.—
The phone rings, waking Captain Chalmers of the SS Troubadour (named by Miss Kate when she was six). He struggles out of bed and into his neat white uniform. He is buttoning his jacket when Kate flings open the door.
"Ready for a cruise, Captain?"
The captain pulls on his cinnamon-sugar beard. "Whenever you are, Miss Kate."
"Good. Ready the crew, sir. We sail immediately."
"Yes, Ma'am."
Together they walk out on the dock (not the same one where the Robert-offending dog once stood) and up the gangplank onto the Troubadour. Ten minutes later the yacht leaves Holdon Cove and enters the main harbor.
"What is our course, Miss Kate?"
She stands on the bridge in her white T-shirt and short white pleated skirt (no mansions under it). "That way," she says, pointing north-northeast.
The chosen course takes them almost directly toward Tom's trashy islet, of course. As the yacht passes, Kate notices the man alone on his cracked throne.
"Weigh anchor, Cap'n! We must rescue this castaway."
Chalmers brings the ship to a halt in the superfluity as close to the island as possible and lowers a dinghy with Kate and two seamen aboard. The crew row to the shore and hold the boat steady as their young mistress disembarks, her white deck shoes crunching into the compacted waste.
"Ahoy, castaway!" she calls.
Tom looks up for the first time and notices the yacht and the girl.
"Come with us," she says, pulling on his arm.
He doesn't resist, follows along like a dog on a leash (note the recurring canine imagery).
"I have a lovely yacht. We have TV, a wet bar, supplies for a year…"
Her confused beneficiary shows no sign of hearing a word.
Kate, having found her excitement for the day, asks Chalmers to turn for home. Throughout the trip, she asks Tom who he is and how he got to the trash island. He sits on a deck chair, staring out to sea, and seems not to hear her questions. Kate takes little notice that her ward pays no attention. She talks about her home, her parents, and her horse Bumpkin (named when she was young and mispronounced "pumpkin").
As the yacht docks at Holdon Cove, Tom finally answers a question. "My name is Tom Long," he says, as though in a dream.
"Oh. Pleased to meet you, Tom. Why are you so glumpy all the time?"
But Tom's brief moment of garrulousness is past, and he says nothing.
"You know, I haven't even seen you smile."
Tom steps onto the dock and looks around, perhaps seeking a dog.
"Come on, Tom," says Kate, pulling again on his arm. He follows her up the rock path to the house. When they arrive at the back door, Carlson is there to meet them.
"Hi, Carlson. Where's Mom and Dad?"
The butler holds the door open for them to pass. "Mister and Missus Holdon have gone into town for a meeting, Miss Kate."
Kate smiles, in a manner that might be called mischievous. "Carlson, this is Mister Tom Long. He will be staying with us for a while." She tugs on his arm. "Come on. I'll bet Max's clothes will fit you."
She leads him up the stairs and down the sumptuous hallway to the third door on the left, opens the door and leads him in. When she lets go his arm, he stops where he is, and she continues into the private bathroom off his bedroom. There she starts hot water running into the tub. A few minutes later, the tub is full and she fetches the unwitting main character (so far he seems like one of those passive protagonists who is merely tossed to and fro by events, unable to exercise any control over his destiny). In the bathroom she starts to remove his clothing. He is dressed in an expensive Italian suit which has been soiled by toilet-sitting and various other informal affairs which will possibly be revealed later in the story.
Tom makes not a word, even when the industrious young lady removes his Jockey underwear. He lifts first one, then the other, foot so she can take off his shoes and socks (shoes Florscheim, socks imported from Scotland), but only with a little persuasion in the form of pulling up on his ankles and grunting in a most unladylike manner.
Then she leads her naked man into the bathroom. He steps into the tub without protest, and she washes him without due process. As she scrubs his upper torso, he still is speechless, but seems much more at ease in some intangible way, perhaps something to do with his breathing. She works herbal shampoo into his hair. She pulls his feet out of the water to wash them, and runs her fingers between his toes. Apparently he is not ticklish. He does respond when she rubs the bar of soap over his genitals.
"Good," she says. "I was beginning to wonder."
Maybe now is a good time to describe this strange girl in more detail (we are obviously not seeing events through the main characters' eyes— in any case he hasn't noticed her to any significant degree). You will remember that she has brown hair and is dressed for a cruise and that she is pretty. Her nose is small, which will save her the expense of cosmetic surgery in later years. Her hair is several inches longer than shoulder length and bounces most appropriately whenever she moves, having the benefit of the finest hair care products money can buy. Just from looking at her, you might guess her age to be sixteen to nineteen. Just from talking to her, you might guess fifteen. She is twenty-two.
When Tom Long is clean, she pulls on his underarms and he stands in the tub. He stands still as the water drains. She steps back to examine his dripping body. (Such a slick lead-in to another block of description!)
He appears to be in his early thirties, and in reasonably good condition (no beer-belly here). His hair is curly, not too short, and dark. He has not shaved for several days. (Enough of that. Leave the man some dignity.)
She dries him with a large heavy-terry towel. Since Kate and everybody else are getting tired of his lackadaisical state (note the complete lack of daisies or any other foliage), he obligingly snaps out of it, whatever it was.
"Thank you for your kindness, miss. What did you say your name is?"
"Don't you ever pay attention? I'm Kate." She has finished drying him. "Come in here. I think I have some clothes that will fit you."
"Oh, I think your clothes would be much to small for me," he says.
She laughs and turns to look at him. He is not smiling. Nor does he blush.
"For a man with a sense of humor, you don't smile very much."
"What is there to smile about?"
She doesn't answer this question. It is totally contrary to her view of the universe, which she regards as her personal playground. This philosophy gives her plenty to smile about. She ignores the ugly parts, with which she has little contact in any case.
She opens the closet door. Inside are a large number of men's suits, pants, and casual shirts. Shoes on a tidy rack, hats on a shelf. When she steps back to let him see, she pauses for another look at him.
"Wait a minute," she says.
"What is it?" He looks at her.
She pulls her T-shirt over her head, unhooks her sheer bra, and slips out of both skirt and panties.
"Come here," she says, leading him to a king-size waterbed, still wearing deck shoes (Kate, not the bed, wears the shoes.). She sits him down on the edge of the bed and sits on his lap, arms around his neck.
"No, Kate. It's not proper."
"Ooh, I liked you better before!" He obligingly (what a guy!) departs reality again. She kisses his unresponding face, then decides to go for less voluntary reflexes, which still work.
A few minutes later, a rather less energetic Kate (did you see the other one leave?) collapses in a heap on sighs on her absent-minded lover (such being better than an absent lover by a factor of at least ten). After this tastefully described sex scene, the male quasi-participant is unsatisfied (not that he has noticed yet), unfazed, and undiminished, and still intimately (in a purely physical sense) attached to his female partner.
A few minutes after that there is a knock at the door.
"Yes?" says Kate.
The door opens and a middle-aged woman steps in. She wears a definitively conservative suit of muted maroons and browns. Her hair is curly and graying, coifed exquisitely but not artificially colored.
"Hello, Mother," says Kate, lifting her upper body from the undulating bed.
"Hello, dear. How has your morning been?"
"I'll give you three guesses." Kate tosses her hair to one side. She is still naked but for the deck shoes, and still in coitus with our protagonist, who lies catatonic beneath her. "This is Mister Tom Long."
"Hello, Mister Long. Will you be staying for luncheon?"
Tom doesn't answer.
"I think that's a yes," says Kate.
Contessa (that's her given name, really) Holdon leaves her daughter to extricate herself privately. She is, after all, a considerate mother, and respects her only child's privacy.
How much longer will this go on? There doesn't seem to be much of a plot, although there are certainly unanswered questions. Why is Tom Long the way he is? Why is Kate Holdon such a strange young lady? Who is Max? Does Kate often make love (using the tern loosely (ha, ha)) with complete strangers? Okay, he's not a complete stranger — at least she knows his name. Whatever happened to the dog on the first dock, of the girl named Roxanne? What will they have for lunch? Will Max's clothes fit Tom?
Last things first. Yes. Pastrami on rye. She went out with a boy named Kurt instead, to see Star Wars. It followed Robert home and urinated on his leg at least once a week until its untimely death two weeks later. Are you still with us?
By lunch, Tom is back in the world of the thinking. He wears white pants and a blue print shirt Kate picked out for him. They sit around a table on the marble patio of the Holdon mansion and eat their sandwiches.
"Whatever happened to Max?" asks Juniper Holdon of his postcocious daughter.
"I think he went to Brazil," answers Kate, who sips a tall glass of lemonade spiked with J&B.
"I saw him at the airport," says Tom. "He actually went to Morocco."
"You know Max?" asks Kate.
"No, but it had to be him." Tom drinks an unspiked lemonade.
The older Holdons are undoubtedly confused, but don't question their guest any further, being used to Kate's odd friends, who usually have a warped (to their minds) view of reality. Another hint about the answer to question #4, you'll notice.
"Morocco, huh? Let's go, Tom." Kate seems excited by the prospect of traveling abroad with a confused older man.
"Boring place," says Juniper. "Bloody Arabs all over."
"Arabs? Really?" Kate bounces a little in her seat.
Tom says, "Yes, Kate. Morocco is an Arab nation in North Africa."
"Africa! I'm going to Africa!"
"Really, dear, do you think that's wise?" Contessa asks, foolishly (since she should know better than to expect wisdom from her daughter).
"Oh, Mom, you're no fun. I'm going on safari in the jungles of Africa!"
"Morocco is on the edge of the Sahara desert, more or less, and completely lacking in jungles," Tom says.
"The Sahara! I'll ride a camel across the dunes!" She pushes back her chair and jumps to her feet, being exceedingly good for action verbs. "Come help me pack, Tom."
"Let me finish my lunch first, Kate."
Observant readers may have guessed the answer to question #3. She is so strange because she is spoiled. #4 is still unanswered, but we can assume Max was just one of Kate's previous flings (words like "fling" conglomerate around her, don't they?). That leaves question #2, the biggie. Perhaps the answer lies in Morocco.—
Run back the earlier sex scene (you know the one) and change a few details. Scrap the waterbed, Moroccan hotels don't have them. Ditto the deep carpet and the mirrors (you forgot about them, didn't you). Take off Kate's shoes. Wake Tom up. Yes, he's a willing, witting participant in this scene. Kate is still on top. She won't have it any other way, and Tom doesn't mind.
"Did you really see Max at the airport?" asks Kate, lifting herself to a sitting position atop him.
"No."
"Then why did you say you saw him take a plane to Morocco?"
"I've always wanted to come here, and now I have."
After the briefest of pauses, Kate begins to laugh, then continues to laugh for several minutes. Tom enjoys the sensations (and sights) this provides him.
Her laughter ends with a deep sigh, and she says, "I still haven't seen you smile."
"Maybe I don't like you."
"Maybe you're taking me for a ride—"
"Or vice versa."
Let us not think we have discovered the main character's true motivation. Let us hope we do so before the end of the story. Let us hope that's soon.—
Khaki sand fills the bottom of a rocky valley where a three-camel caravan makes its way through the rippling heat. The denim sky, having endured much rough wear, has ripped at the knees. Under a broad-brimmed hat that would rather be anywhere but on her head, Kate's Gargoyled eyes seem not to see the desolate landscape. Tom, at her insistence, is decked out in classic colonial desert gear, complete with pith helmet.
She laughs a lot; he complains about the shock absorbers. The camel owner speaks little English. He takes them to the local tourist attraction, a ruined Portuguese fort from the seventeenth century. Neither of them wants to see the fort — they wanted to ride camels, and did not care what destination the tour had.—
Over dinner, as the snakes of Arabic melodies coil around the incensed air of an expensive restaurant, she asks him again why he doesn't smile (which he still hasn't, even when she got off her humpish mount, staggered, landed buttfully on the ground, and said that a girl could get to like those crude, hairy beasts).
"Maybe I used to be in the advertising business. And when the economy collapsed I went batty. It happens, you know."
But she doesn't know. She has no conception of work or pressure. "The economy collapsed? What does that mean?"
"Never mind. Or maybe I used to be in politics, and got fed up with telling people lies to keep my job. A parasite with a conscience would never smile."
But she can't understand that either. Although she is a parasite of sorts, she has no conscience. She also has no idea what it means to lie. "What's a parasite? What's a conscience?"
"Never mind." (She never did, even without his telling her.) "Or maybe I'm a mass murderer. The day before you found me, I killed my wife and children. I was hiding from the police on Garbage Island."
"Why did you kill them?"
"I didn't. I said maybe. Or maybe I was a cop, and saw too much of the ugly side of life."
"Life isn't ugly. It's fun. Remember the camel ride, and that silly pile of rocks? And the stray dog that peed on the French lady?"
"But you'll be sore tomorrow."
"Maybe. Who cares? Let's go to the market tomorrow and buy something to take home with us."
"Have you ever been hungry?"
"Sure. Then I go eat." She stuffs a handful of spiced rice wrapped in a grape leaf into her mouth.
"Did anybody ever tell you you're beautiful?"
"Of course. All the time. Remember the guy behind the front desk?"
Tom swirls vinho verde in his glass and takes a slow sip. "Life is too easy for you. You've never had any problems."
"What other way should it be? A person could get depressed listening to you." And she has hit upon something, but she won't be the one to analyze it. "I never understand why people worry about such things. It's more fun to think about pleasant things."
"Did you ever think about death?" Oh, the man is determined to drag little Eve out of her Garden.
"No. Why should I? It doesn't make any difference what what I think about it. I don't bother death, and it doesn't bother me."
"But you'll die someday."
"So? That's no reason to be miserable today. What's for dessert?"
And Tom Long smiled. "You, darling."
But wait, you say. Question #2 hasn't been answered. Or are there too many answers? Oh, well, such is life. Obviously, Kate is not worried about it, and she's more concerned with it than anyone except Tom, and even he doesn't care anymore. (You may point out that he knew the answer all along. This may disqualify him.) Make up your own mind. Tom gave plenty of clues.
There you have it. Maybe they'll live happily ever after. Maybe Tom will find he can't put up with Kate's over-ebullient nature. But you can bet he'll smile when he thinks of her.
In any case, the answer to question #1 is now at hand:
©1982 Jon L. Davis
For your reference, the questions: