Norton Homo |
by Kevin McCaffrey |
|
The Corpse would like to announce the return of Little Man (Norton). Wilhelm Reich's admonition, "Listen, Little Man," seems to have finally found an ear (of corn).
Norton Homo October 26 Norton works in a city department and is insecure about his difficult position there. Beware. His relationship with his boss, Mr Lifebestower, is cordial, but underneath there is a powerful straining. Emotionally draining. Every day he fears being fired. Then, one by one, various of his friends begin committing suicide--an idea that has more and more than ever been on his own mind. As if a chain reaction, one suicide among his circle of friends leads to another. Oh brother. He must take time off to go to the succession of funerals, yet asking for days and half-days creates more emotional strain for him-- like Lord Jim at the office. The strain is economic--new house, new baby, same wife, new payments, and though he has always told himself that unlike a rat he will not be trapped by these interlocking concerns, indeed he is finding himself more and more trapped. What crap! Ironically, what is for him the ethical necessity of attending so many funerals is, in and of itself, a major factor, like a haywire nuclear reactor, driving him toward psychic explosion. "If only my friends had made arrangements to be buried within the city's cemeteries," Norton, unsporting, says to himself, "then I could attend their funerals as part of my job." Norton is a cemetery inspector, not an edifice erector. His experiences in Ancient Rome have given him a refined aesthetic when it comes to judging statues, headstones, and tombs. A connoisseur of gloom. A Roman reliving the last days of Empire. A lyric life without a lyre. November 19 Walking into the ice cream store, Norton--Norton Homo-- sees an insurance salesman whom he does not want to see. Hide or flee? It is the man who pesters him about buying a more expensive life insurance policy. Quietly turning to the door and, with the intensity of a Lizzy Borden, running into the supermarket across the street, Norton feels exhilaration and foolishness mix in the dry cauldron of himself, like poverty and pelf, standing in the fresh vegetables section. He notes the bland aesthetic of fruits and vegetables. Pale edibles. Meeting a friend, a friend due soon to take his own life, Norton explains what he has done. Old chum. They laugh together touring the aisles. The products, arrayed on shelves, make Norton think of the... uh... dead arrayed beautifully in Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge on a pulchritudinous spring day. There green meets blue on the edge of a hedge on a hill, high monuments fraying the simplicity of the line. The cemetery is quiet. Its mood is atavistic and mystic. The supermarket is noisy; its mood commercial and expectant. Norton's hands pluck products like hungry ducks. Would the absurdity of revealing that Norton comes to this time from Ancient Rome draw too much attention to itself? Ask yourself. His name in Latin means "man." Yet, in this century, here in Boston, Norton's co-workers at the city's Department of... this you'll love... Death snicker at his name. A minor thing, but it contributes to Norton's difficulties, like irritating fleas. So do the aberrations of his appearance. Norton's hands are reversed. He's cursed. His left hand is on his right arm; his right is on his left. An amateur pianist, Norton has to cross arms to play the melancholy and never jolly dirges he so enjoys. His eyes also are reversed, a subtle reversal: his tear ducts are at the outside of his eyes so when again and again he cries, his tears flow down the sides of his face. One more oddity: Norton's ears have exchanged places, but, upside down, their covers blown, they face bell forward as do normal ears. With gravity and the jounce of Norton's self-conscious walk, the earlobes, curling-- almost whirling-- flop down and up. Yup. January 29 Norton has again taken time off work to attend a funeral in another city. Not pretty. A chill wind stirs the snow in the well-laid-out cemetery as he watches the coffin of his last friend, also a suicide-- fast track to the other side-- lowered into the frozen earth's gaping maw. Over the past six months, he has attended seventeen funerals. What bitter rituals! He has not a friend left in the world, but, this last death, the last possible suicide of Norton's last friend, revives like departing hives, Norton's enthusiasm. Walking back to his car he notices some of the fine statuary in the graveyard. Driving to a phonebooth, grasping a truth, Norton calls his supervisor. "I'd like to talk with you when I get back to the office, Mr Lifebestower," Norton says, feeling fresh. "I have some concerns about my job that I would like to discuss." "That would be fine, Norton," Mr Lifebestower replies, far away as the crow flies, a deep voice over the telephone. Then, the dial tone. |
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