Authors: Douglas F. Warrick
The doll turned its head as though it meant to stare at her, but its eyes swayed and shook in different directions and she couldn’t imagine that it could see at all. It said, “The secret that the puppets told is made of ugly words spelled with ageless letters. The letters are as old as the stars, and as insane. There are gods in those letters, and the secret is the higher god those letters worship.” It turned its head away, and she was glad. “I won’t tell you that secret,” it said, “but I will tell you another.” It put its hand on the girl’s knee, and she no longer felt like the doll’s mother. She felt like the village must have felt before the fires were lit, trying to wrap their minds around the geometry of those cotton–stuffed limbs. She saw the crust of the TV dinner mashed potatoes beneath the doll’s stolen fingernails and wondered, for the first time, how the ventriloquist came to find the parts he used to make his last best puppet.
The doll said, “I will start my secret with a question: how old are you?”
The seventeen–year–old girl told it that she was seventeen years old.
Then the doll said, “And have you ever sung a requiem?”
“You mean a funeral song,” said the girl. She wanted very much to be away from this place, up the ladder and back into the shantytown to hide in her mother’s tent and find a way to amputate this moment from her memory. The feeling had crept up on her and stowed away in some secret crack in the back of her, and now here it was, sitting in her head, unexpected and uninvited. “Yes, I’ve sung those. I sing them with my friends sometimes. We do it to scare each other. We’ve never been to any funerals.”
“Okay,” said the doll, and it continued to talk because it didn’t have a hand inside its head to shut its mouth. “Here is my secret. It is meant to be a funeral song, but I can’t sing, so I won’t try. The ventriloquist was seventeen, and he wanted to know secrets. So he learned some. Then the ventriloquist was twenty–five, and he wanted to make his own secrets. So he made some. And then, do you want to know what happened?”
The girl nodded, even though she was not sure that she did want to know.
“Then the ventriloquist was fifty–eight, and he wanted to speak the language of secrets. So,” said the doll, “he died.”
The girl blinked. She waited for a long time, but the doll’s lips were sealed over its plastic teeth. It fingered the big brass buttons sewn onto its chest.
She said, “That’s it?”
“No,” said the doll. “The other part is this: you will grow. And you will have children. And you will not be seventeen. This seventeen–year–old you will die, and it will no longer exist. And you will think that you have created something wonderful. You will think that you are permanent, that there is purpose to your life, and that some kind of god, any kind of god, has gilded your ambitions. And then you, all of you, will die. And you will have no purpose, and you won’t be permanent, and your ambitions will be rust.”
“That’s alright,” said the girl. Her voice shook like the doll’s eyes, clattered like its teeth. “You don’t have to tell me anymore.”
“Gods,” said the doll, because it wasn’t all right, and it did have to tell her more, because the ventriloquist’s hands were ash long ago blown across the world, and they couldn’t creep inside the doll to pinch its lips shut, “only exist in the secrets you can’t remember. They aren’t for you. You must die, and you never get to know. I must live, and I have to know. So…”
“So…” said the girl, who had begun to cry and did not really understand why.
“So…” said the doll, and let go of her knee. It slumped over itself, and its voice was low and bitter and spun through with webs of deep defeat. “What’s the point, for you, of learning the secret? What is the point, for me, of dying?”
This story is sorely tempted to tell of how the girl outsmarted the doll, how she convinced it, finally and irrefutably, of the undying value of human endeavor, of immortality, how she learned the secret of the burning puppets, the ventriloquist’s requiem, and became a hero to her species. How deeply this story desires to proceed that way, dear emptiness, its only audience. It doesn’t. But this story, weeping for its own conclusion, thinks it would be nice if it did.
This story continues, instead, like this:
The girl said nothing. She tried. She made noises with her lips and forced air through her throat in choked puffs. She thought of her mother and tried to call her face to mind, tried to do anything to block the pictures that spread like a fungus in her head. She stood on one side of a great rift, staring across the smoky canyon at the wonders on the other side. She was sinking in a great black ocean, reaching for the surface with fingers that, no matter how long, flailed in the airless depths, a thousand miles from salvation. Behold the monster in repose, laid out and laid open before you.
“Go home,” said the doll, and curled its knees up to its chest. “You make me very sad.”
So the girl, seventeen and no longer curious, climbed the ladder, dropped the heavy wooden door over the shelter and the ventriloquist’s last best doll, and went home. She grew up, she had children. She was not permanent, she had no purpose, and her ambitions turned to rust.
In the dark, the doll ate TV dinners with its fingers, and read obituaries it had already memorized for people already forgotten by the rest of the world, and contemplated all the wondrous, magical, lonely secrets.
And so this story is told. And, having been told to the lovely lifeless miasma of the big black nobody, it floats into the same, and continues floating. And no matter how much it wishes for a different ending, no matter how much it yearns for permanence, no matter how this story screams and weeps and mourns itself, its destiny is the same: to dissolve, forgotten, if ever known at all.
Aaron Dhames:
THE FIRST TIME I SAW them was at the Red Cellar in Parachute City, and they were fucking terrible. It was, what 2010? That was before they got their human hands, so it was just these five guys made of dry clay on stage trying to play these instruments, right? And their fingers were crumbling. It sounded bad. Really, really bad. Jan Landau is standing by the bar in his whole… you remember, his whole Jewish get–up? Yeah, staring at the stage and chewing on the ends of his mustache and taking notes in this trashy moleskin he carried around. One, the guitars were muted and toneless. Two, you could hardly hear the bass at all; Golem Three couldn’t put any pressure on the strings. And three? Jesus, the vocals. I was there with Theo Geo and Marissa Strange — she was singing in Volcano Void at the time. I’ll never forget it, she said, “He sounds like he’s singing through a mouthful of honey and insect parts.” She was always saying stuff like that, like poetic stuff, you know.
Theodore Ricks (aka Theo Geo, synthesizers — Neo Geo):
Their drummer had talent. That’s all I remember about their first show.
Marissa Taliofano (aka Marissa Strange, vocals — Volcano Void):
We had no idea. Nobody did. They were just another shitty band that we were laughing at. I think that’s probably the way these things usually go. I mean, nobody who watched the Ramones knew that they were going to be, like, the poster boys for a movement. Nobody who listened to Chuck Berry or Jelly Roll Morton thought, “Hey, check it out. Revolution.” No, of course not, it was just a new thing. So we hung out and made our jokes and I met up with Golem Zero after and we got drunk and I told him his singing was terrible. He seemed really cool.
Jan Landau’s Golem Band — “Precious Moments”:
A bumblebee made homestead in my father’s brain. The hive grew wide, and he woke up insane. And now he’s riding high on honey thoughts and wax desire and the buzzing of his boarders’ soundtracks every precious moment.
Jan Landau (in a letter to Aaron Dhames):
In regards to your recent request for a recitation of the animation method used on my golems for the purposes of their rocking out with their proverbial cocks out, I’m afraid I am unable to oblige. The information is available from sources other than myself, but I won’t be the man to pass it along. The secret is a terrible one, Mr. Dhames, and I would not wish to damn another creature to its stewardship. Allow this inquiry to here be abandoned, I implore you. Let us move on to happier discourse. Par example, we might finish the discussion begun in the Red Cellar regarding the new NoFX record and why it is utterly retarded and repulsively shitty.
Marissa Taliofano:
They were so funny. They were like The Monkees, or the Beatles in their early days, each one of them had an archetype they played to. Zero was the dark, quiet, sensitive genius, half John Lennon, half Ian Curtis. One was the brain, like he’d just suddenly spout these little factoids that had no bearing on the conversation. He was the George Harrison. Two was the party–guy, the jokester, the Michelangelo to their Ninja Turtles, so… Okay, the Beatles analogy isn’t exactly airtight. Three was kind of effeminate, kind of faggy, y’know? And Four was the angry one, confrontational, like Pete Townsend. And then there was Jan.
Theodore Ricks:
Jan Landau was a weird dude. We used to see him in the Red Cellar or over at Gardersnake’s drinking Gatorade and hiding behind his fade–away aviator glasses. That’s all he ever drank. Never booze. He had that gigantic black hat, like the Hasidim wear, and that big beard with the waxed mustache, and those curls in front of his ears. And then this big black coat that went all the way down to his ankles. He had a Crass patch sewn onto the back. Thing is, I know he wasn’t Jewish. His brother Hal told me that they were raised Unitarian.
Hal Landau:
Is this about Jan? No. No, I’m not talking about that.
Theodore Ricks:
I think Aaron was the first person who thought we might have something like a scene in Parachute City. We had a bunch of local bands at the time. Me and Casper Lynch were doing Neo Geo. Marissa was in Volcano Void. We had the Only Children, we had Gondolux, the Patriarchs, Passive Agrippa. And the Golem Band, of course. And we were all kind of doing our own thing. And then Misanthropics did South by Southwest, and kind of blew up. Aaron was the one who said, y’know, “People are starting to come to Parachute City just to see shows.” So he started the Parasite City zine.
Aaron Dhames:
I started Parasite City because I can’t play any instruments and nobody would let me sing in their band. Misanthropics exploded, so I rode their coattails with the zine. That’s my origin story.
Golem Four (percussion, from the first issue of Parasite City):
Misanthropics suck dick. Fuck them.
Casper Lynch (bass guitar/vocals — Neo Geo):
I think after Misanthropics did SXSW and before
Spin
and
Rolling Stone
and everybody descended on us, everybody in the Parachute City scene kind of wanted a new “it” band. We never would have admitted it. Jesus, can you imagine? Wanting to be famous? We would have been drawn and quartered! That’s where all the resentment for Misanthropics came from. It wasn’t really deserved. They were a good band. It was a weird scene, different than anyplace I’d ever been. Most scenes, you had all the old school punk rockers with their tight black pants and combat boots and sewn–on patches, and you had the metal guys with their shaved heads and stupid T–shirts, and you had your hipster kids, your bearded, pseudo–vintage–hippy college radio kids, and usually, y’know, in other cities, in Cincy and Pittsburgh and Louisville, they were all pretty mutually exclusive. With us, there was bleed–over. We were Parasite Rockers. Maybe that’s what allowed us to kind of periscope up from our exclusivity and see the potential for revolution, for marketability. Maybe that’s why everybody started kind of obsessing over Jan Landau’s Golem Band, because they were new. They had something crazy and gimmicky and fresh. They could be famous without being uncool, because they weren’t multi–layered, they weren’t human beings with human lives, they were designed to be a rock and roll band. That’s all they knew how to do. Plus, they were, y’know, made of clay. So there was that.
Aaron Dhames:
When I interviewed the golems, I think it was their third show? Yeah, second or third. This was at Gardersnake’s. One through Four were all wasted, right? The only one who wasn’t three sheets was Zero, and he was all broody and contemplative and shit, all Lou Reed in the corner. Gardersnake’s was a cool venue, because they had this back room with a torn up polyester green couch where the band could hang out. Anyway, I’m interviewing them, asking them questions about Parachute City, and how they liked being alive, and what their writing process was like, and when we could expect an album. And there’s crazy Jan sitting on the armrest and doing his insane Lawyer Frankenstein act. Y’know, all, “You need not provide answers to that query. Tread carefully, my golems, give no quarter.” They hated that guy.
Jan Landau’s Golem Band — “Dickless Fellatio”:
I’ve been cruising through the inhuman zones looking for a place to die. You want to pull me out. You want to kiss me someplace I ain’t got.
Aaron Dhames:
We sold out of the first run of issue one within three days. I mean, no big deal, it was, like, fifty copies or something ridiculous like that, but still it was pretty clear that we needed to expand. I was working as a copy editor at the
Parachute Daily
, which was a miserable job. And people kept emailing me, like, “Oh my god, when is issue two coming out? Graaaah!” So I “hired” Grace Sorbo, y’know (laughter)… air–quotes, “hired,” as in “asked very politely”… to do some more interviews for me and we used the newspaper offices to print out three hundred copies.
Grace Sorbo (asst. editor Parasite City Zine, percussion — The Only Children):
We made a fatal mistake. No golems. Even with the Misanthropics cover story, we sold forty copies.
Jan Landau (in a letter to Aaron Dhames):