I felt now as though I was going to interview a ghost. “Do you like to play games on the telephone?” I couldn't stop myself from asking. That was one thing our Pigman knew all about. The games we played, the riddles we liked,
jokes;
our Pigman knew all about jokes and riddles.
“What are you talking about?” the old man asked as though I was out of my mind.
“She means,” John came to my support, “did you ever call a cigar store and ask if they have Muriel in a box, and when they say yes you tell them they'd better let her out before she suffocates.”
John and I burst into laughter remembering how we used to do that before we met the Pigman.
“Or you call an A&P store and ask them if they have peanut butter and
amatta
” I continued, “and when they ask, ‘What's amatta?’ you say ‘I don't know. What's amatta with you?’“
John and I tried to laugh it up again, but the old guy still seemed to be a wet blanket in the humor department.
“Or the best one,” John blurted, “you call some number from the phone book, and when they answer, you tell them you're the telephone repairman working on the line and that they shouldn't answer their phone for the next ten minutes or it will electrocute you—and then you hang up and call them right back and let it ring and ring until they do answer it—and then you let out a bloodcurdling scream, ‘Ahhhhhh!’ Did you ever do that?”
The old man looked completely puzzled. We had so many memories of the Pigman trying to keep up with the games we played, but this old man wasn't amused at all. We had no choice but to shut up and wait for him to say something so we'd know what was going on in his head. I was afraid that in some way we might have even scared him by telling him our corny jokes.
“The only game I know is the Game of Life,” the old man finally wheezed, and his words riveted us because that was really the kind of game that the Pigman would know about. He knew good games like how to remember things, and how to tell who was guilty in a crime; wonderful, intricate, mysterious games.
“How do you play that game?” John asked.
“You've got to get me a paper and pencil,” he said.
John and I looked at each other and had a double attack of nostalgia, because paper-and-pencil games were specifically the Pigman's favorite. In fact I couldn't even move because an anxiety attack hit my feet. John raced around the room and dug up a piece of paper. I managed to activate my hands enough to find a half-chewed Papermate pen in my pocketbook. The old guy grabbed the paper and pen, and in a flash it seemed as though we were in a classroom. The old man was the teacher and John and I were just spellbound at his feet waiting, begging for the rules.
“You close your eyes,” the old man said.
“Okay,” John agreed, and his eyelids slammed down like a pair of well-greased Venetian blinds.
“I can't close my eyes today,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“What do you mean you can't close your eyes?” the old man wanted to know.
“I'm too
nervous
” I admitted.
“Look, you've got to close your eyes to use your imagination,” the old man ordered.
“I can't,” I said.
“Then you're not going to play.” He turned all his attention to John. “Now look, boy. The first thing you do is imagine yourself walking down a road. You've got to imagine the entire road, and really see yourself walking down it. Can you see it? Heh?
Can you
?”
“No,” John said,
“Try, you dummy,” the old man instructed.
“Oh, yeah,” John finally said, his eyes still shut tight. “I see a road. I see a road and I'm walking down it.”
“Okay,” the old man continued, “what does the road look like?”
“It's thin, and it's winding. It's got cement curbs and there's a lot of jungle vines all over the place.”
“Ha,” the old man announced, and started doing some drawing on the piece of paper as though he was a psychologist. “That road is your Road of Life, and it means your life is a pretty hard one and it's not exactly clear. You don't know where the @#$% you're going, and there are wild animals lurking about. And the cement curbs mean you are a big mess of confusion and probably a lot of people are trying to cramp your style.”
“Oh, yeah,” John said, “that makes sense. It's probably my mother and father.”
“Are they cruel?” the old guy wanted to know.
“Horrible,” John said. “If I don't do everything they say, they rub Ben-Gay into my eyes!”
I felt like kicking John for being such a liar, but the old guy just moved right along anyway. “Keep your eyes shut,” he ordered again, “and keep walking down the road until you see a key lying in the middle of it. Can you see a key?”
“Oh, yeah,” John said. “I can see a key. I pick it up.”
“What does it look like?”
“It's old, dirty, rusty, and bent.”
“Now what do you do with it?”
“I throw it back down on the road and keep walking,” John said.
“Well!” the old man exclaimed, as though John had just told him something he already suspected. “That key was the Key of Knowledge, and the way your key looks, it means you probably don't think too much of learning anything. You probably hate books and school. You're probably one of those smart-alecks who think they know it all when you're more than likely nothing but a big dope.”
“Or
maybe
” John countered, and I could see he was a bit angry at being called a dope, “
maybe
I don't like school because the
school
is old and rusty and a hundred years behind the times. Do you ever have anything like that in your Game of Life?”
“Look, I'm not going to argue with you, you know-it-all,” the old man said, starting to put the paper and pen down as though he wanted to quit.
“No, look, let's go on,” John said, changing his tone quickly, almost pleading.
“
Please
,” I added.
The old guy grunted and sucked in a big breath of air. “All right. Keep your eyes shut and keep walking down the road now until you come to a cup. Do you see a cup?”
“Got it,” John finally said.
“What does it look like?”
“It's Styrofoam, the kind you get at a hot-dog stand and bite pieces off so you can spit them out—and there's a soggy cigarette butt in the bottom.”
“What do you do with it?”
“I try to clean it out because I'm thirsty, and I want to drink out of it.”
“Good,” the old man approved, nodding as though at last something was acceptable. “The cup, you see, is the Cup of Love, and your cup is in pretty rough shape, but at least you want to clean it up and start drinking out of it. But your cup is the cup of someone who probably sees love as pretty shaky, something that will fall into pieces and disappear. Somebody who thinks maybe his own love isn't worthwhile, but there's a flicker of hope in it for you because you're willing to try to clean it out.”
I tried to keep my eyes from showing that I was more than routinely interested in the subject at hand. Also, you might as well know that this paragraph that I'm typing now is not going to be seen by John until after this whole memorial epic is finished, or he would probably tear it up—or be very embarrassed that I'm going to start telling you my true feelings about him. Up until now I never said very much about what I really feel for John except that he really is very good-looking, and I like it when he holds my hand because of the electricity and strength he gives me. And it's true, John and I have had a lot of adventures and have gone a lot of places together. We've been alone in cemeteries. We've been chased by the police from time to time. We've even discussed all the great issues of life, like death, love, careers, war, heaven, God, and school. We've gotten dressed up in adult clothes, and had candlelight dinner parties for just the two of us. We've had beer bashes for the neighborhood gang. We did a lot of silly things and a lot of dangerous things. I just know it's not going to come as a surprise when I tell you that I've been in love with John for quite a while now. In fact some kids at school can't believe John and I haven't been making out like bandits with each other for years. And I'm not naive. I know that a lot of surveys and statistics on teenage sex would probably think we were both a couple of freaks if they knew that John and I had not been sleeping together, or even frolicking around in the backseats of cars. Maybe all the kids who will read this will say, “Boy, that Lorraine Jensen is a real waste,” but I'm sorry, John Conlan and I have only been friends. Up to now all we've been is the two
best
friends in the world, and there are good reasons we never got more intimate than that. And anyone who says the way you were raised doesn't haunt you the rest of your life is nuts. There was one girl in school who used to act like a real loony tunes, and everybody hated her, but I knew there must have been a big problem in her past—and when I checked it out I found out that when she was eight years old her mother murdered her father. In my case you've got to understand that my mother hated my father for leaving her very shortly after I was born. And she spent a good deal of time teaching me that boys are dirty-minded and
sneaks
, and I'm not blaming her because if I had to live the life she did, trying to support myself and a kid without a husband, I would probably be a bit bitter and feel very cheated myself. And thank God she started to mellow out a bit this spring because of all the adult self-help books she's been reading, but she still hasn't gone to a psychologist. She still spends a great deal of time reinforcing in me the fear that all members of the male sex are out for one thing. Even though I know she's always been a bit crackers in the love department, it interferes with any romantic thoughts I have. Anytime I begin to have deep feelings for a boy, I can hear her voice in my mind saying things like “Don't let them touch you; boys are only out for one thing. Don't ever be left alone with a boy or he'll take advantage of you. Don't let a boy get you in his car or you'll end up pregnant. Don't kiss boys; you never know what germs they have on their lips. Sit with your knees together and ankles crossed or boys will think you're a slut.” One thing I can tell you is if you go through your life hearing stuff like that, it can make you afraid of any man from Santa Claus to a priest. But if knowing our Pigman did anything for me, it at least taught me that kids are responsible for their own lives at a certain age. And that's exactly why I'm now able to admit to myself that I love John Conlan very, very much, and even though he doesn't know it, I'm going to do everything in my power to make him my own. I want to love him like I've always dreamed of loving a boy. I'm going to make John Conlan love me, even if it kills me. That's why I was particularly thrilled when the old man said there was still a flicker of hope for John when he didn't throw his Styrofoam Cup of Love away. (The end of my secret paragraph!)
“What do I do now?” John asked, his eyes still closed tightly.
The old man did a little more drawing on the piece of paper and spoke up. “You keep your eyes closed and walk farther down the road. Are you walking?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now you come to a tree on the side of the road. What kind of tree is it? What does it look like?”
John's face twisted as though he was straining to decide. “It's a big tree and there are shamrocks all over it. A lot of twisting roots and things, and a lot of leaves.”
The old man smiled. “That tree is your sex life. It means your sex life will be rich and full. You'll be ‘lucky in love,’ as the expression goes.”
I could feel my cheeks turn red and to my surprise I even saw John's face turn red, but that's a whole other story that I don't think he'll get around to telling you.
“Now keep walking down that road,” the old man ordered, seeming especially curious at this time. His voice built as though he was about to reach the point in the game that he himself liked best of all. He was writing away a mile a minute. “You're walking down the road and you come to a wall. The wall is as thick as eternity and it's made of stone. It stretches as high as eternity. It runs below the ground as deep as eternity. And it stretches as far to the left as eternity, and as far to the right as eternity. Can you see this wall?”
“Got it,” John admitted.
“What do you do with this wall blocking your road?” the old man asked.
I watched John's face get very serious. For a moment it seemed as though his expression was registering fear. His skin stretched and his jaw quivered, and a moment later it seemed taut with anger. I became very frightened that something horrible was happening to John, like he was on some kind of a crazy mushroom trip,
overdosed on imagination
. “John, what are you doing?” I asked. I watched as his mouth began to open, and the answer came out. “I'm throwing rocks at it.… I'm
kicking
it.… I'm
trying to smash the wall, but I can't! I can't!
” John almost cried!
“That is the wall of death,” the old man said, his voice starting to crumple, “and it means that when it comes time for you to die, you will fight against it with all your might. You will fight and you will struggle, and you will claw at it. You will do everything possible to escape it!” Suddenly the old man leaned back in his chair. His eyes closed, and I thought maybe he had died. Instead he started to snore. The paper he had been drawing upon fell to the floor and I scooped it up. John and I looked at it and we could practically feel the Pig-man had returned and was looking over our shoulders.