Observe.
Now the Colonel prepared another drink--much more speedily than the first--and set it in front of the snoozing dog. The dog's spike nose began to twitch, and it was only a matter of seconds before it stood to attention, looking anxiously at its master.
Drink, Brick!
Urbanely and with a certain dignity, the dog submerged the end of its snout in the highball glass and drew it down to the bottom without the slightest trace of a sound. When it was done it withdrew just as delicately, without disturbing the glass in the slightest. It gave a convulsive sneeze before resuming its repose with a look of dreamy satisfaction. Another murmur roped through the room as the Colonel surveyed the crowd brightly.
Any questions? Clarifications?
Bernal spoke: Well, Sir, what about this sense for moral, ah, corruption, that you claim your dog possesses? I think I speak for us all when I say I'd like to know more about it. Maybe see how it works? ¡Que bromista!
The Colonel looked down at him with something like regret in his eyes: Claro, compinche. But I hope you will forbear with me if my demonstration of this dog's capacities for moral sleuthing are conducted somewhat in the manner of a thought experiment, rather than being aired flagrantly where they might give rise to, ah, to some unpleasantness. Surely you would not want a cordial visit from a hound and his modest owner to sow the seeds of strife in your utopian community merely for the sake of an esoteric demonstration?
With all due respect, Sir--it was Vanessa--what exactly do you mean by discord?
That is an excellent question, young lady. And very well phrased. I am always surprised at the latent female rhetorical powers that are finding expression in your, ahem, liberated generation.
Vanessa looked at me and then back at the Colonel, her face suddenly a wall.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
'Another question,' said the Colonel, absently topping off his highball with more Scotch, 'albeit a less incisive one. Therefore let me dignify the first. What you must understand about Lieutenant Brick if you hope to understand anything about him at all is this. In his natural state, that is to say in the state of undepressed perception we refer to as stone cold sobriety, Lieutenant Brick will of his own impetus sniff out the bad apples in any given barrel of people, and identify them publicly.In cases where the moral fiber is particularly threadbare, Lieutenant Brick has even displayed a propensity to attack. There is none of the timorousness of the repressed would-be whistle-blower in this dog. He knows that his sense for rectitude does not err and is not afraid to broadcast it. No ma'am. Which is precisely why I bred Lieutenant Brick to possess utterly ineffectual jaws. No matter how I tried, you see, I have been unable to circumscribe and contain the breed's moral outrage within the bounds of so-called civilized decorum. I have been unable, if you will, to tame its tendency to arrogate to itself the role of judge, bailiff and executioner, when in fact all I wanted was for it to serve in the sleuthing role of a K-9 squad dog that happens to be possessed of enhanced moral perception. Since the breed's blood was so unstinting about occupying the full spectrum of justice's machinery, the best I could do was to enfeeble certain parts of the apparatus even as I kept the nose keen. I have deprived the judge of his booming voice, stripped the bailiff of his ability to drag and pull--not, you will note, by emaciating him, but by hobbling the dickskinners he uses to enforce the will of the court, in this case his jaw--and dulled the executioner's blade.
If you will allow me to shift gears for a moment and deploy a metaphor that should be accessible to those of you with a liberal arts background, and not only to those of you versed in the narrow field of criminology, I think I will be able to bring my exegesis to a satisfactory conclusion.
The man took a long drink, then looked out at us like a fish seen through water. Lieutenant Brick, he said, and whatever breeds his tincture will be used to sire in my genetic laboratory, are specialists--however much we might want them to serve as the general footsoldiers of the coming revolution --is a complex machine with many moving parts. Revolution is a motley enterprise. Just as it requires of its human practitioners thinkers, propagandists, goons, inventors, police, visionaries, spies, intellectual mercenaries, useless wet-behind-the-ears hippies, and specialized cogs of many others types, so too...ah, excuse me.
Here he paused for a sip. Such are the excesses! Eh, that is to say that when we walk these motley paths toward change, toward revolution, we need companions who are also motley, also specialized. Such is the reflection, my listeners, and thus the propagation! How to put this in a way that the, ahem, puerile mind can understand? Despite the apparent variety of its breeding, mankind's conception of his own casting of the dog into its role has hitherto been entirely too far toward the generalist end of the spectrum of differential utility. Chihuahua or no Chihuahua, St. Bernard's breed or no St. Bernard's breed, we have looked to all dogs for their precise and unflagging loyalties, their few wants, their enthusiasms, their faithful reflection of the master's style and substance, the ineffable quantity dubbed cuteness and, less importantly, some token of specialized utility. But--hiccough--that leaves an awful lot of work undone, especially in view of concerted breeding having begun some thousands of years ago. Sometimes, my friends, I feel as if our forefathers were snoozing at the tiller! The problem with modern man's relationship to the dog, and that includes your relationships to dogs, whatever disgusting articulations they may have assumed over the years, is that it has remained rooted in historical forms, even as the world's has progressed beyond all recognition, and this out of sheer sentimentality, which is a sin. Modern man is split between a million factions that alternately sap and charge his spirit--the former very efficiently, the latter with a million kinds of snake oil, such is the way. He is bisected by a bewildering variety of claims on his time and energy, shuffled and shunted in and out of so many systems of logistics and control like so many anonymous production pieces. Do you get my meaning? Come, break out your flasks, and drink with me in fragmentary communion! Ah! As for the dog, well--aside from Lieutenant Brick here, he's got a long way to go to catch up to out modern way of living. This task of forcible catch up of course falls principally to us as the revolutionary vanguard, pitiable and dithering though some of you may be. But such are the obstacles and thus the opposition to enlightenment latent in the configuration of damnable entropy itself. Whatever the quantities of laziness and foolishness to which you are thrall--no matter, for they are nothing but goads to the ultimate catharsis, the final purge. Cheers! Fine stuff, this. Harrum. Such are the obscure Highland recipes. So where does this leave us, where does this leave the dog, and what is the leash that properly connects dog to man--in a revolutionary way? Well, it leaves us right here in this room. With Lieutenant Brick. Everything proceeds from the notion of fungible traits, as an animal from an assortment of discrete wills and purposes susceptible to manipulation. Traits that can be identified and isolated and assigned at will. In Brick we have a moral sagacity tempered by the predilection for drink that keeps him from going insane or from being executed by the HSPCA before the paradigm of which the HSPCA is a standardbearer can be overthrown. Brick and his kind are bloodhounds to be used as scouts in the coming age of purges. Just as I engineered Brick to be a better kind of dog, Brick will help us in our quest to engineer a better kind of man.
But we must go much further, of course. There is no end to the canine specialties that may be enlisted in the name of revolution: We need shepherds in the camps, executioner dogs to savage the culpable, seed-eaters with incomplete digestion to sow the fields, sled dogs to clear the lines of corpses. Et cetera. Such is the variety. Si, senor?
Bernal had his hand up.
Er, getting away for a moment from your, er, alarmingly bloodsoaked vision of the future, what, eh, what are your methods for breeding new dogs, Sir? I mean what breeds did you use to make the whiskey-drinking dog, for instance?
A titter ebbed through the room. The Colonel's brow was bunched as he responded.
Whiskey-drinking dog? Oh, Lieutenant Brick. Believe me when I say he can put away a lot more than whiskey. And as I have been at pains to explain, his truly notable characteristic is the acuity of his nose in matters of human dignity, so I fail to see why anyone, no matter how limited his facility with critical thinking, would stop at characterizing him as a tippling dog. Tippling is what he does to cope with his gift. And as far as methods and root pedigree go, I'm afraid that those are highly proprietary, my dear little senor.
Bernal's jaw worked thickly before he responded: It's just that the only proof we have of any remarkable traits in your dog is his ability to drink whiskey. Unless you include the fact that he is uglier than I imagine even the mongrel, ahem, crones in your own lineage could possibly have been. Which is a notable achievement in itself, with all due respect. Borracho hijo de puta.
The Colonel's iron gray bowsprit was twitching in consternation, and he was listing dangerously to the starboard side of the podium. If it is proof, he began, proof of this dog's acuity that you require, sir, I shall be happy to give it to you. As we all know, to be true to its purpose, any social order striving for justice, and above all clarity, must deal frankly with issues of sexuality. Everything must be out in the open before it can be responded to and dealt with. And you are also all doubtless aware that few people, no matter how strongly stated their allegiance to reform, are willing to disclose their innermost leanings in matters of sexuality. It is for this reason that we are in need of a canine monitor to push us toward frankness. A dog, Sir, is theoretically capable of smelling anything. In this case we are discussing deviant desires, which is another facet of Lieutenant Brick's virtuosic perception. So, without further ado, I will give you your proof, and mine.
What the hell are you talking about, goes Bernal.
Sensing trouble, the members of our house and the other guests stood up and began to mill about uncertainly.
This, Sir, is what I am talking about...
The Colonel leaned over his dog and first rapped it on the ribs. It gave a pained yowl, then the Colonel whispered, clearly through the expectant hush that had fallen of a sudden, Spot invert!"
Here my interlocutor had to pull up in his narration to deal with a fit of laughter. Locked for a few seconds in silent convulsive struggle, he nearly shed a tear into his drink. When I looked up I saw the barman pretending to be busy. His back signaled a receptive pose. I wondered what he was making of this story and called out for a beer. His face was as slack as ever, but there was some life in his eyes.
"What do you think," I said. "Interesting day at work?"
"Interesting as any other, patron. When it's your work to serve folks lubricating their jaw hinges, what can you say? Such is the way, I guess."
He was smiling.
My interlocutor's hand suddenly flashed across the bar and seized my wrist. It was a large hand, quivering and clammy.
"Do you want to know what happened?"
"Sure, pal," I said, trying to remain cavalier. "You know, this is pretty much already the strangest shit I ever heard."
A chortle escaped the mouth without registering on the drawn face. "Shit," he said. "Hang around Hanrahan's for long enough and you're bound to hear plenty of strange shit. It's all got to trickle out somewhere. And you haven't heard the strangest part of this story by a long shot. Now, back to the Colonel and Lieutenant Brick.
"In response to his master's command to spot the invert, the dog staggered to its feet and sniffed the air with a look of both resignation and of deep canine concentration. Its snout was long, its jaws tiny, its fogged eyes bulging. Then, suddenly, it snarled and launched its considerable bulk down the room and directly at Bernal. The dog pulled up short of reaching him to snap hoarsely at his groin. Bernal ran for the door but the Colonel barked something and the dog didn't follow after him. And anyway I think it was true what the Colonel had said about the dog's jaw being so small and weak that it would have been unable to do any damage.
And there we have it, the Colonel shouted over the din. A double edged demonstration of Brick's faculties on the one hand, and of the senor's moral turpitude and spinelessness on the other.
The guests were now waving their arms and raising their voices in protest. There were calls for the Colonel's ejection.
Brick, heel! And there you have it, you fine bunch of hippies. Proof of the dog's skill, proof of the faggotry at the bottom of the senor's soul. And don't think for a second, the Colonel intoned gravely as he looked directly at me, that the Lieutenant wouldn't be able to sniff out another queer or two in your ranks. And with that I rest my case. Such are the piecemeal victories, such the vain struggle. Come on, Brick. Fall in!
The room stood in shocked abeyance as the mischievous Colonel and his queerbaiting Lieutenant trained out of the room with exaggerate dignity. He had taken us for a bunch of spoiled pushovers. He was right of course, at least on that particular evening he was. In different circumstances though, in different conjunctures within the topography of zeal, the man would have been run out of town on a rail or worse. But he had smelled tepid blood and taken advantage of it.
Given what happened afterwards I've sometimes found myself wondering if it had somehow been his purpose, or ultimately the purpose of Cheesegrave behind him, to shake us out of our stupor of satisfied progressivism punctuated by these bullshit readings, these bullshit roundtable discussions. God knows we needed a kick in the pants. Then there's the other alternative, that he believed in his spiel about the dogs, or even worse, that it was true, which is just too much to take into your mind and book hold there without breaking or spilling something. Anyway.
He paused for a tipple that immediately seemed to deepen the hue in his face and kindle an eye that may or may not have been beginning to gutter in confusion toward the end of his recounting of the speech about the revolutionary role of the dog. Then I asked him whether they'd ever had nay news of the Colonel again.
"Oh sure. He started hanging around the dorms trying to hit on coeds with the little tricks that Lieutenant Brick could do. The police tried to book him for vagrancy and he used his one call to call us. I passed it in to Uncle Cheesegrave, who pretended never to have heard of the man. But he interceded and wriggled him out of the charge sure enough. It remains a mystery."
And the dog's allegation?
"Hey, that's well put. Well, I'm afraid that dog was right in its senses after all. Bernal ended up running off to join a, shall we say, more sexually liberated commune. In New Mexico. Right in the nick of time, too. And it was out there that he ended up meeting his partner and the man with whom he founded Rancho Dinero, so for Bernal the dog outing him was a good thing in ways more than one. And not only for Bernal--leaving the seaboard police state for the West is a blessing for anyone--but for Chicano letters, too, where Rancho Dinero actually managed to make a difference. But all of this is just a tangent, nothing but a fucking sideshow. I only mention it because the Colonel's presentation is what set the stage for me hooking up with Vanessa and everything that happened afterwards. Hey barman! Another whiskey soda if you would. And make sure it pares the light down to its proper golden hue. Hold it up and see that it is good.
"So yeah, Vanessa. Poor girl. This is what happened. She and I ended up hanging around the reading room when everybody'd left. We talked about the Colonel's bizarre and offensive performance and began sharing the whiskey that he and the dog hadn't finished off. After the first drink I tried something. It was cynical but effective. I tried to invoke the atmosphere and the events that had caused her to be overcome with laughter in the first place, that ripple that had stripped down her defenses and paved the way for us to be locked in a gaze of sudden intimacy. I summoned the image of the way the dog had looked as its absurdity had first begun to wash over us: Its walled and bulging eyes, the fluffy curlicue tail swaying over the squat rump, ribslats like a collapsed accordion, snout like a fucking armadillo. When the description of the dog seemed to have little effect I turned to the Colonel, relishing in sequence the memory of the delinquent mane, the snaggled teeth, the goatee that led and balanced him as he pitched over the breakers of his own inebriation. Then I channeled the Colonel's language: Such is the honor that accrues, such is the duty that binds the acolyte to his truth, such are the ways. At 'such are the ways' I got the response I was looking for: Unfettered, elemental laughter. It was infectious of course. The more she abandoned herself to laughter, the more did I. Our tittering rebounded and redoubled until we could hardly breathe and I could not see her for the tears in my eyes. When they cleared and met hers, I knew she was mine. And this is where the story gets serious.
"Quite serious. In fact, past this point I would venture to say that you have never heard a more serious story. Which is to say," he said with a wink, "that it is just the right amount of serious.
"At that point Vanessa and I went up to her room and did what was predictable. Or rather, we began to do what was predictable. Let me get to the point. God. I was just entering her, when in comes Kamill. His full name was Kamillus Braxator, if you can feature that, although for deception and sometimes even humor he would use the alias Marcel Broodthaers, as we shall have occasion to see in due time*. Kamill was, as I have already mentioned, immensely strong. Whenever anything needed lifting, lugging, or heaving, he was the one to do it. His body was built like a barrel, resting on stout shanks and with arms easily rivaling the thickness of my legs. Which isn't saying much, of course, but the point is that he was huge, that he did not cut an elegant figure, and was more like a rock slab or a tree trunk than a herald of golden proportion.
"He would have weighed in at a good 250 pounds. Enough to play in the gridiron professionally back in those days. But despite the ungainly layout and the outsize format, even so his movement was fairly ringing with the emergent economy and grace peculiar to strong organisms at the height of their powers. Imagine a dancing bear. The poise, the delicate steps, the absolute control that yokes the power. To watch him move was actually enjoyable, a symphonic movement in basso. I never once saw him break or drop anything, nothing as trivial even as overtorquing a screw. And I'm not mentioning this because I'm some kind of faggot who gets a kick out of big fellows with unlikely grace either. This is essential to what happened later."
He drank, thinking things over.
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