James Deetz has written that for three days in 1621, the Anglo settlers got up in jackboots, felt hats, and plumes to dine on, not turkey, but eel, an Indian named Squanto taught them to hunt in the creeks and swamps near their settlements. Some local Indians contributed deer and helped the settlers put away pumpkin soup and gallons of booze. The first Anglo settlers had robust Elizabethan appetites, liked fancy clothes, and did a considerable amount of “wenching.”
In the United States, millions of TV eyes are focused upon the Thanksgiving Day Parade which is sponsored annually by Macy’s department store. Two bosses of important retail chains watch the parade from a tinted-window, chauffeur-driven Cadillac. Brothers Herman and George Schneider both wear top hats, black-and-white striped pants, tails, shiny black shoes. Herman rests his hands on a cane.
2
“This parade ought to perk up the trade,” said the first boss, sipping a scotch and holding a cigar with a free hand. “Weather’s just right. Maybe the industry will top the six billion we made last year.”
“We’ll be lucky if we break even. Things look pretty bad to me. You heard about Korvettes, didn’t you? Out of business, interest rates too high. J.C. Penney’s phasing out some of its stores, too. It’s going to cost them fifteen million dollars to close them down,” the second boss said. “It’s all Carter’s fault. Him and the Federal Reserve.”
“Don’t blame it on Carter. Blame it on the Arabs.”
“The Arabs don’t have long. They’ll run out of oil in the late eighties and then we’ll have to bail them out. You see them in Paris, dancing with French girls and in London spending cash on every frivolous thing. I heard that one of them wanted to buy the Alamo, in San Antonio, Texas.”
“The Alamo? Why would he want to buy the Alamo?” A huge replica of Kermit the Frog floated by.
“Because his son went to school near there, and was impressed with the legend of the Alamo.” A group of clowns holding balloons walked by.
“We’re taking a beating on those quilt down coats. The women say they can’t move comfortably into their station wagons wearing those coats.”
“Yeah, but the toys are selling well. Especially the computer games. There’s also a rush on microwave ovens.”
“If American labor made better stuff we could sell it. If it isn’t sick leave they cost us money by carrying home the goods. They have no loyalty to us any more. That’s why the Japs are ahead of us. Did you see that little Jap sucker on TV the other night? He said that America can’t be good at everything all the time and that we must allow some nations to be at least pretty good at some things. I felt like pushing my fist right through the TV and mashing in that little Jap’s face. Boy, was he rubbing it in. Reagan will take care of them. The Japs and Iranians, the blacks and all the rest.”
“A fine fellow. He has a closet full of Levi Strauss jeans. They got him on the cover of Hour-Glass magazine in a blue denim shirt. He’ll help the industry. He’s a sharp dresser and well-groomed. Every sixteen days he gets a haircut.”
“That issue of Hour-Glass isn’t even out. How did you know all of that?”
“There’s this kid down in hardware. His name is Oswald Zumwalt. He has some great ideas. His wife is a copy editor at Hour-Glass. She gets advance copies. He’s always bringing me copies of Hour-Glass before it reaches the stands. I like the kid. He’s very ambitious. He’s inviting me over for dinner, later this afternoon. You know, since Grace died, I haven’t gone out so much. It’s nice to have someone make dinner for you. Anyway, Zumwalt says that we could cut costs if the whole industry got behind one Santa Claus and made this Santa Claus available only to those who could pay. We would charge people admission to come into the stores and have their kids consult Santa Claus. He said that Santa Claus is too dispersed as it is. Zumwalt’s very smart. Hyperkinetic, but smart. He says we could cut down on labor costs by doing what the Japanese do.”
“What do the Japs do?”
“Hire robots. He says that in Japan the robots work alongside humans so that the humans have to work harder to keep up. He says that they already have robots who can take over from the models.”
“The women would never go for that. They want flesh and blood, ass and tits.”
“They can create women. You ever see that film, The Stepford Wives? Well, in this film there’s this mad professor in a New England town who is turning all of these women into robots. All of them pushing shopping carts, smiling, behaving themselves. You couldn’t tell the difference.”
“I see what you mean, Herman.” Cinderella in a low-cleavaged gown danced on a float with her Prince Charming. The float was shaped like a castle. The two men stared.
“Maybe you ought to give this Zumwalt kid a promotion. See what he’s got. Rare to find a kid who’s ambitious these days. I think Reagan’s going to bring back the sixties. I don’t want to go through that again. Cities burned. Insurance rates shooting sky high.”
“He cooks, too. He’s cooking dinner today.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“Plenty of fellows do that these days. Cook, babysit.”
“How’s your son doing?”
“He’s still in the seminary. I got a card from him. It was covered with strange-looking stamps.”
“Yeah, what did he have to say?”
“He said he was having some kind of dispute with his superiors. He said they were too devoted to orthodoxy and ritual. He claims that he’s a part of a new church. A church devoted to social and political issues. His position was the source of his troubles.”
“That’s a mouthful. My nephew always did have a head on his shoulders.”
“There’s something that worries me, though, George.”
“What’s that, Herman?”
“When he came home for the holidays he brought this strange man with him called Brother Andrew. This Andrew kept addressing my kid as Bishop. He kept referring to him as the Bishop this and the Bishop that. He wouldn’t call my kid by his right name. My son ain’t no Bishop. I’m wondering what the hell is going on.” A float passes by carrying Dean Clift, the top male model of the United States. He is modeling some snug-fitting jeans. Men and women struggle with the police. They want to touch him, to feel him. There are a few anxious moments as they almost turn the float over.
Look at them. They’d cut out my heart if I’d let them. Take parts of it home as souvenirs. I have dreams of their fanglike eyes staring at me. My public. My audience. My life. When I’m in bed at night I see hands reaching through the walls, trying to get me. Will they always crave this body? This body which has never shown an inch of flab. It’s becoming more difficult to keep this body in shape. Maybe I should think of a new career. Sometimes I can’t distinguish between the real me and the billboard me. My life’s story seems to be a series of billboards, television commercials, beer ads, cigarette ads, shirt ads. I live between the covers of magazines like the commercial Buster Brown who lived in a shoe.
The crowd surges once again to get their grips on Mr. Dean Clift. The whole country wanted to cling to him, to become treacly over him. It had been a pretty easy life except for the tragedy occurring a few years before, and now there were muscle spasms, and palpitations, backaches, and sometimes on cold mornings he couldn’t move his index finger.
Soon I will look like Santa Claus, and what then? If Elizabeth hadn’t made those wise investments there would be no future for me at all. She manages the house on the Hudson and the apartment in New York. But what good is it? The city is overflowing with bag people, trash people, beggars of all kinds, refugees. Maybe I should accept those politicians’ offers. Run for Congress from the silk stocking district. Looks easy being a congressman. “You don’t even have to show up for work half the time. You meet interesting people and get