Men and Cartoons by Jonathan Lethem Page A
Authors: Jonathan Lethem
me,” he said.
“Get some sleep,” I said.
I didn't see him in the morning, just heard the shower running, and the door to the refrigerator opening and closing.
A BOUT A week later, I hit on the idea of putting Matthew into
Planet Big Zero
as a character. It was a way of assuaging my own guilt, and of compartmentalizing the experience of seeing him again. I guess I also wanted to establish the connection between our old wide-open, searching form of humor and my current smug, essentially closed form.
As I drew Matthew into the panels it occurred to me that I was casting him into a prison by publishing him in the cartoon. Then I realized how silly that was. If he was in a prison he was there already, and the cartoon had nothing to do with it. He'd be delighted to see himself. I imagined showing it to him. Then I realized I wouldn't. Anyway, I finished the cartoon, and FedExed it to my editor.
Who hated it. “What's that guy doing there?” he said on the phone.
“He's a new character,” I said.
“He's not funny,” said the editor. “Can you take him out?”
“You want me to take him out?”
“He's not intrinsic to any of the scenes,” said my editor. “He's just standing around.”
T HAT WAS two months ago. The point is, it wasn't until just the other day, when I hit the sleeping bum on the head with the gate, that I really gave any thought to the way things turned out. So much of what we do is automatic, so much of life becomes invisible. For instance, I've been buying six-packs and putting them in the fridge, but it isn't me drinking them. The empties pile up on the porch. I always forget to bring them out to the curb on recycling day. Sometimes the bums prowl around for bottles and do my work for me. I think somebody somewhere gives them a nickel apiece for them—another invisible operation, among so many.
Matthew's parents' car got towed after two weeks. It must have had ten or fifteen tickets pinned under the wiper. The authorities are pretty vigilant about that around here. As for Matthew, he's still in the garage. But he's been rendered completely transparent, unless, I suppose, you happen to be wearing Toscanini's glasses.
The Glasses
R OWS OF FRAMES SAT ON GLASS SHELVES, clear lenses reflecting gray light from the Brooklyn avenue. Outside, rain fell. At the door a cardboard box waited for umbrellas. The carpet was pink and yellow, to the limits of the floor, to the tightly seamed glass cases. The empty shop was like a cartoonist's eyeball workshop, hundreds of bare outlines yearning for pupils, for voices. They fell short of expression themselves. The whole shop fell short. There was no radio. The white-coated opticians leaned on their glass counters, dreaming of their wives, of beautiful women who needed glasses. One of them moved into the rear of the shop and made a call.
The other turned as the door chimed, two notes blurred momentarily in the rain's hiss.
“You're back.”
“Damn fucking right I'm back.” The black man wiped his feet just inside the door, though there wasn't a mat, then jogged forward into the shop. He wore a baseball cap, and his glasses.
The optician didn't move. “You don't need to use language,” he said.
They'd sold him his glasses yesterday. One hundred dollars. He'd paid with cash, not out of a wallet.
The customer bounced from one foot to the other like a boxer. An ingrown beard scarred the underside of his long jaw. He pushed his chin forward, keeping his hands by his side. “Look. Same damn thing.”
The optician grunted slightly and moved to look. He was as tall as the customer, and fatter. “A smudge,” he said.
He was still purring in his boredom. This distraction hadn't persuaded him yet that it would become an event, a real dent in the afternoon.
“
Scratched
,” said the customer. “Same as the last pair. If you can't fix the problem why'd you sell me the damn glasses?”
“A smudge,” said the
“Get some sleep,” I said.
I didn't see him in the morning, just heard the shower running, and the door to the refrigerator opening and closing.
A BOUT A week later, I hit on the idea of putting Matthew into
Planet Big Zero
as a character. It was a way of assuaging my own guilt, and of compartmentalizing the experience of seeing him again. I guess I also wanted to establish the connection between our old wide-open, searching form of humor and my current smug, essentially closed form.
As I drew Matthew into the panels it occurred to me that I was casting him into a prison by publishing him in the cartoon. Then I realized how silly that was. If he was in a prison he was there already, and the cartoon had nothing to do with it. He'd be delighted to see himself. I imagined showing it to him. Then I realized I wouldn't. Anyway, I finished the cartoon, and FedExed it to my editor.
Who hated it. “What's that guy doing there?” he said on the phone.
“He's a new character,” I said.
“He's not funny,” said the editor. “Can you take him out?”
“You want me to take him out?”
“He's not intrinsic to any of the scenes,” said my editor. “He's just standing around.”
T HAT WAS two months ago. The point is, it wasn't until just the other day, when I hit the sleeping bum on the head with the gate, that I really gave any thought to the way things turned out. So much of what we do is automatic, so much of life becomes invisible. For instance, I've been buying six-packs and putting them in the fridge, but it isn't me drinking them. The empties pile up on the porch. I always forget to bring them out to the curb on recycling day. Sometimes the bums prowl around for bottles and do my work for me. I think somebody somewhere gives them a nickel apiece for them—another invisible operation, among so many.
Matthew's parents' car got towed after two weeks. It must have had ten or fifteen tickets pinned under the wiper. The authorities are pretty vigilant about that around here. As for Matthew, he's still in the garage. But he's been rendered completely transparent, unless, I suppose, you happen to be wearing Toscanini's glasses.
The Glasses
R OWS OF FRAMES SAT ON GLASS SHELVES, clear lenses reflecting gray light from the Brooklyn avenue. Outside, rain fell. At the door a cardboard box waited for umbrellas. The carpet was pink and yellow, to the limits of the floor, to the tightly seamed glass cases. The empty shop was like a cartoonist's eyeball workshop, hundreds of bare outlines yearning for pupils, for voices. They fell short of expression themselves. The whole shop fell short. There was no radio. The white-coated opticians leaned on their glass counters, dreaming of their wives, of beautiful women who needed glasses. One of them moved into the rear of the shop and made a call.
The other turned as the door chimed, two notes blurred momentarily in the rain's hiss.
“You're back.”
“Damn fucking right I'm back.” The black man wiped his feet just inside the door, though there wasn't a mat, then jogged forward into the shop. He wore a baseball cap, and his glasses.
The optician didn't move. “You don't need to use language,” he said.
They'd sold him his glasses yesterday. One hundred dollars. He'd paid with cash, not out of a wallet.
The customer bounced from one foot to the other like a boxer. An ingrown beard scarred the underside of his long jaw. He pushed his chin forward, keeping his hands by his side. “Look. Same damn thing.”
The optician grunted slightly and moved to look. He was as tall as the customer, and fatter. “A smudge,” he said.
He was still purring in his boredom. This distraction hadn't persuaded him yet that it would become an event, a real dent in the afternoon.
“
Scratched
,” said the customer. “Same as the last pair. If you can't fix the problem why'd you sell me the damn glasses?”
“A smudge,” said the