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Fiction
by Paul Pekin
published in the Chicago Reader
In Search of Orion
When Mike Burns was a kid he never could see things in the stars. Relatives would direct his gaze to the universe. "There's Orion the hunter!"
. . .Mike only saw stars. His father could name every constellation. Uncle Massey could do the same through a curtain of clouds and cheap Irish booze. Mike's mother identified lions, tigers, sometimes bears, and on special occasions the blessed child Jesus.
As Mike grew older he decided there had to be two worlds, the one that actually existed and could be seen, and some other. Those who could see this other did so for one simple reason. They were crazy. This ought to have settled the matter except the more he thought about it the more certain he became that the crazy ones held all the power.
At school, for example, nuns insisted there were guardian angels who stood by one`s shoulder, and if one did not actually see these angels, one certainly should be able to sense them. all the kids went along with this. Even smart kids like Sally Ryan. Worse, they too saw things in the stars and would talk about it, endlessly. I saw Pisces. I saw Aries. I saw Pluto. And dreams! Kenneth Peters claimed he could dream the future. No matter what happened, as when Mr. Winsowski fell from the church roof and broke his wrist. Kenneth claimed to have dreamed it first. They all dreamed. Sally Ryan dreamed of a choir of angels that carried her off to Hollywood. Sister Charity dreamed of Saint Boniface and that tree. Even cunning Uncle Massey who slept on a cot at the end of the hall dreamed of wolves and battles and frightening air crashes that came smack down on Division Street.
The only thing Mike dreamed of was food. He would dream of spreading peanut butter over a weak slice of bread. Or of a jar of honey he would be screwing open, forever and forever without a taste. Of of an endless pile of walnuts he must crack to the last before he might begin eating. Asleep or awake, he never seemed to get enough to eat.
Mike Burns, the stubby blond boy grew into Mike Burns the stout blond young man. It did not take very long. One day he was shaving, another he was growing a beard, and then he was off to college. What he remembered best of high school was how even there, especially there, the crazy ones held all the power. Certainly Miss Pekerson who read Edgar Allan Poe aloud with tears in her eyes. "Bells, bells, bells," she sobbed, her lovely young bosom shuddering with passion. Miss Pekerson had given him a C.
During those high school years, Mike buried his father, saw his mother go completely mad, and reluctantly accepted Uncle Massey as head of the house. Each morning this uncle would stride about the kitchen, stretching his hairy arms like wings. "It was a 747! It came down on Division Street, only so high! I knew it was going to crash into the Sunoco Station! Suddenly there was this great big ball of fire . . "
Mike Burns studied hard his last year in high school and won a scholarship to an out-of-state college. "That's nice," his mother whispered, but her eyes were fixed upon the wallpaper where lately the little Jesus child had been appearing. Uncle Massey, however, seemed pleased. "Does that mean you'll be leaving?
It did. But not for long. At college the crazy ones were in full force. Almost at once a white-faced girl with straight stringy hair cornered him in the cafeteria and asked for his sign. "My what?" Mike asked, unwrapping a skinny vending machine hot dog. He was not eating well. Uncle Massey, who believed college students ought to earn their own way, preferably waiting on tables, never sent money. "Your sign," the white-faced girl repeated; "When you were born." He told her between bites. "That means you're a Libra. I'm a Scorpio. That means we'll never get along." After that she left him alone.
By mid-semester he was informed that his grade point average was unsatisfactory. At the end of the semester his scholarship was not renewed.
"What happened, boy?" Uncle Massey asked. Mike hung his head. How could he explain that he'd failed astronomy?
"I suppose it's just as well you're home," Massey said after a while. "To tell the truth, your mother ain't well."
If you listened, you could hear Mike's mother in the next room praying to the wallpaper.
Mike ignored the help wanted pages his uncle spread over the kitchen table every morning and registered at the local community college. Because this was the term the alphabetical order was turned backward at the registration table, Mike was last in line, reaching the desk long after the good courses were filled. He had to take Anthropology, Seventeenth Century Social Movements, Music Appreciation, and Creative Writing. "Don't take writing," a student at the registration table whispered. "The instructor is crazy."
"I want you to write your dreams," this instructor ordered the very first day. He was a tall hawk-faced man with a relentless air of authority. Mike wrote his dreams.
"Last night I dreamed of a pizza. It was covered with anchovies, olives, sausage, cheese, mushrooms, and tomato sauce. I was waiting in my room for the pizza man to come back with a knee so I could cut it up and eat. I was starving . . . "
"What are you doing in that refrigerator?" Uncle Massey screamed. "We just had supper an hour ago!"
"I'm starving," Mike said. "I was doing my homework and suddenly I'm starving."
"We don't mind feeding you," Uncle Massey said. "But when you don't bring any money into the house, you ought to stay out of the refrigerator." In the next room Mike's mother crooned to the Jesus child.
The writing instructor was not impressed with Mike's work. "What kind of a dream is this?" he scribbled in red ink. "Who dreams about pizzas? "What are you holding back?"
After that Mike found another source for his dreams. "I am walking down Division Street . . . Suddenly there is a tremendous roaring sound. I look up. It's the TWA, a 747. heading right for the Sunoco station. There is a rush a flames, they roar like lions. I shield my eyes and run home. There, in my dining room, I hear the baby Jesus crying in the wallpaper. He's trapped. He can't get out."
Now the instructor read Mike's papers aloud.
The best thing about the class was the girls. Twenty- seven of them surrounded Mike and two other guys--and the two other guys were gay. They would hold hands while the instructor read Mike's dreams. Mike got a lot of attention from the girls. "I think he's cute," he heard them whisper in the hall, and immediately he rushed into the men's room where there was a mirror. There he stood, stout in spite of starvation, his long blond hair already thin, his transparent beard useless Where was this cute guy? It was like looking for Orion.
But soon he was going with Melinda who shared an apartment with three other liberated women, so liberated they had become sadly obese. This, however, Mike took for a good sign. Where there was fat, there surely was food. Not so. The obese roommates belonged to Weight Watchers and went to meetings and heaven only knew how they maintained their figures. Certainly food in the apartment was kept to a minimum. A guy could raid the refrigerator seven nights a week and about all he'd come up with was a few stalks of celery.
After an evening at Melinda's, Mike would reach home in agony. Rattling in his hollow stomach would be two or three olives, a grape, and possibly a crust of rye crisp. For this
he had to spend the evening listening to the girls talk about food. "I used to live on whispered cream cake. My doctor says it's a fixation!" "My sister is dieting on steaks and eggs!" "I hear there's a doctor in Los Angeles who lets you eat all you want!"Mike would make love to Melinda (her liberated roommates would be in the next room discussing food) with his stomach growling. "What's that sound?" she would say. "You don't love me!"
Coming home at some small hour, he would sneak into the kitchen and gently open the refrigerator. The light would spring on. A jar of pickles--he would goggle just a few. A jar of mayonnaise--scoop out a fingerful. A tired-out pork chop--nibble off the fat so Massey wouldn't notice. An open can of peaches--drink off some of the liquid. Then he would press the door shut, glide into his room, and lie in agony dreaming of roasted tom turkeys stuffed with sausage.
At the end of the semester he got an A in his writing course, and this was what started him looking for Orion. An A. The instructor called him aside. "You have talent! That dream of yours--the one about the Jesus baby hiding in the wallpaper--what an amazing imagination!"
The crazy ones ran the world. They controlled everything, home, the family, the school, the refrigerator. They could see things in the stars; they could stare at formations of rocks and find faces; they could look at the clouds and lo! there would be dragons and gargoyles. They could see things in a single flake of snow; they probably saw things in their toilets. Sure! Weren't there people who read the future in tea leaves? Weren't there people who could sense coming disasters like the shooting of the pope? There were even people who took drugs and spent the next few weeks talking about that they had seen. They might even give you a drug, but never any food. You had to be one of the crazy ones if you wanted to get on in the world.
Mike discussed this with a guy from his anthropology class. "How do they do it? I'd give anything if I could." The guy had an idea. "Listen," he said. "Study your aborigines. Some of these tribes have what they call shamans, magicians. They go on diets. I mean they fast until they are half-starved and then they have visions. It's a real trip!"
Mike decided he could do that trip. With his experience it should be a snap. "I'm dieting," he told his uncle. "I'm going to fast until I can see Orion and the blessed Jesus baby."
Massey suspected a trick. Put some food in the refrigerator--bam! That kid would be at it.
The fast began on schedule, coinciding with Mike's first day on his summer job in a commercial laundry. It was his task to empty bags of soiled diapers into a huge vat of boiling water.
"We hold back the first week's pay," said the boss, a sturdy individual who could talk without breathing. "A lot of people cut out on us after the first few days--know what I mean?"
Mike stirred the bubbling brown soup with a long wooden paddle. A rich hearty odor filled his nostrils
"You do good," the boss promised, "and someday we'll promote you to shirts."
Mike marked the dates on the calendar. Two weeks till payday. He would fast them all, hoping for the Shaman's vision. Then, whatever the outcome, he would splurge his check on food. Steaks. Spaghetti. Pizza. Armloads of burgers. Buckets of french fries. Hot chocolate. Malted milk.
After a week he asked Melinda to come with him to the roof.
"Why?" she asked. "My roommates are all liberated women. They know we make love in my room. Why should you suddenly feel self-conscious?"
They went up the fire escape and sat with their backs to a chimney, studying the sky through the city's haze. The moon came up, pale and smothered. The stars began to appear, one by one. "I want you to show me Orion," he said. "I think I saw the dipper once, but I'm not sure."
He felt dizzy. The lack of food was weakening him. He was glad there was a small ledge around the roof.
They leafed through the guide book to the heavens, reading by flashlight. "Orion," it said, "will be found in the northern skies . . . "
The night deepened and Melinda, who was smoking, soon saw Orion. 'Come on," she urged. "Loosen up. Take a few hits." At first Mike refused. Why did she have to offer dope when all he wanted was a glimpse of Orion? But then he gave in, sucking the number in his usual clumsy manner while she nagged instructions. And he felt nothing.
But an hour later just as a shooting star dropped from the heavens, it finally happened. Suddenly he was staring at Orion the Hunter.
"I see him," he whispered, afraid to breathe lest the hunter leave as quickly as he arrived. But this did not happen. Out of all the countless stars, once such a perfect jumble, Orion at last stood out, his bow strung, his heroic brow set upon the universe. Mike fumbled at the guidebook. "The Great Bear will be made out in the western sky . . ."
And there it was, the Great Bear, silently and savagely stalking the hunter across the trackless void.
The next morning Mike saw the little Jesus baby hiding in the wallpaper. Mike's mother was praying, as usual. "I see him," he said. "I see the baby." They prayed together, the mother weeping.
So the guy from the anthropology class had been right. The fast was causing Mike to see things. He could look into the clouds and wow! there would be landscapes, butterflies, waterfalls--all that curious stuff that girls usually saw. Commonplace objects took on new manifestations. The alarm clock now squatted on the window sill muttering incantations. The refrigerator grumbled at its own emptiness. The nozzle of the kitchen faucet became the lip of some subterranean beast perpetually set to drool.
And at work the baby diaper vat turned both ominous and delightful. Its seethings and scaldings he seemed to hear the sounds of many crying--thousands and thousands of drowned boiled babies calling for revenge. He would dip his paddle in experimentally and raise up the steaming diapers which were as shrouds.
By the 12th day Uncle Massey began to worry. "You been acting strange, boy," he said. They sat at the breakfast table, Mike staring at his empty plate, watching the painted flowers twist and turn. Blood dripped from one of the roses. "I had a dream about you," Massey said, pointing with a crust of toast. "It was you that was flying the airplane down Division Street! I was there and I looked u and it was you! You were deliberately aiming at the Sunoco Station. You did it on purpose."
"Have you looked at the stars, lately," Mike answered. "Take a good look at Orion if you get the chance. He's letting that bear get awful close."
"Eat!" Massey cried in sudden fury. "Here! Damn it! Eat!" And he threw his toast on Mike's plate. And shoved the jam at him. And opened the refrigerator. "Take all you want, just eat! I tell you, I had a dream, and when I have a dream, that's a sign!"
But Mike Burns, smiling serenely, refused. Twelve days of fasting had finally blunted his appetite. He had forgotten the taste of food. He could go on forever. He would.
In nine more days Melinda noticed the change.
"You're losing weight," she said, fingering his belt, which had four new holes punched in it. His trousers ballooned around him like collapsed dirigibles. The obese roommates gathered and gazed in wonder.
It became clear to all that Mike Burns must eat. Even his employer, who caught him tottering in the vicinity of the tubs, recognized this. "Hey, don't we pay you good money? Either get yourself a meal, or go join a circus!"
His story might have ended tragically. He might have fallen into the diaper tubs. He might have toppled off a roof while studying Orion. He might simply have starved away and turned up dead some morning, a pale silent corpse with the sheet pulled beneath its chin.
But Orion, patiently stalking the sky, disappeared. Night after night Mike had been on the rooftop, overwhelmed by the celestial hunter who had eluded him for so many years. Then, once again, Orion was gone--and no mystery about it either. An inversion, the weatherman called it, had dimmed the sky and the entire constellation dropped out of sight. There was nothing to see but the sullen reddish reflection of the city. Mike carried his sleeping bag to the roof. He had a premonition.
Three days he waited. Then a low steady wind arose and blew the haze out over the lake. That night it would be clear again, perhaps clearer than ever before. On the roof the air even smelled good. Breathing deeply, Mike watched the first stars of the evening appear, one by one, and the moon which came timidly out of the skyline to hang yellow and untainted above the horizon. There had not been such a night since he had started his search.
There was a sound behind him. Uncle Massey, bleary-eyed and bearing a bottle. "Still up here?" the old man said, his voice thick with alcohol. "I suppose the company of food- eating human ain't for the likes of you."
But Massey's words had no bite. Mike could not recall when his uncle had been so relaxed and expansive. "There's Orion the Hunter," he said, belching ever so softly. "And there's Pisces the Fish, and Renard the Fox. Look! There's the Celestial Stag!"
Mike, who had been studying a single star--he thought it might be Jupitor--looked. Suddenly the universe swarmed before his eyes, impossibly confused. Orion was gone. The bear was gone. Even the dipper was gone. All that remained was the stars, miraculously sprinkled over the heavens, which no longer appeared as a curtain for Orion and his hunt but as what they actually were--voids too vast to imagine, too deep to comprehend, with depths and dimensions forever beyond the imagination of men. There could not be figures or beings in such an immense profusion of lost suns.
"It's over," Mike said simply. He was relieved.
Massey offered a drink. "Go ahead," he said, wiping the neck of his bottle. "Take a hit. Relax."
Turning from the brilliant night, Mike hurried downstairs to inspect the wallpaper. is mother,
already in bed, was sobbing in her sleep. But the wallpaper, just as he suspected, simply was faded printed flowers with no mystery among them. It was over.At that moment his hunger began anew, refreshed, ravenous, eager. He rushed into the kitchen, stripped the refrigerator, and began. With trembling fingers he lit the oven and slipped a frozen pot pie on the rack. Then he gobbled down an entire jar of honey, spoonful by spoonful, ate a head of lettuce, a bottle of relish, drank a pint of coffee cream and demolished a stick of butter. He turned to the pantry and devoured a package of Ritz crackers, a jar of pimientos, and several packages of cake mix. He almost forgot the pot pie, but its delicious bubbling fragrance finally brought him back to the oven.
Uncle Massey staggered into the kitchen, his whiskey bottle empty. "Crazy kid! Now what are you up to?"
"I'm going to eat this pot pie," Mike said, scorching his fingers on the aluminum pan as he juggled it back to the table. "You can go back up and look at Orion. I'm going to eat."
At that moment it seemed to Mike that he had found the real purpose of life. Let others dream and let others see things in the stars and let others run the world if that was what they wanted to do. But the purpose of life, whether they realized it or not, was a mouthful of good food, a comfortable night's sleep, maybe a tussle with a woman, and very little else. Everything else was crazy.
The first forkful of pie--it was chicken--was so hot it blistered his mouth, so hot he did not even have the presence of mind to spit it out, so hot that he let it burn into his tongue for several irretrievable seconds, so hot that he simply swallowed it in desperation. Something very peculiar happened within his esophagus and reality, of a kind we seldom care to encounter, burst upon him more radiant than the rising sun. His eyes glassy and queer, he slowly walked to the sink, fastened his lips to the tap, and drank.
Massey watched, ignorant of the young man's pain. "First you starve yourself. Then you eat everything in the house. Damned if I understand."
Mike, his mouth totally numb, returned to the pot pie and ate it to the last. He did not taste a thing. That night ,in a dream he forgot upon awakening, the Hunter encountered the bear. Their struggle was mighty, but it is not recorded who won.
Storyarts the end
