Kramden

By Jesse Riggs

The man is a metrical subsidy, a colonized sandwich of bones and shellfish, still solely existing on one permanently righteous cause, from which he cannot unfold. He is the stanza behind the door, the pill of the pharmacist’s addiction, the statute of salvation.  He’s a crammed-in acolyte, a martyr to sacrifice, a beacon to Sodom.  No tea party can melt his heart, his ambition.  He is Kramden.  He is solid.  His glance sears the grim stitches of my blouse, blue, and white cotton, shoulder pads lightly touched with his thousand fingers.  He is Kramden, of Whitefalls and Associates.  His lick seals my lips with a shudder.  What body is sumptuous, what cold disdain can pacify the needy to a frantic hush in the middle of twilight dawn?  Who but Kramden can join the meeting of the mountain?  Shakes hands with purity, nods toward sound judgment, falls apart blaring a still mosaic in the honor of the giant Philistine.  His loins are girded with Milton, his mighty sword is a swept balcony, full of aristocrats, wealthy diplomats watching a stage full of boys sound asleep dreaming of a slaughter in a great age.  Their minds are at ease because of Kramden, slayer of foes, payer of bills, pallbearer of legends.  In a still photo, Kramden has broad shoulders, his toenails never touch the ground, the knot of his tie is bold, men are awed of his palpable spunk.  Should partner or slaver waver, should hound so autistically bray, have gun will so audibly travel, to Minneapolis they will say that Kramden stopped the train from laughing, Kramden called for more, he sold the client’s account, he prayed in the bowels of earthly spew.

     . . . beyond me he sheds his coat.  There are no leaves on his shoes.  I imagine him sipping on his brandy, leaving his spit to mix, he doesn’t know its there, he thinks it must still be in his mouth.  But Kramden sold his last account; Kramden sold his last scrap of soul.  His buyers are devilish, I’ve seen them, they count for nothing.  His august brow furrows, look, there, the lines are irrigation ditches, giving jobs to the scabs.  Work, he is always at work.  I’ve seen him drink coffee; I’ve seen him drink whiskey; I’ve seen him drink scotch and soda; I’ve seen him in tumblers, in fedoras, in bowlers; always going to work.  Kramden will succeed, I say.  Kramden is a golem, arising from the dirt.  He has a bad back.  His eyes are enriched by hallowed glass, he is fouled by my touch.  His coat sleeves are adorned with elbow leather that cushion his maligned thoughts. 

In creation, Adam should have been called Kramden, and Kramden should have named the beasts, and Kramden would have never fallen, because Kramden has no soul to sin.  His Eve should have been called Kramden also, so that she would not have bedded the serpent.  Instead, Kramden would have handled his real estate, traded gibes and bought his trust, sipped martinis and laughed gaily at the wind.  Becoming fast friends with Kramden, Lucifer would yet again be beautiful in the eyes of God.   Serpents would not crawl forth on their bellies, their heads would not be smitten by the heel.  There would be only one language, the language of Kramden, because there would be no tower of Babel to temper the wrath of God, who distinguished and dispersed the tongues.  The terra would be whole; the sun would still revolve around it.  The stars would still sing; no lines at the DMV. The Garden of Kramden would still exist with only Kramden and Kramden to keep society with God. 

He said to me, “In real estate, there is no heaven.  I used to think I could shoot the moon.  I could even see the holes that it left.  Shoot, I never thought any different till I was ten years old.  I wasn’t thick; I believed in God.  You probably believed in Santa Claus for longer than that. . .  But there were times when I thought of heaven, and how I’d live forever, and ever, and ever.  I thought of it as a long, long road that led to nowhere, and you’d meet people along the way, but it wasn’t interesting.  It felt like heaven was a punishment, never being able to end, and it made me sick to my stomach.  And there were other times when I had the flashlight out with me at night, and I would point it up at the sky and the light disappeared.  That was when I realized that I really couldn’t shoot the moon, and it scared me.  I felt like we were all the contents of some capsule for the universe to swallow up, and that made me angry.  I stopped believing in God, later, when I got into real estate.  There’s an up and down to it; I feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be, right where I am.  And when it ends, it ends, period.  There’s no heaven.  There’s only real estate.” 

So. . . ”The meaning publicized by the young announcer shredded every confidence I had in mediocrity.  Life becomes stale, shallow.  Mice come out and eat all the cheese; the cuckoos shock about the night singing ‘Girls, Girls, Girls,’ and chase tail, looting the Swiss clock shops and performing violent acts toward their oppressors, fingering clockmakers for imprisoning their free spirits.  Sure.  All our gods come from China now, and pretty soon we’ll be putting tiny little figurines of abused children making Nike hightops inside, all twirling, spinning, singing merry little tunes when the clock strikes the hour.  And we’ll go through the same shit we had to put up with with the cuckoos.  Well, fine, if we’re gonna sit back, then let’s just watch the show.  Whaddaya think, Kramden?  Fuck, if we’re gonna sit back then we might as well watch the show, eh?  I say let the cuckoos wipe themselves out, good riddance.  And if you ask     me. . . how’s that Kramden?  You say the government will handle it?  Fuck the government.  Fuck politics.  Fuck all the little merry-go-rounds, and shits-on-a-brick.  Fuck all the crack-whores, the pimps, the addicts, the time-share yuppies, the fish in their tanks, the three point two children, hell, fuck A-1 Steak Sauce.  Kramden, you’re an educated man, you see what’s happening to our nation.  Don’t you?”. . . And. . .  “Sure.”. . . Then. . .       “That’s what I thought.  You’re a yes man in a no world, I respect that, you can’t find many of those these days.  We’re ruled by tv and celebrity, our lives are measured in. . . how’s that go, ‘tea cups and coffee spoons’?  Did I get that right?  Anyway, you’ve only got so many days, Kramden, live 'em up, boy.  Listen, see that brunette over there, with her tits and her. . . tits.  Go fuck her, Kramden.” . . .  ”Okay” . . .  “There he goes boys, God.  Do you SEE? With more people like Kramden our country would be a whole helluva lot better.”

     With more people like Kramden, people would live to one hundred seventy three, because the people that are like Kramden are afraid to die, and so they won’t die, at least till they hit the mark, and then they must die.  Billions of lambs too old to take their lives; a population of poor masticators, shitting, puking, laughing at birds.  When science failed to extend their lives, they stopped living, and did not die.  They are a collection of Not-Diers.  Kramden told me of a dog he had.  He was mauled, poisoned, bludgeoned, mistreated, ran over, and riddled with cancerous tumors.  Whatever makes us Not Die only gives us corns.  The dog was a blister that became so thick and calloused he couldn’t move, and ended up a lump in the utility room, pissing and shitting and Not Dying.

     Mars is colonized in 2153, before the moon.  Kramden is Not Dead.  He’s a lump. He shelved real estate, gave away to rheumatism, shucked the whole goddamn slice of pie and slowly dissipated into a silent shriek.  Milton has vacated his loins and stolen the pillows and towels.  He melted his sword into a plowshare, where the boys on stage awake to a drama of fire and gnashing of teeth, cursing the name of Kramden while the democrats click their tongues, unmoved by the scene.  Where obituaries eulogize the Not Dead, Kramden’s reads, “In 2153, Kramden is Not Dead on Tuesday, where he exists with his thumb up his ass, passing the rest of his Not-Death with some stringency.  Kramden was a real estate agent for Whitefalls and Associates up until his Not-Death.  It is confirmed that he did Not Die because of his transference to Mars, galled with partial complacency by the idea of whoring out land not of this earth.  Meanwhile, his survivors are his wife who is dead.  His greatest contribution to life was, ‘With a Big Enough Flashlight You Can See Heaven.’ Isn’t that stupid?” 

     There is a plane of existence higher than Not Dying.  Kramden will have seemed to have wasted his life in the putrescent roils of Not Death, since so many have gone that way, but not many at all have gotten further that that.  Kramden’s physical existence has been broken down into symbolic meanings.  There’s nothing more embalming than being written about.  Say hello, Kramden.  “Hello, Kramden.”

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