tuesday, february 12, 1980
pags 12
daily nebraskan
JLMlOS
A little romance beats Valentine blues
By Peg Sheldrick .
It had just started snowing-again.
In view of the rotten weather and the re
cent demise of my car's battery, not to
mention the poetic melancholy I felt'
creeping oyer me, I decided to slip into a
local pub and hold a private wake while
my feet warmed up a bit.
It was hard to adjust to the dim light
of the bar after the dull brilliance of the
snow outdoors. I glanced around the room
to see who else would be hanging around
saloons in the late afternoon to take
shelter from this, the winter of our discon
tent. (I get terribly Shakespearean when
I'm melancholy.) .
talk to and I treat him like some drunken
fraternity boy, I thought.
."Hey, wait," I said. "Please-uh-join
me. Really. I guess I'm a little over
wrought, with the weather and all. Please
sit."
He made himself right at home and
fixed me with a smile that melted the snow
on my -shoes and probably could have
revived my battery. There was definitely
something familiar about his face.
"May 1 buy you a drink?" he asked.
I nodded, not knowing quite why.
"Waitress-two Shirley Temples, please!"
He turned back to me, seeming terribly
pleased with himself. Where had I seen that
face?
"Permit me to introduce myself. I am
Love, and I am at your service."
"Swell. I am Music, and I write the
songs," I fired back. I'm sitting here with
a live one, 1 thought.
Love. Eros. Cupid
"No, it's true. I am Love-Eros-Cupid,
; Mm?
The only other patron there was a short,
humpbacked old man in a worn-looking
overcoat seated at the bar.
Probably a wino, I thought. Hope he
doesn't come my way.
As if in answer to my unspoken insult,
1A faasM Att MttlrAl 1 1 A MUMMY
lie aim iiuiu ma siuui, puncu up a gumiy.
sack, and made a beeline for my table.
Perfect, I thought. Just what I need,
an over-age hustler. ;
Familiar face
He came closer, and I was surprised by
the boyishness of his face, like a pudgy
baby's. It was familiar somehow. He was
not tall, and the curve of his back made
his body seem old, for all its corpulence,
"Good afternoon, Miss," he said. "How
are you this fine day, and may I ask how
vou feel about Love?"
"It's Ms. to you, buster, and, no, you
may not ask." ;
"You misunderstand me, my girl.
I'm asking you an honest question. Do you
believe in Love?"
"I believe in Mace, and I'm going to
use some on you if you don't buzz off, '
buddy. You think just because I'm here
alone you can come over here and hand
me some hokey line and 111 buy it. Well,
you got me wrong, pal, so just leave me
alone." . ; , -
The little man sighed heavily, "I
suppose you're right. I did have you wrong.
I saw that kindly -looking face of yours
and there I was all alone and there you
were all alone, and I was simply hoping
we might share the table, pass the time of
; day, save the barmaid a few steps is all.
But you're right, I was wrong." .
Felt like a heel
I felt like a heel. Here's this harmless
old guy, no where to go and nobody to
if you like. Call me what you will. I am
Love. Look at my face. Don't you know
me?"
"Well, you do look familiar. But . . ."
I studied his face again, and suddenly it
came to me. I had seen that face before,
on 1,000 Valentines, 100, candy boxes.
Without the fedora and the coat, all he
needed was a heart-shaped frame of lace
to peer through and he could pass for
Cupid any day.
"Okay you arc cherubic, 111 admit.
But Cupid? I think not."
"But it's true, lass. Here, look here."
He drew the gunny sack into his lap and
proceeded to extract a small red bow and
three arrows.
'What are you doing with that? Don't
you know it's against the law to carry a
concealed weapon? Put that thing away
and get rid of it before somebody spots
it." ,
Rubbery arrows
"But it isn't a weapon. Truly. Here,
feel the tip," he said, holding an arrow out
to me. Reluctantly I reached out and
touched it. It was rubbery and soft.
"Okay, so it's harmless. Just put them
away, huh?"
"Ah, but it isn't harmless either. .Hen,,
heh. You should know that."
"Look, friend, I know it pleases you
to play at this, but let's come back to
Earth, okay? There's no' such thing as
Cupid. And even if there were, what would
he be doing in a joint like this?"
His eyes misted over. It was a moment
before he spoke, "Suppose he-he really
did exist. Suppose he got-discouraged.
Just look at these little arrows. Think
they're likely to pierce much of anything?
Think he's had much success in art age
where sex seems to be beating him to the
punch at every turn?
"Would these little darts get through
all the cynicism and selfishness that
shrouds a modern soul? Wouldn't he get
a bit discouraged when even a kindly
young lady doesn't believe in Love?
Wouldn't that be enough to drive a cherub
to drink?"
Sipping Shirley Temples
. He took a long sip of his Shirley Temple.
"Wouldn't that be enough?"
I studied him a moment. "Yeah, I sup
pose so." 1 eyed the hump on his back.
The outline of two soft-looking lumps,
almost like-but naw, I thought. Naw.
"It's just I get depressed this time of
year over the state of romance. There
doesn't seem to be much place for it these
days. Love seems to be a one-person affair
anymore."
Continued on page 13
Mschman's new bo
. By Scott Kleager
Mystical fantasy, since George McDonald's classic
works, The Princess and the Goblin and The Princess and
the Curdie, has retained the same basic characteristics that
define what is fantasy and that which is not.
n n
Augmented by the later works of C.S. Lewis, J.R.R.
Tolkien and, more recently, Madeleine LTingle, fantasy
has branched off to become a genre of its own. Contain
ing some mystical, unexplainable good force, the heroic
quest resulting in some form of maturation, an evil force
that battles good, and the functionary heroine or hero,
this genre has become nearly rigid.
The Man Who Rode His 10-Specd to the Moon by
Bernard Fischman represents a new publication that may
further shape fantasy.
Becoming invisible
The story of Stephan Aaron, a New Yorker who
realizes he is entirely numb to feelings and consequently
feels he is becoming invisible, is classic in that it is
mystical from the start. The main character begins to feel
that the wheels of his bike are floating above the ground
when he rides because of, hi reasons, his waxing trans
parency. He decides to ridi to the moon-and does.
. Of course the trip represents more than just pedaling
to the moon, just like Frodo and Sam's trip to Mount
Doom in Tolkien's" Lord of The Rings is more than just a
physical challenge. The tlight symbolizes Aaron's heroic
quest for himself and his maturation.
'This time I will not turn away from myself," he
thinks as he pedals up the ramp to the sidewalk on the top
deck of the bridge. Like Curdies's trip into the caves in
McDonald's The Princess and the Goblin, Aaron looks for
and finds an understanding of a universal force that not
only defines his being, but puts all things in their rightful
place.
Gassic fantasy
The story's treatment of time and space is also an
example of classic fantasy. Days seem to linger on when
Stephan Aaron is bike-riding. There is no description of
when all this is taking place and the texture of the
narrative is almost water-like. The main character drifts in
and out of dream-like situations; when he is on his bike it
is hard for the reader and him to tell whether he's
fantasizing or not.
Certain qualities of this work step into new types of
fantasy, and may redefine the genre somewhat. Aaron's
feeling of transparency, for example, offers an open
reference to feelings that one doesn't find in most fantasy.
Usually, as in C.S. Lewis or Tolkien works, the battle
between good and evil is exterior and reflects the struggle
of one human being with himself.
Hauntingly real
Instead of making The Man Who Rode His WSpeed to
the Moon less exciting, this characteristic makes for a
hauntingly real and relatable account and is a step forward
from the masterpieces that preceded it. '
Another quality of the work that somewhat redefines
the. genre but stays within the boundaries of what can be
considered classic fantasy is the author's masteriul witch.
Pia. ,
In the beginning she seems to be a manifestation of the
classic witch, magically appearing as if out of thin air, and
unexpectedly disappearing. She seems to be causing
Aaron's mystical experiences as well as knowing the
answers to all his difficult questions.
Witchery of life
But in the end, at the point of revelation, he finds her
to be human and representing "-the witchery of life.
That part of ourselves that keeps reaching out, knowing
no barriers-."
The Man Who Rode His lOSpeed to the Moon is a
unique and pioneering blend of classic mystical fantasy
and modem psychological straight -forwardness that adds
another dimension to a solidly defined genre, while at the
same time staying within its limits. It is a fine book that
deserves to be read.
