The Water-Method Man

A what? Bogus thought. He realized that he had to go see the fucking movie.

Part of the reason why he wanted to see it had nothing to do with the reviews. He wanted to see Tulpen again, but he couldn't quite bear the thought of her seeing him. Trumper as voyeur, and interested party, would go see Fucking Up.

He had a job interview at the Litchfield Community College of the Liberal Arts in Torrington, Connecticut, which was more or less on the way to New York. After his interview, he could sneak into the city and see the film.

It turned out that the job opening was for two sections of a survey of British literature and two sections of expository writing for freshmen. The chairman of the English department was impressed with Trumper's credentials, especially the Old Low Norse. 'Gosh,' the chairman said, 'we don't even have a foreign-language requirement here.'

His mind a simmering stew, Trumper got to the Village in time for the nine o'clock showing of Fucking Up. The sight of his name among the sound and acting credits impressed him, though he fought it. The finished version was a lot more fluid than he remembered it; he found himself looking at it expectantly, as at a photograph album full of old friends in funny clothes and ten pounds lighter. But it was all very predictable; he remembered everything, right up until the end, when he saw the scene he'd only over

heard: Tulpen in the bathtub, telling Ralph and Kent that it was time for them to leave.

Then he saw the scenes he'd patched together of his own leaving. Ralph had reversed the order of their appearance. There was Trumper leaving the pet shop, saying, 'Goodbye, Ralph. I don't want to be in your movie any more.' There were Trumper and Tulpen and Colm on the subway to the Bronx Zoo, with Trumper's voice-over saying, 'Tulpen, I am sorry. But I do not want a child.'

Then came two new scenes.

Tulpen in exercise tights is performing the preparatory exercises for natural childbirth: deep-breathing, odd squat-thrusts, and the like. Ralph's voice-over says, 'He left her.'

Then a shot of Tulpen working in the editing room. The camera sees her from behind; she is sitting down, and only when she turns her head do we recognize her, in profile. Slowly, she acknowledges the camera's presence; she looks over her shoulder into the lens, then turns away. She couldn't care less about the camera. Offstage, Ralph asks, 'Are you happy?'

Tulpen seems self-conscious. She gets up from her workbench with an odd gesture; from behind, her elbow lifts like the wing of a bird. But Trumper knows: she is lifting her lovely breast with the back of her hand.

When she turns in a full-length profile to the camera, we see that she is pregnant.

'You're pregnant ...' Ralph's voice nags.

Tulpen gives the camera a no-shit sort of look. Her hands are busy, tucking the shapeless folds of her maternity dress around her great abdomen.

'Whose baby is it?' Ralph says relentlessly.

There is no hesitation, only a casual shrug of her breasts, but she won't face the camera. 'His,' Tulpen says.

The image freezes to a still, over which the credits appear.

When the lights came on, there was a crush of Greenwich Village film addicts all around him. He sat as if anesthetized, until he realized that no one could get past his splayed knees; then he rose and walked up the aisle with the crowd.

In the lobby's miasma of sickly light and candy smells, kids were lighting cigarettes and milling around; trapped in the slow-moving crowd, Trumper overheard snatches of talk.

'What a perfect shit,' a girl said.

'I don't know, I don't know,' someone complained. 'Packer gets more and more hung up on himself, you know?'

'Well, I liked it, but ...' said a thoughtful voice.

'The acting was really OK, you know ...'

'They weren't exactly actors ...'

'Well, OK, the people, then ...'

'Yeah, great.'

'Good camera work too.'

'Yeah, but he didn't do anything with it ...'

'You know what I say when I see a film like this?' a voice asked. 'I say, "So what?" That's what I say, man.'

'Give me the keys, motherfuck ...'