Kafka's Uncle and Other Strange Tales Read online

  Kafka claps Anslenot about the shoulders. “Knew you’d see it my way, kid, just knew it. Well, hey, pardner, I gotta go—have yourself an interesting life. Boy, I sure have, and look how I turned out. You take care now.”

  Anslenot simply stares, almost uncomprehending, while Kafka gets back into his car and slams the door. He leans out the window.

  “Oh, hey, good talking with you kid—where’d you say James and Boren was?”

  Dazed, Anslenot raises his hand and points down the street.

  Kafka grins and nods his head. “Got it. Thanks. No problem, no problem. It’s a great life. Boy. Who woulda thought? What a metamorphosis, eh? Who woulda thought. Just take it from me, my friend, invest in Microsoft stock and get yourself a lady. Man, no more bucket riding for me. You know what I did to those fuckers who wouldn’t give me coal? Bought the place and became their new landlord—oh, they didn’t own the place and they didn’t recognize me—but remember that real cold stretch back last winter—three weeks of sub-freezing—oh, them bastards. Raised their rent 600%. They couldn’t afford it. Out in the ice. Served ‘em right. Well, hey, pardner, I gotta go—you take care now.”

  And with that, he roars off. Anslenot stares, sits back against the bench, closes his eyes and when he opens them again, in front of him is a 1958 Blue T-bird, and in the front seat, the white, sequined spider; it looks over to Anslenot, not even trying to sound like Elvis Presley, hisses the lyrics to But Love Me.

  Abruptly, the white of the spider fades and becomes black, and the rubies and diamonds fall off in rattling cascades.

  Anslenot looks around; in the distance, an explosion and the trees are defoliated; the air becomes a yellow murk. “What—” says Anslenot, “what—what—where?”

  “Your friend?” whispers the spider. “He’s gone. He’s gone forever. You’re on your own now. Ah, it’s too bad it wasn’t what you thought it was. But then, what is?”

  “But what do I—where—”

  “I don’t know,” says the spider. And with that, the T-bird goes roaring off, only to lose control and flip end over end, down the street and off into the distance.

  Chapter 3

  Busride

  Anslenot decides that it may be time to be moving on; he decides to take the bus. By the time the bus comes, it is dark. Anslenot climbs on board, and, while paying his fare, looks to the busdriver. “Romano?” he says. “Is that you?”

  “Indeed it is, dear brother.”

  “Good God,” says Anslenot, “how long have you been out in these parts?”

  Romano pulls away from the curb. “A while,” he says. He is still lean and small, thinks Anslenot; how different we are.

  “You’re looking well,” says Romano. “You always were a muscular brute.”

  Anslenot laughs, then looks around. “Empty bus?”

  Romano smiles. “Not for long.”

  “How long has it been?” asks Anslenot.

  “Ten years,” says Romano, slowing for another stop.

  “Ten years,” says Anslenot. “I haven’t spoken to anyone in the family for ten years,” he sighs. “It was just as well. It was too crazy. Good to leave it all behind, not have to deal with it anymore.”

  Romano says nothing but opens the door to the bus and a young lady steps on. She pays her fare and looks at Anslenot.

  “You jerk,” she says. “What was the idea of leaving us to take care of the parents? Why should you have gotten away?”

  “Christina,” Anslenot says, “my sister Christina—I didn’t know you were up here—”

  She sits across the aisle, opening her purse and rearranging the contents thereof while she speaks to him. “—it was a mess, God it was a mess and I don’t blame you for leaving but God it was such a mess...”

  “I don’t understand,” says Anslenot, “I don’t see either of you for ten years and now, all of a sudden, I’m meeting you.”

  It’s as if no one hears Anslenot’s comment.

  “...yeah,” Romano says, “it was pretty rough all right.”

  “Listen,” says Anslenot, “while I’m glad to see both of you, I don’t need to hear this bullshit. You could have left too. Are you angry at me for leaving or are you angry at yourselves for not having left like I did?”

  But before anyone can answer, the bus slows, stops and—

  “Uncle Aba, Aunt Jana—” says Anslenot.

  “Howdy, pardner,” says Uncle Aba, vigorously shaking Anslenot’s hand. “Ain’t seen you in years. Where ya been keeping yourself?”

  “Dear,” says Aunt Jana, extending her hand like something delicate, made of fine china. “Dear,” she says again, “how are you?”

  Anslenot shakes his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen you folks in years, and all of a sudden, you’re all over.”

  “Dear,” says Aunt Jana, withdrawing her hand as though a queen having somehow beknighted a suitor, “such things are in the realm of Providence and are not to be questioned.”

  “Yeah,” says Uncle Aba, grabbing a vertical pole as the bus swerves out from the curb. “Funny how it all happens you know? Funny how it works. Yeah, it’s been a long while, but I sure can’t blame ya for leaving, boy, I really can’t. Boy, yer parents were drunken sots if I ever saw. Yeah, I thought you had guts when you left. You really did.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” says Anslenot. “Some of my family don’t think it was such a great idea.”

  His aunt and uncle sit down behind Christina. “Gotta follow your heart, boy,” says Uncle Aba.

  “Dear,” says Aunt Jana, to her husband.

  “It’s true,” says Uncle Aba, “just as I was born naked, it’s true.”

  “Well, it sure made it hard on us,” says Christina, looking into a pocket mirror and putting on lipstick.

  “Trapped,” says Uncle Aba, “loyal and trapped. That was the problem with you and Romano. Loyal and trapped by your loyalty. Ah,” he says with disgust. “You gotta get out there. You just gotta go out there and do it, you know?”

  Anslenot licks his lips. Finally he looks to Romano. “This is too strange. This is really strange. I haven’t seen anyone for years and all of a sudden, I’m seeing everyone on this bus ride. I think I want off at the next stop.”

  Christina snaps her purse shut. “There you go. Running away.”

  “Atta boy,” says Uncle Aba, “but...”

  “Better look outside,” says Romano.

  Anslenot does. Outside it is snowing. “What?” says Anslenot, “What? Where are we? It was 85 degrees and July when I got on the bus... where the hell are we? What happened?”

  “Good questions,” says Romano. “I’m just the bus driver and a long forgotten brother. I just drive the bus.”

  “But... but...” begins Anslenot. He then sighs and says, “I’ll take my chances. It’s got to be less crazy out there than it is in here.”

  “Look again,” says Romano.

  Anslenot does. Through the snow, he sees a reddish sky and an immense volcano in the distance and... no vegetation. Stupefied, he stares.

  “That’s carbon dioxide snow,” says Romano, “and this is Mars.”

  “What?” says Anslenot. “It can’t be.”

  “Nothing but,” says Romano.

  “But... but... but,” begins Anslenot, “you can’t drive on Mars.”

  “Oh, yes I can,” says Romano, “and so can this bus—”

  “But... but...”

  “Told you it was going to be an interesting ride,” says Romano, pulling over to let on even more passengers. And somehow the door has been replaced with an air-lock and the figures who come on are suited. The two figures remove their helmets.

  “Oh, my God,” says Anslenot, “oh, my God. Mother and Father.”

  “Well, look who’s here,” says Anslenot’s mother, “it’s the little renegade, himself.” Anslenot’s father saddles up behind his wife. “Enjoy your ten years of freedom, boy? Enjoy that? You really thought you could get away, forget, bl
ot out your family?”

  Anslenot looks up from his seat, stricken. “I’d hoped,” he whispers, “that might be the case.”

  Anslenot’s mother laughs. “Oh, how the younger generation thinks. As if they are independent of their past, their roots. It’s all so amusing.”

  “Is there no escape?” whispers Anslenot, beseechingly.

  As if an answer, the bus pulls over again, and through the airlock, four more figures. Removing their helmets, Anslenot sees who they are. “Oh, my God,” he wails, “my grandparents.” He shivers. “Are they sober?” he whispers. “Are they going to hit each other?” Then looking up at his mother and father, “You? Are they going to hit you? Are you going to end up hitting us? Does this start all over again? Is there no escape? Is there no escape?”

  In answer, everyone on the bus bursts out laughing; shamed and embarrassed, Anslenot looks out the window and watches the red sands of Mars roll by.

  Chapter 4

  Elvis Martian

  The bus passes through a long, unlit tunnel and it is suddenly quiet. Abruptly, the light returns. Anslenot is in a room and a Martian stands in the doorway. The Martian is dressed in Levis, leather jacket, and stands with a guitar dangling from his shoulders. He has an Elvis wig on, mod sunglasses and looks hauntingly similar to Elvis Presley, except for the pale, blue skin.

  Anslenot glances out the window to the Martian countryside with canals running toward the low hills in the distance under a deep blue-black sky. “Well,” he says, “now that you’re here—”

  “Don’t Be Cruel,” says the Martian Elvis; it strums an off-key chord of his guitar.

  “I hadn’t planned to be cruel,” Anslenot says, “I just wonder what you are doing here.” He looks back to the scene of Mars outside. “I wonder what I’m doing here.” Anslenot looks around the room. On the wall are pictures of a woman he knew when he was young—or younger. Slender, green eyes, long brown hair. And others on the wall, another lady, ah, what was her name—Mindy, he remembers. She was short, had a little vertical cleft in her chin and a delightful laugh and liked to dress in flowered dresses. Anslenot feels a longing.

  Elvis the Martian strums another off-key chord. “Heartbreak Hotel,” it says.

  Anslenot knows the lyrics to that song all too well.

  Elvis says nothing. It glances around the room. Abruptly, it sneezes; yeeeek-kac!

  Anslenot startles. He’s never heard a Martian sneeze before, much less an Elvis Martian.

  “Gesundheit,” says Anslenot.

  Elvis strikes another off-key chord.

  “I don’t understand,” says Anslenot. “What am I doing here? What do you want?”

  Elvis gyrates its hips like the real Elvis did when he first was becoming famous. An image shoots through Anslenot’s mind of Elvis on the Ed Sullivan show and the network censors blacking out Elvis’ swivel hips from the bottom part of the picture. “Doncha have a girlfriend for that?” Anslenot asks.

  “Lonely Town,” replies Elvis softly.

  “You and me both,” Anslenot says. “Look at all these pictures, all the people that I’ve known, all the women, and where are they now?” He thinks for a minute. “Is it any wonder? Several I sure didn’t treat very well.”

  Whang, “Hound Dog.”

  “I don’t deny it,” Anslenot says. “I didn’t treat a lot of people very well.” He looks out the window, “Least of all—myself. Wonder if that has anything to do with me being on Mars. Although,” he pauses, staring out the window to the lush beds of vegetation, and to the nearby cities, buildings of spires, onion domes and strangely angular and baroque buildings, reminding Anslenot of a mixture of prophetic views of cities in the future by science fiction artists and Stalinist Neo-Gothic architecture, “I can’t help but wonder—I mean, it’s pleasant out there. Innocent and pleasant.”

  The Martian adjusts its Elvis wig and mod sunglasses. Anslenot looks around the room again, and looks at a picture of his mother. “And her,” Anslenot wonders out loud, “what about her? What did she want of me?”

  “Teddy Bear,” says the Martian Elvis. Twang.

  Anslenot nods. “Probably lots of truth to that, ‘ol, buddy,” he says, “lots of truth to that.”

  The Martian begins to gyrate its hips again and says, “Love Me Tender.”

  “You got it wrong,” Anslenot says, “I’m not into that sort of thing. Get your life patched up. Talk to Priscilla.”

  “Jailhouse Rock,” Elvis responds.

  “That bad, huh? So what are you going to do? I mean, you standing there in Elvis garb, plunking on a guitar and you may sort of look like Elvis but I know you’re not, so exactly what do you want? What is this about?”

  “Are You Lonely Tonight?”

  Anslenot shakes his head. “You got it bad. You got it really bad. I told you, I’m not into what you’re thinking. Sorry. Wish I knew what else I could do for you.”

  The Martian strums another off-key chord. “Blue Suede Shoes.”

  Anslenot glances out the window. Something is changing. He doesn’t know what it is, but something bad, real bad, is beginning to happen out there. “Somehow,” and Anslenot looks at the Martian, “somehow, I think that that’s the least of your problems, our problems, Mr. Elvis, Mr. Martian, whatever you are. Behind all the fame and fortune or quest for it, I can’t believe you’re really happy—or that such things would make anyone really happy—”

  Crash, the guitar drops to the floor and the Elvis Martian yells, “Caught In A Trap—” and it madly flees from the room, screaming, “I can’t get out—” Anslenot hears the slam of the outer door to the building. Turning, Anslenot looks out the window to see Elvis Martian wildly running about. Abruptly, the sky turns pink, the cities vanish, as do the canals. A massive Jupiter rises, filling the sky with red, orange and yellow clouds and just as the Great Red Spot lifts over the horizon, Elvis stops, staggers—and explodes.

  Chapter 5

  Phobos Comes A Stumblin’

  All shook up by what he sees, Anslenot decides he needs to relax and climbs into a bathtub. Out the window, he sees the pink Martian sky. He is glad for the thick glass. It’s chilly out there. The bathroom is tiled in red and blue. There are depictions in the tile of a once-proud race, of cities, of pastel and gentle colors. The bathroom is vast and as he looks around, he discovers a Martian, a different one, sitting in the corner reading a Playboy. When the Martian gets to the centerfold, its eyes suddenly glow blue and it emits a high-pitched whine. Anslenot glances over. “Horny or just blowing off steam or did you just come?”

  “Eeeeeeeeeeee,” says the Martian. It folds the centerfold back, sighs, presses a button on the wall. The surrounding area of the wall becomes a display panel. Immediately, the bathroom is filled with the sounds of a jungle. There are roars, raspy bird calls and the sound of something massive crashing through brush.

  “Your idea of music?” says Anslenot, scrunching down into the bathtub further.

  “Bleek,” says the Martian. It picks up another magazine, The Pink Tattler and Anslenot reads the headlines. “No!” “Yes!” and “Maybe.”

  The sound of an elephant trumpeting fills the room.

  Anslenot sighs. “Is it absolutely necessary that Martians accompany their guests when they take baths? Are you curious or just afraid guests will make the water somehow unfit for recycling or what?”

  “Ga-heeb,” says the Martian.

  “It can’t be because you’re afraid of wasting water—this tub is huge! Was your civilization known for bathing orgies or what?”

  The Martian smiles and thumbs through the Pink Tattler. The call of something fearsome reverberates through the bathroom. Anslenot sinks lower in the water, suddenly feeling very vulnerable and abruptly noticing that he can’t locate his clothes or a towel. “Where’s my clothes?” he calls to the Martian. “What’d you do—” He stops.

  The head of a spider begins to rise like some sort of strange sun over the rim of the tub. In a weird, insecti
al hiss, it says, “You ask too many questions. Just enjoy the pleasant incongruities of life. Have fun—”

  Anslenot screams to the Martian, “Save me!” Strangely modest, he covers his privates with his hands.

  The spider has its front legs on the rim of the tub. “We all spend too much time worrying about minor, inconsequential matters,” it says. It begins to clamber over the tub rim. Anslenot, frozen in fear, cannot move.

  The Martian grabs another Playboy, opens up the centerfold and goes, “Eeeeeeeeeeee!” again. It points a finger at the display again and the Beatles song, Help! blasts out.

  The spider hisses the lyrics to Help! and pauses on the rim.

  “Help!” screams Anslenot.

  The spider, poised as if it’s contemplating going into the water continues to hiss the lyrics to Help!

  “Help!” screams Anslenot to the Martian, “Help!”

  Splosh—the spider falls into the bathtub—and begins to dissolve, turning into black ink; mortified, Anslenot watches the blackness then fill with stars and galaxies. And as the first, terrible cold touches Anslenot’s toes, the Martian throws the Playboy above his head, screams “Eeeeeeeeeeee!” and its eyes blaze blue.

  Chapter 6

  Lovefire

  —and Anslenot just falls into another dream only to find himself driving a 1978 battered Pontiac Firebird down a road in a swampy part of Venus. The Martian is with him again. Anslenot says nothing. The blue Martian picks up a bottle of wine off the floorboard and takes a gulp.

  “You really like that shit, don’t you,” says Anslenot.

  “Quee-brd,” says the Martian. It takes another drink.

  “That’s the third bottle and we’ve only been on the road five hours. Are you alcoholic?”

  The Martian vigorously shakes its head. “Kwud.”

  “I think you’re in denial,” says Anslenot. “Alcoholics usually are.” He reaches over. “Gimme a drink.”

  “Kraee-ruptla-squuz,” says the Martian pointing at Anslenot as he gives the bottle to him.