Idea from Toccata. Thanks.
Short story follows a bit of background. I've split it up with some examples of his work.
I used to read the short stories in Playboy (maybe after the pictures, but I really did). The following was one I've remembered for years. I had thought it was named "Of Cabbages and Kings" or something like that. It's loosely based on a Lewis Carroll story.
Background: One thing I always looked forward to was the Gahan Wilson cartoon (in Playboy). He had dark humor and a style that I really liked. I'm not an artist but I liked the cross hatching of his drawings and his sense of humor. Dark. An unconventional look at things.
Amazon (not to steal) gave me this about the story I remember:
In "The Sea Was Wet As Wet Can Be," perhaps the book's (a collection of his) most chilling tale, Wilson combines Lewis Carroll, the vapid lives of the well-to-do and genuine horror with impressive originality. There is a strain of social satire in many of the stories, as members of the upper classes often meet unusual?and decidedly unpleasant?
And from Wiki:
Wilson's cartoons and illustrations are drawn in a playfully grotesque style and have a dark humor that is often compared to the work of The New Yorker cartoonist and Addams Family creator Charles Addams. But while both men sometimes feature vampires, graveyards and other traditional horror elements in their work, Addams' cartoons tended to be more gothic, reserved and old-fashioned, while Wilson's work is more contemporary, gross and confrontational, featuring atomic mutants, subway monsters and serial killers. It could be argued that Addams' work was probably meant to be funny without a lot of satirical intent, while Wilson often has a very specific point to make.
Wilson was born in Evanston, Illinois in 1930. His cartoons and prose-fiction work has appeared regularly in Playboy, Collier's Weekly, The New Yorker and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. For the last he also wrote some movie and book reviews. He has been a movie review columnist for The Twilight Zone Magazine and a book critic for Realms of Fantasy magazine.
Original page where the full story is located: here
Quotes on the side of that page:
"We're like a group of sticky bugs crawling in an ugly little crowd over polished marble."
"If they would just shut up for a moment, I thought, I might be able to get the fuzz out of my head."
The Sea Was Wet as Wet Can Be
By Gahan Wilson
I felt we made an embarrassing contrast to the open serenity of the scene around us. The pure blue of the sky was unmarked by a single cloud or bird, and nothing stirred on the vast stretch of beach except ourselves. The sea, sparkling under the freshness of the early morning sun, looked invitingly clean. I wanted to wade into it and wash myself, but I was afraid I would contaminate it.
We are a contamination here, I thought. We're like a group of sticky bugs crawling in an ugly little crowd over polished marble. If I were God and looked down and saw us, lugging our baskets and our silly, bright blankets, I would step on us and squash us with my foot.
We should have been lovers or monks in such a place, but we were only a crowd of bored and boring drunks. You were always drunk when you were with Carl. Good old, mean old Carl was the greatest little drink pourer in the world. He used drinks like other types of sadists used whips. He kept beating you with them until you dropped or sobbed or went mad, and he enjoyed every step of the process.
We'd been drinking all night, and when the morning came, somebody, I think it was Mandie, got the great idea that we should all go out on a picnic. Naturally, we thought it was an inspiration, we were nothing if not real sports, and so we'd packed some goodies, not forgetting the liquor, and we'd piled into the car, and there we were, weaving across the beach, looking for a place to spread our tacky banquet.
We located a broad, low rock, decided it would serve for our table, and loaded it with the latest in plastic chinaware, a haphazard collection of food, and a quantity of bottles.
Someone had packed a tin of Spam among the other offerings, and, when I saw it, I was suddenly overwhelmed with an absurd feeling of nostalgia. It reminded me of the war and of myself soldierboying up through Italy. It also reminded me of how long ago the whole thing had been and how little I'd done of what I'd dreamed I'd do back then.
I opened the Spam and sat down to be alone with it and my memories, but it wasn't to be for long. The kind of people who run with people like Carl don't like to be alone, ever, especially with their memories, and they can't imagine anyone else might, at least now and then, have a taste for it.
My rescuer was Irene. Irene was particularly sensitive about seeing people alone because being alone had several times nearly produced fatal results for her. Being alone and taking pills to end the being alone.
"What's wrong, Phil?" she asked.
"Nothing's wrong," I said, holding up a forkful of the pink Spam in the sunlight. "It tastes just like it always did. They haven't lost their touch."
She sat down on the sand beside me, very carefully, so as to avoid spilling the least drop of what must have been her millionth Scotch.
"Phil," she said, "I'm worried about Mandie. I really am. She looks so unhappy!"
I glanced over at Mandie. She had her head thrown back and she was laughing uproariously at some joke Carl had just made. Carl was smiling at her with his teeth glistening and his eyes deep down dead as ever.
"Why should Mandie be happy?" I asked. "What, in God's name, has she got to be happy about?"
"Oh, Phil," said Irene. "You pretend to be such an awful cynic. She's alive, isn't she?"
I looked at her and wondered what such a statement meant, coming from someone who'd tried to do herself in as earnestly and as frequently as Irene. I decided that I did not know and that I would probably never know. I also decided I didn't want anymore of the Spam. I turned to throw it away, doing my bit to litter up the beach, and then I saw them.
They were far away, barely bigger than two dots, but you could tell there was something odd about them even then.
"We've got company," I said.
Irene peered in the direction of my point.
"Look, everybody," she cried, "we've got company!"
Everybody looked, just as she had asked them to.
"What the hell is this?" asked Carl. "Don't they know this is my private property?" And then he laughed.
Carl had fantasies about owning things and having power. Now and then he got drunk enough to have little flashes of believing he was king of the world.
"You tell 'em, Carl!" said Horace.
Horace had sparkling quips like that for almost every occasion. He was tall and bald and he had a huge Adam's apple and, like myself, he worked for Carl. I would have felt sorrier for Horace than I did if I hadn't had a sneaky suspicion that he was really happier when groveling. He lifted one scrawny fist and shook it in the direction of the distant pair.
"You guys better beat it," he shouted. "This is private property!"
"Will you shut up and stop being such an ass?" Mandie asked him. "It's not polite to yell at strangers, dear, and this may damn well be their beach for all you know."
Mandie happens to be Horace's wife. Horace's children treat him about the same way. He busied himself with zipping up his windbreaker, because it was getting cold and because he had received an order to be quiet.
I watched the two approaching figures. The one was tall and bulky, and he moved with a peculiar, swaying gait. The other was short and hunched into himself, and he walked in a fretful, zigzag line beside his towering companion.
"They're heading straight for us," I said.
The combination of the cool wind that had come up and the approach of the two strangers had put a damper on our little group. We sat quietly and watched them coming closer. The nearer they got, the odder they looked.
"For heaven's sake!" said Irene. "The little one's wearing a square hat!"
"I think it's made of paper," said Mandie, squinting, "folded newspaper."
"Will you look at the mustache on the big bastard?" asked Carl. "I don't think I've ever seen a bigger bush in my life."
"They remind me of something," I said.
The others turned to look at me.
"It's a good thing Effie likes these little funerals,she's had such awful luck with her pets."
Story starts again:
The Walrus and the Carpenter …
"They remind me of the Walrus and the Carpenter," I said.
"The who?" asked Mandie.
"Don't tell me you never heard of the Walrus and the Carpenter?" asked Carl.
"Never once," said Mandie.
"Disgusting," said Carl. "You're an uncultured bitch. The Walrus and the Carpenter are probably two of the most famous characters in literature. They're in a poem by Lewis Carroll in one of the Alice books."
"In Through the Looking Glass," I said, and then I recited their introduction:
"The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand …"
Mandie shrugged. "Well, you'll just have to excuse my ignorance and concentrate on my charm," she said.
"I don't know how to break this to you all," said Irene, "but the little one does have a handkerchief."
We stared at them. The little one did indeed have a handkerchief, a huge handkerchief, and he was using it to dab at his eyes.
"Is the little one supposed to be the Carpenter?" asked Mandie.
"Yes," I said.
"Then it's all right," she said, "because he's the one that's carrying the saw."
"He is, so help me, God," said Carl. "And, to make the whole thing perfect, he's even wearing an apron."
"So the Carpenter in the poem has to wear an apron, right?" asked Mandie.
"Carroll doesn't say whether he does or not," I said, "but the illustrations by Tenniel show him wearing one. They also show him with the same square jaw and the same big nose this guy's got."
"They're goddamn doubles," said Carl. "The only thing wrong is that the Walrus isn't a walrus, he just looks like one."
"You watch," said Mandie. "Any minute now he's going to sprout fur all over and grow long fangs."
Then, for the first time, the approaching pair noticed us. It seemed to give them quite a start. They stood and gaped at us, and the little one furtively stuffed his handkerchief out of sight.
"We can't be as surprising as all that!" whispered Irene.
The big one began moving forward, then, in a hesitant, tentative kind of shuffle. The little one edged ahead, too, but he was careful to keep the bulk of his companion between himself and us.
"First contact with the aliens," said Mandie, and Irene and Horace giggled nervously. I didn't respond. I had come to the decision that I was going to quit working for Carl, that I didn't like any of these people about me, except, maybe, Irene, and that these two strangers gave me the honest creeps.
Then the big one smiled, and everything was changed.
I've worked in the entertainment field, in advertising and in public relations. This means I have come in contact with some of the prime charm boys and girls in our proud land. I have become, therefore, not only a connoisseur of smiles, I am a being equipped with numerous automatic safeguards against them. When a talcumed smoothie comes at me with his brilliant ivories exposed, it only shows he's got something he can bite me with, that's all.
But the smile of the Walrus was something else.
The smile of the Walrus did what a smile hasn't done for me in years—it melted my heart. I use the cornball phrase very much on purpose. When I saw his smile, I knew I could trust him; I felt in my marrow that he was gentle and sweet and had nothing but the best intentions. His resemblance to the Walrus in the poem ceased being vaguely chilling and became warmly comical. I loved him as I had loved the teddy bear of my childhood.
"Oh, I say," he said, and his voice was an embarrassed boom. "I do hope we're not intruding!"
"I daresay we are," squeaked the Carpenter, peeping out from behind his companion.
"The, uhm, fact is," boomed the Walrus, "we didn't even notice you until just back then, you see."
"We were talking, is what," said the Carpenter.
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand …
"About sand?" I asked.
The Walrus looked at me with a startled air.
"We were, actually, now you come to mention it."
He lifted one huge foot and shook it so that a little trickle of sand spilled out of his shoe.
"The stuff's impossible," he said. "Gets in your clothes, tracks up the carpet."
"Ought to be swept away, it ought," said the Carpenter.
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"It's too much!" said Carl.
"Yes, indeed," said the Walrus, eying the sand around him with vague disapproval, "altogether too much."
Then he turned to us again, and we all basked in that smile.
"Permit me to introduce my companion and myself," he said.
"You'll have to excuse George," said the Carpenter, "as he's a bit of a stuffed shirt, don't you know?"
"Be that as it may," said the Walrus, patting the Carpenter on the flat top of his paper hat, "this is Edward Farr, and I am George Tweedy, both at your service. We are, uhm, both a trifle drunk, I'm afraid."
"We are, indeed. We are that."
"As we have just come from a really delightful party, to which we shall soon return."
"Once we've found the fuel, that is," said Farr, waving his saw in the air. By now he had found the courage to come out and face us directly.
"Which brings me to the question," said Tweedy. "Have you seen any driftwood lying about the premises? We've been looking high and low, and we can't seem to find any of the blasted stuff."
"Thought there'd be piles of it," said Farr, "but all there is is sand, don't you see?"
"I would have sworn you were looking for oysters," said Carl.
Again, Tweedy appeared startled.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech …
"Oysters?" he asked. "Oh, no, we've got the oysters. All we lack is the means to cook 'em."
" 'Course we could always use a few more," said Farr, looking at his companion.
"I suppose we could, at that," said Tweedy thoughtfully.
"I'm afraid we can't help you fellows with the driftwood problem," said Carl, "but you're more than welcome to a drink."
There was something unfamiliar about the tone of Carl's voice that made my ears perk up. I turned to look at him, and then had difficulty covering up my astonishment.
It was his eyes. For once, for the first time, they were really friendly.
I'm not saying Carl had fishy eyes, blank eyes—not at all. On the surface, that is. On the surface, with his eyes, with his face, with the handling of his entire body, Carl was a master of animation and expression. From sympathetic, heartfelt warmth, all the way to icy rage, and on every stop in-between, Carl was completely convincing.
But only on the surface. Once you got to know Carl, and it took a while, you realized that none of it was really happening. That was because Carl had died, or been killed, long ago. Possibly in childhood. Possibly he had been born dead. So, under the actor's warmth and rage, the eyes were always the eyes of a corpse.
But now it was different. The friendliness here was genuine, I was sure of it. The smile of Tweedy, of the Walrus, had performed a miracle. Carl had risen from his tomb. I was in honest awe.
"Delighted, old chap!" said Tweedy.
They accepted their drinks with obvious pleasure, and we completed the introductions as they sat down to join us. I detected a strong smell of fish when Tweedy sat down beside me, but, oddly, I didn't find it offensive in the least. I was glad he'd chosen me to sit by. He turned and smiled at me, and my heart melted a little more.
It soon turned out that the drinking we'd done before had only scratched the surface. Tweedy and Farr were magnificent boozers, and their gusto encouraged us all to follow suit.
We drank absurd toasts and were delighted to discover that Tweedy was an incredible raconteur. His specialty was outrageous fantasy: wild tales involving incongruous objects, events, and characters. His invention was endless.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings."
Story starts again.
I couldn't seem to get located. Everything seemed disorientated and grotesque.
"For Christ's sake, Phil," said Carl, "Tweedy and Farr, here, have invited us to join their party. There's no more drinks left, and they've got plenty!"
I set my plastic cup down carefully on the sand. If they would just shut up for a moment, I thought, I might be able to get the fuzz out of my head.
"Come along, sir!" boomed Tweedy jovially. "It's only a pleasant walk!"
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk"
Along the briny beach …"
He was smiling at me, but the smile didn't work anymore.
"You cannot do with more than four," I told him.
"Uhm? What's that?"
"We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
"I said, 'You cannot do with more than four.'"
"He's right, you know," said Farr, the Carpenter.
"Well, uhm, then," said the Walrus, "if you feel you really can't come, old chap …"
"What, in Christ's name, are you all talking about?" asked Mandie.
"He's hung up on that goddamn poem," said Carl. "Lewis Carroll's got the yellow bastard scared."
"Don't be such a party pooper, Phil!" said Mandie.
"To hell with him," said Carl. And he started off, and all the others followed him. Except Irene.
"Are you sure you really don't want to come, Phil?" she asked.
She looked frail and thin against the sunlight. I realized there really wasn't much of her, and that what there was had taken a terrible beating.
"No," I said. "I don't. Are you sure you want to go?"
"Of course I do, Phil."
I thought of the pills.
"I suppose you do," I said. "I suppose there's really no stopping you."
"No, Phil, there isn't."
And then she stooped and kissed me. Kissed me very gently, and I could feel the dry, chapped surface of her lips and the faint warmth of her breath.
"I wish you'd stay," I said.
"I can't," she said.
And then she turned and ran after the others.
I watched them growing smaller and smaller on the beach, following the Walrus and the Carpenter. I watched them come to where the beach curved around the bluff and watched them disappear behind the bluff.
I looked up at the sky. Pure blue. Impersonal.
"What do you think of this?" I asked it.
Nothing. It hadn't even noticed.
"Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
A dismal thing to do.
I began to run up the beach, toward the bluff. I stumbled now and then because I had had too much to drink. Far too much to drink. I heard small shells crack under my shoes, and the sand made whipping noises.
I fell, heavily, and lay there gasping on the beach. My heart pounded in my chest. I was too old for this sort of footwork. I hadn't had any real exercise in years. I smoked too much and I drank too much. I did all the wrong things. I didn't do any of the right things.
I pushed myself up a little and then I let myself down again. My heart was pounding hard enough to frighten me. I could feel it in my chest, frantically pumping, squeezing blood in and spurting blood out.
Like an oyster pulsing in the sea.
"Shall we be trotting home again?"
My heart was like an oyster.
I got up, fell up, and began to run again, weaving widely, my mouth open and the air burning my throat. I was coated with sweat, streaming with it, and it felt icy in the cold wind.
"Shall we be trotting home again?"
I rounded the bluff, and then I stopped and stood swaying, and then I dropped to my knees.
The pure blue of the sky was unmarked by a single bird or cloud, and nothing stirred on the whole vast stretch of the beach.
But answer came there none—
And this was scarcely odd, because …
Nothing stirred, but they were there. Irene and Mandie and Carl and Horace were there, and four others, too. Just around the bluff.
"We cannot do with more than four …"
But the Walrus and the Carpenter had taken two trips.
I began to crawl toward them on my knees. My heart, my oyster heart, was pounding too hard to allow me to stand.
The other four had had a picnic, too, very like our own. They, too, had plastic cups and plates, and they, too, had brought bottles. They had sat and waited for the return of the Walrus and the Carpenter.
Irene was right in front of me. Her eyes were open and stared at, but did not see, the sky. The pure blue uncluttered sky. There were a few grains of sand in her left eye. Her face was almost clear of blood. There were only a few flecks of it on her lower chin. The spray from the huge wound in her chest seemed to have traveled mainly downward and to the right. I stretched out my arm and touched her hand.
"Irene," I said.
But answer came there none—
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
I looked up at the others. Like Irene, they were, all of them, dead. The Walrus and the Carpenter had eaten the oysters and left the shell.
The Carpenter never found any firewood, and so they'd eaten them raw. You can eat oysters raw if you want to.
I said her name once more, just for the record, and then I stood and turned from them and walked to the bluff. I rounded the bluff and the beach stretched before me, vast, smooth, empty, and remote.
Even as I ran upon it, away from them, it was remote.
· · · · ·
I distrusted the Alice books from the start. My grown-ups tried to pretend they were children's books and that I should and would enjoy them, so they officially shuffled them in with the Oz and Pooh collection, but I knew better; I knew they were dangerous, and I opened them only rarely and gingerly.
Of course Tenniel's Jabberwock leapt out at me from the start (as it has, I am sure, at many another innocent child), but there were many other horrors: the simultaneously fading and grinning cat; the impeccably cruel Duchess with her "little boy"; something about Bill the Lizard floating helplessly over the chimney; the crazed creatures at the Tea Party—the worst part of it was the thing that pervaded all those images and all the other images in the books (which I knew weren't about any "Wonderland" at all, but about the very world I was trying to grow up in, only seen from some terrifyingly sophisticated point of view); the weird convincingness of Carroll's horrible message that nothing, nothing soever, made any sense at all!
If it hadn't been for brave, stolid Alice (bless her stout, young, British heart), herself a child, I don't think I could have survived those goddamn books.
But there is no Alice in this story.
Or obviously a Santa. Ha.