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Show Acting Alone Page 441 to do with these Peckinpah-derivative home-movies with all this obviously fake gore spilling red and cheap as watermelon pulp out of stiff, unnatural, robotic, bad, local method actors, Sam dozed off, dreaming not of Peckinpah but of Chaucer now. And then came a hazy, green, mercifully wordless dream, all silent, of his little Jewboy-buddy-from-wayback wandering and crying alone in the hills, lost and bewildered in the strangely ruined zombie camp where he'd once been happy and productive, part of a community, not on the lam for arson and worse - And Sam's body would' flex in his sleep, the dozing couch would seem about to cave in under the 303 pound earthquake. Sister Polycarpana would reach out in the green-glowing darkness and touch his hands which had the chronic shakes, trembling bone-deep ever since he'd bonged Spikey with the civil defense foldup shovel. Only holding Sister Polycarpana's hand could make them stop shaking long enough to type out a single page heading on the IBM, with its two thousand moving parts, all in false synchronization. Sam had killed the Nazi in him, now was doomed to a kind of manual uxoriousness. He'd proposed that Sister Polycarpana be his sole visitor right after he'd realized in a moment of panicked horror that he was a murderer. Actually a murderer. It had never before occurred to him to apply that word to himself. It took the application of the word to shake the writer's hands, along with the knowledge that he could never, ever so much as breathe the word to Shanny's big sister. And the proposition, he realized almost in embarrassment, had been one of those psychic cries-for-help-through-symbolic-action that one reads about in case histories of moderately severe psychotics who wind up |