The Pigman: Chapters 1-5

After my bomb avocation, I became the organizer of the supercolossal fruit roll. You could only do this on Wednesdays because that was the only day they sold old apples in the cafeteria. Sick, undernourished, antique apples.

But on Wednesdays when I knew there was going to be a substitute teaching one of the classes, I’d pass the word at lunch and all the kids in that class would buy these scrawny apples.

We were supposed to study incandescent lamps, but he spent the period telling us about commemorative stamps.

She looked a little bit like a Saint Bernard that just lost its keg, but since she agreed to work on this, she’s gotten a little livelier and more opinionated.

She finally said I could curse if it was excruciatingly necessary by going like this @#$%. Now that isn’t too bad an idea because @#$% leaves it to the imagination and most people have a worse imagination than I have.

I should never have let John write the first chapter because he always has to twist things subliminally.

It’s got to be written now before John and I mature and repress the whole thing.

Also, you’ll find out soon enough that John distorts—when he isn’t out-and-out lying.

At least once a day she fills me in on one more aspect of my public image—like “your hair would be better cut short because it’s too kinky,” and “you’re putting on too much weight,” and “you wear your clothes funny.” If I made a list of every comment she’s made about me, you’d think I was a monstrosity.

I may not be Miss America, but I am not the abominable snowwoman either.

But as I was saying, it is a fact that John has compassion deep inside of him, which is the real reason we got involved with the Pigman.

Although I didn’t know John and his family until two years ago when I moved into the neighborhood, from what I’ve been able to gather I think his father was a compulsive alcoholic.

This particular sign of maturity ended up giving his father sclerosis of the liver, so he doesn’t drink anymore, but John does.

I was so embarrassed I wanted to cry because I thought for sure he was laughing at me, and I turned my head all the way so the only thing I could see out the window of the bus was telephone poles going by. They call that paranoia.

I was mortified picking it up because it fell between the seat and the window, and I was sure I’d look like an enormous cow bending over to get it.

The only part that impressed me out of the whole article was about the crazy lady in the sanitarium who hoarded food and sheets and towels and bathrobes—the one that used to wear all the bathrobes at one time.

They said at one point she had hoarded 39 sheets, 42 towels, 93 English muffins—and she was wearing 8 bathrobes. Her big problem was she didn’t feel secure. So they let her pick out as much as she wanted, and she ended up with 320 towels, 2,633 sheets, and 9,000 English muffins.

But he told this woman he had called her number because he had heard she gave good advice and his problem was that he was about to die from a hideous skin disease because a rat had bitten off his nose when he was a baby and the skin grafts didn’t take.

Now, Howard Avenue is just a few blocks from where I live, so I could pretend I belonged to the Howard Avenue Civic League or some other fictitious philanthropy.

Now, Howard Avenue is just a few blocks from where I live, so I could pretend I belonged to the Howard Avenue Civic League or some other fictitious philanthropy.

When he is an actor, I know he’ll be able to project those glaring eyes clear up to the second balcony.

John has made an art out of it. He prevaricates just for prevaricating’s sake.

It’s what they call a compensation syndrome. His own life is so boring when measured against his daydreams that he can’t stand it, so he makes up things to pretend it’s exciting.

It’s a kind of subconscious, schizophrenic fibbing, if you ask me, and if those parents don’t have guilt complexes, I don’t know who has.

You have to know how demented Dennis and Norton are to understand that when I told them Angelo Pignati caught on Lorraine was a phony and hung up, they believed it.

“All through history artists have survived by taking money from old men. There’s nothing wrong with having a patron.”

“We can tell him the L & J Fund is intended to subsidize writers and actors if you want.”

Well, that severed maternal relations for the afternoon, and I had no intention of waiting for Bore to come home.

“We’re not doing anything bad,” I insisted.

“Like the subconscious kind. You’re always blabbing about the subconscious, and you can’t even tell a subconscious suicide when you talk to one.”

He could’ve been some psycho with an electric carving knife who’d dismember our bodies and wouldn’t get caught until our teeth clogged up the sewer or something like that.

“Wandermeyer,” I offered, with just the right touch of disdain I thought.

“Oh, I forgot to show you my pigs!” he exclaimed, the gleam returning to his eyes.

It was ridiculous. I never saw so many pigs. I don’t mean the live kind; these were phony pigs.

“Don’t be afraid to pick them up.” It was a big change from my mother who always lets out a screech if you go near anything, so I couldn’t help liking this old guy even if he was sort of weird.