Valley at Dusk Gary J
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College of the Holy Cross CrossWorks Fenwick Scholar Program Honors Projects Spring 1983 Valley at Dusk Gary J. Gala '83 College of the Holy Cross, [email protected] Follow this and additional works at: http://crossworks.holycross.edu/fenwick_scholar Part of the Fiction Commons Recommended Citation Gala, Gary J. '83, "Valley at Dusk" (1983). Fenwick Scholar Program. 6. http://crossworks.holycross.edu/fenwick_scholar/6 This Thesis is brought to you for free and open access by the Honors Projects at CrossWorks. It has been accepted for inclusion in Fenwick Scholar Program by an authorized administrator of CrossWorks. garyj gala Valley at Dusk Gary J. Gala Acknowledgements It goes without saying that there are many more people to thank than I have space or time for here. A first never, more than any other work, is probably the most likely place to find outpourings of gratitude for everyone who has touched the author's life, even in the briefest way. However, there are a few who rise above the many, at least as far as my poor memory serves. First, this work would never have been started without the help of my advisor Richard H. Rodino who brought me from ground zero to loftier heights than I could ever have hoped for in a years time. If there are good things in this novel, he deserves the credit for channeling my efforts towards those areas and away from my own misgivings about the workings of fiction. Second, I would like to thank my readers, both official and unofficial who made many significant and helpful contributions along the way. I would especially like to thank Maurizio vannicelli and Matt Keenan for their support and suggestions along with Don Hurley, Jim Gallagher, Mike King, Chris Lee, and Francis O'Connor for keeping me humble. Special thanks to Paul Mooney for help on the conclusion and to Chris Phillips for much assistance during the planning stages. And, of course, many thanks to Vincent Moyer and Richard Messura for keeping the faith. Much credit should go to all my teachers, both past and present, especially Ken Happe and Bill O'Malley. Third, I would like to thank the Fenwick Committee for giving me this opportunity; certainly a once in a lifetime chance. Finally, many thanks to Margot Kelley for the boring and difficult job of proofreading for someo·ne who cannot spell. G.J.G Holy Cross College Spring 1983. cover design: Jeanne Lightbody for my mother l Valley at Dusk ~I LI If you should go skating On the thin ice of modern life Dragging behind you the silent reproach Of a million tear stained eyes Don't be surprised, if a crack in the ice Appears under your feet You slip out of your depth and out of your mind With your fear flowing out behind you As you claw the thin ice from "The Thin Ice" by Pink Floyd But what about the villagers? What happens to a man when he has to live his life in the twentieth century deprived of the sovereignty and lordship of science and art? What is it like to be a layman and a consumer? Does this consumer, the richest in history, suffer a kind of deprivation? What are the symptoms of this deprivation? ,. From The Message in the Bottle by Walker Percy ! I ~ Part I Our age is like nothing so much as a valley at dusk. A time when the gods of the day have departed but the new ones of the night, possibly holding promise for a new day, have not yet come. Yet,. some still feel rich, immersed in the fertile soil of our valley. But the afternoon light which once guided us has grown dim, making everything once distinct, how grey, indistinguishable. We are assaulted by everything at once, more than ever before and yet nothing stands forth, nothing stays with us. Everything is simply shades of shades, . white sound. The once friendly gurgle of our river now roars by unseen, with blandness as its new name. It is the Blandness of the Many, like six million voices, hushed forever, accusing their betrayer, their savior. The mountains, stalworth sentries that they are, still keep watch, yet no trail to their peak has yet produced a new Way, only new vistas on the valley, blanketed by evening mist, dissolving into the night. from Floyd A. Patterson's PhD. dissertation, written some years after the events of this story ' r I i I p. I I L . Chapter I That fine fellow Floyd Patterson crouched beside the flattened tire of his weights and measures van. His face with its peculiarly imprecise nose and too-wide ears, was screwed up in perplexity and pain. An innocent passerby might have concluded that Floyd was agonizing over the immediate fate of the tire and ~! the ultimate fate of his van. But of course he wasn't. once you have the adulterated pleasure of Floyd's further acquaintance, you'll understand that the tire and the van were the last thing on Floyd's (how shall I say it?) petit mind. The pained expression was for local effect only. He was anxious to appear respectably overwrought about this flesh wound incurred by his servant-machine. Flooding his mind, in fact, were thoughts of doing nothing more startling than taking a drink. In a saloon called O'Leary's Village Tavern, a dingy sort of wooden cave, exerting what I can only term an indescribable fascination over Floyd and other I denizens. But you can well imagine the sort of place. "O," as he is called by the loser clientele that lurks in his establishment, ~ is as fat as his role in life is lean. His mother, a dear woman, 8 smokes unfiltered cigarettes and is even given to chewing tobacco on occasion. She rocks from foot to foot in tune with the outdated juke box, stirring a kettle of chili special: a witch's brew unseen since the time Birnam wood came to Dunsinane. "All hail, Floyd Patterson," Ma would crow between well spaced teeth. Well, words to that effect, at least. Floyd, blanched specimen of the great unwashed, would simply smile and wave, pushing past her fuming bulk to the scale it was his gratified destiny in life to inspect. Today was a banner day at O's, as far as Floyd was concerned. Scale inspection and certification day. Floyd lifted his tool kit from the rear of the van. He kept his tools separate from the precision weights, which were wrapped each in its own velour bag and nested in a white plastic case. "Hey Hob!," cried o. "Frosteroo coming your way, Floyd?" Floyd, conscious of deserving a break after such a vexing day at work, accepted. Down the bar, Brenda, the antique hooker, and Claude, moving man emeritus, smiled briefly. Further down, an emissary of the vast Fuller Brush sales task force soaked his face in a jar of bar whiskey. Ma could be heard back by the bathrooms endlessly stirring the chili, lamentin,g. untimely births. Floyd dumped the empty mug down on the bar, wiped his mouth, and turned to stare at the business-type. The throat of his polyester co-ordinates had unintendedly released the tabs of his clip-on tie. The tie, consequently, was presently secured by nothing more than the VFW tie-bar. Give me a break, Floyd groaned 9 - to himself. The status of his complaint was unclear, though. Floyd's own white cotton shirt, solid blue tie, and removeable plastic "nerd pac" pencil retainer, did not offer an unambiguous alternative to the fashions he was deriding. Quite the critical mood this particular afternoon, eh, Mr. Patterson? Not the least of Floyd's peeves was O's negligence in switching off the television that hung over the drinking platform, depriving Floyd of an opportunity that came only twice a year (supermarkets had no televisions): to indulge simultaneously in his two favorite pastimes. TV addiction and obsessive scale certification. Floyd slurped up his beer. Goddam, didO' keep this place dark or what?, he mused. Muse away old boy. Muse and ponder that all-important progression from television to aviation to science. ~' i Floyd considered himself very well read. But he ultimately gave up books for television. Just ran out of things he wanted to read. Not that he had ever consumed any· of the almighty classics, you understand. When I speak of his being well read, I mean that he devoured junk like romances and mysteries and, God forbid, adventure stories. He read absolutely nothing of any lasting worth. After all, how· could )1e? He thought television was God's most precious gift to the twentieth century. Antique Brenda disengaged herself from the talons old Claude, Moving Man Emeritus, had sunk into her petulant flesh and slobbered next to Floyd who was musing about the God-given efficiency of his bowels. Gently releasing some gas he relayed this fact to Brenda when she asked him if he would 1 ike to buy 10 her a drink. Floyd found Brenda disgusting but in a seductive sort of way. "You know," smiling yellow teeth affectionately at her, "you may be an old washed-up whore, but there still is something appealing about you." Antique simply laughed and laughed. She thought Floyd with his nerd-pac and his polyester slacks was just about the funniest thing she had ever seen. "You're just a big ol' polyester John, Floyd," she would say. And Floyd winking, sucker that he is, would buy her that drink.