"Avram Davidson - My Boy Friend's Name Is Jello" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davidson Avram)

My Boy Friend's Name Is Jello
by Avram Davidson

Fashion, fashion, nothing but fashion. Virus X having in the medical zodiac its course half i-run, the
physician (I refuse to say "doctor" and, indeed, am tempted to use the more correct "apothecary")--the
physician, I say, tells me I have Virus Y. No doubt in the Navy it would still be called Catarrhal Fever.
They say that hardly anyone had appendicitis until Edward VII came down with it a few weeks before his
coronation, and thus made it fashionable. He (the medical man) is dosing me with injections of some stuff
that comes in vials. A few centuries ago he would have used herbal clysters.... Where did I read that old
remedy for the quinsy ("putrescent sore throat," says my dictionary)? _Take seven weeds from seven
meads and seven nails from seven steeds._ Oh dear, how my mind runs on. I must be feverish. An ague,
no doubt.

Well, rather an ague than a pox. A pox is something one wishes on editors ... strange breed, editors. The
females all have names like Lulu Ammabelle Smith or Minnie Lundquist Bloom, and the males have little
horns growing out of their brows. They must all be Quakers, I suppose, for their letters invariably begin,
"Dear Richard Roe" or "Dear John Doe," as if the word _mister_ were a Vanity ... when they write at all,
that is; and meanwhile Goodwife Moos calls weekly for the rent. If I ever have a son (than which nothing
is more unlikely) who shows the slightest inclination of becoming a writer, I shall instantly prentice him to
a fishmonger or a Master Chimney Sweep. Don't write about Sex, the editors say, and don't write about
Religion, or about History. If, however, you do write about History, be sure to add Religion and Sex. If
one sends in a story about a celibate atheist, however, do you think they'll buy it?

In front of the house two little girls are playing one of those clap-handie games. Right hand, left hand,
cross hands on bosom, left hand, right hand ... it makes one dizzy to watch. And singing the while:


My _boy_ friend's _name_ is _Jel_lo,
He _comes_ from _Cincinel_lo,
With a _pimple_ on his _nose_
And _three_ fat toes;
And _that's_ the _way_ my _sto_ry goes!

There is a pleasing surrealist quality to this which intrigues me. In general I find little girls enchanting. What
a shame they grow up to be _big_ girls and make our lives as miserable as we allow them, and oft-times
more. Silly, nasty-minded critics, trying to make poor Dodgson a monster of abnormality, simply because
he loved Alice and was capable of following her into Wonderland. I suppose they would have preferred
him to have taken a country curacy and become another Pastor Quiverful. A perfectly normal and
perfectly horrible existence, and one which would have left us all still on _this_ side of the looking glass.

Whatever was in those vials doesn't seem to be helping me. I suppose old Dover's famous Powders
hadn't the slightest fatal effect on the germs, bacteria, or virus (viri?), but at least they gave one a good
old sweat (ipecac) and a mild, non-habit-forming jag (opium). But they're old-fashioned now, and so
there we go again, round and round, one's train of thought like a Japanese waltzing mouse. I used to
know a Japanese who--now, stop that. Distract yourself. Talk to the little girls...

Well, that was a pleasant interlude. We discussed (quite gravely, for I never condescend to children) the
inconveniences of being sick, the unpleasantness of the heat; we agreed that a good rain would cool
things off. Then their attention began to falter, and I lay back again. Miss Thurl may be in soon. Mrs.
Moos (perfect name, she lacks only the antlers) said, whilst bringing in the bowl of slops which the