NORMAN SPINRAD
The Age of Invention
Norman Spinrad is a West Coast writer with a pyrotechnic style. He has produced a number of memorable novels and stories, including Bug Jack Barron, The Men in the Jungle, and the controversial The Iron Dream. But Spinrad is even better when working with the short story form, witness his "The Big Flash," "No Direction Home," and the unforgettable "The Last Hurrah of the Golden Horde." This collection begins with one of his best and most ambitious tales, a macrocosmic and hilarious overview of the dawn of business civilization.
One morning, having nothing better to do, I went to visit my cousin Roach. Roach lived in one of those lizard-infested caves on the East Side of the mountain. Roach did not hunt bears. Roach did not grow grain. Roach spent his daylight hours throwing globs of bearfat, bison chips and old rotten plants against the walls of his cave.
Roach said that he was an Artist. He said it with a capital "A." (Even though writing has not yet been invented.)
Unlikely as it may seem, Roach had a woman. She was, however, the ugliest female on the mountain. She spent her daylight hours lying on the dirty floor of Roach's cave and staring at the smears of old bearfat, moldy bison chips and rotten plants on the wall.
She used to say that this was Roach's Soul. She would also say that Roach had a very big soul.
Very big and very smelly.
As I approached the mouth of Roach's cave, I smelled pungent smoke. In fact, the cave was filled with this smoke. In the middle of the cave sat Roach and his woman. They were burning a big pile of weeds and inhaling the smoke.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Turning on, baby," said Roach. "I've just invented it."
"What does `turning on' mean?""Well, you get this weed, dig? You burn it, and then you honk the smoke. "
I scratched my head, inadvertently killing several of my favorite fleas.
"Why do that?" I asked.
"It like gets you high."
"You don't seem any farther off the ground than I am," I observed. "And you're still kinda runty."
Roach snorted in disgust. "Forget it, man," he said. "It's only for Artists, Philosophers and Metaphysicians, anyway. (Even though Phi-losophy and Metaphysics have not yet been invented.) Dig my latest!"
On the nearest wall of the cave, there was this big blob of bearfat. In the middle of it was this small piece of bison chip. Red and green and brown plant stains surrounded this. It smelled as good as it looked.
"Uh . . . interesting, . . ." I said.
"Like a masterpiece, baby," Roach said proudly. "I call it The Soul of Man."
"Uh . . . The Sole of Man? Er . . . it does sort of look like a foot. "
"No, no, man! Soul, not sole!"
"But, Roach, spelling hasn't been invented yet."
"Sorry. I forgot."
"Anyway," I said, trying to make him feel a little better, "it's very Artistic." (Whatever that meant.)
"Thanks, baby," Roach said sulkily.
"What's the matter, Roach?" I asked. He really looked awful.
"We haven't eaten in a week."
"Why don't you go out and kill a bear or something?" I suggested.
"I don't have the time to waste on hunting," Roach said indig-nantly. "I must live for Art!"
"It appears that you are dying for Art," I replied. "You can't do very much painting when you are dead."
"Well, anyway," said Roach, in a very tiny voice, "I'm a pretty lousy hunter in the first place. I would probably starve even if I spent the whole day hunting. Or maybe a bear would kill me. This way, I'm at least like starving for a Reason."
I must admit it made a kind of sense. Roach is terribly nearsighted. Also amazingly scrawny. The original ninety-pound weakling.
"Mmmmmmm . . ." I observed.
"Mmmmmmm . . . what?" asked Roach.
"Well, you know old Aardvark? He can't hunt either. So what he does is he makes spearheads and trades them for bears. Maybe you could . . . ?"
"Go into business?" Roach cried. "Become bourgeois? Please! am an Artist. Besides," he added lamely, "I don't know how to make spearheads."
