Free Lapham Rising by Roger Rosenblatt Page B

gizmo thought up thousands of years ago by illiterates without indoor plumbing or spandex. Under the black tarp stands a monument to form and function, though it also calls forth individual interpretation. From the front, it looks like a skier holding tall, thick poles, staunch and symmetrical. From the side, it resembles a rudimentary car. From above, it’s a funeral bier with the body laid out in the shape of a cross. From behind, a vertical snake seen from the back, peering over a fence.
    How did they do it, those savage geniuses? Why did they do it? Because they knew they had to survive in a dangerous and threatening world. Naked and exposed though they might be, they had to fight back. And though they could not see beyond their noses, they peered into the future as well. Without realizing it, they dreamed of Lapham.
    Two P.M. Odd that I still have not heard from him. Perhaps he has finally tired of my one-line notes and has instructed Krento not to reply. Should I send him a more ample communication?
    “What do you think of this?” I ask Hector, wishing I had someone else to consult.
    Dear Lapham,
    Once again this morning I was awakened by the noise of your erection. Have you no shame? Do you know what a house is? A house is a place where the mind finds its outer shape, its carapace. It should be a work of sculpture, of ceramics, firedfrom within. A house has a purpose, a significant purpose, as a person must have a purpose. A house is a protection, a solace, a thought. It is not a dick, Lapham. Not an organ perpetually driven by modern pharmaceutical stimulants to grow like Jack’s beanstalk until it punctures heaven itself. Neither should it stand as a temple to individual glory. Even Gatsby’s house was not that. Somewhere in that musty family history of yours, down the lightless arched corridors of framed portraits of deposed Laphams, including Moses, the founder of the asparagus feast, there must be a reference to decency, to manners. Look it up, Lapham. Learn something for a change. Tear down that monument to the national boast. Put up a log cabin in its place and live out your days in solitude, gratified by the accomplishment of good works. Will you do that, Lapham? Or will you build and build until the entire East End is your personal property, a gated fortress starting at the Suffolk County line? Lapham, you yourself are hell. I loathe and despise you.
    Yours sincerely ,
Harry March
    “Irresistible,” says Hector. He walks off hurriedly, as if he has suddenly remembered an assignment.
    Where is Lapham holed up, I wonder, as he awaits the completion of his monstrosity? Living in another monstrosity, I have no doubt, some barely adequate twenty-thousand-square-foot shack that he has rented for the duration at a price that would feed New York’s homeless for three months. How bravely he endures the wait. I cannot picture him; I never have been able to. I envision only his head in shadow, very large, like a bobble head, and his voice like a limp stocking hanging over the rim of a sink.
    Ah. No sooner does this feckless musing pass than what do I spy but Krento signaling me to use the remote. Sharon is putting toward me from across the sea. Assuming that she contains Krento’s usual reply, I am about to toss away the letter when something catches my eye: the signature is still in Krento’s fine, smarmy hand, but the text is unusually long.
    What will you be telling me, Mr. Lapham? What curses will you hurl, what outrage will you reluctantly express? How much patience do you have left, or have you perhaps run out? To what branch of the authorities will you report me? The local police? The FBI? The ASPCA? Or have you instead handed over the matter of my hostile correspondence to your team of buttoned-up family lawyers-in-waiting, Arthur, Carther, and MacArthur? Are you threatening to sue? Or will your public-relations people pillory me in pamphlets? Do you have connections to the mob? Will I end up swimming in