10/24/03’s illustrious band:

Counting One Counting Two

Brought to you by Chuck Palahniuk, author of Lullaby, an audiobook I’ve been listening to in the car.

The premise of Lullaby is that a reporter named Streator discovers, at several infant death scenes, a poem that kills people if you read it to them. Parents have apparently been reading it to their children to lull them to sleep. It’s short, and after seeing it a few times, he memorizes it. Being a skeptical journalist, he tries it out -- on his editor. Nothing happens immediately, but the man is soon discovered dead in his apartment.

Streator realizes that he now has the power to kill with impunity, leaving no traces. (As a writer, he’s fascinated with the idea of words having such great power. Me too.) He goes on a minor killing spree, if a killing spree can be called minor. When someone bumps into him on the street while he’s having a bad day, he angrily mutters the poem. The offender drops dead on the curb. His apartment neighbors’ TVs and stereos are so loud they drive him crazy. He hollers the poem in the shower, thinking the water will cover the sound of his voice. But it carries through the vents, and people die during the night. He welcomes the quiet. A woman obstructs him when he’s in a hurry; he recites the poem silently; she keels over. Another offense; the poem flashes through his mind unbidden; another death.

Soon, however, he realizes that the killing has to stop. He has to rein his temper in. But he can’t. The deadly verse pops into his head at every annoyance, whether he intends it to or not. Suddenly the world is at the mercy of his animal urges. At first Streator was darkly amused at his ability to rid himself of human irritants. But now he’s horrified that he’s become a monster.

To distract himself when he starts to get angry, the journalist falls back on the old strategy of counting. “I’m counting one, counting two, counting three,” he says whenever something ticks him off. A paragraph later, he’s still not over it: “I’m counting four, counting five, counting six.” After a few pages, “I’m counting 61, counting 62, counting 63.” He counts and cools off, stops and starts again, over and over throughout the novel. (The author, incidentally, uses other repetitive devices, like the recurrence of certain phrases, certain thoughts, to give the book a rhythmic, lullaby-like quality.)

What interests me, for some reason, is the counting. What if Streator didn’t start counting at one with every new annoyance, but simply picked up where he left off? How high do you suppose he’d count in a day? In a week? How high would I count? How high would you? Would he have to write down his new starting number each time, or would he remember?

How long before the numbers got so large and took so long to say that he spent more time counting than doing anything else? How long before he forgot why he started counting in the first place? If he stopped counting, would he stop thinking about being angry? Or would he, without the counting, go back to being angry all the time? Is it humanly possible to never be angry, or at least to always be in control of one’s temper? Does Streator become less human for stifling those impulses, or more so?

Rambly thoughts for a rambly Friday. I’ll let you know how it turns out. Right now, it’s quitting time, and I’m down for the count. What’s scrolling across your brain-screen this minute?

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