I am surprised to feel a single tear rolling down my face. I reach for it with my tongue, taste the salt of my own tender humanity. I am reminded that we all began in the sea. I am reminded that we are all brothers in that way, we were all fish brothers (sisters, thons) at one time, and now we are all human brothers. Or sisters. Or siblings, for the nonbinary and gender neutral among us, who we must remember are also our brothers, or rather siblings, as I said. I espy another box, separate from the rest, almost hidden, it seems, behind a sofa gray with age. This is important, I determine. We always conceal that which is most dear to us, for fear of revealing our deepest, most private thoughts, the thoughts that could be corrupted, contaminated by exposure to others, to the world. I will care for Ingo’s secret. I will hold it close and protect it. I will share it with the world, of course, because that is the work with which I have been charged, but I will make certain it, whatever it is, is fully comprehended. Finally Ingo will be granted the understanding he has always, undoubtedly, craved. As do we all crave. I only wish I could have a me to protect and cherish and share me with the world, with joy and compassion, after I die, the way I will share Ingo. But, alas, there is only one me.
I open this hidden box. It is filled with notebooks, yellowed with age. Jackpot. Ingo in his own words. I will read these books with the greatest care and empathy, then put his words into my words, so as to be better understood by others, and share them with the world (others). The original documents will be archived, of course, for scholars to pore over for generations, but just as any complex text needs interpretation for laypeople to appreciate it, so I’m sure must the inarticulate ramblings of an idiot savant–cum–misunderstood cinematic genius. I remove the top notebook, open it at random, and read aloud:
“We are hidden away. Not just the Negro, but the insane, the infirm, the destitute, the vile, the criminal. We are housed in slums, in jails, in institutions, in hobo jungles. We are all of us hidden from view, leaving only the comedy of whiteness to be seen. My goal is to hold up a mirror to society, but a mirror can only see what can be seen. My camera is such a mirror, but that doesn’t mean the Unseen ceases to exist. It is simply hidden away from the camera lens. And so I shall animate the Unseen as well, all the lives that come and go unnoticed. I shall animate them, remember them, but not record them. And as such my camera shall be the truest of mirrors and this film shall reflect the world as no other. It is as with the blind children in my workplace. Hidden away in an institution, they do not see, and we the sighted cannot bear to see them not seeing. It is unsightly. They remind us of our own vulnerability. If these unfortunate people walk among us, we cannot go on with human comedy unimpeded, and above all else, it is required that we do. Therefore, we must pretend in order that we may entertain.”
I close the notebook and sit in silence for a long while. These incoherent ramblings will be hard to decipher. Still, one cannot expect such a task to be easy. Ingo is, after all, an outsider artist. Most likely he suffers the same communication problems as all autodidacts. But I have my life’s work laid out in front of me. Ingo! I am forever grateful to you, dear idiot Ingo, for presenting me with this herculean task, and I know that wherever you are, you are grateful to me as well.
And what of the giant? Time will undoubtedly tell.
I scour the apartment but cannot find the unseen puppets. Ingo’s commitment to this concept is total. Perhaps their existence is a fiction? In point of fact, the entire enterprise seems unlikely. But no. I take pride in being a student of human nature, of body language, and even the somewhat modern art of hand choreography (I had the great pleasure of interviewing the lovely Irish hand dancer/choreographer Suzanne Cleary for my monograph Hands as Dramatic Implements: From Shadow Puppetry to Bresson and Back) and it is obvious to me that Ingo was telling the truth. I continue my search, looking for hidden panels, trapdoors, false walls, dropped ceilings. I am thorough, as is my way in all things. The only item of any interest I uncover is a yellowed hand-drawn map of the property on which this apartment was built. There is an x on it. Could it be? A map of a mass unmarked grave? Well, whatever it is, it bears investigation.
I procure a pickax and a spade from an ironmonger and get to digging. The day is hot and humid. As an active fencer and inveterate swordsman, my level of physical fitness is likely unparalleled by anyone in my age bracket, but even for me this is grueling work. That I have neither sought nor gotten the approval of the premises manager only adds a level of stress to the entire endeavor, which cannot be heart healthy. Still I persist. After what seems like forty-five minutes of shoveling but was probably only forty-four, I hit something hard. It is the calvarium of a head, a tiny head. Pay dirt. I pull out my archaeological tools, the ones I always carry on my person—trowel, soft-bristle toothbrush, and professional dental tools (sickle probe, periodontal probe, lip retractor)—for the delicate work and begin. Within five hours, I have uncovered what I estimate to be roughly a thousand puppets of all races and ethnicities, of all ages, some dressed as household servants, some as coal miners, some as assembly-line workers, soldiers, newsies, prostitutes, farmhands, one I believe was a zookeeper, but I am uncertain because the uniform had been partially eaten by a fungus. And there is no end in sight. The Unseen no longer. Soon we shall all step out of the darkness, together. Out of the darkened theater. Into the light. We will be seen. I will be their leader, but not because I am the white savior, no, not that, but because I am the only one of us who is not inanimate. I call my girlfriend to tell her the news. It goes to voicemail once again. I punch a wall and get back to the movie, strictly adhering to Ingo’s prescribed schedule and rules (although I do use his bathroom, which is thoroughly disgusting but proximate). It is unfortunate that I now need to change the reels myself. I thought about hiring a local schoolboy to do it for me (a sort of Shabbas goy), but I worry about his leaking to the press. The next two months and twenty days have a cumulative effect on my psyche. Any boundaries between the movie and me dissolve. I am both infinitely stronger and infinitely weaker than when I started this film. Just as the Campotini ant is enslaved by the fungus O. unilateralis, so I have been enlisted to monomaniacally do the bidding of Ingo’s movie. Weak-willed yet undeterrable, I will make certain it is properly disseminated, appreciated, celebrated. It has become my life’s work; that much is clear. And though, as with the ant, it will most certainly end with my head exploding, metaphorically (one hopes!), I do not care. I do not care. I stack the film reels in my apartment. I take what remains of his sets, of his puppets as well. All of it almost fills up my back room, the one I formerly used for sewing projects. As I survey the space, I cannot help but let my mind wander to the future adulation I will perhaps receive, the lectures, the Nobel for Criticism, the Pulitzer for Profound Insight. I am energized in entirely new ways. I cannot lie; there is a sexual component to all of this. I masturbate. I try my girlfriend again. I punch the wall.
I DECIDE TO CALL my editor from the beach. I choose the site where the St. Augustine Monster long ago washed ashore; it seems symbolic, as Ingo’s film is an alien behemoth from the dark deep ocean of his psyche. It seems necessary to call from here. I read the plaque at the base of the Henry Moore sculpture commissioned by the North Florida Cryptozoological Society.
At this location on November 30, 1896, an unidentifiable creature, dubbed the Monster of St. Augustine and later the Globster, washed up on shore. This faceless, eyeless creature has stimulated the imaginations of biologists, ichthyologists, and cryptozoologists alike ever since. What is this amorphous creature-like non-creature, this reeking, decaying mass, this corpulent, seemingly fatty monstrosity that it generates such intense speculation, that it encourages such ludicrous projection as to its identity, as to its meaning? Might it be nothing more than a substance similar to