BACK
SISYPHUS, THE SNOWBALL, AND HELL
steven j. mcdermott
After an arduous journey variously described by the
travelers as “the endgame,” “the eternal recurrence,” and “a long
walk around Dublin,” Samuel Beckett, Friedrich Nietzsche, and
James Joyce finally arrive at the 9th ring of Hell, where out onto a
rope bridge suspended over the flaming river Phlegethon they are
led single file by their tour guide, Stanley Elkin, who sums up the
trip so far thusly: “No, gentlemen, it’s the living end.” Once safely
across the swaying and jigging bridge they enter Pluto’s Paradise,
the luxury box suite their travel agent had insisted was “worth
your Nobel Prize winnings and more.”
The walls and floors of the suite are finished in polished
marble and granite. Against the back wall is a wet bar and a
spread of seafood—salmon, lobster, oysters on the half shell—
along with an assortment of wines, cheeses, and crackers. The
recliner seats are covered in lambskin and Joyce rubs his hand
back and forth along a headrest.
“Dante never mentioned this perk,” says Joyce.
“Contrary to popular belief,” says Elkin, “Dante never came
here—he made it all up.”
“Wanker,” says Beckett.
“Now that’s a view worthy of an ubermensch,” Nietzsche says
reverently as he looks out through the glass at the ice of Lake
Cocytus. In the center of the frozen lake, and buried to the waist
amid the chunky ice, is Satan, beating his wings and taking bites
of Brutus and Cassius, whom he munches on mightily.
“And you thought Heaven looked like a theme park!” says
Elkin. Then: “Gentlemen, take your seats, the main attraction is
about to begin.”
Snowmaking machines set up along the lakeshore are grinding
the blocks of ice that backhoes feed into the snowmaker’s
hoppers. Front loaders scoop the snow and dump it into the beds
of an eternally long line of dump trucks. The trucks convoy the
snow to the mountain.
“There’s our fair haired boy,” says Joyce.
Sisyphus, legs, arms, and back muscles striated with the
strain, slowly rolls a snowball up an avalanche chute on the
mountain’s flank. The snowball swells with each revolution until
Sisyphus cannot shove it any higher and away it goes, rolling all
the way down and onto the frozen bed of Lake Cocytus.
Over and over again Sisyphus starts with a ball no bigger than
his fist and rolls and rolls and rolls those snowy balls uphill until
they will not roll any further. Down, down, down the hill they come
again and again and again.
“It’s like waiting for Godot,” says Beckett.
“How many times do I have to tell you?” says Nietzsche, “He’s
dead.”
More trucks arrive and dump a fresh pile of snow in front of
Sisyphus. He pauses, rubs his chin in reflection, grins broadly and
then starts building a 3-foot tall snowball. He builds a second
slightly smaller snowball, whistling while he works. He makes a
third still smaller snowball and then stacks the medium ball on the
larger and the smaller on the medium.
“Holy Beelzebub!” says Elkin. “He’s built a snowman!”
“Ever tried. Ever failed,” says Beckett.
Paparazzi rush Sisyphus, flashbulbs snapping. Sisyphus puts
his arm around the snowman and smiles for the cameras. Sweat
beads on his brow. The snowman’s head also starts dripping under
the strobing lights.
Cerberus trots jauntily towards the scene. Fresh from the
groomer, the hair on his three heads is teased and spiked, each a
different color: magenta, yellow, and lime green. The studded
collars around each neck are finished in bronze, silver, and gold.
While Sisyphus basks in the acclaim his snowman has brought
him, Cerberus walks around the base of the snowman with all
three heads sniffing. Then he lifts his leg and pees on the
snowman. The steaming rivulet of piss sluices through the base of
the snowman, melting it away. Cerberus continues pissing until
the snowman dissolves into a yellow puddle. Lowering his leg he
looks up at Sisyphus. His tail wags and all three heads bark softly:
ruff ruff ruff. Sisyphus frowns, shoulders sagging, as another
truck dumps its load of snow.
“Now that,” says Elkin, “that’s the work of a real McCoy Son of
a Bitch God.”
“No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better,” says Beckett.
“Start afresh. Shoulder to the wheel,” says Joyce.
“Amor fati,” says Nietzsche.
“Well, shall we go?” says Beckett.
They remain seated as Sisyphus begins again to roll snow into
a ball.
(c) 2008 by Steven J. McDermott