The Piano Tuner

The Ponoes

The Ponoes When I was ten years old I couldn't sleep because the minute I closed my eyes the ponoes would get me. The ponoes were pale creatures about two feet tall, with pointed heads and malevolent expressions, though they never said anything. What they did was to approach me slowly, silently in order to build up my fear (becauseI knew what they were going to do); then they would tickle me. I was extremely ticklish in those days. In fact, I could hardly bear to be touched by anybody , and the ponoes would swarm over me like a band of drunken and sadistic uncles, tickling me till I went crazy, till I almost threw up, flinging my legs and arms around in breathless agony. I would wake up soaked, my heart banging in my chest like the bass drum in the school marching band. This lasted almost an entire year, until the Murphy brothers got rid of them for me. Because the ponoes would come whenever I fell asleep, I hated to goto bed even more than most children. My parents were not sympathetic. Ponoes didn't seem that frightening to them, nor were they sure, for a long time, that I wasn't making them up. Even my best friend, Frankie Hanratty, a curly-haired black-eyed boy of unbounded innocence, was dubious. No one else had ever heard of them; they seemed like some sort of cross between elves and dwarfs. But where did I get the name? I think my parents felt that there was something vaguely sexual about them, and therefore distasteful . 34 The Ponoes "Now no more talk about these, urn, ponoes, young man. Right to bed!" "Pm afraid!" That year—1942—I was always close to tears, and my bespectacled watery eyes must have been a discouraging sight, especially for my father, who would take me to the Dodger games at Ebbett's Field and introduce me to manly players like Cookie Lavagetto and Dixie Walker. I had a collection of signed baseballs that my father always showed to our guests. Because I was terrified, I fought sleep with all my might. I read through most of the night, by lamplight, flashlight, even moonlight, further straining my already weak eyes. When I did fall asleep, from utter exhaustion, my sleep was so light that when the ponoes appeared on the horizon— approaching much like the gangs in West Side Story, though of course I didn't know that then—I could often wake myself up before they reached me. I can remember wrestling with my eyelids, lifting them, heavy as the iron covers of manholes we'd try to pry open in the streets, bit by bit until I could see the teepee-like designs of what I called my Indian blanket. Sometimes I would get just a glimpse of my blanket and then my eyelids would clang shut and the ponoes were upon me. It is possible, I suppose, that I only dreamed I was seeing my blanket, but I don't think so. Sometimes I would give up trying to open my eyes, give up saying to myself This is only a dream, and turn and run. My one athletic skill was, and remains still, running. There were few who could catch me, even at ten, and today, premature white hair flying, I fill our game room with trophies for my age bracket in the 5,000- and io,ooo-meter races along the eastern seaboard. Often, toward the end of a race, I hear footsteps behind me and I remember the ponoes; the adrenalin surges again, and the footsteps usually fall back. But in my dreams the ponoes would always gain and my legs would get heavier and heavier and I'd near a cliff that I would 35 The Piano Tuner try to throw myself over, but it was like running through waist-deep water with chains on and I would be dragged down at the edge. This, I suppose, with variations and without ponoes, is a common enough dream. My mother was more compassionate to me because at that time she too was suffering from a recurring dream. She would find herself lost in a forest, on a dark path. The ground was soft beneath her bare feet. With a vague but mounting terror she would begin to run; it soon became clear she was...