MR. DICTAPHONE

1 1 2 Y M R . D I C T A P H O N E G O R D O N L I S H I’m telling you now so there will be no questions later. The name was Rigamarole before it was Dictaphone. It was my grandfather, Morris Rigamarole, who e√ected the change. There is probably a word for name-change, but I don’t know what it is – if, of course, there is one to be known. If there were one and if I knew it, I would use it. Interpellation? It sounds right, but you can’t necessarily go by sound, can you? Or can you? No, not interpellation , I’m almost positive of that. No, I really do not think so – but perhaps, perhaps. If I had the energy to consult the big book behind my back, I’d make my way up from my seat, turn with care, and do it. Consult it. But no. I do not have the energy for so exhausting a task any more. Or, rather, the strength. For, behold, I appear to be in possession of energy enough for the undertaking at hand. Namely, the writing of, the recording of, my history. My years as the last of the Dictaphones. As for the Rigamaroles, they had their day. Two generations’ worth. Or does one say one and a half? For inasmuch as it was my paternal grandfather (my grandfather on my father’s side) who shed the name Rigamarole in favor of Dictaphone, yes, there were not – I’m counting, I am doing the arithmetic. No matter. No, there cannot be a half generation, can 1 1 3 R there? It’s not one of my strongpoints, arithmetic. Let us forgo further of any historiography of the kind. It is no great thing, the counting of generations. As has been said, ‘‘What’s in a name?’’ Mark me, if this be true, then is not the generational perdurance of this or that name not also dismissible? I mean, if what’s in a name, then what’s in a number, true? You see what I am saying? So, anyway, prior to Rigamarole, the family name was Geebonee. Odd-looking, eh wot? I agree. It was doubtless this that convinced a prior Geebonee to take on, or to take for himself, the name Rigamarole, which sustained itself in the family line for one and a half generations. Or so my calculations would have had it had I carried them out to a sturdy conclusion. Time you were told, unless the writing thus far written has already done so. I am not at all handy with the practical sciences but am terribly able with the metaphysical ones. Words – and their extensions, relations, a≈liations , not to mention their interiorities. Ideas and the like. I am terribly excellent at words. Were you to ask me a question having to do with words, I would have the answer for you not only with promptitude but with speed. Or haste, if you prefer. Alacrity! You see what I mean? This is my forte. Plus ideas. These are my fortes. Words and their consorting, or consortium with ideas. This is what I was born to be terribly excellent at. And with flare and flair too. I would have for you the right answer reposing in the right words if you were to put to me a question that solicited and so on. Or were so disposed to. Dispositive. This word is not, I must make all alacrity to tell you, my word. I cannot claim it, or lay claim to it. It is the word, leant upon rather, for my particular taste, far too often and far too greatly, by my best friend, Georgie. A lovely fellow, Georgie. Positively lovely. In every respect. Except, as I have already implied, if not said in so many words, in his tendency to make use of the word ‘‘dispositive’’ rather more often and with far too much stress than the case calls for. To my mind, that is. Still, a lovely chap. Also to my mind. Quite altogether nice, save for that singular regrettable tendency. To...