Monday, October 20, 2008
Marry Me
MY LITTLE BOOK OF HATREDS--an introduction
I CARRY THIS ‘little book of hatreds’ around with me nearly everywhere I go. Especially when I feel that I may need it (which is most of the time now; it’s therapeutic). Like when I go to meetings at work (department meetings, committee meetings, all-school meetings, etc.) where I hear the most incredible nonsense coming out of people’s mouths--introducing terms like ‘stellar,’ ‘institutional effectiveness,’ ‘social constructs,’ etc. (You come to expect this kind of rubbish from colleagues at work, but still it’s no excuse. I’d never say anything like that! I’d rather use words like shit and piss and cunt and cum.) What surprises me and saddens me at the same time (and makes me glad that I have my little book along) is when I am with friends (perceived friends), and they express outrage at the most natural things that come my way. For example, a number of years ago, the first time I’d hiked in West Canyon, I had my brother drop me off from his boat at the mouth of the canyon. I was alone. He said that he’d come back and pick me up in three days. By noon on the first day, I noticed that I had seen no one else--had not even seen any other footprints. And so, of course, I took off my clothes (except for my shoes, which I did discard the next day) and continued hiking. (I usually wear clothes when I hike; I don’t want to offend strangers (although their wearing clothes does offend me.)) This is desert hiking, and I always carry with me lots of water. And, of course, I’m drinking the water; and, of course, I’m having to pee. Often. In fact, it seems that I’m having to pee every ten or fifteen minutes (I’m drinking a lot, remember). And I’m wanting to see as much of this canyon as I possibly can because I’ve only got a few days to do it in, and it’s a long canyon, and . . . . And so, I think to myself: Can’t I just walk AND pee? At the same time. And so, I do. And I tell this to my friends. And they’re shocked. They can’t believe it. ‘You pee right there while you’re walking?’ one of them says. And the other one says, ‘Don’t you get it on your leg?’ And after a moment of my own shock, I reply, ‘Well, of course, I get it on my leg.’ Pause. ‘That is, legs. What’s wrong with a little urine on your legs, anyway?’ (These folks would probably be shocked to learn that the bread I bake (and which they claim to love) contains lots and lots of little weevils kneaded in and cooked right along with that wonderful, home-ground flour that I make and use.)
I CARRY THIS ‘little book of hatreds’ around with me nearly everywhere I go. Especially when I feel that I may need it (which is most of the time now; it’s therapeutic). Like when I go to meetings at work (department meetings, committee meetings, all-school meetings, etc.) where I hear the most incredible nonsense coming out of people’s mouths--introducing terms like ‘stellar,’ ‘institutional effectiveness,’ ‘social constructs,’ etc. (You come to expect this kind of rubbish from colleagues at work, but still it’s no excuse. I’d never say anything like that! I’d rather use words like shit and piss and cunt and cum.) What surprises me and saddens me at the same time (and makes me glad that I have my little book along) is when I am with friends (perceived friends), and they express outrage at the most natural things that come my way. For example, a number of years ago, the first time I’d hiked in West Canyon, I had my brother drop me off from his boat at the mouth of the canyon. I was alone. He said that he’d come back and pick me up in three days. By noon on the first day, I noticed that I had seen no one else--had not even seen any other footprints. And so, of course, I took off my clothes (except for my shoes, which I did discard the next day) and continued hiking. (I usually wear clothes when I hike; I don’t want to offend strangers (although their wearing clothes does offend me.)) This is desert hiking, and I always carry with me lots of water. And, of course, I’m drinking the water; and, of course, I’m having to pee. Often. In fact, it seems that I’m having to pee every ten or fifteen minutes (I’m drinking a lot, remember). And I’m wanting to see as much of this canyon as I possibly can because I’ve only got a few days to do it in, and it’s a long canyon, and . . . . And so, I think to myself: Can’t I just walk AND pee? At the same time. And so, I do. And I tell this to my friends. And they’re shocked. They can’t believe it. ‘You pee right there while you’re walking?’ one of them says. And the other one says, ‘Don’t you get it on your leg?’ And after a moment of my own shock, I reply, ‘Well, of course, I get it on my leg.’ Pause. ‘That is, legs. What’s wrong with a little urine on your legs, anyway?’ (These folks would probably be shocked to learn that the bread I bake (and which they claim to love) contains lots and lots of little weevils kneaded in and cooked right along with that wonderful, home-ground flour that I make and use.)
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Mess
MESS
CHARACTERS (in order of appearance)
Character
Police Officer
Wrestler
Worker #1 with Dolly
Boxer
Worker with Piano
Worker #2 with Dolly
Singer
Worker with Vacuum
Actor
Speaker
Worker #3 with Dolly
CURTAIN OPENS with minimal lighting and the following props across the stage: a microphone stand at downstage center with a microphone attached; immediately to its right, on the floor, a trumpet and a child’s toy drum; farther to the right, a set of barbells with additional weights; at center stage right, a large wooden crate, on end, partially wrapped in duct tape, a telephone on top; at center stage center, a stuffed chair: a love seat; at center stage left, a wood podium, a broom leaning against on the right--upside down--and an American flag on a pole to the left–-rightside up. In front of the podium lies a corpse, sprawled face down across the floor.
(Note: gender and race and age of each character is unspecified; therefore, left to the director’s discretion.)
-------
Lights come up slowly. Hold ten seconds.
Immediately, CHARACTER, wearing black trousers and a white t-shirt, walks across stage, right to left, muttering grouped pairs of single words with each step: "right-left, up-down, slow-fast, light-dark, day-night, right-wrong, good-evil, dog-cat, yes-no." Does a little hop over the corpse and exits stage left.
POLICE OFFICER enters from stage left, assumes the police officer position: arms behind back and looking skyward. Begins walking slowly, strolling, whistling, stepping around corpse, and looking upward and around. Exits stage right.
Telephone rings three times. Stops.
CHARACTER, now wearing blue t-shirt with the black trousers, enters from stage left, maneuvers around corpse, walks across stage, again muttering the word pairs with each step: "black-white, big-little, large-small, tall-short, fat-thin, hot-cold, even-odd, sun-moon, no-yes." Exits stage right, between barbells and crate.
WRESTLER enters from stage right, walks past and behind wooden crate and love seat, takes place prone on floor behind podium. Begins exercising: push-ups, then sit-ups.
Telephone rings. Stops.
WRESTLER continues exercising uninterrupted: sit-ups, then jumping jacks, more push-ups.
POLICE OFFICER enters from stage right, walks to downstage right, all the while looking upward and around entire stage: the police officer position. Whistles. Returns to upstage right. Exits.
CHARACTER, now wearing yellow t-shirt, enters stage right and walks across stage, right to left this time, muttering words with each step: "Rich-poor, boy-girl, man-woman, bride-groom, husband-wife, skinny-fat, wet-dry, snow-rain, yes-yes." Hops over corpse. Exits stage left.
WRESTLER stops exercising, walks toward downstage left, looks down at corpse. Backs up, takes running leap over body. Exits.
Telephone rings.
WORKER enters stage right, pushing dolly with its own large wooden crate across downstage, right to left, has some difficulty maneuvering around barbells and weights, microphone stand, and corpse, but manages well enough, i.e., scatters weights, knocks--but not over--mic stand, and catches one arm of corpse with jagged edge of crate, drags body a bit before shaking it loose. Continues. Exits.
Telephone rings.
BOXER enters from left, walks past and behind stuffed love seat and wooden crate and begins shadow boxing. POLICE OFFICER enters from right, assumes police officer position. WORKER follows, entering from right, pushing large grand piano across upstage, right to left. Another WORKER enters, stage right, pushing crate on dolly, maneuvering around obstacles expertly. Telephone rings three times and stops. CHARACTER, now wearing red t-shirt, enters stage right, rushes across stage, right to left, muttering single syllable words the whole time: "north-south, east-west, up-down, front-back, left-right, right-left, high-low, no-no." Passes WORKER WITH DOLLY leaps over corpse. Exits.
POLICE OFFICER supervises all.
All except BOXER and POLICE OFFICER exit.
BOXER continues shadow boxing, uninterrupted.
Telephone rings. Stops.
BOXER and POLICE OFFICER exit, left and right respectively.
Silence and order return; order is supreme, silence exalted. Hold for fifteen seconds.
Telephone rings. Five times. Stops.
Telephone rings. Three times. Stops.
Telephone rings. Four times. Stops.
SINGER enters from right, stops exactly half-way between podium and microphone. Begins singing. POLICE OFFICER enters from right and stands next to SINGER. Assumes police officer position. Leans over and whispers in SINGER’s ear. SINGER continues singing.
WORKER WITH VACUUM cleaner enters from stage left, plugs machine into socket at center stage center. Begins vacuuming hardwood floor of stage. Vacuum is loud--very loud. Incredibly loud.
Telephone rings. Many times. No one hears.
SINGER continues singing. POLICE OFFICER whispers again. SINGER continues singing. POLICE OFFICER looks at SINGER. SINGER sings. POLICE OFFICER whispers again in ear. SINGER sings. POLICE OFFICER shouts. Shakes fist. SINGER sings. POLICE OFFICER escorts SINGER off stage right. SINGER continues singing.
ACTOR enters stage left, sits on floor beside corpse. Motionless.
Phone rings three times. No one hears it; no one answers it. Vacuum still very loud.
ACTOR changes position: now lies down motionless, on side, beside motionless corpse, spoon-like.
POLICE OFFICER enters from backstage right. Assumes police officer position. Watches--from a distance--ACTOR beside corpse. POLICE OFFICER shifts position; leans against wooden crate. Continues watching motionless ACTOR beside corpse. Frowns. Telephone rings. POLICE OFFICER shifts position again; returns to police officer position. Observes ACTOR, still motionless. Frowns. Exits backstage right.
ACTOR snuggles up next to corpse. Kisses on cheek. Strokes hair. Then rises from floor beside corpse. Exits stage left.
POLICE OFFICER (off-stage, unseen) frowns.
WORKER WITH VACUUM cleaner completes vacuuming stage. Turns off vacuum. Unplugs vacuum. Exits with vacuum.
SPEAKER in formal wear enters from downstage left, walks past all the props: the corpse, microphone stand, weights, wooden crate and telephone, love seat, podium and broom and flag, finally settling at upstage center. Stands facing audience. POLICE OFFICER (still frowning) enters, stage right; assumes police officer position. Observes SPEAKER. SPEAKER begins speaking. Inaudible sounds–-not loud. SPEAKER makes emphatic hand and arm gestures. Voice grows softer. Raises arms and head skyward. More gestures. Emphatic. Concludes speech and waves to audience.
POLICE OFFICER observes everything.
Telephone rings.
POLICE OFFICER escorts SPEAKER off stage, right.
CHARACTER with black t-shirt enters stage right, hops over corpse, walks across stage, muttering single pairs of words: "Mother-father, brother-sister, son-daughter, mother-daughter, father-son, mother-son, father-daughter, mom-dad, yeah-yeah!" Exits stage left.
WORKER WITH DOLLY and crate enters from stage left. In attempting to maneuver around corpse, bumps into it, pushes it, drags it along for a bit: crate and dolly and corpse get unimaginably tangled up together. Dolly and crate teeter. WORKER makes desperate lunge to save it from falling. Fails. Crate crashes to floor with a thud, breaks apart, scattering wood and contents of crate: another corpse. All fall into orchestra pit. Stage corpse too knocked off stage and into pit.
WORKER visibly upset. Appears frightened as well. Leaps into orchestra pit. BOXER and WRESTLER rush from stage right and left, leap into pit to assist WORKER. POLICE OFFICER enters, stage right. Leans over and looks into pit. Observes. Assumes police officer position. Supervises. Garbled discussion in pit seems to reveal the uncertainty of which corpse rightfully belongs in crate, which corpse rightfully belongs on stage. Argument ensues.
Time spent arguing.
Eventually, argument concludes, and decision is made. Work begins. BOXER and WRESTLER place one corpse into reassembled crate and duct-tape it all together. Lift crate back onto stage. Climb back onto stage. Arrange crate somewhere on stage. All the while, WORKER, working alone, struggles and lifts and drags and repositions other corpse back onto stage at approximate previous position. Done, all three inspect their work. Seem satisfied. Dust off hands; shake hands. All exit, including POLICE OFFICER.
Repaired crate remains on stage.
Stage returns to order. Silence. Hold ten seconds.
CHARACTER, now with white t-shirt, enters stage left, hops over corpse, crosses stage, left to right, muttering the words: "True-false, pro-con, heaven-hell, ding-dong, yin-yang, life-death, birth-death, alive-dead; oh-oh!"
POLICE OFFICER enters, stage left. Observes surroundings; surveys surroundings. Assumes police officer position.
Stage is in order: older; wiser; more experienced. Silence achieved. Hold ten seconds.
Lights. Curtain.
CHARACTERS (in order of appearance)
Character
Police Officer
Wrestler
Worker #1 with Dolly
Boxer
Worker with Piano
Worker #2 with Dolly
Singer
Worker with Vacuum
Actor
Speaker
Worker #3 with Dolly
CURTAIN OPENS with minimal lighting and the following props across the stage: a microphone stand at downstage center with a microphone attached; immediately to its right, on the floor, a trumpet and a child’s toy drum; farther to the right, a set of barbells with additional weights; at center stage right, a large wooden crate, on end, partially wrapped in duct tape, a telephone on top; at center stage center, a stuffed chair: a love seat; at center stage left, a wood podium, a broom leaning against on the right--upside down--and an American flag on a pole to the left–-rightside up. In front of the podium lies a corpse, sprawled face down across the floor.
(Note: gender and race and age of each character is unspecified; therefore, left to the director’s discretion.)
-------
Lights come up slowly. Hold ten seconds.
Immediately, CHARACTER, wearing black trousers and a white t-shirt, walks across stage, right to left, muttering grouped pairs of single words with each step: "right-left, up-down, slow-fast, light-dark, day-night, right-wrong, good-evil, dog-cat, yes-no." Does a little hop over the corpse and exits stage left.
POLICE OFFICER enters from stage left, assumes the police officer position: arms behind back and looking skyward. Begins walking slowly, strolling, whistling, stepping around corpse, and looking upward and around. Exits stage right.
Telephone rings three times. Stops.
CHARACTER, now wearing blue t-shirt with the black trousers, enters from stage left, maneuvers around corpse, walks across stage, again muttering the word pairs with each step: "black-white, big-little, large-small, tall-short, fat-thin, hot-cold, even-odd, sun-moon, no-yes." Exits stage right, between barbells and crate.
WRESTLER enters from stage right, walks past and behind wooden crate and love seat, takes place prone on floor behind podium. Begins exercising: push-ups, then sit-ups.
Telephone rings. Stops.
WRESTLER continues exercising uninterrupted: sit-ups, then jumping jacks, more push-ups.
POLICE OFFICER enters from stage right, walks to downstage right, all the while looking upward and around entire stage: the police officer position. Whistles. Returns to upstage right. Exits.
CHARACTER, now wearing yellow t-shirt, enters stage right and walks across stage, right to left this time, muttering words with each step: "Rich-poor, boy-girl, man-woman, bride-groom, husband-wife, skinny-fat, wet-dry, snow-rain, yes-yes." Hops over corpse. Exits stage left.
WRESTLER stops exercising, walks toward downstage left, looks down at corpse. Backs up, takes running leap over body. Exits.
Telephone rings.
WORKER enters stage right, pushing dolly with its own large wooden crate across downstage, right to left, has some difficulty maneuvering around barbells and weights, microphone stand, and corpse, but manages well enough, i.e., scatters weights, knocks--but not over--mic stand, and catches one arm of corpse with jagged edge of crate, drags body a bit before shaking it loose. Continues. Exits.
Telephone rings.
BOXER enters from left, walks past and behind stuffed love seat and wooden crate and begins shadow boxing. POLICE OFFICER enters from right, assumes police officer position. WORKER follows, entering from right, pushing large grand piano across upstage, right to left. Another WORKER enters, stage right, pushing crate on dolly, maneuvering around obstacles expertly. Telephone rings three times and stops. CHARACTER, now wearing red t-shirt, enters stage right, rushes across stage, right to left, muttering single syllable words the whole time: "north-south, east-west, up-down, front-back, left-right, right-left, high-low, no-no." Passes WORKER WITH DOLLY leaps over corpse. Exits.
POLICE OFFICER supervises all.
All except BOXER and POLICE OFFICER exit.
BOXER continues shadow boxing, uninterrupted.
Telephone rings. Stops.
BOXER and POLICE OFFICER exit, left and right respectively.
Silence and order return; order is supreme, silence exalted. Hold for fifteen seconds.
Telephone rings. Five times. Stops.
Telephone rings. Three times. Stops.
Telephone rings. Four times. Stops.
SINGER enters from right, stops exactly half-way between podium and microphone. Begins singing. POLICE OFFICER enters from right and stands next to SINGER. Assumes police officer position. Leans over and whispers in SINGER’s ear. SINGER continues singing.
WORKER WITH VACUUM cleaner enters from stage left, plugs machine into socket at center stage center. Begins vacuuming hardwood floor of stage. Vacuum is loud--very loud. Incredibly loud.
Telephone rings. Many times. No one hears.
SINGER continues singing. POLICE OFFICER whispers again. SINGER continues singing. POLICE OFFICER looks at SINGER. SINGER sings. POLICE OFFICER whispers again in ear. SINGER sings. POLICE OFFICER shouts. Shakes fist. SINGER sings. POLICE OFFICER escorts SINGER off stage right. SINGER continues singing.
ACTOR enters stage left, sits on floor beside corpse. Motionless.
Phone rings three times. No one hears it; no one answers it. Vacuum still very loud.
ACTOR changes position: now lies down motionless, on side, beside motionless corpse, spoon-like.
POLICE OFFICER enters from backstage right. Assumes police officer position. Watches--from a distance--ACTOR beside corpse. POLICE OFFICER shifts position; leans against wooden crate. Continues watching motionless ACTOR beside corpse. Frowns. Telephone rings. POLICE OFFICER shifts position again; returns to police officer position. Observes ACTOR, still motionless. Frowns. Exits backstage right.
ACTOR snuggles up next to corpse. Kisses on cheek. Strokes hair. Then rises from floor beside corpse. Exits stage left.
POLICE OFFICER (off-stage, unseen) frowns.
WORKER WITH VACUUM cleaner completes vacuuming stage. Turns off vacuum. Unplugs vacuum. Exits with vacuum.
SPEAKER in formal wear enters from downstage left, walks past all the props: the corpse, microphone stand, weights, wooden crate and telephone, love seat, podium and broom and flag, finally settling at upstage center. Stands facing audience. POLICE OFFICER (still frowning) enters, stage right; assumes police officer position. Observes SPEAKER. SPEAKER begins speaking. Inaudible sounds–-not loud. SPEAKER makes emphatic hand and arm gestures. Voice grows softer. Raises arms and head skyward. More gestures. Emphatic. Concludes speech and waves to audience.
POLICE OFFICER observes everything.
Telephone rings.
POLICE OFFICER escorts SPEAKER off stage, right.
CHARACTER with black t-shirt enters stage right, hops over corpse, walks across stage, muttering single pairs of words: "Mother-father, brother-sister, son-daughter, mother-daughter, father-son, mother-son, father-daughter, mom-dad, yeah-yeah!" Exits stage left.
WORKER WITH DOLLY and crate enters from stage left. In attempting to maneuver around corpse, bumps into it, pushes it, drags it along for a bit: crate and dolly and corpse get unimaginably tangled up together. Dolly and crate teeter. WORKER makes desperate lunge to save it from falling. Fails. Crate crashes to floor with a thud, breaks apart, scattering wood and contents of crate: another corpse. All fall into orchestra pit. Stage corpse too knocked off stage and into pit.
WORKER visibly upset. Appears frightened as well. Leaps into orchestra pit. BOXER and WRESTLER rush from stage right and left, leap into pit to assist WORKER. POLICE OFFICER enters, stage right. Leans over and looks into pit. Observes. Assumes police officer position. Supervises. Garbled discussion in pit seems to reveal the uncertainty of which corpse rightfully belongs in crate, which corpse rightfully belongs on stage. Argument ensues.
Time spent arguing.
Eventually, argument concludes, and decision is made. Work begins. BOXER and WRESTLER place one corpse into reassembled crate and duct-tape it all together. Lift crate back onto stage. Climb back onto stage. Arrange crate somewhere on stage. All the while, WORKER, working alone, struggles and lifts and drags and repositions other corpse back onto stage at approximate previous position. Done, all three inspect their work. Seem satisfied. Dust off hands; shake hands. All exit, including POLICE OFFICER.
Repaired crate remains on stage.
Stage returns to order. Silence. Hold ten seconds.
CHARACTER, now with white t-shirt, enters stage left, hops over corpse, crosses stage, left to right, muttering the words: "True-false, pro-con, heaven-hell, ding-dong, yin-yang, life-death, birth-death, alive-dead; oh-oh!"
POLICE OFFICER enters, stage left. Observes surroundings; surveys surroundings. Assumes police officer position.
Stage is in order: older; wiser; more experienced. Silence achieved. Hold ten seconds.
Lights. Curtain.
No One Told
NO ONE TOLD THEM
NO ONE TOLD THEM about the insects. Or the birds. Or the mice. Or any of the other larger animals.
No one had said a word about the winters (or the summers, for that matter). Or the sky. The water table. Or the instability of the land–-the landscape--the geology. The seismic activity. The potential for flooding. The fire risk. Or the winds. Nothing about the winds.
Or the problems with the infrastructure. The weaknesses in the foundation of the home. The roof, the walls, the siding. Or the fact that the electricity was always going out; the bad plumbing; the leaky faucets. The water heater. The furnace.
No one had warned them about the food either, or the water and the air, or the lack of rain and the lack of food (because of the bad soil) and the long lines, the difficulty breathing; and the stress and the medications. Oh, the medications! So many of them. Or the insect bites (so many of them too). And how long the pain would linger, even after the insects had been killed and removed from their bodies–-from their arms and their legs and between their legs, and the back of the neck. Even after the ointment had been applied.
And the size of it all: just how big and how out of control everything had become.
They weren’t told about the lies either–-and not just the lies they had come to expect; or the lies they were still surprised to hear (like the ones about the Colorado River, or the Columbia River, or the Sea of Cortez), but also the lies they themselves would be telling--the lies they would be telling to the ones they loved the most.
Or the neighbors. No one had told them about the neighbors. No one had bothered to tell them about the neighbors. The fighting, the screaming and the yelling and the hitting; or the horrible things that went on in the basement on Sundays; and sometimes even the horrible, cruel things that went on right there in the backyard for everyone to see. The incident with the pliers and the Phillips-head screwdriver. And at night: the footsteps along the side of the house.
Or what would be happening soon to their own families: the visits to the emergency room. The follow-up visits. The mortuary. The cemetery.
No one had said anything about the rest of the town, either: the curfew, the sidewalk tax, the trampolines, and the floodlights at the slaughterhouse. And the schools. (How could they have not told them about the schools?) And the bumping sounds and the hoses, and the continuous, round-the-clock firing up of the trucks. And the section of town where the slaves were kept and fed and then beaten--and then, later on, let loose. Or the paper mill and all the costly delays; the toxic waste plant, the noise from the sound factory. And the on-going construction: all of it; the jack-hammers, especially. But also the saws; the chain-saws and jig-saws and the buzz-saws that whirred and whined until you thought you were going crazy.
They didn’t know about the bubbles, either.
Or the thing with their own bodies.
Or about the people who went down to the post office every day to do nothing but buy stamps for their goddamn stamp collections. The money exchanged. And the work: the work gained and the work lost. The paper work too. And what it was all supposed to mean; and what that meaning was supposed to mean. To what purpose it was all for.
No. No one had told them about any of this: what it was going to be like. No one had said a word. Not a single word; not a single soul.
And they didn’t ask. They didn’t think to ask. They didn’t know beforehand how it was going to be. And now it was too late. It was too late to ask. They had to figure it out on their own.
And they weren’t doing a very good job of it.
NO ONE TOLD THEM about the insects. Or the birds. Or the mice. Or any of the other larger animals.
No one had said a word about the winters (or the summers, for that matter). Or the sky. The water table. Or the instability of the land–-the landscape--the geology. The seismic activity. The potential for flooding. The fire risk. Or the winds. Nothing about the winds.
Or the problems with the infrastructure. The weaknesses in the foundation of the home. The roof, the walls, the siding. Or the fact that the electricity was always going out; the bad plumbing; the leaky faucets. The water heater. The furnace.
No one had warned them about the food either, or the water and the air, or the lack of rain and the lack of food (because of the bad soil) and the long lines, the difficulty breathing; and the stress and the medications. Oh, the medications! So many of them. Or the insect bites (so many of them too). And how long the pain would linger, even after the insects had been killed and removed from their bodies–-from their arms and their legs and between their legs, and the back of the neck. Even after the ointment had been applied.
And the size of it all: just how big and how out of control everything had become.
They weren’t told about the lies either–-and not just the lies they had come to expect; or the lies they were still surprised to hear (like the ones about the Colorado River, or the Columbia River, or the Sea of Cortez), but also the lies they themselves would be telling--the lies they would be telling to the ones they loved the most.
Or the neighbors. No one had told them about the neighbors. No one had bothered to tell them about the neighbors. The fighting, the screaming and the yelling and the hitting; or the horrible things that went on in the basement on Sundays; and sometimes even the horrible, cruel things that went on right there in the backyard for everyone to see. The incident with the pliers and the Phillips-head screwdriver. And at night: the footsteps along the side of the house.
Or what would be happening soon to their own families: the visits to the emergency room. The follow-up visits. The mortuary. The cemetery.
No one had said anything about the rest of the town, either: the curfew, the sidewalk tax, the trampolines, and the floodlights at the slaughterhouse. And the schools. (How could they have not told them about the schools?) And the bumping sounds and the hoses, and the continuous, round-the-clock firing up of the trucks. And the section of town where the slaves were kept and fed and then beaten--and then, later on, let loose. Or the paper mill and all the costly delays; the toxic waste plant, the noise from the sound factory. And the on-going construction: all of it; the jack-hammers, especially. But also the saws; the chain-saws and jig-saws and the buzz-saws that whirred and whined until you thought you were going crazy.
They didn’t know about the bubbles, either.
Or the thing with their own bodies.
Or about the people who went down to the post office every day to do nothing but buy stamps for their goddamn stamp collections. The money exchanged. And the work: the work gained and the work lost. The paper work too. And what it was all supposed to mean; and what that meaning was supposed to mean. To what purpose it was all for.
No. No one had told them about any of this: what it was going to be like. No one had said a word. Not a single word; not a single soul.
And they didn’t ask. They didn’t think to ask. They didn’t know beforehand how it was going to be. And now it was too late. It was too late to ask. They had to figure it out on their own.
And they weren’t doing a very good job of it.
Two Haiku
TWO HAIKU
-1-
It stands in the yard
Ever growing in the yard
A tree in the yard.
-2-
Even in America
I long for America.
-1-
It stands in the yard
Ever growing in the yard
A tree in the yard.
-2-
Even in America
I long for America.
Cordless
CORDLESS
CAROLYN CORDLESS LIVED A LIFE of complete misery: that is to say, she could not find a job. Not even once. During her younger years–-in high school and even in college--it didn’t bother her so much. She came from a family that, though not wealthy by the day’s standards, could nevertheless support her through college. But then, with the completion of her degree--in which she graduated somewhere in the middle of her class--she watched with alarm as her friends--and her friends’ friends--one by one, each got their jobs and began to settle into careers. Carolyn Cordless did not settle into a career. She just kept looking for work.
At first--those first few months--after having applied for positions in her field, she would almost always get a phone call right away: the receptionist from a desirous firm wanting to schedule an appointment with her the following week. Carolyn would often buy a new outfit for the interview; and afterwards she would come away from the meeting with a sense of confidence, would even treat herself to lunch on her way home. But she never made the final cut; she was never offered the job. She was always a runner-up to somebody else.
After awhile, she stopped getting interviews at all. Instead, she’d receive in the mail the polite form letter with the company’s logo at the top telling her how impressed the initial screeners had been with her qualifications, but that she didn’t fit into the organization’s needs "at the present time." But to please-feel-free-to-apply-again.
Which she did. For awhile.
But for some reason, they were not interested in her as an employee. No one seemed to be interested in her as an employee. She began to get discouraged. Her friends were not only getting jobs, but promotions as well; they were moving away, buying new cars and homes, settling down into careers--into life. Carolyn Cordless was not settling down into a career--or into life–-or into anything. And she couldn’t understand why. She decided to take a break from her job hunting and to just relax for awhile and think things through. Maybe, she thought to herself, I picked the wrong major. Maybe, she continued to think, I’m not qualified for the jobs in my discipline. Maybe, she said aloud--now gaining back her confidence--maybe I should apply for jobs in other fields–-in related fields, but ones that are not quite so competitive, in fields where I might have a better chance of landing something.
She went to the Employment Center and explained her situation. The staff there was extremely helpful–-and encouraging. As a result, she got a whole new round of interviews, and for the next two weeks she went busily about meeting prospective employers. Then she’d return home and wait by the phone.
But no one ever called.
She got discouraged again. Have I wasted four years of my life on an education that will prove pointless? She began to wonder what depression felt like--if it was anything like what she was currently feeling, which was beginning to feel like something much more serious and permanent than her earlier discouragement. For a week Carolyn Cordless did not leave her apartment. Her family was still supporting her. They were not rich, but they did what they could. Still, she began to feel guilty–-or anyway, she began to feel bad--bad about herself, bad about the world, bad about life.
She decided to change her strategy. She decided to be less particular and to apply for jobs that were probably a notch or two below what she had originally planned and had hoped for, ones that might prove to be stepping stones for those more prestigious positions later on. Occasionally, she’d get a call for an interview. She’d get dressed up and go, once again think that she had performed well, walk out of the meeting feeling confident, but the follow-up phone call giving her the good news never came. Never.
It was frustrating; everyone can get a job, she told herself. Even complete idiots work somewhere. What’s the matter with me?
But she didn’t give up. Not yet. She applied for lesser jobs still, ones that she was clearly overqualified for–-ones that she knew she could not be turned down for. But again, for reasons she could not understand, no one would hire her. No one. She began to apply for anything--unskilled work even. No luck. She began walking the streets, looking for "HELP WANTED" signs in storefront windows. She’d walk in, ask for an application, carefully fill it out right there in the store, make sure to talk to the person in charge, and then walk out the door and go home and wait for the telephone call.
But the telephone call never came.
She went to fast food restaurants, where she had heard that anyone can get a job. The staff was warm and friendly--encouraging. They told her that they really needed help, that management was planning to hire in the next two weeks.
Again, no luck.
She even tried to find volunteer work, but each place she went to-–each charity, whether government or private or religious--turned her away. "We’ve got too many people as it is," they told her. "You know, the economy."
She knew.
She went down to the military recruiting offices--each one: the Army, the Navy, Air Force, and Marines–-to see if she could help in the war effort. But nothing. She couldn’t pass the physical exam: fallen arches.
In desperation, she moved back in with her parents. She–-and her parents, who were not wealthy–-could no longer afford this charade of a life.
For ten years Carolyn Cordless tried to find work–-employment–-a job. And for ten years she failed. Her greatest fears had been realized.
She spent more and more time now out in the backyard, digging little holes in the ground with the little red trowel that her mother had bought for her. And then she’d fill the holes back up. And start all over again.
One day, as was bound to happen, her luck changed. The news came unexpectedly, like most terminal illnesses. The doctors said that if they treated the cancer, she could expect to live for perhaps two years. Without treatment, she’d be dead in six months. Carolyn Cordless chose life. But even with the chemotherapy and the radiation and the other drugs, she died at a year’s time. That was the bad part. The good part was that she had few good friends, few acquaintances, a small family, no spouse or children; and so there were few people–-relatively speaking–-who were saddened by her death.
CAROLYN CORDLESS LIVED A LIFE of complete misery: that is to say, she could not find a job. Not even once. During her younger years–-in high school and even in college--it didn’t bother her so much. She came from a family that, though not wealthy by the day’s standards, could nevertheless support her through college. But then, with the completion of her degree--in which she graduated somewhere in the middle of her class--she watched with alarm as her friends--and her friends’ friends--one by one, each got their jobs and began to settle into careers. Carolyn Cordless did not settle into a career. She just kept looking for work.
At first--those first few months--after having applied for positions in her field, she would almost always get a phone call right away: the receptionist from a desirous firm wanting to schedule an appointment with her the following week. Carolyn would often buy a new outfit for the interview; and afterwards she would come away from the meeting with a sense of confidence, would even treat herself to lunch on her way home. But she never made the final cut; she was never offered the job. She was always a runner-up to somebody else.
After awhile, she stopped getting interviews at all. Instead, she’d receive in the mail the polite form letter with the company’s logo at the top telling her how impressed the initial screeners had been with her qualifications, but that she didn’t fit into the organization’s needs "at the present time." But to please-feel-free-to-apply-again.
Which she did. For awhile.
But for some reason, they were not interested in her as an employee. No one seemed to be interested in her as an employee. She began to get discouraged. Her friends were not only getting jobs, but promotions as well; they were moving away, buying new cars and homes, settling down into careers--into life. Carolyn Cordless was not settling down into a career--or into life–-or into anything. And she couldn’t understand why. She decided to take a break from her job hunting and to just relax for awhile and think things through. Maybe, she thought to herself, I picked the wrong major. Maybe, she continued to think, I’m not qualified for the jobs in my discipline. Maybe, she said aloud--now gaining back her confidence--maybe I should apply for jobs in other fields–-in related fields, but ones that are not quite so competitive, in fields where I might have a better chance of landing something.
She went to the Employment Center and explained her situation. The staff there was extremely helpful–-and encouraging. As a result, she got a whole new round of interviews, and for the next two weeks she went busily about meeting prospective employers. Then she’d return home and wait by the phone.
But no one ever called.
She got discouraged again. Have I wasted four years of my life on an education that will prove pointless? She began to wonder what depression felt like--if it was anything like what she was currently feeling, which was beginning to feel like something much more serious and permanent than her earlier discouragement. For a week Carolyn Cordless did not leave her apartment. Her family was still supporting her. They were not rich, but they did what they could. Still, she began to feel guilty–-or anyway, she began to feel bad--bad about herself, bad about the world, bad about life.
She decided to change her strategy. She decided to be less particular and to apply for jobs that were probably a notch or two below what she had originally planned and had hoped for, ones that might prove to be stepping stones for those more prestigious positions later on. Occasionally, she’d get a call for an interview. She’d get dressed up and go, once again think that she had performed well, walk out of the meeting feeling confident, but the follow-up phone call giving her the good news never came. Never.
It was frustrating; everyone can get a job, she told herself. Even complete idiots work somewhere. What’s the matter with me?
But she didn’t give up. Not yet. She applied for lesser jobs still, ones that she was clearly overqualified for–-ones that she knew she could not be turned down for. But again, for reasons she could not understand, no one would hire her. No one. She began to apply for anything--unskilled work even. No luck. She began walking the streets, looking for "HELP WANTED" signs in storefront windows. She’d walk in, ask for an application, carefully fill it out right there in the store, make sure to talk to the person in charge, and then walk out the door and go home and wait for the telephone call.
But the telephone call never came.
She went to fast food restaurants, where she had heard that anyone can get a job. The staff was warm and friendly--encouraging. They told her that they really needed help, that management was planning to hire in the next two weeks.
Again, no luck.
She even tried to find volunteer work, but each place she went to-–each charity, whether government or private or religious--turned her away. "We’ve got too many people as it is," they told her. "You know, the economy."
She knew.
She went down to the military recruiting offices--each one: the Army, the Navy, Air Force, and Marines–-to see if she could help in the war effort. But nothing. She couldn’t pass the physical exam: fallen arches.
In desperation, she moved back in with her parents. She–-and her parents, who were not wealthy–-could no longer afford this charade of a life.
For ten years Carolyn Cordless tried to find work–-employment–-a job. And for ten years she failed. Her greatest fears had been realized.
She spent more and more time now out in the backyard, digging little holes in the ground with the little red trowel that her mother had bought for her. And then she’d fill the holes back up. And start all over again.
One day, as was bound to happen, her luck changed. The news came unexpectedly, like most terminal illnesses. The doctors said that if they treated the cancer, she could expect to live for perhaps two years. Without treatment, she’d be dead in six months. Carolyn Cordless chose life. But even with the chemotherapy and the radiation and the other drugs, she died at a year’s time. That was the bad part. The good part was that she had few good friends, few acquaintances, a small family, no spouse or children; and so there were few people–-relatively speaking–-who were saddened by her death.
Burial
BURIAL
JON-JACOB POCAHONTAS was born with serious medical problems. Six weeks premature, he was rushed in mid-labor to the closest hospital–-one hour away–-where, by the time he arrived, he was already partially born-–posterior, his mother unable to push him out. It was a forceps delivery, but the real problem was that the umbilical cord had wrapped itself around little Jon-Jacob’s neck, cutting off the necessary oxygen supply for an estimated eight minutes. Eight critical minutes. The result: severe brain damage, deafness, blindness, cerebral palsy, mental retardation, and, it appeared, epilepsy. As if things weren’t bad enough, he was also unable to suck.
But he was alive, had two adoring parents who loved him entirely, and a team of physicians who rallied around the clock to keep his tiny, little body functioning. Though the prognosis was not good, it looked like he was going to make it-–at least for awhile.
And he did make it--for awhile.
Though the first few weeks were touch-and-go, he seemed to stabilize after a time, and Mom and Dad Pocahontas were able to finally bring him home: two months to the day after his birth. Still, despite the hopes everyone had, the facts were sobering: he had to be tube fed; he was gaining no weight; his skin developed deep sores and bruises for no apparent reason; and he made few, if any, meaningful movements or sounds. He didn’t even cry. Except once: A week after his arrival home, Mom and Dad P. decided to have him circumcised. Taken back to the hospital and strapped tightly to the board, he made soft little semi-sounds during the entire ten-minute procedure–-sounds that could have been interpreted as a cry, though the doctor said it was probably just a coincidence. At the end of the surgery a single tear rolled from each eye.
Home again, J-J was photographed constantly. His parents’ favorite picture was of the three of them: Mom on the left and Dad on the right, and their son between, on Mom’s lap. The original picture showed an expressionless face with a vacant stare, but the photographer was able to touch it up into something that they were all very pleased with. They had two enlargements made: one for the night stand by their bed, and the other in a beautiful frame over the mantle above the hearth of the fireplace.
As the months drew on, the caring parents began to realize the very real consequences of raising a child with such grave disabilities. Often at night, they’d wake up to the sound of the alarm monitor that indicated that J-J’s breathing had stopped. They’d take turns getting up to revive him. But sometimes, in the privacy of their own thoughts, they’d ask, What’s the point? Neither of them ever voiced the view to the other, but they had each considered the option. Of course, they never acted on the impulse; and when little J-J died–-legitimately–-at the age of one year, one month, and one day, they grieved as any parents would.
The casket was small, and during the viewing the evening before the funeral–-and the morning of–-he looked beautiful: at peace and dressed in his mother’s favorite yellow sleeper. His tiny hands, one on top of the other, rested across his stomach. There was hardly any crying when the lid was closed for the last time and fastened.
The funeral was brief.
The internment, however, went not quite so smoothly. At the cemetery the casket had been placed atop the steel frame above the grave, and when the workers began to lower it into the ground, one of the pullies failed to operate properly. The casket slid into the grave with a thud and rested on one end. The small crowd gasped in horror, while the workers sweated and swore under their breath. Mom and Dad Pocahontas were beside themselves. The director of the funeral home rushed over and ordered the workers to retrieve the casket, which they were already doing. They got it out of the grave, but the parents were still carrying on. The director, for his part, tried to approach them, but all they could say was, "Our baby! Our baby!" over and over again.
When they had finally calmed down enough to be able to articulate their feelings, Mom Pocahontas said that she couldn’t imagine what their little darling had just been through, that he must be a mess there inside the coffin, tipped on his head, with his yellow sleeper crumpled and rumpled, and that there must be something they could do.
The director thought and thought and finally brought the workers over and asked if they could open up the casket.
"Let’s take a look," he said.
They had the tools right there with them, and in no time at all, they had the lid off. J-J was still inside, of course, but no longer with his hands folded across his stomach. Now they were up near his face and bent at an awkward angle; the rest of his body too had scrunched up to one end of the inside of the box, and his head lay twisted in an odd way, the stitches in his mouth torn and some of the embalming fluid leaking and wetting his hair. Mom and Dad Pocahontas burst into more howls, while the director himself worked to arrange the body to its better position, straightening the pajamas and rearranging the hands and wiping about the face with his own handkerchief. Done, he once again approached the grieving parents and asked for their permission to close the casket.
They granted it, and the workers, who had repaired and tested the pulley devices while the director had done his job, carefully lifted the casket and carried it over to its final place. Those who had remained gathered once more for the burial, which now proceeded without further incident.
JON-JACOB POCAHONTAS was born with serious medical problems. Six weeks premature, he was rushed in mid-labor to the closest hospital–-one hour away–-where, by the time he arrived, he was already partially born-–posterior, his mother unable to push him out. It was a forceps delivery, but the real problem was that the umbilical cord had wrapped itself around little Jon-Jacob’s neck, cutting off the necessary oxygen supply for an estimated eight minutes. Eight critical minutes. The result: severe brain damage, deafness, blindness, cerebral palsy, mental retardation, and, it appeared, epilepsy. As if things weren’t bad enough, he was also unable to suck.
But he was alive, had two adoring parents who loved him entirely, and a team of physicians who rallied around the clock to keep his tiny, little body functioning. Though the prognosis was not good, it looked like he was going to make it-–at least for awhile.
And he did make it--for awhile.
Though the first few weeks were touch-and-go, he seemed to stabilize after a time, and Mom and Dad Pocahontas were able to finally bring him home: two months to the day after his birth. Still, despite the hopes everyone had, the facts were sobering: he had to be tube fed; he was gaining no weight; his skin developed deep sores and bruises for no apparent reason; and he made few, if any, meaningful movements or sounds. He didn’t even cry. Except once: A week after his arrival home, Mom and Dad P. decided to have him circumcised. Taken back to the hospital and strapped tightly to the board, he made soft little semi-sounds during the entire ten-minute procedure–-sounds that could have been interpreted as a cry, though the doctor said it was probably just a coincidence. At the end of the surgery a single tear rolled from each eye.
Home again, J-J was photographed constantly. His parents’ favorite picture was of the three of them: Mom on the left and Dad on the right, and their son between, on Mom’s lap. The original picture showed an expressionless face with a vacant stare, but the photographer was able to touch it up into something that they were all very pleased with. They had two enlargements made: one for the night stand by their bed, and the other in a beautiful frame over the mantle above the hearth of the fireplace.
As the months drew on, the caring parents began to realize the very real consequences of raising a child with such grave disabilities. Often at night, they’d wake up to the sound of the alarm monitor that indicated that J-J’s breathing had stopped. They’d take turns getting up to revive him. But sometimes, in the privacy of their own thoughts, they’d ask, What’s the point? Neither of them ever voiced the view to the other, but they had each considered the option. Of course, they never acted on the impulse; and when little J-J died–-legitimately–-at the age of one year, one month, and one day, they grieved as any parents would.
The casket was small, and during the viewing the evening before the funeral–-and the morning of–-he looked beautiful: at peace and dressed in his mother’s favorite yellow sleeper. His tiny hands, one on top of the other, rested across his stomach. There was hardly any crying when the lid was closed for the last time and fastened.
The funeral was brief.
The internment, however, went not quite so smoothly. At the cemetery the casket had been placed atop the steel frame above the grave, and when the workers began to lower it into the ground, one of the pullies failed to operate properly. The casket slid into the grave with a thud and rested on one end. The small crowd gasped in horror, while the workers sweated and swore under their breath. Mom and Dad Pocahontas were beside themselves. The director of the funeral home rushed over and ordered the workers to retrieve the casket, which they were already doing. They got it out of the grave, but the parents were still carrying on. The director, for his part, tried to approach them, but all they could say was, "Our baby! Our baby!" over and over again.
When they had finally calmed down enough to be able to articulate their feelings, Mom Pocahontas said that she couldn’t imagine what their little darling had just been through, that he must be a mess there inside the coffin, tipped on his head, with his yellow sleeper crumpled and rumpled, and that there must be something they could do.
The director thought and thought and finally brought the workers over and asked if they could open up the casket.
"Let’s take a look," he said.
They had the tools right there with them, and in no time at all, they had the lid off. J-J was still inside, of course, but no longer with his hands folded across his stomach. Now they were up near his face and bent at an awkward angle; the rest of his body too had scrunched up to one end of the inside of the box, and his head lay twisted in an odd way, the stitches in his mouth torn and some of the embalming fluid leaking and wetting his hair. Mom and Dad Pocahontas burst into more howls, while the director himself worked to arrange the body to its better position, straightening the pajamas and rearranging the hands and wiping about the face with his own handkerchief. Done, he once again approached the grieving parents and asked for their permission to close the casket.
They granted it, and the workers, who had repaired and tested the pulley devices while the director had done his job, carefully lifted the casket and carried it over to its final place. Those who had remained gathered once more for the burial, which now proceeded without further incident.
Basketball
BASKETBALL
BASKETBALL JONES did not play basketball. Or any other sport, for that matter. Nor was his name a nick-name. His parents had chosen it simply because they liked the sound of the syllables playing off each other. No dreams or ambitions; no hopes or aspirations. Just the pleasing touch to their ears: Basketball.
Mr. and Mrs. Jones lived on the Puget Sound. They loved to go down to the beach at low tide and watch the tide slowly come in with the little waves. They loved to watch the other people who would gather at the beach to watch the same thing as they. They loved to go down to the waterfront in the evenings too to watch the sunset. To sit on the pilings. And to be with the other people who had also come down to watch one of the many beautiful things that take place every day on the planet. To the north was Mt. Baker, 10,775 feet above sea level and covered in snow, even in August. Mr. and Mrs. Jones wondered if Mt. Baker’s elevation was measured at low tide or at high tide.
Basketball Jones met a bum on the boardwalk on September 12. The bum asked him not if he had any spare change, but, rather, if he had a twenty-dollar bill. Basketball said, No, he didn’t have a twenty-dollar bill (which was the truth), but added that he did have some change, if that would help. But the bum was not interested in his change. He was not even interested in Basketball Jones’s twenty-dollar bill, except as an illustration, and he would have given it back to him when he was done with it. So instead, he said, "Let me show you something." And he took from his own wallet his own twenty-dollar bill, folded it--one, two, three times--so that, finally, the image of the Twin Towers played on the money.
"See," he said. "Proof. The U.S. Government was behind it all along."
Mr. and Mrs. Jones loved nature. They loved nature so much that they read books on the subject. They loved the ocean especially--the movement of the tides. But they loved the mountains too and the inching forward of the glaciers and then their receding back up the mountain. And the sky too they loved, and its clockwise rotation. (Or maybe it was counter-clockwise; Mr. and Mrs. Jones could never agree on that one.) They loved the shape--the big round shape of the sky’s biggest objects, the sun and the moon. And the changing phases of the moon (and its pull on the ocean) and the circular sun (and its pull on the ocean). And the parts of the sun as well: the core and the photosphere and the chromosphere and the corona and the solar wind.
Once, after having read some things in a book, they asked a teacher: "How big is the sun?"
The teacher had replied that it all depends; it all depends on your definition of the sun.
When most people think of the sun, he said, what they’re referring to is the photosphere, the outline of what you can see with a special solar filter (or even just a welder’s glass). But there is also the chromosphere, the corona (which you can see only during an eclipse), and the solar wind (which you can’t see at all, but which reaches all the way out to the edge of the solar system). So that, the instructor said, if you consider it from the perspective of the solar wind, you could say that we live not only on the earth, but also inside the sun. The earth and the sun are the same, in that they both take up the same space at the same time.
Back before September 12, way back before he knew anything about the power of money--or the enormous size of the sun--Basketball Jones learned about the secrets one could find in wishes. He knew--because he had been told--that there was nothing in the world that you could not do but that your mind could will it. For example, he had been told by a friend, Kathy Friend, of a secret way to get rid of warts: She could wish them away. Basketball had a little cluster of six warts on the inside of his left elbow that resembled the Pleiades and that he always kept covered by his shirt. He didn’t like them, he was embarrassed by them, and he did not want anyone to see them. His friend Kathy had told him that she had once had four warts on her thumb, and that one day, when she had finally had it with them, she looked at them harshly. She had glared at them obtusely. She had even gone so far as to talk to them. Angrily. And with great malice aforethought. She had said to the warts, "Go away, warts. I don’t want you here. No one wants you here. Just go away!" Nothing happened, of course: the warts did not go away. Nor did Kathy expect them to. Not immediately, anyway. But that did not stop her from hating them. She grew more bold and aggressive in her hatred: "Go away!" she now shouted. "I hate you. I hate you. Get off my body. I hate you more." And she glared at the warts again and again, and she seethed at them and focused all of her hatred on the warts--her growing hatred growing, her angering, loathing thoughts shouting at the warts, "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Now go!"
Within a week they were gone.
Basketball tried the same strategy, and it worked for him as well. He became a believer.
Mr. and Mrs. Jones had little pet names for each other. Nick- names, you might say. And lots of them: Pun’kin, Tool, Trailer-tootie. When they did the dishes together, Mr. Jones would call Mrs. Jones Paper, and she’d call him Orange. When they cleaned the house, he’d call her Antithesis, and she’d call him Camera. When they worked in the garden, it was Ocean and Golf, sometimes Clarinet or Raining or just plain God. And when they made love, he’d call her Alphabet, and she’d just make a little gurgle in the back of her throat that did not have any letters in it at all. It was a sound that Mr. Jones could not duplicate, try as he might. But he loved it nonetheless--loved it entirely, perhaps because he could not duplicate it--and he called her Alphabet–-or sometimes just Pha--many times during their love making, which usually lasted a long time. Which is how they liked it. Of course. And how it should be. Of course. The names didn’t mean a lot; they were not symbolic or figurative in any way. And their friends were puzzled by them. They themselves didn’t know what they meant either. But it provided amusement for them, and they enjoyed the ambiguity and the playfulness of it all; and it probably helped keep their marriage intact. Their communication moving. Their hatred in check. Doodle. Bottle Rocket. Participate. And Buddy.
Basketball had no nick-names; not for want of friends (who are usually the ones to pronounce those types of things), but just because his friends seemed to know that Basketball was enough. He was accepted for who he was–-and for what he was--at face value. Not for what anyone thought he was (how people may have tried to interpret--or misinterpret--him) or for what language can too often do to the truth. He was just--Basketball. No strings attached. He did, however, have one little secret that no one knew. And so it would be highly inappropriate to reveal it here.
BASKETBALL JONES did not play basketball. Or any other sport, for that matter. Nor was his name a nick-name. His parents had chosen it simply because they liked the sound of the syllables playing off each other. No dreams or ambitions; no hopes or aspirations. Just the pleasing touch to their ears: Basketball.
Mr. and Mrs. Jones lived on the Puget Sound. They loved to go down to the beach at low tide and watch the tide slowly come in with the little waves. They loved to watch the other people who would gather at the beach to watch the same thing as they. They loved to go down to the waterfront in the evenings too to watch the sunset. To sit on the pilings. And to be with the other people who had also come down to watch one of the many beautiful things that take place every day on the planet. To the north was Mt. Baker, 10,775 feet above sea level and covered in snow, even in August. Mr. and Mrs. Jones wondered if Mt. Baker’s elevation was measured at low tide or at high tide.
Basketball Jones met a bum on the boardwalk on September 12. The bum asked him not if he had any spare change, but, rather, if he had a twenty-dollar bill. Basketball said, No, he didn’t have a twenty-dollar bill (which was the truth), but added that he did have some change, if that would help. But the bum was not interested in his change. He was not even interested in Basketball Jones’s twenty-dollar bill, except as an illustration, and he would have given it back to him when he was done with it. So instead, he said, "Let me show you something." And he took from his own wallet his own twenty-dollar bill, folded it--one, two, three times--so that, finally, the image of the Twin Towers played on the money.
"See," he said. "Proof. The U.S. Government was behind it all along."
Mr. and Mrs. Jones loved nature. They loved nature so much that they read books on the subject. They loved the ocean especially--the movement of the tides. But they loved the mountains too and the inching forward of the glaciers and then their receding back up the mountain. And the sky too they loved, and its clockwise rotation. (Or maybe it was counter-clockwise; Mr. and Mrs. Jones could never agree on that one.) They loved the shape--the big round shape of the sky’s biggest objects, the sun and the moon. And the changing phases of the moon (and its pull on the ocean) and the circular sun (and its pull on the ocean). And the parts of the sun as well: the core and the photosphere and the chromosphere and the corona and the solar wind.
Once, after having read some things in a book, they asked a teacher: "How big is the sun?"
The teacher had replied that it all depends; it all depends on your definition of the sun.
When most people think of the sun, he said, what they’re referring to is the photosphere, the outline of what you can see with a special solar filter (or even just a welder’s glass). But there is also the chromosphere, the corona (which you can see only during an eclipse), and the solar wind (which you can’t see at all, but which reaches all the way out to the edge of the solar system). So that, the instructor said, if you consider it from the perspective of the solar wind, you could say that we live not only on the earth, but also inside the sun. The earth and the sun are the same, in that they both take up the same space at the same time.
Back before September 12, way back before he knew anything about the power of money--or the enormous size of the sun--Basketball Jones learned about the secrets one could find in wishes. He knew--because he had been told--that there was nothing in the world that you could not do but that your mind could will it. For example, he had been told by a friend, Kathy Friend, of a secret way to get rid of warts: She could wish them away. Basketball had a little cluster of six warts on the inside of his left elbow that resembled the Pleiades and that he always kept covered by his shirt. He didn’t like them, he was embarrassed by them, and he did not want anyone to see them. His friend Kathy had told him that she had once had four warts on her thumb, and that one day, when she had finally had it with them, she looked at them harshly. She had glared at them obtusely. She had even gone so far as to talk to them. Angrily. And with great malice aforethought. She had said to the warts, "Go away, warts. I don’t want you here. No one wants you here. Just go away!" Nothing happened, of course: the warts did not go away. Nor did Kathy expect them to. Not immediately, anyway. But that did not stop her from hating them. She grew more bold and aggressive in her hatred: "Go away!" she now shouted. "I hate you. I hate you. Get off my body. I hate you more." And she glared at the warts again and again, and she seethed at them and focused all of her hatred on the warts--her growing hatred growing, her angering, loathing thoughts shouting at the warts, "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Now go!"
Within a week they were gone.
Basketball tried the same strategy, and it worked for him as well. He became a believer.
Mr. and Mrs. Jones had little pet names for each other. Nick- names, you might say. And lots of them: Pun’kin, Tool, Trailer-tootie. When they did the dishes together, Mr. Jones would call Mrs. Jones Paper, and she’d call him Orange. When they cleaned the house, he’d call her Antithesis, and she’d call him Camera. When they worked in the garden, it was Ocean and Golf, sometimes Clarinet or Raining or just plain God. And when they made love, he’d call her Alphabet, and she’d just make a little gurgle in the back of her throat that did not have any letters in it at all. It was a sound that Mr. Jones could not duplicate, try as he might. But he loved it nonetheless--loved it entirely, perhaps because he could not duplicate it--and he called her Alphabet–-or sometimes just Pha--many times during their love making, which usually lasted a long time. Which is how they liked it. Of course. And how it should be. Of course. The names didn’t mean a lot; they were not symbolic or figurative in any way. And their friends were puzzled by them. They themselves didn’t know what they meant either. But it provided amusement for them, and they enjoyed the ambiguity and the playfulness of it all; and it probably helped keep their marriage intact. Their communication moving. Their hatred in check. Doodle. Bottle Rocket. Participate. And Buddy.
Basketball had no nick-names; not for want of friends (who are usually the ones to pronounce those types of things), but just because his friends seemed to know that Basketball was enough. He was accepted for who he was–-and for what he was--at face value. Not for what anyone thought he was (how people may have tried to interpret--or misinterpret--him) or for what language can too often do to the truth. He was just--Basketball. No strings attached. He did, however, have one little secret that no one knew. And so it would be highly inappropriate to reveal it here.
Fifty-Five
FIFTY-FIVE
JOE PANCAKE APPROACHED his fifty-fifth birthday with dread. His father had died three months before, his mother had been hospitalized shortly afterwards following hip surgery, Lulu was in a healthy, thriving relationship (she said it was the best in her life), Joe’s own five-year relationship (which he had considered the best he’d ever been in) had ended abruptly–-without explanation (he’d had no part in the decision). And the kids--older now--were facing older problems: Molly had entered the third stage of her depression; Columbus was facing a possible prison term for the distribution of a controlled substance. The only consolation that Joe could pull from the actual day itself was that he had received two cards in the mail: one from his dentist, which read, "May all your birthday wishes come true"; and the other from his automobile insurance agent: "The most important item on my agenda today is to wish you a happy birthday."
JOE PANCAKE APPROACHED his fifty-fifth birthday with dread. His father had died three months before, his mother had been hospitalized shortly afterwards following hip surgery, Lulu was in a healthy, thriving relationship (she said it was the best in her life), Joe’s own five-year relationship (which he had considered the best he’d ever been in) had ended abruptly–-without explanation (he’d had no part in the decision). And the kids--older now--were facing older problems: Molly had entered the third stage of her depression; Columbus was facing a possible prison term for the distribution of a controlled substance. The only consolation that Joe could pull from the actual day itself was that he had received two cards in the mail: one from his dentist, which read, "May all your birthday wishes come true"; and the other from his automobile insurance agent: "The most important item on my agenda today is to wish you a happy birthday."
Spelling
SPELLING
ONE SAID,
"god is just dog spelled backwards."
two said, "it might be the other way around:
dog is god spelled backwards."
four piped in, interrupting, "maybe they’re both spelled correctly."
and then three said,
ignoring the interruption
and setting the record straight,
"i’m not sure that this is necessarily a case of right or wrong."
ONE SAID,
"god is just dog spelled backwards."
two said, "it might be the other way around:
dog is god spelled backwards."
four piped in, interrupting, "maybe they’re both spelled correctly."
and then three said,
ignoring the interruption
and setting the record straight,
"i’m not sure that this is necessarily a case of right or wrong."
Other Language
OTHER LANGUAGE
DIRKS PALMER did not speak until just before his third birthday, shortly after his younger sister was born. The parents were concerned with his lack of language, but not overly so. Family and friends agreed that, yes, it was unusual for a three-year-old not to be speaking, but Dirks was such a loveable child in every other way. In fact, perhaps in large part because of his silence, they found him adorable, for even if he never talked, he also seldom cried; and he entertained himself splendidly, in a quiet manner and without bothering anyone.
All that changed abruptly with Deekie’s birth. Dirks took an immediate interest and liking to his sister. Which quickly turned to love. And then suddenly, without warning, he began talking.
(God is Love; and in the beginning was the Word.)
He’d lie down close to his sister, snuggle up next, look directly into her face, and then he’d talk to her in clear, clean, multi-syllabic strings of sound. It was like he’d been talking all along, for more than a year--his pronunciation was that clear. But there was one problem: no one could understand a single word of what he was saying. It seemed that he was speaking a language other than English. And when friends or family would come over to visit Deekie, the newborn, none of them could identify what language young Dirks was speaking. Nevertheless, he’d sit by his sister for hours on end and speak to her in his strange, new tongue. She seemed to enjoy it tremendously, much more so than the parents’ baby talk or their ridiculous cooing. She would gaze back up into her brother’s face intently, seemingly hanging onto every sound that came out of his mouth.
At five months Deekie herself began talking. And like her brother, she too could enunciate the vowels and consonants in a crisp flow of articulation.
A number of people-–family, friends, and even a couple of the neighbors--said that it could have been English, with its steady use of l and r, as well as both the voiced and the voiceless th. But it was not. There was no recognizable vocabulary or syntactic structure, and the vowels were too rich and full with their own texture for it to be the language of the parents: no schwas in the pronunciation. No, definitely not English, or even anything Germanic. Or Indo-European. It had the sound of . . . well, it was like no other language that Mom and Pop Palmer had ever heard before.
(The earth was without form, and void.)
They called in linguists from the University, and they too were puzzled. The professors in turn brought in their graduate students, who were then assigned to record and collect the sound clusters and to do the necessary research in the library archives to see if anything could be matched.
Meanwhile, Dirks and Deekie talked on and on. Together. And to no one else.
By Deekie’s second birthday, things were really rolling. Their vocabulary (and that’s what people were calling it--a vocabulary--even though no one could discern or decode the actual words or their meanings) included hundreds and hundreds of sound units. Deekie especially confounded the scholars in that her language seemed every bit as advanced as her older brother’s.
But the big thing was that Dirks was now beginning to speak in English. To be sure, he continued in his native tongue, but he added to it the language of his parents. Furthermore, his newly acquired English was spoken with a heavy, unrecognizable accent. Once again the scholars were called in to try to make sense out of this latest complication--to try to match it with something that already existed in the world. To try to get to the source of the language. The roots.
(In the beginning was the Word.)
And then there were the neighbor kids. Children everywhere love to play together, and this neighborhood was no exception. The result was that they were beginning to pick up bits and pieces of the new (or was it the old?) language. In fact, they picked it up quite well. More and more, when they were out playing in the yards--either at the Palmer’s or at one of the neighbors’–-they would laugh and scream and giggle and talk in the strange language that was not the language of the mothers and the fathers.
It was the language of the uninfected children.
The Palmers spaced each of their three children three years apart. With the birth of Doink-quack, Dirks and Deekie left their playmates for awhile to turn their attention to the new sibling. They surrounded her, they lay down beside her constantly, touching her face, stroking her hair, and chattering in their private language. They loved her too.
(God is love.)
Perhaps because both of them were interacting with her so intensely, Doinka (everyone shortened her name after the first week) began speaking even earlier than Deekie: three months. She could not even sit up, but she’d lie on her back and stare up into Deekie’s enthusiastic face, or, on her tummy, she’d raise her head and look back at Dirks with her sub-colonial smile and repeat the sounds that she was hearing–-that she was learning: once again, the crisp, clean, even syllables that rang and sang like a song. Sometimes the neighborhood kids would come over, and it was like a party. Six, eight, ten kids all gabbing away. The laughter was contagious–-except to the parents, who were still confused by it all.
When they would ask Dirks to translate what their infant daughter was saying, he’d blush and giggle and whisper to Deekie, who would giggle back, and then, together, the two children would turn their backs on their mother and father, who would then leave the room to make an appointment with the marriage counselor.
Deekie began speaking individual English words.
Dirks was scribbling strange, letter-sized symbols on the lined pages of the notebooks he kept under his bed in his room.
Doinka turned one.
The professors from the University stepped up their studies. The graduate assistants worked long and hard into the nights. They sent and received e-mails; they held conference telephone calls with colleagues across the nation; they attended international conferences around the globe; they spent months and months studying the research, listening to the tapes, playing them back. Listening again. And then finally, at last, they announced the decoding of a single word. A minor breakthrough certainly, but a breakthrough nonetheless. The scholars reported that they were noting the repetition at close intervals of a certain sound unit. It must be a word, they said–-an important word. Using the English model of syntax and word frequency tests, they pronounced this word to be the equivalent to the English definite article, the. And, if they were correct in their assessment, they said, this one word just could hold the key to opening the secret of the entire language.
(In the beginning was the Word.)
Dirks turned nine.
Deekie six.
Doinka was three.
All three eventually learned English. And, with the aging and maturing process, they spoke it well: functionally, fluently. But throughout the rest of their lives they would still occasionally--on very rare occasions--hear in a crowd of people, whether on a train or a bus, or at a convention, or just in a crowded room, the little familiar something in a voice. They’d look around and maybe hear it again and where it was coming from, and sometimes they’d make the connection of voice with face. With a nod maybe. Or they might say something back, maybe just a call of some sort--something that would allow the other to detect the same thing in the voice. And a returned nod. And if there was time, the two of them might be able to get together in private to exchange the earlier language--the language that allowed them to get back, and beyond and below and beneath the surface of things. The real. The sub-colonial. The uninfected.
But usually, and far more often, as their lives progressed and then began to wind down, they would be approached by the other people--the ones who heard only the unfamiliar in the voice--and who would then ask where they were from.
"You’re not from here, are you?" they’d say. "You don’t sound like you’re from around here. Your accent. Where are you from?"
And they would always answer, proudly at first, but later in resignation, "Where am I not from?"
DIRKS PALMER did not speak until just before his third birthday, shortly after his younger sister was born. The parents were concerned with his lack of language, but not overly so. Family and friends agreed that, yes, it was unusual for a three-year-old not to be speaking, but Dirks was such a loveable child in every other way. In fact, perhaps in large part because of his silence, they found him adorable, for even if he never talked, he also seldom cried; and he entertained himself splendidly, in a quiet manner and without bothering anyone.
All that changed abruptly with Deekie’s birth. Dirks took an immediate interest and liking to his sister. Which quickly turned to love. And then suddenly, without warning, he began talking.
(God is Love; and in the beginning was the Word.)
He’d lie down close to his sister, snuggle up next, look directly into her face, and then he’d talk to her in clear, clean, multi-syllabic strings of sound. It was like he’d been talking all along, for more than a year--his pronunciation was that clear. But there was one problem: no one could understand a single word of what he was saying. It seemed that he was speaking a language other than English. And when friends or family would come over to visit Deekie, the newborn, none of them could identify what language young Dirks was speaking. Nevertheless, he’d sit by his sister for hours on end and speak to her in his strange, new tongue. She seemed to enjoy it tremendously, much more so than the parents’ baby talk or their ridiculous cooing. She would gaze back up into her brother’s face intently, seemingly hanging onto every sound that came out of his mouth.
At five months Deekie herself began talking. And like her brother, she too could enunciate the vowels and consonants in a crisp flow of articulation.
A number of people-–family, friends, and even a couple of the neighbors--said that it could have been English, with its steady use of l and r, as well as both the voiced and the voiceless th. But it was not. There was no recognizable vocabulary or syntactic structure, and the vowels were too rich and full with their own texture for it to be the language of the parents: no schwas in the pronunciation. No, definitely not English, or even anything Germanic. Or Indo-European. It had the sound of . . . well, it was like no other language that Mom and Pop Palmer had ever heard before.
(The earth was without form, and void.)
They called in linguists from the University, and they too were puzzled. The professors in turn brought in their graduate students, who were then assigned to record and collect the sound clusters and to do the necessary research in the library archives to see if anything could be matched.
Meanwhile, Dirks and Deekie talked on and on. Together. And to no one else.
By Deekie’s second birthday, things were really rolling. Their vocabulary (and that’s what people were calling it--a vocabulary--even though no one could discern or decode the actual words or their meanings) included hundreds and hundreds of sound units. Deekie especially confounded the scholars in that her language seemed every bit as advanced as her older brother’s.
But the big thing was that Dirks was now beginning to speak in English. To be sure, he continued in his native tongue, but he added to it the language of his parents. Furthermore, his newly acquired English was spoken with a heavy, unrecognizable accent. Once again the scholars were called in to try to make sense out of this latest complication--to try to match it with something that already existed in the world. To try to get to the source of the language. The roots.
(In the beginning was the Word.)
And then there were the neighbor kids. Children everywhere love to play together, and this neighborhood was no exception. The result was that they were beginning to pick up bits and pieces of the new (or was it the old?) language. In fact, they picked it up quite well. More and more, when they were out playing in the yards--either at the Palmer’s or at one of the neighbors’–-they would laugh and scream and giggle and talk in the strange language that was not the language of the mothers and the fathers.
It was the language of the uninfected children.
The Palmers spaced each of their three children three years apart. With the birth of Doink-quack, Dirks and Deekie left their playmates for awhile to turn their attention to the new sibling. They surrounded her, they lay down beside her constantly, touching her face, stroking her hair, and chattering in their private language. They loved her too.
(God is love.)
Perhaps because both of them were interacting with her so intensely, Doinka (everyone shortened her name after the first week) began speaking even earlier than Deekie: three months. She could not even sit up, but she’d lie on her back and stare up into Deekie’s enthusiastic face, or, on her tummy, she’d raise her head and look back at Dirks with her sub-colonial smile and repeat the sounds that she was hearing–-that she was learning: once again, the crisp, clean, even syllables that rang and sang like a song. Sometimes the neighborhood kids would come over, and it was like a party. Six, eight, ten kids all gabbing away. The laughter was contagious–-except to the parents, who were still confused by it all.
When they would ask Dirks to translate what their infant daughter was saying, he’d blush and giggle and whisper to Deekie, who would giggle back, and then, together, the two children would turn their backs on their mother and father, who would then leave the room to make an appointment with the marriage counselor.
Deekie began speaking individual English words.
Dirks was scribbling strange, letter-sized symbols on the lined pages of the notebooks he kept under his bed in his room.
Doinka turned one.
The professors from the University stepped up their studies. The graduate assistants worked long and hard into the nights. They sent and received e-mails; they held conference telephone calls with colleagues across the nation; they attended international conferences around the globe; they spent months and months studying the research, listening to the tapes, playing them back. Listening again. And then finally, at last, they announced the decoding of a single word. A minor breakthrough certainly, but a breakthrough nonetheless. The scholars reported that they were noting the repetition at close intervals of a certain sound unit. It must be a word, they said–-an important word. Using the English model of syntax and word frequency tests, they pronounced this word to be the equivalent to the English definite article, the. And, if they were correct in their assessment, they said, this one word just could hold the key to opening the secret of the entire language.
(In the beginning was the Word.)
Dirks turned nine.
Deekie six.
Doinka was three.
All three eventually learned English. And, with the aging and maturing process, they spoke it well: functionally, fluently. But throughout the rest of their lives they would still occasionally--on very rare occasions--hear in a crowd of people, whether on a train or a bus, or at a convention, or just in a crowded room, the little familiar something in a voice. They’d look around and maybe hear it again and where it was coming from, and sometimes they’d make the connection of voice with face. With a nod maybe. Or they might say something back, maybe just a call of some sort--something that would allow the other to detect the same thing in the voice. And a returned nod. And if there was time, the two of them might be able to get together in private to exchange the earlier language--the language that allowed them to get back, and beyond and below and beneath the surface of things. The real. The sub-colonial. The uninfected.
But usually, and far more often, as their lives progressed and then began to wind down, they would be approached by the other people--the ones who heard only the unfamiliar in the voice--and who would then ask where they were from.
"You’re not from here, are you?" they’d say. "You don’t sound like you’re from around here. Your accent. Where are you from?"
And they would always answer, proudly at first, but later in resignation, "Where am I not from?"
Ethical Dilemma
ETHICAL DILEMMA
PAMELA ZOLINE WRITES in her remarkable short story "The Heat Death of the Universe": "The nakedness of children is so much more absolute than that of the mature"; and "All well-fed children appear edible."
When Deborah Carney first read those words, she said to herself, "How true!"
Over the next several weeks she turned the passage over and over in her mind, looking at each one of her own five children, especially the youngest, the infant, six months old and aging slowly-–slowly maturing.
One day, changing the diaper, cleaning the smooth, soft, plump body of the baby, she bent down, kissing the rump. Delicately, as was appropriate, and just as a test, she then bit into the flesh. With a surprisingly little amount of difficulty, her teeth went into and through the soft, tender skin, much like the clay she remembered biting through as a child--just a slight resistence, and then freedom. Break on through. Connection. Teeth met teeth. Of course, the small infant responded--cried out--and screamed. But Deborah was able to cover its mouth and, at the same time, hold down the chubby little legs of her squirming, resisting child. She took another bite. And another. Good. Good and salty. And then another.
Almost before she knew it, she had nearly devoured the entire thing; and it was absolutely, absolutely delicious. But afterwards she wondered, while cleaning up, how she would ever be able to explain the incident to her husband and the older children--or even if she would. It was, she would later tell her defense attorney, an ethical dilemma.
PAMELA ZOLINE WRITES in her remarkable short story "The Heat Death of the Universe": "The nakedness of children is so much more absolute than that of the mature"; and "All well-fed children appear edible."
When Deborah Carney first read those words, she said to herself, "How true!"
Over the next several weeks she turned the passage over and over in her mind, looking at each one of her own five children, especially the youngest, the infant, six months old and aging slowly-–slowly maturing.
One day, changing the diaper, cleaning the smooth, soft, plump body of the baby, she bent down, kissing the rump. Delicately, as was appropriate, and just as a test, she then bit into the flesh. With a surprisingly little amount of difficulty, her teeth went into and through the soft, tender skin, much like the clay she remembered biting through as a child--just a slight resistence, and then freedom. Break on through. Connection. Teeth met teeth. Of course, the small infant responded--cried out--and screamed. But Deborah was able to cover its mouth and, at the same time, hold down the chubby little legs of her squirming, resisting child. She took another bite. And another. Good. Good and salty. And then another.
Almost before she knew it, she had nearly devoured the entire thing; and it was absolutely, absolutely delicious. But afterwards she wondered, while cleaning up, how she would ever be able to explain the incident to her husband and the older children--or even if she would. It was, she would later tell her defense attorney, an ethical dilemma.
Calculator
CALCULATOR
APRIL PERPENDICULAR could never balance a checkbook. She would forget to write down the checks she wrote, or the ATM withdrawals she had made, or the purchases with the debit card. And then, at the end of the month, the bank statement was a complete mystery.
The difficulty her husband had in keeping the records balanced stemmed from a different problem. True, he wrote everything down: and not just the actual amounts withdrawn and deposited, but the descriptions of the transactions as well: the date, the check number, the recipient, etc. Everything. But Joe could not keep the account balanced either. He was horrible at math. And so, as an attempt to remedy, he bought one of those little pocket calculators--one without any batteries; rather, it was powered by light: sunlight, electric light, probably even moonlight (which, of course, is just reflected sunlight).
Across the top panel, just above where the numbers appear, were the little light collectors. Sometimes, when a number stretched out across the top row, Joe would place a finger over the light panel and watch the numbers slowly fade away to nothing. Then he’d remove his finger and watch the numbers reappear and come back into focus–-into existence. He liked to see how long he could cover the light panel before, when he removed his finger, the number would return to just the zero. And, when he thought about it, he liked the idea that there was a difference between zero and non-existence.
* * * * * * *
It should have been obvious. April was 24 when they met; Joe was 49. But they made a go of it anyway. And for awhile it worked–-worked quite well. And for quite awhile. But age matters; the age difference matters. Numbers matter--or at least what they represent.
* * * * * * *
The calculator helped. And April got better at recording her transactions. But at the end of the month the bank statement was still off. The two numbers–-the one in the checkbook and the official balance on the statement–-always came up at odds. True, they were getting closer, but still they never quite matched.
April and Joe began to wonder if it were even possible to balance a checkbook. They took it as a special challenge. And so, the next month, they decided, they would meticulously record each transaction–-together, the two of them–-and check with each other at the end of each day–-to make sure that each check written, each ATM withdrawal, each debit purchase, each deposit–-was entered and recorded and calculated.
They did a good job of it.
But not good enough. For when they got the bank statement at the end of the month, again it was off. This time by just a few dollars, but still the two figures did not match.
* * * * * * *
The first time they made love, Joe had said, immediately afterwards, "Are you OK?"
"Yes."
And then: "I feel so relaxed."
"Good."
Or during the first few months after they’d gotten together: "I feel so comfortable with you." Or: "I am who I am. This is me. You’re seeing who I really am." And, "I’m not being someone else for you." And again, "I feel so comfortable with you."
"Me too."
Fairly soon it was, "I love you."
And, "I love you."
A year later, Joe turned 50, and April 25. Half his, twice hers.
Joe had said, "This is very good: the best."
"I know."
"But look at our ages. This’ll never work."
"Sure it will. I don’t care about numbers. I care about you."
"And I about you. But . . ."
"But what?"
"Well, . . ."
"Well what?"
"I’m confused."
"About what? Do you love me?"
"Entirely," he said, "but age matters."
"Love is what matters."
* * * * * * *
April had done her job: she wrote down every transaction in the checkbook, and the bank statement verified it. Joe did too; but still, things did not match.
Joe got out his calculator and redid the math. He did the math from the checkbook; he did the math from the bank statement. And then at one point–-at check number 333–-he found the error. The preceding balance had been $666.66. Check number 333 was for $33.33. He had written, in the checkbook the month before, the balance, after the check, as $633.30. But wait a minute, he said to himself. That’s wrong. Joe took out the calculator and re-did the math: 666.66 minus 33.33 equals 633.30.
Joe stared at the numbers. He knew that sixty-six minus thirty-three was thirty-three, not thirty. How can a calculator be wrong? He called in April. "Look at this," he said.
"What?"
"The calculator made a mistake!"
"Calculators don’t make mistakes."
"Then look at this: I subtracted 33.33 from 666.66 and got 633.30."
"So?"
"So, sixty-six cents minus thirty-three cents is thirty-three cents, not thirty. Six minus three is three, not zero."
April looked. It clicked in. "Let me see that." And she grabbed the calculator. Entered sixty-six minus thirty-three. Hit the equal sign. Thirty.
"Holy shit!"
Joe grabbed the calculator back. He entered the same equation. Hit the equal key. Thirty-three. What?! It’s doing it the right way now. He hit the numbers again. Thirty-three again. And again and again. More and more. Joe entered the problem ten times in a row, and now got the correct answer each time: thirty-three. He stood looking off into space.
April took the calculator into her hands and entered the equation. Hit the equal sign: thirty-three. Again and again: thirty-three; thirty-three. She looked at Joe. He looked back. The calculator had made a mistake–-and had then corrected itself. And Joe and April had seen it--had caught it in the act.
* * * * * * *
The whole first year that Joe was falling in love with April Perpendicular, he was also resisting. "This is crazy," he had said. "Look at us–-the age difference," he said. "Look at it. Do the math. This is impossible."
"I don’t care."
"I don’t care either, but look at our ages. This is crazy. It’ll never work."
"It’s working now."
"But it can’t."
"But it is."
"Yeah, but. . ."
"If it doesn’t matter to me, why should it matter for you?"
But still he resisted–-for a full year–-for a full year and a half--at the same time that he felt drawn toward her. Pulled toward her. And she toward him. He felt so comfortable with her. It was the best relationship he had ever had. That’s what he had said; that’s what she had said. And he believed her. He had believed it himself. As if age–-and the age difference–-no longer mattered. But age does matter; the age difference matters–-love matters--both literally and in what it represents.
"This is crazy," he kept saying, shaking his head.
And she had returned, "But not impossible."
* * * * * * *
Joe found himself spending more and more time with the calculator. Not just trying to balance the checkbook at the end of each day; or trying to identify where they had gone wrong each month. Sometimes, after April had gone off to bed, Joe would sit in the rocking chair and work with numbers. He’d do squares and square roots. He did decimals and fractions. He did pi, knowing full well that the numbers actually stretched out far beyond the decimal and the right-hand margin: into the space that was occupied by air: 3.142851. He memorized the number. He knew it by heart: 3.142851. But then one time, using the calculator, he came up with 3.142852. Joe looked long and hard. "This is crazy," he said.
* * * * * * *
Two-and-a-half years after they met, they decided to marry. April was 26; Joe, 52. Twice her age, half his. It seemed right. And things kept going well--for awhile. Joe’s kids achieved adulthood; April’s adolescence. Hers were seven and five; his, twenty-two and twenty.
* * * * * * *
Joe and April continued to try to balance the checkbook. Without much success. Usually, they could not even find the error. The two numbers–-the one in the checkbook and the one on the bank statement–-never matched. Once they had gotten as close as five cents--a measly nickel. But still, no precise, exact match. Usually, they could not even discover where they had gone wrong.
April went to bed.
Joe stayed up, working with the calculator, moving beyond the trivialities of a checkbook or bank statement. Moving numbers around. Pressing buttons. Checking out how the machine he held in his hands worked. Basic stuff. Looking for flaws; mistakes; errors. Anything. Looking for understanding.
For example, he could never understand why, when he multiplied a positive number with a negative, the result was always a negative. Or why, when he multiplied two negatives, the result was positive. It made no sense to him: It made no sense to him. No sense to him did it make.
But he accepted it on faith.
And he went on from there.
Without understanding.
But with trust.
At times he stayed up late into the night, early into the morning, while April slept. While April dreamed.
Once he tested out his theory. One night, after she had gone to bed, he took out three apples from the fridge and placed them in one pile. He did the math on the calculator: three apples times one pile equals three apples. He looked at the three apples; he counted the three apples. He took out three more apples from the fridge. Put them in a separate pile. Did the math again: three times two equals six. He counted the six apples on the counter. He took out three more apples from the fridge. Put them in a third pile. Did the math: three times three equals nine. He counted the apples. Nine.
He removed two of the piles. Put them back in the fridge. Kept the one pile out. Placed the three apples under the counter where he could not see them: Negative three. Counted the number of piles he could see: Negative one. Did the math on the calculator: Negative three times negative one equals positive three. He looked at the apples, which had, as if by magic–-or logic–-or math--reappeared on the counter.
* * * * * * *
Perception often plays funny tricks with reality. In the same way that reality can sometimes play strange tricks with perception. Joe didn’t know it; April didn’t know it. But there was a look in April’s eye that Joe could not detect-–that April herself was unaware of. Not then; not now. Not yet. But it was there nonetheless.
How long had it been there? And how long would it take before it would be detected? And who would be the first to see it? And what would they do with that information, once they had it?
Perception often plays tricks with reality.
Morticians usually say that the mouth is the hardest part of the face to get "right." But that may be because they’d long ago given up on the eyes; they don’t even bother with the eyes anymore: just close ‘em and sew ‘em up.
In college Joe had always been puzzled by the comments he’d heard about Mona Lisa’s smile. What was she smiling at? What’s she smiling for? What does her smile mean? What does any of it mean? And when they talked about her smile, they talked about her mouth. But for Joe the real mystery of her smile was not in her mouth, but in her eyes.
Joe had always thought that April’s eyes were beautiful. He didn’t know what color they were because he was color blind. But the beauty in her eyes was not in the color. The beauty in her eyes was in the way they looked back at him, an expression that told him that she was seeing the same beauty in his own eyes, which had nothing to do with color either, but everything to do with beauty.
In college, back in the Sixties, Joe had discovered the music of Tim Buckley. Buckley’d had a small but loyal core of fans who had followed his career as it began in folk, moved briefly into pop, and then--before his untimely death on June 29, 1975, at the age of 28, from a heroin overdose--merged into some of the more experimental aspects of jazz, especially voice. His vocal range covered three octaves. His second album, Goodbye and Hello, was the one that nearly brought him some popular success. Two of the cuts, "Morning Glory" and "Once I Was," Joe thought to be two of the finest songs to have come out of that era of the Sixties, both musically and lyrically:
Once I was a lover,
And I searched behind your eyes for you;
And soon there’ll be another
To tell you I was just a lie.
Joe and April, like most humans, slept with their eyes closed. Joe slept on his side; April on her back. Not often, but sometimes April would snore. Never loud, but sometimes loud enough to wake Joe. Joe liked to hear her snore because he knew that her snoring, even if it woke him up, was a part of her, and he loved her dearly–-entirely, all of her--and if snoring was a part of her, he loved that too. And he’d lie there on his side for awhile, listening and loving her snoring--her breathing. When he was ready to go back to sleep, he’d inch over toward her softly and touch her hip with his hip, or her leg with his leg, or sometimes even her head with his head. When he did that, she’d rustle a little in her sleep, stir momentarily--perhaps disturbing a dream. And then the snoring would stop, and they’d each return to their sleep, often falling off at the same time together.
* * * * * * *
Once, after making love--after having made long, slow, beautiful love–-April had said to Joe, "You know, I’ll be OK without you."
Joe looked back at her, blankly. "What?" he said.
"You know, the age difference. The math. You are older, remember. You’re not going to be around forever."
He kept looking.
She saw his response, but held her ground. "That’s a good thing, isn’t it?"
* * * * * * *
He should have stuck with addition and subtraction. He should have stuck to just trying to keep the checkbook balanced. The multiplication thing baffled him. Positives and negatives made no sense whatsoever. Negatives and negatives were out of the question. That being the case, he should have realized that he had no business trying his hand at division. Long division. Long, complex, difficult division. The kind that continued way beyond the decimal point, right on past the right-hand margin of the calculator and into empty space. The kind that never seemed to work out, but just kept going on and on and on. The kind of problem that had always been difficult for him to solve. But he knew that the calculator would make what was once difficult easy. And so he tried it again, as he knew he must.
And for awhile, like the marriage, it worked; it worked well. That is to say, it worked adequately. Which is to say, he kept trying, often going on to the next equation before the previous one had been fully understood. And because the two things were related, Joe moved back and forth between the marriage and the math, between multiplication and division. While April slept. While April dreamed.
But Joe moved backwards as well, backwards into memory, back to the day when he had first bought the calculator, back to the first time that he had covered up the little light panel to watch the numbers fade away to nothing–-not even to zero, which was at least something--back to the time before he had loved April, before he had met April, back before he had even known Lulu. Or anyone. Or anything. Back to the time when he was nothing. When there was nothing.
What he did know now, calculator in hand, was that a number divided by itself was one: one divided by one is one; one hundred divided by one hundred is one; one billion divided by one billion is still one. Infinity itself divided by infinity is--and has to be, logically–-one. Logically speaking, then--logically thinking, then--zero divided by zero should also be one. Amazing, he thought. To get something from nothing. And: "Beautiful," he said aloud.
Or, as he continued thinking, should it be zero? A number multiplied by zero is zero. Because multiplication and division are so closely related, a number divided by zero should also be zero.
Joe took out the calculator. Entered the numbers: Zero divided by zero. He hit the equal sign. Looked at the panel.
Instead of a number-–instead of the numbered answer he was looking for--another, different response appeared. Not a number at all, but a single word, in small capital letters: ERROR.
* * * * * * *
When Joe first bought the calculator, he and April had worked together as partners to balance the checkbook. But after awhile, when it became apparent that they were never going to get things to match exactly--that things were just not working out and probably never would--she began to lose interest in the process. The calculator’s imperfections no longer interested her--no longer surprised her. Even when the calculator began to give its answers in words, rather than with numbers, she’d already moved on. And so Joe, knowing that April’s interest had waned, worked alone. He seldom brought in the new and wonderful and complex mysteries to show and to share with her anymore. He’d walk into their bedroom at night, lights off, calculator in hand, after she’d already gone to bed, and stand in the doorway watching her sleep, listening to her snore, smelling her hair and her body. He loved her. Then he’d turn and go back to his work. She was 27, he was 53--no longer half his age, no longer twice hers.
* * * * * * *
Joe had always hated square roots. He’d learned in high school how to do the thing the long way. The hard way. The long, hard, tedious way: all the speculating and estimating and then trying to have it match up. Or something like that. He could never quite remember how it was done because he had hated it so much and because it had all been so long ago.
So the calculator was a kind of relief. No longer would he ever have to do that long, hard, horrible, impossible long division. To be sure, his faith in technology was anything but absolute–-as was his faith in humanity. He nurtured a healthy distrust of both, at the same time that he also knew that without trust there was nothing. So he did the equations he already knew–-to see if the calculator really worked. To see if he could trust it. Or to see if it too changed its mind, like everything else.
Square root of twenty-five? Easy (click): five.
Square root of a hundred? Easy again (click): Ten.
Of a thousand? (Click): 31.622776. Wait a minute!
Joe cleared the calculator. Did the math again. Square root of a thousand: 31.622776. He looked at the number. Tried another one: Ten thousand. Hit the square root button: One hundred.
Okay, Okay. Joe felt safe again. On solid ground. Faith restored.
He decided to go small. Stick with the known; stick with the safe; stick with what he already knew:
Square root of nine: three.
Square root of four: two.
Square root of one: one.
Square root of zero: zero.
Amazing stuff, he thought.
The night grew late with numbers:
He thought of his kids--his kids’ ages, and how they had changed as their ages had changed; and how they had become different people from the ones he had once known. And his own age --his own aging--and how he had been denying the fact of his own mortality for so long; and everyone else’s; everything else’s. And April’s age; and her own children’s. And the enormous differences among them all: him and her, she and he. The differences mattered.
And he thought about the things that are out of one’s control: like age; and love; and loss; and how sometimes you just jump in. And hold on anyway.
Joe got up and peeked into the bedroom. April was no longer there.
He walked back to his chair and looked at the calculator in his hand and put in the number he had been so curious about: negative one. He hit the square root button.
No number appeared. But the words that showed up were smaller than the numbers that had appeared when numbers were all that mattered. Or even the single word "ERROR," when it had shown up on the screen two weeks before. But it made sense to Joe now: The words had to be smaller in order to fit into the little space below the little light collector panel. "Imaginary Number," it read. In both upper and lower case letters.
APRIL PERPENDICULAR could never balance a checkbook. She would forget to write down the checks she wrote, or the ATM withdrawals she had made, or the purchases with the debit card. And then, at the end of the month, the bank statement was a complete mystery.
The difficulty her husband had in keeping the records balanced stemmed from a different problem. True, he wrote everything down: and not just the actual amounts withdrawn and deposited, but the descriptions of the transactions as well: the date, the check number, the recipient, etc. Everything. But Joe could not keep the account balanced either. He was horrible at math. And so, as an attempt to remedy, he bought one of those little pocket calculators--one without any batteries; rather, it was powered by light: sunlight, electric light, probably even moonlight (which, of course, is just reflected sunlight).
Across the top panel, just above where the numbers appear, were the little light collectors. Sometimes, when a number stretched out across the top row, Joe would place a finger over the light panel and watch the numbers slowly fade away to nothing. Then he’d remove his finger and watch the numbers reappear and come back into focus–-into existence. He liked to see how long he could cover the light panel before, when he removed his finger, the number would return to just the zero. And, when he thought about it, he liked the idea that there was a difference between zero and non-existence.
* * * * * * *
It should have been obvious. April was 24 when they met; Joe was 49. But they made a go of it anyway. And for awhile it worked–-worked quite well. And for quite awhile. But age matters; the age difference matters. Numbers matter--or at least what they represent.
* * * * * * *
The calculator helped. And April got better at recording her transactions. But at the end of the month the bank statement was still off. The two numbers–-the one in the checkbook and the official balance on the statement–-always came up at odds. True, they were getting closer, but still they never quite matched.
April and Joe began to wonder if it were even possible to balance a checkbook. They took it as a special challenge. And so, the next month, they decided, they would meticulously record each transaction–-together, the two of them–-and check with each other at the end of each day–-to make sure that each check written, each ATM withdrawal, each debit purchase, each deposit–-was entered and recorded and calculated.
They did a good job of it.
But not good enough. For when they got the bank statement at the end of the month, again it was off. This time by just a few dollars, but still the two figures did not match.
* * * * * * *
The first time they made love, Joe had said, immediately afterwards, "Are you OK?"
"Yes."
And then: "I feel so relaxed."
"Good."
Or during the first few months after they’d gotten together: "I feel so comfortable with you." Or: "I am who I am. This is me. You’re seeing who I really am." And, "I’m not being someone else for you." And again, "I feel so comfortable with you."
"Me too."
Fairly soon it was, "I love you."
And, "I love you."
A year later, Joe turned 50, and April 25. Half his, twice hers.
Joe had said, "This is very good: the best."
"I know."
"But look at our ages. This’ll never work."
"Sure it will. I don’t care about numbers. I care about you."
"And I about you. But . . ."
"But what?"
"Well, . . ."
"Well what?"
"I’m confused."
"About what? Do you love me?"
"Entirely," he said, "but age matters."
"Love is what matters."
* * * * * * *
April had done her job: she wrote down every transaction in the checkbook, and the bank statement verified it. Joe did too; but still, things did not match.
Joe got out his calculator and redid the math. He did the math from the checkbook; he did the math from the bank statement. And then at one point–-at check number 333–-he found the error. The preceding balance had been $666.66. Check number 333 was for $33.33. He had written, in the checkbook the month before, the balance, after the check, as $633.30. But wait a minute, he said to himself. That’s wrong. Joe took out the calculator and re-did the math: 666.66 minus 33.33 equals 633.30.
Joe stared at the numbers. He knew that sixty-six minus thirty-three was thirty-three, not thirty. How can a calculator be wrong? He called in April. "Look at this," he said.
"What?"
"The calculator made a mistake!"
"Calculators don’t make mistakes."
"Then look at this: I subtracted 33.33 from 666.66 and got 633.30."
"So?"
"So, sixty-six cents minus thirty-three cents is thirty-three cents, not thirty. Six minus three is three, not zero."
April looked. It clicked in. "Let me see that." And she grabbed the calculator. Entered sixty-six minus thirty-three. Hit the equal sign. Thirty.
"Holy shit!"
Joe grabbed the calculator back. He entered the same equation. Hit the equal key. Thirty-three. What?! It’s doing it the right way now. He hit the numbers again. Thirty-three again. And again and again. More and more. Joe entered the problem ten times in a row, and now got the correct answer each time: thirty-three. He stood looking off into space.
April took the calculator into her hands and entered the equation. Hit the equal sign: thirty-three. Again and again: thirty-three; thirty-three. She looked at Joe. He looked back. The calculator had made a mistake–-and had then corrected itself. And Joe and April had seen it--had caught it in the act.
* * * * * * *
The whole first year that Joe was falling in love with April Perpendicular, he was also resisting. "This is crazy," he had said. "Look at us–-the age difference," he said. "Look at it. Do the math. This is impossible."
"I don’t care."
"I don’t care either, but look at our ages. This is crazy. It’ll never work."
"It’s working now."
"But it can’t."
"But it is."
"Yeah, but. . ."
"If it doesn’t matter to me, why should it matter for you?"
But still he resisted–-for a full year–-for a full year and a half--at the same time that he felt drawn toward her. Pulled toward her. And she toward him. He felt so comfortable with her. It was the best relationship he had ever had. That’s what he had said; that’s what she had said. And he believed her. He had believed it himself. As if age–-and the age difference–-no longer mattered. But age does matter; the age difference matters–-love matters--both literally and in what it represents.
"This is crazy," he kept saying, shaking his head.
And she had returned, "But not impossible."
* * * * * * *
Joe found himself spending more and more time with the calculator. Not just trying to balance the checkbook at the end of each day; or trying to identify where they had gone wrong each month. Sometimes, after April had gone off to bed, Joe would sit in the rocking chair and work with numbers. He’d do squares and square roots. He did decimals and fractions. He did pi, knowing full well that the numbers actually stretched out far beyond the decimal and the right-hand margin: into the space that was occupied by air: 3.142851. He memorized the number. He knew it by heart: 3.142851. But then one time, using the calculator, he came up with 3.142852. Joe looked long and hard. "This is crazy," he said.
* * * * * * *
Two-and-a-half years after they met, they decided to marry. April was 26; Joe, 52. Twice her age, half his. It seemed right. And things kept going well--for awhile. Joe’s kids achieved adulthood; April’s adolescence. Hers were seven and five; his, twenty-two and twenty.
* * * * * * *
Joe and April continued to try to balance the checkbook. Without much success. Usually, they could not even find the error. The two numbers–-the one in the checkbook and the one on the bank statement–-never matched. Once they had gotten as close as five cents--a measly nickel. But still, no precise, exact match. Usually, they could not even discover where they had gone wrong.
April went to bed.
Joe stayed up, working with the calculator, moving beyond the trivialities of a checkbook or bank statement. Moving numbers around. Pressing buttons. Checking out how the machine he held in his hands worked. Basic stuff. Looking for flaws; mistakes; errors. Anything. Looking for understanding.
For example, he could never understand why, when he multiplied a positive number with a negative, the result was always a negative. Or why, when he multiplied two negatives, the result was positive. It made no sense to him: It made no sense to him. No sense to him did it make.
But he accepted it on faith.
And he went on from there.
Without understanding.
But with trust.
At times he stayed up late into the night, early into the morning, while April slept. While April dreamed.
Once he tested out his theory. One night, after she had gone to bed, he took out three apples from the fridge and placed them in one pile. He did the math on the calculator: three apples times one pile equals three apples. He looked at the three apples; he counted the three apples. He took out three more apples from the fridge. Put them in a separate pile. Did the math again: three times two equals six. He counted the six apples on the counter. He took out three more apples from the fridge. Put them in a third pile. Did the math: three times three equals nine. He counted the apples. Nine.
He removed two of the piles. Put them back in the fridge. Kept the one pile out. Placed the three apples under the counter where he could not see them: Negative three. Counted the number of piles he could see: Negative one. Did the math on the calculator: Negative three times negative one equals positive three. He looked at the apples, which had, as if by magic–-or logic–-or math--reappeared on the counter.
* * * * * * *
Perception often plays funny tricks with reality. In the same way that reality can sometimes play strange tricks with perception. Joe didn’t know it; April didn’t know it. But there was a look in April’s eye that Joe could not detect-–that April herself was unaware of. Not then; not now. Not yet. But it was there nonetheless.
How long had it been there? And how long would it take before it would be detected? And who would be the first to see it? And what would they do with that information, once they had it?
Perception often plays tricks with reality.
Morticians usually say that the mouth is the hardest part of the face to get "right." But that may be because they’d long ago given up on the eyes; they don’t even bother with the eyes anymore: just close ‘em and sew ‘em up.
In college Joe had always been puzzled by the comments he’d heard about Mona Lisa’s smile. What was she smiling at? What’s she smiling for? What does her smile mean? What does any of it mean? And when they talked about her smile, they talked about her mouth. But for Joe the real mystery of her smile was not in her mouth, but in her eyes.
Joe had always thought that April’s eyes were beautiful. He didn’t know what color they were because he was color blind. But the beauty in her eyes was not in the color. The beauty in her eyes was in the way they looked back at him, an expression that told him that she was seeing the same beauty in his own eyes, which had nothing to do with color either, but everything to do with beauty.
In college, back in the Sixties, Joe had discovered the music of Tim Buckley. Buckley’d had a small but loyal core of fans who had followed his career as it began in folk, moved briefly into pop, and then--before his untimely death on June 29, 1975, at the age of 28, from a heroin overdose--merged into some of the more experimental aspects of jazz, especially voice. His vocal range covered three octaves. His second album, Goodbye and Hello, was the one that nearly brought him some popular success. Two of the cuts, "Morning Glory" and "Once I Was," Joe thought to be two of the finest songs to have come out of that era of the Sixties, both musically and lyrically:
Once I was a lover,
And I searched behind your eyes for you;
And soon there’ll be another
To tell you I was just a lie.
Joe and April, like most humans, slept with their eyes closed. Joe slept on his side; April on her back. Not often, but sometimes April would snore. Never loud, but sometimes loud enough to wake Joe. Joe liked to hear her snore because he knew that her snoring, even if it woke him up, was a part of her, and he loved her dearly–-entirely, all of her--and if snoring was a part of her, he loved that too. And he’d lie there on his side for awhile, listening and loving her snoring--her breathing. When he was ready to go back to sleep, he’d inch over toward her softly and touch her hip with his hip, or her leg with his leg, or sometimes even her head with his head. When he did that, she’d rustle a little in her sleep, stir momentarily--perhaps disturbing a dream. And then the snoring would stop, and they’d each return to their sleep, often falling off at the same time together.
* * * * * * *
Once, after making love--after having made long, slow, beautiful love–-April had said to Joe, "You know, I’ll be OK without you."
Joe looked back at her, blankly. "What?" he said.
"You know, the age difference. The math. You are older, remember. You’re not going to be around forever."
He kept looking.
She saw his response, but held her ground. "That’s a good thing, isn’t it?"
* * * * * * *
He should have stuck with addition and subtraction. He should have stuck to just trying to keep the checkbook balanced. The multiplication thing baffled him. Positives and negatives made no sense whatsoever. Negatives and negatives were out of the question. That being the case, he should have realized that he had no business trying his hand at division. Long division. Long, complex, difficult division. The kind that continued way beyond the decimal point, right on past the right-hand margin of the calculator and into empty space. The kind that never seemed to work out, but just kept going on and on and on. The kind of problem that had always been difficult for him to solve. But he knew that the calculator would make what was once difficult easy. And so he tried it again, as he knew he must.
And for awhile, like the marriage, it worked; it worked well. That is to say, it worked adequately. Which is to say, he kept trying, often going on to the next equation before the previous one had been fully understood. And because the two things were related, Joe moved back and forth between the marriage and the math, between multiplication and division. While April slept. While April dreamed.
But Joe moved backwards as well, backwards into memory, back to the day when he had first bought the calculator, back to the first time that he had covered up the little light panel to watch the numbers fade away to nothing–-not even to zero, which was at least something--back to the time before he had loved April, before he had met April, back before he had even known Lulu. Or anyone. Or anything. Back to the time when he was nothing. When there was nothing.
What he did know now, calculator in hand, was that a number divided by itself was one: one divided by one is one; one hundred divided by one hundred is one; one billion divided by one billion is still one. Infinity itself divided by infinity is--and has to be, logically–-one. Logically speaking, then--logically thinking, then--zero divided by zero should also be one. Amazing, he thought. To get something from nothing. And: "Beautiful," he said aloud.
Or, as he continued thinking, should it be zero? A number multiplied by zero is zero. Because multiplication and division are so closely related, a number divided by zero should also be zero.
Joe took out the calculator. Entered the numbers: Zero divided by zero. He hit the equal sign. Looked at the panel.
Instead of a number-–instead of the numbered answer he was looking for--another, different response appeared. Not a number at all, but a single word, in small capital letters: ERROR.
* * * * * * *
When Joe first bought the calculator, he and April had worked together as partners to balance the checkbook. But after awhile, when it became apparent that they were never going to get things to match exactly--that things were just not working out and probably never would--she began to lose interest in the process. The calculator’s imperfections no longer interested her--no longer surprised her. Even when the calculator began to give its answers in words, rather than with numbers, she’d already moved on. And so Joe, knowing that April’s interest had waned, worked alone. He seldom brought in the new and wonderful and complex mysteries to show and to share with her anymore. He’d walk into their bedroom at night, lights off, calculator in hand, after she’d already gone to bed, and stand in the doorway watching her sleep, listening to her snore, smelling her hair and her body. He loved her. Then he’d turn and go back to his work. She was 27, he was 53--no longer half his age, no longer twice hers.
* * * * * * *
Joe had always hated square roots. He’d learned in high school how to do the thing the long way. The hard way. The long, hard, tedious way: all the speculating and estimating and then trying to have it match up. Or something like that. He could never quite remember how it was done because he had hated it so much and because it had all been so long ago.
So the calculator was a kind of relief. No longer would he ever have to do that long, hard, horrible, impossible long division. To be sure, his faith in technology was anything but absolute–-as was his faith in humanity. He nurtured a healthy distrust of both, at the same time that he also knew that without trust there was nothing. So he did the equations he already knew–-to see if the calculator really worked. To see if he could trust it. Or to see if it too changed its mind, like everything else.
Square root of twenty-five? Easy (click): five.
Square root of a hundred? Easy again (click): Ten.
Of a thousand? (Click): 31.622776. Wait a minute!
Joe cleared the calculator. Did the math again. Square root of a thousand: 31.622776. He looked at the number. Tried another one: Ten thousand. Hit the square root button: One hundred.
Okay, Okay. Joe felt safe again. On solid ground. Faith restored.
He decided to go small. Stick with the known; stick with the safe; stick with what he already knew:
Square root of nine: three.
Square root of four: two.
Square root of one: one.
Square root of zero: zero.
Amazing stuff, he thought.
The night grew late with numbers:
He thought of his kids--his kids’ ages, and how they had changed as their ages had changed; and how they had become different people from the ones he had once known. And his own age --his own aging--and how he had been denying the fact of his own mortality for so long; and everyone else’s; everything else’s. And April’s age; and her own children’s. And the enormous differences among them all: him and her, she and he. The differences mattered.
And he thought about the things that are out of one’s control: like age; and love; and loss; and how sometimes you just jump in. And hold on anyway.
Joe got up and peeked into the bedroom. April was no longer there.
He walked back to his chair and looked at the calculator in his hand and put in the number he had been so curious about: negative one. He hit the square root button.
No number appeared. But the words that showed up were smaller than the numbers that had appeared when numbers were all that mattered. Or even the single word "ERROR," when it had shown up on the screen two weeks before. But it made sense to Joe now: The words had to be smaller in order to fit into the little space below the little light collector panel. "Imaginary Number," it read. In both upper and lower case letters.
Birthdays
BIRTHDAYS
THE MAN WHO LOVES PROVO spent each of his decade birthdays differently. Yet, in an odd way, they were all the same.
For example, his tenth birthday was spent scowling half the day in the principle’s office at Mt. Pleasant Elementary School for a deed he’d long ago forgotten. His 20th birthday found him in jail for resisting the draft. He was married during his 30th year, one of the happiest--yet, at the same time, saddest--periods of his life. The week of his 40th birthday he wandered and explored an isolated side canyon off the Dry Fork of Coyote Gulch in the Escalante--alone--and buck-naked--for 48 straight hours, a goal he’d had for at least a half dozen years. And on his 50th birthday he found himself once again in jail, this time for "defacing" public and private property.
When his 60th birthday rolled around, he thought to himself that he just might bicycle up to Salt Lake City, from Provo–-a distance of some 40 miles.
* * * * * * *
On Joe Pancake’s thirteenth birthday the century plant down the street from his home in Glendale, California, burst into glorious bloom. For years the giant yucca-like shrub had quietly occupied the enormous brick planter beside the driveway of the Davis home. The neighborhood kids had pretty much ignored it, except when chasing balls that may have landed in between its big, long, fleshy leaves. But then, with the sudden appearance of the center stalk–-thrown up, it seemed, almost overnight--followed shortly afterward by its colorful plumage, the entire neighborhood–-the kids and adults alike-–took notice and gathered around the plant--not so much to look, as to watch.
In the evening many of the parents brought their children together in their living rooms to read about the strange, new plant in the neighborhood. They went to the library; they went to the dictionary, to the encyclopedias; some even bought books on native plants of the West. And there they devoured the information about the new, exciting thing that had entered their lives: that its Latin name was Agave americana; that the Indians had used it for food, beverage, fiber, soap, and medicine; that today tequila is made from the juice of the Mexican species; that it matures and flowers in anywhere between ten to twenty years; and that it then dies. They gathered again back outside, where the plant was growing, and they talked about it some more, and shook their heads, and asked each other how long it had been there, and who had planted it. But the Davises just said that it was there when they had moved in, ten years earlier.
After the blossoms had dried up and fallen to the ground, to everyone’s surprise, the plant did not die. It continued to live throughout the rest of the summer. It survived the winter too, and its leaves, long and pointy and thick, looked as healthy–-healthier–-than ever. In the spring, a new stalk did not appear, but the plant lived on still. The next year was the same. And the next. Contrary to what the books and the articles had foretold, the century plant did not die.
Joe Pancake moved out of the neighborhood when he was nineteen years old. Over the next several years he occasionally thought about the century plant and the giant stalk that appeared one day, and the beautiful blossoms, and the fact that the plant had not died as predicted. When he mentioned the story to friends, they would inquire about it, ask questions about it, ask if he had ever been back after moving away, if he ever planned to visit the place again. Joe always answered, No, that he was not intending to return. But after awhile, as his twenty-sixth birthday approached, he thought more and more about returning to his old neighborhood to see if the century plant was still alive. And if, thirteen years after its first blooming, it would blossom out again.
He pulled into town two days before his birthday, drove slowly up the dead-end street where he had grown up, and looked at all the houses, noted the changes--noted the samenesses-–and then came to the Davis home. They had moved away, of course, and another family, with young children playing in the front yard, now occupied the place. But the century plant was still there. No center stalk issued forth, but he stopped his car nonetheless. He sat in his car for a long while before getting out. Then he walked over and stood for a moment, feeling something he had never felt before–-or perhaps it was something he had felt before, but could not put a name on it: more than a memory.
He got back into the car and drove off.
But he returned two days later, in the afternoon of his birthday. And there it was: the thick trunk jutting skyward, up from the center of the plant, and the long, thick, pointed leaves spreading outward below in contrast. It seemed every bit as big as it had thirteen years before.
Joe did not stay for long. But he did vow to return again, in thirteen years, to see for himself where this plant–-and he--would be.
* * * * * * *
Lulu Toast ignored most of her birthdays. To be sure, her mother and father gave her parties when she was younger, and she enjoyed them thoroughly. But by junior high school, when she was old enough to know about indifference, she had learned to live with anonymity. Besides that, she didn’t like rituals--or, anyway, other people’s rituals that were thrust upon her. She had her own, certainly--some voluntary, some not--but they did not coincide with birthdays: She had begun menstruating on a day between her twelfth and thirteenth birthdays; and she commemorated this day each year. She began shaving her legs between thirteen and fourteen; the first time she had sexual intercourse, she was seventeen and a half; she moved out of the house at eighteen; fell in love for the first time sometime after her twentieth birthday; and had her children--two of them--during her twenties. But her birthdays came and went, just as she liked them: no fanfare, unlike the events of her life that really meant something to her.
* * * * * * *
Rachel Krakatoa remembers very clearly the Christmas Eve she turned ten. It was her birthday, as usual. Her parents let her stay up after the small party they’d had for her, after the Christmas Eve celebration that followed, and even after her four-year-old sister, Annie, had gone to bed. They had bought for her–-her sister--a swing set--something she had been asking for since her own birthday, back on Halloween.
And so, on Christmas Eve, with her mother in the house wrapping the final gifts under the tree, Rachel was deemed old enough to be allowed to go outside into the Christmas air with her father and to help assemble her sister’s present.
However, midway through the job something went wrong. Mr. Krakatoa couldn’t get a certain part to fit. He tried and tried--and kept trying--but he just couldn’t get it right. He muttered under his breath; he sweated; his anger rose. He swore. Rachel heard the words, at first soft, but nevertheless tense: "Damn thing," he said. Rachel became curious. Then, abruptly, the words exploded in a rage: "Goddamn it!" The part still wouldn’t fit. "Son of a bitch!" And then again: "God damn it!" Rachel Krakatoa had never before heard such passion come out of the mouth of her father, and she suddenly became frightened--very frightened--too frightened even to run into the house to get away from the anger and to find safety and solace--or an answer--under the Christmas tree.
* * * * * * *
The Man Who Loves Provo began his bicycle ride up to Salt Lake City, as planned, on his 60th birthday. It was rougher going than he had expected. By Lehi, sixteen miles north of his starting point and just before the climb up the Point of the Mountain, he was already tired. This aging stuff is for the birds, he said to himself. But he kept pedaling, drank his water, ate his raisins, and somehow made it up to the top, where he stopped, panting heavily and looking out over the Salt Lake Valley: Lone Peak and the Wasatch Range on the east, Kennecott’s huge open pit copper mine to the north and the west. Sweat poured off his forehead and crept down the creases of his face. He looked down the road toward Salt Lake City, still a long way off, but at least knowing that the downhill part of the ride into the valley would be easier than what he had just been through.
* * * * * * *
On his thirty-ninth birthday, Joe Pancake returned, as he had promised, to his old neighborhood. It was all still there, a quarter of a century after he had chased balls into yards: the houses, the street--though it looked to have been resurfaced since his last visit; and there, still in its same spot by the Davis’s former home, was the century plant. This time he arrived the day before his birthday, and when he got out of his car to walk over to the plant, he took more time. He stepped up onto the little brick wall at the curb and looked down into the center of the plant. It looked ripe and ready to burst. When he returned the following day, his actual birthday, the stalk had thrust itself upward a full fifteen feet. Overnight. Joe didn’t stay--he just drove past--but he remained in town for a few days, each day driving slowly past the thing from his past. The last day–-the day before he was to leave and return home--he saw the huge blossoms open and spread outward.
* * * * * * *
The birth of Lulu’s first child, a boy, Columbus Max, began in a state of fear. She woke up--rather, she was waken up--in the middle of the night by a tremendous roar in her abdomen. Silent, of course, but it seemed to contain a power that could shake the world. Joe was still asleep, dreaming inconsequential dreams, and although she was frightened by this new power within, she decided to let him continue sleeping. When, at dawn, he began to rustle, she spoke, in a falsely calm voice: "Joe, I think I’m in labor."
Later, at the hospital, with the birth approaching and her mind moving rapidly in and out of memory, she traveled to new and distant places. But later still, at the actual moment of birth, it all seemed like deja vu.
* * * * * * *
Rachel Krakatoa felt that she had never really ever had a genuine birthday. Sharing one’s own special day with another--with something else--even with Christmas Eve--is not a birthday. Not for a child.
And so the following year, on Christmas Eve, on her eleventh birthday, she finally expressed her frustrations, her confusion, her own anger, over the lack of a real birthday. The family all got together and listened and talked. Finally, a solution was found: in the future they would observe her birthday on her half-birthday, on June 24.
Rachel’s outlook on life changed immediately. Her countenance lifted; her hair took on a new luster; her teeth looked whiter. She began counting the days. All through the remainder of the school year, through the winter and spring, she looked forward to the summer--but not in her usual anticipation for the vacation. Now she had a birthday to look forward to: her first real birthday--a day all her own, one that she could embrace to herself and not have to share with anyone or anything else.
The Big Day approached; her parents and sister made plans. And then, almost before she knew it, it was upon her. She went to bed the night before excited–-more excited than she could ever remember--ready to wake in the morning to claim her day. She slept restlessly, but eventually found a calm that, in her subconscious self, she believed to be happiness.
The morning dawned. As she rolled over from her half-wake slumbers and opened her sleepy eyes, she was surprised to find that she felt nothing; there was no magic for the special day she had been waiting for. She looked out the window of her bedroom to the leaves of the maple tree in the yard and knew inside that it was not really her birthday. It was all just pretend.
* * * * * * *
It seemed impossible, but the bicycle ride down from the top of the Point of the Mountain toward Salt Lake City was as difficult as the ride up. The Man Who Loves Provo could not explain it--could not even understand it--but there it was: Even though he should have been coasting downhill, he found himself pedaling just as hard as he had on the ascent--his legs aching, his lungs stinging. It seemed to take forever just to get to the bottom. And once there, he pulled off to the side shoulder to rest and to drink from his water bottle. The Man Who Loves Provo’s breathing finally steadied, but the perspiration continued to flow. He looked to the north and Salt Lake City; then he turned and looked back up the hill he had just bicycled down. Each way looked equally daunting, equally foreboding, equally unfair.
* * * * * * *
Two days before his fifty-second birthday, Joe Pancake returned to his hometown. He drove around and around looking for his old home; he drove around for hours looking for his street, for the century plant. But he could find nothing, nothing that resembled his past. He tried and tried, but nothing looked familiar. The houses were gone; the street was gone; the century plant was nowhere that he could see. The city seemed to still be there, but maybe it was gone too.
* * * * * * *
The birth of Lulu’s second child, Molly, was nothing like the first. She had thought that once she had been through the birth experience, she would know what it was like, would know what to do the next time--would be an old pro at it. But it was nothing at all like Columbus’s entry into the world. The only thing alike was the similar feeling of deja vu.
* * * * * * *
The problem was: If you celebrate your birthday on your half-birthday, how many candles do you put on the cake? Rachel Krakatoa had turned eleven years old six months earlier; she’d be twelve years old in another six months. What do to?
Rachel didn’t know; her parents didn’t know; and certainly Annie didn’t know. The fortunate thing was that they still had a couple weeks to figure it out. It was a neighbor, who said in a passing conversation that you might want to just cut the candle down the middle and stick it on the cake like that: half a candle, cut length-wise.
But how to do it?
Another neighbor, in another passing conversation, said, Why not take it down to the bagel shop? They’ve got a machine there that slices the bagels in half; maybe they could do it. But when they went to the bagel store, the people there said they couldn’t; their machine had been set up to cut bagels, not candles; the machine was set at a certain thickness, and it couldn’t be reset to the candle’s needs.
So they went next to the corner grocery that had a delicatessen where you could slice cheese and meats at different thicknesses. The person behind the counter looked at Rachel and her mom a little oddly at first, but when they brought out the candle and showed her that they were serious, the grocer took it in her hands and looked at it carefully, measured it on the cheese slicer, and said that she thought she could do it. She made the adjustments, and with the ease of experience, cut the candle lengthwise, perfectly.
And the best thing about it all: they now also had a candle all ready for the following year’s birthday party.
THE MAN WHO LOVES PROVO spent each of his decade birthdays differently. Yet, in an odd way, they were all the same.
For example, his tenth birthday was spent scowling half the day in the principle’s office at Mt. Pleasant Elementary School for a deed he’d long ago forgotten. His 20th birthday found him in jail for resisting the draft. He was married during his 30th year, one of the happiest--yet, at the same time, saddest--periods of his life. The week of his 40th birthday he wandered and explored an isolated side canyon off the Dry Fork of Coyote Gulch in the Escalante--alone--and buck-naked--for 48 straight hours, a goal he’d had for at least a half dozen years. And on his 50th birthday he found himself once again in jail, this time for "defacing" public and private property.
When his 60th birthday rolled around, he thought to himself that he just might bicycle up to Salt Lake City, from Provo–-a distance of some 40 miles.
* * * * * * *
On Joe Pancake’s thirteenth birthday the century plant down the street from his home in Glendale, California, burst into glorious bloom. For years the giant yucca-like shrub had quietly occupied the enormous brick planter beside the driveway of the Davis home. The neighborhood kids had pretty much ignored it, except when chasing balls that may have landed in between its big, long, fleshy leaves. But then, with the sudden appearance of the center stalk–-thrown up, it seemed, almost overnight--followed shortly afterward by its colorful plumage, the entire neighborhood–-the kids and adults alike-–took notice and gathered around the plant--not so much to look, as to watch.
In the evening many of the parents brought their children together in their living rooms to read about the strange, new plant in the neighborhood. They went to the library; they went to the dictionary, to the encyclopedias; some even bought books on native plants of the West. And there they devoured the information about the new, exciting thing that had entered their lives: that its Latin name was Agave americana; that the Indians had used it for food, beverage, fiber, soap, and medicine; that today tequila is made from the juice of the Mexican species; that it matures and flowers in anywhere between ten to twenty years; and that it then dies. They gathered again back outside, where the plant was growing, and they talked about it some more, and shook their heads, and asked each other how long it had been there, and who had planted it. But the Davises just said that it was there when they had moved in, ten years earlier.
After the blossoms had dried up and fallen to the ground, to everyone’s surprise, the plant did not die. It continued to live throughout the rest of the summer. It survived the winter too, and its leaves, long and pointy and thick, looked as healthy–-healthier–-than ever. In the spring, a new stalk did not appear, but the plant lived on still. The next year was the same. And the next. Contrary to what the books and the articles had foretold, the century plant did not die.
Joe Pancake moved out of the neighborhood when he was nineteen years old. Over the next several years he occasionally thought about the century plant and the giant stalk that appeared one day, and the beautiful blossoms, and the fact that the plant had not died as predicted. When he mentioned the story to friends, they would inquire about it, ask questions about it, ask if he had ever been back after moving away, if he ever planned to visit the place again. Joe always answered, No, that he was not intending to return. But after awhile, as his twenty-sixth birthday approached, he thought more and more about returning to his old neighborhood to see if the century plant was still alive. And if, thirteen years after its first blooming, it would blossom out again.
He pulled into town two days before his birthday, drove slowly up the dead-end street where he had grown up, and looked at all the houses, noted the changes--noted the samenesses-–and then came to the Davis home. They had moved away, of course, and another family, with young children playing in the front yard, now occupied the place. But the century plant was still there. No center stalk issued forth, but he stopped his car nonetheless. He sat in his car for a long while before getting out. Then he walked over and stood for a moment, feeling something he had never felt before–-or perhaps it was something he had felt before, but could not put a name on it: more than a memory.
He got back into the car and drove off.
But he returned two days later, in the afternoon of his birthday. And there it was: the thick trunk jutting skyward, up from the center of the plant, and the long, thick, pointed leaves spreading outward below in contrast. It seemed every bit as big as it had thirteen years before.
Joe did not stay for long. But he did vow to return again, in thirteen years, to see for himself where this plant–-and he--would be.
* * * * * * *
Lulu Toast ignored most of her birthdays. To be sure, her mother and father gave her parties when she was younger, and she enjoyed them thoroughly. But by junior high school, when she was old enough to know about indifference, she had learned to live with anonymity. Besides that, she didn’t like rituals--or, anyway, other people’s rituals that were thrust upon her. She had her own, certainly--some voluntary, some not--but they did not coincide with birthdays: She had begun menstruating on a day between her twelfth and thirteenth birthdays; and she commemorated this day each year. She began shaving her legs between thirteen and fourteen; the first time she had sexual intercourse, she was seventeen and a half; she moved out of the house at eighteen; fell in love for the first time sometime after her twentieth birthday; and had her children--two of them--during her twenties. But her birthdays came and went, just as she liked them: no fanfare, unlike the events of her life that really meant something to her.
* * * * * * *
Rachel Krakatoa remembers very clearly the Christmas Eve she turned ten. It was her birthday, as usual. Her parents let her stay up after the small party they’d had for her, after the Christmas Eve celebration that followed, and even after her four-year-old sister, Annie, had gone to bed. They had bought for her–-her sister--a swing set--something she had been asking for since her own birthday, back on Halloween.
And so, on Christmas Eve, with her mother in the house wrapping the final gifts under the tree, Rachel was deemed old enough to be allowed to go outside into the Christmas air with her father and to help assemble her sister’s present.
However, midway through the job something went wrong. Mr. Krakatoa couldn’t get a certain part to fit. He tried and tried--and kept trying--but he just couldn’t get it right. He muttered under his breath; he sweated; his anger rose. He swore. Rachel heard the words, at first soft, but nevertheless tense: "Damn thing," he said. Rachel became curious. Then, abruptly, the words exploded in a rage: "Goddamn it!" The part still wouldn’t fit. "Son of a bitch!" And then again: "God damn it!" Rachel Krakatoa had never before heard such passion come out of the mouth of her father, and she suddenly became frightened--very frightened--too frightened even to run into the house to get away from the anger and to find safety and solace--or an answer--under the Christmas tree.
* * * * * * *
The Man Who Loves Provo began his bicycle ride up to Salt Lake City, as planned, on his 60th birthday. It was rougher going than he had expected. By Lehi, sixteen miles north of his starting point and just before the climb up the Point of the Mountain, he was already tired. This aging stuff is for the birds, he said to himself. But he kept pedaling, drank his water, ate his raisins, and somehow made it up to the top, where he stopped, panting heavily and looking out over the Salt Lake Valley: Lone Peak and the Wasatch Range on the east, Kennecott’s huge open pit copper mine to the north and the west. Sweat poured off his forehead and crept down the creases of his face. He looked down the road toward Salt Lake City, still a long way off, but at least knowing that the downhill part of the ride into the valley would be easier than what he had just been through.
* * * * * * *
On his thirty-ninth birthday, Joe Pancake returned, as he had promised, to his old neighborhood. It was all still there, a quarter of a century after he had chased balls into yards: the houses, the street--though it looked to have been resurfaced since his last visit; and there, still in its same spot by the Davis’s former home, was the century plant. This time he arrived the day before his birthday, and when he got out of his car to walk over to the plant, he took more time. He stepped up onto the little brick wall at the curb and looked down into the center of the plant. It looked ripe and ready to burst. When he returned the following day, his actual birthday, the stalk had thrust itself upward a full fifteen feet. Overnight. Joe didn’t stay--he just drove past--but he remained in town for a few days, each day driving slowly past the thing from his past. The last day–-the day before he was to leave and return home--he saw the huge blossoms open and spread outward.
* * * * * * *
The birth of Lulu’s first child, a boy, Columbus Max, began in a state of fear. She woke up--rather, she was waken up--in the middle of the night by a tremendous roar in her abdomen. Silent, of course, but it seemed to contain a power that could shake the world. Joe was still asleep, dreaming inconsequential dreams, and although she was frightened by this new power within, she decided to let him continue sleeping. When, at dawn, he began to rustle, she spoke, in a falsely calm voice: "Joe, I think I’m in labor."
Later, at the hospital, with the birth approaching and her mind moving rapidly in and out of memory, she traveled to new and distant places. But later still, at the actual moment of birth, it all seemed like deja vu.
* * * * * * *
Rachel Krakatoa felt that she had never really ever had a genuine birthday. Sharing one’s own special day with another--with something else--even with Christmas Eve--is not a birthday. Not for a child.
And so the following year, on Christmas Eve, on her eleventh birthday, she finally expressed her frustrations, her confusion, her own anger, over the lack of a real birthday. The family all got together and listened and talked. Finally, a solution was found: in the future they would observe her birthday on her half-birthday, on June 24.
Rachel’s outlook on life changed immediately. Her countenance lifted; her hair took on a new luster; her teeth looked whiter. She began counting the days. All through the remainder of the school year, through the winter and spring, she looked forward to the summer--but not in her usual anticipation for the vacation. Now she had a birthday to look forward to: her first real birthday--a day all her own, one that she could embrace to herself and not have to share with anyone or anything else.
The Big Day approached; her parents and sister made plans. And then, almost before she knew it, it was upon her. She went to bed the night before excited–-more excited than she could ever remember--ready to wake in the morning to claim her day. She slept restlessly, but eventually found a calm that, in her subconscious self, she believed to be happiness.
The morning dawned. As she rolled over from her half-wake slumbers and opened her sleepy eyes, she was surprised to find that she felt nothing; there was no magic for the special day she had been waiting for. She looked out the window of her bedroom to the leaves of the maple tree in the yard and knew inside that it was not really her birthday. It was all just pretend.
* * * * * * *
It seemed impossible, but the bicycle ride down from the top of the Point of the Mountain toward Salt Lake City was as difficult as the ride up. The Man Who Loves Provo could not explain it--could not even understand it--but there it was: Even though he should have been coasting downhill, he found himself pedaling just as hard as he had on the ascent--his legs aching, his lungs stinging. It seemed to take forever just to get to the bottom. And once there, he pulled off to the side shoulder to rest and to drink from his water bottle. The Man Who Loves Provo’s breathing finally steadied, but the perspiration continued to flow. He looked to the north and Salt Lake City; then he turned and looked back up the hill he had just bicycled down. Each way looked equally daunting, equally foreboding, equally unfair.
* * * * * * *
Two days before his fifty-second birthday, Joe Pancake returned to his hometown. He drove around and around looking for his old home; he drove around for hours looking for his street, for the century plant. But he could find nothing, nothing that resembled his past. He tried and tried, but nothing looked familiar. The houses were gone; the street was gone; the century plant was nowhere that he could see. The city seemed to still be there, but maybe it was gone too.
* * * * * * *
The birth of Lulu’s second child, Molly, was nothing like the first. She had thought that once she had been through the birth experience, she would know what it was like, would know what to do the next time--would be an old pro at it. But it was nothing at all like Columbus’s entry into the world. The only thing alike was the similar feeling of deja vu.
* * * * * * *
The problem was: If you celebrate your birthday on your half-birthday, how many candles do you put on the cake? Rachel Krakatoa had turned eleven years old six months earlier; she’d be twelve years old in another six months. What do to?
Rachel didn’t know; her parents didn’t know; and certainly Annie didn’t know. The fortunate thing was that they still had a couple weeks to figure it out. It was a neighbor, who said in a passing conversation that you might want to just cut the candle down the middle and stick it on the cake like that: half a candle, cut length-wise.
But how to do it?
Another neighbor, in another passing conversation, said, Why not take it down to the bagel shop? They’ve got a machine there that slices the bagels in half; maybe they could do it. But when they went to the bagel store, the people there said they couldn’t; their machine had been set up to cut bagels, not candles; the machine was set at a certain thickness, and it couldn’t be reset to the candle’s needs.
So they went next to the corner grocery that had a delicatessen where you could slice cheese and meats at different thicknesses. The person behind the counter looked at Rachel and her mom a little oddly at first, but when they brought out the candle and showed her that they were serious, the grocer took it in her hands and looked at it carefully, measured it on the cheese slicer, and said that she thought she could do it. She made the adjustments, and with the ease of experience, cut the candle lengthwise, perfectly.
And the best thing about it all: they now also had a candle all ready for the following year’s birthday party.
The Ultimate Christian
THE ULTIMATE CHRISTIAN
STEVE ALIBI FIRMLY BELIEVED that everyone in the world hated him. Of course, this was nonsense. But no one could convince him otherwise. For he believed that everyone who knew him--everyone he’d ever met–-everyone who had ever even heard of him--carried an intense hatred--a loathing and a revulsion--for his very existence --his very essence.
Sometimes his thinking went so far as to imagine that people on the other side of the planet, those who lived in small villages or on tiny islands, who may have never even heard of the United States of America (let alone of Steve Alibi), those who held no views on anything whatsoever--the insane, the senile, the feeble-minded, the comatose; infants, new-born babies--those who had no idea that Steve Alibi even existed, all hated him.
The impossibility of such an idea--the logistics alone--made no impression upon him.
For the truth of the matter was that for Steve Alibi, like most of humanity, when belief and truth conflict, truth comes in a distant second; belief invariably carries the day. And nothing and no one could convince Steve otherwise. Anyone who said they didn’t hate him, he believed, was clearly lying. Because to Steve, it was obvious: those who hate are also capable of lying. And lying is the way by which hatred is protected and nourished.
Steve was 44 years old. From early on, from childhood, he knew that his parents and siblings all despised him. His grandparents too. And later, his wife, his former wives, his children and step-children. His dog, the cat, the slaves. All of those people who should have loved him the most, Steve believed, hated him: completely, bitterly, and with a great vehemence.
Steve, on the other hand, hated no one. To the contrary, he loved everybody: people he knew, people he’d met just once, people he’d never met at all, people he’d only heard of. People he’d never heard of. Simply put, he loved humanity--in general (as an abstract concept) and in theory (as an abstract projection). Further, he loved them more because of their hatred toward him--their perceived hatred of him. He was, of course, the ultimate Christian.
STEVE ALIBI FIRMLY BELIEVED that everyone in the world hated him. Of course, this was nonsense. But no one could convince him otherwise. For he believed that everyone who knew him--everyone he’d ever met–-everyone who had ever even heard of him--carried an intense hatred--a loathing and a revulsion--for his very existence --his very essence.
Sometimes his thinking went so far as to imagine that people on the other side of the planet, those who lived in small villages or on tiny islands, who may have never even heard of the United States of America (let alone of Steve Alibi), those who held no views on anything whatsoever--the insane, the senile, the feeble-minded, the comatose; infants, new-born babies--those who had no idea that Steve Alibi even existed, all hated him.
The impossibility of such an idea--the logistics alone--made no impression upon him.
For the truth of the matter was that for Steve Alibi, like most of humanity, when belief and truth conflict, truth comes in a distant second; belief invariably carries the day. And nothing and no one could convince Steve otherwise. Anyone who said they didn’t hate him, he believed, was clearly lying. Because to Steve, it was obvious: those who hate are also capable of lying. And lying is the way by which hatred is protected and nourished.
Steve was 44 years old. From early on, from childhood, he knew that his parents and siblings all despised him. His grandparents too. And later, his wife, his former wives, his children and step-children. His dog, the cat, the slaves. All of those people who should have loved him the most, Steve believed, hated him: completely, bitterly, and with a great vehemence.
Steve, on the other hand, hated no one. To the contrary, he loved everybody: people he knew, people he’d met just once, people he’d never met at all, people he’d only heard of. People he’d never heard of. Simply put, he loved humanity--in general (as an abstract concept) and in theory (as an abstract projection). Further, he loved them more because of their hatred toward him--their perceived hatred of him. He was, of course, the ultimate Christian.
Monday, October 6, 2008
A Natural History of Air
A NATURAL HISTORY OF AIR
JOHN SACRAMENTO began yawning on a Tuesday; by the end of the week, the entire family was caught up in the practice. Their mouths were constantly wide open, teeth often bared, deep breathing coming from all corners of the house, great gasps of air that seemed never to be satisfied, never fully achieved: futile attempts at the impossible.
John’s major fear in life was that there might come a time when he would be unable to get enough air into his lungs. . .
(Are you happy, dear reader?)
. . . a time when the grand struggle against the inevitable would come to a head. He knew that the brain, without a constant supply of fresh air, expires; he knew also that the rest of his body, without the support of a functioning brain, likewise concludes itself: wraps things up. John could not think of a worse way to go: suffocation. Not strangling so much, not even drowning or a simple plastic bag over the head, but the slow shutting down of all of his vital systems. Nature’s way. He knew that there would come a time when, though still able to breathe, he would be unable to get the full, necessary amount of air into his anxious, waiting, hungry lungs. And he would die a horrible death. Yawning was his way of seizing what he could--while he still could. John thought about this a lot.
Joan California reacted differently than her husband. Not so much concerned with the oxygen problem, she worried more that the yawning might be contagious, that others might catch whatever it was simply by being in the same room with those already afflicted . . .
(Are you worried, dear reader?)
. . . At work, for example, she’d yawn unconsciously. Soon others in the office would begin; and then, before too long, the entire room would be nothing but a pulsing, convulsing mass of oscillating pink orifices. She tried stifling herself--suppressing the urge-–but found it impossible. Later, understanding the nature and history of air–-and herself--she would purposely yawn and then note how many others would follow her lead. She never mentioned this to John, but she was delighted with her secret nonetheless.
The two older kids dealt with the issue in a different way than either of the parents–-and differently again from themselves. Jane denied that there was yawning taking place at all. True, she saw her mom and dad open their mouths, lose themselves–-trance-like--for a quick moment while their eyes closed and the chest cavity filled and the muscles tightened–-seemingly focused on nothing but their own intake of oxygen. . .
(Are you frightened now, dear reader?)
. . . but put no importance on the act; it was just something that happened. Even when Bob, her brother, would sneak off into the bathroom--or some other private part of the house--and she’d hear behind the closed door his muffled inhalation, then the pause, followed by the relaxed out-breathing, she comforted herself in knowing that nothing spectacular was going on. Even when she herself filled her own lungs to capacity and stretched her chest out to its fullest, she believed that it was little more than the natural intake of air, the natural consequence of living.
For his own part Bob didn’t know what was taking place. . .
(Are you still there, dear reader?)
. . . only that it was something very pleasurable, and therefore something to be hidden and ashamed of. So, when he felt the urge-–the drive to yawn and experience himself more fully-–he hurried himself off to a private part of the house where he could breathe intensely and hide his guilt from the others.
The babies–-the infants–-ten of them, all less than a year old-–yawned continuously. From the moment of birth, they began their movements: stretched jaws, tightened skin across the lower face, clenched eyes, heads often thrown back in a near-quiet ecstacy, mouths open: inhalations to the climax.
One by one, the older, wiser members of the family would pass through the house . . .
(Are you ready for this, dear reader?)
. . . and observe the tiny, little bodies and their great big yawns: John would stand before them and look on in profound sorrow, sometimes a single tear rolling from an eye; Joan, when no one was looking, would separate the young ones, placing them in separate corners of the room; Bob would look at them with envy for their innocent state; and Jane would just glance at them quickly-– unbelievably--before going off to her own affairs.
JOHN SACRAMENTO began yawning on a Tuesday; by the end of the week, the entire family was caught up in the practice. Their mouths were constantly wide open, teeth often bared, deep breathing coming from all corners of the house, great gasps of air that seemed never to be satisfied, never fully achieved: futile attempts at the impossible.
John’s major fear in life was that there might come a time when he would be unable to get enough air into his lungs. . .
(Are you happy, dear reader?)
. . . a time when the grand struggle against the inevitable would come to a head. He knew that the brain, without a constant supply of fresh air, expires; he knew also that the rest of his body, without the support of a functioning brain, likewise concludes itself: wraps things up. John could not think of a worse way to go: suffocation. Not strangling so much, not even drowning or a simple plastic bag over the head, but the slow shutting down of all of his vital systems. Nature’s way. He knew that there would come a time when, though still able to breathe, he would be unable to get the full, necessary amount of air into his anxious, waiting, hungry lungs. And he would die a horrible death. Yawning was his way of seizing what he could--while he still could. John thought about this a lot.
Joan California reacted differently than her husband. Not so much concerned with the oxygen problem, she worried more that the yawning might be contagious, that others might catch whatever it was simply by being in the same room with those already afflicted . . .
(Are you worried, dear reader?)
. . . At work, for example, she’d yawn unconsciously. Soon others in the office would begin; and then, before too long, the entire room would be nothing but a pulsing, convulsing mass of oscillating pink orifices. She tried stifling herself--suppressing the urge-–but found it impossible. Later, understanding the nature and history of air–-and herself--she would purposely yawn and then note how many others would follow her lead. She never mentioned this to John, but she was delighted with her secret nonetheless.
The two older kids dealt with the issue in a different way than either of the parents–-and differently again from themselves. Jane denied that there was yawning taking place at all. True, she saw her mom and dad open their mouths, lose themselves–-trance-like--for a quick moment while their eyes closed and the chest cavity filled and the muscles tightened–-seemingly focused on nothing but their own intake of oxygen. . .
(Are you frightened now, dear reader?)
. . . but put no importance on the act; it was just something that happened. Even when Bob, her brother, would sneak off into the bathroom--or some other private part of the house--and she’d hear behind the closed door his muffled inhalation, then the pause, followed by the relaxed out-breathing, she comforted herself in knowing that nothing spectacular was going on. Even when she herself filled her own lungs to capacity and stretched her chest out to its fullest, she believed that it was little more than the natural intake of air, the natural consequence of living.
For his own part Bob didn’t know what was taking place. . .
(Are you still there, dear reader?)
. . . only that it was something very pleasurable, and therefore something to be hidden and ashamed of. So, when he felt the urge-–the drive to yawn and experience himself more fully-–he hurried himself off to a private part of the house where he could breathe intensely and hide his guilt from the others.
The babies–-the infants–-ten of them, all less than a year old-–yawned continuously. From the moment of birth, they began their movements: stretched jaws, tightened skin across the lower face, clenched eyes, heads often thrown back in a near-quiet ecstacy, mouths open: inhalations to the climax.
One by one, the older, wiser members of the family would pass through the house . . .
(Are you ready for this, dear reader?)
. . . and observe the tiny, little bodies and their great big yawns: John would stand before them and look on in profound sorrow, sometimes a single tear rolling from an eye; Joan, when no one was looking, would separate the young ones, placing them in separate corners of the room; Bob would look at them with envy for their innocent state; and Jane would just glance at them quickly-– unbelievably--before going off to her own affairs.
The Guy Who Could Tell Time
THE GUY WHO COULD TELL TIME
MICKY MOUTH knew and understood time perfectly–-as well as many of its subtexts. He’d be with a group of friends--at a restaurant, let’s say--and somebody’d ask, "Oh, my god! I almost forgot; I’ve got to be somewhere! What time is it?"
Mick’d stare back and say, before anyone else could respond, "It’s a quarter to seven; where do you need to be?"
He wore no watch, there was no clock on the wall, and this type of thing happened all the time.
* * * * * * *
Mick liked to camp. On camping trips–-or just out hiking--one of his buddies would ask in passing if anyone knew the time. Mick’d shoot back with the answer; another person would check their watch, the reply would be confirmed, and they’d all stare at Mick in an odd way. This happened a lot.
After awhile, it became almost a game, a contest. In the middle of the day, someone’d ask him, "Mick, what time is it?" He’d pause, as if in thought--though he wasn’t in thought--and announce, "12:45." They’d look at their watches and shake their heads.
"He’s right," they’d say. "Quarter to one. Exactly."
Mick seemed to have a perfect understanding of time–-and the subtexts as well.
In public, in the city, out socially, people’d sometimes ask him other aspects of time: people’s ages. And he’d oblige. He knew exactly how old everyone was. "She’s 24," he’d say of a waitress whose service was exemplary. "He’s 47," he’d say about a bus driver. "Those kids over there–-14 and 17." "The infant in the stroller–-ten weeks." An elderly man who had just been run over by a car--DOA at the hospital--and whom they’d seen only from a distance: "75."
He was always right; he was never wrong.
People’d ask him to be more specific. And he’d reply, maybe at the super market this time, "That gentleman over there in the frozen food aisle, in the workshirt with the paint on his pants: He’s 53 years old, seven months, and 14 days."
His friends thought he was pulling their leg–-or just being outlandish--because no one could be that accurate. So once, one of Mick’s lovers–-let’s call her Lucy--called him on it. He-–Mick–-had said that a woman at another table in a restaurant was 33 years old, three months, and three days.
Lucy excused herself, got up from the table, walked over to the woman at the other table, and inquired as to her age. The woman was, quite naturally, taken aback by the question but, after a polite smile, replied, "33."
"No, I mean, when were you born? When’s your birthday? That guy over there says that you’re 33 years old, three months, and three days."
The woman, of course, thought it odd that someone–-a complete stranger-–would be so interested in the precise number of years and months and days she had been on the planet. But she complied, and then, together, she and Lucy figured out, from her birthday, exactly how old he was.
Sure enough, Mick had been right.
Mick began to enjoy the reaction of his friends. Before, he’d just been mildly amused by their interest and their questions, but now, because of their continued fascination, he’d sometimes put on a show. He’d be walking down the street and point to people on the street and rattle off their birthdays: July 16; November 3; August 25. Still, his friends were skeptical--more entertained than believing. How could anyone know the birthdays of complete strangers? The ages, Ok; a lot of people can guess other people’s ages, but the actual birthdays? No way! But Mick’d go right on, pointing and naming the days: March 21, February 29, July 4. Occasionally, one of Mick’s lovers’d ask one of the people Mick’d pointed out if their birthday was the day Mick had identified. Again, Mick’d be right. He was always right. Never wrong.
"How do you know this stuff?"
And he’d reply, "I don’t know. They just look like they’d been born on June 21, or December 25, or whatever. I don’t know. They just do. At first, I thought everyone could tell. But I guess that’s not so."
It was uncanny. Mick seemed to have a perfect understanding of time. The subtexts too. He began identifying where people were born: St. Louis; Los Angeles; Champaign, Illinois. "That person over there in the red pick-up truck: He immigrated seven years ago from Prague. The woman driving the truck: She’s not a citizen yet; they met in Seattle. She’s pregnant right now. The baby will be born in April, the last day of the month: April 30."
One day, Mick decided--on his own--to push the boundaries of his insights beyond the identification of mere birthdays or the time on a clock. He was after the big stuff now. He’d wake up in the morning, walk outside, look up into the sky, see the sun, and announce to people–-to total strangers passing on the street--that it was daytime.
At night, after the sun had gone down, he’d walk up to the people he’d see on the street and tell them that it was nighttime. He’d elaborate. He’d say, "Look! It’s dark. It’s nighttime. It’s all so clear. Can’t you see?"
He’d point to the moon: "Moon."
And after awhile people would begin to see and recognize that Mick’s sense of time was not really such an unusual thing after all, and that, really, anyone could do it.
MICKY MOUTH knew and understood time perfectly–-as well as many of its subtexts. He’d be with a group of friends--at a restaurant, let’s say--and somebody’d ask, "Oh, my god! I almost forgot; I’ve got to be somewhere! What time is it?"
Mick’d stare back and say, before anyone else could respond, "It’s a quarter to seven; where do you need to be?"
He wore no watch, there was no clock on the wall, and this type of thing happened all the time.
* * * * * * *
Mick liked to camp. On camping trips–-or just out hiking--one of his buddies would ask in passing if anyone knew the time. Mick’d shoot back with the answer; another person would check their watch, the reply would be confirmed, and they’d all stare at Mick in an odd way. This happened a lot.
After awhile, it became almost a game, a contest. In the middle of the day, someone’d ask him, "Mick, what time is it?" He’d pause, as if in thought--though he wasn’t in thought--and announce, "12:45." They’d look at their watches and shake their heads.
"He’s right," they’d say. "Quarter to one. Exactly."
Mick seemed to have a perfect understanding of time–-and the subtexts as well.
In public, in the city, out socially, people’d sometimes ask him other aspects of time: people’s ages. And he’d oblige. He knew exactly how old everyone was. "She’s 24," he’d say of a waitress whose service was exemplary. "He’s 47," he’d say about a bus driver. "Those kids over there–-14 and 17." "The infant in the stroller–-ten weeks." An elderly man who had just been run over by a car--DOA at the hospital--and whom they’d seen only from a distance: "75."
He was always right; he was never wrong.
People’d ask him to be more specific. And he’d reply, maybe at the super market this time, "That gentleman over there in the frozen food aisle, in the workshirt with the paint on his pants: He’s 53 years old, seven months, and 14 days."
His friends thought he was pulling their leg–-or just being outlandish--because no one could be that accurate. So once, one of Mick’s lovers–-let’s call her Lucy--called him on it. He-–Mick–-had said that a woman at another table in a restaurant was 33 years old, three months, and three days.
Lucy excused herself, got up from the table, walked over to the woman at the other table, and inquired as to her age. The woman was, quite naturally, taken aback by the question but, after a polite smile, replied, "33."
"No, I mean, when were you born? When’s your birthday? That guy over there says that you’re 33 years old, three months, and three days."
The woman, of course, thought it odd that someone–-a complete stranger-–would be so interested in the precise number of years and months and days she had been on the planet. But she complied, and then, together, she and Lucy figured out, from her birthday, exactly how old he was.
Sure enough, Mick had been right.
Mick began to enjoy the reaction of his friends. Before, he’d just been mildly amused by their interest and their questions, but now, because of their continued fascination, he’d sometimes put on a show. He’d be walking down the street and point to people on the street and rattle off their birthdays: July 16; November 3; August 25. Still, his friends were skeptical--more entertained than believing. How could anyone know the birthdays of complete strangers? The ages, Ok; a lot of people can guess other people’s ages, but the actual birthdays? No way! But Mick’d go right on, pointing and naming the days: March 21, February 29, July 4. Occasionally, one of Mick’s lovers’d ask one of the people Mick’d pointed out if their birthday was the day Mick had identified. Again, Mick’d be right. He was always right. Never wrong.
"How do you know this stuff?"
And he’d reply, "I don’t know. They just look like they’d been born on June 21, or December 25, or whatever. I don’t know. They just do. At first, I thought everyone could tell. But I guess that’s not so."
It was uncanny. Mick seemed to have a perfect understanding of time. The subtexts too. He began identifying where people were born: St. Louis; Los Angeles; Champaign, Illinois. "That person over there in the red pick-up truck: He immigrated seven years ago from Prague. The woman driving the truck: She’s not a citizen yet; they met in Seattle. She’s pregnant right now. The baby will be born in April, the last day of the month: April 30."
One day, Mick decided--on his own--to push the boundaries of his insights beyond the identification of mere birthdays or the time on a clock. He was after the big stuff now. He’d wake up in the morning, walk outside, look up into the sky, see the sun, and announce to people–-to total strangers passing on the street--that it was daytime.
At night, after the sun had gone down, he’d walk up to the people he’d see on the street and tell them that it was nighttime. He’d elaborate. He’d say, "Look! It’s dark. It’s nighttime. It’s all so clear. Can’t you see?"
He’d point to the moon: "Moon."
And after awhile people would begin to see and recognize that Mick’s sense of time was not really such an unusual thing after all, and that, really, anyone could do it.
Simpson Did it
SIMPSON DID IT
SIMPSON DID IT! Simpson did it! He’s in the kitchen. And Simpson did it!
He’s not in the kitchen. There’s no one in the kitchen. I was just in the kitchen. Are you sure he was in the kitchen?
Maybe he’s not in the kitchen. Maybe he’s in the bathroom. Did he go to the bathroom?
Someone check the bathroom.
He’s not in the bathroom.
Kincaid. Ask Kincaid. Kincaid knows. Kincaid knows everything. He could tell us.
Kincaid knows, but would he tell us? Would he tell us the truth? Sometimes he lies, you know, even when he knows the truth.
Everyone lies sometimes. So don’t blame Kincaid. Simpson’s the one who did it.
OK. But let’s find Kincaid first. Kincaid can help.
Let’s find Simpson. Simpson’s the one who did it. Let’s find Simpson before he does it again.
There’s someone in the kitchen.
Is it Kincaid?
Is it Simpson?
No, it’s not Simpson. And it’s not Kincaid either. He says his name is Emerson. But he looks a lot like Hayden.
We haven’t seen Hayden in years. How do you know it’s not Hayden? If you haven’t seen him in years?
He says his name’s Emerson. And I believe him. He looks trustworthy.
That’s what they said about Bateman. Remember about Bateman? When he first came out here to work? He looked trustworthy too, and remember what he did.
But we all do things sometimes. Sometimes you have to. To protect yourself. Or friends.
But you don’t do that to your friends.
Just tell me this: What’s he doing in the kitchen to look so trustworthy, as you say? Did he talk to you? Or did he just look innocent?
I didn’t say he looked innocent; none of us are innocent. I just said he looked trustworthy. There’s a difference, you know. He said he’d earned his stripes.
"Earned his stripes"? That’s a good one. What does that mean? Let’s get him in here.
I think we should keep looking for Simpson. Simpson did it, and if we don’t find him soon, he might do it again.
Which is why I keep saying that we need to find Kincaid. Kincaid’s the key to finding Simpson.
But we haven’t been able to find either Simpson or Kincaid. Maybe this Emerson fellow could help. Could we question him?
He’s got his stripes.
Has anyone checked the closet? People hide in closets all the time.
So you think he’s hiding? Is Simpson hiding? Is Simpson in hiding?
I didn’t say that. But just because I didn’t say it doesn’t mean that he isn’t. I’m no authority.
Is Kincaid hiding? We can’t find Kincaid either.
What’d he be hiding for? He didn’t do anything.
Well, if he knows something and he isn’t telling us, that’s something.
But is it enough?
Enough for what?
For him to get into trouble. Like Simpson. Like Hayden. Like any of us–-if we make a mistake. Or do something wrong.
Well, Simpson’s the only one to have done it lately. Officially, that is. He’d be the one to be hiding.
Wilson said he might be downstairs.
In the basement?
He didn’t say "the basement"; he said "downstairs."
I didn’t even know Wilson was here. Where’s Wilson now?
He’s in the living room. He’s watching TV.
I thought we got rid of the TV.
We did.
And . . . ?
And it’s back.
Hayden’s not back yet, is he?
No, and he won’t be for years. If ever. Remember what he did? It was serious.
Let’s look in the bathroom. Did anyone look in the bathroom? You said that no one’s in the bathroom. But did you look?
I knocked.
You knocked! But you didn’t look? There’s a difference, you know, between knocking and looking. If he’s hiding--or in hiding, as you say--he’s not going to open the door. That’d be stupid. And one thing about Kincaid is: he ain’t stupid.
True.
But Kincaid knows a lot. More than any of us. Sometimes even the truth. He’s smart. He’s really smart.
But Simpson did it. We know that: Simpson did something bad.
I still think we need Kincaid. Kincaid could help us find Simpson--if only he would.
I think we ought to at least ask Emerson what he knows. He’s got his stripes.
That’s what he said.
Anyone here know this Emerson fellow?
I think we should look downstairs--since we are, ultimately, trying to find Simpson.
Are we looking for him, or are we trying to find him?
Is there a difference?
Let’s ask Kincaid.
I think we should look upstairs.
In the bedrooms?
I didn’t say the bedrooms. I said upstairs.
There’s a bathroom upstairs, too, right?
Two.
This is a big house. Simpson could be anywhere.
I’ve heard that Simpson can be dangerous.
I’ve heard that too. And that’s why I think we need to find Kincaid first. Kincaid would know all about that. Kincaid knows everything, and he could tell us whether or not Simpson’s dangerous. That would help. Then, even if Kincaid refused to help us any further, at least we’d know that: whether Simpson is armed or not.
If Simpson’s armed, you can count me out.
I don’t mind dangerous. But armed is another thing altogether.
It all depends on whether or not Kincaid will tell us the truth. He’s been known to lie.
We all lie.
We’re all dangerous.
That’s why I think Wilson could help. Wilson would help us. That’s the kind of person he is.
Wilson? You’ve got to be kidding. Wilson doesn’t know a thing. Remember the last time? Sure, he’d tell us something, but Wilson doesn’t know anything. Certainly not the truth. Not that he means to be lying. He just says things even if he doesn’t know them. He wants to be helpful. But he doesn’t know. And he cries a lot.
We all cry.
That’s not the point.
Tell Wilson to turn off the TV. We need him in here.
We need someone.
We need Kincaid.
I think we keep getting away from the Simpson issue. Bottom line is: We need to find Simpson. If we don’t, it might happen again. Something terrible this time.
Maybe worse.
Maybe we need someone new and inexperienced. A new angle. Someone young. Someone who isn’t afraid yet.
We’re all afraid.
Which is why, as I was saying, I think we ought to talk to this Emerson fellow. He’s got his stripes, he’s in the kitchen, and that’s where we last saw Simpson. Simpson did it, and if Emerson’s in the kitchen, he might know something. He may have even seen Simpson.
I still think Emerson’s Hayden. We haven’t seen Hayden in years, and just because this Emerson says he’s Emerson doesn’t mean he is Emerson. He could very well be Hayden. I don’t care if he says he’s got his stripes or whatever he’s got. The fact is: We don’t know who he is. All we’ve got to go on is what he tells us. And people can say anything. If we’re going to bring him into the picture, we need to check him out first. Find out who he really is. And not just his name. Hayden. Emerson. Anyone can change a name.
We need to know his core.
I’m going to check the bathroom.
You can never know anyone’s core.
I’ll go with you.
That’s OK. I’m all right.
Let’s stick to the point: How do we check this guy out?
It’s hard. All we can ever really know is what people tell us.
Or what we see.
Or feel.
Which is why we need Kincaid.
But Kincaid’s been known to lie.
We all lie.
So, given that, how can we ever know anything?
You’ve got to have trust.
Don’t be naive.
I’m not naive.
We’re all naive.
Not all of us. At least not all of us all of the time.
Not even most of the time.
But still, some of the time.
In fact, a lot of the time.
What would you know about it?
You’d be surprised to know what I know.
Surprise me.
How much time have we got?
It’s running out.
So what do we do? What do we know? What do we need to know?
We need to know where Simpson is. It’s a matter of self-preservation. Of dealing with pain.
We’re all in pain.
Where’s Wilson? Tell him to turn off the TV and get in here. We need his input.
Wilson! Turn off the TV and get in here! We need your input.
I’ll be there in a minute.
There’s no one in the bathroom. Not Kincaid. Not Simpson. Not anyone.
I guess that leaves the downstairs.
And the upstairs.
That’s right.
OK. Williams. Larsen. You check upstairs. Jacobs. Henderson. Wilson. You go downstairs. And comrades: Don’t leave one stone unturned. We have got to find Simpson.
We have got to find Kincaid.
We should probably find them both. And quick. They might even be in this together.
Together?
Don’t tell me that.
That’s a whole ’nother matter.
We have got to find them immediately.
Like, muy pronto, man.
OK. Let’s get going.
What are you going to be doing while we’re out looking for them?
Me? Me and Jensen’ll stay put and try to talk to Emerson. See what he has to say. See what he knows. If he’s still in the kitchen. Otherwise, we’ll just be holding down the fort here.
SIMPSON DID IT! Simpson did it! He’s in the kitchen. And Simpson did it!
He’s not in the kitchen. There’s no one in the kitchen. I was just in the kitchen. Are you sure he was in the kitchen?
Maybe he’s not in the kitchen. Maybe he’s in the bathroom. Did he go to the bathroom?
Someone check the bathroom.
He’s not in the bathroom.
Kincaid. Ask Kincaid. Kincaid knows. Kincaid knows everything. He could tell us.
Kincaid knows, but would he tell us? Would he tell us the truth? Sometimes he lies, you know, even when he knows the truth.
Everyone lies sometimes. So don’t blame Kincaid. Simpson’s the one who did it.
OK. But let’s find Kincaid first. Kincaid can help.
Let’s find Simpson. Simpson’s the one who did it. Let’s find Simpson before he does it again.
There’s someone in the kitchen.
Is it Kincaid?
Is it Simpson?
No, it’s not Simpson. And it’s not Kincaid either. He says his name is Emerson. But he looks a lot like Hayden.
We haven’t seen Hayden in years. How do you know it’s not Hayden? If you haven’t seen him in years?
He says his name’s Emerson. And I believe him. He looks trustworthy.
That’s what they said about Bateman. Remember about Bateman? When he first came out here to work? He looked trustworthy too, and remember what he did.
But we all do things sometimes. Sometimes you have to. To protect yourself. Or friends.
But you don’t do that to your friends.
Just tell me this: What’s he doing in the kitchen to look so trustworthy, as you say? Did he talk to you? Or did he just look innocent?
I didn’t say he looked innocent; none of us are innocent. I just said he looked trustworthy. There’s a difference, you know. He said he’d earned his stripes.
"Earned his stripes"? That’s a good one. What does that mean? Let’s get him in here.
I think we should keep looking for Simpson. Simpson did it, and if we don’t find him soon, he might do it again.
Which is why I keep saying that we need to find Kincaid. Kincaid’s the key to finding Simpson.
But we haven’t been able to find either Simpson or Kincaid. Maybe this Emerson fellow could help. Could we question him?
He’s got his stripes.
Has anyone checked the closet? People hide in closets all the time.
So you think he’s hiding? Is Simpson hiding? Is Simpson in hiding?
I didn’t say that. But just because I didn’t say it doesn’t mean that he isn’t. I’m no authority.
Is Kincaid hiding? We can’t find Kincaid either.
What’d he be hiding for? He didn’t do anything.
Well, if he knows something and he isn’t telling us, that’s something.
But is it enough?
Enough for what?
For him to get into trouble. Like Simpson. Like Hayden. Like any of us–-if we make a mistake. Or do something wrong.
Well, Simpson’s the only one to have done it lately. Officially, that is. He’d be the one to be hiding.
Wilson said he might be downstairs.
In the basement?
He didn’t say "the basement"; he said "downstairs."
I didn’t even know Wilson was here. Where’s Wilson now?
He’s in the living room. He’s watching TV.
I thought we got rid of the TV.
We did.
And . . . ?
And it’s back.
Hayden’s not back yet, is he?
No, and he won’t be for years. If ever. Remember what he did? It was serious.
Let’s look in the bathroom. Did anyone look in the bathroom? You said that no one’s in the bathroom. But did you look?
I knocked.
You knocked! But you didn’t look? There’s a difference, you know, between knocking and looking. If he’s hiding--or in hiding, as you say--he’s not going to open the door. That’d be stupid. And one thing about Kincaid is: he ain’t stupid.
True.
But Kincaid knows a lot. More than any of us. Sometimes even the truth. He’s smart. He’s really smart.
But Simpson did it. We know that: Simpson did something bad.
I still think we need Kincaid. Kincaid could help us find Simpson--if only he would.
I think we ought to at least ask Emerson what he knows. He’s got his stripes.
That’s what he said.
Anyone here know this Emerson fellow?
I think we should look downstairs--since we are, ultimately, trying to find Simpson.
Are we looking for him, or are we trying to find him?
Is there a difference?
Let’s ask Kincaid.
I think we should look upstairs.
In the bedrooms?
I didn’t say the bedrooms. I said upstairs.
There’s a bathroom upstairs, too, right?
Two.
This is a big house. Simpson could be anywhere.
I’ve heard that Simpson can be dangerous.
I’ve heard that too. And that’s why I think we need to find Kincaid first. Kincaid would know all about that. Kincaid knows everything, and he could tell us whether or not Simpson’s dangerous. That would help. Then, even if Kincaid refused to help us any further, at least we’d know that: whether Simpson is armed or not.
If Simpson’s armed, you can count me out.
I don’t mind dangerous. But armed is another thing altogether.
It all depends on whether or not Kincaid will tell us the truth. He’s been known to lie.
We all lie.
We’re all dangerous.
That’s why I think Wilson could help. Wilson would help us. That’s the kind of person he is.
Wilson? You’ve got to be kidding. Wilson doesn’t know a thing. Remember the last time? Sure, he’d tell us something, but Wilson doesn’t know anything. Certainly not the truth. Not that he means to be lying. He just says things even if he doesn’t know them. He wants to be helpful. But he doesn’t know. And he cries a lot.
We all cry.
That’s not the point.
Tell Wilson to turn off the TV. We need him in here.
We need someone.
We need Kincaid.
I think we keep getting away from the Simpson issue. Bottom line is: We need to find Simpson. If we don’t, it might happen again. Something terrible this time.
Maybe worse.
Maybe we need someone new and inexperienced. A new angle. Someone young. Someone who isn’t afraid yet.
We’re all afraid.
Which is why, as I was saying, I think we ought to talk to this Emerson fellow. He’s got his stripes, he’s in the kitchen, and that’s where we last saw Simpson. Simpson did it, and if Emerson’s in the kitchen, he might know something. He may have even seen Simpson.
I still think Emerson’s Hayden. We haven’t seen Hayden in years, and just because this Emerson says he’s Emerson doesn’t mean he is Emerson. He could very well be Hayden. I don’t care if he says he’s got his stripes or whatever he’s got. The fact is: We don’t know who he is. All we’ve got to go on is what he tells us. And people can say anything. If we’re going to bring him into the picture, we need to check him out first. Find out who he really is. And not just his name. Hayden. Emerson. Anyone can change a name.
We need to know his core.
I’m going to check the bathroom.
You can never know anyone’s core.
I’ll go with you.
That’s OK. I’m all right.
Let’s stick to the point: How do we check this guy out?
It’s hard. All we can ever really know is what people tell us.
Or what we see.
Or feel.
Which is why we need Kincaid.
But Kincaid’s been known to lie.
We all lie.
So, given that, how can we ever know anything?
You’ve got to have trust.
Don’t be naive.
I’m not naive.
We’re all naive.
Not all of us. At least not all of us all of the time.
Not even most of the time.
But still, some of the time.
In fact, a lot of the time.
What would you know about it?
You’d be surprised to know what I know.
Surprise me.
How much time have we got?
It’s running out.
So what do we do? What do we know? What do we need to know?
We need to know where Simpson is. It’s a matter of self-preservation. Of dealing with pain.
We’re all in pain.
Where’s Wilson? Tell him to turn off the TV and get in here. We need his input.
Wilson! Turn off the TV and get in here! We need your input.
I’ll be there in a minute.
There’s no one in the bathroom. Not Kincaid. Not Simpson. Not anyone.
I guess that leaves the downstairs.
And the upstairs.
That’s right.
OK. Williams. Larsen. You check upstairs. Jacobs. Henderson. Wilson. You go downstairs. And comrades: Don’t leave one stone unturned. We have got to find Simpson.
We have got to find Kincaid.
We should probably find them both. And quick. They might even be in this together.
Together?
Don’t tell me that.
That’s a whole ’nother matter.
We have got to find them immediately.
Like, muy pronto, man.
OK. Let’s get going.
What are you going to be doing while we’re out looking for them?
Me? Me and Jensen’ll stay put and try to talk to Emerson. See what he has to say. See what he knows. If he’s still in the kitchen. Otherwise, we’ll just be holding down the fort here.
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