Authors: Jim Heynen
In spite of everything, while others struggle to maintain civility in thought and word so that the world may continue functioning short of calamity, this man still thinks he is normal and, if he is not challenged, is likely to go on living in the reprehensible world of his separate reality.
Three women were in the café talking about what they were eating.
Mmm, this sandwich tastes delicious, said one woman. She opened it to show the other women the vegetables that were inside. Would you like a taste?
The second woman reached toward the sprouts and avocado with her fork.
Oh, use your fingers, said the woman with the sandwich.
Then the third woman said to the first two, Would either of you like to taste my oyster stew? It's very buttery.
Love to, said the second woman. And you must try my salad. The house dressing has just the right bite to it.
To make the sharing easier, the women passed their plates around the table.
When they finished eating all their food, each tried to take the check because each claimed to have eaten the most.
My stomach is so full, I should pay, said one.
No you don't, said the second. I eat so fast, I know I had the most.
Not on your life, said the third, tugging at the check. My mouth is twice the size of both of yours put together. Let me have that check.
Before the arguing went any further, each of them started tossing money on the table, and in no time at all there was far too much. But as the first woman dug through her purse, the second said, What a lovely coat.
Oh, yes, said the first. This cotton lining is so soft on the skin. Here, do try it on. What about that velour sweater? she asked the third. Mauve is my favorite color.
Try it on, said the third woman. Are those new boots you have on?
The women started exchanging clothes, helping each other with the buttons and snaps. Some of the articles did not fit the other women very well, but by this time the women had become expert at working out the minor details.
An elderly gentleman decided to take note of everything he knew he'd never do again.
He vacationed at an island where clouds of mosquitoes tormented him day and night. When he returned home, he said, I'll never go there again.
He ate at a restaurant that served tiny pickled octopus. I'll never eat tiny pickled octopus again, he told everyone.
He had always wanted to see the Leaning Tower of Pisa, so he flew to Italy and visited the tower.
Photographs show you just as much, he said later. I'll never go see that thing again.
Then he realized how many things that were near him every day passed into his life and were gone as quickly as they had come. When he left his apartment to throw out a bag of garbage, he knew he'd never see it again, not the garbage or the plastic bag he carried it in. Good riddance, he said.
But then he picked up a pebble from the alley and looked at it curiously. It was the shape of a miniature bird's egg. He held it up to the sun and saw little swirls of lavender and gold. He threw it in among the other pebbles, and it disappeared as totally as a drop of water thrown into a river. The tomatoes in his small patio garden ripened and were gone. The geranium with its short bloom, a falling leaf, the cloud that passed overheadâso many things were his for a moment before he'd never see them again.
For the first time, the quick loss of so many glittering trifles tormented him. He gripped the metal railing on the front steps as he walked up to his apartment. See you later, he said to the railing.
He turned the solid doorknob. See you tomorrow, he said to the door as he closed it.
Same old rug in the hallway. Same stove in the kitchen, same
kettle on the burner. Stay right there, he said to the kitchen, I'll be right back.
He walked into his bathroom. Same sink. Same mirror. He turned on the reliable light and studied the person in the mirror. The man he had seen yesterday was no longer there.
Let me top off your glass, he said to one guest, and while he refilled his guest's glass he refilled his own.
Soon the good host had spread so much goodwill around the dinner table that a good time was being had by all. Everyone talked at once and, even if someone said something unkind, the crossfire of words was so wild and random that cruel remarks were blurred by laughter and cheer.
After dinner, as some people floated off into easy chairs and others served the dessert, the good host told people how wonderful they were.
I would hate to think of this world without you close enough to come for dinner, he said. And you, he said to another, you look better every time I see you.
As most of the guests started to sip their drinks more slowly, the good host drank his more quickly. If someone left the room or looked away, he refueled his glass before any eyes turned toward him.
Then his stories began, and they were longer than the quick bits of talk when the evening began. His long stories started from a sweet center but soon were sprinkled with granules of bitterness. Jokes about his delicate wife started as succulent truffles, but, by the time he finished, the truffles were wrapped in thorns. Other stories had a clear surface but, like some innocuous-looking coffee tables, their sharp edges caught people on their shins.
One thing I'll say for you, you never stop trying, he said to his closest male friend. As the victim recoiled, not knowing if he had been complimented or derided, the good host kept smiling and offered more drinks to those who had sobered into silence. Offered them drinks, then took one himself.
As the evening ended, the good host walked his guests to the
door and hugged them before letting them go. As they left, he made promises. I'm going to read that book you recommended, he said. I'm going to call you tomorrow to talk about golf, he said to another.
And then the house was quiet. The good host suggested to his wife that they wait until morning to clean up the dishes. Let's just sit, he said, and poured each of them a cognac. Such a wonderful night, don't you think? I just need to be close to you for a few minutes before we go to bed.
He put his head on her shoulder and watched the shadows hover outside the window.
WHO WANTED TO KNOW ONE THING WELL
For seventy years he had tried to learn everything. He studied physics, philosophy, and literature. He was moderately proficient in Latin, Greek, French, German, Spanish, and even Italianâ
non è vero?
He knew six hundred Chinese characters. He was truly learned, but the more he knew, the more he saw how little he knew.
One day, sitting in the middle of his books, he admitted that he didn't know anything well. Not really well. He resolved that before he died he would know oneâjust oneâthing better than anyone in the world. That one thing, he decided, would be his own house.
He started with his tape measure. It took him twelve weeks to measure his house centimeter by centimeter, room by room, window by window, door by door. He measured the size of each shingle, each brick in the chimney, every light fixture and appliance, every book in his library. When he finished, he had forty pages of data.
Now what? To know his house, he had to know more than the superficial dimensions of things. His house had to be more than the sum of its parts.
A deeper knowledge would come through touch. He blindfolded himself and made a tactile accountingâfrom the raspy foundation blocks to the smooth, polished counters. His fingers delighted in the tight-knit fabric of the carpets but were not grandly excited by the indifferent plastics and Formica. Still, knowledge was knowledge.
The more he touched, the more he noticed the smells. In the kitchen his nose told him about potato peels and apple cores, lemon rinds and spilled milk. His stove emitted olive oil and garlic. If he paused and concentrated, he could smell cinnamon, cardamom,
coffee. His bedroom smelled like cleaning chemicals and laundry softeners. His office smelled like newspapers and books and, he thought, Scotch tape. Even the piano had an odor, as did every piece of music, especially the old sheet music, which smelled like a small-town museum.
As he sniffed his way toward knowledge, his ears filled with house sounds: not just the familiar starting and stopping of the refrigerator and furnace but the strange sighs and groans as the outside temperatures rose and fell. He listened to the different tunes the wind played on different parts of his house. When he put his ear to the north wall, his lips touched the paint, which made him wonder how many different flavors his house had. Why was the basement salty? he wondered. And what was that spice in the lampshade?
For thirteen months he gathered information, but when he sat down to assess what he had learned, the scars and wrinkles of his house distracted him. Its flaws glowered under his scrutiny. He knew he had to dig deeper. With chisel and scalpel he made his way into the walls to understand the internal organs. Inside the master bedroom he found an old mouse nest. It was round and dark as a blood clot, but it had frayed and softened with age so that air sifted easily through it. As he went on digging, he found the electrical veins had hardened and were threatening to corrode, perhaps to hemorrhage and splatter their dangerous light everywhereâthose same vital currents that his house had depended on for decades.
His pursuit of knowledge left his house in shambles. He still had a terrible desire to learn more, but his house just stared at him like a mirror.
The better people got to know them, the more amazing this couple seemed. Neither ever gave the other a harsh glance. Never a snide remark.
It's not as if they never got angry. You could hear them shouting obscenities at the TV when the news was bad or the program was stupid. They'd scold the neighbors if their dogs barked all night. They'd argue politics with guests and shake their fists at rude drivers.
But with each other? Never a frown. Never a Please don't do that or a How often must I ask you! Sometimes the toilet seat was left up, but she never scolded him. Sometimes splatters of her toothpaste were left on the edge of the sink, but he didn't accuse her. Together they balanced the checkbook and paid the bills without demanding an explanation for how the other spent money. They had two children but never argued about how best to discipline them. One day you'd see one taking the garbage out, the next day the other. They were always smiling in each other's presence, so one would assume their congeniality followed them to the bedroom.
How did they do it? They didn't go to church very much and never read self-improvement books. As far as anyone knew, they'd never been to a couples workshop. They didn't meditate. They didn't recite affirmations. They had been married an unruffled twenty years. And no one could count how many marriages were ruined by their example.
The chair absorbed her boredom. When she stood up, the black seat cushion still sagged with her implosive imprint, the four wooden legs lingered in their bent position, and the wooden slats on the backrest kept her dark circles deep in their grain.
Meanwhile, she went outside to be brightened by the makeup of sunlight.
The chair was in trouble.
We all stared at the chair. Just stared at it.
But she? Ignoring the banner of her boredom, she went off into the world oblivious to how much she affected us.
The sales associate, the maintenance director, the assistant manager, the executive assistant, and the waitress got together to talk about job titles.
We're all at the bottom, said the sales associate. They just want us to feel good about ourselves, so they stick a fancy word in there. Associate. What does that mean? I haven't been associated with my boss from the day I got there.
Nothing could be worse than to be called an assistant anything. Assistant manager, indeed. Chief go-fer would be more accurate, said the assistant manager.
Hah! said the executive assistant. At least they were honest enough to call me executive assistant instead of assistant executive. When's the last time any of you had to make somebody else's travel and lodging plans? And pack their briefcase!
You think that's bad, said the maintenance director. My real title should be mop boy.
What's your problem? said the waitress. It's so easy, she said. It's so easy. You just gotta go with the flow like I do. If I don't like the way the bigwigs treat me, I just rub their silverware through my armpit and spit in their martinis. Take your titles and just go with the flow. You gotta think. You gotta think ahead about what to do, and then just go with the flow. You hear what I'm saying?
For a rigorous decade he had been dieting. Like most big fellows, he had tried the Stillman, the Pritikin, the Scarsdale, the Atkins, and the South Beach. He had been to the Diet Center, Weight Watchers, and Overeaters Anonymous. He lost thirty pounds with Nutrisystem, then lost the same thirty pounds a year later with Slimfast. Once he happily lost seventeen pounds on the Drinking Man's Diet. At another time, for three months, he was the only male in a Jenny Craig Christmas season special and lost a half pound for every day in December through the twenty-fourth. His dieting history was the story of many successes.