Jim Rodovich’s fiction blog

"Trumper went on and on. “Anyone with any sense would have known enough to leave Moby Dick..."

Tue, 05 Jul 2011 22:15:29 -0500

“

Trumper went on and on. “Anyone with any sense would have known enough to leave Moby Dick alone,” he said. “All the other whaling men just wanted to hunt the other whales. But not Captain Ahab.”

“Right,” said Colm.

“Some of the other men had been hurt or had lost their arms and legs hunting whales, but it didn’t make them hate whales,” Trumper said. “But…” and he paused…

“But not Captain Ahab!” Colm cried out.

“Right,” said Trumper. The wrongness of Ahab grew clear.

“Tell me about all the things sticking into Moby Dick,” Colm said.

“You mean the old harpoons?”

“Right.”

“Well, there were old harpoons,” Trumper said, “with ropes still hanging off them. Short harpoons and long harpoons, and some knives, and all the other kinds of things that men had tried to stick into him…”

“Like what?”

“Splinters?” Trumper wondered. “Sure, from all the boats he’d smashed, he picked up splinters. And barnacles, because he was so old; and seaweed all over him, and snails. He was like an old island, he’d picked up so much junk; he wasn’t a clean white.”

“And nothing could kill him, right?”

“Right!” said Trumper. “They should have left him alone.”

“That’s what I’d do,” Colm said. “I wouldn’t even try to pat him.”

“Right,” Trumper said. “Anybody who’s smart would know that.” And he waited for the refrain…

“But not Captain Ahab!” Colm said.

You should always tell stories, Trumper knew, in such a way that you make the audience feel good and wise, even a little ahead of you.

”

- John Irving, The Water-Method Man

"There are faint stars in the night sky that you can see, but only if you look to the side of where..."

Sat, 11 Jun 2011 12:19:38 -0500

“There are faint stars in the night sky that you can see, but only if you look to the side of where they shine. They burn too weakly or are too far away to see directly, even if you stare. But you can see them out of the corner of your eye because the cells on the periphery of your retina are more sensitive to light. Maybe truth is just like that. You can see it, but only out of the corner of your eye.”

- Janna Levin, A Madman Dreams of Turing Machines

Report Following the Liberation of the Planet Earth

Sat, 14 May 2011 14:24:00 -0500

On Friday, September 27th, the planet Earth lost its groove—threw it right out the window. Thursday evening, as it had been for many billions of evenings, the planet was orbiting the sun in a simple, conservative ellipse—but Friday morning, New Yorkers awoke to find that Earth had given Kepler’s laws an ebullient middle finger, and that its trajectory more closely resembled that of a stuffed animal swung over the head of a four-year-old on Pepsi.

The timing of this change did not coincide with any mainstream armageddon prophecies, and so most people were unperturbed and carried on with their daily lives. Birds and insects were harder hit, however, with whole flocks of pigeons (for example) seen colliding with buildings and automobiles all up and down Fifth Avenue. There were also reports, globally, of unusual behavior in migratory turtles.

The international scientific community was found puzzled by the planet’s sudden mobility. The National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) issued a terse statement acknowledging Earth’s “ongoing deviation from its anticipated orbital course” but ascribing no cause, and English cosmologist Stephen Hawking was quoted by Reuters as saying “I haven’t the faintest [expletive] clue what in the monkey [expletive] is going on.”

Needless to say, weekend weather forecasts varied widely, and most were wildly inaccurate. It was partly sunny Friday ‘til well past midnight, at which point the northern hemisphere swung away from the light and it began to snow. Tides were completely erratic Saturday, and for most of Sunday dieters were happy to find that increased centripetal forces rendered them up to thirty pounds lighter.

No one credibly claimed credit for Earth’s changed behavior, so a multitude of hypotheses arose, shared between friends and neighbors and on cable news shows. Leading candidates included the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, and Goldman Sachs (NYSE:GS). But by the end of the weekend a consensus emerged that somehow the big rock knew what it was doing, that it swooped and spun with confidence and pizazz, that it appeared to be—for lack of a better word—breakdancing.

This newly-apparent consciousness (or apparent newly-consciousness: debate on the matter continues) led to surges of popular interest in environmentalism and eastern religions. It also led to a series of rationalizations from industry and other groups. “The planet is telling us that she’s alive, healthy, and feeling expressive,” said a spokesperson for Chevron (NYSE:CVX) who was quoted in the Wall Street Journal. “She’s delighted that we’ve been making such good use of the resources, such as oil and natural gas, that she provides for us.” In a televised interview with Diane Sawyer, Pope Benedict XVI stated his belief that Earth’s new behavior resulted from “the work of the Holy Spirit.” (The Roman Catholic Church has repeatedly downplayed the possibility of any involvement from Satan.)

Not everyone had a positive spin on the planet’s new spin. In its monthly e-mail newsletter sent Monday, the National Organization of Pessimists (NOPe) wrote that “[w]e’ll more than likely stumble into the asteroid belt by week’s end and be destroyed by a barrage of space rocks.” (The newsletter was forwarded widely, leading to a heightened public profile for the organization, a Start-class Wikipedia article, and a thirty percent increase in traffic to its web site—the latter which a NOPe spokesperson characterized as “an unnecessary and inconvenient burden on our obsolescent server.”)

Earth’s newfound independence from the laws of physics has inspired a handful of political movements. Gallup polls in Puerto Rico have shown a small but statistically significant uptick in support for separate national sovereignty for the island commonwealth. And in New York, petitions have been circulating to garner support for drilling and/or cutting and/or blasting Staten Island free from the crust to set it adrift to “do its own thing” in the Atlantic. A similar effort in Manhattan appears not to have gathered any serious momentum, however, with anecdotes and informal polling suggesting widespread concern with the effect that such an unshackling would have on workers’ daily commutes.

By today, Wednesday, five days after the onset of Earth’s willful wobbling, the questions that are getting the most thought are those pertaining to mankind’s response: How can we adapt? How should we change the structure of our cities? How can we optimize our social institutions? What should we do with these confused migratory turtles, the thousands of them, that stopped wandering yesterday afternoon and have since been standing at Central Park South and Broadway, thousands and thousands, climbing on top of one another, butting up against one another, all packed along the curb as if waiting for a cab?

"Who among us is wise enough to understand the mind of man? I have spent a lifetime in such pursuit..."

Sun, 01 May 2011 09:27:49 -0500

“Who among us is wise enough to understand the mind of man? I have spent a lifetime in such pursuit and find myself no closer to solution now than when I was a boy. Why do great ideas come? What causes those sudden illuminations of the spirit? Newton needed the apple to jar his mind.”

- S. Morgenstern, The Silent Gondoliers

Bill Falls in Love

Wed, 20 Apr 2011 20:24:00 -0500

Bill was falling in love with the woman driving the silver SLK in front of him. She’d been there since the light turned red—she’d slowed at the yellow—and Bill had pulled up behind her.

He hadn’t seen her face, but Bill didn’t consider faces terribly important. Bodies were important, and it was true that he hadn’t seen her body either, but risks always had to be taken for love and Bill had no problem accepting the risk that her body was imperfect. He’d seen her hair, through the rear window of the silver SLK, and it was either streaked with blond highlights or pulled back into tight corn rolls with stripes of tan scalp showing through. Hair was unimportant, as long as she had it, as long as she wasn’t undergoing chemo.

Driving a silver SLK indicates the attainment of some level of financial and perhaps personal success, and so Bill inferred that the woman in front of him—his love, his soulmate—had attained such a level of financial and perhaps personal success. It would of course be convenient if her financial success allowed him to quit his job at the bank, which he had never much liked but for better or for worse was stuck with because at this stage in his career he was too settled to start over and do something radically different. It would of course be convenient if her financial success allowed him to start a flower garden and spend his day tending to the flowers.

The plate on the silver SLK had a combination of numbers and letters on it, meaning that it had been assigned by the state, that it was not one of those so-called “vanity” plates. This was a good sign, because it suggested that the woman driving the silver SLK was not afflicted by vanity. Had the woman been driving a lesser vehicle, say an old Honda or a Buick Regal, the standard plate would have been a worrisome sign as it would have been a sign that she lacked imagination or at least self-esteem—but she was not driving a lesser vehicle. She was driving a Mercedes-Benz, a silver SLK. This woman didn’t need to flaunt her imagination or her self-esteem.

There was one worrisome sign for Bill, however, and it was that the woman driving the silver Mercedes-Benz SLK was wearing sunglasses. A woman with sunglasses was a woman without personality—this Bill had found true time and time again and false not once. He could see her sunglasses in the rear-view mirror of her silver SLK and it was a worrisome sign—an attribute of her attire about which he’d have to set her straight.

Bill wondered whether the woman in the silver SLK was married. Bill was married, but it wasn’t anything serious. Bill wondered, if the woman in the silver SLK was married, whether it was anything serious. He wondered whether she’d have to give up the silver SLK in the divorce proceedings. He wondered whether she’d have to keep the kids, whether there’d be a prolonged custody battle over the kids, if she had any.

Bill wondered whether his love, his dear, played the guitar. He wondered whether she had a lovely singing voice to go along with her guitar playing.

The woman in the silver SLK reached up and bent her rear-view mirror, possibly just to inspect her lipstick but possibly to get a better look at the person driving behind her, at Bill. Bill became suddenly self-conscious. He tried to look detached, aloof, in case the woman in the silver SLK was looking his way, scrutinizing him, deciding whether or not to fall in love with him.

Aloofly, bill glanced out his side window. While doing so, he also reached up and scratched the side of his head. He flexed his biceps the whole time while his arm was raised—but carefully, with measured aloofness.

He counted to ten and relaxed the pose.

Then through his side window Bill spotted an old woman with a dog, and he snapped his head so that he was facing forward again. He didn’t want his sweet pea, his one and only, his darling in the silver SLK, to see him looking in that direction and to think that he’d been ogling that strange woman or that dog. He didn’t want to be mistaken for a philanderer.

But that started him wondering whether his love in the silver SLK was a pet person. Bill was not a pet person: birds of all sorts frightened him and he hated the idea of having dog fur or cat fur on his clothes. If the woman in the silver SLK was a pet person then he hoped she would settle for fish.

He wondered what she smelled like, what perfume she wore, what soaps she used. He wondered if she showered in the morning or if she showered at night before going to bed. Bill himself showered at night, as did his wife, so they were both clean and fresh before turning in, so that neither one had to smell the other’s sweat or sleep in bedsheets caked in her foundation and soaked in her grease. He opened his car window just a crack to see if he could smell his new love, but all he could smell was the exhaust from her silver SLK.

He’d have to get used to referring to Trina as his ex-wife. That wouldn’t be a problem. He was sure of that. He might sometimes try to spice it up by calling her his know-it-all ex-wife, his phony intellectual ex-wife, his snobbish and—patting her successor, her oustor, on the behind—frigid ex-wife. The woman in the silver SLK was none of those things, Bill imagined himself saying reassuringly to acquaintances. And by the way, have you seen her automobile?

He wondered where they’d go, he and the woman in the silver SLK, after he delivered the news to Trina. No sense wasting time with courtship, this being true love, after all—they could perhaps be wed by Thursday, and then go away for their honeymoon over the weekend. Hawaii, perhaps—but Bill decided he’d push for South America. His peach would have to translate. They’d lay on the sand in Belize and she’d play guitar and sing to turtles in Spanish.

Was she a good cook? It didn’t matter, not truly, for Bill didn’t mind eating out, but it was dinner time and he was curious.

Was she engaged in politics? Again, not important either way, as long as she wasn’t a Democrat.

Was she religious? Did she wear sandals in springtime? Did she have smooth legs? Any allergies?

The light turned green and the woman in the SLK turned right. Why she hadn’t turned while the light was red was a mystery. There’d been no traffic. Love itself could be mysterious but this was a mystery bigger than love. Was she distracted? Was she on bluetooth? Bill followed her: he also turned right.

Bill suddenly became conscious of the fact that he hadn’t used his directional signal, and he began watching his rear-view mirror to make sure there were no police lights. The woman in the SLK turned right again, into a parking lot, without much warning. She hadn’t signaled either. Bill was sure of it. They were breaking laws together. It felt somehow intimate. Bill wouldn’t turn her in to the cops for anything, nor she him. He spun the steering wheel to the right.

As he careened into the parking lot, Bill checked his mirror again and heard the scrape of his car’s front end on the inclined pavement and saw in his eye’s periphery his briefcase tipping over on the floor and felt himself pushed by his own inertia against the door and squinted into the setting sun and moved his right foot to the brake and smashed carelessly into the silver SLK. He jolted forward. Metal crunched against metal. Tires squeaked. The belt locked in place, then pulled him back. What had he done? Had he hurt her? Somewhere, a chime was ringing. Was she all right? Was it his fault? Would she be angry or would she forgive him? Had he ruined his chances? The chime went on. There were lights, too, all over the dash. What would happen to their relationship? How would the dynamic of it be affected? His door had come open, among other things. Would she hold this moment over him forever? Would she use it to win arguments? Would she bring it up to the counselor? Would she tell her sister? Would she close the bathroom door while she talked on the phone? Would she feign neck pain to escape being made love to? Would she sleep with her back to him? Would she begin to wear earplugs?

The door to the silver SLK had swung open. Bill’s ears were buzzing. The woman stepped out of her vehicle. Bill saw her, she was looking at him, she was looking at where their cars met, she was holding her sunglasses in her hand. Bill saw her and she was stepping toward him. His vision turned spotty and he fainted.

The Henry Cabot Lodge Junior Junior High School Parent Teacher Association's First Annual Spaghetti Dinner: A Postmortem

Mon, 11 Apr 2011 08:03:00 -0500

OVERVIEW

Overall, we believe the Henry Cabot Lodge Junior Junior High School Parent Teacher Association’s first annual spaghetti dinner was a financial and culinary success. It raised a total of three hundred and sixty-six dollars. The pasta was cooked to al dente perfection, and Jenna Carver’s garlic breadsticks were widely praised. Even George Donaldson conceded that his favored fundraiser idea, the sushi potluck, could have done no better.

PERSONNEL

Tempers flared once or twice in the teacher’s lounge kitchenette where the food was prepared, as tempers are wont to do in stressful environments. However, due in no small part to the diplomatic prowess of HCLJJHSPTA Vice President Donna Meier, all those involved remain on speaking terms with each other and in good standing with the HCLJJHSPTA.

It was also Donna who defused a situation involving HCLJJHSPTA Treasurer Sally MacArthur, who had threatened to resign as Treasurer rather than sit all night at the cafeteria doors selling tickets. Sally reconsidered when Donna whispered that since she’d be outside the building, no one would have jurisdiction to reprimand her if she chose to discreetly tip some rum into her Diet Coke now and then.

THE SPEAKER

The HCLJJHSPTA was proud to accept City Councilman Ray Fetla’s offer to speak at the dinner, and in fact, we advertised the talk extensively in the days leading up to the event. Councilman Fetla gave an inspiring speech about the dual importances of education and balanced diet. Afterwards, Henry Cabot Lodge Junior Junior High School Principal Lucinda Jackson asked if anyone wanted to argue the counterpoint, but no one did: there was unanimous agreement. Councilman Fetla’s speech was that effective.

It remains unclear, however, whether Councilman Fetla’s much-publicized keynote address actually drove higher attendance at the event. Preliminary analysis of the spaghetti dinner feedback slips indicates that many respondents did not remember the speaker afterwards, and that at least one parent mistook him for the school’s Health and Safety instructor. The HCLJJHSPTA officers have therefore decided that next year, the councilman and his wife and brother-in-law and four adult children will be asked to pay full-price admission.

LIABILITIES

No one was burned or otherwise injured while preparing the food, and no one was made sick from eating it. Further, none of the patrons reported any vandalism to their vehicles after the event. And perhaps most interestingly, for the first night in over a week, no new graffiti was sprayed onto the school building. The reason for this is yet uncertain, although a few hypotheses have been offered, including the crime-deterring effect of Sally MacArthur’s presence at the school entrance; the community’s growing appreciation for the role of the junior high as a pillar of society; and meaningless coincidence. The subject begs for further investigation.

OPPORTUNITIES

Looking ahead, we’ve agreed on two improvements to make the HCLJJHSPTA’s second annual spaghetti dinner an even bigger success. First, we’ll adjust the start time. The 3:30 start was convenient for the teacher volunteers who were already in the building, but the only patrons who arrived that early were a couple of eighth-graders straggling out of detention. It was another two hours before anyone else showed up, by which time we’d had to haul the first four batches of spaghetti out to the dumpster.

Second, at Barney Rabinowski’s suggestion, the next fundraiser dinner will also feature a raffle. With the thrill and possibility of prizes, we hope to draw an even larger assemblage. Barney also had the idea to use as prizes those books that concerned parents have asked to be removed from the school library, which will allow us to perform the raffle at no expense to the HCLJJHSPTA.

MISCELLANEA

Those garlic breadsticks were seriously delish. Someone needs to make sure Jenna Carver’s kid Jacob doesn’t graduate this year.

"It is in hindsight that I believe the dreams to have been about adult life. At the time, I knew..."

Sat, 19 Feb 2011 20:01:08 -0600

“It is in hindsight that I believe the dreams to have been about adult life. At the time, I knew only their terror—much of the difficulty they complained of in getting me to lie down and go to sleep at night was due to these dreams… I do not believe I knew or could even imagine, as a child, that for almost 30 years of 51 weeks a year my father sat all day at a metal desk in a silent, fluorescent lit room, reading forms and making calculations and filling out further forms on the results of those calculations, breaking only occasionally to answer his telephone or meet with other actuaries in other bright, quiet rooms. With only a small and sunless north window that looked out on other small office windows in other grey buildings. The nightmares were vivid and powerful, but they were not the kind from which you wake up crying out and then have to try to explain to your mother when she comes what the dream was about so that she could reassure you that there was nothing like what you just dreamed in the real world.”

- David Foster Wallace, The Soul Is Not a Smithy

Slide Show

Wed, 02 Feb 2011 21:41:52 -0600

This is when the winds start to swirl. It’s when the sky turns murky brown like mud. It’s when the battering and the cracking from outside the room obliterate any sounds of what’s happening within it.

This is when she throws something. It isn’t when she hits anything because she’s badly out of shape. It’s when he says to himself, I am a professor of American literature and I don’t need this shit. It isn’t when he says it aloud because he’s spineless and afraid and because she wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway.

This is when the lights go out and they’re left standing in the dark. Secretly, they both blame each other for the downed wire or the blown fuse. They blame each other for it all.

This is 600 miles away in Carbondale, Illinois. It’s Damien Hill’s pickup with the snow scoop attached to the front, sitting there unmoved since December, covered with gray snow but not scooping a thing.

This is Damien Hill’s grave site. It’s four or five people standing outside in December and wondering what Damien Hill did to deserve a grave site. It’s Gregory and three or four other people.

This is Gregory, inside in the dark, hoarse, sweating. This is Alyssa, not shouting now, sitting, hugging her knees, sobbing.

This is the dark room, illuminated for a moment by a flash of lightning. It’s a beautiful shot, I think. It’s black and white. They’re both in it. In the foreground it’s Alyssa, looking still, frozen in time as she draws a breath. In the background it’s Gregory, looking the other direction, looking meditative. In the middleground it’s a tray table with a salt shaker and a fork on it.

This one is just the tray table. It’s dark again. The shaker is a silhouette.

Being Bionic

Wed, 15 Dec 2010 20:12:00 -0600

It had been only a week since Margot Meade got the pacemaker, and already she was starting to feel different. Before the surgery, her heart had been cold and dark and small, but afterward—well, she had the same heart, of course, but it was attached to a little device that gave it a tingle whenever she saw a cute animal, a newborn baby, or a funny TV commercial. For the first time in recent memory, Margot could love again.

The little jolts were at times inconvenient, it was true. The day after she was released from the hospital, Margot walked to the supermarket to buy swiss cheese and bread. She also perused the shelves for a good pickle relish, and nearby, someone knocked two jars of olives off the shelf with his elbow. Upon hearing the crash and seeing the little black balls bounce and roll across the floor, Margot’s little black heart was flooded with electrons and sympathy for the man who’d caused the mess. Then the man shouted “F—”—well, he shouted a word Margot doesn’t like to repeat—because some of the brine had splashed the leg of his pants and he’d “JUST” (then that word again) “HAD THEM DRY-CLEANED.” It was clear that this man, ill-tempered and indiscreet, was not truly deserving of Margot’s sympathy, but the involuntary tingling sympathy she felt, nonetheless.

This sort of thing never happened before the surgery. Margot Meade was known for being cold, uncaring. “Bitter” was the word that people used most (and sometimes prefixed with that other word that Margot doesn’t like). But the pacemaker, the machine, prodded her cold and feeble heart at all the necessary moments. The machine coaxed her into being human.

Margot wanted to dance. She had never wanted to dance before but she wanted to dance now. She had fingered through the phone book to find someplace to take lessons, and she signed up for a class on Thursday, the day after tomorrow. In the meantime, Margot danced in the kitchen. Margot didn’t own any music so she whistled the tune from “Mary Tyler Moore.” The pacemaker tickled her heart in tempo.

She whistled! Margot whistled! She’d always been able to do it, but seldom been able to bring herself to do it. The pacemaker had made her want to whistle, just as it had made her want to dance, to feel sympathy, and warmth, and love.

The pacemaker whistled, too, as Margot made tea in the microwave. It whistled in a high pitch, so high she could barely hear it, and Margot and the pacemaker whistled together and danced together while she boiled the water in the microwave.

It hurt sometimes, like then, when they whistled and danced and made tea. The friendly, familiar jolt became a squeezing, a kneading, on Margot’s little black heart. Margot remembered then that love sometimes hurts, that it sometimes brings pain, and sorrow, and loss. In her heart Margot felt sorrow for having wasted so many days without dancing and whistling. She felt the loss of those many years of her life. Her bionic heart felt the sorrow and the loss, and her stupid human brain interpreted the emotions as a physical pain.

Margot awoke on the floor, no longer feeling sorrow and loss but instead feeling tingly and numb. She was sweating. She was thirsty. The microwave had finished; the tea was lukewarm but it was good enough. She emptied the mug in a few large gulps.

Margot had had enough dancing for one afternoon, so she went to read a book. While reading, her mind wandered. She wondered what else she had that the doctors might be able to improve. She already had a pin in her shin, but that didn’t count. She wondered about her eyes. Could she get a new eye that would let her see extra colors, let her see truth and inner beauty? What about her fingers? Could she have lightbulbs or a fork and spoon built in? Anything seemed possible.

She shut the book. She wasn’t getting anywhere: she’d been on the same page half an hour. What was she even doing inside? It was autumn, and the trees were changing, the squirrels were playing, the birds were chirping their goodbyes. She should be outside! She should be strolling through the park, stepping on dry leaves, playing touch football, finding a man, or possibly even a woman. Her heart wanted to do all these things.

Margot Meade pulled on a sweatshirt and walked to the front door. What lay ahead? Her new perfect heart tingled with excitement. Well, her old heart and its new attachment.

The Man

Sat, 07 Aug 2010 18:53:00 -0500

The top of his head was large and round and shiny and bald. The bottom of his head—with his mouth, his chin, his neck—was even bigger. His shoulders were broad, his chest was a barrel, and his stomach was also a barrel. His legs were tree trunks, but where have I heard that before? Redwoods, perhaps.

His voice was dramatic, authoritative, commanding. His toes were blistered, because those damned sandals rubbed him raw and he hadn’t had a chance to go back to the store. His skin, except for the blisters, was brown and callused and rough—it was like the skin of a potato.

The man I’m describing is the one we trusted. We gave him balloons and the children followed him to and fro. We gave him our coats and he held them till after the show.

I must avoid saying we. I cannot speak for us all. But I trusted him, and the two others with whom I’ve spoken—Cindy, Maureen—trusted him as well. It’s possible there were people who did not, people who never trusted him, people who were skeptical from the start, people, people, people who still have their coats, people who still have their children. It’s possible there were such people, although I do not know of any.

TRUST ME, boomed the man. His name was Laurence. We listened, we obeyed. I listened, I obeyed, and Cindy obeyed, Maureen obeyed. Cindy asked the man about his feet. THESE DAMNED SANDALS HAVE RUBBED ME RAW, he boomed. Cindy gave him a hot towel and some camphor. Maureen inflated the balloons. But I do hope you’ll avoid that sort of language around the children, Maureen said.

The police haven’t got any leads. They took our statements and they sent an artist to make a sketch. I described Laurence the same way that I described him to you, but the artist was a Dadaist and his sketch demands participation.

They set bloodhounds to the trail but bloodhounds can’t stand camphor—they’ll run the other way. I didn’t know that was the case but Maureen said it was true, said she’d heard it on Jeopardy.

Were legs like tree trunks something I heard on Jeopardy?

Or was it Hemingway? Did Hemingway have trees for legs?

I want that coat back. It fits me nicely and it looked fashionable and upper crust. In the summer I wear it just for style, but it’ll start turning cold again soon, in the evenings at least. It won’t even fit Laurence.

Coats are not irreplaceable, but I’d prefer to avoid replacement if possible. One does, after all, develop an emotional bond with one’s coat. The coat becomes not just a garment but a trigger of memories, an expression of identity, an extension of the self.

Maureen is a mess. I’d like to find a parrot who says that. Maureen is a mess, Maureen is a mess. She didn’t want to carry a purse so she had her wallet in her coat pocket. Now her wallet is gone along with her coat and her coat pocket. She’s been on the telephone all day, she’s been canceling her credit cards, she’s got that pretty much taken care of, but she’ll never see the photos of her kids again.

Maureen is a mess—brawk!

Cindy and I both are taking the longview. Laurence has, at the moment, perhaps a hundred coats and perhaps a hundred kids. He must be keeping them somewhere. He must have a spacious closet and very many bathrooms. His next sewage bill is likely to be astronomical.

Cindy and I have tried explaining this fact to Maureen because it ought to settle her down. But despite our efforts, Maureen remains a mess. Cindy and I have explained to Maureen that when he sees his bill for twenty thousand flushes, thirty thousand gallons per month, Laurence will panic. He will boom, I CANNOT AFFORD THIS. Birds will scatter from nearby trees. He will begin to liquidate his holdings in coats, children, and balloons. This is of utmost certainty.

Of course, we all know—here I say we all because truly everyone knows this, even Roger, even Gina, yes, even poor, dumb, Gina—we all know that there are several methods for divesting oneself of children. It’s true that murder is one such method, but one that has so many bureaucratic hurdles—weapon permits, burials, defense attorneys, et cetera, et cetera—so as to be untenable on the scale that Laurence would require. His most probable course, I am certain, is to send the children to boarding school.

Cindy has taken Maureen aside to inform her that before any of this happened, before the broad-shouldered, redwood-legged man Laurence arrived in town, she—Cindy—had already been making plans to send her two children to boarding school. As Laurence rifles through the two hundred new coat pockets that he has obtained, he will find, in Cindy’s right coat pocket, brochures for some very fine boarding schools in Tibet, Ecuador, and Laos. The children will be well taken care of, very well taken care of indeed.

As for the coats, Laurence could donate them to a shelter for the accompanying tax write-off, but he stands to gain much more by selling them. They are without exception high-quality garments from respected designers, well cared-for and still in style. He could, therefore, hock them at an auction website to tap the honeypot of A-plus-plus feedback.

Should we then scour eBay to find our coats and the man who took them? A private investigator approached us offering to do just that, but Cindy turned him away. No sense paying someone to sit at home in his underwear and shop online.

What, then? What investigative path can we take? Laurence’s blistered feet should not be forgotten—he will, someday, be taking those damned sandals back to the store. If I still had any children I’d have one of them get a job at the store and wait for the man to return. But Laurence has both of my children, and I’m not about to humiliate myself by becoming a cashier.

So I’m waiting. We’re all waiting—Cindy and Maureen and I, those of us whom I can speak for. Maureen is blubbering, yes, but she’s also waiting. Jeopardy is on in an hour, and we’re all set to go watch it together at Cindy’s. I’m bringing popcorn. We’ve instructed Maureen to bring some balloons.

Shakespeare at the World Cup

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 09:25:00 -0500

JULIET
What’s in a name? That which we call a vuvuzela by any other name would sound as sweet.

ANTONY
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. I come not to bury Caesar, but to blow this plastic bugle that he loved so much for some peculiar reason.

HAMLET
To B-flat or not to B-flat—perhaps to A-sharp. That is the question.

AMIENS
Blow, blow, thou winter wind! But thou, thou legion trumpeters, please stop.

TITUS
These horns are razors to my wounded heart.

SHYLOCK
If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you play that vile instrument to us, shall we not become irritable and maybe even violent?

OTHELLO
A horned man’s a monster and a beast.
IAGO
There’s many a beast then in Johannesburg.
OTHELLO
Word.

HAMLET
Do you think I am easier to be played on than a vu—
POLONIUS
BRNNnnNNnnNnNnnnNNnn…

Dingo

Tue, 25 May 2010 08:54:24 -0500

“I wanna name the baby ‘Dingo,’” said Natalie.

“Christ’s sake, Natalie, grow up. We aren’t gonna call it ‘Dingo.’”

“Actually, I kind of like ‘Dingo.’ For a boy, right?”

“For a boy or for a girl.”

“If it’s a girl it has to be something more girl-like. I dunno, maybe ‘Dinguette?’”

“A dingo is a fuckin’ kind of animal. It’s a type of wallaby.”

“I hope it’s a girl. I don’t want another brother.”

“Hey-y-y!”

“I’m not calling my baby ‘Dingo,’ period, okay?”

“Relax, hon. It’s all our baby. Natalie’s, too.”

“Can we? Can we?”

The Evil One

Fri, 30 Apr 2010 19:35:00 -0500

Philip and I never can agree who gets to be the evil one. This has been a major source of contention between the two of us, growing up. I’ve always said whichever twin is older should get to choose. I don’t say that because I’m older. I say that because it’s a fair and logical way to resolve a dispute. Philip says the good twin has to come first or the existence of an evil twin won’t surprise anyone. I know that’s a load of rubbish, and I’ve told Philip it’s rubbish on several occasions. Anyway, since I’m older I’ll have a head start on growing a mustache, and I figure that should pretty much settle it.

The reason this is such an important issue is that it’s the evil one who gets to steal the other’s girl, get her addicted to heroin or reefer, and then dump her, penniless and cold, onto the street; it’s the evil one who gets to kidnap the other’s children and fatten them up and sell them to a third-world zoo; it’s the evil one who gets to empty the other one’s bank account and gamble the money away or use it to buy long-range nuclear missiles or a shotgun; it’s the evil one who gets to cut the other’s throat when he’s least expecting it. Neither one of us currently has a girl, or children, or a bank account, but we do both have throats. In my honest appraisal, I think Philip’s throat would be better at being cut than mine would.

It’s clear that our parents take my side on this, though they won’t come out and say so. They named him Philip Weaver, which is not very good, as far as names go, for someone who is evil. They named me Maxwell Benedict, which as you might have noticed, contains an “X.” But they at least put on the face of impartiality. “Boys,” our mother says, holding us both on her lap, squeezing us. “If you work hard enough, make good grades, and floss every other Sunday, then maybe you can both grow up to be evil.” “Anyway,” says our father, trying to find basketball on TV, “the whole evil twin thing seems pointless given that you two are fraternal.”

But our mother squeezes me a little bit harder than she squeezes Philip, and our father catches my eye and he winks.

Outside in the garage, where the DeSoto used to be, I have my laboratory. It’s here where I draw the plans for my death ray, and where I invent poisons by mixing Miracle-Gro and paint thinner. Philip isn’t allowed there—that is, I don’t allow him without a shout. My mother says it’s okay because he needs to get into the Prius to go to soccer practice, and the Prius is in the garage. But we all know that excuse is total hogwash, because Philip is no good at soccer and the Y is less than a mile away so he could walk.

Philip has his own laboratory in the treehouse, and when he’s off playing soccer I climb up there and trash his things. He doesn’t need a laboratory anyway. I keep telling Philip he should use the treehouse as a private and convenient place to kiss girls, like Carli Turner or Mara Androsova, because the sooner he starts a family the sooner I can betray him. Once, I sent Carli Turner up there to surprise him, but instead of kissing her Philip only put a spider down her shirt. Carli Turner squealed and hurried back down the rope ladder, missing a rung, tangling her foot in it; and she fell and fractured her shoulder blade. When our father got back from taking Carli Turner to the hospital, he said we were both in trouble, that is, Philip and I, even though Philip had been the only one to do anything evil and I’d only been trying to help him kiss a girl.

I got the idea to send another girl up there, this time knowing, evilly, that she’d end up getting broken, but I have yet to follow through with it. It’s on my to-do list. But I’m a busy man with a long to-do list, and also, most of the girls in our neighborhood already heard about what happened to Carli Turner.

Up in the treehouse, up there in Philip’s illegitimate evil laboratory, I stop knocking things over, stop throwing things out of the treehouse and into the yard below. I’ve found a Bunsen, and it’s no use for Philip up there, really, since I’ve already tossed his propane tank. I slip the Bunsen into my pocket. Then I notice a tin chest that I didn’t even know Philip had, and which I have no idea where he got. It has a combination lock on it, and I turn the dial to 27, which is our birthday, but I don’t know where to go from there. I make a mental note to find out Philip’s favorite numbers. I look around for an axe, because I know Philip used to have an axe up there. Maybe I’ve already thrown it down. Maybe Philip keeps the axe locked up inside the chest. I can’t find it.

The lock dial goes all the way up to 35, so there’s no way I can guess the last two numbers. Maybe I can heave it, throw it far enough to hit the sidewalk and smash into a hundred tin pieces. But if there’s something delicate inside, something good enough that I’d rather steal it than break it, that would be a waste. Maybe I can hide the chest and get Philip to pay a ransom.

The Prius is quiet, but I’ve trained my ears and I hear it turn into the driveway. I decide to leave the chest for later, that I’d better go safeguard my laboratory before Philip finds out what I’ve done to his. I kneel in the doorway and slide my left leg down to grab the rope ladder, and my leg shoots back and I almost fall forwards. The ladder’s gone! That twerp Philip booby-trapped the ladder!

Not even a minute later, Philip walks around to the side of the house. “Oh, hello Max,” Philip says, stepping over some of his things. “Are you having a good time up there?” “Let me down, you eggplant!” I holler, and right away I know it’s not my best insult. “Max, I don’t suppose you’d mind if I flipped through some of your comics, would you?” “You damn well better not!” I say, but my comics are locked in my safe. “What’s the combination?” Philip says, “27-12-14?”

I spend the night up there in the treehouse, but I don’t sleep. I concentrate, intently, working to grow that mustache.

Round and Round, All

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 20:48:00 -0600

Summer comes faster every year.

She is watching out her window as the children dig trenches. They form teams and they pelt each other with snowballs. To the side, a girl with red mittens gathers pebbles and makes the face of a snowman. He looks serious but not stern. Then it all melts, and the children throw off their caps and kick off their boots and they run through the grass, barefoot.

Someone starts cutting the lawn. The children go inside for lunch. Someone starts cutting her lawn. The children come back outside. She doesn’t eat lunch. They come outside with baseballs, with lemonade and flip-flops. They put up sprinklers and they jump over them, again and again.

There is no spring anymore. No spring. There are bicycles and skateboards. There is an ice cream truck. Round and round, all in good fun. Two of them collide. The smaller one falls, drops his fruit pop. The bigger one doesn’t stop. The fruit pop sizzles, evaporates.

They chase rabbits. They chase each other. Someone can’t unlock the door, pounds and pounds, pees, right there on the steps.

A city truck drives down the street and someone paints markings on the trees. They are diseased. While the children are inside, putting on their swimwear, distracted, the trees get cut down. The children come back outside but they don’t notice the change.

It gets hotter. She feels the heat radiating from the windowpane. The children thin out, they scatter, they remove their shirts and stay inside. The grass turns brown. The air dances right above the street. Someone comes to her door, startling her, while she naps. As they talk, a tent goes up, giving shade. The children come back outside.

There are barbecues. There are picnics. Honeybees make a nest in someone’s gutter. The children grow, six inches at a time.

There is no fall anymore. No spring, no fall. The trees are gone; there’s nothing to turn to orange. It just goes straight to white. They pick up their shovels and their sleds. They find their boots where they left them, in piles.

And she watches as they hang lights, and she watches as they take icicles and swordfight, and she watches as they lie down and make angels. And then it’s summer again.

Answers from Steph.

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 22:35:51 -0600

(Every day this November I’ve conducted an interview with an imaginary person.)

Oh, it’s a Joan of Arc sort of thing.

Not exactly.

I kind of have that going on, too. There’s all sorts of voices rumbling around in there. Sometimes they’re louder or quieter than others. Sometimes there’s just one and we can chat for hours and hours. Sometimes they all talk—or shout—at once. Sometimes it’s scary to hear them. Sometimes they’re angry.

Anyway, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. What’s your name? I’m Steph.

I’m Jim.

Hi, Jim. Thanks. The one favor I’d like to ask is that you don’t gang up on me with all the others. That is, if I disagree with someone—try not to pile on against me.

Now, have you met everyone? Have you met Al?

I don’t think so.

Let me introduce you two.

Well, today’s the thirtieth. It’s the last day for all this.

You don’t plan on sticking around?

I only need one more interview.

Oh! So you’ll want to go out with a bang. Let me introduce you to Mallie. She’s nuts. I think she’s a ghost.

So—Steph—when did you first start hearing all these voices?

You came by—what, about five minutes ago? About then.

You’re talking about Al, Mallie, and the others?

They obviously couldn’t exist until you and I did. As you mentioned a few moments ago, you and I have imagined each other.

Again, not exactly.

Which raises a peculiar question. What if I forget you? What if I never hear from you again? What if a tree falls in an empty desert? Will you still exist in any practical sense? I’m almost certain to have killed voices with neglect before.

Have you? I mean, given that you just recently came to life in my imagination?

You’re right, of course, technically, but it sure does feel that way—it feels almost certain that I must have done it in the past. Maybe it never happened, though—again, in any practical, meaningful sense. Maybe you’ll really be the first to disappear—when or if I forget to keep imagining you.

But you aren’t imagining me. I’ve imagined you.

Oh, don’t tell me you can’t imagine someone who has an imagination of her own, or who has hallucinations. Obviously that isn’t the case. Obviously one or both of us have done just that.

What I mean is that I actually exist.

Maybe. But any more than Mallie exists, or than Al does, or any of the others? Who knows? I’ll tell you what, Jim: to be safe, to keep us both from disappearing, I think you should remember to come talk to me tomorrow.

Answers from Hannah.

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 14:57:00 -0600

(Every day this November I’ll conduct an interview with an imaginary person.)

Face it, we all die sooner or later, and there’s nothing we can do about that. At best, you might turn your sooner into a later, or your later into an even later. I’m through with that. When I’m done, I’m out of here.

So, smoking…

Smoking didn’t give me lupus. And smoking didn’t eat my kidneys—the lupus did. And I quit before the transplants, so there’s no way you can blame it for rejecting the first one. How much longer will this second one last? A month—a year—five? I doubt I smoke enough for cigarettes to win that race, but if they win, they win.

Then you don’t want to quit?

No. I’ve done that two times too many. I won’t make it three. William keeps pressing me on and off to stop. It’s so bad for my gums and teeth, he says. He’s a dentist so that’s always one of his concerns. But he used to say the same thing about coffee—that it would ruin my teeth and my smile. He was younger and handsomer when he told me that, and I never listened then, either. Was he right? Do I have a bitter smile? [Smiles wanly.] Maybe I should have married him.

You didn’t?

He asked and I said no. William and I both knew too much and we didn’t know anything. I loved him, but he was always on my nerves. He still is sometimes, even though we’re in different states. I imagine I’m on his now and then. It’s something we’ve both been good at.

Do you ever regret it?

It’s too late for regrets. A month—a year—five—then it’s back to dialysis. Then it’s back to dirt.

We still talk and we’re close. I doubt it would be that way if I’d said yes. I’d probably have regrets either way.

Answers from Cale.

Sun, 29 Nov 2009 23:15:58 -0600

(Every day this November I’ll conduct an interview with an imaginary person.)

I take care of myself just fine when I get home from school. So if I don’t need a babysitter when Mom isn’t home at three o’clock, then I shouldn’t need one at seven. The only difference is Lindsey. It’s stupid.

Lindsey is your sister? And she isn’t around when you’re home alone after school?

No, she goes to daycare at Mom’s work.

How old is she?

Four, almost five, I think. She’s old enough to use the toilet and keep her fingers out of sockets. I can heat up the pizza puffs and tell Lindsey when to go to bed. And I’ve read The Boxcar Children. We can take care of ourselves. We don’t need no stinking babysitters!

So you don’t like your sitter?

She’s okay. She isn’t like some of my friends’ sisters, who get really mean sometimes. She’s cool most of the time. She lets us do stuff and she doesn’t yell, and when she came over the day after my birthday, she brought cupcakes that her mom had made for us. The only thing I really don’t like about her is that sometimes she has some boring TV shows that she wants to watch, and if I want to watch something different, I have to use the old TV with messed-up colors.

So you’d say it’s more that you don’t want a babysitter at all, then—not that you don’t like the babysitter.

Yeah. I mean, I can’t have anyone over with a babysitter. I can’t go anywhere. That stuff is fine when I’m alone after school. And Mom pays her twenty dollars when she gets home. If Mom gave me twenty dollars to take care of Lindsey, I could probably buy a new Xbox game every week.

Have you suggested that to your mother?

I do all the time. I also tell her she doesn’t have to worry about staying out too late, because she won’t have to worry about Jess needing to be home by a certain time. She doesn’t listen.

Answers from Louise.

Sun, 29 Nov 2009 23:05:36 -0600

(Every day this November I’ll conduct an interview with an imaginary person.)

Sometimes I get antsy. I prefer to keep busy, but Robert is losing his mobility, and at my age I’m reluctant to go places alone. I like to spend time here in the garen. I won’t necessarily be moving about all that much, since the whole yard is this little rectangle. But it’s good to get out here and do some work with my hands.

How much time do you spend out here?

I’ll sit out here sometimes and just enjoy the air and the flowers and the occasional spider or insect. In the spring, I’m planting—everything but the tulips and perennials, of course. And throughout the summer, I water the plants and sprinkle fertilizer and prune this or that.

What do you do in the wintertime?

Well, there isn’t much anything I can do out here after it snows. I still bundle up and walk around the block once or twice, but there’s nothing to do in the garden, at least.

I started watching some of those cooking shows. Robert and I have pretty simple tastes, so we most often eat sandwiches, spaghetti, fish sticks. We never prepare anything too fancy. But I’m thinking about recording one of the shows sometime and trying to follow the recipe later. It might be fun. If it turns out to be something I enjoy, then next year I might decide to grow some vegetables to cook with.

Answers from Silas.

Thu, 26 Nov 2009 11:12:19 -0600

(Every day this November I’ll conduct an interview with an imaginary person.)

I’m taking down the Halloween decorations today because Jill will kill me if that stuff is still up when the guests arrive. She made it very clear to me that any tombstone that’s still standing in our yard at noon would be my own. And she’ll probably kill me if I try to help with dinner because I’ll mess something up or get in her way, and she’ll probably kill me if I just hide out in the basement with the little TV and the parade. So that’s why I’m out here. Inside, there are any number of ways I can die. Outside, it’s lightning or—I don’t know, maybe a bear.

So tensions run high on Thanksgiving.

Well, Jill sets the stakes so high. It’s the one time every year that her family all descends on one place and she gets to show everyone that she’s better than her sister Claire. So it all has to be perfect—pretty good isn’t enough, because when Claire and Jonathan used to host Thanksgiving dinner, they always did a pretty good job.

And then this year, our daughter Julie is bringing her boyfriend over, which raises the stakes still further. Jill aims to show him that we’re all fun and friendly and easygoing and not a bunch of high-strung anal-retentives.

Does the—

I can’t count the times I’ve heard Jill ask Julie: are you absolutely positive that he isn’t a vegetarian?

Does everyone get along?

Julie’s dad is kind of disagreeable, but everyone else does, for the most part. Jill always has to psych herself up, so all week she’s been making snide comments about here and there about her sister and Jonathan. Maybe snide isn’t the right word, but she’ll kind of nitpick them up until when they arrive. It’s kind of like the banter that goes on when a bunch of guys take sides for a basketball game or something—except there’s no one else doing it but Jill. Once everyone shows up, she’s on her best behavior—almost painfully polite. She’s not going to say or do anything that would sabotage her perfectly-orchestrated event.

If anyone does anything to set things off, it’s Jill’s dad. He does one thing or another almost every year to try and ruin things. Usually we ignore him and all that happens is his mood just hangs in the air—but once in a while, he does strike a nerve with someone.

I already told Jill if she wants to impress Julie’s boyfriend, she should skip the turkey and make meatloaf instead. I’ve never seen anyone fight eating meatloaf.

Answers from Poncho.

Wed, 25 Nov 2009 20:58:00 -0600

(Every day this November I’ll conduct an interview with an imaginary person.)

It’s a long story. Well—actually no. It’s not that long. I went to school one day wearing a Batman rain poncho. To this day I’ll maintain that it was a pretty badass poncho, and it did its job keeping me dry. But most eighth graders would rather blend in wet than stand out dry, and so they latched onto my attire as something to make fun of, and all day I was called Batman, Poncho, or Pancho Villa. I also heard a lot of shouts of I’m melting!—wicked witch style.

The next day it was sunny. Batman stayed home, and everyone settled on calling me Poncho. My friends held out for awhile, but honestly, it never bothered me. I had no particular affection for my given name anyway. Toward the end of the year I started writing notes to a girl I liked and I signed them Poncho, and when she started writing back—Dear Poncho—that pretty much settled it in my mind. Poncho had game!

How long ago was that?

Twenty-some years. Let’s not get into the arithmetic. I’ve got a birthday coming up.

But people still call you that?

Oh, yeah. Actually, it was my closest friends who kept the name going for me. Ninth grade was at a different school, and it was a lot bigger—there were a lot of new kids there. Not everyone knew Poncho.

When I started playing JV baseball, that created a whole new group of Poncho evangelists. And some of those guys went to the same college that I did. Literally everyone I knew was calling me Poncho, and no one that I still spent any time with had actually seen the thing that started the nickname.

Everyone—even your family?

Oh, no—not my mother. But my little sis did. At my ballgames, she’d scream her head off—Go Poncho!—whenever I came up to hit.

But my wife—we were dating for over a month before I brought her home and she found out that wasn’t my real name. Some of my friends had told her—swearing up and down—that it said Poncho on my birth certificate. So she asked me, why did my mother keep calling me Horatio? I laughed and laughed and she turned so red.

So Mari calls me that when she’s pissed, now. And my mother. And the DMV. That’s it.