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Prologue
The short stories were written at different times and as mentioned before, there are no dates to track the chronology of Bobby’s interests in writing short stories. Bobby had transferred to Pace College in 1977 and graduated in 1979. He was active in the literary society and the short story in this collection, The Cat is Dead was published in 1980 in the Pace Literary Magazine. Except for the three self published Poetry books, which are included in this collection, this may be his only published writing.
I don’t believe it was not for lack of trying that he was not published, but in the days prior to the Internet it was a challenge to find magazines and publishers for submissions. While in Munich he told me about a screen play writing effort with which he had an involvement. My recollection was that it involved translations from German to English and some collaborative effort with someone who had written a story. Nothing came of it, but it is certain that he was disappointed, but pleased by the possibility.
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A Missing Person
I
It is impossible to sleep. I ask myself why but don't know the answer. It's Wednesday night. So what. It's dark outdoors. So what. It's dark indoors. So what. How long have I been lying here in this darkness? Years maybe. Years of insomnia. The sound of that word stings my ears. It sounds so wretched, like some disease one inherits and must live with. Yes, I'm diseased. I've inherited something. May- be I am a disease.
I look at the person lying next to me. The person sleeps. The person dreams maybe, lying next to me. How dare that person dream while lying next to me. Maybe, I hate that person. I'm supposed to love her. I'm supposed to feel something, something infinite, some- thing no dictionary can define. But I can answer nothing. And I can- not sleep.
I raise my head slowly. It is not an effort and I get out of bed. The clock on the wall says five minutes past four quietly. So it's not Wednesday night after all. It's Thursday morning. So what. Where am I
I have two hands which are of great use to me. I use them to see in the dark. I feel my way in the dark. I want to protect some- thing but I don't know what I'm protecting. Perhaps, the wall from myself or the window from myself or the door from myself. The door. I find it and open it slowly. There is a sound and for a moment the person in bed stirs. Her body moves. She realizes something. Some- thing is missing in the bed.
I feel a sudden pain of hunger inside me. It is painful. I am hungry. When was the last meal I had? Hours earlier, many hours earlier. What did I eat? I don't remember. But as I stand there in the darkness, I realize I have hunger only I don't want to eat. I need but don't want. Food doesn't taste good anymore. It's something like love. I am loving but love no one. Am I in a movie? No, I rarely move.
The hallway is dark. I use my hands again. I do not want to see light yet. I try to keep things in order; night and then morning. Light should come naturally. I only wish that I could sleep as others do. Naturally. Instead, I must walk in the dark, down a dark hallway, using my hands to find my way. How unnatural it is. How unnatural I've become. What have I become? A night creature. A sleepless some- thing.
I reach the end of the hallway and am faced by a wall and a choice. I can open the door to my left and step into the living room. The living room. It's not that at all. How I hate that room. And it's just a room, a room of walls and windows and chairs, tables, paintings and carpets. All dead things. And yet, it is the living room. And yet, I hate it. I hate dead things, things which never made a sarcastic remark to me, things which never lied to me or kept me waiting or laughed at me or angered me. All dead things which never hurt me, never will, and yet, I hate them. There is something unnatural about this, I think. I decide to open the door at my right. I step into the kitchen.
I sit at the table and wonder what to do next. The kitchen is cold and dark. I could switch on the heat. I could switch on the light. Yes, I could. But in what order? I try to keep things in order and I know I can't sit there in the darkness and cold for hours until the sun rises. I may not see it. It may be cloudy. And it will be cold. It is cold, it is winter. I switch on the light, then the heat.
My eyes adjust slowly to the light. I do not hate the kitchen but somehow, it depresses me. It has the look of some kind of poverty. Poverty of imagination. Poverty of life. But it still has its usefulness. I use it. It is somewhere to go when I no longer feel like lying useless in bed.
I heat some water to make some tea. Teapot, water, tea, cup, spoon, no honey. I want nothing sweet now. It would seem inappropriate like sleep. I wonder if the person in bed has noticed that I'm gone, that I am missing. But aren't I just that? I'm just missing things. Not missed, just missing. And what will she think when she realizes I am missing? Missing out on something. Missing a chance. Missing sleep.
The tea tastes good. But as I drink it, I feel my body beckoning for something more. Food. But still, I don't want to eat. Why should I eat at this hour? No normal human being puts food into his mouth at this hour of the day. It's unnatural. A newspaper lies on the table in front of me. It's yesterday's paper. That is something else I missed, I didn't read it. Should I now? Perhaps, I missed something important. Perhaps, there is something I should know. Perhaps. I drink the tea and feel warmer. The kitchen is being heated and I am heating my body with hot tea. Is this what I have to look forward to? Hot tea. I remember a friend once joked that she could spend the better part of her life in front of a /cup of hot tea. I am doing this now but it's no joke.
I want to sleep. There is a radio on the counter. I think of switching it on as I did the light and the heat. But maybe, that's going too far. I seem to be always switching on things. A bit of soft music? Rubbish. This won't help. There's not any music I can think of which soothes me. I am not that kind of person. I tried the early morning walks as well. I'd dress in warm clothing and step out onto the empty street, then step onto a second empty street, then a third and a fourth and a fifth, until I'd decide it was enough because it didn't help. I'd only feel lonely and missing. More and more missing.
I am finished with the tea. It seems to be the only thing I am able to finish these days and nights. I try to force laughter at this thought but a tear drips from my eye instead. Then others. I am so tired. I'm so tired of these moments. I just want to lie in bed and sleep. But still, I can't. And maybe, I do know why. I have nothing to wake up to. Nothing. And what good is going to sleep each night, when there is nothing to wake up to the next morning? Yes, what good is it?
I turn toward another door, the door to the balcony, the balcony over-looking the courtyard, the courtyard covered with a fresh layer of snow. It will be a cold day and cloudy but the morning light is approaching. Later the sun will shine, I decide.
A hot bath, I think. A hot bath would be a good way to begin the day. I have this same thought every morning. It's one I put to practice. At least in water, I feel I'm not so missing.
II
The lawyer calls me. I am not surprised. He calls me most mornings and asks how I am. Although, this morning, he calls unusually early. He's never called this early in the day. Does he know some- thing? Does he know that I can't sleep and that I'm tired?
I have about ten seconds to tell him how I am. But I don't. I want to tell him how much I miss sleeping, how tired I am, how missing I am. But I know this is not what he wants to hear, He's not interested in my condition. He's only called to hear himself speak. This is the only reason, I know. So I say, "I'm fine." I believe the lawyer knows that I am missing, that something is not natural. And I believe this is why he may be my friend. Should I call him a friend? I've always thought of him as just a lawyer. My lawyer friend?
He always surprises me with visits. He doesn't visit me often but his visits are always unannounced. Surprises. For some reason, I am forbidden to visit him in his home. He never told me the reason so I never asked.
I watch him. I watch his eyes when I'm sitting in a room with him. I hear what he says and I look into his eyes and am sorry that his never look into mine.-His eyes look out a window or at a pic- ture on a wall or at a bruise on his hand. He looks and talks to a window, a picture, his hand, never to me. I've seen this. I know. I am a missing person.
He did, once, ask why I say so little to him on the phone and during his visits. I told him he only calls and visits to hear his own voice, never mine. He agreed and this angered me. He promised to change this habit but he'd forgotten that promise long ago. Still, he calls to hear how I am.
I hang up the phone when he's finished saying what he has to say, having said almost nothing to him. I ask myself why I go on with this. But I only know one answer. I am a missing person.
I am hungry. I am actually, extremely hungry. I realize this as I get up from the chair. I feel a weightlessness in my head, then darkness although my eyes are open. I hold onto the arm of the chair until this sickening moment passes. I must eat.
I go down onto the street. It is not as cold as I thought it would be. The temperature may have actually risen above zero. Still, I hold my arms close to my body and hurry along the street to the corner. I think I should hurry. I don't want to live one of those moments again out on the street.
I rush across the street, not noticing if any traffic is approaching. I am foolish to take such a chance because a fast-moving car is approaching. I move faster and the car seems to as well. I reach the curb, turn and watch it speed by me. He missed me but he didn't even see me, I think.
The bakery is crowded with shoppers. I say, "Good morning," as I enter. No answer. I am not surprised. People are shouting. People are waiting. People are impatient, I think. I look at their faces. Some I know from other mornings. I find a place which I think is the end of the line and I wait.
I've already decided what I want to buy. I have the money to buy it. I wait. People are entering, others are leaving. People are still shouting, still waiting impatiently. It is warm there, too warm. I am afraid I may get that weightless feeling in my head again. If I am weightless, I shouldn't fall but I know I will. Why am I waiting so long? I look behind me, there's no one there. That's why. I move close to the counter and give my order. The clerk looks at me a long moment as though not understanding what I said. I repeat myself as another customer looks dismayingly at me. Have I asked for so much? All I want is a bit of bread. I'm hungry. I'm finally given what I want as others turn their back to me. I pay and leave the shop. The cool air outside is relieving. I buy a newspaper and return home. I breakfast on bread and eggs, cheese and tea. At least one part of me is satisfied. I read the headlines and walk away from the table.
I go into the room I call the studio. It is my favorite room in the house. I work in this room on paintings and drawings. I have a painting to paint now. I don't recall when I began it or in what condition I was when I began it. Probably tired. It's probably why it's unfinished. It rests on an easel in front of me. I take a long look at it and wonder what next to do with it.
It is a painting of a woman. Who is this woman or who should she become? I don't know her. Perhaps, she is someone. Maybe, no one. Yes, no one, not yet anyway. But I am too tired to do anything today, I decide. I no longer want to work on this painting. It's not finished. I simply no longer want to work on it. I am too tired to finish anything. I take it carefully into my hands and lean it against the wall in the closet along with the dozens of other unfinished paintings. All unfinished. All the beginnings of perhaps something but nothing instead. I close the closet door and leave my favorite room.
It is suddenly noon on Thursday. No, not suddenly. It took its time. Thursday morning is behind me, gone. Thursday afternoon is ahead of me. I wonder where it will bring me. Perhaps nowhere. Perhaps reading. There are many books I haven't yet finished. How do I choose? I could close my eyes and let my hands choose. But this is a foolish way to choose a book, I admit to myself. I choose to choose nothing. "I will read the newspaper, today," I say to the room. Maybe I really did miss something yesterday.
III
The sun has come out. I realize this as I walk out of the door of the house. And there's a bit of a breeze. No, it's winter, it's a wind not a breeze. The door slams shut behind me. I think for a moment that I open and close too many doors. What could it mean? I move from one room to another, from inside to outside and don't know where I belong.
I walk slowly to the corner. I am no longer in a hurry. Tired, yes. Missing, yes. But not in a hurry. In a way, it feels good, and in another way not. There is no place worth hurrying to. I am still a missing person, still wishing I could sleep.
My first steps, I count. One, two, three, four. I stop at thirty-six for no particular reason other than to begin counting something else. I gaze at the house across the street which I'm passing. First floor, second floor, third, fourth, fifth, sixth. It's a six-floor house. People? Impossible. It is impossible to count people. They're always moving ahead, to the left, to the right, in and out of doors, cars, buses, going somewhere, coming from somewhere, meeting someone, leaving someone. How lucky they are, I think. They begin a day, they end it. They cross a street, they reach the other side. They earn money, they spend it. And what do I spend? Only time. I only spend time. I am a missing person.
Suddenly, there is a cloud blocking the sun. I believe it is meant for me. Others don't seem to look up at the sky. It is hard to say where others seem to look. I look into faces but none look into mine. I am amazed by the number of different faces there are. All with the same features but all different. Millions of differences. Amazing.
I am on my way to the park. I spend time there. I have a newspaper in my pocket and am on my way to my favorite place in the park. I have one. I think of it as my place. I feel it belongs to me. It is one of the few things which I'm glad belong to me. It's not something which I must begin and finish. It's just a place. I cross several more streets and am soon at the edge of the park. The edge. Yes, it is something like an edge, the edge where green meets gray. Although, it's not green at this time of year, rather brown and white.' No matter. I am on my way to my favorite place in the park, still tired, still missing.
I sit on the same bench where I always sit. It's always empty when I arrive but I doubt it waits for me. It faces a piece of sculpture or a monument; I don't know what to call it. But it has something to do with some war. There's a plaque with a name and a date on it but it's too far from the bench to read. I look up at it, then further up to the sky. The sun shines, the wind comes from behind and it doesn't feel quite so cold.
There are only a few people nearby. It is afternoon; most people are at work or in school beginning and finishing something. And I am sitting on a bench about to begin reading a newspaper. But I know I won't finish it. A few children are running around a group of benches as though playing some game. A woman in blue sits on a bench further away, drinking something, occasionally looking up at the sky. Two other women sit on a bench just opposite her. They are talking, maybe smoking cigarettes. A boy and a girl walk by holding hands. Maybe, they love each other. And at my right, two men sit on a bench facing the same direction as I. I cannot see them. There is a large shrub blocking my view. But I can hear their voices. Actually, there is only one voice, the other only laughs. It's an amusing kind of laughter. It almost makes me want to laugh. But I have nothing to laugh about. I am a missing person.
"When you laugh, I think you're joking but I know you're not joking," one man says.
And the other only laughs.
"But how you find it funny only horrifies me." The voice sounds troubled. "I don't believe you."
And the other only laughs.
"I don't find it funny." The troubled voice again.
"I do," the other says. "I do," he repeats, then laughs.
Curious. I wonder what they're speaking about. One is horrified by it, the other laughs about it. I suppose it could be many things. I wish I could see their faces. That might give me a clue. I continued listening.
"Don't you think I can do it?" the laughing man asks.
; Do what? Do what?
"No," the other voice answers firmly."Well, then you're just as old and foolish as I thought when ~ I first saw you." A pause. "But you can be trusted, that I know." He snickers. The other is slow in answering. He must be quite worried and ; softly says, "Yes." He stands.
I see a face. It's an old man's face. His hair is white. His skin is even whiter and lined and wrinkled. He could be seventy, may- be older. He must be the old and foolish one but he doesn't look foolish, just old. I watch him walk away silently. His body is thin, he walks slowly. He could be sick or maybe just old and tired.
"Must you go?" the laughing man yells.
But the old man neither turns or answers. He must be angry, worried. He continues walking beyond some trees.
"See you again," the laughing man yells and the old man moves further away. Gone.Then, there is silence. I realize the woman in blue is gone, the children as well. The two talking women are no longer talking but are walking away in the same direction as the old man. Only the laughing man and I remain but he no longer laughs. He is silent. I guess I'll never know, I decide. I light a cigarette, take the news- ' paper from my pocket and begin reading.
Several cigarettes later, I glance at my watch. It's after four o'clock. I feel the wind becoming stronger. It is. I notice branches swaying swiftly above me. The sun is still bright but it will soon be dark. Shadows are becoming longer. And the laughing man is still and silent. I still cannot see him but I feel that he is there. And there is still no one else except a policeman in the distance. But he is walking quickly, is soon gone. My neck is stiff but a few rubs of my hand loosen it and I continue reading.
Just moments later, I am startled as I turn another page. But not from something I read. There is a man standing in front of me, looking down at me. The laughing man?
"Hello," he says. I look up at his face but can't see it. The sun. The sun behind him blinds me.
"Hello," he repeats.
"Hello," I say. "But I can't see your face. Won't you move away from there?"He sits down next to me, faces me and grins. This must be the man who laughs. He looks as though he might burst into laughter any moment. But why should he? What right has he?
I don't know his face. I'm sure of it. I am a missing per- son. And yet, he stares at me. He just doesn't look at me, he stares at me. Strange. I don't think I've ever been stared at this way. No one does this to me and it makes me feel uneasy. I turn my eyes away from his and notice that he has a camera hung over his shoulder and a large black book under his arm. I look at his face again wondering if he has anything more to say to me. He is still grinning. He does look friendly.
"You always sit on this same bench. Do you realize that?" he asks. His voice is friendly. I am surprised. It's true, I do that very thing. But how could he know this? I've never seen him before.
"Yes, I do," I say slowly. "But how do you know this?"
"I've seen you here many times," he answers. He has! Have I been watched by this man without ever knowing it? Many times. What is many times? How many times has this man gone unnoticed by me? I am a missing person.
"Why do you always sit on this same bench?" He asks this as though he's been thinking about it for some time.
"I like it here," I say. "I just like it here."
He laughs. But not rudely, not as though he's making fun of me. He just laughs.
"I want to ask you another question."
"What is it?" I ask. He laughs.
"Did I say something funny?"He moves closer toward me as though he wants to whisper in my ear. The grin disappears and he says, "May I make a photograph of you?"
A strange question. If he'd seen me here many times before, why hadn't he made a photograph of me then? He needn't have had to ask. So I ask, "Why?" He laughs, then seriously says, "I collect photographs." A simple reason.
"Is that what you keep in the book you have there?" I ask as I glance at the book under his arm. It looks like a book one might keep photographs in.
"I collect my photographs in this book," he says rather mechanically. "I could put a photograph of you in it." I have the feeling he is teasing me and I wait a moment be- fore answering him. He is silent and again grins. He seems to be quite patient, unlike other people I see. He's not in a hurry, unlike others I see. He isn't like others I see. He's different somehow. His face is just ordinary, the kind I probably wouldn't remember. Perhaps I have seen him before but don't remember. He's just ordinary, except for that grin. That is different or maybe peculiar is the word.
"Alright, go ahead and take it," I say.
He laughs. I knew it.
He puts down the book, eagerly removes the camera from its case and takes three steps forward and turns.
"You're going to ruin the picture if you keep laughing," I say.
"It will be a fine picture," he answers and click, it is finished. Something is finished. Have I actually finished something?
No, he has. It's his camera. It's his picture. I've done nothing. He sits down again and puts the camera back into its case."Will you let me see the book?" I ask. He hands me the book silently but grins. I begin at the first page, turn to the second, the third. Each page has four photographs on it and they're all photographs of people, men and women. Some are old, some young, some dark, some fair, all alone. I don't find anything particularly extraordinary about any of them. The only extraordinary thing about them is how different they all are. But he looks on and occasionally points out one which he admits is one of his favorites. Favorite what? Favorite person or favorite photograph of a person. I say nothing. The tenth page, the eleventh page. Still, only photographs of people. he s dead, I know he's dead. I'm sure." He grins and nods. This makes me feel uneasy. "Oh, yes," he answers as if he already knows this. He does know^ "They're all dead, one way and another. Every man. Every woman. They re all dead." He begins to laugh again. There is something sinister about it now. He takes the book out of my hands and turns the next page. It is blank. He stares at me, grinning and says, I'll put your picture here. What do you think?"
I am thinking-but not of the answer to his question. I hardly hear him. He doesn't wait for my answer and slams the book closed. It sounds as though a door has been slammed shut. Then, he snickers. He mocks me just as he did the old man. The old man. Now I know why he was horrified. Where is he?
He holds the book under his arm, close to his body and stands. The camera swings from his shoulder.
"I don't believe you," I say without looking up at him.
"You will," he snickers and begins to walk away. "You will," he repeats.
Will I?My eyes follow him as he moves further away from me. I watch his back as he moves further and further from me. Then, I realize the stillness in the air. The winter wind is gone. I look up; the branches are still. The air is still. I feel nothing and only hear the sound of his muffled footsteps as he walks away in the snow. Then he stops and turns.
"See you again," he yells, then turns and continues walking until he's gone.
The sculpture suddenly frightens me. It's just a sculpture, a war monument, a monument to the dead, a dead thing but it suddenly frightens me. Its shadow becomes longer, massive, looming around me. Even dead things have shadows. I stand and see my own. But it's nearly dark. Soon it will be very dark and I am very worried.
IV
I must leave this place. I must get out of here, Suddenly, it s no longer beautiful, it's no longer my favorite place. It's ugly and I hate it. I must leave here.
I hurry across the meadow and past the trees. Perhaps, I'm moving too fast. I'm moving too fast to count my steps. This is some- thing I don't even think of doing now. There are people nearby, walk- ing on nearby paths. I don't see their faces, only their figures, but they seem to look into my face. I wonder what they see in my face. Horror? Fear? Perhaps, they have fear. I am moving too quickly in the park. I have fear in my face in the park. Suspicion. They must sus- pect me of something, maybe murder. Murder! Some even point at me as I move. I must get out of the park. I can see their accusing fingers pointing at me. But I can't slow down. I only want to get out of the park.
They're talking about me. They're accusing me of something. They're imagining a crime in their heads and they believe it is real. I know this. But I've done nothing. I simply came to the park to read the newspaper. If they want to talk about crime, let them read the newspaper. There's plenty of crime there. I've done nothing. I just came to the park to enjoy the park. Is that a crime? No.
I realize I'm running. I'm running toward the edge of the park. Yes, the edge. It will soon be dark. I don't want to be here when it's dark. I've done nothing. I'm only running. I cross another path and run past people. I can feel their heads turning toward me as I pass them. Their accusing eyes. I don't want to see them. They're all the same. All accusing. All suspicious. But I've done nothing. So what if I'm running. I am afraid. I'm worried.
I finally reach the street. There is traffic. The light is red. I can't cross. I wait and feel my heart pounding in my chest. It's been so long since I've run so fast, so hard. It's been so long since I've been so frightened. But I must slow down. I can't run in the streets.
There are others waiting at the curb for the light to be- come green. Switch to green, I say to myself. They look at me curiously. I try to avoid their faces but I can feel their eyes glaring at me. What do they know? What do they want? Green. I go. I slow down somewhat. I must. I try to calm myself. Soon, I'll be home. Soon, I'll be safe. I cross one street, then another, passing many others, waiting at corners with many others. People are on their way home. I'm no different. Why do they stare at me? What does my face say? I avoid their eyes. They all look the same.
I move closer to home, closer with each step. It's not much further, I keep telling myself. I say it over and over again. It's not much further. Don't look into anyone's face. Don't look into any- one's camera. I'll soon be there. Just a bit more. Each step brings me closer.
More streets to cross. More red lights. I go. I stop. I wait. Green. I go. There it is. My house. My house is there, perhaps, one hundred steps more. No, less. I'm nearly there. I reach for my keys in my pocket but I am careless and they fall to the ground. When I stand again, I see faces looking at me. Not just looking, staring. Why am I being stared at this way? What have I done? I've only dropped my keys. I hurry on further. I am home.
I slam the door quickly behind me. It's locked. I'm locked inside my house. Safe. But my heart is still pounding, my breathing is heavy. I must lie down. I am safe but must lie down. I take off my coat and shoes and go into the bedroom.
I lie down on the bed. How fine it feels to lie there. I breathe deeply, exhale slowly. Again and again. My heartbeat slows. I feel this. It feels fine. The room is beginning to darken slowly as the sun disappears for the day. It would be fine to be able to sleep now. Yes, maybe I can sleep.
My breathing becomes even slower. Slower and slower as though it will soon stop entirely. My eyes feel heavy, not with tears but with drowsiness. I can hardly keep them open. But I don't want to and I think I am going to die. Yes, now I know I am going to die. I am going to finish something. I am going to die. I am not a missing person, I am only going to die.
I sleep.
-
Mr. Klein and Mr. Little
Mr. Klein and Mr. Little got off the train. It was dark and cold and quiet. It was night and winter and a small town in the country. Mr. Klein held his arms close to his body. Mr. Little put down his suitcase and walked toward the station. But he couldn't enter.
"The door is locked," he said turning to Mr. Klein.
"Well, there seems to be no one around. We'll have to call a cab." Mr. Little walked completely around the station and approached Mr. Klein from behind. "The phone is inside," he said.
"Then why do they lock the door?"
"I don't know," Mr. Little said impatiently. "But there's another phone not too far from here."
"Then let's walk," Mr. Klein said.
The two picked up their suitcases and walked toward the street. Mr. Little led the way. He knew where to go.
"This is Commercial Street, isn't it?" Mr. Klein asked.
"Yes, you remember," Mr. Little answered without looking at him.
"Yes, but things look different."
"Things are different," Mr. Little said, not really meaning it. He continued walking, looking ahead, as though he was alone.
Mr. Klein felt uncomfortable with him. Why can't he be a bit friendly, he thought? They hadn't seen each other in nearly three years, after all. They were brothers and their mother had just died, after all. Why can't he be a bit friendly? "It's so cold here," he said.
"It's freezing," Mr. Little said coolly.
"I am."
"I'm used to it," Mr. Little answered and Mr. Klein agreed.
And he said nothing else until they reached the phone booth. "Hello," he said into the receiver. "Yes, I need a cab."Mr. Klein stood in the cold. It was so quiet. No cars, no pedestrians, just darkness, except for the few streetlights. It seemed so safe, but frightening too. Peculiar. Of course, he'd had this feeling before, in many places, but he never thought he'd feel it here.
"The corner of Commercial Street and Highland Avenue," Mr. Little continued. "Fifteen minutes. Fine. The name is Little." He hung up the phone. "The cab will be here soon," he said to Mr. Klein.
"Is this Highland Avenue?" Mr. Klein asked curiously.
"Yes, why?"
"Where's the school? What happened to the school? My school."
"Oh, it's gone," Mr. Little said matter of factly. "They demolished it a couple of years ago. Too big a school, too few students. You know the story."
"Do I?" Mr. Klein asked but Mr. Little said nothing. He sat down on his suitcase and looked at the spot where the school once stood. "What do I tell people if they ask me where I went to school as a boy?" Make up something. You have an imagination," Mr. Little said sarcastically. He didn't care."Yes, but how can they just destroy a school? It seems obscene somehow, like burning a book."
"It was of no use anymore, so why keep it."
Mr. Klein ignored the remark. He felt strange. Things weren't as familiar as he thought they would be. They were strange. No cars, no pedestrians, no students, no school. Did people just die here, he asked himself? He knew no answer.
A car suddenly appeared. It moved slowly past them, so slow, both men thought it would come to a halt. The driver stared at them through the window for a long moment, then drove on."What's with him?" Mr. Klein asked. It annoyed him.
"Just curious. They're not used to strangers around here."
"Strangers! We were born here. We grew up here. We even went to school here before they rather stupidly tore the school down."
"That doesn't matter. Neither of us have lived here for nearly ten years. That makes us strangers now," Mr. Little said.
Pity, Mr. Klein thought. Perhaps that was it. The town wasn't strange. He was. Another car approached them. It moved just as slowly as the other."Must be the cab," Mr. Little said.
The car stopped at the curb. It was. The driver got out of the car.
"Mr. Little?" he shouted.
Mr. Klein thought he might wake the entire neighborhood.
All the houses were dark. Everyone must be asleep.
"Yes," Mr. Little answered.The driver looked almost suspiciously at the two men. He was a middle-aged man with a big belly and he wasn't used to seeing strangers in town at this time of night. He put their luggage in the trunk. All three got into the car.
"You're strangers around here," the driver said, obviously looking for a way to begin a conversation. But Mr. Klein thought it was an unfriendly way to begin a conversation. "We're visitors," he said.
"Well, who are you visiting? I mean, what address?"
"Seventy-two Rodgers Place," Mr. Little said.The two men sat silently in the backseat. They didn't look at each other. I'm not only a stranger in this town, Mr. Klein thought, I'm also a stranger with my brother. Mr. Little didn't think it was necessary to say anything. So what if they hadn't seen each other in three years. They hadn't said much to each other all week. Why should they now? He didn't care.
"Tell me," Mr. Little said, breaking the silence. "Why is the station locked up when the only phone at the station is inside of it?" He thought it was a good question.
"Got to, these days," the driver answered. "Too many strangers passing through town these days. Got to lock things up. Crime rate's going up, you know." He thought it was a good answer. But Mr. Klein didn't agree. Mr. Little said nothing.
"That's rubbish," Mr, Klein protested. "The crime rate may be increasing in some places but it has nothing to do with strangers passing through towns. It's quite a known fact that most crimes occur among people who know each other."
Mr. Little turned quickly toward Mr. Klein and turned just as quickly away. It went unnoticed.
"Not around here," the driver said self-righteously.
"You called us strangers. Does that mean you take us for criminals?" Mr. Klein asked. His face felt warm.
"You two? No," the driver said, trying to sound convincing.
He regretted having called them this. They were well-dressed, weren't they, probably had money. "But you've got to be careful these days. The world's getting smaller. Just a couple of weeks ago, there was an accidental death in town. But if you ask me, it wasn't acci- dental at all."
"Who asked you?" Mr. Klein said quickly.
"Well, nobody."
"Then you ought to drive your cab and not gossip."Silence. The driver was annoyed. It wasn't very often that his passengers spoke to him the way these two did. Mr. Little lighted a cigarette and Mr. Klein looked out the window. He knew the road they were traveling on, he just couldn't remember its name. How many hundreds of times had he walked along that road on his way to and from school? The phantom school. And there was the house where the dog lived which always followed him. That dog must be dead now. And the pond. But it looks more like a puddle than a pond now, he thought.
"Well, here we are, seventy-two Rodgers Place," the driver said and stopped the car. Finally, he thought. He was glad to be rid of them. The three men got out of the car.
"Say, this is Helen Little's house," the driver said. "Are you two her boys?"
"We're her sons," Mr. Little said. He didn't like being called a boy. "Did you know our mother?"
"Sure, I see her sometimes in town. But really my wife knows her better than I." He paused a moment. "Why did you ask me if I knew her? Is she gone or something?"
, "Yes, she's gone," Mr. Klein said. "She's dead."
The driver was shocked, then embarrassed and said, "I'm sorry. I.""Never mind," Mr. Klein interrupted.
They got out of the car. The driver gave them their luggage and Mr. Little paid the fare.
"Thank you, Mr. Little," he said to Mr. Little. "And good night to you, Mr. Little," he said to Mr. Klein.
"My name is Klein," Mr. Klein said quickly and walked away.
Mr. Little followed him toward the house and the driver drove slowly away down the road. He was confused. Mr. Klein and Mr. Little. Mr. Klein and Mr. Little got off the train. It was dark and cold and quiet. It was night and winter and a small town in the country. Mr. Klein held his arms close to his body. Mr. Little put down his suitcase and walked toward the station. But he couldn't enter."The door is locked," he said turning to Mr. Klein.
"Well, there seems to be no one around. We'll have to call a cab."
Mr. Little walked completely around the station and approached Mr. Klein from behind. "The phone is inside," he said.
"Then why do they lock the door?"
"I don't know," Mr. Little said impatiently. "But there's another phone not too far from here."
"Then let's walk," Mr. Klein said.
The two picked up their suitcases and walked toward the street. Mr. Little led the way. He knew where to go.
"This is Commercial Street, isn't it?" Mr. Klein asked.
"Yes, you remember," Mr. Little answered without looking at him.
"Yes, but things look different.""Things are different," Mr. Little said, not really meaning it. He continued walking, looking ahead, as though he was alone. Mr. Klein felt uncomfortable with him. Why can't he be a bit friendly, he thought? They hadn't seen each other in nearly three years, after all. They were brothers and their mother had just died, after all. Why can't he be a bit friendly? "It's so cold here," he said. "It's freezing," Mr. Little said coolly.
"I'm used to it," Mr. Little answered and Mr. Klein agreed.And he said nothing else until they reached the phone booth. "Hello," he said into the receiver. "Yes, I need a cab."
Mr. Klein stood in the cold. It was so quiet. No cars, no pedestrians, just darkness, except for the few streetlights. It seemed so safe, but frightening too. Peculiar. Of course, he'd had this feeling before, in many places, but he never thought he'd feel it here.
"The corner of Commercial Street and Highland Avenue," Mr. Little continued. "Fifteen minutes. Fine. The name is Little." He hung up the phone. "The cab will be here soon," he said to Mr. Klein."Is this Highland Avenue?" Mr. Klein asked curiously.
"Yes, why?"
"Where's the school? What happened to the school? My school."
"Oh, it's gone," Mr. Little said matter of factly. "They demolished it a couple of years ago. Too big a school, too few students. You know the story.""Do I?" Mr. Klein asked but Mr. Little said nothing. He sat down on his suitcase and looked at the spot where the school once stood. "What do I tell people if they ask me where I went to school as a boy?" "Make up something. You have an imagination," Mr. Little said sarcastically. He didn't care.
"Yes, but how can they just destroy a school? It seems obscene somehow, like burning a book."
"It was of no use anymore, so why keep it."
Mr. Klein ignored the remark. He felt strange. Things weren't as familiar as he thought they would be. They were strange. No cars, no pedestrians, no students, no school. Did people just die here, he asked himself? He knew no answer.A car suddenly appeared. It moved slowly past them, so slow, both men thought it would come to a halt. The driver stared at them through the window for a long moment, then drove on.
"What's with him?" Mr. Klein asked. It annoyed him.
"Just curious. They're not used to strangers around here."
"Strangers! We were born here. We grew up here. We even went to school here before they rather stupidly tore the school down."
"That doesn't matter. Neither of us have lived here for nearly ten years. That makes us strangers now," Mr. Little said.
Pity, Mr. Klein thought. Perhaps that was it. The town wasn't strange. He was.
Another car approached them. It moved just as slowly as the other."Must be the cab," Mr. Little said.
The car stopped at the curb. It was. The driver got out of the car. "Mr. Little?" he shouted.
Mr. Klein thought he might wake the entire neighborhood. All the houses were dark. Everyone must be asleep.
"Yes," Mr. Little answered.
The driver looked almost suspiciously at the two men. He was a middle-aged man with a big belly and he wasn't used to seeing strangers in town at this time of night. He put their luggage in the trunk. All three got into the car.
"You're strangers around here," the driver said, obviously looking for a way to begin a conversation.
But Mr. Klein thought it was an unfriendly way to begin a conversation. "We're visitors," he said.
"Well, who are you visiting? I mean, what address?" "Seventy-two Rodgers Place," Mr. Little said.The two men sat silently in the backseat. They didn't look at each other. I'm not only a stranger in this town, Mr. Klein thought, I'm also a stranger with my brother. Mr. Little didn't think it was necessary to say anything. So what if they hadn't seen each other in three years. They hadn't said much to each other all week. Why should they now? He didn't care.
"Tell me," Mr. Little said, breaking the silence. "Why is the station locked up when the only phone at the station is inside of it?" He thought it was a good question.
"Got to, these days," the driver answered. "Too many strangers passing through town these days. Got to lock things up. Crime rate's going up, you know." He thought it was a good answer. But Mr. Klein didn't agree. Mr. Little said nothing.
"That's rubbish," Mr. Klein protested. "The crime rate may be increasing in some places but it has nothing to do with strangers passing through towns. It's quite a known fact that most crimes occur among people who know each other."
Mr. Little turned quickly toward Mr. Klein and turned just as quickly away. It went unnoticed.
"Not around here," the driver said self-righteously.
"You called us strangers. Does that mean you take us for criminals?" Mr. Klein asked. His face felt warm."You two? No," the driver said, trying to sound convincing. He regretted having called them this. They were well-dressed, weren't they, probably had money. "But you've got to be careful these days. The world's getting smaller. Just a couple of weeks ago, there was an accidental death in town. But if you ask me, it wasn't acci- dental at all."
“Who asked you?" Mr. Klein said quickly.
"Well, nobody."
"Then you ought to drive your cab and not gossip."Silence. The driver was annoyed. It wasn't very often that his passengers spoke to him the way these two did. Mr. Little lighted a cigarette and Mr. Klein looked out the window. He knew the road they were traveling on, he just couldn't remember its name. How many hundreds of times had he walked along that road on his way to and from school? The phantom school. And there was the house where the dog lived which always followed him. That dog must be dead now. And the pond. But it looks more like a puddle than a pond now, he thought.
"Well, here we are, seventy-two Rodgers Place," the driver said and stopped the car. Finally, he thought. He was glad to be rid of them. The three men got out of the car.
"Say, this is Helen Little's house," the driver said. "Are you two her boys?"
"We're her sons," Mr. Little said. He didn't like being called a boy. "Did you know our mother?"
"Sure, I see her sometimes in town. But really my wife knows her better than I." He paused a moment. "Why did you ask me if I knew her? Is she gone or something?"
"Yes, she's gone," Mr. Klein said. "She's dead."
The driver was shocked, then embarrassed and said, "I'm sorry. I." "Never mind," Mr. Klein interrupted.
They got out of the car. The driver gave them their luggage and Mr. Little paid the fare.
"Thank you, Mr. Little," he said to Mr. Little. "And good night to you, Mr. Little," he said to Mr. Klein.
"My name is Klein," Mr. Klein said quickly and walked away.
Mr. Little followed him toward the house and the driver drove slowly away down the road. He was confused. -
First Love First Names
He moves his hands but he doesn't feel anything, only the bed. He doesn't feel her in bed. He opens his eyes. She is not in the bed. He looks around the room. She is not in the room. The clothes that she laid on the chair the night before, are no longer there. He is not surprised or disappointed. He raises his head slowly. It aches. The clock says ten minutes past nine. He gets out of the bed slowly and puts on a robe.
She is not in the bathroom bathing. She is not in the kitchen fixing breakfast. She is not in the living room living. She is not there. She is gone. Whoever she was, she is gone and he is not surprised or disappointed. He goes into the bathroom and washes his face. His head still aches but the warm water is soothing.
He looks at himself in the mirror and a thought keeps repeating itself in his mind. He recalls how she acted the night be- fore. Yes, the way she behaved in the bars and in bed; the way she looked at him, the way she danced so close to him, the way she touched him, the way she said she loved him. She even said that. She must be in love. Either that or she was just plain stupid but he doubted she was stupid. Probably for the first time in her life, she is in love with someone. It had to be the first time. They only knew each other for some hours and yet, she said she loved him. This only happens on the first time. People are more careful when the second and third time comes around. No, she is not gone. Whoever she was, wherever, she is, she is not gone. She'll be back. This is his thought. A few minutes later, the doorbell rings.
"Hello," he says into the house phone.
"It's me," is the answer.
It's her. She is back. He lets her into the house and leaves the door ajar. He goes back into the bath, and a moment later, sees her in the bathroom mirror. She is wearing the same clothes she wore the night before. She carries a bag in her arms and smiles.
"Good morning," she says.
"Good morning," he answers and turns. He puts his arms around her and kisses her on the lips. "There's something between us."
"Do you think so?" she says brightly.
He looks down into the bag. It is filled with groceries. "But I think it's only breakfast."Her smile fades. She is slightly injured. "I went to the market. I wanted to make you breakfast but there wasn't a thing to eat in the kitchen, not an egg, not a slice of bread. Plenty of beer though. Don't you ever eat here?" she says in a wifey tone of voice.
"I only have coffee for breakfast. I have my meals out."
"Well, what you need."
"What do I need?" he says sharply.She is silent a moment, studying his face. He looks different than he looked the night before. But since she has no great understanding of men, she doesn't know how different.
"What you need is breakfast," she says softly and goes into the kitchen to prepare it.
He turns and watches her walk down the hall through the mirror. He snickers. He knows what she's thinking. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach. She's wrong.
She is busy in the kitchen. She empties the bag and examines its contents: butter, eggs, bread, bacon, coffee and marmalade. "First things first," she says to the kitchen. It all must be done in an orderly manner. This is a very important breakfast for her. She puts the coffee in the pot, then the bread in the toaster. She breaks the eggs in a frying pan and fries the bacon in another. While every- thing is cooking, she sets the table: plates, cups, knives, forks, spoons, salt, pepper, butter, marmalade. When she's finished, she looks satisfyingly at it. It is a pleasing sight. A few minutes later, the coffee is ready to be poured, the food is ready to be served. "Breakfast is ready," she calls.
He has finished shaving, showering and dressing and walks slowly into the room with a cigarette in his mouth.
"Oh, how can you smoke before breakfast?" she says in a motherly voice.
"I always smoke before breakfast," he says flatly. He sits down. She pours and serves and sits. "I haven't had a breakfast like this since I lived with my mother," he says as he sips his coffee. She is flattered by this remark but he did not say it to flatter her.
"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," she says eagerly. "I have such a breakfast everyday, unless it's Sunday. On Sundays, I sleep a bit later, so I call it brunch.
"Is that so," he says but she doesn't notice his sarcasm. He looks down at the food on his plate.
"Don't you know it's rude to smoke when someone is eating?" she says gingerly.
"I've heard it somewhere." He throws the cigarette into the sink. She watches in secret disgust.
"Eat your eggs, they'll get cold," she warns him.
"The coffee is fine. I told you I don't eat anything for breakfast. Just coffee."
"Oh, come on," she says girlishly. "I made this breakfast especially for you. Can't you eat something?"
"I told you," he raises his voice. "I told you I don't eat breakfast.
She leans back. His voice pushes her against the back of her chair. She is startled. "I'm sorry. I just thought."
"Yes, you just thought," he interrupts her. I know what you thought. But I don't even know your." He stops after this word.
"What don't you know?
"I don't know your name," he says slowly. "What is your name?" he asks with no real interest. He lights another cigarette.
"You don't know my name?" The expression on her face and the tone in her voice says she is astonished.
"Yes, quite honestly. I don't remember it. I'm sure you must have told me but I don't know it now.""You don't know?" she raises her voice. "After I spent hours with you last night talking and drinking and dancing and going from one bar to the next, you don't know my name?" He nods. She is furious. "After I spent last night in your bed, in your goddamned bed and got up early this morning to make you breakfast, you don't know my name?" He nods again. She is outraged. "I don't know your name either," she screams and walks out of the room and out of the apartment. When his cigarette burns down to the filter, he puts it out in the cold eggs. He pours himself another cup of coffee and realizes his headache is gone. And he is not surprised or disappointed.
-
The Cat Is Dead
The cat is dead.
I woke up that morning earlier than I'd expected. It was cold and dark and depressing. The clock said 8:00. And it was mother who woke me up, when she said, "The cat is dead."
I wasn't surprised. I knew it was going to happen. The night before, I particularly thought it. It usually spent the night indoors. So I thought it rather peculiar when I went to the door at 3:00 and called its name. But the cat was nowhere. It didn't come. I didn't hear its cry, only the breeze which was cool and made me shiver. It's off somewhere to die, I thought, and closed the door; tried hard to sleep that night. I shivered.
I was sad. Mother was crying. It nearly made me cry. I said, "All right," and got out of bed.
Downstairs. I sat at the table with her, and asked where the dead animal was."In the garage," she answered. "In a box," she added. In the garage. 1 found the box, opened it and looked at the cat. And I was sad. Its eyes and mouth were open as though it were gasping for breath, pleading for life. But there was nothing I could do. Nothing. The cat is dead. I closed the lid.
Mother soon went off to work. And I went back to bed. It was quiet. No more tears. No more cat. And I was tired.
When I woke again, it was just after noon. The curtains were drawn, and the room still dark, but the phone had rung and it startled me. I didn't bother to answer it but decided to get out of bed. There were things to do and maybe I would do them if I got out of bed. But first I had to bury the cat.
The coffin, the casket, the dead box still lay on the floor of the cold garage. I didn't open the lid. Instead, I opened the door to let the little sunshine of the day pass through. The breeze of the night had diminished to a silent stillness, I noticed as I carried the box and a shovel to a place behind the house. A place near the edge of the woods would do, and I dug. Again I felt the sadness as I put the box, the dead cat into the hole in the ground. It was old and sick and wretched but I wished it hadn't died.
"Goodbye," I whispered as I hid it under the earth.
Slowly walking back to the house, I noticed autumn. But it was fall, not autumn. Autumn was too nice a word to describe the time of year. Fall was not nice, nor beautiful. It was ugly. And it meant the approach of winter and cold and bareness and death. Fall was not the changing season. It was the dying season, and I hated it. My thought was interrupted for a moment. The phone rang again as I neared the house. I closed my eyes and wondered who was calling but didn't bother to answer. And I remembered I had things to do. I got rid of the shovel, returned to my room and changed my clothing. Downstairs at the table I hovered over a piece of paper. I finally wrote; letting her know that I buried the cat and when I would return that evening.Once outside again, this time fully dressed, I was still cold. I lit a cigarette before getting into the car and noticed a strange sight across the road at the Barnes' house. Ellen Barnes parked her car lived for fifteen years but now only visited. She rarely visited, and strange was it.
At the door she turned and saw me staring at her.
"I'll be right out," she yelled and waved.
I would have probably excused myself from anyone else. But I rarely talked to her. Here was an opportunity and I waited at the edge of the road for her. She was inside only minutes. As she came out the door, I walked over to her and her car."I'm surprised to see you," I said.
"Yeah, well, you know how I like coming here."
Of course there was sarcasm in her voice. I always knew how she felt about her parents. She hated her mother; always used to call her terrible names. She pitied her father; called him a poor, sick, old man. I looked at her a moment and noticed she hadn't changed."You're still not speaking to your mother, are you?" I asked. "Nearly a year now. You know I'm stubborn," she grinned.
"Yes. How's your father? I never see him."
"My father is probably looking out the window right now and wondering why I've got the time to talk to you and not to him," she answered."Is she in there too?" I asked.
"No. He's not well. He's getting worse." A pause. "He can't do much of anything anymore, except sit in the house and wait for her to come where. He just drives."Her voice was gentle when she talked about him. I knew that she loved him, but perhaps she didn't know herself. He came out of the house then. We both turned and looked at him.
"Probably going for one of his drives," Ellen said.
He walked slowly over to us. We said hello to each other and I looked at him as he said a few words to Ellen. She was right. He did look ill and much older than the last time I had seen him. His face was pale and he'd gotten thin and sickly. He paused between words as though he had to get his breath back. And he didn't seem to be able to smile. He finally looked back at me."You know, when Ellen lived here you used to always come over to talk to her and me," he said. "But you never come over anymore. And I wish you would."
"Yes," I said as I realized it were true. "I'll come to see you," I added.
I smiled and said goodbye to him as he got into his car. He drove away.
"Do you see what I mean?" Ellen asked.
I nodded.
"He'll be dead in less than a year, 1 know it," she said, quite sure of herself.I did not nod and the cat is dead, I thought. Again the sadness. But she did not notice any change in my expression. She did not ask if anything was wrong. And I wondered about her father a moment and whether or not he would die as she predicted.
"I think it would destroy your mother," I said.
"Yes, I know. She'd have nobody then. Nobody," she repeated. And again she seemed quite sure of herself.And I didn't think it strange and I didn't wonder what she meant by it. She had to leave then and I realized that I should also go. I said goodbye to her and told her to come and see me, even though I knew she wouldn't. She didn't like me any less. It was just her way. I'd known her for a long time and I understood her. I thought about her awhile as I drove down the road. But I no longer thought about the dead cat.
It was nearly five months later when I saw Ellen again.
It was at her father's funeral. It was the dead of winter. Temperatures dropped, ice formed; even people seemed to harden in the cold. Perhaps Ellen had. When I first learned of his death, I was sad. I was sad because I never did go to see him. And I was sad because now I would never have the chance to see him. But I wasn't surprised by his death. I remembered the last time I'd seen him nearly five months before. He looked old and sick then. And I remembered Ellen's words. Ellen was right. She knew he would die soon, and he died. What else did she know?She stood alone by the grave site, away from the crowd, her mother, relatives, friends and me. Yes. they were near her, but she was far away. She looked at no one, she spoke to no one, she heard no one. I watched her stare down at the hole in the ground. She seemed to cry, but silently. But many were crying and perhaps I couldn't hear her. Her mother cried aloud and held on to a man's arm for support. Men and other women cried more softly. I looked at the sad faces. Most were unfamiliar to me. A brother, perhaps a sister, a friend. It didn't matter and I wondered if it mattered that I shed no tears for the dead man. Yes I'd known the man for many years and he had grown old and I was sorry he was dead. But I couldn't cry. I only thought it was very cold and very sad and very dead.
The service soon ended. The crowds began departing. Ellen finally looked up. And there were no tears in her eyes. Her mother turned toward her with a pleading, pathetic look in her face. I was sure she desperately wanted to take her only daughter into her arms for some support and solace and maybe even a few comforting words. But Ellen only gazed at her coldly and walked away, following the crowd. Mrs. Barnes's face suddenly looked feverish and sickly. Maybe it was then when she realized that she truly had nobody. And it was destroy- ing her. Ellen was right again. I turned back toward her and walked quickly following.
"Ellen," I called.
She turned around.
"Take me home," she said sharply.
We got into the car and drove away. I was afraid to speak. She seemed angry and I understood and I didn't want her to hate me so I said nothing. I just waited for her to speak. She finally did.
"Why did you come today?" She yelled at me with hatred in her voice.I still remained silent and she raised her voice again.
"I saw you standing there, looking around at nothing, not sorry, not caring, as if some dumb animal had died."I was startled by her remark. And yes, I thought, some dumb animal was dead, and a man was dead and winter was dead, and perhaps Ellen understood me better than I thought. It was just her way.
-
The Boy Wore Blue
The boy wore blue. And he lived in a green house, but by noon, he'd forgotten the color of his house. He was an American. The man lived in a white house in Munich. He hadn't been in Munich in nearly six months. But she didn't forget. On Second Avenue, there's a shop where used clothing is sold. "Very Cheaply" said the sign in the window which was very dirty. The boy smiled and walked in.
"On," said the nice old lady to the boy in blue.
"Look around," she repeated twice. "Take your time," she repeated twice.The boy, rather timidly, smiled as if thanking her. The boy in blue was very good at saying thank you. He looked. There were trousers too large to ever fit him. He knew it and thought, I could always wear suspenders. On the rack in the back were shirts, some with stripes, some missing buttons. It didn't matter. Next to it was a second rack with suits. There was a black suit, and three white suits with pin stripes and a gray suit. It was a nice suit.
Jack was never interested in clothes. He never made much money and never could afford to spend much for clothing. But cousin Rachel was being married, and he decided he would buy a good suit. Janet, his wife, thought it was a good idea but kept insisting not to spend too much money. There was a shop on Seventh Avenue which had a beautiful suit. It was a light blue suit and would look great at the wedding. It was a May wedding. It cost three hundred and twenty-five dollars. But Janet kept insisting not to spend too much money.
Jack was never interested in clothes. But he decided that for this wedding, he'd prove that he did care about the way he looked. He bought the suit.
When Janet learned how much the suit cost, "God damn," she said. "I only spent eighty dollars for my dress and you spent three hundred and twenty-five for your suit. Take it back," she screamed. "Take it back."
"No," Jack answered,
"You take it back, or I'm not going to the wedding," she screamed.Janet was a selfish woman. Jack couldn't help it and took the suit back. One week later, he found a gray suit in another shop. It cost eighty-five dollars, and he hoped Janet wouldn't scream about the extra five dollars. "No, I don't mind," she said coolly. "But I need five dollars for the newspaper this week."
The day after the wedding, Jack sold the suit for five dollars to a used clothing store on Second Avenue. Janet got her five dollars.
And., "Yes," said the nice old lady to the boy in blue. "You can have that suit for ten dollars."
I’ll take it," he said rather timidly as he wondered who the original owner was.
Jack was slipping on icy streets in Brooklyn just one block from where the man was staying during his trip away from Munich.
Gray looks good in January. -
Hello Enemy
I can see the way that he looks at me that he hates me, that I an his enemy, that he wishes I were dead. So, I walk by him and smile at him to show him that I'm very much alive. I dance for about an hour and often turn and look at him. Our eyes meet. He sees that I am very much. alive. And 1 believe my life hurts him, perhaps, it even kills him. Every move I make, every word that I speak is like the stab of a knife in his body. This is ray belief. I know why. He hates me. I am his enemy. He wishes I were dead. But I an alive
On a quiet, one-way street one night, I pass him on the sidewalk. I say, "Hello." He stops immediately. He knows me. He knows who I am. I am his enemy ^ 1 say again, "Hello." He stares at my face. Our eyes meet again. He looks hatefully at me. His eyes want to ''-ill me. But eyes can't kill. I am not afraid, and say again, "Hello."
He says nothing. He doesn't move. He looks up at the sky. I am curious. It is late at night. It is dark and quiet. It is a one-way street. His eyes want to kill me. I don't move. I say nothing else but, "Hello." He has the chance. I am standing next to him on a quiet, dark, one- way street. He has the chance to kill me. I give him the chance. He knows who I am. He knows that he hates me, that I am his enemy, that he wishes I were dead. But he doesn't kill me. He lowers his eyes to the earth and walks without saying a word. He doesn't even kill his enemy. He just walks away from his enemy.
We see each other in the zoo. I am. alone and he is alone. There is a large crowd of people. It is a hot summer day. But I am alone and he is alone. The enemy is alone. Our eyes meet through the crowd of people, through the crowd of eyes. I smile. He turns away.
The lion is asleep. We are standing in front of the cage of the lion. He is not roaring or eating. He is not m0ving. It is a hot summer day. He is asleep. And we are separated by the bars of the cage. And we are separated by the crowd of people. He wouldn't hear me if I say, "Hello." He is asleep. He is far away. There are the bars. There are the people. He has no natural enemies. He lias a natural enemy. But I feel unnatural. There are the eyes that sleep. There are the eyes that hate.. There are the bars. There are the people. There is the lion. There is the man. There is me. I am curious but confused. I turn away from them and walk toward the elephants.
Elephants are curious creatures. They have no enemies. They only lift their trunks in the air out of friendliness or hunger. They have no natural enemies. How unnatural. They just lift their trunks in the air and turn their heads. I have no trunk, but I turn my head. There he is. There is the man who hates me. There is the man who doesn't call me, but ^alls me his enemy. There is the man who wishes I were dead.
He stands close by. Our eyes meet and he stands close by. There is no crowd to separate us. There is no crowd watching the elephants. There are no bars separating us. Elephants have no natural enemies so there is no crowd watching the elephants and there are no bars separating us. An elephant is not an enemy. The crowd doesn't watch a creature that isn't an enemy. The crowd isn't curious about creatures that a.ren'1 ? enemies. Neither is he. He doesn't look at the elephants, he looks at me. I .am his enemy.
It is the same look in his eyes. It is the same way he looked at me in the bar and in the street. He hates me. He wishes I were dead. He has the-chance again, I give him the chance. There is no crowd watching the elephants. There is no crowd watching us. He has the chance again. I give him the chance again. He can hate me. He can kill me. There are no witnesses, only the elephants, only me. B-t he doesn't move. He does nothing. I say, "Hello," and walk away. I am confused.
It is a cold winter morning. It is nearly seven o'clock in the morning, I buy enough cigarettes, magazines, and beverages for the nine- hour journey. I am going away. I am leaving to go to another place and it will take nine hours to get there. I wait on the platform for the train to arrive. It is due in the station shortly.
The station is filled with movement and sound. There are many people. They are on their way to work or on their way to holiday or they are just on their way like me. I am just on my way as I always have been, although sometimes I don't know which way it is. I sit on a bench and smoke a cigarette and then I see him. I see him. at the information board. He is looking for information. Then he looks at his watch, then back at the board. He walks away from the board. The man who hate me, who calls me his enemy, who wishes I were dead-, walks away from the information board.
He has the information that he wants.
He walks in my direction. He carries no baggage and he walks in my direction. I am curious. I wonder where he is going. He doesn't seem to see me, but he walks in my direction.
He stops at the end of platform fourteen, The train I am waiting for will arrive on and. depart from platform fourteen. I am sitting on a bench on platform fourteen. I am very curious. He still doesn't seem to see me, but he's come for something, I know. He wants to do what he's been longing to do. He wants to kill me. He wants to be finished with his enemy. He doesn't know that he already is finished.
The train arrives on platform fourteen. The train I will travel on for nine hours, arrives on platform fourteen. The train which will take me away, away from the man who hates me, arrives on platform fourteen.
He doesn't seem to notice the train. He only looks ahead. I can finally see his eyes. He can finally see mine. They seem different somehow. Something is missing. I am missing something. It is the hate. There is no hate in his eyes. There is no hatred. The eyes that once hated me, no longer hate me. The eyes that once wanted to kill me, no longer want to kill me. He moves closer. I stand and take my bags in my hands and move toward the train.
"Wait," he calls. I stop and turn toward him. He comes close.
"I have been waiting," I say coolly. "But now, I'll stop waiting. I'm leaving."
"I thought you would go away, " he says softly.
I am confused. "I knew you wouldn't be my friend."
I am very confused. Here is the man who hated me, who wished I were dead., who wanted to kill me, who now tells me he didn't think I would be his friend. That is a very peculiar remark. "You don't know anything," I say and board, the train.
I watch him sitting on the bench where "I'd sat just a few minutes earlier. The glass window separates us. Now, he will wait, I think. The train leaves the station, and now he will wait. -
Water Underwater
She watched him moving nervously about the room. He stood before the chest, opened the top drawer and went through its contents. He slammed it quickly and did the same procedure with the second, third, and fourth drawer. He slammed the fourth drawer so violently, that the mirror hanging on the wall above the chest shook. He puffed on a cigarette. He'd only been awake for half an hour but he was already smoking his fourth cigarette. She sat up in bed, watching him. He looked around the room, but she was invisible to him. He went to the closet.
On the shelf in the closet were boxes. He opened and looked into everyone of them. Then he threw them down onto the floor. There were shoes on the floor too. He kicked them with his bare feet and cried out in pain after one kick. He moved the hangers of clothes apart, touching every article of clothing. Then he picked up all of the boxes, threw them onto the floor of the closet and slammed the door shut. He walked out of the room without looking back at her.
"What are you looking for?" she shouted. But he didn't answer;, She only heard sounds. Doors slammed. Objects crashed to the floor. Furniture moved. She was frightened but not surprised. She decided to stay in bed until she heard glass breaking and he cried out in pain.
In the living room, she found him sitting on the floor. In his right hand, he held his bloody left hand in the air. Blood dripped down his arm and onto the floor. She ran to the bath, took a towel and went back to him. Tears were in his eyes. He looked like a lost child.
"I don't know what you're doing to yourself but I know what you're doing to me," she said. as she wrapped the towel around the bloody arm and hand. He looked at her silently. She thought he was pitiful. She didn't like the sight of his face. The towel soaked up the bright red blood. She didn't like the sight of that either. He began to whimper like a child. "Yes, go ahead and cry. 'When everything is terrible, cry. That's your only solution to anything," she said sarcastically.
He still said nothing. She took the towel away and looked at the wound. It was a deep cut across the palm of his hand. She cringed. She did not like seeing blood but she was becoming more and more used to it, the longer she lived with him. Sometimes, she felt like his nurse, not his lover. Then another idea came into her head one da3r. He was like a child and she was like his mother. They were not lovers at all. He would never do this to me if I were his lover, she thought. He would only do this to his mother. So he did it." This time you'll have to go to a hospital," she said loudly. "This time, I can't help you. That cut will have to be stitched together or it won't heal. And I'm no doctor." She stood. He stayed, on the floor and looked up at her through the tears in his ,eyes. "And I don't know what you were looking for, I only wish you'd have found it. Maybe you wouldn't have done this stupid thing." She walked out of the living room and went into the bath.
He watched her walk away. He heard the water filling up the bath. She washed the blood from her hands in the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. Her face disappointed her. I look like I haven't had a good sleep in months, she thought* That was it, she suddenly realized. She hadn't had a good sleep in months, like a mother with a, young child, like a mother who had to answer "to and be aware of every movement and sound and need. of a young child. He was a young child. She was his mother. The only difference was that he learned nothing and she was ashamed. She got into the bath.
A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door, then it opened. His head appeared through it. He would, not come in. She looked at him and waited for him to say something. But he said nothing. They just looked at each other. It seemed stupid to her.
"Didn't I tell you to go to a hospital?" she shouted.
"Yes," he answered softly. "But won't you come with me?"
"Ho, I can't," she said sharply. "You know I have to go to work. You've got the entire day free. So go by yourself."
"But."
"But nothing," she yelled. "You get dressed and go to the hospital immediately."His head disappeared. He slammed the door closed. She let out a long breath of air and felt the water.
The warm water felt good on her body. It was real. It was there. There was water underwater. And it was the only thing that was really there for her. It felt good. This was the only time of day when she could actually say, she felt good. This was the only time of day when she could be free from. him. He would not enter the bath when she was bathing. She'd once warned him.
So he stayed away, and she enjoyed the water underwater. It made her feel like a person, not a woman, not a lover, not a nurse, not a mother, just a person. And everyday, she knew, she had to feel at least a little bit like a person. She was a person.
About tem minutes later, as she was about to open the bathroom door, she heard the door of the apartment open and slam shut. It was his way of telling her that he was doing v/hat she wanted. She sighed in relief.
-
Come to Go
He sat at a table. So. And he drank something. So what? Well, wine. And it tasted good. Well. Well. And the waiter waited. So who? So did he. He waited for a plane. What kind? The air kind. So he did. Actually, the plane was going. He waited for the plane to come to go. He sat and waited to come to go. So.So.
He lit a cigarette. He smokes? Yes, he smokes. TOO much, probably. Yes, too much. He was feeling a bit too much. I mean, it was, wasn't it? He, sitting and waiting and drinking and smoking to come to go. Too much.
He was restless. Hadn't he rested? Yes, but he had less rest than he wanted. What did he want? A long rest to come to go. He rests. What about a newspaper? A newspaper is very restless. Read less and forget the rest. Too much. And there he sat, feeling a bit too much. That boy is too much. He sat near a window. But I bet he didn't look out. He doesn't look out for himself. He didn't. It was cold there. Well, why not? It was winter. Well. Well. No. He didn't feel well. Of course not, he felt too much. This is getting to be too much. Yes, he is.
He looked out the window. Really? Yes, really. And saw. You see he saw. He's a seesaw. So you see. So he saw. He felt like seeing things. Sitting and waiting and drinking and smoking and seeing. How does he do it? He does it then. He must be very talented. Don't know. Does he?
He's in that plane now. And it is an air plane. He breathes. He breathes the air plane air. The plane to come to go. It's gone. He's in it and he breathes it and it's gone. He's gone. The plane took off. Took off? Yes, planes took off take off are gone. Even air planes. Bad air. Now clouds. Really. Clouds now. It's a cloudy day. It's a cloudy way. You know? No what? Now now, speaks the captain. Lay back in the cabin. There lay the clouds. Who sips on wine and looks out another window? He does. He does indeed. And breathes in deed he must. Bad air.
There's snow you know, not go snow, not there snow, not fell snow but there fell snow. So. Not so. Snow go snow go. All for show. Just to come to go. There's noise you know. Voice noise and a boy's noise not choice noise, but noise noise. Such a noisy word, noise. Curious journey in the sky. Oh, the boys. Begging and banging and making noise not leading to anywhere. He sits there and waits to come to go. He came. He went. He's gone. Some animal. And he'll soon arrive. In the least of the most which isn't much. In the most of the least which isn't much. He's ready to come to go. But he's gone before he comes.
The ocean lies below, below bad air and despair and more air. The ocean doesn't lie there it just oceans there. It's just an ocean. Oceans don't lie. And there are still clouds and that frightening blue. Blue you? No, he. That deep deep blue. That deep deep you. It oceans there. In emotions there. He motions his emotions. He is blue is moved and moves. Say you there? Yes, there. What about here? The journey? He is sitting and waiting and drinking and smoking and breathing still there. Not entirely still there, just there. It is entirely impossible to be still there but he is still there. He is going somewhere but still, isn't anywhere. The moment he is somewhere he is gone. He is nowhere. Momentarily nowhere. Temporarily somewhere.
The window. What about it? He likes to sit next to windows and it won't grow dark because he is traveling, following the sun. Poor boy. And there's that window. And there's that view which is gone the moment it is viewed. Never reviewed. Where is this viewer going? He's just going. He's just gone. It's just noise and bad air. A humming in his ears, almost musical. No never that. He dislikes it. And deep deep blue. He wants to make sense of it but it's all nonsense. Senseless. Only a sense to come to go. They searched him. Did they? Yes, they did. They did and were doing research, searched and researched him.
They touched him and were suspicious like most researchers. They touched him and asked him questions and looked curiously at his passport, at his face, at his passport, at his face. Not because they liked it, like most researchers they don't. And then they let him go. Go, they said. He go. He's gone and they can't stop him now. But they could have, not now. How dare they search him. They did. And he hated it, although he's been researched before.
And he boarded bored. He was bored and boarded and greeted with saccharine smiles and now he looks over the deep blue Atlantic far below and the deep blue Atlantic deep below. So he looks. He looks so. So he does it with a smile not saccharine not sweet. Just a while for a smile in awhile he will telephone a lover from another continent who is expecting some noise from boys who recently flew over the deep blue Atlantic. Deep and blue. That boy. That poor blue boy. His feet are cold. So he sits on them but nothing changes. It must be the Atlantic.
The clouds, like puffs or feathers no cushion from the cold. Phone calls must be made and taxis must be stopped and drivers must be told destinations unknown. So many things are unknown. But he hasn't forgotten a face or a name even though it all happened so long ago. He must be very bright. Bright, I might say. He recalls sleeping in an abandoned car in front of a famous New York hotel. He'll freeze to death in this month. But there are lovers who never freeze to death who always have a place space place. There is plenty of space although he may not know it yet, there will be a place for him, not far from where he is going, not far from where he is gone, not far from where he may journey, too far from his home. Clouds. Deep. Deep. Clouds. Like cushions which cushion nothing. Only a shock when a shock comes. And he is coming. Come to go. So.
Now, he's there again.