by Ben Loory
Darjeeling, says the octopus, leafing through the mail.
There’s really nothing good, just the usual stuff. Bills, catalogs, junk mail, more bills . . . and then the octopus gets to the last piece of mail. He sits there, holding it gently in one tentacle.
What is it? says Mrs. Jorgenson.
It’s from the ocean, says the octopus, staring at the postmark.
I didn’t know you still had folks there, says Mrs. Jorgenson.
Oh yes, says the octopus. Oh yes, I do. My brother, my brother’s children.
How nice, says Mrs. Jorgenson. Perhaps it’s from them?
Perhaps it is, says the octopus, and slits the envelope open.
He reads for some time.
Hmm, he says, when he gets to the end.
He looks up to see Mrs. Jorgenson staring at him.
It’s from my little nephews, he says. Would you like me to read it?
I wouldn’t dream of it, says Mrs. Jorgenson. I mean, unless you wanted to.
The octopus smiles and holds up the letter again. He begins to read.
Dear Uncle Harley, he reads—interjecting, My name is Harley—Hello from the ocean! We hope everything on land is going well. The other day Aunt Hattie got into a fight with a cuttlefish. It was funny! We think we might like to come visit you, just the two of us. We’ve heard so much about you, we’d like to meet you in person. Would that be okay? Please let us know. Your nephews, Gerald and Lewis.
He finishes reading and lowers the letter.
Gerald and Lewis, says Mrs. Jorgenson. They sound like nice young boys.
Oh, they are, says the octopus. Or at least, so it seems. I never really met them in person. I mean, they were only just hatched when I left, so they hadn’t quite developed personalities.
Ah, says Mrs. Jorgenson. Are you going to let them come?
Well, says the octopus, looking around, I don’t really have a lot of room. Just the couch, really. Where would the other one sleep?
I have a cot I could bring up, says Mrs. Jorgenson.
Do you? says the octopus. Well, that would work. It would be nice to see some of the old gang again.
How long have you been here? asks Mrs. Jorgenson.
About fifteen years, says the octopus.
That’s a long time, says Mrs. Jorgenson.
Yes, but I love it, says the octopus, looking around at his apartment. Yes, but I do love it so.
Well, says Mrs. Jorgenson, I guess you should be writing back. If you dash something off, I’ll put it in the mailbox when I get down to the lobby.
Would you? says the octopus.
Yes, of course, says Mrs. Jorgenson.
And so it is done.
A few days later there is a knock on the door.
Come in, hollers the octopus, who is cleaning his spoons.
But the door does not open. The octopus grumbles a bit, then gets down from his chair and glides across the room. He opens the door a crack.
Gerald and Lewis! he says, in surprise.
Uncle Harley! they say, and they all embrace.
Come in, come in, says the octopus.
Gerald and Lewis move inside the apartment.
So this is what an apartment looks like, says Gerald, his eyes roving over everything.
It’s a little dirty right now, says the octopus.
Dirty? says Gerald. It’s amazing—so many treasures!
He is looking at the octopus’s collection of spoons, laid out on the table for polishing.
Those are my spoons, says the octopus. I collect them.
What are they for? says Lewis. His voice is rather squeaky.
They’re for moving small volumes of liquid around, says the octopus. Or solids, like sugar. I use them all the time.
All three octopi stand there and stare at the spoons.
We don’t have anything like that in the ocean, says Gerald.
No, says the octopus, you don’t.
Well, he says suddenly, turning. Gerald, you will have the couch. And Lewis, you will have the cot. Unless you want to trade off from night to night.
No, that will be fine, says Lewis. I don’t mind. I’ve never slept on a cot before.
He goes and sits on the cot. He bounces up and down.
So where will we go first? he asks.
Go? says the octopus, looking at him.
Go, says Lewis. What will we go to see first?
The octopus doesn’t know what to say.
You mean in the, in the city? he asks.
Of course, says Lewis. We just came from the ocean.
Oh, well, I don’t know, says the octopus. I don’t really go out there.
You don’t go into the city? says Lewis.
No, says the octopus. Not really.
Ever? says Lewis.
No, says the octopus. I like it here.
Gerald and Lewis look at each other.
We thought you were going to take us around to see the city, Gerald says. That’s why we came.
I thought you came to see me, says the octopus.
Well, that too, of course, says Gerald. It was both, it was both.
They said we could only come if you’d show us around and take care of us, says Lewis.
Who? says the octopus. Who said that?
Daddy and Aunt Hattie, says Lewis.
Ah, says the octopus. I see.
And now we’re here, says Lewis.
Indeed, you are, says the octopus.
The three octopi regard one another in silence.
Well, I guess I’ll be being your tour guide, the octopus says, finally.
Gerald and Lewis smile broadly.
They spend the next day walking the streets of the city. Gerald has a map, and Lewis is in charge of sunscreen. The octopus himself merely walks, staring up at the huge, awe-inspiring buildings and trying not to be terrified of the passing buses and cars.
You’re more scared than we are, Uncle Harley, says Gerald.
And Lewis and the octopus both laugh.
They go to the museums and libraries. They listen to a concert in a park. They have lunch and dinner, and go to an opera.
At the end of the day, they find themselves sitting at an outdoor café. Gerald and Lewis are drinking root beer; the octopus has tea.
So? says the octopus. What do you think?
It certainly is large, says Gerald.
It certainly is huge, says Lewis.
The octopus nods.
Yes it is, he says. Yes, it is.
It is true that you’ll live forever? says Gerald out of the blue. I mean, if you stay here?
The octopus looks at him thoughtfully.
It is, says the octopus. It is true. Supposedly, of course. I guess the only way to tell for sure is to stay here and find out.
But why does it work that way? says Lewis. Why can’t we live forever in the ocean?
I don’t know, says the octopus. That’s just the way it is. When an octopus comes to land, he lives forever. It’s just the way it is, like the way some people have brown hair and some people are blond.
Gerald and Lewis sit and stare at their sodas.
Has Dad ever been here? Gerald asks.
No, says the octopus. Your dad was never much interested in land.
Why’s that? says Lewis.
I don’t know, says the octopus. He just wasn’t. He met your mom and they were very happy, and then they had you. So there was never really time for coming to visit the land, or for thinking about living here.
But why don’t we all live here? says Gerald.
The octopus looks at him and smiles.
It just doesn’t work that way, he says. It just doesn’t work that way.
That night the octopus tucks Gerald and Lewis into bed.
Sleep tight, he says. Tomorrow you go back to the ocean.
What? Already? say Gerald and Lewis.
I’m sorry, says the octopus, but yes. I have a lot of things to do and I can’t do them with you bo
ys hanging around all the time. I love you, though. You boys know that?
The boys grumble a little, but say yes.
Good, says the octopus. Then good night.
He pats the boys on their heads and then goes into the kitchen. He makes himself a cup of tea and stirs sugar into it with a spoon. He listens to the clanking noise the spoon makes against the cup, and watches the liquid as it swirls around: a circle, a circle, a circle, circle.
When he returns to the living room, the boys are fast asleep. He stands there in the darkness, watching them. Then he returns to the kitchen and opens a cabinet. Inside, the silver polish; in the drawer, the spoons.
The next morning they are all off to the beach.
Shall I carry your suitcase? the octopus says to Lewis.
Oh no, says Lewis, I got it.
They move down the staircase. In the lobby, they pass Mrs. Jorgenson.
Why Mr. Octopus, says Mrs. Jorgenson, you’re out and about!
Just taking the boys back to the sea, says the octopus, and the boys wave hello and good-bye.
They take the subway to the beach. The subway is very crowded.
Where are all these people going? says Gerald. There are so many of them.
I don’t know, says the octopus, looking around. I always wondered that myself.
When they get to the beach, Gerald and Lewis trudge down to the waterline.
Are you sure we can’t stay with you another day? asks Gerald.
I’m positive, says the octopus. I’m sorry.
But why can’t we stay? says Lewis.
There’s no reason, says the octopus. I just can’t let you. Please, boys, just do as you’re told.
The boys grumble some more, but they’re not really angry. They give the octopus great big hugs.
Good-bye, Uncle Harley, Gerald says.
Good-bye, Uncle, says Lewis.
Good-bye, boys, says the octopus. Now off with you.
And he stands there and watches as the boys slap down into the surf and wade out beneath the waves.
Thank God that’s over, thinks the octopus. Now I can go back to my life.
But, strangely, the octopus does not turn. Instead, he stands there and stares—off into the gently rolling surf, down into the water, after Gerald and Lewis. In his mind the octopus pictures his brother—their father—and poor Aunt Hattie, and all those other octopi he used to know in the days before he lived on land. He remembers the day he turned away from them—the day he swam away—the day he walked up onto the beach, and headed into the city and found the apartment. He remembers the day he began drinking tea, and the day he started collecting spoons. He remembers the day he stopped getting his mail and let Mrs. Jorgenson bring it up to him. He remembers in turn all of these things, all of them and more. He remembers the tea as it swirled around and around in a circle in his cup.
The octopus suddenly finds himself walking down the beach to the water. He feels the sand under his tentacles, and then the water washing over them.
My god, the water feels good, he thinks. I had almost forgotten.
He stands in the shallows, gazing out, and then, in one motion, he dives in.
The octopus swims toward the depths—his tentacles waving free—and something inside him opens up. Suddenly, he can breathe.
I’m coming, brother, he calls out, in his mind and in the sea. I’m coming, nephews. I’m coming, friends. I’m coming home. It’s me!
THE PATH
THE MAN IS ON A PATH. IT IS A FUNNY THING. LIFE SORT of gives him hints. Just before the phone rings, the man will look over. When he gets an urge to play the lottery, he wins.
The man has a job and he does it very well. Everything comes easily to him. He makes the right calls; he says the right things; he gets raises and benefits and perks.
Then one day the man is walking home from work, when suddenly he is hit by a car.
The man wakes up in the hospital. He doesn’t understand.
Me? he says. Hit by a car?
He looks around. It doesn’t make sense.
And that’s when he sees—his path is gone.
The path he’s always been on is gone.
The man doesn’t know what to do anymore. How to—how to do anything. He doesn’t even know how to work the water fountain, can’t figure out when it’s time to go to the bathroom.
His wife and children come to visit; the man doesn’t know their names.
Is there something wrong with his brain? his wife says.
The doctor shakes his head.
He’s just thrown a little, he says to the wife. From the accident, you know. He’ll be fine.
But the man isn’t fine—that’s the thing. When he’s discharged, he goes back to work. But he’s just no good at his job anymore; he has no idea how to do it. He can’t even find the office half the time—and when he does somehow manage to stumble in, he sits behind his desk staring out at the clouds as they drift back and forth across the sky.
The man’s wife is worried—she doesn’t understand—so the man finally tells her about the path.
It used to be there, he explains, and now it’s gone.
His wife doesn’t know what to say.
She puts her arms around him, and holds him close, and leads him down the hallway to bed.
But like all the other things that used to come so easily, this one doesn’t come anymore.
The man begins to take long walks late at night. He wanders around in circles, aimlessly. Then one morning he comes home to find that his wife and his children are gone.
The man stands in the bathroom with the gun to his head. Slowly, he pulls the trigger. He hears the shot—and then five more.
He lowers the gun and looks over.
There are six holes in the wall, right beside his head. Six little round, perfect holes.
But there are no holes at all in the man’s head.
There are no holes there at all.
The man finds himself walking from the bathroom. He finds himself leaving the house. He finds himself walking across the street, through a bus, a park bench, an empty lot.
The man finds himself walking and walking, walking on and on. The path that he walks on is always a straight line, and the straight line always leads him on.
The man never thinks about where he’s going; he never thinks about turning back. As for his life—his children and his wife—the man put a line through all that.
He walks off.
THE HUNTER’S HEAD
A HUNTER RETURNS TO HIS VILLAGE ONE NIGHT WITH A severed human head in one hand. He jams the head onto a stake and sticks it into the ground by his hut.
Then he goes inside and falls asleep.
The people of the village stand at a distance and stare at the head in horror. They mutter among themselves all night long and worry about what the hunter has done.
But in the morning, when the hunter emerges from his hut and heads back out into the jungle, none of them says a single word; they just stand and watch him as he goes.
Then, when he’s gone, they turn as one to look at the head again. But none of them has the courage to approach it.
Except for one small boy.
The severed head, it turns out, is that of a woman. A young woman, neither beautiful nor ugly.
The boy stares at it in silence for a moment.
Then the head opens its eyes.
Boo! it says, and the boy jumps.
Sorry, says the head, didn’t mean to scare you.
I thought you were dead, the boy says.
Dead? says the head. What do you mean?
The boy doesn’t know how to answer.
The head’s eyes wander around.
Where am I? it says. This doesn’t look familiar.
You’re in our village, says the boy.
Did you come from a village? he adds a moment later.
A village? says the head. I don’t remember.
It frowns for a while as it seems to think.
I can’t remember very much, it says.
The head seems sad, so the boy tries to cheer it up. He tells the head stories about his life. He tells it the story about the time his brother got his toe bitten off by a raccoon.
The head laughs and laughs and laughs and laughs.
Then the hunter returns from the jungle.
This time he is carrying two heads.
He doesn’t seem to notice the boy as he affixes the heads to stakes. He jams the stakes down into the ground just like he did the first.
Where are these heads coming from? says the boy.
But the hunter walks right past him, goes inside the hut, and falls asleep.
The boy looks over at the two new heads. They open their eyes and stare back at him.
Who are you? the two new heads say.
A boy, says the first head. His brother lost a toe to a raccoon.
Ah, the two new heads say.
They look at the boy.
Ah, they say.
In the morning, the boy rises early and follows the hunter into the jungle. The hunter moves quickly; it is hard to keep up, and it gets harder and harder as they go.
The boy follows the hunter all day; he loses all track of where he is. All he knows is he’s farther from his village than he’s ever been in his life.
But eventually—eventually—the hunter starts to slow.
He stops behind a tree and looks out.
Then he readies his machete and spear.
The boy looks out to follow the hunter’s gaze. There is a village in the clearing beyond the tree. And it is full of villagers—just like those back home—going peacefully about their lives. They are talking and laughing and carrying on, just as though nothing were happening. Just as though no one were hiding behind the tree, getting ready to jump out and kill them.
The hunter charges. The villagers panic. They scream and shout, but there’s nothing they can do. The hunter chops and stabs and spears and clubs them, and hacks off three more heads. Then he gathers the heads up into his arms and runs back into the jungle again.