by Jim Heynen
There were some sighs of disappointment and occasional pleas for a slow last call, but the bartender turned up the lights and turned on the liveliest new rock-and-roll hits. He lifted his hands over and over, palms up, the way a minister might gesture for a congregation to rise. It’s time! he shouted again and opened the front door. Together the Sad Hour customers got up, their bodies slowly refilling their clothes. Calmly, they walked out onto the noisy streets, almost smiling.
THE LOVE ADDICTS
They always found each other, the ones whose hearts had no guidelines. Often they lived within tame and domestic boundaries, but at parties their eyes flitted, looking for gold at the end of a reciprocal smile. In lonely places, their intense light broke through the fog of their surroundings. To each other’s eyes, they were bright roses in a dense forest.
It was not malice that drew them to each other, nor a need to conquer or control. It was a pure and mutual hunger. The jealous cynics said their hearts were mere dustbins of appetite. The righteous purveyors of wisdom said they must be cured, their hollow hearts replenished with wheat bread and broccoli, with brown rice and beans. But they craved pomegranates, ripe peaches and melons. Their hearts were blueberry cream tarts and crème brûlée with Belgian chocolate. Their hearts were a fullness topped with lavish desire.
Look at them now. Don’t they act as if they are normal, as if those beaming smiles were merely goodwill? What could be wrong with that lilt of the brow, that innocent grin? And the way they walk—can anyone tell what it tells, their strained casual maneuvers of shoulder and hip? Everything, including their clothing, is snug, a tightening restraint that fuels their urge to break free.
The moment of truth is not like a flower opening to the sun of their embrace. It is lightning and shattering leaves. Uprooted trees, downtrodden grass. They are their own aphrodisiac, smooth and moist and just short of violent. But in the delirium of their readiness, they are not helpless servants of lust. They are not desperate pilgrims on a treacherous frontier. Their marsh of passion does not foreshadow the ashy pyre. This is their verdant kingdom, and they are the king and queen.
THE EULOGIST
This gentleman was such a good eulogist that whenever somebody died, people asked him to speak at the funeral.
I’m not sure, said a grieving widow. I hardly know him and my husband hardly knew him.
You can at least ask. Let him decide.
The eulogist had no trouble with the request. I am so honored, he said. When and where is the funeral?
At the funeral, the priest mispronounced the eulogist’s name when he introduced him. The eulogist smiled but did not correct the priest. The eulogist bowed to the cross, though no one knew if he was religious. He paused and studied the audience. He carried no notes, but he knew the names of every family member and addressed each one before he began. His expression was compassionate, though not sad.
What can be said about this beautiful man? he began, and paused. Mild sobbing rippled gently through the sanctuary.
What can we say of a man who was so truly good, so self-sacrificing, always tending to others’ needs?
The sanctuary became a chorus of sad heads nodding in unison.
It is for us, he went on, to celebrate! And then to live! The truths! Of this good man’s life!
The sanctuary shimmered with a grieving gladness. The priest crossed himself. Only the widow looked somewhat sour, as if she knew a different truth from what the eulogist was declaring.
We all have our stories, don’t we? said the eulogist. We all have our stories of how this man touched us deeply, how his life transformed us—however modestly, because he was a modest man—into someone we might not have become if it were not for him. He made a difference, didn’t he? He made a difference for all of us.
Again the sanctuary was an assembly of grateful sighs and nods.
I am humbled, the eulogist continued, I am truly humbled to stand before you in the brilliant shadow of this man’s glorious life.
Only the widow was sober-faced and tearless.
Now I, like you, must go on with the work of the world. That is what he would have us do, isn’t it? In his spirit then. In his spirit. Thank you.
Amen, said the priest.
Amen! echoed the voices from the sanctuary.
A gentle friend touched the widow’s arm after the service. The eulogy was so comforting, she said to the widow. Who is that wonderful man?
To praise the dead is easy, said the widow, but my husband was not a good man. The eulogist is not a good man either. A silver tongue on a sawdust man. His eulogy was vanilla frosting on a bed of nails. My husband was that bed of nails, a life composed of a thousand small but sharp bitternesses. There is no beauty in disguising the ugly truth. There is no comfort in presenting bile as crème de menthe.
I’ve never heard you talk like this before, said the gentle friend. I didn’t even know you could talk like this.
I’m practicing my eulogy, said the widow.
For whom?
For the eulogist.
WHO LIVED IN A SEPARATE REALITY
He thought he was like everyone else. He wasn’t. He lived in a separate reality.
When he shopped for clothing, he sometimes thought of cutting the antitheft device out of the sleeve of a sweater and walking out with it. In the grocery store, he would occasionally sample a grape to prove to himself what a natural thief he could be. Once he added five dollars to the donation column on his tax return and didn’t get caught and felt all right about it. There were times when he blatantly crossed the street against a Don’t Walk sign, and he once secretly unfastened his seat belt under his shirt when the airplane was almost up to the gate but before the captain had turned off the seat belt sign. More than once he ignored his dentist’s reminder that it had been six months since he last had his teeth cleaned, and then—when he finally got to the dentist—with equal defiance, he lied about how often he flossed. He usually ate too much at Thanksgiving dinner. He twice forgot his mother’s birthday until the day after. There are times when he picks his nose while driving his car, and at other times deliberately speeds on the freeway, simply because the car in front of him is going even faster and will probably catch the radar detector before he does. When someone tailgates him for ten miles or so, this man actually fantasizes slamming on the brakes and causing an accident that would be serious enough to put the tailgater in the hospital but not so serious that he wouldn’t be able to sue the tailgater for every cent he has.
More than such a gross violent fantasy, this man is capable of actual, though more minor, forms of domestic violence. In just one day he may fail to rinse the bathtub after bathing, and fail to fold his bath towel and hang it up, and leave the toilet seat up, and put his clean underwear away without folding it, and fail to put the cap back on the toothpaste container, and fail to put away the CDs he played the night before.
In spite of everything, while others struggle to maintain civility in thought and word so that the world may continue functioning short of calamity, this man still thinks he is normal and, if he is not challenged, is likely to go on living in the reprehensible world of his separate reality.
THREE WOMEN WERE IN THE CAFÉ
Three women were in the café talking about what they were eating.
Mmm, this sandwich tastes delicious, said one woman. She opened it to show the other women the vegetables that were inside. Would you like a taste?
The second woman reached toward the sprouts and avocado with her fork.
Oh, use your fingers, said the woman with the sandwich.
Then the third woman said to the first two, Would either of you like to taste my oyster stew? It’s very buttery.
Love to, said the second woman. And you must try my salad. The house dressing has just the right bite to it.
To make the sharing easier, the women passed their plates around the table.
When they finished eating all their food, each tried to take the check because
each claimed to have eaten the most.
My stomach is so full, I should pay, said one.
No you don’t, said the second. I eat so fast, I know I had the most.
Not on your life, said the third, tugging at the check. My mouth is twice the size of both of yours put together. Let me have that check.
Before the arguing went any further, each of them started tossing money on the table, and in no time at all there was far too much. But as the first woman dug through her purse, the second said, What a lovely coat.
Oh, yes, said the first. This cotton lining is so soft on the skin. Here, do try it on. What about that velour sweater? she asked the third. Mauve is my favorite color.
Try it on, said the third woman. Are those new boots you have on?
The women started exchanging clothes, helping each other with the buttons and snaps. Some of the articles did not fit the other women very well, but by this time the women had become expert at working out the minor details.
GOOD RIDDANCE
An elderly gentleman decided to take note of everything he knew he’d never do again.
He vacationed at an island where clouds of mosquitoes tormented him day and night. When he returned home, he said, I’ll never go there again.
He ate at a restaurant that served tiny pickled octopus. I’ll never eat tiny pickled octopus again, he told everyone.
He had always wanted to see the Leaning Tower of Pisa, so he flew to Italy and visited the tower.
Photographs show you just as much, he said later. I’ll never go see that thing again.
Then he realized how many things that were near him every day passed into his life and were gone as quickly as they had come. When he left his apartment to throw out a bag of garbage, he knew he’d never see it again, not the garbage or the plastic bag he carried it in. Good riddance, he said.
But then he picked up a pebble from the alley and looked at it curiously. It was the shape of a miniature bird’s egg. He held it up to the sun and saw little swirls of lavender and gold. He threw it in among the other pebbles, and it disappeared as totally as a drop of water thrown into a river. The tomatoes in his small patio garden ripened and were gone. The geranium with its short bloom, a falling leaf, the cloud that passed overhead—so many things were his for a moment before he’d never see them again.
For the first time, the quick loss of so many glittering trifles tormented him. He gripped the metal railing on the front steps as he walked up to his apartment. See you later, he said to the railing.
He turned the solid doorknob. See you tomorrow, he said to the door as he closed it.
Same old rug in the hallway. Same stove in the kitchen, same kettle on the burner. Stay right there, he said to the kitchen, I’ll be right back.
He walked into his bathroom. Same sink. Same mirror. He turned on the reliable light and studied the person in the mirror. The man he had seen yesterday was no longer there.
THE GOOD HOST
Let me top off your glass, he said to one guest, and while he refilled his guest’s glass he refilled his own.
Soon the good host had spread so much goodwill around the dinner table that a good time was being had by all. Everyone talked at once and, even if someone said something unkind, the crossfire of words was so wild and random that cruel remarks were blurred by laughter and cheer.
After dinner, as some people floated off into easy chairs and others served the dessert, the good host told people how wonderful they were.
I would hate to think of this world without you close enough to come for dinner, he said. And you, he said to another, you look better every time I see you.
As most of the guests started to sip their drinks more slowly, the good host drank his more quickly. If someone left the room or looked away, he refueled his glass before any eyes turned toward him.
Then his stories began, and they were longer than the quick bits of talk when the evening began. His long stories started from a sweet center but soon were sprinkled with granules of bitterness. Jokes about his delicate wife started as succulent truffles, but, by the time he finished, the truffles were wrapped in thorns. Other stories had a clear surface but, like some innocuous-looking coffee tables, their sharp edges caught people on their shins.
One thing I’ll say for you, you never stop trying, he said to his closest male friend. As the victim recoiled, not knowing if he had been complimented or derided, the good host kept smiling and offered more drinks to those who had sobered into silence. Offered them drinks, then took one himself.
As the evening ended, the good host walked his guests to the door and hugged them before letting them go. As they left, he made promises. I’m going to read that book you recommended, he said. I’m going to call you tomorrow to talk about golf, he said to another.
And then the house was quiet. The good host suggested to his wife that they wait until morning to clean up the dishes. Let’s just sit, he said, and poured each of them a cognac. Such a wonderful night, don’t you think? I just need to be close to you for a few minutes before we go to bed.
He put his head on her shoulder and watched the shadows hover outside the window.
WHO WANTED TO KNOW ONE THING WELL
For seventy years he had tried to learn everything. He studied physics, philosophy, and literature. He was moderately proficient in Latin, Greek, French, German, Spanish, and even Italian—non è vero? He knew six hundred Chinese characters. He was truly learned, but the more he knew, the more he saw how little he knew.
One day, sitting in the middle of his books, he admitted that he didn’t know anything well. Not really well. He resolved that before he died he would know one—just one—thing better than anyone in the world. That one thing, he decided, would be his own house.
He started with his tape measure. It took him twelve weeks to measure his house centimeter by centimeter, room by room, window by window, door by door. He measured the size of each shingle, each brick in the chimney, every light fixture and appliance, every book in his library. When he finished, he had forty pages of data.
Now what? To know his house, he had to know more than the superficial dimensions of things. His house had to be more than the sum of its parts.
A deeper knowledge would come through touch. He blindfolded himself and made a tactile accounting—from the raspy foundation blocks to the smooth, polished counters. His fingers delighted in the tight-knit fabric of the carpets but were not grandly excited by the indifferent plastics and Formica. Still, knowledge was knowledge.
The more he touched, the more he noticed the smells. In the kitchen his nose told him about potato peels and apple cores, lemon rinds and spilled milk. His stove emitted olive oil and garlic. If he paused and concentrated, he could smell cinnamon, cardamom, coffee. His bedroom smelled like cleaning chemicals and laundry softeners. His office smelled like newspapers and books and, he thought, Scotch tape. Even the piano had an odor, as did every piece of music, especially the old sheet music, which smelled like a small-town museum.
As he sniffed his way toward knowledge, his ears filled with house sounds: not just the familiar starting and stopping of the refrigerator and furnace but the strange sighs and groans as the outside temperatures rose and fell. He listened to the different tunes the wind played on different parts of his house. When he put his ear to the north wall, his lips touched the paint, which made him wonder how many different flavors his house had. Why was the basement salty? he wondered. And what was that spice in the lampshade?
For thirteen months he gathered information, but when he sat down to assess what he had learned, the scars and wrinkles of his house distracted him. Its flaws glowered under his scrutiny. He knew he had to dig deeper. With chisel and scalpel he made his way into the walls to understand the internal organs. Inside the master bedroom he found an old mouse nest. It was round and dark as a blood clot, but it had frayed and softened with age so that air sifted easily through it. As he went on digging, he found the electrical veins had harde
ned and were threatening to corrode, perhaps to hemorrhage and splatter their dangerous light everywhere—those same vital currents that his house had depended on for decades.
His pursuit of knowledge left his house in shambles. He still had a terrible desire to learn more, but his house just stared at him like a mirror.
THE COUPLE THAT NEVER FOUGHT
The better people got to know them, the more amazing this couple seemed. Neither ever gave the other a harsh glance. Never a snide remark.
It’s not as if they never got angry. You could hear them shouting obscenities at the TV when the news was bad or the program was stupid. They’d scold the neighbors if their dogs barked all night. They’d argue politics with guests and shake their fists at rude drivers.
But with each other? Never a frown. Never a Please don’t do that or a How often must I ask you! Sometimes the toilet seat was left up, but she never scolded him. Sometimes splatters of her toothpaste were left on the edge of the sink, but he didn’t accuse her. Together they balanced the checkbook and paid the bills without demanding an explanation for how the other spent money. They had two children but never argued about how best to discipline them. One day you’d see one taking the garbage out, the next day the other. They were always smiling in each other’s presence, so one would assume their congeniality followed them to the bedroom.
How did they do it? They didn’t go to church very much and never read self-improvement books. As far as anyone knew, they’d never been to a couples workshop. They didn’t meditate. They didn’t recite affirmations. They had been married an unruffled twenty years. And no one could count how many marriages were ruined by their example.
COFFEE SHOP CHAIR
The chair absorbed her boredom. When she stood up, the black seat cushion still sagged with her implosive imprint, the four wooden legs lingered in their bent position, and the wooden slats on the backrest kept her dark circles deep in their grain.