The Quick

Dearest Iqbal-

I wandered around the square. It seemed like something to do. I had already dusted my venetian blinds, and then dusted the tops of my books (amazing how much accumulates on unread volumes). I set out in my best shirt, sunday shirt as my parents might say, and strolled. I initially fell into my gate of choice: brisk, deliberate, and most of all, angular. Each step meaning something. But I realized how inappropriate this was. The goal of my jaunt was not only unclear, but it really didn't exist. To walk briskly would not only make it less pleasant, but it would make clear to me my own day's emptiness all the sooner. The hope was that if I did enough of nothing and went through the motions of enjoying it, then I'd be able to convince myself that I did something. 

The day was unseasonably warm and I was glad that I'd rejected the blazer, though it did match my Sunday shirt quite finely. I took my time around the square, stepping lazily and occasionally varying my direction so to clarify to all around me that I had no where peculiar to go. "There goes that man, just enjoying his day. It might as well be Sunday for him." It was in fact Tuesday. 

This was the second day the venetian blinds were cleaned. Yesterday was Monday; the first day that the newspaper that had employed me was no longer printing. There was talk of a spin off magazine or shifting the paper's weight to the internet, but no one had the organizational skill or the impetuous or the capital, so it was quietly snuffed out. An announcement ran one week before the final paper, and then on the final paper. 

I hadn't really been a great journalist, or much of one at all. A cousin was an editor of sorts, his name slept soundly on the mast and it was hard to not promote me. Up from stock boy and mail-room paper-cut receiver and assistant to anyone and everyone. They eventually gave me a column. I was instructed to keep it light, keep it local, and keep it legible. I proceeded. I wrote about Christmas parties, and coming out parties (well, we didn't really have those, this not being Dixie at all, but god damn we could pretend like the best of them), fundraisers, parades, school plays, the tearing down of old movie houses, the shooting of movies, the charm of the architecture on M____ Street, the death of certain matriarchs, and my personal reflections on the air in town. The closest I ever came to any hard journalism was an ironic expose on the decrepitude of some of the historical buildings. On a tour, I once noticed decaying electrical systems and rotted water heaters. While the piece's heart was serious, it was written in the tone of a comical rebuke. "A house, like a man, should be judged by his upstairs and his downstairs, by his front windows and his basement floor." 

I had written other things that went unpublished. Some serious "journalism," several volumes of diary, a number of short stories (which I submitted to my very paper under the nom de plume "Gerome Calhoun"), and the better part of a worser novel. All these scribbling filled my attic, boxes and boxes, but never filled a single page of mass printed paper. They existed soley and quietly on reams of paper filled with the close and precise type of my trusted typewriter, which I always wrote on.

I had few misgivings. I was published! On a weekly basis. In quite a handsome paper, in quite a handsome column. Just because it was no longer in print, doesn't mean it no longer mattered. Those papers existed in archives and on microfilm, and in a small box kept in my attic. I was proud.  And now I no longer needed to think on paper. I could enjoy the walk around the square without letting my mind wander and devise ways in which the minutest of sensations or reflections could be expanded in a column. 

The sun came out. I giggled (all to myself). "Sunlight on a broken column." That's what it is! I should have squeezed that into my last entry. Oh I could have. Too late now.

I sat down on a bench in the shade. Across from me was a sleeping man, perhaps 25, laid out on a bench. At least I thought he was sleeping, his dark sunglasses obscured his eyes. He stirred and sat up, and took out a notebook from his inner pocket. He read what was previously written and began to write. With a pencil. 

A pencil is in poor form, I thought to myself, but at least he is writing. So few today. I lifted my hat and he smiled, removing his glasses. 

"Lovely day," I said.

"Yes, it is," he responded warmly.

"I couldn't help but notice. What are you writing?"

"Oh, it's a draft of a letter. My father and I write back and fourth once or twice a month. Long letters. He lives in Bombay. Expatriate you might say. We've found that letters are much more personal and interesting than bad telephone connections or email." 

"Indeed! It must be very satisfying. And to have them all. A solid record of a correspondence."

"Yes."

"In what form do you usually send the letters? Pen? Handwritten?"

"I have tried a number. His always comes in handwriting. It's always so legible and clean, but very personal. I can see him laying in bed composing."

"Very nice. The physical artifact; lovely."

"But mine, mostly hand written. I've never been a fan of my handwriting. It looks childish, especially compared to his. I've printed out some at the library, like typed on a computer and then printed. That always feels wrong though."

"Indeed."

A thought flashed across my mind. An author retiring (me) passing along an instrument of writing to an author young (him). I certainly wouldn't need it anymore. My life was quieting, was slowing. I checked my watch. I had been out for 45 minutes, long enough for it to be substantial. I made the option known:

"Have you ever considered writing on a typewriter?"

His eyes focused then glazed, then focused again.

"No."

"They are in many ways ideal. They retain the physical element of a handwritten note, the crinkles in the paper made when you feed it in, and the specific idiosyncrasies of the typewriter, broken serifs, letters that don't mark as hard, etc., but is still easy on the the eye to read."

"Yes."

"I have one, you know. One that is of no use to me anymore."

"Really? Why don't you want it?"

"Well, I'm a writer too, but retired. Maybe I was a writer. You're welcome to it. It's not electric or anything like that, but in perfect working condition. And I've got plenty of ribbon left for her."

"Well, are you sure?"

"Nonsense. It'd please me to pass it off. It'll be good to know that it's still getting use. In my old home it will gather dust, not putting a sentence to paper."

"Well, sure than."

We stood up, setting off at a healthy gate towards my home. Destination made my steps meaningful and idle conversation filled the air. I could tell he was legitimately excited to get the instrument, and I'd get it off my hands. One more thing taking up space in my old age would be gone. 

I turned the corner to my home, pointing it out to my companion. As I pulled the keys out of my pocket and reached for the door there was a strange surge in my body.

The windows, on all floors, smashed, the glass flying out. The door was blown off it's hinges, flying towards me. Flames erupted from every orifice. The roof of the house lifted noiselessly up into the air, levitating 15 feet above the house before a loud "boom" was heard and all began to fall. I was vomited back from the front door many yards. I landed with my front door beside me. I quickly covered my head as debris began to fall. A toilet, a desk drawer, spoons and knives, rained down. Inches from me landed the typewriter. It collapsed into tiny pieces. And then the burning rain. I looked up, all through the air were pieces of singed paper, some still aflame. Hundreds of them. As they landed all around me I realized they were all typewritten. All my work.

We made eye-contact. My companion seemed fine.  "The boiler must have blown, lucky it didn't happen seconds later. We're alive!"

"Indeed we are," I said. "Indeed we are."

-Robert de Saint-Loup

Shock

Dearest Iqbal-

The weather has finally broken. It rained heavily for a number of days, soaked the concrete and in a few select places forced earth worms to rise from the muck and die on the street. Though beneath the city is dirt, dirt everywhere, it may as well be miles away. Think of the thousands of worms that rise up when the ground floods only to bump their soft heads against the underside of 6th Avenue. An inauspicious end.

Not long ago I was walking on Jane St. and before me was a construction team. They had cut a perfectly square hole out of the ground, lifted the asphalt and revealed the wet dirt beneath. I was revolted and felt the urge to vomit and looked away. Like the impact of seeing someone you love on an operating table, their generic entrails turning black in the air, the physical sensation of wrongness is overwhelming.

Elizabeth Edwards has told Oprah that when her husband confessed to being physically intimate with another woman she vomited. The bodies insistence on purging itself is quaint. It works with alcohol and putrid food, and it's funny to think that the same technique will get the truth out of us. I'm sure it helps. To see floating in the toilet before you a mess of matter, and to know that that was in you when you found out the wrongness and that now it is no longer in you: That's a start.

I was standing on line getting coffee yesterday. A girl with a shock of red hair was in front of me talking on her telephone. As she was hanging up, she made a pun to which I laughed and found myself, without a word, in a conversation with her. I asked her if she made it up.

She shrugged. "When you're a faith healer with sock puppets for the kids a little jive is required."

There we were, in a muggy, cramped coffee shop and she had the strength to reach out across oceans and time and pluck those silly nouns which seems so far away. I laughed. And wondered, can one have a shock of red hair or only white? I was shocked.

It reminded me of a story that I may well have told you. If so, stop here. Myself and another character were traveling through the backwoods of upstate New York, looking for a state park to burry Iroquois arrows we had purchased at a museum gift shop (we do enjoy this sort of archeological jest). It was late at night, miles and miles passing between junctions, and we were quite hungry. Against our judgement we stopped into a McDonalds. We were however, not the only ones there. Perhaps 10 or 12 ate at 3 adjacent tables. In the center of this group was a large, deformed woman in a shapeless dress. Her eyes were colorless and her forehead wide and her hair pulled back. Surrounding her were her children. The were all dressed like her: big dresses, white shirts for the boys. Some of the older girls gleefully nannied an infant while the older boys sat in silence. The way they interacted with each other as if in a bubble, not even seeking out our eyes or noticing my stares.

My first thought, based on their appearance, was that this was a minor religious sect, perhaps Mennonite, maybe matriarchal, likely inbred. But among them was one anomaly.

She sat at the edge, perhaps 12 years old, socializing with two other girls her own age. She was wearing a flowery print dress and a fleece pull-over. Her hair was bright red. In this sea of colorless, mottled skin and dun hair was her, her appearance was screaming and wailing. She noticed me, or I should say she noticed me noticing her. She was different in every way she possibly could be. Did she know?

My mind began immediately forming narratives of how she got there: she met one of the sisters in a school play and has become part of the family, though she obviously doesn't share their beliefs. She lives near them, and because there are no (normal) little girls for her to play with she and her parents have shrugged their shoulders and allowed her to socialize with Mennonites.

Either way, the mother stood up and without a word all the children began to finish up. They walked as a body outside and got into two unmatching vans, one being driven by the mother, the other by one of the elder sons. I'd like to think the red headed girl looked back, but I doubt it. I didn't think she needed saving or rescue or anything as dramatic as that. Maybe just recognition.

One more story I will bore you with. This one brief. I was walking down Jane St again (the hole long having been filled in). I was walking behind a girl, again red headed, who could have easily been the same girl I saw in the McDonalds, at least from behind. Flowers have been planed around all the trees on Jane St. and she knelt down to smell one. She inhaled, twice, then reached out her hand and felt the flower. From the way it moved in her hand I could make the discovery with her: plastic. She laughed in the flower's face and walked on.

It is bizarre, Iqbal. Everywhere I turn I am faced with the one open eye of a sleeping man.

-Robert de Saint-Loup

Arthur

Dearest Iqbal-

Poor bloke, eh:

Arthur was still responsible for the tulips. As he aged and became less and less able to fulfill his horticultural responsibilities there was a mild debate over whether to maintain him out of respect or simply remove him -- maybe rename a square of the garden after him or dedicate a bench to his honor. His assistants and groundkeepers-- really no more than manual laborers-- were being forced to take on truer and truer responsibilities, make decisions about when to hem the begonias and whether last years lilacs overshadowed everything around them to an unacceptable degree. It is a testament to the warmth and generosity that emanated from Arthur that no one complained about the picking up of his slack and there was no sudden degradation of the quality of the grounds-- at least none that was voiced.  Maybe the elders who'd been visiting the castle gardens for years may be experienced a pang of disappointment when faced with the variety and composure of this years flora, but that could have been easily dismissed as the gilding of memory that occurs when the senses becomes less distinct.

So a compromise was struck. A new, younger groundskeeper was brought in to take care of general management and the executive decisions while Arthur would remain solely responsible for tulips. This was ideal: the tulips were his favorite, are one of the greatest draws of the castle garden, and really needed tending only in the fall and spring-- times when the temperature was temperate and less likely to tire frail Arthur.

He now lived full time in a cottage south of the castle grounds. By bicycle he was 25 minutes to his tulips and 35 minutes to a railroad station that would happily see him to London, if he ever desired to go. On weekends his daughters (alternating) would come to visit him; both were childless, but in no way a disappointment to him. Shira and Lisa. They were disturbingly like their late mother, as if the marriage had been morganatically arranged, unbeknownst to Arthur, but this did not bother him. While a lesser man may have resented it, Arthur took comfort in it. As soon as his wife's grey eyes closed, succumbing to breast cancer quite young, Arthur looked up and saw those very same grey eyes ensconced firmly and healthily in his daughters' faces. He would tell friends that his wife hardly seemed absent at all and they would marvel at the intense spiritual connection that love had birthed between man and late wife, but Arthur silently wondered if that connection wasn't more from simply seeing his wife's eyes, and hearing her voice and witnessing her gait on a weekly basis. These women-- they came before him (his wife being quite a bit older) and would be there after him.

And really, Arthur was content. He sipped his tea, he read his Rudyard Kipling, and kept up to date on the latest horticultural trends and theories.

As a certain Spring friday rolled upon Arthur, he found himself-- as he often did on Friday-- home early. He put some water on the stove and took from the fridge and once used tea bag (twice was his limit). As the water was beginning to dance in the pot and his mind was struggling to recall what was going to be on television this evening, the telephone rang. Arthur turned off the stove and crossed the kitchen to answer the ringing. Before getting there he knew it must be Shira calling; it was her weekend to come and visit. 

"Dad, I know it's my weekend to come and visit, but me and a couple girlfriends were going to head up to a music festival outside of Kent. Ya know, Dad?"  

He was only Dad when she was trying to be "straight" with him; trying to momentarily step out of the mild infantilization she had imposed. He of course understood. 

"Maybe Lisa's got nothing on her plate this weekend. She can come again," questioned Shira.

"Oh no. No need, course not. There's some stuff to do around the house. Don't you worry a bit."   Arthur proceeded to re-boil the water.

The next morning he awoke bright and early and ready for the day, but with nothing at all to do, no plans, or prospects for them. He considered calling Lisa; maybe indeed she had nothing on her plate, but scratched that idea not wanting to be more of a burden. He stepped out and walked the grounds of the cottage. Not a thing to do.

"Ah well. Let's go to town," Arthur declaimed aloud. He hadn't been to London in years; since Shira and Lisa had taken him to see The Sound of Music. He scrambled to pick a hat and get some cash out of the jar. Because he hadn't a clue about the train schedule the only option seemed to be to rush so as not to just miss a train. 

He mounted his bicycle and peddled quickly, but not too hard, not wishing to arrive in the city tired, windy, and sweaty, but luckily it was a breezy, cool day; perfect for a trip. As the road he was traveling on merged and began to run parallel to the railroad tracks, Arthur would occasionally look over his shoulder, hoping not to see a train coming, for if he saw it here he'd miss it there. But when he arrived he had a full 20 minutes to deposit his bicycle and purchase a newspaper. 

He hadn't read a paper or bothered with the news over the radio in while and decided it best to reacquaint himself with the issues of the day so that he could be an active participant in any conversation he may find himself in. Before long the train came, and Arthur settled into a 2nd class seat and quickly dozed. He awoke to a young man sitting across from him with a computer on his lap. The computer was white and shiny with the emblem of an apple on it.

"My daughter Shira, she has one just like that," Arthur said, gesturing to the computer. 

"Does she?" the man responded, quickly returning his eyes to the screen.

Arthur peered out the window. The buildings were getting taller and greyer and closer to one another. Getting close, thought Arthur. He thumbed his wallet to be sure it was secure and prepared himself for arrival. 

Out in the street and with a sly smile, Arthur was struck dumb. He quickly and self-consciously fell into the rhythm of t he city: broad and sweeping and busy. "The financial capital of the world," Arthur mumbled to himself. 

He considered getting on the tube, but with no destination and having forgotten how exactly they worked, decided that walking was just fine. 

I'm glad Shira couldn't make it this weekend. It's good for me to get out. Nice change o' pace. I hope she's having a swell time with her girlfriends. Girlfriends? Just girlfriends? Maybe some boyfriends too, but she wouldn't tell her old Daddy that, would she? though Arthur. 

He made his way to the Queens walk, getting a sandwich and cold milk  along the way. The sun was already pretty far to west and Arthur's only regret was not having come earlier. Had he made an earlier train there'd have been time for a picture or two. 

He passed a pub and smirkily slid in. He found himself a stool and ordered a pint. The room was filled with mostly men-- of all drinking ages. Their eyes were occasionally transfixed on teh television screen. Leeds was playing Edinburgh. It had been a while since he had followed football, but the game was simple and when a goal was scored and the goalie's face buried in mud Arthur made a grimace (careful to make it a groan of empathy and not sympathy, for he didn't know which team he should be hoping for). 

The game raged on and one and he slowly sipped his beer. When a commercial came over the television advertising for the music festival that Shira was at, Arthur turned to the man next to him, "My daughter is there. Do hope she's having a good time." The man nodded, and when the game came back on, Arthur attempted a conversation: "Quite a game, eh? Must be hard with the mud so wet."

"Yes- but it makes it hard for both teams. No advantage. Really it's the same game, with or without the mud."

"I bet the team laundry women wouldn't say so!" guffawed Arthur. The other man did not. "Mind watching my drink ? Gotta run to the bathroom." The man nodded.

Loud and echoey and covered in nasty writing, Arthur closed his eyes and didn't bother washing his hands. Out in the bar, his drink was untouched but the man didn't look up when Arthur thanked him.

Lifting the mug, still a third full, Arthur made a sweep around the bar, finally settling on a brood of dart players. He didn't know if they came together or knew each other beforehand but decided it didn't make a difference. He engaged them in the most impersonal of small talk, lifting his drink when an excellent toss was made and giving mild words of encouragment when someone didn't do their best. The players seemed to accept Arthur, but the game ended they traveled on together, hardly saying a "good bye" to Arthur. 

Our man settled onto a stool beneath the dart board and worked on the frothy bottom of his now warm beer. Despite it all, he was quite content.

Then a woman walked up.

"Hello there." 

"Hello, how are you?" asked Arthur. They began to chat. The woman's name was Henrietta, a widow who lived not too far away, and was perhaps a few years his junior. They migrated over to the bar and Arthur happily ordered them both new pints. Apparently she'd been a secratary, and her husband a middling official in the Thatcher administration who'd died a number of years ago of a heart attack. She lived quite happily off his pension, spending time with her daughters, reading Rudyard Kipling, and sipping beer. They proceeded to order fish and chips to dilute the third pint they were both having.

Time was slipping away and when Arthur checked his watched he announced that he must be off to the railroad station. Henrietta put he hand on his and implore him not to go. She insisted that he accompany her back to her apartment; she had a bottle of excellent Sherry that hadn't been touched since her husband passed.

Arthur assented. The flat was clean and tasteful and the Sherry was perfect: not too dry, but not mawkishly sweet either. Henrietta made the first move, but Arthur quickly followed it up with a deeper kiss and a tighter embrace. Despite the beer and Sherry he felt perfectly clear headed and was surprised at how adeptly he still knew to hand a woman's body and how genuinely responsive it was to his touch. They were both assured; past the age when a lack of confidence has any bearing on the nature of action. 

Once in the bedroom, however, Arthur did begin to worry. It had been years since he had had sex, and while he never had trouble before he was certainly not a a young man. And while he had grown grey and sagging his ideal of beauty had not. Would this widow's nudity shock him? He supposed he could call it off, or slow it down, bring it to a halt, maybe even without offending her. But no moment presented himself, which is to say that he was enjoying each moment more than the last and didn't want to stop. 

When the time came, all went well, and while her breasts were more formless than the one's that one sees in one's mind and her legs less defined, the intention and desire embodied by her body was more than enough to arouse him. He handled himself quite well and they both slept soundly and satisfiedly. He awoke to the murmur of cars below and to light streaming in the window. Henrietta made coffee and eggs, and they exchanged telephone numbers and mailing addresses. 

On the train ride home, Arthur was quite happy and contented with himself. He had affirmed that he was alive and could bring that knowledge back with him to his cottage and his tulips. And he did.

But a few days later he noticed for the first time a burning sensation, and in the mornings he'd encounter a mild drip that would accumulate putridly in this pajama pants. He decided to ignore it; "a mild infection, will clear itself up soon." But it did not. And when Shira came that next weekend, he was racked with fear and pain. She sensed it immediately and demanded to know what the matter was.

At first he lied: "Oh nothing- whatever do you mean?" But after going to the bathroom and experiencing a burning more intense than previous and a certain reddened swelling at the tip of his penis he came out dejected. "Please: will you take me to the hospital."

"Why, Daddy?" Shira leapt up. "What is the matter?"

"Nothing major. Just please, drive me to the hospital."

"If it's nothing major than why not Dr. Miniver. He's around the corner, the hospital is a good 35 minutes by car."

"No. The hospital please."

"Daddy, this is absurd. Tell me right away what the problem is."

Arthur did. He expected a moment of shocked silence, but there was none.

"How could you Daddy? How disgusting! How shameful! I cannot believe this. What would Mother say?"

She glared down at him with anger.

Meekly, "Now do you see why we cannot go to Dr. Mininver? If we went to him everyone--"

"Get your hat! Let's go." 

Arthur was too shocked and stoned for tears to come to this eyes. He took down a hat and pulled it low over his brow and locked the door on the way out of his cottage.

-Robert de Saint-Loup