StoridigmMAGAZINE

Spring 2010Volume OneNumber Two

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A well chosen anthology is a completedispensary of medicine for the more commonmental disorders,and may be used as muchfor prevention as cure.

–RGraves

Stories.Read ('em)

if You Got ('em).StoridigmMAGAZINE

From Answers. Questions.

StoridigmMAGAZINEFrom Answers. Questions.Founded 2009 / Vol. 1, No. 2Spring 2010

R. Nicholas Håaj, Editorwww.storidigm.com

*****Rebecca ShepardThe Four of Us

Francis RavenPeglegMike FlorianMaking Things Right

Francis DiClementePortfolioR. Nicholas HåajPanic

Willa FrostTough Call - Two ShortsWhat The Old man KnewVic Valone

Statement of Literary IntentThe words we use take on many lives. Some stay near home. Some go far, far away. Someare scorned. Some are gloried. Some are manipulated. Some are ignored. Some comeback to reminisce. Others, we hear about from time to time.There are no preordained answers. Only impatient questions. In asking, they are released.What returns is ours.

Contact Storidigm MagazineReady to submit for the Summer 2010 Edition?submissions@storidigm.comComments or suggestions?editor@storidigm.com

Copyright © 2010 Storiad, Inc.

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India, 2007Bewildered, in a blue light, we forget that we are known.It couldn’t have takenmore then twentyminutes for the doctorto come back with theresults. It had taken methe better half of my life to learn to listen. The fastest diagnosis of any irreversible disease. Nothing too unusual,nothing easy, just something. My tears must not have carried any weight, because they were utterly silent, runningdown my face like sticky mango juice in the summer time.

All I could see was white, bleeding into my vision. I stared forward, aware of my mother’s hand on myleg, and the doctor standing to the right. Time was ticking and she had other patients to see, and I didn’t want tobe there, not really; I didn’t want to be anywhere. I just wanted to keep moving. I slipped out of the office intothe hallway. Sliding down the dirty white wall I closed my eyes for a moment. I didn’t like the feeling of my bodyagainst the earth so I stood and turned, leaning my head against the white mass, slightly blurry in front of me.Slowly I traced my index finger across the wall. In flickering writing I wrote I was here. My mother came out ofthe office and stood, watching me. I looked over my shoulder at her, unable to reach out to her, unable to stayput. I turned and led the way out. In the glass doorway I saw her reflection, her slightly red eyes. I clenched myfists.

At home I could feel my father’s presence in the dinning room, his weight held so completely in the chairby the table, his prayer shawl wrapped around the back of it. His hair was brown and wavy, resting upon hisFrench face gently. I wondered for a moment if lots of french people got diabetes. Slowly I walked by, uncaring,and slipped up to my room, where I sat in the windowsill. The air was thick with heat, the world outside movingso purposefully, even when I could not seem to. There were lights everywhere, horns and music rippling in on afold of air. I looked down at the brochure they had given me in the doctors office. I skimmed through it, thepaper glossy and sticky from the humidity. Everything in my room felt so trivial, the posters, the desk clutteredwith pencils, the tips broken and erasers dry, old essays and books I never got around to reading; even my nameon the wall- VAHRIN- in big faded yellow letters from my sixth birthday.

I could feel my father in the doorway but barely moved my head. He stood with his book of prayerstucked neatly under his arm, his head bowed, whatever truths he had tried to impress onto me lost somewhere inthe days I saw evidence to the contrary.

“Do you know what Vahrin means?”I laughed to myself. “Dad, I don’t need a lesson in religion.”“It means water,” he continued.This angered me. “Oh yeah? Well guess what? My body doesn’t absorb water anymore.”He shook his head.“That is not the point.”“Then what is? It just fucking sucks, so leave it alone.” I turned away, back to the night.“Water flows back to the sea, always.”

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The Four of UsA Novel Excerptby Rebecca Shepard

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I hated him. I was not water, I would not flow, I would not find home again. I got up to leave andexpected him to try and stop me, but he was no longer in the doorway. I thudded down the stairs and out thescreen door, slamming it’s flimsy frame behind me as I mounted my bike and raced off. Perhaps I would have aseizure without insulin, I thought. Perhaps I would go off into the jungle, off into the mountains, off somewhere, and never be found.

I went to the river, left my bike in the shrubs, and waded in slowly, mypants billowing, the train across the field smeared with advertisements and graffiti.Usually I would have hiked up for about a half a mile through the tree’s and plantsto get to a small pond that filled off the side of the river. Because of the shallownarrow entrance to it, all the trash stayed out of it. “The only clean water in India,”my father always joked. But that night, I didn’t want to be clean, didn’t want to beready to come back presentably to society. A torn plastic bag swam by me. I letmyself float, placing my feet against a tree root so as to avoid drifting away. Thenight was starless, the moon full and thick against the universe. I could barely feelthe water flowing around me, only my body rising and falling slowly.

Despite my efforts the sky thinned out with light as stars began to appear,as if taunting me. I became aware of how cold I was. Climbing gingerly out of theriver I watched my feet leave pockets of water where I placed them. The dirt ofIndia became mud. On my bike the wind bit at me, beginning to dry my clothes. Athome I snuck in, but no one was waiting. In my bedroom I took off my clothes andcurled up in my bed. I lay there for hours until the sun began to creep through thecity. I stared at the ceiling for the beginning of the morning, that awkward timebefore day and night when your class defines how you will spend the time.

At six I rose - I was rich, but only by Indian standards - and padded down the stairway. I sat at the tablefor a long time, alone. Pressing my hands against the cabinet by my shoulder I watched how they stuck slightly asI tried to pull them away. Was that me, or the wood, or the humidity?

My dad came downstairs. He put the kettle on and left silently, his morning walk of prayer and collectingthe paper from the corner store combined into one. When he got home my mother was up, pouring the coffeeinto two cups. He read the paper, and she pretended to concentrate on cooking, but I could feel her eyesflickering towards me every few seconds. My brother Jean-he got the French side of the family- thudded downthe stairs, his stained soccer jersey flat against his small frame. His hair was ruffled, eyes big and green and urgentto get his toast and go.

“Jean,” my father said, in the semi serious tone that he always used.Jean looked up.“Something has happened. Your sister went to the doctor yesterday.”Jean examined me, trying to find something wrong.“She has been diagnosed with diabetes.”Jean stopped chewing for a moment, and then thoughtfully began, concentrating, “I don’t know what

that is,” he admitted.“The pancreas, an organ by the stomach, produces a hormone called insulin. Without insulin, the body

cannot absorb food or water, and so the liver, which stores up sugar releases its supplies into the body so thatthere will still be enough energy for all the processes the body requires. This can sometimes create acids calledketones.”

I watched my father in disbelief. Jean had stopped eating, the toast clutched in his small fingers.

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“It means I have to give myself shots every day, Jean. I think that was more the answer he was lookingfor Dad,” I said angrily.

Jean looked at his piece of toast, set it down and licked his finger. His eyes were scared, and he shook hisleg, looking back and forth between our faces. “Does that mean I have it too, Dad?”

My father reached out, almost with a look of relief, and touched his hand, shaking his head gently. “No,darling, it doesn’t. You will need to be checked, but nothing to worry about.”

I swore under my breath.“Then why are you not taking your medicine now?” Jean asked me, but Dad answered.“I don’t trust Indian doctors. We are sending her to a hospital in America tomorrow,” he said.Jean bit his lip, leg shaking and turned to me. I wouldn’t meet his eye, and so he watched me, puzzled for

a moment, then got up, the chair sliding raggedly. “Can I go?”My father nodded. The door swung closed slowly, its hinges wailing against the silence.I could feel his eyes upon me as my mother drank her coffee in the living room, staring out the window.

Finally I heard him ruffle the paper and it opened up. I looked away, blinking. What would I look like the day I openedthe newspaper to find a cure for myself ? Would I be alone? Would I even be alive?

My father sighed and turned the page. Outside a child on a bike far too bigfor him rode by.

***Infection in every cave, I am the source of these rivers that find their way away to some hot tundra,steam after we are all gone, arrogant enough to think we could ever possess this. I’m yours, you lied,we lied, and somehow that togetherness was okay. In mutual belief truth and lies dance like papaused to, back before he found some higher purpose. In the concave world of alley ways and dirtyinstruments he would find a beat, and watch my mother with gleaming eyes as his whole body dancedwildly through the hot night air. I would cling to her hand, half embarrassed by this raging soulthat was my father, and half proud to have his blood in me, as if at some predetermined point thisskin would fail to cover me and I would rip through the holes, understanding that light he carried,even by only the trickling juice of the stars.

Where are you now, I asked him, as I lay, half submerged, waiting to become a fish, orsome part of this that did not carry quite as much flesh and bone, quite as many secrets andimpurities. I thought of getting a tattoo down my backbone, WHERE spelled like a type writer,matter of fact, just dropping in, wondering where God has gone. It’s hot down here, maybe too hotfor Him. Maybe that’s why there is all this water.

Vahrin.The word is foreign, even to me, even here.Everything that holds something cracks, breaks away. Paint on my mother’s dresser, my

father’s shoes, ten years old at least. My skin, to the needles it begs for. At some point, we choosebetween opening up, or being torn open. Some of us just don’t know it yet. Our skin crosses itself incircles, connecting the dots. Permanence isn’t always the same, it can carry different weight, but thisis obscured by its infinity. Does being rare hurt more, or give a sense of comfort in its isolation? Paper bends, and light bends and airbends, and so do words, wherever you will take them. Language guides us through dust, and dust through the stars, their explosionsconnecting what was, and what is simply through vastness.

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The first night after I was diagnosed I watched my shadow speedaway in front of me through the pools of light from openwindows down the street as I biked home. The night time streetswere hot and humid and the smells of something too ancient toremember was cooking somewhere. I used to love to watch myshadow. My body didn’t seem to quite fit it; as if a part of me wasonly on the street. I let myself cry a little bit, mostly because I feltI should.

I started sleeping with the fan on. I think people who sleep with a fan on just want the noise to drownout the danger that could be right there. They would rather die suddenly then hear the burglar’s footsteps beforedeath. They’d rather hear nothing but noise and not think. I guess that was the way it was with me. I wasn’t tooafraid of burglars. In India they aren't much different from you and me, just another starving dark tapestry.

The night before I left I sat at the kitchen window, my brother’s television rattling upstairs, my fathershifting in the living room, softly crossing and uncrossing his legs as he turned the pages of his dusty newspaper.Outside my mother was taking down the washing, my washing, and folding it gently and slowly into a wickerbasket. The moon was a swollen orange behind her, and a slight wind played with her hair, rustling it over hershoulder, plump around the edges. I remember thinking how incredibly beautiful she was, but I don’t know whyin that particular moment. Quickly pulling down my underwear and bras she stuffed them at the bottom of thebasket. She was only half Indian and born in America, yet the childhood she remembered was of appearances,and so silently she hid them away underneath my other clothing. Pausing as she pulled down a white dress Iwatched it billow in her tired hands.

“Come on Vahrin! Keep up!”The boys thundering through the bracken and leaping across the puddles. Running fast, my cheeks hot,

the hem chaffing against my leg, saturated with mud.“Keep running!”Through the market and a barrel of rice toppled over, a grimy cat disgruntled and peering at the spilled

grains.“Hey white girl, you come back!”Was I white? White like the dress, white like my father?My feet were starting to hurt. I looked around. The boys were gone. I bent over, the alleyway my castle,

and tiptoed out, joining a great throng of people and letting myself be swept back home.“Please Mama, don’t be upset.” I cried in just my underwear, my flat chest heaving as I followed her

around, my steps like whispers. Silently with tears down her cheek she scrubbed the dress. “Where does thiscome from? This need to always make white dirty?” She searched my face angrily for an expression. “Where doesit come from?”

Outside there were no stars. I searched for them, something to give my mother direction as she ploddedback to the house, basket under arm. The air was barely cool, wavering, anticipating. Icould have moved from the kitchen before she got in, could have avoided her painstricken face, but for the moment, all I could do was sit.

She entered, the door swinging closed behind her. The smell of insects and drygrass and peppers swallowed me. What would America smell like? Probably of clean carsand white houses and American football. Or was that just a stereotype?

I went to the sink to try and wash something but there was only a solitary spoonin it. I cleaned that and laid it gently on the drying board alone. Upstairs I could hear my

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mother creaking through the doorway to my room. I took a glass down from the cabinet and filled it with tapwater. I drank facing the sink, leaning against it. When I was done I placed the glass in the sink, then slowlyrinsed it and put it next to the spoon. I looked out the window again but there was nothing out there for me. Notanymore anyways.

I entered my room quietly, because nothing carried soundanymore, not even the loud things. My mother was finished packing, andmy bag lay on the ground, neatly tucked with folded clothes.

“I can pack for myself Mom.”A tear rolled down her face. I crossed the room and spread my

arms around her. Is this right? I asked myself, holding back tears. I rockedher side to side, but she would not let go more then that single tear. Sheleft the room and I sat by my bag. I should have looked to see what shehad packed me, but I neither wanted to nor cared. I looked at the clock. It was only 8:45 but all I wanted to dowas sleep. I set the alarm for seven, and lay back in bed, still with my socks and pants on. Eventually I pulledthem off, turned over and shut the blinds. Groping in the dark I turned on the fan.

*****Rebecca Shepard is a writer living in Boulder, Colorado. She has won various creative writing awards and isplanning on attending Lewis and Clark College to study creative writing and psychology. This is the first chapterof her completed novel, The Four of Us.

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Reached. Regardless.

Of course I wouldn’t have bought it had I openedthe package. But that’s the whole point. You’re notallowed to open the package before you buy it. That’swhat I’m saying, all I’m really saying. The fact that Iopened it meant that I bought it: proof of that. No,we’re not getting into a skeptical battle about whetherI really bought it or not. We’re just not going there.No, unfortunately, I don’t have the receipt, but comeon, do I really look like the type of person whowould have bought a wooden phone? It’s wood forGodsakes. Half of it’s burnt,charred like that train station thatthat crazy woman burned down toprove her love to that astronaut,you know the one I mean, right?You don’t think I’m that crazy, doyou? You’d have to be to buy awooden phone.

I know that the authenticnatural look is in now, but during the era when itwould have made sense to make phones out of woodthere wouldn’t have even been any phones. Therewould have been no one to call. We would have beenso distant and separate from one another. That’s thesad truth of it; we live in another era now. Woodenphones are so not authentic of anything. Now we areconnected and that connection utilizes the mediumof plastic and silicon to express itself just like if Iwere a painter I would use the medium of paint toexpress myself. No, I’m not interested in yourcreative pursuits, however fascinating you may thinkthey are. I’m sure your wife thinks that you’re anincredibly good photographer. Hell, you may even bean incredibly good photographer for all I know, butthat’s not why I’m here. No, I don’t want to see anysamples of your work, although from a first glance Ihave to say that they rely a little too heavily on aromantic idealization of poverty that many wouldfind offensive. Let me be clear, though, I’m notoffended. I find it difficult to be offended, exceptwhen I am duped as I have been by BigBests today.

This phone was obviously made by somephony luddite, who didn’t even have the foresightand perseverance to believe his own argument. Or, ifhe did trust in the logic of his argument he decidedto hedge his bets since he also presumably (if thiswere the case) also believed that the rest of societywould not assent to his argument primarily becausetheir lives were so nice with the great gifts oftechnology that modern capitalism had provided.That is, he had to hide the fact that the phone he

carved was made of wood; he hadto hide it in typical plasticpackaging. That’s the catch in hisargument, the snag in his plan. Iwonder how that made him feel: totouch plastic; to know that plasticwould touch his wood.

I know that wood used tobe a symbol of trust. I think Jesus

even said something like, “Trust in the wood that Icarve,” how ironic is that? But wood is no longer thelingua franca of commerce and thus, is no longerwhat we place our faith in. It’s no accident that ourbills are not really printed on paper (which is reallyjust wood in manufactured disguise) but on cotton,crop of the ancient Egyptians, a people often linkedwith space travel. We are moving away from thegroundedness of roots and into the stars ofotherworldliness. That’s what I want to be doing too.I want to ride the zeitgeist, not watch it sail by like acruise missile that never knew its victim. Ohh, sorry,that doesn’t really work as a metaphor, but we’ll fix itlater. Listen, it’s not only that wood is an oldfashioned material, more suited to a slowgrandparent than to me, but that wood is paper andpaper can be shredded. When Arthur Andersonshredded Enron’s documents something happenedto truth: it got boring. A messy smell is worse thanno smell at all. The history of wood is thediminishment of its solidity. From ‘druid’ to theabsolute rule of law in the lex spoletina to your

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grandfather’s cabinetry passed down from generationto the next through Pottery Barn’s urban-chic “youcan be fashionable too” Friends phase through Ikea’s“put it together yourself ” business plan through themalnourished pockmarked sunken chins ofTennessee’s chipboard mills through and past thedaily paper’s pulp (and untothe truth that more peopleread the NYTimes onlinethan in print) and finallythrough Arthur Anderson’svenerable history and intothe petty wastebasket ofbankrupted history.

And when theyshredded the paper they didn’t know it would be theend of the company. And when they shredded thepaper they didn’t know it would make wood (and bymetaphor, truth) boring. A ponderosa pine smellslike: Vanilla. Shredding the evidence smells boring.Anyway, they still shred the paper. Have you evertried to read a trashcan full of shredded paper? It’s sotedious. There is nothing to follow; nothing to traceout. To be cosmopolitan is to discern, distinguish, toseparate out. Only, at least, the truthishness ofidentity allows us to separate one thing from anotherthing. It smells like, ohh I remember…

…smells like clearcutting. Ohh, I fondlyremember when my father would come home from along day of clearcutting; that unmistakable sweatyodor of destruction would cling to his body. He wasa violent man, but I did love his redolence after work.Smells really take us back to the place where webegan and wood is essentially smellier than plasticand I have to tell you that my youth was just toodamn painful to want to go back there. I want to goforward to a foreign home that has nothing to dowith my past and that is why I cannot accept thisphone with its splinters and unhewn edges. A phonecall should push us towards the people we havechosen to love, not pull us back to the inherentconflict invoked by natural familial obligations.

Do you understand? I want each of myphonecalls to be absolutely authenticated. I don’t

want there to be any doubt that I am who I say I am.Do you catch my drift? Trees have no ability to traceme back into the life I live. I don’t live in the woods.Do I look like I live in a forest? Well, I don’t. I barelyever see green. I wouldn’t know what to do in theforest. I’m a doctor by profession and I just have to

say that I cannot perform operations inthe forest, at least, not in the deepforest—it is too distracting, too forest-like, it has too little language within it.That said, if pressed, and I was sopressed one time by an overly pregnantwoman, I can perform procedures ofmost varieties on the edge of thewoods, in the transition zones, where

human civilization meets the natural (at the edge of aparking lot which borders the forest, on a patio thatlooks over the forest, on a sidewalk that goesthrough the forest, etc.). I can take a biopsy wherethere is an interface between the linguistic and thenon-linguistic; but this phone only brings the non-linguistic aspects of life to the fore and I think youwould admit that a phone is definitely supposed tobe linguistic if nothing else, which I why Idesperately need a plastic phone. That’s all I’masking for here: a trade in or my money back. I needto know that anything is possible and plastics makeme feel this way. Why? That’s none of your business,but plastics are, well, plastic. They are nothing if notmalleable. They demonstrate that we are malleable,that human nature is malleable. Everything isabsolutely contingent upon every thing else. Isn’tthat great? It doesn’t make you scared, does it? Likeyou’re the only star in the sky? That’s how it used tomake me feel until I got on top of the feeling andwrestled it to the ground: I can’t let presence get inthe way of a good time. Back when wood was theprimary material used to construct communicationdevices (if there ever was such a time, which I don’tthink there was) people felt like their appliancesowed them the truth; at least they owed themenough to function properly. As I’m sure you’reaware a person would be absolutely crazy to thinkthat appliances owed anything to anyone else (they’re

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more like rock’n’roll singers these days, doing drugsand performing when they want to). We just have tolive with the malfunctioning of the postmodern andlearn to think that it’s beautiful. Plastics are asperfectly postmodern as I am—I know that there isno self. And what could be better than a telephonemade of a malleable material such as plastic. It is theultimate symbol that what we say, and thus, the truth,is relative. There is no truth, there is only what we sayto each other and that’s not very reliable. Some ofmy friends think that this is a twisted way of lookingat other people, they ask, do you really think we’d lieto you? And I try really hard to explain to them thatit’s not lying per se, it’s just not telling the truth,because there is no truth and your subconsciouswants what it wants and they just stare and ask again,do you really think we’d lie to you? And then I’mforced to say yes, because wake up, people do lie, weall do, and if you don’t think we do then you’re livingin a fool’s paradise and that’s what the real world isreally like and you’d better face up to it if you don’twant to get trampled. That’s why plastics are sogreat—you don’t really have to face up to the horrorsof the postmodern world with them—you can usethem to disguise everything about yourself to thepoint where you’re not even sure if you exist. Plasticobjects are talismans in thisdark night of the soul. I keeppraying and fake wood is theonly thing I have to knock on;I would rather just knock onplastic. At least I know it’sfake; at least I know that it’s achangeling for all I have evercared about. It’s like fake Parisin Las Vegas; you know it’sfake so you can completelyand utterly enjoy it, but the real Paris, forget it. TheChamps-Elysées has the largest Nike Town in theworld and that’s just a superficial example of what it’slike. It’s all like that: maybe a little more sophisticated,but a whole lot more conformist and what good isstyle if it’s not your own. At least plastic is American;as American as anything in China can possibly be.

And pleasedon’t startwith a wholefaux-anti-globalization screed. I know that the wood phonewas Union Made In America and stop, stop, I knowthat the wood was sustainably harvested, but I don’tcare. If a shoe doesn’t fit, you have two choices:chop off your foot or get your fucking money back.I’m a huge proponent of the second strategy, whichis why I’m here: I want my money back. And I’msomeone who believes that my money continues tobe my money even after I exchange it for a phone.It’s always my money, mine till the grave. It followsyou like a smell that you can’t get rid of, like a sweetsmell beyond any product’s use and exchange values.

Let me tell you something, I know that as amaterial plastic is, at least in one sense, as old andauthentic as wood and you want to know the way Iknow this, I have this printed on a card from theAmerican Chemistry Association. Let me read it toyou; let me read it to you. I think it’ll give you somereal insight into what I’m thinking here, “AlexanderParkes invested plastic and unveiled it at the 1862Great International Exhibition in London. Thismaterial—which the public dubbed Parkesine—was

an organic materialderived from cellulosethat once heated couldbe molded but thatretained its shapewhen cooled.” That’sright, you heard mecorrectly, plastic, thevery first plastic, wasmade from cellulose,that is, made from

wood, or more precisely the primary structuralcomponent of all green plants. That is, the methodthat God has for creating plants is the same as themethod that man has for creating plastic. So, youthink that I want something more modern because Iwant a plastic telephone, when in reality I just wantsomething a little bit more primal, a little closer to

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the very foundation of things remolded for my fast-paced media-friendly lifestyle. Wood is not the rootof human life, cellulose is, and plastics exploit thisroot as fancy neologisms exploit their Greek andRoman roots. This is as much a question of languageas it is of common appliances whose forms haven’treally been improved upon since manufacturers fazedout the rotary dial. Well, you are the commonappliance, my friend, but I won’t let you off the hookso easily.

They always say, don’t get mad at the personwho’s in front of you, he probably can’t do anythingto help you anyway. The little guys are never givenany power anymore. Well, I just can’t afford tobelieve that in this situation. I need that money. Imean, of course, I could survive without it, but Iwouldn’t want to. It’s about my dignity. I’m mad atyou and that’s all there is to it. You’re the person infront of me and unless you tell me how I have noway of distinguishing your belligerence from yourincompetence from your lack of power so I’m justgoing to be forced to assume that you have thepower to give me what I want.

I have to assume that every personwho’s in front of me can give me what Iwant because, and this is the key part, evenif they’re just a gatekeeper, they can give methe ear of theirhigher up for it isthe rare company(unfortunatelybecoming lessand less rare) inwhich anemployee cannotfigure out how totalk to his boss.Of course, Iknow that your job, the job of the person at thecustomer service desk, is to get yelled at and makesure that customers get to yell at no one higher upthan yourself. But I’m willing to think beyond allreason that you can do more; no, that you will domore.

Yes, I understand that the phone lines aren’tallowing you to refund my credit card, but isn’t theresomething you can do? Are you not open forbusiness? If you weren’t prepared for the tremors ofmodern life then you shouldn’t even really be inbusiness, right? I know you don’t have too muchpower, but I think it’s timefor you to spread yourwings and show yourmanlihood, strangle thebeast of your profession.You’ve got to stand up foryourself, man, otherwise,how is anyone supposed torespect you even for an instant? There’s just nothingleft to say, but I want my fucking money back. I willpretend you have power and leave you to your work.Good day, sir!

EndFrancis Raven is a writer living in Washington D.C.

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No Need to Fake It.

StoridigmMAGAZINE

From Answers. Questions.

Johnny walked into the crew shack and was met withhostile glances, a waft of stink, and no place to sleep.He was just hired, and the men, lolling in their bunks,looked at him as another share out of their pockets.Mr. Pfieffer, as they referred to the owner of thetobacco fields, didn’t think they picked fast enough tokeep filling the kilns, so he hired Johnny, a man asgreen and innocent as the shoots that grew in May.

“I’m to share a bunk withHecate until mine comestomorrow.”

“No you’re not,” saidHecate from the corner of thesmoke filled room.

“That’s what I was told.”“I said no,” said Hecate

raising his voice, a young bull of aman. He was in the fields almost seven days now, aveteran to this bunch. Mr. Pfieffer didn’t know onefrom the other yet, didn’t know Hecate from the rest.He just remembered the name.

“He meant me,” said an old man from theother corner. “You can put your stuff over here untilthey get another cot.” The old man, a curer fromSimcoe, who’s been working this farm for years,quickly sized up young Johnny standing in thedoorway. A lone light bulb hung in the center of thebunkhouse. It was dark outside at nine, in thisevening, August heat.

Johnny made his way around the room,nodding to the men resting on their cots. Hedropped his duffel next to the old man’s bunk. Joe,the old man, shifted over to one side and said kindly,“Here, you’re welcome here for the night. It’s allright, I’m harmless. Pfieffer, he’s good at his word.You’ll have a cot tomorrow.” Joe spit some brownjuice into the spittoon by his side, an opened-top canof Coke.Johnny lay down carefully next to Joe. Thebunkhouse grew quiet. Hot crickets made loudrubbing noises outside. A deep sigh and a fart came

from the adjacent barn where the old white marerested in her stall. Johnny listened through the thinplywood separating the bunkhouse and the horse.The soft sound of chewing slowly put him to sleep.Hecate was the lead man of this group of five asthey made their way, side by side, down the thousandyard long rows of the tobacco field. A few inches

behind him was thehorse, wheezing inthe heat, pulling thelong, wooden boxsitting on steelrunners. During thisfirst week, the menpicked the lowestrung of leaves. Theywere hot and

hunched over. When each had an armload of stickyleaves, they would walk quickly up to the deep sled,gently place the load into the wooden structure andthen hurry back to where they left off. Hecate tookgreat pleasure in working as fast as he could. Thefaster he picked and moved down the row, the longereach man had to run just to keep up. Occasionally,and to the delight of the others, the old mare shookher massive head to shoo the flies away, and by doingso, hit Hecate, and send him sprawling, face first,into the dusty, flour-like dirt. Everyone would catchup and, indeed, would even pass the waiting horseand sled. Hecate would be furious and take a swingat the animal, but she anticipated it every time andstretched her neck to be easily out of his reach.

Mr. Pfieffer sat and waited on his tractor atthe end of the row. When the men finished, heswitched the full sled for an empty one, hosed theboys down with water from the forty five gallondrum he carried on the tractor, and let them drinktheir fill. When they were done drinking he pulledthe box full of leaves back towards the kilns where

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the women and Joe hung the tobacco to dry. As Mr.Pfieffer watched and waited at the end of each row,he quietly timed the crew and compared them to themany that picked his fields over the years. At thisearly stage, this one wasn’t bad, he thought.

The end of the work day depended on howfast the crew picked. If they could finish a kiln bytwo in the afternoon, the day ended at two. If the daywas hot and humid, and the leaves were wilting onthe stalk, the day could finish at five. Once the crewstarted at dawn, a kiln had to be loaded, rain or shine.On this particular day, the men finished at three. Itwas a good, solid groupand, except for the factthat Hecate did not likeJohnny, they all got alongfairly well. As was usual atthe finish of the work day,the five pickers walkedslowly to the quarry, to thecool, comforting water.

“Where you from?” Hecate askedJohnny as the two of them began to scrapethe thick, black tar off the right side of theirbodies.

Johnny didn’t answer right away. It was adifficult question and he knew there would be moredirectly.

“Mr. Pfieffer hired me a couple of days ago,and here I am,” answered Johnny.

“I know that, you dumb sonofabitch. Iwanna know where you’re from,” Hecate repeated.

“Leave him alone,” one of the othersoffered.

“Go to hell,” said Hecate.Johnny got up and moved away from

Hecate. It was difficult for him to talk properly afterone or two sentences. Things didn’t come easy forhim, that way. He picked up another stick andcontinued to scrape the side of his torso. He wasalmost clean and ready to jump off the quarry walland into the blue water twenty feet below. He wascomfortable in the water. He knew he was a goodswimmer, a natural athlete. Today was a good day, he

thought. He almost kept up to Hecate. In his headJohnny tried to formulate an answer to Hecate’squestion but it faded away as he neared the edge ofthe small cliff. He jumped. And when he hit thewater, the cool feeling made Johnny forget theburning tar, Hecate, and the question that nowseemed so far away.

That night in the bunkhouse, after the mencleaned themselves in the quarry and ate their dinnerat the farmhouse, Hecate wouldn’t let go.

“So, Johnny boy, you can’t tell me whereyou’re from.”

Johnny didn’t answer. Tonight felt too good.Mr. Pfieffer let him rub down the horse, heate ice cream outside on the house lawn andlife was good. He had a job.“Lay off him, will you,” said Joe.

“I ain’t talking toyou, old man. I’m talkingto my Johnny boy,” saidHecate.

Johnny could feelhis eyes close. He had nouse for attention.

“I’ll tell you whereyou’re from,” continued Hecate, sitting up now,square on to Johnny. “You’re one of those rich kidswith hands as soft as butter. Your folks got you thisjob through connections. Maybe you belong to thosefamilies that own the tobacco company or to somefancy club where they know people that knowpeople that get jobs for dumb bastards like you. Youget this job and take it away from slobs like me whoneed this work to feed their kids back home.”

“Enough,” said Joe.“Shut up, Hecate,” said another man. “Go

to sleep.”“Yeah,” Hecate continued, “some poor

schmuck is lined up at the employment office, can’tget work, and you ride in on a gravy train like youown the place.”

“I didn’t come in on a train,” said Johnny.“Aww, you're still a dumb sonafabitch,”

finished Hecate.

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Johnny was tired. He had worked hard, keptup. He wasn’t rich, he knew. He vaguely rememberedhome. He remembered plenty of tears. He didremember the stables though, and the fact that hewas allowed to take care of the horses. He even had adog at home, but he couldn’t quite remember itsname right now. When Hecate finished talking in thebunkhouse, Johnny wanted to be next door with thehorse. He liked her and felt comfortable with theanimal. He had what they called, a knack. When hefinished these thoughts, Johnny was really tired andpromptly fell asleep. Mr. Pfieffer kept his promiseand Johnny boy had his own bunk.

“Shi-it”, said Hecate using two syllables, andturned off the light.

In the morning the men woke to a drizzle.The tobacco plants were as firm and crisp as lettucesold in a fancy grocery store. When the leavessnapped off, the burning juice would spray so that bythe end of the day the men were entirely coveredwith tar. Rainy days were not comfortable. The menworked quietly, duck walking up and down, five rowsat a time. Hecate was in the lead as usual. To hisright, Johnny was keeping pace. Hecate didn’t likethat, Johnny boy should be a few yards behind him,like the rest. He sped up imperceptibly. Johnny keptpicking right alongside. Of course, the race was onand the two men sped down their rows, leaves flying,tobacco juice burning, the old white mare almosttrotting. The rest of the crew was leftbehind. They now had to run to keepup. Mr. Pfieffer watched. When thetwo men finished their race andemerged from the field withchests heaving, Mr. Pfiefferwalked a few hundredfeet into their rows andlooked about.

“You do that again,”he said to Hecate after hereturned, “you’ll be off the field in aflash.” He said nothing to Johnny whostood there, pleased with himself that heeasily kept up with Hecate. The other three men

emerged from the field and dumped their lastarmloads into the waiting sled.

“Stupid asshole,” one of them said underhis breath as he walked past Hecate. Mr. Pfiefferwaited until things calmed down, switched sleds, anddrove the tractor towards the kilns. By ten o’clock inthe morning the rain stopped and by noon the sunalmost burned the moisture from the land. Thehorseflies buzzed and landed on the wet backs ofthe men and the eyes and ears of the mare. It wasback to routine for the crew, except that followingthe dawn’s race, Johnny worked right beside Hecate.He might have even been slightly ahead and, to theconsternation and irritation of the more experienceman, Johnny showed him his rear these last fewhours. Even more irritating was the occasional squirtof tobacco juice that landed on Hecate’s face whenJohnny accidentally broke off a leaf from a higherwhorl.

Mr. Pfieffer’s words held back Hecate’simpetus to chase Johnny down and make him payfor, what he perceived to be, his brazenness. Johnnywas happy picking, away from Hecate’s cursing, hisface blank like a smiling Buddha. A horsefly, the sizeof a Hawaiian cockroach, landed on the mare’s face,just above the soft, fuzzy nose. The horse shook herhead and sent Hecate sprawling into the mud, thearmload of leaves beneath him. He jumped up andswung at the horse. As usual, he missed. The crewstopped and watched. Mr. Pfieffer saw a commotionin the field but couldn’t quite make it out.

In full fury, Hecate looked about on theground and found a chunk of two-by-four,

picked it up and swung hard, hitting thegray mare across her face. Shereared up like a stallion, tipped

over the half loaded sled andspilled the precious tobacco. Hecate

swung again when the mare’s forelegstouched the ground, but in the middle of

Hecate’s second swing, Johnny’s hand shot out.He grabbed Hecate’s wrist. Hecate whirled at Johnnybut the pain made him think. Johnny’s grip waspowerful.

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“No more,” said Johnny. He didn’t let go.The pain made Hecate stand on his tippy toes. “Nomore,” repeated Johnny, and the two-by- four fell outof Hecate’s hand. Still Johnny didn’t let go. Helooked Hecate in the eyes and shook his armviolently, the red swollen handnow flapping like a rag. “Nomore, ever,” said Johnny the lasttime and let Hecate go.

Mr. Pfieffer made hisway quickly through the fieldtowards the gang of men. The kiln had to be filled.He arrived and took in the scene. The pecking orderhad been reset. He saw the men standing about.Hecate was off to the side now, quiet, nursing hiswrist. Johnny, the big, tall one, was gently strokingthe horse’s forehead, talking into its ear.

“Salvage what you can, boys, pick up thesled, make sure the horse isn’t cut. Let’s get going,”he said walking away, back to his tractor.

The men picked up the debris and madethings right. Without any talk, they bent over andstarted working. Hecate did what he could. His wristswelled and he could manage to only take half anarmload at a time. He was sorry. He wanted to saysomething to Johnny, but he didn’t know how. Hethought of his family back home, waiting for himand his paycheck. The gang moved along efficiently.

The sun burned down on Johnny as hepicked his way towards the end of the row. He couldalmost see Mr. Pfieffer sitting on the tractor seatwaiting with the water. He felt good again. Whatreally felt good to Johnny, however, was the warmbreath of the white mare as she breathed on hislower back and the occasional soft rub when themuzzle touched his backside.

EndMike Florian owns a manufacturing company inVancouver, Canada. He writes stories outside ofworking hours.

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PortfolioPhotographs by Francis DiClemente

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Rome Train Station (Rome, NY)

Francis DiClemente is a writer,photographer and video producer inSyracuse, New York.

What sets man apart from the beasts is that humanshave the option not to panic.

Victor Serge, Unforgiving YearsPanicUmm Quassem awoke with the dawn. A bitafterwards, actually. She was getting older. Herhusband wouldn’t stir despite great noise, she knewas much, but she slipped out from under the coversas quietly as she could. Abu Quassem didn’t stir. Shefound her matted plush slippers where she’d leftthem the night before, slipping into them, and fromthe bedroom door, along her route to the kitchen.

It was hot already, the cool of the night amemory, every window in the little house remainingopen to receive any breeze the jealous Tigris deemedready to exhale to the new day. If it would, thiswould be the time of day. Thin kitchen drapesmoved imperceptibly along either side of the barredwindow, above the kitchen sink. Umm Quassem wasat the sink.

She took plump oranges from the hangingmesh bag and placed them on the counter. Shewashed and rinsed one after the other under asurprisingly powerful torrent of water from thegushing faucet. She dried the oranges with a soft bluetowel of Egyptian cotton. She openeda drawer to the left of the sink andremoved a sharp knife with a glossywooden handle. She wiped the knifeabsently with the towel, andeffortlessly cut each orange nearlysymmetrically in half. She reached to her right for thewhite plastic juicer, placing it fittingly atop a largeglass container, and brought the orange halves to itspointed summit, and with remarkable upper-arm andwrist strength squeezed, and squeezed, and squeezed,and squeezed juice and pulp into the receptacle. Sheplaced the spent fruit to one side.

She repeated her squeezing actions eight

more times, filling the glass container. She lifted it,moved across the kitchen to the standing icebox,opened it, and placed it in the darkened interior. Sheremoved four eggs from a flat ceramic dish. Shetapped the door close.She moved to the iron stoveand moved a frying pan from one burner to another.She reached for a bottle of olive oil, opening it,tilting its contents into the base of the pan.Replacing the bottle, she turned a metal switch, gavethe hissing gas some time, turned a knob on thestove-front, and struck a wooden match. Circularfire.

She waited in place.The oil in the pan snapped – a light snap.

She stepped forward,reaching for the eggs,cracking each one inturn against the steellip, easing theircontents in the hot oil.Snap. Pop. Snap. Pop.

The cracked shells, she placed in a plastic bowl.From a small glass jar, she sprinkled sumac on thefrying eggs, each in their turn.In the distance, athump. Followed in quick succession by severalmore. Then silence again. She poked at the eggs,moving them clockwise. She moved back to the sink,

removing a oval pink sponge, wetting itunder a trickle of water from thefaucet. Her gaze wandered out throughthe dancing drapes. She moved backacross the kitchen floor to a squareplastic table against the wall. Three

wood and straw chairs. She chased around a full fruitbowl as she vigorously wiped the tabletop, thestreaks of water glinting in the light that had finallypenetrated the window, the bowl finding its finalresting place in the corner.

Back at the sink, she rinsed the sponge anddrew the thin cloth across the window. She removed

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two stone plates form the drying rack and movedback to the stove. She extinguished the flames,cutting the gas. She removed a spatula from itsholder and deftly lifted two eggs to each plate. Sheretraced her steps back to the table, placing the plateson opposite sides. She moved back near the stove,taking two forks, two paper napkins, the salt andpepper shakers. She placed the collection in thecenter of the table. From atop the icebox, sheretrieved a basket of flat bread and a small, thin glassbowl of green olives floating in thyme-flecked oliveoil. She placed these on thetable, against the wall. Sheturned and opened the icebox,removing two chilled glasses andthe container of squeezedorange juice. She placed theglasses along side each plate, and the orange juice inthe middle.

She turned and walked back towards thekitchen door, peering out into the hallway andbellowed:

“Quassem! Abu Quassem! Where are you?”She moved back toward the stove, removing

the pan to the sink. Soap suds were forming,collecting under the running water when her twomen – one young, one older – entered the kitchenand moved directly to the table.

“Morning,” muttered the older man.Umm Quassem didn’t turn to look.“Come here so I can look at you.”The young man rose off his chair and went

to his mother’s side. She wiped her hands on thetowel draped over the sink’s edge, and grabbed herson by the back of his neck, driving her lips into hischeek. Then, just as forcefully, released him.

“You’ll see me through this life, Inshallah. Goeat.”

The young man returned to the table andeased into the chair. His father, hunched over hisplate, didn’t look up. He slowly dipped a torn pieceof bread in the yolk of the egg. The son tore hisbread in half, placed his elbows on the table, leanedin, and gingerly poked at his yoke until it ruptured. A

viscous yellow streamed onto the plate. Father andson ate in hunched silence, serenaded by thescrubbing sounds of metal brush against metal pan.

By the time Umm Quassem had finishedcleaning her cooking area and returned to sit on themiddle chair at the table, the men were picking at thegreen olives. Their cleaned plates were speckled withcoarse pits. Umm Quassem wiped at the corners ofher mouth watching her son. The old man pushedhis chair back, standing, lifting his plate, moving tothe sink, placing it on the counter. He turned the

faucet on, washed his hands and washedhis lips. He reached for a towel, his wifenow watching him.

“Not that one. The other one.”Abu Quassem dried his mouth and

hands. His son rose and followed suit,reaching for the anointed towel. A militaryhelicopter, then two more, fluttered into view in thenear distance. The young man peered through thetranslucent drapes at them until they were gone, theirsounds quickly fading in distance to silence.

“Let’s go.” Abu Quassem was at thekitchen’s doorway. Umm Quassem remainedhunched over the table, picking at the remainingolives. Her son moved to her from the sink andkissed her lightly atop her head.

“What’s for dinner?”“Chicken and rice.”Quassem moved towards his father.“God be with you,” she said, her voice

carrying over her shoulder.There was no response,just slow footsteps down the hallway. The creakingof a heavy metal door opened, then gently clickedshut. Umm Quassem reached into the fruit bowl andremoved an orange. She cut the fruit along nearsymmetrical lines from top to navel, six cuts, peelingback the skin, sectioning, bringing each wedge inturn to her nose before eating, inhaling deeply eachtime.

The morning had found its midpoint. Thecity baked, the little house with the heavy metal doorbaked, and Umm Quassem moved slowly about her

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work. The bedshad been made,the laundry placedin the agitatingmachine, thekitchen and hallswept, when theexplosionhappened. It had been in the distance, poorlymuffled against interspersed concrete and spacefound across distance and neighborhoods, itsreverberations rattling the windows, and it may havebeen a Baghdad commonplace, but there was aproximity to it, an instinctive closeness. She had beenin the kitchen again, holding a knife, preparing toprepare an onion. She replaced the knife on thecounter and moved towards the hallway, thentowards the living room, the room where the heavymetal door kept the world out. She stood at thewindow, its heavy fabric curtains drawn, the glasspanels pushed outwards. She drew the curtains back.She looked through the wrought iron bars to watch adreamy scene unfold – women emerging uncertainlyfrom doorways, congregating and congealing inclumps along the sidewalk, methodically, bodylanguage betraying initial whispers that lead to loudtalking, then bodies turning to gaze in the directionof the vanished sound now replaced by discordantsirens. More women emptied out into the street,from doorways unseen, the congregations growinglarger, louder, Umm Quassem watching, unmoving,then wails and individual departure:

“Hurry! Now! Something has happened!”Then mass movement. Umm Quassem

moved to the heavy metal door, unlocking it, openingit, taking her first tentative steps into her new day.She looked out after the women, and the more thatcame streaming by, then more and more. The smellof burning diesel hung in the still air of the fluidneighborhood, not so uncommon, yet different,sweeter somehow. She took the two steps off thestoop and looked to her right – black, unnaturalsmoke rose and rose, then dissipated high, highamong the blue of a cloudless sky. She was on the

sidewalk when a young woman in a thick meshbathrobe brushed by her, wordless, her heavypanting as audible as her heavy barefooted steps.Umm Quassem began walking quickly in thedirection of the migrating women. Her legs were nolonger controlled by her brain, her eyes usurping allneural energy to focus on the billowing smoke onthe near and imminently reachable horizon.Something else moved her legs forward in seeminglyshocking rapid succession.

Umm Quassem wasn’t designed to run. Shehad never run in her adult life, the wonderment ofthe childhood frolic not part of her remembrance.But she ran, her light blue ‘abaya restricting,constricting, but she ran. Silently and directly. Sheran. Her lungs hurt. Her ankles hurt. Her head hurt,her eyes tearing, her brow glistening, then beadingwith a heavy sweat. There were women in front ofher, behind her, along parallel and perpendicularstreets she could not see, coming from all directions,a convergence of women because they all knewwhere their men would be.

How far does a body run to meet itsdestiny? An hour? A day? A fortnight? A lifetime?There could be no preparation for what awaitedUmm Quassem, only the slowing of the body andthe racing of the heart, a wading through proverbialchaos, a languid movement among the seeminglyimmovable, both living and torn apart, the mindfiltering and sorting, filtering and sorting, searchingfor guidance and sanity …

Oh … who are we? Who are we that dosuch things to one another? What wellhead ofhatred have we tapped to return us to such a state?What pitiless plague has been unleashed at the dawnof the harvest? What are we, so alone on the banksof a rising river? Why do we not move? Why can we

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not move? Umm Quassem waded through otherpeople’s tragedies looking for her own. The soundsof modern machines and primitive wailing colludingto usher in a new reality, a new life, a darkenedbrooding one where hopelessness triumphs at itsbrutal whim. Umm Quassem’s now bare feet weresmeared in the blood of generations, their soles cutand rutted by sharp objects beneath the flotsam ofblood and debris, and desperate voices rising:

"Umm Quassem!Umm Quassem! Theyhave killed these goodmen. Killed them forwanting for work.They have killed themall. Where are you,God?”

It was the voice of a neighbor, a friend, awoman her age with two boys and a husband. Butonly the voice reached her as she plodded forth,lurching and stumbling forth on unthinking instinct,tearless, looking down at the right exact moment tofind her men in a godless state,nearly side-by-side, twisted andcontorted, pain and gaspingmelded to their faces, fleshbared to an unremitting pastnoon sun. She knelt, her ‘abayasettling into pooled blood, soaking it upwards intothirsty cotton fabric. She touched her son’s still-warmface, then her husband’s hand, his wedding bandshiny. Then she gently eased herself atop them both

EndR. Nicholas Håaj is the editor of StoridigmMagazine.

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She made the jam with her own hands. Knew therecipes by heart. Taught her children step by stepby step. Thought about it in that period rightbefore sleep. Moved through the day like Napoleonon horseback. An innate effortlessness. A sort ofZen labor. Youweren’t going tofind anythingtastier. Everyonetold her so withthe money theypaid her husband, exchanging sealed and labeledjars for currency off the bed of the flatbed.Inventory in crates enough for two weeks,freshness, like pride, guaranteed. Six daylight days aweek, the seventh for spreading jam on bread,contemplating the goodness of the good lordcreator. Give her that old time religion. A solemnappreciation, yes, pocked by righteous wrath. Sheknew by what name they called her, a play or noplay on words, technically true, implicationallyfilthy. Loyal customers of not, she prayed for theireternal hellfire. She made no secret of it.

Father Smucker thought her crazy.The End

Copper's ScrapbookThe Good Old DaysThe MatriarchShort Reflections on a Jam

Tough Call - Two Shortsby Willa Frost

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“The world will little note, nor long remember …”*I pulled the car to the end the driveway and cut theengine. The place was neatly the same, unchangedthrough time, the way grandchildren need theirgrandparents’ place to be, a fixture in the pulsatingaccumulations of life’s on-rushing memories. It hadbeen a busy fourteen months since my last visit, andthis one had to be equally short, a detour along myroad to bid my farewells. The old man was up on hisporch, asleep in a wicker chair from another time. Hewas still no less an imposing figure than U.S. Grantafter the glory, scandal, swindle and resurrection. He,himself, was old grandeur in the waning days of alife, a leader, still a big man of disciplined mind,impatient of formalities and trivialities, despite theheat a thin blanket draped over his lap, hisinterpretations already written and out of print, acountry no longer interested in the bloody andcomplex lessons of his contrition. Abook rested in his lap, his hands shinyand steady at rest, rising and falling withhis breathing.

I opened the door and steppedout into an annoying Georgetownafternoon heat. I walked the brick pathoff the driveway like I always had – side-stepping the seals and emblems of the United StatesDepartment of Defense, geometrically embedded. Itwas superstition as much as impulsive respect, just asno moss would ever encroach from the crevices. Notas long as the old man was alive, at least. He did ithimself. I stood at the base of the steps for amoment. I watched him sleep.

“Sir!”He didn’t stir. I stood a while longer.“Mr. Secretary!”The old man stirred with a familiar start, his

eyes opening and focusing as if they had been awake

all along. He looked down at me, the recognitionimmediate.

“Major. Welcome. Come on up here.”He cleared the chair next to him of books,

notepads, newspapers and magazines, droppingthem off the other side. He slipped his pen into hisbreast pocket. I mounted the stairs and walked theshort distance.

“It is … good to see you.” He extended hishand from his seat.

“And you sir, as always.” We shook firmly.I sat down and looked out across a high

grass field that ended abruptly at the pond’s edge,water standing stagnant and bored, mature oaksleafed on the far shore. It was cooler on the porch.

The old man patted the armrests of hischair. He looked off through narrow eyes into thesame distance I had found.

Something came off the pond’s surfaceupward and upward.

“They tell me you’re off soon.”“Indeed we are, sir. Yes.”He nodded. “Fine. Very good.”The old man didn’t break his gaze.“I’ve been thinking about you.”“Thank you, sir.”“Been thinking about what needs to

get done.”“Sir?”

The old man lifted his head, then lowered it.He awkwardly adjusted himself in his seat, bringinghimself forward. I knew it hurt him. It was obviousenough. I looked back out. He was coming to hisease. Like always. His moments would come. Likealways. A voice still clear to deliver them.

“Have I told you this before?”“I’m not sure yet, sir.”“They made me Secretary of Defense

once.”I smiled. “Yes sir, they sure did.”“Hell of a thing.”

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It had been a hell of atime.

“It wasn’t a muchdifferent time then now. Backin my day. Not by a longshot.”

I nodded slowly, appreciatively.“Not much different at all.”I continued to agree.“But they want to think it different. Always

do. A helluva an uninteresting difference.”“I take them where we have to go,” I said

with respectful presumptiveness.“You’ll go, yes.”The old man rubbed his forehead and eyes

with wide sweeps of his palm and fingers. His handcame to rest adjacent his other hand in his lap. He’dprobably made his notes, prepared remarks, habitsfrom podium days of old. They'd come back to him.It wouldn’t be long now.

“We don’t have the … a … thought to thinkit through. Not before hand. Those things comelater. After-action. Read the Greeks … Thucydides”

“Yes, sir.”The old man angled his head into his chest.

“He had smart things to say about cause and effect.”“He did that, yes sir.”I looked back out at what I’d seen before,

the pond reflecting the sky.“I know now what heknew, known it for a while. Thought it straightthrough. Brought it down to a few truths.”

“It can be a tricky business, sir.”“Yes, but not this time around. We’ll get this

right sooner or later. You listen to me.”It was now the old man looking at me for

the long moment. Then:“This thing we have here, this republic of

ours, the one we each took an oath to defend …awash in arbitrary power, reckless and mendacious.Oligarchy and privilege. Too brave few to return it toits rightful owners. Power is simply too tempting toignore. Truly great men use it within its confines.Then return it safely after, to start again on itsperilous journey. Far too many chances for the

egregious, too manyhandles to be gropedat by men like me.Too many demandsthe few make on themany. And plenty of

men to do the few’s bidding. The foreign anddomestic intertwined. That’s what sends you. Do youunderstand?”

His thoughts were clearing, resetting. Heknew where he wanted to go. The old man waitedfor me to respond. I nodded instead, seriously.Knowingly. I wanted to give him his time.

“That has been the state of the republic forwhich you fight. I've been told we to be a self-governing people. Fine sentiments, all. I’ll tell youthe son of American republican virtue has comedown to you orphaned, misshapen and awkward, likean ancient artifact behind bullet-proof glass. Amuseum piece to puzzle over. There’s rarelyconsensus out there for a fight, the Constitution anoccasional inconvenience, circumvented with fearand whim. It only takes a handful of people. It tookme and mine less than three months. Terriblecomplexity can be reduced to an overt or covertfight for freedom and rarely anything more subtle.No need to. Keeps things simple, familiar. Ourrepublican ideals were designed to bring much moreto bear than arms, but it’s arms we bring to bear. Thearrow at the expense of the olive branch wheneverwe can. It’s how we’ve decided to define ourmanhood, like the Europeans before they devouredthemselves. And don’t go thinking I didn’t helporphan this republic. I helped … yes impurely, to getwhat I thought was our due. In my time. In this time,there’s no difference.”

There was nothing for me to do.“Come, go. Shuffle on and get the hell off

this planet without making too much of an ado. Andthat goes for everyone, not just us. It’s bad enough asit is without attempts to, what … foist personalvisions of perfection on others using machines thatburn things down. That’s what I would have toldmyself if I had any sense back in my time. But I

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didn’t. This now isn’t my time, and I think I have allthe sense in the world. That’s irony. And hypocrisy,too. A real crying shame. It’s alright to be self-conscious when thinking about your own past. I’vealready forgiven myself for that.”He laughed throughhis nose. Maybe in disgust. I couldn’t tell. He drew anaudible breath.

“This life here by coffee cup aphorism andpatriotism is no way to go about living. I’ve seenthem. I’ve put my coffee into it. Sure, there’s quite abit to be learned from what went before, but out oftheir context, they’ve nowhere to go, nice words tomake you sound smarter than you are. Country.Duty. Honor? Sure. Sure. Sure. Why not? Couldn’thave it any other way. Something nice for a rainy day.But in the wrong hands, for the wrong fight,meaningless, wrong very time. Cheapens it. Bywordsfor something else entirely. Which is too bad. Thereare times when a fight is needed. And it doesn’talways have to be with guns and machines. But we’vebeen lulled and bullied into thinking so. Think ofthat for a moment. McKinley and Wilson made surethey taught us how, early on. With no happy endings,not what’d been promised. Not even close. You getlazy in thought, and there’s going to be someonethere to steal the hair off your ass. Every time. Orworse. Send you out to get shot so that he doesn’thave to. Or his boy.”

The old man paused, as if out ofprofessional courtesy and good manners, in case Iwere inclined to retort. Or maybe he’d wished he’dchosen different words. I remained silent.

“That martial fool Roosevelt wanted thatwar of his pretty bad. 1917. His boy went off to itand got himself killed. Quentin was his name. Shotout of the sky. Teddy died shortly there after. Thatkind of mistake wasn’t repeated too many times.”

The old man’s eyes wanted to mist. I couldtell. They shined.

“Selling our war? Nothing but a sale. Ibelieved in it, of course. I thought it inviolable, rightfor all time. Had it drawn out cleverly, pitch perfect,ready for any possibility, except for the endless oneswe came across. But that’s a slow process, the

realizations that come along, reversible for a timewith assuring words people keep on buying, enemydegradations fatuous and shifting barometers, alwaysthe dark before the dawn. In the bowels of it all,down there in the numbers and feelings, I knewsomething wasn’t quite right. We all did. But youhold on. You work harder. This wasn’t North Africaof the ‘forties. We were fighting illusions we’dcreated. Our illusions, our fight. You double, tripledown. Good men can never be allowed to die invain. The original idea was right, you see … that’swhat abided us. A faith in ourselves.”

The old man’s eyes were wide now, the shinestill there, maybe gazing lovingly upon the sea ofwords at his disposal.

“There’s no finesse or fancy talk to death.None. Don’t let them get you to that place. You do,you’re done. If a crazy man’s beating down the doorhell-bent on sticking his unwashed finger up yourgrandmother’s ass, hell yes I’d shoot that son of abitch dead. Twice. Short of that, bullshit.”

The word hung in the air expectantly, as ifits very terseness and unexpectedness were a gatewayto something else. Nothing changed.

“This time, your time now, like my timethen, there was no desperation to keep a peace, nolion voices asking the difficult questions, nowherethe men who should know better. War’s easy, hasbeen, like passing a municipal bond, getting somemoney to get a bridge fixed. Too manyentanglements to weed through, too easy to say theright thing to get the wrongthing going. We’ve made it tooeasy. Too many foreigntroubles to borrow from, thebank always open. Us toowilling to debit. We’re alwaysfighting for peace. Someoneelse’s honor, freedom, dignity.So many good thoughtsdredged into dragging thedisinterested into somethinginteresting. Flashing lights farfrom our shores, boggling and

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distracting. The same every time.”Quiet.I took the old man’s silence as a moment to

order, or reorder, his thoughts. He was trying to getit all out.

“Sometimes the world comes to you.Sometimes you go to the world. And this isn’tfigurative speak, you have to be prepared either way.Just common sense. There’s no returning to anisolationist path, either way. So you’re there,somewhere else. Now what? You can’t show up onanother man’s front lawn as a surprise to him and actlike its yours. He may treat you with some deference‘cause you’ve got a gun, but don’t get to thinkingyou’re doing the man any favors by being there.You’re not. And when you up-and-shit on his prizedbegonias and wipe your ass with the leaves, I’d sayyou now have problems. Gun or no gun. And that’sjust how it is, just as it was, simple as I can put it foryou.”

The old man wiped his mouth ofspittle.

“Justice isn’t abstract. Peoplesense when something’s fair, when it’s not.Even the thickest people out there,anyplace in the world, can smell the stinkof injustice, not so different than the stinkof the singed and blistered flesh of shot-dead young men. I had the privilege ofseeing them in the field, where they’dfallen. Got myself a tour. Hell of a thing.”

He may have been back there for a moment,walking with his hands clasped behind his back,deadly earnestness on his face. I’d seen the footage.“

Let me ask you, Major, what did we do therein Cuba and the black Caribbean, down in the Latinsouth we called our own backyard, the Philippines,Paris in ’nineteen, my Asia, out there in the ArabEast back then, now? What keeps taking us? Howhave we come to own it?”

I couldn’t respond.“What did I bring to the world aside from

narrowness and the tyranny of my task-orientedpolitics? Let’s not kid ourselves. I’m not saying every

man a beacon of light unto the world, but maybe agarden’s path that leads somewhere surprising. Thatwould’ve been nice. But don’t go off and drag thingsback here for yourself unexamined, calling themyour own. There are junk ideas and cultures outthere – arrogant, superstitious, misogynistic, willfullyignorant, easily rattled. What, exactly, are we hopingto learn? What are we trying to teach ourselves?What are we building to pass along? That’s thequestion that should remain with us.”

The old man was in a different place. He’dbeen gone for a while.

“What more can I tell you? Do you want tohear about the import of geopolitics? Bunk. Rationalthoughts and words backed by strength ofconviction brings that around. Every time. Interest isinterest. Fair is fair, and people come to know thatdown deep in the marrow. Give them some credit.You show up in your fancy duds, talking weird and

high-minded whatnot that evenyou don’t believe, I’ll come andtell you there aren’t enoughwords out there to convincerabbit of its own courage. Itwon’t fly. It can’t fly. There’s noair to keep it. And I … I’ll tellyou, we spun it - as we liked tosay – spun it six ways to hell andback, only to get more of thesame, more toughness from

those little bastards. But we were pretty toughourselves, weren’t we. Who could stand in our way?Ours to lose. That’s what we told ourselves. Not aword breathed about retreat or reassessment. Neverdoubted the quality of the fight. Politicalopportunists in the wings would have eaten us alive.”

The old man looked around, as if needingsomething to drink.

“And at home, on the domestic field, for allintents and purposes, all’s quiet. Made it so for aslong as we could. Easy. Dissent can never betolerated in time of peril. Never. Men run aroundwith their megaphones and rope. Hush people up.Consolidate. Get rich. Buy things and other men.

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Reform for a more perfect union? Squirreled awayinto hibernation. For safe keeping. For some othertime.”

Nothing for a moment. Then:“War is politics by other means.”“Yes …,” but I wasn’t there, too late anyway,

time having run out.“I’m still not sure who won our thing. It

depends on too many things. Who you ask. How youlook at it. I argued that myself. Werewe entitled to win anything in the firstplace? That’s maybe the betterquestion. And I’ll tell you as straightas I can say anything, we put manyboys in that sad, lonely place inVirginia. Arlington. We took theirimmortality, you know. They didn’tknow a goddamned thing aboutdeath. Not a damned thing. That’s why they did whatthey did for us. We knew better, but we took itanyway and planted it there. They get a flag everyNovember, and I get to say what I’m saying today.”

The old man’s chin was cradled in his palm,his elbow on the armrest.

“But most came back, didn’t they, maybe notin the ways they remembered themselves, but theycame back.”

“I’ll bring mine back,” I said, the terrain ofbattles yet unseen.

The old man himself was coming back. Thepitch of his voice was changing.

“I got to thinking about prayer. Forgiveness.Years ago. Kept me up at night, making me sweat itout. Tried it out for myself. I figured every manneeds himself some prayer, something bigger thanhimself, some answers, someone to talk to whenthings aren’t going so great. What’s out there afterthis? How do you get to that place that soothes whatwe’d done here? What a place that must be! But Icouldn’t pin it down. I couldn’t see it. Gave up on it.Prayer and war don’t go together, not the ones youshepherd.”

The old man looked at me for a moment,faithless.

“They sacked me, brought fresh blood in.Said I’d lost control. All that work. Good for them. Iwas at home when the word came, right here in thischair. It just ended for me. One day. And the daysafter … a relief, a weight lifted off my sleep. It tooksome time, but they finally closed that rotten thingdown. There’s only so much people will take, sale orno sale, an old blue flicker of the old republic. And Istarted to write. Just took pen to paper. I’d done my

bit part forhistory.”

A goodmind, once had. Iimagined he wasthinking ofhistory’s retelling,out past wherehe’d come to be. I

knew him well enough. There was sadness andsolitude there. And no truths, not really.

“I’ve read it. All of it,” I offered.“What I’m telling you won’t resonate. Not

now. You need the good story. You’ll go. No choice.This here’ll be something you’ll some day say yourold and doddering grandfather told you from arickety chair. When you’ve finally formed your ownopinions. And you will. It’s the stuff of lore, this, anold man in a self-pitying moment. To no effect. Andhistory herself will prove even harsher after he’sgone. Justly.”

I couldn’t see the opinion, but I could seethe self-pity.

“You’ll have a good place there,” I said, as ifwilling it so could alter history’s verdict. It rang false.

He was beyond verdicts.“It’s relentless. You’ll go again and again.

Even had I stood up, even if I had done thedifferent thing.” The different thing was lost in histhoughts someplace. He’d been looking for it. I’dalways been sure of this.

“It’s not the place I should’ve had … Not agood place at all.”He joined me at the pond’sdistance before placing his hand on my knee. It feltlight and familiar there.

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“There’s no goodness, Major, only men’sdesires. Only us. That’s my aphorism for you. Youhold on to it.”

The old man withdrew his hand, leaningback in his chair, done. “Not a good place at all.”Thought that escaped into spoken words.

We sat in silence for a while, both knowing itwas the only place he’d ever have. We rested there fora long while after with nothing more particular to say.Two men on an afternoon of no lastingconsequence. All the world before them.

Nothing more.I went off to do what I had to do, what we’d

set ourselves up to do. And when I finally came backan intermittent six years later, replaced by youngermen - maybe less tired, maybe with betterperspectives and stories - the old man was gone. Ibought his books again from used bookstores,hoping that something bought could be somethingnew again, but they remained dusty and tired wordsfrom a dusty and tired past, as if I’d gone becausethe younger old man had still sent me in the firstplace. And I was too tired to argue.

EndVic Valone is the pen name of a writer living inWashington, D.C.

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NEXT STEP

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Look for the next issue ofStoridigm MagazineJune 21, 2010www.storidigm.com

Next Step EditionSpring 2010

StoridigmMAGAZINEFrom Answers. Questions.