No Friends, All Strangers – Lucy Honig

If you’ve had the chance to ride in a train, subway, trolley or crowded bus, this little short could bring some memories back of your time spent traveling on that mode of mass transit.

I have been lucky enough to experience this –in other countries and in conditions that I could have never imagined myself. 

The last time I had the chance to sit on a subway, to look at my fellow commuters, was several months ago.  I was on a day trip up to DC.  I was there to interview and I decided that it would be smarter to park in northern Virginia and make the trip into the District via train/subway. 

It was a good choice, landing me right in the heart of DC with plenty of time before my interview.  I was able to ride the train for a good 45 minutes observing my fellow travelers and of course making stories up for selected people that caught my interest. 

I have no doubt that there could have been a couple that looked back at me doing exactly the same. 

I felt good on that train – like I belonged there.  I conveyed that to M as I sat in the subway station eating a banana before the interview. 

The interview went very well, I felt good about how I presented myself, and all sorts of thoughts concerning our future move to this area flooded into my head as I rode the train back to northern Virginia to jump into our car and make my way home. 

But it was not to be.  I received a short 3 sentence email from the HR department of the company I interviewed with and then a couple days after that a somewhat longer (still only one paragraph) email from the supervisor in the department I interviewed for.

But my little 12 hour trip and my ride on the train/subway left its mark – a beautiful one that I won’t forget.  I remember faces.  I remember the beautiful business woman reading a book on her ipad and so lovingly cleaning the screen as her stop approached. 

I remember the men in military uniforms with their various unit patches getting on and off at the Pentagon.  The group of students hustling on with their bags stuffed with books at the Georgetown stop.  Tourists with their bright tie-dyed t-shirts and fanny packs sun burnt cheeks and thick middles – comfortable walking shoes and freckled forearms – all getting off near the Capitol building.

 Another beautiful woman, pale skin with a shadow cast across her face from a large floppy hat, whispery thin white fabric dress, not doing anything at all to conceal the shape of her body – the dress no doubt selected not only for its comfort on a hot day, but also because it did show off her body.  

All of these people caught my eye and left enough of an impression that I can call them up in my memory today.

When I lived in Romania, travel between cities was done by train, car and bus.  We/I would wait on the outskirts of town for a car that was going in my direction and I would attempt to catch the driver’s attention as they sped down the road out of town.  If they had a seat or two, we would jump in and pay the driver enough to cover gas at the end of our trip.  We would meet some interesting characters- and by the end of the trip there really wasn’t much left to image about our companions or driver. 

When fate had us jumping onto a bus that traveled between the smaller cities, we were transported from rural Romania to a cramped 30 year old Soviet autobus that had somehow been transported to India…meaning that we were stuffed in there with chickens, sheep, luggage, instruments, kitchen and construction supplies, raw meat, cooked meat GARLIC and the lovely breath of countless individuals who didn’t feel the need to brush their teeth or use deodorant…and it was lovely.

One thing that this story reminded me to do, is something that I think I have forgotten – something that is important to a person that needs to be creative, something that will be fun to pass on to W. 

I need to start using my imagination more – to tap into the creative side that I once had.  I’m feeling a new surge of this energy could be coming on.  I welcome it and will try to exploit it.

Wonderland - C.S. Godshalk

I was going to start off this by writing that “it is hard to imagine that there are any children today that live like this,” but after a moment’s thought, it’s easy to image that there are children that live like, this and in even worse conditions.

I would even go as far to say that there were classmates of mine that lived under similar conditions and probably were inches away from death.

Stories like this solidify my appreciation for the environment that I grew up in, and it forces me to pause and appreciate my life today.

Yes, we all may grow up under some pressures that may be less than ideal but I would venture to say that a good percentage of us have it pretty good.

At least in this country.

M has told me of her upbringing but I think that there are things that she won’t tell me – I’ve never pressed her on certain issues and I’ll just leave them. I also do not see anything in her behavior towards W that would make me nervous or cause me to press her on anything in her past.

There are so many children that are forced to grow up too quick as a result of their parent’s inability to parent or their inability to parent correctly.

Sure, I’m new to it…but we are doing a pretty good job at it. There were and are challenging times and there are going to be MANY more times that will dwarf anything that we have yet experienced as parents.

I know that we’ll work our hardest to deal with those problems as they arise and I have faith that we’ll be OK.

Parents can’t just run away. Yes, there are divorces…and I suppose that could be a form of running away and honestly, when the parent tells the children that the problem is with the other parent…is it really?

Again, I’m still working through the issues of my father leaving and his selfish actions –

I would like to think that our society here in the States are holding parents more accountable for raising their children than when this story was written.

As I would like to think that this is true…I am not surprised when I see a story in the media about a child left at home for days…or alone in a car…or a child held captive in a room, a closet or basement. And as I write this, I know that this is happening now – and it’s probably happening in my city, and I have the deepest pain in my heart to envision an innocent child – a child that I can only assign the same characteristics as my son, being subjected to conditions that no human, let alone a child who knows nothing in this world should have to bear.

And I can only assume that the parent or guardian of that child was subjected to a similar sort of punishment and this could be all they know – or perhaps the chemicals in their brain are just off a bit and they have no way of correctly caring for that child.

I think I’ve written before at my inability to read stories about the death of children or neglect/abuse of a child ever since the birth of W. Again, I can only assign the child victim a likeness of my son – and it’s too much to take in.



So, it goes without saying that this is one of those stories that will stick with me.

Waiting for Trains – Richard Currey

There’s a whole lot packed into this little story. I read it several weeks ago, and as it has been happening over the last years or so, I’m finally getting around to writing about it. I’m writing about the story in the same location that I read it so perhaps I get some points for that?!

It’s 4:24 in the morning – a Monday morning, and I’m manning the help desk at ODU. Sitting at this desk during the early morning hours, I have noticed that I have a group of regulars that spend this time with me.

I sit here and wonder about them. What’s their story? Why are they here in the library?

I wonder if they wonder about me. Between pages, do they glance up and look over at this guy sitting behind the Help desk and wonder what paths in life he has taken to land him here. Perhaps it has crossed their minds – but I’m sure it’s far less than me thinking about them. I have the luxury to think – unlike them who may be stuck between walls of study.

It’s so quiet in here during these hours. I can hear the air-conditioning blowing through the many vents here in this space; I can hear the sniffles of the students, the pages turning, the printers kicking out copies, chair creaking.

Last Friday, I sat outside of work and waited for M and W to arrive. They were late because of a strange series of events that just caused them to be off their schedule.

As I sat and waited, I pulled a book out of my bag, read a few sentences, returned it to my bag and just looked at the clouds.

This is something I need to do more often. I need to just be.

I don’t need to be reading, clearing messages off my phone, checking accounts or any other number of things that busy my hands and mind.

The clouds were beautiful. High, thin, feathery, whispery clouds. The wind at their altitude must not have been strong because they held their shape for some time – really not changing at all. I saw planes at different altitudes and I thought about where they could be going. I thought about the people in those planes.

I looked at the sun as it was reflected in the windows of the buildings of the city. I watched ants crawl on the sidewalk below me.

I felt a mosquito bit me on my finger.

I watched coworkers leave for the weekend.

I smelled something, I couldn’t identify it – and I noted that.

I need to look around me more. I think we all do.

The Taming Power of the Small – Will Blythe

A beautiful scary disturbing story. I go from one story that I can hardly get through – to one with sentences that that pulls me through to the end…keeping my heart in my throat and once again questioning how our society is held together – knowing that characters such as those created by Blythe exist in our world.

Again, I am reminded that if I had read this story four years ago – even two years ago, it would have hit me differently. Now that I am a father, I see the abduction of a young boy as something so real and so startling – something that frightens the life out of me.

It doesn’t help either that I work in the media where I have a daily dose of the ilk of humanity washing up onto my consciousness.

I believe that there are cases during the week, where my mind will purposely stray away from reading the news in order to prevent it from overloading my circuits.

Good.

So I checked out two books on the I Ching from the University library and I thought that I’d look into what they held since the book played such a role in the story.

I spent time reading both – which were similar – as expected, and I returned them in the book drop this evening. I thought earlier this week, when I checked them out that I’d mess around with them, throw some coins and see what sort of hexagrams appeared.

Then, my brain did what it was supposed to do, and my B.S. detector lit up and I realized that not only do I not have time for this, but there is no way that asking a question, throwing some coins and drawing some lines would really give me some insight to my future.

Yes I realize that the book is meant for uncovering our unconscious and allows us to look at life situations from alternative points of view by giving us different perspectives…but I think I can do that well enough on my own.

So – yes, this was a great story. It made me hug my son a little tighter, reminded me (or should I say reinforced the knowledge) that there are some really disturbed people in this world, and provided me with another example of how to write a great short story.

Entrechat – Edith Milton

                                                     
I’ll state right from the beginning, that this was a difficult story to read. Simply, it did not appeal to me nor was I motivated to read it, or perhaps it was the way that it was written so that the words did not pull me through the story.

I’m fine with this as with the other stories, I have said that didn’t appeal to me and again, I realize that not every story will have something for me.

But what did I get out of this story?

Once again, the contributor’s notes saved the day.

Milton writes in her notes that she is “uncomfortable inventing lives I have not lived myself, condemning the unborn to a Dantean eternity of reliving those sins I have imposed on them.”

It is interesting that I have come to this passage during the beginning of my study of MY writing.

She of course is not telling me not to invent lives and not telling me to invent lives, she is just personally uncomfortable doing so.

I appreciate what authors have to say, she is not giving advice, but the reason is one to keep in mind as I consider a journey in writing.



So, I have written a bunch of words about nothing.

And on a site note – I believe that my site is being scraped by several different scrapers – I suppose that means my content is out there on another site with a slight variation in the blog address.

Such is life.

Inn Essence – Ralph Lombreglia

 One of the most valuable educational experiences I was ever involved in was after college when I worked in a restaurant. 

I lived in Cinnaminson New Jersey, just across the river from Philadelphia. 

Leaving the comfortable insulated arms of academia, I was thrust into the real world and forced to start living a real life.  My father and step-mother were quite gracious and gave me a room to call my own and food to eat.  I did chores around the house…at the time; I was probably in some sort of depression, attempting to figure out what to do with my life. 

Finally, one day my father sat me down and told me that if a “career” isn’t in my cards at the moment, perhaps it was time for me to get a job.  Back in 1994-1995, it wasn’t too difficult to find hourly work.  I ended up stocking shelves at a liquor store.  It was easy work and brought in a few bucks.  I decided that I liked earning money and applied to work in a restaurant across the street from the liquor store to bring in some more cash an keep me out of the house. 

DiMarco’s Italian restaurant.  And yes, there was mafia influence there.  I had no previous restaurant experience so I asked to wash dishes.  A recent college grad washing dishes.  It was work, and I was happy to do it.  It didn’t require much intellectual thought and I really got along well with the chefs, waiters and other staff.  I scraped food off dirty dishes, ran them through the machine, scrubbed pots and pans and cleaned the nasty grease covered mats. 

So the mafia had their way with the restaurant and it closed about 6 months after I started working.  I still had my job at the liquor store and I watched another restaurant move into DiMarco’s.  One afternoon, after my shift at the liquor store, I walked over and spoke with the chef.  Strangely enough, he agreed to hire me as a cold appetizer and bread maker.  I would later work my way up to a pastry chef and then onto hot appetizers.  It was an exciting time to be in the restaurant business.  We served fusion cuisine and I was baking some great breads and desserts.  Basically, the chef gave me a recipe and I followed it, he would tweak it a bit and then it would be added to the menu. 

I’ve written about all the drug problems the chef had – which is the reason why I left the restaurant effectively ending my time in kitchen forever…but my years there (I believe I was there 2 years) shaped me in ways that the classroom never could.  I dealt with a cocaine addicted chef – his brother –in-law, part owner of the restaurant – struggling to keep the place going – struggling to keeps the chef’s hands out of the cash drawer.

I dealt with the wait-staff who ran solely on cigarettes, coffee and alcohol.  I dealt with alcoholic/drug addicted dishwashers. High school bus-staff – overly sexed. 

Hostesses who found ways to slip tips into their purses, and bottles of wine into their cars.  The place was incredible.  I learned how to operate in an extremely high stress environment.  I screamed at waitresses, called them demeaning names…then shared drinks with them at 2:30 in the morning.  I learned to cook some of the best cakes and breads in my life.  How to make and caramelize the perfect Crème brûlée.  Homemade ice-cream in some of the most rich and exotic flavors.  The chef gave me full creative control…on most occasions J 

And then, as quickly as I walked into that place…I walked out.  Actually, it was quicker.  No Human Resources Department to deal with no paperwork to fill out – just a quick slip into the kitchen – avoid the chef, find his brother-in-law…and give him the news.  I went back to get my pay a few days later…never picked up my recipe book or my CDs.  I was young enough then and not tied to any real responsibilities which allowed me to just walk out of the place.  It felt good…but at the same time, it’s dangerous.  The restaurant business was like that – and I loved it…which is probably why I enjoyed Inn Essence.  This is my second encounter with Lombreglia and I really like his blue-collar writing…at least that’s the best way I could describe it.

The dangerous freedom to behave as I did at the restaurant and to leave as I did is something that the particular job afforded me and that freedom is something that I would wish we all could experience. 

Errand – Raymond Carver

When I flipped the page to this story, I was surprised to find it collected in this volume. I know a bit about Raymond Carver and have come to really enjoy his writing. I first encountered him back in BASS 1982 when Cathedral was chosen for inclusion. Discovering authors like Carver is one of the countless benefits of this project. I know that some of you are probably astounded that I’d never read Carver before Cathedral…but yup…there it is. Since reading and writing about him, I’ve had some wonderful online discussions with his legions of fans. Here are the links to my previous posts about his stories as well as the post where he served as guest editor for BASS 1986

Cathedral

Where I'm Calling From

Guest Editor Introduction 1986

Boxes

Back to me being surprised – after reading the introduction by Mark Helprin and his thoughts about minimalist writers, the LAST person I’d expect him to include would be Carver.


Here are a few selected lines from Helprin’s introduction and how he feels about minimalist writers.


“No better illumination of the pitfalls of the collective impulse exists than the school of the minimalists. What they do is as bad as what they believe in. They appear to start from the premise that the world has unjustly offended their innate virtue and forced them to become trenchant impassive observers of its universal offensiveness.”…


“’in their approach, adherents of minimalism are almost uniformly oblique, which is not surprising, since the uncomprehending often crave inscrutability as a shield behind which nothing can be something.”…


Damn…this guy can write a throw-down!


And he goes on –

“Mice who tour lion country need masks and other tricks to have a safe trip. Besides, their unwillingness to deal with life other than obliquely is not subtly, as they would have you think, but cowardice. And they aren’t even oblique as much as they are simply sarcastic and snotty. I wonder if, in other civilizations, priestly castes and philosophers are elevated and revered because they are snotty.”…


SLAM!!! Man, he sounds a little like my main man J. Gardner when he was stirring shit up!


“Minimalists appear to be people who have not been forced to struggle, and who have not dared upon some struggle to which they have not been forced. Thus, they have contempt for their own lives of mild discomfort-and who can blame them? They live in a strange, motionless, protected world.”…


“Not only do they abstain, they have made a virtual industry out of ridicule. And what do they ridicule? Effort, perfection, devotion, fidelity, honor, belief, love, bravery, et al.”…


“Their characters always seem to have a health problem (in addition to the nicotine addiction and alcoholism that are de rigueur) that is far more disgusting than perilous.”…


And this next passage really got me!


“Of the stories read for the purpose of gathering the twenty herein, more than a third dealt with divorce, separation, or extramarital affairs. Alcohol appeared in more than half, cigarettes and coffee in more than a third, and that satanic square that I can hardly bear to mention, television, in more than half”…

Helprin then goes on to question why all of these” things” and “characters” appear in so many minimalist stories.


“It may of course have something to do with who writes the stories and who now reads them. Though I feel that I have intruded upon a closed system, I do not hesitate to report on it, because my anxiety over the possible consequence to my livelihood (no matter, judging from my mail, most of my readers are in Trondheim and Antwerp) is dwarfed by my wonder at what I have seen. In the tunnels on contemporary American literature, the moles are singing. They are singling in unison, they are singing to each other, and they are singing of the darkness. Far be it from me to criticize some who are my colleagues. That would be dangerous. And it would be impolitic. But, then again, literature is not politics. Or is it?”


And a couple of pages later, after reflecting on his time editing with Rachel MacKenzie of The New Yorker…and lamenting that not enough editors like her have survived and this is why current (1988) editors put out junk…with the excuse that this is what the people want…things get pretty interesting.


And this is also where I bring it back around to Raymond Carver.


Helprin writes:


“Partly to avoid the evils of reputation and partly for other reasons, the stories in this volume have been judged blindly.”…


“After choosing the stories, I learned the names of the authors. I was surprised, delighted and a little taken aback to discover that I had chosen stories by some people whom I do not like personally, by one who wrote one of the stupidest reviews I have ever read (of my book, no less), and by some whose work I find very hard to bear. And yet, I chose their stories.


And with that passage, I bring us back to Carver…because I think that he is including Carver as one of “some people whom I do not like personally…”


I think Carver got his story in under Mark’s nose. Not by plan of course.


In the contributor’s notes, Carver writes:


“The story was a hard one to write, given the factual basis of the material. I couldn’t stray from what had happened, nor did I want to. As much as anything, I needed to figure out how to breathe life into graphical telling. And, finally, I saw that I needed to set my imagination free and simply invent within the confines of the story. I knew that as I was writing this story that it was a good deal different from anything I’d ever done before. I’m pleased, and grateful, that it seems to have come together.”


And with that, a minimalist got into the collection.


And what I enjoyed reading the most from the above passage, which I need to apply to my life – “…I needed to set my imagination free and simply invent within the confines…”


I doubt that I’ll ever discover if Carver was one of the people Helprin didn’t like…but for all of the slamming he does of minimalist…and Carver being Royalty of the minimalist tribe…how could he not dislike him?


Concerning the story…yeah, I really enjoyed it. It’s by Carver…and having it collected here and discovering this newly discovered style of writing by Carver…to enjoy it with him, was special.


Raymond Carver died in August of 1988 so it’s unlikely that he saw this story physically included in this volume since these volumes tend to come out in the last quarter of the year.


I was worried that this would be the last time I would run into him…one of my “crew”…but no, we’ll see him again – and that makes me happy.


Big props to Helprin for having the “guts” to write what he did – even if I didn’t agree with everything he wrote. I gotta say though, the more I read it, the better it gets. It’s so dense and a perfectly structured attack.