Introduction

These stories were written in 1994-96. They are meant to be read all together, or maybe they are meant to be read separately, I can't remember.

The main idea was that no story was to be longer than one page.

PAUL DUFFY

Contemptible Stories

HALIFAX, NS · 2005

Ten Drawings on Grey Paper

There it was. One of the last warm evenings in August, a yellowed full moon stuck on the sky, and trees sparkling in the wind. Albert took a few seconds to analyse it before going into the narrow coffee shop near his house. There was little traffic in the street, but signs of some kind of life were all around. Of course. Other people.

It's true, thought Albert. I get all my best ideas from other people. So what now? The interior of the coffee shop was both bright and dim at the same time. A scattering of patrons sat and twittered over their drinks, and the woman behind the counter, who wore green tights and a knit cloth helmet, asked:

"Regular?"

"Sure."

Albert paid for the coffee and found a vacant table in the corner, where he fell to a minute examination of the coffee mug and its immediate environs. A brief glance at this man would not have revealed him to be at a loss, but such was the case. His sitting there contemptuously in the fluorescent twilight, one knee jutting out from under the table as if its owner had given it the day off, his continued inspection of the table as if the rest of the coffee shop held no interest, these things bespoke a man with friends to talk to, a life to run, a man used to having his own way. Yet Albert's practice was to wonder in complete bafflement at everything.

It's true. One gets one's best ideas from other people, but where does that leave one? These things ‑ he finally looked around the coffee shop ‑ these things, these people ... a notice board with flyers and rooms for rent. A tall man in a leather jacket sitting with a weedy man and his briefcase. A thickest man in a business suit, smiling as if challenging the world to make him stop. A frail woman full of anger, drinking her coffee as if it was medicine, glaring across the street at the bar opposite ... think about them for a minute. And soon the traffic in the road outside seems to reverse direction, the moon hurries along more conscientiously, a rare Mexican acatechili flies past the shop window, and nothing looks the same.

For the General Reader

This week is going to be unlike any other week. This week the Supreme Leader will step down and allow someone else to run the country for a while.

Some other changes, in summary: school will be closed conferences symposia consortia marriages crap games meetings reviews of policy will be postponed the marquee will change no deliveries the proud will be humbled and an end to the thousand wars of old.

This week will no doubt be widely publicized, although the role of the media is still unclear.

This week the Supreme Leader's speech writer will go missing (writing a real speech). The Supreme Leader will be embarrassed, unable to say anything. He will wave his hands at the podium in an impotent mime of triumph. But as he opens and closes his mouth like a fish, something will come over him: a strange flush will charge his features, and after a moment's indecision, pure song will burst from his lips.

"The Supreme Leader was very moving", people will say, "He put aside his text untouched and began speaking sincerely, beautifully—he quoted voluminously from the poets, highlighting an observation of his own with a reference—a most learned one—which, in effect, affirmed his modesty, 'See how a great sage has said the same thing, only much more successfully than I'. And soon he even began to recite a poem of his own composition. Who suspected that this statesman was also the author of a body of work, had struggled over draft after draft?"

Pure song will burst from his lips. What will that song be like? A prelude in minor fifths? Something cosy with a beat? Anyway, this eloquence of his, this music we are longing to hear, even this will be as planned and as prepared for as that gaping silence. We now seem able to piece together a picture of the events of next week as a well thought-out process. All this is to anticipate, of course, but...

Perhaps someone will be a trifle bored. This is not to condone indifference, but it could happen. Despite the assembled weaponry of the journalists and the best intentions of everyone who has had a hand in planning the whole thing (many of them working behind the scenes until now). Despite the sacrifices, the many hours given so freely by people who have plenty of work to do, despite the pledges, the countless drives to and from the auditorium provided by parents and teachers. Despite the banquet, furnished at no extra cost. Yes. Someone might be bored. Someone who thinks he knows it all. The Supreme Leader will wander along to his destiny, probably a motorcade, and that Someone might have gone home early and be looking out his window just as the column of official sedans skims past. And Someone might stick his tongue out at the Supreme Leader, who will look up and see this horrible display. He will anticipate one more smiling face among the thousands, and see instead a mask of fury and hatred, directed at him, his policies and his children. A thoughtless condemnation of everything good. So perhaps this week itself may have to be postponed.

A Short History of the Man Downstairs

If at any time we meet, I am always confused and he is always clear. Sometimes he asks me questions, which just throw me entirely:

"Lot of rain, eh?"

He moved in suddenly, into the rooms downstairs that had the bay window and the extra room. One minute boxes and a worried trunk stood at the door. A little later he was ensconced. I heard him taking guests into his new place, his key trying the lock inexpertly at first. "Come on in. Yeah. Come in." And from inside, after the squeal and slam of the door, a silence broken by triumphant cries.

The weeks of brooding inactivity on his part are amazing. The noise of his tiny lathe on the weekends makes me pause in the hallway as the front door closes behind me. The sudden disturbances ‑ the coup d'éetat down there at three a.m., the Sunday morning revivalist meeting ‑ are only half as interesting, to me, as the subtle exchanges I sometimes catch at the end of a busy day:

"Hrm hrm wombat."

"WHAT?"

"Hrm‑hrm‑wombat!"

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

"Hrm Hrm: Wombat!!"

The week‑long sojourn of a loud, active dog makes an impression. Yet how much more impressive is the sporadic presence of another dog, one who does nothing in the nighttime.

As to his origins, I imagine him to have started out as a pile of dust in an abandoned room, becoming over the lonely years a middle‑aged man whose hair does not grow. His rancid ponytail is always the same, his jaw a grey peach. A woman comes to walk his dog, covering her face as she leaves the building, deferring to the dog's judgement as they stand at the corner. Which way do we cross? The dog knows.

Once I caught him napping. A rainy evening, and I was coming home from some café. There in the lock I saw he had forgotten his keys, as people do when they have been shopping. At first I thought of leaving the matter there, but I turned back and knocked on his door. Humming and padding towards the door. A pause. He opened it. We stood face to face, and he looked up inquisitively. That face, the experimental grin. He was an ex‑prison guard, a locksmith, an animal trainer, something.

"You've left your key in the lock," I said, pointing to them, no more than three inches from his face. I could have seen into his room, but I resolutely looked at the keys hanging there, willing him to do likewise.

"Ah," he said, giving up on me and glancing at the keys. "So I have."

I nodded, and he looked at me again in speculation, and again I managed not to look into his room. And there I left him, a chilled vessel with nothing in it.

More, More

The thing about waiting for assholes is that it's very time-consuming. Assholes take much longer than anything else to turn up, yet, paradoxically, there are so many more of them. The probability is that if you are waiting, you are waiting for an asshole, and you will have a good long wait.

One positive aspect of this is that it helps you appreciate the life of the mind, which is the only kind there is. One begins to wonder: What am I doing here? In this café, at this hour? Waiting? For who? Who's that? But he's an asshole.

Unavoidably you begin to study the interior of the place where you are waiting. Unavoidably, because the asshole continues to not turn up. And what a place it is! It might be a café, a bar, a lobby, a feeding place. You examine the people in the place, you examine each one that comes in, and yes, they too seem to be assholes, but the asshole you are waiting for keeps on not turning up. You might think, Why wait for your particular asshole when there are plenty of others to choose from? Aren't they interchangeable? Somehow, this doesn't work, perhaps because it would be too easy. And the larger question remains, never to be answered satisfactorily: am I an asshole? Waiting here for one, does that make me an asshole? Getting up to leave you think: no, I am a heartless son of a bitch, which is another matter, but I think I deserve credit for trying so hard not to be one.

Job

"No, no, no, No!" Like this! Haven't you got eyes in your head?" Eric sprang up and stood in the middle of the floor, assumed a deferential stoop, and began padding up and down, proffering an imaginary tray right and left, smiling furtively. "Now that's how you do the Courtesy Shuffle, if you can't get that right, you're no use around here. Try again."

I did as he asked. It's difficult, though, to perform a task at which you keep failing. After a few seconds Eric saw that my heart wasn't in it and relented.

"Oh, alright—take a break. It's hard, I know. Looks easy, but when it comes down to doing it, your arms and legs are going all different ways, hard to keep the stoop and do the tray thing. I'm not saying it's easy." We sat back on the bench near the door, and Eric produced a pack of cigarettes. He gave me one and lit his own thoughtfully. "The whole thing with this place is—courtesy is what counts. It doesn't matter what you do as long as you're in the proper stance. Let me show you a few."

He got up and stood straight, one shoulder drooping, eyes half-closed. "Waiting: you've got all the time in the world. Or this." He crouched, eyes eager, as if preparing for a 50-yard dash. "Where punctuality counts." He sat down and resumed his cigarette. I had to agree. Punctuality, deference ... although we were sitting there smoking, I believe we both felt the passage of each second with the infinite sense of regret that one only develops in the workplace. It was my first job, and I had never been so close to tears for such an extended period of time.

Eric put out his cigarette and said: "It's all to do with service, and that means good workmanship, professionalism. Something you can be proud of."

"Oh boy!"

The Flight of the Jybex

For most winged creatures flight is relatively easy. For the Jybex, however, sustained and controlled flight is difficult, complex, full of contradictions. The problem does not seem to be in its wings, which are ample, or in the bird's strength, which is considerable. Taking into account its weight, shape and structure, one is forced to conclude that all the prerequisites for flight are satisfied. Theoretically it should fly. Yet it rarely does.

One might imagine that it lacked the will to fly, but observation of the bird discloses the opposite: much of its day is spent in vain attempts to get airborne. It runs back and forth across the desert floor, flapping its many‑coloured wings until it is worn out. It climbs cacti and dives headfirst into the sand. It takes running leaps from clifftops, sometimes managing a fitful glide to the patient earth, but often injuring itself fairly seriously. Oddly enough, instances of actual flight are only observed when the bird starts from a perfectly motionless attitude on the ground. The jybex seems to be unaware of this.

The Secret Life of Carp

Every fish will tell you that the supreme problem of life, the only problem (if there is a problem), is that there is nowhere to go. And nothing to do. When you're not hiding you're looking around, this way and that: and there's nothing. You suck up tiny morsels of food which, frankly, all taste like wet cardboard, you scoot around, shake your head: nothing. And under these staggering plants? Nothing. Near this rock? Nothing. Sometimes you just hang there, gaping at it, your mouth opening and closing, unable to form any words to describe the utter lack of things.

One is at a loss. What if there were something to do? What would that be like? Would it be ... but to a fish metaphors are incomprehensible. To a fish, of course, even the word "metaphor" is itself a metaphor ... zzzzzzzzz.

When the fish bestirs himself and courses through the rocks and plants, does he ask himself: What if I had a pair of hands? Could I busy myself with some projects, make things in my spare time? Record my impressions?

What spare time? What things? What could make an impression on a fish?

Somehow the fish has no spare time and needs no things. He merely streaks through the world, here, there, shaking his head: No. No. No.

Guest

A deer got into my room. I don't know how, I didn't notice it until I came out of the bathroom that morning. There it was, startled, looking over its shoulder at me, waiting to see if I needed to get at the bookcase, which would have forced its hand.

"Excuse me," I said, gently pulling some clothes out of the drawer under the bed. It made as if to bolt, but there was nowhere to go. If I'm careful, I thought, none of my stuff needs to get wrecked. So far only a small table had been kicked over, and a few books lay about on the floor. I retreated to the kitchen to get dressed, but I was painfully aware of the deer's embarrassed silence. The creature had got itself into a jam. Pretending I had failed to notice its predicament, which I was inclined to do, would be no help, but there didn't seem to be any other useful approach. There is something in the look of a deer, almost a critical appraisal of one's appearance and deportment, that both retains the viewer and keeps him at a good distance.

"I guess I'll be off, then," I said loudly, "I'm leaving the door open." There was no sign of anything from the room, no cough of acknowledgment, and I left for work.

At work I found myself thinking about the deer. Would it be home when I got back for lunch? If it were, would I be intruding? Would it give me a fearful, disappointed look? Or would it be getting accustomed to my coming and going, even cautiously looking forward to my arrival as a way of breaking up the day? And what would a deer have for lunch?

I got home a bit late, having picked up a few leafy green vegetables at the grocery store. The door was resolutely closed, though I had left it ajar. Inside all was quiet. "Hello," I said, to avoid startling anyone. I looked into the room. No one. The little table and the books had been restored to their places, and it rather looked as if everything had been tidied up. The only vestige of the deer that I could see was some light fur on the bookcase, where it had probably rubbed its head thoughtfully. Perhaps thinking about ... but who would presume to know what goes on in the mind of such a resplendent animal?

Insect

Ugh, there's a hideous beetle whirling around inside the overhead light, whizzing up at it from stupid angles, misguiding itself toward a super whack on the neck and shoulders, then dizzily getting locked into a course of tight circuits inside the shade, more and more furious with each second. At times he wheels off with a demonstration of pure je-m'en-fichisme, and then back again with a renewed frantic buzzing.

The normal response from below: "Stop it at once! Can't you think about other people for a change!?" And already casting about for a weapon.

Rabbit

Everyone ought to have a desk rabbit. Whenever people at work start getting demanding and temperamental, I wait for a quiet moment and then find the toy rabbit that somehow found its way into my desk years ago.

A friend came by the office once for some sort of help. I opened the drawer to get an envelope and some files out. "There's a rabbit in there," she said, obviously looking for an explanation, but I merely agreed that there was and left it at that.

I never cared for stuffed animals as a child, but this one is a great consolation to me. I sometimes wonder how he got there, or how we came to be close associates. There is an explanation, of course—because for everything there must be an explanation, a prosaic, long-winded excuse with many clauses, both conditional and concessive—but this rabbit somehow rises above all that. Hence his spot on the team.

In a Nutshell

This is the first sentence. That much is perfectly true. As far as anyone can tell, there doesn't seem to be any sentence preceding it, and no matter how� far back we go, that sentence is the first solid clue we have about all this.�Everyone is understandably excited. A new undertaking! People cry out, Jim, Jim, slow down with that recipe for disaster!

"This is the first sentence" is therefore rather valuable. It doesn't seem� to wear out with repetition, though it will hardly bear too much of it, and so� it ranks as an eternal truth. But what does it mean? Will investigation of it reveal any secrets?

Of course everyone has analyzed it at one time or another. There have been fashions in interpretation over the years. It was once thought smart to say, successively, that is was a product of the historic forces of its time, that it is linguistically competent, that it doesn't really exist, and that it is actually something else. Putting it under a microscope, the amateur in his laboratory behind the house isolates several things: This; is; the; first; sentence. "If you were to remove a piece, or change the order, it would probably be more interesting", he observes, lighting his pipe triumphantly. Elsewhere, people in their cold, book-crammed rooms boil over at the thought of its predictability and know-it-all self-sufficiency, thereby generating the btu's needed to get them through the winter.

But the only way to understand anything other than the first sentence is to ignore the first sentence, and live as though the first sentence doesn't exist, or as though it were untrue.

A man falls through a hole, goes to the movies, answers "Of course" to all the important questions, runs all day, sits or lies down the rest of the time, in life so like an animal, in death so like a vegetable. Why on earth can't he do impossible things?

And now people are beginning to grow tired of that first sentence. They feel, even in their ignorance of other things, that it is no longer entirely true. So many sentences have come after it, and "This is the first sentence" is largely forgotten. One can no longer say it with the original freshness, and certainly not with any conviction that it was at one time exciting and worthy of commemoration. If there were some sort of compelling first sentence, why, then ... or perhaps the hunger is for an Ursentence, which ... or maybe if it were bigger, or if it tasted better, or were a different colour, or cut on the bias, or had an extra bedroom. But this is the last sentence.

All That and Now This

If I had a complete set of World Famous Communist cards I would give it to you. I've been collecting them for years, and now I have them all except for Axelrod.

I find myself entering Lenin's study. Polished wood, everything exactly as he left it. Nothing on this desk but a tea glass and some newspapers, as if the man's occupation consisted entirely in drinking tea and reading newspapers. And there he is himself! Sitting behind his desk like a yellow turnip. Wearing a fuzzy charcoal grey suit. I still have the urge to address him as "Vladimir Ilich", but I end up touching his sleeve and saying, "Ilich, I just love that fabric on you.�"

I had originally wanted to put some hard questions. I wanted to call him down, accuse him, throw tea in his face, kick the room to pieces, boot him head first up and down the fine staircase leading from his study. (It will be recalled that the staircase has two bannisters, one for a normal person and one installed a little lower down for an incapacitated man, as Lenin was). Yes, all that. And now this.

Upon the death of certain old communist poet, a volume of poems and reminiscences was published. Incensed that I was not asked to contribute anything, I composed the following:

To L A.
O trusted beacon of proletarian might
And keeper of
the workers' word
Whose

Sorry, what
was
your name again?

Well, love is a succulent plant: plenty of sunlight, easy on the water. Or something.

Of course, we used to call Lenin "the man with eight noses". Pravda! I saw him in a bar once, and people said, "You know, he's known as The Man with Eight Noses". I immediately avoided looking at his nasal area, although I couldn't help noticing something decidedly odd about it. I would have said he had two noses, but there could have been more. As he approached me I nodded, and he said: "What chu lookin at?" I made a placatory gesture. He said: "What chu lookin at? Tell me." I went on looking at my beer, smiling and shrugging. He sat down next to me, jostling my beer with his own.

In no time at all he was flagging down a waitress and exclaiming: "Ow! Grob! Hawb!", or words to that effect, pointing to his beer. I could see the rest of the bar staff taking note of this, and felt that within fifteen minutes one of them would come up and say, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, sir", a sad thing. To think that the revolution was a failure, and now this. Yes, I loved you once, perhaps love still, etc., as the poet said. But we all make mistakes. I think.

All That and Now This

Dinner Date

Mike approached her tan apartment building. It was on a side street, and the sun made it glow with a dismal brilliance, complemented nicely by the rich green plastic coverings of its many balconies.

Upstairs all was in readiness for his visit: the television sang, the toilet was flushing, Elizabeth let him in and returned to her telephone conversation, "Yeah," she said. "Oh. Yeah? I really wanted to, too, but - "

Mike sat down on the only piece of furniture not covered with clothes and magazines, or occupied by other people, and set the bag containing the wine at his feet. He saw Griffin and Anthony and greeted them appropriately. A third man whom he had never seen before emerged from the bathroom, depositing a magazine on the sofa; they nodded to each other, and the man headed off into the kitchen.

"Oh," said Elizabeth. "Really? Really? Oh—" There were four seconds of amused silence, and then she laughed, and then laughed again, and then laughed a third time, and then a fourth. Mike reached into his jacket and took out cigarettes, but as he was fishing around for his lighter, the other two men began smiling and coughing loudly into their fists. He replaced the cigarettes.

"Well," he said to them, "So how have you guys been?"

"Fine," said one of them.

"Who's the new guy?"

"Phil."

"Ah. Kind of good-looking, eh?"

They shrugged. He was, though - good-looking in a cruel way, with his pony tail, leather jacket and rock tour t-shirt.

Since the conversation showed some signs of flagging, Mike took to fantasizing about his date. She was cute, all right, but as she stood bent over the telephone with her backside towards him, he had occasion to appreciate that her underpants would have to be at least twice as large as his own. More. Much more. But perhaps they were made of some unusually stretchy material, so that the garment when purchased -

With a tinkling laugh Elizabeth hung up. She turned immediately to Mike and said: "Oh, I don't know. I'm so depressed. I haven't managed to get a thing done all day. I've just wasted the whole day, and I put on six pounds ... It's just - people are so horrible. Sorry for going on about my problems."

And she looked at him with rekindled interest, hope, even excitement. Mike did the same.

Paragraphs 763-770

A Way Out

Suddenly it seemed as if there were a way out. Quite unexpectedly, without any particular effort being made, at a time when Pierre was devoting his energies to getting the normal work done and entertaining the conundra that people managed to keep offering him, there it was. Bof! the door exclaimed when he pushed it open. A world of cool air and trees stood beyond, with late afternoon birds fluttering in the shade of a fence and wandering calls over the grumble of a tractor from the next field. He closed the door and walked back, ever mindful of his obligations to the corporate entity that paid his tender salary.

"I think I've found a way out", he said to Phil in the cafeteria later.

"Another way out! You should collect them."

"Oh, this - "

"Yeah. You could put them in a binder."

"No, this is different. This came to me all of a sudden. It's a good one. I'm excited about it. I can see a lot of potential there, anyway. It seems farfetched, but one should always be looking for ways out."

Phil made a gentle motion as if detaining a passerby. "This is someone you should meet: Pierre. He's found a way out. But he's always looking for them. Well, I'd like to hear more about it, but I have to be getting back. You still on for this evening? I mean it's Friday and everything."

"Oh. Sure, I guess. See you then."

Pierre watched Phil leave the cafeteria, looking this way and that as he shrugged on his coat. Phil was the sort of person who had nothing but a confident eye with which to meet the world, if one were to judge from his neat and thoughtless movements, his skill in whirling a momentarily neglected cigarette back to its rightful perch and sucking the nourishment out of it. As Pierre finished his coffee, he realised that a true way out would also mean an end to such features of the day's format as his regular coffee break, lunches and bar sessions. Was anything really worth that?

Or maybe a true way out would only have to be a matter of thinking one's way out. Couldn't one, by taking thought, untangle one's instincts from the mess caused by thinking? After all, so much of the thinking that goes on is undisciplined, self-indulgent, and imposed from the outside? Supposing, more modestly, he were to hide from the demands of communicating, which is to say formulating and interpreting thought; could he then retrieve the control over his life with which he was born? Well, maybe. But not tonight. It's Friday.

Memoir

They were sitting at the feet of Virgil, whom they considered to be the ringleader of the new novelists. Often they would gather there in the room he rented around the corner from his wife's house - his wife, after all, having no desire to be encumbered with eager novelists. The discussion revolved around their novels in his smoky little sitting room.

After a silence someone asked, "What do we stand for, exactly, if anything?"

"Novels."

"No, but who are we? What are we trying to do?" Titus, the man who was asking the questions, pulled himself into a sitting position from his recumbency on the floor. "Another thing: Who are we writing novels for? Who has time to read them? And if people have time to read them, what should they be getting from them?"

Someone behind Titus spoke up to ask: "Supposing we stopped writing novels, what then?"

Virgil waved his hands and said: "No, no, orientations of any kind don't interest me. I need to know a man's principle works. I need to find—"

At that moment an explosion outside made the ashtrays jump. Another sounded as if the sky had cracked open. They ran out to see people hurrying. "Come on, it's starting, it's starting!" Someone lay face down in the street.

"What is it?"

"Come on!"

A man in military uniform caught sight of them and said: "We need builders for rebuilding. We need builders, but first of all we need some good demolitions men. What are you?"

They answered: "Novelists. What can we do?"

He thought for a moment, rubbing his chin, scanning the horizon. "Write novels," he said. They were dismissed. A fall of bricks and mortar crashed between them. As he moved off he called out to them cheerfully: "Soon the city will be a fresh wasteland, and at some time more novels will be written. There is no stopping it."

Get Well Soon

The telephone rang, and Eric, my supervisor, said:�That'll be for me. You take it.� I did. The person at the other end wanted to talk to Eric.

�Hang on,� I said,�I'll see if he's here.� With the caller on hold I asked Eric if he was there.

�Obviously not,� he said pityingly, and left the department.

�Hello? No, he's obviously not here. Yes, alright. Goodbye.�

A week later we were reviewing things, and Eric said:�By the way, it's not important—-� he smiled the All clear smile -�but I did think you'd be able to tell whether I am here or not. It's, like I say, not that important.�

�Well now—I am having a little trouble.�

�Yes.�

�For example, would you be here now, or not?�

�I'm here.�

�That's, you know, what I thought. But there doesn't seem to be any hard and fast rules about your being here.�

�I see; you feel uncomfortable about this.�

�I do. As you say, it may not be that important around here, but to be honest, it's a fundamental question in most other places.�

Eric stood up and laughed, joining his hands behind his head like a man in custody, but enjoying the moment and using the gesture to put space between himself and the sublunary world of the literal minded.�Ahhh. How to Tell If Someone is There.� He chewed his next thought over before saying:�The easiest thing is for you to get training from Charlene. She knows all about it. Let's schedule it tentatively for later this week. How does it sound if we put you and she together Thursdays and Fridays after lunch, around 2:00. I'll get some documentation together before then—let's see, I'll send you an email this afternoon to confirm. How does that sound?�

He bent down to make a quick note.�How does that sound?� He looked up, raising his eyebrows and enunciating more clearly:�How does that sound?� But I was no longer there.