Retired
Before B. retired to his room for the rest of his life, people kept coming up to him and complaining, “I've run out of ideas. I don't know what to think about any more,” and he would reply, “How can I help? Why would you think I could help? I haven't had a thought in years. I have stared into space, chatted with people I supposedly know, watched TV, read weekly news magazines. I've watched grown men play with each other as a form of entertainment. I haven't really had to think. Moreover, I am retiring now because of a general lack of interest. Also, I can't find my umbrella, which makes my going out a non-starter, kind of. I may set fire to a bundle of my things, old stuff, you know, so—drop in whenever. I would enjoy the company. You know.” All this to forestall the observation that he was, himself, lazy and indifferent, or was merely hiding from something. Of course he had books and a TV, so what harm could there be in not going anywhere? However, reasonable people can no longer hope to get very far by argumentation that appeals to reason, since they are probably arguing with unreasonable people, as statistics can be made to show. And as he thought this, it occurred to him: compiling statistics was one of the innumerable things he could do now, in the freedom of his room.
Anarchists
“What? Is it Anarchist Fuckhead week again? Otherwise ...” From the very top pane of his window B. could just see that the café across the road was full of men and women in various forms of combat gear, but they were mostly students and teachers. It was like seeing children dressed up as cowboys or sailors, or a strange costumed ball where everyone had inadvertently and improbably turned up as the same thing. “You dressed up as a revolutionary, too? That's so bizarre—I really thought I was the only one! How incredible! Why, it's uncanny! Hey, is that Bukharin or Akselrod? Is he seeing anyone, d'you think?” And yet, wondered B., what approach to this phenomenon would be suitable? Could statistics really help? Or was it not likely that they would only cloud the issue further? He stepped back from the window.
Exes
Ah, the triumph of an ex! B.'s estranged woman friend came over and talked about poetry with great authority. Oh! She instanced strange poets, and then laughed at B. for not knowing who these unknown characters were. And B.? He—well, he weakened and said what he thought: “A poem,” he said, “Ought to confound the listener with its unwonted good sense. It should send him from the room reeling and confused, or cause him to slide from his chair and writhe briefly on the floor, providing an embarrassing scene for the others, if there are any others, and cuing them to say: He's drunk, the pig. With any luck the hearer of the poem can recover and come back into the room or get up from the floor and say, Sorry, I don't know what happened to me there, I'll be all right in a moment, phew, I've had a lot of things on my mind. And the others will be relieved and say, Yes, it's a bit close in here, you should get more rest and eat more vegetables and quit smoking. Now where were we?” “Your room,” she said heatedly, “is clean, but not preternaturally so. You haven't changed one bit!”
Aliens
The thing that makes aliens different from you and me, the truly funny thing about them, is the fact that they all look alike. But on top of that, they also differ from us in not knowing what their fellows think. Each one has to communicate his ideas to the others at a given moment, and even that is not wholly effective. One comes up to another and says: “That word, I do not know that word. What does it mean?” They are moreover a people for whom lots of things aren't true. One will say: “That is not so. You have made an error in saying that. I can prove it.” And he does so! No wonder they have not successfully invaded our planet yet.
A Visitor
Another visitor to the house of B.! Marek came over after work to see how his old friend was doing in retirement, and he also brought a case of beer. Their conversation limped along after a few false starts: What do you think this election means? Did you hear about the big spill of poisonous substances? Yes? Imagine that! Oh, I don't know—some people like getting into fistfights and that, when they're out having a good time. I'm too European for that, I guess: I'd rather get into a big screaming argument with someone. You know—someone starts talking and I just want to deconstruct everything they say and pretend I'm not a fascist. Well, I'm not, really: but pinkos do less well with the women than fascists, or so I'm told, ha-ha-ha-ha. Or you could write a story about this beetle who wakes up one morning to find himself transformed into a tiny man. Imagine the chaos among his fellow beetles. We spent half a century fighting those bastards, and what do they do? Only introduce a new car which I can't afford. If you hear of anyone who wants to buy a used car—Of course! B. almost felt like talking about his plan of compiling statistics, but knew there would be a lot of explaining to do—what sort of statistics? Based on what? What would they resemble when collected? And, uh, what could you do with that? Who was this Marek, this semi-bearded individual? A mystery probably wrapped in an enigma.
Hamlet
Hamlet: the Series. People would really like to know how Hamlet and Ophelia are going to patch things up. And what are the chances of that happening? They're not that worried about, you know, the big “problem” he seems to have. He's been acting like such a jerk lately. Poor Ophelia! She lives in a world of her own, though. She thinks that he really, really loves her but he's just too shy or something to say anything. So she keeps turning up in all the places he usually goes—she even tells people, you know: He's going to be there. Hamlet. I think. Then she sort of accidentally turns up wherever he is and acts all surprised when she sees him. Sometimes she doesn't even say anything to him. She's angry with him, which is understandable, but it's crazy to spend so much time running around trying to ambush the guy and then not say anything. And Hamlet—he's been through a lot. But what if they were aliens? Imagine the chaos among their fellow beetles.
Music
H'mmmmmmmmm. The people upstairs are making an evening of it, it seems. You can hear their music: “M-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum : m-dum, m-dum .” The guitar stops, people laugh and exclaim. But they have another song; it goes something like this: “M-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum : m-dum, dum ...” And now there's someone singing. Sort of a nasal, hesitant complaint about everything. Ah, to be twenty-eight again! And again!
The News
The news from Armenia is good, thought B., in the sense that it is always useable, always new. I've never had news like the news I get from Armenia. I arrive on a blue train and see myself looking out on Erevan from a room in the most beautiful house imaginable. I have come to fix sewers and toilets, causing bright pipes to be installed everywhere. “Un peu partout,” I say to one of the two Levons who accompany me. We comprehend one other. We pass by the Central Radio building; it is strictly forbidden to tell jokes there. We walk down Abovian Street, where a poet shot his girlfriend once, but he went to jail for telling jokes. I can't think of anything to ask, but there is certainly a buzzing of fruit and static. The Levons stand there, probably capable of answering any question put to them. “This place is not completely opaque,” I say. A grenade goes off in a nearby garden, injuring no-one.
