Fifty

PAUL DUFFY

Fifty Toyes

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.

Codes

"Regular?"

"Sure."

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.

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?

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.

Fifty Toyes

Ten Drawings on Grey Paper

Codes

Guest

Insect

Rabbit

In a Nutshell

All That and Now This

INVENTORY