Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Hirshel: a short story
Hirshel’s parents called him at 1pm on Sunday afternoons dutifully without variance or exception. The conversations passed more or less without incident; they would inform him of local news and sports. He gave them a version of the truth that did not challenge their expectations. By employing such choice phrases as, “it’s hot” and “yeah, I am keeping busy” Hirshel was able to mask the general dissatisfaction with life in his little corner of West Africa. The calling card usually ran out after 35 minutes and six more days would string together before they could do it again.
Today’s call started out like any other’s:
“Hello”
“Well, hello son”
“Hello father”
“Oh okay, Yeah – Diane … I have your son on the phone.”
“Hello, you there?”
“Yeah - still here dad”
“Well, we went to the Carver game last night and that Tyshaun Griffin had twenty and fifteen!”
“Wow, he is really something else”
“And I am guessing that you saw the Pats won again”
“Yeah, I hadn’t - but it sounds like they might have a shot this year”
“The picture on this new ‘High Def” Projection Television is really pretty impressive. Your mother thinks it’s excessive to spend money like that on television, but I figured with all her remodeling and this new addition, she hasn’t room to talk.”
“Uh-Huh” …
It is not that Hirshel was such a dour and unhappy individual – In fact, new acquaintances often considered him pleasant and outgoing. He had many opportunities to make friendly acquaintances: Workshops, conferences, retreats, institutes; since Jr. High he had been enrolled in these “leadership” programs. These programs were the “nurture” that accompanied his very impressive nature, or North Eastern breeding. He became a student of how people interacted with one another and developed a knack for imitating it - He knew what it took to win friends.
It wasn’t always this way. Before the classes and workshops he was known as the rich kid. Too young to be so nicely quaffed and pressed, most of the other 10 year olds would make fun of him by calling him names like,
“Richy Rich”
The poor kids from broken homes called him,
“Fag” or “Prick”
After learning what these insults meant, he wasn’t particularly angry or sad, which is a testament to just how self–contained he was. It’s just that his natural inclination was to be disinterested in what others had to say. He lacked the empathy and inter-personal curiosity that make a person naturally likeable or a decent conversationalist.
As for today’s Sunday conversation, both sides were doing their part.
“Seems like Romney might take a shot at the Republican nomination.”
“Really? You think he has a chance?”
And so it continued for thirteen minutes with slight interruptions and repetitions to make certain details were made clear over the static. While certain details were made clear, much was left unsaid. This fact, by itself, isn’t particularly telling since most normal, well adjusted young adults have somewhat detached if not tenuous relationships with their parents.
But for Hirshel the fact that these individuals were related by blood had nothing to do with the non-committal fashion he went about half heartedly listening to them. Hirshel was a closed system. He was not particularly concerned with introspection either, so certain character flaws were left unchecked.
Usually the thirteenth minute would pass and shortly there after the question would come,
“And how are things over there?”
Today, without giving it much thought, Hirshel launched into his week’s worth of events and stories in reverse chronological order – when he was struck momentarily dumb.
This speechlessness was something completely apart from the taciturn indifference he employed to convey the vague aura of superiority. This silence had no ulterior motives but was simply the byproduct of what happens to somebody that has unexpectedly been confronted by a thought that is hard to reconcile.
He had started his exposition by regaling his parents with an amusing anecdote about his neighbor’s “Yamaha Z 660” Motorcycle. His neighbor had come to his house early in the morning with a newly purchased second hand motorcycle. Motorcycle is actually too generous a term for Nasir’s 1989 Peugeot Moped adorned with crudely made Yamaha Z 660 stickers, half-hazardly slapped onto the side of the bike.
Nasir had woken up early and couldn’t help himself from knocking. As the door opened, his big jaundiced doe eyes filled with a look of excitement verging on pride. It is a look normally reserved for parents, teachers or other authority figures who can give you that rare sense of affirmation. And then he asked,
“ Mr. Hirshel, Qu’est que tu pense de ma Nouveau Moto”
It was in retelling this story that a façade was shattered. It happened as he was re-enacting the stifled cough of a laugh that was his response to Nasir’s ‘acceptance seeking’ question. In this instant - Hirshel became overwhelmed - This precise moment, this split second of time that was over before he could swallow his truncated laugh is all it took. He was left speechless.
This façade had never been shattered before but occasionally holes would appear. Nobody could ever quite put their finger on it; but it was a cause of frustration to girlfriends, a puzzling estranged feeling to “life long buddies” and an unmentioned uneasiness in his parents. Behind each of his relationships lied an apathetically cool and dismissive attitude to what they had to say. This wasn’t so transparent that it made him socially awkward or abrasive, though it kept things at a certain superficial level and thus defined his relationships with boundaries well short of their titles.
This moment - powerfully silent – was all-pervading, and what it lacked in duration was made up for in clarity. Extraordinary clarity is the single impression he could express to you today. He was dumbstruck by a thought, or thoughts - images, instantaneous memories that didn’t pass before his eyes like a filmstrip; but instead hit him, all at once, - like a vivid collage that he knew a priori.
He knew every piece of this collage immediately, its position, its shape the way different parts intertwined before ever seeing them. Each fragment had a back story, context and emotions that colluded and lead him to this suppressed laugh on a dusty, clay red road in the heart of West Africa.
In this moment, his mind unstuck of time, the collage washed over him.
…
He saw himself at twelve years old with the bashful expression of false modesty betrayed by his exceedingly proud eyes - a look that can only be described as welcoming a poorer classmate’s parents to your family’s estate.
He saw himself trying and failing to muster tears as he finished a two year relationship with an unsuspecting college girlfriend.
He saw real tears streaming down his face as a seven year old. In the middle of the department store his face is reddish purple, his shrieks are manic and high pitched and his mother looks lost and inconsolable as he chokes on his snot while telling her he hates her and wishes she was dead, for not getting him the snow patrol GI Joe.
He saw himself having just shaken the hands of a High School classmate’s family. The incongruity between the numbness of the Tupper’s grief and his condescending smirk as “Tears from Heaven” plays at their son’s closed casket visitation.
He saw himself poolside at the club.
But the most poignant image in this collage is the Molotov Cocktail.
…
Hirshel had always been a bright boy so it came as a surprise to many family associates when they saw his name in the police blotter. Especially adept at taking standardized tests, he had received scholarships to prestigious colleges that his family could have gladly agreed to pay for. His intelligence, being the strong insular breed was a corollary to his manner or handling people. This mixture of intelligence and apathy inevitably results in decisions and activities with a distinct brand of egocentricity:
Seeking out and living with a group of malleable, similarly reared young men;
Today’s call started out like any other’s:
“Hello”
“Well, hello son”
“Hello father”
“Oh okay, Yeah – Diane … I have your son on the phone.”
“Hello, you there?”
“Yeah - still here dad”
“Well, we went to the Carver game last night and that Tyshaun Griffin had twenty and fifteen!”
“Wow, he is really something else”
“And I am guessing that you saw the Pats won again”
“Yeah, I hadn’t - but it sounds like they might have a shot this year”
“The picture on this new ‘High Def” Projection Television is really pretty impressive. Your mother thinks it’s excessive to spend money like that on television, but I figured with all her remodeling and this new addition, she hasn’t room to talk.”
“Uh-Huh” …
It is not that Hirshel was such a dour and unhappy individual – In fact, new acquaintances often considered him pleasant and outgoing. He had many opportunities to make friendly acquaintances: Workshops, conferences, retreats, institutes; since Jr. High he had been enrolled in these “leadership” programs. These programs were the “nurture” that accompanied his very impressive nature, or North Eastern breeding. He became a student of how people interacted with one another and developed a knack for imitating it - He knew what it took to win friends.
It wasn’t always this way. Before the classes and workshops he was known as the rich kid. Too young to be so nicely quaffed and pressed, most of the other 10 year olds would make fun of him by calling him names like,
“Richy Rich”
The poor kids from broken homes called him,
“Fag” or “Prick”
After learning what these insults meant, he wasn’t particularly angry or sad, which is a testament to just how self–contained he was. It’s just that his natural inclination was to be disinterested in what others had to say. He lacked the empathy and inter-personal curiosity that make a person naturally likeable or a decent conversationalist.
As for today’s Sunday conversation, both sides were doing their part.
“Seems like Romney might take a shot at the Republican nomination.”
“Really? You think he has a chance?”
And so it continued for thirteen minutes with slight interruptions and repetitions to make certain details were made clear over the static. While certain details were made clear, much was left unsaid. This fact, by itself, isn’t particularly telling since most normal, well adjusted young adults have somewhat detached if not tenuous relationships with their parents.
But for Hirshel the fact that these individuals were related by blood had nothing to do with the non-committal fashion he went about half heartedly listening to them. Hirshel was a closed system. He was not particularly concerned with introspection either, so certain character flaws were left unchecked.
Usually the thirteenth minute would pass and shortly there after the question would come,
“And how are things over there?”
Today, without giving it much thought, Hirshel launched into his week’s worth of events and stories in reverse chronological order – when he was struck momentarily dumb.
This speechlessness was something completely apart from the taciturn indifference he employed to convey the vague aura of superiority. This silence had no ulterior motives but was simply the byproduct of what happens to somebody that has unexpectedly been confronted by a thought that is hard to reconcile.
He had started his exposition by regaling his parents with an amusing anecdote about his neighbor’s “Yamaha Z 660” Motorcycle. His neighbor had come to his house early in the morning with a newly purchased second hand motorcycle. Motorcycle is actually too generous a term for Nasir’s 1989 Peugeot Moped adorned with crudely made Yamaha Z 660 stickers, half-hazardly slapped onto the side of the bike.
Nasir had woken up early and couldn’t help himself from knocking. As the door opened, his big jaundiced doe eyes filled with a look of excitement verging on pride. It is a look normally reserved for parents, teachers or other authority figures who can give you that rare sense of affirmation. And then he asked,
“ Mr. Hirshel, Qu’est que tu pense de ma Nouveau Moto”
It was in retelling this story that a façade was shattered. It happened as he was re-enacting the stifled cough of a laugh that was his response to Nasir’s ‘acceptance seeking’ question. In this instant - Hirshel became overwhelmed - This precise moment, this split second of time that was over before he could swallow his truncated laugh is all it took. He was left speechless.
This façade had never been shattered before but occasionally holes would appear. Nobody could ever quite put their finger on it; but it was a cause of frustration to girlfriends, a puzzling estranged feeling to “life long buddies” and an unmentioned uneasiness in his parents. Behind each of his relationships lied an apathetically cool and dismissive attitude to what they had to say. This wasn’t so transparent that it made him socially awkward or abrasive, though it kept things at a certain superficial level and thus defined his relationships with boundaries well short of their titles.
This moment - powerfully silent – was all-pervading, and what it lacked in duration was made up for in clarity. Extraordinary clarity is the single impression he could express to you today. He was dumbstruck by a thought, or thoughts - images, instantaneous memories that didn’t pass before his eyes like a filmstrip; but instead hit him, all at once, - like a vivid collage that he knew a priori.
He knew every piece of this collage immediately, its position, its shape the way different parts intertwined before ever seeing them. Each fragment had a back story, context and emotions that colluded and lead him to this suppressed laugh on a dusty, clay red road in the heart of West Africa.
In this moment, his mind unstuck of time, the collage washed over him.
…
He saw himself at twelve years old with the bashful expression of false modesty betrayed by his exceedingly proud eyes - a look that can only be described as welcoming a poorer classmate’s parents to your family’s estate.
He saw himself trying and failing to muster tears as he finished a two year relationship with an unsuspecting college girlfriend.
He saw real tears streaming down his face as a seven year old. In the middle of the department store his face is reddish purple, his shrieks are manic and high pitched and his mother looks lost and inconsolable as he chokes on his snot while telling her he hates her and wishes she was dead, for not getting him the snow patrol GI Joe.
He saw himself having just shaken the hands of a High School classmate’s family. The incongruity between the numbness of the Tupper’s grief and his condescending smirk as “Tears from Heaven” plays at their son’s closed casket visitation.
He saw himself poolside at the club.
But the most poignant image in this collage is the Molotov Cocktail.
…
Hirshel had always been a bright boy so it came as a surprise to many family associates when they saw his name in the police blotter. Especially adept at taking standardized tests, he had received scholarships to prestigious colleges that his family could have gladly agreed to pay for. His intelligence, being the strong insular breed was a corollary to his manner or handling people. This mixture of intelligence and apathy inevitably results in decisions and activities with a distinct brand of egocentricity:
Seeking out and living with a group of malleable, similarly reared young men;
Deciding, Thursday night should be spent drinking absinthe and watching “Rambo: First Blood”; Imitating a movie;
Making a fully functional Molotov cocktail -
These are the decisions and actions that end up leaving one unstuck in time watching the consequences fall in place as you are struck speechless on the phone.
…
He saw the glass bottle filling with gasoline, the rag being half stuffed inside
He saw the clock on his cell phone change to 1:46 a.m. as the group of six approaches the parking lot of the Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins joint franchise
He saw the lighting of the rag, the lob of the bottle, the subsequent explosion, the burning and destruction of Kumar Mayawati’s Yamaha motorcycle, the ensuing consequences of destroying the habitually sparklingly clean machine that sat parked in front of the store for 16 hours of the day.
Those consequences:
Mr. Mayawati’s shock, alarm, emergency 911 call, tears, frustration, undecipherable words and sadness.
Hirshel’s personal arrest, a class four felony weapons charge, a meeting with a family friend and attorney, a confession and implication of his “friends”, a reduced charge, a plea, probation and community service, a misdemeanor to be expunged from his record in one year’s time, an inability to apply to law school.
A chance to redeem his credentials, an application to Peace Corps, a flight to West Africa, a passing of time, disingenuous friendships with volunteers and locals.
A flash – a blaze of recognition, an inability to speak, a shattered façade as it becomes clear who you are when you catch yourself laughing when Nasir’s face lights up to show you his new Yamaha z -600 motorcycle.
…
Hirshel swallows his laugh. The moment is over. He finishes the story. His parents laugh.
Hirshel tells them that it reached 120 degrees today and he’s busy but work is going well.
His parents ask him, “What’s next?”
He tells them, “Nothing has changed. The plan is the same - law school.”
Making a fully functional Molotov cocktail -
These are the decisions and actions that end up leaving one unstuck in time watching the consequences fall in place as you are struck speechless on the phone.
…
He saw the glass bottle filling with gasoline, the rag being half stuffed inside
He saw the clock on his cell phone change to 1:46 a.m. as the group of six approaches the parking lot of the Dunkin Donuts/Baskin Robbins joint franchise
He saw the lighting of the rag, the lob of the bottle, the subsequent explosion, the burning and destruction of Kumar Mayawati’s Yamaha motorcycle, the ensuing consequences of destroying the habitually sparklingly clean machine that sat parked in front of the store for 16 hours of the day.
Those consequences:
Mr. Mayawati’s shock, alarm, emergency 911 call, tears, frustration, undecipherable words and sadness.
Hirshel’s personal arrest, a class four felony weapons charge, a meeting with a family friend and attorney, a confession and implication of his “friends”, a reduced charge, a plea, probation and community service, a misdemeanor to be expunged from his record in one year’s time, an inability to apply to law school.
A chance to redeem his credentials, an application to Peace Corps, a flight to West Africa, a passing of time, disingenuous friendships with volunteers and locals.
A flash – a blaze of recognition, an inability to speak, a shattered façade as it becomes clear who you are when you catch yourself laughing when Nasir’s face lights up to show you his new Yamaha z -600 motorcycle.
…
Hirshel swallows his laugh. The moment is over. He finishes the story. His parents laugh.
Hirshel tells them that it reached 120 degrees today and he’s busy but work is going well.
His parents ask him, “What’s next?”
He tells them, “Nothing has changed. The plan is the same - law school.”
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Bobby - how does one go about sending a package of "fun for fada" to fada? I.e. what's the address there?
-mara
mlemagie@gmail.com
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-mara
mlemagie@gmail.com
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