Phone Call with Mei, Age 85
How did he look? I asked. He seemed skinnier, she said. People look thinner in the casket, I said. And they put so much makeup on him, she said, I don’t like seeing rouge on the corpse. Me neither, I said. So how was the burial? Well, she said, after the viewing, the director glued the box shut, then put it into another box made of concrete. Oh, I said, protection. Groundhogs, she said. And worms, I said. Earthworms, she said. When they were lowering the whole thing into the ground, she said, I asked the pastor how deep the grave was. He said six feet. So I asked him how deep the grave needs to be if you want to bury two people, one on top of the other. And he said nine feet. Makes sense, I said. You could save a lot of money burying the whole family in one spot, just go deeper, she said. Did you ask the pastor about that? I said. No, she said, I asked him what happens to the skin and the flesh and the bones in the sealed casket, but he started to get uneasy, so I stopped. Was your brother embalmed? I said. He looked embalmed, she said. Some mummies stay in pretty good shape for thousands of years, I said. Anyway, she said, there was a party with food and drinks after the burial. I see, I said, what did you eat? I had some dim sum and fish. What kind of fish? I said. Oh, I don’t know, I just eat the eyes and the cheeks. That’s smart, I said, no bones. And of course the brain, she said. Oh, I said. It’s a delicacy, she said. Fish brains are tiny. You just suck them out of the head. Wow, I said. I could hear Jide, her 87-year-old husband, in the background now, shouting at the TV. He spends twelve to fourteen hours a day watching business news and black-and-white westerns. Is Jide all right? I asked. Yes, she said, just a bit nervous. I’m getting ready to cut his toenails. Okay Mei, I said. I want to be cremated, she said. Me too, I said.
~
Leather Goods
So what brings you here?
I’d like to contribute.
In what capacity?
Any capacity you’d deem appropriate given my qualifications.
What are your qualifications?
I cover a wide spectrum.
What exactly does that mean?
Political consulting, sanitation work, jewelry repair.
What makes you think you would be a good fit here at the headquarters?
I think I’d be an excellent liaison.
Liaison?
Correct—marketing shoes, belts, attaches; all your outstanding leather goods.
But we manufacture missiles.
Exclusively?
Yes, exclusively.
Air Force?
I am not at liberty to say.
Is this the 24th floor?
No, this is the 25th floor.
You are not Bouch, Benko & Lipschitz?
No, we are Whitcombe, Worthington & Mounce.
Could I use your bathroom?
Our bathroom is for employees only.
Can I access the roof?
Please do. The stairwell is to your left.
My left?
Facing me, it is your left; leaving this office, it’ll be to your right.
Thank you.
No, thank you.
~
The Koi Pond
Searching for an inspiring pastime, she stumbled upon a video of a man wearing only a ballcap. He was climbing a makeshift scaffolding inside what looked like a small bedroom. The footage showed him using an intricate system of pulleys and counterweights to eventually suspend himself from the ceiling by his penis. The eagerness of the act reminded her of Freddy S., who—over half a century ago—had spent two years in seventh grade and appeared ancient to the rest of the class. He’d try to wow her with pornographic pictures, and she’d notice that although the performers on those amateur grainy stills were nude, some of the women kept their stockings on and the men never took off their wristwatches. After she tells her husband about her failed hobby search and the man on the video, they both lower themselves on a bench by a koi pond and he points at the submerged movement of orange, black, yellow, blue and cream. The mottled carp glide in slow curves, opening and closing the o’s of their mouths for the pellets the husband tosses in. “Maybe we can try beekeeping,” he says.
~
Counting Cards
Card counting in blackjack is perfectly legal. Yet, as I was stacking my chips after the last big hand, a large thin-lipped man summoned by the pit boss grasped my elbow and ushered me into an empty windowless room for a hissed admonition and a brisk readjustment of my knee joints. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still able to walk, but not too far. Plus, no more blackjack. These days, they just let me rest against the padded rail of the craps table. The attraction for me now is mostly the free drinks, which I order in twos. I bet low and never switch the dice. The staff remains courteous. When my knees start acting up, they have the busboys carry me to the parking lot. Would you mind passing the ketchup? Thank you. This diner has a smell. Reminds me of this monster-dealer. He worked the graveyard shift, had the look of a white boar. A mechanic—could deal you any card he chose, you’d stare right at his hands and never notice a thing. Short fat fingers, the deck like putty. The bosses used to put him in high-stakes games. Those were the days. There was this old lady dealing at the Picador. The sweetest. When the count got high, I’d let her ride on my bets and she wouldn’t shuffle. It was her way of giving back to all big tippers. We adored her. But then the pit crew found out. She shot herself in the head. Seven times. Are you done with those fries?
~
Correlation Study
Hiking in Anza-Borrego, California, Stan slipped and fell face first onto a barrel cactus whose spikes sliced through his cheeks, forehead and ears. The same day, in Lucerne, Switzerland, Stan’s brother, Anthony, slipped and fell from a scaffolding, suffering a concussion, fractured jaw and dislocated wrists. Four months earlier, in Salzburg, Austria, Anthony lost hearing in his left ear while biting down on an oversized carrot. Within minutes, during a fencing rehearsal on a regional theater stage in Chula Vista, California, Stan’s left testicle was inadvertently pierced by a saber. Stan and Anthony are brothers, but not twins. They are both married to women who happen to be sisters. The day Stan’s wife, Brenda, ruptured her diaphragm (circumstances unavailable), a text message from Switzerland informed Stan that Anthony’s wife, Wilma, had just burned twenty percent of her legs falling into a campfire. Although the growing amount of these correlated accidents (including the two couples’ children and elderly parents) appears to exceed the probability of random outcomes, to suspect anything paranormal would be premature. The subjects seem alert, coöperative and willing to continue with the study. According to the rolling 24-month tally—counting both concurrent and nonconcurrent incidents—Stan’s household leads with 22 injuries to Anthony’s 19. No fatalities.
~
Lineage
It was when I Skyped with my ninety-year-old mother, explaining to her for the fourth time this week how to prepare her oatmeal, that an anonymous text message from a Texas area code popped onto my phone screen. It said, “James, can you show me how to operate the lawn mower?” I asked Mother whether she could see the instructions on the oatmeal box, and at the same time typed a response to the anonymous Texan: “My name is Randy. What kind of a mower?” My mother couldn’t find her reading glasses. “They must be next to the computer, Mom,” I said. “The riding kind, remember?” the Texan replied. My mom lives in a small Central European town. For the last two months, the whole region has been under the grip of a heatwave. “It’s so hot, I can’t breathe,” she would say. “Soak a towel in cold water, wring it out and drape it around your neck, Mom,” I would say. “James, are you there?” the Texan wrote. “Yes. I’m here. Fuck the lawn mower. Get rid of the lawn, fill the yard with sand and rocks. It’s called Zen garden. Rake the sand and study the grooves. It’ll do you good,” I wrote and looked out into my own backyard. The lizards were shooting across the flagstones with such speed, it was obvious that—relative to their body size—they were immeasurably faster than any human. The laptop screen was intermittently freezing and reanimating the face of my mother, who had now switched to complaints about my brother and his wife. She never forgave them for naming their children after IKEA furniture—Malm, Ingo and Kallax. I could see the dots on my phone indicating the Texan typing again. I quickly blocked the number and told my mother I had to run. “You are too skinny,” she said. So long as at least one of your parents is still around, I reminded myself, you remain a child. “Skinny people live longer, Mom,” I said. “Says who?” she said. “Bye, Mom,” I said. “I think I’m running out of battery,” she said, “can you see me?” I saw her hand pressing something on the keyboard and we were cut off.
~
When You Read Proust,
notice that you are not only reading but also sleeping. The brain, fed by the text, transmutes the narrative into a dream while attaching visual flourishes, concocting a kind of gray-matter stew that pleasantly burbles and belches. Within this kaleidoscope of insensibility, the mind still remains cognizant of the body being seated, holding a book. Continue letting the lines nourish and evolve the half-dream, half-wakefulness. Gradually, this state will intensify to a point where you won’t merely enter the story, but will somehow become it. But then, as your eyes reach a certain word, Combray for instance, you’ll return to full consciousness. After closing the book, try and sit quietly for a while, attempt to grasp what has just transpired. You may want to measure your blood pressure. It will be unusually low.
~
Our Man on Avenue B
At first, our man ascribes the foreign magnets that begin to appear on his fridge door to impulse purchases a subsequent night out could have easily erased from memory. What red-blooded, highly-functioning alcoholic hadn’t done something they later forgot? But then he starts noting new pieces of cutlery, extra alarm clocks, an unfamiliar platter of assorted nuts. When one Sunday morning his favorite leatherette recliner goes missing—replaced by an odd, plaid sofa—he remembers the light-play on a freshly drawn bath tends to unfrazzle his mind. Submerged in the tub, he reminds himself that the latches on the windows by the fire escape and the apartment door with its five deadbolts show no marks of forced entry, and the carpet pile seems undisturbed. He takes a sip from the tumbler and reaches for his phone. The critical thinker he met a week ago at a laundromat picks up on the first ring. He listens to our man and after evaluating the situation in silence, he mentions the flimsiness of Euclidean space and the prospect of a parallel universe. He also mentions clandestine government-funded experiments and the dark web. Finally, he brings up the Stoics, suggesting that one way to get closer to detached equilibrium is soup. And so, our man goes to the market. He buys spare ribs and winter radish. He buys ginger, garlic, cilantro and shiitake mushrooms. Slicing the daikon, he ponders shadow governments and Marcus Aurelius. He slides the cuttings into the boiling mix, puts the lid on and lowers the flame. He opens a beer and starts pacing up and down the hallway, inspecting the walls. The scent of fresh broth begins to fill the apartment. An ideal setting for an afternoon nap. The critical thinker was right—the state of affairs is starting to feel better. He finishes the beer, shuts off the stove burner and takes off his pants. He enters the bedroom. Shit. The bed is gone. And the window has new curtains. Fuck. He returns to the kitchen and stands there in his boxers, the unopened mail strewn on the counter. He picks up a postal tube, raises it to his ear and gives it a shake. He puts it down again, opens another beer and takes a substantial pull. He unseals the tube. What slides out is a long backscratcher terminating in a small clawed hand.
~
Peter Krumbach lives in Del Mar, California. For publication history and more, visit peterkrumbach.com