Ernest Hemingway wrote Men Without Women, a collection of short stories first published in 1927. Not all the stories lack women, however. My favorite of the bunch, Hills Like White Elephants, definitely has a woman present, and she is pregnant. The couple lazily discuss what to do about their situation while having drinks at a tiny, sun-bleached train station in the middle of the countryside. It’s a heartbreaking story that reveals so much about this couple and their unborn child without hardly saying a thing. Another story, The Killers, was eventually made into a movie, and is speculated that it may have been the inspiration for Edward Hopper’s most famous painting, Nighthawks. After reading The Killers and looking at Nighthawks, I can see the possible connection. As a person who writes from time to time, I believe it’s good to read or re-read Hemingway at least once a year. His concise sentences and strong use of metaphor are truly masterful.
Another of my favorite writers, Haruki Murakami, recently published a collection of short stories also called Men Without Women. After reading this one, I can see why Murakami chose to use a title popularized by Hemingway. Although nearly a century divides the two works, there’s something eerily similar in the tone of the stories, the loneliness of the men, the fractured masculinity. My favorite story of the Murakami collection is called An Independent Organ. Here we have a plastic surgeon who is also a player with the women. He has his game down to a science and never succumbs to any heart complications. What happens when this least likely to fall in love individual gets struck by Cupid’s arrow? Wow, what a story. In another tale, Scheherazade, a man is cared for by a woman with a talent for storytelling. And what stories she tells. All seven of the stories in Murakami’s collection are -- as usual for him -- fabulously entertaining and thought-provoking. I really enjoyed reading both versions of Men Without Women this summer, and the realization that the best stories of both works are about men with women, which may have been a better title.
You Are My Fireworks
by Pete Schulte
It was the Fourth of July and late afternoon. Keswick was the lone cashier in the near empty grocery store. The deli was already shut down, so all you could buy was the usual junk. Keswick was just putting in his time, doing time really. At nightfall he’d walk back to his little apartment. Fireworks would explode in the sky. He didn’t care a whiff. “What if everything just stopped?” thought Keswick. “What if I stopped? Everything stops eventually. Why not me, why not now? Okay, I’m just going to stop.” And Keswick did stop …momentarily. But that’s not the way life works -- especially in a retail establishment. You can stop all you want, but they’re going to keep coming. Oh yes they are. And they’re coming, always coming…for you!
Magilicuddy was a tiny old man who moved at a snail‘s pace. Keswick spotted Magilicuddy and Magilicuddy spotted Keswick. “Please don’t ask me any stupid questions,” thought Keswick as Magilicuddy made a beeline for his register. “Dear God -- or Jesus -- or whoever the fuck is in charge up there. Please don’t let this old man ask me any stupid questions. I just want to go home. Is that so wrong? Is it so wrong to want to be done with this and to go home? I ask you, creator person. You’re home, I gather. Can’t I do the same? Can’t I just go home? He’s going to ask of me something stupid, isn’t he?”
Magilicuddy smiled brightly as he approached and regarded Keswick. He bowed to him. He tipped his cap. Keswick knew by now to remain silent, to let the customer do the work. Would he ask for change? Would he ask to use the phone? Perhaps it was directions to the restroom? Keswick knew enough by now to be dispassionate at all times.
Magilicuddy said to him, “Sir, I would like for you to get me some aftershave.”
Keswick remained stone-faced. “You’ll find the aftershave on aisle 9, sir.”
“You don’t understand,” said Magilicuddy. “I wish for you to get it for me please.”
“Look, buddy,” said Keswick, “there’s several different brands at several different prices. I don’t know what you want or need. Just go to aisle 9 and pick something out.
“No, I can’t go,” said Magilicuddy. “You must go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Keswick. “I can’t leave my post. You go.”
“No, you must go,” said Magilicuddy. “I can’t go. You see, I’m shot.”
“You’re shot?” said an exasperated Keswick. “Are you kidding me? Should I maybe call the cops?”
“No, no police,” said Magilicuddy. “I just need some aftershave. Could you go please?”
“If you’re shot,” said Keswick, “then what the hell do you need aftershave for? You’ve got bigger problems.”
“Hey, I like to smell good on any occasion,” said Magilicuddy. “Now you go.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” said Keswick, heading at a brisk pace for aisle 9 while muttering under his breath the whole way. “I can’t believe I have fetch this guy aftershave. What does he need aftershave for anyway? Does he have a hot date or something? And this stuff about him being shot. What a bunch of hooey is that? Can’t somebody shoot me? Put me out of my misery? I’ll just grab the first aftershave I see. My time is valuable. Can’t he see that? Bad things happen if you leave your post. I don’t want bad things to happen. Does anybody? But they still do, don’t they? Stay at your post. You’ll see, bad things will happen anyway. It’s the Fourth of July. Everybody’s happy, right? Then some chum blows his thumb off. What’s the good in that? So here I am, picking out aftershave for some tumbleweed who thinks he’s got a bullet in him. I’ll find him some aftershave all right.”
Keswick grabble the first bottle he laid eyes on, a product called ‘Brobus.’ On the way back to his post he railed on about the damn Communists, the pot-smoking hippies, the boy teens who won’t pull up their pants, the girl teens with their nose rings and tramp stamps, the latte drinkers, the distracted drivers, and all the managers he’s ever worked for. Then, back at his register, he regarded Magilicuddy with irritation and placed the bottle in his hands.
“What’s this?” asked Magilicuddy, sniffing the top of the black bottle. “I don’t know what this is.”
“It’s Brobus,” replied Keswick. “All the guys are using it. Go ahead, splash it on.”
“No, I won‘t do it,” said Magilicuddy. “I want something manly, but not overpowering.”
“Look old man, you weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. Nobody’s ever going to accuse you of being overpowering.”
“No, this won’t do at all,” Magilicuddy stomped. “I don‘t want this Brobus. Go get me something else. Something a bit more subtle. I trust you.”
“Oh my stars!” exclaimed Keswick. “Now I have to fetch you something else?”
“You must!” stated Magilicuddy.
Keswick mumbled and grumbled and cursed, but back to aisle nine he went. This time he picked out a brand called Sandlewood Dream. When he returned to Magilicuddy, the old man greeted him with a warm smile. “Now what have you got for me? Something nice I hope.”
Keswick passed the aftershave to Magillicuddy. “It’s sandlewood. Manly yes -- but not too manly.”
Magilicuddy opened the cap and took a whiff. He smiled and nodded. “Yes, this is the one, this is it. I like this Sandlewood Dream.”
“Good for you,” replied Keswick. “We done then?”
“Well…”
“Oh boy,” said Keswick. “Here we go.”
“You see,” said Magilicuddy, “I’m afraid I have no money to pay you, not a dime to my name.”
“Of course you don’t,” said Keswick, resigned. “Of course you don‘t...”
“But I’ve something better,” replied Magilicuddy, “something much more valuable than a few trifling coins.”
“Go on old man…”
“I’d like to give you a big kiss,” said Magilicuddy to Keswick.
“Are you crazy? I don’t let perfect strangers kiss me.”
“What about not so perfect strangers?” asked Magilicuddy.
“No way, old man. I don’t want your slobber on me.”
“How about a hug then?”
Keswick thought about it. “Oh, okay. It is a holiday after all. What harm is there in a little hug?”
“No harm,” said Magilicuddy. “There is no harm at all.”
The two men approached each other cautiously. Keswick leaned down while Magilicuddy looked up. They wrapped their arms around each other and awkwardly embraced. Keswick soon found himself patting Magilicuddy lightly on the back as if to say enough is enough. Magilicuddy, however, had other ideas and held tight. Then Keswick stopped patting and felt himself give in to something he didn’t quite understand. He gave in, couldn’t help but giving in, and then things inside him began building up, building up as if an eruption were about to occur, an eruption way beyond his control. It was petty bullshit that came up at first, that and more, so much more. Now it was cowardice and discontent, then mendacity, avarice, cruelty, jealousy, humiliations, failed relationships, regret, longing, sloth, anger, boredom, shame, missed opportunities, loneliness and time, all that wasted time he could never get back. It all welled up inside, flooding him. Then came the tears. They trickled at first, then fell down his cheeks in sweeping torrents. He could not stop them, he did not want to stop them. All this horrible stuff was leaving his body, gone. He found himself utterly forgiven, his body lighter than he’d ever felt in his life. Magilicuddy held Keswick close as the larger man continued to sob. “Remember my son, every day you’re learning,” Magilicuddy whispered into Keswick’s ear. “Every single day. You are a good man, a decent man, everything I could have ever hoped for. You are my star, you are my fireworks, and you are my friend. I wish for you the happiest Fourth of July. I wish for you everything under the sun.”
Magilicuddy broke the hug and Keswick immediately covered his face with his hands. He fell to his knees until his tears slowed and finally ceased. When he opened his eyes there was no old man, not another in sight. All that was left was a faint smell of sandlewood. Manly yes -- but not overpowering.
The end.
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| One serious lady driver. |
