by Michael Kun
Corrections to
My Memoirs
Collected Stories by
Michael Kun
ebook ISBN: 978-1-59692-908-1
M P Publishing Limited
12 Strathallan Crescent
Douglas
Isle of Man
IM2 4NR
via United Kingdom
Telephone: +44 (0)1624 618672
email: [email protected]
Originally published by:
MacAdam/Cage
155 Sansome Street, Suite 550
San Francisco, CA 94104
www.macadamcage.com
Copyright © 2006 by Michael Kun
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kun, Michael.
Corrections to my memoirs : a short story collection / by Michael Kun.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-59692-195-5 (hardcover : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 1-59692-195-1 (hardcover : alk. paper)
1. Humorous stories, American. I. Title.
PS3561.U446C67 2007
813’.54–dc22
2006019867
“One Last Story About Girls and Chocolate” was published by Atlanta magazine. “Her Night Classes” and “Did She Jump or Was She Pushed” were published in Fiction. “My Wife and My Dead Wife” was published in Other Voices. “Corrections to My Memoirs” was published in Baltimore Urbanite. “The Handwriting Patient,” “Heaven Help Me,” and “Fresh Fruit” were published in Indy Men’s Magazine. “The Last Chance Texaco” was published in Secret America. “Touched, Very Touched” was published in Albuquerque the Magazine. “That Will Be Ten Cents” was published in Cyanide.
Book and jacket design by Dorothy Carico Smith.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For all of my friends in Baltimore
and a few of my enemies
CONTENTS
The Handwriting Patient
Corrections to My Memoirs
One Last Story About Girls and Chocolate
Fresh Fruit
That Will Be Ten Cents
Touched, Very Touched
Heaven Help Me
Cigar Box
The Blue Engines
A Place Like Here, Only Different
You Have Made Quite a Purchase
Adair’s
Coat Check
Did She Jump or Was She Pushed
Her Night Classes
My Wife and My Dead Wife
Steve Smith
The Baker’s Dog
The Last Chance Texaco
Weight and Fortune
Does Your Job Application Put Your Company at Risk?
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
There is a charming story that has made the rounds in the publishing world in recent years. It is a story worth repeating here for reasons that will become clear momentarily.
In 2003, the World Literature Forum was held in Budapest, Germany, a lovely, romantic seaside city that is perfectly suited for such a gathering, particularly in the spring when the gin blossoms are in full bloom. The event was attended by nearly 100,000 persons from every facet of the publishing world—publishers, media, booksellers, book buyers, and, of course, authors. Because of the great number of people in attendance, the opening ceremonies were held in Stadia Budapest, the home of the Real Budapest football (for readers in America, soccer) team.
On an oppressively hot day, a day when the aforementioned gin blossoms shone with sweat, a handful of renowned authors stepped to the stage to make brief, occasionally pithy remarks or read snippets of works in progress. There were sporadic “oooohs” and “aaaahs,” but mostly the audience sat in respectful silence. Then, an odd event unfolded.
As well-known novelist Philip Roth was reading from his soon-to-be-released novel, The Plot Against America, a solitary figure rose from the grandstand and began to walk toward center stage. Few, if any, noticed at first. It was, after all, just one man among thousands. Perhaps he was merely making a visit to the concession stand or the restroom. But the crowd gasped—yes, they gasped—when the man’s face appeared on the enormous video screens sprinkled throughout the stadium. Upon hearing the gasps of the crowd, which combined to approximate the sound of an ocean roar, Roth stopped reading. When he saw the man’s image, he, too, gasped.
Was it?
Could it be?
When the man reached the stage, Roth beckoned for the man to join him onstage, windmilling an arm. The man climbed the stairs, clasped Roth’s hand, and the two embraced.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Roth said, “he’s back. I’m proud to introduce my good friend Michael Kun.”
Some say that Stadia Budapest’s foundation cracked, so great was the ovation. I have not inspected the stadium to confirm such an occurrence, but I was there that day and can confirm this: The applause was as deep and endless as the sky above.
It is true: Michael Kun, the presumed-dead author of the classic A Thousand Benjamins, had returned after a thirteen-year absence, and we here at MacAdam/Cage are proud to call him our own.
Since his return, Michael, called “the voice of his generation” by too many publications to mention, the twenty-first century’s first literary “giant,” has struck gold twice: first with The Locklear Letters (6 million copies sold worldwide), then with You Poor Monster (7.5 million). The proceeds from the book sales have allowed me, Michael’s grateful publisher, to purchase a small Pacific island for my family and to make numerous sizable charitable contributions, the specifics of which are not relevant. The films based on Michael’s books have enchanted moviegoers around the globe.
Now Michael sets his sights on conquering the world of short stories with the eclectic and touching new collection, Corrections to My Memoirs, which you are holding in your hands.
This first edition, which is certain to become a collector’s item, is printed with Millstone 860 Photosensitive Ink to ensure that it can be passed safely from generation to generation.
The author’s photo gracing the back jacket has been printed using the state-of-the-art Terrograph process to prevent it from fading or becoming discolored.
The words themselves that fill this book are all Michael’s and, now, they are yours too. The book they form is, in a word, a masterpiece.
Cherish it.
A WORD ABOUT THE TYPEFACE
The typeface in this book was designed by the author himself.
He has dubbed it “DeAndrea Type” in honor of his beloved aunt, uncle, and cousins, who reside in Coos Bay, Oregon.
To inquire about purchasing the rights to use this typeface, please contact the author in care of this publishing house.
THE HANDWRITING PATIENT
Please excuse the impersonal nature of this note.
I do not normally type notes to my friends and family. As you should know, I normally write them by hand, in script—a practice many people (women mostly) find to be charming and old-fashioned, like wearing a hat or eating Fig Newton cookies.
Unfortunately, over the years, I have received several complaints about the quality of my penmanship. It is quite poor, I must admit—the result of a callus that has formed near the fingernail of my right-hand middle finger, the consequence of forty-plus years of holding pens (and pencils) improperly. The callus is the size of a lentil.
Given the sober nature of this missive, which you will shortly understand, there should be no room for confusion. You should not be left to wonder, “Does
that say ‘glove’ or ‘above’?” were I to use one word or the other. “Does that say ‘my enormous collection of pornography’ or ‘my porous recollection of podiatry’?”
So, please imagine that this typed note is, in fact, handwritten especially for you. In handwriting that is crisp and legible and as pleasing to the eye as a waterfall or a bird building a nest.
By now, you may have heard that Samantha and I have chosen to terminate our engagement and cancel the wedding that was to be held two Saturdays from today. (I am not including today, which is a Saturday, nor should you, in making—or rather, canceling—any travel plans.)
If you’ve already heard about our decision, you have probably heard it from Delores Greenburg, Samantha’s mother. And if you have heard it, directly or indirectly, from Delores Greenburg, then it is possible, if not altogether likely, that you have received information that is not true or only partially true. I hope you will keep this in mind when you hear allegations that I am a “cad” or a “felon.” Or that I am “a cad and a felon who tried to seduce Samantha’s maid of honor.” I hope you will recognize the critical difference between being “arrested” and being “convicted” of an offense. I hope you will search for the truth when you hear that I have “a serious drinking problem,” or if you are told about my “enormous collection of pornography,” or that I “invited Samantha’s sister to join me naked in the hot tub.” I hope you will give some thought to the meaning of the word “enormous.” I hope you will do some research into what a “hot tub” is.
The truth of the matter is that Samantha is a lovely girl, as sweet as pudding, but we simply are not meant for each other. It would be ungentlemanly of me to state that the decision to end our engagement was anything but “mutual,” but, at the same time, I believe it is also entirely reasonable of me to explain to you, my dear friend or family member, why you will not be traveling to West-chester in two weeks. (Unless, of course, you have an unrelated event in Westchester, or have been invited by Samantha’s family to attend the “Samantha Almost Made a Huge Mistake” hoopla that they are throwing at the reception hall, since they’d already paid for the band, food, alcohol, and so forth.)
It was only recently that I learned that Samantha has what doctors might call a “violent, hair-trigger temper.” I realized this when she stood as close to me as you are to this sheet of paper, her face as red as an apple, her eyes enormous, her sharp teeth like those of some beast, and screamed, “Is it true? Is it true that you invited Debra to meet you at the Sheraton at lunchtime last Tuesday? Debra, my maid of honor?”
I had not known before that moment that my fiancée, the woman I was to spend the rest of my life with, had such a short fuse. I certainly wouldn’t have asked her to marry me had I known. I certainly wouldn’t have invited her to move into my home (or, more accurately, I would not have moved into her home). The girl I’d fallen in love with was as calm and clement as a summer day. I did not recognize the girl who was standing in front of me baring her beastly teeth. She was like the “evil twin” who frequently appears in television soap operas, the one who looks exactly like the heroine but, in fact, is infused with the unsavory qualities you would normally find in a high-priced corporate lawyer.
I’m afraid that I also discovered that Samantha has difficulty resolving problems. As any marriage expert will tell you, the ability to resolve conflicts and “move on” is the cornerstone of any healthy relationship between a man and a woman. But, as I learned in the nick of time, Samantha is incapable of dropping an issue. After I told her, unequivocally, that I had not invited her maid of honor to meet me at the Sheraton last Tuesday, she would not let the issue go. Instead, she felt the need to pull a piece of paper out of her purse and read it aloud.
“Debra,” she read, “I’m not a married man yet. There’s no denying the chemistry we have. I know you felt it, too, when we all had dinner at Chili’s. Meet me at the Sheraton next Tuesday at noon. Bring something sheer and sexy!”
As I said, she simply could not let the issue go. Her forgetfulness was another problem. I don’t know how many times we’d spoken about my poor penmanship, about the callus on my middle finger, yet she acted as if she knew nothing about it. I had to take the note from her and show her that it said “Thursday,” not “Tuesday.” I had to show her that it said “cheap,” not “sheer.”
“See,” I said. “I can barely write.” I held my hand up in front of my face so she could not avoid looking at the callus. “See. See.”
My problem with my penmanship, the callus on my hand, meant nothing to her. Nothing. It was at that moment that I realized, if I ever had to get medical treatment for my problem, surgery to reduce or remove the callus, for instance, I would not be able to count on her for support. I would be on my own. I would have to face it by myself. The pain. The embarrassment. The countless hours of rehabilitation. The struggle to feel like a “whole man” again. That is not what I was looking for in a wife. You know that, my dear friend or family member. You know.
So, Samantha and I have made the mutual decision to move on.
For the next several weeks, I will be renting a room at the YMCA on 86th Street.
Or the one on 56th Street.
What does that say? Did I write an “8” or a “5”? I think it’s an “8.” Yes, it’s an “8.” At least I think it is.
See?
See what I must face alone?
Maybe I could stay on your couch instead.
Let’s talk.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
You have just read “The Handwriting Patient,” the opening story of Michael Kun’s masterful short story collection, Corrections to My Memoirs.
The story was written by the author in Albuquerque, New Mexico, on a vacation. As readers are likely aware, the story has generated international acclaim, winning awards from the Berlin Literary Society and the Indianapolis Shakespeare Commission.
The next story in this exquisite collection is the title story, “Corrections to My Memoirs.” As the author is wont to do, he originally wrote the story in French. (The story, in fact, is dedicated to Michael’s high school French teacher, Madame Lepke.) He then translated the story back into English, his native tongue.
Describing this unusual process, Michael has explained, “French has a different rhythm than English, a different cadence. By writing in French, I am able to find unique patterns and sentence structures, ones that many Americans simply are not accustomed to. Translating the story back into English, I am able to bring it home to my countrymen. I feel as if I am bringing a gift home from a trip to Paris, a gift for millions of Americans. Unfortunately, I have yet to visit Paris. I hope to do so someday, and perhaps I really will bring back gifts for everyone. Gloves, or maybe hats.”
“Corrections to My Memoirs” is, indeed, a gift. It was awarded the New York City Literary Award, the Cincinnati Arts Council Prize, and was an official Roma Linguistica Societale Selecione.
The story has now been translated into twenty-four languages, not including the original French.
We are proud to present it here, in English.
CORRECTIONS TO MY MEMOIRS
Upon much review and deep, deep contemplation, it appears that there may be several so-called inaccuracies in my unpublished memoirs currently entitled Victory: How I Won World War II and Super Bowl III. (Note to potential publishers: This title is not “set in stone.”)
While most of the so-called inaccuracies are plainly “poetic license,” I understand that potential readers may not be savvy enough to understand such a complex literary concept. Among other things, they may not understand that “poetic license” applies to all writers, not just poets, as the name wrongly implies. Accordingly, I would like to make the following corrections to my memoirs:
Because the title of the book and chapters 44 through 57 might suggest otherwise to unsophisticated readers, I should explain that I did not formally serve in World War II.
Although I was not born until 1962, whi
ch was at least a couple of years after the war ended, I did read much about the war in various encyclopedias. Having done so, I did in fact devise a plan that could have helped to end the war much, much earlier. The plan, described in chapter 55 as if it had actually been carried out, involved luring Hitler, Mussolini, and some of the other enemy leaders into a large, open space. (SPOILER ALERT: The plan involved chocolate cake and very pretty Spanish ladies!) Sadly, President Lincoln did not have access to my plan, and the war dragged on much longer than needed.
Technically, I did not play in Super Bowl III, as the title and chapters 94 through 97 might imply. I was only seven years old at the time, and I believe it would be both cruel and entirely unrealistic for readers to expect such a small child to play in a professional football game against grown men, many of whom were quite large and could have caused serious injury to a small boy. I did watch the game on television though, and the outcome described in my memoirs is accurate: The New York Jets defeated the Baltimore Colts. For the sake of accuracy, all references to “me” or “I” in those chapters should be changed to “Joe Namath.”
While their last name is accurate, my parents’ first names are not “Sonny” and “Cher.” I am prohibited by a restraining order obtained by my parents’ lawyers from using their real names in my memoirs or in any other “form of media, including, but not limited to, print publication, electronic transmission, television, or film.” However, I am not prohibited from telling you that if you dial Directory Assistance for Bergen County, New Jersey, not only will the operator provide you my parents’ first names, but she’ll also give you their telephone number so you can call them as often as you’d like.
