by Michael Kun
It was a small black-and-white one of a girl, in her teens, standing on a dock, nothing behind her except for water. She was wearing a golfing cap, a loose blouse that may well have been one of her father’s discarded shirts, Bermuda shorts, and white boat shoes. Her skin was white too, like linen, and it was hard to tell if she was sick or bored, or both. A fish hung neatly from a string the girl pinched between the thumb and index finger of her right hand, and somehow it seemed as if she were holding the fish more than an arm’s length away. It was an odd pose, odd and charming.
I opened the bathroom door and took a step out into the room, still in my undershirt. I cupped the picture in my palm. Standing there, half-dressed, I was struck by this thought: I could hold Earl’s life in one hand. It frightened me. I wanted to ask about the picture, but I wasn’t sure what I wanted to know. “That looks like a trout,” I finally said. It was a guess. Trout were all I knew. They were the only fish I could think of, and even now I’m not sure if they live in fresh or salt water.
Earl looked over his book. Oh, the expression on his face. “It is,” he answered. “A large-mouth.” For an instant, he ceased to be Earl Van Devere, or, maybe, for an instant, he became Earl Van Devere, odd and exposed. His chest heaved. His star bobbed, and suddenly everything seemed to hang so heavy on him. His chest, his arm, his buttocks, his legs. Everything except the piece of his left arm. There was an incredible lightness about that, but as for the rest, it was as if he were drowning in his own girth. Objectively, I’m sure he looked no different than ever.
Earl closed his book and leaned forward in his chair. “I wouldn’t figure you know much about fishing, Nicholas. You don’t strike me as much of an outdoorsman, if you know what I mean.” He couldn’t fool me. Earl wasn’t thinking about fish.
“I know what you mean.” We stayed in silence for several moments, inspecting each other like hounds, our eyes catching then darting, me feeling like his friend, and I asked, “Who’s the girl?”
Earl didn’t tell me who the girl was. I thought he would. He looked like he would, his face and all, but somehow he regained himself. Or lost himself. He flipped his book open again, this time no more than a quarter of the way in, and I sat and held the picture, not wanting to return it to the sink. His pages turned with a slowness that revealed contemplation, but he looked the same as always, hard and massive, only now I saw the heaviness too. It hung from him. It was in his fingers when he touched his face. It was in his throat. It was in his hair. Earl wasn’t reading. He was thinking, and so was I. If he wouldn’t tell me, I would imagine what had happened. Something happened. The girl in the picture. I thought of cars—what else would I think of in that room?—then I thought of car accidents, of Earl driving too fast through an intersection, of Earl not stopping at a light, of Earl taking his eyes off the road to look at the girl with the linen skin. He looked so heavy. I looked at the picture again. This time I imagined the girl on the dock, the sleeve of her blouse loose and flapping like a flag, empty, the fish and the string defying gravity, hanging there in space.
Earl jumped in front of the car on purpose. I know. Believe me, I know.
Two minutes on a page. Three minutes on a page. Then two and a half on the next. A car honked at the station, and neither of us jerked. There were more, but I didn’t count. The rain continued well into the night before I thought of borrowing one of Earl’s coats, and after I’d thought it, I waited an hour or so before asking, watching him read, only halfway into Henry Ford’s life and yet, at the same time, almost through. I watched Earl, drowning in himself. “How much does it weigh?” I wanted to say as I slipped into his topcoat, one sleeve worn and comfortable, the other stiff as new. “How much does it weigh?” But he might have thought I meant the book or the fish.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Hmm.
We really liked that story.
We hope you did too.
It’s the type of story that suggests that maybe, just maybe, Michael has the talent to write a best-selling novel someday.
The type that suggests that maybe, just maybe, we should try to keep him at our publishing house.
WEIGHT AND FORTUNE
There’s a commotion at Hardy’s Pharmacy, and I haven’t missed a second of it. I was drinking a milk shake at the soda counter when it started, and I’m not about to give up my seat now. Mrs. Hardy says that I’ll have to leave unless I order something, so I order another milk shake, vanilla, even though my stomach aches. It’s my fourth one so far, and I’m going to drink it slow, real slow.
There must be close to forty people crammed into the pharmacy, and they’re hollering so loud that it sounds like a couple hundred. It sounds like a football game is what it sounds like. The store is small, and every aisle is just about filled.
I wonder how all of them can breathe pressed up against each other like that, especially when it’s so hot and damp. It’s fine at the soda counter, though. There’s a fan right next to the grill.
Doc Hardy is standing near the front window, beside the weight-and-fortune machine. His arms are wrapped tightly around its neck as if he were clinging to a life preserver, and Mr. Brothers and Mr. Tonelli are trying to lift it up despite him. Everyone else is screaming and pointing their fingers, and some have taken packages from the shelves. They’re throwing them across the store, and a tube of toothpaste hits Mr. Tonelli on the side of his face. He turns to the crowd. “Whose side are you on?” he yells, wiping his eye with the back of his hand. He bends at the waist and struggles with the weight-and-fortune machine.
The machine is broken, which is nothing new. It’s been broken for a few years. The scale is off by four pounds, but everyone knows that; you just add four pounds to whatever the dial says, though most people are happy forgetting about the extra four pounds. But today there’s something wrong with the fortunes it’s giving, and that’s never happened before. That’s why everyone’s so angry.
Mr. Horn came in this morning to pick up a prescription for his asthma, and he put a nickel in the machine on his way out. I’d only been sitting at the counter for a few minutes, talking to Mrs. Hardy about her hairdresser’s wedding.
“Doc, come here a minute,” Mr. Horn called, and I looked over. His lips were pursed, and he was holding up a fist, the fortune in it.
“What’s the matter, Ned?” Doc Hardy asked.
“This machine of yours, that’s what’s the matter. Come see the fortune I just got out of it.”
Doc Hardy stepped out from behind the pharmaceuticals counter and walked over to the machine. He pulled his bifocals out of his shirt pocket and pushed them on, then he took the slip of paper from Mr. Horn.
“Go home immediately,” he read from the paper, “your wife is dead on the living room couch.” Doc Hardy put a hand on Mr. Horn’s shoulder, and both looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, Ned. I don’t know what to say, except that this has never happened before. Let me take a look at this thing.” He stepped up onto the machine, took a nickel from his pocket, and put it in. The scale said he weighed 168 pounds, and a plastic cylinder rolled out, the size of a cigarette. He pulled the cap off and let the strip of paper drop into his palm.
“Good Lord,” he said, and he showed the paper to Mr. Horn, who said the same thing. “It must be some practical joker at the manufacturer’s,” Doc Hardy said. “I’m going to call them right now and give them a piece of my mind.” He copied down the telephone number from the base of the machine and went into the back room to make the call.
Mr. Brothers was at the magazine rack while all of this was happening, and he went over to the machine. His fortune said that his wife was unfaithful to him. He was furious, and he began pacing like a madman. “This is an outrage, an absolute outrage!”
People passing outside must have heard him, because the store soon began filling. Mr. Barrington, Mrs. Engel, Mr. Spangler, Mr. Tonelli. There was a line at the machine and small groups about the store, sharing their fortunes, shaking their fists and their head
s. That’s when Mrs. Hardy first told me that I couldn’t keep my seat unless I was eating, and that’s when I ordered my second milk shake. My stomach didn’t start to ache until I was halfway through the third.
I watched and listened from the counter, eavesdropping. Mrs. Costello tried the machine, and she got a message that said her daughter was pregnant. Mrs. Hanks got one that said her husband would lose a limb in a terrible car accident. Mr. Spangler got one that said his garage was on fire. Mrs. Engel got one that said she would grow a heavy moustache. Mr. Tonelli’s said he would lose the sight in his left eye. Mr. Bushman got one that said he would be found dead in a motel room in a strange city. Mr. Barrington got one that said his son would either die in the war or become a ventriloquist. Mrs. Mack got one that said she would never find happiness. Old Mr. Hamilton’s said that his grandchildren would be devoured by wolves. Mr. Gould’s told him to stay away from Italian food. There were more.
Doc Hardy is standing on the machine now, trying to keep Mr. Brothers and Mr. Tonelli from throwing it through the store window. It looks too heavy to lift, and he might just be concerned that they’ll hurt themselves trying. It’s made of steel, and, on top of that, Doc Hardy weighs 168 pounds. Or 172. He keeps waving a hand in the air to get everyone’s attention, but that isn’t working at all. They won’t quiet down. They’re cussing and calling him rude names and threatening his family.
The front door opens again, and it’s Mr. Horn. I hadn’t noticed him leave, and I don’t think anyone else had either. He looks confused, and his breath is heavy. Everyone turns to look at him—even Mr. Brothers and Mr. Tonelli. They take their hands off the machine.
Mr. Horn rubs his face and fidgets with his belt. “I just went home,” he says, “and my wife is dead.”
Finally there’s silence. “Where was she?” someone calls out.
Mr. Horn doesn’t say anything. He just nods, hand at his forehead.
It’s like a fire. Everyone hurries for the front door, pushing at each other. Mr. Hamilton falls. Mrs. Costello is swinging her pocketbook, screaming, “Debbie! Debbie!” I watch through the window as they scatter once they get out to the sidewalk. Mr. Brothers meets his wife in front of Abma’s Grocery. She’s carrying two large shopping bags. He slaps her across the face and starts yelling at her, and she drops her bags to the sidewalk. I try to read his lips but can’t make out anything. She runs to Mr. Bushman.
Doc Hardy looks tired, and he sits on the stool next to mine, the bifocals on the top of his head. He takes his fortune out of his trouser pocket and slides it over to me, then he puts his head on the counter and closes his eyes.
His glasses drop to the counter, bouncing, and I read the fortune. “Your wife has poisoned the milk shakes,” it says. My stomach is beating, and I swing around in my seat again to look out the front window, waiting for the fire truck to pass.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Look, here’s the story. Every writer who gets published thinks the exact same thing:
Maybe, just maybe, my book will become a best seller. Maybe I’ll become a well-known, well-respected writer. Maybe I can quit my tedious day job and just write all day. Maybe someone will make a movie out of my book and I’ll get to mingle with movie stars. Maybe my father will be proud of me.
They’re all the same, every single writer we’ve ever met, and every single writer we ever will meet. Only a teeny, tiny percentage of them ever become marketable writers. For the rest, if they’re lucky, their books will sell a couple thousand copies, maybe they’ll receive a few generous reviews, then they’ll just disappear like the ghosts that follow the flash of a camera, convincing themselves that they are happy just to have been published.
Michael Kun is not happy just to have been published.
Michael Kun refuses to disappear.
For that, we say, “Hurrah!”
DOES YOUR JOB APPLICATION PUT YOUR COMPANY AT RISK?
Imagine the following scenario:
One day, you are sitting at your desk when you receive a call from a lawyer. The lawyer says that he is representing an individual whom your restaurant refused to hire. He says the individual is going to file a claim for age discrimination—unless you are willing to pay his client $100,000.
Calmly, you tell the lawyer that you will look into his client’s claims and call him back. But when you investigate the matter, you find that the client never worked for your company. No one has ever heard of him. No one can even find a record of him ever applying for a job.
When you call his lawyer back to see if there has been a mistake, he says, “Oh, there’s no mistake at all. My client was told he had to fill out the entire job application to be considered for a position. Even the question that asks him about his age.”
“There’s no question asking about an applicant’s age on our job application,” you say with confidence, having seen the application dozens of times.
“The application specifically asks applicants to identify the year they graduated from high school.”
“So?”
“Well, if you assume that most people graduate from high school when they’re seventeen or eighteen, it’s pretty darned easy to figure out how old someone is if you know when he graduated.”
“But that’s not why we ask for that information,” you say.
“You can tell that to a jury,” the lawyer says, “or you can settle this case with us.”
Sound far-fetched?
Hardly.
More than a few refusal-to-hire cases have been based on improper job-application questions. In fact, in 2004, more than one hundred employers in California were sued as part of a massive class action. The allegations? That each of their job applications included an illegal question regarding applicants’ criminal records.
Should a job application ever place your company at risk for litigation? Of course not. But this important hiring tool is often overlooked when employers revise their policies and procedures to ensure compliance with the law. A job application that was fine ten years ago may pose problems today. A job application that is fine in Illinois or New York may not be fine in California or Massachusetts.
Here are a few tips to avoid having this necessary hiring tool become “Exhibit A” in a lawsuit against your company:
DO NOT INCLUDE QUESTIONS PERTAINING TO AGE. Not only should you avoid asking applicants for their birthdates, but you should also avoid asking about high school graduation dates or other dates that would allow a keen observer to determine how old an applicant is. Just see the scenario above to get an idea of how such questions can lead to age-discrimination claims.
DO NOT ASK ABOUT THE APPLICANT’S RACE, SEX, RELIGION, NATIONAL ORIGIN, OR ANY OTHER PROTECTED CATEGORY. Look, I’m not stupid. I know none of you are actually reading this. At best, you’re only reading the bolded items. Heck, that’s all I’d do if I were you. I’d just read the first paragraph or two, then skim the bolded parts, in case my boss happened to ask me about it.
“Hey, Mike,” my boss might say, “did you read that article about job applications in Human Resources Today magazine like I asked you to do?”
“Sure did,” I’d say, “and we need to make sure we don’t ask about the applicant’s race, sex, religion, national origin, or any other protected category.”
“Great job, Mike,” he’d say, then he’d give me a big raise.
A raise that could not possibly compensate me enough for the soul-draining work that human resources people do.
I sympathize with all of you.
No, change that. I empathize with all of you. I’m not a human resources person. I’m a lawyer who works with human resources people (and who, occasionally, ends up being asked to write for human resources magazines like this one). I probably became a lawyer for the same reason you became a human resources person: because the younger, naive version of me thought that I could help people.
Then, little by little, I learned something.
And I’ll bet you learned the exa
ct same thing, little by little.
I learned that people are terrible.
DO NOT ASK ABOUT ORGANIZATIONS TO WHICH APPLICANTS BELONG. My father told me that. He told me that people were terrible, but I didn’t listen to him. I thought he was bitter and sad because life had not worked out for him the way he had hoped. Over time, I learned that he was bitter and sad because people are terrible. People let him down, time and time again. He was passed over for jobs he felt he deserved. He was mistreated by neighbors. He raised five spoiled, resentful children. And, yes, I’m including me. I was probably the worst.
Perhaps your father was the same. I’ll bet he was. When you told him you wanted to be a human resources person because you wanted to help people, he tried to talk you out of it, didn’t he? He told you people were terrible, didn’t he? He told you that you’d end up hating your job, didn’t he? That you’d end up hating people? And he was right, wasn’t he?
How many times a day does someone come into your office to complain about some trivial comment or perceived slight? Ten? Twenty? More?
“The girl at the desk next to me talks to her boyfriend on the phone.”
“The hot water in the restroom is too hot.”
“My evaluation says that I exceed expectations. It should say that I greatly exceed expectations.”
“My boss didn’t say hello to me this morning.”
You grin and you say that you’ll look into it.
What you really want to say is, “The girl at the desk next to you is talking to her boyfriend because he’s sick.”
Or, “Talk to the maintenance person about the hot water. Do I look like the maintenance person?”
