Interference & Other Stories

by Richard Hoffman

  “No, I told you. No charge.”

  “Well, you got my business for a lifetime.”

  Gagnon cocked his head and looked at Russell. He kept his hand on the hydraulic lever until the bar, chain, and canvas apron clanked back in place on the truck. “That was my brother,” he said. “My brother’s outfit, Fourth Marines. Not mine”

  “The stuff in the closet.”

  “Yeah. All the stuff he sent me before he didn’t come back.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Gagnon was climbing into the cab now. “Didn’t want to leave you with the wrong impression is all. That wouldn’t be right.” He gunned the truck in reverse, swinging into the street. He shifted and took off, acknowledging Russell’s raised hand with a quick wave, eyes straight ahead.

  Roger had watched from his bedroom window where he could see the tow truck turn at the corner and pass from view. He returned to his picture, anxious to finish now. Along the left margin he made a row of mountains. He had never seen real mountains, but in his picture book they seemed like the edge of things, the limit, so he turned his paper to draw another set of jagged peaks along the right-hand side.

  Holding his picture in both hands, he sat on the top stair, and he made his way down, sitting on each step, by using his feet. His parents were in the kitchen, hugging, just inside the back door. His mother turned to him; he could see she had been crying.

  “What you got there, Big Guy?” his father boomed.

  Roger held his picture out in front of him: an animal, orange and black with long lines for legs, stiltlike, resembling an insect, and with saw-toothed jaws depicted full front though the drawing was in profile. A creature horrific and improbable, protected on either side by purple mountains.

  “Tiger!” Roger instructed them. Then he dropped his drawing and, leaning forward, arms locked at his sides and ending in fists, he roared at the both of them.

  GUY GOES INTO A BARBERSHOP

  The barber looks up from his customer and nods. Guy touches his right eyebrow with his index finger in a little salute, hangs his jacket and hat on a hook, and turns to a stack of magazines: Agni, Hudson Review, The New Yorker, New York Review of Books, Paris Review, The American Scholar. No Field & Stream? No Argosy, Popular Mechanics, Maxim, Esquire, GQ? But the barber’s shaking out the striped cape and it’s his turn in the chair.

  “How goes it?” asks the barber.

  “Can’t complain,”says Guy.

  “Ah! Never complain and never explain,” chirps the barber.

  Guy watches him in the mirror, his movements, his assured manner. He looks at the barber’s instruments on the marble counter and in various holsters hanging below it.

  “So what’s it gonna be?”

  “Just trim the sides and back. Go easy on the top. There’s not a whole lot left up there, y’know?” He grins at the barber in the mirror.

  “Hopes dance best on bald men’s hair!” says the barber.

  “Come again?”

  “Hope. You know, the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Yeah. And I could use a shave.”

  “That’s an extra two bucks with the haircut. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy!”

  “That’s reasonable.”

  “The reasonable man adapts himself to the world: the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore all progress depends on the unreasonable man.”

  “I never quite thought about it that way,” Guy says and grows wary. Mostly he hopes this isn’t one of those barbers who doesn’t care if he gets those little hairs all down your neck so you itch the whole rest of the day. He closes his eyes and listens to the scissors do their work.

  “Mind if I ask you something?” the barber says.

  “No. Go ahead.”

  “Well, if there were no eternal consciousness in a man, if at the foundation of all there lay only a wild seething power which writhing with obscure passions produced everything that is great and everything that is insignificant, if a bottomless void never satiated lay hidden beneath all—what then would life be but despair?”

  “Damned if I know,” says Guy.

  Soon the barber is holding his jaw shut, scraping at his neck. “Every normal man,” the barber says, “must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats.”

  With this, Guy sits up. “Are you nuts? Is that it? I’m not going to sit here scared half to death while you hold a razor to my throat.”

  “Fear not that thy life shall come to an end, but rather fear that it shall never have a beginning,” the barber says as he smacks Guy on the cheeks with something that stings and smells like lime. “Relax,” he says.

  “How can I relax with you talking like that?”

  “Let people see in what I borrow whether I have known how to choose what would enhance my theme. For I make others say what I cannot say so well, now through the weakness of my language, now through the weakness of my understanding.”

  Then the barber holds up the hand mirror behind Guy’s head—a bogus lollipop, an all-day sucker, paddle of a clown. “Give me to know the measure of my days,” he says.

  Guy sees in the mirror before him the long approach of himself and he is afraid to meet his eyes for fear the whole train, on the thin, black, twin track of his pupils, will come screeching to a halt inside the brilliant station of his head. But he can also see, in the mirror the barber holds, that he has already emerged from his cerebrations intact, already turned toward the future, behind him that is, and away from what is now, today, staring him right in the face.

  The barber is already sweeping up as Guy gets to his feet and fumbles in his wallet. The barber, about to sweep the gathered pile into a long-handled dustpan, sees Guy’s quizzical look when he notices the several numbers swept into a pile with the hair.

  “Footnotes,” the barber says.

  LUCKY GARDEN

  In a Chinese restaurant a block up the hill from the high school, the kind with a green and yellow neon dragon in the window, a beaded curtain in the entry and booths along the walls, a young man in the dress uniform of the Marine Corps, several rows of ribbons above his heart, sat with his white hat and gloves on the seat next to him, across from a young African American woman. With just a hint of Latin America in his voice, he asked her if she had brought the papers with her.

  “I have them here, all filled out.” She took a manila envelope from her school bag.

  The Marine looked at the menu, a laminated card. “That’s good. That’s good. So. Let’s order first, okay? I’m starving. You hungry? I could go for a nice big pupu platter.”

  The young woman continued to hold out the envelope to him. “I want to be able to fly. To any place I want to go.”

  “I don’t see no pupu platter here. Do you?”

  She withdrew the envelope, holding it beside her face. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Don’t worry. You can fly to all kinds of places for free. So long as there is a plane going there and they have room, you can get on it. To anywhere you want.”

  “No, I mean can I fly the plane? I want to fly planes.” She set the envelope aside.

  “You want to fly them?”

  “Yeah, fly them.”

  “Well, you have to be an officer.”

  “How do I become an officer?”

  “You have to have a degree.”

  “You mean like college? Four years?”

  “I think that in the Corps you can get a degree in three years. I have to check it out, though. What do you like to eat? You would like the pupu platter. I don’t see no pupu platter on the menu, but I bet they have it.”

  The young woman turned the menu back and forth as if it were hopeless. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll have the egg drop soup.”

  “You never had a pupu platter? Girl, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “I just want sou
p.”

  “But what about some food? You know? Real food? A Marine can’t live on soup.”

  “I’m not a Marine.”

  “We’ll get to that. You have to start building yourself up.”

  “That’s all I want right now. When I get home, I’m going to sit in front of TV, pig out, and do my homework.”

  “That’s good. Homework’s good. You got to get good grades. Especially if you want to try for officer.”

  “What about medical school?”

  “Medical school!” He sniffed, frowned, and looked down at the menu. “If they don’t have the pupu platter, I’ll get moo goo gai pan.” “What?”

  “It’s like a kind of chicken. It has pea pods and other vegetables and stuff. You would like it. Why don’t you get some?”

  “I’m good with the soup. So if I want to go to med school will you help me?”

  “I thought you wanted to be a pilot.”

  “I told you before. I was thinking I could be a doctor who flies to places, wherever, you know, like where people are sick.”

  “I’m going to have to check on that. But I think you can. As long as you pass all the tests and like that.”

  “What tests?”

  “Whatever. There’s a test for everything. Like I said, I’ll check it out for you.”

  The waiter, an old man in baggy khakis and a white shirt, had shuffled over to the booth.

  “You have pupu platter?” the Marine asked him.

  The waiter took the menu from the table, looked it over, shook his head. “No. You need more time?”

  “No no. This young lady here is going to have the egg drop soup. I want moo goo gai pan. Number L, uh, eleven. With chicken fingers and fried rice. That’s it.”

  The waiter went away.

  “What are you?” asked the young woman.

  “Huh?”

  “What year were you born?” She reached across and pointed to his placemat. “You can look up whether you’re a pig or a rat or a monkey or a dragon.”

  “That don’t make sense. If everybody born the same year is the same thing then that can’t be right.”

  “What year?”

  “I was born in 1981. But I don’t believe this stuff. Besides, already I been all these things. Except the chicken.”

  “Rooster, that’s a rooster. Look, that’s you, 1981. You’re a rooster!”

  “Then okay! Okay by me!” He puffed his chest out and jutted his chin and they both laughed. “What are you? You’re eighteen, right? That makes you, what?” He looked at the placemat. “A horse! Una potra!”

  “What? What did you call me?”

  “It’s nothing bad. Means a young girl horse.”

  “I guess if you have to be a chicken, I can handle being a girl horse.”

  “Rooster!”

  She smiled at him and shook her head.

  “Okay, so lets look at your papers,” he said.

  She took them from a manila envelope and handed them across to him.

  “What did you write for why you want to join?”

  “I wasn’t sure what to write.”

  “Wait. Oh, man. Why you want to go and write ‘My uncle tried to choke me? That’s not a good thing to say. You have to say why you want to join.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You have to be positive, girl. Who needs to know that? Why you want to go and say that? That’s not going to help you.”

  “You told me to write the truth.”

  He looked up from reading the folder. “And your mom has cancer? When they see that they are definitely not going to let you in.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’ll think that maybe you’re running away from home or something. The Marines don’t want no runaways. Maybe they’ll think that you should be at home and taking care of your mother, you ever think about that?”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “That don’t make no difference what I think.”

  “But do you? Because by the time I’m all joined up, my mother will be gone. She don’t have long now.”

  “That’s hard. That’s harsh. I’m sorry for you. Still, I know how they think. You probably want to, you know, put your best foot forward. You don’t have to lie. I’m not saying you should lie. I’m only saying, you know, like you don’t have to tell them everything.”

  “So what should I write?”

  “I’m going to have to give you a whole new set of papers. It’s okay. Don’t worry. I just thought that we were going to have you all signed up today. Then you would know by graduation that you were accepted. But it’s okay. I’ll do everything I can. But you are going to have to write this again different.”

  “Is it better if I write I want to be a doctor who flies planes?”

  “Not here. Not on the application form. They want to know why you want to be a Marine.”

  “That is why. How am I ever gonna learn that elsewise? That’s why I’m asking you if you—if the Marines—will help me learn the stuff I need to know.” A bit of whining had crept into her voice and she took a deep breath, glad the waiter had placed the bowl of egg drop soup in front of her. “Chicken coming,” he said to the Marine and turned away.

  “Go ahead,” said the Marine, “you don’t want that to get cold.”

  The young woman bowed her head and blew across a spoonful of soup. She looked up at him. “Why did you sign up?”

  “Who, me? I wanted to serve my country. And I wanted to be proud of myself.”

  “You weren’t proud of yourself? Before?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “No, I didn’t mean nothing by it. I’m just saying.”

  “Oh, I was plenty proud of myself. Believe it, girl.”

  “Did I say something bad? I’m sorry. I thought that maybe something happened to you. Like something bad. I’m sometimes not proud because I let people do bad stuff. To me. And I thought maybe, I don’t know. Sometimes you can lose your pride and have to go and find it again. You know what I mean?”

  “No, I don’t think so. No.”

  “I’m sorry. Sometimes I just say some dumb-ass shit. I’m sorry.”

  “No no, don’t worry.”

  “What did you write on the application?”

  “I wrote that I wanted to serve my country. To defend freedom.”

  The waiter brought the moo goo gai pan, along with a metal pot of tea and two small cups. The Marine looked down at the food, then up at the young woman who was smiling at him. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No. Not nothing. What?”

  “You just sound like one of those brochure things.”

  “You don’t believe me? It’s the truth. I can’t help it I can’t find no fancy way to say it. It’s the truth.”

  “Well, it worked for you. You got accepted.”

  The Marine was chewing his food. He poured tea into both cups. “You know,” he said, “maybe the Corps is not for you. Maybe you don’t have to fill out a new application.” He put down the teapot with a clang and heartily speared chicken and vegetables with his fork.

  “Why’re you getting all worked up?”

  “Who says I’m getting worked up? The Corps just don’t need nobody with a bad attitude, that’s all.” He quickly brought several forkfuls to his mouth and chewed.

  “I meant it. I meant it. Don’t take it like that. I don’t have an attitude. It worked for you. You’re in. That’s good, right?”

  The young man nodded, frowning.

  “Here. You got something.” And she reached across the table to brush a grain of rice off his tunic. He grabbed her wrist and she saw the fear in his eyes.

  “I only wanted to brush the crumbs away,” she said as he released her.

  “I think we should keep this business,” he said.

  “Please don’t be mad at me. You have to help me.”

  “You write whatever you want to write.”

  “Please. I didn’t mean to
insult you.”

  The Marine bent to his food and said nothing. The young woman spooned through the soup without eating. “Listen, I’m sorry. I just want to be accepted.”

  “Well, you got an A on the test and you only need to get a C so I think they will like to have you. But I’m not the one who has the say. You could be disqualified for lots of different things.”

  “That’s the thing. How do I not get disqualified?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. If you keep it to like ‘I love my country’ or like about being proud to be in the Marine Corps, you’ll be in because your test was good, real good. And I can put a word in for you, write a note that you got a good attitude and whatever and they should take you. They don’t need to know you’re living with your dying mother and all like that.”

  “I don’t live with my mother. I live with my uncle. My mother lives in Atlanta. She’s in the hospital there.”

  “Another reason why it’s better not to write that on the application. Then you have to explain too much.”

  “It would be great to be able to tell my Moms that I got in. That would make her happy. If she knew before she passes that I’m going to be all right, that I’m going to be a doctor who flies planes, she could stop worrying so much about me.”

  “I guess that would bring her some peace then.”

  The young woman paused to consider the idea. “Yeah, peace is right. That’s it. She’d have some peace.”

  She drank her tea, which was cold, and refilled her cup and his. “Can I ask you something?”

  The young man gave a quick nod with a stern look on his face. The mood had changed.

  “Are your parents alive?”

  “They are. And I’m going to give you the quick version of the story and that’s all: I don’t talk to them anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told you. Quick version. Besides, this is business.”

  The Marine raised his hand to hail the waiter and gestured in a circle over his food to indicate he would take it with him. “Usually that’s not what people ask me. When they ask me ‘Can I ask you something?’ Usually they ask me if they’ll get sent into combat, you know, if they’ll see action. Most of them join up because they want to.”