Magical Index
"shards of glass are one thing - but a marble, there's something to feed your dragons on."
Saturday
The First Conversation About Myself
()
“Where are we?” he said and leaned against the table.
“My dining room,” was my smug reply. “You’re leaning on my dining room table.”
“I know this is your dining room. How did we get here?” He seemed agitated – genuinely confused.
“Don’t you know?” I said. “This is one of my short stories – it begins in this room.”
He stood up and rubbed his hand through his hair. He took in the room with a wide-eyed puff of his cheeks.
“So,” he said, after a moment. “This is your story and I’m one of its characters. I don’t believe it.” Clearly, he was forcing himself to be doubtful.
“It’s true,” I said with a shake of my head – he knew it was. “Look: in a second you’re going to say…” and I told him.
He stared at me, trying to look incredulous. He blinked too many times.
Then he said it.
“There you see,” I cut in. “How could I have known you were going to say that?”
“I don’t remember saying anything,” he shot back, raising his voice a little.
I blew an exasperated sigh.
“Ok, I narrated it instead of giving you a direct quote.” He folded his arms, a little relieved.
“Hold on,” I said. “In a few seconds my wife is gonna come unexpectedly through the back door and give me a kiss on the cheek and then run to the bathroom.” He half-smiled.
“Unexpectedly, huh?”
The back door opened and my wife and a little gust of tangy wind rushed through the kitchen and into the dining room.
“Hi” she said breathlessly, and gave me a quick, cold peck on my cheek. She started to hurry on but apparently saw something in my expression.
“What’s wrong?” she breathed, screwing up her face. I didn’t know.
He said:
“You’re so red – do you have a fever or something?” but she couldn’t hear him. Her face was red. For some reason, I found it fascinating.
“Good observation,” I said, turning toward him, “I should write that in.”
“Who are you talking to?” my wife said. Her eyes were suddenly wide.
“Um – ” I wasn’t sure what to say. “You’ll find out later, babe.” She turned her eyes sideways at me and started again for the bathroom.
As soon as she had shut the door, he looked up at me doubtfully.
“You see,” I said. He shoved his hands into his back pockets and turned to the wall – pretended to look at some of my photography.
“You’re omniscient then. Maybe you can tell me what I’m thinking,” he said sarcastically to the wall.
“You don’t have thoughts,” I returned. “the things you say or do are all you are.” I sauntered towards the fridge.
“Hold on,” he suddenly burst out, spinning toward me. “How could you not have known about her red face if you had me saying that? If this is your story you can’t discover something you want to put in the story during the story.” I opened the fridge door uninterestedly.
“Don’t ask me,” I said behind a wall of condiments – “I’m a character in the story too, you know.” He was quiet. The apartment was quiet. I poured myself a drink and leaned against the sink to sip at it. After a moment like that, he said:
“So what am I – what am I going to ‘say and do’? We won’t be in this little apartment the whole time will we?”
I clicked my tongue.
“Yep,” I said, “It’s one of those short, clever, philosophical pieces in the Borgesian tradition.”
“Are people even reading that kind of stuff anymore?” His voice jumped. I raised my eyebrows. He was clearly upset. He walked past me and out onto the balcony.
“If you want,” he started again, almost angrily, “I can spice it up a bit for you – jump off the balcony or something.”
“Actually,” I said, “it’s sort of a suspense-thriller, too” – I hesitated – “You die at the end.” He didn’t say anything but I thought I could hear him breathing a few puffs of sardonic laughter.
“Come on,” I said, moving to join him, “It’s not such a bad story to be in – to be in, I mean.”
“And to die in. I’m assuming this is a first-person, past-tense narration – so you shouldn’t have to worry.” He looked out over the rooftops of our city block. We were quiet again for a moment. Then he popped his lips and tugged on his belt.
“So, what’s going on with your wife?” The sound of her moving around in the back of the apartment had noticeably vanished.
“I don’t think she comes into it anymore.” Quiet. Then:
“Just like that, huh?”
“Just like that,” I said.
He sighed deeply and leaned his head against the wall.
“I guess those chimneys are symbolic or whatever,” he breathed with resignation.
“Whatd’ya mean?” I asked, looking out.
The rooftops were scattered with old, unused brick chimneys. Most of them had TV antennas or satellite dishes sloppily strapped to their mummified sides. The one nearest me teetered, tall, thin and ludicrous from the top of the next building, ready at any moment to fall and shatter like a dry lump of dirt on the concrete below. It was strangely frightening.
Far behind it, a huge brick smoke-stack rose up formidably. It seemed somehow timeless – sound, whole, unencumbered – and the others were childish and redundant in its shadow.
“The little ones all look like they’re trying so hard to be that big one,” he said. I gave him a puzzled look.
“I don’t know, I wouldn’t be saying anything about them unless they had some thematic significance for the story. Right?”
I forced a chuckle.
“Good point,” I said.
He sat down thoughtfully on the first step and clasped his hands to his knees.
“So who am I?” his voice was thin and uncertain – “do I get a back-story, with details, like, say, a name?”
“Sorry,” I said, “no such luck.” He shook his head broadly at that.
“How do I die, then?” his voice raised, “you can at least tell me that.”
I shrugged my shoulders. Maybe I hadn’t thought of it yet. He made a frustrated groan. Then he suddenly held his breath.
“What good is a name to me?” he said. A dark change was sweeping his face.
“You know, I can’t really be anybody, anyway. I exist purely to discuss my own existence in this story – all I can say is what you’ve written.”
“Come on,” I said placatingly again. His sudden tone alarmed me.
I shifted uncomfortably back toward the kitchen.
“Ha,” he puffed and stood up from the step energetically. He turned towards me.
“I’m not a character at all, in this story – I’m just an extension of you.”
“What?” I said more harshly than I meant to then quickly turned my back and stepped all the way into the kitchen. He followed threateningly. Shut the door behind him.
“You know what I’m talking about. I’m only made up of bits out of your head. No doubt only the bits that will put you in just the right light – justify you.”
My breathing was getting heavier. I put my hands onto the kitchen bench and lowered my head anxiously.
“This isn’t about me,” I said, “I write stories.” My voice was really thin now.
“Oh my god!” he burst out, his expression large. “I guess you had to say that. Yeah, you’re just a character too.”
He had moved really close to me. I could feel his hot breath on the back of my neck. I hated him being that close to me. He raved on:
“I know what you’re doing with this.” He paused, nearly panting.
“It makes me so crazy – every word I’m saying right now – you’ve carefully calculated each one. This sentence has probably been revised ten times – ah! That’s so maddening. That’s so maddening.” He grabbed onto the curtain in front of our pantry and wrung it in his hands.
I raised my head slightly. Fumbled with one of the drawer handles. He groaned again. Seemed to deflate a little. Between us several breaths were breathed.
Then something occurred to him:
“Why would you have me here saying this – just criticizing the egocentrism of your art – of creativity in general? – You are trying to justify yourself.”
I looked down again. I was sweating.
“I have to be honest,” I said very quietly. I half hoped he wouldn’t hear me.
“Exactly,” he said more loudly than necessary. “You have to be honest if you want to be great.” He let go of the curtain. The swell had gone out of the moment.
I didn’t say anything. The drawer handle seemed to twitch in my hand. There was another pause.
“In which case –” he flopped wearily against the pantry door frame, it seemed his eyes were welling with despair, “I’m the most dishonest thing you’ve ever dreamed up.”
I started. I looked up at him. He was running his hand tragically through his hair. Our eyes met.
“And this makes for a nice little touch of pathos,” he said wearily. Then he looked away and began sliding to the floor – but I already had a hand in the drawer.
He started to say, “So, tell me, how do I –” and then I reached up and cut his throat.
I backed away quickly and threw the knife down. I breathed deeply, unsteadily. Then I turned, switched off the light and walked out of the room. It was quiet. It was as if he had not even existed.
I told myself it didn’t matter. I had made him up to begin with. And I had no say in the matter, anyway – I’m a character in this story, too.
But I still felt guilty.
()
“Where are we?” he said and leaned against the table.
“My dining room,” was my smug reply. “You’re leaning on my dining room table.”
“I know this is your dining room. How did we get here?” He seemed agitated – genuinely confused.
“Don’t you know?” I said. “This is one of my short stories – it begins in this room.”
He stood up and rubbed his hand through his hair. He took in the room with a wide-eyed puff of his cheeks.
“So,” he said, after a moment. “This is your story and I’m one of its characters. I don’t believe it.” Clearly, he was forcing himself to be doubtful.
“It’s true,” I said with a shake of my head – he knew it was. “Look: in a second you’re going to say…” and I told him.
He stared at me, trying to look incredulous. He blinked too many times.
Then he said it.
“There you see,” I cut in. “How could I have known you were going to say that?”
“I don’t remember saying anything,” he shot back, raising his voice a little.
I blew an exasperated sigh.
“Ok, I narrated it instead of giving you a direct quote.” He folded his arms, a little relieved.
“Hold on,” I said. “In a few seconds my wife is gonna come unexpectedly through the back door and give me a kiss on the cheek and then run to the bathroom.” He half-smiled.
“Unexpectedly, huh?”
The back door opened and my wife and a little gust of tangy wind rushed through the kitchen and into the dining room.
“Hi” she said breathlessly, and gave me a quick, cold peck on my cheek. She started to hurry on but apparently saw something in my expression.
“What’s wrong?” she breathed, screwing up her face. I didn’t know.
He said:
“You’re so red – do you have a fever or something?” but she couldn’t hear him. Her face was red. For some reason, I found it fascinating.
“Good observation,” I said, turning toward him, “I should write that in.”
“Who are you talking to?” my wife said. Her eyes were suddenly wide.
“Um – ” I wasn’t sure what to say. “You’ll find out later, babe.” She turned her eyes sideways at me and started again for the bathroom.
As soon as she had shut the door, he looked up at me doubtfully.
“You see,” I said. He shoved his hands into his back pockets and turned to the wall – pretended to look at some of my photography.
“You’re omniscient then. Maybe you can tell me what I’m thinking,” he said sarcastically to the wall.
“You don’t have thoughts,” I returned. “the things you say or do are all you are.” I sauntered towards the fridge.
“Hold on,” he suddenly burst out, spinning toward me. “How could you not have known about her red face if you had me saying that? If this is your story you can’t discover something you want to put in the story during the story.” I opened the fridge door uninterestedly.
“Don’t ask me,” I said behind a wall of condiments – “I’m a character in the story too, you know.” He was quiet. The apartment was quiet. I poured myself a drink and leaned against the sink to sip at it. After a moment like that, he said:
“So what am I – what am I going to ‘say and do’? We won’t be in this little apartment the whole time will we?”
I clicked my tongue.
“Yep,” I said, “It’s one of those short, clever, philosophical pieces in the Borgesian tradition.”
“Are people even reading that kind of stuff anymore?” His voice jumped. I raised my eyebrows. He was clearly upset. He walked past me and out onto the balcony.
“If you want,” he started again, almost angrily, “I can spice it up a bit for you – jump off the balcony or something.”
“Actually,” I said, “it’s sort of a suspense-thriller, too” – I hesitated – “You die at the end.” He didn’t say anything but I thought I could hear him breathing a few puffs of sardonic laughter.
“Come on,” I said, moving to join him, “It’s not such a bad story to be in – to be in, I mean.”
“And to die in. I’m assuming this is a first-person, past-tense narration – so you shouldn’t have to worry.” He looked out over the rooftops of our city block. We were quiet again for a moment. Then he popped his lips and tugged on his belt.
“So, what’s going on with your wife?” The sound of her moving around in the back of the apartment had noticeably vanished.
“I don’t think she comes into it anymore.” Quiet. Then:
“Just like that, huh?”
“Just like that,” I said.
He sighed deeply and leaned his head against the wall.
“I guess those chimneys are symbolic or whatever,” he breathed with resignation.
“Whatd’ya mean?” I asked, looking out.
The rooftops were scattered with old, unused brick chimneys. Most of them had TV antennas or satellite dishes sloppily strapped to their mummified sides. The one nearest me teetered, tall, thin and ludicrous from the top of the next building, ready at any moment to fall and shatter like a dry lump of dirt on the concrete below. It was strangely frightening.
Far behind it, a huge brick smoke-stack rose up formidably. It seemed somehow timeless – sound, whole, unencumbered – and the others were childish and redundant in its shadow.
“The little ones all look like they’re trying so hard to be that big one,” he said. I gave him a puzzled look.
“I don’t know, I wouldn’t be saying anything about them unless they had some thematic significance for the story. Right?”
I forced a chuckle.
“Good point,” I said.
He sat down thoughtfully on the first step and clasped his hands to his knees.
“So who am I?” his voice was thin and uncertain – “do I get a back-story, with details, like, say, a name?”
“Sorry,” I said, “no such luck.” He shook his head broadly at that.
“How do I die, then?” his voice raised, “you can at least tell me that.”
I shrugged my shoulders. Maybe I hadn’t thought of it yet. He made a frustrated groan. Then he suddenly held his breath.
“What good is a name to me?” he said. A dark change was sweeping his face.
“You know, I can’t really be anybody, anyway. I exist purely to discuss my own existence in this story – all I can say is what you’ve written.”
“Come on,” I said placatingly again. His sudden tone alarmed me.
I shifted uncomfortably back toward the kitchen.
“Ha,” he puffed and stood up from the step energetically. He turned towards me.
“I’m not a character at all, in this story – I’m just an extension of you.”
“What?” I said more harshly than I meant to then quickly turned my back and stepped all the way into the kitchen. He followed threateningly. Shut the door behind him.
“You know what I’m talking about. I’m only made up of bits out of your head. No doubt only the bits that will put you in just the right light – justify you.”
My breathing was getting heavier. I put my hands onto the kitchen bench and lowered my head anxiously.
“This isn’t about me,” I said, “I write stories.” My voice was really thin now.
“Oh my god!” he burst out, his expression large. “I guess you had to say that. Yeah, you’re just a character too.”
He had moved really close to me. I could feel his hot breath on the back of my neck. I hated him being that close to me. He raved on:
“I know what you’re doing with this.” He paused, nearly panting.
“It makes me so crazy – every word I’m saying right now – you’ve carefully calculated each one. This sentence has probably been revised ten times – ah! That’s so maddening. That’s so maddening.” He grabbed onto the curtain in front of our pantry and wrung it in his hands.
I raised my head slightly. Fumbled with one of the drawer handles. He groaned again. Seemed to deflate a little. Between us several breaths were breathed.
Then something occurred to him:
“Why would you have me here saying this – just criticizing the egocentrism of your art – of creativity in general? – You are trying to justify yourself.”
I looked down again. I was sweating.
“I have to be honest,” I said very quietly. I half hoped he wouldn’t hear me.
“Exactly,” he said more loudly than necessary. “You have to be honest if you want to be great.” He let go of the curtain. The swell had gone out of the moment.
I didn’t say anything. The drawer handle seemed to twitch in my hand. There was another pause.
“In which case –” he flopped wearily against the pantry door frame, it seemed his eyes were welling with despair, “I’m the most dishonest thing you’ve ever dreamed up.”
I started. I looked up at him. He was running his hand tragically through his hair. Our eyes met.
“And this makes for a nice little touch of pathos,” he said wearily. Then he looked away and began sliding to the floor – but I already had a hand in the drawer.
He started to say, “So, tell me, how do I –” and then I reached up and cut his throat.
I backed away quickly and threw the knife down. I breathed deeply, unsteadily. Then I turned, switched off the light and walked out of the room. It was quiet. It was as if he had not even existed.
I told myself it didn’t matter. I had made him up to begin with. And I had no say in the matter, anyway – I’m a character in this story, too.
But I still felt guilty.
