Foliate Oak March 2018

Fiction
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Semester's End
By Nathaniel Hansen

The breeze swung the blinds’ string against the window ledge when Dr. Timothy Ford made a
bargain: if he graded three more Expository Writing portfolios before 2:30, he’d buy a Three
Musketeer’s from the first-floor vending machine. Surviving end-of-semester grading--
especially spring-semester grading—required motivational tricks, as well as incentives involving
food. In grad school, there had been jokes about finals’ week weight gain, his fellow grad
students leaving all kinds of sweet and salty concoctions in the TA lounge, some store-bought,
some homemade in the stress of putting off more pressing matters. For him, it was either food
rewards or procrastination via intense cleaning. If he were in his house, he would be wiping
down the bathroom sink and mirrors or vacuuming the Berber carpet for the third time that
week—his residence was never neater than at semester’s end.

He reclined in his chair, eyeing stacks of variously colored Freshman Comp folders before
checking the three-by-five notecard upon which he scored his tally. 34 done. 7 remained. Final
grades were due by midnight, and being an overly conscientious person, he wanted to keep to the
rules. He’d already graded his American Lit II exams, his Poetry students’ portfolios, and three-
fourths of the Comp portfolios. One day away from completing his first full year as Assistant
Professor at East State College, he anticipated the week-long trip to the North Shore of Lake
Superior, which he would take with his older brother, Todd, his sister-in-law Julie, and his four-
year-old nephew Connor. He planned to leave immediately after graduation the next day, casting
off the overpriced doctoral garb he had purchased as a new faculty member, and driving the
fours to their house in St. Cloud.

He rose from his chair and stretched his arms over his head. It felt good to move: working in the
office since eight, he had graded through lunch. So close to finishing—that was when sustaining
motivation was most difficult. Having dated a marathon runner when he was doing his master’s,
he likened this point of the grading marathon to the twenty-mile marker, where, as she said, it
was all mental, and you had to focus on how far you’d run so as not to focus on how much you
had left. When he finished his grading that afternoon, he could relax and enjoy both dinner and
the Twins’ game at his colleague Alex Barnes’ house. He was supposed to be there at five. And
after the game, and he and Alex had likely played a good game of chess, which Timothy would
more than likely lose, he could finish packing for his vacation, his job-related obligations
complete until mid-August. The top folder of the “unread” pile was hunter green, his favorite
color. That portended good, no doubt. He sighed, grabbed the folder, and set to reading.

                                                  *     *     *     *

Timothy was savoring his Three Musketeer’s bar, trying not to devour it in three or four bites.
The open summer before him, almost visible, ready for the taking, as he looked out the second-
story window onto the verdant quad. He smiled. The lilacs were strong, and the other flowers,
the names of which he didn’t know but his mother certainly did, bloomed audaciously. He found
it shameful that they bloomed right before the school year ended, allowing little opportunity for
faculty and students to enjoy them before the campus, as with other small public liberal arts
college in the Upper Midwest, shifted to summer hibernation mode. The idyllic campus (if
something in eastern South Dakota could be considered “idyllic”) was tainted, however, by the
leaf blowers roaring and trimmers humming—the grounds’ crew readying the campus for
graduation. When the cacophony subsided, it was abruptly quiet. Inside the building it had been
quiet all day, with Deb, the department secretary, the only person he’d seen.

He turned to the now-short stack. He had the portfolios down to less than thirty minutes apiece,
and with two hours left until he had to leave for Alex’s house, he had just enough time to make
the final four slashes on his notecard and submit the class grades. He licked the last of the
chocolate from the wrapper. Invigorated, with only a mile left, he resumed his seat, glad he had
saved the best student’s portfolio for last, one that would be a delight to read. Yet, there were
three prior, all of which would be bland. He opened the next folder—orange—submitted by a
young man who had spoken maybe three times the entire semester, the type of student so easily
forgettable because he had established no personality. He began reading, and when he reached
the bottom of the second page, that’s when the a cappella singing began.

Timothy dropped his pen—the singing was not quiet. First a tenor and then other voices, singing
in French—that much he could tell. He supposed they were good, but he abhorred a cappella
singing ever since a bad experience with it while in his MFA in Ohio. He and a few friends had
traveled to a nearby town that held “First Fridays” on the first Friday of each month and where
the downtown businesses remained open, vendors sold food around the town square, and classic
car owners showed off their refinished prizes. The three of them had ventured into a bank that
was serving free root beer floats. Several dozen high school students, dressed in blue jeans and
black shirts and led by a rotund middle-aged man, streamed into the lobby and began an a
cappella medley from Grease, a musical which he “did” abhor. He was trapped in the bank, the
group of students overly happy and blocking the entrance with their ridiculous song-and-dance
routine. He had glanced at his friends, Steve and Leslie, who smiled and mouthed the words. But
it was everything he could do to keep from yelling “fire” and running out.

Sitting in his chair, he felt sweat gathering in awkward places. Why in the world were they
singing out in the hallway? What was the occasion? A more-terrifying thought sauntered into his
mind: would they visit his office next?

Without investigating immediately, he guessed they were singing for Rhonda Williams, the
easily excitable early Brit Lit person on phased retirement. Although she was both friendly and
sincere, her loud wardrobe matched her voice. She seemed like the type of person who would
enjoy the performance.

He was prepared to lock his door, move furniture in front of it, if necessary. Then he decided--
even though it was riskier because the singers might see him—to bolt to the bathroom. He stuck
his head out in the hallway, wincing as though he expected to see a mangled animal on the side
of road. Eight students sang the last bars of a song outside Rhonda’s office. He ducked back in.
Following her boisterous applause and whistles, they began their next song. His main thought
was “escape.” The other thought close behind it troubled him: that he was being held back in his
progress. He couldn’t concentrate with this noise. He slapped shut the folder, remembering
nothing of what he’d just read—he’d have to start over.

Focused on his breathing, he closed his eyes, and counted silently to “three.” He snuck out of his
office, leaving the door partway open. He speedwalked down the hallway, which seemed far
longer than normal, catching Deb give him an odd look as he passed the department office, and
then turned the corner.

He gingerly pushed the squeaking door. Though no residue of the candy bar remained on his
hands, he washed them. How long would they be singing? He wanted to kick something, throw
something. He was so close to the finish line, and the stupid singers were obstacles. He paced the
room, pausing to inch open the door and listen for the songs to end. The singers vibratoed on:
two, three, four, five songs. He slunk down against the wall.

                                              *     *     *     *

It was nearly 3:00 when the singing finally ceased. Timothy felt strung out, sweaty, frustrated.
He would have to speed-read, but it was still possible for him to finish that afternoon. He had to
read through them—that curse of thoroughness. There were no odd sounds, nothing that he could
tell. The end of the hallway was quiet, the office doors closed. He walked as though trying to
cross a bed of bubble wrap. The main hallway initially appeared empty, but then he was unable
to move further.

In front of his office door stood Michael Brunken, senior Creative Writing major, who had taken
three of Timothy’s classes that year. If there were any student who would be outside his office on
the Friday afternoon of spring finals week, it would be Michael. He had dominated the
discussions, or at least attempted to. He had freely distributed “advice” to his peers about their
work, and if he had had his way, every story and poem would have been set in some kind of
zombie-infested post-apocalyptic burnt-out world. It took all of Timothy’s concentration to reign
in Michael during class discussions.

Once or twice every week, he had dropped by to talk with (or more, accurately, to) Timothy. He
thought back to the previous week’s visit in which Michael had droned about his favorite video
games and how he had an idea for a story based upon the characters of one particular game.
When Timothy had asked him about the progress he’d made thus far, Michael said that he had
only been conceptualizing the stories at that point, and he was mentally mapping plot lines and
character traits before writing down a single word. Nonetheless, it was these “conversations”
(often at minimum, of one hour) that consumed his time.

Despite obvious deficiencies, Michael was dedicated. In all three classes, The Short Story,
Fiction Writing, and Poetry, he had missed only two days, and had never turned in late work,
factors that Timothy had to admit were rare for a student, even a senior. And, overall, Michael’s
work had not been half-bad—he was clearly one of the better writers Timothy had taught that
year. But Michael’s physical presence (and even the thought of him) exhausted Timothy. It
didn’t help matters, either, that Timothy felt sorry for him. Early on during the fall term, Michael
had mentioned that he couldn’t drive because of his epilepsy. Timothy had had a car when he
was an undergraduate, but he had known several people who didn’t. It wasn’t that strange as it
was now that he was a professor.

Timothy turned and darted for the bathroom. He knew he’d never finish grading and make it to
Alex’s by five if Michael started talking.

“Dr. Ford?”

Timothy’s shoulders slumped, and he reluctantly submitted. He would have to finish grading on
the Friday night before graduation, a travesty since he was so close to the end. Instead of fully
enjoying his time at the Barnes’ house, eating dinner, watching the Twins, drinking beer, playing
a game of chess afterward, he would be haunted by the last portfolios, the final grades, all while
wanting to be completely free for three months.

He walked toward his office, offering his best smile as Michael stood outside his door grinning.

When he passed the department office, Deb said, “Michael Brunken has been looking for you.”

“I know,” he said, shaking his head.

Deb offered a smile as if to say she sympathized.

“I hoped you’d still be here.” Michael stepped right into the office and sat down. “But I didn’t
think you would be.” His cologne was overpowering and, depending upon the visit’s duration,
could linger for some time. “And thank you for the B+ in Poetry.”

“Well, you earned it. Are you excited for tomorrow?” Timothy hoped to maneuver the
conversation away from Michael’s writing.

“Not much, Professor. My folks and my sisters are going to be there. After the ceremony we’re
loading up my room. That’s about it.” He leaned back in the chair after unzipping his backpack.
“Kind of a flat ending, I guess.” Michael suddenly laughed and shook his head. “I already had
everything packed two days ago. Except for my PS3, my laptop, and a couple of books and
notebooks.”

He appeared proud of his feat, and Timothy thought briefly, but then cast it out of his mind:
a man after my own heart.

“I won’t take long, Professor,” he began. “My folks are going to be here soon, and we’re
checking into the AmericInn. Big Party, you know?” He rolled his eyes.

Timothy almost laughed at the first comment. Fat chance, he thought.

From his backpack Michael pulled out a package wrapped in a brown grocery bag. It seemed
shady and suspicious.

“Here,” Michael said, handing him the package. “To say thanks.”

Timothy must have appeared shocked because Michael added, “It’s not a bomb or anything.”

His office suddenly felt smaller than it ever had. Had Michael finally detected Timothy’s
annoyance that he strived so hard to keep invisible?

“It’s just a joke, Professor. Sorry.”

Timothy took the package, immediately discovering from the shape and feel that it was a book.
He tore the thick paper, glancing for a moment at Michael who was leaning forward and grinning
again, but this time in more childish way, as though he were eight and it was Christmas morning.

When he completely unwrapped the paper, he was staring at the Library of America’s edition of
Raymond Carver’s Collected Stories, complete with the black-and-white photo of the man
himself, hands behind his head and a serious look on his face—that paradoxically relaxed
intensity. This book, along with dozens of others, had waited in Timothy’s Amazon.com wish
list for a few months. Had Michael hacked his Amazon account? “How did you know?”

“Well, last semester you taught that story ‘Cathedral.’ I remembered especially how you talked
about his use of dialogue and about the ending lines. I checked out one of his collections from
the library and liked it.” His face became more serious, almost crestfallen. “If you already have
it—but I didn’t notice it on any of your bookshelves,” he said. “I hope you don’t have at your
house or anything.”

“No, I don’t,” Timothy stammered, studying the contents. Michael had been thorough, almost
scarily so.

“I wrote something inside the cover.” Michael leaned forward to zip up his backpack.

Timothy flipped back the crisp pages to the inside cover where Michael had written in tight
capital letters:

Professor Ford,
This is just to say “thanks” for all you did for us writing students. You helped me learn more
about writing in three classes than in the rest of my college career.
Thanks,
Michael Brunken

Timothy’s throat and chest tightened, and his eyes ached, but the sudden vibration of a cell
intruded.

Michael said, “it’s my folks. I gotta go. Thanks again.” He leapt from the chair, leaving Timothy
sitting in his desk chair, confounded. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Professor.”

The book still open to the dedication page, Timothy heard Michael speaking down the hallway.
“Professor Ford. . .Yeah. . .I’ll try to find him tomorrow after the ceremony so you can meet
him.” And then his voice trailed off.

Timothy sat in his chair, flipping again to the table of contents. Acquiring a new book had
always delighted him, and even more when it was one he’d wanted for a long time.

Four folders waited on his desk. He decided he could read and grade three of them before he had
to leave. A reasonable expectation. He would have to bow out of chess, but Alex would
understand. He would save the last one (the best one) for later that evening and submit grades,
and then he would get ready for bed, switch on the bedside lamp. It would be as though he were
a kid again, reading late into the stillness of the spring night, the book at last tipping over on his
chest, the lamp glowing while he slept.

Nathaniel Lee Hansen is the author of the poetry collection Your Twenty-First Century Prayer Life (Cascade Books, 2018), as well as the poetry chapbook Four Seasons West of the 95th Meridian (Spoon River Poetry Press, 2014). His fiction, poetry, and essays have appeared in various literary journals and magazines.

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Ike's Perspectives on Hole Theory
By Sidney Kidd

“Mr. Henry, says he’s fixin to go to the poor house on account of the government is stealing ever-thing he’s got.”

“Toad Henry’s full of shit. He’s richer than he’s ever been. He’s mad because that federal judge stopped him from stealing the only bank in town he doesn’t yet own.”

Ike shook his head, “I was feeling sorry for him too. I should a’knowed better. Why do rich folks always go about poor mouthing? They already got more than we ever gonna have.”

Johnny hesitated to pay the bus fare. Once a rider took a seat on Ike’s tour bus he was committed for the entire route—every stop. As usual, Johnny fell to temptation, “It’s their perspective. Looking down a ladder is different than looking up.”

Ike repositioned his Prowl Herbicide cap to get a different perspective in the rear-view mirror, “What you mean, Johnny?”

“What I mean is, poor people on the bottom yell depravity up the ladder for their poverty. The rich scream depravity down the ladder for the change that fell from their pockets. They both see themselves poor as hell. But, that’s beside the point, no one truly wants to be equal, anyway. Hell, we create religions and politics to make certain we never have an equal.” Johnny had deposited his tokens. He settled onto the hard seat to await the consequences. He muttered while staring out the greasy window, “Only people preaching parity are the ones with no perspective from which to look down on someone. But what the hell do I know?”

Ike ground the stick into gear, “You know a lot about them perspectives, Johnny. And you right too, bout them religion and politic ladders. The preacher said that even heaven is got fancy gated neighborhoods for the real good folks but shot gun shacks for the ones that climbed over the fence with Obama Care. He said them bouncer angels had their hands full, chucking them squatters over the fence. I reckon heaven ain’t no different than it is here in Wayside, South Carolina. I don’t know about you, but I’d just as soon stay right here where I already know the pecking order.”

Ike jerked to a stop in the middle of the busiest road in Wayside, got out and lumbered over to the curb dodging cars and cusses. His arms rippled as he freed Beatrice Spillers shopping cart stuck in the storm drain. He picked the entire cart up and sat it gingerly on the sidewalk and gave her a slow nod. Ike waived towards the car honks and the go to hell glares jutting from the pickup trucks, “Get the fuck out the road you retarded son of a bitch.”

Ike closed the door. The air brakes sighed. “The preacher used that parity preaching alliteration thing you mentioned last Sunday.”

Ike waited for recognition of the word he managed to fit into “a ordinary” conversation.

Johnny, searched his words for alliteration, nodded and smiled at Ike. Life with Ike was a puzzle.

Properly recognized, Ike continued, “He was preaching on the End Times. He does that when the payment is due on his Cadillac. End Times makes folks empty their pockets. I reckon it’s because, they ain’t wanting their loose change to fall like manna from heaven to them no counts down below when God calls the role up yonder.
“But back to alliteration. Preacher Vainglory sure preached a big ole mouthful last Sunday. Yes sir, he went to stutter steppin like a big ole red rooster, crowing, scratching, wiping sweat, done overcome with the Spirit…”

Ike braked under the green light to let Miss Suzy turn left in front of him and the line of traffic honking behind. He tilted his head to the side and winced as the gears ground towards a clunk. “He looked just like Ric Flair strutting and a’hollerin. His eyes was all bugged out and he was huffin and puffin like a coon dog treeing. Directly he stopped pawing, his leg went stiff and stuck out to the side like and he looked up at God and went to yelling, “Them heathen heifers cashing in their Sacred Cow Cash Checks sucking on the government’s Golden Calf’s Tits is sure ‘nuff a sign that Obama is the antichrist. Hallelujah, praise God, separate the wheat from the chaff.” Said it all red faced like. He was plumb out of breath with all them words he strung together. The congregation was standing, waving their stick fans at the ceiling, talking in tongues and high steppin it up that ladder.”

Johnny blinked and nodded, chewing and spitting words while viewing Ike’s crayon colored idiom. “Ike, I guess heaven’s a long ladder that we never reach the top, no counts on the bottom, the godly kicking folks in the face. We look up our neighbor’s designer dress tail and lust for all she’s got. Down below becomes a land of no-good miscreants clawing to steal our just rewards, just desserts that they don’t deserve. It’s all a matter of perspe…”

“You know, Johnny, I read one time that just desserts started out as just deserts. That writing said desert used to have a extra meaning a long time ago that meant entitlement. But we plumb forgot to scroll down and see that extra meaning so we just figured desert was only a sandy place that was hot and chafed you. Now we just say desserts like we expect a reward for eating our collards and boiled okra. Really, we doing a thing called tongue in cheek when we say just desserts ‘cause we is implying that them desserts ain’t deserved at all. Only, we don’t have to wink when we say it.”

Ike frowned and double clutched, “I had that word miscreant happen to me just the other day. I was trying to fix Preacher Vainglory’s spelling on the church sign out front—he plumb forgot the nu in annual. I was trying to figure out where to get a n and a u when he come out and hollered, 'Get away from that sign you damned devil.' You know what he done? He turned around and blamed me for stealing them letters. Told the entire congregation Sunday morning, 'Y’all can thank that miscreant, Ike Leroy Johnson, for making our church a laughing stock.' He hurt my feelings real bad. Most folks think I ain’t got no feelings on a’count of me being slow climbing that ladder. He said something about blaspheming too, but I don’t rightly see how it fit from any perspective.”

“Ike, you seem…occupied…with perspective.”

Ike adjusted the brim of his cap back to center, wiggled his lips and studied Johnny just to make sure he was really interested. He tilted his head and looked at Johnny from varying perspectives. Satisfied of his genuine interest, he began with his take on that very same word.

“Johnny? Don’t you reckon ever-body is got a perspective? Rich and poor is got one, just like your ladder analogy. Some perspectives is looking up a dress tail and some is looking down a bosom just like you said. I read one time, that folks draw analogies with pencils called metaphors and similes.”

Something big was coming up the ladder, “Well, yeah…I’d say, everyone, has one—depending on…”

“Ain’t none the same though, is they? It’s all about how you look at it, ain’t it? Only thing that makes one better than another is how high up that ladder the point of view is, ain’t that right?

“By the way, that string of words means the same thing as that one word, perspective, all by itself. Some words are so highfalutin that it takes a bunch of other words to say the same thing. Highfalutin folks’ points of view is worth more than them miscreants’, you mentioned, ‘cause they are up the ladder preaching and we are on the ground rearranging them out of place letters on the church sign. It’s better for poor folks to stare at the ground hunting loose change, than get a crick in our neck staring up at them rich people’s lacy drawers.

“By the way, Johnny, point of view and perspective are synonyms. I found that word the other day while waiting on the bus. It was throwed down, right on the bus bench, in one of them word puzzles. Puzzles is real good at broadenin’ a feller’s vocabulary.”

Johnny was finding it difficult to get a word in edgewise, “Yeah, I’d say, each perspective, is, different…”

Ike pursed his lips and nodded, assured that Johnny was still listening. “You want to hear a story ‘bout perspective?”

“Okay…”

Ike grinned real big like a mule eating briars. He loved it when folks listened to him. It didn’t happen very often. His ears wiggled as he adjusted his perspective.

“You know how I like to get a sack of them donut holes when I go to town? Well, I got me a whole dozen of them holes…”

Ike tilted his head, “You know, they ain’t really holes and they ain’t really a dozen, the holes is still in them donuts and they is thirteen of them holes. It’s just a funny way of selling things that would just be throwed out. And that extra one makes you think you gettin’ somethin’ for nothin—kinda like them cow cash checks the preacher hates so bad. They call thirteen a baker’s dozen on account’a being careless with his counting. Thirteen makes it real hard to share equally, unless you get half a hole. Kinda like your ladder story and the miscreants hollerin “let me up, I want a better perspective up them dress tails”. Holes and miscreants have the reputation of being refuse.”

Ike paused hoping Johnny recognized his new broadened vocabulary (it is “real hard” to fit some words in ordinary sentences).

“Well, listen to that new word in your repertoire—refuse.”

“Refuse is a odd word, Johnny. It’s one of them words that’s hard to figure, unless it’s got other friends around to help it out. Hard to put in a ordinary conversation so folks just walk around it. If you write it all by itself most folks just assume you being stubborn and ain’t gonna do something. It’s a very seldom feller that sees refuse and picks it up.”

Johnny nodded, “Yeah…I see, what you mean…”

“Me and you is kinda like refuse in society. When I worked at the filter factory, we used to punch out itty bitty holes in the tubes for them oil filters. We’d keep them holes in barrels. Sold them to a feller what built fancy boats and used them for ballast down in the hold, as he called it. Them heavy holes made his boats more stable, he said. Ain’t it funny how holes in the hold keep a boat afloat like? Holes is real peculiar, if you think about it. But who is gonna buy a sack of real holes? That Coyote feller trying to catch that Road Runner, but that’s about all.”

Johnny nodded slowly, wondering where all this hole talk was headed.

“Anyhow, I went outside and sat down on the bench waiting on the bus. I put them holes down beside me, was gonna save them till I was riding down the road. You know how I get awful hungry when I’m riding. Well, there’s a paper somebody left, laying there—most likely in a hurry to catch that impatient bus and plumb forgot it. I picked that paper up and was reading the headlines looking for new words. That’s when this straggly looking fellow come up and sat right aside me. I nodded at him and asked how he was doing, real friendly like. He said fine and I went back to reading that paper looking for words to fit in ordinary conversations.

“Directly, I heard a paper sack rattling. I cut my eyes over, pretended to still be reading. That man is got his dirty hand in my sack of holes. Brings out one and pops it right in his mouth. Goes to smacking it around. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say nothing. Just kept on looking for words, but, all I could think about was my lost hole. Kinda like that story of the lost sheep that Jesus told folks about. That story is really a thing called a’allegory. Folks at church call it a parable but I call it a story, just so it fits with ordinary folks. Kinda like refuse, I ain’t wanting to lose nobody pondering on fancy words.

“Anyway, that man reached in and grabbed another hole, sucked his fingers. I said to myself, Ike, you might better get some of them holes afore he eats ever last one. I turned my head and looked right at him, from a straight on perspective, tried to look real mean. I reached right out and grabbed two of them holes. Ate them one at a time, while me and him was chewing and staring at one another. Directly, he grins real big and reaches over and grabs him two. Well, I was getting a might riled up, so I grab two more, and slide the bag over closer to my leg. He just stared at me and didn’t say nothing, so, I figure he done got the message on pilfering my holes. Well, I got down to one last hole, figured on saving it for my bus ride.

“Directly, his bus came by and he got up to leave. He reached over real slow like, put his hand in the sack and took out the last one of them holes. He saw how mad I got ‘cause he pinched that hole in two. Hands me half and eats the other while staring at me over his shoulder. Oh, I give him a good what for too, him sitting staring at me through that bus window.”

Ike paused, rolling the imagery in his head, “But now, I ain’t got no holes to eat on my ride. All I got is a empty sack. I’m sitting there with half a hole in my hand when my bus pulls up and hisses at me. So, I stand up real fast—that bus driver lady ain’t got no patience for folks taking their sweet time getting on or off her bus. It’s her perspective to think folks like me is dawdling like. On account of she is sitting up at the top of them stair steps looking down. Well sir, I stood up and sitting right yonder on the other side of me is that whole sack of holes I bought—all thirteen of them. I done been eating that man’s holes the whole time. He was a real accommodating feller, ain’t never said not one word, never so much as give me a frown like I gave him. He even gave me half of his last hole and never complained one single word.”

Ike rubbed his palms upon the thighs of his overalls remembering. “I reckon that there is about the best allegory I ever learnt on perspective. You don’t never know where another feller is coming from unless he’s willing to share his holes with you and don’t try to change one thing about you neither. I know for a fact that it’s real easy for a fellow to be standing on that ladder a hollering depravity down it and not even be aware he climbed up that ladder. On account’a I done it. You know why that is?”

“Well, I’d say…”

“Cause ever-body is cooking up agendas, me included. They got motives in them perspectives that aims to put different spins on things like that feller down to the pool hall that uses all that fancy pool shootin he calls english. Ain’t got nothin to do with folks from England so I really don’t know why he calls it that. The preacher might know, he got a spin on God that puts jingles in his pockets just like that pool shark’s english.”

Johnny tilted his head, taking in the many perspectives of his dear friend.

“Johnny, you ever notice how folks is always trying to change something about you they don’t like? After a spell they done changed you so much they don’t even know who you are no more. They done redecorated you and still don’t like nothing they see. They even stop hanging out with you all together. Seems to me it’d be a whole lot better if folks would change their perspective instead of redecorating a fellow. Them perspectives they use are always down their noses and put me in a real bad light. I ain’t asking to be equal, just to be looked at different. I reckon you and that feller with the donut holes is the only folks that never tried to redecorate me. Why is that?”

“Well, I think it’s due to…”

“You know why I think that is? Why you don’t never complain and point at all my bad pieces? I’ll tell you why. Me and you is a thing called complementary. Our bad pieces ain’t so bad when we is slid together. Me and you are like pieces on one of them picture puzzles. We don’t fit with nobody but ourselves. If we was to smooth off each other’s funny shaped spots, we wouldn’t fit in them holes. Just think what that pretty picture would look like without us right side by side. There’d be a little biddie hole in the picture and ever-body would just stare at that hole and not even notice what the rest of the picture was all about.

Johnny righted himself as the bus hit a hole, stared and blinked.

Sidney ponders on human nature. His ponders have been published in Play Girl, McSweeney's, Fiction Southeast, Projected Letters, Crab Fat Literary Magazine, Short Story Magazine, Atticus Review and others.

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