The Letterman's Sweater - a short story

The Letterman’s Sweater

One Saturday, during the celestial course of the earth, a man with dark brown hair, and peppered just above his ears, walked into a room – the foray of a Local Lodge where coffee and donuts were complimentary. The men’s casual attire was entirely common, and even expected since the town was on a southern beach. A crowd of men wore short-sleeved shirts. Some of the men wore sleeveless shirts. Some with stains or were torn. The crowd noticed him immediately as he entered. He stood, more like posed, as he mingled with a small group here and one-on-one there. The letter on his button-down sweater was noticeable – a purple “V” was on the lower left above one of the front pockets. Often, he placed his hand in the pocket opposite the letter. It was quite apparent when he shook hands with others since he had to remove his hand from the pocket each time.

Was the letter a Roman Numeral? Did he cling to his youthful days as a collegiate athlete? Or did the letter represent “Victory?” Why was he wearing a sweater on a warm and pleasant afternoon? And why was it buttoned up? Was he hiding something? Perhaps a stain on his short-sleeve shirt, if a short-sleeve did accompany his attire. Fortunately for the man, no one commented or even jeered. But with close examination the well-hidden questions were on their faces. The man’s name was Samson as I learned when he introduced himself to the others.

The following Saturday there was a BBQ and car show. As with the previously Saturday, there were some men without a short-sleeve shirt. Instead, they wore a white or grey polo shirt or sleeveless shirt – and stained at some level. I noticed one man named Max who had a stained and torn white tank; he glared at the letterman’s sweater. And yes, after careful examination, it was a sweater from his youth. Max seemed uncomfortable around Samson, even when he tried to talk to him. Mostly, he periodically shot a glance at the sweater with a “V.” I could see in his eyes the same question I wanted to ask. Why? What’s the point? It was hot as we stood in the sunshine. I spoke to Samson but was brief. We didn’t seem to have much in common aside from our athletic history – though in much in different sports.

Later, when most of the men had left, Max and I, and a handful of others stayed back to help clean up – including Samson – Max divulged a secret to me, “I’m offended!” He exclaimed in a raised grunt-like whisper. I wanted to empathize with him, but I wore a mildly discolored short-sleeve shirt and didn’t fully understand what it was like to wear a stained and torn tank like Max. He went on to explain that none of the other tank-wearing men hid their lack of a short-sleeve shirts by wearing a letterman’s sweater. He also confessed his shame. Without answers, I just listened. Max appreciated my ear and went home before we finished cleaning up. Not to worry, there was plenty of help and we were nearly finished.

As I walked to my car, Xavier disclosed similar observations and feelings about Samson that Max had had. Xavier wore a sleeveless shirt unlike Max’ stained tank. He went on to say that he didn’t have much respect for Samson. He also shared his guilt in judging another person in this manner. But he also convinced me there was some validity to his statement, “Why? What’s the point? What’s he hiding?” He asked rhetorically. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” He concluded and sulked back across the parking lot to his car and drove away.

Each Lodge meeting was the same. After months and even over a year, it was still the same. Samson wore the same letterman’s sweater. No matter the weather, even on a hot day, it was buttoned up. One Saturday afternoon outside the front of the Lodge before the meeting, a boy was running passed the Lodge in a game of chase with another boy. In the commotion, the two boys circled Samson several times when suddenly the pursuing boy stopped dead in front of Samson. The other boy shouted a private dare, “Do it!” Before Samson knew it, the purple “V” was torn from his sweater and in the hand of the boy who darted frantically away only to be apprehended by a policeman down the street. The boy was scolded and ordered to return Samson’s purple “V.” The boy shamefully apologized to which Samson accepted. But the Purple-V Man – as some of the local children called him behind his back – was saddened and even embarrassed. With his head dropped he got into his car and drove away.

The next Lodge meeting was outside, and to my surprise, Samson returned. The purple “V” sown back in its place – the sweater buttoned to the top on another hot summer day. Samson waltzed in with a beaming smile. He posed with a small group here and one-on-one there.

I drummed up enough courage and approached him. It was more like I cornered him. I shook his hand and asked, “Any fun plans this weekend?”

He carved his usual grin into his face, “Not much.”

“Good!” I exclaimed, “Lunch tomorrow?” I was usually quick about invitations.

He seemed to reluctantly agree, but nonetheless, he agreed.

The next day, we sat outside under a large umbrella, me in my short-sleeved shirt and he in his letterman’s sweater. As other patrons of the deli walked in I could see their quizzical expressions at a man wearing a letterman’s sweater on a hot day. The conversation started out cordial – boring even. After a few minutes I decided to confess, “I have a Purple ‘V’ as well.”

Shocked, he exclaimed, “I’ve never seen you where it,” he looked at my short-sleeved shirt.

With my eyes briefly closed then reopened with a sigh, I answered, “I wear it on the inside sometimes,” I paused for a moment to gather the complete truth, “most of the time,” I finished. It was a confession I had revealed to many of the other men in the Lodge. Nothing to brag about, but it definitely was a relief to get it off my chest.

Samson appeared to not know what to do with this revelation. He began to reply, “Listen Luke—” But instead, he chiseled his smile at the walls. His eyes beamed at the artwork on the exterior of the deli as he avoided his attention at me. The lunch was cut short by a phone call. A call I think he could have ignored until later – nevertheless.

The next several lodge meetings, Samson was present. He even volunteered to give announcements. And each time he was in his Purple “V” letterman’s sweater. But it made me think. Maybe I need to where my Purple “V” less on the inside. I decided to make a concerted effort to reduce the amount of time talking about myself and my past athletic exploits. I listened to others and asked follow-up questions. It wasn’t easy. I don’t claim to be successful at it. But I keep trying.

Years went by and the earth was still in its celestial course. And I was still in the course of learning. Samson continued to wear his Purple “V” letterman’s sweater. Until one day, a day when the sweater could no longer cover what lay beneath. No more purple “V.” It was gone and revealed what was beneath – his truth. One Lodge meeting he arrived in a grey ragged tank top. Many in the crowd were either astounded or amazed at the abrupt transformation. I went up to Samson and shook his hand as I had done before. This time though, we both smiled at each other as we held our respective coffee. His smile was worn like his ripped and stained tank, but it was genuine.

 

Lady in Red Lace - POEM of the MONTH!

Lady in Red Lace

 

Red lace draped over her icy hands,

Starched cuffs covered his wrists

Like snow over bleak tundra lands

Yet two hearts melted in the mist.

 

A mist thick enough to get lost

But not for the lady in red lace,

Not when she melted his frost,

Ultimately in a bare skin embrace.

 

Embraced by the ultimate sunset

His frost returned when she left

A black laced sky and a cigarette;

He is lost in the mist and bereft

 

His icy hands draped over the black,

Starched blood grinds thru his veins

And in a bleak tundra about to crack

His heart melts without any remains.

"Who Are You?" by Neil. Moralee is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Dis tr acted - POEM of the MONTH!

Dis tr acted - 2051

Her hard shadow blooms
Distracted by the bright sun
Rarely followed by a red rose
Yet she ignores the alienation

His broken heart looms
Over a distant red rose
Distracted by her shadow
Yet he yearns to propose

She yearns for more sunsets
Distracted by his shadow
He longs for less sunrises
Distracted by her soft glow

They ignore any disappointment 

Distracted in that perfect moment

 

That Perfect Moment - short story

That Perfect Moment

Ava pressed Enter on her keyboard and leaned back in her chair. She took a deep breath and read a previous text from Zack. It had been a few weeks since their first date, and she did admire him. She thought he was amiable; a favorite Jane Austen reference which caused her to smile. Although her parents were affectionate throughout her life, she was occasionally apprehensive about physical touch. She peered at the ceiling for a mathematical solution. Her personal historical record provided one conclusion: Zack was a gentleman, yet she wondered. She wondered about her response as she peered down the hall from her lab – door slightly cracked, as if she were a spy from the one her favorite 20^th century films. Upon increased examination, she saw her colleagues were motionless. Even her lab assistant, Griffin, stood hunched over the drinking fountain as if a wind had shaped him into position over centuries. But stranger was the arc of the water – frozen in time. She waved her hand in front of his eyes – no response. But her hand got wet when she passed it through the arc of water. She quickly retracted her hand and walked backward and away from this eerie phenomenon. It was unnerving enough as a high-functioning autistic woman to experience a world unable to keep up with her mind – only the AIs of the mid-21^st century satisfied her neurological appetite. Now, every hall and office contained motionless people and machines. Time had stopped, she surmised. Her heart competed with her imagination in a new race of anxiety. She stumbled into the cafeteria and nearly knocked over a colleague who was not affected like the others. Zack moved. He moved in conjunction with the same agitation his face portrayed. She was startled by his inquisition of her more so than his grip.

“What have you done?” He shouted.

“Me?” She answered, perplexed, as she reclaimed her arm.

“Life!” He scanned the room with a wave of his arms.

“What about it?” She asked.

“It moves too quickly,” he nearly stammered, “You! You slowed it down, you—” he couldn’t complete his sentence in his current frantic state.

They were colleagues for years. She recalled a previous argument within that time. Now it seemed to pick up where they left off, “The pace – the pace is too slow,” she exclaimed, agitated.  

He stopped to look around in further detail but found no answers.

 “Again, what did you do?” Zack sent darts into her eyes yet retreated. It was his way. His thick hands seemed to search for answers in his disheveled hair.  

“Nothing. At least—”

“At least what?” He interrupted.

She quickly analyzed the situation and recalled the steps and calculations she took to engage her machine. She held out her hands as if the answers were displayed in her wriggling fingers. She slapped her hands to her side as a revelation struck her like Death had risen from the floor.

“It didn’t work,” she muttered, “My device didn’t work.”

By now Zack was near the exit with Ava in tow. He pulled a small pad from his lab coat pocket and swiftly turned back toward Ava. “I suppose this means you’ll decline my invitation.”

“How can you think of—?” Ava stopped herself from his attempt to divert her and returned to the problem at hand.

After an awkward silence Zack stood motionless.

“Stop that!” She exclaimed.

“What?” He didn’t understand what he’d done. So he slowly retreated down the hall with calculations at the ready.

She collected herself, smoothed out her lab coat and reassembled her brown hair into the previous neat yet wavy pony tail. Dissatisfied, she returned to her lab to join all her equipment. But even her sanctuary was inadequate to provide comfort. Machines were a poor substitute for the pace she preferred. Nevertheless, she returned to work to solve the problem. Hours and three cups of her favorite latte later, she confirmed it was not her machine that caused the perception of time to stop. She bolted out of her lab like the wind and suddenly stopped in her tracks. She turned to notice Griffin had moved – subtly, but he moved – and the water fountain was now topped with a half-arc of water. She added this variable to the problem and continued her march into Zack’s lab downstairs. The stairs were her only option since the elevator doors did not open.

Pad in hand, she entered his lab, only to be greeted by a look of failure painted on Zack’s face. She ignored his machines and his prized ink-boards filled with equations. “What?” She asked to a silent result.

He appeared stunned.

She walked over to the screen which had trapped his eyes. She saw equations which seemed familiar but soon realized they were an inversion of her own. “This is you!” She blurted and ignored her instinct to discover further mathematical answers in the ceiling.

He remained stunned and silent.

“And I thought—” she stopped, “Does the Dean know?”

“I could ask you the same. And correction to the point, the world just moves too fast.” He paced a circle around the equipment-laden counter until he backed himself into a corner. “Did you know that we are bombarded with nearly two hundred new pieces of information a day? People of the 19^th century only endured two—”

“What?” She interrupted with greater irritation. “You’ve said that before.”

Zack quickly understood this level of detail was irrelevant to her at the time and completed his confession.

“I – I slowed the pace of time.” He pointed to his holo-screen.

“At first I thought time had stopped, but I realized differently when I saw the water—”

“Yes. It’s moving, yes,” he paused to assess his screen and ink-boards further. “Perhaps you perceive that time stopped, but in reality it only slowed – although, it slowed beyond what I intended.”

Zack targeted his gaze at her until his eyes glazed over. The calculations scrolled up his lenses as his mind focused on a quick assessment. He stood frozen.

“I said, ‘stop that!’” She yelled.

He left his computer-like trance and reached out to her shoulders.

Ava backed away in defense.

“Why are you not affected?” He plunged his hands into his pockets. It was his surrender.

They stood in silence. Each mind humming like the computers of old – reels spun.

“Perhaps,” she started then retreated her answer.

“Wait! What have you been working on?”

“That’s top-secret,” she folded her arms.

He hummed a grunt, “You said ‘the pace is too slow.’”

She turned away from him.

“Ava! You have to tell me.”

She peered down the hallway at her colleagues “frozen,” and huffed, “I was working on a device that would increase the pace or at least its perceived pace of time.”

“Did you initiate it?”

She nodded.

“At what time?”

“0945.”

“The second?”

She repeated, “0945.”

“Wait! That’s exactly the time I initiated my device!” He nearly leaped.

Ava immediately interjected, “Then somehow I was protected when I initiated my—”

“— your device,” he finished for her. And I was at the epicenter.”

They both nodded in agreement.

“Well, this is unnerving,” she placed her hands on her hips.

“Can you reverse it?” She implored. Ava rarely made eye contact; it was a social skill still in progress. But this time her eyes fueled a glare which nearly blinded Zack.

“What do you think I’ve been doing?” He exclaimed as they rushed down the hall toward his laboratory. As they passed the still Griffin, he laughed, “Kidney stone.”

“What?” She slowed, “Oh yeah, that’s why he drinks so much water.”

“I shouldn’t laugh though. I’ve heard those things are quite painful.”

“Poor Griffin,” she paused. Now, what will be more painful is if we cannot reverse this,” she frantically waved her arms in one motion as she pointed up and down the hallways.

They entered Zack’s lab and immediately went to work. He at one holo-screen. She, next to him at another. Their fingers and hands flew over the holo-images like two movie directors. At one point, an epiphany came over Zack only to be thwarted by actors on the screen.

Ava was equally flustered as her computer could not maintain her speed of thought.

Suddenly, Zack threw his arms skyward in a single swoop which caused his holo-screen to clear. He stopped quickly and said with a burst of courage, “I think I understand what you experience every day,” he flung his arm into the air to reactivate the holo-emitters.

She relaxed her stare but maintained eye contact – reception versus exclusion. The latter was her past, the former she disciplined herself to achieve. But she resigned to a sigh in disagreement, “Think so?”

Silence. Thought. Time.

Ava took charge, “Move aside,” she commanded, and relayed the same tone to his computer. She entered calculations from memory and altered or refined Zack’s scribbles from his ink-board.

“Yes, I tried that—”

“You don’t get to speak,” she blurted; after a few seconds of awkward silence she apologized. In light of her self-admitted insolence she witnessed an unexpected reaction: a light in his eyes as if a star had newly formed.

“Please continue,” she prompted politely.

Zack added further commands into the computer formulated by his revelation. Each observed the spherical device encased in a translucent cube. For nearly an hour they worked in unison as if both minds were joined – though she entered formulas as an inversion of her experiment. Both pushed their negative emotions aside. All four hands were in control of the holo-screens in a digital ballet. Finally, they achieved a solution. And the dance came to a dramatic climax matched by the silver glow of his device.

“What do you think?” Zack asked.

After a second examination she replied, “I believe – this will work.” She turned to smile as she forgot the seed of her grudge. They worked to engage operational aspects of their calculations and within an hour they were ready. It only took a few seconds. Now the courage to cross the threshold of his lab to observe if they were successful in repairing negative effects on the world. It was like waiting for the results of a final exam. They both peered out of Zack’s lab. Their colleagues moved about as if nothing had happened. They walked about the hallways. They visited Ava’s floor – Griffin was also back to normal, as was the rest of the world. Or was it?

~

The day was nearly at an end. Neither got any more work done. They both sat in their respective labs and stared. After work they happened to approach the same commuter vehicle. Before boarding Zack reminded Ava of his invitation for a second date with a nonverbal cue, as he pointed at his phone to remind her of his text. Ava took him aside out of eavesdropping distance. “Did you delete your calculations and dismantle—?"

“Yes,” he replied emphatically, “But, I wouldn’t want to destroy what we—” First he couldn’t finish but regained his courage, “— what I thought was a beginning.”

Ava took a step back, “After today, I’m not sure.”

The AI piloting the commuter announced its departure. Ava was about to board when Zack invited her for a walk. They remained on campus. After a silent stroll they sat at a planter-bench overlooking a series of archways and a fountain which spilled into a surrounding pond. Zack broke the silence and after he cleared his throat he said, “I am sorry.”

Acknowledgement and understanding was clear on her face. They each had a need. His experiment failed to meet his. She still felt the same about the pace of reality. After a nod of forgiveness, she asked, “What now?”

“Perhaps we can help each other – without technology,” he suggested in all sincerity. He reached out his hand toward her but resigned to rest it against the bench between them. They were still on campus and conscious of eyes and cameras. “Ignore the tech,” he added, as he looked into her distracted eyes.

She thought for a moment and repeated his last statement. Slowly she found the courage to return his gaze. It seemed like one second and eternity simultaneously. She felt as if they were caught in the vacuum of space. Outside her field of vision she saw the fountain blur – the sparkle of sunset-light beamed and magnified into their space. She felt at peace for the first time, then looked at Zack with embarrassment. Confession was on her lips, but fear gripped her. Finally, she blurted as if to put aside all sense, “Did you see it too?”

"And is it another fountain?" by Adam Solomon 
is licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0.

“See what?”

“Never mind,” her self-conscious took over.

“No what?” He asked in all sincerity.

She wanted to stay in the moment but soon it faded when the earth’s revolution caused the sun to dip below the horizon and the fountain no longer glistened. Resigned, she said, “I recall a story my uncle told me,” She paused with a reminiscent expression.

“What’s that?”

“It seems silly.”

“I want to hear.”

Ava looked down at the pond and the fountain, “One time when he was with my aunt, when he proposed to her, they both felt – a perfect moment.”

“Like that scene in a Star Trek movie.”

“Yes! With Picard and Anij,” Ava added, “But not quite.”

Zack’s face said tell me more.

“He said that everything around them blurred – the other people, tables and the room – went out of focus. Only his new fiancé was clear.”

His simple smile relayed an acceptance of her experience. He allowed some time to pass before his next suggestion, “I have that movie. Door-dash and a double-feature?” He suggested.

“And the other movie?”

“To a time when people received less information per day, Sense and Sensibility.”

She appreciated his memory and humor with a mischievous yet playful smile and suggested an alternative. “I was thinking of something with a faster pace,” she said, as they both stood to walk back toward the commuter depot.

“What do you have in mind?” He asked.

“The Matrix,” she laughed.

He laughed with her.

As they walked their fingers touched. Ava smiled.

Without eye-contact, he smiled with her – for one second, then an eternity.

~

[NOTE: This story is a rewrite of a short story entitled "Make Time Stop," with expanded and edited scenes.]

Handing Out Balloons in the Jungle - POEM of the MONTH!

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Handing Out Balloons in the Jungle

On the sun scorched streets of barred windows
A demonstration boasts the bird at the pigs
Drifting in and out of the smoking chaos –
She’s handing out balloons in the jungle
 
Yellow, purple and Sunkist orange
Children lost of any innocence
Laugh at the colorful display
And join in the revelry
 
A shot rings out
Blue falls
 
On the frigid eastern horizon of a proud capital
A stubborn madman clings to old ways of war
Against the will of the oligarchs and allies –
She’s handing out balloons in the jungle
 
Yellow, blue, white and cherry red
Generations of the past century
Dread to relive a new threat
And cry out for a yield
 
A shot rings out
And red rises

On the ancient gates of a nation fighting to be holy
A centuries long rival launches its deadly hate
The seven seas are tossed amongst opinion –
She’s handing out balloons in the jungle
 
Orange and  . . .  fiery yellow and white
Streak across a midnight starless sky
And reflect off the iron dome
But it’s not fireworks
 
A shot rings out
Green envy

 
In the depths of the lush mysterious continent
A mother holds her young among the troop
The eyes of Turaco keep a vigilant watch
She’s handing out balloons in the jungle
 
Spring water blue and trumpet yellow
Buffalo, elephants and leopards
Share in the colorful display
And join in a loud chorus
 
As laughter rings out
And all colors echo

Looking - POEM of the MONTH!

Looking
 
Looking into a weathered face,
looking for heaven on a place
called earth is a journey
not worth the effort,
no one can afford it.
 
Some ask “where?” Even
“When?” But most are
asking for … what can
take the tears away?
Sing me a song to
soothe my soul.
Plug me into the
next binge-worthy, wait!
How about a take-over
worthy of a snow storm? 

Give me more, but –

my sanity is worth more 

than the monetary.
Someone click Pause!
Can you spare a match?
Or a dime? Well, that’s
how much connection
with another human
was once worth. I need
a cigarette! Who are you?

"Man smoking cigarette" by Toronto History
 is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

I’m just looking for the
next … Are you her?
Don’t lie to me again,
“Lie to me again,”
she mocked. Will
someone just
lie next to me?
That would be
just heaven.
Gotta match?

I need light...

Space Scoundrel Love Song - POEM of the MONTH! (Special Edition)

 

"Star Field" by Jon Pumpkin is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Quotation Credit:
Lucas, George (Director). (1977) Star Wars: A New Hope [Film] Lucasfilm Ltd., The Walt Disney Company
Kershner, Irvin (Director). (1980) Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back [Film] Lucasfilm Ltd., The Walt Disney Company