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.
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| "Who Are You?" by Neil. Moralee is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0. |
Dis tr acted - 2051
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 20th
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-21st
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 19th 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.]
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Handing Out Balloons in the Jungle
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| "Man smoking cigarette" by Toronto History is licensed under CC BY 2.0. |
 |
| "Star Field" by Jon Pumpkin is licensed under CC BY 2.0. |
Unlike Superman™
There was no point in striking the wall with my fist. The
sheetrock had suffered a few hundred dollars, but no cash was found behind the
wall for the repairman who’d been called by my wife. My wife. She wasn’t the
focus of my target. Her cancer was. But how can one hit a disease? The
supporting beam, fixed like Superman™ to my fist. Crack! And unlike the Man of Steel™,
the beam displayed zero concern over a broken hand. My broken hand confirmed I
was not a superhero™. I wasn’t the one who’d save her. And not with brute force.
~
"Superman" and "Man of Steel" are registered trademarks of DC Comics. Both these terms are referenced as a simile and not as a character. The word "superhero" is a shared trademark among DC Comics and Marvel Comics. This term is referenced as a metaphor and not as a character.
%20Vignette.jpg)
Empty Half of the Glass
My glass may be half empty
On days I feel blind –
When I can see the horizon
Through the top half
Then I am full
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