Excerpt
Self doubt piles upon self doubt for Henry. Becoming bald, the humiliation of it, stirs the darkness in him, which for him, in the ordinary course of his life as a stockbroker, means finding ways to be mischievous, and, if feeling low and miserable, sometimes malicious. He likes to steal something from my house and then drop by and ask to borrow the very same thing. While I search for it with increasingly paranoid frantic anger wondering about the security of our home, digging through shelves, boxes and trunks of cars, cursing the neighborhood children, the neighbors, delivery men, my wife and my own children for thieves, he stands by sympathetically, assuring me that it doesnt matter, its not that important, he can get one at the store.
Relax, he says, theres no point in losing your mind over it. Of course, I could use it thats why I came by to borrow it, but if you cant find it, dont worry about it. Ill just go waste some money and buy a new one. Then when yours shows up well have two. You know, after a while we can have a big garage sale, sell off the duplicates and go on a vacation with the proceeds.
Ha, ha. Henry is a funny guy. For some reason I never catch on. Maybe Im becoming forgetful. In fact, its true, as certain as recurring doubt. My wife Mary has mentioned it, too. Forgetting the last location of my car keys is a commonplace event. Of course, everyone does that, but I will even lock my keys in the car with the engine running. Mary suggested carrying a spare key in my wallet. It works.
I have put my pocket knife down and forgotten it, sure after several days that someone has stolen it only to happen upon it by chance weeks later in one room or another, on a table or on a shelf, not even able to remember how it got there in the first place. My theory, which completely explains the problem, involves having a multiple personality including a secret subconscious character that operates beyond normal awareness who hides things just to cause torment and disorder in my life. Mary doesnt like this theory and wont offer it any support. Its too creepy for her.
I am Henrys brother, Harry. My thick, dark brown hair extravagates from my head in unruly waves. The hairless one looks intently upon the fact that Im not going bald with fire and ice as he stares at my head. Our blue eyes meet in stark opposition. Were we Titans, we would wrestle, but we have outgrown those times and now our competition has softened and corrupted into impolite verbal exchanges like those of politicians more interested in self-protection than winning. I smile knowingly. He accepts the truth but sneers.
Yeah, but I make more oodles of dough than you do with your noodle job, professor.
Yes, you do. My retort will surely irritate him. I guess we cant all be corporate toads.
The whole countrys a corporate toad. I just spread the wealth more evenly.
Hah! From those who havent to those who have.
Henry scours me with a jaundiced eye. And youre a noodler, a writer of stories, not frequently published stories I might add and a professor of what? What is it, anyway? He knows very well what it is. English? Everybody speaks English, Harry. You profess what we already know.
Well, then, were both just as useful as can be.
A couple of real donkeys, eh? Henrys face lights up.
Reindeer without antlers pulling the cart.
He clobbers me on the back with the flat of his huge fat hand. Okay. Lets go have a beer.
Weve had this same conversation or some version of it many times. Its a ritual. We share a joke about being donkey-men, the basis for one of my failed stories. In the story Im pulling a long wooden cart full of new toys. The traces squawk wretchedly under the weight. My mind grovels through thoughts of new debts, and the debts, like stones, weigh my head down to the ground. My nose sniffs the dirt of the road, and my tears fall, large round drops, burning, unnoticed. My family rides high on the bench seat, whipping me along as I pull the cart, and as I dig my hooves into the stony ground, straining with the effort, sweaty and tense, pulling as hard as I can, I think only of the pleasure it would give me, pleasure in the form of relief, just to make it over one more of lifes many hills. Then, at the crest of the hill another donkey-man approaches from the other direction, pulling another cart just like mine, loaded with family and bags of toys, tears in his eyes and sweat on his brow. A look of beleaguered suffering casts a gloomy aura around his face.
Merry Christmas, I say to him.
Merry Christmas, he replies as he passes.
The two families in the carts wave to each other, all smiles and glad tidings. The whips crack and the donkey-men plod down the other side of the hill. All we can see is dirt and debt.
Maybe this present story, the one Im writing now, is one of the central stories, maybe the central story, of our lives. Its the story of how we changed, how we came to terms with the truth and made our way to the next station: travelers, like all men are, on a journey of confusion and despair, folly and humor, through an ever-darkening darkness, brightened by the lights of family life, loving wives and our fierce friendship.
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