https://www.online-literature.com/forums/blog.php?16931-title The largest classic literature discussion forum on the Internet. Read Write Teach Share. en Fri, 05 Jun 2026 15:02:45 GMT vBulletin 10 https://www.online-literature.com/forums/images/misc/rss.jpg https://www.online-literature.com/forums/blog.php?16931-title https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?433-Jean-Baptiste-s Sat, 24 Feb 2007 21:19:19 GMT I’ve been trying to think of all the things that I want to write about, and it only seems to lead me to all the things I want to wish for, so I’m... I’ve been trying to think of all the things that I want to write about, and it only seems to lead me to all the things I want to wish for, so I’m going write about my wishes. I’ll start with material wishes, just to get them out of the way, and hope that I get tired of writing before any really embarrassing emotional or spiritual type wishes fall out in the open. I wish I had a 1964 Lincoln Continental with suicide doors and a 460ci engine that will do 100 miles an hour without even feeling the motion—something that I could pile twelve families into and take off across the country, and never have a hint that I’m not totally alone. Ah. Next, I want a motorcycle. I’d kill my own brother for a motorcycle. An’ you c’n tell ‘im I’m lookin’ for ‘im! I want a Honda CB cycle, between a 1967 and 1986 model, with between a 350 and 900 cc engine. That ought to leave things loose enough for my genie to handle. I was trying to narrow down my wish, but I just like all of them within those ranges, and I would be exactly happy with any of them—so long as it runs well, and is reliable, and doesn’t look like trash. Well, that’s about all I want materially—maybe a few books I’ve been dying for, but I can’t think of them at the moment—so I’ll be moving on to intellectual wishes. I wish to have a supreme university education, through the doctorate level. This wish entails some assumptions: It will be trying; it will be an absolute kick in the head; there is an implied eternal outcome to education. I’ve come to an hypothesis concerning education, for myself particularly—that there is no roof on my potential. Even if there is some roof in the strata, I don’t believe that it rests any lower than any other human’s roof. Therefore, I should never be able to find the limit to my educational potential. Like I said, this is an hypothesis, not a conclusion. Perhaps I could call it a theory, actually—as I’ve been testing it since I was a young boy. I remember the parturient thought that I mulled when I was 12, concerned with passing on into the 7th grade. I was petrified with fear that it would be more difficult than I could bear, that demands would be placed upon my intellect that I would not be able to meet, that the education system was structured so that inexplicably a child would be weighed and measured according to a rule that he had not yet been shown. It was a terrifying idea, though to some degree I realized that I was escalating the difficulties, and I remember asking my older sister to tell me what 7th grade was going to be like, what they were going to demand of me. Anyway, I’ve had this notion every year since when faced with a new level, that some inexplicable law will come into existence and apply to this particular coming change, which will cause something more fiendish than an exponential incline in the required difficulties and taxation of my intellect. Thankfully, this notion is subsiding, to the point that I fully realize the natural and proper progression that accompanies a student through the educational system, and that it always provides the means to meet the demands, though at times they be somewhat obscure, and require vigorous attention to catch them. Taking this into consideration, I feel now that there is no point at which I will necessarily find it necessary to stop. Therefore, I have faith in this wish, and I am willing to exert my entire effort on the intention. Phew! That was embarrassing enough to put down; thankfully I’m tired of writing—what a show of feeling was up next! ]]> Jean-Baptiste https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?433-Jean-Baptiste-s https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?133-Jean-Baptiste-s Thu, 14 Dec 2006 04:07:53 GMT My Two Stories The most lofty and laudable intention that a person might have for writing, which might also be considered the most simple and... My Two Stories

The most lofty and laudable intention that a person might have for writing, which might also be considered the most simple and natural, is to have a means of direct, human communication. This is the cause of development of language, both spoken and written, and whether we write truth or lies, fact or nonsense, human communication is always the goal. I find it necessary to advocate specifically such a view, which should be universally accepted as self evident, in an age born of the thoughts of Gertrude Stein, and the hordes of Post-Modernists following her sentiments of writing for one’s self. This I find to be a most inhuman activity. Writing and speaking are both means of communication between people, and done as a means of self-reflection, or self-entertainment make void the act in themselves. Therefore, my one intention for writing fiction, similar to that of reading fiction, is communication with other people. There seems to be a vast chasm of unspeakable ideas floating around in one’s head. One method of conveying these human bequests is the act of writing fiction. Stories can say myriad things that may not be capable of conveyance by any other means.

My intention in writing these two stories was to convey specific truths that I have witnessed or thought about. “Buster’s Gift” came about as a mixture of the situations of various young people that I’ve known who’ve been pushed this way or that by the adults in their lives. I began to wonder what could possibly make their situations better, and nearly concluded that a child must be strong enough to ward off the intellectual assaults of those who claim to know what’s best. However, my line of reasoning took me too far, and I concluded that a child’s worst enemy may only be her or his self. Of course, this could only be the case in one containing just the right balance of intelligence and impressionability, which is just what I attempted to present in the character of Buster. I wanted to present Buster as a child whose peculiarly profound spark of intelligence is entirely the key to his destruction. This could only happen with the pressure from his father and the family’s friend Edna, who both play an exact role in prompting Buster to sincerely do what only he himself can do. His intelligence is so great that it essentially destroys itself.

The second story, “Russ the Provider,” makes use of many relationships that I’ve seen in my life. I could not pin this couple, Russ and Ethel, down to any particular individuals that I know, but they surely contain elements of many of the people that I’m acquainted with. As for the central occurrence of the story, I wanted to show how a very strong and capable person might be reduced to near helplessness, through their own choices or preferences. Russ has never had need of the skills required to take care of himself, and so has never acquired them. Ethel, in her way, has become an enabler in more ways than just relating to alcohol. This is the way that these two have chosen to live their lives—it has thus far made them both content. The one vision of Russ that I had when beginning this story was that he would be left on his own with a certain degree of responsibility, and the first thing that he would be able to think of doing is pouring himself a drink, as that would be one of the first things that Ethel would do for him were she there. This didn’t exactly work in the actual writing; the story seemed to take a slightly different turn. However, I feel that the essential image that I wanted to convey by this did indeed come across in the story. Another idea that I thought essential to the story was that Russ should be presented in progressively greater degrees of predicament. If the reader can witness what he does with a slight amount of responsibility, this can be extrapolated out to an ultimate judgment of his fate when the actual responsibility becomes necessary.

As for general comments on technique, the reader will immediately note the use of present tense in "Buster's Gift". I have read it through many times for consistency. I've read that present tense slows the action (what action? one might say) and I have been told that it does indeed do so in this story. I thought it a good experiment with this story that deals with a very thoughtful protagonist to slow things down to mimic the mental processes that he might be engaged in.

The use of vernacular will be picked out as the major element in "Russ the Provider". I tried to use it as a means of reinforcing the drastic differences in the two major characters. In addition to this, it will be noted that dialogue plays a major part in the structure of this story. This is my partial attempt at Hemingwayesque story telling.

Hope you enjoy them. ]]> Jean-Baptiste https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?133-Jean-Baptiste-s https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?111-Jean-Baptiste-s Fri, 08 Dec 2006 05:33:41 GMT Under Arches rich— chymical hymns— immediate meditations: eden; dense, eastern, sinistral. Under

Arches rich—
chymical hymns—
immediate meditations:
eden;
dense,
eastern,
sinistral.

If I had a semicircle,
I’d save up to get two more semicircles to put inside it.
Then it would take a wise man—
A man who would give his life to figure my plight—
To tell me what I’d wasted.



Everyone says this poem is stupid and silly. They're right, but I like it. ]]> Jean-Baptiste https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?111-Jean-Baptiste-s https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?104-Jean-Baptiste-s Wed, 06 Dec 2006 03:23:13 GMT As of today I am a published poet! I didn't think they were serious, but I recieved the actual hardback copy today in the mail. It's only one poem of mine in a collection of numerous poems. I only sent it as a throwaway experiment, and now I wish I had sent a better poem--but it's there, in print. Now I can just sit back and watch the accolades roll in. Right? ]]> Jean-Baptiste https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?104-Jean-Baptiste-s https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?101-Jean-Baptiste-s Tue, 05 Dec 2006 04:27:44 GMT Russ the Provider —Russell, I need you to wash these eggs and take them to the Forster’s by ten. Alice is making a quiche for the potluck,... Russ the Provider


—Russell, I need you to wash these eggs and take them to the Forster’s by ten. Alice is making a quiche for the potluck, and she’ll need them by at least ten o’clock.

Russ, sitting at the kitchen table long after breakfast had been cleared away, looked up from his cup of coffee.

—Where are you gonna hide yerself? Why don’cha take ‘em yerself, and make yer cass’role over there. You do enough cookin’ at the Forster’s place.

Ethel listened with distraction, tying her silver-streaked hair in a small silk scarf.

—I’ve already made my casserole. I’ve got to go into town and pick up your suit from the dry-cleaner’s, and get our present for the couple. Are you sure about the gift?

—What’s wrong with towels? I like towels. It’s always good to have a few extra, ee-normous towels around. Maybe you should buy a couple dozen sets. That girl don’t look like much fer laundry.

—That’s none of our business. You just concentrate on being decent at the reception.

—How should I be at the wedd’n’?

—Don’t smile at me about your own cleverness. You’ll mind yourself at that wedding if you want dinner in this house ever again.

—Don’t threat’n me about dinner, Misses. I know you couldn’t stand to see me starve. B’sides, you know my smile always gets to you.

—This is an important day for Chris and Stephanie, and you’ve got a part to play, so just get done what you need to, and there will be no problems.

—Well, I like havin’ no problems. What’s the rest of my part to play?

—I need you to get your nephew ready. He already has his tux, but you need to make sure he wears it properly. And make sure he knows that he’s not to play with the ring. And teach him not to put his hands in his pockets; make sure he knows that tux pockets are for handkerchiefs and watches, and not hands. That boy would be such a handsome little thing, if he didn’t go slouching around with his hands hidden all the time.

—I’ll learn ‘im what a pocket is for. Where’s my hip-flask, by the way?

—It’s in the liquor cabinet, but you won’t be needing it. The ceremony and reception will only be a couple of hours. I’ll pour you a nice glass of Bourbon when we get home. Now, Abe is going to be here at a quarter to one.

—What’s Abe got to come here for?

—He’s going to help you load the flower arrangements into the truck at Jepson’s, and unload them at the Grange.

—That stupid so-‘n-so. I was skiddin’ logs b’fore he knew what a flower was.

—You’ll need help with those barrels of flowers, and he was nice enough to offer.

—Nice is right! Well, if he tries any a’ that whiskey’s-the-devil stuff, I’m gonna leave ‘im here, ‘n he can walk five miles to the wedd’n’.

—I explained to Abe that you do not have a drinking problem. I told him that you probably wouldn’t even drink at all if I didn’t pour it for you. You just behave.

—Yes, Thel. Don’t you worry, I’ll be the model human bein’.

—Now, the last thing I need you to remember is to bring the casserole.

—I’ll remember that, alright. I wouldn’t leave that cass’role behind. If I did leave it here, I’d leave myself here to guard it. Ma’am, you make the best cass’role in these here United States.

—Oh, never-mind about bringing the casserole. I’ll have to come back here anyway, to bring you your suit. I’ll plan to be back at noon, so you have enough time to get ready before Abe shows up.

—Do ya still want me to get that boy ready, or are you gonna take care of it when ya come back?

—You can still do that. I won’t be able to stay long. That potluck is going to take some setting up. But don’t get him dressed too early. I don’t want him to have time to ruin it before the wedding. Oh, I wish I had time to cut your hair before the wedding; promise you’ll comb that back before you leave.

—I c’n take care ‘a my ‘pearance. So long as I c’n see…don’t you worry.

—Okay. Where’s my purse? Give me a kiss.

—Love you, dear.

—Love you too, Russ heard faintly as the screen-door slammed.

₪

In 35 years of marriage, Ethel had left little to Russ to be responsible for. They had met at the logging camp, where Russ had worked since he was 17. Ethel became a cook for the camp, taking her place beside the other cook, her father, when she was 19. The then 21 year old Russ did not know which was more beautiful: the girl, or the food she prepared. He would start the day at 4 am, with a stack of flapjacks, four eggs, 8 thick slices of bacon, and boiled coffee. His plate was always prepared especially for him by the hands of the beautiful young Ethel.

Ethel, as a child, had always admired her father. He had, in her opinion, never been taken proper care of by her mother. She had always thought it strange that a man should be the one to take responsibility for household preparation, especially cooking meals. Her mother, a kind and loving wife and mother, was not very valuable in the domestic realm—though she had poured a great amount of energy into her daughter’s education, feeling sure that Ethel would follow in her footsteps as a strong and independent woman. Ethel felt that above all men, her father deserved to be cared for in the proper way. She vowed that she would learn to cook, and become as domestic as possible, so that one day she might be able to care for her husband properly.

Russ had never had the slightest desire or necessity for any knowledge of the pre-plate aspects of food. He had known frequently in his life the desire to eat, but never the sensation of hunger. Before becoming a logger, Russ was under the care of his mother, a real and true domestic goddess. He moved straight from one ease into another, leaving no space for self-reliance. Of course, Russ was a provider, with a mammoth work-ethic—so this arrangement was considered by all sides an even exchange of social benefit.

Since their marriage Russ had come home at precisely 6:00 for supper nearly every day—and Ethel had always had supper ready. Essentially he had never known the house without Ethel.

₪

Russ got up from his seat at the kitchen table and began to rummage through the cabinets under the counter, looking for a sieve and an egg basket. He turned on the hot and cold sides of the faucet and cast an apprehensive gaze at the eggs piled in their box on the counter. He picked up one egg, handling it as something that he’d always heard rumors of having extreme delicacy, but never actually encountered. He washed the egg, and holding it in one hand—trying to hold it without actually putting any pressure on it, preferably without touching it at all—carefully spread a towel over the basket with the other hand, and placed the egg on the towel in the basket, in its new safety, with a definite feeling of relief, mixed with anxiety for the 23 repetitions of this process.

—I don’t see why Alice can’t clean her own cookin’.

—Uncle Russell!

Timothy was the orphaned child of Ethel’s sister and brother-in-law, who had died in a car accident 9 years previous. Russ and Ethel had raised the boy from infancy as their own, retaining the proper titles, out of respect for the dead.

—What ’cha want, Timothy?

—I want a sandwich.

—You jus’ had breakfast. How cudd’ja be hungry?

Timothy just shrugged. He knew as little about the origins of appetite as his uncle. He only knew that it was a thing that happened, regularly, like breathing and sleeping, and no more would he wonder about the causes of hunger than the causes of those things. Russ could not fault him on this, being of like mind, so he attempted to summon the necessary intuition involved in preparing sandwiches, of which he himself would not mind partaking.

—Have you ever made sandwiches, Timothy?

—No, but I’ve watched Aunt Ethel make lots of sandwiches. It looks easy. I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, with lots of peanut butter and a little bit of jelly.

—Well, why don’t’cha make us both a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, ‘cause I never saw the process b’fore.

Timothy went straight to work finding the necessary ingredients, and layering everything with care. Throughout this project Russ was intent on the eggs, missing the entire demonstration of the preparation of sandwiches.

—Well, look at that, son! There’s a talent to be proud about. I haven’t seen sandwiches like that since fer’ever.

Russ dried his hands on the corner of the towel as he folded it over the heap of clean eggs in the basket.

—What should we have to drink with those mouth-gluin’ sandwiches? Milk, or Bourbon?

—You can’t drink whiskey with sandwiches!

—Oh, I s’pose you’re right. Milk it is then. Now listen, boy, I’m s’posed to get you all lined out on yer job at this here wedd’n’. You know not to mess with that ring when they give it to ya, right? You know that it’s to stay in its case in yer pocket?

Timothy’s reply was nearly a minute in forming, as his mouth was out of order with the quarter of a sandwich lodged securely inside. Russ waited out this delay by stuffing his own mouth. From the kitchen table, he could see out the big living-room window, and stared at the waving alfalfa that surrounded the house. His face filled with a mock anxiety as Timothy took a big swig of milk to recover his faculty of speech.

—I know. Mrs. Hornsby already told me everything that I have to do, at church last Sunday. It took about five hours for her to finish telling me everything. But I know what to do.

—OK. Well let’s get these things down and you can go with me over to the Forster’s place with them eggs. Don’t let me forget to bring that carburetor fer Tom. He’ll be wantin’ to get his truck back on the road.

—Did you finish rebuilding it for him? What did you have to do to it?

—Oh, I put a new accelerator pump and a new float in it. It should work like bran’ new.

On the way out the kitchen door, Russ glanced back at the bottle of Wild Turkey in the cabinet in the living-room. He thought it should be like any other Saturday, and Ethel should be there to pour him a glass. “Later,” he thought—“that’ll be nice. Two fingers, with m’ feet up.”

₪

Dealing with Alice Forster had always been something that Russ was quite content to leave to Ethel, and he was glad to be finished with the task and back at home.

—Now let’s see if we can’t figure out this here bow tie. Your Aunt’ll be here soon, ‘n I want her ‘proval of yer ‘pearance while she’s here. It’s been a good number ‘a decades since I had ’a deal with a cummerbund. She ought’a be here already.

Timothy was dressed now, looking like a miniature millionaire. He fretted with his hands, edging them closer and closer to the pockets of the jacket.

—I’m tellin’ you, if yer Aunt walks in here ‘n can’t immediately see those hands, she’s gonna come lookin’ for ‘em. And that won’t be pleasant.

Timothy held his hands out in front of his body like a zombie, rotating his wrists as though displaying them—as though wondering what was so special about seeing his hands.

The 50’s telephone on the kitchen wall rang through the house, startling the occupants as though it were the flash of the Atom Bomb. Timothy’s hands froze in front of him. He looked as though he was slowly raising them at the sudden appearance of a bank-robber, or the police bursting in with guns pointed. Russ looked toward the kitchen with an apprehension as toward a forty years dormant monster that had suddenly made its presence known. Russ had thought it an incredible waste of wages to have a phone installed, a slowly growing concern over the years of having no callers. He advanced toward the kitchen, as though gathering in his mind any training he might have had for answering a telephone.

—Hello, this is Russell Snow.

—Russ, it’s Ethel—how are you dear?

—Fine, Ethel. Has somethin’ happen’? Where ya callin’ from?

—I’m fine, Russ. I’m at Doris’s house. The wedding has been canceled, and Doris is very upset for her son. I’m going to stay with her for a while. Can you and Timothy get along alright without me until this evening?

—Yeah, we c’n get along alright. Timothy made us some peanut butter ‘n jelly sandwiches earlier, and we’ve got this cass’role ‘a yers.

—I mean, do you mind if I stay here for a while?

—Oh, yeah. You should do wha‘cha can fer those folks. Tell ‘em I’m sorry fer the dis’pointment.

—I’ll tell them, Russ. Does Timothy already have his tux on?

—Yeah, he looks like millionaire in a penguin suit. You’d be proud ‘a his ‘pearance.

—Well, make sure he doesn’t get it messy. Make him take it off, and lay it out on
the sofa. I’ll put it back in the bag when I get home.

—Alright. He’ll be glad t’ git back in ‘is play clothes, with workin’ pockets.

—Okay, Russell. I don’t know when I’ll be home, but sometime this evening.

—Alright, Thel. C’n I say “I love you,” over the telephone?

—Yes, Russ. I love you too. Bye.

—Bye, Thel.

Russ passed the receiver back and forth rapidly between his ear and the hook several times before letting it hang there, worried about inadvertently cutting off his wife.

—Well, Timothy, there ain’t gonna be no wedd’n’, so you c’n take that getup off ‘n get back into yer play clothes.

Timothy’s expression took on an aspect of crestfallen relief. But the wedding was completely washed from Russ’s mind. He just gazed at the easy chair, somehow divorced of its ease. He looked at the liquor cabinet as though it were an unbreakable safe. He tried to summon Ethel’s practical, domestic nature, which should have rubbed off after all this time. He thought of supper, and how Ethel would not be there to prepare it, though it was in the fridge waiting, as though Ethel had planned for his care even in the unexpected change of situation. He thought of sitting down and felt emptiness in the activity. He bolstered himself with a flash of the thought of the casserole in the fridge. If she had planned for supper, she must have planned for other things. He looked at the bottle of Wild Turkey in the liquor cabinet, and thought of what Ethel would be doing if she were there. He went to the cabinet and fumbled with the latch, as though unsure of its mechanism. Uncovering its wealth, he procured a highball glass to which he added a one-to-one solution of Bourbon and tap water (Ethel had, over the years, perfected this ratio to his taste.) He took a long, burning-cool flood from the glass, and allowed its ease to mask the emptiness. What, after all, did he have to be anxious about? Ethel would be home at some time. He certainly did not begrudge Chris’s mother her sorrows. There were no longer preparations, but anticipations to be dealt with. One of which was the arrival of Abe, though Russ was vaguely sure of a hope that Abe had been informed of the lack of necessity in his coming, that Ethel would be sure to prevent such a repugnant, obligatory meeting for him.

An often (relatively) suppressed appetite was unleashed by the advent of a seemingly newfound freedom. Russ gathered the necessary ingredients—a pitcher of water, the bottle of whiskey, and his glass—and placed them next to his chair in the living-room. He sat gazing out the South window, with the dark television set vaguely registering to the left of the window, at the sloping fields that converged on the river forming the property line, as the floating clouds made massive continents of shadow over the alfalfa. Lulled by the slow steadiness of nature, and the warmth of whiskey, Russ passed several hours in disinterested attention. At half past five, the sound of the car in the drive gathered his dissolute faculties. He roused his body, wondering what had become of his nephew.

Timothy came stumbling through the kitchen door caked in mud.

—Where ya been Timothy?

—I’ve been catching snakes! How come Abe Clausen’s here?

Russ looked toward the kitchen door, with thoughts containing words like hell and damn flaming up in his mind. Without so much as a knock, Abe walked directly into the kitchen, all disheveled and wild-eyed.

—What d’ya come burstin’ in a man’s house for, like a damn wild-***? Don’t people have…

—Russ, it’s Ethel. She collapsed at Doris’s house, and they took her to the hospital. I came to get you—are you alright? Have you been drinking?

—What d’ya mean, have I been drinking? Is it her heart? What happened?

—She’s at the hospital right now; I think she’ll be alright. I came to get you, to bring you there. Are you ready to go?

Russ had felt like hitting Abe many times before, and now it seemed like the only proper thing to do, but he couldn’t concentrate on it, and just allowed himself to be led out to the car.

Hurtling down the wash-board gravel road with his nephew and neighbor, Russ was slowly becoming more and more embarrassed by the thoughts that his mind was conjuring at such a moment. He was wondering if he would be able to make Ethel’s casserole for her, if he’d be able to read her recipes and get them right.


©Neal Page
11/07/2006 ]]> Jean-Baptiste https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?101-Jean-Baptiste-s https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?100-Jean-Baptiste-s Tue, 05 Dec 2006 04:20:19 GMT Buster’s Gift Buster sits in the kitchen of his family’s bakery, wearing his baseball uniform. He wonders at the lights that buzz and blink;... Buster’s Gift

Buster sits in the kitchen of his family’s bakery, wearing his baseball uniform. He wonders at the lights that buzz and blink; they begin to take on a mystical significance for him. He thinks of blinking, and wonders if everything can blink like eyes and lights. He begins to think of eyes as lights. He wonders if lights have memories.

His memory extends to exactly one half his current age of 11 (his birthday passed yesterday) to a day exactly like this day; he is all that has changed.

Edna shakes the measuring cup full of flour over the worn industrial mixer; the flour falls in clumps, and creates a cloud of dust. That’s exactly what she was doing when Buster’s consciousness decided to push the record button, five and a half years ago. The thought he recalls as first—the thought that he refers to as the first, only to himself, of course—one of flour, became a chain of thoughts seeping into the recesses of brain in search of a solution to the horrible problem of flour dust. The dust, of course, was not a problem, but how could it become bread if it were floating in the air. Buster, being an astute boy, realizes now that that first thought needed previous thoughts to have come into existence at all. For instance, how would he have thought that it was a horrible thing that flour was escaping bread without first having an idea of bread? That is why the flour-dust thought is so important to him; that is why he insists on retaining it in its position as first; through that thought he endeavors to search out all previous thoughts in his existence. He’s come quite far in this task. Because of it, he has fixed in his mind the majority of what has happened from his first day of Kindergarten, on. There have also been leaps back to the dog he played with when he was three, and watching his mother turn the crank on the ice-cream maker when he was four. Buster is patient; he’s sure to recollect the entirety of his life as far as humanly possible. His friend Kiara says that she can remember things from when she was one year old; his other friend Chris has memories of being three. There are, of course memories of Buster’s that get misplaced, even memories from after the first thought. He wonders about methods of organizing his memories in order to have quick access to everything that he’s ever experienced. He’s sure that this would be valuable.

—What are you dreaming about, Buster?

Edna tries her best to keep Buster from drifting off into his day-dreams. She has worked for the family for 34 years, in their bakery. It’s the best job she could have imagined for herself—the job itself is nice, but the feeling of having a real place that comes from working closely with a family is what makes it worthwhile. She takes credit for having a hand in raising Buster and his four older siblings. The others have all grown up with level heads and become successful adults. She worries about Buster. It’s obvious from his grades, after five years in school, that he doesn’t have much intelligence. All he has going for him is Baseball, and he can’t even keep his head on that.

—How was your practice today?

Buster holds a rolling pin, rolling it across the table toward a ball of dough. He moves the pin somewhat like a baseball bat, weighing the effect of the lack of the influence of gravity, as it goes careening into the dough ball.

—Homerun.

—Why don’t you think about the game when you’re supposed to be playing it? Your daddy’s going to thump you if you don’t start paying attention out on that field. Boy, you sit around here all afternoon talking about that ball, and what if it spins this way, and what if it spins the other way—and then you go out there and stick your head in the clouds.

—You know how dad says to keep my eye on the ball?

—That’s exactly what you need to do. Don’t think of nothin’ else.

—Well, what does that mean, to keep my eye on the ball? Doesn’t it mean to focus my eye on the light that’s coming off the ball? How fast do you think my eye can see the light from the ball?

Edna, concerned for the consistency of the dough that she’s mixing, shrugs her shoulder, perhaps only reflecting on her own questions of baking.

—What happens when my eye sees the light? Does it make my arms move? Could it make my arms move as fast as the light moves? Mrs. Creen said that light moves very fast. If I swung at the ball as fast as light, do you think it would turn to dust?

—I don’t know anything about what a baseball would do.

—If it didn’t turn to dust, do you think it would fly into space? That would be a world record.

—You and your records. Well, I’m sure if you practice like you’re supposed to, you’ll hit that ball into a world record someday. How about if you wash your hands and separate some eggs for me?

—Mr. Willard asked us today, “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?” Have you ever heard of such a question?

—Boy, that’s the oldest question there is. Careful not to get any shell.

—I can’t answer that question. There’s too much to think about.

—You just have to train yourself to think properly; then you can answer any question.

—What about this question? Which do you like better, the chicken or the egg?

—No, now. You can’t just twist a question around to get out of answering. That’s like quitting. What if your daddy heard you saying something that sounded like quitting?

—But I like eggs better than chicken. You should like eggs better too. You can’t make bread out of a chicken. Do you like eggs better?

Edna does not like answering silly questions. She has always tried to make that clear to Buster by changing the subject—or rather, bringing the discussion back around to its original topic.

—How many laps around the field did you run today?

—About eight hundred thousand. I wasn’t counting. I started running at 1:00, and finished running at 1:30. If I knew how fast I was going, I bet there’s a way to tell how many times I ran around the field. I’d also have to know how far the field is around, huh? Maybe if I went out and timed my self at my usual speed for one lap, then I could always guess how many laps I ran just by the time. Do you think I should do that? Then I wouldn’t have to think about counting the laps while I’m running.

—Buster, you should do something about clearing up that head of yours. You’ll never get anywhere if you let yourself think up confusion upon confusion. Your daddy should be home to work on your pitching soon.

—I’m going to show him a new pitch that I learned today. It’s sideways. Isn’t it weird that your shoulder can turn all around and throw from different angles?

—I’m sure you’ll learn a lot more techniques than that before you get to the majors.

—Mrs. Creen said that the odds of a person getting into the major league were not good enough to expect to actually get there. She said that a person would be better off to hold their breath until they won the lottery.

—Well, your daddy says that you have talent, one in a million talent. That teacher of yours just doesn’t know talent when she sees it.

—Do you think it’s best to start off believing that I have talent? Or do you think I should doubt it first, and put it to the test?

Edna lifts the towel over the bread that she’s raising. She presses two fingers halfway into the soft mass, hoping that her impression will remain.

—I don’t know what difference that would make. You should just know that you can do whatever you set out to do.

—Do you think there’s a difference between what a person believes and what a person knows? Mr. Willard said that knowing something is more important than believing something. I don’t think that’s right. He said that he could prove it by saying first that he believes that he left his keys in his car, and then saying that he knows he left his keys in his car. He said that the knowing one was more important.

—Well, boy, you have to have faith.

—But isn’t faith something totally different from both of them? Isn’t faith something that goes along with knowing? Don’t you have to have faith in what you know? Mrs. Creen said that all human knowledge is only theory waiting to be disproved. But belief should come from what has happened to you, so you shouldn’t need faith if you believe.

—Shouldn’t need faith? That sounds like blasphemy. You better watch yourself son.

—Isn’t blasphemy taking the Lord’s name in vain? Wouldn’t what I said be more like sacrilege?

—Is this what you’re doing out on that field when that ball goes whizzing by you all the time? Are you out there thinking yourself in circles, thinking up more and more confusion for yourself?

Buster’s mom, a middle-aged, almost haggard woman with thick and lustrous silver hair, comes into the kitchen, knowing exactly where to find her son: seated beside the enormous table, where he has worn a smooth spot in the wood surface from years of playing with the rolling pin. She has told her husband several times that Buster has a real interest in baking, but he has always maintained that the boy’s thoughts are on baseball, even in the kitchen.

—Your dad’ll be here in a minute, Buster. Are you ready for your practice? Have you had anything to eat lately?

—I had some milk and a sandwich after practice. But I think I’m too busy to practice.

His father enters the kitchen as this is being pronounced.

—What ‘n hell do you mean, too busy? It’s Saturday! I left work early to keep you on track with your pitching. If you have homework, you can get to that later.

—Oh, I was just joking, Buster says with a start. Did you get that new mitt?

Buster’s father volunteers as an assistant coach for Buster’s team. A photograph of his high-school senior year baseball team is displayed on the living-room mantle, as though an icon for Buster. He’s a man with an exact amount of body-fat, which could be measured with the precision machined instrument of his jaw-line, or the color scale of his silver to black hair. He pushes his son hardest of all the team members, feeling a sense of camaraderie with the fathers of past baseball greats; he’s sure that his son is to become one, and knows that it will take a great deal of sacrifice on his part.

The park is only two blocks from the bakery, which is on the street behind their house. Buster tries to count the steps that it takes to get there. He wonders why there is such a big difference in the number of steps between different trips. He doesn’t always get very far in counting; his father usually recounts the current baseball statistics to him on the way to the park.

His father throws the ball to him, and he catches it. He throws the ball back. His father throws the ball to him, and he doesn’t catch it. He runs to get it as it rolls away.

—Goddammit, Buster! What in hell ’s ‘a matter with you? How’re you gonna get where you need to be if you won’t apply the least bit of brain power to catchin’ the goddamn ball? Do you even think about anything you’re doing?

Buster knows that he has not been thinking about catching the ball. He has been thinking about how hard it would be to throw the ball that far if it were made of iron. He has been thinking that it would be just as difficult to throw a paper ball that far, as it would be to throw one of iron. He has been thinking that baseballs are made perfectly for what they have to do. Buster tries to remind himself that his father is always telling him to concentrate, and that although he always means to concentrate, something always gets in the way; he knows that it’s something he has to work on.

As the family is sitting around the television that night, Buster tries to come to grips with his father’s expectations for potential. He decides that he will use his mind for what it’s meant for. He decides that he is smart enough to concentrate on what he needs to concentrate on. He sits pretending to watch the TV, picturing in his mind a ball hurtling toward his catcher’s mitt, picturing his arm placing that mitt exactly in the path of the ball, feeling the ball seating itself securely in the palm of the mitt. He pictures the ball flying toward its immanent and necessary collision with his bat. He feels the crack and zing of the handle with the solid, square hit. He repeats these images to himself over and over.

—What are you thinking about Buster? his mom asks.

He has let his eyes drift away from the TV, and is staring at the nondescript pattern on the wallpaper.

—Baseball, he says, and stands up.

—That’s my boy, his father says. Getting your game plan together, huh?

—Yeah. I’m going to go to bed.

—You get rested up. Tomorrow ‘s Sunday, so we’re gonna do some work on that pitching arm.



He throws the ball as hard as he can. He swings out to the side and feels the blood rush to his hand as he releases the ball. A thought of all of the circles involved in baseball tries to rise up in his mind. He squashes the thought, and tries to imagine the ball being caught by his dad as he releases it. He begins to imagine himself being a robot, programmed only to play this game; he squashes that thought too, realizing that it will distract him.

Slowly, there is a narrowing of allowable thoughts; each thought is checked by Buster for appropriateness and relevance. This list takes several weeks to compile mentally. The difficulty is that being mindful of irrelevant thoughts is itself irrelevant to the thought of baseball, but it will have to be at least partially allowed, for a time. He is sure that after a while thinking nothing but baseball will become natural and easy. He realizes the trouble: Even thoughts relating to baseball can at times be irrelevant to the action of the moment.



Buster sits in the kitchen of his family’s bakery, wearing his baseball uniform. He watches Edna kneading a small batch of specialty dough by hand. It has been weeks since he sat here last.

—Your momma said your school sent home a letter.

—I know. My teachers think I’m not concentrating in class.

—Are you trying to concentrate? Sometimes people can’t keep up. But sometimes they just aren’t trying.

—I know about concentration. I’m concentrating with all my mind. I just don’t have time to think about what the teacher is saying.

This is enough to confirm for Edna her prior conviction, that Buster does not have the mental power to deal with any sort of intellectual pursuit. All of her doubts about his baseball talent are washed in a sea of mercy—overshadowed by conviction. She convinces herself that “this child will become the next Wayne Gretsky of baseball.”

—Tell me what’s happening in professional baseball today. Has anyone made any world records yet this season?

—Not yet. Dad said that world records won’t be invented until I get to the major leagues. That’s true, you know.

—I know.

Edna measures out hot water and yeast, sugar and olive oil, with a spoonful of salt for the next batch of dough. These she pours in succession into the mixer with a feeling of contentment with her life. She waits for a few minutes, watching Buster’s eyes focused on some spot beyond the wall, and dumps a cupful of flour into the industrial mixer.

As the flour-dust spouts out of the bowl of the mixer and fills the room with white, Buster imagines tapping his bat on the home plate. The dust jumps into the air, concealing his view of the direction in which he points his bat.

—I know, she says with relief.


©Neal Page
10/10/2006 ]]> Jean-Baptiste https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?100-Jean-Baptiste-s https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?99-Jean-Baptiste-s Tue, 05 Dec 2006 04:10:35 GMT I'll post my stories here; that's what I'll do with this space. ]]> Jean-Baptiste https://www.online-literature.com/forums/entry.php?99-Jean-Baptiste-s