The Boys

Short Story

“GOOD NIGHT or should I say, GOOD MORNING!” yelled Harry as he waved to his departing friends. With his right arm up in the air almost threw him off-balance. The gin and whiskey consumed earlier had also slowed his reflexes, but who needed reflexes at two a.m.; floating was a better term.

Again, they all had an adventurous night! Everyone agreed—he was just about the funniest guy in town.

“Take it easy, Harry, and watch out for the tiger!” a voice shouted. Loud laughter of the group in a Jaguar followed, mingled with the roar of its engine that burned the rear tires for few seconds before disappearing into the early morning.

Harry grinned. Sure, watch out for the tiger, he repeated, then turned around and stared up at the twenty-storey apartment building trying to figure out, which of the lighted windows on the sixth floor was his apartment. Spotting the light, he could have seen if his wife, Marian, the tiger, as the boys called her, was still waiting up for him or not.

After bowling, he spoke to her briefly over the cell phone. He told her that he would go for a short drink with the boys. Although he knew that she wouldn’t approve of him extending the curfew for hours and kill her Saturday night, he could not resist a free drink. Therefore, a wild guess told him he could be in for an earful. However, so what – he had only a few drinks, maybe once or twice a week? According to the boys, he was such a great entertainer. Married for two years, still, letting go of old bachelors habits wasn’t easy. Anyhow, he was far better as some of his friends who were on drugs. Who said that he was bad?

While Harry examined his situation, he searched his pockets for the entrance key. Doing so he also decided that if Marian was still waiting for his return, he wasn’t going to stand there and take all her nagging. He had to think of something.

Again, he turned all his pockets inside out but couldn’t locate his keys. He either forgot or lost them. Moreover, this occurrence he needed like another drink.

On the intercom system to his left and above the buzzer it read, Harry and Marian Webster, Apt. 610. Pushing the button would have been so easy; however, his better judgment told him — don’t wake the tiger. Was he afraid? Not at all! He was floating anyhow. However, why should he get into an argument? Then, on second thought why not? Maybe he felt like blowing up for a change, to show Marian who was boss. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure, first, how to get in and then, how to plan his defence. As much as he had in mind to lay it on the line, he wisely hesitated to buzz the apartment intercom.

As he collected his scrambled thoughts for the great attack, the elevator doors in the lobby opened. A young man in a bathrobe stepped out. He carried a pile of old newspapers that he threw into a paper bin.

“Great!” exclaimed Harry enjoying his luck and knocked with his fists against the glass partition. The young man turned his head. Harry waved and mimicked a few gestures to suggest that he wanted to get in. As he kept insisting, the man came over to open the door.

“Oh thanks,” Harry said. He was about to force his way in.

“Hold it, man! Do you live here?”

“Damn right!”

“I have never seen you before.”

“I’ve never seen you either!”

“And you are drunk, too — eh? Where exactly is your apartment, if I may ask?”

Harry pointed to the intercom list. “There, 610, Harry & Marian Webster, if you don’t mind. I forgot my keys. Get it?”

“I get it, so why don’t we buzz your apartment and speak to your wife?”

“No, no, I can’t do that.

“Why not?

“I don’t want to wake her.”

“Man, under those circumstances—no deal!”

Just then, someone left the elevator. Harry shoved the man aside, “Now, will you excuse me?” He said forcefully and entered the lobby. However, when Harry arrived at the elevator, the doors closed on him. He waved his hands in disgust, hurried over to the staircase, and ran up as fast as he could.

Walking along the sixth floor corridor, puffing away, he thought, man, you’re a bit out of shape. At Apt. 610, he stopped. Now, what was his plan again? In the next moment, the elevator door opened and the young man, who had blocked his way down at the entrance, stepped out. There he stood in his bathrobe, just watching. What a nut, Harry thought. Of course, if Marian had locked the apartment door, he would be in a tight spot. Annoyed, Harry waved off the young man, who was spying on him from the elevator.

After all the fuss, Harry was a bit wound up. He was even ready for some battle or to execute one of his offbeat acts to dilute the situation if need be. The boys always enjoyed his flair to entertain. Some nights he would direct midnight traffic at an intersection downtown; play a mouth-organ dreadfully for a hand-out in a subway station, while the boys stood offside, laughing; or bet that he would stroll through a ladies convention in the nude. Just a few hours ago, he had climbed one cement arch crossing the fountain on the town square at the old city hall. Unfortunately, a cop without humour gave him a fine, and, regrettably, Marian had no use for his pranks either.

Harry carefully turned the doorknob. What a relief, it was open! Again, he waved at the man at the elevator and tiptoed into his apartment. The floor lamp in the far corner was still on as well. How lucky could he get? Nevertheless, shortly as he praised his fortune and advanced half into the living room, a voice said, “How about that!” The lights came on as if it were a surprise party.

Marian stood at the bedroom door in her long turquoise nightgown. Her blond hair covered her narrow shoulders; one hand rested on the light switch, the other hand carried a book. Well, he thought, what is so frightening about that?

“Harry, you have done it again!” Marian exclaimed. “You promised three days ago that you would hang up your ugly habits. Now look at yourself. It is disgusting!”

“Yes, I know, but the boys . . . “

“The boys, the boys . . . To hell with the boys! Don’t you see? They just use you. All they are interested in is that you entertain them.”

“And why not?”

“Because they do it at your own expense.”

“Doesn’t cost me a thing, Marian, listen . . . “

“Harry, I am not talking about money. Sure, they feed you booze, so they can get you going and you become reckless. Something is going to happen if you don’t stop. You’ve got to grow up and quit clowning around—audience or no audience!”

“So you think I’m a clown, eh? All right, watch this. To show you that I also play tragic parts – what would you say if I jumped off the balcony?”

Marian looked away, shaking her head, thinking, for sure he had again too much booze. “That in itself proves you are going off your rocker”, she said, trying to keep her composure.

However, when Harry made this dramatic statement, it occurred to him that it wasn’t such a bad idea. That was it! He was going to teach Marian a lesson. Of course, he wasn’t going to jump. He would lower himself on the outside railing of the balcony, then hold on to the bottom steel rod. This would be one of those funny acts, which the boys might want to hear about.

Before Marian had a chance to react, Harry dashed through the balcony door as he had anticipated. Sure, it was way up on the sixth floor, but in his floating condition, he was certain he could pull himself back up anytime.

“Harry, stop! Are you crazy?” She cried and rushed after him. “O, God, he has disappeared. Harry!” She called again, frantically, as she leaned over the railing and looked anxiously down into a dark space.

“Hello there,” Harry’s voice came from below, casually.

Marian spotted him at once: “Harry, Harry! Thank God. You’re still here. Please, hold on. I’m sorry. I promise . . . Never again . . . I’ll get help—get a rope or something.” Swiftly she returned to the apartment, repeating to herself, what a fool, what a fool!

Harry moreover, was quite content. Man, was his plan working or what. She was at his mercy. This would be the last reproach to his lifestyle.

Through the open door of the balcony, he could hear Marian. She went confused from room to room, opening, and slamming doors and drawers; she was talking to herself, then getting impatient, angry and finally ended up crying. Then it became worrisome quiet.

Harry decided to end her torture. He was ready to pull himself up to the next steel bar, so he could get his knees onto the cement ledge. The rest would be easy. Yes, he was ready, but no matter how much he tried, he failed to reach the other steel bar. It was incredible. He didn’t seem to float anymore either. On the contrary—it felt more as if one had filled his body with lead, while the gin and whiskey played games with his mind. Stay cool, man, he said to himself but realized that he might have stretched his luck.

Looking down, the distance to the ground was a lot more than his body could absorb. Again, he gathered all his energy but he failed to grasp the top bar. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled, hoping Marian had come up with a good plan because he hadn’t much strength left. An odd quietness lay in the air, not a soul to applaud or pity him. Wouldn’t this have been an enjoyable site for the boys?

“Marian,” he whispered. God knows where she had gone. Maybe she panicked or fainted. If so, there was for sure only one-way to go — down. A fine lesson he was about to teach her. He could feel the cold sweat on his neck, running down his back. The pain in his arms and shoulders gradually gave way to numbness. Oh God, was this a sign that he was going to lose control? He had read somewhere that before one freeze to death, a feeling of warmth and comfort would surround the body. Similar, his pain easing off could be a sign of his doom.

“Help!” He cried. His head kept swelling, as if hooked up to a compressor. At any second, his eyes could have popped out of their sockets. Harry had lost track of time. It seemed he had hung there for hours. A feeling of desertion overcame him. Then, faintly, didn’t he notice a light on the balcony below him; hear voices, shouting? Didn’t someone just call his name? Perhaps all that was an illusion. His fingers began inevitably to lose their grip. No matter what, he had to let go of the steel bar. His clinched hands opened slowly, and he was perhaps on his way to greet his maker. Just then, something pulled at his ankles and a second later Harry slid down a mattress that covered the railing of the fifth floor balcony. There he bounced off, rolled over and hit his head on the cement floor, where he came to a stop.

“Harry,” uttered Marian, kneeling traumatized beside him. She wiped the perspiration off his face.

Harry lay on the ground with a bump on his forehead and all his muscles ached. For a minute, he felt dizzy but when that eased off, he looked up astonished at his fifth floor neighbour. Did he see right? He had met the same guy earlier in the lobby. His spouse in a nightgown stood beside him.

“So, we meet again,” the young man, said. “Look at that!” Addressing Marian, “Are you sure this is your husband?”

“Yes, I am,” she replied while drying her eyes. “Well, you see, this is a long story.”

“I bet it is.” Turning to his spouse, “Would you believe me if I told you, he is the pushy guy, Harry, down in the lobby?” Then, approaching Harry – “Anyhow, I’m Tim. This is my wife, Jenny. Hope you’re O.K.” He stretched out his hands and helped Harry to his feet.

“Thanks, Tim, more than O.K.; I’m a thousand times better than if I had landed down in the parking lot,” Harry muttered embarrassed as he leaned against Marian, still trying to catch his breath. “Sorry I’m such a jerk,” he added.

Tim looked at Marian: “Harry, you should know whom in the first place to thank. Yes, I agree, you were a jerk but that’s not really my concern, ’cause I’m not married to you. I just hope I don’t have to regret helping to save your butt. However, if I were you, I wouldn’t try it again, because next time we might not be here.”

Marian took Harry’s arm, went to the elevator, upstairs to their apartment with the door still open, telling a tale. Exhausted and still a bit shaky he spoke no more, except, “oh boy, “and surrendered his mind like a ship sinking to the bottom of the sea.

The End

painting- “Friendly Avenue” / Watercolour / 1959 / JR.

About Joseph Roitner

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Other Written Works

Cruel is the Lesson of the Play

A Narrative Poem – Cruel is the Lesson of the Play The Stage is set Four metres off the floor: Windowpanes in frames of steel – Seven vertical as A, B, C, D, E, F, G, – And nine horizontal in a row, which Sums up to sixty and three squares. A sheet of plastic, transparent, Is taped on window panes, except At lower left, pane One A, the tape Gave way, which forms a gap, An access to a narrow space Between the glass and plastic sheet, While two metres lower, a door is An entrance to the factory’s premise – And also exit, out into An endless SPACE. This is the stage where play begins With RED ROBIN emerging in low flight, Soars upward through the rafters, back And forth, around, in the attempt to exit at The windowpanes into the blue sky. Looking on, I’ve given up to count The futile returns, to break the rift From space to SPACE. RED ROBIN aims repeatedly for the sky But crushes anew into the hazy wall. It’s all the same – What seemed an exit at first – Becomes deception. I nod my head and say: when will birds Ever learn about those windowpanes, And open the door below, but my signal is In vain. RED ROBIN discounts my deed, so As if this was another trap. Then, startled by the many rejections To penetrate this translucent wall, It stumbles on to the gap at pane One A, Squeezing through the narrow space Between the glass and plastic sheet, on To One B, Two B, Three C, across, up To Nine G – then slowly slides down To Eight B – hard pressed against The glass, resting, hesitating. Again, I shake my head: There’s no way out, I say – If only you would know but You are just a bird. RED ROBIN flaps once more its wings, Squeezes upward – reaches Nine G – then lodged And cornered – kicks, flutters in despair, with dust And feathers flying until the tape on window pane Nine G gives way – presenting the escape. All right, I say, relieved. If I could fly, I’d show you the way, But then if I could fly, I wouldn’t know. RED ROBIN continues to circle, then aiming Again, beak first, at the transparent wall (With no lesson learned), slides down to find Again the gap at One A where itself winds up The narrow space onto the top, in search of An exit as before, while I know, It leads to nowhere. Every so often, I take time out to see RED ROBIN passing through the maze. I try to measure its intelligence. Most combinations have been explored, so as To choose the moves in chess. However, Despite the pattern – how innovative the play Progresses on the sixty and three panes – All hope must shatter on square Nine G And new faith dwindles more and more Every time at One A. This is the play – and how I sympathize! Somehow I must fulfill my own task, which Is nothing more but drowsy repetition. I sense that I return continually to My own Square One. And I keep thinking – Could this, up there be I? Perhaps it is And someone at another level, outside Myself, is watching me – is nodding Its head – all-knowing while I, stubbornly, Insist to break a transparent wall; while I Repeatedly choose the way alike The bird that ends in a vacuum, then I exit in vain without a choice, repeatedly To find myself only at old beginnings? It’s getting late.RED ROBIN’S flights are slowing, so do All efforts to penetrate the glassy wall, only Advances through the narrow space, From window pane to window pane – Still fluttering, squeezing upward, somehow It reaches pane Nine G, exhausted at The end but dim beginning of the cycle. GIVE UP, I say – do not pursue Your unknown fate, when RED ROBIN, To close and finally, drained of strength, Glides slowly down along the wall to meet A gentle breeze, warm sunlight through The open door that sends it renewed With energy into the infinite SPACE. And here, I nod my head and say: So it must be – although not fair – Cruel is the lesson of the play, To Which one, inside is not aware, But when one is then he can see – It breaks one’s heart To witness such Blind agony.

23. Feb 2015

posted by Joseph Roitner

More Light Within

David Anderson worked eagerly all morning on a painting. He barely felt the freezing temperature in his unheated studio, or paid any attention to a missed lunch. Only a rattling noise, coming from the letterbox at the hall, made him stop. He held his breath. The tin sound was similar as if one had caught their prey in a trap – where he was now the hunter. After all, maybe this was his lucky day. Immediately, he dropped his brushes on the paint- covered worktable and ran to the entrance to find a small, familiar package. He guessed right. Canada Art Council returned a CD with about forty images of paintings that he had submitted two months ago, hoping for a grant. Ten years had passed since he graduated from Art College. Galleries and public places displayed his work since then. Occasionally he would sell, but his meagre income came from scenic work for TV or films – so he could pay the rent for this studio, located in an industrial area. The Canada Council sounded promising. He had heard over the years of several artists who received support from the Government. It would have come in handy. David ran an exacto knife through the package. However, in his excitement he cut the enclosed letter in half. He already saw himself taping an enclosed cheque together. Just the same, no such luck. Instead, the letter read: ‘Dear Mr. Anderson: we regret to inform you that the Selection Committee did not recommend a grant for your project or suggest the purchase of any work you had submitted for consideration’. There were a few more lines about future submissions as an encouraging gesture. He got the message; besides, it was his third try anyhow, just so nobody could say he was not willing to give it a chance. As he leaned back in his chair, looking out the window, he observed the grey sky of Toronto. He now could feel the November cold. Earlier that morning, he was full of vigour and imagination, but presently he felt exhausted and starved. All at once, his surrounding made him weary. Everything reminded him of all the connections he couldn’t make, promotions he didn’t get, critics who couldn’t care less about his work and paintings he couldn’t sell. He glanced at the canvas on his easel. Some creative doubts crossed his mind. Where was that certain acknowledgment and light that an artist and every good work must bear? An entity, one cannot explain but worth pursuing. David Anderson went over to his painting, gave it a challenging stare, and felt like driving his fist right into the canvas. After a moment of hesitation, he rushed over to the closet to pick up his jacket. On his way out, his hands nervously felt for an object. He finally grasped a glass jar of green powder paint that he then fired against a wall. The jar shattered into a thousand pieces, setting free the contents that moved as a green cloud, slowly through the studio. To walk was sometimes the only thing left to do. It would get him from A to B; frequently insignificant points only. Psychologists recommend walking when distressed or in despair. Today, point B was just about anywhere. After an hour and a half, he found himself downtown, in the centre of a crowded street where everyone seemed to hustle with a purpose in mind. He barely noticed how he had gotten that far. At first, it seemed he was interested in window-shopping but his thoughts were elsewhere, until a bookstore window brought him back to the present. Avoiding his reflection on the glass, he thought of all the books he could never afford to purchase. So many editions from which to select, and it was increasingly more difficult to keep up with new publications. This made everyone’s life more interesting or confusing. As he looked at some novels and art books, a face suddenly blocked his view, inches away, between him and the window. David backed up to give himself space, assessing the situation. He observed a man who must have been in his forties, unshaven. He wore a heavy set of eyeglasses. Behind them lay watery, blue, bewildered eyes with an unbending expression. The man, dressed in an old, black coat carried a portfolio at chest’s height that hung on a leather strap around his neck. A white cane in his right hand pointed forward. Standing there, his lips moved ever so slightly with the attempt to speak but they produced no sound. While David made his observation, he searched in his pockets for some loose change. “Good afternoon,” the man finally said hesitantly, refusing the offer, “it is very generous of you, sir, but although I’m a needy artist, I like to work for a living!” “Good for you,” David replied and thought, that sentence sounded notably familiar. The other thing was, he just couldn’t figure out what part he was supposed to play by supplying work for this needy artist. “Do you know, sir,” the man continued, “If I had my adequate eyesight, I could do something for humanity. I could entertain them.” Then He mentioned a well-known cartoonist of the past who had disappeared from the printed page a decade ago. “Yes sir that is I. I’m glad you remember. You see, since eight years I suffer from loss of vision. Sometimes to distinguish objects is difficult. It’s worse than the sun’s eclipse. A cure? Who can tell and who knows? Sir, if you could only imagine, what it means to be a painter who has lost his vision! Is not everything form, colour and movement?” David nodded. No argument about that. The half-blind cartoonist looked intense at David’s face. “Sir, you have an interesting profile, if I may say so. Perhaps you could spare fifteen minutes. I would like to sketch you or else I cannot accept the change you have offered me.” David had at first good intentions to give it straight to the man. This wasn’t the day to test his tolerance. Somehow, it was absurd. The College of Art had awarded him a prize for one of his portraits and now this half-blind cartoonist… It was incredible. However, then another voice said, are you the same guy who despises artificiality, quick judgments and smart remarks? Besides, this man with his portfolio seemed to take it up with all those dedicated musicians who work for a hand out at subway stations. For an instant, he looked at his watch, pretending he was busy but the other voice said whom are you trying to fool? “All right,” he said to the cartoonist, “I think, I can manage to sit for a quick sketch.” Both agreed to use a small restaurant in a side street. Entering the place, David introduced himself and the Cartoonist replied, “Very good to meet you, sir. Call me Ben.” They sat down in a quiet corner out of the way. “Have you eaten, Ben?” “No, Dave, only had coffee and bread with margarine this morning.” David ordered a hamburger and a cola for Ben and a glass of orange juice and ham sandwich for himself. Although starved, he didn’t want to eat while modelling. Nothing else was worse than a target, moving or chewing. He set himself for the pose and the half-blind artist began to draw the profile of the other artist who had his perfect vision. While sketching, the cartoonist made some flattering compliments to establish a link between artist and model. People who came into the restaurant for an afternoon snack, were a bit puzzled by the display that is usually a private exchange. The cashier also watched, suspiciously at times. David thought it was amusing that for once he was the model. In fact, he had given up painting portraits. One hindrance was that no paying client requested such an item. The other obstacle was in comparison to photography that is never supposed to lie, the artist in a portrait may be subjective. Thinking about those implications, suddenly something dropped to the floor. He turned sideways and noticed Ben who had covered his eyes with one hand, the other hand searched for the cola on the table. His sketchpad lay under a chair. “I’m so sorry,” he said, “it will take only a minute.” David helped him with the drink and picked up his sketchpad. “Are you all right, Ben?” “Oh yes, don’t worry, it happens only occasionally. I’ll be fine.” His mouth changed into a twisted shape, perhaps caused by pain. He reached into his chest coat pocket for what looked like medication that he gulped down with the drink. “Here is my sun’s eclipse again,” he said in a faint voice. “Trust me; I’ll be fine in a minute. You know, I have this enormous confidence in my medication. Perhaps you are too young to realize that the medical profession can only rectify your ailments so far.” David sipped on his orange juice and took his sandwich. What could he say? However, he could have made a few comments about life’s frustrating moments on canvas any time. Ben, with eyes half shut awkwardly finished his hamburger as well, wiped his hands with a few tissues, and then fumbled on the floor to find his sketchpad. “Here it is, my good man,” David said, handing him the pad. “Thank you so much, sir, I apologize. I can see it now and feel a lot better. Is it okay if I continue? I’m trying to make it quick.” “Please, I’m glad you’re back at it.” Before going on, Ben folded his hands over his forehead. He remained in that position for about half a minute motionless, almost breathless, before he picked up the pencil again. He seemed now totally composed, except that he worked vigorously for the duration. All that time, he kept talking into his sketch as if he had to convince himself and wave off wicked spirits. Then, at once, he stood up: I’m done. There it is. Would you like to see it?” David rose as well, stretched his neck and arms: “Yes, I would,” he answered and took the sketch. He was curious to find out how this artist had summed up the essence of his likeness. It is true, we have a limited opinion about our own profiles, but still, the sketch had, apart from the beard, limited likeness that was not even a caricature. It was perhaps something in between. The lines appeared exercised after a pattern. They would also stop, break up, and carry on in different areas, like made without looking. David had, as a rule a sharp tongue. He lost a few artist friends that way. He couldn’t stand obvious bad art. The half-blind cartoonist waited as if it would be ‘Judgment’s Day’. One could see that his entire existence depended on this evaluation. “You know, I do some painting myself,” David said. He tried to sound modest. “Now – amazingly – I could tell by the way you were modelling.” “Really,” and against his principles a lie crept in: “I think you’ve done very well.” The tense, unshaven face of the cartoonist eased for a few seconds, showing a contented smile, but his eyes remained watery, without expression. “It is very kind of you,” he said. “Is that the way you make your living?” David asked. “No, disability income is helping me out. Still, just the same, I spend six to eight hours a day in the city. I always find something to do. Sometimes I run into a buyer. Perhaps you would like to see what I have. Everything is priced low.” He opened his portfolio and removed some small ink-wash drawings, watercolours, depicting landscapes, still life, dogs and horses. “No, thank you, Ben.” Immediately he visualized his some fifty paintings that lay piled up in his studio with no place to go. As he reflected on stock, storage, and distribution, his eyes must have stared at a watercolour of a sailboat. “Would you like this one?” Ben asked. “Well, yes, no, I mean, not too bad but I’m afraid I haven’t got enough money on me to pay for it.” What a barefaced lie, his other voice said. “If you like it, Dave, I’ll just give it to you.” “No, I couldn’t accept . . . It must mean a lot to you. At least let me. . .” David opened his wallet and correcting himself, he added, “Sorry, forget it. I’ve just enough to pay for the tab.” “No money, please take it! I’m grateful, sir.” Why did people who liked his paintings have no money either? Perhaps they pretend like you, the other voice said. In addition, he reasons, a poor person can afford to praise an artist; it’s understood that he’ll never buy the work. “I’ll tell you what; let me give you an even five.” “If you insist, sir. God bless you! Whatever you do, I wish you luck!” David handed his bill to the cashier, “Eighteen sixty five, please!” the cashier said. David opened his wallet and froze. All he had left was fourteen dollars. He could have sworn that he had more on him. “Eighteen sixty-five, please!” the cashier repeated, waiting impatiently. Damn it, David said to himself. He looked at the cartoonist who waited already at the door and obviously had the five dollar bill of which he was short. However, he couldn’t resell the sailboat or ask him for the money. “I don’t understand,” the cashier said, “people have money to buy his tasteless stuff but they can’t pay the bill . . .” “Do you mind?” David interrupted. “I do,” the cashier said boldly. “I’ve seen him here more than once. He has no Vendor’s License. Why don’t you take your business somewhere else?” “We will, certainly,” David replied extremely annoyed. “So, can you pay or what?” David went again through all his pockets. It didn’t look good but at the end he found a wrinkled five-dollar bill in his back pocket. It was a gift from heaven. The cashier looked already at the approaching manager, as if to say: One of those; all vagrants look for the change they don’t have.Out on the street, the half-blind cartoonist, full of gratitude shook David’s hand: “Thank you again, Dave! You made my day. Moreover, look”, he opened his arms, “fantastic, I sense more light again!” Feeling his way, by using the white walking stick along the edge of the sidewalk, he disappeared soon in the crowded street. He seemed to walk with confidence, like someone who had accomplished a mission. David Anderson’s eyes followed him until he had disappeared from sight. It began to snow. He lit himself a cigarette, shoved one hand in his coat pocket and stuffed the two sketches in the other. Leaving in the opposite direction, he vanished between the crowds like someone who wasn’t quite sure about the expansion of his mind, about the source of creative energy. However, somehow he had to agree with the half-blind cartoonist. Equally, he also perceived now MORE LIGHT WITHIN.

10. May 2015

posted by Joseph Roitner

The Boys

Short Story“GOOD NIGHT or should I say, GOOD MORNING!” yelled Harry as he waved to his departing friends. With his right arm up in the air almost threw him off-balance. The gin and whiskey consumed earlier had also slowed his reflexes, but who needed reflexes at two a.m.; floating was a better term. Again, they all had an adventurous night! Everyone agreed—he was just about the funniest guy in town. “Take it easy, Harry, and watch out for the tiger!” a voice shouted. Loud laughter of the group in a Jaguar followed, mingled with the roar of its engine that burned the rear tires for few seconds before disappearing into the early morning. Harry grinned. Sure, watch out for the tiger, he repeated, then turned around and stared up at the twenty-storey apartment building trying to figure out, which of the lighted windows on the sixth floor was his apartment. Spotting the light, he could have seen if his wife, Marian, the tiger, as the boys called her, was still waiting up for him or not. After bowling, he spoke to her briefly over the cell phone. He told her that he would go for a short drink with the boys. Although he knew that she wouldn’t approve of him extending the curfew for hours and kill her Saturday night, he could not resist a free drink. Therefore, a wild guess told him he could be in for an earful. However, so what – he had only a few drinks, maybe once or twice a week? According to the boys, he was such a great entertainer. Married for two years, still, letting go of old bachelors habits wasn’t easy. Anyhow, he was far better as some of his friends who were on drugs. Who said that he was bad? While Harry examined his situation, he searched his pockets for the entrance key. Doing so he also decided that if Marian was still waiting for his return, he wasn’t going to stand there and take all her nagging. He had to think of something. Again, he turned all his pockets inside out but couldn’t locate his keys. He either forgot or lost them. Moreover, this occurrence he needed like another drink. On the intercom system to his left and above the buzzer it read, Harry and Marian Webster, Apt. 610. Pushing the button would have been so easy; however, his better judgment told him — don’t wake the tiger. Was he afraid? Not at all! He was floating anyhow. However, why should he get into an argument? Then, on second thought why not? Maybe he felt like blowing up for a change, to show Marian who was boss. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure, first, how to get in and then, how to plan his defence. As much as he had in mind to lay it on the line, he wisely hesitated to buzz the apartment intercom. As he collected his scrambled thoughts for the great attack, the elevator doors in the lobby opened. A young man in a bathrobe stepped out. He carried a pile of old newspapers that he threw into a paper bin. “Great!” exclaimed Harry enjoying his luck and knocked with his fists against the glass partition. The young man turned his head. Harry waved and mimicked a few gestures to suggest that he wanted to get in. As he kept insisting, the man came over to open the door. “Oh thanks,” Harry said. He was about to force his way in. “Hold it, man! Do you live here?” “Damn right!” “I have never seen you before.” “I’ve never seen you either!” “And you are drunk, too — eh? Where exactly is your apartment, if I may ask?” Harry pointed to the intercom list. “There, 610, Harry & Marian Webster, if you don’t mind. I forgot my keys. Get it?” “I get it, so why don’t we buzz your apartment and speak to your wife?” “No, no, I can’t do that. “Why not? “I don’t want to wake her.” “Man, under those circumstances—no deal!” Just then, someone left the elevator. Harry shoved the man aside, “Now, will you excuse me?” He said forcefully and entered the lobby. However, when Harry arrived at the elevator, the doors closed on him. He waved his hands in disgust, hurried over to the staircase, and ran up as fast as he could. Walking along the sixth floor corridor, puffing away, he thought, man, you’re a bit out of shape. At Apt. 610, he stopped. Now, what was his plan again? In the next moment, the elevator door opened and the young man, who had blocked his way down at the entrance, stepped out. There he stood in his bathrobe, just watching. What a nut, Harry thought. Of course, if Marian had locked the apartment door, he would be in a tight spot. Annoyed, Harry waved off the young man, who was spying on him from the elevator. After all the fuss, Harry was a bit wound up. He was even ready for some battle or to execute one of his offbeat acts to dilute the situation if need be. The boys always enjoyed his flair to entertain. Some nights he would direct midnight traffic at an intersection downtown; play a mouth-organ dreadfully for a hand-out in a subway station, while the boys stood offside, laughing; or bet that he would stroll through a ladies convention in the nude. Just a few hours ago, he had climbed one cement arch crossing the fountain on the town square at the old city hall. Unfortunately, a cop without humour gave him a fine, and, regrettably, Marian had no use for his pranks either. Harry carefully turned the doorknob. What a relief, it was open! Again, he waved at the man at the elevator and tiptoed into his apartment. The floor lamp in the far corner was still on as well. How lucky could he get? Nevertheless, shortly as he praised his fortune and advanced half into the living room, a voice said, “How about that!” The lights came on as if it were a surprise party. Marian stood at the bedroom door in her long turquoise nightgown. Her blond hair covered her narrow shoulders; one hand rested on the light switch, the other hand carried a book. Well, he thought, what is so frightening about that? “Harry, you have done it again!” Marian exclaimed. “You promised three days ago that you would hang up your ugly habits. Now look at yourself. It is disgusting!” “Yes, I know, but the boys . . . “ “The boys, the boys . . . To hell with the boys! Don’t you see? They just use you. All they are interested in is that you entertain them.” “And why not?” “Because they do it at your own expense.” “Doesn’t cost me a thing, Marian, listen . . . “ “Harry, I am not talking about money. Sure, they feed you booze, so they can get you going and you become reckless. Something is going to happen if you don’t stop. You’ve got to grow up and quit clowning around—audience or no audience!” “So you think I’m a clown, eh? All right, watch this. To show you that I also play tragic parts – what would you say if I jumped off the balcony?” Marian looked away, shaking her head, thinking, for sure he had again too much booze. “That in itself proves you are going off your rocker”, she said, trying to keep her composure. However, when Harry made this dramatic statement, it occurred to him that it wasn’t such a bad idea. That was it! He was going to teach Marian a lesson. Of course, he wasn’t going to jump. He would lower himself on the outside railing of the balcony, then hold on to the bottom steel rod. This would be one of those funny acts, which the boys might want to hear about. Before Marian had a chance to react, Harry dashed through the balcony door as he had anticipated. Sure, it was way up on the sixth floor, but in his floating condition, he was certain he could pull himself back up anytime. “Harry, stop! Are you crazy?” She cried and rushed after him. “O, God, he has disappeared. Harry!” She called again, frantically, as she leaned over the railing and looked anxiously down into a dark space. “Hello there,” Harry’s voice came from below, casually. Marian spotted him at once: “Harry, Harry! Thank God. You’re still here. Please, hold on. I’m sorry. I promise . . . Never again . . . I’ll get help—get a rope or something.” Swiftly she returned to the apartment, repeating to herself, what a fool, what a fool! Harry moreover, was quite content. Man, was his plan working or what. She was at his mercy. This would be the last reproach to his lifestyle. Through the open door of the balcony, he could hear Marian. She went confused from room to room, opening, and slamming doors and drawers; she was talking to herself, then getting impatient, angry and finally ended up crying. Then it became worrisome quiet. Harry decided to end her torture. He was ready to pull himself up to the next steel bar, so he could get his knees onto the cement ledge. The rest would be easy. Yes, he was ready, but no matter how much he tried, he failed to reach the other steel bar. It was incredible. He didn’t seem to float anymore either. On the contrary—it felt more as if one had filled his body with lead, while the gin and whiskey played games with his mind. Stay cool, man, he said to himself but realized that he might have stretched his luck. Looking down, the distance to the ground was a lot more than his body could absorb. Again, he gathered all his energy but he failed to grasp the top bar. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled, hoping Marian had come up with a good plan because he hadn’t much strength left. An odd quietness lay in the air, not a soul to applaud or pity him. Wouldn’t this have been an enjoyable site for the boys? “Marian,” he whispered. God knows where she had gone. Maybe she panicked or fainted. If so, there was for sure only one-way to go — down. A fine lesson he was about to teach her. He could feel the cold sweat on his neck, running down his back. The pain in his arms and shoulders gradually gave way to numbness. Oh God, was this a sign that he was going to lose control? He had read somewhere that before one freeze to death, a feeling of warmth and comfort would surround the body. Similar, his pain easing off could be a sign of his doom. “Help!” He cried. His head kept swelling, as if hooked up to a compressor. At any second, his eyes could have popped out of their sockets. Harry had lost track of time. It seemed he had hung there for hours. A feeling of desertion overcame him. Then, faintly, didn’t he notice a light on the balcony below him; hear voices, shouting? Didn’t someone just call his name? Perhaps all that was an illusion. His fingers began inevitably to lose their grip. No matter what, he had to let go of the steel bar. His clinched hands opened slowly, and he was perhaps on his way to greet his maker. Just then, something pulled at his ankles and a second later Harry slid down a mattress that covered the railing of the fifth floor balcony. There he bounced off, rolled over and hit his head on the cement floor, where he came to a stop. “Harry,” uttered Marian, kneeling traumatized beside him. She wiped the perspiration off his face. Harry lay on the ground with a bump on his forehead and all his muscles ached. For a minute, he felt dizzy but when that eased off, he looked up astonished at his fifth floor neighbour. Did he see right? He had met the same guy earlier in the lobby. His spouse in a nightgown stood beside him. “So, we meet again,” the young man, said. “Look at that!” Addressing Marian, “Are you sure this is your husband?” “Yes, I am,” she replied while drying her eyes. “Well, you see, this is a long story.” “I bet it is.” Turning to his spouse, “Would you believe me if I told you, he is the pushy guy, Harry, down in the lobby?” Then, approaching Harry – “Anyhow, I’m Tim. This is my wife, Jenny. Hope you’re O.K.” He stretched out his hands and helped Harry to his feet. “Thanks, Tim, more than O.K.; I’m a thousand times better than if I had landed down in the parking lot,” Harry muttered embarrassed as he leaned against Marian, still trying to catch his breath. “Sorry I’m such a jerk,” he added. Tim looked at Marian: “Harry, you should know whom in the first place to thank. Yes, I agree, you were a jerk but that’s not really my concern, ’cause I’m not married to you. I just hope I don’t have to regret helping to save your butt. However, if I were you, I wouldn’t try it again, because next time we might not be here.” Marian took Harry’s arm, went to the elevator, upstairs to their apartment with the door still open, telling a tale. Exhausted and still a bit shaky he spoke no more, except, “oh boy, “and surrendered his mind like a ship sinking to the bottom of the sea. The End painting- “Friendly Avenue” / Watercolour / 1959 / JR.

11. Apr 2016

posted by Joseph Roitner

Achievement

We have encountered craters on the moon and touched the edge of endless solitude; patriotic fascination has stunted the world. New chapters of man’s glory are to be written – and parallel goes the reality of mortality. We have confronted countless craters on this earth, inflicted by cruelty and greed through domination that has not served research or new discoveries. We have met craters that had no visits, but one would flee from, as one flees nightmares in desperation; visit craters at which a lost child only wanders over desolation, confused, doubtful, not aware that this is the reality of mortality. –***– painting – “Condition Unchanged” / 1969 / JR.

9. Apr 2016

posted by Joseph Roitner

Serpent or Lifeline

At last, I reach the top of the 200-metre steep snowfield. Inserting my peg-hammer into the loop on my harness, I gaze up the remaining 400-metre sheer rock wall I still have to climb. Looking back down, the glare on that white surface is almost blinding me. In Crossing the snowfield and resting while catching my breath, the entire mountain range was calm. For a few moments, everything down the valley was quiet too; I heard only the crackling of the melting ice shield covering the snow. As I Looked into the blue sky, I saw two majestic eagles. They were circling high above me, as I have seen them often in the Rocky Mountains, back home in British Columbia. I said to myself, majestic yes, but they are just looking for prey and I don’t intend to fall into their clutches. Stepping toward the rock wall, only one thought keeps racing through my head: no time to lose! Then, as I am about to raise my arms to find a grip, I hear the familiar sound of yodeling. Not again, I mumble into my beard. The voice that came from above startles me. No doubt, this must be my friend Wolfgang, from the town of Schladming, we had left last night. We both began our ascent here this morning at 5:00 a.m., before sunrise. Later at a 1500-metre altitude, we took separate climbing routes. Around 3:00 p.m., we are curious to see which one of us will be reach first the 2837-metre peak of Hohes Kreuz, in the Dachstein Alps of the province Styria, Austria. Some people in Schladming and the surrounding towns have called us “The crazy Alpinists”. Nonetheless, this competition has been our tradition for ten years. By now, we have carried out this friendly contest five times, while taking alternate routes every time. Wolfgang is ahead with three wins in reaching the summit first, against two wins of mine. Therefore, to make this contest at least even, I would have to beat him today. But, according to this familiar tune, peculiar in the Alps, I just had heard, Wolfgang appears to be already above me. In any event, just to think about this likelihood makes me incredibly tense. To be fair, in all this, he may have a slight advantage. The Dachstein Range is almost in his backyard. Until my late teens, it was mine too, except in the last fifteen years I had to come from Canada to climb these mountains. Before that, we were longtime school friends. They call us “The crazy Alpinists” for two good reasons. One is, because we climb solo, and two, we make it competitive. A third reason I could easily add myself — we are not professionals, nor are we famous. However, we are still young or at least think so, and cherish the excitement. We had already competed in grade school, in gymnastics, skiing, tennis, cycling, but rarely in academic subjects. Often we merely played practical jokes, which have carried over into my visits as this one. Lately, those pranks have let up, although Wolfgang tries to hang on to this annoying old habit. He tricked me four years ago when we climbed the same path as today. Beyond the cliffs, he installed a loudspeaker, which he could activate from below through a wireless microphone. That way, he had me believe he was ahead in order to demoralize my efforts. Regardless, I kept climbing — and in spite of this trick, Wolfgang came in second. He certainly looked disappointed because for someone who went to all this trouble before my arrival, he had very little to show. Consequently, when the word got around, everyone thought it was funny. Climbers who meet him occasionally in the mountains still ask, “How many loudspeakers do we have again today, Wolfgang?”At the moment, to hear him yodel from a similar place, it bothers me a lot because I feel that I should be ahead of him. Moreover, I am doubtful that he would use the same hoax twice, particularly since he failed the other time and became the laughing stock of this region for years. All the same, I cannot detect if the sound came from a loudspeaker or directly from him. With the echoes that bounce through the valleys, it is difficult to tell where the sound originates. I keep thinking, maybe he is ahead after all. Then again, if he were, he may not resort to this method. He was usually more creative than that. Whatever the facts, there is no time to consider and I vigorously begin to climb the almost vertical wall, restraining myself to reply with a yodel of my own. Why not let him guess my position? At first, my climb feels as if it were child’s play. Then, as I reach approximately ten metres, I pull my weight a bit higher to grasp another protruding rock, which suddenly breaks off. I slip on my wet foothold, kick in a split second at the rock face, push myself away from the wall, and drop straight down onto the steep snowfield. Although I miss some rocks that stick out and land on my feet to prevent injury, my boots have no grip on the slanted ice field, I end up on my belly, unable to stop but continue to slide quickly down the slope, feet first. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. My mistake peers unforgiving into my eyes. To begin with, I should have looked for a runner in the rock, and since we had taken this route more than once, I should have hammered in a peg somewhere or looked for one we had used earlier. That way, I could have secured myself with a rope. Such are the rules. Nevertheless, I suppose my mind was more on Wolfgang’s climb than on my own. Blaming him for my mistake was useless at this point. My immediate concern is to come to a halt and to stop the sliding. Yet, as much as I brace my legs to find a firm object, I can’t feel any resistance that would slow down my speed. Either I am in an awkward position or the snow surface, smooth like a frozen pond, prevents this effort. I know what awaits me at the end of this long slope. The 200-metre cliff took me one and a half hours this morning to climb, and I am quite certain that the way I’m sliding, it will take much less time to go down! Frantically I pull out my peg-hammer, though it should be more like an icepick for this particular terrain. With the sharp edge, I pound into the surface that became a sheet of ice during the cold night. My peg-hammer runs along in the icy snow like a knife glides through butter. I just keep slithering down, my body squirming, while my climbing rope that should have been my lifeline, unwinds and tangles above me like a serpent. I think, by God, there must be something else to a stop me besides the cliff and sheer drop that is awaiting me. Not knowing why, I am shouting, “Wolfgang, Wolfgang, where are you!” Of course, not much good that is going to do me. He is probably on his way to sweet victory or sitting somewhere having a snack. On either side of me, small, broken tree-stumps, roots, dwarf pines and rocks pass by. In the attempt to hook on to any of these objects with my peg-hammer, I have it eventually ripped out of my hand. Looking down, I see the edge of the cliff coming closer, and I recall Edgar Allan Poe’s story, “A Descent into the Maelstrom”, where an ocean whirlpool draws in the narrator’s boat like a magnet. I also recall tales about men in capsized boats, who go down the Niagara River and face the edge of the mighty, roaring falls. Appalled, I look back up, watching my useless rope, still dangling above me, reminding me of past images. Memories flash by, where extension cords or hoses became my tormentors: my power drill cord that would tangle around me and stop me in my tracks. Or, in summer, when watering flowers and vegetables, dragging the garden hose behind me — nine times out of ten it would wind itself around a pulley that should guide only — giving me a jolt to bring me to an undesired stop. The same scenario when mowing the grass with my electric lawnmower, pulling a 20-metre cord behind me, passing a few minor plants, bushes, twigs, table legs, lawn chairs and again pulleys. I remember, there was almost no time when a cord would not hang on, loop around or get wedged in, at just about any of these items, and jerk me in more than one way. In such annoying moments, how often have I said sarcastically to my tormentors, ‘Go on, and keep doing it, as long as you play the same game when it will actually serve me—one day, perhaps somewhere up in the Rocky Mountains!’ Today, right now, is a great opportunity. Maybe those tangled lines did not just serve to pester me. Could my rope now help, not hinder, and become what this tool is supposed to be — my lifeline?! Instead of catching on to passing objects bringing me to a stop, this rope, fastened to my harness, is dangling above me like a serpent that will steer me into a deadly void. That’s it for me, I think, as I watch the cliff edge approaching. Perhaps, after all, I truly will become a welcome victim for the eagles high above. Suddenly I hear a loud voice yelling, “Paul, watch out! Turn around, quick!” ‘Watch out!’ at this crucial moment is an understatement. I roll around and see in a split second a rope stretched over my body. I raise my arms and catch the rope. With great relief I feel for a moment resistance, but my weight and momentum unravels the rope at one end. Holding on tight, I continue to slide down, praying the other end fastened to a short pine tree may hold… It takes me only a few seconds to find a foothold and finally come to a stop; hanging on another lifeline. ‘You lucky devil’, I mumble into my beard! There is a moment of utmost silence. Only a few patches of icy snow trickle down. I hesitate to follow its path, but looking up, I cannot believe my eyes. Wolfgang stands at the cliff’s edge, bracing himself by holding my apparently useless “lifeline” in his hands. He is nodding his head, shouting, “I’ve got you. Don’t worry! Are you OK, Paul?” I wave my hand, which is about all I can muster at this moment. “Hold on tight”, he hollers and pulls firmly on the rope attached to my harness, as I slowly seek support and grips to climb up to his level. “That was a close one, Paul” he says and gives me a big hug. “What the hell are you doing here?” I yell at him. At once I sense it didn’t come out the right way, because I am surely very thankful that he is here. Regardless, I let him have it just the same: “Wolfgang, have you used your stupid loudspeakers again? You promised…” “Calm down, Paul, it’s not like that at all!” He put his arm around my shoulder. “Come and sit down,” I hear him say in a gentle voice. Without a doubt, my scraped and bruised body needs some time to relax. Then Wolfgang explains that he actually never tried to compete today. It was also true that he didn’t resort to a loudspeaker. The yodeler I heard came from one of his friends he employed for that task who had climbed ahead of us earlier. I knew it, Wolfgang just couldn’t give his trickeries a rest. Still, I was lucky that he had stationed himself at this place while watching all my moves with his binoculars. Of course, no one can know with certainty that if Wolfgang were not there, everything would have happened just in the same way. After a rest, we decide to take the easiest path up and over to the Glacier Restaurant at 2700 metres. Along the way, we meet Wolfgang’s yodeling friend, who observed the whole disaster and waited for us. “Sorry about that”, he says and I nod while he joins in our ascent. It was still a good stretch to the restaurant, but a walk in the park compared with our climb. Once we quench our thirst, we take the cable car that goes down the south face of the Dachstein. Looking through the windows, high and safe above this grandiose rocky mountain, I feel somewhat cheated in my result. Just the same, I am more than ready to stop for the day. When we arrive at the valley stationhouse, Wolfgang calls his girlfriend to pick us up within the hour. “Now, we need another drink,” Wolfgang says, pushing us into the Gasthaus pub. Minutes later, we are sitting in front of a bottle of plum brandy, which is the last thing that I will remember of this day. Seven years have since passed. Both Wolfgang and I got married. His wedding photo hangs in my studio, showing him and his wife wearing over their formal wear their climbing gear with rope. I’ve never tried to figure out the exact symbolism of this picture, if anything it appears surreal, but certainly confirms that he is a fanatic mountaineer. However, from other sources I have heard, he gave up climbing. Maybe Wolfgang must have realized that there is more to life than dangerous obsession. I can relate to that as well. As for myself, I am trying to pass on to the young what one is not supposed to do, although they will strive and find out for themselves how vulnerable their lifeline may become. Otherwise, I still think occasionally of my Alpine adventures and whistle the Styrian hymn that begins with the words: “On Dachstein’s heights, where eagles soar . . . “ The End

27. Apr 2015

posted by Joseph Roitner

Don Quixote’s Illusions

Don Quixote Rescue is out of sight A long-standing fear Driven into his corner By devil’s advocates Portion of his mind Await the judgment While swords strike A cloud of raging smoke To part elusive space In waiting for an Endless void where Invasive ghostly giants Crusade at him Whom he has to battle Where souls and spirits Undefined Prevail. “Don Quixote’s Illusions” / Painting / 1998 / Gifted

9. Apr 2016

posted by Joseph Roitner

The Boys

About Joseph Roitner

New Writing Posts

Writings

My Painting Styles

Recent Comments

Other Written Works

Cruel is the Lesson of the Play

More Light Within

The Boys

Achievement

Serpent or Lifeline

Don Quixote’s Illusions