Tuesday 7/23/24
I had talked about a new story called "Pass" in an earlier entry. As I mentioned, the story is six lines of dialogue and two additional paragraphs, and that's it, but there's no real that's it about it.
The story is about how we all witness people who once meant a great deal to each other passing each other, somewhere or other--on the city street, coming in and out of a store--as if they never knew each other. We don't necessarily see it a lot. We normally don't know we're seeing it. But we do see it.
I've changed the ending a few times. Probably should be all set now, but I'll let it sit and return and see.
I can't give away the whole thing on here, obviously, but I thought we might look at those six lines of dialogue that start the story. I had said in that earlier entry that the language is so simple. The words are simple, the sentences are simple, and yet, nothing is really simple at all.
I'm using the term "lines" as in an actual line on the page, not as a single sentence. But let's take a look at how this story starts:
“Is there an emergency? Has something happened?”
“No. Yes. I mean no.”
“You can’t treat someone that way and expect them to know you.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t call me again.”
“I’m sorry.”
We start in the middle of something--on one person's end of what we don't know--just yet--is a phone conversation. Note what their first reaction is, though, or what is very likely their first expressed reaction, their first concern, based on tone and the nature of these words and the immediate context they conjure. These aren't words that would be said five minutes into a conversation. They're outset words, and very likely first words.
They express concern regarding safety. It doesn't have to be at the safety level, but that's the implication; something life and death-ish. Something important. Stakes. It speaks to a preexisting condition and this other person prioritizing that preexisting condition first, even before their own feelings, which says a great deal about how they still feel--and likely always will--about this other person.
There's clearly a history of consequence between these people. If you know when someone calls you or calls you after a gap that there's some thing that might have happened--maybe they had another episode, maybe their ailing child had died--you were important to them. You had important places in each other's lives. There was sharing. Counting on, probably. Leaning on.
But what does that first person not use? They don't use a pronoun, which, in this case, would be "you." There's an intimacy to pronouns. A hidden intimacy. Here we have someone essentially choosing not to use the pronoun of "you" that they would ordinarily if they weren't trying not to. "Are you okay?"
It's a distancing and a message-sending, and it occurs immediately. There's no ramping up to it. This could very well be a middle of the night phone call in which the person who was called was woken up. But they still keep themselves in check--they withhold the "you." Think about what that says about where they're coming from.
But they also prioritize this other person's safety, or their life, or whatever it may be. They love them. So they set aside these other things that cannot be taken away or be made to go away. A lot has happened in this first line.
Then we get the response. The "No" speaks to honesty--by the letter of the law. By what we would call "literally." It's not literally life or death. This person responder is trying to be as accurate as possible, which suggests that they were not accurate in the past. That they wounded with lies or by omission. They betrayed. Betrayal is an act of dishonesty. That "No" almost overcompensates. But they're trying to get this right with the other person. They may or may not be aware of what they've done or this other person thinks they've done. But they are aware of where this other person they're calling is coming from.
Then we have a reversal to "Yes." The meaning has shifted. The speaker is conflicted. No in one way yes in another. They're trying to get it right and now they've covered the whole spectrum, but also without intending to. They're not trying to be vague and throw in everything, but that's what they've unwittingly done, despite desperately wanting to be precise and show how serious they are about doing no further wrongdoing, including getting their answers wrong. We talk about walking on eggshells with someone; this is the attempted honesty version of that. We witnessing someone second guessing--and then third guessing--themselves.
No to Yes is the full range, right? It's the gamut. So having tried to be as precise as possible and feeling as if they'd gotten it wrong, they now feel like maybe they've gotten it more wrong yet.
Head and heart aren't exactly working in synchronous tandem here. And the person is anxious. They're contrite. They also need the other person, or feel that they did when they called.
These are very simple words, "No" and "Yes," and this isn't simple at all.
Then we get a third attempt at an accurate answer, complete with an attempted reinforcement of some surety, a gathering, a proper statement now, which is also a recasting of the first statement, a kind self-answering version of the question "Is that your final answer?" with the "I mean, no."
The person who receives a call is in a different position than someone who makes a call. Someone else came to them. There are exceptions. Like if the government called you telling you they were now going to put a lien on your house, but that's not what this is and what most conversations are.
Think about it: You feel different when you call someone or when they call you. There's a power dynamic. Should there be? Usually, no. But there is. The offender, in this case, has called the offendee. And we can tell that whatever was done, or the things that were done, were extreme, or extremely hurtful.
The person who gets the call does more of the talking in this exchange. They're empowered in a manner that the caller isn't and doesn't seem to believe he or she has a right to be. We have two people more or less in some form of agreement here, so who are we to disagree with what we figure could very well be their story?
Look at the langue of this third line. How the word "know" is used as a verb. Its multiple meanings. Do we ever really know someone? And "to know someone," as in continuing to associate with them, be in their life, be their friend, be their spouse, etc.
The word "No" was used twice in the line above; the word "know" makes for a sonic connection with "No," but it's a different word, of course, there's an at-oddsness, a fracturing, a misalignment. The "No" and the "Know" sound similar, there's that link, but they are on different pages, so to speak.
That's the longest line of this exchange. The most anyone speaks, at least in terms of number of words used. This strikes as a line that was prepared ahead of time, a line that was ready to go, a line this person had in the event they might be able to use it. What does that tell us? It suggests how much they've been thinking about this other person.
This is how you do it. Nothing is outrightly said, announced. The reader is not told, "Hey, reader, think this." But it's all in there. I was looking at some dreadful fiction from Bradford Morrow the other day. He's this pretentious old gas bag with no writerly acuity, just entitlement, ego, and emptiness. And what he does in his writing is he just starts telling you what to think, how it is. If you can't write, that's what you do. It's not just bad writing--it's like the lowest form of bad writing, how you'd write if you have no clue how good writing works. But if you can write, you do what I'm talking about here where everything is in there.
We then get the other person's one-word response; again, the contrast. They are not offering resistance. Rather, capitulation, or likely recapitulation because they've done lots of thinking offstage, on their own. They understand. There's no fight, no push-back. We sense that they may have realized what they did, accepted what they did, but it's just too late now.
Forgiveness is a wonderful thing when someone merits forgiveness. They merit forgiveness because they are truly sorry and they have changed insofar as they would not do such a thing again. They want to make amends, too. They also wish to go out and not do to anyone what they did to someone else.
Repentance is never just between you and the person you hurt. It's also between you and the person and people you hopefully will now not hurt.
But that doesn't mean two people can move forward together. Even when one person is truly sorry and the other has truly forgiven them. There is still life. There are still the logistics of life. What has been done was done. Moving forward can simply not be feasible, not be an option.
Then we get the directive and proof/indication of what we surmised from the start, that this is a phone call. The person who received the call has ascertained that this isn't a life or death situation. That the person they loved is not in a danger goes beyond considerations of a relationship. The first concern is that the other person is okay. That's love.
Now the person who has received the call knows that this other person doesn't have a lot to say right now. At least not with words. Maybe they want to be yelled at. Maybe they needed to hear the other person's voice. But we don't know. Maybe they're barely holding on. And without that other person's voice tonight they won't be able to. Maybe they want punishment. Maybe they're just hoping something will happen. The love they knew as an active presence in their life will be rekindled. One of them will make some joke like they used to, and they'll fall back in together. It's like wanting a miracle, but also something you've had before, that you thought would last forever, was always there, but now feels like the least thing possible. Another chance. A last chance.
What do we get with that directive? We get a pronoun: Me. Before, the pronoun You was conspicuous by its absence, and we note the "Me," at least subconsciously. This person is looking after themselves. Protecting themselves.
Then the presumed ending of the exchange: "I'm sorry." And this, too, has multiple meanings. Sorry for the phone call. Sorry for waking you up. Sorry that I thought something might happen here when I didn't even really. Sorry for the pain I caused. Sorry for how long it went on. Or sorry for the savagery of the single blow. And again the capitulation that comes from this person's knowledge of the hurt they caused. Resignation. And, perhaps, acceptance. Further acceptance. For acceptance can be a many-chambered thing.
And there isn't anyone who can't understand all of this, the language, and who isn't able to relate to it, on both sides. It's nine sentences. Three of them are one-word long. One is two-words long, another is three. Everyone knows every one of these words. And yet, look at this complexity.
The next two paragraphs are not in dialogue. The ending includes us all as this full-on act of mass participation, in which everyone who reads it becomes an active part of it. And a story called "Pass" stops every last one of us in our tracks.
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