A Change of Scenery

 

 

                                       A Change of Scenery                                        by leland choy

 A  

     Beth slipped her forefinger on the edge of the laced curtain and gently pushed it aside. Her small action revealed a backyard covered with crisp, bluish snow.  It was near twilight.  Noting how beautiful the yard was in the fading light, she took in a deep breath and sighed.  Last winter, she had pruned the roses to match the height of the hedges.  It formed a pathway to the introduction of the front door, even when blanketed in snow. Out of a hard-baked, scrubby yard she had created a garden that could have appeared on the cover of any floral magazine.  Well, she liked to believe it could. 

 

      She had planned to stay until spring and plant some cherry tomatoes next to the roses.  Someone told her, she forgot whom, that the cherry tomato plants would keep the aphids away. She wanted to experiment to see if this was true.  There were so many things she would like to have done to the house and garden but she couldn't stay.  There was little bitterness; she was raised with the belief that one shouldn't have everything one wishes for.  Pining away would only be a sign of thwarted avarice and a weakness of character.

 

     Her 1947 two bedroom, one story bungalow was nestled deep in the suburbia forest of tract houses.  They were built nearly identical in its interior as well as exterior, twisting and turning with the topography of the land.  All painted in those light pastel colors that seemed to powder off and fade as time passed.  The sight reminded Beth of schools of fishes in the ocean, clustered together in the thousands, moving sharply in a fluid mass of reflected sheen, flashing in a zigzag motion, forever dodging dispassionate but hungry predators. There is safety in numbers. Yes, there is safety in large numbers.   

     The outer walls were made of stucco, and the windows were framed in aluminum. The craftsmanship wasn't very good . Being built right after the war, building supplies were still scarce.  Building codes were less stringent so studs were laid further apart, the doors squeaked and floors bounced slightly when walked upon. There were dark stains in the ceiling from unseasoned shingles. Each house had paving stones leading to ersatz oak, veneered doors.  Each had a brick chimney and a brick fireplace with a raised heath designed so one had to contort their bodies to an awkward position to enjoy the sight.  The floor plans were nearly identical, excepting for minor features added to suit individual buyers.  The rooms and closets were depressingly indistinguishable in size or shape from the other houses.  It was technically designed to make living as pleasant as possible, and at a price level insuring that only the professional, white, upper middle class, could afford them.

 

     The weather slowly turned blustery causing pin-size jets of cold air to sliver through the cracks and seams of the stucco house.  Harold never could install the door or window insulation properly.  She could hear the wind whistle and wheeze as she stood silently there by the window.

 

      Yes, the house was old. She was old. 

 

      The windows had formed an opaque sheen of condensation and she absent-mindedly slid the tip of her forefinger on the wet surface, doing it slowly, hearing it squeak, watching it leave a clear vertical trail through the damp opaqueness.  A drop of water slid slowly downward to the bottom of the pane.  Peering through the cleared strip, she spied a Blue Jay bracing itself against the gusty winds, hopping on the sheet of white frost covering the frozen flowerbeds, it’s beak tattooing the hard ground, frantically brushing aside the ice and rotten vegetation to reveal the life giving substance beneath.  A sow bug here, an earwig there. The scene was touching.  That bird will survive through the winter, she said to herself, just like I will. 

 

      She held her elbows against her chest and hugged tightly.  Harold was out there in the brittle, cold ground and it made her pensive and sad, but only for a moment.  How silly, she thought, he isn’t feeling any of it and he certainly isn’t bored anymore, no, not anymore. 

     The phone buzzed.  It jolted her from her contemplation. The living room was in disarray, cluttered with cardboard cartons of different sizes, packing crates filled with plastic foam pellets, stacked chairs and furniture pushed aside in awkward angles.  The telephone was hiding somewhere under the accumulated knickknacks scattered haphazardly over the floor: items to go, items to be left behind.  I have to vacuum the carpet before I go, she said.  She rummaged for the black telephone. It kept buzzing. 

      She wanted a white phone, If not  white then in any other color but black.  Harold, military as ever, insisted it be black.  “It’s a thing to be taken seriously.  It’s not a toy or a piece of decoration,” he would say, sternly.  “A black phone would be just fine and it is the least expensive and the most practical.”  A cell phone was out of the question.  “Hasn’t it gotten through your head that we live on a fixed income?  How many times must I repeat that fact?” and “What is wrong with having just a land line?” and “Who do we need to impress?” was Harold’s princely reply for any requests she might have had that involved the spending of money.

    The buzzing of the telephone persisted, slowly unraveling the thin fabric of her patience.  She moved deliberately, maneuvering with grace, around the cartons and packing crates, pushing one here, another there, carefully side stepping the larger ones, kicking the smaller ones, honing in on the shrill buzzing.

    

     “Hello?  Oh, it's you, Gladys.  What is it?  Why, thank you, I will miss you too.  No, no, I wish I could and you’re very kind in saying that, but c’est la vie.  One has to go where the husband’s job takes one. Yes, Harold is retired but you know how men are.  He couldn’t stand just sitting around doing nothing.  He never did develop any recreational hobbies while he was in the service.  All he did there was go to the base, come home, eat his dinner and watch TV.  Now, with a whole day and nothing to do, he mopes around the house looking lost.  And that does get on ones nerves: well, mine, at any rate.  I'm sorry we couldn't get together for a farewell bash. 

     “Gladys, Harold would have been a disaster at the party.  You know how unfriendly and curt he is to people, especially with the neighbors.  I don’t know why he was so standoffish.  Could it be because he was a full colonel, perhaps?  Having all that power  over human events and then losing it does affect one’s behavior, I guess.  You, of all people, should know.  What do I mean by that? Why, nothing.  I’m not suggesting anything, Gladys.  I’m just glad he had you as a friend to talk to.  I’m not much of a sympathetic listener, lost that art years ago.  I’m just saying how lucky Harold is to find a person he could talk to and be comfortable with.  I’m not suggesting anything.  Let’s change the subject, okay?

    “I’m just happy that he found the position he was looking for and was hired. I certainly wouldn’t have hired him.  No, he isn’t doing this because we're in need of money.  Financially, we’re in great shape but thanks for asking.  I’m sorry about yesterday but I couldn’t bring myself to meet everybody and say goodbye because it would just tear me apart.  Besides, Harold has already gone ahead, so somebody had to be here to answer the door for the moving people.  Oh, yes, he left last week.  Are you surprised? Should he have said something to you?  Oh, never mind, I’ll miss our weekly get-togethers too, and I’ll miss you, especially.  Give the rest of the girls my best and tell them not to gossip too much about me when I’m gone. 

     "Oh, Gladys, I was just teasing.  I know you didn’t say anything to the others, but if you’ve been married as many times as I have, you’d expect a little gossiping.  It doesn’t bother me; I’ve been through it so often. Yes, believe it or not, we’ve known each other for over two years.  I know, I know, it seems like a lifetime. Now, stop it, or I’m going to cry.  We’ll keep in touch, don’t you worry.  I’ll write as soon as we get settled, okay? I promise.  And we’ll visit…wouldn’t that be nice? All right, I have to go now; you take care of yourself, goodbye, bye.” And she press down on the disconnect button.

     She paused, looking down at the receiver as it lay there on the palm of her hand.  She thought to herself, she would never hear that voice again. The doorbell chimed. The movers were here. 

     

 



 

Paper Money.

 

                                                 Paper Money

     We have the rare opportunity to interview J. P. Morgan who was just recently admitted to heaven after serving 910,656 hours, 36 minutes, and 43 seconds in purgatory.  There he is, on cloud number nine.  Let us approach him.  Excuse me, sir, but aren't you the famous financier and banker John Pierpont Morgan? 
    
     That I am, and how can I help you? Do you need a loan? 
    
      Well, no, I'm a reporter from the Heavenly Post and it's a requirement for all new-comers to be interviewed.
   
      Oh, I see, well then get on with it. 
     
      Yes sir.  One of the things my readers are interested in is what exactly is paper money?   And you are undoubtedly an expert on the subject,
    
      That I am.  Paper money has a very long history and is extremely complicated.  It came into being with the dawn of civilization when bartering became too inefficient for business.  Now, do you want the complicated explanation , the simple explanation, or the kindergarten version of the simple explanation? 
    
      Pretend you're explaining it to your kids. 
    
      The kindergarten version it is.  And do not look at my nose.  I am very sensitive to people staring at my nose.  I have Rosacea, a skin disease, and there is no cure for it.
    
      But you don't have Rosacea anymore.  You are in heaven, and any afflictions you might have had is now gone.
   
       Really?  I didn't know that.  Are there mirrors somewhere ....so that I can see for myself?
    
     Trust me, your nose is fine, so can we get back to the question, what is paper money?
    
      Oh, alright.  Paper money is a consensual agreement by the affected parties that this piece of paper, created by a third party, is of a set intrinsic value depending on its denomination and, unlike a promissory note, is transferrable, without title, within the parameters recognized by all the parties concerned. 
    
     And that is your kindergarten version of a simple explanation?
    
     Yes.  As I said before, money, in any form, is very complex.  Would it help your readers if I use an allagory?
    
     It would help.
   
     Suppose you see a ten dollar bill on the sidewalk.  Would you pick it up?
    
    Yes, I would.
    
     Why? After all, it is nothing but a small, rectangular, piece of paper, touched by countless germ bearing hands, trampled on, dirt bearing, and with no more intrinsic value than a soiled wet tissue, except that it is printed in green and has a portrait of a president on it.  So why are you picking it up?  You can't eat it or use it for the making of things.  Is it because you want to clean up the sidewalk and remove litter to keep the heavenly city clean?  Or is it that you are particularly fond of the color green, or is it the portrait of a president you find attractive?
    
     Of course not.  I'm picking it up because it's......money.
    
      No, you're picking it up because you have faith.  You have the  blind faith that when you go to a store or restaurant, people will take this really useless piece of paper in exchange for whatever.  This faith is based on an illusion that this form of money you're passing around is written by an omnipotent, God-like entity and that others will have the same faith, as you do, that this is a transferrable legal tender for all services or goods desired.  So to answer your question, paper money is basically nothing but faith.  But here is the caveat, a big one.  If a small percentage of people, for some reason, loses the slightest faith, then a domino effect takes place and paper money becomes...paper.
   
      Does that happen often, people losing faith?
    
     All the time.
    
     How?
    
     When the organized society that is printing the money gets into trouble and begins to print more.  Some smart guy, like me, will realize that there is much, much more paper currency floating around then there are goods.  Slowly, more and more people like me begin trading the paper money for goods.  Paper money begins to lose value until it reaches the point where it is redeemable for nothing, and people will see what paper money truly is: paper, and only good for writing notes, starting fires, or wiping bottoms. 
    
      Another question that my readers are interested in, and that is, how does one country buy goods from another country when their paper money is not the same?
   
      You want the kindergarten version of the simple explanation?
    
      Now you're being patronizing.
    
     I will use a parable. Tommy wants some marbles from Dick.  Dick agrees but want something in return.  Tommy has nothing, but promises that when he does he will.  To keep tract, they get themselves each a little black book.  Both mark in their little black book what had transpired, the date, and the agreed value of the marbles in terms of points.  Later, Tommy has some thing that Dick wants.  He gives it to Dick and Dick just cancel the points earned.  No money exchange hands.  Just numbers of points in each other's black book.  But eventually, one  will have a hellva lot more points than the other, and you call that an imbalance of trade.
   
     You mean like the United States and China?
   
      Yes.
    
     What if the imbalance of trade reaches such a point that Dick insists that all the points be balanced?
   
     Well, Tommy can do one of two things.  One, he can print more money which will undervalue the points that Dick has in his possession.  Two, he can do the expedient thing, but only if he is a lot stronger.
    
     And what is that?
    
     Make up some excuse to beat Dick up, then take away his black book.
    
     You mean....?
    
     Yes, have a really serious war.  Either way, Dick, or China, will lose out because Tommy owes so much to Dick.  So it is to Dick's, or China's, interest that Tommy, or the US, is in good economical health, and friendly so that he can pay back the points.  I know my explanation is muddy but it does cover the ground. 
    
     On behalf of the Heavenly Post, I want to thank you, Mr. J. P. Morgan for this enlightening interview.
    
     Anytime....say, do you know where I can find a mirror?

      
     
    
    
    
    
    
                                   
    

Star Bright

    

                                               Star Bright                                                               by leland choy

     One summer morning in Mexico a tourist, strolling through the outskirts of Cancun, came across some open aired, market stalls that usually lined the sidewalks of the poorer sections of town.  On the shelves in one particular stall were displayed little ceramic dishes decorated with tiny white stars painted against a dark background.  Those stars were dazzlingly bright and it bestowed on those humble dishes a touch of majesty that it would not have had otherwise.  The dishes were small, she picked one up, it fitted the palm of her gloved hand.  She thought they would make perfect gifts  to give to distant relatives. She purchased a dozen.  They were  incredibly cheap.

    
     While waiting for her purchases to be wrapped, she looked around the threadbare stall and noted how tired the old Indian shopkeeper was, and how the whole place smelled of mildew.  But these dishes were beautiful and would look handsome on any kitchen counter.  She was glad to be patronizing this elderly lady rather than those aggressively young, light skin,  salesgirls in the mall next to her hotel.  She didn’t even try to bargain with this sweet old Indian lady.  

     As she was about to leave, she caught sight of a small boy hunched down in the dark shadows of the stall.  The boy sat next to what she presumed to be a primitive furnace used for firing the clay dishes.  It made the interior of the stall oppressively hot.  She watched as he steadily painted the white enamel stars inside faintly chalked outlines marked on the raw clay.  He was intently focused, even while sweat dripped down his little nose.  A fly crawled up the little boy's thin arm and under his arm pit, but it didn’t seem to bother him.   The boy was now glancing furtively at her.  He couldn’t have been more than eleven.  “How old is he?”  Then, thinking this the epitome of rudeness, she turned and addresses the boy.  “How old are you?” she asked.

     “Oh, he cannot speak English,” the old lady interceded. “But he will be seventeen next month.  He is my grandson. I have taken care of him since his mother went away many years ago.”

    
      “Has he done anything other than these little white stars?” asked the tourist as she began to scan all the items displayed on the shelves.  All contained patterns of little white stars.
    
      “Oh yes, oh yes,” nodded the Indian lady.  “He is very good.  He has been painting since he was a little boy.  Come, I show you the beautiful work he has done.”  She shuffled forward with an old,  tattered binder and proudly opens it revealing pages of art work in plastic sleeves. 

     “But…these are all stars, rows and rows of little stars.  I thought you said he painted different things?”

    
      “They are different, Senora.  They are all of different colors!  See, there are red stars, green stars, and all of different sizes.”
    
      The bewildered tourist noted that the grandmother was not being facetious. “But don’t you think he should perhaps paint other things, like people, trees, a fruit now and then?”
    
      “Oh, but he would like to,” said the grandmother, softly.
    
      “Well then, in heaven’s name, why doesn’t he?” asked the tourist.

     The old lady hesitated and glanced over at the boy.  Then she said in a sad and breaking voice, “Because only his stars will sell.”

     The tourist, glancing at the purchases in her shopping bag, suddenly realized that she had just contributed to his dilemma.  She looked at the young man once more and, without saying another word, quickly walked away. 

             

         

Butterfies

  

 

Butterflies      

 

      Nearing the end of the Korean War, I was drafted into the infantry and because of my nationality, I was shipped to Germany.  The army felt that if  I was shipped to Korea instead, I might, in the heat of battle. have  easily been mistaken for the enemy and be shot.  It would have been no         great lost  except that the government would have had a difficult  time  explaining to my mother why I was killed by total strangers who were basically

 

               on our side.                                               

    
     While I was in Germany, I met Dietrich Plagmann, an ex-army corporal who served in Rommel's Afrika Korps.  He was taken prisoner in 1943 and shipped to England where he learned English. We bumped into each other during a beer festival and became good acquaintances (acquaintances you borrow money from, friends, you don't).  I liked him because he was foreign and spoke English with a heavy German accent.  He liked me because I was strange looking and spoke English with a heavy
                                                   
                                                     Cantonese accent.
    
     I was interested about his time spent fighting the British and his experiences as a prisoner of war.  He was interested in learning to speak American (it's not the same as English), getting a work visa, and coming to the U.S.  I couldn't get him to talk about his war experiences so, in turn, he was learning to speak American with a Cantonese accent.  We did have some  great times discussing politics.  Once, near the end of an evening of drinking, when we were slovenly inebriated, we began philosophizing about the causes of  the 2nd World War, and we ended up with      
                                                  
                                                     Adolf Hitler
                                                                  
                       
     Have you ever heard of the Chaos Theory? he asked.  I said, Isn't that the one that says does the flap of a butterfly's wing in Brazil set off a tornado in Texas?  You are well informed, he said, and did you know that Hitler wanted a career in the visual arts and that he fought with his father over this?  I didn't know that, I said, but I am interested because I, myself, plan for a career in the visual arts when I leave the service.  Small world, he said, and did you know that he failed to get into the Vienna Academy of Arts not once but twice?   Imagine that,                 
                                                   
                                                     I replied. 

      He took a large swallow of beer and said, the examining board looked at his drawings which were mostly buildings and landscapes, and some idiot on the panel decided there wasn't enough people in the drawings, which might indicate that he couldn't draw people.  But the joke was that Hitler had no problem drawing people.  There was a rumor that one member on the panel, an idiot in my book, spilled hot coffee on himself and had to go change his pants.  By the time he arrived late to the examining room, he was angry at himself and at anyone who looked funny.  He took one look at Hitler and blackballed him because he felt like it.  You know the kind.  Yes, I said,                                
                                                
                                                   I know the kind.
                                                
     He continue to drink beer as if I was paying for it and said,...supposing that panel member did not spilled hot coffee on his pants, maybe his grasp was right on the mark?  Maybe he did not have to change his pants?  Ya, now, supposing he drank his coffee instead and felt much better and was in a cheerful mood when he walked into that examining room?  Would he not received Hitler's drawings, crude though they may be, and accepted him into the Vienna Academy of Arts?  Hitler would have graduated, received his degree, and gone on to became a professional visual artist.  He would have met a nice quiet fellow student who would remind him of his mother and married her and have children. 
    
      When the first World War broke out, the Wehrmacht would have assigned him to the propaganda ministry because he had a degree in the visual arts and he would have ended up making visual charts and posters for the military.  He would have never seen action, and when the war was over, he would have come home to his wife and children, teach art at the Academy from which he came, and lived a quiet and productive life.  But because of that eine tasse kafee, he became a monster causing millions of deaths and untold sadness.  So would you not say that a mere cup of coffee, being just a few millimeters off kilter and thereby causing it to tip over easily by the passing of a hand, be responsible for
                                                 
                                                      the Second World War?

      You are joking, I said, and he asked, How am I joking?  Because, I said, Flapping wings of butterflies will not make tornados in Brazil.  A spilled  cup of coffee will not stop countries from beating up on each other.  You can just as well say that Hitler could have gotten the Spanish Flu and died because he was stupid enough to be in a place where a sick person had coughed and sneezed a few minutes earlier, or that he turned at the very second a bullet whizzed by and, instead of missing him, blew his head off, and so on.  I believe that the butterfly story is not a good example of the Chaos Theory, and you read into it               
                                                          
                                                     wrong.      
                                                  
     Of course, he wasn't listening.  Eric had already passed out and had his head leaning on his shoulder with his mouth open and snoring.  I left him sitting on the bar stool, and on the way out, I told the bartender that Mr. Plagmann would settle the bill.  It wasn't much, just a few marks.  But, you know, that was the best beer I have ever                             \
                                                
                                                      tasted.
                                                       

                              

A Face in the Distance

 
                                             A Face in the Distance
        
         Many, many, many years ago, I read "The Machine Stops", a short  story written by E.M.Forster in 1909.  It was about a man living in a future world that was controlled by the "Machine" and this Machine gave the  people everything they could ever want.  It also gave them means to communicate with one another without having to leave their safe and secure domicile.  This man wanted to speak to his mother who lived a great distance away.  To converse with another person at that time, one used the electronic devices provided for by the Machine.  But he was tired of  talking into gadgets and seeing his mother's face on a screen.  He wanted to meet her in person.

       But there was a problem: his mother saw no reason to leave her comfortable apartment to talk with her son when they could just as well  talk through the devices that the Machine has provided.  Yet, the man saw the continual absence of her physical presence would amount to a form of estrangement.  He felt their humanity slowly being eaten away.  And no one, no one except himself, seemed to care.

     There were other themes in the story but the one that stayed with me was the subtle suggestion that there is danger in relying solely on the use of machines to provide for all means of existence.  Forster also illustrated, in his short story, that there is danger to humanity from not having personal contacts with one another.  The story ended with the tragic consequences of having trusted the machines.

       A remarkable thing was that he wrote this short story 106 years ago,  where he writes about devices similar to ours that connects people to each other without having to be in the same room, which would necessitate  being within talking distant and breathing in one another's scent (we do have a scent and we do unconsciously react on it like other wild animals). I would recommend everybody to read it.

       I do not agree that having a conversation without your warm body being present is dangerous.  I see young people in groups, strolling along the mall, being euphorically oblivious to each other while tapping or talking into a small, hand held instruments.  It's amazing how much they have to say to people far, far away while ignoring the one already there, but I see happiness in their faces.  I also see that there is absolutely no danger to the person other than stepping accidently into pot holes because one isn't looking.

     Speaking as a very, very shy person (which I am), these new ways of  communicating without confronting each other's awkwardness, or having to have eye contact, or having to check one's appearance (seeing that there are no coffee stains on the clothing, spinach on the teeth), or checking one's breath with a cupped palm, is just too much of a blessing. 

      A good example is funerals.  I'm not good at funerals.  I say inappropriate things.  Like when I address the bereaved person in the greeting line and, by my nature, crack a joke...to lighten things up, and am met with scowling faces, great, great disapproval, and disproportionate blows to the head.  Now with our modern E-mail, facebook, I-phones and other telecommunication devices, I can just text my condolences and, most important of all, being able to edit the damn thing so I don't have another embarrassing faux pas,.  That's all I have to say.  Thank you.