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    Ebook130 pages2 hours

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    By Glen Pourciau

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    About this ebook

    These new stories from Iowa Short Fiction Award–winner Pourciau reveal the day-to-day drama of various characters through their interior monologues. As readers become engaged in a character’s viewpoint and voice, they may begin to see the story from a different perspective than the narrator’s. The ground shifts as the reader questions the reliability of the narrator’s single point of view.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherFour Way Books
    Release dateMar 7, 2017
    ISBN9781935536932
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      View - Glen Pourciau

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      STAN’S REPORT

      It’s hard to live in peace if you think people are out to undermine or deceive you. Why would they do that? What have you done? It wouldn’t make sense so how can you accept it?

      The first thing in the morning after our annual staff development day (SDD, we call it) my friend Stan came to my cubicle, coffee cup in hand, a newsy look on his face, and told me what B. had said to him about me. At SDD, speakers are brought in for staff to listen to and learn from and all of us participate in group activities, except those who, for their own reasons, choose to remain silent. It’s also a social day that gives staff a chance to catch up with one another, though some don’t want to catch up, and I respect their right to privacy and to make their own decisions.

      I knew going in that B. and I would not be among those speaking with each other. B. hasn’t spoken to me in eight years, for reasons he’s never explained to me. I’ve continued to acknowledge B. whenever our paths cross in the building. I say hello or nod, and he looks at me but makes no acknowledgment beyond this brief moment of eye contact. B. has conversations with the other people in the building on occasion, though as far as I know he isn’t considered a voluminous talker, and some of those people have noticed he doesn’t speak to me. Stan is one who’s noticed, and he’s asked me several times what’s behind B.’s silence. I’ve had no way to answer him, except to say that B.’s silence is his business and I choose not to imagine or develop story lines uncharitable to him out of frustration or anger. Despite knowing that, Stan decided to fill me in on what he’d heard.

      I had an interesting chat with B. yesterday, he began, using B.’s name, which I prefer not to use since in context it could adversely affect his reputation. He saw you walking across the room, Stan said, and he gave me an earful. I didn’t ask him anything, he just came out with it.

      Stan waited for me to ask a question, hoping to tease some curiosity out of me, I suppose, though I don’t want to make assumptions about Stan’s intentions. Whatever his intent, I chose not to ask anything about it. It wouldn’t have been fair to B. to talk about him and what he said or meant since he wasn’t there to defend himself or to amend the tone or the full context. I preferred to turn my attention to my email, but I didn’t want to ignore Stan or imply that I disapproved of his interest in sharing his news with me. He had a right to say whatever he wished and it was up to me to choose how I’d deal with it.

      This will sound strong, Stan said after a sip of coffee. He thinks you’re out of touch with the world around you, that you understand nothing, and that you live in a permanent state of denial. He thinks you toady up to people and grin at everybody to get them to like you. He says another reason you do that is to propagandize the way you think about yourself. The hostility coming out of him made me uncomfortable, and I told him to take it easy and not spread an unprovoked contagion. People close to us could hear him, if they cared to listen. I mean, where does he get off? Propagandize yourself? I’d be willing to bet you’ve never said a bad word about him.

      Stan had left me with more than I could take in, and after thinking it over for a moment I decided not to react to his report or offer any interpretation that could make sense of B.’s views on my identity or lack of it. He again waited for me to say something. All I did was nod, feeling obliged to let him know I’d heard him.

      Maybe I shouldn’t have told you, he went on. I thought hearing what he said could help you understand why he doesn’t speak with you, that there could be a way to get past this if you knew what he was thinking. I don’t know and I suppose it’s none of my business, but at some level his silence could be wearing on him and he may want a resolution. He’s the one who brought it up.

      I appreciate your trying to help, I said, but you don’t need to worry yourself about B.’s attitude toward me. His choices are separate from mine and from yours. We don’t run together like the yolks of undercooked eggs, or we don’t if that’s not what we choose. I don’t mean to imply that I disapprove of B.’s choices, only that I don’t make the same choices he does. If I knew more about him I might see the rationale for his decisions.

      B.would probably say that your eggs are completely undercooked, Stan said, and left me alone in my cubicle with that remark.

      I resisted the urge to analyze his egg comment, which stung a bit. I sensed an edge in the word undercooked but reminded myself that I could no more read Stan’s mind than B.’s. A bright spot was that B.’s silence didn’t appear to be rooted in a personal grievance. According to Stan, he objected to some of my choices and not to some perceived wrong I’d done to him. I found it easy to understand, based on what he’d said, why B. would rather not speak with me, and it comforted me to confirm that I had no objection to his decision.

      As I read and deleted emails I was preoccupied with Stan’s report. He’d shared a constructive hypothesis when he said that B., maybe subconsciously, could be looking for a resolution or relief from his silence. Would it be remiss of me not to act on this opportunity if a good intention was hidden in his words? I decided to put discomfort aside and speak with him, though I felt some anxiety about how I’d be greeted and how he’d address me. Or taking a further step back, would he greet me or address me? Or would I be confronted with a determined silence? If so, I had to be prepared not to react, to maintain a charitable and compassionate outlook and demeanor. I didn’t know B.’s depths and I shouldn’t presume to judge them.

      After lunch I took the elevator down and found B. at his desk, grumbling to himself as I approached. I stopped a few steps away and stayed put until the grumbling ceased, not wanting to interrupt him. B. soon settled into silence and he had no awareness that I was nearby before I spoke.

      Good afternoon, B., I said. He spun halfway around in his task chair and leaned back as if staring at an intruder. Stan told me you spoke with him yesterday.

      He wrinkled his forehead, his eyes fixed on me. I hesitated to characterize the nature of his stare.

      I thought I should pay you a visit and discuss what Stan said. Are you open to the idea? I’m not here to force you to speak with me.

      I’m relieved to know that, he said with apparent exasperation. Exactly what did Stan say?

      It seems to me it’s more a question of what you said, and specifically what you said about me.

      I regretted the impression I must have given that I was correcting him or holding him to account. He owed me nothing, not a word. I didn’t mean to sound that way. At the same time I didn’t want to allow him to twist the conversation in a way that would shift the focus to Stan. Contrary to what I feared, B. seemed to relax slightly after thinking about my response.

      That’s a surprisingly real thing to come from your mouth, he answered. Or you may think so. The problem is I never said anything about you to Stan at what we laughably call staff development day. He’s come to me before, asking what my beef is with you, and every time he asks I say it has not one iota to do with him. He did it again yesterday and I got mad and told him to leave me alone. What does he care anyway? Is he looking to start something? Maybe you should go upstairs and poke a stick in his ribs.

      Since I hadn’t witnessed what was said I couldn’t disagree with him in any way or deny the possibility that he’d said nothing about me. A void opened in my train of thought. In any case, I didn’t see a path to a resolution in his words or on his face. His facial skin was extremely dry and wrinkled, partially concealed by a thin gray and brown beard, and his stained teeth were on edge. He looked prickly and bitter and not inclined to say more. I couldn’t guess how hard his life had been.

      At least you’ve broken your silence, I said, but he huffed with disdain and turned back to his work.

      You call this talking?

      Did he mean that he didn’t think of what he’d said as true speech? I left his question unanswered, with no intent of payback in my silence.

      I returned to my cubicle, thinking I’d put in some extra time at the end of the day to make up for the time I’d spent with B., which was not work related. As I continued reading email I asked myself if I’d unintentionally instigated conflict between Stan and B. Would B. call Stan or go to him and reproach him for speaking with me? Was it intrusive of me to wonder what the conversation would consist of? Would B. be angry that Stan had shared words he’d intended as private or would he be angry that Stan had made up a story about him? How could I fairly speculate on these questions? What good could be served by it? I shut my mind down on the topic as best I could, though I confess that something in me remained alert to various possibilities connected with Stan and B. and the words that may or may not have been exchanged by

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