Carbine: Stories

Sword

 Sword = Somebody gave him a samurai sword. Not a real samurai sword, a replica. But with a real blade sharp. It was a gift. Something somebody thought he would like. He liked it. He would have liked to mount it on the wall above his desk. He could not. The company had a zero tolerance policy. No violence in the work place. No weapons on the work site. Of any kind. Not even pepper spray. And he did not have a desk. He had a work space. No, that was not right. He did not have an office; he had a work space. He did not have a desk; he had a work station. He did not know why these differences mattered, but the company was very clear about these things. So the sword was at home. In a closet. He did not know kendo. Or escrima. Or fencing. Sometimes he wished he knew these things. Or some things like these things. But he did not. Furthermore, he was not going to learn them. A person like him did not have enough passion for these things to commit to them. He knew without doubt the commitment was substantial. If someone wanted to be any good. He lacked the passion. The energy. The will. Why should he do anything? He did his job and paid his bills and taxes and honored his minimal family obligations, and that was enough. That was all. Maybe in the past— He had no love for the past. Some sentiment, perhaps. Driving in, he’d seen workers digging at the side of the road. They worked in the rain. Long time since he had worked outside in the rain. Some day he would be dead, and he would do nothing at all. His work neighbor had pictures of her kids on the walls of her work space. That on one side. Guy on the other side had pictures of Jesus. Tried not to talk to that guy. If that guy could have pictures of Christ, why couldn’t he have a sword? Maybe not call it a sword. Maybe call it a work of art. An heirloom. Was there a policy against heirlooms? Thought about ratting out the Jesus Guy, saying the Jesus pictures offended him, but that would make the Jesus Guy believe the Jesus Guy was being persecuted because the Jesus Guy believed in Jesus. Woman with the kids perfectly nice. Probably a good mom too. If the Jesus pictures came down maybe the kids would have to come down too. He could not remember the rule. Maybe it was a law. The directive came from legal. He’d had a wife. His wife was gone. She’d said she was leaving and he’d said, If this is because of my drinking , I’ll quit drinking. He was trying to buy some time. It was not because of that, she said. It was because of what he was not, she said. He was not tempted to put up her picture. It seemed pathetic. A memorial to their unhappiness. An empty frame better. There was a time he’d hoped for everything and tried to get it and all that led here. Here. Sword  Now. He suspected he had perhaps learned something. Not that he regretted anything. Not anymore. 2. Thememosaidthecompanywassputteringoutfast.Beenthroughthisbefore. Sometimes the company failed. Sometimes the company was reenergized. He was not energized. Afraid of more failure. Certain amount of failure inevitable, but too much, corrosive. Lethal. That totality always at the bottom of things. More bedrock than lurking. Maybe the Jesus Guy could pray for the company. Pray for this occupation. Or sink into the acceptance of the world as sinking into a grave. His grave. Or abandon himself and somehow continue to exist. Impossible. True terror of life—finite, inseparable, indistillate. Company could go on without him. Leave him merely unemployed, unpensioned, ruined. At an age he’d never get a comparable salary. Unable to retire. His wife had said he thought he lived in a story and he should try living in life. He told her she was insane. Comment did not help. He could start looking. Spent half his life looking. Enforced insecurity ceaselessly revisited. Not only him. Everyone now as the jobs went and the infrastructure broke and the politics failed and the TV—the TV—got even worse.  Sword Everything he knew on the...