The Kangaroo

People make fun of the kangaroo. She’s such a thingamajibbit, with an outsized head and planks for feet that look like sea-going flippers. She looks like a hodgepodge redundant hare, inviting people’s incredulous stare. She inspires derision, even revulsion? Well, if she could talk, she might say something in the following vein:

“You are the one who is really strange, without pelt, without feathers, and coming in so many different colors and shades of skin, it’s hard to know what body you’re in, making our little ’roos afraid. And with your funny hats and unnatural glasses, you think you’re the creature who passes for normal? Give us a break! With umbrellas, cameras, and all sorts of wires on you, you’re the world’s living oddity, nobody else.

Moral: Take a really good look at you—maybe it’s you who ought to be in a zoo.

The Shrew

Eyes still closed, the shrew said to her mate, “Get up, lazy lout, you’re late for foraging. Get going now.”

“I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, look who’s still dormant while I’ve already gotten up and put on my shirt.”

“Then don’t just stand there, stop the jawing and go. That’s you, always hemming, always hawing. And you are,” she added mysteriously.

“I’m what?” 

“A monkey’s uncle, and grand-uncle of man. That was no slip of speech—you were bragging, and for the worst reason. So much began to go wrong when your side of the family evolved into simian and then humankind. Our side,” she said imperiously, “never would have started that whole disastrous line. Whatever prompted you and yours to go climb a tree?”

“Probably trying to get away from the nagging, scoffing of your whole side,” he murmured.

“I heard that crack,” she cried, “insinuating that I’m a genetic scold? when all I am is a necessary corrector, wearing myself out for your own good. O, I need to lie here, you’re giving me one of my migraines. I’ll die without a fit appreciator or provider. O, you!”

“I didn’t do a word!”

“Listen to yourself, how you get mixed up, the same old jabbering fool, and if I don’t stop you, you’ll go on carping, carping and harping, harping and carping—I don’t know how I bear it! Just go! That’ll stop your incessant nagging torrent.”

Moral: Whenever someone is after you, repeatedly and hotheadedly, too, there’s not the least doubt it’s themselves they are really talking about.

Hong Kong

A sleek vain superior woman of the west, wearing a slit sheath of China gown, moves, carefully coif’d, elegant, in undulant progress to the dining room of a posh Hong Kong restaurant. She cradles a toy poodle at her side and does not ask permission, but assumes her right to do anything she wants anywhere she goes.

Her rich and witful husband, on whose arm she leans ever so lightly, not for support but for the regal manner of it, says, “Choose a table near a waiter,” and they proceed, in pomp and circumstance, to dine. And sure enough, they are served at once, by captain and subalterns, by attentive minions who leave nothing to chance, there at their table laid for kings—and queens. A waiter gestures, indicating the dog, and she grandly hands him her “Poof,” and off he takes it somewhere. Seated on her velvet-cushion chair, she subsides, not especially thrilled but demure, not outwardly delighted but composed, serene in her gown, her jewels, her skin, and surveys the opulent room she is in—opalescent chandeliers, tablecloth, chopsticks, added appurtenances (knives, forks, spoons) for her sterling special appearance.

Sitting erect with prerogative, almost stiff, she says her thank-you’s when hors d’oeuvres are served, with her barest flicker of a smile, condescending to the start of her prolonged meal. Servers bring little dainty dishes—and ginger and coriander, soy sauce, other spices. And pork and veal, and more to come. And always the steaming pure white rice. How nice.

A long ensuing exotic meal, entrée after entrée, and then the piece de résistance, something exceptional to eat, accompanied by lichée nuts, curry powder, sweetmeats and concluding side-plates, and ever-present tea. The husband pays the bill. They rise. She asks for “Poof.” The table-captain arrives, with eyebrows raised: the dog was served with carrots, all buttered and braised.

Moral: In this world of little pets and people, you may not be helped but, finally, severely hampered if you are cuddled and curried and over-pampered.

A Horse and a Sheep

Two paths diverged at an old ranch house, a path to the pasture, a path to the lawn. One day a horse took a turn to the left, instead of the right, and trod over the grass down to a corner where fences met, and hung his head over the cleft. He stood there, head over the rails, just stood there close—and stood—and would be standing there yet, if his owner had not turned him about and brought him out.

The rancher runs cattle and also some sheep. One day a sheep made the same mistake (they don’t all follow their leader) and took that turn down to the fence. He stood there, too, gave his head a shake, then turned all around, and came on back, with no bleating complaint. That sheep didn’t know “couldn’t” and didn’t know “can’t.” The horse, which we are inclined to vaunt, was filled with “ain’t” and crammed with “won’t.” (A horse entangled in barbed wire may thrash and eventually expire, his heart gone out when his brain is frayed). No matter: horses are celebrated and sheep are slighted.

Nonetheless, what happened did occur. The rancher himself witnessed the two episodes, recounting them both, close to home. Still, he esteems his horse.

Moral: When did any evidence ever modify preference?

Book Trailer for Transatlantic Lives!

An Interview with Jesse Bier

Fly-fishing, War – Where Two Stories Meet On Rivers

In your short-story, "Incident On The Clark Fork," your descriptions of fly-fishing are pitch-perfect. Are you a fly-fisher, Mr. Bier? More importantly, are you a bait fisherman and a fly caster, like the character of that story?

JB:

Predominantly, yes. I bait fished also in full-sun afternoons. I was no fisherman at all. But I had comrades quickly enough in the English department to teach me. I started with lures, and bait, mainly. But then I would be fishing with a fly-fisherman and the sight of that fish striking just like that was so far superior to the excitement underwater with bait. And even on the lure. But action with a trout on the line is action no matter what. It was the visual aspect. Oh, my. But I really never perfected it to my satisfaction. I couldn’t get a long enough cast, wasn’t artful enough.

Both, “Incident” and “1945: The Twins” have remarkable endings—powerful and definitive. When you read, or re-read, a memorable short story, what is the impression you want to be left with, and what impression do you aim to leave readers with at the end of your stories?

JB:

Of course, you know, the main action of "1945" is a veteran's story. I wasn’t the particular veteran. I was a squad leader, 11 men, in the infantry in Europe. And for most of the time I was the youngest, and my apprehension was that I was too young to be leading 30, 40 year old men into battle. So the ending of "1945" was my fabrication. Had nothing to do with the body of the story. What interested me in the course of that story is the same  as "Incident"—pacing. I hoped it would start fast and keep going. Though I’m leisurely in “Incident.” So I was interested in different pacing. Was I capable of two different kinds of speed? Of course in "Incident" it’s all threat. It strikes me also the impact of some of these events in a war, the last 50 years, to get back to that thing now, and it really evolves Japanese atrocity. We were capable of stuff there and continually after. I’m ashamed of us, sometimes—our military. But the Japanese were often vicious. What they did with the Chinese—and with us. But we retaliated.

But you know, that wasn’t true on the Western Front—wasn’t true in Germany. We captured German troops. Often on the islands, surrendering Japanese were not taken—they were shot.

In my own experience, there was an incident of coming through a German town... The only real incident of atrocity... German citizens would put out a white sheet to inditicate “don’t shoot,” but often, in small towns, maybe we’d be held up and the soldiers would pull out, and the town was left. Then the German populace—older people, women, children—would be hiding in two places: in the basement of a church or in the city hall. So we’d come through the main street, sheets would be out. Once, one of my own men threw a hand grenade into the basement of a city hall. Nothing authorizes this. Nothing like that ever happened to me, except that moment. I grabbed that guy—I was squad leader—and had the opportunity of reporting him. I remember ramming him against the window. He was surprised by my reaction—like I was overreacting—“they’re the enemy no matter what age," he said. "I wanted to throw a grenade." He had never thrown one. All armies have guys like this. I didn’t report him. I made him promise never to do anything like that again.  

In, "1945: The Twins," I’m intrigued by your ability to describe these military flight missions so vividly. Were you a pilot in the war, also? What was the inspiration for this story?

JB:

There is a time after war when veterans somehow get together. Half the student-body at my college were GI’s. You gravitate towards the veterans. You gravitate to 25-30 men who had been in the war and had seen combat. There is, for instance, an episode in Transatlantic Lives about a man who fought at Bastogne, who I met in college. We traded stories—the action I’d seen, the action he’d seen. He told the story of a man who was dropped into China. In Western China. And then this story “The Twins” must have come from that exchange. That was told about twins. Now how much have I elaborated? I almost elaborated nothing in the battle of Bastogne story, in Transatlantic Lives. But it seems to me that I put a couple of things together about the twins that I heard about—one of the most earnest and horrendous stories that came to me about the exchange. And, yes, there were stories from Pilots, which helped.

When did you write this story?

JB:

10-15 years ago the story came to me. Revised it 5 years later, and then last year I revised it.

The final line of this story informs the reader that the writing came from, “Wildcat Road, Missoula Montana,” and this seems to put a profound kind of importance to the story. What was the intention behind including a specific place where the story originated.

JB:

I had none. Some things I pre-meditate. This, no. I’m surprised that this had an effect. The contrast between horrific war material and Montana—I guess that was not intended.

The Man Himself

Mr. Jesse Bier

Since last summer (2012) I've had the pleasure of getting to know Professor Emeritus Jesse Bier. We started up a professional relationship while I assisted him in preparing his novella, The Cannibal, for publication.

Over the course of our work together, I've become captivated by his gentlemanly demeanor, his no non-sense candor, and, of course, his literary insights. We've discussed the shifting landscape of American literature, the failure of military leadership since he served. He's shared devastating stories of GI's and intimate moments of his day to day life caring for his wife as she struggles with Alzheimer's. We've chatted about environmental degradation and what exactly makes a joke funny in French. He has given me poems to read and novels to transcribe. Along the way I've met his children, visited his home and brought my friends to meet him.

My time with Professor Bier has been humbling, edifying, and needed.

Through this blog I hope to share some of our discussions, his reflections, and his work. I've asked some of my writerly friends to contribute as well. We meet regularly at the local bagel joint to talk about writing and the world at large. His is a perspective I think my generation could grow from. And, hell, maybe it goes past that. Maybe we all need a little Jesse Bier.