A STRANGER TO HIMSELF
Paul sat at home reading a book. It was a good book, about
children lost at sea after a shipwreck. He had been reading the
book for hours. He fell asleep, and then the phone rang. It was
Mary. She asked him what he was doing. He said he was reading.
She said she missed him. She hadn’t seen him in days. He said
he missed her, too. She said, “Do you want to get together tonight?”
He said, “Sure, that would be fine.” They agreed on a time, and
chatted a bit, then hung up. After that, Paul started to fritter.
Then he fell down in the living room and hit his head on the coffee
table. When he got up he thought he was on another planet, Jupiter.
He didn’t recognize anything. This went on for about an hour, then
finally, he landed on Earth again. Mary, what was he going to do about
Mary? He could slip something into her drink. No, he wasn’t a
killer, and she wasn’t that bad, anyway. He could slip something
in his drink and that would make him disappear. Where could you get
something like that? Mary had many fine qualities, which would make him
a monster. Yes, he was a monster. How could he live with himself?
It wasn’t easy. He clawed around his house, scratching himself
all the while. He tried banging his head against the wall. That
didn’t help. Mary was due to arrive any minute. He needed to shave
and get ready. As he shaved he cut his throat, not just a nick,
but a slice clear across his neck. He cleaned as best he could,
but it still took three band aids to cover it up. He could lie.
He could tell her he had saved a young maiden from a knife-wielding
desperado and had suffered a stab in the throat as a consequence.
When she arrived, she stared at him strangely. He said, “What’s
wrong?” “I feel like I don’t know you. You’re different
from what I remember. Why is that?” she said. “I know. Just
a while ago I felt I didn’t know me either. I was a complete
stranger to myself,” Paul said. “Neither one of us know you.
That’s funny, isn’t it?” Mary said. “It’s not funny to me.
It’s something like a tragedy. And you’re the cause of it.
I want you to get out of my house. I’m sorry, but you really must
go,” he said. “I’m gone. Somebody cut your neck, Paul. I think
you should see a doctor,” she said. “I’m alright, it was only
the other me,” he said.
MIRACLE AT THE ABBEY
The monk fetched a bucket of water from the well and carried it back
to his room. First he filled his jug for drinking. Then he used the rest of it
for washing himself. When he was done he went to the chapel where the priest
told him to go to work in the garden. He went there and weeded the rows between
the potatoes and carrots. Then he sat down and rested for a few minutes.
Then he went over to the flower garden and started weeding there. The asters
and petunias were lovely this year. The sunflowers were huge and brilliant.
He loved working in the garden. It was so much better than cleaning the toilets.
Brother Tom came out to join him. They didn’t speak a word at first. “Brother
John, have you seen our friend, the snake, today?” he asked. “Why, no I haven’t,
Brother Tom,” Brother John said. “He’s usually resting among the flowers about
this time of day,” Brother John said. “Oh, I know. I recognize him when I see
him,” Brother Tom said. “Sister Magdeline is coming over today. Did you know that?”
he said. “No I didn’t know that. It will be nice to see her,” Brother Tom said.
“Yes, she brings such good cheer,” said Brother John. “Especially if she brings
her bottle of wine,” said Brother Tom. Then they set about working. They
worked for the next four hours without speaking. Then the Priest came out and
asked if they had seen Sister Magdeline. They said they had not. The Priest said
he was worried about her. She was supposed to be at the Abbey two hours ago.
The Brothers volunteered to go looking for her, but the Priest said no, they would wait.
By nightfall they were all concerned and sent out ten men to scour the countryside.
One of them found her in a ditch about a mile from the Abbey. She was dead.
They sent a wagon to bring her back. She was all bloody. They cleaned her up
And placed her at the altar and prayed for her soul the rest of the night.
On their way to the garden in the morning the Brothers talked about what had happened…
Brother Tom said she must have been gored by a stag. Brother John said, “No, no, that
could never happen. She must have been attacked by a thief.” Brother Tom said,
“But she had no money.” “Maybe he wanted her cookies,” said Brother John. “But
who would kill somebody for a cookie,” said Brother Tom. “If you were hungry enough,
I suppose you would,” said Brother John. “It’s a sad world we live in,” said
Brother Tom. “Yes, it is,” said Brother John. The Priest came running out
of the Abbey. “She’s arisen! She’s arisen!” he shouted. “He’s joking,” said
Brother Tom. “No, he’s not,” said Brother John.
THE LOSS OF A JOB
I was hunting one day when I came upon a rabbit that was so cold it
couldn’t run. I aimed my rifle, then put it down. I just couldn’t shoot the
poor thing. I never hunted again after that. I went home that day and told my
wife about it. My wife agreed. She said she never liked rabbit anyway.
The next day I went to work. My boss said my report on the Ozymandias
project was behind schedule. I told him it would be finished tomorrow.
I worked through the night and handed it in the next day. He took it
into his office and studied it for a couple of hours, came out and told
me it was 1/3000th of an inch off. The bridge would collapse within twenty
years. I said, “Who cares? We’ll be dead by then anyway.” He said, “You’re
fired, Jason. That’s no way to talk. We’ve got our reputation to think about.”
“You could be wrong, sir. No offense, but 1/3000th of an inch could go
either way, don’t you think?” I said. “No I don’t. I’m never wrong,” he
said. “Okay, sir. I guess it’s back to hunting rabbits for me,” I said.
“What?” he said. “Nothing,” I said. I went and packed up my office and
said goodbye. On the way home I stopped off at my favorite bar. I ordered
a shot of whiskey. A man came up behind me and said, “You’re Jason Bordeaux,
aren’t you?” I said, “Yes, that’s my name.” “You play first base for the Chicago
White Sox, don’t you?” he said. “No, I don’t, that’s another Jason, I’m afraid,”
I said. “Oh, just 1/3000th off, I see,” he said. “What?” I said. “Nothing,”
he said. I finished my whiskey and left the bar. When I got home I told
my wife the news. She said, “Good. I never liked that job anyway.” I said,
“But it wasn’t your job.” “But it felt like it was,” she said. “That’s
not the same,” I said. “Take out the garbage, will you, honey?” she said.
“What for?” I said.
Awarded the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Award, the Wallace Stevens Award, the William Carlos Williams Award, Tate was born in Kansas City, Missouri. Tate’s first book The Lost Pilot won the Yale Series of Younger Poets prize while Tate was still a student at the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop, making him one of the youngest poets to receive the honor. His poems influenced a generation of poets, due to their dream logic, metaphysical and psychological investigation.
Tate’s books include Worshipful Company of Fletchers, Distance from Loved Ones, Reckoner, Constant Defender, Viper Jazz, Absences, Hints to Pilgrims, The Oblivion Ha-Ha, Shroud of the Gnome, Return to the City of White Donkeys, Dome of the Hidden Pavilion, The Ghost Soldiers, The Eternal Ones of the Dream, The Government Lake, Dreams of a Dancing Robot Bee, The Route As Briefed, and countless chapbooks. About his work, the poet John Ashbery wrote in the New York Times: “Tate is the poet of possibilities, of morph, of surprising consequences, lovely or disastrous, and these phenomena exist everywhere… I return to Tate’s books more often perhaps than to any others when I want to be reminded afresh of the possibilities of poetry.”