F. E. Mazur's short story, "SOMALIA"

SOMALIA

As became her habit, Crystal derided me. She said I could never understand our summer neighbor.

"What is there to understand?" I rejoined. "The man walks around with blinders on."

"Mr. Positive" was how I addressed Carl if I was feeling pleasantly nasty. Florence wasn't any different. I won't say she was like one of those irritatingly nutant reporters on everybody's local news, unconsciously yes-ing her silver-haired head to the ridiculous word or two her husband delivered as he responded to my criticism of the nation's deplorable social mores, or questions about a government policy doomed to fail; but her facial expressions, a mix of kindergarten optimism and Mother T beatitude, displayed too often the look of "All is well." Taking the poor woman seriously could exact a price.

Carl, who each summer wore a new baseball cap advertising some local business and whose dark fissures crisscrossed his face like more a map of a thousand hyperlinks than old leather, had three decades on me. It was half this amount of time that passed following our marriage before Crystal and I purchased the splendid log cabin, formerly owned by a state senator, which sat next to theirs. Before Crystal left, the four of us got together in the mountains each August, along with their two grandsons. Within that first year of ownership, a sinkhole developed on the boundary separating our properties and, following an all-day deluge, a pond formed. Inquiring of the people at Cooperative Extension, Carl learned that a thick stratum of clay lay underneath parts of the region, and I went along with getting a bulldozer in to widen and deepen the hole. Carl's pitch was we would all go swimming afterwards, plus if a couple buckets of panfish and some smallmouth bass (my vote was for the largemouth, just to be contrary) were stocked, we could become anglers and enjoy the tasty delights of a fresh catch well into the future. But he was thinking really of the boys, who soon would demonstrate they loved both water activities. And perhaps he was betting that Crystal and I still might have children one day who would appreciate a pond with dimensions larger than a kiddy pool.

To my knowledge Carl never once entered the water, except to stick a finger in to take its temperature. Neither can I recall a time, not even one of those grandfather-teaches-grandson occasions, when he cast out a line. Truth be told, I did little more. Mostly we visited at each other's shaded picnic table during hot afternoons and the cooler evenings: Carl bringing the pre-WWII Voigtlander and his beer, four cans minimum; me, my frosted tumbler and a pitcher of iced tea. Sometimes Florence joined us, and when Crystal was around, so would she, first spraying her long beautiful legs with some Avon fragrance that doubled as a bug repellent. Still, usually, it was just Carl and myself.

However, during those years when the wives did amble over, Carl often would announce that the two of us had been solving world problems.

"Well, that's good," you could count on Florence saying. "The world can always stand more improvement."

One afternoon I felt it time to correct Mr. Positive in the presence of his wife. "I'm the one attempting to solve the problems, dear lady. Not this old fart of a hubby of yours."

"And what was Carl doing, Mitch?" my Crystal asked.

Hell, Carl was doing what he'd always done. Ask the toughest question about an education or financial bill that you know is folly, Carl would smile. Blast some public official deserving of more than harsh criticism, like maybe thirty years at hard labor (or even a bullet I once said to him and Florence just to shake 'em up, and it did Florence, believe me it did!) Carl could be expected to toss in a sideways nod to go with the smile. When this old man spoke, it did not amount to much, and I always felt like scratching my head, although I never did so in front of him or Florence. In front of them I usually rubbed my chin. Still, the thought was there, What a goddamn imbecile!

During the last summer the four of us were at camp, the hot issue under regurgitation by the liberal airways was greater taxation of the wealthy, and I got into it with Carl because he favored the idea.

"Equal treatment, that's all I'm asking for, Carl. When you treat me equally, you treat me fairly. You should be insisting on the same. The numbers left of the decimal should not be a factor."

"What about the men and women who aren't your equal, Mitch?"

"There's quite a few who aren't my equal. Just how does that figure into tax rates?" I challenged him.

No spoken response from old Carl. Just the expected sip from the beer can, the smile, then that trademark sideways nod.

For once I decided to play the game back. I took a long drink of my iced tea and smiled too. Carl, I was certain, did not have the resources to equal mine, yet his summer camp, which must have set him back a hundred and fifty grand even years ago when inflation had been hardly a concern, was evidence he nonetheless had plenty. Did he work for it? Not likely! The man was union throughout his working days, and anyone who's even remotely honest with himself knows that union wages are paid out on the basis of contract, not merit. However, I wasn't intending to say the same to Carl. Quite the contrary. Aware as I am now, as I was then, that the union man believes he has earned his money, I played the role of a sycophant.

"Carl, you put in long hours and did whatever was required to get where you are today. You've worked hard for your money. I know that. Well, so have I. I worked hard to get the big bucks, and today I work my investments just as hard. So why should either one of us be forced to pay more tax because we labored with greater industry than the rest? You tell me that, Carl my friend."

I had him by his senior citizen's balls and he knew it. He asked Crystal if she wanted a beer.

"No thanks, Carl," she said, then ran him some interference. "Are the bugs bothering you? Stick out your leg."

"Carl," I said, knocking once on the picnic table. "The bugs can wait. Pay attention."

"Mitch, you know I didn't make my money in Somalia," he said. "You know that, don't you?"

"Somalia?" I cannot imagine what the look on my face must have been, but it did not discourage Carl.

"Yes, Somalia," he repeated. "I didn't make it in Darfur or Bangladesh either."

Does he know that Darfur isn't even a goddamn country? I remember thinking while looking at the darkening sky. And then I began to laugh. I couldn't help myself. And if it was embarrassing to Carl and his devoted Florence, they had only him to blame for responding so stupidly. I looked to Crystal and, maybe because it was a most pleasant evening with a yellow half-moon rising above the pines, she wrapped an arm around my shoulders and began to laugh too. What I was hoping for, then, was that, for once, she had seen how asinine our neighbor could be.

"Hold it right there," Carl said. He picked up the Voigtlander, brought the eyepiece to his right eye, and tripped the shutter and flash. "That's going to be one great picture of you two lovebirds."

Carl was never right about any subject we ever discussed, except maybe the pond, and he did not explain his "Somalia" remark that evening if, in fact, there was anything to explain. But, as I know a little something about photography, I must say the old man could take a good picture. He was right about the snapshot.

One day after I found Crystal's departure note attached to the computer monitor at home, the color photo arrived in the mail. As a couple, we never looked better, never happier. Even the photos in our wedding album could not compete.

And it gave me an idea. I thought if Crystal could see this photo, she might appreciate what it was saying about us, what it was showing we were capable of as a married couple. I decided to send her an eight-by-ten, the moment I learned where she was living.

I telephoned Carl. Florence answered.

"He's not here, Mitch. Yes, we thought it was a wonderful photo of Crystal and you."

"Look, tell Carl, when he gets in," I told her, "to put the picture's negative in an envelope and drop it in the mail. I want to order an enlargement."

"Carl doesn't ever keep the negatives. He throws them away as soon as he receives the prints."

So much for that idea, I thought, and I said the same to Florence.

"I'm sorry, Mitch," she said.

I didn't think the smaller picture would have the same effect on Crystal as it had on me. I set it aside with some things on my desk that were later thrown out. It's not shown itself since.

Once Crystal was gone from my daily life, I might have imagined the months ahead would pass slowly. They did not. Another August appeared on the calendar without my awareness that summer was halfway over, and I made the decision to travel out to the camp alone, yet with a vague hope she would make an appearance. Because the log cabin was well equipped, the cupboards seldom bare, and a versatile wardrobe occupied the closet, I needed merely to get in the car, once I was sure Carl and Florence would be there, and make the drive. About the only thing to accompany me was a digital camera that I'd purchased online a month before.

The first evening they both came out of their camp and walked over to join me at the picnic table. Florence didn't hesitate to inquire where Crystal was, and so I told Carl and her that I was now alone.

"I'm so sorry, Mitch," Florence said. Carl bunched his lips.

"It's okay," I said. "All right, it's not really okay, but what's a guy to do?"

"What are you going to do?" Florence asked.

"Take pictures," I replied, hoping to keep the moment on the upbeat. "Beginning with you guys. Come on, Florence, scooch on over closer to your lesser half."

She did so after I fluttered my hand several times. Carl inclined his head toward her and she did the same.

Florence slid back on the bench to her former spot after I pushed the button.

"Are you thinking of selling the place?" she asked.

"Is that what you're worried about? Who you might get for a new neighbor?"

"It was just a question," Carl said. He pointed to his four-pack.

I waved it off.

"I thought you might finally be ready," he said.

"We've always liked both Crystal and you very much, Mitch," Florence said. "Your announcement just has us wondering, that's all."

"Did you ever think she would leave me?"

"It's not our place," Florence said, shaking her head.

I guffawed. "Not your place? That only means you have something to say! So say it!"

Carl grimaced, offended, apparently, by my tone.

Florence spread her arms and laid one hand on his, the other on mine.

I softened my voice to match her touch. "What is it, Florence? We didn't all meet a week ago."

"Because we're friends. Remember that."

I surrendered the nod she wanted.

"You're much smarter than the rest of us, Mitch. I've always known you were more intelligent than me, and Carl, too, would acknowledge you have it over him, wouldn't you, Carl? You had it over Crystal as well. I never said that to her out of concern I might hurt her feelings."

"It's why she ridiculed me," I said. "In a serious discussion she couldn't keep up. She never saw what I saw. But that wasn't my fault, you understand."

"I don't want to say too much. Only, Mitch, listen. It isn't that you're smart and Crystal isn't. It's just that--"

"What? Go on. Say it."

"I'm not sure I can get it to come out like it should. I think it's better if I stop right where I am."

I forced myself to stay the entire month, holding onto the chance of Crystal's appearance, even for a day or an afternoon, because she had often expressed to Florence how she loved the camp and the quiet relaxation of the mountains. Carl and I resumed our usual sessions at one or the other's picnic table. During a particularly listless hour when neither of us had much to say, I attempted to explain the digital camera and its countless features. He stopped me before I could tout the LCD.

"This is the only camera I've ever owned," he said, raising the old, German-made 35-millimeter, "and it's more than I need."

In recent years I'd noticed Carl had been taking fewer pictures. He continued to bring out the camera because it seemed he feared a great photographic moment would occur the first time he didn't. As for myself, I depressed the button at every opportunity. Wildflowers, a dead leaf, a deserted hornets' nest, an array of spider webs and the little psychopaths themselves waiting patiently on the cabin's picture window. Weathered boards rich in reddish tones on the backside of my neighbors' camp. I captured two heron fishing at dawn in the shallows of the pond. I photographed Florence without her knowing, perhaps a half-dozen times, and snapped a couple of shots of Carl, alone and staring at nothing. During the final week the grandsons, both now in their late teens, appeared. The younger stayed overnight. He fished and provided a few artistic images of his silhouette with a motionless pond out front. After his departure, the handsome one drove in, girlfriend sitting close. They stayed only for the day and I got shots of them in the water and out. The young woman proved to be photogenic, and she liked having a lens train on her.

Returning home, I dumped the entire collection of photos onto the hard drive of my pc. It was Florence who captured my greatest attention with her composed, saintly countenance. Too saintly for what she revealed about herself. Would I tell a brilliant man he was such? Would I say to another person, man or woman, that I was of lesser intelligence? Would Crystal, I wondered.

Later that same day, I cropped the photo of my summer neighbors, taken as they'd sat across from me at the picnic table. While waiting on the printer, I wrote the following note that would accompany the blow-up: "Dear Carl, unlike you, I didn't throw away the negatives. I haven't any. --Best, Mitch."

That was the last time I communicated with them. A month later, Crystal got in touch and we put the cabin up for sale.

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