Why I moved to Texas and other consequences of gossip

 

By Randy Koch

 

Three years after I graduated from high school, I was still living in my hometown of Lamberton , MN . I rented a small house on Douglas Street for $75 a month and every weekday walked the three blocks to Valley View Manor Nursing Home, where I worked as a maintenance man. One spring evening after work I was at home in the kitchen, a can of chunky soup warming on the old gas range while I smeared peanut butter on two slices of bread. A M*A*S*H rerun played in the living room, the voices of Hawkeye and Trapper mixing with the shouts of the Stavnes kids from down the street and the smell of the Mattisons' lilacs coming through the screen door in front. I stirred the faintly steaming soup with a tablespoon. Then, the thud of knuckles rattled the door. I put the spoon on the range and went to the living room.

Outside on the front step stood a large man wearing a suit. His hair was thin on top, and he wore glasses. He looked vaguely familiar, but I wasn't sure I knew him.

"Randy Koch?" he asked as he looked at me through the screen.

"Yeah," I said.

"Mr. McLeary," he said. "I live down the street. In the Neperman house."

I realized that this was the new superintendent at the school, the man who had replaced Mr. Gislason the year after I graduated. I had not heard good things about him, but I had never met him.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked.

I wondered what he could possibly want with me. I wasn't a student, and while I passed his house on the corner of Douglas and County Road 8 on the way to work each day, I rarely saw him. Their two-car garage was next to the street, and the yard behind the house was fenced in. Even when he and his family were home, they were out of sight -- either inside the large brown, split-level house or behind the fence. I pushed the door open. "C'mon in," I said.

He stepped into the living room and sat on the love seat in front of the window.

I turned off the TV and sat in the rocking chair.

"I know it's you," he said, "and it's going to stop." He glowered at me, his elbows on his knees and his hands folded in front of him.

"What? What's going to stop?" I had no idea what he meant.

"I saw you the other night. Give it back, and I won't have to call the police." He kept his eyes fixed on me. No one in a suit had ever sat on that chair since I owned it.

"Give what back?" I felt like I was in school again.

He was calm but firm. "I saw you in that white 4x4. You drove by, and the garage door came down. Later you drove by again, and it went back up." Dimples cratered his flexed chin. He continued to stare at me, expecting me to cave in like some guilty high school freshman.

My face got warm, and my hands were sweating. "I don't have a white 4x4. My car is right there." I pointed at the window behind him, at the brown 1970 Plymouth parked by the curb. He must have meant my older brother Ken's white Chevy Blazer, but he worked long hours at the Lamberton Stockyards and didn't have time to pull pranks on some school administrator he probably didn't even know. "You think I stole your garage door opener?"

"My girls were playing out there the other night. If anything happens to them," he said ominously and let it hang between us.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, but I suspected this had to do with my younger brother Steve, who was still in high school, though he didn't want to be, and occasionally borrowed Ken's Blazer. This sounded like something he'd do.

Mr. McLeary stared at me as if he knew I was guilty.

I was, I suppose, but not for what he thought. I was only guilty of being Steve's brother and laughing at his willingness to do the reckless things I never had the courage to do. He sowed the wild oats I had stored up during those careful, respectful years I spent in school.

Mr. McLeary stood. "You've got until tomorrow," he said ominously. "Then, I call the police." He moved past the love seat, pushed the screen door open, stepped out, and let it slam behind him. I watched him march down the sidewalk along Douglas Street and worried that he'd spread this story about me around town, that what people thought of me would be colored by his point of view.

This was at least one reason I eventually left Lamberton. In a small rural town, gossip is the most common form of entertainment. It's the oral tradition run amok, outlandish assumptions circulated by fools who either don't know or never confront the subjects of their wild tales, who narrate and fabricate and elaborate on stories they heard from someone else. You could, of course, argue that I'm guilty, too, that in this brief episode related 25 years after the fact I soiled the name and reputation of a community pillar, that I exaggerated his accusations, likely forgot important details (honestly, I'm not even sure what his name was, only that it was McSomething), and maybe even lied about my own role in these events. Who's to know since I'm here in Laredo and all the other characters are fifteen hundred miles away in Minnesota ? What are the odds that they'll even read this? Circumstances make it possible for me to say just about anything I want, and though I despise the unreliability of some people's point of view in real life and being the subject of their uninformed tall tales, this is exactly the kind of thing that intrigues me about fiction, both novels and short stories, which can be narrated from any one of several points of view. Some of the most famous works of literature are related by first-person narrators: Holden Caulfield in J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye, Huck Finn in Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Billy Pilgrim in Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.'s Slaughterhouse Five, Pip in Charles Dickens's Great Expectations, Nick Carraway in F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, Ishmael in Herman Melville's Moby Dick, and Scout Finch in Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. In the first-person point of view the narrator refers to him- or herself as "I" or "me" and is a participant in the story being told. He or she may be a major or minor character and can be any age, either sex, human or non-human, crazy or sane, drunk or sober, innocent or experienced, formal or informal. The fun of writing and reading a story told in first person is that much of the speaker's personality is revealed through voice, and it's up to the reader to decide to what extent he/she can be trusted. Syntax and diction, which can include slang, profanity, colloquialisms, clichés, and other language generally considered inappropriate for a third-person narrator, can reveal the speaker's age, gender, race, economic status, religion, and other significant aspects of the narrator's character. First-person stories narrated in the present tense can feel immediate and spontaneous while past tense suggests that the narrator sees some value in relating the events because of the opportunity to reflect on them after they've occurred.

Below is a brief scene narrated in the first person; subsequent examples present the same scene but from different points of view, including second person, third person objective, third person omniscient, and third person limited. Notice how the narrator as character -- in this case Billy -- has the freedom not only to tell the story but also to digress, reminisce, daydream, editorialize, and even blaspheme:

 

"Name's Billy Hawthorne," I said to the old man sitting on a folding chair behind a long table. In the box he had on his lap -- probably to help cover up the grungy old suit he was wearing -- he walked his fingers over the tabs of alphabetized files and mumbled to himself.

On the wall behind him was this poster of Britney Spears wearing a red vinyl mini skirt, a tight silver bikini top that accentuated her two best features, and a big white smile. Her hair was pulled up so it looked like the water shooting from the fountain in my dad's backyard -- he lives on the north side of town in a huge house; I live with my mom in a trailer house near the river. Across her bare tan stomach in glittery red letters were the words "Rock the Vote." I'd vote anyway, but she sure makes doing your civic duty a lot more enjoyable. I wouldn't even mind helping with the ad campaign. Just give me a red marker, and flex those abs, Britney. And remember, ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for --

"William?"

"Call me Billy," I sighed.

The old man coughed. "William Hawthorne?" he said. He glared up at me and held a piece of paper in his hands. White stubble made a horseshoe shape around the top of his freckled head.

I felt a rush of heat cross my face. "Yeah. Right. William." I took the paper from the man's quivering hand.

He slid an official-looking pad of paper, a column of signatures down the left side, across the table. "Sign here." He pushed a pen at me.

I scribbled my name, dropped the pen on the paper, and stole one last glance at Britney. "Thanks," I said, realizing that the old guy was still eyeballing me. I turned around, and behind me stood this round-faced, middle-aged woman staring at me. She shook her head as if I had done something wrong, as if it was immoral for a 20-year-old grocery bagger from HEB to give little Miss Britney the eye, but I just blew her off. Then when I walked away and crossed the room, I heard her "tsk, tsk," as if she wouldn't have done the same if some middle-aged dude was up there, like Sean Connery in his skivvies or Harrison Ford with his Indiana Jones hanging out.

 

In the second person point of view the narrator uses the second-person pronoun "you," usually to refer to the main character in the story. The narrator speaking in the second person is absent because the use of "I" would mean, of course, that the story is actually in first person. While the second person point of view is unusual in traditional narrative, it offers possibilities not available with more conventional points of view. For example, the narrator can reveal or imagine or speculate about "your" -- not the reader's but the main character's -- thoughts and feelings. The narrator, of course, has the prerogative of casting a positive or negative light on "your" actions, thoughts, expressions, or body language, all of which typically has some significance in the context of the story. While it's sometimes difficult to determine exactly who the second person narrator is, the reader should consider whether or not the narrator has biases or motives in presenting events and describing "you." Consequently, the narrator also becomes a character (albeit absent), an implied participant in "your" past, an observer or imaginer of "your" present, someone perceiving that events related about "you" have some significance in the larger and possibly future scheme of things involving the narrator. Second person point of view can also feel accusatory, imaginary, or speculative, like the narrator is giving commands or instructions, or relating his or her perspective directly to a participant in some event. Some of the best-known stories told in second person include parts of Tom Robbins's Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Oriani Fallaci's novel A Man, and Lorrie Moore's short story "How to Become a Writer."

Here's Billy's situation again but this time presented from the point of view of an absent speaker who has his or her own take on things and now refers to Billy as "you":

 

"Name's Billy Hawthorne," you announced to the balding man wearing a suit and sitting on a folding chair behind a long table. He held a box on his lap and flipped through the files inside.

While you waited, you stared at the life-sized poster of Britney Spears on the wall behind him, and, of course, you started at the bottom -- from her firm calves and thighs to the curve of her red vinyl micro skirt, then to her hips and pierced navel and the silver top she was nearly bursting out of -- and almost as an afterthought your eyes moved up to her smile and her hair plumed up on top of her head. You stared as if you'd never seen her before, as if you were stunned, as if you thought she'd climb down from the wall, sway right up to you, put her arms around your neck, and breathe into your ear, "Hey, William."

"Call me Billy," you purred.

God, you're so predictable.

The old man coughed. "William Hawthorne?" he said. He glared up at you and held a piece of paper in his hands.

Your face got as red as your scrawny chest and chicken legs that July weekend at South Padre when you passed out on the beach. "Yes," you stammered. "Right. William." You took the paper from the man's quivering hand and probably thought about winking goodbye to Britney, but he was watching you, too. He knew what kind of guy you are.

You signed the voter register and said, "Thanks." Shitty, looking-down-your-nose, insincere, north-side politeness.

You think people don't notice what you're doing, but they do. Even that middle-aged woman with a round face right behind you shook her head as you walked past and crossed the room.

 

The third person objective narrator reports only external details, much like a newspaper reporter tries to provide only the facts of a story. In this point of view the narrator refers to all characters as "he" or "she"; is not a participant in the story; does not reveal the internal, unverbalized thoughts, feelings, or memories of any characters; and expresses no opinions about characters or events. This point of view creates emotional distance between the narrator and the characters and, as a result, between the characters and the reader. And because the speaker (not he or she since gender is unimportant and typically not evident), it's up to readers to reach their own conclusions about characters and events. It's also important to recognize that this point of view can be particularly effective when a story is very emotional and potentially sentimental. The objectivity of this point of view forces the writer to let the characters' actions and circumstances speak for themselves, and, as a result, the emotional distance and objectivity generated often heightens rather than diminishes the reader's emotional reaction. Ernest Hemingway's short stories "Hills Like White Elephants" and "The Killers" and Raymond Carver's "Popular Mechanics" are three well-known works narrated in the third person objective.

Notice how much of the personality present in the two previous versions of the Billy situation is now gone when presented objectively:

 

"Name's Billy Hawthorne," he said to the man sitting on a folding chair behind a long table. The man held a box on his lap, flipped through the files, and read each tab. "Garcia, Gonzalez, Guerra, Gutierrez." Behind him hung a poster of Britney Spears smiling and wearing a short red vinyl skirt and a silver bikini top, her hair pulled up on the top of her head. Written across her bare tan stomach in red letters were the words "Rock the Vote." Billy stared at the poster.

"William?" the man sitting before him said.

"Call me Billy," he said, eyes still on the poster.

The old man coughed. "William Hawthorne?" he said and held a piece of paper toward him. White stubble covered the sides and back of his head; the top was bald and freckled.

Billy's face grew red. "Yeah," he said. "Right. William." He took the paper from the man's quivering hand and looked at him.

The man pushed a voter register with a list of signatures down the left side across the table. "Sign here," he said. He held out a pen.

Billy took it and signed at the bottom. "Thanks," he said and turned from the table.

Behind him a woman with a round face shook her head as he walked past. She said, "Tsk, tsk," and watched him walk across the room to a voting table.

The old man coughed again. "Name, ma'am?"

 

In contrast, a third person omniscient narrator, who is not a participant in the story, refers to all characters as "he" or "she"; reveals the thoughts, feelings, and memories of several if not all of them; and may express opinions about any or all of them. The writer using this point of view functions like an all-powerful, all-knowing god, entering the minds of any character, as in E. Annie Proulx's The Shipping News, Gabriel García Márquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude, and John Updike's Rabbit, Run; of people and animals, as in Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina; and even of objects, as Tom Robbins does in Skinny Legs and All. Because considerable space is required to establish omniscience, this point of view is rarely used for short stories but more often for novels.

When Billy's situation is narrated omnisciently, Billy -- though still the main character -- drops slightly into the background as the other characters' personas become more prominent in the fictional landscape:

 

"Name's Billy Hawthorne," he said.

Clarence, the old man sitting on a folding chair behind a long table, wanted to ask, "What kind of family is named after a goddam shrub?" In the box he held on his lap he walked his stiff fingers over the tabs of alphabetized files. "Garcia, Gonzalez, Guerra, Gutierrez," he mumbled.

Billy eyed the huge poster of Britney Spears on the wall behind him. She wore a red vinyl mini skirt and a silver bikini top that showed her cleavage, her hair was pulled up like water spouting from the fountain in the backyard of his dad's huge house on the north side of town, and a brilliant white smile lit up her face. Written across her bare tan stomach in glittery red letters were the words "Rock the Vote." Billy's eyes went from her chest back to her stomach. He stared and imagined writing those letters on her taut abs.

The man pulled a paper from the box. "William?" he asked and looked up at the kid who reminded him of his nephew. God help us, he thought, if he's the future of this country.

"Call me Billy," he said to the poster.

The old man coughed. "William Hawthorne?" he growled. He glared up at Billy and held a piece of paper in his hands. White stubble circled the top of his freckled head like a horseshoe.

Billy felt a rush of warmth wash across his face. "Yes," he stammered. "Right. William." He took the paper from the man's quivering hand.

The man pushed a sheaf of papers across the table. "Sign here," he said. He poked a pen in Billy's direction.

Billy took the pen and signed at the bottom of the list. "Thanks," he said absent mindedly and turned from the table.

A middle-aged woman with a round face stood behind him. She shook her head, disgusted by the way he had ogled the scantily dressed woman on the wall. As he walked past her, she wondered what the country was coming to if people only voted because they could get an eyeful. She tsked loud enough that Billy could hear her, but he just ignored her and walked to a boxed-in voting table.

The old man coughed impatiently. "Name, ma'am?"

 

In the third person limited point of view the narrator refers to all characters as "he" or "she"; is not a participant in the story; and is able to reveal the internal, unverbalized thoughts, feelings, or memories of only one character, who, as a result, is essentially the main character. While this point of view provides some of the distance common to third person narrators, it also offers the intimacy of a first person narrator since readers are essentially limited to seeing, hearing, and experiencing what the main character sees, hears, and experiences. Two very successful contemporary examples focus on main characters John Grady Cole in Cormac McCarthy's All the Pretty Horses and on Dick Pierce in John Casey's Spartina.

Compare your reaction to Billy as related in the earlier first person point of view with that related here in third person limited:

 

"Name's Billy Hawthorne," he said to the old man sitting on a folding chair behind a long table. In the box he had on his lap -- probably, Billy thought, to help cover up the grungy old suit he was wearing -- he walked his fingers over the tabs of alphabetized files. He mumbled something to himself, but Billy couldn't make it out.

He glanced up, and behind the man was a huge poster of Britney Spears in a red vinyl micro skirt and a silver bikini top, her chest swelling out like a dual sunrise, her hair pulled up so it looked like the water shooting from the fountain in the backyard of his dad's huge house on the north side of town -- though Billy preferred living with his mom in their trailer house near the river. She wore a brilliant white smile. Written in glittery red letters across her bare tan stomach were the words "Rock the Vote." Billy thought he'd vote anyway but found doing his civic responsibility more enjoyable with Britney looking on. He'd even help with the ad campaign. Just give me a red marker, Britney, he imagined saying to her, and flex those abs. And remember, ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for --

"William?"

"Call me Billy," he purred to the poster.

The old man coughed. "William Hawthorne?" He glared up at Billy, who jerked his eyes from Britney's jeweled navel to the piece of paper in the man's hand.

He felt a rush of warmth cross his face. "Yes," Billy stammered. "Right. William." He took the paper from the man's quivering hand and wanted to wink goodbye to Britney, but the man was watching him.

"Sign here," the man said as he slid the voter register across the table at him. He held out a pen.

Billy took the pen and scribbled his name. "Thanks," he said and turned to find a table where he could vote.

A middle-aged woman with a round face stood behind him. She shook her head as Billy walked past, and as he crossed the room he heard her "tsk, tsk," and the old man cough and say, "Name, ma'am?"

 

Our willingness to believe stories depends on the degree to which we trust the narrator. And whether I'm talking about me, you or her, whether my dialect is Southern or Midwestern, whether I use the sophisticated diction of a Princeton intellectual or the crude, vulgar ramblings of a rendering truck driver, it all comes down to story. One man's gossip is another man's gospel, and I swear -- I didn't take that garage door opener.

 

(Randy Koch teaches English and directs the Writing Center at Texas A&M International University.)