Steven Brust - Agyar

I went over to the Tunnel today to look at the sights and to think. There was a tall, bearded, scraggly-looking fellow standing in the recess of a building, and as I passed he asked if I could give him some money.

“No,” I said.

He said, “Are you sure, man? Even five dollars would help.”

That stopped me. I turned to him and said, “Five dollars? Five dollars? What happened to ‘can you spare a dime’?”

He looked puzzled, and I walked on. If I’d been him, I’d have made a remark about inflation, but I don’t think he was of entirely sound mind. The result, however, was that I happened to notice a United Way billboard that I’d passed a hundred times before, and it got me thinking about charities.

I’ve never given anything to charity; I don’t know why. I am not a heartless man, but something about giving money to I know not what organization to do I know not what with is repugnant to me. I have helped my friends when they needed help, and I expect them to do the same, and it isn’t even that I don’t care what happens to complete strangers, and don’t wish them the best.

Maybe it’s that it all seems so futile.

No answers, here, but it is another thing to think about, since I seem to have become involved in self-examination lately, for whatever reason.

Everyone, and I include myself, has a need, I think, to feel that he is helping other people. Some of us limit it to friends, others want to help strangers, while still others eschew what they consider trivialities and find whatever cause seems to them to strike at either the most important issues or the most fundamental. It’s hard to say that any of these methods is better or worse than any others.

No, I take that back. I don’t like being approached on the street, or by charities, because they make me think that I owe something because I have a share in whatever brought them to this state, and that is untrue and irritating. Whether it is some bum standing on the street, or a huge billboard depicting starving children in Africa, they are saying, “If your life is better than this, it’s your fault mine isn’t as good,” and I just won’t accept the guilt for that. I didn’t build this world, I don’t control it, and when I succor a friend, or even a stranger, it is because I want to.

I feel no shame because, though I bear the guilt for my actions, I refuse to accept blame for things with which I had nothing to do, and I don’t do things for which I ought to feel shame.

I am not without a conscience; I merely have no need for shame.

10 March

Traci Kaufmann

2216 N. 7th St.

Apt 11A

Akron, OH

Dear Traci:

I hope this letter finds you well. It is some time since we have corresponded, and, if I may, correspondingly longer since we have seen each other in the flesh, but memories, as they say, linger on, and we have more than our share of those.

Had I received a letter from you like this, my first thought should have been, “What does she want of me?” I do not doubt that this same thought, with regard to myself, is flashing across your brain. Well, I will pretend to nothing different. A situation has come up in which you could help me immeasurably. Are you traveling these days? Is there an airport in Akron? I can certainly send you money for tickets.

As to the service itself, well, I have no doubt that you can guess its nature, but let the details wait until we are together again. Should you be uninterested in helping me, well, come anyway, and we can sit around and remember evenings in Belgrade, and nights in Vienna.

I am including my address. Please let me know if you are free, and, if so, when.

I Remain, as Always,

Your Servant,

Jack Agyar

I met Bill once more today. It was still early evening, and he was out prowling the neighborhood with a determined look on his face. I stopped and said hello. He said, “Have you seen any stray dogs around here?

“No,” I said. “Can’t say I have. Did Pepper run off?”

He shook his head. “No. Another dog got into our yard and killed her.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. What did it look like?”

“I don’t know; I didn’t see it. It must have been big, though, judging from what it did to Pepper.”

I winced and repeated that I was sorry.

“Well,” he said. “I’m going to be keeping a close eye out around here, and I’ve been asking everyone else to do the same.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

He nodded and went on his way, looking pathetically determined.

I got to Susan’s house, and, once more, checked to see if she was alone. This time I heard soft voices in the bedroom, and I assumed one of them was Jennifer’s.

For just a second I wanted to break the window and descend on them in a storm of blood and anger, then I thought to escape entirely; to go far away where I’d be out of the reach of such thoughts. My next idea was to enter and pay Jill a visit, but I did not trust myself sufficiently; it would be inconvenient if she were to die.

In the end, I sat there, a cold wind blowing across my body, and I studied the stars through the passing wisps of clouds, undimmed by any moon. I do not know how long I waited there, or what I thought I was waiting for, but I suddenly became aware that the door had opened, and Jennifer had left the house.

I remember thinking that her step was very distinct; she leaned forward a bit as she walked, so the scuffling sound came after the step, almost as if she were skating. To my eyes, as I followed her, she was a dark blur against a dark street, but I could follow the pinpoints of the occasional porch or living-room light that she blotted out as she passed before them.

It would have been so easy to fall on her then, as she walked, and have done with it, and I do not know why I didn’t do so. But in the end she came to a very small house, all dark inside with a heavily textured roof and a squat chimney to which a TV antenna was attached. The house did not seem to have many windows. As I watched, a half-moon rose and made the stars fade just a little.

I thought, then, about knocking on the door and seeing if she wanted to invite me in for a chat, but it didn’t seem to be such a good idea because I wasn’t certain what to say to her, or how I’d feel if she did, in fact, did not wish to talk to me. I had to assume she knew about me; did it bother her? Did I care if it did?

If it means so much, why am I so confused and ashamed at my own feelings? If it means so little, why do I feel betrayed whenever I know they are together?

I’ve written a letter to an old friend who could solve this problem for me, but now I’m not certain if I want to send it. I guess I’ll just leave it sitting here for a while and decide later.

Exhaustion, weakness, and trembling are, I think, a small price to pay for life and freedom. We can call that tonight’s lesson and be done with it, but where’s the fun in that? This evening I have had a brush with death or captivity, and learned something important. At this moment, the effects of the escape are so strong that I cannot determine what I have learned, but the exhaustion, I know, will pass.

I remember that, when I rose, the thought was with me that I had not seen Jill for some days, and it wouldn’t do for the poor dear to feel neglected, so, after showering and brushing my teeth, I put on my coat and went out to find her. I could just as easily have brought her to me, but it was a clear, if cold, night, with the stars showing as much of themselves as they dared to in the city; the Big Dipper wheeled over my head and Orion smiled down on me.

Or so I thought at the time. Now, I wonder if he was not laughing at me; but that is as much nonsense as the other; the stars are merely stars, and I put no more weight on their attitudes than I do on dreams.