Him

Him Back to business. I have Faust drop me off in the same neighborhood as the day before--the Lark neighborhood, for now. I told her about the one hundred dollar donation, and that the entire block had shown huge interest in our cause. She lapped up the information, as eager as I to please Meric, and to redeem our failures. So for the second day, I watch Faust speed away in the little car. I turn to face the Lark household, the old screen still there, and surely the same patriarch Lark glued to the chair; the same Annie, slowly repaying her father. You can’t fault a man for teaching an adolescent the value of a dollar. Taking a final glance at the Lark home, I turn sharply, heading to the house adjacent. It’s a two story, yellow building. The mailbox reads HIM. I approach the door, knock once, twice, three times before an answer. An Asian woman appears, pulling the door open. She immediately smiles, bright and welcoming. “Hello! Welcome!” “Good morning,” I say. “Yes, it is beautiful and sunny!” “Cold.” “That, too!” “Are you Mrs. Him?” I ask. “Yes. Say it like this: ‘Heem.’” “I see, I will do that. May I come in?” “Yes! Mr. Him is having breakfast, in fact we both are. You are welcome to also, Mr . . .?” “Zeal.” “Welcome to the Him Home, Mr. Zeal!” And I walk in. Mrs. Him leads me up a short staircase, around a corner to another, and finally onto the second floor, where a man sits at a table, having breakfast. Mr. Him. “Good morning, Mr. Him,” I say. He looks up. White, not Asian, I notice. Mrs. Him says, “This is Mr. Zeal, here to have breakfast also!” She slides a chair for me, and I settle opposite the two Hims. “Has my wife,” Mr. Him says, “explained how to say our name?” “Yes,” I say. “‘Heem,’ correct?” “No. You say it like it looks. Him. Like a male person.” “I see.” “No,” his wife breaks in. “Say it like this: ‘Heem.’” “Him,” Mr. Him says. “OK!” I say, not annoyed or pushy, just with jubilant finality. I decide to pronounce each parties name as they prefer, hopefully to appease them. “Well, I thank you both for having me in your beautiful home. If I may explain my purpose--” Mrs. Him slides a steaming plate of breakfast food before me. “--I bare the burden of a cause. This cause I call ‘fighting the Good fight,’ with a capital G. I will attempt to illustrate my cause by asking a question. Have either of you ever witnessed a living creature, and thought, ‘That living creature just isn’t right?’” They kept silent for a moment, Mr. Him finally saying, “We most certainly have.” “I know you have. Everyone has. Everyone will. And they all wonder, how can I combat the living things I don’t like? That’s where the ‘Good fight’ comes in. We’re after the truth, you see, and once we find the truth, we are free to shine a bright light on what’s not truth--anything and everything we do not already think or know! Do you see the flaw? Because I sure don’t.” They’re nodding slowly. Mrs. Him’s lips are tight. The universal gesture of agreeability, as I’ve learned. Several people have gestures like this, many of them in common with one another. Between you and me, I think they really enjoy when human exchanges go well, and are afraid to mess it up. I could be wrong about that (but I wouldn’t admit it out loud). I, too, enjoy when human exchanges are going well. “We have two children,” Mr. Him says. “A daughter and a son. Both grown now, late twenties. Our daughter, Tanya--” “Wonderful Tanya,” Mrs. Him says, smiling. Positively glowing. “--Tanya completed University, four year degree, perfectly average student. Works for big business. And carries on the Him family tradition, which we fondly call ‘Burger-a-week.’” “Right,” I say. “In an attempt to integrate into this nation’s culture, my father became an avid hamburger eater. Two or three times a week, that’s how we ate in my home. No questions asked.” I say, “And your father was . . . English?” “No.” “. . . German?” “Asian.” “Of course.” “Now our son, no name--” “Heathen,” Mrs. Him says. “--He went to University, no help from us as punishment, and got a six year degree. La-dee-da! No telling where he’s ended up. The boy rejected our family tradition, burger-a-week, because it’s apparently unhealthy. Unhealthy! I’ve had only one heart attack. My old man built structures in this nation, and lived through not only mild cardiovascular issues, but three full blown attacks! It’s not unhealthy until you’re dead, and by then, there’s no such thing as health anymore.” An unusual story. One of the more odd ones I’ve come across in my canvasing for the Good cause. However, if I’ve learned anything in the process, it’s that these intimately related people have all sorts of idiosyncrasies that aren’t mine. They are quite interesting and entertaining to listen to, and I always respond politely. But I never lose sight of the goal: Take these little oddities, and replace them with the cause’s! But seriously, there are no oddities in the Good cause. It’s the right way to be. “I know it seems like a joke,” Mr Him says. “I’m smart enough to see how it could, you know. But we’ve always taken the tradition seriously in this family. I enjoyed it in my youth, and it’s only right for my children to have enjoyed it, and for my children’s children to enjoy it, ad infinitum.” I could not fault that. “But my accursed son, he will never allow my grandchildren to enjoy such tradition. They will lose touch with their roots, forever.” “A sure danger, Mr. Him,” I say. “I can see now that you both have indeed witnessed a living creature we can honestly call ‘not right.’ Did you know: there are many creatures--let’s call them people for now on--who are just as wrong, just as disgusting as your son? Hundreds, thousands, millions of people; an army’s worth. My cause combats those people. We must end them, before they multiply like sick animals. Before they spread their poisonous words, so called knowledge, so called ideas, to other normal, ‘right’ people. It’s as though they believe we normal people do not already possess the truth. We do, and we’ll not be told any different.” Mr. Him says, “And down with the ones who try!” “Agreed, wholeheartedly, Mr. Him,” I say. “Oh, look!” Mrs. Him sharply shouts. “Little girl is out!” From our breakfast table on the Him’s second floor, I glance left, out a window, and see a girl sitting, back against the outside wall, of the house next door. The Lark house. Annie. I say, “She doesn’t look quite like a little girl, does she? I mean, I wouldn’t strictly define her as such.” “No,” Mr. Him says. “My wife calls all other women that. No. That girl surely isn’t little.” Annie’s legs are stretched all the way out, and she appears to be doing something very odd. She runs her open hand across the grass. Gently, slowly. Mrs. Him says, “Little girl has no imagination. Poor thing.” “We came to that conclusion,” Mr. Him adds, “after watching her from here several times. She comes out every now and then, and just sits in the same place, only fiddling with what’s around her. Never moving. Not even stretching.” Mrs. Him says, “We gave our own children clay and play dough. Imagination is good for the child. That little girl didn’t get one.” Annie continues to stroke the grass. I cannot see her eyes, cannot tell if she is engaged with it. “When our kids became old enough for more complicated toys,” Mr. Him says, “as in toys like little cars, action figures, dolls, things like that . . . You know what they did? The creative, imaginative little buggers created whole villages and metropolises on the floor. With a legitimate and reasonable system of government, and a bustling and flowing economy! I remember one time, they were tackling the issue of a domestic, cyber terrorist. We’re sure you can’t say the same for many other children, and you sure can’t for that girl down there petting her parent’s backyard.” “Parent, actually,” I say quietly, still watching out the window. “No kidding?” Mr. Him says. “I visited them yesterday. It’s just her and her father.” The Him’s look to each other. “Huh,” Mr. Him says. “Well, we’ve never known much about that family. Not very interesting. Never hear a peep out of them. Never cause any problems. Sure to be a well-run household.” I feel a tug in my stomach. I continue watching Annie, doing the same careful motions over the grass; hand moving in a circle, clockwise, occasionally switching to counterclockwise. She rests the side of her head against the outside of the house, and I fill in the blanks. I fill them in by imagining her breathing as slow, deep, relaxed. She’s feeling the coolness of the grass. Freshness, at least until her hand warms the spot. Then it’s just like her, and she doesn’t want to feel it anymore. Then she changes to looking at the sky, or the trees. All the while, resting against the house, breathing the delightful, fresh air. Reveling in the need we have for air, and how nice it is for something we so need to, every now and then, smell so pleasant. I imagine Annie sitting there and enjoying herself. A temporary sanctuary; an opportunity and facility to breath easy; a place to be happy. And I don’t have to imagine, because it happens quite vividly before my own eyes, and the eyes of the Hims, her father, walking out of the home, and yanking her thoughtlessly from that reverie.