By Ben Greenman
Originally drafted in 1919
Revised in 1954
Re-revised in 1971
Finished in 2015
“Oof,” said Dennis. It was not the worst time for him to say it, but it was not the best. He looked around. No one had heard. “Oh,” he said. This time, another person noticed and briefly lifted eyes to meet his. He nodded at this other person. This other person was a young woman holding a sharp stick. Dennis gasped in fear and even recoiled a little bit but the part of his brain that was not afraid took over the part that was, recognizing the sharp stick as a pencil. He moved on. He had a talent for reading upside-down and backwards, which he had cultivated since childhood, and which now allowed him to glance not at the young woman or her weapon but at the mirror over her head, which reflected back what she was writing with the pencil. She had a large-format notebook open in her lap. It was covered with words. Glorious words, Dennis thought, wonderful words. Words that built worlds. He did not say any of this. He coughed. The young woman did not lift her eyes. He squinted at the mirror, thinking hard, until he could flip the glorious wonderful words and then flip them again. He could read them now. “Wash clothes?” she had written in large block print. And then, beneath that, in even larger print, “Yes!” And then, beneath both of them, there was a longer message in a smaller handwriting, but still neat enough for him to read. “Make an appointment with Professor Brandy." Or was it "Professor, Brandy"? "The spirit of wine," Dennis said. "Medium dark red," Dennis said. "87413F," Dennis said. That was the code for the color. He had once used it as the background hue for a website for a shoe store. It was the oldest shoe store in town. Dennis's father had shopped there. His grandfather had shopped there. Dennis had suffered through toes pinched into dress shoes and his grandfather not taking charge. "They feel good to me," his grandfather said, though his grandfather, standing six feet away and filling out the racing form, was not feeling them at all. His grandfather had begun to decline. He had wandered into the fields near town and Dennis and his father had to go retrieve him. Dennis thought of the fields. They had been farmland once but were no longer arable by the time Dennis was born. They were vast and yellow-brown. Dennis's grandfather was standing toward the back of the field, near a fringe of trees whose leaves were #87413F. It was November. Three weeks later, he might have frozen to death. Dennis ran toward his grandfather. He wrapped his grandfather's arms around him until he felt safe, and imagined that his grandfather felt safe as well. Now, Dennis was almost as old as his grandfather had been. He imagined running into the fields. He imagined being safe. He tore his eyes away from the mirror and looked once more at the young woman. She was beautiful. His words had earned her gaze. When he met it, she blushed and went back to writing, writing quickly, writing words that he knew he would never read. "Oof," he said a second time, getting up to leave. It was not the worst time for it. It was the best.
Originally drafted in 1919
Revised in 1954
Re-revised in 1971
Finished in 2015
“Oof,” said Dennis. It was not the worst time for him to say it, but it was not the best. He looked around. No one had heard. “Oh,” he said. This time, another person noticed and briefly lifted eyes to meet his. He nodded at this other person. This other person was a young woman holding a sharp stick. Dennis gasped in fear and even recoiled a little bit but the part of his brain that was not afraid took over the part that was, recognizing the sharp stick as a pencil. He moved on. He had a talent for reading upside-down and backwards, which he had cultivated since childhood, and which now allowed him to glance not at the young woman or her weapon but at the mirror over her head, which reflected back what she was writing with the pencil. She had a large-format notebook open in her lap. It was covered with words. Glorious words, Dennis thought, wonderful words. Words that built worlds. He did not say any of this. He coughed. The young woman did not lift her eyes. He squinted at the mirror, thinking hard, until he could flip the glorious wonderful words and then flip them again. He could read them now. “Wash clothes?” she had written in large block print. And then, beneath that, in even larger print, “Yes!” And then, beneath both of them, there was a longer message in a smaller handwriting, but still neat enough for him to read. “Make an appointment with Professor Brandy." Or was it "Professor, Brandy"? "The spirit of wine," Dennis said. "Medium dark red," Dennis said. "87413F," Dennis said. That was the code for the color. He had once used it as the background hue for a website for a shoe store. It was the oldest shoe store in town. Dennis's father had shopped there. His grandfather had shopped there. Dennis had suffered through toes pinched into dress shoes and his grandfather not taking charge. "They feel good to me," his grandfather said, though his grandfather, standing six feet away and filling out the racing form, was not feeling them at all. His grandfather had begun to decline. He had wandered into the fields near town and Dennis and his father had to go retrieve him. Dennis thought of the fields. They had been farmland once but were no longer arable by the time Dennis was born. They were vast and yellow-brown. Dennis's grandfather was standing toward the back of the field, near a fringe of trees whose leaves were #87413F. It was November. Three weeks later, he might have frozen to death. Dennis ran toward his grandfather. He wrapped his grandfather's arms around him until he felt safe, and imagined that his grandfather felt safe as well. Now, Dennis was almost as old as his grandfather had been. He imagined running into the fields. He imagined being safe. He tore his eyes away from the mirror and looked once more at the young woman. She was beautiful. His words had earned her gaze. When he met it, she blushed and went back to writing, writing quickly, writing words that he knew he would never read. "Oof," he said a second time, getting up to leave. It was not the worst time for it. It was the best.
