CORRESPONDENT KEN

By Ben Greenman / @2019

From forthcoming collection of stories, as yet untitled

Here is a letter dictated to me by Ken, a man I see sometimes in my gym. He is older than the rest of the regulars, which prevented me at first from approaching him, while also creating in me the idea that if I did approach him, our conversation would be longer and more involved than those I had with the younger members of the gym, interactions that were mostly limited to raised hands or nodded heads, occasionally a word or two about a standout performance by an athlete the day before. I was right. When I finally introduced myself to Ken, he skipped straight over any pleasantries we might have exchanged me and asked me if I could take dictation. I was surprised by the specifics of the request but not by its general tenor. It was precisely the level of engagement I had expected before I spoke to him. “I can,” I said. He explained that he had damaged his hands, or more precisely poisoned himself with alcohol and the resulting tremors so that he could no longer keep them still, and that that much of the time he spent in the gym was in fact a novel physical-therapy regimen designed to steady him to the point where he could at least hold a telephone up to his ear. I wrote what he told me down without embellishing a single word. 

Dear J. —

Here, he took pains to explain that the J. was an initial rather than a name, and that prudence and a protective instinct prevented him from revealing the full identity of his correspondent. I nodded. He resumed.

Dear J—

To endure this level of contempt at this stage is confounding. We marched together for years, you and I. We fought side by side. We married, which was not easy in those days for two men. Think of all that we had to overcome. It was like fording a river without knowing exactly where it was. Danger rushed by in rapids beneath us for longer than we imagined. We crossed to the other side. And then what? When we were on dry land, when our bodies could be at rest and our minds came to be, that is when you chose to take your leave. 

What is wrong? I asked you several times. At first you would not answer at all. You merely turned away from me. In the fourth or fifth month you came forward with a list of grievances, most of which I felt were ordinary in the course of doing this kind of business: a partnership or what a weaker time would have called a “relationship.” I endeavored to address them in a timely manner. You wanted more time with me? Done. You wanted to sometimes pick our vacation destinations? Done. You wanted me to take a more active role in decorating, which had always struck me as boring? I could do that. I began to draft a letter back to you explaining that none of the things you were asking were impossible or even especially unlikely, but then I found myself more and more angry that you had not simply raised the issues with me when we were together. You escalated the issue to a point of no return, retreated down the other side of the peak, and then wrote your note. The more I thought about it, the more indefensible I felt your behavior to be, and I set aside the letter in which I planned to explain that I could accommodate your concerns and wrote this letter instead, in which I am explaining that your cowardice, more than anything I ever did—any words spoken, any drink drunk—has ruined things. You can go to hell. When you get there, don’t look for me. I’ll be elsewhere.

Love,

Ken

This was Ken’s letter. Again, I changed nothing, not a word. When I had finished, he seized it from me eagerly and read it back to himself, his hands shaking. “Ken,” I said, “were you happy with this J.?” 

“Is a strong man happy in the presence of corrosive weakness?” he answered. Now his tone was oracular. “Here,” he said. “Look.” He gave me a photograph. It was of a young man in a baseball cap, long hair matted on his next. He stared straight ahead as if he had been confronted, but his eyes were bright. Next to him, at a picnic table, sat a younger version of Ken. He held a beer can confidently in his right hand. His features were finer then. Next to them on the ground were two beautiful dogs, terriers of some kind. Why had he not mentioned the dogs? I thought. I almost cried it out. Instead, I handed the picture back to him. “Nice,” I said. He echoed the word as the photograph in his hand fanned the air between us.