Irving
I remember her saying to him, “Irving, if you don’t stop talking to yourself the men in the white coats and butterfly nets are going to come and take you away to 11th and McClay.” Chances are Irving was really talking with himself, but it is also possible that he was muttering some disapproval under his breath. In fact, she was the one who named Irving “the pack rat” because he hoarded things. First he carried them in his bulging pockets, then deposited them in secret stashes which when she uncovered them—calling all twenty one of us to the basement—she would display smack in the middle of the dressing room floor. Our eyes all wide and her lip curling up to her nose in disapproval of old foodstuffs Irving had saved, or unlaundered socks she might find. The mentality was the opposite of finding a buried treasure. For Irving seemed to hide just what seemed most worthless. She in one smooth motion spilled it out from the shirts and socks he had them wrapped in. Trifles that sometimes we had discarded. But when we saw them strewn on the floor, the fruit of her uncovery, they would take on a value they hadn’t had before and we would be prompted to join her in accusing Irving of stealing what we had discarded. Perhaps Irving never knew the difference. For he through this ritual of uncovering, when his soul was as if emptied of its contents there on the basement floor, would not utter a word of self-defense. His face would be that glowing pink that contrasted so well with his sparse wisps of blond hair. A uniform pink that told of his overweight and the readiness of his blood to respond to any embarrassment. It was a sight there, all the hoardings spilled on the floor with Mrs. Shank yelling in Irving’s face, “Pack rat, pack rat!” And the rest of us repeating the litany in chorus, “Pack rat, pack rat.” And Irving just standing there stiffly under the bare basement light bulb in the center of the floor. His possessions at his feet, scattered all around the drain cover. His metal-rimmed glasses because of the straightness of his posture catching the light, blinding us of any chance to look into his eyes for an idea of what he was thinking. “Pack rat, pack rat,” we chanted. And I remember her yelling as she rooted through his things for him to empty his pockets “right here and now, Mr. Provost!” Trying to erase even the dignity that his last name suggested.
Richard Krause’s collection of short stories, Studies in Insignificance, was published in 2003 by Livingston Press and his collection of epigrams, Optical Biases, was published in 2012 by Eyecorner Press in Denmark. Seventy of his epigrams have been translated into Italian at Aforisticamente. His writing has more recently appeared in The Alembic, J Journal, Hotel Amerika, qarrtsiluni, Fraglit, and The Long Story. He teaches at Somerset Community College in Kentucky.