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Travis Hessman
The Geometry of Distance
Dick and Sally were happy: they were together: everything was simple.
They were separated by several feet in the almost-middle of the endless white-white space.
Actually, only parts of them were separated by several feet in the almost-middle and the rest of their parts were separated by several more. Their top parts, specifically, were the closest, only a few feet apart, and the ankles and below bits were the furthest.
It's like this: Dick and Sally's waists formed the precise mid-point of distance between each other such that (provided Dick and Sally were both relatively symmetrical (that the distance from waist to foot was equal to the distance from waist to head) (which they were of course), in equal proportion to each other (which they certainly were as well)), the distance from Dick's feet (DF) to Sally's feet (SF) was exactly twice that of Dick's head (DH) to Sally's feet (SF) minus the equal space between heads (X), or: DFSF = 2(DHSF) - X.
Imagine it like this: if we cut out space "X," so Dick and Sally's heads actually touched, they, along with the floor as the baseline, would make a perfect isosceles triangle — Dick as the left bar, meeting the floor at a 45 degree angle, and Sally as the right, equally angled. Their heads, meanwhile, would meet at 90 degrees.
Except their heads weren't touching. Because of space X.
So, Dick and Sally both stood at 45 degree angles facing each other, as if desperate to make the triangle, except their heads, the would-be right angle parts, were separated by a distance of precisely two arms and two hands (laid end to end) plus one inch (the insidious X). That means when Dick and Sally reached for each other across the distance (X), stretching against the thick ropes tied around their waists and straining their fingers straight (and they did this quite often), the tips of their longest digits remained one full inch apart. So no matter how Dick stretched toward Sally and Sally stretched for Dick, there always remained that X, that inch, that space between.
Directly below that insurmountable inch (and this is of very little, if any, consequence) was the exact middle of the endless white-white space, framed on two sides by stretching hands.
It's all really quite simple. And that's why they were happy: they were together.
* * *
—I'm sad, Sally.
—That's too bad, Dick. I'm sad too.
—I think, though I'm still really quite unsure, that this might be better if we were to see it at more of a distance.
—I was just thinking exactly the opposite, Dick. Distance, as I see it, is the problem.
—It depends how you see it, I guess.
—I see as I said I see: the source of conflict. The miserable in-between.
—But that's only because we're here seeing.
—Where else should we be?
—Nowhere. Nowhere else of course. But if we were far away, maybe over in the corner...
—By the red thing?
—Opposite the red thing. The other side completely. If we were down there, way down there, imagine how little this distance would seem.
—But if we had enough slack to cross the distance there, why wouldn't we have enough slack to close the distance here?
—There must be a way to see it there.
—If we were there seeing it there, there would be nothing to see here.
—What if only one of us went, then?
—Then the space would grow from here to there: one unbearable inch times all the inches you would have us add.
—Then we need a way to be both here and there.
—Or neither.
—There must be a way.
—But there isn't. That's why I'm sad, Dick.
—That's too bad, Sally. That's why I'm sad too.
* * *
They reached for each other, trying to stretch through the one tiny inch too many. They stretched, pulled, and reached, sweating at the strain of that sad maneuver, until, exhausted, they let their arms fall and hang limply below them. And then, every time of these countless times, they would stare across the distance as they rested: Dick at Sally, Sally at Dick, and smile until they stretched again.
* * *
—Which is the right way to say it, Sally: 'It's all behind us now' or 'It's all before of us now'?
—It's hard to say, Dick. We'd have to decide between it'ses.
—Is it, for instance, the things? They're behind us, sure as anything.
—And the work to put the things there, too: all behind us now.
—But can work really be behind? Such an inconcrete series of things?
—Sure, it's behind in both ways: the spatial and temporal behind. We worked in the past (a time behind), clearing the things that are, as we agreed, behind us now.
—But is that 'it'? The things, the work, the time before? Is that all 'it' is, the big important thing?
—It was diligent, forward-working work, Dick, that brought us here after so much left behind.
—It was good work. It nearly got us there. Almost, I'd say, to it.
—The it one inch ahead?
—The it that's all before us now.
—So all that's behind us brought us here where it's all before us now.
—So how do we say it, Sally?
* * *
Dick and Sally's space was a forever large. From the middle, the edges seemed like blurred horizons, the ceiling, an immeasurable zenith, and all of it bleached white-white. A white so white it made white seem gray. A blinding shade. A blinding shade that went on forever. All around, floor to ceiling: white-white. Forever.
* * *
—It's simple this way, Sally. You've got to admit.
—It's all maths now.
—I haven't stumbled since all this. Not once.
—I haven't moved.
—So here we are.
—So here we are.
—And I'm happy we could get together like this.
—I am too.
—We should have something to say, though.
—Since we're together and all.
—We should have something relevant to say.
—Now that there's nothing in the way.
—We should say something.
* * *
With nothing behind them, it would have been impossible to find Dick and Sally in that white shine and infinity. They would have been two grayish figures, just tiny spots in an enormous forever of almost nothing at all. Luckily, there was a great deal behind them and, consequently, a simple trick to locating them in the space. To do so, one only had spot the miles of inches-thick jet black rope that stretched taut all the way from Dick's waist to the door behind him at the horizon. Or the identical rope that stretched the identical distance from Sally's waist to the door behind her. Obvious in brilliant contrast to the white-white everything else, the ropes worked like giant arrows pointing the way to the middle from each horizon to the two tiny, forward-leaning figures.
That's how you found them straining there, stretching their fingers so. Can't miss them.
* * *
—Lately, Sally, I've been changing my Ts around. I used to start at the top and draw the line down and then cross it from left to right. Lately, though, I've been starting from the bottom and drawing up. But I still cross them the same way. Left to right. There's no practical alternative.
—I'm happy for you, Dick. I remember when I dropped the loop from the bottom of my twos. It was great. Exciting. The best thing I've ever done.
—It's all I can think about. I can't wait to write another.
—The best thing I've ever done.
—Someday I'd like to make my threes with a straight top and a sharp angle down to the curve at the bottom.
—Someday I'd like to make my Ws out of Vs.
—Do you cross your sevens?
—Of course.
—Me too.
—Is this enough?
—We can always stretch.
* * *
There was a time, once upon a time ago, when it was all quite different. And impossible. Impossibler. When everything was a stumbling thing to stumble upon. When their stares, which are now so even and focused, Dick at Sally, Sally at Dick, had to cross hopeless distance through all the colors of all the things to meet. If they met at all. If something didn't pass between them as they tried. If they weren't distracted by a green thing or a red thing and forgot, somehow, Dick or Sally, to stare longingly, deeply, into the others' eyes. When they reached for each other then, of course they grasped nothing, just as they did now. But now, it's only the inch, the clear, clean inch of nothing, and not the feet or miles or inches as before when something was always in the way.
That was all behind them now. Behind them in huge black bags just off the horizon.
There had been a plan, and the plan had been simple: be happy, be together. The two would be joined with a colon. Happy: together. And to be together, they would have to simplify. So they added another.
It's hard to say who came up with it. There'd been so much in the way then, colors and things and motion. Motion especially. The things going one way and time going the other. And all the words falling in there hopelessly between. Dick said to Sally, but a little too late. Sally said to Dick, but too early and there was a green thing in the way. So, though they wanted to share and wanted to reach, it was too complicated. There was something always in the way.
So they simplified. Cut everything down to X. A reasonable space. So they could talk in normal voices. And come together in sad, desperate reaching. Call it happy. Call it simple. Call it together. And it would be perfect.
* * *
—That letter bit, that was something, wasn't it, Sally?
—It was an immaterial.
—A non-material.
—That's right, Dick.
—But still, it was something.
—It's something, sure. But it's nothing we could bag, which is the point. There's still plenty of that kind of something left all around. But we can, afterall, at least say there's nothing bagable in the way.
—If we could find a way, maybe we could find a way.
—Riddles now. I'd like to find a bag for those as well.
—Is there no way, Sally?
—To bag what's left? To bag all the somethignnothings left between us?
—To surmount, Sally. To surmount.
—There's no way.
—Well there it is.
—Anyway, I'm happy we could get together like this, Dick.
—Wow. Me too. Wow.
* * *
Away from them, so far back you could hardly see it, was the red thing. It was positioned such that, if we assume Dick and Sally were on the X axis of the room, each facing the XY intercept (such that Dick was negative facing positive and Sally was positive facing negative), the red thing was on the positive Y axis exactly one waist-to-horizon length of rope (such as the ones affixed to both Dick and Sally's waists) plus ½X from the intercept.
It doesn't matter what it was, whether it was new or old, fresh or brittle. Just that it was there. And red. It could have been a pepper, could have been a sign. Doesn't matter. Because, since it was there, and red among the white-white, gray, and black, it made the white-white a little less white around it, the black lines a little less severe, and the gray of Dick and Sally's robes a little more distinct.
Relative to its redness, everything seemed to get a little more detailed, a little less vague. So you could make out the shoulders and bumps. Even Dick and Sally's faces seemed to glow in a certain way because of it. Like their lips when they smiled. Like their eyes when they stared.
If you stood a rope-length plus ½X down the negative Y axis (or two rope lengths plus X down from the red thing) the redness would fill the space between Dick and Sally's fingers perfectly when they stretched. So when they reached forward from their 45 degree angles and stretched and pulled against their too-big bags and strained, Dick toward Sally, Sally toward Dick, that one inch between their longest fingers seemed to glow red. The space seemed filled with color. A peculiar effect.
The bags, in stark contrast to the red, were an easy matter: they were too big. They were on the outside of the room. Enormous, bulging things, far too big to fit through the Dick and Sally-sized doors.
Both Dick and Sally had a bag tethered to their waists, which they pulled against, which allowed for their unlikely angles. They pulled in constant pull, though they knew the bags would never fit through the doors, that the ropes were too thick to break and too stiff to stretch, the knots impossible, no matter how they fidgeted with them at their waists.
* * *
—I think sometimes about that old box, Sally.
—Which box?
—You know, the bad one. The box of bad. The Pandora box.
—Oh, that one. I think about that too. I know the story.
—About how they all got out.
—Except that one, you know.
—That's the part I keep thinking about. About how it got out too.
—I think we're talking about different boxes.
—I'm talking about the bad box. The box of hope.
—I don't know the story.
—Anyway, I think about it sometimes.
—Oh. Dick?
—Yes?
—You know, I'm sad.
—That's too bad, Sally. Me too.
* * *
There was a chance before. Of course there was. Before, Dick could have tripped over a yellow thing, for example, just as, by way of incredible coincidence, Sally tripped over some purple thing and they could have stumbled straight into each other. Just like that. They could have come together with nothing, no inch, no X, no thing between them. There was a ratio then, though, that calculated these odds with a sobering quantity of 0s.
* * *
—What if the ropes were a little longer, Sally? What if the bags were a little thinner? What then?
—But this is how it is.
—But why?
—We've tried everything. Now everything's out of the way. And now this is how it is.
—Just an inch. Think how silly it must be from a distance, Sally. This inch. A happy thing to see. We'd seem together.
—But we're only right here.
—So we can only see this space. This distance. This in-between.
—At least it's closer than before.
—Maybe that's the problem.
—We shouldn't talk about it.
—Well, sure.
—Anyway, I'm happy we could get together like this, Dick.
—Yes. Me too. Wow.
* * *
It was easy work. There was a world of stuff: blue things and yellow things, reds and purples. Rainbows of things all in the way. And Dick and Sally, somewhere in the mix, were two people there to get together. To be happy.
So they agreed. They threw some words into the chaos of things and motion and somehow, against all odds, they met up, their words. And the message was easy: be happy: be together: simplify.
So Dick took his things, all his reds and yellows that were tied to his waist with those impossible knots of that thin black thread and carried them, one at a time to the horizon, where he dumped them. Where he threw them away in his great trash bag. One at a time through the rainbows. Until everything he had stuck to him, everything that had been in the way, was behind him. In the bag. Outside the door. Over the horizon.
All the while, Sally did the same.
One of them forgot the red thing. Or put it there for a reason. Or just threw it there at random. Anyway, it wasn't tied to either of them.
* * *
—I read about a man once who said life is the underneath side of a rug.
—The underneath, Dick? Where all the crumbs go?
—Where all the wool is tied. Where all the wool that makes all the pictures on the ontop side come underneath to be tied. To keep the ontop pictures in place.
—The man said that's life?
—Or that's where to find life. Where to find the meaning.
—In the knots?
—In the nonsense down below. Down under where all the bits are that make it make sense.
—What makes sense?
—Nothing eventually. But that's not 'til the end.
—What's 'it' then?
—The picture on top. Underneath there's all the knots that make the picture the picture. But underneath it's all out of order.
—The knots are out of order?
—That's what he said.
—But they'd just come untied if they were.
—No. But. Anyway, it's this man I read about.
—I guess I don't know the story.
* * *
It was an easy equation: if stuff keeps you apart, then no stuff will get you together. If S, then no T; if no S, then T. They only missed one thing along the way.
* * *
—I'm tired, Sally.
—I'm tired too.
—There's no chance, is there?
—Not anymore.
—But there used to be, right? There used to be tripping, right? We used to have that.
—There was no chance, Dick. Not with everything in the way.
—And no chance now with everything behind us.
—That's the way it is.
—So what if we opened the bags again? If we dumped them out? Put the green things where the green things go? Put the purple things where the purple things go? Put it all back? Back to the way it was? The way it was before the too-big bags?
—It'd be colorful.
—And the bags wouldn't be too big.
—But where would we be?
—Just where we are.
—Then we'd fall over.
—Then we'd find new angles.
—We'd see each other differently.
—We'd get used to it.
—But how would I find you?
—I'd be in the middle.
—But we only know the middle because the ropes tell us where it is.
—Then I'll be south of the red thing.
—But the red things would be everywhere.
—Then we can ignore all the colors.
—But you can't ignore the colors.
—Then we'd put them in the bags, hide them away forever.
—Then here we'd be again.
—Again.
—Again.
—Is there no way?
—None that I can find.
—How close would we get? With it all in place? With the empty bags? With all the colors everywhere? How close could we get if we tried?
—There's no way to know. Miles. Millimeters. Years.
—So there's no other way?
—None that I can find.
* * *
And they reached. They always reached. Because there was nothing in the way. And everything was behind them. So they reached forward, they pulled against their bags, and strained their fingers straight. And they crossed all the world; crossed all of X. Except that one small inch.
* * *
—Shouldn't we be talking about something, Sally?
—Like what?
—Something huge. Something relevant. Since we have all this space. Since we're together after all.
—Have we talked about Pandora?
—Yes, and letters too.
—And the rug?
—The knot part.
—Have I told you how I feel about it all?
* * *
And they stretched. And they stretched. And they reached. And they stretched. And the X remained. And they stretched. And the x. And the x. And the x.
* * *
—What's left, Sally?
—Just an inch.
—That's not so much.
—It's all there is.
—Are we missing something?
—If there's anything missing, it's the part that's always been gone.
—The part that's after?
—The part where we live, happily.
Some of Travis Hessman's pieces have been named finalists in the 2011 Collagist Chapbook Contest and The Black Warrior Review Second-Ever Short Story Contest, and as an honorable mention in the 2008 Chaismus Press First Book Contest. His fancy MFA degree is from the fancy Northeast Ohio MFA consortium, where he studied fiction. He also spent some time at the writing program at the University of Alabama. |