These shortest of short stories (and others like them) were originally published in the magazine Plaza at various times in the final decade of the last century.
The Street (1996)
Although Felix Crawford had lost his job six months before, he still dressed with care every morning, and wearing either a gray or blue business suit, left the house at the usual time, patent leather briefcase in hand. He took the 7:38 bus downtown, and walked two blocks from the bus stop to the Sheraton Hotel. In the mezzanine coffee shop he ordered coffee and unfolded his newspaper.
It was a delightful time of day. The restaurant would be crowded with businessmen like himself, sipping coffee and hunched over their newspapers. No one spoke, no glances were exchanged, and yet a kind of fellowship existed among them, the fellowship of common interests, common pursuits, a common point of view. The waitresses, pretty young women in yellow-and-red check uniforms, circulated like dancers, taking orders, filling empty coffee cups, smiling amiably. And at eight-thirty or a quarter to nine, when everyone started to fold up their newspapers and fumble in their pockets for tip money, Felix did the same. By nine o'clock he was back out on the street.
The Lottery (1995)
The phone rang. In a fog I groped for the receiver. 5:02, said the alarm clock on the dresser. Sunlight streamed in through the shoji. Another long June day. "Hello."
"Is this Mr. Miller?" said an excited elderly male voice I didn't recognize.
"Yes. I think so. I don't know. Probably not."
"This is Saito."
"Who?"
"Saito, your neighbor, two houses down, blue tile roof."
"Pleased to meet you," I mumbled. "It's 5:03."
"Mr. Omoto – "
"A.M."
"What?"
"5:03 A.M., Mr. Blue Tile Roof. I was sleeping. Deeply."
"Mr. Omoto passed away."
"Terribly sorry to hear that. Who is Mr. Omoto?"
"Is your wife there?"
"My wife! My wife was sleeping too. It's 5:03 –"
"Mr. Omoto passed away; the funeral services are being held today."
"Mr. Omoto will have to excuse me, I –"
"Give me the phone," my wife said. She took the receiver.
"Hello? Mr. Saito?... Yes, I see. Yes. 7:30. I'll be there. Yes. Thank you."
"You'll be where?" I demanded when she had hung up. "Who the hell is Mr. Omoto? What's going on?"
"Mr. Omoto passed away. He's the old gentleman who lived next door to Mr. Saito."
"What color is his roof?"
"The man in the straw hat who was always puttering around in the garden with the radio on."
"It all comes back to me. Of course! Mr. Omoto of the straw hat, who used to putter around in his garden with the radio on! Listen, do you know what was going on in my dream? There was this lottery, right? A lottery. They were announcing the winning number. It was a seven-digit number – you listening? – and they had read six digits, and so far my ticket was right on. There was one more digit to read; the announcer was shaping her lips around the word; I needed a two, and she was bringing her tongue up to the roof of her mouth to make the 't' sound, it looked good, 10 million dollars were at stake, I'm hanging on the edge of my chair – and bloody Mr. what's-'is-name chooses that moment to phone – 5 a.m., mind you – to tell us that Mr. who's-it has died? Why? Why do I have to know that a man I've never set eyes on in my life died?"
"You don't have to know. I do."
"Why?"
"Because I'm on the committee."
"The committee. What committee?"
"The neighborhood committee. Please, be a good boy and be quiet now, because I'd like to get another hour's sleep if I can. It's going to be a busy day."
Before I could say another word, as effortlessly as a diver parting the waters, she slid into sleep, into a world far removed from me and my feeble sarcasm, while I lay in bed, my eyes burning, trying to summon up the image of an old man in a straw hat who until today had spent his time puttering around the garden. With the radio on.
Babble (1996)
The phone rang. I was expecting a call – this would be it. "Yup," I said.
"Moshi moshi?"
Obviously not the call I was waiting for. The woman stammered something about katei kyoshi. Home tutoring. Our son had just started junior high school. We got many calls from tutors' agencies. No matter how often or how brusquely we refuse, they never give up. They call again the next day, and again the day after. Sometimes twice in an afternoon.
Suddenly – a flash of memory. Was it memory? Perhaps it was fancy? I don't know. Anyway – my grandfather. I was a child, scarcely more than a baby. The phone rang. My parents were out, Grandfather was taking care of me. Grandfather answered. He listened, frowned, seemed suddenly to lose his self-possession. His face turned red. He began to babble. I was frightened. He hung up. Then he turned to me and started, as though surprised to see me there – where else would I be? Later I learned that the babbling was Russian. My grandfather was born in Russia. End of memory, if not fancy. Now, thirty-five years later, I myself started babbling. It was like – how shall I put it? – like a liberation. "Listen," I said in rapid-fire English. "I don't know what you're talking about. We don't go in for that kind of thing here."
"Sumimasen. E-excuse me. Your wife...?"
"My wife!" I shouted. "You ask about my wife? My wife walked out on me, abandoned me, left me for another man, a –"
The line went dead.
I hadn't noticed my son come into the room. "What was that all about?" he asked.
I smiled. Yielding to a sudden impulse, I reached out and rumpled his hair. He winced slightly, but didn't overdo it. "Some day," I told him, "you'll understand."
An Interview (1996)
QUESTION: Well! Let's begin, shall we? When did you first become invisible?
ANSWER: That's hard to say, really. It was a gradual process.
Q: I'm not sure I understand.
A: For example, there was this incident: I was walking along a street, it was dusk, there were very few people about. Suddenly I felt something bump me rather violently from behind. I wheeled around to confront a middle-aged man. He was terribly abashed. "Good heavens!" he cried. "I – I didn't see you!" "Didn't see me? But – " "I don't understand it," he said. "I see you clear as day now, but until I actually bumped smack into you I had no idea there was anyone in front of me." Well, that was my first encounter, so to speak, with my invisibility. At the time I dismissed it as just one of those little accidents – the guy was careless, lost in thought, whatever. I didn't begin to appreciate its true significance until much, much later.
Q: How did that come about?
A: I was a student at the time – it was a good fifteen years ago – a law student, top of my class. Anyway, some time after the encounter I described, I began to notice... how can I explain? My professors would seem utterly unaware of my existence. Oh, not all the time, but often enough. A question would come up, I would raise my hand, and not receive the slightest acknowledgment. You'll say, Maybe the professor wanted to give someone else a chance. Fair enough, but there were occasions, more than a few, when I was the only one to raise my hand. And the professor would be staring right at me – right at me! – and say, "No one?"
Q: Uncanny!
A: (laughter) Yes, rather.
Q: But... Did you understand then what was happening?
A: No, not at all. It only dawned on me over time – it seems in retrospect a surprisingly long time. Long after I first began to feel that something was amiss – and even that feeling took rather a long while to develop – I would say to myself – you know: "It's my imagination! Stop this nonsense!" But then one day out of the blue I suddenly remembered that man who bumped me in the street. A cold fear seized me. I thought, "Whoa! Something terrible is happening to me."
Q: What did you do?
A: What could I do? You can't very well go to a doctor and say, "Doctor, help me, I seem to be disappearing" – can you?
Q: What about your family, or friends? Did they notice anything?
A: Not at that point, no. But then, I was something of a lone wolf in those days. I had no close friends, and my parents lived in another city. I was so busy studying, I had very little time for socializing. (laughter) I was ambitious, you see.
Q: And then...
A: Well, to make a long story short, I graduated, got a job with a very prestigious law firm, married, had children. The invisibility nonsense stopped. I was successful in my work, happy at home – in short, I had everything a man could want, when suddenly –
Q: Yes?
A: Suddenly – I disappeared for good.
Q: For good.
A: (pause) Forgive me. This is... rather painful. My younger son – I used to tease him; he'd call, "Daddy!" and I'd put on a deep, deep voice, like this, and say, "Da-ddy's gone!" And he'd get quite scared, he'd start to cry, and I'd say, "Hey! I'm here, I'm here!" You know, just horsing around. It became one of our little routines. Once he caught on, he would pretend to be scared, pretend to cry. Well, one night just before bedtime he called, "Daddy!" And I said in my deep, scary voice, "Daddy's gone!" And he started to cry, and I said as usual, "What's the matter with you? I'm here, can't you see me?" But something was terribly wrong – he wasn't pretending this time, and he wasn't comforted, he only started howling louder, crying hysterically, "Daddy! Daddy!" I was holding him tight, getting frantic, calling out to him, "I'm here I'm here!" But it wasn't reaching him – his little arms were wrapped around my neck with all his might – but it was no use. (pause) I really was gone. And I couldn't come back.
Q: Your wife?
A: It was no use, I tell you! No – my wife couldn't bring me back either.
Q: Forgive me, I realize this is painful...
A: (composing himself with difficulty) No, it's all right.
Q: Well - you've been invisible ever since?
A: Ever since. Yes.
Q: And yet, the thing I don't understand is, I seem to be able to see you perfectly well.
A: It's kind of you to say so.
Q: No, really! And I can prove it!
A: (dully) How?
Q: I can describe you! Shall I?
A: Forgive me if I'm being impertinent, but... you're very young, aren't you?
Q: I'm twenty-four!
A: Yes, I thought as much. At twenty-four, what doesn't a person think she can see! I'm afraid, though, that I must ask you to leave. I don't mean to be rude, it's just that, after so many years of invisibility, being seen is exhausting, an unbearable strain... Yes, I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me...