Transition accepted Tharn! for a special edition on humour in January, 2011. It was also the second time that one of my stories was subjected to editing, only this time with my permission as well as my active participation, to fit within the editor's constant demands for length. I never felt slighted; on the contrary, I felt a heightened sense of contribution. Something that the folks who mangled "A Word" might want to consider.
Tharn! is a tongue-in-cheek (and perhaps cynical) tale of the paranoia that often exists between the sexes in the early stages of a relationship - of how truth becomes the first casualty. In this case - as in many cases - the lost truth is considering experience to be knowledge.
Tharn!
“What
do you want from this?” she asked, ever so innocently – like, in the same tone
a spider might use when inviting a fly to its web.
Aw
geez!
“I mean, it’s
time to speak honestly, don’t you think?”
If there’s one
thing that gives me ‘the heartburn’
(as W.O. Mitchell used to say) it’s when a woman steers you toward the correct
answer. Not that I don’t appreciate the guidance, mind, but they’re so darned
inconsistent with it. Now, if she’d given me the same sort of hint for her first question, I’d be miles ahead of
where I was now.
“Well, don’t you?”
Sometimes we
higher life forms are just kidding ourselves, thinking we have freedom of
choice.
“Sure!” I try to
sound like I just love where she’s
going with this, “Absolutely!”
But if ever
there was a time to equivocate, or to lie, or to pretend you have been suddenly
rendered mute, or to just plain fall into a swoon that will last until she
changes the subject, now is that time.
She had it
dangling over me like Damocles’ sword, just itching to split my head in two.
Except of course, the blade wasn’t poised over my head - with women it never
is.
You see, the
thing was this had a fifty-fifty chance of going either way, and in my
experience, those odds fall well short of being anywhere near satisfactory.
If I told her I
was only in this for shits and giggles, and it turned out she had her heart set
on something altogether more serious, she’d have my balls for breakfast, and
we’d be finito. But if, on the other
hand, it was I who wanted to see where this might take us, and she who was
simply looking for something uncomplicated, that sword would still slice off my
cajones, and so much for scenario
number two.
In fact, the
only way of avoiding disaster was for our terms to be compatible, but I didn’t
have a clue as to what they were.
I felt frozen in
the headlights, feeling helpless, like there’s nothing I can do but sit there,
allowing the forces of Doom to descend and utterly destroy me.
There’s a word
for this state. In Watership Down,
Richard Adams called it Tharn.
I don’t mean for
it to sound the way it does. I mean, I’m falling for this girl, or at least I think I could be falling for her, or I
think I might be reaching the point to where I could visualize myself falling for her, but I wasn’t ready to say so
just yet – not even to myself.
“I mean, we keep skirting around it,
don’t we?”
“Yeah,” I said,
still none the wiser, “we do.”
Of course the
main attraction for me, or at least the main attraction thus far was that she coupled like a stoat of Gomorrah must have
coupled, but there was no use telling her that. Women don’t take such
compliments the same as men.
‘I want to be with you,’ I might say, ‘because you couple like a Gomorrah stoat.’
‘Really?’ she would reply, ‘How lovely of you to say so.’ I don’t
think.
Hearken and
tremble all ye men and know: regardless of what they may tell you, women are
different.
“I think it’s
time to stop pussyfooting around.”
It’s a wonder
more women aren’t into small engine repair. I mean, they just love to tinker
with the mechanics of things. There we were, purring along famously, then she
has to go and see what’ll happen if the spark is advanced just the teensiest bit.
“Stop
pussyfooting!” I repeat with false enthusiasm, “By all means, couldn’t agree
more.” Then I start doing so for all I am worth.
“Four weeks,” I
give my head an appreciative but neutral shake…which is not easy to do.
Four weeks is
the amount of time we’ve been together. My neutrality could mean either I
thought that was very long, or hardly any time at all.
“Yes,” she was
watching me closely, “and how do you feel about that?”
How do I feel, forsooth! Christ, we were striking
into the very heart of femininity!
To buy time, I
laugh a hoarse laugh. “How do I feel?!” and again, with emphasis “How do I feel?!” I give an admiring chuckle, as
though she’s really gotten a good one in - like she’s just made a really good
joke or something. But the fact is I’m praying like hell she’ll think I
consider the question too incredibly ludicrous to answer.
“Yes, how do you
feel?”
Damn! Damn and
blast! She had me backed into a corner and (at the risk of mixing metaphors)
I’d have to come down on one side or other pretty soon. One mistake and, at the
very least, a really fun time would go up in smoke. At the very worst, my life
would be ruined!
But wait! She’d
mentioned ‘pussyfooting’, hadn’t she? Now, that was a serious word which only a
serious person would use! No one who
was just interested in a little slap-and-tickle would say anything even
remotely resembling ‘pussyfooting’ in that context!
So I gave her my
most frank stare and opened my mouth to tell her that I wanted us to go
further…then closed it again, and glanced away.
Maybe it was a
trap. Maybe she had some insecurities, and she was setting this trap for me to
blunder into. Then she could give me the old heave-ho and avoid having to deal
with her baggage, all at the same time.
Yeah, that made
sense. All women have hang-ups, absolutely all
of them, and with that total inclusion comes the fact that not a single one is
willing to face any of them head-on. Like I said, they’re not like men – not
like me, for instance. ‘Level-headed’ was my byword, and ‘baggage’, for me,
meant an extra pair of socks and a change of underwear. Matter of fact, if you
were to get to know me, you’d probably think I was Beaver Cleaver’s dad. But in
contrast, there’s a reason why women wear heels: it’s their way of telling you they
don’t have two feet on the ground – only ten toes, which is not quite the same,
any way you care to look at it.
So, with that in
mind, it would be best to tell her I was gung-ho for the status quo. That way the pressure would be off and her hang-ups could
go whistle.
Except, of
course, if that wasn’t the case, it
would be the worst possible thing to tell her.
Cursing
silently, I lied, “Well, that’s a very good question.” I sat back, steepling my
fingers sagaciously against my chest and looked to heaven for guidance, “Yes,
certainly an excellent question.”
“And?”
But now I was
stymied - totally Tharn. A long
uncomfortable pause was inevitable, and the only thing worse than saying the
wrong thing was to say nothing at all. When that happened it would be over, tout finis,
kaput. Anything I said afterward
would be too late.
I sat there,
staring at her in a state of mute panic, almost hearing the engine roar as that
murderous machine bore down on me, thirsting to rend limb from limb, like a
ravenous wolf would an innocent lamb.
But then, in the
nick of time, Blessed Inspiration came to me like it comes to people maybe once
in their lives, if that!
“It’s
complicated,” I said, avoiding her eyes.
The complexities
of the feminine mind are forever attracted to a kindred spirit…unless, of
course, she just wanted to keep things simple!
“Oh? How so?”
I almost faint
with relief (God, I wish I had!) But she’d swallowed the bait, and that was a
good thing.
“I mean you’re
so fascinating,” I glance up to see how she’s taking this. Her head was tilted
quizzically to one side (excellent!)
I left it
hanging.
“Go on,” she
prompted.
“What I mean is
you’re not like other girls. You’re so….” My hand slowly stirred the air while
my eyes continued to gaze skyward.
“You’re so….” I
cease stirring for a moment, squint thoughtfully – consider - then give my head
an impatient shake as though discarding a word found wanting.
“You’re so…”
The point of
this exercise, of course, was to turn the object of our discussion from myself
to her, and it would seem that had been successfully carried out – admirably carried out, if I do say so
myself. Now that she realized I found her fascinating, she just wouldn’t be
human if she didn’t want to hear more.
“You’re so…”
Finally, I let
my hands fall into my lap, and give my wrists a weak flip: failure personified.
“Complex,” I
finish lamely, with just a hint of self-annoyance to suggest I found this
totally inadequate.
Well, obviously
that wasn’t the case at all; it was the perfect
word! I defy anyone who has been described as ‘fascinating’ and ‘complex’
not to be intrigued by it. I mean, I’d
be intrigued if someone referred to me that way.
“Really?” she
leaned forward, “I’m intrigued.”
See?
“I mean, you’re
so beautiful,” her brow twitched with annoyance so I hurried on, “but that’s
the very least of it.”
It became serene
again.
“It’s just that
I don’t understand what you see in a guy like me.”
A little
self-effacement never hurt anyone, especially if you put it in such a way as to
elicit a reply. And it was true too, of course. I’ll admit honesty has its uses
sometimes.
“You’re
interesting,” she offered, which was good for starters, but it would be bad
form to let her go on – especially if she wasn’t willing to.
“I’m glad you
think so,” I cut in with polite impatience, as though considering this was a
given (which was far from the truth),
“but the thing is there’s so much more about you that makes your physical self
seem almost common by comparison.”
I’ll admit that
was going out on a limb; no woman ever wants her looks to be brought into
question. But it was plain as day she’d been told she was beautiful so many
times by so many guys (all of who would’ve had an ulterior motive, of course)
that she regarded such comments with suspicion, almost as an occupational
hazard. So, to be confronted by someone who found her appearance lacking in
relation to her mind, and with the gumption to say so, well, odds were I’d go
up a notch or two in her estimation.
Sure enough, her
face clouded over like it was getting ready to storm for a week, but it cleared
up again as soon as she caught my meaning. Then I saw something new in the way
she looked at me, and wondered if it wasn’t gratitude.
The beauty of it
is I wasn’t lying, not about that part anyway. For one thing her mind was like
a treasure chest filled with rare jewels. It drew me to her like a fly to
fly-paper, and did almost as much for me on the physical side as did her body.
Then there was her sense of humour that kept rocking me back on my heels,
because it was so original and not cruel the way most humour is. But even all
that paled when compared to…well, just the good old common sense way there was
about her. Most beautiful women like to talk about themselves and not much else
- it’s groomed into them. But she wasn’t like that. Oh, she wasn’t immune to a
compliment every now and then (like what I was doing now, for instance) but it
would have to be carefully tempered and not overdone, otherwise I would end up
doing my cause far more harm than good.
But for all
that, what it all came down to was that she was a woman, and being a woman, she
just had to ask bloody awkward questions, like the one that started all this in
the first place. Still, when it came to brass tacks, say what you like, life
hasn’t been boring since I met her.
So I summed up
with, “You’re like no one else I’ve ever known, man or woman.”
Gender neutral statements go over big
with women, but I found myself perplexed to be speaking more from the heart
than I’d originally intended. I also discovered a curious lack of being
unsettled by that.
She gave me a
hard look that lasted an eternity. Then, thank God, it slowly broke into a
smile to let me know the inquisition was over and I was off the hook.
“So are you,”
she said, and I think she meant it, too.
We sat in
silence, feeling closer than ever, like somewhere along the line we’d taken a
step toward something.
Then I caught
her smiling secretly to herself.
“What?”
“Oh, I was just curious how you were
going to wriggle out of that, is all.”
Aghast, I stared
at her, feeling the blood turning cold in my veins.
“You mean you
did that on purpose?!”
“Of course,” she
giggled. “How else am I supposed to test your mettle?”
I took a long
sober moment to consider the improbity of women, thinking I might have to
reassess her sense of humour after all.
By god, I’d been
had! She’d led me on a wild goose chase, and had me jumping through one flaming
hoop after another, like a toothless old lion in a one-ring circus, just so she
could satisfy an idle curiosity!
With that knowledge came a flash of
anger, a grim determination that I would continue to be my own man – my own
level-headed self - and that nothing, or no one, would ever lead me around by
the nose again!
I felt used,
degraded, my sensibilities ruthlessly invaded for the sole purpose of being
mocked. It wasn’t good enough, not by a damn sight! This was war! I’d see her
in hell! I’d rather drink hemlock than spend one more minute with such an
unfeeling creature! Why, I….!
But then, in spite of everything, I
suddenly found myself laughing too - a kind of ‘vive la différence’ sort of chuckle.
What the hell,
we only go around once, right?
“Well for
starters,” I said, taking her hand before kissing her gently on the mouth,
“let’s talk about the stoats of ancient Gomorrah.”
That’s probably
what she had in mind all along.
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