Faulty Flashlights
This is the story everyone wants to read: about the boy and the
girl who get lost in a mine shaft. And maybe they’re not overly
concerned at first because the girl assumes the guy knows what he’s
doing, and the guy assumes he’s going to get laid. So maybe
the guy gets laid or maybe he just fumbles with a bra and sweats,
but either way, they drink a few beers, then take their flashlight
and admire some of the graffiti littered on the cave walls.
Jimmy wuz here. Francine wuz here 2.
To complicate matters, let’s say the girl’s father is
the mayor of the town, and maybe the boy’s father is a captain
of industry. And then the flashlight goes out.
And then - a little tipsy, perhaps - they call out for
help and listen to their echoes bumble around the rock walls.
“It sounds like we’re fish underwater,” grins the boy, pretending
to swim. And maybe they’re a little high too.
Probably, the girl starts to cry. They’re in high school, and
it’s Friday night. All of their blonde friends are crouched
in the top bleacher at the football game text - messaging one another
about an after party and wondering what happened to the young lovers
who were supposed to meet them there.
It’s dark in the mine. There might be bats overhead. The girl
starts in with, “They’re never going to find us! Oh,
why didn’t we just go to the football game instead of let our
hormones get the best of us!” The boy replies: “Listen
Jean, we’re going to make it. Bad things like this don’t
happen to people like us.”
Probably, the story ends with some realization about how that boy
was wrong - how bad things do happen to people like them, quite often,
even.
But in the final revision, maybe the author is merciful and allows
them to glance a glimmer of light reflecting off of her braces or
his metallic watch. They are saved! And they follow that glimmer,
crawl out, then situate themselves in the front seats of his car.
They press their heads together like prayer, and they make promises
never to drink beer or allow their hormones to take charge.
The Puritan readership finds this story particularly charming.
Most likely, that’s where the story ends. Though usually, there
are far more details about supple breasts and bra straps and their
colors and their shape. And probably, there would be far more regarding
the dampness of the cave, and maybe even a legend or two woven in
about a hobo who supposedly lives there, reads poetry, drinks wine,
has a bird’s nest in his beard.
It’s possible that in some version, they don’t get out
alive after all, or at least the story ends with a kind of ambiguous
phrasing where you never know for sure. Maybe the author writes, “And
they huddled close, grasping against the stone walls, inching their
way closer to something.”
And of course everyone wants to know what the “something” is,
and eleventh grade English classes across the nation dedicate a 45
- minute class period to brainstorming a list of possibilities. MFA
workshops, however, are unsure about the word “something.” Isn’t
it a bit tricky? Meanwhile, Philosophy 101 students applaud its existential
possibilities.
Inspired by the story, most likely an eleventh grade girl walks home,
waits until dark, then climbs a tree and focuses her binoculars through
the bedroom window of a boy she likes from her English class. She
admires the way the boy had appreciated the story, just like her.
It’s late at night, and undoubtedly, she knows she would be
better off at home, working on a thesis statement for her paper on
the importance of the ambiguity in the story. And this girl in the
tree has supple breasts, and maybe she’s a dancer or a cheerleader.
Let’s say she’s a cheerleader. And the boy on whom she
is spying, he’s probably the captain - no, co - captain - of
the undefeated basketball team.
Maybe, while stumped over the very same essay, he hears a branch
snap just beyond his window. He calls out, “Hello?”and
he thinks he sees a shadow. So he takes a flashlight and he aims
it at the shape in the trees. He catches that girl on a branch, her
binoculars dangling. And then the flashlight, once more, conks out.
“Carol,” he whispers. “Is that you? Are you cold?” And
since she nods yes (or at least he thinks that’s what she nods - it’s
hard to be sure in the dark) he tells her to climb down from that tree and
meet him face - to - face. He’ll warm her.
He’s waiting for her at the bottom of the tree, with a blanket,
and he pulls it around her shoulders, then rubs his hands down the
sides to warm them both.
And there is kissing involved, and their bodies press together, and
those supple breasts turn firm against his chest. And then, after
an hour of pointing out favorite constellations to one another -
Gemini, Sagittarius - she sneaks back into her house, and he into
his, and they both set to work on their essays about the ambiguity
of the word “something” in the story.
They both write that all good stories need certain things. "For
one," the boy writes, "the addition of supple breasts is
a must. And second, every good story needs a faulty flashlight dying
at the worst possible moment. And third, the darkness is useful,
as are shadows. But most importantly, a good story should allow the
reader to feel as if he has experienced something that he’s
unfamiliar with. For example: 'pressing oneself against supple breasts.'
To the reader, this probably seems out of the realm of his experience,
but the story offers renewed hope that one day, we will all know
supple breasts. That’s what makes it so alluring." A pause
as he fidgets, chews his pencil.
"To conclude," he writes, "there are many things
that make a good story, and mine shafts are just one of them."
The teacher reads the essay, and though it does not mention the word “ambiguity” once
- not even in the title - he decides to give it an A.
"Most good writing," he comments, "simply manages
to put all the right things in the right order."
The following day, everyone is in agreement: the story about the
mine shaft was, by far, for some reason, the best they’ve ever
read.
B.J. Hollars of Fort Wayne, Indiana is currently pursuing his MFA at the University of Alabama where he serves as nonfiction editor and assistant fiction editor for Black Warrior Review.