All That String?

Ben befriended everyone and everything, from the beggar on the beach to the brush in his bathroom. His favourite if not beloved other was, however, a string; blue and close to six feet long. He thought about it throughout the day at his desk, analyzing medical data and wondering, for instance, whether the more widespread type II diabetes should have been called type I, and then thinking that he would have liked the string best even if it had been black, the worst colour, or lack of it, he could imagine. By the same token, he also considered white to be quite unattractive, comprising all the colours as if scared of the darkness to come. At home, the string was always beside him when he was not rolling it around his penis or neck to better contemplate death either way.

“Ben, my dear! Can you help me with the string?” Sarah his wife had asked a number of years in the past.

“I love to watch you do it,” Ben had replied.

“I know that you do, but I can’t seem to be able to push it all inside.”

“Should I push it in for you?”

“No! Just hold it when I tell you to, and don’t let go until I tell you it’s alright!”

“Go ahead!”

“Hold it now! Wait! Wait! Let go, now!”

“Are you sure?” Ben had asked.

“Yes! It’s holding! You can start pulling it now.”

“I can’t wait. Very slowly, though!”

“Not too slowly!”

“Slowly!” Ben had whispered.

“Yes! Keep going! Slowly!”

“You’re so wet.”

“I am! How about you?”

“I’m dripping!”

“Let me see! You are, honey! Get ready! It’s near the end.”

“Yes! It’s the end alright, but it doesn’t seem to budge.”

“Pull it!”

“I’m pulling it. Is the ball stuck?”

“It feels tight. Pull it!”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t! It’s smooth and wet.”

“Alright! Try to relax! I’m applying more force.”

“Go ahead! Pull it!”

“It’s out. Oh, no! Only the string is out.”

“Is it torn?”

“No! It came out with the attachment to the ball.”

“So, the ball is broken inside?”

“It looks like it. We have to get you to the ER.”

“Oh, my God! What will they think?”

“That you were having a good time.”

“It’s not supposed to break.”

“No!”

“But it did.”

“Yes!”

“Should we have waited?”

“We could have.”

“But we didn’t.”

“No, we didn’t.”

“How could we with all the excitement?”

“You were very wet.”

“And you were dripping.”

“I was.”

“Do you want me to get you off before we leave?” Sarah had asked.

“No way, baby! Let me help you dress. Are you in any pain?”

“Very little! A pinch!”

She had insisted on getting him off in the car, but he made sure to be swift about it. The prompt X-ray showed the broken ball, but did not reveal that it was leaking toxins into her body. She had collapsed before any attempt to extract the ball had been undertaken, fell into a coma a brief moment later, and died in the wee hours of the following day.

You are gone now.

Can I look back?

Is the line drawn?

Will I move on?

I have forever lost my swan;

Never to meet someone like you.

For happy endings it takes two;

With string and ball, the dream is gone.

Sarah! Sarah!

The string is pulling in my eyes.

Sarah! Sarah!

No time is the time for goodbyes.

With string and ball fortunately bereft of discovery, owing to the second A of the AA in HIPAA (Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act), no one could fathom the force of Ben’s friendly fortitude following the misfortune that life had afforded him. He must be a mensch, everyone agreed, women lining up to console him with everything a woman could offer, and men looking up to him with nervy envy, wishing they could at least pick up the standbys whom he was so aptly refusing.

“I’m very flattered by your interest in me, but it’s too soon.”

“I’ll wait.”

“What do you see in me? I’m a shell of a man.”

“It’ll get better; you’ll see.”

“Will it? Are you sure? I only see the abyss.”

“There’s always something good around the corner.”

“Do you see a string?”

“A string?”

“A blue one?”

“A blue string?”

“Yes! Do you see it?”

“No! I’m not sure what you mean.”

“It’s close to six feet long.”

“What string?”

“You can’t see it, then.”

“No!”

“What about the ball?”

“The ball?”

“Yes! It was tied to the string.”

“A blue ball?”

“No! But I wish it were blue. It was golden.”

“You’re right; you need time alone.”

“I told you.”

Unwilling to give up on him, a plucky pursuer showed up with a six-foot blue string tied to a golden ball.

“Is this what you meant?”

“The ball is huge; it’ll never fit. Well, I hope it won’t.”

“Fit where?”

“I’m afraid that I can’t say.”

“Oh, my God! Are you being kinky?”

“Not at all!”

“I’m lost, then.”

“You’re fine; I’m the one who’s gone.”

“Hang in there! Things will get better.”

“Will they? I’m not so sure.”

“They will; they always do.”

“Tell that to a Shoah survivor.”

“Shoah?”

“Holocaust.”

“Oh! But things got better for them too.”

“Did they? Are you sure about that? Were their families unearthed, at least those who were buried, and brought back to life?”

“No! But they survived and had new families.”

“Alleluia! Out with the old and in with the new.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How else can it be construed?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault that our species are capable of such heinous crimes.”

Who knew that a blue string tied to a golden ball could make things better? All that string? All of it!