It's human nature to want to know. To want to know why things are happening, even if what is happening is, by and large, arbitrary or meaningless.
Let's take an example from someone else's story:
"One fine day, the man walking up the path collapsed. A basket rolled and blackberries spilled out. Red juice stained his shirt and the asphalt. Yet the sun continued to shine and the honeysuckle still smelled sweet."
It doesn't seem like it is possible to know what happened. And yet, we still want to know.
Was the man out picking blackberries, and had a heat-stroke on the way back?
Was there a sniper waiting on top of a neighboring house, waiting for the angles to line up before he could take his shot?
Was he bringing the berries to his lover, and had an attack of conscience?
Maybe there was a spider in the blackberry bucket.
Maybe there was a skateboarder coming down the path.
Maybe he tripped on a crack and hit his head on the basket.
It's tempting to say that the scene would be meaningful if we just knew more about it. That the problem is a lack of information.
So, lets say – for the purposes of the problem – that the man was in his mid-twenties and generally in good health, apart from his recent death. He has black hair, and green eyes, we say. He is wearing a baseball-style hat, bill forward. In his pocket he's carrying a wallet, with – let's suppose - eight loose pounds, two small photographs, and a folded newspaper clipping.
What else do we know about this man? He's roughly 175cm tall and fairly thin. We'll assume he's a runner. If he were wearing shorts, we would see two small scars above each of his knees, and two small scars below each of his knees. They look like memories of ACL surgeries.
Lets also make some assumptions about the path: it is flat and recently paved, with a thin wooden fence on the right side. This fence is where the honeysuckle comes into the picture. There is a field of dry grass on the left of the path. Maybe 200m away, the field ends at a small wooden house. The house is covered with ivy, and has a sloping roof.
Two nights ago, the man argued with the woman who was then his girlfriend. They argued under a street-light, and went quiet when an old woman walked by. The old woman's dog yapped. The ex-girlfriend pulled her lips tight. When the old woman was gone, the man shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked away.
One of the photos that is currently in the man's wallet is of the ex-girlfriend. Twenty minutes before his collapse, the man had just decided that he would take this photo out of his wallet upon arriving at home. He would look at the photo, touch the subject's sleeping eyes, and close his own eyes. Then he would slowly place the photo between the pages of a textbook, and close the cover forever.
The fantasy can't happen anymore, of course, because the man is now lying on the path. One arm is outstretched. The back of his left hand is touching dry grass. His right leg lies crooked under him. The basket has rolled onto its side, and drops of blackberry juice cling to his left arm.
Yesterday morning, the man woke up alone. He was woken by the sun shining on his duvet: 7 am and already hot. The man drank instant coffee while standing in the kitchen. He put his hands on his head and leaned back against the refrigerator. He started when his back touched the aluminum. Ten minutes later, a dirty cup sat in the sink, and the apartment was empty.
The apartment is empty now, while the man lies on the path. There are no posters hanging in the hallway, and now photos on the man's night-table. A couch, a table, a bookcase and a standing lamp hold congress in the living room. The furniture is geometric, and made of canvas and white aluminum.
The center three shelves on the bookcase hold textbooks, for physics, mostly, and math. If we were to shake these books, little mementos would fall out: letters of acceptance and love, photographs, an application to teach English in other countries. The brochure claims "No Training Necessary!" We will assume that the man did this before his university tour. It would explain the photos of Japan. None of the hidden treasures dates before the application.
The top shelf has novels. They all seem to focus on aliens and space travel and anywhere-that-is-not-here.
A week ago, the man was at a bar. He drank two beers. Before the second one, the man raised his glass to the mirror behind the bar, and toasted the bartender's future. After finished the second beer, he put his head on crossed arms and stared into the wood grain.
The second photograph that is currently in the man's pocket is of himself. Or rather, he is in the foreground, while many other twenty-something year olds laugh in the background. In this photograph, he is wearing a black robe, and a rectangular hat. He appears to find the robe less awkward than the others subjects do. We wonder whether he is naturally graceful, or whether he's worn enough robes to know how to clear the way for his feet with his knees. He is carrying a diploma under his arm and is not paying attention to the photographer.
As the man lies, collapsed, on the path, an ant climbs up his left arm and samples the berry juice. A light breeze stirs, but the man does not. His skin is neither particularly tan, nor the sickly pale associated with fluorescent lights and office work. It is a Tuesday, and not a holiday. The man did not call in to work faking a cough and suggesting excuses.
The Monday before last, the man went to the library around 2:15. He logged into a public workstation, and watched the flipping hourglass for twenty minutes. Then he opened a word-processor, and began to type. The librarian watched him while pretending to arrange books. After a paragraph, the man's eyes unfocused and he began to dream. The librarian looks down unsurprised.
The man introduced himself to the librarian three years ago. She remembers a firm grip, although a slightly sweaty hand. She remembers that he had slight calluses on the palm-side of the fingers on his right hand. She remembers slight stubble, buzzed hair, and over-tired eyes. She remembers that he was not handsome, although he might be charming if he set his mind to it. She doesn't remember the man's name.
The librarian remembers the day a young woman came to pick the man up from the library. It was, maybe, a year and a half ago. The woman had a day-care smile, as though showing a stuffed hippopotamus to a young child. The woman – she had red hair, didn't she? - spotted the man, and walked over to him. The woman became angry – or was she confused? – when talking to the man. What did she want? Why did the man not also want what she wanted?
The fall has twisted his t-shirt, so that the tip of a tattoo shows at the base of the man's neck. If we could see the full tattoo, we would see a pair of outstretched eagle's wings, extending out to his shoulders, around a lily. The design is highly stylized, as though it had been either lifted from an art-nouveau coloring book, or planned for many years before realization. The tattoo is about seven years old. Let's call it a present from himself.
Now, of course, the design is distorted. The left wing is stretched, the right wing wrinkled. The man's right hand is curled under his chest, curled as though it is in the habit of holding something. Protecting something. His knuckles dig into his stomach muscles. It would hurt, if he were not already dead.
The newspaper clipping in the man's wallet is dated three weeks before last Friday. It holds a classified list. Six possibilities are circled. Wanted: Accountant, Statistician, Tennis Coach, Research Assistant, Police Officer, Waiter. Notes - "Teaching," "Grad School," "Peace Corps" - are written with blue ink in the margins. The paper is dirty and creased.
A minute before his fall, the man reached out to touch the honeysuckle. He picked one and brought it toward his lips. A bee buzzed out, angry at being ignored, and stung his hand. The man watched the site of the sting turn red. His throat felt swollen, and his head became light. The berry basket fell from his left hand. The man fell after it.
His last words – mumbled through a stiff mouth - had something to do with irony.
So now we know what happened. Yet, does that knowledge make a difference?