Undiscovered territories, p.29
Undiscovered Territories, page 29
Brown had hoped that neighbor wine invitations would become a regular occurrence. Likely, he should have already invited the three to his apartment. He wrote invitations for that evening and put them under doors, then went to buy wine, cheese, bread, and roasted artichoke hearts. Which are always useful to have, even if on one’s own. No one came; he drank wine and ate cheese. But the next morning, he found a note pushed under his door: Michael, asking if he would be interested in going to hear a band that night in another town. He was. Despite the long drive. Desperation is never charming, but he did desire companionship, and nearer than his friends in the city.
Michael drove the curvy roads and told Brown about his classes at the college; the college was, apparently, a harmonious environment. Students were content, faculty and staff were treated well. Brown tried to concentrate on their route, thinking it different from what he recalled of his own drives. He wanted to talk about the mystery of Springdale, his difficulty finding the town. He hadn’t, during the wine visit. Perhaps in Springdale, one doesn’t discuss such things. Now they were miles away. “How did you find out about the job?” he asked, as a way of working toward the topic.
“Oh, an ad in some journal or other. Must have been, but I don’t remember exactly. I was at Central State. I liked it okay there, but it’s always good to look, right? And if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met Cynthia.”
“Clearly the correct decision then,” Brown said.
“C. and Amy were sharing the apartment. This guy Devlin was in the back unit. Upstairs where you are was a yoga teacher named Chandra; she had lived there for years. Devlin wasn’t at all appropriate for the building. Amy moved into his place. I moved in with Cynthia. By then, she was pretty sure I understood.”
Brown understood the dynamics of apartment building tenancy. If that was what Michael was talking about and not some sexual configuration. People often did talk about such things, though Brown didn’t.
They turned off the smaller road to a larger one and entered a town. “I’m curious about the want-ad or whatever . . . it referred to the college, I assume, but did it say anything about Springdale? I ask because I’ve found Springdale to be somewhat intangible. Even our mailing address omits the name.”
He told Michael about the scattered and conflicting references and his eventual search. His eventual successful search.
“I suppose Springdale is there when needed,” Michael said. He laughed, as if dismissing whatever mystery Brown was attempting to present.
However, Brown agreed. Had to agree. Springdale had certainly been there when needed and, despite his newness, he already felt something for the town, something elusive (like the town), comfort, acceptance—as if the town had accepted him, or had started to.
Another laundry day. The move had disrupted his schedule, and he wanted to catch up, empty the hamper. In addition to normal accumulations, he had bought a set of sheets and several towels. He had to be frugal, of course (he was always frugal), but the cheering effect of a few additions was worth the expense.
Like last time, he screwed in his bulb. He loaded the washer, turned it on, and started up the stairs. From somewhere below came a click, like a deadbolt shifting, and a shuffle of footsteps. A man-shape emerged from a back corner . . . to the light . . . reached up . . . unscrewed the bulb. Brown froze, blind in the sudden dark. A bolt clicked again. The whole procedure had taken seconds. Trying not to lose his balance and tumble, Brown reached around to his back pocket for his flashlight. Silly, the stairs were sturdy and wide enough. With light, they presented no challenge. In his flashlight’s reassuring glow, the ceiling fixture was empty. That animal-mustiness was stronger. Emanating from the bulb thief, he supposed.
Back in the sunlight of his apartment, he wondered how the man had been able to remove the hot bulb without being burned, without visible flinching. When he went to transfer his clothes to the dryer, the beam of his flashlight again caught the fixture. The bulb was there. He tried the switch. Nothing.
The man . . . the bulb taker . . . had emerged from a cloud of dark. Brown looked for a door, though the flashlight was inadequate for a detailed search. Was a moving panel obscured by a metal shelving unit? That was the only possibility. A possibility that verged on impossibility. Didn’t it? Though, why? People lived where people lived. Whoever he was, he must have a reason for choosing a dark basement.
Later, Brown walked the exterior of the building, looking for evidence, perhaps an outside door, a vent, something. The bulb taker—Mr. Dark—might be at this moment standing (or lying) beneath Brown’s feet. But . . . however Brown might accept the man’s choice of living arrangements, where those arrangements conflicted with the rest of the tenants, accommodations must be made. Brown and everyone else needed light in the basement. Assuming that the other residents used the washing facilities. Which, it turned out, they didn’t.
Breakfast had used the last of his bread; he went to the food co-op for a fresh loaf and a few other items. On the way back, he saw Cynthia. They walked the rest of the way together. She said that she came home for lunch on days when classes, meetings, and office hours permitted. Brown asked about laundry.
“Oh, we use the laundromat in town. It’s easier, newer machines. Less intrusive.”
She was unimpressed with his city laundromat history.
“The laundromat has air and light, it’s next to the café. What more do you need? I know you’ll think so after you try it. It really would be better if you stay out of the basement.”
Well then. She spoke with such finality that he was afraid to contradict or say anything about Mr. Dark. But the anti-laundromat idea had rooted. He called the leasing agent and talked with firmness and determination. He recommended a new light fixture, fluorescent tubes. Brightness, the basement needs reliable brightness, he said. A safety issue. The stairs have no railing, but he didn’t have a problem with that as long as he could see without having to wave a flashlight while holding a laundry basket. She acquiesced, and two days later, he saw from his front window the arrival of a van, white, with red lettering: MacLeod’s Electrical. Two people emerged, a smallish man with a red cap and gray beard, and a woman, taller than the man, with dark hair emerging from her red cap.
As the day was pleasant, Brown took his work down to the front porch, hoping that he might overhear something. The pair were some minutes in the basement. They left the building and crossed the porch.
“Where to next, Dad?” the woman said. They got into the van, the man on the passenger side, and drove away.
Toward better lighting, Brown hoped. But how would Mr. Dark react? Perhaps with sabotage. He should warn the electricians. Assuming that they returned. Which they didn’t, not that day. The following day, he took the train to the city for a meeting with a new client, ate dinner at a Korean place he liked, and took a late train back. Sitting in the train, looking out at passing town and country, it occurred to him that the city had begun to feel alien. Springdale, though it had grown in familiarity, was also more alien than not. Where did that put him? He needed to belong somewhere. He wanted to belong to Springdale. Why not? His things were there, shoes and all. Indeed, as his car’s headlights picked up the landmarks indicating that he approached the town, a pleasant upwelling came to him. Surprised, he smiled.
The electricians had returned. Looking out from his front window, drinking morning coffee, he saw the MacLeod’s Electrical van. Its back doors were open, but no one was in sight. Working downstairs, he assumed. He decided to investigate, though not immediately. He showered and drank another cup of coffee, ate a small bowl of yogurt and granola. Brushed his teeth.
He had enough dirty clothes for a small load. Best to make his foray under the guise of laundry. His flashlight proved unnecessary. They had hung work lights from nails in the overhead beams. Warm light enveloped the basement. What would Mr. Dark think of that? The grind of a drill erupted from the far end. He had heard it while upstairs, muffled, but hadn’t understood what it was. The dark-haired woman was drilling through a thick beam. Was that safe, putting a hole in a beam? He supposed it must be. She would know. He certainly didn’t.
He set his basket on the washer and approached her. She had finished the hole and was preparing to drill into the next beam. There was a line of holes (and sawdust) leading to the back of the basement. A wire dangled from the ceiling near where the holes started.
“Is it okay to run the washing machine?” he asked. “I can come back later.”
“No problem,” she said. “It’s a different circuit.”
She spoke with a quiet sort of authority that he found attractive. He thanked her for the work. He wanted to talk to her more. Needed to, really. Not just because of her attractiveness. That helped, yes, but more because his Springdale still lacked human contact. He had his neighbors, his yoga class, but more was necessary.
He asked about the wiring, pointed to the holes and the dangling strand. She explained about the breaker box, switches, and wiring. The wire was old, the switch was old, the fixture was old. They were installing new. The work sounded simple, yet exciting. He told her how nice it was to have the machine so close. “I’m sure that sounds kind of silly, but I left the city so I could have a few more comforts. I love the city, but it beats you down.”
He wanted to say more, but the stair treads squeaked; Brown turned. The electrician—Dad—carried a long flat box on a shoulder. The box had a picture of a light fixture.
“More light down here will be great,” Brown said. He loaded his wash. When he went down later to transfer clothes to the dryer and again to take them upstairs, clean and dry, the pair were still working. The fixture was in place, and a bright new yellow wire ran along the ceiling through the holes that the dark-haired woman had drilled, but as yet no new light brightened the basement. At some point in the afternoon, he looked out the front window; the van was gone. Curious, he went to the basement stairs. The new switch did nothing but flip from off to on. Perhaps they would finish the following day. Perhaps Mr. Dark had already sabotaged the new fixture. Not needing to wash, he forgot about it. If they returned, he didn’t see them. Meanwhile, on a trip to the hardware store to get a nice ocean blue paint for his bedroom walls, he also bought a slim, keychain flashlight. Something useful to keep in his pocket.
He was due back in the city. A book publisher had hired him to copyedit the promotional text for their catalog. They preferred him to be in their office for however long the work took to complete. This would be his third time. Part of why he had sub-let his apartment to a friend—housing wasn’t an issue. He decided to stay an extra day and go to a new exhibit at an art gallery.
One slice of unpleasantness reminded him that the city may be large, but its size diminishes to a small town when you inhabit a finite set of locations—he saw his ex-wife, twice. Once from behind (funny how when you know someone well, you can recognize them from any angle); he crossed the street and turned up another, avoiding her. But the next day, in Union Square, there she was, with her new man, walking toward him. He had no time to turn. And decided that he didn’t want to. Instead, he greeted them as if they were distant relatives he hadn’t seen since a mutual cousin’s wedding six years ago . . . and moved along. Still, he didn’t enjoy the encounter. Who would? But such things are unavoidable. And yet, the encounter—its memory—stuck to him. Even on the train and ensuing drive. Chasing him. Unfortunate (one of her words)—he didn’t want a fresh memory of her invading Springdale. A fresh memory . . . though it might carry pain . . . that particular pain couldn’t hurt him. He smiled. He reset. He was on his way home. To Springdale.
He went to dinner with Cynthia and Michael. A Japanese restaurant, which was very good. He had passed it in his acquainting himself walks but hadn’t tried it. Dinner conversation . . . generalities . . . life in Springdale, laundry. He mentioned the electrical work, and . . . they weren’t pleased.
“Remember, I told you that the laundromat is better?” Cynthia said.
“Yes, there’s no benefit to on-site washing, not when you consider all factors,” Michael said. “Centralized resources are much better. We don’t all have to own washing facilities. That’s the kind of thinking that leads to consumerism and waste.”
Brown disagreed. “Use of the laundry is part of the rent we’re paying. The facilities already exist. It’s not like I’m buying a washing machine for my apartment. There’s no reason to pay more to go to the laundromat. And I’m sure the landlord agrees, or they wouldn’t have approved the electrical work.”
“That’s a lot of disruption,” Michael said. “They can’t start a big remodeling project without letting us know. At least a note in our boxes.”
“They’re about finished,” Brown said. “And you didn’t even notice. So you can’t really call it a disruption.” He smiled, realizing that his words might sound taunting. Though he was annoyed with their attitude. Neither returned his smile. They glanced at each other, then back at him. Michael was the first to speak.
“Well, no matter, I’m sure the situation will be resolved without conflict.”
Cynthia nodded in agreement.
They knew about Mr. Dark! Brown didn’t want conflict either, but no basement dweller could keep him from using the laundry facilities. Did Mr. Dark even pay rent? No point continuing the topic. Talk drifted into music and other things, though none of them spoke with much enthusiasm. The check came. They paid for dinner and walked home.
Brown didn’t need to do laundry yet, but the next morning he went to check the light and found it still inoperative. Contractors were so unreliable! They carried jobs near to the point of completion, then abandoned them for some other client. He sat at his table to work, but the lighting situation irritated him too much. His concentration vanished, which irritated him even more. The leasing agent didn’t answer the phone; he left a message. Irritations piled upon irritations! Perhaps he would call the electrician himself. He looked up the number but decided there wasn’t time before his yoga class. He packed shorts and a tee-shirt into a bag.
The class smoothed his irritations. He had known it would. After, he went into Frisell’s Coffee. The electrician woman was in line ahead of him. She smiled a greeting, but he didn’t think she remembered how she knew him. He reminded her where they had met, or at least talked—they hadn’t exchanged names, that day in the basement, though he would like to. And did. Suzanne was hers.
“How’s the new light working out?”
He hesitated. What she said implied that they were finished. Her turn to order came. He was afraid that she would get her coffee and leave before he could respond. He touched her arm. “I’m sorry, you asked about the light. It wasn’t working this morning, or any other time I’ve checked. Something must be wrong with it.”
“Oh . . . well, I’ll drop by later and have a look. Sorry about that. The manager should have called me.” She took her coffee cup and left.
He walked toward home with his coffee and a muffin. On sighting his building, that gentle lift . . . the contentment . . . homey warmth—feelings that continued to surprise. Springdale, his place in it. Cynthia and Amy appeared, walking toward him. Expecting a moment (at least a moment) of conversation, he paused. They didn’t say hello. They didn’t stop. Whatever he had planned to say fizzled. Had he somehow offended them? Because of the basement? He walked up the steps, angry now, anger pushed him into the building. He opened his mailbox. A check had arrived, an overdue payment for a large job. Therefore, a large check. Payment improved his mood. He settled in to work. And did, for some time, then didn’t. He sat. Sitting didn’t help. If he couldn’t work toward the next check, why not go out and deposit the current one?
He tried some banter with the teller, a young man named Tim. With no success. Tim seemed preoccupied. Not his usual perfunctory friendliness. Maybe he didn’t approve of basement illumination either.
After the bank, Brown kept walking. Home . . . that home feeling . . . it would return. He assumed it would. He hoped that it returned when he returned.
The street perpendicular to Main, a short block that contained a rug store, the Japanese restaurant, other businesses . . . had there always been an alley after the restaurant? He turned into it, thinking he would circle back to Main, cross, and keep walking toward the river. It was a nice alley. No garbage smell, no garbage. Not wide enough for vehicles. The alley extended farther than expected. Well, why had he expected anything? The architectural configurations of downtown Springdale hadn’t been well studied. But did alleys commonly have a roof? This one did, now; before, it hadn’t. Something that looked like a roof. A ceiling, anyway, from his perspective. Though he knew one couldn’t exist without the other. Not easily.
His alley turned to the left. He turned with it. Onward is always the best direction. As the alley was now more like a hallway, it was not unexpected when doorways materialized. Numbered doorways, some with nameplates: Anderson’s Creations, Claxton, Inc., Mendelson and Associates, Witcover Dentistry, but as he went on, the names became less legible. Or, perhaps his eyes grew tired of reading. He sometimes over-used them in his work.
He passed a door open to what looked like a motel room: bed, chest of drawers, nightstand, and a repellent stench of alcohol. Curtains covered the lone window, blocking light. Broken bottles, many (many!) broken bottles littered the floor.
Another hallway intersected. A crossroads. He turned left again. The carpeting here was a dull brown with a much-worn pattern of delta symbols. Dark patches showed in places where white paint had cracked and peeled. The overhead lighting (florescent tubes in box fixtures, every twenty feet) became less dependable. Once bright, they were now a dim and dusk-like wattage. For reassurance, he put a hand in his pocket and touched his new flashlight.
