Undiscovered territories, p.30
Undiscovered Territories, page 30
His side began to hurt. He had been walking too fast. No need, not really—no reason for hurry. This evening, he might have to work late to keep up the number of pages-per-day to make his deadline. But he was accustomed to that and, living alone, he had no one to interfere with his work. Hadn’t, for much of his marriage either. When his ex-wife was performing in a play, he was obligated to attend, but not every performance.
The lack of windows bothered him. What if he opened one of the doors and looked in at whoever worked or waited? When a sign looked interesting enough. Not a dentist, certainly. Perhaps a travel agent? He had once considered becoming a travel agent but was unsure how to go about it. Is there travel agent school? He could have asked a travel agent, but hadn’t, or at least hadn’t yet. And probably wouldn’t, though changing careers was still an option, wasn’t it? He supposed that he didn’t want to copyedit books for the rest of his life. A job that had more interaction with other people would be nice. Depending on the other people, of course. Perhaps a job at Springdale’s college. They must have an office where available jobs were posted and applications turned in. Or the job at the newspaper that Amy had mentioned. Assuming that she would still recommend him.
The sign on the next door he passed: Wilkenson Properties—that was the name of the leasing agent for his apartment. Though not the office he had visited. Unless a back entrance. The door was unlocked. He went in. The lighting was worse than the hallway. The waiting area was rectangular, with three unlabeled doors and no receptionist desk. Olive-painted walls. No window. One metal chair with an orange seat cushion. Definitely not the office he had previously visited. He knocked on the leftmost door, then (after no response) moved to the middle. At the third door, he tried the knob, which turned, but the door wouldn’t move. Rather, it moved but didn’t open; something cushiony but heavy blocked it. He pushed harder. Something that moaned too, a sleepy moan. A napping horse or giant dog. Unlikely, but what other explanation could there be?
The other doors were locked. He upended the metal chair and turned it sideways so the backrest was against the jamb of the blocked door. He pushed until there was enough of a gap to slip the backrest in and use the chair as a lever. The door opened with a pop. Opened into darkness. He took out his flashlight. Its beam showed more hallway and no large animal. The ceiling had the same light fixtures, but he didn’t see a switch on either wall. Someone should call an electrician. Had Suzanne the electrician gone to look at the basement yet? He hoped he saw her again. This lonely walk had him thinking about companionship. Which he didn’t think he would get from his neighbors, not anymore. What was she like, away from her wires and circuits?
His neighbors. He tried not to let irritation overpower everything. Mr. Dark—they were only protecting his preferred environment. If the leasing agent hadn’t mentioned the laundry facilities, he never would have gone down there, never would have encountered Mr. Dark. Reconfiguring his expectations might be the best thing. If he was to continue living in the building, in Springdale, he needed to have friends. Needed to have friendly neighbors. Would they be satisfied . . . forgive him, if he proclaimed his commitment to the laundromat?
Something gave way under his feet. He stumbled, then sprawled backwards onto his bum.
The flashlight beam hadn’t caught a short flight of stairs. When he got up, pain shot through an ankle. He tried a few tentative steps. The pain wasn’t excessive, but the fall took away his nonchalance, his exploratory vim. There had been no one else in this endless alley-corridor, no way to get help. What if his injury had been more severe? He sat on the steps, turned off the flashlight to save the battery, and rested. Dark . . . the darkness here had no limits. Mr. Dark may have the best solution . . . calm in the dark . . . peaceful, yes? But impractical for everyday life, which includes laundry.
He decided to return the way he had come. From the side-alley to here had felt like a journey of hours, but he knew that if he went back, only a few minutes would elapse. Travel always feels longer in a new direction with an indeterminate goal. He turned on his flashlight and got up. His ankle throbbed, but he could walk. Still no horse or dog blocking the waiting room door. From this side, the knob didn’t turn. He knocked, paused, knocked again, harder, then harder still. And waited, but not for very long. No choice then but to go forward. Surely, by now, he was close to something.
Choice is a vague word, an even vaguer concept. Is there really ever a choice? In anything? He hadn’t chosen to have his wife leave him for her director, unless, in choosing to be with her, he had chosen all ensuing possibilities. Had he chosen to be with her? Had he chosen his Springdale lodgings? He knew better than to explore this avenue of thought. Didn’t he? For a long time, after his wife left, the only feeling he had, for anything, was indifference. That passed, as much in life passes. What was his current all-encompassing feeling—choice? Moving forward into the unknown?
Which consisted of more dark hallway, and dark hallway no longer signified as unknown. No, he knew dark hallway, and dim hallway. Though he preferred bright hallway and no ankle pain. Having a new flashlight, with new batteries, was a comfort.
A slight shift in the air . . . sudden depth . . . space.
He stopped and swept the light around. A few feet ahead, the hallway ended; a cavern swallowed the beam. Cautious, he tilted the light downward and approached the cavern. The hallway floor dropped away. He stood at the edge. The bottom was . . . ten feet down? Hard to be sure in the fuzzy darkness. But he thought he could lower himself, grip the edge where the hallway ended, and drop feet first. Leaving the flashlight on, he slipped it into a pocket. The glow through his jeans was reassuring. He lay on his stomach, feet pointed toward the gap, and slid toward the edge.
For a moment, he hung, then let himself drop. His feet hit bottom, jarring his ankle, and he fell on his back. He must have cried out when he fell. People often did. He lay where he landed. At some point, he realized that he was moving. Not on his own. Someone moved him, pulled him by his feet. Someone with a familiar sourness. His head caught on jagged sharpness. He yelled and kicked. The puller dropped his feet; his ankle sent him more pain. Hands lifted his head; not the sour-smell, a perfume he recognized. Then a sharp pain made him yell again—something was pulled out of his head. The sour-smell leaned in close. The stench nauseated him. He flailed his arms. From behind, grunts . . . words? The dark muffled everything. He sat up, then tried to stand. His ankle gave way.
On his knees, he felt in his pocket and pulled out the light. Its glare blinded him. Was that Michael . . . Amy? Her perfume, buried under the sour one. The shadow-shape of Mr. Dark batted the light from his hand. It clattered onto the floor and died. Sourness overcame him. He screamed, gagged, tried to scream again. Sounds blasted from above . . . explosions . . . lightning . . . storm-battered, he persevered. How long had he traveled, shipwrecked . . . living off seaweed and clams dug from damp sand with broken fingernails? He crawled, collapsed, crawled farther. A washing machine came into focus. Footsteps. Voices. One voice.
“Hey, are you okay?”
His eyes adjusted. The electrical lady stood over him. Suzanne—that was her name.
“What the fuck was that?” she said. “Something was down here, on top of you, then it disappeared. Smells like a . . . I don’t know what.” She helped him stand.
“I hurt my ankle,” he said.
“I found a loose connection at the breaker box, fixed it, came to try the switch and saw whatever I saw.” They started up the stairs with her supporting him. “You’ve got a lot of blood on the back of your head.”
“Can you help me to my room? I’m on the second floor.” He pulled out his key.
She settled him on his sofa. He touched the back of his head, winced at the pain and the bloody palm.
“I’ll go down to the truck for my first-aid kit.”
He closed his eyes till she returned. She dampened a cloth and wiped the back of his head. “Looks too jagged for a nail. Some scrap of metal, but it’s not that deep. The head bleeds a lot. I’ve had to patch up a lot of cuts, working on old houses. I’ll wrap a bandage around your head so you don’t get blood on your pillow. You’ll need to soak your shirt in cold water to get the blood out.”
She gave him a glass of water and a couple of pain-killers. “Anything else I can do before I go?”
“Ice maybe? For my ankle. There are plastic bags, bottom drawer, next to the light bulbs.” She looked worried, he thought.
“You’ll be okay? You really ought to get a tetanus shot.” She put a cushion on the coffee table for him to use as a footrest and helped him wrap his ankle.
“I’ll call a doctor tomorrow,” he said.
“I can stay a while longer, if you need me to.”
“I’m fine. I just want to sit here for a bit. Thanks.” She rested a hand on his knee for a moment, then turned to go.
“Oh, Suzanne, could you turn off the overhead light on your way out? That switch by the door.”
Alone, he sat amongst the shadows of his apartment. His eyes adjusted to the dimness. The throb of his head receded. From outside, a streetlight cast its glow. He thought about closing the curtains but was too comfortable to move. Comfort was important, here and in the basement. Down there—Mr. Dark—he was part of the building. It was a good building. Brown wouldn’t disturb it. Everyone deserved a home.
Springdale Longitude and Latitude
Once upon a January, 1999. Somewhere in Western Massachusetts. Alone. The kind of drive that extends far beyond actual time or mileage. I happened to stop at a roadside diner for lunch. The road might have been Route 23. A waitress pointed me to an empty booth and brought me coffee. I sat and listened to the conversations around me, pocket-notebook on the table and too close to the coffee, which dripped over the rim of the cup and attacked the notebook, granting an unwanted travel souvenir. I can show it to anyone who doesn’t believe me.
At a nearby booth, a man and woman, around the age I was at the time, talked about people they knew and had just seen (where, I didn’t catch, but let’s say it was a wedding, the back yard of a house on a wooded riverside). Several years ago, the woman had an affair with the groom, during his previous marriage (though she wasn’t the woman who the previous wife found out about, that was someone named Matilda).
They paused conversation long enough to give their orders to the waitress: bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwiches, one with French fries, the other with onion rings. I looked at the menu. Fried chicken would be nice, but I didn’t want something so substantial for lunch.
The groom they spoke of was a reporter for a local television station. His new wife worked at a bank, a relationship manager, whatever that is. “Can you imagine anything sadder than waiting to take over an anchor spot on the local news?” the woman said. “Those guys never retire. They just get more and more fossilized.”
“He’s going to have to move to a larger market. More jobs.”
“Male anchors, of course. Women have to disappear before they start aging.”
The waitress brought them drinks and turned to ask what I wanted. I said grilled cheese with onion rings. A nicely made onion ring is a wondrous thing. For those unfamiliar with the delicacy, here’s a basic recipe: Slice an onion latitudinally (taking root end as south, green end as north); pull apart the rings; dip rings in batter or dip in milk and then in flour or bread crumbs, then fry. A deep fryer is best, but pan-frying works. And some history: New York Sun May 29, 1910, pg. 195; New York Public Library’s Susan Dwight Bliss collection.
“A novelty that progressive New York restaurants are introducing with great appreciation from their patrons is one that can be reproduced at home without difficulty—French fried onions. In flavor and appearance they bear little relation to the usual breakfast dish, and which, moreover, are possible to many to whom “for the stomach’s sake” the others are impossible. The sweet Bermuda onion is used for this new dainty. It is cut thin to resemble French fried potatoes. Before cooking dredge with flour. Fry quickly in a wire basket in hot deep fat until crisp, brown, and free of grease. Very delicious as an accompaniment for beef steak, or, in fact, good with almost any kind of red meat.”
With the intrusion of plates, their talk slackened but didn’t end. Listening, I became confused, realized that I had been mistaken. They weren’t talking about people they knew; I recognized the names: from a television show I had watched in a motel room the previous night. The show was one of those ensemble-cast things, with inter-connected stories and intersecting groups of characters. Actually fairly interesting the way it’s put together. There’s the sad musician—a bass player for a successful band who fled the city with his photographer wife who’s now his ex-wife; her new husband, who runs a store that sells and installs miniature trains for amusement parks or the yards of the wealthy; her restaurant-owner brother; the guy who runs a small high-tech company; the African-American woman and her Anglo husband, who both teach at the college; there were other ethnic minorities shown, but they didn’t have much to do in the episodes that I saw. I had read about the show and was able to pick up enough while watching. This was before DVD, before streaming or downloading, so it wasn’t easy to watch missed episodes.
Well, I thought (smugly), don’t these people have more interesting things to talk about than TV drama? And why do they discuss it in such detail and from within the milieu? I talk about TV shows and movies, but as a writer, interested in story. I don’t natter about how Daryl treated Betty at the company picnic, or the ordeal that Malone was having with his landlord that might cause him to move his toy store to a new location. The woman was surprised to hear about Malone. The man said that he had been to dinner with Malone on Wednesday, and learned everything directly from him.
Curiosity replaced smugness.
From their talk, I had figured out that the man worked for a real-estate company and the woman was an assistant principal at the high school. Springdale High (which was the name of the town on the show). The man asked, “Anything crazy happening at Springdale High?” That’s how I heard the name. She said that the hole kept getting darker.
There was nothing remarkable about their conversation, no philosophical or political insights. The man kept talking about local real estate; I couldn’t tell if the woman was interested or polite. If I hadn’t just stayed up too late watching three episodes in a row, instead of reading, writing, or sleeping (all of which would have been more useful), I might not have noticed them at all, not understood or recognized the names of the place where they lived or the people they were talking about.
They finished their sandwiches. I asked for my check. Paid. They did likewise, and left, getting into a small hatchback car. The woman drove. I followed.
I was living in a town in Western Massachusetts called Great Barrington, and though I had explored many roads in the area, the one that the pair took was unfamiliar. On one side a creek flowed, and on the other loomed a hillside. Loomed is a boring, overused word that writers often spill onto the page when confronted with a tall physical object. Recently, a friend, when reading proofs of his upcoming book, was appalled at the number of times he used “loomed” or “looming.” But in this particular description, loomed is accurate: the hillside wasn’t merely steep—for long stretches it overhung the pavement like half a tunnel, reducing the already-weak light to the flavor of dusk.
Why did I follow? I didn’t know that they were driving to Springdale. Normally, I don’t believe that TV shows are real.
The year that I spent in Great Barrington wasn’t my best or my worst. It constitutes a minute fraction of my life (one-fiftieth, to be almost exact). Something life-changing happened while I lived there (but not while I was there). Mostly, I was alone. I worked at home, with once-a-month trips to Manhattan to work at the office of one of my clients. I knew few people there, and those I did know included a married couple who are the two quietest individuals in the world (and therefore less able to introduce me to others). I had never lived in a small town, and I didn’t know how to live in one, didn’t know what kinds of things a person should do to meet people and construct a life. Trips to the grocery store or a restaurant became anticipated social engagements. I didn’t have much money and couldn’t eat in restaurants often enough to get to know the staff. I tried a few new things: a full-moon hike, yoga, but talking to people in the class afterwards turned out to be difficult: the activity made me too tired, but also too peaceful. Inward centered? So I wrote a man-alone story about a guy named Brown and a levitating head that appears in his living room.
While I liked Great Barrington, I considered it transitional, a place to stop and consider my life while looking for a more permanent place. I had been thinking about Northampton, because it was larger, with more things to do. Northampton was slightly farther from New York, though closer to the interstate. I considered Seattle, but the idea of all the miles between was too daunting.
The looming road continued for longer than I thought possible in that direction. The road pointed south, toward Connecticut, which shouldn’t have been far. In the gloom I could have missed the Welcome to Connecticut sign. There wasn’t an obvious border, no river, for example. On the car stereo, a tape ended; I let it reverse to the other side. Writing that . . . after the years . . . it’s hard to remember what it was like, playing cassette tapes in a car. I would tape new CDs to hear in the car (as I had done with LPs before I switched). A CD player for the car was a luxury I couldn’t even think about buying. Though I remember an album ending, I don’t remember what it was or what it switched to on the reverse. (Here is where a real memoirist would insert a meaning-laden choice from that year, say _______.)
