Saturday, April 11, 2020
A Very, Very Brief Sketch Relating to a Melancholic's Morning Mental Meanderings during this Time of Quarantine; also Title: An Introvert's Reflection
The news was sobering as I, with my morning cup of coffee burning my hand, did not stop my eyes from skulking out the window. The news had crammed my ears with advice on how to wash my hands, how to wear a mask, how to keep my distance, how to think when alone, how to make and eat my own food; with warnings about millions falling victim to a virus, with hundreds of thousands succumbing to the sickness and dying, and with little hope of any surviving. The world, from what I could tell, had little chance of stopping that last foot from slipping into the grave.
Did the darkness of the news dampen my vision of spring, or was the warm and sunny season simply in the same mood? The birds, sitting on the branches, from which bits of green were beginning to ooze out, were chirping away at some dirge. Two branches over, two young squirrels were jabbering away in the trees, probably about another squirrel a few blocks down who was dared a leap to a branch a smidgen too far to reach--a paw's claw's length too far--and landed on the road at the same time a tire rolled over that spot. "Nature has a unique way of curbing the crop," one said to the other as they larked about in the branches. Below them, The flowers bloomed out in all sorts of colors and arrangements as one might see in a funeral parlor, each color signifying, in nature's mystical way, sorrow, pathetic pain, unretributive love, admiration gone awry, loss of love or life, and like messages. And among the flowers, a robin with his blood-toned breast skippingly yanked some unfortunate worm from his home in the dirt. The worm himself, who seconds earlier was grumbling along some dark underground tunnel, wiggled for a moment, like a child being tickled, and then vanished down the bird's dark gullet. And then I thought, these were the very same thoughts and visions as last year's. I sipped my coffee, and it warmed me.
The end.
Sunday, March 22, 2020
A Prologue: In Memoriam
The little town was shrouded in a tar-like darkness. The lights that normally cast an orange glow on the streets and avenues had been doused, thrusting the town, as it were, back into the middle nineteenth century when a few Blackrobes and a few hundred Indians first built a church and huts and began to layout the city before the coming of asphalt and concrete and modular homes. There was, as Coleridge would have said had he been here, “blackness, blackness all around bunt not a drop from ink.” Even the houses stood simply as darker shades in the night. No moon, no stars. It was as if the earth mirrored the sky, or perhaps the sky mirrored the earth--the difference is significant, but, at this time, an undeterminable difference.
I sat in my car at what appeared to be the beginning of the town. To my left, I knew but could not see, were a few scattered shops in what was considered the industrial park. To my right, a little ways up the road, was a college. I had spent a few years there as a student. Now, from what I had gathered, it was little more than a skeleton of what it was: merely brick and stone but no souls. But it was not just the college whose students had vanished and whose professors abandoned the halls that was empty. The entire history of the town had been obliterated. It was another ghost town among the multitude of towns whose lights have been extinguished by change or by neglect.
If I were to continue down the road, I should take left and perhaps a right. There would stand the House. It contained the happiest days of life, but with those memories of those long unforgotten days, came a memory of the deepest sorrow. Even then, as I sat in my car not daring to move forward and not desiring to move backward, it brings me pain. If I cried at that moment, I don’t remember. I was as one stalled or stagnanted in a dream as I stared into the darkness. But even after an hour, my eyes could hardly pierce the night.
It was not my choice to come here. If it had been, I never would have approached this forsaken town. I would have tried to leave it buried with the memories it was then resurrecting. Like leaves in a book that had been ripped out only to fall before my feet, each memory slowly and terribly flitted before my eyes. If I had been wiser, I perhaps would not have stopped when I had seen the sign surrounded by weeds that announced the population. The sign read 2,156. But the truer number was 0.
After an eternity of minutes and memories, I restarted the car, turned on the lights, and slunk through the town as if to avoid waking up any other ghost of a memory. Through the blackness, a familiar shape of a shop peaked through the darkness, the entrance to the college, a house, another house, and gradually the main street opened before me. The place looked as it did when I had left it many years earlier, with two exceptions: no lights to give depth to the town and a certain despair that rose in that darkness. I half expected to see my old self sauntering down a familiar pathway, crossing the main street just before the old church.
Then, drawn by a curiosity that came from more and fonder and even fiercer memories, I followed the route that had once been so familiar to me. The short drive happened more by habit than by deliberate choice. Years ago, I could have walked this way in my sleep. Even now, I think I could have closed my eyes and reached the front door of the house with little fear of a collision. I took the left turn. Down one block. I took the right turn and stopped. There locked in my headlights was the House. A two-story house. The curtains drawn were drawn as if the owners were merely sleeping. The sidewalk leading to it was cracked and crumbling, and overgrowth set traps for my feet. When I awoke from my trance, I was already at the front door. The old handle creaked as it turned. The door opened and lead into a room that had been once the brightest in the world, now darker than the darkness that surrounded it, and it stank with musk, rotting wood, dank carpet, and animal and bird excrement. My flashlight pierced the gloom, settling on one thing and then another. Other than the smell, the place appeared orderly enough for being abandoned for so long. The chairs, the bookcase, the piano—all were standing where they had been left. Even the table, which held two half burnt candles and an empty vase that had roses in the last time I had seen it, was set for dinner. Was every house like this? Where had the people gone? Or, as in the fairy tale, were they merely sleeping until some prince rode in to kiss the princess awake?
“So you finally came back?”
I turned my flashlight rapidly in the direction of the voice and the direction of the stairs. From between the railings a face, worn and white, peered down at me.
“I had a sneaking suspicion that some day you would return,” the face continued, “but I really wasn’t sure when. There was just this inkling, you know. It was sort of like the feeling you get on Christmas when you are confident that Santa Claus will come, but at what minute and from which direction? That you do not know."
I said nothing, but stared.
“So you don’t remember me. That’s really no surprise. I was a child when you left. In fact, I was a baby. I was a child when everyone left,” the face continued. “All I remember of you is what mom and dad and she told me about you and what I have seen of you in the photographs they left behind.” The person coughed violently. For a moment, he seemed to lose consciousness, but slowly he looked up again. His face more pale than before, almost like white paste. Shaking, he slowly pocked his nose between the pillars.
“Yes,” he continued, “I knew you would come.”
Climbing the stairs, I helped him to his feet. If he was really younger than I, as he had intimated to me, I could not tell. His head was hair-less. His eyes were sunk deep in his ashen face. His lips quivered as if he wanted to cry or to hold back a cry but could not. His flesh hung in wrinkles about his faces as if it barely clung to the bones of his faces. Nothing in my bleakest memories came so close to a face of horror than his. And yet, his mere helplessness kept me from being repulsed and from fleeing the house.
Once I had put him into the remains of a bed and had scrapped together some food from cans that I had found neatly stacked in the cellar according to kind and size, I sat beside him to feed him as best I could. It was clear he ate only out of necessity. Each swallow was met with a facial contortion that spoke only of the pain it took to swallow each bite. How long could a man live like this? And, if my memory served me correctly, this poor fellow had to have lived here for a good thirty years. I myself was thirty-three when I had left and only now had returned at the age of sixty-one.
“A chemical train,” he said, “derailed some six years after you had moved out. I was seven at the time. I was supposed to be going to school, but had decided to play hooky. The day was spent wandering about the college woods. I don’t know if they had searched for me or not, but when I returned the whole town had been evacuated. It remained completely closed for several months. Even after crews mopped up the mess, the homes were unlivable. Nothing could be salvaged that hadn’t been contaminated. I hid the whole time, thinking it was better to live here until everyone came back than to show my face and get in trouble. You see, what fools we children can be? But no one came back, and I lived here ever since gathering canned foods from the houses.
“But I’ve had company. One other boy was with me, at least until he died—that was four years ago. His bones are still in that room there.” Slowly he pointed across the small hallway.
“By the way, I am Jake,” he mumbled, and he closed his eyes.
I sat in my car at what appeared to be the beginning of the town. To my left, I knew but could not see, were a few scattered shops in what was considered the industrial park. To my right, a little ways up the road, was a college. I had spent a few years there as a student. Now, from what I had gathered, it was little more than a skeleton of what it was: merely brick and stone but no souls. But it was not just the college whose students had vanished and whose professors abandoned the halls that was empty. The entire history of the town had been obliterated. It was another ghost town among the multitude of towns whose lights have been extinguished by change or by neglect.
If I were to continue down the road, I should take left and perhaps a right. There would stand the House. It contained the happiest days of life, but with those memories of those long unforgotten days, came a memory of the deepest sorrow. Even then, as I sat in my car not daring to move forward and not desiring to move backward, it brings me pain. If I cried at that moment, I don’t remember. I was as one stalled or stagnanted in a dream as I stared into the darkness. But even after an hour, my eyes could hardly pierce the night.
It was not my choice to come here. If it had been, I never would have approached this forsaken town. I would have tried to leave it buried with the memories it was then resurrecting. Like leaves in a book that had been ripped out only to fall before my feet, each memory slowly and terribly flitted before my eyes. If I had been wiser, I perhaps would not have stopped when I had seen the sign surrounded by weeds that announced the population. The sign read 2,156. But the truer number was 0.
After an eternity of minutes and memories, I restarted the car, turned on the lights, and slunk through the town as if to avoid waking up any other ghost of a memory. Through the blackness, a familiar shape of a shop peaked through the darkness, the entrance to the college, a house, another house, and gradually the main street opened before me. The place looked as it did when I had left it many years earlier, with two exceptions: no lights to give depth to the town and a certain despair that rose in that darkness. I half expected to see my old self sauntering down a familiar pathway, crossing the main street just before the old church.
Then, drawn by a curiosity that came from more and fonder and even fiercer memories, I followed the route that had once been so familiar to me. The short drive happened more by habit than by deliberate choice. Years ago, I could have walked this way in my sleep. Even now, I think I could have closed my eyes and reached the front door of the house with little fear of a collision. I took the left turn. Down one block. I took the right turn and stopped. There locked in my headlights was the House. A two-story house. The curtains drawn were drawn as if the owners were merely sleeping. The sidewalk leading to it was cracked and crumbling, and overgrowth set traps for my feet. When I awoke from my trance, I was already at the front door. The old handle creaked as it turned. The door opened and lead into a room that had been once the brightest in the world, now darker than the darkness that surrounded it, and it stank with musk, rotting wood, dank carpet, and animal and bird excrement. My flashlight pierced the gloom, settling on one thing and then another. Other than the smell, the place appeared orderly enough for being abandoned for so long. The chairs, the bookcase, the piano—all were standing where they had been left. Even the table, which held two half burnt candles and an empty vase that had roses in the last time I had seen it, was set for dinner. Was every house like this? Where had the people gone? Or, as in the fairy tale, were they merely sleeping until some prince rode in to kiss the princess awake?
“So you finally came back?”
I turned my flashlight rapidly in the direction of the voice and the direction of the stairs. From between the railings a face, worn and white, peered down at me.
“I had a sneaking suspicion that some day you would return,” the face continued, “but I really wasn’t sure when. There was just this inkling, you know. It was sort of like the feeling you get on Christmas when you are confident that Santa Claus will come, but at what minute and from which direction? That you do not know."
I said nothing, but stared.
“So you don’t remember me. That’s really no surprise. I was a child when you left. In fact, I was a baby. I was a child when everyone left,” the face continued. “All I remember of you is what mom and dad and she told me about you and what I have seen of you in the photographs they left behind.” The person coughed violently. For a moment, he seemed to lose consciousness, but slowly he looked up again. His face more pale than before, almost like white paste. Shaking, he slowly pocked his nose between the pillars.
“Yes,” he continued, “I knew you would come.”
Climbing the stairs, I helped him to his feet. If he was really younger than I, as he had intimated to me, I could not tell. His head was hair-less. His eyes were sunk deep in his ashen face. His lips quivered as if he wanted to cry or to hold back a cry but could not. His flesh hung in wrinkles about his faces as if it barely clung to the bones of his faces. Nothing in my bleakest memories came so close to a face of horror than his. And yet, his mere helplessness kept me from being repulsed and from fleeing the house.
Once I had put him into the remains of a bed and had scrapped together some food from cans that I had found neatly stacked in the cellar according to kind and size, I sat beside him to feed him as best I could. It was clear he ate only out of necessity. Each swallow was met with a facial contortion that spoke only of the pain it took to swallow each bite. How long could a man live like this? And, if my memory served me correctly, this poor fellow had to have lived here for a good thirty years. I myself was thirty-three when I had left and only now had returned at the age of sixty-one.
“A chemical train,” he said, “derailed some six years after you had moved out. I was seven at the time. I was supposed to be going to school, but had decided to play hooky. The day was spent wandering about the college woods. I don’t know if they had searched for me or not, but when I returned the whole town had been evacuated. It remained completely closed for several months. Even after crews mopped up the mess, the homes were unlivable. Nothing could be salvaged that hadn’t been contaminated. I hid the whole time, thinking it was better to live here until everyone came back than to show my face and get in trouble. You see, what fools we children can be? But no one came back, and I lived here ever since gathering canned foods from the houses.
“But I’ve had company. One other boy was with me, at least until he died—that was four years ago. His bones are still in that room there.” Slowly he pointed across the small hallway.
“By the way, I am Jake,” he mumbled, and he closed his eyes.
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