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.

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.

A Diary by Myself: the Remains of the Shattered Man

(These quotes are all that remain of the diary of Carrie Nation’s husband. They were found in Quotes from the Husbands of Famous Wives along with statements from Tony, the lover of Cleopatra; Henry VIII, the sometimes husband of Ann (with an e) Boleyn; a professor, the husband of Harriet Beecher Stowe; and other not-so-famous of renowned wives.)

…at woman will drive me to drinking. I have never had a taste for alcohol. Even my mother, when I was cutting my teeth on water and lemons, had praised me for my temperance. “Look, son,” she said to me before I could understand English, “them boys thar has got no lick of sense. They done spend thar pennies on bottles of liquid sin.” I remembered her words to this day. But my wife—she’s the very devil, I tell you. She asked me if she could go to Wichita to throw rocks at a saloon. My goodness! I don’t even let my sons throw rocks at the Catholics.

June 12. My sermon was on temperance today. I said--and I thought it really something else--“Saints and friends, don’t give in to the devil liquor. Be temperate. Resist with all your soul. Remember that we are sinners and our souls destroyed by sin. We can do nothing but sin. So resist the devil, whose name is Liquor.” Afterwards, Carrie came in hot as—not physically, of course--hot as a turtle shell on a Texas winter’s day. “Those Catholics,” she said--the Lord has blessed her with a mouth as wide as the Mississippi and twice as loud as Niagra Falls--she said, “Brother David!” And I said, “Yes, Sister Carrie.” “Brother David,” she continued, “Those Catholics spoke about temperance today too. Only they didn’t say, as you so elegantly--she meant, eloquently--stated, ‘Stray not near the bars and taverns, the fountains of sin and lust and fornication and debauchery and adultery and blasphemy and drunkenness.’ That priest said, ‘Follow the example of Lord our God when He changed the water into wine at the marriage of Cana. Drink, but drink with moderation; eat, but eat with moderation; sleep, but sleep with moderation. Do all things in moderation.’ By jingo, what does he mean by ‘moderation’?” She tossed some stones at the Catholics.

July 29. Today, I’m about to give up preaching. I simply see no point to it. Carrie doesn’t even listen to me. My pa used to say, “Son, ef yer wife don’t pay y’all no heed. Ain’t no use talkin’ ta y’all’s kin or frinds cuse sur as shootin’ no one else gonna.” (I think I used to talk too much as a child.)

December 1. It was a long summer. Between law suits and paying for damages, I think I am going broke. Hopefully the winter will cool her down. I had my palm read. The clairvoyant—sounds better than soothsayer, sounds too superstitious—said the spring looks brighter. It better be. All of this smashing is making Carrie really obnoxious.

December 2. Wife is out of control. Some say it’s my fault. I can’t see how, I’ve given her everything she’s wanted. Anyhow, she smashed all the milk bottles, glasses, pitchers, etc. Anything she can get her hatchet on is BAM! Smithereens. I really need to be more wary about what I give my wife for her birthday.

janubary 35. Can’t tell what day it is today. All’s I know is my head aches like a son of a gun. Drank all last night. First time. Alcohol, damn good. Sure silenced Carrie. She ain’t said a word all day.
Ma? Gave up on time and Gypsy was right. Spring sure looks brighter. Found three bottles on the floor this morning. Can’t believe I really drunk that much. Must have been out for—calendar’s off, so who knows. Carrie sued for—I signed. She said I could have waited for her to finish. Divorce begins tomorrow. I think I’ll have a drink on that…maybe another.

From the unfinished autobiography of Julius Caesar, Recasting the Die

Tour Day XIIth. Been on this election tour for XII days. Persnickety voters! It's not like the army days. Rough and relaxed, that's what they called me. Now, it's promising ridiculous things like change and progress. Who ever heard of a politician bringing about such things? Maybe Cleopatra. But it wasn't her politicing, I can promise you that. Back in the old days, I would trot up over any old bridge and a legion would follow. That would get things done. Perhaps it’s the weather. Heard Pompey is really hooting it up Egypt. He always had a way with women. Ah well, I guess my day will come soon.

Tour Day XIIIth. By Hercules, those Italians. If it isn’t some sentimental music about piazza’s and kissing, it’s pizza, wine, and hooligans. They can’t let a man walk through his own city in peace without making fools of themselves. Some old codger, obviously had one bottle too many, tottered up to me and said something ridiculous. It might have been Greek or even classical Latin. Something about the Hides of Mark.

Tour Day XIVth. Rained all day. Felt like I was back in Gaul. In fact, I felt like a school boy coming back from a playing hooky at the Coliseum. I jumped and clicked my heels and said, “weni, widi, wincki.” A page said history will never forget those words. The boy had a few too many. But I still don’t have a slogan. Perhaps, I will say, “Let me have fat men around me.”

Tour Day XVth. No one likes my slogan. There was blood in some of their eyes. In fact, I think they thought I was talking about Brutus. I said he wasn’t fat, only big boned. Cassius also took offense. He said I was supporting obscenity. I think he meant obesity. Cassius was never too bright. Won’t the joke be on him some day!

Tour Day XVIth. Quite a crowd at the senate building today. Many of the senators looked a little squeamish. Perhaps they’re afraid of blood. The priests were investigating some chicken guts. One particular priest, Flapius—he always is ready with a joke or two—was playing the foot making it open and close by pulling the tendons. HA! Got to love a good sport. Guts weren't too promising, soothsayer said.

Tour Day XVIIth. The people are such simpletons. They asked if I wanted to be king! What next? Emperor! Of course, they might be right. Well, I shan’t let it make me lose sleep.

Tour Day XVIIIth. Lost sleep. No mood to write. Blah!

Tour Day XIVth. Marc Anthony joined the mob in demanding my kingship. Turned him down. Cicero was up in arms with some sort of anti-monarchical speech. The reaction was the same. No one listened, except for Cicero. Brutus had a smirk today. First time I’ve seen him smile since I fell in the river. Cassius was telling a joke which ended with “Is this a dagger I see before me?” The man is a riot when he wants to be. But even then, not a smile crested his lips. Such a stoneface!

Tour Day XVIth. Tomorrow’s the ides of March. Weatherpriest says it’s gonna be a killer day. Perfect for a picnic. Maybe I’ll go to the senate. Surprise the lot of them. Then maybe I’ll go fishing with Flapius.

Rothfeather Letter #3

Dearest Phyllis,

Once again I have been told that I am hopelessly in love with you. I would not have given any more credence to my father’s words than I had before, but he backs them up with such unarguable responses. In addition to a loss of inheritance, he says I have the symptoms of a boy wasting away for love. “If you keep up like this, my boy,” he said to me the other night, “I’m afraid we will have to bury an hairless young man.” (I think he meant heirless. We must remember he did come from England, which explains his inability at times to speak English properly.)

I wasn’t sure, Phyllis, what the symptoms of love were. Some ideas are pretty clear from the various novels I had read. But father squashed all of them and reversed them. I had always imagined a love-lorn lover to be meandering hither and thither, wasting away for lack of nourishment, plucking flowers at random, singing songs about death, despair, and other unhealthy psychological issues, and such odds and ends that are not normally found in the daily habits of men—such as, sometimes is told, work. Now my father said my habit of devouring a three-course meal for breakfast and lunch, and a five-course for dinner, my regular lounging around in the parlor, and my complete detestation for melancholic tunes and gathering colorful weeds were all signs of my advanced state of affections for you.

He could have fooled me. I’ve never felt so out of love in all my life. And yet, my father said that that is how it often appears. While I had my doubts, his inheritance argument won me over. Again I was steadfastly convinced that I love you. Perhaps you can see it between the lines if you look hard enough. Heaven knows I have a hard enough time seeing it myself.

It seems awkward for me to say these things when the novels had implied that I should be gushing with poetry and other sentimental sentiments. At this moment, however, the only I am feeling is a bit peckish. I think the maid has a cold steak in the icebox, which tempts like Salome’s dancing. By the way, do you dance like Salome?

Ghost written by George, Charlie’s friend,
Charlie T. Rothfeather.

Rothfeather Letter #2

Dear Phyllis,

Your response to my first letter raised quite a stir on my homefront. My father was absolutely livid. And he railed for days about my inability to win your love--as if I had not tried! What little he knows. I wrote some three hundred words professing my belief that it would be in the interest of both parties and both families if we were to tie the matrimonial knot. While you disagreed, you definitely could not have made it less subtle than by saying, as your too concise telegram read, "Go fish in another pond, bucko."

I hope you do not think I am being rude, but my father is quite persistent we marry. In fact, his paternal insistence took its typical path with threats of disinheritance. (I am beginning to believe that disinheriting me is the only tool in his arsenal.) "Son," he said to me the other night, "if you cannot win the hand of some foolish girl, how are you going to win over million dollar clients in the real world of business? Marriage, Charlie, is about finance, social status, and a hot dinner ready when we return home from the club." (He knows I don't like the club, so he said it only to annoy me.)

You know, maybe we would make a good couple. You don't agree with my father; I don't agree with my father. We already have common ground. Perhaps we can overlook the other petty differences, such as your being Baptist and my being Methodist. Dad said that your family's fascination with bible-thumping, shrill-shrieking evangelicals is a remnant of your family's Southern days. But, with disinheritance hanging overhead, I was convinced that it was a small matter.

The only really important matter is that the dowry is sufficient for my family's honor. Dad said he will refuse anything under $20,000 and assurance of that spacious territory when your own father kicks the bucket. As I believe that these terms will not convince you in the slightest and your father does not seem as anxious as mine to get rid of you, I have his permission to dicker over the dowry. I can cut you a fifty percent reduction deal if the wedding would include the governor, an archbishop, and three foreign aristocrats. The aristocrats I can easily find as there are dukes and duchesses coming over from England all of the time. They're always looking for some exceptional treatment as in their mother country they are a dime a dozen.

Of course, we could always re-consider eloping. I have a good friend who just did that and got quite a deal on wedding costs from the Justice of the Peace. Regardless of how we go about it, Mother has given me strict orders not to break your heart. Is that possible? I don't know as I am unfamiliar with these sorts of scenarios. I would much rather go golfing.

Dictated to my secretary, Alice, from a tent on the green,
Charlie T. Rothfeather

Your Don Quixote

Let me be your idyllic knight
Who ranges rough, unruly roads
That you may call me a worthy wight
For following the ancient codes.

Then I would from a rusted sheath
My battle-battered sword withdraw
And stand the hero on the heath –
Like Samson with an ass’s jaw.

And though my squire’s a foolish man,
My armor’s scuffed, my clothing’s mean,
My weapon’s blunt, my helmet’s a pan –
It’s granduer when you are my queen.

These all I’d wear, and worse. For you –
And all shall think myself insane –
I’d see a hundred men as two;
A sty with pigs, a rich domain.

I’d roar a challenge by your name
To any heathen hoard or drove
Of bleating sheep – they are the same –
Who mock the lady of my love.

I’d glare in death’s deriding eyes
And laugh aloud in merry scorn
At foes who keep with cackling cries
Some weak, unworthy oaths they’d sworn.

And with my horn, a tarnished toy,
I would defy each bragging star;
And, laughing, I’d the moon annoy,
By gloating o’er each well-won scar.

A fool – but let me be your knight
And walk the wild untempered hills,
Playing the fool for your delight
And tilting lances at the mills.