Shell

NaNoWriMo has begun. I'm just going to keep appending the tail end of this post that, with any luck will become very, very long.

I let him stay.
He just showed up one Sunday morning in September. Sat on the front steps. And every Sunday after that. Early, before I was even downstairs for coffee.

The first time I thought he was a vagrant. I would have called the cops if I could have gotten over the idea of causing a scene in the neighborhood and attracting attention. I was relatively new here, new city, new state.

When Darren first appeared on my steps, so comfortably, so familiarly I felt defensive, like I needed to take up arms and fight for my property, my home. Then Mike, neighbor to my right--right if you are on my porch facing the street-- told me that Darren and his wife owned the house just before me. They had gotten a divorce, it was messy, so I never met them at the closing, they took care of their business before I even arrived in town. I did not know beforehand that this was that guy. We didn't exchange names. His presence on my steps did not constitute a meet-and-greet session. In fact, he seemed utterly oblivious to the concept that the house belonged to someone else.

Mike, in his gossip about their divorce divulged the fact that Darren's wife had cheated on him, left him with a bunch of crap in the house, and said she had to go find herself. Darren had been heartbroken, was still apparently. Once I had this information I no longer felt the need to keep the cast iron fireplace poker nearby, or my cellphone attached to myself when he was there. I found his situation sweet and tragic all at the same time.

Letting him sit there on Sunday mornings seemed like a simple enough thing to allow. And why I even remark of it as an "allowance" is peculiar. I mean, outside of our system of property laws and grids and blueprints-- space-- in the metaphysical sense-- is a deeply personal and intimate concept, far from the realm of boundary lines and more into that of street corners and closets and shells.
Yes, we did talk just once.
I was just coming back from a morning run, walking along the sidewalk out in front of the house when he asked, "What do people do on Sunday mornings?" as if his body moved in not quite the same physical plane as did mine or theirs or yours, or he was lacking the information to get the job done, in a purely business sense. I never went in or out of the front door when he was there, so I have no notion of whether he knew I was the resident there, or not. I would enter and exit through the back of the house, a combination of respect and fear.

"I just went running. There are quite a few people down on the corner at the coffeeshop." That was my answer for him. For this guy who could think of nowhere more natural or native to go than the front stairs of a house he had shared with a woman who was gone and who he still loved-- this was my answer.

What did he used to do on Sundays, I wondered, that now made them so foreign and uncomfortable, like the day was no longer even a part of the equation of his life-- Sunday is made up by other people, for other people who picnic and hold hands in the park, wake up and share sex and coffee and crumb cake in bed, watch the news, take a crossword puzzle seriously, walk the dog, take the kids to the ball game, watch football, sleep off their hangovers.

My Sunday mornings were no archipelago of happiness and mirth, quite the opposite-- Darren and I could have more than likely formed our own support group for those most lost, or incapacitated, or lacking adequate data to get a Sunday morning done. Maybe this is the biggest reason I did not bother him and perhaps also the reason my life unravelled when he finally left.

11/2/05, 5:15 pm:

Unravel.
Rope.
Slinky toy.
Wave curl.
Cocoon.
Spiral shell.
Yo-yo.

Darren had been appearing on my front steps for nearly 6 months when he suddenly stopped. The first time it happened I was ridiculously disoriented. Like a dog trained to some Pavlovian trick I scuttled from window to window expecting to see him there as if he may have just swam outside the scope of his usual habit and might be wandering around the back yard with his coffee from 6 months ago.

Maybe he was sick.
He'd be back.

When it happened the next week again, I worried. I felt absurd. This guy did not even know my name, or if he did it did not matter. Even if he had died, who was he to me? He had no dependence on me. He depended on a set of stairs existing to a house he had once owned, lived happily in, at least for a while, with a woman he had loved, still loved or thought he loved--- apparition of love. My existence was not necessary.

Most people I observe move so easily and without delay from life to life. Everyday is a new life, isn't it? Everyday I became more attached to the one that had been the day before.
Suddenly this was before me. Darren had easily moved to another life, or left this one, for good. I went and stood in the stairwell at my office hyperventilating until I could catch my breath on my life that day.
I looked down through the center of the well and watched the bannister and steps twirl and bend further, tighter into themselves until they physically left my line of sight.


"Will you be here on Wednesdays?" she asked me.
I had made it my routine, I guess, to do my laundry at the laundromat by the video store every Wednesday evening. I realized I arrived around the same time, with the same white trash bag of my assortment of clothes to clean. When she aimed her voice and stare at me, I also realized she had been there every time, too. She had long light brown hair. She usually drank a coffee from the cafeteria next door. She took up two washers, two dryers. I only took inventory of these things after she asked me. She folded her clothes meticulously. She talked to no one else.
"Most likely," I answered. "Unless my situation changes," I finished in my head only.

The laundromat was white, and warm from the dryer heat and fresh, hot clothes. The snack and soda machines both were operational, the television usually played syndicated television shows. Generally the clientele was comprised of university students, residents of the apartments across the street and an assortment of other generally benign customers who kept to the machines they had seized for the evening.

She sat down and watched t.v. while her clothes were washing and drying.

She looked at me when I came through the door. One Wednesday night I shot her a look back and said, "Get a dog." I was mean and hard that night. "A dog is reliable." It was raining and raw. I stared at her only long enough to make sure she knew it was coming from me and aimed at her. I mean, was she going to go crazy if I didn't show up some night? Some people do those things-- have to have every element in its place in their lives, a time, a place, a space, like spots on a game board, playing pieces that once they were chosen could never be moved.

That's how I felt-- like a Monopoly piece-- the boring top hat maybe-- just left sitting on Baltic Avenue (which no one ever wants) without a chance of moving, at least with her playing the game.

11/10/05

I did not change my Wednesday laundry routine.
She did not change her's.
The more I thought she simply relied on the movements of me as if I were some strange sundial, the more I tried to alter them, but only on occasion, like when I was bored. One Wednesday evening I strayed from the normal washer I took. I moved to the other side of the laundromat. I watched her out of the edges of my eyes. She had to move differently to see me, to know I was there. I got a Honey Bun from the snack machine, a soda from the drink machine, walked outside and disappeared from her line of sight. Removed myself. I felt good and cruel all at the same time.
I had this deep desire to keep things changing, but only when I had the inspiration. I was drawn to routine and grooves. Now when I thought about it, I intentionally shifted things. I ordered a different meal at the restaurant, wore a shirt I had not in months instead of grabbing the same one I loved to pull on. I wondered what it would be like to take short, but dangerous little risks.

I read the paper one laundry evening. I admit it-- my horoscope for the day. It said I had someone unfamiliar, exotic, moving into my "aspect." Someone I would not recognize as being like anyone else I had ever known. I ran back through anyone I had passed on the street that day, and anticipated the next day, in some ridiculous way. I found myself staring at her then. Maybe she was the "exotic" person. I studied everything about her. The way she shook and snapped her clothes in the air before folding them like she was packing for a long trip. Her skin. Her hands.