Still Places to Go
Tipped back in a hard, wooden chair at Barnes and Noble, I sit facing the second-floor window, coccyx numb, boots on the sill, killing time, waiting for my phone to ring. It is Sunday night, so were it to ring, it would either be my mother on the line, or it would be the hospital calling me to come in and help save someone who has fallen victim to accident or illness. Someone who now waits, chilly and under too-bright lights, completely vulnerable to the chance trifecta of fate, science, and human competence. Today has been an uneventful day in the life of this nurse, with only one trip to the operating room to fix a broken hip. A dear old woman slipped on the ice on her daily trip to the mailbox. She had forgotten that today is Sunday.
It is dark outside now, and I can see beyond the glass a hologram of myself sitting here, alternately reading and looking at myself reading. I am in my favorite row of chairs, slightly off-the-beaten-path, in front of a stack which cradles atlases juxtaposed with books on the craft of writing. Not just books about books, or books about how to publish books, but books about how to think up and put down in words the stuff that makes a book a book. Words about words. Then, there are the atlases. Brilliantly colored compilations of maps, multilayered, exquisitely detailed charts, lined and shaded renderings, current and historic, of places on Earth and beyond. Topography, hydrography, political boundaries, forest cover, geothermal activity, migration routes, roads, trails, canyons. X’s marking spots. Maps are proof that there are still places to go, even when you are positive that you have reached the end of the only, last, lonely road. An atlas is an entire world packaged in an oversized book, there to be slid off the shelf and seriously studied, splayed open on a big table and wonderingly pondered, or gripped, still standing, and frantically flipped through, each page a door to a chute that leads to an abyss of colorful, swirling updrafts of opportunity. I sit at the apex of the triangular prism formed by these two genres, hoping to absorb the combined message that the world is vast, that I am free to live stories and devour those of others, and that even I, a Dummy, can write about such adventures, both real and pretend. I would do that now, if I weren’t waiting for my phone to ring.
My stomach is emitting clusters of volcanic rumbles, most likely from the toxic fish sandwich I ate earlier, so everyone must be able to hear and is thinking, “The fuck was that noise?” Sneaking looks sideways to see if anyone is staring, I stand up and stretch, relieved when my rickety chair groans in the manner of my tortured belly, exonerating my bowels of blame. I move closer to the window, look down through the windshield of a beefy red pickup truck, and notice a small white dog in the driver's seat, standing on its hind legs, both paws on the steering wheel. There is a woman sitting in the passenger seat, texting, as if there is nothing odd about her dog posing as her chauffeur. I picture the dog turning the key, looking over his shoulder, backing out, driving away, his lady continuing to text. My hologram smiles back from beyond the glass, startling me.
The big table I have been eyeing becomes available and I hurry to claim it, opening my laptop and spreading the contents of my bag to form the boundaries of my work zone. I grab a few atlases and place them next to my stuff, opening one to Ireland, and skewing the angles of the others to make them appear to be in use. I’m going to use them to plan my epic walkabout, right after I walk over to Fiction to see if Wally Lamb’s new book is out. I get up and head toward the southeast corner of the store. It is physically impossible for me not to walk across the carpet to the beat of the music that blares overhead. I cannot avoid this compulsion to go, stop, walk, walk, stop. Turn head, pause, turn head, stop, go, stop, and so on, to the rhythm, not missing a beat, not on purpose. I cannot control this compulsion while pushing my cart through the grocery store, nor while flipping through shirts on a TJMaxx rack, and definitely not here, in Barnes & Noble, beneath their signature surround-sound spectacular of sonic schworls of spiced up, sexed up, minced music pie. Right now, I am on a schizophrenic Barnes and Noble magic carpet of a musical journey. The sound is agro-Indian-jazz-funk-elevator, a woman yeowling in Hindi, melody all over the place, a groovy clacking rhythm pulsing in the background. Was that a marimba? The polyphonic frenzied forte makes my heart beat faster, my eyes open wider and dart from book spine to book spine like a jonesing junkie. I lift a fresh paperback from the shelf and rub my hand across the smooth matte cover, glance around before sneaking a sniff of delicious ink, flip to a random page, being careful not to crack the glue, and skim a sentence or two to see if I get sucked in. Some people have foot fetishes. I can’t help but do these three things to brand new books. I bet he does the same thing, I think, noticing an attractive middle-aged man perusing the classics through blocky, tortoise shell frames. He is wearing an outfit composed of fleece, flannel, canvas, and Gore-Tex. I am intrigued by this guy’s ability to pull off intellectual-alpinist-shitkicker chic, a look that screams professor of English literature by day, off-the-grid yurt dweller by night. I imagine that this man can cook a mean risotto flavored with hand-picked morel mushrooms, split and stack a perfect cord of wood, and never let his Jotul burn out on a wintry Vermont night. This man can scale Himalayan peaks, teach orphans in Africa to read, effortlessly maintain the status of Greatest Uncle Ever, and give a soul-shifting shiatsu. Right now, the music having morphed into Turkish-snake-charmer-samba-laced-bossa-lounge, I wish that I was wearing hip-slung silk pants, a bedazzled belt and a swingy-fringed bra. I wish that I had a flat belly with which to belly dance, grotesquely long eyelashes with which to blink, blink, and a genie ponytail to flick and flip, so that I could hypnotize Professor Lumber-Lit and lure him into the inner sanctum of my shimmering aura.
Is that AC/DC? Yes, it is “Back In Black,” with wild violins and chopping, slicing cellos. I am musically confused, as the song morphs into “Highway to Hell.” It is a symphonious rock medley. Captivating. I shuffle back to my seat and it is occupied by a young man talking loudly on his cell phone, facing outward, slouching, feet splayed, huge grin on his face. Clearly, he is talking to a woman. “Aww, put him on the phone,” he says. “Oh, Barley. Hi, Barley! Who’s a good boy? Yeah. Who’s a good boy? You are. Yes, you...” He is talking to a dog. I stand directly in front of him and stare. He looks up at me. I flick my eyes toward my belongings and raise my chin as if to say, “Hey.”
“Oh, sorry, Dude.” He says, getting up and scuffling away, yakking, his voice audible all the way to the music section.
Dude? Who calls a woman Dude? And, who talks to a dog on the phone in public? What is wrong with people? I plop down onto my hard wooden chair and it is warm. I am insulted and judging.
I smell something resembling a pile of elderly sweet potatoes. Then, I hear the too-loud voice. A greasy man, roughly nineteen or twenty years old, wearing a moth-eaten wool beanie, a filthy, oversized Army coat, loose jeans and clomping black boots with tongues wagging free, emerges from the atlas aisle, followed by his shorter, rounder, bespectacled friend. The friend is carrying a book about traveling in Spain, and is clearly trying to escape the verbal diarrhea that Greasy Guy is spewing, in sparsely punctuated speech, about the socioeconomic state of modern day Spain and the historic events that led to the country’s tragic state of disrepair.
“I’m only looking for a decent hostel to stay in,” said the friend, timidly annoyed.
I can read Chubby Friend’s thoughts. He is thinking about how his roommate, Greasy Guy, has been so unpredictable lately, staying up all night, pacing, or not coming back to the dorm at all. He hasn’t showered or changed his clothes in days, and he will not shut the hell up. Ever. He thinks he should call the kid’s parents, then talk to the school about switching rooms.
The pair enters my space and my hackles go up, whatever hackles are. My stomach feels sicker from the boiled onion stench of body odor, and its contents bubble as my irritation gauge rises. Standing right next to my big table, Greasy Guy is eyeing my atlases and continuing to speak, with absolute confidence in his expertise, about the plight of the Spanish conquistadors. He stops talking long enough to blow his nose, an action long overdue, on a grayish handkerchief. I am flabbergasted when he plants both palms on my table, leans for a moment, then grabs an atlas that is right next to the one I am looking at and spins it around with a visibly soiled palm. I had turned the page of my atlas to Spain when I could no longer think through all the loud talking. I wonder if he will notice. His quiet friend notices me and is retreating in increments. He shrugs apologetically with his eyes. Not looking at me, Greasy Guy flips open the atlas and lands on New Zealand.
“Have you ever been to New Zealand?” he asks his friend.
“No,” says Chubby Friend, flatly, now almost out of ear shot.
“I want to go there,” Greasy Guy continues without coming up for air. “I’m going this summer. People think that the Maori are the indigenous people of New Zealand but they are not. There were previous civilizations, fair-skinned people, there before the Maoris immigrated from Polynesia.” He continues on. I am annoyed, but also bored, and so intrigued, but I know that to engage would mean entrapment. Part of me is worried about the kid because his mannerisms are reminding me of my nephew, Jim, who is bipolar. Jim was the same age as this boy when his life sprang away from him and he was flung into an altered state of too fast, too slow, too fast, too slow by the click of an unknown trigger. I am certain that Greasy Guy is off his meds, or this might even be his first episode of mania. The compassionate part of me wishes I could to talk to his parents, explain what I’ve seen, tell them about my nephew, but then that idea goes away. Right now, I just want him to move his stinky self away from me, because I am dangerously nauseous. So, I go for it.
“Excuse me, Sir,” I say to Greasy Guy. His eyes click back and forth before landing on mine. I feel a pierce. “I was looking at that atlas.”
“No, you weren’t,” he insists. “It was on the table. You were looking at that one.” He points. “You were looking at Spain. Were you eavesdropping on me?” He moves closer, and my big table vibrates with his agitation.
“It was in my pile.” I say. Crap. Now I’m in.
“This is a bookstore. It is all a pile. It is the store’s pile. Everything is a pile of something. You will get up and leave all of these atlases here and someone will put your pile back in the bigger pile. So, theoretically, it is my pile too,” he says.
The kid has a point. I could get sucked into this. Mess with him a little. He is coming closer and is becoming more agitated. Chubby Friend is looking out the window, perhaps monitoring this interaction in the reflection. Greasy Guy is clearly infectious, fresh snot creeping out of both nostrils, covering the crust of the old snot. The jaded nurse in me no longer gives a shit about his mental illness. I just want him to leave.
“You are right,” I say, firmly. “That is your atlas now. Take the whole pile. Please take it to that big table, though.” I say, pointing across the room. “I am trying to concentrate.”
He isn’t listening to me. He is standing, flipping, swaying, sniffling, brain clicking, eyes clacking like Felix the Cat’s tail on the wall clock I had as a kid. His friend has retreated to the Mad Lib display, occasionally tossing a nervous glance over his shoulder. Greasy Guy sits, no longer acknowledging my presence, spreads the pages of his atlas, grabs another off my pile, and opens that one, too. Ignoring. Lost again in the tornado of thoughts that is swirling inside his skull. He leans on his elbows and drops his head closer to the page. The kid looks exhausted. Here comes that empathy again. Damned innate human kindness and a nursing degree.
“Sir,” I try again, assertively, but not harshly. “This is my space for now. Obviously, I have claimed it. I know. It is Barnes and Noble’s space, your space, the whole world’s space, but, right now, you are invading my current space, and I am asking you, kindly, to move.”
His bloodshot eyes flip to mine, snapping on as if my eyes are the blue Legos and his are the green Legos. “Listen, Lady. You are not fooling me. I know you are one of them. I know you have been following me. I do not have the information you are looking for. I am not the guy!”
I nod, relaxing any hint of emotion in my face. I imagine myself as one of them.
“I am not the guy you are looking for!” Louder now, his voice breaking a little. Did his eyes just tear up, or is the wetness that is teetering on the edge of his lower eyelids the cold virus finally wearing him down?
I grow up for a moment. I am the adult here. “I know,” I say, surprised by my calmness with a hint of gentle. “It’s okay. Really, it’s okay.”
He exhales. Quiet. Nearly deflated. Drained. One wary eye keeps track of me as he traces the border between Bhutan and India with his grubby finger. Chubby Friend looks over with concern and starts to walk toward our big table.
“Excuse me,” I say, pulling my phone out of my bag, pretending I had heard it buzz.
“Hey, Claudette,” I say, looking at Greasy Guy and talking into the phone. I pause, fake listening. “A C-spine fracture? Poor kid. Okay, I’ll see you in a few.”
I put the phone away and gather my things. I leave the atlases in a pile in front of Greasy Guy. His pile now. He is quiet, struggling to breathe through his congested face.
“Enjoy Zimbabwe,” I offer him, glancing at the page he is on, and I turn to walk away.
He looks up at me, sniffs, then returns his eyes to the map. I hesitate, then turn my head. I make eye contact with Chubby Friend and say to Greasy Guy over my shoulder, “Hey, get some rest, okay?”
I walk away, grooving through Fiction to the bossa-nova-cool-jazz beat of “Girl from Impanema” embattled in a brilliant mash up with a piano-driven rendition of “Yesterday.” The handsome professor has moved on to some other section, perhaps Cooking, or How-To's. As I leave Barnes and Noble behind for the night, I notice the seamless transition of the string section into “Every Breath You Take.”