In Springdale Town Read online

  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 in the town, including a married couple who are the two quietest people in the world (and therefore not able to introduce me to anyone). 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 even go out to 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 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 that 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 _______.)

  The hillside receded, replaced by a cattle pasture. I felt able to breathe again.

  I began to see buildings, an antique store, car repair, veterinarian–obvious signs that I was approaching a town. I crossed a set of railroad tracks. The highway became Main Street. A sign announced: Welcome to Springdale. Downtown reminded me of Lee, a town near Great Barrington where I had found a decent Mexican restaurant. The people I followed turned right on a cross-street, then into a parking lot. I passed and eased my car to the curb. The building where they stopped had a sign that said Riverside Reality. The man left the car and entered the building. Were the couple involved romantically? Openly? I saw nothing furtive in their behavior. They got into the same car (it had occurred to me that they had chosen a remote spot for a reason, but if so, they would have arrived separately). The woman backed the car and turned to exit. I decided not to follow. No need. I pulled away from the curb and drove around to find a parking place. I was in Springdale.

  ~

  Some of this is fuzzy. Memory is an untrustworthy creature. This is certain: I left the car and walked around. One of the first things I saw was a used bookstore, called Riverside Books. In I went. The two stores in Great Barrington had brochures listing used bookstores in the area. I didn’t recall this one being on it. What a luxury that now seems. Back then, working free-lance, pre-child...I could drive around with no goal other than exploring used bookstores and whatever else I saw along the way. Riverside Books was nice, with the right kind of musty paper smell. I found a hardback of Angela Carter’s The War of Dreams, which I decided to get even though I already owned it and had read it in paperback as The Infernal Desire Machine of Doctor Hoffman; also, an intriguing-looking book called Undiscovered Countries by someone named Gerald Ubder (the cover showed a woodcut illustration of a stylized flying machine over what looked like a village in Medieval Europe). I know I bought it, I know I carried it out of the store, but I can’t recall what happened to it. I’ve often looked for another copy.

  I tried to chat with the proprietor, a light-haired youngish man wearing eye glasses that had wooden frames. I’m not good at small talk and am easily put off by people who don’t offer much communication. Maybe I was too exuberant. “This is a great store!” “I even want to buy things that I already have!” And so on. The man totaled my purchases and bagged them. I set off to explore further. I passed a toy store called Fudburry’s, a closet-sized pizza restaurant, another real-estate office. A sign at the entrance to an alley-like space between buildings said Sublime Junk, with an arrow pointing alley-ward. Through the window I could see an orange lamp shaped like an onion, some decorative plates, a purple vase with dried flowers. A bell on the door announced my entrance. The front room had junk and also not-junk, though I didn’t find anything sublime. At the counter, a woman with grey hair pulled back in a bun nodded at me and looked down. She was working on a jigsaw puzzle of a seaside town.

  A back room had kitchen items. I picked up a rusty, one-egg-sized cast-iron skillet. That would be easy to clean and re-season. You can never have enough cast-iron skillets. The bell clanged to announce the entrance of another patron; voices mingled, one clearly the shop-owner’s, the other also female. I browsed my way deeper, setting aside a pile of things: mugs, the skillet, a framed and completed paint-by-numbers farmhouse, enameled camping plates, a lamp with a wooden sailing ship for a base. In the back, a cupboard showcased teapots and vases. I picked up a ceramic rooster with a red-orange body, oversized yellow feet on an oval base painted green, wide mouth, pink tongue, stylized feathers. The signature on the bottom looked like Ortega. The whole thing was about the size of my forearm, from elbow to wrist. There was something loud and fun about it. I’m always looking for things to decorate my writing space.

  “I want that,” said a voice behind me.

  Memory drips, swirls, calcifies. The voice was of the woman I had heard talking to the proprietor. I turned...recognized her...TV show. An artist who teaches art at the college, played by an unfamiliar dark-haired actress. I thought she was good. I liked how she looked, too, and had seen her mostly-naked, having sex with a visiting artist before he left town. And here she was–but which she, actress or character?

  “I do too,” I said.

  “You can’t. I’ve been coming to see it all week. I needed to think about it, visualize where it would go and how it would interact with other objects.” She reached toward the rooster but stopped short
of trying to take it from me.

  “Same here. Not the coming to see it all week part, but visualizing its placement. I’d like it for my writing space, on my desk, probably to the left of the computer monitor. Maybe even use it in a short story.”

  “Well, you can’t. I’ve already claimed it and the owner’s my friend. She wouldn’t have sold it to you even if I wasn’t here.”

  She was about my height, with green eyes. Knowing something about her...did I know something about her? “Are you an artist?” Her head dipped, the slightest of nods, a nod that said she was unwilling to move the subject away from her goal. “I thought so–the way you talked about visual space, your determination. What media?”

  “Painter, mostly. Some collage, some illustration. I teach at the college here. But...I need that.” This time she touched the rooster, wrapping fingers over its head.

  “Fine,” I said. “It’s yours. But how about buying me a cup of coffee to make up for my loss?”

  She took the rooster and held it against her breasts. Her body relaxed. “Okay, sure. We can do that. I was going to Frisell’s next anyway. I have to teach class in an hour.”

  Her name (she told me–I knew from the show, too) was Regina Lightner. I told her mine. The place she took me, Frisell’s, was back on Main Street, on the side where I had parked. Before joining her, I returned to my car to put lamp, books, and other purchases in the trunk. At the café, she was still waiting for a cappuccino. I ordered one too. Music played. I recognized the singer but was unfamiliar with the album. I asked the woman who took my order. She said that she thought the owner had picked it. Regina and I sat at a square table, her back to the window, me facing. Across the room, a loud-voiced group had put two tables together. Regina waved to them. An older woman sang part of a show-tune. A man walked past, and the singing woman invited him to join them. An old man told a corny joke and everyone laughed.

  Springdale seemed a friendly place, friendly to those who were already part of it. Not to strangers passing through, but what place is? I might return, spend a night and explore further, go to a bar or two, restaurants. Perhaps I could have a companion.

  We talked. I told Regina about my writing, my frustrations with finding publishers for my stories. I explained how my writing didn’t fit in with magazines that publish fantasy and science fiction or literary journals. At that time, I had only had two publications, in very small literary journals, and my bread story (“Tales of the Golden Legend”) was forthcoming in Back Brain Recluse (except the magazine went under before they could publish my story, which finally appeared years later in The Third Alternative). I didn’t know that my day’s adventures would become my first book.

  ~

  This feels stupid and clumsy-worded; it’s hard to stain the page with my own dialogue. Also, I could tell that I had lost her interest. It’s one of those things that’s hard to describe. Eyes don’t really glaze over, for example. But if you have any kind of sensitivity (if you’re not someone who talks and talks regardless of whether the receiver of your words cares to hear them), you can tell when someone isn’t interested. Words become harder to launch into the space between you and the other person. I often feel like my voice is failing, fading.

  Hoping that I wouldn’t sound desperate, I said I would like to see her studio. I should add, here, that part of my reason for leaving New York involved the end of a relationship, an end that hurt a good bit less at this point than it had six months previously but still hampered my ability to speak to women I might be attracted to.

  Regina said, sure, sometime, yeah, but she had to go to her class now. Did that mean I should ask for her phone number, try to set up a time I could see her work...see her again...but did I want to? She was a person, not a character in a television show. Muddled, I looked down at my coffee cup, and when I glanced up, she had vanished.

  I flung my chair back and stood. Visible through the window no longer blocked by her body, the opposite side of the street...buildings gone...now all I saw were fields and trees. The loud group had also disappeared. The rooster remained. I picked it up. Walked to the door. Which stuck, then popped like the release of a pressurized container.

  The outside air prickled my throat. No one else was on the sidewalk. I ducked in and out of empty shops, working my way down the street. Sunlight was fading from that winter-grey haze of sky that defined New England–I never got used to the winter sky there. In comparison, Ohio feels like the south. But...my car! It was the other way. I turned around. I didn’t hurry, but I wanted to be closer to it.

  When I was maybe a block from where I had parked, I sensed movement behind me. I eased toward the building. Turned to look. Two people. One tall and heavy, one smaller. Blue uniforms. I didn’t think they had seen me. Walking, getting closer. I held myself still. The larger one was male, the other female. They glanced into each shop they passed but didn’t go in. I needed them to go in. How else could I move, reach my car? But what was wrong with letting them see me? I hadn’t broken any laws. The rooster was still in my hand. True, it hadn’t been mine to take; grabbing it had been a reflex, retaining it an act of...desperation? I moved, not quickly. I didn’t look at them.

  No more than three steps later, voices called out for me to stop. I took another step, looking back as I moved...a beefsteak hand gripped my elbow. How did they reach me so quickly? The man-cop was immense; his companion wasn’t, but she blocked my path. She looked up into my eyes. Her gaze stopped me as much as the man’s grip.

  ~

  Long ago, I had an unpleasant experience at school. In my arithmetic class, fifth grade, I think. There were three fifth grade classrooms. Each class spent most of its time in its main classroom, but split into mixed groups for English and arithmetic, based on skill level. These classes might be in your own room or in one of the other rooms with that room’s teacher.

  This particular day, we were supposed to be doing long division. I couldn’t find my pencil. I accused the person next to me of taking it. I think it was a girl. She might have been teasing me earlier. I remember a girl who stabbed my finger with a pencil. Maybe it was that girl. The teacher wanted to know what I was doing, wanted me to get to work on the assignment. I said I couldn’t, because I couldn’t find my pencil. She said: I have a pencil. That has to be what she said. But I heard it as: I have your pencil. How did the teacher get my pencil? My child-mind couldn’t process. She wanted me to come to her desk and get the (my!) pencil. I refused. I didn’t trust her–how could I?

  I don’t remember what she did. I suppose I must have sat at my desk doing nothing until the class ended. Later, I went with my classmates to the cafeteria for lunch. After lunch, while we were lined up to return to class, the principal approached. He told me to go to his office. I refused. Later, after we had been back in class for a short time...the principal came in. Again, he tried to make me go to his office. I grabbed my desk’s metal post. He pulled my arm but couldn’t dislodge me. He left.

  I didn’t understand why I was being harassed for losing a pencil, or for the teacher having taken it. My impulse was to pull in, turtle-like, and wait for the threat to pass.

  Toward the end of that day, my class went to the school library (a place I was pretty fond of). As the class was leaving, the principal entered, carrying a wooden paddle. They kept me from leaving. Once the other kids were gone, the principal made me bend over to be paddled. I gave up. He paddled me.

  No one ever talked to me about it. I don’t remember the principal saying anything. No one ever asked why I had refused the teacher’s offer of a pencil. That’s public education, at least in Texas, at that time. Maybe it’s different now. I don’t want my daughter to be treated like that.

  ~

  The way I was feeling...my confusion at the situation...the sudden appearance of authority ready to blame me for...what?...brought this memory back. I wasn’t going to go with them. I’m not violent. I didn’t want the big cop’s beefsteak touching me. I haven’t been in a fight
since I was fourteen. I slammed the rooster’s base onto his hand. He howled and let go. I ran. The woman jumped on me. Blindly, I swung the rooster, connected. She dropped. As I ran, I turned to look. Distance increased. Not from my running. Pavement stretched. Their bodies distorted...giant hands reached toward me then snapped back, as if I had reversed a telescope to the wrong end. The buildings near me dissolved, increasing the distance between me and the cops. Now they had their backs to me, big guy on my right, woman-cop...changed, taller, nearly his height, and...between them, they dragged a limp form.

  Know that disorientation you get when you see a photograph of yourself from behind, especially if you hadn’t known you were being photographed? Imagine a video instead, and you get closer to what I experienced.

  More buildings faded, separating us. I reached my car and got in, finding immediate comfort in the metal enclosure. I started the engine. As I eased into the roadway, the sidewalk transformed into a grassy roadside. The car was pointed away from where the cops had gone; that was the direction from which I had entered the town, but I wasn’t going to turn around. I drove. Trees replaced the town, trees and river. I crossed a bridge. The sun was behind me. I drove, waiting to cross a larger road, a road I recognized.

  ~

  I reached my apartment around six. Parked. I lived on the bottom floor of a two-story house that was a short walk from the center of town. The owner lived upstairs. Her son and his girlfriend lived in an apartment in the back. I opened the car door. The rooster was on the front passenger seat. I reached for it, got out, and pulled my overnight bag from the trunk, leaving the books and other things for later. I left the bag and rooster near the door and sat on the futon-sofa, looking around at bookcases, front door, windows, rooster. How long did I sit there? Isolation, smothering isolation, filled the room. I wanted to hear something, the owner, moving around above me or coming down the stairs with her dog, a beagle whose name I’ve long-forgotten. Her son or his girlfriend, their dogs...hounds...I got up. In darkness, I walked downtown. Finding myself at the movie theater, I went in. I didn’t care what was showing. But no one was in the ticket booth, or concession, no one else in the lobby. I sat, unable to leave, hoping another person would soon appear. I took out my notebook and began a story of a man lost in Springdale.