The Bottom of the Ocean

 The pretty door noise was now just a reminder...the comings and goings, the in's and the out's...the arc of a leaf falling, a randomness that allowed the intersections to occur...a fallen star skidding sparks across a sky...a random rain.

He heard each of these when the door to the store opened, and he jack-knifed up in his chair, scurried hurriedly to the front of the store in hopes to see her...but it never really happened.  Rather it was just another visitor, another neighbor...he greeted and he politely engaged.  But a part of him leapt at each noise in the hopes that perhaps she might return...a politeness.  He had over-steered and careened into a ditch...had overdone...had overcooked...burnt the very gift he had wanted to give.

It is hard to compliment.  At least early on.  But he had the benefits of age, of seeing many many things...so when she entered his lens he had the benefit of perspective.  A beauty of rarity...that she perhaps could not completely agree with...she was too judgmental of herself to hear another voice.  But the fact that she cut him off and his judgement was saddening...to him.  She didn't know what he had seen, his advantages of where he had witnessed things...some good, mostly bad...but for him she represented some rarity that she didn't agree with.  So she hopped off the ride.

Yes, he attempted words.  Descriptions.  Adjectives.  It's what writers do...they see and then they describe.  And if his words filled a thimble or filled a gallon it happened to be what he saw.  She perhaps was only ready for the politeness...the quiet few.  

He wanted her to have an audience.  A stadium filled with flags with her name. 

She wanted a quietness of comfort and affection...a trust built on rare but cautious moments.

He felt like he was on the ocean floor...a vast, crushing place...devoid of light and movement...a deathly place that was flat and black.  She, in his active mind, was sun...or rather sunlight...streaming through waves and water.  She was within reach, but wavering...evaporating when a hand grasped at the prism of light through the liquid.

What a rarity he mouthed silently, surrounded by his books of antiquity, maps and scholarly reads...written by many many others much smarter.  His vegetables by the curb immaculate.  The streets of this western burg safe and smug in the knowledge of knowing each other.  Neighbors.  Neighborly.

He rubbed his eyes, tired from the smoke of the cigar, the scent of tobacco and the driftwood smell from the fire.  It was almost winter, the darkest part of the calendar.  And he was adrift...unsure.  

He had built half a bridge...and she had burnt her half...

But he also knew...as he pondered and let the evening settle against him, the sounds of the shop quieting...no doors opening, no cars hovering, no talks in the corners of the store...that perhaps she too was unmoored...drifting...looking at stars to steer by.  Ancient markers to guide a path. 

Would she return?  It was a question he begged in the quiet.

He thought he heard a yes...but he poured himself another bit of bourbon just in case he misheard.

For a scenario where she wouldn't darken his hallway wasn't exactly something that he really wanted to hear...it would be like the bottom of the ocean...just a dark, crushing sensation that he had no chance of surviving.

The Words you Use Because the Others Aren't Enough

 

There were slow languid days when he would just hold his coffee cup and watch the cars and walkers go by the front of the store, no real rhythm but just a steady enough distraction for him to be stimulated by the visual.

At times he saw here drive by and at times he noticed she looked towards him...maybe him, maybe the store.  He tried to remember which type of car she drove but each time she appeared in something different so he stopped trying by color or type...instead, he would close his eyes, and imagined a radar or similar set up...but one that expanded to the entire universe, of course the universe was bordered by the north by I-66 and came down to the split between Highways 340 and 522...but for him it was a world.

And he would wait for her...like a disturbance...a tiny splash across the lake...a rogue wave in a calm sea...he wanted to feel a difference, atmospheric...and sometimes he could detect her, long before her car went by.  He could tell because his breathing picked up a notch, his heart rate bump.  And there she was, head tilted slightly, staring into his world.

He loved that game.

And he loved that he knew absolutely nothing about her, not even her name.  Just a connection, like a remote relay station in Alaska finding a faint radio signal from Russia...unfamiliar languages, unknown words but a connection on a single frequency being sent out to millions of others...but only one hearing it.

He needed to work on knowing her.  He drained his coffee and turned the light switch that lit up the OPEN sign.

Funny enough, it wasn't too long when she came into the store, a handful of whatever season it was worth of vegetables...he nodded and they made small talk as there were other patrons...patrons, he mused...lookey-loos who perused the books.  But those were his type of people...book lovers...regardless. So he was polite. And boring.

She was talking about another farmer's market in the area near the center of town, wondering if he might go.

Nah he said.

But why?

I've seen enough farm vegetables to last a thousand lifetimes...I certainly don't need to go see my neighbors.

She had sort of straightened up, like she was a little put off.

Well, do you ever venture out of...here? she asked, an arm motioning across the store.

Every night.

He could tell where she was going with this but wanted her to work a little harder.

Other than that, she said, dripping with sarcasm.  Where do you go?

'scuse me he said, retreating back to his first office.  He didn't hear her follow him.  He went over and snipped the tip of a Corona cigar and held it over the flame of a candle...tobacco scented he noted and puffed until the end was lit.  By then she was now standing in the doorway.

I get out when I can, he said.  It's hard with this place, the farm, the typing, the

the typing?

Yeah, the typing.

What is that all about?

Well, he inhaled a long pull and then let it out...it's about these things called words, he smirked.

Small heat flashed in her eyes.  I know what typing is...

So you see, I can be kind of busy.

She watched him, wondering how busy one person in a store could possibly be.  So she tried:

Well don't you ever get...

lonely?

I was going to say bored...but since you brought it up.

I am bored all the time he said.

Like right now?

Definitely not right now.  But earlier...and probably later...but now?  No.

A really long pause with them staring at each other, the cigar smoke forming a peaceful bit of barrier between them...

So no to the Farmer's Market, she said quietly.

No, he said, but why don't I take you to a real farm, where I give things away on the free market.  It's not neutral ground for you, but if you'd like I'll just give you the address and you can come on over.  Whenever, no set day.

He went over to the desk and pulled out a card...and handed it to her.  She looked at it...said his name out loud, factual.  A pumpkin farm? she asked.

That was long ago...I just never changed the card.

She held the card up to her chest.  Maybe I will.

And with that she turned and walked away and out the door, the pretty little door noise announcing her departure.

Which was why he found himself 8 feet up in the air, on a ladder, in an apple orchard.  She had suggested it (It's not vegetables!) and he didn't want so lose a chance per se...so she picked him up in one of her many cars...a truck this time and they drove a few miles to Anderson's Orchards where they would provide you a bushel or two and a ladder and after signing a waiver you could explore the fields.  She had brought a basket of cold fried chicken and a salad of grapes and strawberries.  He had picked the first bushel in record time and thought he ought to slow down or it was going to be over soon.  He did like plucking the apples off the stems, the little pop they gave...and he loved the look of her looking up at him, a rare view.  Sometimes she held a hand over her eyes to keep the sun out, other times no...but her angular face was made more poignant from above.

They lunched a little later, a cotton blanket on the grass...he loved her cooking and wished he had the forethought to bring a bottle of wine or something...but they stayed low in the grass, heard the chirping of insects, sipping on bottled water and taking bites of grapes.  They talked about growing up, about the long broad circles that happened before they intersected, they talked of small towns and small minds.  The afternoon sky was adrift with a very light blue and white cotton clouds that mirrored the color of the blanket...it was therapy for him.  He felt lighter afterwards.

He told her so in the confines of the car in front of the store...he leaned into the back seat and pulled an apple from the bushel.  A bite? he offered and he held it while she opened her mouth and took a piece with her mouth, a bit of the juice running down her chin.  He moved his hand to gently wipe it from her chin.

He brought the apple up to his mouth, right next to her bite mark, and took a bite.  He then took her hand, gave it a kiss and opened the door, taking the apple with him.

She came into the store some time after.  She actually bought a book, an Italian cookbook originally written in the native language with translations on the side.  It was a language he secretly loved...he was just too lazy to download babble or some other app...but the passion of the Italians was something he felt he could immerse himself in...like the Pretty Woman Opera scene...it was either an appreciation or it was part of your soul.  To him, it sat out of reach on the soulful level...a key to unlock his narrow-minded cage.  So of course he sold it to her, without all the revealings.

One time she asked about the nearby Skyline Caverns...
I hate them he said...

Why?

I fear just when I get there, into the deepest part of the park, there will be a tremendous earthquake, unprecedented...and it will all cave in and I'll be stuck, buried alive with all those former stalactites.  

Oh.  Okay.

One time she came into his second office, it must have been maybe fall as it was cooling and he had a small fire burning...a cigar smoldering but this time there was a glass of bourbon near the chair.  By this time he could recognize her pattern of her walk...the way her shoes echoed on the wood floor...many years later he would come to recognize her scent, the lavenders...but here and now, all he could smell was the smoke from his fires...

I didn't know you drank liquor...is that bourbon or scotch?

Really?  hmm, I guess we didn't have the chance to find out...and this is bourbon.

A pause, as she looked at the glass, slightly shivering.

Would you care for some?  

She looked at him and nodded.

He took a draw from his cigar to keep it going and put it back into the ash tray.  He stood and moved towards a wall that had a slight wooden grip on it.  He pulled the grip and about six feet of wall opened up, revealing a glass case backlit with copper colored lights.  There must have been 50 bottles of bourbons and while she knew a little she didn't recognize the majority.

What kind do you like?

What kind?

yeah, do you like it with a little bit or more vanilla, caramel like?

I like a little bite.

He nodded and examined the rows...pulled a dark bottle out...uhm, Ice or neat?

Ice please.  

He made a face and went over to another part of the wall, adjacent to the case.  A smaller grip of wood.  He pulled it out and two shelves of crystal glassware emerged with a black machine with a green light.  Inside the black machine was a clear box of similarly crystal ice.  He picked a glass, held it up to the light to make sure it was clean and added some ice.  He shut the door and went back to the bottle.  He poured her a couple of fingers, just enough to cover the ice.  

He held it out to her, grabbed his own drink and angled his glass to her:  to new friends he said.

New friends she said, clinking his glass.  

She drank, holding it with both hands and moved closed to the fire.

They talked of being cold and being in places that were really warm...they talked about the scent of fires and how it reminded her of her mom's home...he talked about the spiritualness of splitting wood from cut-down trees and the circle of oak to flame, from tobacco leaves to smoke...she sipped her drink and he poured himself another.

Finally, in a quiet moment, with the fire sputtering and the cigar dying in the ashtray, he offered this:

You make me very relaxed...exceptionally comfortable.

She was still standing but no longer shivering.  He only had one chair in his second office and he thought right then and there about adding another...just in case.

Well thank you...she had a habit, when pushed to reveal, of an almost-whisper, like if she said it softly enough it may not be admitted.

He turned towards his desk, a small and tiny part of the place and opened a drawer.  He pulled one open and pulled out a thick sheath of papers.  They were all typed, some with corrections and others with erasures.  It was about half an inch thick.  He put them in his lap.

I've always admired nurses who can find a good vein, he started.

Uhm, okay...

You know, to draw blood...it is like they just know, they find your arm, tie the tourniquet, thump once or twice and plunge ahead...they know exactly where to look.  Writing is sort of like that, with way many more misses...sometimes you find the vein, sometimes a dry hole.  You keep plunging the needle in hopes of discovering something magical, life-giving, life-sharing...but it is an endless chase.

But since I met you, I feel like I've tapped into a great source of creativity, the great vein...a great vein at least...blood rushing through my brain, feverishly typing and shaping thoughts and words...I feel like it is a hot pulsing vessel that I have stabbed into...

He looked up at her...she had a bit of worry on her face.

I'm sorry...that's too graphic.  

She didn't say anything.

Simply put, you've created a fresh new perspective and joy for me...and I've tried to capture it.  I've written so many things...letters to you, songs, poems.

She still stood there...and maybe, just slightly...took a step back.

But you don't know me, she offered.

No...but there is an idea of you...maybe even a dream of you...but there is definitely a you.

Anyways, he continued, I was going to share some of them with you...but I am now thinking it isn't the right time.

She put her glass down next to his...thank you for the drink.

She walked away...he recognized the sound of her footsteps...and heard the pretty door noise as she went back out into the cold.