Category: Prose

My town was washed from the map forever when I was just a little girl.

I lived in a little farming town at the bottom of a valley. Round Valley was its name. The soil here was some of the most fertile in the state. Before the Dutch and English colonized and settled, the Lenape tribe lived and farmed here. Once I was big enough, I got to help with the the farm, keeping up the tradition. I would tie up my curly blonde hair into a ponytail and put on my overalls like any of the boys in the valley. I enjoyed working the land and caring for livestock. I likely would have gotten my children into farming too, had things not happened as they did. But bad things that would destroy the legacy of this town and its future were already in motion.

I didn’t know it at the time, but the bad things began when the man in the tan suit came knocking at my grandpa’s door. We were eating breakfast together, my mom, my grandpa, and my little brother, Noah. My mom had brought us to live with my grandpa after my father was killed in a farming accident two years earlier. My grandpa often had visitors over, but we weren’t expecting anyone at this hour. It was early to hear someone come knocking. It was faint enough that I thought I had imagined it. They knocked again, too loud to ignore this time, interrupting the ticking grandfather clock nearby.

“Who that? Who that?” Noah asked. He kicked his legs under the table as he crunched on a piece of buttered toast. His wide blue eyes stared at our grandpa expectantly. Grandpa had already gotten up from the table and put his jacket on.

He shuffled toward the door, slippers against wood, and when he looked out the window a deep scowl was etched into his face. His back was turned toward us. Grandpa was always smiling. It showed off the dimples I had inherited from him. He very rarely frowned. It was even rarer to see him scowl.

“Government,” he muttered, as he gestured for my mother to join him. I was confused as to why he needed my mother there with him to greet a visitor. We were a close knit town. Everyone knew everyone. My mother quickly collected herself and dabbed her lips with a napkin before rising to follow him.

After they were both outside, I scarfed down what remained of my eggs and toast, swallowing so roughly it hurt my throat. My mother wouldn’t be happy if I got up from the table without finishing my food. She also wouldn’t be happy if she found out I was eavesdropping, but I didn’t consider that as I ran toward the front door. I briefly peeked my head up toward the window. My mom and grandpa had their backs to me but I could see the stranger whose face was long and gaunt like a starving horse. I leaned down to press my ear to the wooden door.

“Anne?” Noah’s voice called out from the table.

I shushed him, furrowing my brows as I tried to listen.

“What doing?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” I said, mirroring the many times my mother had shouted that phrase at me. Noah went quiet and seemed to focus on his eggs. I immediately felt bad for shouting, but I wanted to hear what was being said outside.

An unfamiliar voice, presumably the voice of the starving horse man, spoke up.

“Mr. Howell, my name is Mr. Jefferson. I’ve come on behalf of the state of New Jersey to appraise your property,” The man said seriously.

I’d never heard anyone call my grandpa Mr. Howell before. Usually, it was just grandpa or dad or Jim.

My grandpa scoffed, “We ain’t selling nothing.”

“You don’t have a say in the matter.”

“No say?” I heard my mother gasp.

“You must sell your crops, your property, and your livestock to the state. Anything you don’t sell will be seized by eminent domain.”

I didn’t know what those words meant at the time – eminent domain – but I heard my grandpa throw out some cuss words in response. I never heard him get angry like that before. I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to hear anymore.

I ran back to the table and got back in my seat, staring at the crumbs on my empty plate.

In the coming months, there were a lot of protests and meetings in our little town in the valley. In truth, the protests had been happening long before the starving horse man showed up on our doorstep, but now they had ballooned in size and intensity. Like circling turkey vultures, the news folks had come to watch and report as soon as things in town reached a boiling point. The townsfolk were angry and the news folk were wanting to pick our brains like carrion birds picked at roadkill. There had been a vote – that’s what the anger and frustration was about – a vote about Round Valley. Protests were held all along the single dirt road for months on end. People chanted and yelled and held signs. SAVE OUR TOWN, said one sign. NO DAM, said another. Mrs. Johnson, our closest neighbor, talked passionately about how she had been born in the living room of her farm house in the valley. She talked about the inhumanity of being forced away. Even my grandfather spoke with a bullhorn in hand about how he had inherited his home from his father and his father’s father and so on. He talked about how his wife, my grandmother, was buried under the crooked cedar tree in the backyard. I hadn’t seen my mother cry like this since our father was killed. My father was buried close to that tree too, after all. Even Mr. Wright, a notoriously crotchety and aloof older man had come out to join the protests. Usually he just sat on the rocking chair on his front porch grimacing at us kids and would do so ‘till his dying day.’

Apparently lots of men in suits had come into Round Valley to buy our properties to force us to leave. I didn’t understand how the state could force anyone. I didn’t understand the vote yet, or how everyone had voted against us or why. This was our home.

“It’s for a res – warh,” Jacob Meier had said to me when he and I and the other kids were sitting outside town hall while the adults shouted.

“For a what?”

“A res – warh,” He repeated with a roll of his eyes, fiddling with his overalls as he spoke. “They’re gonna kick us out and flood the valley like it’s a big bowl because the state is running out of water. Remember when things were all dry a while ago? That’s what Pa said. Too many people, not enough water.”

“Why do they gotta flood us? Can’t they build it somewhere else? I don’t wanna get kicked out,” I said, looking away and up toward the lip of the valley. “It’s not fair.”

Jacob shook his head and shrugged. Just this once he didn’t have all the answers.

“I hear some people ain’t leaving no matter what they tell us.” Spoke up another little girl, Beth Klein. “If we all just stay, what are they gonna do? They can’t kick us all out.” Beth always liked to throw tantrums. When Beth wanted to stay put somewhere she would writhe and yell like a piglet having a seizure. Maybe if we all screamed and thrashed like Beth, they wouldn’t be able to take us all out of the valley. Maybe Beth was on to something.

That night I woke up in a cold sweat from a nightmare. I imagined sitting in my bedroom playing with my dolls as a tidal wave loomed overhead just outside my window. I could almost smell the sea salt. It was the same smell as the few times my mom had taken Noah and me down to the shore. The wave stretched upward and blotted out the sun as it slowly moved toward me. I couldn’t move. Then – all at once – the wave that scratched the sky thunderously crashed down on top of the house. Water filled my vision and my lungs. My dolls floated away from me.

From that point on, I didn’t think it would be a good idea to stay unless I suddenly figured out how to grow gills. It still wasn’t fair, though. I didn’t want to leave. No one did.

I hated the government. I hated anyone who voted for this. I hated that we were being removed from our roots like unwanted trees cut down and ripped out. The state needed water, and they were going to use our valley to store that water. We couldn’t fight it. Although many had talked a lot of talk about staying put, only one or two farmers actually intended to dig their heels in and keep fighting. One of them was Mr. Wright. Most other people gave in eventually.

I went one afternoon with my grandpa to an auction where all the farmers were selling their livestock. It felt more like walking into a funeral than an auction. I heard the squeals of pigs and bleats of sheep all my life; this time they sounded sad too.

Unlike the livestock, he and any of the other farmers who sold their houses were able to buy them back. The state wanted the land, not the houses. But even with the house bought back it was our responsibility to get it out of Round Valley before our town was filled with water. There was a street overlooking the valley that was empty and waiting for the houses to be placed on it. It was such a new street that it didn’t even have a name yet. That’s where everyone’s houses who wanted to move would go.

The cozy little town had turned alien to me. Some houses were boarded up, others were already being lifted up onto massive flatbeds, and several were bulldozed entirely. Trees that had held tire swings were chopped down, memories were being cut down in the name of progress. I thought of my grandmother and father under the cedar tree and wondered what would happen when it came time to cut it down.

The single dirt road that was the only way in and out of the valley wasn’t wide enough or sturdy enough for the bulldozers hauling houses uphill. The Meiers hired someone cheap to try and pull their house out of the valley. The whole town gasped in collective horror when the bulldozer slipped and the house fell off and cracked in half. I think I saw Mrs. Meier throw up. Further progress moving out the houses was slowed until a new road could be put in.

Crime had never been a problem in our town before, but now, every hour, cops patrolled around the houses lifted up onto flatbeds. After one of the houses had a window smashed out and things stolen, there was a fear that more outsiders would be drawn to town to try and loot.         I cried seeing our house hauled up off the ground. I was afraid it would crack in half like the Meiers’ house. I didn’t know which was scarier – staying here and waiting to drown, or watching my house shatter into splinters. I kept glancing from the house to where I knew my father was buried.

“What about dad?” I asked my mom.

“What about dad?” I repeated.

My mom just looked away from me.

It was expensive to dig up and move graves. They hadn’t moved the graves of the Lenape when they were forced out. Now the graves of our family would remain here too.

As all this was happening, I still had to go to school in one of the neighboring towns instead. I hated how the other kids gawked at me. It was worse when the adults looked at me with pity. I was mostly annoyed by how the other kids would pepper me with questions.

“Is it true your town is going under water?”

“How are you getting your house uphill?”

“Will you miss it?”

I already did miss it. I was infuriated. The town I had loved and grown up in was being torn apart. Turned into a wasteland. Whole families were being cast to the four winds.

My anger and hate only grew with each lesson that we had to sit through. In school we learned about how the government was supposed to help and protect the people. I felt abandoned by our government and trampled upon. Hurt and betrayed. I stood up in class and told the teacher as much in an outburst of emotion. I said, “The government doesn’t care about nobody!” Then I dropped one of those cuss words grandpa said to the starving horse man.

That was the first time I had ever been put in the corner with a dunce cap.

After class when I returned to my mother and grandfather, they weren’t even angry with me for getting into trouble.

When it was finally time to pull our house up the hill, I wasn’t sure I could muster up the will to watch. If our house slipped and broke into pieces, my heart would too. Grandpa’s home had been a place of solace after my father died. To see it destroyed would surely destroy me.

My mother’s gaze was teary and anxious as she clutched her handkerchief. Even as the sun set and cast its red-orange light over our slow moving house, she didn’t take her eyes off it. My grandpa put a reassuring hand on her back. Even Noah, who knew the house the least amount of time as any of us, was nervous and fidgeting.

By nightfall our house crested over the hill and was driven to the new plot of land. It was a small plot, not big enough for a farm. There were already a handful of other houses on the street that had been hauled up here before ours. It felt too close together and cramped.

When I entered grandpa’s house on the nameless street, it felt different even though physically it was the same structure. There was a slight tilt to the house now. I realized some time later that the ground here was uneven unlike the ground in Round Valley. I felt off balance.

The house was familiar, and I was grateful that we had been able to save it, but I struggled to stay there. I thought about my father, my grandmother, our family buried down there in the valley and us up here.

I watched Mr. Wright kicking and writhing in black and white one evening. All I could think of was Beth Klein as the police dragged him away. It was less like a seizing pig this time. More like death throes. Even the longest lasting holdouts had been forced to leave by now.

I found any excuse I could to stay out of the house.

School was one such convenient excuse, but on the weekends I felt lost, untethered from the world around me. Oddly, I found myself drawn back to the valley. I would sit at the top of the hill and watch them drive houses up or bulldoze anything that remained. From a distance, it looked like a bunch of ants at work. I felt as though I could reach out and squash them between my thumb and forefinger if I squinted just right.

There was no going back. Maybe a part of me thought that by watching everything be destroyed would be like seeing the body of a dead loved one. I would be able to accept things and move on if I could see the corpse of Round Valley before it was flooded. It didn’t work like that. Soon the land in the valley was flattened completely.

That’s when the dams began construction, and they brought in the pipes. Water was being pumped in by the gallons. It would take years to fill the valley completely. I kept imagining my father underwater. He looked scared but maybe it was my own reflection in the rising water.

Around the same time the towns that had wanted the reservoir’s water for their citizens began to back out. I didn’t know why – I really still don’t – but they did. Sure, other towns would get to use the water, but the bigger towns and cities that had lobbied so hard for our town to be uprooted and drowned now backed out of it.

The water kept rising. I couldn’t stand watching it anymore.

I had to adapt to my new life at the top of the hill. Noah had already begun to forget Round Valley. Sometimes, I wished I was that lucky. Other times, I felt it was a blessing that our town still lived on in my memory at least. Many of the kids I had grown up with in the valley ended up moving away with their families.

Years had passed since the man in the tan suit first came to our door. I was older now. Jaded. The grimace my grandfather wore when the government came to the farmhouse was mirrored frequently on my own face. I remained angry, but I tried to heal. We all did. My mother tried to get my grandfather into farming. It was a pitiful parcel of land to plant on in our new backyard, but he managed some tomatoes and strawberries. It kept him busy.

A year and half after the reservoir was completely filled in 1960, my grandpa had a heart attack and passed away. I think it was a broken heart. I felt like my heart was being torn apart every time I thought of our town, so I could only imagine how he felt. He had been born and raised there. Worked the land by hand. Raised his own children there. Sustained himself there. 

My mom was broken-hearted about our town too, of course, but she kept her emotions in check. She didn’t want to seem hysterical in front of us kids, I guess. It wouldn’t have seemed hysterical to me, though. We all mourned the lost town as though it was a family member. Losing the town, my father, and my grandpa all carried the same amount of hurt for me.

My mother, Noah, and I stayed in the house for many years. Noah eventually went off to college, but I stayed by my mother’s side. After she had a stroke and couldn’t care for herself any longer, I became her caregiver. Watching her waste away reminded me of the slow rise of the water in the reservoir. After my mom died I inherited our house on the hill.

Eventually, I found a love of my own. I raised my children here. Now they bring their children to visit. None of them know anything about farming. My grandchildren ask me questions about the reservoir as they sit on the floor by the ticking grandfather clock. I’m as old now as my grandfather was when the government came knocking on his door. The kids these days think Round Valley is haunted. The Bermuda Triangle of New Jersey. They think I’ll tell them ghost stories about it.

The stories I tell them are much scarier, full of monsters worse than ghosts.

“My town was washed from the map forever when I was just a little girl…”

The Chinese proverb goes, “Heaven above, Suzhou and Hangzhou below.” Before I could even become acquainted with my hometown, Hangzhou (杭州, a popular tourist destination in China with many attractions), I left at the age of three to move to my grandparents’ city, Suzhou. 苏州, a historical and cultural city in China famous for its canals, bridges, and classical gardens. Since then, these two picturesque cities have woven themselves into the very fabric of my life, with Suzhou being the first city to add vibrant colors to my life.

During my early years, I was frail and often plagued by illness, yet I possessed a spirited, whimsical, and stubborn nature. I was a handful for my parents, who were busy with their careers and struggled to care for me. As a child, I preferred the carefree atmosphere of my grandmother’s home over my father’s strictness. My grandparents lived in the southern part of Suzhou. From an early age, my scholarly grandfather taught me various classical Chinese poems and took me to gardens to listen to traditional Chinese opera. Although I didn’t fully grasp the meanings of the verses, the echoes of poems and the melodies of the operas intertwined with every blade of grass and each branch of a tree in those gardens.

During that time, my grandmother’s biggest concern was my lack of appetite. She was elated whenever I took a few more bites. In the summertime, she would send my cousin to gather lotus seeds from the pond for soup. During winter, she would prepare steaming hot vegetable and fish soup for me. To ensure that I had a good appetite to grow, my grandparents would often take me to restaurants in Suzhou. Every little and big restaurant in the city bears the footprints of my happy childhood.

However, no matter how hard they tried, I, like a delicate flower on the brink of withering, continued to teeter on the edge. So, when my parents welcomed my younger brother into the world, they also sought blessings from temples far and wide, praying for the divine’s protection to keep me in the realm of the living. Following these blessings, I embarked on multiple journeys in the years that followed, seeking places that would grant me health to help me elude the Grim Reaper’s grasp. In my pursuit, I had to leave behind Suzhou.

No matter how long or how far away I’ve been, Suzhou has remained my happiest city. I love this city. I love the warmth of family that fills every corner, the smiles carried on every gentle breeze, and even the playfulness hidden within a speck of dust. I love its charming and comforting warmth under the gentle sunshine, and I love the soft and delicate drizzle that lingers so gracefully.

In spring, the warm sunlight, like an eager child, impatiently coaxes the peach blossoms to unfurl. It also resembles a graceful spirit bird, guiding me to rush outdoors to witness the vibrant butterflies dancing in the garden. The sunlight transforms my smiles into resplendent blossoms. My hair and dress, entwined with the fragrant blooms, engage in a spirited dance, while my smile weaves through the tree branches like a gentle breeze. Even during times of illness, the radiance of innocence remains undeniable. Within the embrace of spring, I hold on to every thread of vitality, breathing new life into my existence once more.

In the summer, I relish the view of starry skies through my window, utterly captivated by the tales my grandmother spins—stories woven into the very fabric of our lineage. During serene afternoons, my grandfather transforms into my guide, leading me to the places where these stories come alive. Suzhou’s summer unveils its lush, layered mountains, creating a surreal dreamscape where trees intertwine, crafting a world of wonder. I harmonize with the echoing chorus of cicadas, and the gentle caress of the breeze.

Often, I find myself in dreams, adorned in a floral gown, seated by the misty shores of Lake Tai (太湖, one of China’s largest freshwater lakes which flows through Suzhou), amidst the melancholic hues of autumn. In those moments, my gaze is drawn to the western horizon at twilight, where the water blushes a rosy hue. Enchantment fills the air as the sunset’s reflection cascades into the rippling waters, and I’m swept away by the freedom and melancholy of the autumn scenery as it dances through the reed beds. I imagine beautiful ancient legends arriving on boats not far away, as the clear lake hums softly, harmonizing with the crimson leaves that drape the layered hills, saturating me with the understated and carefree essence unique to the fall season there.

How could I ever forget Suzhou’s long winters? The cold season would drive me indoors. As I gazed out of the window at the falling rain or snow, I would sink into a quiet, faint melancholy. My focus would linger in one direction for extended moments, tracking dried leaves sporadically falling from the branches, drifting past the window. I contemplated the winding path meandering through the dimly lit alleys, where deep-seated sorrow seemed to dwell. When tears inexplicably welled up, it would startle my grandparents. So, my grandfather taught me poetry and art at once, while my grandmother stitched new clothes and shared stories. It was during those moments that the vibrant tapestry of my culture quietly wove itself into my young life.

I remember my grandmother often saying, “You’re like a little swan, growing up in our Suzhou, and you will fly away.” Her tone carried a hint of sadness. I would pout and playfully protest, “I don’t want to fly, I love Suzhou.” However, even in my childhood, I had a vague understanding that Suzhou’s ancient city walls couldn’t contain my wings, and its tranquil waterways couldn’t hold back my footsteps. Eventually, just as my grandmother had predicted, I couldn’t wait to grow up and fly away in haste. Each return visit was brief, and it wasn’t long before few people could recognize me or remember my name. Yet, the fragrance of cooking smells wafting down the streets, the chanting verses of Song dynasty poetry along the shores of Tai Lake, and the gardens scattered throughout the alleys, remain etched like lanterns lighting the way along the riverbank.

This is Suzhou. In this city, a delicate and sensitive life can experience the selflessness and grandeur of familial affection, as well as the profound richness of Chinese traditional culture. Suzhou embellished my childhood with innumerable fairy tales and dreams, immersing me in euphoric happiness.

When I started college, my hair was cut to my chin. I did my makeup every morning. I started raising my hand in class, went to parties, spoke bluntly, and girls would say that I was fun and spontaneous. After these moments of partying and grandiose attitudes, I would drive back home, go to bed, and in the midst of my sleep, I’d have a recurring dream where a huge tsunami would hit, and I would need to run from it. I avoid going in the water because of this dream.

It wasn’t until February when my so-called sparkle started to diminish, and I would call out of work and stay in bed until the sun went down. I stopped doing my makeup every morning and went to school in whatever I went to bed in. My appetite was basically non-existent, I was in a constant state of sea sickness, and I became obsessed with hot lattes just because of the warmth. I knew something was wrong with my sensitive mood, but I didn’t want to admit defeat. I didn’t want to admit that the person I had been, even if it had been for a short while, was gone.

Now, I am usually silent. In a classroom, I can probably be considered mute. I think a lot. The thoughts in my mind bob with the current, but my moods move like a tsunami. Everything I feel, I feel it completely, and it all crashes down on me like a menacing wave about to engulf me in salty sea water. It’s a routine. The wave pulls back, a little bit each day, and unexpectedly, once I feel I can finally untense my shoulders and relax, the shadow of a tall wave greets me once again.

The first time the tsunami hit, I was in such shock that I forgot to close my mouth, and the sea water slithered into my throat. After eight days passed, I sat on the shore coughing up water. My friend Sarah found me and rushed me to the hospital in her shiny, blue convertible.

I asked her why she didn’t seem as panicked as I thought she’d be.

She replied, “This isn’t the first time I’ve driven a friend to the hospital.”

I looked down at my soaked pajamas, “I’m sorry that you had to do it again.”

She looked at me and smiled. “I wanted to help you.” Then, looking back at the road she added, “Besides, I was the only other person on the beach when I found you.”

At the hospital, they woke me up at six in the morning to draw blood and every hour someone would let out a random, stark screech. The first few days I was relieved, admittedly, to be there. I ate three meals a day and every few hours a nurse would pull the patients into a room that resembled a classroom. We would color, listen to music, or just talk. I napped anytime I wanted to, read books anytime I got the chance, and the only conversations I had to have were ones about me. My father came to see me everyday, and though the situation was quite sad, I basked in the fact that people were paying attention to me. When he came to visit there were tears in his eyes and he said:

“You didn’t deserve this.”

I hugged him tightly. I will never forget that he said that.

As the week went on, I started to become annoyed with the loud, erratic behavior from the other patients and the mundane everyday routine. My mother came to see me and refused to look me in the eye, so while my eyes looked into hers, all she could do was stare disappointedly at the top of my head. Before she left, all she told me was: “You did this to yourself.”

Lying in bed reading and staring out the windows was all I did. I couldn’t even go outside. I wasn’t allowed to. I became perpetually anxious. I blamed that hated wave for bringing me here. I would never go by the sea again. At the end of my stay, my father came to get me. After my discharge, I made a beeline for outside and stood in the warmth of the direct sunlight for a good few minutes so that my skin was still heated when I climbed into the car.

I lived nowhere near the ocean. I did go to school by it, but I was so busy keeping up with assignments that I didn’t go near it until a month later, when summer vacation started. When I eventually went near it, it was just a benign mass of water winking at fishermen, women with their retrievers, and kids covered head to toe in sticky sand. It was so harmless from where I sat on the sand that I almost went in. Almost.

Summer was going by and every now and then I would feel sad, but it was never too sad, never dreadfully sad. I could go to the beach and act fine, but I was a terrible liar and being so close to the sea made me lose control of my mood. Friends I thought were close to me drifted away because of my pessimistic nature. I cared so much at first, but as summer went on, the sea took up more and more of my attention.

I started to think that the tsunami would never hit again. I was a fool for thinking that, but I didn’t realize it was a pattern at first. Just when school started again, the wave crashed onto me like a yacht driven by drunk teens onto a rock. I cursed myself for putting myself into these situations that brought me close to the sea. I stayed tumbling in this wave for days, and I thought it would never end. I remembered to keep my mouth shut this time. If I opened it and tried to scream, the water would fill my lungs once again. I didn’t want to end up in the hospital. It’s not like anyone could hear me anyway. So, I pulled my legs close to my chest, shut my eyes, and let the wave knock me around. Swirling around me, in the combinations of sea foam and debris that I felt floating past my ears, I began to hear grating sounds. It was an amalgamation of screaming, crying, laughing, and barking, and I began to sob at these distressing sounds, silently begging them to stop.

They did not stop for eight days.

I was in a mood so low, afterwards, that I couldn’t bear to listen to music. I was haunted by these sounds. My head was full of them.

I truly hate this wave. It makes me become angry, then miserable, then hopeless, then happy, then mad. This change of mood has made my head so cloudy that my mood has become a sort of stagnant state of sad.

The tsunami came again and again. Sometimes, it would be milder, and I would be able to lift my head to the surface for breath or find a piece of driftwood to hang onto. Sometimes, they were severe, and I would be pushed down to where there is only deep, dark blue water. But I never open my mouth. No matter how bad the waves have gotten, I’ve never gone back to the hospital.

Now, I know it’s coming, and I wait anxiously at the shore for its arrival. I track its patterns in a journal–every month for eight days. Here, it comes again. The tsunami rises in front of me, and I stare catatonically into its gloomy waters. There’s no point in running anymore and I let it take me. The wave threatens to suffocate me. I sense the stinging salt water in my eyes and throat. I don’t fight it anymore. I know I’ll be able to come up for air soon, in about a week. Once that week passes, the wave deposits me gently onto the sand and from there I wait for its return once again.

I was seven years old. The country was celebrating one of those patriotic holidays like The Fourth of July. There wasn’t a cloud or a different shade of blue in the sky. The treetops were hardly moving. I counted rows and rows of manicured lawns as my parents and I went over to my cousin Teddy’s house for a porch visit. 

Daddy always drove his ‘79 Coupe deVille Phaeton, so all the windows were rolled down, letting in the warm breeze that felt cool whenever I’d stick out my hand and let it ride with the wind. His Caddy was a goldish-brown color called “Western Saddle Firemist.” The interior looked like someone’s living room with polished wood trimmings, boxy backseat windows, and tan leather covering every surface – save for the chrome ashtrays on the armrests. I liked pushing down on them so they’d pop out, and then I’d get to pop them back in again and again and again. 

The grassy fields along the way to Teddy’s were all fresh and soft looking – so different from the rowhouses and concrete where we lived. In the air was the scent of burning charcoal, which belongs to summer, as burning firewood belongs to winter. The ashy scent made my mouth water. I knew later on I’d get to have a hamburger or two, or as many as I could eat, before the fireworks started. I could already taste the cheese, onions, pickles, and ketchup! 

The turn signal was clicking, and then Daddy veered down a shady dead-end street. Tall and tangled tree branches made it look like we were driving into a cave. From inside my booster seat (yes, still – don’t make fun of me), the road ahead looked covered with dead leaves and pine cone ashes. Daddy drove all the way down until he reached a winding driveway that led to a clearing where I could see the roof of Teddy’s house. It really belonged to my grandmum – though I never saw her in person in all my seven years, not even once. Her house looked like a castle, though – with something Mum called a “pitch gable roof,” brown bricks, wooden shingles, and a stone chimney covered with ivy. 

My dad pulled up behind a rusted Ford pickup truck. That was my cousin Teddy’s; he was in construction and even drove a forklift. From my wee booster seat, I spotted him sitting on the front porch under hanging baskets of a red flower Mum called “Cypress vines.” She told us that Grandmama must’ve planted them in the spring, that she was sure to grow these flowers each year, and that Mum had memories of helping her plant the cypress flowers. Of course, those memories were just that. Grandmama hadn’t spoken to Mum since she married Daddy at City Hall and had me. Even as a child, I knew to let my mum’s comments about Grandmama die in the air like Daddy’s cigarette smoke. 

That day, Teddy had on his Pabst Blue Ribbon t-shirt and a Yankee’s baseball cap on his head. He was in his thirties with jet-black hair and bright blue eyes and stood over six feet tall– easily the largest person in the world to me then. His wife had died from “the bad kind” of cancer way before I was even born. They were high school sweethearts who thought they were having a baby, but it turned out to be a tumor instead. He moved in with Grandmama afterward and never left. 

Once Daddy finally unleashed me from my booster seat, I rolled out of his Caddy and started for the porch. I was a frail girl with frizzy brownish hair, and that day I was wearing a red summer dress. The front door to Teddy’s house was open for once, so I could see straight through to the kitchen as I got closer. We weren’t allowed inside, not even for a pee. As I ran across the soft green lawn to Teddy, I had these white packets of gunpowder with me. Daddy had gotten them off “some bloke in Pennsy.” Two hundred and fifty tiny white sacks came in a red box with a boy throwing one to the ground on the cover, where it went “POP!” As soon as I reached Teddy in the wooden rocking chair, I opened my hand, revealing several of these little packs. He examined the assortment of white paper rocks in my palm. 

“Whoa! Whatcha got there?” he asked me. 

“Poppers!” 

“Oh, boy! What do they do?” 

I clutched my hand, giggling. 

Mum strolled onto the porch in her denim dress and then plopped into a deck chair near us, looking tan and exhausted in a straw hat at four in the afternoon. She already saw how the poppers worked. The numerous jolts I gave her were triggering the little vein to throb on her forehead. Daddy walked up behind and lingered on the stairs in his white suit with his dark hair slicked back, so he looked like he was in Miami Vice.  

“Well, go on, lassie,” my dad said after I showed Teddy my packets of gunpowder; “Let ‘em off on the sidewalk there!”

I skipped past Daddy and down the front steps, then threw the little white packet onto the concrete. POP! Mummy crossed her legs and leaned back on the chair. Daddy and Teddy cheered! I did it again! And then again! Each pop was magic. POP! POP! POP! It was a fantastic noise– a superhuman power was flying right out of my little hand like I was a faerie! POP! POP! No, even better— I was a great sorceress with limitless powers! POP! Unspeakable, unconquerable power! POP! POP! Pop… pop… 

Grandmama appeared at the screen door to her house then. It was the first time I saw her for real, in the flesh. I imagined she’d be like the Godmother from Cinderella. Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo. I was dead wrong. Grandmama’s face was cucumbers and cold cream; her mahogany hair was peeking out from inside a pink turban that matched her bathrobe. The sun was still beating brightly on her lawn. The sprinklers were making a rainbow as they misted over her grass. And yet, there was a black hole behind Grandmama inside that house. It was absolute, total blackness, and ice behind each window. 

She glared at me and then at my dad. Teddy said nothing; Mum said nothing. I hid the rest of the white packets inside my mini panda bear purse. Daddy lit up a cigarette. Ready-for-bed Grandmama lingered like a bathrobed specter in the doorway; the uncomfortable moment passed. 

“Oi! What’s this?” Daddy said with a spark in his red-brown eye, blowing hazy smoke from the side of his mouth. “Fancy a wee chat– Queenie?” 

Without a flinch, without even tightening her arctic expression, Grandmama stepped inside the blackness of her castle, gently closing the heavy wooden storm door as she went.  I never feared another person more than I feared my grandmum right then. 

I hoped that when I grew up, I’d be just like her.

0300 (three AM), where am I? I am on the starboard side main deck of the medium endurance cutter (ship) I am stationed on. What am I doing? I am frisking every single woman and girl that we bring aboard our vessel. Who are they? They are Haitian Migrants attempting to flee their homeland in search of something better, something livable. Unfortunately, they have not found it. What are we looking at? A 20-foot sail boat, with no sails, no method of propulsion, no life preservers, taking on water in absolute darkness. There are 80 men, women, and children contending with the bleak waters, hoping for freedom. They drift on a floating prison that is quickly sinking. Our crew has been arranged into a human-processing assembly line; we each have a function and we are trying to prevent a bottleneck. This can be a dangerous evolution, especially when the number of people we are saving is about the same number as our entire crew. We are also trying to prevent mass hysteria amongst the migrants; so far no one has ended up in the water and it is our goal to keep it that way. As I am the only female stationed on the cutter, it is my job to frisk all of the females. I am relying on the ten-minute training one of the other junior officers gave me on how to properly frisk an individual, looking for potential weapons and other dangerous substances and objects. I am falling behind. The other crew members pressure me to work faster as the line of females gets longer. It is a difficult balance to maintain, that of doing a thorough frisk and that of preventing a potentially dangerous bottleneck. Though I do not know how it is possible, I finish frisking all of the females. It is now 0600 (six AM) and I have been awake for 24 hours. We have been working on this mission since 2200 (ten PM) the previous night when the vessel was spotted and immediately began preparing the ship for our visitors. The count began at 20 people and ended at 80 – 80 people living on a 20-foot sail boat that is sinking. This thought passes through my mind as I pass through the passageways until I finally reach my stateroom and collapse into my rack (bed). I pop out of bed like a Jack-In-The-Box to the phone ringing, “Hey, it’s OPS (Operations Officer), where are you?” It is 0900 (9 AM). I was in my rack sleeping. Although OPS must know I was sleeping after spending all night out on the main deck, I simply say “In my stateroom sir.” I sound tired even to myself despite affecting the cheeriest voice I can muster. He asks me to go the Fo’c’sle (forward part of the ship toward the bow) so that I can shower the female migrants. This is a perfectly reasonable request, but I can’t help wishing that there was another female Coast Guard member onboard to help with the responsibilities of taking care of the women. That’s a little callous. I realize this as I march my way out to the Fo’c’sle and receive a brief pass-down of the current status and my mission. I take a group of waiting females over to the makeshift shower we constructed using a freshwater hose and some PVC tubing to frame a tarp blowing precariously in the aggressive winds of the coastal waters. I give them a bar of soap, three minutes, and as much privacy as I can. Part of my job is to make sure they don’t try to throw themselves overboard; this will never happen while I am onboard. They plead with me for more time. They say, “Boss please.” My heart breaks and I say, “No.” My head cannot think properly, whether from my exhaustion or guilt I do not know. They speak Haitian Creole and can understand French, but I can’t even formulate the word “sorry” in French for them. My OPS boss is on the radio checking in every 15 minutes. As if constantly asking me if I am done will make it faster to provide a pseudo shower for forty women and girls. I know that is not how the world works but he has yet to figure it out. This is my first encounter with migrants and I desperately hope it will be my last. That will not be the case. Hundreds of migrants will call our cutter home for days, weeks and even months before we repatriate them. We give them itchy wool blankets, two meals a day, make-shift protection from the sun, and armed guards to keep the peace. They live on our flight deck. The sad truth is that for some or possibly all, this temporary sojourn on a Coast Guard Cutter is far better than trying to survive in their home country. My only solace is the knowledge that they were saved from a sinking vessel and likely death, hundreds of nautical miles from shore. There is one question that I ask myself on a loop, “What can I do?” The objective I desire is simple but it is the most difficult to attain–to help them. I answer the needs of our guests as they appear, I spend time speaking to them in broken English, and I try to absorb as much information as I can. I have armed myself with a gear belt and fresh supplies, but I do not know how or if I will use this knowledge that they have armed me with. I realize this is only a fractional piece of the migrant/refugee “issue.” I am one ordinary female on one small boat in one miniscule service in this whole wide world. So, what do I do? My job. I check the manual, check the supplies, and ready the boat to receive more visitors to our Steel Hotel.

N.Y.U. Summer break, 1985

We got off the train at Christopher Street and headed down West Fourth toward my place. Our tickets for that evening’s Shakespeare in the Park performance of Measure for Measure were in my back pocket. Her gym bag was slung over my shoulder.

Nancy slowed down and said, “Do you need to go to the pharmacy?”

“You feel okay? What do you need?”

“Do. You. Need. To. Go. To. The. Pharmacy? Or do I need to spell it out for you?”

“I think you just did.”

* * *

“This place is gigantic, Mac. Three bedrooms. Hardwood floors. Nice,” she said while slipping off her sneakers.

“Make yourself at home,” I said, nodding at her sneakers by the door.

“Sorry–force of habit. My dad makes us take our shoes off when we come in.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said as I slipped off my sneakers in solidarity and continued the tour of the apartment.

We were in the middle of our third date, which consisted of waiting in line all morning for tickets for that evening’s performance at the Delacorte. Time flew, as it does when you’re young and falling hard.

Nancy and I sat next to each other in Elizabethan English during the spring semester. She was a junior economics major who took the class as an elective because she loved Shakespeare. I, on the other hand, was a 23-year-old freshman theater major scraping by on the G.I. Bill after four years in the army. She was so smart and so pretty, I figured I never had a chance, so I never made a move.

But we ran into each other at the South Street Seaport and, to my surprise, she made the first move. We saw the Back to the Future movie and went to the fireworks. I was smitten, and couldn’t believe my luck.

“You guys are really clean. For guys. By the way, where are they?”

I had two other roommates in our three-bedroom walkup just off Sixth Avenue in the Village.

“They’re at their internships. You’re the only one that bags work on a Wednesday afternoon to hang out with a guy.”

She smiled. “I prefer ‘play hookie,’ which begs the question, how come you’re not working at your new fancy private investigator job.”

“Eddie gave me the day off.

Earlier, during our four hour wait for Shakespeare in the Park tickets, I told Nancy about the stake out the day before and the surveillance photos I took of a couple of cheating spouses. The pay was good, and it was a kick.

“It kills me you’re a P.I. Where’s your Hawaiian shirt, Magnum?”

“I left it in the Ferrari.” We both thought that was funny.

We continued the tour. “You each have your own room? Which one is yours?” I led her down the hall and opened the door.

“Nice. Fresh paint.” She pointed to the Buddha incense burner I inherited from the stoner who used to have my room. “What’s with that?”

“You didn’t know I was religious?”

She rolled her eyes, then sat on the foot of the bed and bounced up and down. “It’s cushy. And you made it.”

“The army brain-washed me.”

“What college freshman has a queen size bed? Big plans with the ladies?”

“I’ll be a sophomore in September,” I said defensively. “There was a summer sale at 1-800-MATTRES. Queen size for the price of a full. They even threw in a frame.”

“Are we really going to discuss economics?” she asked while patting the mattress.

I sat down next to her. “How about biology? Young, healthy, and full of hormones.”

She smiled, “Good things can happen.”

We were so young and so healthy and so energetic that my creaky air conditioner couldn’t keep the room cool or drown out the noise. The new bed frame scratched the old hardwood floor. So many words and actions came out of Nancy and me that the Buddha could have used a blindfold and ear plugs.

* * *

We were lying in my bed, drenched in sweat. She was resting her head on my chest. I swear she was purring.

“Nance, what are you doing with me?”

Immediately, I wished I didn’t say that out loud. No good could come of it.

“I like you, Mac. Isn’t it obvious?”

“But I’m just some schnook living hand-to-mouth in a walk-up in the Village, four years behind everybody in my class. You’re an economics major, living in Sutton Place. You must have better options.”

She sat up and said, “Options? Let me tell you about a guy who I went out with a couple months ago.”

“This is appropriate pillow talk?” I asked as I sat up.

She put a finger up to my lips. “Just listen. We met in accounting class. He took me to McSorley’s. McSorley’s! All they serve is warm beer. It smells like sweat and sawdust. They don’t even have a freakin’ ladies’ room. You know what he talked about?” I gave her an ‘I give up’ shrug. “Amortization and accretion.”

“What are those?”

“What difference does it make? He was a drip.” She picked up my hand and looked in my eyes. “Remember what restaurant we went to and we talked about when we went to the fireworks?”

“Let me think. We went to the place on Second Avenue. I asked you about your internship. You told me about your younger sister, how the fourth of July is the slowest day of the year for restaurants, what you wanted to do for a living. That kinda stuff.”

“Exactly. You didn’t brag about yourself. You asked me about me, and what I was about. What I thought about things. You had me pick the place to eat. No guy I ever met did that.”

“I was just being polite. You’re going out with me because I’m polite?”

“You still don’t realize it, do you? I had a crush on you since the day you sat next to me in Shakespeare class, and kept waiting for you to make the first move. But you move so slow, you can be timed with a calendar. When you did soliloquies in class, I thought you were performing just for me. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you.” She began reciting, “But love, first learnèd in a lady’s eyes,”

I cleared my throat. “Lives not alone immurèd in the brain, / But with the motion of all elements / Courses as swift as thought in every power, / And gives to every power a double power, / Above their functions and their offices.”

“And now I can’t keep my hands off you.” She pushed me flat on my back and kissed me on the lips. Then the neck. Then the collar bone. Then the chest. “Let’s see how cushy this new mattress is when you’re on the bottom.”

* * *

We were getting ready for the show and Nancy asked me to get her gym bag and bring it to her in the bathroom. “You brought a change of clothes? On a third date?” She had a towel wrapped around her and was drying her hair with another.

“Fourth date.” She counted off with her fingers. “Pier 17, fireworks, Michael J. Fox, today. What kind of strumpet do you think I am to sleep with somebody on the third date?”

“A hookie-playing strumpet?” A loud banging at the door interrupted our mutual needling. I closed the bathroom door and went to answer.

Before I got to the door, Eddie came barreling in. He noticed the size seven Reeboks on the floor, and yelled down the hall “Nice to meet you, Nancy. The kid’s told me a lot about you.”

Eddie was my upstairs neighbor, the P.I. who hired me to take photos of a woman cheating on her husband. For Lord knows what reason, Eddie has referred to me as kid since the moment we met. He took me under his wing, and had me doing his legwork on simple jobs like unfaithful spouses.

“Hi. He’s told me about you, too,” came out from behind the bathroom door. I was secretly pleased that she wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed. We might only be college students, but we were adults who didn’t have to explain to anyone.

Eddie started pacing. I hadn’t known him for long, but I could tell he wasn’t the nervous type. “We got problems, kid.”

“Eddie, I’m kinda in the middle of –”

“She’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?” We both turned to see Nancy wearing tailored slacks and a summer sweater. She was still towel drying her hair. “You have got to get a blow dryer.”

“The wife. She’s dead.”

“Ummm, do you two want me to go fix my hair, or something?” asked Nancy.

Eddie formally introduced himself to Nancy, and apologized for bursting in on us. He just wanted to make sure I was aware of the new complication.

Eddie looked at me and said, “You trust her, right kid?” I nodded, and Eddie turned to Nancy. “You can’t possibly be involved. Besides, he’ll just tell you later.”

We made our way to the living room where Eddie told us what happened. “I called the client to report after I got the prints back. Good job, by the way. He was crying on the phone. The cops were at his place. His wife was killed by the guy with her on the bench. It looks like you got it on film. When they were kissing and he had his hand up under her jacket. He poisoned her.”

I could see a look on Nancy’s face wondering what she had gotten herself into. She knew I was taking pictures the day before for Eddie, but didn’t expect to be involved in a murder. Neither did I.

“Poisoned? I didn’t see any poison. She looked fine.”

“Of course you didn’t see anything. He’s a pro. You’re not.” He paused, realizing he just insulted me. “Yet.” Another pause. “No offense.” I motioned for him to continue.

“The detective on the call told me it was just a small puncture, like a syringe or a pressurized air device. She pushed his hand away because of the pinch. She didn’t die right there. The toxin took about three hours to take effect and she started having convulsions at her office later.”

“James Bond stuff,” Nancy said. She was composed, but I could see that she was unsettled.

“So why do we have problems? You gave the cops the photos, right?”

“Of course. That’s where I just came from. I told the police I took the pictures so you wouldn’t have to get involved. It’s your first case. But that may not matter, because the killer will assume somebody took photos and he might come looking for him.”

“Why would he assume somebody was taking pictures?” I asked.

“I just told you. He’s a pro and leaves no stone unturned. Carver hid his copies. I have my copies already stowed away.” Eddie then handed me an envelope that contained a contact sheet of the photos that was no bigger than an index card. “You need to hide yours.”

“Hide. Where? Here?”

“The junk drawer,” said Eddie.

“Isn’t that too obvious?” Nancy asked Eddie.

“So obvious, nobody ever looks there. Believe me.”

I wondered to no one in particular, “Do I even have a junk drawer?”

Nancy looked at me like I didn’t know how to tie my shoes. “Everybody has a junk drawer.”

For a stray cat, I’ve written a lot of letters. I’ve burned them, but they keep rising from ash. They’re full of beautiful insults I will never say to you. I say them to myself instead. I recently learned that when you burn alive, it’s not the flames that kill you. Not the roiling heat sloughing off your skin, boiling your eyes, or the immolation of the tongue as it bubbles into grease—no. It’s the suffocation. Scalding gas enters your lungs. Heat tightens your skin, shrinks your windpipe, and you die by your own body. And in this baptism by fire of all the letters I’ve meant to send you, I suffocated myself. 

You were the one that called me a stray cat, actually. And I found that so strange, because you kept leaving food out for me. There was that red dot jittering on the wall, too. I’d smack at it, and it’d vanish. You always told me you didn’t have a laser pointer. I didn’t really believe that. 

And when I followed you home, meowing, you opened the door to a dog on your sofa. 

I sat on your couch adjacent from this Belgian Malinois, eyeing him, wondering why the fuck I was watching Bojack Horseman with a dog you owned. He’s old as shit. What do you have in common with him anyway? And you’re a cat too, right? What do cats and dogs even talk about? “Babe, could you grab me a beer?” spoken with strings of slobber and hot fish breath. And his slick oil-coated fur that, if you pet, this powdery film greases your hands and you can never wash it off no matter how hard you scrub. It finds its way beneath your nails. You smell like dog for weeks. I found myself thanking you for inviting others so it wasn’t just the three of us at that party. Other dogs showed up, and one had a cat too. But all the dogs didn’t talk. Or maybe I couldn’t hear them. 

What’s terrible is you made me realize I like cats. That’s what kept me writing letters all those nights. 

I definitely will burn at the stake if I say I only love cats. But I love dogs, too. The right ones, at least, like Finn. The ones that cuddle beside you, scratch at the door, wag their tail, wait for the clasp of a leash, prance down the sidewalk, lift a leg, piss, and go back in to cuddle some more. Finn does smell pretty bad, I will admit. Like Fritos or spoiled yogurt. But my cat family all loved dogs like normal cats do, and my dog family all loved cats like normal dogs do. Maybe I was the freak. 

As Bojack talked about his cat friend’s overdose, you told me my fears were yours too. You didn’t even know if you wanted to be a dog owner these days. Relief washing my hackles down, I said, “Tell me about it.” 

Sick of watching a talking horse, we burned a bonfire with old lumber from an abandoned house. You told me not to breathe in, and I wondered which dog had the bright idea to burn logs with lead fucking paint on it. The suffocation fire crackled—reeking of chemicals, pinching my nose with acid and vinegar—and you sat beside me. Out of everyone there, you picked a mangy stray with half-blind eyes to huddle up with. You picked me. You showed me your bookcase, and I splintered my claws into your bedpost. We talked about our dream life in a mountainside cottage with goats and a garden and a wood-burning stove. You blinked, lids lowering, eyelashes sweeping your cheekbones. I blinked back, tail flicking. I wrote a letter to the fire we curled beside, and you whispered poetry in crackling film reels. 

Then, your dog sat beside you. He draped a fireman’s jacket over your shoulders. The heavy taupe kevlar striped with reflective bands covered your lithe cat frame entirely. “Don’t want you to get cold,” he said. I watched you lean into his shoulder, and I was reminded I was a stray, and you were not. 

It never was a turn of fate that left me in the cold. It was the fear of my own skin, constricting in on me. I stood from my chair. “I’ll have to get home.” I cleaned ashes off my fur, licking invisible wounds. Phantom limb sensations of past connections haunted my motions. At that moment, I was certain you were laughing all night at the silly cat batting away at a wall–- at a red dot coming from a handheld light in your human hand. I wasn’t going to let my body betray me again. I wouldn’t suffocate here. Not for you. 

“You don’t want to sleep here?” you asked. I threw the letter into the fire. “It’s alright. I’ll see you next Monday.”

The feelings wash over me like the ocean waves, unpredictably rushing out and slamming into the shores of my mind, only to recede away again. A persistent nagging. A constant struggle of a restless subconscious.

I found myself in the corner, slumped over the edge of the bar again. Most people who walk past probably like to deliberate about whether I’m some degenerate regular or just a hobo trying to escape a cold, hard sidewalk. Either way they’d be right about one thing, I am a complete waste of space. Day in and day out I occupy myself with two things: alcohol and sleep. Right now, I’m engaged with the latter. At least I was.

“Let me ask you something.”

The words sounded closer, more directed than the aimless chatter that reverberated throughout the pub. The question urged a response from me. However, my growing sense of indifference urged back. What manner of individual could be so unsympathetic to my discernibly isolating posture? Surely a few moments of utter disregard for my new friend would be enough to send him fucking right back off. About a minute later and… here I am, alone again in the dark corner of this utterly dreary establishment.

A prod at my shoulder quickly, and rather abruptly, informed me that the brief silence had deceived me. I begrudgingly lifted my head from the comfort of my arms. An old man sat across from me, his eyes piercing into mine. His fedora was angled down over his forehead and his scraggly beard covered the lower portion of his face. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat before turning to the half empty glass that still resided on my coaster. Sleep obviously wasn’t going to happen so I’ll try that other thing. I emptied the glass with one full swig then directed my attention to the man.

“Well… your question?” I said. “What is it?” I hadn’t expected to be interrogated tonight so I was trying to get this over with as soon as possible. Still, there was something very curious about the man’s presence and so I was inclined to indulge.

“Are you happy?” he said.

That one actually made me smirk. I pondered ignoring him altogether and going back to my blissful misery, but the straightness with which the inquiry was delivered begged further consideration. He continued his line of questioning.

“What if I told you that you’ve been living your life all wrong?” he said, his voice low and urgent.

“No shit,” I said. “I’m not exactly the embodiment of the American dream.” The bartender signaled for last call. I flagged him down for another drink.

“You’re cut off, Fischer,” he yelled from the other end of the bar. “You need to pay your tab from last week or you’re done drinking here.”

“Come on, just one more,” I said. “I’m good for it.” I was definitely not good for it.

“On me,” came the voice to my left.

I looked at him, then back at the bartender. “On him,” I yelled back. Even through my impaired vision I could see him shake his head in disapproval.

The old man pressed on without skipping a beat. “And what if I told you that everything you thought you knew was just an illusion?”

I leaned forward. “What do you mean by that?” A beer was slammed down in front of me, the frothy foam spilling over the sides. I immediately grabbed at it.

“The world you see around you is not the real world,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s a façade.”

I was starting to think maybe I was the sober one here. “And what’s the real world, then?” I asked, expecting an equally crazy response.

“Just ask yourself why this place feels like home.” The man rose from his seat and turned to leave. “Ask yourself… why you can’t remember your wife’s face.”He started toward the door and finally disappeared into the dark, rainy night. I looked around the bar at the lifeless souls that inhabited this place. What did I do yesterday? Where was home? Wife? As I contemplated and failed to recall anything other than my immediate location, a shudder ran through my body. I rose and ran after the man, but when I crossed the threshold of the entryway, I was face down across the bar again without a care in the world.