In Springdale Town (9 page)

Springdale Longitude and Latitude
an introduction by Robert Freeman Wexler

Once upon a January, 1999. Somewhere in Western Massachusetts. Alone. The kind of drive that extends far beyond actual time or mileage. I happened to stop at a highway diner for lunch. The road might have been Route 23. A waitress pointed me to an empty booth and brought me coffee. I sat and listened to the conversations around me, pocket-notebook on the table and too close to the coffee, which dripped over the rim of the cup and attacked the notebook, granting an unwanted travel souvenir. I can show it to anyone who doesn’t believe me.

At a nearby booth a man and woman, around the age I was at the time, talked about people they knew and had just seen (where, I didn’t catch, but let’s say it was at a wedding, in the back yard of a house on a wooded riverside). Several years ago, the woman had an affair with the groom, during his previous marriage (though she wasn’t the woman who the previous wife found out about, that was someone named Matilda). They paused their conversation to give their orders to the waitress: BLTs, one with French fries the other with onion rings. I looked at the menu. Fried chicken would be nice, but I didn’t want something so substantial for lunch.

The groom they spoke of was a reporter for a local television station. His new wife worked at a bank, a relationship manager, whatever that is. “Can you imagine anything sadder than waiting to take over an anchor spot on the local news?” the woman said. “Those guys never retire. They just get more and more fossilized.”

“He’s going to have to move to a larger market. More jobs.”

“Male anchors, of course. Women have to disappear before they start aging.”

The waitress brought them drinks and turned to ask what I wanted. I said grilled cheese with onion rings. A nicely-made onion ring is a wondrous thing. For those unfamiliar with the delicacy, here’s a basic recipe: Slice an onion latitudinally (taking root end as south, green end as north); pull apart the rings; dip rings in batter or dip in milk and then in flour or bread crumbs, then fry. A deep fryer is best, but pan frying works. And some history, from this website: http://www.barrypopik.com/index.php/new_york_city/entry/french_fried_onion_rings/: 29 May 1910,
New York Sun
(New York Public Library’s Susan Dwight Bliss collection, pg. 195): “A novelty that progressive New York restaurants are introducing with great appreciation from their patrons is one that can be reproduced at home without difficulty—French fried onions. In flavor and appearance they bear little relation to the usual breakfast dish, and which, moreover, are possible to many to whom ‘for the stomach’s sake’ the others are impossible. The sweet Bermuda onion is used for this new dainty. It is cut thin to resemble French fried potatoes. Before cooking dredge with flour. Fry quickly in a wire basket in hot deep fat until crisp, brown, and free of grease. Very delicious as an accompaniment for beef steak, or, in fact, good with almost any kind of red meat.”

~

With the intrusion of plates, their talk slackened but didn’t end. Listening, I became confused, realized that I had been mistaken. They weren’t talking about people they knew; I recognized the names: from a television show I had watched in a motel room the previous night. The show was one of those ensemble-cast things, with inter-connected stories and intersecting groups of characters. Actually fairly interesting the way it’s put together. There’s the sad musician–a bass player for a successful band who fled the city with his photographer wife who’s now his ex-wife; her new husband, who runs a store that sells and installs miniature trains for parks or the yards of the wealthy; her restaurant-owner brother; the guy who runs a small high-tech company; the African-American female doctor and her husband, who teaches at the college; other people at the college (there were other ethnic minorities shown, but they didn’t have much to do in the episodes that I saw). I had read about the show and was able to pick up enough while watching. This was before DVD, before streaming or downloading, so it wasn’t easy to watch missed episodes.

Well, I thought (smugly), don’t these people have more interesting things to talk about than TV drama? And why do they discus it in such detail and from within the milieu? I talk about TV shows and movies, but as a writer, interested in story. I don’t natter about how Daryl treated Betty at the company picnic, or the ordeal that Malone was having with his landlord that might cause him to move his toy store to a new location. The woman was surprised to hear about Malone. The man said that he had been to dinner with Malone on Wednesday, and learned everything directly from him.

Curiosity replaced smugness.

From their talk, I figured out that the man worked for a real-estate company and the woman was an assistant principal at the high school. Springdale High (which was the name of the town on the show). The man asked, “anything crazy happening at Springdale High?” That’s how I heard the name. She said that the hole kept getting darker.

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.