by Ann Beattie
I was also enthusiastic about setting out on my trip, wearing shoes, but thinking that perhaps I should carry an umbrella. Which kind? Sturdy and largeish, or less sturdy, but more compact? I considered the merits of each, deciding on sturdy and largeish. I went outside to make sure it opened, it being bad luck to open an umbrella in one’s house, and saw that the UPS truck was rounding the corner. Then, the driver slammed on the brakes, and a squirrel dashed into the underbrush, including my stalks of asparagus, which thrive in sandy soil. The truck did not stop. It hit a utility pole. Open umbrella tossed onto the lawn, I ran toward the driver to offer assistance. The umbrella blew away, no matter, but in my mind’s eye I saw the Morton’s salt container, which I believed to be decorated with an umbrella—though not one tossed on the lawn.
The driver was fine. That bloody squirrel, he said, explaining further that if he had known it was a squirrel rather than a cat, which he had assumed it to be, he would not have braked. Well, that wasn’t the problem, he said. The problem was his job. And the job wouldn’t have been a problem to him if not for his wife. His wife’s attitude toward the job. Which was negative. He had married a woman with high aspirations, he said. She played the dulcimer and he played the guitar, and she aspired to be a famous musical duo. He offered to sell me a CD of their songs, which included “Irish Melody.”
We spoke of Ireland, and of the Cliffs of Moher, where the updraft was so strong that one time when a movie was being filmed there, a dummy dressed as a woman was repeatedly tossed from the cliff, only to sail back up again.
Might this be untrue? Since he had visited the cliffs, he thought not, though in saying such a thing, which certainly might be analogous to an urban legend, I realized there might be cause for doubt.
He gave chase to my umbrella, finding it slightly entangled with the neighbor’s rosa rugosa. In disentangling a spoke, he pricked his finger, which put us both in mind of a particular fairy tale. Remembering it, we each filled in parts the other had forgotten. We were quite the duo ourselves, we laughed. Of course, I was pleasantly disposed to him for returning my umbrella, and frankly, I had worried for him and the out-of-control truck much more than I worried for the slightly dented box that he had come to pick up.
I attempted to purchase his CD, only to find that there was a hole in my pants pocket, and my wallet was nowhere to be found. Hoping against hope, I looked at the surface of my dresser, in the bathroom, and through every room, concentrating on the floor.
Finally, I saw that I must call the floor refinisher. As coincidence would have it, the driver’s brother was in the business. I took down his brother’s number. When putting the pen back in the mug in which I keep twenty or so identical pens, I found my wallet, which was wedged between a bookend and the wall—a place where surely I could overlook it forever. Happy to have my wallet, I removed a twenty-dollar bill, hoping the CD would not cost more. The bill was fragile—one that should be exchanged as quickly as possible for a better, stronger twenty-dollar bill, we both agreed. He gave me seven dollars’ change and asked to watch my expression as I listened to the first song, which he said was his favorite. This required me to tell him that while I did not have a CD player, my best friend had a CD player in his car, so when we next went out together, I would hear the CD that way.
He said, “Some loser! Your umbrella blows away, this box here is fucked up, I hope at least you can watch television.”
No, I said, I couldn’t, because I was about to set out on a journey.
GREETINGS FROM SUNNY FLORIDA, I said, having a little in-joke with myself, though he took it to mean that I would be going to Florida. In the event, he had a cousin who could give me a discount ticket to Disney World. I had to explain that this was not my destination, however. I said more than I should about my difficulty in setting out. There were pills for that, he said. His wife took them. Otherwise, she’d never go to the grocery store. The pills allowed her to go repeatedly to the grocery store.
I was getting some idea of his life: a man married to a woman he had some problems with, who liked cats and who enjoyed making music. Making music in the literal sense, I mean. I had no indication about whether he and his wife liked to “make music,” so to speak.
In checking the salt container for the umbrella image, a plastic jar of honey fell on my head, causing the immediate return of my headache. I went into the bathroom, where I had been only a little time before, for aspirin. This time, my wallet was clearly on the floor, because after paying the UPS man, I put the wallet in my pocket without thinking and went into the bathroom, and when I bent over to open the drawer in which the aspirin was kept, the wallet (apparently) slipped to the floor. Noiselessly, because there was a blue shag bath rug where I stood.
Though I did not remember saying good-bye to the UPS man, I exited the bathroom, wallet in hand, aspirin ingested, to find that he was gone, his truck was gone, and the box remained. Why did the box remain? Because he had forgotten that it was his job to pick up the box? Because I had somehow given offense? Well, it turned out that he was only moving the truck. He came back in and we had further discussion of the fairy tale, as I heated water for tea, which could be drunk with honey. If he had to be on his way, I could give it to him in a Styrofoam cup. But it seemed that he was in no hurry to be on his way, which somewhat inconvenienced me, in that I knew I should be making preparations for being on my way.
I had never visited Disney World, and I gave a moment’s thought to stopping there either on the way to, or on the return from, my planned trip. The discount coupon was an incentive. He did not want any tea, it seemed, whether regular or herbal. He informed me that he was allergic to ragweed, and that chamomile was in the ragweed family, therefore he could not drink chamomile. He could, but he did not.
I began to realize that if I was to get going, I would have to hint to him that he should leave the house. However, he had gone into the living room and sat with his feet on the footstool. At least, I thought it was the footstool, until I entered the room and saw that he had put his feet up on the box. He had turned on the TV with the remote control and sat there, channel surfing. Finally, I said that it was nice to have met him, and that I would enjoy listening to his CD, but that at present I must continue my preparations to set out. This elicited a longer story about his cousin, including mention of the fact that his cousin had sued Disney World after slipping on a wad of cotton candy discarded not in a trash basket, but on the ground. The cousin had been dressed as a pirate at the time, and the sword, though made of rubber, had nonetheless pierced his thigh. In fact, if I needed a lawyer for any reason in Florida, he knew one to recommend.
But let me be honest and say that the man who had come to live in my house did not stop me from setting out on my trip. I felt that I should go to the drugstore and buy more aspirin, so that I would have some packed, if needed, as I traveled.
Once there, I was greeted by an old friend who inquired about my health. The friend’s health was not good. I was of course aware that my friend suffered from near deafness, and therefore had a perspective on why he spoke so loudly, but felt very embarrassed as he loudly expounded upon his problems. An old lady sitting in a chair, waiting for her prescription, sighed loudly many times and frowned at my friend, but he did not lower his voice and, in fact, went into greater and greater detail about his possible hemorrhoid surgery. As we parted, I saw her deliberately stick out her foot and trip him.
As a responsible citizen, and perhaps having just considered the issue of lawyers, I felt obliged to tell the manager what had happened, since my friend was unconscious. The only thing I could do was wait with him until the ambulance came and took him away, and once that happened I went quickly home, shaken. I had forgotten, entirely, about the necessity of acquiring aspirin. Disappointed in myself, I returned to the drugstore, where a man was mopping up blood. This reminded me of what might have happened had the UPS man run over the squirrel. I very much disliked patches of blood in the street—especially those w
ith feathers or fur protruding. The thought made me retch, which suggested to me that I was feeling queasy, and therefore indisposed to travel.
Though I intended to come, instead I returned home and walked past the UPS man, who was channel surfing, and went upstairs and stretched out on my bed. If, twice, I could forget to buy aspirin when I had set out expressly to obtain them, was it in my power to take a journey?
No one would be chronicling my journey, of course, so there was, say, no Boswell to disappoint.
The man who had been mopping blood appeared at my door, and was admitted by the UPS man. It seems he was the nephew of my next-door neighbor, who recognized me and who took note of the fact that I seemed very upset. Upon returning to his aunt and uncle’s house, he decided to stop by to make sure I was taking the accident in stride.
The UPS man invited him in to watch television, so both of them were there, engrossed in a horror movie, when the phone rang. Was I going on a journey, or was I not going on a journey? a friend inquired. The reason for the inquiry being: Could he use my house while I was away, because his wife had kicked him out. I explained that he might find my house rather crowded, even if I did set out on my journey, which I was rethinking. That is, I was thinking that perhaps all that had happened was in some way a message to me that I should immediately set out.
I thought of calling a cab, but hesitated. It might be better, after all, to drive. As I considered taking a cab to the airport, versus driving, I saw the UPS man and the man from the drugstore back out of the driveway in my car.
I considered calling the police, but have always had my doubts about calling the police. I suspect this aversion is somewhat generational.
I took a suitcase out of my closet, then a duffel bag, then a different suitcase. One, being a Vuitton, had probably actually appreciated in value. It would be a shame to check it as baggage, however, so the duffel bag made more sense. However, it would not hold an adequate amount of clothes, I decided. That is, unless I shortened my journey, which might make sense, since what was keeping me from setting out was probably an unwillingness to be away from my house for so many days.
I consulted the calendar and realized that I had not canceled my dentist appointment, and thought that it might be best to keep the appointment, so I could set out after the mystery of the tooth sensitive to pressure was solved.
In putting the suitcases away, I tripped over the duffel bag. An image of my friend, bleeding on the drugstore floor, came back to me, and forced me to sit on my bed, cradling my head, waiting for the dizzy feeling to subside.
As things sometimes come to one when least expected, I conjured up an image of the dental hygienist, whose name I thought was Sally. This, in turn, reminded me that she had once asked to borrow twenty dollars, which I had not, to the best of my recollection, been repaid.
I consulted my ledger, but found tiny holes in the paper, probably caused by silverfish. An article in the newspaper had convinced me, previously, not to have the exterminator come to the house anymore, but I was irritated that they had returned so quickly.
Because I was unable to read the notation I had made about the money borrowed, I wrote a note to myself re the hygienist, assuming her to be an honest girl, who would confess, if necessary, that she had not yet returned the money. I then put the note in my wallet, pushing it into the slot where I kept the credit card I always used when paying the dentist.
It was then that I noticed that the credit card had expired. Had I been sent a new credit card and it had not arrived? Was someone, at this very moment, forging my name? Or had it not been sent for some reason? I consulted a credit card bill and took note of the 800 number to call if there was a problem.
When reached, I spoke of my impending journey and it was decided that, having not received my new card for reasons unknown to the company, they would FedEx a new card to me the next day. I informed them that regular mail would be fine, in that I would have to wait for my dentist appointment to be completed before I set out, anyway.
The next phone call was to tell me that my friend was dead. With a funeral pending, I did not see how I could get away until after the dental appointment, after the new card arrived, and after the funeral. Still, I made a firm decision to drive, if the car was ever returned to me. I gave fleeting thought, once more, to calling the police, and decided that my mistrust of them was indeed generational, but not to be overcome this particular night.
Yuri, the neighbor’s dog, ran across several lawns to greet me, as I searched the empty streets, hoping to see my car returning. He had in his mouth a newly killed bird, which repulsed me and caused me to make a startled movement, mistaking it, at first, for a stick or something Yuri wished me to throw for him, but upon touching it I realized that it was, indeed, a dead bird. “Drop,” I said authoritatively, and Yuri did, tail wagging.
I realized I must bury the bird and went into the garage to get a trowel. It was then that I noticed that my gardening bag was missing. Had I failed to put it back in the garage, or had someone made off with it?
I did not have long to wonder, because what happened next required my full attention. Yuri’s owner, a teenage girl, came for him, waving a rolled-up newspaper in the air. Upon seeing her, Yuri ran off, which distressed her. Both she and I set off to chase down Yuri, who eluded us and disappeared under a hedge. The girl began to cry, dropping the paper. In picking it up before comforting her, I noticed the date on the paper and realized that it was my birthday.
What a good birthday present I could give myself, to set off on a journey. Though I had previously convinced myself that there were impediments, I decided, instead, to simply leave. Calling a cab would surely be best, since I had no car. I put my arm around Cissie and told her it was not her fault, really, that the dog had run away, though I was lying and knew that I, too, would probably run away if someone came after me with a rolled-up newspaper.
I invited Cissie into the house, so that we could call her parents and explain that Yuri was missing. Her line was busy, however, so I gave her a can of ginger ale and opened a Perrier for myself, but after the first sip I had to quickly set the bottle down, in that Cissie was taking rapid, deep breaths and her pupils were dilated. Allergy to ginger! I knew what it must be. I had an epi pen that the doctor had given me, in case I was stung by another bee, so that I would not go into shock. To give the girl a shot or not? I did not hesitate long, as her eyes were bugging out of her head. Immediately upon injecting her, she began to recover, though in her recovery she seemed even more distraught about her conduct toward Yuri, who, it seemed, had killed another bird earlier in the week. Her real worry was that her parents were going to force her to give up Yuri, in that they were bird lovers. I promised to bury the bird and not tell her parents, and that is exactly what I was doing when my car reappeared in the distance, driven by the UPS man. The man from the drugstore exited, carrying a six-pack of beer, as did the UPS man. They seemed somewhat surprised to see a red-eyed girl in my kitchen, but upon hearing her story, all agreed that I was doing the right thing, and that the bird must be given a funeral and that, this one time, her parents should not be notified. To this end, we all went searching for the bag missing from the garage so enough implements for burial could be found, and who should find it but Cissie: it had slipped off the table and landed near a spare tire, which, I noted with consternation, had gone flat.
In burying the bird, we bonded. I was asked what, exactly, I did: meaning, what job did I hold? That of writer, I answered. This engendered a discussion in which all three present revealed that they also planned to be writers, because each had a story to tell. Cissie, in fact, was required to write a story for school, and she thought that she might write about the funeral of the bird, though she hesitated to do so in that her parents might subsequently ask to read her composition. Similarly, the UPS man had already written an entire book in his head, about a musician who delivers packages and the amusing things that happen to him. The man from the drugstore, to whom Eng
lish was a second language, was waiting for the arrival of his brother, from Buffalo, who would help him with his story concerning his innermost thoughts when mopping and vacuuming, after which the brother’s wife would type it.
Upon hearing that I was about to set out on a journey, all urged me to incorporate the upcoming trip in my writing, however it turned out. It was a good idea, but it was not, in itself, enough incentive to take the journey. In thinking about my obligations to myself and others, I decided that it would be best to remain at home for an indeterminate period of time, during which, of course, I could write.
However, the daily roar of the television distracted me, and I continued to see the pros and cons among my choice of suitcases. I considered seriously the advice that I should flip a coin, but in picking up a coin from my dresser top, I clumsily knocked over a bottle of aftershave, which I feared would ruin the wood. I ran into the bathroom for a towel, and in so doing stubbed my toe, forcing me to hobble, which would make walking on a journey difficult.
