Guest
Writer
In
this hot new place, the sky is far away
The
process server
by Edward
Morris Jr.
have no idea where I'm going. I just know I have to get there.
507 Pine Street
Cross streets: Pine and Union
Third house in on left
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It says so on a much-refolded sheet of paper, gray
with sweat from my own hands. The sheet of paper was only one of
two things in my pockets when I looked. But the address comes without
a frame of reference.
As to the other item in my pockets, there is no identification
of any kind in my billfold. Only a public-transit ticket and a few
equally crumpled single dollar bills.
In my hands rests a yellow manila envelope with a string clasp.
I cannot open it. The desire not to feels, as I look down, stronger
in me even than the infantile fear of falling backward. But with
this fear, I have no learned, layered reflex to put my hands behind
me and roll to one side.
The bus stop where I sit has been graded out of a hillside full
of gravel and gopher holes and weeds. Below it, a vast graveyard
full of unnumbered tombs older than the States War stretches down
and around and off, into the haze of noontide.
Every clover bud throbs swollen with honey. Cicadas sing like a
migraine. But this beautiful day is not my life. In this hot new
place, the sky is far away.
Beside me a coughing, spitting junkie breaks the silence to ask
when the number 777 bus comes. I tell him I have no idea.
This frustrated desolation only hones my head for the dance which
I see must come. It will happen when it is to happen and not one
moment before. Glued to the outside of the envelope is a generic
AFFIDAVIT OF SERVICE whereupon all personal information under "Respondent"
and "Petitioner" has been left blank.
I can only assume that the address in my pocket is that of the
Respondent. How I came to be serving papers on him or her must be
filled in, like the addresses and names, at a later time. "More
Shall Be Revealed," I mutter sourly without knowing what I
mean. At this, the junkie gets up and slowly walks away.
I look down at my scuffed black wingtips that no one in their right
mind would want to wear. In front of me and up, the rattling old
omnibus pulls in with a thunderous wheeze of diesel fumes. The door
creaks open with heavy, ratcheting lever sounds, yielding up the
hothouse smell of its interior, that of sunbeams frying wicker seats
through thick glass.
The driver is skinny and looks Balkan. His ears are big enough
to provide him unassisted transport at the first high gust of wind.
He coughs like the junkie as he takes my ticket. There is blood
on his lips. Though his skin is gray, I see no junkie itch and twitch
when he sits back and cranks the door shut.
"Could you please tell me when we get to Pine and Union?"
He gives me the look that one spares the feeble-minded on a busy
street but makes no move to hand back the ticket. I sit down in
the first seat behind him. We get no farther than the end of the
block. The brakes scream like new roadkill in the bright day.
"Pein-Yunion!" the driver barks in a heavy Czech accent,
flapping one hand at me as he cranks open the door. I tip him a
dollar on the way out. He looks at it, sniffs it, then begins to
eat it. I do not ask.
The breath leaves my lungs when my foot takes the curb. This feels
like some kind of clonic event. Everything is too white. The breath
pushes up hot in my throat and stays stuck there. In my ears, the
click of my heels on these old, sandy concrete blocks sounds like
the Charge of the Light Brigade.
I pull the folded, grimy half-sheet of paper from my pocket and
look at it again. This block is a known quantity: The little turnout
at the end, the child's hopscotch grid in chalk, the way the light
catches the corner.
507 Pine Street
Cross streets: Pine and Union
Third house in on left
The white two-story railroad house with a porch swing. The privet
hedges in front, the hyacinths in their small brick flowerbed perpendicular
to the porch steps on the right. The jack-o'-lantern by the rightmost
porch pillar, clean and whole and unsmashed. The yards of cotton
stretched from nails between the pillars to pretend at being cobwebs.
I cannot continue, yet I do. Some undamaged synaptic nerve, some
deep and fundamental sense lodged in my chest cavity, in the pelvis
up under the tailbone, between my eyes, in my sternum, has known
the truth since I started out. Whenever that was.
I was born here. This is my address. I walk up the creaky porch
steps and knock loudly upon the door with a heavy hand.
I have no idea where I'm going. I just know I have to get there.
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