April 16, 2005
In one box of books, I found a few folders that promise to be utterly embarrassing. Three short stories, the start of a novel, and a folder labeled “Miscellaneous Drafts and Abandoned Ideas.” I read them.
Ouch.
Somewhere there is still folder full of the original Hold the Mayo , the weekly column I wrote for my college newspaper. After reading some of the fiction from the same era I'm not sure I want to find them. I've picked one to share because I wish to humiliate myself publicly. This doesn't exist electronically, so I am retyping it from the hard copy. I am going to do my best to resist re-writing. I'll do a bit of editing for spelling and typing problems, but leave the bad syntax, punctuation and grammar.
I put it in the extended entry so that no one has to read it who is not very very brave. Click on it if you must but you have been warned.
Waking Up Cold
by Stephen Macklin
December 1982
The party was at a house I had never seen before. A tall and dark house at the end of a long and dark dead end street. The house belonged to Sam and Alice Wallace, whom I have never met. There was a circular drive around a white gazebo and a tall carefully groomed hedge kept the house hidden from the street. There were two front doors. The inner door was no larger or smaller than a standard door, and opened at the center of the outer door. The outer door was four feet taller than the inner and two feet wider on either side. I stood at the threshold staring at the doors wondering which I should use. Should i slip quickly through the door within a door? Should I throw open the larger outer door and make a bolder entrance? I wondered too if both doors opened to the same place. The outer door was locked.
A hallway lead toward the center of the house. I studied its smooth white walls as I edged my way toward the party. I wanted to find a seam where two pieces of wall mer or where a supporting stud pushed out slightly to mar the surface. These walls had been build by true craftsmen. The only pattern, the only rhythm I could find was their unending smoothness and unvarying whiteness. A rhythm of one long sustained note. The further down the hallway I walked, the slower I moved and the more carefully I searched. Was I seeking a flaw in the perfection of the walls? Did I need to find some rhythm in their structure to find balance within myself? Was I trying to avoid the party?
When I reached the end of the hall, I discovered the room was dark. There were one or two lamps with dim bulbs and a few candles. it gave the room a mysterious and erotic feel; as though if you peered carefully through the darkness and into the corners, you would discover people doing things they might normally do when they were alone. I peered into the darkness, and found nothing more than several clusters of people talking loudly among themselves so that they could be heard over the conversation of the group next to them.
I wanted to leave, or find a corner in the darkness in which I could hide. No one had seen me standing in the door yet, but I knew that once I was seen the crowd would begin to laugh. As I stood there, I felt that I was the only guest who didn't know that this was not a costume party, and that i had shown up dressed as Peter Pan. I wondered if somehow they all knew that when I arrived I had tried to open the large outer door. I had never seen a door within a door before and I didn't know the rules. The pit of my stomach knew with churning certainty that trying the outer door was a grave social faux pas. I had outreached my social skills and showed myself to be a fool. The door, however, was only a small part of the message my stomach was sending me. These people new the secret that I had yet to learn. Of all the people at the party, of all the people in the world, i was the only one who didn't know. As soon as they saw me, the would know that I didn't know and they would all point to me and laugh. I didn't want to be at this party. I didn't want anyone to know that I hadn't learned the secret.
I tried to leave, but when i turned around there was only a solid wall where the doorway had been. I looked across the room and through the darkness I saw a doorway to the outside. There were two doors. The inner door was no larger or smaller than a standard door, and opened at the center of the outer door. The outer door was four feet taller than the inner and two feet wider on either side. I wondered what the rules of etiquette were. Did I leave using the small inner door the same door I had used to enter? Should I try the larger outer door? The inner being proper for coming in, the outer being proper for going out.
The only way out of this party was to go through the party. There was no place to hide. I wished I was Peter Pan and I could fly across the room and be out the door before anyone noticed I was there. The small groups of guests seemed to be arranged to create a maze through which I would have to navigate.I made it down the stairs into the room undetected. The room seemed much brighter than it had from the landing. If one of the guests had explained that there were switches in the treads of the stairs that caused the lights to brighten as I entered the room, I would have believed it. In the brightness of the room I recognized Alice, and she recognized me. I don't know how I knew who Alice was; there was no distinct quality of Aliceness that she or anyone could be be described as having. It was a distinct feeling of familiarity that could not be labeled as deja vu as with tit I also had a clear feeling that I had never met Alice.
Alice was wearing her usual black; a light film of cloth that emphasized her stick figure and red hair. She was a sharp woman. If you were to run your hand over her face it would surely be sliced open by her nose or chin. She looked frail. A slight breeze could have blown her across the room. She looked cheerful. With a quick look form her deep green eyes and a snap of her fingers, she could turn you into a toad. Alice started to introduce me to people in the group as if I were an old and dear friend. I met Bob Harrison and his wife Sharon, their friend Jonathan and his girl friend Susie. Another couple who's name I cannot remember, and their white Persian cat Cleopatra that she stroked lovingly throughout the entire party. If it were not for the cat, I would have not remembered that they were there. They had no existence independent of Cleopatra.
Bob was an obviously successful man of about fifty. He was a little thick around the middle but with a look of fitness that comes from working out regularly. It was hard to tell if his growing abdomen was the reason for for his exercise, or if it was growing despite his regular trips to the gym. His grey ponytail contrasted nicely with his blue suit. he was a lawyer representing trendy artists in their conflicts with the various organizations that exist solely to give money to artists. There was a certain chic defiance to the way he swung his hair when he talked that said “I'm avant garde. I don't care what you think of me and my ponytail. But I hope you're shocked.” His wife Sharon hosted teas, played bridge an maybe a little golf on weekends, Her only claim for notice was the vast wealth she had inherited and her ability to keep her name on the social register and on the guest list to all the best parties, despite her husband's ponytail.
Jonathan and Susie looked as though they were probably also in their fifties, but obviously spent a great deal of time and money trying to look as though they were still in their thirties. Without having a great deal of success. They loved to bask in the light of Bob's ponytail, and were in awe of Sharon's social standing and family money. The followed the Harrisons from party to party like groupies. Their only other activity was sipping drinks on the veranda of the yacht club looking out at their boat. Jonathan may have held some sort of job at one time; before his father died, leaving him what remained of the money he had been left by his father. Susie has never seen a paycheck.
My mind was stumbling trying to recall a polite and witty exit line. I do not know if the ability to always do and say and the right thing at precisely the right moment is instinct a lucky few are born with or if it is a skill that the fortunate are taught along with the three Rs. Perhaps it is nothing more than a byproduct of age and experience. I was not born one of the lucky or one of the fortunate, and at this moment when I needed it most, whatever experience I had proved insufficient. It would not be long before Bob, Sharon, Jonathan Susie and Cleopatra looked closely enough to notice my costume, or recognize me as the one who tried the wrong door. If I did not escape soon, they would know that I did not know the secret. Bob said something to the group that I could not hear. Voices from all over the room were growing louder and the conversations were blending together. One word from this corner falling nicely behind a word shouted in the opposite corner creating an incoherent sentence in five voices. The group was laughing, but not yet laughing at me.
The gentle pressure of of hand on my elbow turned out to be Alice providing me an escape. She lead me toward another small group of people I did not know. I recognized one of the group as Alice's husband Sam, whom I have never met. Two others I could not recognize, and the fourth member of the group was a woman I could only see from behind. As we neared the group I saw a look of recognition on Sam's face as he looked at me and then whispered something to the couple. Sam said something to the woman then he and the couple walked away.
I found myself becoming more nervous the closer we approached, realizing that Alice's purpose was for me to meet this woman. I always hated when friends made an effort to fix me up. There was too much pressure in meeting someone that you were sure to like and who was sure to like you. You wondered what the person you are meeting has been told about you. Will you measure up to the expectations your friends have created? I didn't even know Alice. i wondered if this woman knew her either.
She wore a simple, elegant white dress. The lines of the padded shoulders highlighted the flat hard surface of her back as it tapered down to the wide black leather belt that encircled her waist. The skirt reached to her knees, and without the cheapness of transparency showed a hint of the smooth, firm, slender legs it concealed. Sh had straight brown hair carefully and neatly styled with a soft inward curl as it reached her shoulders.
Alice tapped her on the shoulder and she turned slowly, as though she knew the full meaning of what was about to happen and was trying to heighten our suspense. The first things I saw were her eyes. They were the same as mine, somewhere on the margin between green, blue and grey, changing depending on the light an our state of being. She looked at me with a serious state, as though she were also trying to decide if I were real.
When I was younger I had believed in the romantic notion that for every individual there was a destined mate. That there was one person on earth who was meant for me. It was a matter primarily of the soul. When I met her, my soul would know her to be The One. As I grew older and she had not come along, I began to believe more in the romantic tragedy that we had passed on the street, but a cruel twist of fate had prevented the only possible chance of our meeting. Finally I had stopped believing in romantic notions and made piece with the idea of being alone. Now she stood before me and my sould had recognized her.
I felt myself slowly rising from the floor though I had made no effort and there was no force pushing or lifting me. I had just become light. I knew the law of gravity was still in effect because all of the furniture and other guests seemed to be securely on the floor. It was a strange feeling floating three feet above the floor with nothing to keep me upright but the air around me. I reached my hand down to Emily and lifted her from the floor with as much effort as it would take to life a piece of paper from the desk. When we embraced her body felt solid in my arms. the party continued as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening.
Emily looked toward the ceiling with a smile of wonder and delight. I looked towards the ceiling and discovered that the ceiling was no longer there. The night sky was clear above us as we began to slowly rise out of the room. I looked back to see if anyone had noticed what was happening. The little groups of people were still standing talking loudly among themselves, but I think I saw Alice waving goodbye.
We continued to float higher above the house, gaining speed as we climbed. the town below us became a vague glow of light and in every direction we could see the earth curve away. I took Emily into my arms and felt the flesh of her thighs against mine, her soft breasts and the hard points of her nipples pressed against my chest. Everywhere that her hands touched me I felt my flesh come alive. She moved her hands over my body, hungry to touch every part of me. She opened herself to me and our passion sent us soaring into the stars.
In June when we were on our way up the coast we spent a night on a guest mooring of the Tug Boat Inn in Boothbay Harbor. the mooring fee was $12.00 for the night. Just after we had gone to bed one of the local excursion boats, the Pink Lady roarded by with drunken shouts of laughter and and a live band on the upper deck. I assured Emily that they were probably on their way to the dock, so it shouldn't be necessary to go ashore and spend the night in the inn. I was right, the Pink Lady never returned.
We awoke at dawn, as was becoming a typical pattern on this trip. We climbed up to the cockpit and wiped the dew off the seats. The town was still asleep, the water calm. There were probably 150 sailboats in the harbor that morning, and there was just enough of a breeze that the halyards of each were gently tapping their masts. We sat in silence listening to the delicate beauty of the music it made, taking careful notice of the note our own mast added to this great chime.
Late in August as we were making our way back down the coast, we spent the night in the narrow protected harbor of Damriscove Island about 2 miles from the crowded Boothbay Harbor. there were three or four other boats there for the night. Choosing this place to drop their anchors either for the quiet and privacy, to avoid paying for a mooring for the night, or simply to have a shorter tip to the open sailing waters in the morning.
The house was bright with white walls and large windows. Through the glass door was a large deck and pool. Beyond the deck a narrow strip of ground at the edge of a cliff. Beyond the cliff, the Pacific Ocean. Behind the house was the forest. Our nearest neighbor was three miles away. Neither Emily or I worked. Emily spent her days painting in her studio, I spent my time sitting on the deck writing. There seemed to be an endless stream of people through our house. We had rooms for them when they came. They wrote, painted, sculpted or just lounged on the deck and swam in the pool. I do not know if they sought us out as fuel for their own creative enterprises or if we drew them to us, but the arrangement always seemed to work.
I was sitting in the afternoon, listening to the waves crashing against the base of the cliff. I looked up now and then to watch the flight of a bald eagle that had a nest nearby. I was in the beginning stages of a new novel, and still easily distracted by the sights and and sounds of the environment. Once I was well into a project I knew that a thunder storm could pass overhead, shaking the rafters with every crash, and I would hardly notice. I heard a voice, but we had no guests nor were we expecting any. It was a loud man's voice that seemed to have no point of origin; it seemed to be coming from inside my own head or simply from the air around me. I couldn't understand what he was saying at first. The words were foggy and my mind could not take hold of them. I could make out a few words but I could make no sense of the message he was trying to give me: “... all clear... 34... some company... 19... and it's starting to get a little sluggish from there through Stamford's exit nine. Over on the Merrit it's a clear ride from the Sikorsky bridge right through 39 B&A. It's stop and go at New Canaan Exit 37. Disable vehicle in the right travel lane. A tow truck is on e the scene and it should be cleared quickly but use caution.”
Posted by: Stephen Macklin at 08:52 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
I saw the ending coming up the Post Road, though. I've used that device many times myself.
Posted by: Tuning Spork at April 16, 2005 11:19 AM (lAI6Q)
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