Within Close Range: The Elevator

From the time the youngest of us was moving independently of a parent, Gina, Mary, Mia and I were seen as a small, drifting quartet of cousins at family gatherings. Two distinct gene pools, one common goal: to discover new spaces and unknown places where no eyes and “No!”s could block our intentions - not to sit and behave, but explore the dark closets and dusty cabinets of quiet rooms far from grown-ups. 

Though never far from mischievous brothers.

The adult world was confining and so much needed exploring. So, Gina would rouse us to seek out new corners, ever-expanding our adult-free borders. She’d open the door and wave us through and when things didn’t kill us, she’d boldly step past us and reassume command.

And we’d follow.

Just as we did as she led us out the door and down the hallway of Nonnie and Papa’s apartment building. The long, hum drum hall of dubious hues and thick, padded carpet that silenced our patent leather footsteps and our voices, until sparked by static electricity and funny faces, we giggled and squealed and ran down the hall.

Without any grip from my new, leather soles, I slipped and I slipped and it looked as if the end of the hall would stretch out forever with its dark, numbered doors both ahead and behind; where tvs and voices murmured and mumbled and lives went on living, while our little flock focused on the big, brown, metal door at the end of the building.

IT would lead us to unexplored worlds and unsupervised floors; to a quiet, pristine lobby where unsat-on furniture needed that changed, where plants were dusted - not watered - and the floor was so highly polished that beneath the light of the overly ornate lobby chandelier, it glittered and gleamed like a magical lake that I wished I could skate in my stockinged feet.

Mary being tallest was the one who pressed the button with the arrow pointing downward. The elevator hummed and clicked and began to move. We watched the numbers (newly learned) over the elevator door blink in very slow, succession. Then the metal door slid open.

We looked to each other and back down the hallway, where no one came looking and in our reluctance, the door glided shut. 

In unspoken allegiance, Mary re-pressed the button and almost immediately the door slid back open. Gina pushed our little gaggle inside the small, box with dark wood panelling and reached for the lowest of buttons; then the sliding door closed and down we went to the unexplored land of the lobby.

The journey was brief, but remarkable, for I’d never been this far before without at least an older sibling. As soon as the elevator opened its doors, I could see the lobby floor shimmer and shine and without hesitation, I stepped from the safety of my flock.

Gina followed.

Mary followed.

Mia didn’t.

And suddenly, the door slid shut and I watched Mia’s tiny body disappear behind it. Mary and Gina’s big, brown, Italian eyes went suddenly wide and I felt something unfamiliar - panic - suddenly rise, for the elevator started moving and the numbers started lighting, in very slow succession, upward.

Mia was off on her own new adventure, without Captain or crew, or even a clue, as to where she might be going. The three of us, at a loss for what to do, just stared at the door of the moving contraption which slowly ascended to the top floor and stopped.

Would she get off there and try to find her way back to Nonnie and Papa’s? 

Did she even know what floor they lived on? 

Did we? 

We didn’t.

The once strong lure of shiny floors and velvety chairs was now replaced with powerful thoughts of Mia and Mom and home; of familiar places and faces, full plates of pasta and filled candy dishes.

And facing consequences.

Worried and wordless, we heard the elevator again click into motion and anxiously watched the numbers very slowly descend as the small moving room - which might or might not have Mia imprisoned in it - came closer.

Mary, Gina and I inched toward the elevator, hoping we would not see a grown-up, but our quartet reunited when the door opened. And much to our relief, there Mia stood, in the exact same spot in center of the elevator where she had been deserted, looking slightly startled, but still happy to see us. 

Before losing her again, we leapt into the elevator and watched the still elusive lobby disappear behind the sliding door. Now all we needed to figure out was what floor. 

Gina pressed all of them.

When the elevator next stopped and opened its door, we hoped to see something or someone who looked familiar, but nothing and no one was there as a beacon. The next floor offered no more than an exact replica of the last and I felt the fear and the tears bubling just below the surface.

The elevator halted on the third floor and as the door slowly slid open, it revealed a sight I thought I’d never be happy to see, Jim and John, sent out to search for their sisters and cousins.

“WE FOUND ‘EM!”, Jim hollered, as the boys raced back to the front door of the apartment where Nonnie stood shushing and waiting, with oven mitt and apron, and a look of consternation.

A scolding was at hand.

Gina smiled at each of us, then turned toward Nonnie.

And we followed.

Within Close Range: Anita

Anita was one of those agile, young gymnasts whose limber and daring were a constant source of admiration and envy.

She seemed to be able to do it all:  front flips, back flips, backbends, splits.

I couldn’t even cartwheel.

I did a relatively competent forward AND backward somersault, but this garnered little admiration or support from my peers. So, I spent a good deal of time laying back on lawns.

Observing. 

Awed, in particular, by Anita’s long, lanky, bendy body twisting, turning and taking flight. Wondering why and how she could do the things she did, when those skills so skillfully eluded me. 

Or was it the passion to try? 

But Anita’s dexterity defied the norms of stretchability because Anita was (and still is, I’ll venture to guess) double-jointed.

Be it slumber party or playground, upon request, she would good-naturedly demonstrate this unusual trait by pulling the tips of all four fingers back until the tops of her nails touched her forearm; mis-shaping her long, slender, freckled hand and wrist, as if made of moist clay. 

She could also invert her knees and shoulders until her bowed silhoutette looked as if it had been blown inside out, reminding me of an upturned umbrella on a rainy, windy day in The Windy City.

Almost cartoonish.

Illogical and ludicrous.

Her semi-regular recess demonstrations gathered curious, new kids to circle around and gasp at her unearthly elasticity - almost as much as when our classmate, Amy, popped out her false eye.

With a delicate balance of respect and horror, her bendable ways made me think of my Barbie, whose own bendy parts had long ago broken from time after time of forcing bendy poses. There were times I attempted to be like Barbie and my friend, but my body resisted and instead of smiling through it (like Barbie) and pushing through it (like Anita), I felt impossibly cramped and uncomfortable.

Disjointed. Disfigured. Dysfunctional.

Graphic images of parts breaking - snap!, like a twig - were stubborn to leave my imagination. So I quit trying.

Preferring to watch from the shade of a tree, where rubbing my knuckles and elblows and knees with their imaginary aches and graphically imagined breaks,  I marvelled at my double-jointed friend, who could bend and bend and bend.

Withn Close Range - Wisdom Teeth, or, The Heart of Darkness

I’m still lying back in the dentist’s chair when I open my eyes. 

Working to lift my heavy lids. 

Trying to rise from the syrupy haze.

The first clear thing I see are my wisdom teeth - all four - on a pad of cotton laying on my miserably undeveloped chest. A smiling nurse takes hold of my forearm and gently guides me off the reclining chair and onto my feet, leaving my knees somewhere behind me.

Legs buckling, a second nurse appears and with each as a crutch, we wind our way to a small dark room with a long, narrow bed where me and my teeth, still clutched in my hand, can rest in the dark and the quiet.

The smiling nurse is back again, taking my arm, helping find my balance; steering me through doorways, down hallways and into the waiting room.

To Mom.

The sight of her makes me smile, which makes it hurt, and makes me cry out. Making patients sitting patiently, jump in their waiting room seats and glare at me.

Stare at me.

Aghast.

Seeing exactly what they don't want to see. 

I couldn't care less. I just want to sit down. But Mom and the nurse keep me moving forward toward the exit door.

Nothing looks sweeter than the car seat where, for the first time in years, Mom buckles me in. Her steely, blue eyes filled with fuss and concern.

And a little horror.

But the haze hasn’t lifted and I’m floating in it and out the window toward the warm, autumn sun.

And Mom’s taking me home.

My hand is heavy and fumbles to lower the window, and as I turn to face the breezes, I can smell hot pavement and mid-day traffic, and I can hear the sound of a motorbike approaching from behind. 

As the biker passes, his helmeted head looks my way. 

Leaning heavily against the car door, I smile in response.

He veers - suddenly.

And passes, quickly.

I can't help but notice his knee-jerk reaction and reach for the visor and the vanity mirror, to find a reflection like B-Science-Fiction. My cheeks are swollen, my face misshapen, and by the looks of the dried and wet tracks trailing down both sides of my chin, I've been drooling.

A lot.

My lips are cracked and bloody - as if stranded for weeks in the desert - and it appears as if they’ve been pulled apart by some horrible dental device which has left indentations still visible on my face. 

I'm the goddamn monster's bride.

A hideous sight.

A justifiable fright. 

But for the first time in my teenage life, I couldn’t give a shit. All I want is Mom and Dad’s blue, velvet sofa, with dogs at my feet, a box of drool-catching tissue at my side, and a channel changer near at hand. 

Which is where Mom leaves me with a kiss on the forehead and errands on her mind - one of which includes filling a prescription for pain medicine for when the good stuff I’m on wears off.

Propped up with pillows and blanketed with a quilt and a Labrador, the haze is slowly beginning to clear from my brain and although my jaws are sore, I'm feeling pretty dang good about having a day away from school. 

The lovely, old mantel clock in the living room chimes the eleventh hour and I have nothing but a whole day of sleeping and watching television ahead.

Piece of cake.

It's been two hours since Mom left. The meds have warn off, the haze has lifted, and everything is very, very clear. The pain - which started as a dull ache in my jaws and then began to swell - has turned into something hot and angry.

And my mood, gruesome. 

Dark thoughts come to mind on the crest of each unmedicated minute. Our Labrador lets me squeeze tighter as the throbbing grows stronger and the darkness grows darker, but my moans are too much even for Heather.

No longer the arms I want to reach out for, Mom - who's been gone for three hours, one since the pain began - is now my unexpected tormentor and abandoner, who's every minute missing means misery.

How could she forget about me?

Into the fourth hour since Mom went a.w.o.l., Jim and Mark stumble upon my body beneath the blankets on the blue velvet sofa. Jim attempts a taunt, but when I slither from the covers and he sees the darkness for himself, he gently, but firmly grabs Mark's shoulder and they retreat from the brooding scene, never turning their backs on the gloom, or my sullen glare.

Misery is my only companion that afternoon.

And we're inseparable.

The cruel, mantel clock mocks me again, making it the fifth hour since we returned; the third of mourning my missing teeth and missing mother. Shrouded in the pain and the darkness, hidden beneath the blanket, my mood and breath are disagreeable and inconsolable and my thoughts are matricidal.

"She will pay dearly for this," I hiss into the drool-drenched pillow.

As that fucking clock tolls the seventh hour and the sky grows dim, the sound of Mom’s approaching footsteps - which should signal the end of my suffering - instead fills me with rage. 

Seething in my blanket underworld, hurtful words I've practiced for hours stand ready at the tip of my tongue. I can hear the crinkle of the white, paper bag from the pharmacy and Mom whispering my name. Both sounds try to pull me from the darkness, but I remain hidden. 

Trembling with impending tears.

"Where have you been!?” is all I can say before the tears choke my words. I don't really want to hear the answer - or her apology, which I immediately drown in the murky depths of my really bad humor. I just want water to wash down the pills from the white paper bag, so the pain can stop.

As well as my desire to kill.

The pills are down but my defenses are not, so I'm relieved that Mom has left to make dinner and I'm alone again.

As the last of the orange horizon over the lake and the silhouetted trees at the edge of the bluff disappear into the night, so does my pain and my darkness.

Within Close Range - The Youngest

We watch the station wagon back out of the driveway.

Mom waving through the open window before slowly pulling away.

It's just a few errands.

But Mark is inconsolable.

Tries to follow her.

Chris sweeps him up.

But he squirms with all of his might and wins the fight.

Just as Mom drives out of sight.

He falls to his knees and on to all fours.

Then the youngest of five laments the loss.

By slamming his soft head on the hard blacktop.

Speechless and helpless, I run to the sidewalk and look down the street.

Hoping Mom will somehow see me and circle back to the unhappy scene.

But I watch the wagon’s taillights disappear as Mom turns the corner.

So I turn back toward the house and Mark, in Chris’s arms.

His forehead swollen, bleeding and pockmarked from the pavement.

His tears subsiding, but his eyes still hopeless.

Restless.

Motherless.

And I feel helpless.

The Wind and the Owl

When the central highland winds howl through the valley and rattle the windows of our house on the hill, shaking and bending the juniper and pinion trees I see beyond the shuddering panes, my body and mind still brace for the only thing that comes of such blustery warnings to the Midwestern me.

The menacing advance of a fearsome storm.

Intense and unforgiving.

I feel my body - tense and taut - bracing for the worst with each swollen gust.

Pacing through the house.

Anxious for it to stop.

Or me to move.

So my dogs and I head out for our walk, prepared for a fight against tempests and cold and I’m ever surprised to find the winds far more kind than I imagined.

Mellowed by the sun’s abiding strength.

Layers are shed at the start of our walk and the warm, constant breezes now push me, Frank and Nellie to the chapparal below, where I know the sweeping winds will blow much gentler music across the tall grass. And at my back, urge me forward toward to the far fence line where the pronghorn often graze. 

But downwind today, well warned of our arrival, they’re likely to have scattered; prompting me to turn against the wind and start a circuitous loop back home.

Toward the scrub oak and junipers.

Shelter and shade.

And the shadowy scent of Mountain Lilac blossoming profusely in the wake of generous winter rains. 

The gentle fragrance of this rugged bush, appears and disappears with the shifting winds, lifting my spirits with each sweet return, as I wander up and down the hills with my two, most joyful companions.

The world in their noses turned into the breezes.

Close to home, I see a Great Horned Owl take to the air just a few feet ahead. 

I hear one, grand flap of his wings. And then nothing.

A familiar shadow among the neighborhood trees, I track his flight and see him perch again in a pine, up the hill and up ahead, and I follow with glee.

Silently.

Deliberately.

From tree to tree. 

Hidden among the dark, green boughs of an old, domed Juniper, heavy with pollen, the owl waits. But just as we near, off he goes, higher up the hill and closer to home, past the scattered remains of a long dead tree which lay like a skeleton, gray and sunbleached, exactly where it fell.

Pursuing him again to yet another tree, it’s as if the owl is hunting me. For, there, in a clearing of branches, the great hunter sits.

Quietly watching us move up the hill.

Allowing me the perfect view of this very perfect predator.

Staring still, my eyes meet his, until he decides we’ve come close enough.

And that is that.

He spreads his wings and disappears, without a sound, among the pinion near the old pit mine.

I try to reconnect at a fourth tree ahead, but instead, meet a noisy grackle balanced at the top of the tree where I hoped the Great Horned Owl would be. But he has already continued on his way, up the hill, over a fenceline, and out of my sight. 

Certain we’re not out of his, I scan the trees on the hill in vain. 

Unleashing the dogs, Nellie’s off in a dash in her fruitless pursuit of chasing small reptile.

Zigging and zagging, but never succeeding.

I think she’s just teasing.

My call for her cuts through the wind and the white-noised silence.

Unsettling me.

Until the music of the wild winds in the scrub oaks and the pines, in the final footsteps home, help me find my peace and place again.

Within Close Range: When Opposites Teach -- in Two Parts

Part One - The Ill-fitting Suit

Monsieur Neumark is how I knew him - my freshman/sophomore year, high school French teacher.

A small, skinny man with a sparse goatee and dark, frizzy hair with a Bob Ross perm. 

He really got into the whole “French” thing: from his starched, striped shirts with French cuffs, to his far-out, 1970s-wide, Toulouse Letrec ties; which he regularly swapped with an ascot for that truly continental vibe.

But that vibe didn’t jibe - at least not with me - because I found him an odd, little man who wore wool socks.

Around his neck. 

To help his throat during frequent bouts with laryngitis, he once explained — en francais — when I stared at it a little too long while standing at the side of his desk one day.

Determined, he seemed, to be somebody else.

Someone more interesting, more cosmopolitan.

E tres certainment, un les Francais.

And maybe he was all of these things.

But not to me.

Because all I saw was an odd, little man, struggling to try on someone else’s suit.

Someone else’s life.

But it wasn’t a match, as he squiggled and squirmed in the ill-fitting being in front of the classroom, annoyed when we didn’t grab French-made suits of our own.

And each day I watched him be someone he wasn’t, which made me not listen.

Which made me feel artless and awkward and restless and destined to fail because I just didn’t get it.

Or him.

Monsieur Neumark was like the wool sock around his neck.

Out of place and out of step.

And I did not care to follow.

Part Two:  Mrs. Alleman’s Magic

I once wrote a children’s fairytale in which a funny, little witch named Addie Mostsincere leads the two heroes on an exciting and daring adventure. In the years since, I’d never attributed the character to anyone in particular, until just recently, when I began writing about a beloved high school teacher, Enid Alleman, or Mrs. Alleman.

A teeny, tiny titan of the teaching profession, who I was lucky enough to have for Speech my junior year. 

Like my fairytale character, she had a little magic.

Most kids liked Mrs. Alleman because  Mrs. Alleman was not like most teachers.

She was not like most people.

Hovering somewhere near 5 feet tall, she wore Peter Pan blouses, pedal pushers and ballerina flats. Her dark hair had a pixie cut and you’d never see her without her red, cat-eye glasses, behind which lay a set of mischievous and wise, yet sorrowful eyes.

Her diminuitive size and spritly appearance gave her that Fairy Godmother-like quality, but her immense character, passion and compassion gave her wings.  

Entering her classroom was not like entering other classrooms and it wasn’t all the personal knick-knacks she had filled it with over the years. It was Mrs. Alleman. Who filled it with her penpal-to-prisoners personality.

And evenmoreso, allowed her students to fill it with theirs. 

Unabashed and unreservedly.

I never knew what to expect. No one did. 

Mrs. Alleman liked the idea of finding one’s self and one’s inspiration in the unexpected moment. 

One long overdue, spring day, with the two, immense sash windows of her classroom fully raised to invite in the sweet breezes, my brother stood at the podium, in front of Mrs. Alleman’s 4th period speech class when a sudden gust of wind snatched the paper from the platform and quickly swept it through the enormous windows, into the courtyard, one floor down.

Without hesitation, Jim dashed from the classroom (just ahead of some classmates trying to beat him to it), down the stairs and into the courtyard, where he found his wind swept speech and — with Mrs. Alleman and the remainder of the class leaning from the sills — finished his presentation.

Barely missing a beat.

Mrs. Alleman told students about the incident for years and I don’t think because of the random silliness of it.

Which she wouldn’t deny.

But because of what Jim did with it.

He followed the breezes, instead of fighting them.

And it was musical - even a little magical.

Just as Mrs. Alleman was.

Who, like Addie, urged us heroes to explore the worlds within and without.

To follow the breezes.