amplified silence

Arms folded and scared, I kneeled over the back of the couch and stared out the window into the darkness. No headlights. For at least six blocks down the street, there was no approaching car, no signal of a possible return.

It had been snowing. Hard. The roads, they had said on the news, had been "assaulted." The temperatures had dropped still further. Beware the black ice, they warned, showing only a glimpse of the 36-car pile-up on the Interstate. Eastbound, just west of Grand River. There were several fatalities.

Still no headlights. Oh God. Come on, please. The snow had stopped outside the window. It was, in fact, eerily still now. Dark, but only as dark as it can get with an 18-inch blanket of glittering white draped upon the lawns, streets, and sidewalks, illuminated by the waning crescent of the moon. The bare branches of the trees shivered in the wind, sagging wearily under the weight of the night, the gravity of the sky. The houses sat stoically like toy soldiers, frozen at attention; they held their chimneys upright like bayonets, unfazed by the bitter cold.

Sitting next to the warmest heat vent could momentarily temper my anxiety. But now the furnace groaned wearily and shut down from the basement, hushing with one command the entire house. Goosebumps rose on my arms and legs; the silence was suddenly amplified; my apprehension grew exponentially. I had turned off the television twenty minutes ago, according to the clock. It had in fact been much longer.

...

Hope flickered in pairs down the street. A set of headlights approached gradually, fishtailing helplessly between the curbs. My eyes focused intently on the strengthening glow. "Come on," I whispered desperately, "come on." Three blocks before my house they turned cautiously into an unfamiliar driveway (thankful to be home, no doubt) and vanished. Again there was only darkness as far as I could see.

My urgency intensified. They were now two full hours late. My eyes began to water dejectedly. I fought it angrily, the hollow lump in my throat, the scorned tears on my cheek. I hated myself for crying, for not showing the proper courage. I scolded myself harshly and hastily wiped my face dry with the heel of my palm.

...

I began to imagine my mother's last thoughts, her last words, as she lay crumpled beneath the shattered glass and cold steel, shivering and bleeding helplessly. The ambulances wouldn't be able to get to her in time. The crimson streaks in the snowy embankment would mark the site of the wreck for the rest of the night and into the morning until the sky opened up again, callously whiting out the remaining evidence and moving forward like the rush-hour traffic. The roads would be plowed and salted by then.

I would get a call from the hospital. "I'm sorry, son… We did everything we could," and the phone would fall from my hand as I crumbled to my knees in disbelief, hands clenching fistfuls of hair. "Hello?" they would call from the receiver. But I would not hear. My eyes would be tightly shut; my head would be shaking in denial. I would remain there on the floor until someone came and found me.

...

I began to pace in the hallway. Past the kitchen, past the stairs, past the bathroom, into my bedroom and, after a momentary glance out towards the shadowy white corners of my backyard, back the same way. There was nothing else I could do.

My eyes struggled drowsily to stay open, but the prospect of falling asleep terrified me. What if I was to wake up the next day at noon and again hear only stillness?

I would look anxiously out the window at the undisturbed driveway. No tire tracks. The garage would be sealed shut now by 20 inches of snow. My stomach would churn mercilessly as I scrambled upstairs, nauseous with panic; the lump would be rapidly reasserting itself in my throat; the tears would be streaming uncontrollably down my face. I would turn the corner into the master bedroom and stand fearfully in the open doorway, finding the bed neatly made and empty, just as it was last night. And it will have been over twelve hours since their scheduled return. What would I do?

...

The furnace restarted with a grunt from the basement. The heat vent again warmed my bare feet, breathing gently into the room. My eyes first wavered, then closed involuntarily for several minutes, sinking slowly into darkness.

I emerged momentarily, dazedly rolling my eyes in an arc from the far corner of the floor past the painting on the adjacent wall and onto the ceiling directly above me, which faded magically from white to dark, taking me under once again.

Images rushed in from all sides like water until I was immersed. I descended gently until I reached equilibrium, and, suspended within, felt weightless, consumed.
It was ecstasy, the pure submission to it. It did not occur to me in that final moment of semi-consciousness to fight it any further. I happily surrendered, gaining composure in my oblivion.

But even that was ephemeral. I soon found myself scrambling frantically in a mist, helpless. "Oh God. Oh God. Oh please, God," I cried desperately. I looked up apprehensively and saw the plane. An explosion bellowed out fire and volume into the night sky and resonated for what seemed like an eternity. I collapsed to my knees, covering my bowed head with both arms and sobbing hysterically as hot shards of red debris rained down on me.

My face was scalded; my head pulsated with pain. The anguish and the guilt crippled me. I was left with nothing. I could not stop sobbing.

I thought for sure that I would drown on the floor of this raging sea, suffocated by heat and grief, engulfed in despair.

...

The sound of a distant echo lifted me from the bottom. The cool touch of a palm on my forehead extinguished much of the fire, and I again felt suspended, weightless, consumed. I remember catching a second fleeting glimpse of the ceiling.

Only moments later I awoke to the tear-blurred sight of my undisturbed backyard, glittering in the sunlight, and the sound of a teapot, clattering in the sink. According to the clock, however, it had been much longer.

Originally written in October 1998.

out of the question

He knew she was coming. He wanted to be ready; he wanted her to see him the way he wanted to be seen. The moments when he was vulnerable to being caught off-guard worried him; he obsessed over them in an attempt to minimize their frequency. He had conceived a notion of his 'element,' and it was in the epitome of that element that he wanted to be seen, to be recognized, to be remembered.

He sat ponderously, pen in hand, in a premeditated pose as he awaited her arrival. He knew precisely what she would see when she looked at him; he had painstakingly made sure his appearance was precisely as he wanted it. The anticipation of her arrival quickened his pulse now; he took a deep breath and looked down as he cautiously checked his hair with his hand once more in a nervous habit.

The book in his hands offered him distraction, but only in small doses. His eyes kept darting periodically from the page to the door, to the window, for a glimpse, a sound, anything that would signal (or even suggest) her impending arrival. The door creaked (it was not her); someone coughed (it was not her); a whisper from the corner (still not her). He kept himself readied for her emergence; it was critical for him to maintain his focus lest hebe caught unaware.

At last, she appeared. He recognized her form, her demeanor, peripherally; her black hair curled slightly up and out at the bottom, as it dangled just above her shoulders. Her stride was neither hesitant nor confident, but it was closer to the latter than the former when her arms were folded across her chest as they were now.

She had an alert look to her, as always, as if she had just taken a cold shower, fresh and attentive. And her eyes! How he longed to be granted some sort of permission to gaze deeply into her eyes for as long as he pleased. A photograph might even do; just an image of her face, her smile, for him to examine shamelessly at his any whim. He suspected that her eyes were brown, but he couldn't be certain. Eyecontact, especially extended eye contact, was dangerously engaging.

She sat down near him. He took a casual glance about as she did, inhaling nasally (unnecessarily), with a meticulously calculated nonchalance. He strove (successfully) to just barely take notice of her arrival; acknowledgement had been out of the question. He felt empowered in his silence; his stature was heightened when he fell within the unknown. Here he could be anything and everything to her. His strength was in his possibilities as she perceived them, and he clutched to these for security, relentlessly denying the prospect of any further action that could elucidate his real character and thus threaten to undermine his assumed status.

He wanted her to look at him. He wanted her to wonder what he was thinking. He wondered what she thought he was thinking. He was, after careful preparation, a stoic there, with his face, with his aloof stare, his distracted eyes. He was the embodiment of non-concern for her situation. He was truly engrossed in his question, agonizing over the scenarios, the mechanisms, and the possible solutions in his mind. His look of determination, he thought (hoped) was surely intriguing, his iron will certainly admirable. He was perplexed (though only momentarily, of course); enveloped in astate of contemplation. He was an enigma facing one himself.

He was putting on a show. He sat in her presence distractedly for the next two hours, discretely sneaking peripheral glances as to maintain his relative disinterest. After this time, however, she gently closed her book, pondered the back cover a moment, and then got up and walked out, followed closely by his gaze. He was torturing himself with thiscomplicity.

He had taken a detour through the alley this afternoon, in order to pass by a bench where she probably would not be. But 'probably would not be' had significantly better odds than 'had never been,' so it was only natural he make the trip, if for nothing more than an outside chance. It was the anticipation that motivated him; it had to be. He was too great a coward to live in any particular moment; that implied present tense. Memory and anticipation were his realms; past and future only. Realization, the moment, was uncharted territory; it lacked such critical words as 'safety,' 'certainty,' and 'control.' It was, therefore, out of the question.

This afternoon, though, he had been faced with the moment, for there she was from a distance: a flash, the unexpected. He was ecstatic. This meant a glimpse—he could see her, and she him. He was well prepared to be seen (for the outside chance). He had rehearsed potential passing remarks, potential conversation starters, and even extensions for possible 'awkward silences' that could eventually provedisastrous. <>But when the moment came, it paralyzed him yet again. A feverish wave suddenly flushed across his face, beads of sweat appeared on the back of his neck, and he could hear his heartbeat in his ear. He became unnerved and scrambled to alter his plans.

He found himself walking by in a pre-constructed daze, back within his comfort zone. He stared distractedly down as he passed by, (as if he hadn't had even the slightest notion of her presence there!) as if concentrating on the stains of the leaves that were once on the sidewalk, how they shadowed in crimson and mahogany the ones that were there now. His attraction, he decided while berating himself for his latest failure, would have to be his mystery.

He was conscious of each time he passed in front of her window and acted as though she were gazing out at him every time. Each separate time, he reasoned, there was a chance that she could be looking out (seeing him). So he carefully gathered himself before each pass and made himself into the person he wanted her to see. God forbid sherecognize him (remember him!) any other way.

He had never met the girl. He had not even heard her speak. He was merely enraptured by her aura, her look. She was someone intriguing; this he knew (from her silence, from her mystique). He could not rationalize it; it was an instinctual obsession. Soon, though, he was going to meet this girl; he was going gather up the courage to introduce himself. Very soon. Tomorrow, in fact. Each successive failure, though, forced him to postpone, and each day postponed, he knew, was one less day he would have left. His window was progressively closing as his urgency intensified.

What was it, he wondered, that restrained him? It too, whatever it was, was strangely (cruelly) fundamental, instinctual. Why this paradox, this seemingly programmed dilemma? Look, he seemed to be told, but do not touch! Which impulse would he be forced to deny (toovercome)?

It was up to him. She would never (could never) take the initiative herself, this he knew. Exclusively from her demeanor (her walk), he knew it would've been out of character for her. He already had a well-constructed notion of the type of person she would be. For him, it could be (would have to be) completely natural, nonchalant, to introduce himself, to take the initiative. In fact, he would almost be doing her a favor. It would, in any case, be progress; a move from the status quo.

His one attempt at an introduction (at acknowledgement) had surprised them both. It was met with a momentarily startled look, then a hurried reciprocation, as clumsy as its unplanned stimulus; and that was it. Though it was far from ideal, it was certainly fitting.

He could not help but to analyze the one encounter. She probably had not expected anymore than to simply walk by, focusing on the ground as usual, and nothing more. She had no reason to expect any different; there had been no prior interaction between them, and there was no sign (sigh!) that there would be anytime in the perceivable future. What other reaction could be hoped for?

Had she thought anymore of it? Had she ever looked at him as more than just background, a passer-by, an extra? He feared (hopelessly) that she had not. And hence the apprehension seeded within his fascination (but the status quo simply would not do).

He sat quietly (thoughtfully) at a bench of his own now, preoccupied rather than distracted. He was relaxed, mindless, (disorganized!) just before he realized that she was about to pass by.

Again, he found himself flushed with chaos and reaction, the realization of which simultaneously triggered an instant of utter exasperation. On her approach, she looked over at him (he sensed it), and there was an ideal moment (frozen) for him to establish eye contact, for a smile (for success!). But almost automatically, before he even realizedwhat he was doing, he began (and continued) to stare profoundly at his blank notebook page, lost in his hastily reconstructed, disgustingly artificial enigma as her eyes left him; acknowledgement had been out of the question.