5
Swells of oceanographic angst buffeted Shelling. A profusion of discolored velvety fur–pelts of beaver or raccoon–lined the street, softened his fall. Shelling had a beaver dam on his property, and he liked to sit near it, under the trees, losing himself in the sounds of his land. He planned to move a picnic table out there, though he worried it might disturb the animals. But why was he lying in the grass outside the library? Shelling jumped to his feet, and hurried down Main Street.
Half a block from the library, he stopped, unable to recall the source of his agitation. That’s what happens when you miss your yoga class, he thought. He would have appreciated an explanation for the cancellation. With his unstructured life, disruptions like this left him dangling. If not for the discipline of yoga, his transition to life in this small town would have been difficult; the practice relaxed and invigorated him, opened him to new experiences. Living in the Los Angeles area for so long, he had grown contemptuous of other places in the country, of small towns, of any place lacking big-city sophistication.
As he walked, he glanced into the windows of several stores, seeing a clerk behind the counter in some, and in others, no one. Not just the yoga center then; the town appeared to be shorn of people, residents and visitors alike.
He entered Frisell’s Coffee Roasters, pausing in the doorway, as had become his habit, to allow the fertile aroma of the roast to permeate his lungs. Two young women sat on stools behind the counter. They were laughing; as he drew near, he heard the one at the cash register mention elephants, or maybe cellophane. The other laughed harder, gasping, sucking air through the laughs. She hunched forward, cupping her reddening face with both hands. Silver rings decorated most of her fingers. Shelling recognized one with a raised zigzag design on a dark background, from the jewelry store across the street. He had spent parts of two afternoons there, trying on rings, assisted once by a bland-faced woman and the other time by a well-manicured bald man, neither of whom gave any indication of interest in talking to Shelling beyond the requirements of their job.
“What’s so funny?” he asked. Neither woman responded. The young woman at the cash register asked the other to start a pot of decaf. Shelling ordered a cappuccino and waited while the ring woman prepared it. The cash register woman held out a hand for money. A tattoo of a dark bird, wings outstretched, decorated the underside of her wrist. Shelling wanted to join their discussion, but saw no way to breach the wall. He opened his mouth, preparing to tell the young woman that he admired her tattoo; instead, he carried his mug to a table and looked out the window at the empty sidewalk. The two women continued their conversation as though Shelling didn’t exist.
“There’s an archival method, Albania or someplace,” one of them said. “They use numbered index cards to keep track of the tides.”
“Are they suspended by fishing line, like in Greece?”
~
This emptiness, it haunted him: empty cafes, empty theaters, stores. No cars passed through. Shelling drove around town, searching, up Main Street and into the neighborhoods, but saw no one other than the waiters, waitresses, ticket sellers, fishmongers, and shopkeepers at their respective stations.
He pulled his car into the parking lot of The Crow Bar, a brew-pub occupying an old mill on the north edge of town that could easily absorb the ski season crowds and the summertime hikers. This evening, neither were in evidence, though he did find the bartender and two others, a man and woman.
Shelling felt a smile growing but shut it down. It would not do to appear too eager. He would order a drink, wait for conversation to happen. The dark ale reminded him of winters spent in the mountains, in lodges surrounded by friends and strangers, all laughing and talking. Where were these people now?
The man at the bar spoke to the woman. Shelling couldn’t place the extended syllables of his accent. “A man dressed all in black enters a white room. The only sound is the air conditioner, blowing through a vent in the ceiling.” The man stopped and drank the last third of his pint. He motioned to the bartender for another. His hands were wide, with sausage-like fingers.
“How large is the vent?” The woman’s voice sounded husky, as though from smoking, but Shelling saw no ashtrays near the couple. Her accent didn’t match the man’s.
“Doesn’t matter. Just a vent blowing air.” The bartender set a full glass down on a coaster; the man wrapped his thick fingers around it and lifted it to his lips to drink before continuing his story: “So, here’s this man, dressed all in black in a white room. The room is rectangular, maybe four times deeper than it is wide. It’s cold. The blowing air pushes against his hair. He takes out a black knit cap, the kind that covers his whole head except for the eyes and mouth. But he doesn’t put it on. He’s waiting for something, or someone.”
The man tipped his glass and drank, finishing the beer in one deep swallow. He nodded to the woman, who picked up her purse and stood.
“What’s he waiting for?” Shelling asked, but they left without answering.
Shelling sat for a while, drinking his beer in small, brief sips and idly taking pretzel sticks from a bowl. The bartender moved off to shelve a rack of clean glasses.
When he first stopped here, on his cross-country drive, the streets had been crowded with cars, pedestrians. Or had they? It was as though he carried competing memories–a town alive with human contact, and this, the emptiness.