Aberdeen

“If you aren’t a ridiculous fan of cold temperatures, don’t consider inhabiting Vermont,” I say to myself, despite the fact that I’m already living in Vermont, and I would have the temperatures no other way. The local newscasters, however, drone on about the wintry temperatures, and continuously reassure local viewers that “the blistery suffering outdoors will last for quite a while.” I’d like to telephone those people and alert them of the fact that no one is suffering. We live here; we are aware of the temperatures and we deal with them. If we felt that we couldn’t survive cold weather, we would move somewhere sunny, where people lay out like fish sticks to be cancerously baked by ultra violet rays only meant to encourage chlorophyll production. If the weather column in today’s newspaper is written by anyone like the California native imbeciles that forecast on television, I’ll be reading more of the same garbage.
That’s what I do mostly, read. It’s a quiet town in Aberdeen. We live amongst the trees and the wind, and sometimes we venture to nearby Woodford Park – draws tourists, the place mostly does. We get some of them at times, but they don’t stay for long. We’re just a little place, here. Downtown (which is mostly referred to as Bennington), you can find a few historical shops; roads glorified by wilting leaves of orange and red bound to light posts that have a more fashionable purpose than functional. But where I am, no, this isn’t downtown. Coming from there, it takes a quick turn off the main road and several miles of overplayed Clapton songs (out of a station right in town) to find our little community, if it can even be called such. I’ve grown quite used to our little named plot on the Earth. The governor recently recognized this earthly plot, calling it ‘Aberdeen.’ How original, I know, considering Washington has already claimed that name for one of its cities, and honestly, how many of the same place do we need? But people here aren’t of the complex kind. Anything will do, even accessing maps of Washington to come up with names for groups of homes, since our three little houses can’t honestly be recognized as a community. If you found a detailed map of the state that happened to depict our location, the black dot would contain about as much significance as a single dead cell located on my left thumb nail.
From a window in my bedroom located directly above my writing desk, I can see everything that needs to be seen that makes up Aberdeen. There are two homes other than mine, all built from wooden logs, with a decent little porch, each ornamented with decent little welcome mats that never welcome anyone but the spirits that I’d imagine roam around at some time or another. I’ve been told each home was modeled the exact same way inside, which means both of my neighbors dine in the same square room that I do, with the same fan light fixture hanging a few too many inches off of the ceiling to be considered safe and sturdy. They cook breakfasts and throw together lunches in the same dark green kitchen as I, as they pretend togetherness is found somewhere inside a frozen dessert at a table with the children that I was once sure they had. And at the end of the day, each of them enjoys their own bedroom out of the three that come standard in the upstairs.
I have only assumed this about their lifestyle, of course. Although I may know who they are, those of us in Aberdeen do not disclose too much personal information. It’s not that we don’t associate, of course we associate. We’re just private people. There are some things you can infer just by observing a person, however. Like the way Mr. Twitty (the neighbor directly adjacent from my bedroom window) always gives me advice and tells me stories of his adventures through life. He wouldn’t be so good with a kid like me if he didn’t have a few of his own to fill his home with. At least, that’s what I was under the impression of prior to this afternoon. But we will get to that in good time.
I don’t know very much about the neighbor right across the street. I am aware that his name is Sam, and he delivers our mail everyday, as I stop to greet him and listen to his stories about someone or another’s stint with the law, or a termite problem at the store, or a newly resurfaced videotape in someone’s dark past. I personally do not care about these things, but they seem to interest Sam, so I of course let him tell his story. He seems very happy being the mail delivery man, although I wasn’t always sure why...
A long day, it’s been, but I can recount it for you with as much accuracy as possible so that it aptly documents what a typical day in this nearly nonexistent place would be like. This morning, as with most mornings in Aberdeen, the sun rose only to be blistered by the dense fog, resembling that of cigarette smoke that refuses to cease floating through the air long after it is exhaled. Down the street, a few of my schoolmates get ready for a day that wasn’t quite as long for them as it was for me. The children around here don’t really notice the emerald-like qualities of the trees on October mornings like these, or just how much of a musical pattern the birds several feet above put together from their seats on the electric wire. Although, I’m sure that there’s a child my age within a 50 mile radius that notices that same thing. I will never find this person, however, because ever since a sour friendship I was involved in ended a few months ago, I have separated myself from interaction with the rest of the children in my area. They wouldn’t understand my thought processes, words, feelings. But right now, I'm getting ahead of my description. I'll tell you more about the scorpion children a bit later. Now, as I was about to say....
It was at 7 a.m. this morning that I realized it was time for me to get going. The outdoors greeted me with a few leaves hitting me in the face, and the smell of winter made itself known just enough to tease the citizens who long for the familiar snow. It didn’t take me long to notice Sam’s mail truck still parked in his driveway, meaning he was getting another late start. I use the term ‘another’ because of the fact that he’s been getting a lot of delayed starts lately. At one time, as I mentioned he did earlier, Sam had always had an inextinguishable passion for his job. I didn’t sense that quite so much anymore, but I was sure it was still alive in him. Sam is not the kind of person to not care about things. Routine was never his enemy, and I was sure that it wasn’t about to be now. But regardless of whatever it really was that was preventing Sam from functioning at a normal time, this meant that I would have a few spare minutes to cycle down to the local roadside shop before the mail arrived. Father doesn’t approve of leaving the mail outside while I could bring it in the house before classes begin.
As I was saying about stopping by the shop, it is owned by Mr. Twitty. I try to get there whenever possible to have as intelligent of a conversation as I’ll ever have, but I am not always given the opportunity to go, which is why I made sure I got there this morning.
It doesn’t take me long to cycle to the shop, maybe about 4 minutes in fair weather. The road going to and from Aberdeen is just a sliver of asphalt amidst acres of dense forest and hill. I enjoy the scenery quite a lot, considering there is never much traffic going through the area, minus a school bus that doesn’t materialize in view beyond the hill until about 8 o’clock.
Upon arriving at the store, I was confronted with the usual mix of downtown’ers just passing through and parents of fellow Aberdonian school children flurrying about to put together preservative lunches and vacuum sealed snacks for their ‘healthy’, ‘prospering’ children. These parents can often be seen scaling the racks containing all types of chip and pretzel, clawing at whatever has the friendliest “100% kid approved” label. For a stranger walking into this store, however, the downtown’ers would be the most annoying to have to be near.
People talk to themselves here, mostly. That’s why when referring to these downtown’ers while cursing them in my mind, I choose to call them ‘the chalks’, because of the pink, powdery facade that they chalk upon their faces and their clothing and their equally chalky spawn. I’ve heard other terms being muttered throughout the store (or from Sam, now and then) being used to describe them – the elite, the money, and several rather distasteful terms that I’d rather not pollute my shimmering description with. Ha. Ahem.
These people – ‘the chalks’ – walk into the shop, heads held high, with fur or gold or spiraled hair framing their face. I suppose it helps them feel exceptional, knowing that all will look at them and somehow say to themselves at different times, yet in a strangely unison manner, “She is one of them, if only I could be as well.” Of course, some people do. Mostly the younger girls, my age, I suppose they are. The rest of us try to steer clear of them and their minds full of nonsensical things. It’s easy to tell them apart from the rest of the crowd.
Sure, it would be easy for me to go along and say, “Just another one of them thinking the world of themselves,” but when I manage to look a bit closer and observe them as human beings rather than designer coat racks, I think I get a pretty good idea of who they really are. Somewhere, protruding from layers of blue creams and black lines, there are eyes that shift around, shifting to find similar eyes, shifting to find someone like them. Sometimes, these eyes pause, probably on someone fairly unfortunate looking. Maybe they’re overweight, maybe they’re disabled; anything can spark a reaction from one of the ‘chalks’ that sees something in this person that they have dealt with personally (yet wish to leave in the past). This ‘chalk’ may stare at this other person with compassion, yet hierarchy, as if to say, “I feel your pain, but look where I am now. Look at what you wish you were.”
There are several different occasions that arise in the shop that illustrate this cynicism that I’ve been telling you about involving the ‘chalks.’ If you happen to catch one at the register, you will barely see them move. Move one: hand money to clerk with bitter look on face, as if every cent being transferred is killing them to hand over to someone ‘below’ them. Move two: retrieve freshly printed Vogue from hands of clerk with a quick snap of the arm, so that no one can see the tiny flaws that even the most primped of ‘chalks’ know they have. It is a fairly indescribable thing unless experienced firsthand in the shop, although I imagine the same kind of social behavior occurs in any locale’s public setting.
It is at about this point this morning that my ritual of observations came to an end, as Mr. Twitty slipped out from behind the main counter with a smile on his face to greet me, quickly as usual. “Hello, Etienne!” he let out, still as enthusiastic as he was the first weeks I had come to meet him those several years ago. Some casual chit chat ensued, with him warning me to steer clear of the donuts since he wasn’t paying much attention when he baked them. His mind, just like Sam’s, appeared to be drifting somewhere else as of late. Nonetheless, he told me to treat the day as if it were the last before I'd be read my mistakes, and that is what I planned (and still do plan) to do.
When I'm lucky, no wretched customers creep up to Mr. Twitty during our conversations to ask him where something is located, or how much something costs, or directions to get out of this place. But unfortunately, today wasn't one of those lucky days, I realized, as a scabby little finger began to poke at Mr. Twitty's shoulder.
With this, we said our temporary goodbyes and I once again accessed my cycle to return home for the mail before school was to begin. By this time, only about 30 minutes since my last semi-voyage, a few more cars took advantage of the strip of street as they headed to wherever it was that guaranteed they'd have the money for dinner this evening. Nearly getting run off the road by an aggressive driver that was obviously not from the area, I reached my driveway to see Sam finally pulling up to the infinitely unused mailbox.
We didn't share too many words this morning. Sam jumped out of his truck with an overused smile as he handed me our letters (well, Father's letters....) and asked me how things were. As typical, I nodded and said just fine, even though things are never really 'just fine', because there is always something amiss that cannot detach itself from one's brain, no matter how many distractions interrupt the periods of stress.
Sam began to leave ("Strange", I thought, considering I hadn't heard a word of conspiracy or gossip), but hesitated before stepping into his delivery vehicle.
"Talk to Mr. Twitty this morning, son? That where you been?"
I wouldn't include exact dialogue in this representation if not necessary, but I cannot include the expression that was on Sam's face, or the inquisitive nature of his voice in that exact moment. It was stated as if he already knew that answer to that question, yet had some objection to the event that he wasn't feeling forward enough to communicate to me. I responded, of course, with a yes.
"That's what I thought," he began. "Now, Etienne, I know he's a nice man and that you get along n'all that stuff, but he's got more of a burden than you recognize. Just be careful around him, y'know? He's got his own troubles, just like you."
If I had come to learn one thing about Sam over the years, it was that his moods changed at the rate that most people change their socks. Which around here, may not be that much, but for the majority of Americans, you get the point.
I figured Sam was going through one of his deeper phases, where every bird in the sky and every cut on his finger was a sign of something ominous, something greater than just what he knew. I figured he was becoming suspicious of people this time, instead of little things. Once again, I nodded in response, and told him I'd think about what he said. And with that, he swung into his truck and went on his way. A short discussion it was today, but a discussion nonetheless, making for a unique yet uniform pattern of events.
Without further delay, I will leave my cycle ride to your imagination, and begin to tell you about the next important affair of the day, which would be school. Or, as I prefer to call it, the seven hours of misery that I am involuntarily forced to endure each day.
By the time I arrive at school, most of the children are already there, sporting perfectly combed hair and Hilfiger whilst organizing their books and notes and color coded folders. I, on the other hand, show up slightly disheveled from the wind hitting my hair during the ride, books and papers thrown hurriedly into my shoulder bag. It's not that I don't take interest in my studies and the other children do, no, it's never been like that. In fact, I've noticed that while all the children whine and groan over the simplest assignment, I am the last one to speak and the first to be complete.
The collective student body seems fairly oblivious to any forces outside that of their possession packed lives that are the size of a pinhead. It is nearly impossible to discuss reading with these children because 'reading is boring', and the ever popular, 'why would one read when one could be outside playing sports?' I praise the person who will please give the children the answer, but the teachers surely will not be the there to do that; for they have long grown discontent with their jobs and out of date agenda. There is no hope for the future generation, at least not for those of that generation attending school here in Aberdeen. The only inhabitants this land will be looking forward to holding will spend their lives running and pushing and doing whatever possible to get gratification. Not just gratification, instant gratification. And after that is attained, they will work feverishly for something else; just as the way they stampede through the all too narrow hallways, they will stampede over everything that has been previously put forth for them. Just as the way the school bell dismisses, they will dismiss themselves from all reality, not just a school building.
Needless to say, school is not much fun. Of course a few fellow students agree with me, well, most agree with me that it's not fun. But they are also the ones who think throwing rocks at Mr. Twitty's shop windows is fun when he doesn't have any of their favorite monster truck magazines in stock because they stole the last batch he brought in. So we obviously don't have the same idea of what fun would be.
It is pointless to spend too much time on school because although it takes up most of the day for people my age, it is really a pointless activity. We don't seem to remember what we learn, and the teachers don't seem to enforce the fact that going to the place is important at all.
What does this mean? This means that it is now time for me to describe the 'after school' period of time to you.
Immediately after school, I cycled to the shop for an afternoon snack. A few other children from school also headed to the shop (courtesy of their parents cars, sent from downtown to pick them up and drive them where they wished). Most of the kids, however, usually attend karate, or cheerleading (not that our team's playing encourages enthusiasm from anyone else), and sometimes musical lessons.
Most of the time, Mr. Twitty is just getting ready to leave when I reach the shop, but today he was already outside. When he saw me riding towards him, his face lit up, and I caught sight of him pulling something from around his neck. Once I stopped in the parking lot beside him, he told me that this object was for me - it was a pair of binoculars from when he was just a boy. I was surprised by this at first, since he rarely gives me anything but advice. As I was about to ask what they were for, he answered that question.
"Even with the sharpest eyes and the world's knowledge, one can never truly know or understand something until they strip it down to its most simplistic form; until they work to its very center. Take these," he said, "and see what has been waiting to be realized, but that which cannot be discovered with a glance of the naked eye."
Mr. Twitty's advice has always seemed confusing at first. But once following it, strangely enough, what he said would occur, or what I wanted would come to me. So, I gladly accepted the gift that I was granted, and told him that I would be seeing him in the morning.
Once again, it was time to be greeted by the decent little welcome mat on my decent little porch. I made my way to my bedroom, to the window that gave me a view of all. The sky was overgrown with grey, thus eliminating my view of any frolicking avian animals, or planes, or anything else. As I lowered my gaze through these binoculars, I found myself peering into Mr. Twitty's window just as he was arriving home. Now, I will take this time to admit to you that it isn't typical for me to be peeking into people's houses; in fact, I've never done it before. But don't think that means that no one around here does, because they do; I've seen it myself. Regardless, I continued to look, just because Mr. Twitty always has a reason for things, and I figured that it would be best to explore any possibility that came to mind before giving up on catching something interesting.
His window was a television screen displaying a drama that I hadn't expected to see next door. The bedroom inside wasn't vacant, but at first I couldn't tell what exactly was occupying it because of the odd shapes consisting of pole and square and cylinder. But as Mr. Twitty took use of a light as he entered the room, my mind was bombarded with images, sounds, and thoughts that I would have never previously associated with the man. The silhouette that had once confused me was now illuminated in an unquestionable light. That silhouette was one of an old woman, appearing to be significantly older than her husband. She sat in a wheelchair facing the window, presumably to give her a glimpse of the world that she was restricted from enjoying, even if that world only consisted of trees and asphalt, and people who will never know her name.
Attached to her wheel chair was a tall metal pole, one holding plastic bags attached to plastic veins that twisted into a needle somewhere in her hand. The picture in the window was one smothered in death and sickness. Just by looking into it, I could swear the room smelled just like a hospital. Not dense with the odor of disinfectant, but the odor of the leathery skin found on sickly people, the stench of the breaths that only repeat few and far between. I could swear I heard the stale sound of the cheap plastic wheelchair seat creaking and squeaking beneath her as she attempted to shift. I could swear that if I squinted in the direction of those plastic bags once more, they would tell a story of morphine running through her thinning, anemic blood.
Assumption, that's what a lot of that was, but at the same time, I obviously knew that Sam was right, and there was a deeper story to Mr. Twitty's life than I expected. Maybe he wanted me to discover his life. His home is his center, his simplest escape, and he obviously noticed that on a cloudy day such as this, I would be bound to look somewhere other than the skies.
I like to say I learn one thing each day, and that continued with today. However, I learned something that I would've never expected. This fact made me wonder what else I was missing in my community, just because of my preconceived notions of what went on behind the closed doors of the seemingly close minded people.
This evening, while I'm usually picking apart Bill O'Reilly's evening statements, I think I'll sit on that decent little porch of mine, and for once, really watch the evening routine of the rest of Aberdeen. Of course, Sam will come home from work around 7 p.m., and he will stomp his boots as he always does, the left and then the right. He won't need to switch on a light once he steps inside because he has rigged the house to respond to his presence. Don't ask me how; that kind of technology has yet to make its way to the simple folks like me. As usual, Sam will sigh, moving on to the living room to greet walls plastered with letters and pictures and memoirs of other people's lives. Sam's gossip has never been good for nothing. He knows things about the town's citizens just from observing them than most of their closest pals haven't even noticed. Sam always stops to look around, with a longing look his face, at the smiles in the pictures and the "Dear So and so's" atop the wrinkled, yellowing notes.
Cars will begin to pass in the following hours, mostly over the speed limit; downtown people cruising around for the night. Father will return home, and I will hear the tales of the mail being in the wrong spot, and my cycle covered in mud, and the chronicles of his hard work days will continue to write today's entry in their never ending novel of hardship and aggression.
It will be night in Aberdeen. And we will sleep, once again, only to recover before the long day ahead.
In the morning, the sun will rise to cold temperatures and cigarette smoke clouds. And we will be there to greet the day.