drainage purposes. Once we were standing at the bottom, however, it towered almost ten feet above us.
The water trickled by in the mud.
I closed one eye, wracked with this impossible geometry of reality.
Was Kurt homeless?
A giant grate covered the pipe with weedy and swampen strings hanging from the horizontals. Steve walked me to the wall to the right to the pipe.
"Go ahead," he offered with a toss of his head, directing me to the wall beside the pipe.
Steve allowed me go first, to nowhere.
"Where?"
"There." No gestures. Nothing. Concrete wall.
"Where?"
He shook his head, frustrated, "there!" and pointed to a small hole in the wall that I hadn't bothered to notice. It was a square, deep, black hole as old as the concrete. Could I fit my head in, if I tried? If I was standing on tiptoe?
If I could, why would I?
"What am I supposed to do?"
Frustrated, he grabbed the back of my neck and walked me over to the hole like a child. The square was at face level, a little bit above my height, and he pushed my head into the cutout.
"Seriously? What are you doing?"
"Just go in, what are you waiting for? You're killing me! I'm dead!"
As he pushed my head forward, the hole surprisingly seemed wide enough for my shoulders, so I was able to wiggle in. He was right. I could fit. I wiggled in and wiggled in, and darkness began to envelop me as I pushed further in and the sunlight behind me was drowned out. It was a little tight, but not impossible.
It became somewhat difficult to breathe, musky mildew and stagnant basement air hung immobile. A little more wiggling and the hole turned from a square to a cylinder. Ahead, in what dim light there was, I saw a pair of sneakers snaking their way through with difficulty. Were they my sneakers? I wanted to bite them to hold on to them so I didn't lose my shoes. I wouldn't want to walk back out in the muddy marsh without my sneakers.
What?
Then, darkness.
I pushed harder and harder in, and it was tighter around my head and upper body as claustrophobia gripped me and I felt my head squeezing in deeper, unable to move. But then a pop, and cooler air freed me from my musky breathy moist lungbreath. My face was in a room, and the rest of my body remained in the tight grip of the tube like a chrysalis.
The tiny oblong room was fully furnished. My face felt like it took up an entire wall. There was a bookshelf, a little fire, and beautiful framed paintings that hung against the laws of physics along the walls that curved in a dome like the inside of an egg. There was a teapot with a steaming cup of oolong tea on a little side table, and a beautiful Victorian chair. Kurt sat in the chair, hiding behind a book. He was wearing an Offspring tee, jeans, Doc Martin's, and a flannel shirt tied around his waist. He was small, and my face was so big. He sat with his grunge posture in this big chair, his ass hanging off the seat and his shoulders barely clearing the back.
"Hello, friend," he greeted me. His voice was surprisingly normal, regardless of his appearance. This Beatrix Potter woodland den was perfect for him somehow, even though it was impossible. It was believable. This was where he lived. No wonder he never wanted me to see it.
"Hi, Kurt," I said. My voice echoed strangely in the little den. "What are you reading?"
He turned the book around and looked at the cover. Nothing was written on its leather binding.
" The Screwtape Letters ."
"Hmm," I responded. Never heard of it. I wanted to write it down - I would take a book he was devouring so intently very seriously. I wanted to look at it but I couldn't reach my hands.
A crack and a shaking came from the other side of the room, and a panting fell from the wall. Steve's big face appeared directly across from mine. We were the same size, at least. This was a miracle of dimension - our faces transforming the room into a cozy irony of dizzying gigantism and miniature scale.
"Hey, man," Steve said. "New painting? Sorry about
The water trickled by in the mud.
I closed one eye, wracked with this impossible geometry of reality.
Was Kurt homeless?
A giant grate covered the pipe with weedy and swampen strings hanging from the horizontals. Steve walked me to the wall to the right to the pipe.
"Go ahead," he offered with a toss of his head, directing me to the wall beside the pipe.
Steve allowed me go first, to nowhere.
"Where?"
"There." No gestures. Nothing. Concrete wall.
"Where?"
He shook his head, frustrated, "there!" and pointed to a small hole in the wall that I hadn't bothered to notice. It was a square, deep, black hole as old as the concrete. Could I fit my head in, if I tried? If I was standing on tiptoe?
If I could, why would I?
"What am I supposed to do?"
Frustrated, he grabbed the back of my neck and walked me over to the hole like a child. The square was at face level, a little bit above my height, and he pushed my head into the cutout.
"Seriously? What are you doing?"
"Just go in, what are you waiting for? You're killing me! I'm dead!"
As he pushed my head forward, the hole surprisingly seemed wide enough for my shoulders, so I was able to wiggle in. He was right. I could fit. I wiggled in and wiggled in, and darkness began to envelop me as I pushed further in and the sunlight behind me was drowned out. It was a little tight, but not impossible.
It became somewhat difficult to breathe, musky mildew and stagnant basement air hung immobile. A little more wiggling and the hole turned from a square to a cylinder. Ahead, in what dim light there was, I saw a pair of sneakers snaking their way through with difficulty. Were they my sneakers? I wanted to bite them to hold on to them so I didn't lose my shoes. I wouldn't want to walk back out in the muddy marsh without my sneakers.
What?
Then, darkness.
I pushed harder and harder in, and it was tighter around my head and upper body as claustrophobia gripped me and I felt my head squeezing in deeper, unable to move. But then a pop, and cooler air freed me from my musky breathy moist lungbreath. My face was in a room, and the rest of my body remained in the tight grip of the tube like a chrysalis.
The tiny oblong room was fully furnished. My face felt like it took up an entire wall. There was a bookshelf, a little fire, and beautiful framed paintings that hung against the laws of physics along the walls that curved in a dome like the inside of an egg. There was a teapot with a steaming cup of oolong tea on a little side table, and a beautiful Victorian chair. Kurt sat in the chair, hiding behind a book. He was wearing an Offspring tee, jeans, Doc Martin's, and a flannel shirt tied around his waist. He was small, and my face was so big. He sat with his grunge posture in this big chair, his ass hanging off the seat and his shoulders barely clearing the back.
"Hello, friend," he greeted me. His voice was surprisingly normal, regardless of his appearance. This Beatrix Potter woodland den was perfect for him somehow, even though it was impossible. It was believable. This was where he lived. No wonder he never wanted me to see it.
"Hi, Kurt," I said. My voice echoed strangely in the little den. "What are you reading?"
He turned the book around and looked at the cover. Nothing was written on its leather binding.
" The Screwtape Letters ."
"Hmm," I responded. Never heard of it. I wanted to write it down - I would take a book he was devouring so intently very seriously. I wanted to look at it but I couldn't reach my hands.
A crack and a shaking came from the other side of the room, and a panting fell from the wall. Steve's big face appeared directly across from mine. We were the same size, at least. This was a miracle of dimension - our faces transforming the room into a cozy irony of dizzying gigantism and miniature scale.
"Hey, man," Steve said. "New painting? Sorry about
Similar Books
