part 2: THE WEIGH STATION

On Cedar Grove Lane, the homeowners keep their lawns crisply trimmed and well irrigated. For all intents and purposes, there is no beginning to this road. Notice, however, the end is almost there--marked by an angular Tudor house at the dead end--1 Cedar Grove. From within one can hear the pounding of a gavel from a lifetime away.

​

“All rise! The booming drone of Cleric IiiI elicits creaks from the chairs and moans from its occupants. The hastily collected antique furniture does not suffer the sudden disturbance lightly, expelling dust everywhere, rendering the living room a-twinkle in the weaning daylight. It is a stuffed stuffy affair. An honest attempt to resemble a Weigh Station looking more and more every minute like a book club gotten out of hand.

“Here, here. There will be quiet. There will be quiet! Now, as you have all been briefed, we are here today to weigh case number nine--six-oh-one-dash-forty-four, one Witt Dewilloughby, in the matter of presented alpha gold memory...released poolside at Host’s Connecticut residence...twenty-two hundred hours twelve minutes eastern standard time...May the first...of this year, two-thousand-one.”

All this comes out in a single breath, a well-cultivated talent by this aging bureaucrat.

“A twenty-one year expiry. The proceedings shall commence shortly, but first, a Receiver roll call.” Murmurs, shuffles, more creaking chairs, and a sigh from the IiiI who stares blindly through his papers.

It’s the end of the day.

“And please, the banter. Let's keep it to a minimum. Phlzr, of arachnida?”

“Sir.”

“One Cecsl, chordata fox?”

“Sir.”

“One Grbn, marsh frog?

“Yes, sir.”

“And last, one annelid, earthworm, what is your name again?

“Wrelwe, sir.”

IiiI scans the first row for the fourth receiver to no avail, until the fox points his nose to an empty chair whereupon closer inspection, a worm is found performing barrel-rolls--a maneuver the Cleric can only imagine to be an approximation at a wave.

 

Beyond the first row of receivers and the second row of witnesses, IiiI silently counts the geodesics. First the 12 white circles huddled quietly in the back before the bookcases, each holding what appear to be empty picture frames. And opposite them, behind the disheveled salmon couch 17 shadowless black squares bending hungrily in anticipation for the proceedings. IiiI scribbles some notes. He has been around long enough to recognize that any disproportion of black to white is rarely coincidence, and often bodes ill for the Host.

 

IiiI clasps the brass handle of the crank on his cylindrical podium with gnarled white knuckles, and begins to slowly wind it. He bends over into a curtain of robes, all the while poking one eye through his moppy brow. He is paying close attention not to shake the podium and knock over the golden nugget that rests atop in all its unfurled majesty.

The faint smell of smoke interrupts his travails. It seems several black squares have accidentally singed away slices of couch cushion in their shifty anticipation. He had better get on with the show.

 

“Excellent! Now that we protocol for a yay or nay vote. And please, circles, if you wouldn't mind setting aside your tombs of are all accounted for...” He twists the crank once more. “...we may proceed. Tthere we have it. Under your seats you will find your decision ballot, at the back of which is located the ….Witt's life, we can all focus our attention here. IiiI grunts, delivering a final click from the crank.

 

A torrent erupts from the pebble that now hovers inches off the podium, drenching every figure in the station with pounding waves so persistent and thick it is hard to distinguish when the noise began or even if there was a beginning to it; that perhaps things have always been this way.

Quickly enough Cleric, Receivers, Circles, Squares are obliterated in its wake
 

After a timeless interval, the pounding pulses stumbled into a quake, a throb, an ebb. Slowly, the members of the station awaken only to prepare for a second rending plunge into the gulf. a trickle)  trickle  )    trickle     )     click(

 

“Mom it was the weirdest feeling. I was all of a sudden all grown up and we were at Sara's birthday. You weren't there, but there were lots of people sitting inside, all sorts of strange creatures big and small.”

She strains her neck to peer behind the passenger seat. “But that's where we're going now. Did you just have a dream, honey?"

“I dont...know...” I wipe the gunk from my eyes, drowsy and disoriented. The seatbelt digging into my neck. I crawl onto my knees to get a view out the window and breathe into my reflection. It's just little old me glaring back through the fog, four and chubby-cheeked. But somehow this familiar terrain seems alien, like my features have all migrated to the center of my face.

 

Peeking between the clouds, the sky glows auburn.  Leaves lunge across the road; the wind is wiping the trees away. It is really scary outside. I try to rub the goose bumps off my arms.

​

Dad's mouth fills the rearview mirror. He is chewing the inside of his cheek again. “Will we have tornadoes like on TV?” I ask.

“Now Wittney, let's get one thing clear. We are not going all the way up to Roxbrooke to have you mope in some corner like you did at Kendra's party, you understand?”

“But that's not what happened! I was only hiding...” He's no longer listening. For a moment his hands leave the wheel entirely as he fiddles with a dial. There is static, then more static. His mouth is still chewing. Then the crack of a bat. He grins briefly. The Yankees. I turn to look for support from but Mommy is rolling her eyes. I turn once more to my reflection and for some reason I hesitate before putting my thumb in my mouth. It’s decided then. I'm going to ignore them until this awful sinking feeling goes away.

​

)click(

​

The projection is halted. With pompous flourishes of the tail, Cecsl the fox, makes a motion to speak.

“Let it be noted that this memory illustrates early patterns of internalized anger seeding his social ineptitude in years to come, and ultimately culminating in his total inability to cope with the plight of his fellow man. Even at the ripe young age of four, under a bare minimum of duress, Witt will fold in on himself, shutting out his parents and friends. This shutting-down only serves to further inflate his sense of fear of and resentment towards others, until he finally releases his frustrations with misdirected anger. An example!” The fox pauses for dramatic effect, then paws through several pages. “A few years later—refer to your tombs—out exploring the cornfields behind the house, Witt will convince his brother and their neighbor, Alejandro, that a rabid fox has leapt over a haystack and is coming to eat them. He will hide from them and torment them with growling noises from a hidden vantage point until his brother and friend flee in tears. Later, out of a strange belief in his own lie, or a sense of guilt, Wittney will set elaborately violent traps to ensnare the four-legged apparition.

“While this case may be exonerated as the workings of an overactive imagination, it nonetheless exemplifies the impudent, ill-managed, even dangerous nature of our Host.”

 

Silence. Phlzr breaks in.

“But, but, perhaps you are judging too prematurely. I concur with your assessment that boy's fear of the unknown suppresses his ability to establish healthy relationships. I seem to recall at six years of age, he will find a spider in his brother's bedroom. For the rest of his childhood, he will avoid stepping foot into that room. The resulting estranged relationship with his brother can come as no surprise. Completely irrational behavior. But we must still recognize such a creature's ability to produce good. That is to say we must not only review Witt's relationships with others, but examine his internal world as well. As a creature of solitude, I can attest to the value of silent contemplation.

“Here, here!” cries Wrelwe in agreement.

Tapping the clank impatiently, Cleric IiiI looks up. “While I know how dearly you Receivers enjoy the sound of your own prattle, we do have much to exhume, so if there are no more motions from the station at this time, I’d like to continue the projection." )trickle  )  trickle    )    click(

 

My tummy gets all tied in knots when I think about Sara. I try not to. I try not to think of Dad and Mommy either. I look out the window and blur my eyes. I imagine a giant knife, or is it a laser attached to the side of the car, smoothly slicing through tree, grass, dirt, mailbox, telephone pole, stop light, brick wall, glass door, bank, pizza shop, shoe store. The whole town is sliced clean.

 

Mommy’s voice jolts me out of my daze. “Jeff, I think it's a left onto Cinder, all the way at the end. It should be just up there.” The car slows and turns, passing glossy lawns, all of which seem oddly familiar. Again, that awful sinking feeling.

And then, just like that, we're there. Pink balloons holding up the mailbox, Kyle chasing after his yo-yo. Families squeezing into the front door. I am slowly sliding off the seat onto the driveway, and my shoes are untied still. While Mommy’s bending down to tie them, I catch my first glimpse of Sara through the maze of Mommy’s curls. She's standing there by herself in front of the garage. So small and bright in her red Osh Kosh's. Arms are pulling me towards her. Oh, Gosh, here she is.

)click(

“Phlzr, you were advocating we explore Witt's inner monologue. Well, we've just had our chance,” exclaims Grbn, the frog. “It’s not pretty. But, I’m glad this has come up. I mean what sort of child daydreams about tearing up the world with some imaginary weapon? Seeds of aggression, I say! And it’s not long before he acts on these impulses, either. In a few years hence, he will scoop up a frog from his pool and launch it into the woods, pulverizing it against a tree. Forget his contempt for people, let's talk about his contempt for all things living!”

“Now hold on just a minute now,” bawls Wrelwe. “So far all I’ve heard is your typical Receiver prejudicial bias. Can we put that aside? We are professionals. Children are prone to wild flights of fancy. What kid doesn’t dream of war and guns?! They are impressionable. Their minds are developing so fast and for many of them it's only natural to have an occasional temper tantrum.” Wrelwe twists around seeking sympathetic eyes. None are met.

“Okay, I’ll admit he doesn't have the best social skills, but that doesn't mean he doesn't care for people. Take Sara! Let's not blow this daydream thing out of proportion. In the eighth grade he will spend an entire morning scooping up worms from the scorching pavement after a heavy night's rain. Now how does that act fit into your psychological profile? I believe this is what Phlzr would call a dedication to the good.”

)trickle  )  trickle    )    click(

 

It's cold out, but Sara's hand is warm. The clouds are getting thicker now and a blanket of darkness covers the house. Hair flailing, parents rushing children inside. My skin feels tight around my face, and yet, despite the chill I am still blushing. And she is smiling. And her eyes are buckets of warmth. I put my mouth to her ear, and now we are running, stealing away under the pine tree whose branches are so long they tickle the grass.

“It's so big in here it could be our own house” I pronounce. “We could stay out here and live together.” She is smiling. She is nodding her head. “Let's take our clothes off and climb to the top,” I say. She doesn't know. I undress. She is looking at me, and I am cold and embarrassed.

“No fair! Come on!” I chide.

She purses her lips and looks down, deliberating for a long moment. Then suddenly, her Osh K’Oshes crumple to the ground. And now she is following me up, all the way up the tree.

)click(

 

The receivers gasp. The white circles take on a more faded look now, their edges drawing into the surrounding walls. And an oppressive silence emanates from the black squares.

)trickle  )  trickle    )    click(

 

I am all the way at the top. The tree is swaying and my heart is beating so loudly. I can barely feel the scrapes on my feet. Sara’s gone. She’s not with me. I look down. There she is all the way at the bottom covered in her red overalls.

 

I am almost down now. Oh no Sara. She’s red all over. Her hair is so wet. Her eyes aren’t looking. I try to move her but she is very heavy. Oh god I am running now, out from under the tree, onto the lawn. I am gasping, and I seem to be moving, but the grass will not end. And the wind scrapes at my throat.

Finally, the front door, the doorknob, and now a sudden tipping over the threshold into a wave of freezing heat; the awful sinking feeling finally pours out my belly. Blooming black petals rend at me like sandpaper, pulling me ever downward. Down to the bottom of an endless dream. Further yet into an inky black square of night. It’s corners dimly lit by a chorus of distant lights.