Nowhereville

The conversation I had with dad caused me to feel even more depressed than before. I had expected that hearing his voice might help me feel less lonely, less isolated in this God-forsaken corner of the world. However, it had actually made me feel worse.

It only made me remember that I was still confined within the walls the gloomy old house, surrounded by the eerie sounds made by the floorboards and the creaking doors. The first thing I did was turn on all the lights, because although all the windows and doors were closed, I kept imagining that the warm, heavy, and scented darkness outside was somehow sneaking into the house. Against that creepy feeling, the soft, golden artificial light of the lamps was useful.

I went into the kitchen and checked if the stove was still working. To my surprise, it did. I then went through all of the tarnished white cupboards in order to find some sort of pot to boil some water into. I eventually found a small kettle with a blackened bottom and poured some water into it from the flask I always carried with me when I traveled, because, as I had noticed before in the bathroom, the water wasn’t working.

This was a rather serious problem, I thought, as I waited for the water to boil. I would need water to shower, or at least to brush my teeth and shave. My next thought was that if I was lucky, I would be through with all the legal papers and the sale within the next few days, so it didn’t matter much. I would be home soon, in the spotlessly clean Berkeley campus, where there were no funny smells, where you could hear no noises except for loud rap music being played on the second floor, and the continuous, soothing sound of the highway; back there darkness has been slaughtered by the fierce light of the neon tubes.

I put the kettle on the stove and went out into the hallway, where I had left my bag. I went through the random items inside it several times until I was able to find the Nescafe coffee jar I had carelessly thrown in my bag just before walking out the door of my dormitory. I knew I would need coffee, and I knew that it was very unlikely not to find any coffee wherever I was going, but I still took it reluctantly, just in case. Now I was complimenting myself for having decided to take it along.

My addiction to caffeine I had picked up in my last years of high school, while studying for SATs and later while preparing all those college applications. I can’t count the sleepless nights nor the mugs of coffee that got me through them. The habit stuck with me.

I could hear the soft bubbling of the boiling water so I returned to the kitchen, where I turned off the gas and took the kettle off the fire. I had a hard time doing so, since there were no hot mittens that I could use and the metal handle was very hot indeed. I cursed silently. I proceeded to poor some of the water in the mug, and then mixed it with some of the coffee powder. No sugar, of course; I always drank it plain and strong.

As I sat down at the Formica kitchen table, next to the only window in the room, I avoided as hard as possible looking through the dusty glass panes of the window, which looked like it could do with a good wash. Through it I could barely make out the pitch-black road that I had come by, and, inevitably, Kari’s house looming against the background of the starry night sky. It was pitch-black outside, but the house was even darker. No sign of movement could be seen behind the windows or on the porch; everything was still.

Although, as I mentioned, I tried my hardest not to look, my eyes were drawn to her house as if by a magnet. You know that feeling? Like when you’re in your car, and there’s been an accident on the highway. You know you don’t want to see the gruesomely mutilated bodies of the victims, but you can’t help yourself. Just like the cut on the roof of your mouth that would heal if you only stopped tonguing it. Anyway, I kept glancing at the house, and, in utter madness, found myself expecting – hoping even – to see a pale shadow clad in black coming out of it: a long, narrow, spidery figure with legs and arms moving like those of a puppet on strings pulled by a drunk or mad puppeteer. But there was nothing there. The dark windows stared blindly out into the street, betraying no sign of inhabitation whatsoever.

You know, I never quite stopped to think how peculiar all this was. The whole town with its dead appearance – no one in the streets, no electricity on the streets, no lights in the houses, the dusty sidewalks, everything – I never fully thought about it. When I stopped to think about it later (it was of course, much too late then) it was beyond me how I could have ignored so many obvious peculiarities. But on with my story.

I sipped silently out of the coffee, grimacing at its horrible, watery taste. Pichwasser, my old dad would have called it. Out of habit, I guess, I made myself drink all of it. I then stared idly around at the yellowed kitchen walls, at the cheap, old-fashioned furniture in the room. I tried to decide upon my course of action for the next day. Although so far my trip to S. had been not quite what I had expected, to say the least, I was sure that by daylight everything will appear normal and reasonable. I would find an attorney or someone of the sort to verify the authenticity of the will and then would start gathering up the things that my dad had expressly requested for me to bring back home. I’d just gather them all up in boxes and FedEx them or something. However, I had my doubts on whether this town even had a post office.

I didn’t know what my dad expected me to do with the furniture and the rest of the crap that was piled up in the crumby house. Nice little bonfire to keep me warm at night, I thought and snickered.

Then the hardest part came. I had to sell it. Good one, dad. Who the hell would want to buy this shithole?

Provided I found someone stupid enough that would take it off my hands once and for all, I’d just turn off the electricity and the gas, lock the doors and all the windows behind me and get the hell out of here without a single glance over my shoulder. I’d walk all the way to the bus station as fast as my legs would take me. I’d get on that bus, I’d follow each of the driver’s movements as he stretches his hand and pushes the button that closes the doors. Then I’d listen to the doors sliding shut behind me and I would sit down in one of those dirty, tattered plush chairs. Then and only then will I breathe out in relief.

But that climactic moment when I would be on my way back to my normal life, to my boring, eventless life in Cali seemed years away. I left the mug on the table and walked out of the kitchen, heading for the living room. When I walked in, I was startled once again by the mirror that was hanging at an awkward angle over the mantelpiece. I ignored it this time and proceeded to sit down on the couch. It creaked loudly as I sat on it. I stretched out on it, as much as its size would allow me. I rested my head on my arm and closed my weary eyes. Sleep crept over me quickly and silently – I barely felt it.