I Wonder What Happened to Hunter - Saturday 10/22

Hunter turned 21 in August. Or at least he would have. I don’t really know.

The children’s section of Eagle Books is in the corner farthest from the door. The owner sits at her desk to the right when you walk in. The rare books collection is in a locked case next to her desk. To the left is a full wall length magazine style rack. Straight ahead are the new arrivals. Unsorted as yet. The store goes back much further than you initially expect. Shelves line the right wall of the store, and jut out at right angles from the left. As you near the back the pattern changes, and the shelves come out from the rear wall as the path through the store bangs a hard left.

If you follow the pathway all the way to the back of the store without getting distracted and wandering into any of the other sections—which is not easily done, at least for the four of us in the store on this particular overcast Saturday morning—you’ll eventually arrive in the children’s section.

On the floor is a copy of Frederick with the inscription:

For Hunter, on your first birthday,

Because the world would be a better place

if we were all a little more like Frederick.

Love,

Mom and Dad

August, 1996

Hunter turned 21 in August. Or at least he would have. And I can’t help but wonder what happened to Hunter that his copy of Frederick is sitting on the floor in the back corner of Eagle Books instead of in a private library, or at least in a box in the garage, basement or attic. Any of a million things might have happened to Hunter. The ghost of Hunter will haunt me for the rest of my life. I think daily about calling the book store and asking the owner to ship me the book.

Arrival and Dinner, Night 1, Thursday 10/20

Arrive in Keene. Check in. A brief wander. Stop by a co-op to pick up some snacks. Wine tasting in the back corner. I promptly spill my Malbec. Spilling already and I haven’t even had anything to drink yet. The man at the table tells me a story about spilling all over his father-in-law to make me feel better. I drink what’s left in my sample and ask to taste the Cab. I buy two bottles (one Malbec and one Cabernet Sauvignon). I’m not just being polite because he made me feel better about spilling. The wines are excellent. I think he suspects that I’m just buying the wine because I’ve made an ass of myself, but I can’t let myself be too concerned about that.

JH stops by the room, and we wait for ZL and JBH. JH is an SCCC colleague. ZL and JBH I met in Tunisia and visited Reykjavik with. We’re short a JM, and we all miss him terribly. When ZL and JH show up at my door, we slip into familiar rhythms without any of the awkwardness that sometimes accompanies reunions. We’ve all been up to so much, have so much to talk about, are at least vaguely aware of what’s going on in each other’s lives that there’s simply not time for awkwardness. Or maybe it would be better to say that our awkwardnesses align, because there’s plenty of awkward to go around. The one real moment of discomfort is the one where JH and ZL realize there’s a woman in my room who isn’t my wife. The moment right before I introduce JH and explain that she’s in for the conference and going to be joining us for dinner.

We walk to a microbrewery just less than a mile from the hotel. JH is already one of us. She already seems to know JBH and ZL as well as I do.

We’re walking down Gilbo. Across a parking lot is an abandoned looking warehouse. It could be a granary. Or a factory of some sort. Possibly a mill, though this seems the least likely possibility. At any rate, it’s old and dangerous looking. It has either a chipmunk or a smiling acorn painted on the façade.

 

“Let’s go check it out,” JBH says, echoing the opening lines of countless horror films and every episode of Scooby-Doo.

Much of the rest of the walk is dedicated to either suggesting we go have a wander around the building, or to discussing how a horror movie starring us that opened with a visit to the granary would turn out. It is very quickly decided that I would not survive the night. The brewery is set well out of the downtown area. The way is lined with streetlights and we walk through patches of light like sidewalk ellipses.

At the brewery they’ve got Trivial Pursuit cards on all the tables in case conversation runs dry. Ours never does, but we pick up the Trivial Pursuit cards anyway, because we’re giant nerds. We ask answer. We argue about answers with each other, and with the cards. We complain that the cards are out of date. ZL complains that the cards are “too American.” Often we’re more embarrassed by the things we know than by the things we don’t.

It’s surprising how empty the brewery is for a Thursday night in a college town. I suppose there is a combination of factors. We’re not far from campus, but we’re also not particularly close; it’s still a bit early by college standards—though, I did both my undergrad and my grad work in, or in the vicinity of, major metropolitan areas so I suspect my views on “early” and “late” may be a bit skewed—and while not expensive, the restaurant isn’t inexpensive either. I should also look into Keene’s commuter enrollment, though based on the vibrancy of the downtown area, I have to assume that a fair proportion of students are either residents or at least spend a goodly portion of their time locally. Perhaps Thursday just isn’t a big night for going out around here.

Everyone happily splits the check rather than asking the waitress to split it or parsing out who had what.

Conversation on the way back once again turns to the grain silo. There’s a creepy van parked in front of it. We’re pretty sure we see flashlights either in the van, or in silo, or both. Now we really think we should check it out.

Travel - Thursday 10/20

The strange thing about taking the ferry from Port Jeff to Bridgeport is that I live so close to the ferry, I don’t really have a chance to get into a driving/road trip rhythm before I’m stopping. Then an hour and fifteen minutes later I’m closer to my destination than I otherwise would have been if I’d drove the long way round. Lining up, other drivers either get out of their cars, or stare straight ahead. Few read. I feel that I’m an exception as I look over my research for my presentation. Those traveling with passengers engage in small talk. They laugh and smile, they look at each other. They occasionally turn their heads and look out of the car, but it’s a vacant kind of look. A looking without seeing. Some talk animatedly on the phone, or pick their noses, or hardcore rock out to the radio in the way that people sometimes do when they forget that the world outside the care continues to exist even when they’re inside. The way that people sometimes do when they forget that car windows work both ways, that people can see in.

The ferry arrives, unloads its human and automotive cargo and then it’s time to load. Most drivers’ attentions are fixed on the crew directing traffic. Once they’ve arrived in their appointed spots, some wait patiently in their cars until the spaces around them are filled, others rush to exit their cars before any impediments arise. I wait.

Rough crossing. The wind rattles my laptop screen as I sit outside and work on my paper. Spray blown off the white caps leaves a residue on my keyboard and a film on my screen.

Merritt parkway northbound. Gorgeous warm colors sway in the breeze. Canopied road. The American myth of the road. Kerouac. McCarthy. Easy Rider. On a land mass this big and this well traversed, the land becomes what the sea was for maritime civilizations. And the sea still has that pull for many, myself included. I was a bit queasy on the crossing. Been away from—or out of—the water for a bit too long I suppose. In a way it’s nice to know that even a salty old bugger like me can still get a bit queasy crossing the sound. But so anyway, the call of the road is immense.

I plan to stop at a rest area on the Merritt, but blow right past the first one. I don’t really need anything to eat yet, or to use the facilities; I just want to open Spotify up on my phone, but I don’t stop because I’m still getting WNYC, and I don’t really need to stop for any other reason.

WNYC cuts out seconds after I pass the rest stop exit. I haven’t even reached the rest stop parking yet.

I eventually stop at the rest area on 91, a big open area, welcome center, no gas or food. Coming out of the building, listening to the steady buzz of traffic zipping by. I’m struck not for the first time, but in a deeply profound way, by the allure of the TARDIS. All of time and space. See an alien world and be back in time for tea on the same day you left. Visit another galaxy and be back 5 minutes before you left. It’s less the TARDIS itself than it is what the TARDIS represents, which is something akin to Jack Sparrow’s speech about “what The Black Pearl really is” or Ishmael’s beautiful musings in “Loomings,” the first chapter of Moby Dick.

I suspect that I’ve driven through Springfield, MA before, but can’t place when or why. The basketball Hall of Fame confirms this suspicion, but doesn’t help me place when or why. I’ve never been there, I just recall someone pointing it out. Is it possible I was on my way to Boston and 84 was closed? Or just so backed up it made more sense to drive up to 90 and take 90 across Mass than 84 through Conn.?

The rest of the drive is relatively smooth. Some clouds set in, a bit of mist—the kind that wipers never really seem to help, the kind you have to let build up until you can’t see anymore before the wipers will do anything other than smear and streak and bounce and squeak.

Driving through Winchester, NH and I can’t tell whether it’s a quaint little town untouched by time or the remnants of an industrial town (Textiles, Mills, Mining?). It seems like it might be both, and the gloominess of the weather combined with the late hour does the town no favors.

My phone dies and I’m immensely happy that I memorized the last few directions. Even plugged in, the combination of music and maps pulls more battery power than my car can provide.