On Writing about life (And Death)

A story about stories.

Once, when I was a senior in high school, a student accidentally told our creative writing teacher that her grandmother had died, to which the teacher reflexively exclaimed,

            “Write about it!”

            It became a running joke for my class that whenever tragedy befell a peer the polite thing to do was unceremoniously charge them with the task of writing about it. My grandparents are still alive, though, so I have to write about the time that I found myself locked in a basement as Hurricane Sandy closed in.

            We had just had a cleaning party in the café I worked in. We drank, ate, and cleaned the spaces that couldn’t be gotten without moving all of the furniture and machinery during regular hours. After three hours the rest of the crew was ready to leave but the storm made the streets slippery and I had had a few drinks, so with my boss’s permission I remained behind. I also asked if it was okay to invite a girl to keep me company, as we had a pull out couch in the basement and a television. He said that was fine.

            I immediately texted a freshman from Swarthmore who had given me her number earlier in the week. I think other men might have described her as mousy. Her sweaters were always a little bit frumpy, her hair was long and curly, and she had a quaint body. But I have always found mice to be some of the prettiest critters, and mousy girls to be equally charming. So I waited. But then I realized that she would almost certainly take the standard half an hour to respond. I went down to the basement to watch Adventure Time, and exactly one half hour after texting her she responded that coming to the abandoned shop sounded delightful.

            I did a dance and then pranced up the steps to the door, finding it locked, of course. I tried my key to no avail. Then I tried cursing, which seemed to help, but the door remained locked. The storm outside was coming on heavy so we weren’t opening the shop the next day. Images of water slowly rising past my chin instantly flooded my mind. This, however, reminded me of the storm door.

             I rushed across the basement and heroically shoved the rusty door upwards. It only lifted about two inches. There was some immense weight holding it down. My boss was the only other person with a key, and he was hours away, so I called my brother to help free me from whatever was pinning the door shut.

            “Dave!” I said, partially relieved already, “I’m trapped in a basement and I have a girl coming over. There’s something holding the storm door shut. Can you come over and help lift it?”

            “I don’t know. I’m like fifteen minutes away.”

            “It’s only ten minutes!” I said.

            “Man up. I’ve definitely seen your boss lift it.”

            “Please!”

            “No, it’s raining.”

            I realized there was a chain preventing the door from coming all the way up. I quickly undid it and tried again, with fresh hope. This time the door moved about five inches, and I felt the tarp, which was a rug we stole from the mall. It had been laid with the mesh part face down so that my side of it was soaking with dirty storm water. That was where the weight was coming from, I thought. Surely I could lift a soaked rug, although physics was against me. Lifting the doors required raising the whole rug as it dragged against sidewalk. I tried harder, but there were rusty nails poking down through it so that the harder I pushed the more the dug into my shoulders. I made some progress with the door however, so that more of the tarp was exposed. As I did this the tarp became more of a funnel. Storm water poured down on my head. This didn’t bother me, because even if I got the doors open I would necessarily be under the exact center of the rug which had been collecting wet grime for days. I opened one side enough that I was able to dart a hand out from under the rug and post it on the cement. Finally, with a valiant thrust I raised the door enough that the rug seemed to give way. I exhumed myself from the storm doors and stood with the tarp covering my body. I felt like a child in a blanket pretending to be a ghost, except that my costume was disgusting. I threw it off my shoulders and saw that a series of cement bricks had been laid around its edges specifically to make it a difficult thing to move.

            I drew a cigarette and cursed God’s name in every language that I knew before resetting the door and tarp. Then I noticed a figure in the window of an apartment across the street watching me. I went back into the shop through the front door, and I couldn’t help imagining his perspective:

 

            I sat by the window, letting the coming storm pull the smoke from my cigarette and breath as if space itself was smoking. But below there was a black mass, a square tarp. It squirmed as if it were the ground around a planted tree about to be uplifted by burrowing vermin. What was it?

            Again it moved. A door, it seemed. A square beneath the darkest square on the block was pushing up. It heaved as if for breath. At length it rose enough that the tarp warped and beneath could be guessed a form. A human form! And then a struggling hand escaped the clutches of the tarp atop the storm door, and in an instant, a man, clad like a vagrant, and with the meanest facial hair, was birthed from whatever hell he’d come.

            He burst forth violently cursing god's name, and regained his strength, which seemed to have been as dampened by the exertion as his sweater was gritty with the muck the tarp. He lit his own cigarette.

            At that moment the power failed, and the blackness of the village consumed all but my cigarette, which came to a quick end. That was the night I decided to quit smoking.

            I searched through the window front of the shop for that creature, when I saw a young girl. A poor, innocent, mousy looking college type approaching the shop. Every nerve in my cried Flee! Steer clear of that place. Bad things happen there. Bad things are part of its very essence. But the vandal, shed of his coat that had been covered in the storm's very dregs , invited her inside. And she was lost.

           

            But not really. We kissed, a little bit. I think she may have been put off by the story I’d just narrated to her (from the perspective of the stranger). We never spoke again and that was fine. I didn’t need any deep connection, and I don’t think she did either. Which is why I try not to be profound when I write.

            Everyday life is full of adventure, and a little romance. I see people and wonder who’s adulterous, or who they loved, or what they would rather be doing if they could do anything. It makes me want to scream “Do it! You can! You have a whole world to work with!” in the same tone that my creative writing teacher once yelled “Write it!” 

Author's Note

This is kind of a retelling of an older story. Comment. Even if it's negative, let me know why.

Reviews

[Marie]

This is interesting, and something I haven't read before.

Your teacher would not like me--I never write about my own life experieces.

[Epipsychologist]

Thanks Marie,

Somehow, I think you and that teacher would've gotten along. She was very serious about always working hard and had kind of a clear cut belief in good and bad writing.