The Inspirational Tower

Ian and Sinead have something in common: they both have Hyperacusis, a rare condition of the inner ear that makes everyday noises painful.

Chapter Two -- Sinead

I’d first heard about the Tower on May 5th, 2016, which was a Thursday.  It was a chilly day for early May.  I wore a long-sleeved sweatshirt, Canary Yellow, that read ‘Couch Potato’, though I was nothing of the sort.  I never truly understood the joke of this sweatshirt.  Obviously, the shirt is trying to be ironic.  Maybe it’s that sweatshirts were originally intended for exercise and a couch potato would want to avoid that at all costs?  Who knows?  Nonetheless, it was my absolute favorite.  

Being a writer, I was constantly traveling to the library.  To me, the library was the best place to better my writing, my outlook on life, and, most importantly, myself.  Though it was a thirty-minute drive to the library, I commuted there three times a week.  And on a writer’s salary, this was wearing down on me, what with gas, snacks, and more gas.  I mean, the cost of living isn’t getting any cheaper.  I’m scraping by as it is.

But I go anyway.  I go and I love it and I pay for the gas happily.  I eat stale or cold hot dogs from the 24/7 gas station between me and the library and slurp my slushy drink peacefully.  Because I do it independently.  

I crave independence.  And this makes my life harder.  I know it does.  But it also makes me a little bit more comfortable in my skin.  I can sit in my small RV camper, sip my coffee, eat my popcorn at the end of each day and know that tomorrow I will kick a*s again and again on my own.  

But, back to my fascination with the library.  I go three times a week for more books.  I read four to five books a week and I never have a late fee.  I rent movies twice a week, which also takes quite a bit of my money.  But it’s worth it.  It’s entirely worth it.  It couldn’t be any more worth it if it wanted to be.  Because, as a Hyperacusic, movies, books, writing: these things are my life.  They are all I have.  They are all I truly have to look forward to.  So I hold them close.  Maybe a little too close.  Maybe not.

The library is quiet.  The amount of quietness at the library I love is heavenly.  For a Hyperacusic or someone who has a heightened sensitivity to everyday sounds, the library is the perfect destination.  It’s an added bonus that I simply love books, learning and writing.

Usually, I check out fiction novels first.  I do go to the nonfiction section more often, but fiction is the best.  I look at the New Releases, the few shelves of movies they offer and then slowly scan each of the book shelves to see if anything catches my eye.  I am very much one of those people who judges books by their cover.  I can’t help it.  If the cover bores me, the book probably will, too.  Even though I’ve found that this isn’t always the case, it typically is.

Leaving the fiction section with a book or two, I head for the nonfiction.  Here, there are people sitting at computers on Facebook or writing papers.  Most of them are large people.  People who haven’t bathed.  People who are wearing dirty clothes.  People with tiny facial tattoos.  There are never any teenagers here to speak of as I had initially suspected.  Usually balding men or too-skinny women.  I should know.  I’m here every week.  

There is a children’s section of this library that always has popcorn popping so you smell warm butter as soon as you climb the short staircase in front of the entrance.  They show kid’s movies, have a reading hour, computer classes, things like that.  Thankfully, that is held in the back of the library, downstairs, and away from me.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind children.  It’s their laughter and high-pitched voices that do the damage.  My sensitive ears cannot stand it.

But in the nonfiction section, I find books on art, funky hats, Spanish, French, Cajun French, 9/11 and books on Office Yoga.  I also love checking out test preparation books, like for the SATs, though I’ve never taken any of the tests I’m technically ‘preparing’ for.  I love taking tests when there is no fear of failure.  I like to learn.  And I love English.  The SAT prep book has great English test questions, though their vocabulary words could use some definite improving.  There is nothing challenging about them.  Immaculate?  Derive?  Placate?  These are not challenging!

I also like checking out baby name books, usually for new and interesting character names.  Though, I do think about what I’d name my children.  I like the name Sophie or Sophia for a girl.  I cannot decide on a name for a boy.  Maybe Christian? Andrew? Ian?

Picking character names is trying enough.  I can’t even think about what I’d name a baby if it were even possible for me to have one.  With Hyperacusis, it would be torture if my baby cried anywhere near me.  All that high-pitched wailing would send me through the roof.  What kind of mother could I be if I couldn’t be near my child for the first, oh… what?  Ten to eleven years of its life?  Though the thought of having a baby makes my heart swell up to four times its original size, I know it’s not possible.  

Anyway, back to the Inspirational Tower.  I read about the Tower in a book entitled, ‘Wonders of a Small World’.  I scanned the images inside, looking at highly decorated mansions and paintings that I didn’t particularly like, nor dislike, of naked women holding babies and tall skyscrapers.  The book didn’t make much sense to me.  What was the theme? Things from all over that United States that the Author of this book found interesting?  Okay.  I can live with that.

But thankfully, one of the things this particular Author found interesting was the Inspiration Tower.   At first glance, it wasn’t much to look at.  In fact, at first glance, it looks like a lighthouse.  I’ve never been very interested in the look of a lighthouse, so I scanned over it, ignoring the deep blue sky surrounding the tower and the waves of tall grass beside it.  It’s the name that catches my eyes.  Inspirational… Tower?

The skinny building stood stock-still with plain red and brown bricks for an outside and measly tin roof.  Nothing was on the front of the building other than a small sign reading ‘Inspiration Tower’ in a bulky black text.  It didn’t look very inspirational.  It looked like a dump.  What was in the background, as well as the lovely sky and grass, was certainly interesting.  A tall statue stood, kneeling in the grass, his paint fading and his base chipping, his long arms extended toward the tower, presenting it to everyone that pulled into its parking lot.  The statue was a boy, maybe eleven years old, grinning from ear-to-ear like he had just joined the best circus known to man.  He wore a blue striped t-shirt under red and white overalls.  

Also, three Native American statues stand, raising one arm each, with large head-dressing and fading gray and blue paint.  I stare at the picture for a long time because of the boy statue and the Native Americans.  Then, I read the description beneath the photograph.  

‘Randall D. Sheekey, 51, of Charleston, South Carolina owns the Inspirational Tower, a four-hundred-foot tall building he’s affectionately named for his deceased daughter, Janet.  Located on Sheekey’s twenty-acre piece of beach land, the tower holds thousands of pieces of inspirational items, such as paintings, pottery, sculptures, poetry, drawings, books, musical equipment for free use, free wifi, etc.  Need to alleviate writer’s block?  Haven’t written a song in years?  The Inspirational Tower, which is chocked full of interesting images, sounds and people collected from all over the world, will certainly aid all of your creative needs.’

I wonder what happened to his daughter?  She must have been young.  My brow furrows.  That poor man.  You can see the sadness in his eyes.  That tower… is it all he has left?  I stare at his face for a long moment and decide I will check this book out and look this tower up on the internet the moment I’m home.  Leaving the library with my books in tow, all I can think about is that tower.  I toss my ears muffs onto my head for protection against traffic that travels beside the library and to protect from the sharp noises that come along with opening the car door, tossing my books into the backseat and then shutting my car door once I’m inside and buckled in.

My curiosity festers.  I wonder the entire drive home what could be inside that tower to spark my creativity.  Would it help my writing?  Would it inspire me to paint more?  Would it inspire me to do something I’ve never done before?  I’m interesting in photography… I’m sure there are gorgeous images there just waiting to be gawked at.  

Once I’m home, my ear muffs still on, I carry my book inside, shutting the door behind me carefully and move around my small camper, setting my books on the slightly cluttered kitchen table. I live on five-acres of land that I, as well as my family, own and have owned since the mid-seventies. The not much, but it’s mine.  I grew up here and now have decided to plant myself here while I protect my ears.  

My camper sits in the middle of plush grass with flowers growing all around it that I’ve planted in the last few years: calla lilies, carnations, roses, etc.  I’m surrounded by woods with only a handful of quiet neighbors, like Bill, who is a farmer and Willie, a man who owns numerous horses, live on either side of me. The Marshs live across the road, along with the Montgomerys, the Barnetts, and the Clarks.  They all live in modest homes except for Bill, who lives in a large mansion-type home with acre after acre of beautiful forest and farmland. We all live about ten minutes from our small town of 1,000 people.

I move through the three-foot kitchen decorated in oranges, two-foot living room area, which is decorated in yellows and blues, past the privacy curtain, which is black, and into my bedroom area.  There is simply a twin-sized bed here, a bedside table where my laptop sits, two tiny windows, a compact plastic container in the corner where my clothes are kept and a short bookshelf on the wall that is overflowing with novels. This is my nook, my home. It’s where I’ll stay for who knows how long, hidden away in the woods where I live.

I research the Inspirational Tower, growing more and more fascinated.  Apparently it’s a hot spot for art dealers, writers, filmmakers, etc.  Even celebrities have visited the tower.  An indie movie was shot there.  I read about the scene that partook.  Two brothers short on cash visit an old family friend who, in the film, owns the tower. They chat, he refuses to give them money and a fist-fight breaks out.  All that was shot in the inspiration tower.  Wow.  What a place.

I begin to map out how far of a drive it is from Doniphan, Missouri to Charleston, South Carolina, though deep down I know it’s a long shot, me getting there with my ears and my wallet in one piece.  Long, long shot.  But is it doable?  Can I road trip safely?  Travel is nearly impossible for people with Hyperacusis.  It’s dangerous.  The fear, the stress, the pain I would go through worrying about my ears being damaged and then if I did suffer damage… I shudder at the thought.  I struggle to put the tower out of my mind.  After all, this isn’t the first time I’ve been tempted to venture outside for more than half a day.  What a fantasy that is.  Leaving the house without fear, without hearing protection, without worry.  What a fantasy that is, indeed.

I turn down the lights, make myself some popcorn and a cup of Blueberry Green Tea, snuggle into my bed and turn on a movie with my laptop.  I keep it low, only on four out of a hundred. That’s as high a volume as I ever turn my laptop.  Any higher and I’d have an ear ache for sure.  Inside my camper, there is usually no need for hearing protection and it’s a relief to lie in bed and not have to wear large black ear muffs like you would wear to a shooting range.  I let myself rest, eventually falling asleep with my movie running, no louder than a whisper, in the background.