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III
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14 III For several days afterward, I muddled about in a pervasive gloom, riven by thoughts that were strange to me, and mostly unable to work. One night, still in the grip of my malaise, I struggled through an uneasy sleep, waking once, then again, then finally for good in the blackest part of the early morning. Outside my living room door, the hallway creaked with old building noises and a feeble light appeared in a crack at the bottom. Without turning on any inside lights, I went to my ninth-floor vantage and looked out. Below me, the city was breathing quietly. The street, a clogged and suffocating boulevard by day, was empty of cars. Not one passed for more than a minute. A few lights came from closed businesses but none shone from the adjoining apartment buildings . There was not even a bus or a cop at this time of night. Where were the city dollars going? I wondered. I pulled a chair up to the window and continued to look out. Since I am not one for staying up much past midnight, the scene at this irregular hour was captivating. I must have lingered at the window for forty-five minutes looking into the murk even though there was little activity on which to focus my attention. I realized that I would have liked to talk with someone about my recent experiences but I also knew there was no one I could engage in this. Not only could I not explain myself or my feelings, but my mostly self-contained lifestyle has left me generally free of significant company for the past several years, a fact I’d only recently Scott Brown 15 begun to realize but whose potential consequences were looming larger in my consciousness. For you had to watch it while living alone. Isolation freed you from the gauntlet of daily scrutiny but it could invest you with irregular personal habits. Like peeing in the shower (I didn’t) or cutting up shopping bags to use as coffee filters (I sometimes did). Accumulate too many odd behaviors and your solitude would be ensured, something doubly true if you began to have your groceries delivered or attached yourself to pets. Every once in a while, such a person died and the newspapers would make much of what was found inside their homes. It was then that I suddenly thought of calling my ex-wife, Stella, for though we are divorced, we have remained on friendly, if distant terms. And though we separated over an infidelity (hers, with a meagerly talented sculptor), the fact that she eventually married the man made it easier for me to absorb the split and undertake a partial friendship. At any rate, I’ve held no permanent grudge. In retrospect, I’ve wondered how great my commitment was to her, as well, and whether this played a part in her eventual leaving. After a few more moments, I reached for the phone and dialed. She now lived in New Jersey with the sculptor, Rodni, and ran a small photography studio. Though it would be early morning there, they both were early risers, getting up everyday to greet the dawn or some such spiritual nonsense. Likewise, my voice would not come as a complete surprise. Though we rarely spoke, occasionally we exchanged letters and always she sent me holiday cards—for Christmas , Rosh Hashanah, Kwanzaa, the Muslim holy days, the Chinese New Year, etc. One year she mailed a greeting for the summer solstice. Opening it, I could not help but smile at how seriously she took matters of the earth. “Hello?” She picked up immediately and her voice sounded older than I remembered. Did mine sound the same? “Stella, it’s Ben.” “How nice, Ben. I was just thinking about you. Listen, what was the name of the place where we used to get the jerk chicken? It could make your tongue bleed.” [3.236.145.110] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 00:33 GMT) 16 Far Afield “Bistamante’s.” “Bistamante’s, that’s right. I knew you’d know.” She yelled the name of the restaurant over her shoulder, then came back to me. “So. So how are you?” “Not so good.” “You sound nervous.” I then told her about the dead man. Though it was a long tale I left out no details and elaborated more than I usually do (normally , I am the most direct of storytellers). Oddly, while...