I turned down a quiet little side street and began to walk toward the river. The noise of the Eighth Avenue traffic began to subside and then faded into the background. A cool, slightly wet wind was blowing in my face and bending the naked branches of the trees slightly; somewhere far away a clock chimed. A sense of expectancy seemed to hang in the air. The wind subsided and there was a moment of stillness; then it came: soft, light drops of rain falling noiselessly on the remaining snow and on me.
I ducked into a doorway and watched as the colors around me gradually deepened their hue—the red bricks of the houses, the brown tree trunks, the metallic colors of the cars became richer and more intense, as if rising to a higher plane of existence. I found myself thinking that this was yet another signal from God, a signal in which He seemed to be saying, “You've never noticed my world before, have you? It's richer and more beautiful than you thought it was, isn't it? You've always been rushing by, not noticing, but now your life is going to change, become deeper and more beautiful just as these colors have.”
It was then that I began to see that God loved me not passively but actively, and an image formed in my mind. This image was that I existed on a number of different levels—as a personality, as a biological being, as an employee, a consumer, a physical entity taking up time and space, and on many other levels—and that God had put all these levels together in such a way that they could all be referred to by the same words—“Punkin Miller.”
But—and this was the crucial thing—I saw that He hadn't done this once and for all time, but that rather it was a process which occupied Him continuously: God was continuously engaged in putting me together, sustaining me and making me whole on a second-by-second basis. In other words, He was engaged in loving me on a second-by-second basis. How did I know? By the fact of my continued existence; by the certain knowledge that if God ceased to love me for even a micro-second that I would come apart and vanish instantly like a pricked balloon.
The rain stopped and I began walking down the street again. As I walked along it seemed impossible that a day could be so beautiful, so bursting with magic and possibilities. The very air itself seemed to be filled with a spirit of love, like a delicate perfume revealing itself, and I felt like shouting to the people who passed me: “Don't you see how beautiful everything is? Don't you see how beautiful you are?”
Every sense was heightened in that stillness. When I passed an occasional tree, for instance, I'd stop and minutely examine a leaf as if I'd never seen one before, or I would listen very patiently to the rustle of the wind through the leaves, trying to analyze the various components of the sound. There were times when I had to restrain myself from repeatedly jumping up in the air. But the most extraordinary sensation was a feeling of quiet radiance inside me, a feeling of exotic joy mixed with an all-pervasive sense of peace, as if I contained within myself a beautiful, still lagoon at whose edge I was always sitting. There were moments, too, when the sense of my happiness was so overpowering that it seemed as if time had come to a stop and that this one moment in which I was suspended was all of time from the beginning of the universe to the end, a moment in which the universe's only reality was my joy in being alive.
Then a funny thing happened. Down the street came a police car, its siren going. I watched it race by me with its official insignia and its large fishing-pole antenna and its flashing blue lights, and for one split-second I thought it was coming after me. But it just went on by. Nevertheless I couldn't help thinking about my whole situation with Hotchner and the police and I began to worry again. I didn't want to worry, but I couldn't get the whole Hotchner thing out of my mind.
He's working on the case now, I thought. Right this minute he's working on it. Putting little details and clues together like a jigsaw puzzle. And when he finally gets it all together, when he finally figures it out—what then? He'll come for me and what will I do then? No, no, I shouldn't think about this, I know that...
And I tried to return to the state of mind I'd had just a moment before. And it was then that I realized something had happened, because I caught myself thinking that I must return to that state—and discovered it was almost no longer there. Or rather, slipping away. It wasn't that anything was changing—no, the world looked exactly the same. But what it meant was changing. I looked at things around me—trees, cars, sidewalks, people—and the trouble was that they started to be just themselves again. I was losing the grasp of the feeling that they were a manifestation of God's love.
I stopped right then and there and did everything I could to get that feeling back again. I walked over to the edge of this apartment house I was passing and leaned against the red-brick wall and closed my eyes and concentrated on just feeling It. But It wouldn't come back. It seemed right on the verge of coming back any second, but I couldn't actually recapture it.
Maybe a minute went by. I opened my eyes. A bus went by. It was just a bus—noisy and dirty to boot. I looked at a man who was passing me on the sidewalk. He smiled as he passed and seemed pleasant enough, but the trouble was that he was only what he seemed to be—a nice, smiling, pleasant man. I closed my eyes again.
Dear God, I prayed, help me to get that feeling back. Help me to get back to You. Don't let it slip away from me. It was only a moment when that police car passed me and I started worrying that I—
I stopped because I had the curious feeling that I was praying into a void, that there was no one listening, that there was no one there at the other end of the line.
Oh God, no, I thought.
I opened my eyes and the prosaic world hit me again. Streets, buildings, people, sidewalks, clouds—all just objects, merely objects.
It seemed as if I had a fever suddenly. I went to a nearby park and sat on a bench and looked down at my feet. For some reason it seemed terribly important to study my shoes at that moment, and I remember looking carefully at the color and shape of the leather, the texture of it, the eyelets of the shoes, the laces.
I sighed and looked up at the branches of a tree overhead, listening to the wind blow through the naked branches. I listened very hard to the breeze, until I realized that what I was really listening for was a sign of It behind the breeze, in back of it, beyond it. But all I heard was the breeze. I was waiting to hear God in the breeze, but that feeling wouldn't come back.
And why should it? I suddenly thought, feeling rather depressed and irritated. Perhaps it was all just my imagination in the first place...
I stopped myself because I didn't want to pursue that line of thought. Oh God, I said silently, Why? Why has it gone away? But again I had the feeling that there was no one at the other end of the line, that I was just saying words.
Everything seemed to just come to a stop. I didn't want to think any more, I didn't want to see or hear anything, I didn't want to be. Leaning back against the bench, I just let time go by. Perhaps half an hour passed.
Yes, perhaps it was all just my imagination, I thought when I sat forward again. But how could that be? Am I a little looney or what? Is my mind playing tricks on me? I don't understand my own mind, I swear I don't! But—I—how is it possible that I could get these feelings?...and then go back again to where I was? What is the matter with my mind? I'm confused, I swear I feel a little feverish...I may have a touch of fever, in fact... I think it's possible to go too far with this “sign” business...
Getting up, I walked through the small park and then out onto the street again, feeling rather dazed. I couldn't help gazing at all the objects around me—objects, just objects, nothing more. Everything seemed so commonplace and dull. I must have really had an overworked imagination, I thought, to see anything more in all this than just what it is.
...Yes, yes, I think this whole sign business can be taken too far. After all, I thought, anything can be a sign if you look at it the right way. If you see garbage in the street you can see it as a sign that God loves you because He put the ugly garbage there to remind you that the world is beautiful.
...You could find a sign from God in anything, but that doesn't mean it really is a sign from God, but—rather—well—just that I think it's a sign. If I go to someone's house and come across a dead-end street on the way I could say to myself, “Ah ha, a sign—it means that person is a dead-end for me.” If I see somebody fall down and break a leg I could interpret it as a sign that I had better be careful. Anything can be a sign, but I—that is—it doesn’t necessarily mean that these signs are valid. What am I thinking?...I feel funny, I swear my mind is a little looney... I feel a little dizzy in fact...
Feeling a need to sit down again, I stepped into a little coffee shop and ordered a cup of coffee. The coffee was hot and dark and bitter-tasting. I swirled in some cream and tried to think, but couldn't for a moment. Then I found myself just thinking over and over that I was foolish and a sucker, that I'd been had, I'd been swindled—and by my own mind. I sipped the coffee. What is the matter with me? I wondered. What is the matter with my mind? No, no, no, I mustn't think like that...
Sitting there in the coffee shop, I mulled the whole thing over in ten thousand different ways, but finally, after all that had happened, in place of it all was left a core of dry, reluctant amusement at the whole thing and an arid, worthless, intellectual conviction that “God loves everything.”
Feeling deadened and dull, I caught the eye of the waitress and ordered an English muffin. When it came it was soggy because of too much melted butter on it, so I ate only the edges of it and passively watched people walk to and fro on the sidewalk outside, their collars turned up against the cold.
Yes, “God loves everything!” I said silently and sarcastically to myself. Even me, I suppose. And what are the consequences of that? I imagine I'm supposed to “love” everything in return like a puppy or a schoolboy. That's what Sarah would have me do, no doubt. I would “love” everything, including Fern and Bartlett, Jessup and Detective Hotchner.
...Ha-ha! Better that I should go throw myself down the incinerator than do that...an absurd idea...my cat...and why do I keep thinking of “God”? Why can't I get this fictitious entity out of my head? “God loves everything,” indeed! Am I to understand that something that doesn't exist loves everything? Ha!—I'm ready for the looney bin, I need some fresh air...
I grabbed my coat, paid the check and went outside. I walked east across 13th Street and then aimlessly around the Village. As I walked a cop came into view standing on the streetcorner of 6th Avenue and 8th Street, and Hotchner once again came into my mind and I settled into the old routine of anxiety and worry.
Oh Christ, the police, I thought. They're looking into this thing day and night, it's inevitable they'll find out. Won't they? Hotchner is sure to arrive at the truth sooner or later, why doesn't he hurry up? Why does he keep me waiting?
But then a second thought occurred to me and I froze in the middle of the street. Oh Jesus, I wondered, is he toying with me? Does he know but he's delaying arresting me so he can prolong my torment? Arrest me! Arrest me, Hotchner, damn you! How dare you wait and delay like this?...what am I thinking?
I started walking again very slowly.
I must consider very carfully whether I'm mad or not, I thought. Have I lost my mind...or not? What was I thinking of a moment ago? Oh yes, “God's” love. And I should love everything in return, shouldn't I? I could even “prove my love” for Hotchner by turning myself in, couldn't I, Sarah?—ha! It all fits together neatly, and...and I must consider seriously whether I belong in the looney bin or not. I think I do...my head's in a whirl...arrest me, Hotchner, damnit! Why do you keep me waiting? Why? No, I mustn't think this way...I need some peace so I can think things out clearly and above all cleverly...I must draw conclusions...I must take action and stop this waiting...Action! Action is what is called for!...I won't go through this waiting any longer! I won't! I will not wait for you, Hotchner! I won't! I won't! I'm going to “love” everybody and think cleverly—ha!...and stay out of the looney bin...why won't you make your move, Hotchner?...get it over with?...
Hardly knowing where I was going, I wandered the streets almost aimlessly—almost, but not quite. At the back of my mind I kept asking intermittently if I was really going to a “certain place,” but then at moments I forgot all about the “certain place” and simply walked aimlessly. At last, however, the building confronted me.
Without knowing whether I was doing so out of spite or out of despair, I climbed the steps of the “certain place,” climbed to the second story and walked down a corridor. Nobody stopped me because I looked like I knew what I was doing and walked with a determined gait, but inside I was quaking. A thousand times while I was in the corridor I asked myself if I wasn't going to turn back and each time I kept walking forward only to ask the question again. Finally I stopped at a “certain room” and looked inside; he was there.
I thought: I won't wait for him any longer, damn him!
Without knocking I walked in and sat down gratefully in a chair. I hid my hands behind my back because they were shaking so badly.
Hotchner, who was sitting at the table writing, looked up and saw me. A look of surprise mingled with displeasure crossed his face. He half stood up.
“Well ... my dear fellow, so glad to see you and so forth ...but...I'm in the middle of something and...well...hmm... could you tell me briefly why you're here?”
I pounded my fist on the table. “I won't wait any longer, Detective Hotchner! Do you hear me? I won't!”
Hotchner seemed taken aback. He stepped backward and eyed me warily. He glanced in the corridor to see if anyone was passing by. I went and shut the door.
“No of course you won't wait,” Hotchner said uncertainly, “but...ah, what is it you won't wait for?”
“You know perfectly well what!” I shouted, pounding my fist on the table again. “I tell you, I won't wait! I won't! I'm warning you! I'll go into the looney bin if I wait any longer!”
Hotchner gestured at the table.
“My dear fellow, would you mind pounding on the wall? The tape recorder's on the table, you see, and it's rather sensitive...”
“Damn the tape recorder!” I roared, standing up and pounding on the table again. “Do you think I care about that? What's that compared to the looney bin? And therefore...I won't wait! I WILL NOT WAIT ANY LONGER!”
I sat down clumsily on the chair and eyed Hotchner, who gingerly picked up the tape recorder and placed it on the floor. Then he reluctantly put his papers away, sat in his chair and gave me a thoughtful look, as if really seeing me for the first time. As he studied me with a puzzled expression I could feel the words “strait jacket” forming in his mind. Finally he spoke up:
“The looney bin? Eh...why won't you wait?”
In response to this I got up, walked around to where Hotchner was, stood approximately at attention and held out both my hands palms down, ready for handcuffs.
“Arrest me,” I said.
Hotchner looked at me with a bemused yet slightly awed expression.
“ARREST ME!” I repeated.
© 1998 by james sloman
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