I had imagined myself there, so when the job came
open I bid for it eagerly. I thought it was the opportunity of a
lifetime and my chances were pretty good. The man retiring
from the position had held the job for more than twenty years. I thought
I might be able to do the same. I know what you're thinking -- a mail
room job? The mail room is where people begin, not where they end. But
it wasn't just any mail room job. I wasn't just a sorting clerk. The
office was a one-person operation. The job had an independent contractor
kind of feel. I was management and I managed a single employee --
myself. That's the way I liked it.
The job was at a professional school at a major
university in the Midwest. In addition to mail receipt, sorting,
metering, and shipping, I also copied all the course packs. Whenever I
had down time, or whenever I was just standing there as the machine
copied, there was always something interesting to read. The material
wasn't really my kind of thing -- it didn't speak to my guts -- but I
have an active intellect and enjoy learning new things. The reading was
a perk that I appreciated.
I'm in my fifth year now, and everyone appreciates
my service. I am earnest and prompt and rarely make mistakes. My salary
is generous for the kind of work that I do, and I can easily see myself
here for the next decade, if not until retirement.
I guess I like a settled kind of life. A sense of
regularity and security. I'm single and have never really dated. I don't
have a "rap," so I'm pretty much out of the meat market. What could I
say to a woman in a bar? "Hi, honey. I'm a mail clerk and I don't have a
car. You want to take the bus home with me?" I have no illusions about
this. If I had a stronger sex drive I'm sure I'd try to pick up a
desperate girl in some trashy place, but I'm not a real macho type.
Although I'm middle class, I consider myself a kind of amateur
intellectual. I read the New York Review of Books religiously and I’m
always reading a novel. I keep a journal, although I doubt my thoughts
are any contribution to the world's knowledge.
I don't cook for myself. I used to, but it's just
such a hassle. Besides, there are plenty of places in the neighborhood.
Lest you think this narrative is not leading anywhere, I do have a story
to tell. Just a light one, that takes place at a restaurant. It's just a
pleasant memory that I thought I would share.
There is a café at the professional school where I
buy fruit in the morning. I drink coffee like a fiend all day so I keep
a brewer in my office. At lunch I'll have a sandwich and some chips. At
night I like to go to a Greek diner that is on my walking path home from
work. It's called the Valhalla -- I know, it’s not a Greek name, but the
ownership is Greek.
The Valhalla really thrives at breakfast and lunch.
The place is always crowded and the waitresses and cooks are run ragged.
Sometimes on the weekends I'll go for breakfast and get a little taste
of this. But at night the Valhalla becomes a whole different place. How
can I describe it to you? You'll think it's funny when I tell you why
the place appeals to me.
First of all, the overhead lighting is rather dim.
So it gives the place a subdued atmosphere. Second, they play mawkish
pop music that is decades old over the speakers. For some reason that
kind of dated, innocent pop strikes me as poignant during an evening
meal. Accentuating this sense of nostalgia is the clientele. There's
nobody under forty in the place at night. If you're young and you want
dinner in the neighborhood you would go to one of the lively student
joints where they serve big pizzas and novelty sandwiches. You don't
come for turkey and gravy with mashed potatoes at the Valhalla. You have
to have been born in the '40s or '50s to have that kind of taste in
food.
It’s actually the palpable sadness of the place
that appeals to me. Although most of the evening customers must live in
the neighborhood, they lead completely anonymous lives. None of them are
recognizable. People pass them on the street all day long without a
glance, and yet they assemble here together at night, a brotherhood and
sisterhood of sympathy and melancholy. There is an expression in
Japanese, mono no aware. It's an aesthetic concept that
translates as "the pathos of things." The Valhalla at night could be
exhibited in a museum somewhere in Kyoto as a perfect embodiment of
mono no aware. In case you're wondering, yes, I went to college. A
lot of good it did me.
I sometimes wonder about my sensitivity to the
Valhalla. No matter how many times I eat here the sensation of pathos
never wanes. I can feel the pervasive morbidity in my nerve endings from
the moment I enter the place. I doubt that anyone else in the restaurant
feels this way. I imagine they just think of it as their kind of place,
or just as a nice neighborhood spot. But it's so much more than that. It
is a vortex for everyday, casual failure. It would be impossible for any
reasonably successful person to enter the Valhalla at night. There is a
force field of some kind that would prevent it. Everyone who eats there
works a dull, degrading job and makes barely enough to squeak by. Sure,
some of them have kids. But do they ever call or write? Forget about it.
I suppose this kind of sensitivity is supposed to
have something to do with art or maybe religion. Baudelaire could have
included a few stanzas on the Valhalla in Flowers of Evil. Poe
could have imagined a character that ate there every night and then went
home to some bizarre, lonely vigil. But the funny thing is, I'm not any
kind of artist and I suppose I'm an agnostic, although I don't really
think about salvation or ethics. It's a personal quirk, a funny little
gift that I have; beyond the physical reality of the Valhalla I can
sense the metaphysical reality. Maybe that is how people began to
formulate metaphysical schemes in the first place, because of some kind
of instinct, like the one I have.
It's my inclination to sit at the counter when I go
in, but a waitress will encourage me to take a booth if one is
available. The waitresses recognize me and, I think, have a kind of
sympathy for me. Especially if there is a window booth open. They always
like to have bodies in the windows. A funny thing about the waitresses:
I used to notice this one who was always there. She never seemed to have
a day off. And then one night I look up and see her standing at a table
taking an order and at the same time sitting at the counter calculating
her checks! Quite some trick. I asked the owner, who is always there to
ring you up when you're done, and he said that they are his nieces, and
that there are not only two of them -- there are three! Triplet nieces.
Can you imagine? They all work part time and go to school. Only at the
Valhalla in the evening would you have the uncanny presence of triplet
nieces.
As far as ordering goes, I generally order the
special. This gives me some variety in my diet. Besides, I figure if
somebody goes to the trouble every damn day to come up with some special
dish, the least I can do is to eat it. What can I say about the food? It
is palatable American fare, the recipes probably dating back three or
four decades. I always clean my plate, using bread to mop up the last of
it. I don't get dessert. I don't have a sweet tooth at all.
Well, the reason I have a story is, things started
to change around the Valhalla. It was gradual at first, as with so many
changes. But I started to notice tables full of kids there on some
nights. Very unusual. They would come in a little after me, say 6:00 and
later. And they had a certain look, like a tribal similarity. They were
like punk kids, like artists. They had piercings and fauve-colored hair.
They wore leather or skate punk or goth clothes. They didn't really
misbehave but they had a lot of energy, just typical of kids that age.
They wiggled in their seats and they teased one another and were
sometimes loud. They drank endless cups of coffee and sometimes writhed
or sang along mockingly with the dated music. It gave the place a whole
different vibe. The quality of being pathetic is a subtle, quiet trait
that can be easily dissembled. Their liveliness grated against the
pathos.
It took the better part of a winter quarter, but
finally one day during the early part of spring I came in and sat down
and watched the place fill up yet again with these kids. And I realized
that a definitive change had taken place. The Valhalla had become a
bohemian hangout. The Valhalla at night, against all the odds of the
cosmos, had become a hip art scene. I didn't know what to make of it.
Should I give up on the place? What about my cherished special sense?
How could these kids just barge in and ruin that for me? Where else
could I go?
And so the story happens on one night when I got
there just after work and was seated in a window booth. A half hour
passed and the place filled up with kids. I was ready to take my last
bites and to linger over another cup of coffee when I saw a woman about
my age come in through the foyer and stand by the register waiting to be
seated. I looked at her face and was struck. She had a certain aspect
that elicited a sense of camaraderie in me. I wondered at that. It was
unusual. She looked slightly vulnerable and politely unsure of herself
as she waited. One of the triplets approached her and looked around with
a menu in her hand. Between the regulars and the kids there was no place
to sit. But there I was, all alone, hogging a whole booth. The waitress
flashed me a look and then walked up to me. Before she could say
anything I gestured to the woman. "Please. Have a seat," I said. "I'm
almost done." Something about her unaccountable familiarity made me
bolder than usual.
"Oh no," she said, shaking her head. "I couldn't.
Something will clear in a moment, I'm sure."
"These kids stay here all night," I said. "They
just drink coffee and talk. Please have a seat here. I'll be gone in ten
minutes."
"Well, that's awfully nice of you," she said. "If
you're sure you don't mind," and she stepped over and slid into the
booth opposite me.
Up close this woman had a "countenance," for lack
of a better term, that was really striking. She had rich, flame-red hair
that was pulled back, and a pale face, lightly freckled, that looked
very mature and intelligent. She had an air of dignity that was very
simple. I knew she was my class of person. The dignity had nothing to do
with wealth or status. It was just an inherent quality. I knew this
woman took everything she did seriously and that she was earnest and
forthright. I was impressed with her. I don’t mean to say she wasn’t
attractive. She had pretty, balanced features, but they were trumped by
her nobility. She was a class act. A man would never whistle at or goose
a woman like her. Instead you’d be honored if she were the mother of
your children. I wanted to talk to her. I was certain she was
interesting.
All my life I’d had a strained, unnatural looking
smile. It showed in pictures. Something about the shape of my face. But
I turned it on as best I could and introduced myself.
"My name's Katherine," she said, and then she
hesitated a moment and finally extended a thin hand across the table. I
admired it as I shook it. It was a privilege.
"It's nice to meet you, Katherine," I said. "I come
in here a lot but I don't recognize you. I'm just curious. Is this your
first time at the Valhalla?"
"Not my first time," she said. "But you're right.
I'm not a regular." She looked around a moment, apparently checking to
see if a waitress or the owner was within ear shot. She said, "You know,
this may sound strange, but sometimes this place gives me a funny
feeling. I wouldn't really know how to describe it.”
I couldn't believe what she'd said. I was so
overwhelmed I didn't know where to begin.
"No, no," I said. "I don't think that sounds
strange at all. I used to get the same feeling myself." Then I thought
better. "Well, I don't know if it's the same feeling. But I used
to get a definite vibe off this place. It's what used to draw me here
night after night. Have you read Fleurs du Mal?"
"No. I don't believe so," she said. "Is it
poetry?"
"Yes," I said enthusiastically. "It's poetry about
places like this. At least places like the way this used to be. You know
I think I've witnessed a change recently. If you look around you'll
notice that we're actually part of a hipster scene. This place has
become like some joint out of Kerouac."
"Oh, my word," she said. "The Dharma Bums. I
remember reading that when I was a girl. I thought it was scandalous."
This charmed me. To imagine this classy dame as a good-looking teenager
curled up with Kerouac. I wished I could have been there.
"That's funny," I said. "Yeah, that's a good one.
But I don't know. I think I might have to find some place else to go at
night. It makes me a little sad."
The waitress appeared and asked if Katherine was
ready to order. "What's the special?" she asked. It was fish, and she
took it. So we had a couple of things in common. The Beats, the special.
I thought these were good signs.
"So you're not married?" she asked.
"Oh, no," I said, raising my hands with open palms.
"I'm afraid I'm a terminal bachelor. I work on the campus and live in
the neighborhood. I just walk back and forth to work. Do you work
downtown?" I asked.
"No," she said. "I work at the Index in the
neighborhood. Have you heard of it?"
"That organization in the church?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "We index articles about religion
from a variety of journals according to subject matter."
"Yeah, now that you mention it. I used to know a
guy who worked there. His name was Cooper. He was like a perpetual
student in divinity and he worked there part time. You're not a student,
are you?" I asked.
"Oh, no," she said. "I spent many years of my life
studying but I only have an undergraduate degree from a small school." I
was a little surprised. I figured her for graduate school, maybe in fine
arts.
"But you like to study on your own?" I asked.
"That's great. I'm like that too. What do you like to read?"
"Well to tell you the truth, Fred," she said. "I'll
tell you something about myself. I'm only six months defrocked, you see.
I was a Poor Clare for ten years."
A little charge went through me. This revelation
suddenly answered a lot of questions. "A nun?" I asked, sitting up
straight. "No kidding? You used to be a nun?"
She laughed. "That's right," she said. "There's no
need to be so shocked."
"Oh, I'm not shocked," I said. "I'm just a little
surprised. I mean I've never met someone who's left an order. I mean
it's very interesting. Do you mind my asking about it?" I felt good,
like I could sustain my uncharacteristic boldness with her, like she was
only becoming more familiar to me.
She looked down. "I suppose not," she said. "What
would you like to know?"
"Well, you have a calling right? You went through a
process of discernment. Isn't that what they call it?" I asked.
"Very good," she said. "You seem to know a lot."
"I watch EWTN at night sometimes," I said. "You
know, on cable. It's the Catholic network. They have shows about this
kind of stuff. I find it fascinating."
"A calling to holy orders can be the definitive
experience in a person's life," she said. "It is a fascinating gift from
God."
"But," I hesitated. “If you had a calling from
God...," and I trailed off. If I were God I would’ve called her too. But
I never would’ve let her go.
Just then the waitress appeared with Katherine's
dinner and set it before her.
"Enjoy it," she said and walked off.
Katherine huffed a short breath. "Then why did I
leave, right? Is that what you want to know?" she asked.
"Well, I mean it's just logical that I would
wonder," I said, raising my shoulders to indicate innocence. I was dying
to know.
She chuckled. "You know we're getting to know an
awful lot about one another over a random meeting."
I blanched a little. I didn’t want to make her
uncomfortable. "Oh please, please," I said. "You don't need to say
anything to me. I was just making talk. I'm a lonely bachelor. Take some
pity on me." I laughed.
"Pity used to be part of my profession," she said.
"You know, Fred, there's nothing so complicated about it, really. I,
like all religious and many of the lay faithful, communicate regularly
with God. Do you understand what I mean?" she asked.
"You mean you pray a lot," I said.
"Yes," she said. "And prayer is often a two-way
scenario. People sometimes don't understand that. As I speak to God, so
does God occasionally speak to me."
"Well that must come in handy," I said.
"It's not a joke," she said.
I regretted the off-handedness of my remark. I had
actually meant it sincerely. I didn’t doubt her for a moment. No one
would doubt this woman. "Oh, you bet it's not," I said. "I could
certainly use a little holy advice every now and again."
"Well if you make the effort it can be yours," she
said. "And anyway, Fred, in recent months I felt certain that God wanted
me to disavow an aspect of my vocation." She looked at me directly.
"That is, my celibacy."
I felt my neck become warm. "Wow," I said. "That's
some advice."
She laughed and her cheeks showed a little color.
"I believe it's my calling to be a wife and mother at this point in my
life," she said. "And this means a great change and a great challenge
for me. To be blunt I'm not a young woman, and my history with men ended
ten years ago."
I laughed. "So you better get cracking," I said,
smiling, hoping she would take it in good humor.
She smiled pleasantly. "Yes. I'd better," she said.
"Can you recommend any sincere, eligible men my age?"
My boldness got the better of me. "I would say
you're looking at one, but I'm probably not your type," I said. "I don't
have much money." I had developed the opinion years earlier that women
generally liked a lot of money. Nothing wrong with that, just put me in
a bad way.
"Well I would first need to understand your strange
attraction to the Valhalla, I suppose," she said. "Frankly I found the
place rather depressing. And you'd probably expect me to read Fleurs
du Mal."
"Actually, I suppose I would steer you away from
that one," I said. "How about Tropic of Cancer? We could both
read it and then have a little date to discuss it, maybe over some
wine." I smiled.
"Tropic of Cancer was a scandalous, banned
book," she said. "Because it was dirty."
"Well, I'm just trying to start you off on the
right foot," I said. More than anything I could think of I wanted this
woman to be charmed by Henry Miller, courtesy of my suggestion.
"Some foot," she said. "Let me eat my dinner in
peace. I thought you were supposed to be done."
"Oh, I'm done, all right," I said. I chuckled to
myself then I lifted up and pulled my wallet out, all the while looking
at her face.
"Will I see you in here again?" she asked.
"You know," I said. "I think my Valhalla days -- or
rather, nights -- might be over. Can I maybe call you?" I thought this
came off like a cliché, and that she deserved better, but my experience
was limited and I was doing the best I could.
"Why don't we meet for lunch on Monday?" she asked.
"At the little market with the deli. I go at 1:00." Of course she came
through with a good, level-headed suggestion. I was grateful.
"Well, thanks for the offer," I said. "I'll be sure
to meet you there."
"Are you an admirer of Henry Miller?" she asked as
I stood.
I considered it. "You know he was a failure into
his thirties. But then he made good in Paris. He latched onto his own
special sense and he jotted it all down. I have to say I admire that."
"You mean he found his muse," she said.
"Yeah," I said. "I suppose he did. Maybe that was
God's way of talking to him." I smiled. "Well, I'll see you then."
"Goodnight, Fred," she said.
"Enjoy your dinner," I told her, then I walked up
to the register. The old special sense had left me but I seemed to have
an inkling of something new.
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