Before heading out I open my mailbox to get yesterday’s mail. I pull out a medical bill and a large glossy sheet of card stock, on one side of which is printed in big block letters, white on black, ALL THE LONELY PEOPLE, WHERE DO THEY ALL COME FROM? On the back it reads 58% OF AMERICANS ARE NOW LONELY, with the website for a local church beneath it. I give in to curiosity and look it up on my phone. “OUR VISION: to love Portland as Jesus loves us.”
I throw the flyer in the trash, and check the free pile. On top of a roll of carpet sit two CDs, one by Bowling for Soup and one by Hiroshima, and a small wooden stove that looks like it was made for a dollhouse. I chuckle at the odd pairing of CDs, but pick up the stove. It’s handmade, painted off-white except for the knobs and burners, which are blue. Two of the burners are crosses and two are circles. Its door opens, attached by two incredibly tiny nails. When the door shuts, it makes a warm little knock. I open and close it again and again -it’s a very satisfying sound- then head outside.
The air is cold and wet, it feel like it wants to snow. I walk very slowly down the slope into the holler. No one is around. The only movement comes from a pair of juncos hopping around, oblivious to the countless piles of dogshit.
Mark is on the porch of the coffee shop, two little dogs sprawled across his lap. The dogs look like Muppets, impossibly fluffy. Mark was a submarine captain, but not during any wars. Now he walks dogs. He’s a car nut; he owns a DeLorean that doesn’t run and a Lotus that does.
It’s too cold to sit outside but I do anyways. A pair of sneakers dangles from a wire; they’ve been there for years. Miniature daffodils bow their heads. I feel disgusted with myself. I ought to be writing poetry, not reportage, but I can’t seem to work the magic that transforms one into the other. My life, already small, has shrunken to a size I didn’t think possible. I sip my coffee and tell myself I’m okay with this, that there are worse things than an uneventful life. So I’m not the rich, famous artist I was supposed to be, is that so bad? I take the stove out of my bag, open and close the door a number of times, set it on the table. The door keeps falling open and I keep closing it but it won't stay shut.
I trudge back up the hill, winded by even this bit of exertion. I have been ill for so long and there’s no end in sight. The latest side effect is that my vision is shot. They assure me it’s temporary.
What’s wrong with reportage, anyways? With my bad eyes, I will notice every pathetic little thing, will write it all down for…for what? What is the point of this accumulation of details, these ridiculous lists? What is the point of remembering the Swisher Sweets wrapper, flattened on the pavement, the moss on the parking lot curb stops, the sign with a cartoon of a tow truck crying big, fat tears as it tows a car away? Why remember the painted over boobs, still faintly visible, on the wall of the power station? The three cans of dog food sitting on a tree stump? The metal bucket filled with cigarette butts, hanging by a chain from a bike rack? The puddle shaped like a wing?
What does it all add up to?
Nothing, it adds up to nothing. 58% OF AMERICANS ARE NOW LONELY. I feel weighed down with everything I carry around inside, yet completely hollow.
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