Blue Man
written by: Bruce Snyder
Alice knows she has just a few minutes before the wall appears. She hears the soft crunch and crackle of tires on gravel after which she envisions the long leg and knee of the blue man climbing out of his cruiser. Finally, if she lets it happen, she will begin to lose the world. A fog, or snowfall really, will form before her eyes and slowly, gradually, coalesce into the white cold door that her left arm is fastened to.
Already her left shoulder and wrist ache, her heart is racing, she feels the wetness under her arms, her throat and tongue are parched. She is frightened but also angry because she hates dealing with this – she’s too busy, has to finish the rooms at this end of the hall and mop the lounge floor before her night is over.
With her shaking right hand, she pulls her left arm sharply down to her side, it had already begun to rise into the position she has to take before the wall. She grabs her coat and slings it over her shoulders, gets her backpack and runs for the doorway. Outside on the cold landing she glances around, then takes out her cigarettes and matches. She drops the matches twice before finally managing to light up. She pulls up the sleeve on her left arm and can see through the mists the geometrically placed pattern of round white scars, each the size of a pencil eraser, on her skin. She chooses her spot carefully; this has always seemed an important part of the ritual. She can choose how and where to hurt herself, but pain is her only way out, her only way to stop the visions, the wall.
Over the years Alice has learned the effectiveness of pain. Pain cuts through the mists cast by her dream mind and forces her back into the present. She can deal with the pain; the wall is something else again. Once she flashes back to that she becomes a desperate child again and the pain and thirst become intolerable. So now she presses the glowing tip of her cigarette into the flesh of her forearm.
At first the smoldering end tickles, then quickly it really hurts. She has to hold the hot tip to her skin until tears come to her eyes, roll down past her nose onto her lip which she holds tightly between her teeth. The tears will wash away the haze and then the winter night will turn fully black again except for the yellow door light of the school building where she works as a janitor. She keeps pressing and quickly looks around, as much to check out the return of the night sky as to make certain she is undetected. Alice knows that anyone seeing her would think her crazy, “and they’d be right,” she mutters.
At last, she is back in the world and can stop. She smokes the rest of the cigarette while fishing a small band-aid and tube of salve from her pack. She dresses her burn. It has been a bad week. And her social worker will know it because there are two other band-aids on her arm.
Back inside Alice gulps water from the fountain and then finishes mopping the teachers’ lounge floor, empties the trash, and refills toilet paper and paper towel dispensers. Her hands are steadier now. She pushes her cart down the hall to the gym. The job suits her, she likes making things neat and she likes being alone.
There’s some sort of meeting going on in the gym. The doors at one end are open. She looks in — there’s a small group of people talking, boxes of crackers and a plate of cheese sitting on a table. It’s about six-thirty so she figures they’ll be done in an hour. Philly told her not to do the gym until after these folks had finished in there. Finished what? Philly didn’t say and she didn’t ask. Alice is almost at the end of the hall when a man looks out from the basketball court, gives her a little wave, then turns off most of the gym lights. Alice watches briefly, curious, then continues working.
She has her cart by 143’s door and brings the wastebaskets out to empty them into the trash bag. In the hall she hears the soft pulse of a drumbeat. She tiptoes back to the gym doors and cautiously peers in. Each person carries a lit candle as they walk slowly around the room’s perimeter, pacing to the beat of the drum. The people are old or older anyway, many have graying hair; some of the men have beards that have almost gone white. The women tend to be heavy, not all of them, but most. There’s one woman, short blond hair, a nice smile; Alice admires the heavy necklace and amulet she wears. After a turn around the gym, they sit down on the bleachers.
Alice ducks back to finish 143 then rolls her cart onward. The drum quiets and she can hear some talking now, some quiet laughter. She can’t imagine what they’re up to. Has a moment of fear as she remembers stories in the Globe about witches’ covens in Ohio. But these people look pretty harmless. She wipes down the boards, and the chalk trays, and throws out a moldy sandwich from one of the desks.
***
In a sunny kitchen Joyce Withers licks and seals some envelopes. The morning is cold and bright, the sunlight streaming through the large south-facing French doors warms the room and feels good. Joyce is thinking about the situation of her date with Roger, an attorney she met a few weeks ago on an online dating site, ‘Time for Us.’ He wasn’t unattractive though she did prefer men with broad shoulders. Still, he probably preferred women with waists.
She sighs, doesn’t like mirrors much anymore. There are things she’s gained (a belly, an extra chin) and a few things lost (a gallbladder, a uterus, a breast). She wonders why she’s reading profiles anyway. Since her divorce some six years ago and except for one brief summer fling (which had certainly felt wonderful until it ended leaving her hungry, withdrawing from the drugs of touch, affection, and sex) she had pretty much accepted that she would grow old single and draw strength and support from the women who were her friends, her family really. But there she is glancing at men in restaurants or on the street and now and then looking online.
She had found his profile, early fifties, a professional, single and a non-smoker. Of course, half the guys made up all kinds of stuff. But she liked his intro line, ‘writing love letters with no address.’ The notion of a creature of the male persuasion who could write something other than memos and lists was intriguing and there was a plaintive quality to the image that aroused the caregiver in her.
They texted a few times then a phone call. Hearing his voice she found herself laughing, amused. He had a sense of humor and didn’t sound depressed, and she needed that. The call ended and she tried to forget about him since he probably wouldn’t call her back anyway. But a week later he did, and they’d gone out to dinner and had a good conversation. They had embraced briefly. And once there was a connection, some sense of the person, she stopped thinking about his shoulders and his physical softness and grew warmer at the thought of touching him.
Her circle of friends was quite divided on the question of men. Most could honestly say that their lives were easier to manage and less painful with men out of the picture. Then there were the obvious practical considerations. A man in his fifties or sixties was generally a poor investment. They were going to get ill and die first and yet they insisted on younger women. They couldn’t share, were self-centered, and gassy. And they could be sleazy; Elaine had just found out that her boyfriend was being indicted for forgery and swindle. But biology was hard to deny and some of the most cynical women she knew were considering face-lifts and tummy-tucks. For what? Well…
Joyce sips her tea and looks over her to-do list. She will e-mail Ricky in San Francisco then pick up some office supplies and drop off her packet at the public radio station. Then meet Charmaine for a coffee and some catch-up time. After dinner, she’ll drive over to the high school where her book club is holding its Winter Solstice celebration. She will pick up some wine and crackers. At which point the phone rings.
“Joyce? This is Roger. Uh, hi, well, I didn’t expect to catch you home. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No Roger, I work at home but that doesn’t mean I sleep in ’til eleven.”
“Ha, yes, of course not, but well, Joyce the reason I called is about our date this Saturday, uh I don’t think we should actually go ahead with that.”
“Oh, that’s too bad Roger, did something come up? We can certainly reschedule.”
He sounded nervous, not a good sign. What had happened? Probably got a flare-up of his herpes. Or better yet, his wife had spotted his profile.
“Well, no Joyce it’s not that but rather, well I just have to face it, there really isn’t the chemistry, y’know. It’s a matter of chemistry Joyce, what can I say?” His voice is tentative, the message being, please don’t get emotional about this, just let me off the hook quietly. Roger had obviously hoped to have this conversation with her answering machine.
Joyce is silent; her thoughts bump irritably about. No ‘chemistry;’ why’d you have to tell me that? It’s hard enough for a woman my age to get up some courage without having it waved in her face that she can’t even turn on some pudgy clown who’s probably impotent anyway. “No chemistry Roger? Oh, that’s a shame. How long have you had this chemistry problem?”
“Uh, well, Joyce, I didn’t mean…”
“No, listen, that’s all right. But Roger, you should see your doctor, dear. They can do marvelous things for men these days.” Joyce almost gets the giggles. “You know, there are pills and shots; Roger, maybe you need an operation! Listen, don’t give up. Get yourself checked out and if your chemistry starts working give me a call.”
Roger is sputtering as Joyce wishes him a nice day and hangs up. She gathers her things and puts on her coat. She winces as she reaches for her purse. The scar where her left breast had been is still tender, even after six months. Its angry red has faded though, first to a hot vermilion and now to rose pink.
***
Driving into St. Paul from Bloomington Joyce tries to get into a better mood but the overall grayness of the sky, the brown slush and discolored snow, even the spattered gray of passing cars, combine to form a monotone world that dulls her, drags her down further. Since her mastectomy she’s been in the grip of a depression. Not rational at all, she tells herself. I’ll have reconstruction; look better than I did before. Surely I’ll die, if not from this, now, then of something else later and really, so what. Still, she feels the brick of fear in her chest, focuses without intending to on news of research or ‘breakthroughs’ even as she laughs at herself, knowing that the stuff that hits the news is overblown and often just plain wrong. There were still times when she could lift her head above it somewhat and enjoy an unusually clear blue sky, savor some of her good memories. But her better moods, her times of greater energy are tinged by a bitterness, an anger at her illness and this anger itself is corrosive, eating away at the good feelings until little is left.
It’s almost two when Joyce pulls into the ‘Jumpin’ Bean’ for an espresso, then a text shows up from Charmaine: sorry can’t make it for coffee, call you tomorrow. Disappointed and more than a little needy Joyce orders a mocha grande to go. She rubs the heavy Mexican silver amulet hanging from her neck and heads back to the car. She’s grateful for the Solstice party, at least I won’t be alone tonight; I don’t want to be alone feeling like this. She stops at Byerly’s to pick up the evening’s snacks.
***
As she works Alice grinds her teeth methodically. She feels the tension, the crawling feeling in her fingers which makes her want to dig her nails into her palms. Her head is tight, especially in the temples, but she isn’t sure why. What has set me off so bad this week?
When she’s not having flashbacks she can remember the blue man just as an ordinary memory and think about him and her mother and the times he would handcuff her to the refrigerator while they laughed and did whatever in her mother’s room. The handcuffs and the pull on her shoulder hurt so much but if she cried or made noise they hit her – a lot. Her left arm was pulled up to the door handle on the refrigerator where the other end of the cuffs were fastened. Her cheek pressed into the hard white surface that had actually felt sort of good because it was cold. Sometimes she would lick the door if she were very thirsty. Its coolness felt like water.
***
Eight o’clock. The people down the hall are finally leaving. Alice hears them joking, laughing their good-byes. She hears the footfalls on the stairs, the openings and closings of the large double doors to the parking lot. She knows the aged lime-green concrete floor shiny with the residues of ten thousand moppings. Alice rolls her cart past the now empty gym; she sees some half-empty boxes of crackers and she wonders if they’ve been left. She takes one. Not bad. But the room is a mess with snack foods and even a box of wine sitting on a folding table. Did Philly know they were drinking here? On the table are also small candles, all snuffed, each in its own small plastic cup. There is the faint, tart smell of smoke. Alice empties the trash, scoops the napkins and paper plates into the large hanging bag on her cart. She fills a paper cup with wine, gulps it and has another. Then she takes out her matches and lights one of the candles, turns off the room lights, and sits down in the quiet darkness to stare at the tiny flame.
***
When Joyce returns from the parking lot she has a box of trash bags and her small hand-held vacuum. She heads for the gym to straighten the room they used. Martin and Ruth volunteered to help but she prefers to be alone in the quiet building. She walks the staircase slowly feeling the imprints of the hands of so many children on the oak banister, remembering and sensing the days of fun and play but also the fear, the lostness, the hidden need for something firm and straight to lean on. The memories are just feeling tones, not too intense, remote echoes of the past.
The gym is dark; she peers in and sees that a candle is burning and the small light reflects off the face of a young woman sitting on a chair who seems to be rocking forward, her left hand held tightly under her right elbow as she reaches for the candle cup with her right hand and now draws the flame to her, until, still trapping the left arm, she holds the flame to her skin.
Joyce flicks on the lights, “What are you doing? Don’t…” She walks closer, but Alice has dropped the candle and bolted up, furious, confused.
“I didn’t do anything! Screw you,” she yells and rushes for the door pushing past Joyce and almost hitting her with the cart that she jerks along. She is tall and rangy, her eyes wide and darting, her hair brown and straight and oily. In the hall she whirls back, voice trembling, quieter now, “Don’t say anything, please! Don’t you say anything or I’ll lose my job.” She pushes the cart into the hall, abandons it, and runs for the stairway.
Joyce is in the hall calling, “Stop…please…God, I won’t tell, I won’t!” She is panting, tears starting in her eyes.
Alice stops and turns again, white-faced to glare at her. “Life sucks,” she snarls, “it stinks.” She breathes hard and then straightens up, walks the rest of the way to the stairs, and is gone.
Joyce watches her go and calls out, “Wait, no, it doesn’t stink…” Her voice drops as Alice disappears. And then to herself, “it’s just hard sometimes.” There’s more to say, but Joyce can’t find the words. Somehow it’s okay to find life lacking, missing, failing, and yet to still want more, to eagerly ask for more, another year or even a few. She returns to the messy room, sits down. Then after a minute she picks up the candle, breathes the curl of smoke from its drowned wick, and starts to clean up.
***
Days have passed, two weeks almost, and somehow, impossibly, a brief thaw has slipped past the icy heart of this Minnesota January. Joyce walks the River Road with her parka unzipped. The sun is nearing the tree line across the river to her right, the moon high in the sky to her left. From five below a few nights ago the temperature has zoomed into the low thirties and puddles have appeared. This is a moment of relinquishing, of allowing. Light and a bit of warmth have returned to the earth and some of the water, freed from the ice and snow, slips back into the ground. In the unaccustomed brightness the trees stand stark as spindles, topped with abbreviated tufts of broken twigs and branches that extend in crazy shapes and angles. Fright wigs. Cartoon witches. As the sun lowers, shades of orange and red are cast about on furrowed bark and on the brick and stone of the homes across the street.
Joyce is passed by runners, some in jeans or sweats, some in brightly colored Spandex. Dogs tug at leashes; there are baby carriages, cyclists getting sprayed by passing cars, cars dodging puddles, and drivers blinking in the light diffused by the dried grit on their windshields. She walks slowly sensing the promise in this false Spring, notes with amusement how warm thirty degrees can seem after one has been really cold for a long time. She gets to her car, climbs in, and heads to the store. Has to get some stuff for dinner.
And then she’ll try again to reach Alice, the janitor at the school. Joyce got her number from the office and has called her but so far Alice either doesn’t answer or hangs up. Yesterday she maybe listened for a bit before slamming down the receiver. And she hasn’t blocked Joyce’s number. Joyce just wants to talk, one wounded woman to another; thinks or maybe hopes she can help, understands she has much to learn.
The End
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