Numbers
She sees the signposts and thinks of rain. The wires overhead remind her of dead birds. And she counts. Each car has its own numerical value assigned to it, each vehicle has its own deeper meaning. She could never stop counting. Each license plate with numbers had to be calculated. License plates with words, and no numbers, were a nuisance because they did not say anything. Only numbers spoke.
When she was seven, she found a spider on her bed. She was in the bed at the time, the covers drawn up tightly around her because she felt safe that way, when she saw it. Right on her belly, a spider as big as her thumb. In later years she would remember it being as big as her hand. She pulled the pink floral bedspread up around her even more, as if this would make her safe. She considered trying to scare the spider off, or somehow getting it to fly off the bed by moving her belly, but thought she'd be just as lucky to have it come flying at her face. She thought of inching up, from underneath it, but when she started to, the spider moved forward also.
She couldn't call for help. She never called for help, no matter the circumstances. It wasn't allowed.
Instead, she fell asleep, as if she could just take a break from spider watching and when she woke up it'd be right there, waiting for her to take action. But when she woke up it was gone. She looked around the bed, thinking it had come up closer to her face. When she saw nothing, she jumped up quickly, certain it was in an even worse place. She tossed the blankets aside and saw no sign of it. She looked on the floor, and still no spider. She ran her hands through her hair, certain it had gotten in there somehow. There was nothing.
For days afterward she would look for that spider, certain it had not left her alone. She could not be that lucky. No, the spider was still there, somewhere, hiding, waiting, and at night she would lie awake and wonder if this time, this night, the spider would come back and watch her sleep.
Years later she would recall the spider and think of it in the present tense, as something that was always with her, though it had no doubt died long ago. She knew it was still there, somewhere, waiting for her, and so it never left her.
She sees numbers in people. There, that person over there? With the baseball cap and the cigarette? That's a 7. The short woman with the heavy makeup and the orthopedic shoes? A 4. The little boy with half his ice cream cone on his shorts, the other half melting on his hand? A 12.
The numbers don't mean anything, at least nothing she's aware of. It's not as if she's grading them on appearance, intelligence, age, wit, or vitality. She's not even assigning the numbers herself. The numbers are just there for her to see. When she first realized that no one else could see these numbers she was astonished, perplexed, and more than a little frightened. Her mother had always said she was odd, and wasn't this the proof of it?
"The proof was in the pudding," her mother had always said, which meant nothing to her at the time and even less so now, and seemed to have nothing to do with anything at all, but it came back to her anyway. The mournfulness of her mother's tone, the heaviness that seeped through the air, the displeasure on her mother's face whenever she looked at her. It was not a pleasant memory, nor was it painful. If anything, she found it a comfort. Things were what they were, and she had reality to hang onto when there was nothing else but numbers to keep her mind occupied.
"An idle mind is the devil's playground," her mother also said, usually when she, the child, was daydreaming, a habit the mother said was good for nothing but trouble. But daydreaming was one place where she felt welcome, so she did not stop, and didn't care whose playground it was. Even now, in her twenties and driving down the highway counting cars, she still daydreamed. She imagined places where there were no numbers, where the sky never had that grayish cast that indicated rain on the way and, even worse, sadness, and where she did not have to get up early every day to drive to work.
She daydreamed about leaving home, though she'd done that years before. She dreamt of not just leaving home, but being free of it, free from the strictures of expectations, free from the knowledge of who she really was. She dreamt of the possibility of change within herself.
And when she arrives at Pt. West, she sighs. She gets out of her car and into the rain, which has begun with a steadiness that defies the randomness of rain, and she goes in to begin another day behind a desk with numbers her one constant friend.
When she was seven, she found a spider on her bed. She was in the bed at the time, the covers drawn up tightly around her because she felt safe that way, when she saw it. Right on her belly, a spider as big as her thumb. In later years she would remember it being as big as her hand. She pulled the pink floral bedspread up around her even more, as if this would make her safe. She considered trying to scare the spider off, or somehow getting it to fly off the bed by moving her belly, but thought she'd be just as lucky to have it come flying at her face. She thought of inching up, from underneath it, but when she started to, the spider moved forward also.
She couldn't call for help. She never called for help, no matter the circumstances. It wasn't allowed.
Instead, she fell asleep, as if she could just take a break from spider watching and when she woke up it'd be right there, waiting for her to take action. But when she woke up it was gone. She looked around the bed, thinking it had come up closer to her face. When she saw nothing, she jumped up quickly, certain it was in an even worse place. She tossed the blankets aside and saw no sign of it. She looked on the floor, and still no spider. She ran her hands through her hair, certain it had gotten in there somehow. There was nothing.
For days afterward she would look for that spider, certain it had not left her alone. She could not be that lucky. No, the spider was still there, somewhere, hiding, waiting, and at night she would lie awake and wonder if this time, this night, the spider would come back and watch her sleep.
Years later she would recall the spider and think of it in the present tense, as something that was always with her, though it had no doubt died long ago. She knew it was still there, somewhere, waiting for her, and so it never left her.
She sees numbers in people. There, that person over there? With the baseball cap and the cigarette? That's a 7. The short woman with the heavy makeup and the orthopedic shoes? A 4. The little boy with half his ice cream cone on his shorts, the other half melting on his hand? A 12.
The numbers don't mean anything, at least nothing she's aware of. It's not as if she's grading them on appearance, intelligence, age, wit, or vitality. She's not even assigning the numbers herself. The numbers are just there for her to see. When she first realized that no one else could see these numbers she was astonished, perplexed, and more than a little frightened. Her mother had always said she was odd, and wasn't this the proof of it?
"The proof was in the pudding," her mother had always said, which meant nothing to her at the time and even less so now, and seemed to have nothing to do with anything at all, but it came back to her anyway. The mournfulness of her mother's tone, the heaviness that seeped through the air, the displeasure on her mother's face whenever she looked at her. It was not a pleasant memory, nor was it painful. If anything, she found it a comfort. Things were what they were, and she had reality to hang onto when there was nothing else but numbers to keep her mind occupied.
"An idle mind is the devil's playground," her mother also said, usually when she, the child, was daydreaming, a habit the mother said was good for nothing but trouble. But daydreaming was one place where she felt welcome, so she did not stop, and didn't care whose playground it was. Even now, in her twenties and driving down the highway counting cars, she still daydreamed. She imagined places where there were no numbers, where the sky never had that grayish cast that indicated rain on the way and, even worse, sadness, and where she did not have to get up early every day to drive to work.
She daydreamed about leaving home, though she'd done that years before. She dreamt of not just leaving home, but being free of it, free from the strictures of expectations, free from the knowledge of who she really was. She dreamt of the possibility of change within herself.
And when she arrives at Pt. West, she sighs. She gets out of her car and into the rain, which has begun with a steadiness that defies the randomness of rain, and she goes in to begin another day behind a desk with numbers her one constant friend.
posted by Monique @ 11:22 AM
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