The Lighthouse Keeper

The Lighthouse Keeper

By

Harlow Flick

The dirty brown river rolled through the cold November night on its way to the sea. He looked from the frosted windowpane of his home, down upon the busy city street. It was always alive, with its people and businesses. Rustling shoppers, gray businessmen, couples linked at the arm, animated teenagers, and invisible street people hustled past with purposes and destinations in mind.

They were drawn by the Victorian Card Shop, The Liberty Bell Café with its steaming pot of coffee sign, the Jewish deli, Phil’s liquor store with its flashing “Spirits” sign, St. Matthew’s Catholic Church up the street, and the Quill Pen Bookstore beneath his apartment.

The old street of single proprietorships and humble dwellings stood with individuality against the shopping malls, chain stores, and condos. This little street made its stand against the homogenization that was taking place, but was giving way to the mass buying power of corporate America. There was now an office block, an Everything’s a Buck, and a McDonald’s where the hoagie shop used to be.

Echoic sirens regularly stabbed the night, and battered yellow cabs whisked passengers literally a few dozen feet away, yet seemingly worlds away. He watched an old lady in a scarf shuffle stiffly past, a bowed and humble nun, and a postman with a bouncy gait.

At one point, two young women argued as they passed. Each was bent forward at the waist, waving their arms, and spitting words from angry faces. Perhaps they were two corners of a love triangle. He felt a twinge of guilt for doing nothing, but there was nothing to be done. The two argued their way up the street and out of sight.

Looking out that window was like watching television. It created the feeling of interacting, but he could detach himself by simply drawing the curtain. It was Friday night, like so many in recent memories, where options were few, and staying home seemed the easiest. Earlier, he had dined on a yuppie meal of “fresh” frozen pasta with a prepackaged basil plumb tomato sauce, and a modestly priced California red wine. He tried to make the Friday dinner a little special.

He had filled the cartridge of the CD player with Rubber Soul, Revolver, Sergeant Pepper, The Magical Mystery Tour, The White Album, and Abbey Road. He was once again in a Beatles phase, something that came and went over the years. He used the random play feature so the songs were shuffled and played in no particular order. A coffee stained copy of “For Whom the Bell Tolls” was open, and face down on the lamp table.

His apartment was a place to be lived in; warmly lit, comfortable and cluttered with personality. The furniture was wooden and rustic, with big soft cushions that fit the human form. There was a fencing foil, an Aladdin’s lamp incense burner, a wise faced half-moon night light, a ship engraved pilsner glass, a grandfather clock that hadn’t worked in years, a graphite Fenwick fly rod, a Count Dracula coffee mug, video cassettes including “Sid and Nancy” and “To Kill a Mockingbird,” a seafarer’s world globe, and an intricate paper model of a lighthouse that stood sentinel on top of a bookcase.

On the wall were pictures of Picasso’s gaunt anti-hero Don Quixote, and Van Gough’s windswept “Starry Night.” A picture of Maria Vasquela smiled from her frame. With each year of sponsorship, the charity sent a new photograph that he layered over the old one. A lot of yuppie possessions, and Maria to absolve the guilt, he sometimes thought.

The number of families and couples increased for a moment, which meant that the Celluloid Heroes Theater had let out. It showed films from every movie-making decade, and drew patrons from all over the city. On that particular evening, it showed “A Night at the Opera,” starring the Marx Brothers.

“Penny Lane” began to play in the background, and the sunny summertime theme brought back the feeling of cruising the streets of suburbia while mounted on the banana seat of a metallic blue, five speed Schwinn Stingray Fastback. He missed the uncluttered mind of that time, when there was only mystery, music, magic, and wide-eyed wonder. Adults, with all of their worries, were one-dimensional backdrops, much like the houses, streets, and telephone poles. Now he was one of those adults.

A two-toned city bus stopped at the corner, where it discharged and admitted passengers. The bottom half of the bus was a dull, dark green, and the top, a dirty cream color. A Virginia slims ad which pictured a phony contemporary businesswoman was plastered to the side.

From his perch, it was as if he could smell the toxic emissions belched from the exhaust. He heard the air brake release, and the bus was on its way. One of the discharged bus riders caught his eye. John Lennon began to sing, “Dear Prudence, won’t you come out to play?”

She glided up the pavement: slender, erect, graceful, and dignified in full-length coat and beret. He saw the mist from her mouth as she breathed, warm and moist. The stage was set. “Knock down walls and build bridges,” the thought crossed his mind.

A hesitant, wishy-washy decision was made, the kind that often forever alters the future. He quickly tugged on his black toned down biker boots, black trench coat, and descended the fourteen steps. He gave a cursory nod to the spider that lived in the upper corner by the door, and was out on the street.

He scanned for her with urgency, even though he probably lacked the nerve to do anything. How does an introvert approach a stranger, he wondered, and get the desired result?

She was ahead of him on the opposite side of the street. He crossed and followed. She stopped to peer in the window of the Golden Age Antique Shop. For an instant, he wished he were that window, being frosted by her warm breath. She continued on.

Several people came and went, but the street wasn’t crowded. He didn’t much like crowds because they made him feel small and unimportant, like an individual gnat inside a swarm.

She walked past Key to the City Locksmiths, The Queen of Hearts Bakery, and crossed Gordon Drive to the next block. The marquee for the Celluloid Heroes Theater hung out over the sidewalk, advertising The Marx Brothers in bold, black letters.

She stopped at the booth, took her ticket from the slot in the window, and passed through the glass doors. He hesitated. He could go inside, or return to his home. This seemed juvenile, but what could be worse than sitting at home all evening, every week. He paid the matronly blue-haired cashier six dollars, and entered the warm lobby.

It was a pleasant old theater with personality, and only a little run down. Real brass trimmed, varnished wooden columns ran from ceiling to floor, and brass rails guided patrons to the real wood concessions stand. Hundreds of brass-framed photos of stars decorated the faded burgundy velvet walls. There was Gregory Peck, Ava Gardner, Spencer Tracy, and Olivia De Havilland, as well as less known stars like Mary Steenbergen, Malcolm McDowell, Ida Lupino, and Huntz Hall.

This collection was a great American work of art, and he usually scanned for his favorites, but on this occasion his eyes searched for the woman. He glimpsed her forest green coat and matching beret, just before she disappeared through the door, carrying popcorn and a Dr Pepper.

He wove through the people, crossed the lobby, and entered the theater. Coming attractions played. Next week would be “Midnight Cowboy,” and the next “The African Queen.” He waited for his eyes to adjust before proceeding. She must have sat down quickly.

He looked for people sitting alone. He spotted a smooth head, a somewhat bushy one, and one a little beyond half way down, still wearing a beret. Her choice of seats was excellent; close enough to be dominated by the screen, but not so close that you had to look up.

He filed in to the row behind her and sat two seats to her left. The legroom was plentiful, and the seat cushions receptive and covered in vinyl, which he preferred to cloth, because you never knew what kind of organic matter had been absorbed in cloth.

She sat quite erect, and her long straight hair gleamed in the light when the screen showed a bright scene. He discerned the silhouette of her delicate face, with its small nose, angular chin, puff of cheek, and thin upper lip supported by a plump lower. He leaned forward to see if he could smell a fragrance, but popcorn and the complex smell that goes with a large public building were all he detected.

His mind wandered, and he fantasized about living in a lighthouse on the English coast with this woman, warning mariners of the treacherous rocky shoals. They stood together on a blue-sky day and scanned the North Sea. He wore a captain’s cap and a jacket with gold braiding and epaulets. The sea breeze tossed her tresses and pressed her white gown so that he could see the form of her perfect little breasts.

It was a very spiritual fantasy. How could anyone not be moved by the presence of the sea, unless it was down in Jersey, where they sometimes closed the beaches due to high fecal count? He then imagined stepping out of the Atlantic with a piece of designer toilet paper plastered to his chest. He was embarrassed by his sappy Harlequin romance fantasy. Life is no Old Spice commercial where you proudly strut while whistling that sea chantey.

The fact that he lacked the nerve to even speak to her wormed into his thoughts, and that depressed him. He wanted to break the isolation, but this possibility seemed a long shot. What to do? A letter would allow him to communicate thoughts he could never verbalize. No paper, no pencil. His apartment was five minutes away. The show just started. Settled.

He found the usher in the lobby.

“I have to leave for a while. Will I be able to get back in?” he asked.

“Just show your ticket stub,” said the usher.

He hustled down the street and collided with a man who wasn’t watching where he walked. He dredged his mind for things he would write. He knew it wouldn’t be a bunch of generic crap about fireplaces, candlelight, or quiet evenings at home, like he saw in the personal ads.

Once back in the apartment, he flipped on the CD player so it wouldn’t be so quiet. He grabbed a spiral notebook, mechanical pencil, and flopped on the sofa to spew the stream of consciousness words.

He told her exactly what had happened. He began with “Dear Prudence, won’t you come out to play?” because that pretty much summed up his aspiration. He told her how he had become a bit reclusive and isolated, as can happen in our society, but like everyone, he was hoping to connect with someone. He didn’t want to end up some crazy old guy sitting on a park bench, talking to squirrels. He hoped this line sounded somewhat humorous rather than somewhat desperate.

He made a list of things he particularly liked; Chinese and Indian food, fly fishing, bicycling, pro football, art galleries, The Kinks, boots, those Australian hats where the brim snaps up on the side, bookstores, England, Fawlty Towers, imagination, living in the moment, but not necessarily living for the moment, Mystery Science Theater 3000, coffee, sky blue, and snow owls. He also listed a few dislikes; car phones, fax machines, Hee Haw, yuppies, cliques, social classes, black and white thinking, and electric garage door openers.

He concluded by stating that he was taking a chance, and he hoped that she would also take a chance. He then listed his home and work phone numbers. He tore the pages from the notebook, folded, and stuffed them into an envelope.

His handwriting was so child like, he hoped she would be able to read it. Smudges were left from erasing. He wondered if neatness counted. He hadn’t gotten the message exactly right, but there was no time for editing.

As a last minute thought, he decided to include a photo. He pulled the shoebox from the shelf in the closet and rooted for something suitable. He almost chose a shot of himself in a suit, but decided he looked too stiff in his accounting uniform. Instead, he chose one taken on a fishing trip last spring. It was more the way he saw himself, though he looked a bit mussed. In it, he wore shades, and his hair stuck up, but he beamed his lopsided grin with the deep creases that ran from the side of his nose to the corners of his mouth, like parenthesis. He was more of a Basil Rathbone than an Errol Flynn.

He descended the fourteen steps two at a time, and covered the two blocks back to the theater in mechanical strides. He felt all kinds of doubt, but was resigned to the task, regardless of the outcome. It was like going to the dentist. The appointment was made and now it was best to get it over with. The stakes were high. After all, there are only a few big things that we play for in this life.

He flashed the ticket stub at the usher, crossed the lobby, and entered the dark theater. Again, he had to allow his eyes to adjust.

The people who sat nearby were there, but she was gone. He retook his seat. He felt a mixture of disappointment and relief. This was the easy way out. He stuck his hand in the trench coat pocket, and forgetting the photo, crumpled the envelope. What a dumb idea this was, he thought.

And then she returned. She had only gone to the rest room. A little lightning bolt of adrenalin fired through him. He decided not to give the letter to her, but then regained his nerve. He removed the envelope and tried to smooth it with the palm of his hand. It didn’t look so good.

The film played on for what seemed an eternity. He physically and mentally squirmed the entire time. The woman softly chuckled whenever Groucho got off a good one.

Finally the credits came, and people streamed toward the exits, but she remained seated until the final frame, and the lights came up. He got his first good look at her face. Nature had given her a slight twist that had kept her from being beautiful by common standards, but to him, it gave her a depth that was more appealing.

“She is a perfect fit,” he thought.

He stood and numbly walked to the end of the row, waiting for her to pass. Back at college, a friend had frankly told him that he often wore a hardened expression, and that it made a misleading impression. There in the theater, he forced a smile to combat this, but he felt artificial.

“Hello,” he cleverly said.

She flashed a weak and distant smile and passed without a word.

He rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

“I’m about as suave as Goober,” he thought.

He stood dumbly as she exited the theater. He felt absurd, chasing this stranger, and this somehow lightened the moment. He set off after her.

Outside on the sidewalk, she was a good twenty paces ahead. The night air had gotten still colder. By the time he reached her side, she was already on the far side of Gordon Drive.

“My name is Terry. I see you around sometimes,” he said.

He accidentally lied about seeing her around, but he kept on going. He was thankful she did not question that remark.

“I’d like a chance to get to know you. Maybe we could go for a casual dinner sometime, or cheesecake and coffee, you know, just to talk. I’m not a nut or anything. I mean, I’m a little cracked, but not dangerous,” he babbled.

At least she made eye contact while he spoke.

“Oh, I’ve written you a note. I’ve tried to tell you about myself,” he said.

He pulled the envelope from his pocket and handed it to her. She took it and turned it over a time or two.

“Thank you,” was all she said.

They reached the bus stop, where they stood awkwardly for a moment. His sentences came slowly.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your bus. I guess I don’t really have anything else to say now. I hope to hear from you. What is your name?” he asked.

“Julie,” she said.

“Good night Julie,” he said.

“Good night,” she said, almost like a question.

He turned and walked away. His heals clicked loud on the sidewalk, which made him conscious of his step. Since walking comes naturally, thinking about it made him feel awkward.

He retreated to his home and pondered the happenings of the evening. He alternated between basking in the joy of hope, and wallowing in doubt. He was half realist, and half romanticist.

The next week followed as routinely as ever. Work was particularly demanding and stressful. He constantly juggled a workload that required quantity and quality. He figured that if Julie did call, it would be at the home number. She would want to see if a wife answered the phone, but no call came.

That Friday day night, he resumed his perch and observed the street life. Actually, he watched for Julie, but she never passed.

The next week came and went as well. Friday came again. Late that afternoon, he returned to his office after a pessimistic budget meeting to find the light on his phone flashing, meaning voice mail. He almost didn’t retrieve it. It was probably someone wanting something that he preferred to put off until Monday.
The message was simple.

“This is Julie. We met two weeks ago at the theater. I’m going to see “The African Queen” at eight o’clock. If you can go, meet me in the lobby before the show,” she said.

Adrenalin shot through him like electricity, completely altering his mood. He was alive again.

That evening, he polished his toned down biker boots, ironed a deep purple cotton shirt, and nervously passed time until 7:30, when he left for the theater.

He sat on a bench in the lobby and anxiously waited a long twenty minutes. She entered at five till eight, wearing the long coat and beret. He stood, and she walked to him. Her face was lit with a warm and genuine smile, and he returned his lopsided grin.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Julie said.

“You look pretty. I’m glad you called,” Terry said.

“Well, your note did it. You’re different. I know that much already,” she said.

There was a pregnant pause, the kind that happens when two strangers are circling one another.

“Katherine Hepburn is my favorite actress. See, there’s her photo, up there, in the corner,” Julie said.

“Yeah, I like the ‘African Queen’ and the chemistry between her and Bogart. I’ll get us popcorn and drinks,” Terry said.

He bought a large bucket of greasy popcorn and two syrupy Doctor Peppers. The two entered the theater and took seats about midway down. It was a nice film to be watching on a cold December night. A connection had been made.

About thirty minutes into the film, Terry noticed Julie’s hand on the armrest. With out planning the move, he gently placed his hand over hers, and wrapped his fingers under the palm. Her hand was thin and smooth with long digits. To his pleasant surprise, she slowly curled he fingers around his.

Terry felt in a way that he hadn’t known in years. There, in the darkness of the theater, in the cold city, with the dirty brown river rolling seaward, he felt the mystery, music, magic, and wide eyed wonder.

His mind drifted, and he dreamt of being a lighthouse keeper.

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