essence of iodine (which always reminds me of my veterinarian father)
mixed with bygone cleaning supplies and old-fashioned floor wax. Not that
anyone has cleaned this room, or entire unit, for years, but the isolation is
exactly what I want. There are over fifty buildings on this campus, and I
can’t believe my good fortune in finding a no-fuss, no-drama, study
bastion.
Looking out the window of this scholarly domicile, through crooked
blinds with broken strings, I see the massive Bell Memorial Hospital of the
University of Kansas. It’s actually the fourth hospital to bear the name, but
this 1979 edifice is massive and modern, constructed of white concrete
slabs and large window panes with exposed vent tubes and interior
stairwells that recall the Lloyd’s of London building. Its exterior is lit by
flood lamps, and the contradiction between its modernity and my little
brick building, shadowy and quiet, stirs something monkish within me,
invigorating contemplations of the inner workings of the human body.
Lost in thought, memorizing the origins and insertions of the muscles
around the shoulder joint, I faintly hear a scratching and clanging sound
emanating from the hallway. As happens when you’re isolated and alone,
an odd sound supercharges my senses, and I feel like a sonar technician on
a submarine. The reverberations of a sandy-scraping and metallic knell
are unfamiliar and disquieting; now I’m fully attuned to the shuffle-
shuttle-clang coming my way. The hallway outside my room is dark, and
turning in my chair to face the doorway, an inky silhouette dissolves into
view, accompanied by the syncopated motif.
Adjusting my eyes, I am gazing at an aged, friendly African American
woman, bent-over and crooked, bearing the scars of years of labor and
arthritis. Her black leather “old lady” shoes are worn and unevenly
eroded owing to her angled and warped knees and ankles. Her brown dress
is a little ragged, and her black overcoat is draped over her sagging
shoulders, an odd clothing choice for August, but typical for an urban
woman getting dressed for an important meeting or church. In her
leathered hand is a rusty length of rebar, the textured metal rod used in
construction sites. This explains the clanging sound I heard emanating
from the hallway, but the heavy metal rod seems like an odd choice for a
cane, with no handle and its significant weight.
Out of breath and disoriented, the woman’s relief matches mine, hers
from having found a living soul in this vacated building, and mine from
marcin
(Marcin)
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