Jewish World Review July 21, 2005 / 14 Tammuz
Malaise, a short story
He no longer looked up when he walked out of the office building into the evening. He felt the sauna heat and went on, gazing straight ahead. He used to dawdle. Now he walked purposefully, as if he knew where he was going.
Once he had looked forward to this time of day, with the sunshine a last scrawled gash across the sky, or maybe diffused high above. He remembered how sunsets had been the sudden burst of light in the summer, the almost refreshing feel of the sultry, unfiltered air. The unconditional Southern air of deep summer that let you know where you were. You walked out the door and into dead air. Nothing stirred, and yet something did, inside.
Soon the lights in the other office buildings would come on against the encroaching dim. For a moment there would be a feeling of escape into the night. The sun would have released its grip. But for now there was only the accumulated heat of the day, pressing down like the past.
Above all, literally above all, there was still the sky. The beauty and ordinariness of it had become too much to contemplate. He was tired of entering into all that, and then having to emerge from it.
Now he preferred to watch where he was going, rather than just meander. He had learned something: Anything that elevates, or recalls the past, or gives you feelings at the end of the day, will demand things of you eventually, just you wait. Things have their own agenda and will not let you be.
He experienced the weather now mainly over the radio, the way he did traffic jams something to avoid. He wished he could go through just one day without news, the incessant news, and its unspoken demand that one have an opinion about it. Why?
No, he did not need a vacation. He needed vacancy.
Imagine: They were still talking about taking the Confederate Battle Flag off state flags. Once he would have been outraged. He used to stand up when the band played Dixie. He had been able to re-fight every battle in The War from Bull Run to Five Forks. But they never turned out any different. It grew tiresome, this endless rehashing. He meant no disloyalty to the past, but it did hang around like a bum looking for a handout.
Why have a flag at all? Symbols divide. Wasn't it time to let the past be the past at last? Forget? Hell, Yes!
They the ubiquitous always brutish They had turned the flag into something else long ago, not an ode to the Confederate dead but something with which to taunt the innocent living. They'd made it a bogeyman to scare little boys and girls, a symbol to make some afraid, others swagger, and embitter everybody. They could never leave the holy alone. They always wanted to use it for their own purposes, to make some kind of a political statement out of what should have been beyond politics. But nothing is anymore.
Just now he felt like the old soldier in Stonewall Jackson's famous foot cavalry. The general had found the old boy straggling along in the rear, and asked if he was all right. All the old soldier would say was, "Oh, I'm all right, Gen'l but I'll be damned if I ever love another country!"
All he wanted was a hurricane-ravaged stretch of beach you would hurry by in a car on the way to Mobile or Pensacola or Santa Rosa Island. A no-place with no name. It would have nothing that you would get attached to, or sacrifice for, or reveal anything at all. He yearned for anonymity the way others do for fame or power or talent.
He could picture it now: just the tide and the sand. The kind of sand you could shift with a garden rake and find nothing, nothing at all. No seaweed, no driftwood, not a seashell. No view, no picnic tables, no palm trees. No pink flamingos or painted starfish. No name.
The place he was looking for would be just another bend in the road. You'd zoom past it at 75 mph and never see it. That was the sine qua non for a retirement spot, that no one would notice it. That it would have no distinguishing features. Because you could never tell what you might get attached to.
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