FALL OF 1993
I did what I was told. I followed the yellow flags down the path the Drunk Tailor had pointed, just right after I said my goodbyes and told them that I can drink no more. He offered a lodge for me, free of charge, despite the mumblings of the Matron, saying how she would have another room to clean the following day. This I politely refused, not only to spare the Matron of additional chores and the fellows her wave of grumpiness, but also I would like to spend the night alone, in the woods perhaps, despite the darkness, despite the stories about wild bears. It was the respite I was probably longing for for a long time, although I have to say that I did enjoy our little party inside their ale house; the sound of Paquito's accordion-playing still resonating inside my ear, swallowing me whole with the Violin Concerto in E Allegro. I would have stayed a little longer to have one more game, but I saw through the glass panes that the sun was starting to set and the darkness beginning to spread, and the Matron advised me to postpone my hunt for the hot spring once it gets dark along the way. Besides, all good things of folly and drunken merriness always come to an end. I hated to break our little celebration but that is just how the way things go. So I did what I was told, I ventured out into the wild again with my camp pack on my shoulders with the bottle of arrack inside it, and followed the yellow flags.
The Drunk Tailor said they will lead me to the hot spring. The trail went alongside it, and they said that I shall never look for what awaited at the end of the yellow flags, for nobody ever returned from those who tried. It fascinated me how there existed people in the forest who had stranger and more curious stories than I; it made me feel more normal. When the Drunk Tailor broke me this news I paused for a short while, smiled and said I would not. I just needed a nice clean bath. On who placed those yellow flags on trees, I did not ask. Maybe themselves. Or some kind explorer.
Despite the Matron's advice, I persisted in looking for the hot spring even after the sun had set in the horizon. I had my flashlight, no fuss, and the light that the broken glass plate exuded was enough to aid me along the way, tracking those yellow flags like the cookie crumbs of Hansel and Gretel. From one tree to another I would station myself, sometimes I would bring my head so close to the yellow flag, just to make sure it is the correct object and not some random leaf or an insect in camouflage.
Once in a while I would hear some scurrying and some flapping of wings, but the tandem made by the forest and the nightfall—such perfect breeding place for unknown forces—was no more than just an illusory monster trying to inhabit my head. True it is that I had all the reason to feel scared, for I could never tell what lurked beneath the wild; it could be a bear, a snake or whatever else that had teeth and venom. But one thought that randomly dominated my mind at that time was the uncertainty of life and the certainty of death; the morbidity of the idea oddly eased me more than disturbed me. It was a slap of the truth on my face, a sweet slap caked with peanut butter and jelly. I did not expect that young as I was, that was how I would embrace the face of death. That life is like hiking a mountain for the first time; you do not know how long it would take, you are even unsure if you will reach the summit. And whatever else tacky comparison you could think of.
There were a few steep slopes and climbs that the yellow flags had led me to, so I used the rope I had inside my pack as a grip. I could only imagine if Mo had gone with me, he had probably insisted to stay in the ale house for the night instead, drinking arrack and playing cards until the wee hours. But Mo was not there, neither anybody else to keep me company; the Drunk Tailor, Paquito, the Weary Waiter and the Matron were just icebreakers, to cool my ass down after the walk along the long winding road that I had taken. If only the ale house could move places, I would have carried it on my back. But as real as it was, I was alone in the forest, in a patch of autumn artwork somewhere in the islets of Mount Vernon, nobody to hear my call in case the circumstances necessitated me to. No parents, no brother, not one among my friends in the university, no Mo, not even the Russian girl.
That is how it is, living. It is more than just a lung exchanging air, more than just a heart pumping blood. You wriggle yourself to get through the marshes, scrub your own dirt off to look clean, mend yourself with stitches when you get broken—without the assurance that the wounds would even heal. You pick yourself up with your own fingers, with chopsticks as you please. You build your own fortress to feel secure, not with used cardboard boxes or sofa cushions, but with a tough shell of steel apathy. Who gives a shit anyway? That is the truth. You wind up your way through the spiral, carrying your own head and tail.
With these thoughts inside my head, as disorganized as they were, I did not feel time passing by. All I had inside me were these abstractions, this stream of emotions and unconsciousness that had collected overtime, building pressure in the lobes of my brain, like a sealed pot of miso soup over high fire, squealing in agony. Memories of the last four years played inside my mind like a videotape with crappy recording footage, skipping from a scene to another: my travel from the south, the dull apartment building, Mo's record store, my workplace filled with mechanical typewriters and bosses with unusually long necks, the seventh floor rooftop, the Russian girl, the motel room with peeling wallpapers, the old telephone booth, the pier filled with barnacles, the melancholic tunnel, the gloomy air that circulated Neubark city.
I remembered the schoolmate who had moved to Sagamore some years ago, asking me of my plans. And there I was, sitting stiffly inside the Irish Pub, hands caught frozen in midair, with a spoonful of clam chowder. What is my plan then? Why have I not thought about this before? The videotape would reel back and the scenes would play in the same sequence again, ending up constantly with the same set of questions. I wish I could pause and analyze each for a longer time, to find out the loophole. But the videotape would only reel back and play over and over again. It only stopped when I found the hot springs.
Finally, I arrived. I fell on my knees trembling, feeling the ache of the all-day climbing and skipping among rocks. Escaped from my lips were laughter, as strange as it sounds. I laughed like a kid who had solved a puzzle by accident, a kid who had witnessed snowfall for the first time, a kid who had uncovered a message in a bottle one day while skipping stones in the ocean bay. I only laughed and spoke not a word, my mind emptied of thoughts, focused suddenly on the hot spring. Some few paces away, I stood and recovered myself in my bearings, watched how steam constantly rose from the surface of the calm waters. The only sound I could hear were the soft rustling of the leaves and the steady flow of a stream nearby. The warmth greeted me like an old friend, asked why it took me so long to come. I said I have been busy with some stuff lately, poring over materials for hours and keeping the noise of typewriters in a pace. She responded with a sigh.
My camp pack fell on the ground with a soft thud, along the rim of the pool distant enough to keep it dry. Moss and wild weeds covered the edges and some white flowers I did not know the name dotted the bushes around. On the surface there were some autumn leaves and white petals, afloat for a few seconds before the wind would carry them away to some other place. The moon shone brightly above that I had no use for my flashlight anymore. Sparkling stars jeweled the black night sky, like a confetti of glitters, scattered carelessly by some neurotic artist. The scene was so beautiful, so peaceful, so sublime; I could literally hear my own breathing and beating. I wondered why I never saw this wonderful muse from my veranda in Palette. Is it because cigarette smoke clouded my vision and alcohol altered my senses?
I stripped down to my underpants and descended into the pool. I touched the waters with a slight poke of my right toe. It created some ripples that moved leaves and petals from one point to another. On the surface illuminated by the moonlight, I saw a strange man several years older than twenty-three. Gaunt eyes. Hollow cheeks. Pale lips. Gray hair. Prominent collar bones. Famished torso. Empty soul. Just one look and I submerged myself halfway through the waters, an inch below my chin. A rise in temperature tickled my skin.
With my eyes closed, I pictured myself afloat the ocean. In the middle of the Pacific without anything but my underpants on. Without any direction, without any harsh blow of the wind, without any current. I was just floating around with my eyes closed. No tension, no anxiety. Nothing inside my head but the wide, unfathomable span and depth of the serene Pacific waters. No worry about sharks or stingrays or the mythical Kraken. I traced some stars with my index finger and learned it to be the Ursa Minor constellation. The little bear. Do bears swim? Can they keep themselves afloat like what I am doing? An imagination within an imagination, I imagined a little cub swimming its way. At first it floats as it paws through the waters. Good swimming. But then without nothing to hold on to for some time, no chunk of iceberg or any remnant of the Titanic, the cub starts to lose its buoyancy. Its face now sinking in the waters, lungs gasping for air. Soon enough the depths pull it down, on and on until none of it remains. I, too, started gasping for air. Less than I knew I was lying on the bed of the hot springs.
I resurfaced and fumbled for a can of beer inside my pack. I was starting to get sober so I relaxed in the tub for a while with some drinks. Two cans down, I reserved the last two for tomorrow. Next I opened a can of mandarin oranges and feasted on it. All garbage I sealed inside a plastic bag. Soon I felt a fullness building up inside my bladder. At first I hesitated. But who cares? I took a leak in the pool. Human waste is part of nature anyway and so are our earthly bodies. After all, we transform into a single substance in the end—that is worm food. Worm food we all become as part of nature. No gender, no color, no race, no religion, no gold or riches, no fast cars or mansions, no identity. No fingerprints. Just worm food. As plain as that.
For approximately half an hour I soaked, only to find out later that I had forgotten to remove my wristwatch. By the time I left the pool to towel myself dry and get dressed up, I saw the hands of my wristwatch immobilized. It had died. It had sunk in the waters like the Titanic and had died. I removed it from my wrist and wiped it dry, tossed it inside one of the pockets of my pack. Now it was only a memory. Poor thing. Farewell dear wristwatch. Thank you for the time.
Igathered myself up and looked for a safe place to camp.