The Visit (a letter)

I woke up with a start. It was around 4:00 in the morning and I knew my primitive sleeping patterns were not accustomed to such an early time. Some external spirit had taken hold of me and forced me awake. I jolted upright in my bed, sweating as I recall, and with a heartbeat so robust I heard the rhythm in my ears ( I know you had experienced this same cardiac anguish before, Eli, and I empathize with you now). 

Nevertheless, after a dour talking-to from my own reflection in my fogged and aged mirror, I managed to go through the motions of freshening up; washing, brushing, dressing — too many “ings” for this morning, in my opinion. And the whole ordeal banalized me so much that I think I nearly forgot the very reason why I was doing it at all. 

I finished shifting my tie into place (I’m not sure why I felt I should dress up for you, perhaps it was the least I could have done after leaving you waiting for so long) and went from my apartment down to the street below. I took a good few minutes to collect myself, as I felt I may have had something in my eye —  I wasn’t crying, Eli, really I wasn’t — spring can be the most glorious and heterogenous season of all, you of anyone should know. 

After only a few minutes, the cab came, I hopped inside, and I know I have no just need to explain this to you, Eli. You know how a man transports himself. I digress, I understand that, and I’m working on it, as you told me to. I’ll take the first step out of my lexical addiction and begin when I exited the cab.

It was almost 6:00 by the time I had arrived and the walkways were still empty. The sky was in that fabulous state where all counts point to morning time — a blue atmosphere, some clouds, a light breeze — but the moon, in her impish ways, remains in the place of the sun. I took a moment as I walked toward you to stare up at her face, simply basking in her light, or lack thereof. With all that was arcing through my head, it felt genial for her to stay out for me. I say this knowing full well you’re the only person I can say something like this to, but I had an inkling that she stayed out that morning to help guide me to you. I knew exactly where you were — I had walked this path far too many times to not know, despite never actually meeting you (again I’m sorry for my delay with all this) — but my foolish brain still tells me that the moon had something to do with my sense of direction that morning. 

At some point or another on the path, I felt a glistening (though I detest using such a colorful word) bead of sweat form at my hairline, then roll lazily down the length of my face, scaling the mountains and valleys formed by my skull and, I say this with the utmost rancor, my wrinkles. I reached a finger or two up to feel at the origin of my perspiration. I nearly shuddered at the authenticity of its being; my mind was so frazzled I hadn’t really remembered I was real, or the fact that I was really going to see you that day. In the midst of this silent monologue of consternation, I had half a mind to go to the nearby newspaper stand and purchase the whole edition, sports section and all, just to see the weather report to ensure that this perspiration was justified. Incidentally, the sun wasn’t out (refer to my last paragraph if you’ve forgotten already) so what good would that do me? 

At a certain point in the path, I stumbled upon a young boy with what appeared to be his older brother. The younger held fast to the older’s hand, and his eyes were so large I feared they’d swallow his face whole. He smiled up at me, and from his lips came the most dejected and proud pair of front teeth I had ever seen. I mean, really, Eli, the kid looked like a bunny. Atop his head sat a red and black checked hunting hat (with the ear-flaps and all, yes, Eli, I took extra note of that for you). The older looked much more like Curtis than anyone else we knew. It was almost jarring, that similarity. He had the same pointed and bumped nose that Curtis always tried to hide, those same deep-set eyes that make you feel as if he knows every word you think about him. 

Oh, and I don’t mean to bring up Curtis to make you upset, I really don’t, Eli. You have to understand that the similarity is important in my storytelling. You have to know that the reason I am writing to you know, is because I saw this doppelganger. Front-teeth stared deep into my eyes from his lowered position and, being the man I am, I smiled back. The steps continue, predictably; I noticed his hand lifted, I followed the union up to this Curtis-looking teenager and the stark similarity stopped me in my tracks. So much so that I nearly screamed Curtis’s name out. My feet refused to continue unless the journey was to find a paper and a pen. I stared vacuously at the boy and his brother, my mouth gaped open a trifle, as I recall. I remember Curtis (I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to call him, Eli) staring openly back at me, most likely befuddled and timorous as to why this grown man, barely wearing an overcoat, mind you, was observing him and his brother so luridly at six in the morning. I began to speak, opening my already gaped mouth a trifle, and asked, stringing my words together with haste, for where I may find a pen and paper at this hour, and quickly, please. 

It was then that a trivial thought passed my brain. Why were these two boys out so early? It surely wasn’t for school, no. In fact, I have a strange inkling to believe the local schools are on their spring break this week. As the Curtis-looking one (there, is that better?) spoke to me, I passed through a myriad of circumstances that could explain their wanderings. 

I won’t bore you with them now, Eli I’m sure you’ve better things to do, but I will say this. Their union — the way they held hands, yes, but their general fraternity, too — reminded me of us. Remember, way back in ‘49? When Mike took us out alone for the first time? We were lost, and you held my hand all the way back home. It was comforting. I wish I could do that with you now. 

Regardless, the fake Curtis and his brother sparked something in me — whether that was good or bad, we may never know — and I left them, following their instructions, and somehow I managed to find the paper and pen they led me to. Before leaving, though, I did remember to promise them I’d repay them somehow for their efforts. The fake Curtis asked how I may go about doing that (see? He even had our Curtis’s wit!) and I told the brothers to wait by where you were (I gave him instructions to your whereabouts, yes, I’m sorry, Eli) and I’d meet them there. 

To digress on my last parenthetical rambling, I trust people too much. You had an inveterate habit of pointing this out to be, which I loathed before but, like so many of your mannerisms, now I miss. 

One more tangent, if I may (I can’t very well promise it will be the last, no matter how reassuring, for that would a common lie). Where did I get the paper and pen from? And here is where your younger brother says No, Eli. I won’t tell you. I fear if I did you would never invite me to visit again, and it took me so long to arrive here at all, I can’t risk it. All I can say is I will remember to bring my own stationery next time, that I can promise. 

Back to the present, or rather, about ten minutes ago (perhaps longer, I hadn’t thought to wear my wristwatch this visit). I, paper and pen in hand, arrived at your place. The boys were waiting (I know you know this, Eli. You were there! You are here as I’m writing this! But in the hopes that this awful letter is somehow published in a “deranged English professors from the American 1960s” collection, I feel I need to explain myself). 

So I approach, paper at the ready, the paper I am writing to you with now, and greet the boys. The little one’s nose has turned a bright shade of pink, perhaps from the cold, or perhaps from illness all his own. The Curtis-lookalike was standing with his weight leaned on one hip, you know how teenagers and apathetic adults do, and I had half a mind to tell him his arms should have been crossed over his chest to complete his pose. But his hand remained grasped tightly around his bothers’. I smiled to myself like a fool at their union, then, with a start, ripped a corner of the paper off in as neat a square as I could. With force, perhaps too much, I handed the paper and pen to the older boy and asked him to write his address on it for me, or any way to contact him. When he did and handed the paper back to me, I thanked him profusely (perhaps too much, but you can be the judge of that, Eli) and told him my gratitude would be in the mail. The two left and I finally took a minute to sit next to you, wallowing in the reality of it all, without Curtis’s face staring back at me and the doom of meeting you weighing me down. I finally got to you, Eli. I did. I merely sat with you for some time, enjoyed your presence near mine, wondered why I hadn’t visited you before. Then, with swift and unwavering movements, I took the pen and paper, used your marking for a desk (for that, I am sorry but my thighs would not cut it) and began writing this letter. And I do believe it must come to an end. 

I miss you, Elijah. I’m sorry it took me so long to visit. Perhaps it was all too real for me to grasp. I still don’t understand why you did what you did. Regardless, I told myself I’d come to on the first day of spring. And you know me, Eli, I’ve never been one to make a promise I can’t keep.