Shallow Roots

SHALLOW ROOTS

 Melanie J. Walker

The Hammond County Library is an oasis during the worst heat wave that’s shaken the States in the last fifty years. City living is unbearable in this stretch of days with no AC. This is the third day of most businesses being closed, including the editing firm I work for, and people are getting fidgety, some even belligerent. I trek here for solace, they must have the world’s largest generator; the lights keep shining through the evenings and the air conditioning keeps the place breathable. I’m not the only one privy to this sanctuary, the place is crowded. The librarians are having a hard time keeping the kids and their bickering moms quiet. I continue to keep my nose in a book and take the opportunity to think of this as a little stay-cation as well as getting ideas for the job.

The first day, I read mostly periodicals - newspapers that I usually can’t keep up with and magazines because my mind was tending to wander. The second day I read a novel, making the day seem like another workday. I ate lunch out of the vending machines, gross, I know… but so be it. Not being able to sleep a wink last night in my sweat-soaked bed sheets, I arrive early this morning. It’s Sunday and I choose not to do any work today, you’re supposed to rest on the Sabbath day, I believe. I’m not sure, but I’ve taken it as an excuse many times in my life. Today I choose to make my camp in the Genealogy Department of the library. The kids yesterday got on my last nerve, and this section of the library is closed off from the rest. It’s quiet and I select a table in the far back corner that is placed directly under an air vent. Next to the table is a big, welcoming easy chair that I may just nap in later.

I’ve never studied or researched my family tree. My mom always told me I have “shallow roots”. My dad was a gypsy of sorts and I am the product of a one night stand. I’ve never seen the guy, have no idea of his name, and Mom always said it was probably best this way. My mom was a runaway herself, so I never knew any grandparents either. No siblings for me, shallow roots.

Mom and I always had a happy life. We made the best with what we had. Mom worked my entire childhood as a receptionist at a law firm. The pay afforded us a small, but clean, two bedroom apartment. We ate a lot of ramen noodles and frozen pizza, but the Farmer’s Markets also gave us plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables. Mom knew how to jazz things up to turn a meek meal into a feast. The only traveling we did was around the city, which was fine for a boy like me. Mom made an adventure out of everything. Trips to the zoo, free concerts in the park, museum exhibits, art galleries, tandem roller blading, Shakespeare on the Lawn, and of course, the library - where the world is yours for the taking. Mom may have claimed that I had shallow roots, but our love of each other and life ran deep.

Early on, I accepted the fact that my dad must not have wanted anything to do with me and that my grandparents must have been horrible people for my mom to have run away at a young age and to not need or want them in our lives. I never questioned her on those facts. Here I sit though, with a day to kill, in the Genealogy Department of the library where I spent half my childhood. Eh, no interest in researching my own story, but I guess I can pick up some books and nose through them.

Being the only person in this area right now feels heavenly. Quiet and cool, peaceful. I walk slowly around the bookshelves that flank all four walls. For the longest time, nothing of interest grabs me. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a thin, navy volume with the magical words, Shallow Roots running vertically along its spine. I pull it out and rub my hands over the cover. I return to the big comfy chair over in the corner and collapse with the book. Like a down-on-his-luck peddler, I rub my hands over the cover of the book as if it were a bottle holding a fantasized genie who could grant three wishes. I trace the simple words embossed on the front cover and ponder what my three wishes might be.

Eager, I open the book cover. The first thing inside is a huge family tree that folds out on each side, so that if you turn it sideways, the tree is four pages high. My eyes land on the name Cleo James Potash. I rub my middle finger over the name. The embossed name eerily brings me a warm feeling of comfort. I move my fingers up and down the tree and close my eyes.

They come to me in a series of photos. The old Polaroid kind. Not the clearest images and kind of ballooned up being cradled with a white frame around each. They come in a random sequence, each thrown in my face, onto a haphazard pile. The photos aren’t all of people either, puzzling, some are definitely odd. The slide-show seems to go on forever, random shot after random shot. A bowl of gumbo, a man’s work shirt - only showing the pocket with the name Cleo embroidered over it, an orange, black, and purple neon sign that reads, “Alley Cats” with a black cat with orange eyes hugging itself around an orange bowling pin, dice on a green felt table, a Johnny Walker label, a photo of a tattoo on the back of a man’s neck of an alligator with a joint hanging out of its mouth, a forest surrounded with fog and drizzle, tire tracks in the mud, a group of four men standing with their backs to the camera to display their bowling shirts that read, “Gator Grabbers”. Strange images but somehow comforting. Like the taste of whiskey going down - hot but mellow. And like whiskey, the images seem a little sinful, like watching a peep show.

I’m awakened by the library janitor. He tells me the library closed five minutes ago. I thank him and grab a hold of the book. I find a clerk cleaning up her check-out station and grab for my wallet and library card, asking if I can borrow the book. With a worn-out smile, she informs me that due to the power outage, the library cannot run their computers or access the Internet, therefore no one can check books out at this time. Cursing inwardly, I smile and tell her I understand and she goes on to say it’s the price we all pay for the technology age, but the look on her face tells me she is tired of repeating this and really feels like screaming. The clerk must realize she seems grouchy and she winks at me and says, “Another day of just being a babysitter, ya know?” I get it. I take the book back to the corner I was sitting in and actually hide it under the chair cushion for safekeeping until tomorrow.

Tonight the heat is unbearable. My air conditioner hangs out the window as useless as ice cubes in hell. All night as I fight the sweaty sheets, I also fight the same images and sounds. Six straight hours of thinking I’m hearing tree frogs croaking, crickets chirping, and dice being shaken and then crashing down on Formica. Over and over again.

At the break of dawn, I find myself sitting at my kitchen table with sweat pouring down my face. I’m doodling the name Cleo James Potash, repeatedly. Feeling strange, I can’t stop myself. I feel like I’m in a trance. Either wishing the electricity would be restored or that I had never found that book titled, “Shallow Roots” I curse at my luck. The bright side is that this heatwave and power outage will not last forever. As for the plan, I walk out onto my balcony for maybe a hint of fresh air so I can think.

I try to be realistic and tell myself that it is just the heat and exhaustion that is making me feel like this. It was just a bizarre dream at the library yesterday and it doesn’t mean a thing. My plan is to prove to myself that it was just my imagination. I will go into the library, be the first one there to make sure I get my seat and the book. I picture myself with a cold bottled water. I’ll take a big swig, rub it over my forehead, and rub my eyes real good before I open the book cover. I’ll stay awake and look through the whole book and see what I can find out about Mr. Cleo. Then, once the power is restored, I will run a background check on the guy, I’ll research, I’ll prove to myself that he means nothing to me.

The same janitor that woke me up yesterday comes to the door promptly at 9:00 a.m. to let me and a few other patrons into the cool abyss. I make a beeline, without seeming too suspicious to the Genealogy Department. I go in and shut the door behind myself. I set my bag down, claiming my spot before I head back out to the small cafe station with the bottled water machines. I make my purchase and return, quietly, not to be noticed. I reach under the chair cushion and pull out the thin, sleek family tree volume. As I envisioned, I sit down and rub the cold water bottle over my face. I take a big drink. I rub my eyes, forcing myself to feel awake, alive, before opening the book.

I take a deep breath and dive in. This time I forgo the family tree inside the cover. I turn, instead to the first real paper page. I’ll be damned. The title of the chapter is “Cleo J. Potash”. Out of all the names on the family tree, why would this be Chapter One? Cleo is way down on the tree. His branch is practically dangling on the ground! Why wouldn’t they start at the top of the tree and work down? I flip to the back of the book to see if maybe they had mistakenly started in ascending order. Then I see it… last chapter, “Cleo J. Potash”. My eyelids feel heavy, but I fight it off. I open my water again and take another long swig. I rub the bottle across both my wrists, trying to wake myself up. I decide not to do this to myself. I will wait for the power to be restored and will read the book in the comfort of my own apartment, right in front of the air conditioner. I go to close the book and set it down, but I am too late, my head drops, but not before reading his name one more time.

This time, the signs come to me in short bits of 8mm film reels. The first are in color. Over and over I see a bowling ball knocking down pins. I see the neon lights of the Alley Cat flashing, vibrantly. There’s a whole reel of nothing but dice flying and crashing down, and another of Johnny Walker being poured over ice. Further on the color is fading and I see a young man and woman dancing. Through the fuzziness, the man looks like me, but his hair is longer and he is definitely slimmer. As he spins his partner, I can make out a tattoo on the back of the man’s neck. Concentrating, I look closer on the next spin… it’s the pot-smoking alligator. The man is wearing a work shirt, like a navy-colored mechanic’s shirt with a name embroidered over the pocket. After much straining I see that it says Cleo. This man looks just like me. I feel my heart racing and there's pounding in my ears... I can’t wake up. The couple keeps twirling and dancing. They are throwing their heads back and laughing. I beg myself not to look at the gal. I don’t want to know, but I already do know in my heart. On the next twirl, she is looking straight at me, my mom at twenty.

I really don’t want to know how this dream ends. The memories I have never known keep playing for me via old 8mm film in my mind. I try to wake up, but can’t. My mom is now winking at me. Is she trying to reassure me? I know this can’t turn out good. I was raised by a single mom who never danced with anyone other than me. Is she trying to give me a sign? A wink saying, “It’s okay, go ahead and wake up now before it’s too late.” I flail and flop around, trying to find my water bottle, hoping to wake myself up, but no use. I fall deeper into the memories I never knew.

The film clips are now losing their color. I see my mom sitting on a bench at a bus station. Her shoulders keep rising, I can tell she is sobbing. She is holding something, but I can’t see what. The dice are crashing down at a slower speed now. The rainy forest has lost all of its green. Every drop has been poured out of the last bottle of Johnny Walker. The four “Gator Grabber” bowlers are now facing forward, there’s no smile on their faces. Their eyes are red, the only color in the film. The four men are all standing in mud next to a dock. On the dock lay grey bricks of some kind and pokers. I see the man with the gator tattoo lift a tied-up alligator up out of the water. The three other men force open the gator’s mouth while the tattooed guy starts poking the grey bricks down its throat. What in the hell?

I now see him, floating away. He’s standing at the edge of a pier, waving directly at me. He is smiling, but there are red tears falling down his face at the same time. For the first time, there is sound. He is whispering a plea of sorts. The hushed echoes ringing over and over and over, “Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.”

I’m being shaken awake again. I open my eyes and it is the same janitor. He informs me that I’ve been asleep all day. He is seriously worried about me. He tells me the library is once again closed and asks if I need a ride home. I tell him I can make it. Trying to raise my spirits, he tells me the power is set to be restored the next day. This time I don’t hide the book under the cushion. I think I am done with it. I place it back on the shelves exactly where I found it yesterday.

I walk back to my apartment feeling sad. I miss my mom. I wish she would have explained more to me, even though I know I wouldn’t have liked the answers. One positive thing I can take away is knowing she was only trying to protect me. I had a good childhood, shallow roots and all. As I turn the last corner toward my building, the power kicks on, earlier than the janitor’s prediction. All the lights in the apartment building are a welcoming hello. As I step into my apartment, I hear my air conditioner coming to life. From the doorway, I see something shimmery sitting on my kitchen table. As I move closer, I see sitting there on top of the notepad I doodled on earlier this morning is an empty bottle of Johnny Walker and five random dice.

The next day I wake up on cool sheets, but with a heavy heart. I know I told myself I was finished with that book at the library, but I can’t help myself. I don’t have any answers. I’m even more lost than I was when I went in two days ago and found the god awful thing. I know what I am going to do. I’m going to go back and check out the book and suffer through it until I have the answers. Until I know who Cleo was. Until I know who I am.

At 9:00 a.m., I am once again first in line at the library. I casually walk to the Genealogy Department and over to the shelves that houses my book, Shallow Roots. I scan the shelf and don’t see it. This can’t be, I put it back in this exact same spot last evening. I search all of the shelves. I look again under the big fluffy seat cushion. No book. Before I panic, I will check at the circulation desk. The clerk cannot locate the title in their system. She asks if it might have a different title. No, dammit. I spent the last two days with the book. I asked to check it out. I ran my fingers over the embossed title, time and time again. The clerk obviously feels bad for me and tries to locate the book at other libraries, on Amazon, on E-bay and even Googles it with not one result. I then ask her to look up Cleo James Potash only to find, NO RESULTS FOUND.

How can I put the genie back in the bottle?