The Philosophy of Language
I knew a man who was constantly burnt by the sun. Every step he took into the great outdoors would broil his skin. The skin would in turn swell into pustules that would burst if slightly disturbed. Because of this he lived in a deeper darkness his entire life, never confronting the light for fear of its burning revenge. Suffice it to say, he had few friends if any.
His room had a large bay window that overlooked a busy street corner in the swanky uptown New York district. It was a magnificent view, bright with activity during the warmer months, dipped in nostalgic sepia tones during the colder ones, but this man kept the window covered with an industrial strength black trash bag fastened securely with a few meters of black tape. He cared little for magnificent views. Because of this few people had actually ever seen him, and even fewer people knew that, given the right opportunity, he could sing like a newborn canary at the dawn of spring.
Once, during a particularly frigid morning, frost turned to condensation and it caused the tape to peel in one corner of the framed window. While the man slept peacefully, the sunlight crept in and moved determinately towards him. Prone and unaware of the slithering menace, the right side of his face and body was exposed to the searing light of day. He blistered like baking soda and vinegar, and his screams awoke the other tenants of the posh apartment complex. Paramedics found him in the foetal position, naked in the darkest corner of the room, his face foaming from multiple burst boils. His tears had long mixed with the blood that covered his body.
A week later, several young people who must have been family, came to pick up his belongings and move him to a new residence. Sitting at the bus stop, I saw him come out of the building escorted by his two chaperons. He was covered in heavy wool blankets, and his face was cowled over, barely visible at all. He looked rather odd to passersby, and you could tell they wanted nothing to do with this woolly Quasimodo. Though the city had experienced near frost-bitten temperatures during the past month, it was a hundred degrees outside under the hazy October sky, which made him look even more surreal. He was a strange man in a strange land.
His escorts acted like concerned parents, cradling him lovingly and ushering him into a blue sedan. I remember thinking that they looked too young to be parents; younger even than he, but one could never tell how old he was because of the scars. On my twelve speed, I followed them off of Manhattan Island. They took country roads rather than the state highway, and always they headed north. My legs were stiff and sore when they finally arrived at their destination: In the middle of a forest clearing, deep in the emerald sea that is Maine, there stood an old concrete pump station, the kind that had not been visited by a technician, let alone anyone else, for at least a dozen years.
The pair of escorts looked around nervously as they approached the station’s entrance. I spied them from a distance too far for them to see me, but I knew, I could see clearly, that something was amiss. The fellow who had driven the sedan stood before the steel door, pulled the latch, and with a clank the pump station was opened. A musty cold wind issued forth from its somber depths and it was followed by the sound of a thousand spiders chocked with anticipation.
The woman, whose crew cut and rigid angular features made her seem skeletal, inhuman, motioned for the man to come into the pump station. My blood froze as a million scenarios played out in my mind. I dared not take a step further; I was petrified with fear. The driver followed the pair into the station and the door slammed shut. Hours passed and I considered the worst. When twilight began to settle across the land, I remember thinking just how hungry I had become when the door opened suddenly, and the two escorts came into view. They nodded grimly to each other, the man closed the heavy door securely as the woman turned the car over, and soon the pair were gone.
I waited another hour, making sure the couple would not return, and I crept down from my hiding place to confront the situation. The squat concrete structure had no windows, and only one door that could be padlocked from the outside. Inspecting it closer I came to understand that the couple had not locked the man inside, and it puzzled me that they would leave him here with good intentions. Feeling around the latch, I saw that the metal had rusted through, and a solid hammer fall could shatter the mechanism. The place was not very secure at all, and to me, the whole situation stank of abandonment. Inwardly, I became furious. My fists began clenching nervously.
I put my ear to the cold steel door and listened. I thought I heard a squeamish weeping sound, sort of like a slow whine, drowning in the noise of machinery… the sound of water being pumped away from this place, to a hundred different locations. I grew increasingly worried but managed to keep my fear in check. I decided it was time I became of some service to this poor fellow. He may have been a stranger to me before then, but any man who was left for dead deserved some company I thought. I pulled the latch and pushed the door inward, slowly. On cue, the door creaked a creak that sounded like every bad horror sound effect in one. This was a bad movie, and I felt like the next victim. Luckily, the sun had set and only the dimmest light penetrated the makeshift prison.
I could see the silhouette of the man. He was sitting on a stool by an old desk. On the desk was an old-time Victrola next to a pile of worn records. Tiny Christmas lights had been strung up around the small chamber, and some of the more feverish water mains were in use, large kettles of water boiling atop of them. The room was bathed in sweet smelling vapours and something else… Big band music, the kind that people used to dance the mash potato and the swing to. The prison – the sanctum – was immersed in a dreaminess only known by those who knew utter bliss. The man, eyes closed and hands crossed over his chest, was still covered in the wool blankets, but I noticed then that he wore a black track suit underneath. He was humming the tune, and was so engrossed by this activity that I thought he had not even noticed my arrival. I remember the thin smile splayed upon his face, the look of tranquillity, and thinking I the fool for disturbing him.
I turned and opened the door, meaning to exit without further delay, when he saw me standing there, tears of joy streaming from my glassy stare. I could not help but look deep into the man’s eyes, his marked visage becoming a less than insignificant focal point in time and space. His wounds had scabbed over, and despite the truth of his condition, he managed to crack a grin and a sympathetic shrug. I knew by the wince that the gesture had caused him some pain, but he didn’t seem to mind it at all. These words that forged our longtime friendship were said to me on that fateful day: “Close the door my friend; you’re letting out all the darkness.”
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