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Palomar Peasant
Inspired by Louis Aragon’s Le Paysan de Paris
Ross E. Lockart
Today I’m thinking in color, but I’m dreaming in black and white. I’ve
just dropped my wife off at work, and I’m driving north up Highway 15. The
sun is filtered and distorted by the dirty windows of my truck and I adjust
the visor to preserve my eyes. When I reach the 78, I head west until my
turnoff, then make for the back of Palomar College. Today is Thursday, so I
park in one of the back lots, in pretty much the same spot I did on Tuesday,
Election Day, as well as the Thursday before. I perform the ritual to protect
my truck from tickets by hanging a yellow and gold parking permit from the
rear view mirror, mesmerized for a few seconds by the way the sun bounces back
from the holographic metallic numbers. (One, one, four, six, three.) I pull
the faceplate from my stereo and hide it behind the seat. I get out of the
truck, locking it as I step out, and hoist my weighty backpack onto my
shoulders. I feel like I’m smuggling anvils as I start my walk to class. I
listen to the rhythm beaten on the pavement’s drum by my boots and improvise
short melodies as I walk past the temporary parking permit dispenser and
building windowed with one-way glass that I think of as "the
tollbooth." Sometimes I imagine the tollbooth inhabited by a kindly
cannibalistic candy-house witch from a children’s story, but know that I
would be either fascinated or disappointed by its real contents. A shed filled
with misused boots and ancient tools could open a beautiful new world. An
empty one would close it. Maybe someone watches us from within.
Around me, other students climb out of their cars and begin to head towards
their own classes. Not knowing their stories, I imagine them as
two-dimensional creatures, existing beyond this time, this place, this parking
lot only as shadows, as specters. I know I live away from here, work away from
here, but picture this amorphous "them" as creatures, strange alien
shellfish, hermit crabs, living only in their cars, crawling out into the real
world only when necessary to present their human faces and maintain the
illusion. I shudder at this thought.
I continue onward, towards my first class. Western Civilization. There is a
myth that history professors are required to be Marxists. This is only a myth.
Sometimes I feel myself biting into my tongue to keep from responding to this
instructor’s a.m. talk-radio proselytizing and admiration of absolutist
monarchs. I make a wish that she has taken today off. I look ahead to my next
class, the History of Surrealism, but feel like kicking myself as I realize
that I have an unwritten paper due today. I make another wish, this time for
divine intervention. I stop before I leave the parking lot to admire strange
and showy phallic flowers as they wave slowly in the wind. I cross the street,
make eye contact through two pairs of sunglasses with the driver of the low
rider (Chevy, nice.) that I’ve made wait. He bobs his head in time with the
hip-hop track playing loudly on his stereo. In his back window, a small,
flocked, artificial Chihuahua bobs his head as well. I would laugh at this,
but he seems to have put so much effort into looking "hard" that I
hate to deflate him. As I get clear, he guns the engine, drives past. I feel
the wind as his car moves by on the back of my neck and legs. I imagine the
wind to be part of the music he plays so loudly. I step up onto the curb and
prepare to cross another street, watching other students streaming past.
Once across, I walk along a sidewalk path, running my fingers along a
fairly new chain-link fence. Through the fence, I see a red-brick sculpture,
an arch. I’ve walked up to this sculpture, placed my hand against it, felt
its rough-hewn face. I’ve imagined it to be the remains of a Spanish
mission. Now a ten-foot fence blocks me from it. The reason for the fence
appears to a series of ditches. Has Palomar started digging graves? Who are we
burying, is there a war I haven’t heard of, a police action? Have the
penalties for parking violations gone this far? No, a woman in my creative
writing class explained a few days earlier, the college plans to build a new
set of classrooms or offices here, maybe a Science building. The holes are an
archeological project, searching for Native American artifacts. I consider the
specter of this new building for a few moments, picturing it and contrasting
it with the ghostly sensory memory of my hands on the cold red brick of the
sculpture. I feel like Louis Aragon in Paris Peasant, lamenting the
loss of the Passage de l’Opéra. I will miss this sculpture, as I have
touched it.
I feel like I may be running late, that I’ve spent too much time
contemplating the ghosts of the future, so I pull my watch from my pocket and
glance at it. Nine-thirty, I’m just on the cusp of late. I’ve often wished
that I could be one of the watchless, unrestrained by the god Chronos, but I
am tied to either being accurate, or fashionably late. I run my thumb across
the face of my watch, feeling the two scratches on the crystal, I think of my
wife presenting it to me, and then put it back in my pocket. I quicken my
pace, speed along the chain-links, along the path, down a ramp, some stairs,
ignoring the near rain forest beauty surrounding me. I cross a street, cut
between classrooms and weave through other students. I reach my destination,
my first classroom, and as I reach for the doorknob, taped in the center of
the door, a yellow sheet of paper, at a slight angle. A part of me rejoices,
one wish granted, no lecture today, no notes. I go over to the library to kill
the next hour and a half.
I don’t make it inside. Instead, I sit down at a table by the downstairs
entrance. I take out my notebook and begin to write, hoping that thoughts come
leaping into my brain like insects infesting a fresh carcass. A woman sits
down by the wall and lights a cigarette. She is blonde, the cigarette a
generic menthol. I would ignore her; in fact I would forget her, but a large
man in misshapen glasses and a dirty white T-shirt walks up and sits down just
downwind of her. He speaks.
"Did you know that Jacques Cousteau died last night?" He breathes
heavily as he speaks.
"No." She fingers her cigarette nervously. "I hadn’t
heard."
"Yeah, it happened about three years ago."
"Oh, I think I heard that." She is trapped.
"Yeah. He was a personal friend of mine and I used to go on the
Calypso with him, he had a son that died, he got the bends and his lungs
exploded and died and then Jacques Cousteau died; he liked to fish and they’d
catch fish and he’d make a Welsh rarebit and this other guy liked beer, he
was a close personal friend of mine. He liked Fosters and Grolsch and my
sister had a Baja bug that was really cool and I’m on medication. I take
Paxil. Yeah. Jacques Cousteau died last night three years ago he went to
Scripps hospital for a heart attack and died on the operating table. What a
way to go, they couldn’t save him." He smiles a big grin. She gets up
and leaves without saying anything, without even looking back. "It was
nice talking to you, pretty lady."
I decide that it’s too cold where I’m sitting, the sky threatens to
rain, and there’s a chance he might talk to me, so I go inside, climb the
stairs to the top level, the silent floor. I find a seat, a desk by the
window, throw my backpack down in the center of the desk, take off my
sunglasses and set them on the desk in front of me. I unzip my backpack,
conscious of the sound of the zipper in the quiet room and pull out a book.
Giorgio de Chirico, Hebdomeros. I open it to a random page, ignoring
the index card I use to mark my place. Page 43. "…It is the continent
where the world will know its last great civilization before growing cold
forever and sharing the fate of the moon." I worry about these gloomy
predictions for a few seconds, imagining a barren stone earth marked only by
mankind’s graffiti, a paved-over and mourned Passage de l’Opéra floating
around the Sun. I set the book down again, look around the library. Two girls
from my first class sit at one of the tables, one red-haired, Irish, the other
dark and vaguely Middle Eastern. They laugh quietly about an unheard inside
joke. I pick up the book again, open to my marker, and read as the minute hand
hikes around the clock face. Every few pages, I find a punctuation mark in
looking out the window. I wonder if the sky will decide to rain. As my friend
the minute hand begins his climb from ten towards twelve, I decide that it
must be time to go to my next class, Surrealism. I stand up, grab my backpack
and start for the stairs. I reach the door to the stairwell with my right hand
while reaching up to pull my sunglasses from the top of my head to my eyes.
There are no sunglasses there. I feel a moment of panic. I’ve carried these
sunglasses for several years now, after finding them in the record store where
I used to work. The lenses are scratched, dark and green. I’ve bought maybe
half a dozen pairs of glasses since finding these, but all of them have
broken. Only the ones I found have survived – until now. I retrace my steps,
walk back to the desk, and retrieve my glasses. I walk back to the door, past
the two girls from class, they continue to laugh at their inside joke. I feel
like I’m the one being laughed at. I put on my glasses and burst through the
door into the stairwell, heading down the stairs, two at a time.
When I step back into the real world, the rain has started, and I look up,
letting it wash my face with its cold grace. With my eyes open, green-tinted
droplets splash against the lenses covering my eyes. I imagine myself driving
from the library to the classroom. I walk up to the classroom where my
Surrealism class meets, open the door, first to arrive. I drop my backpack
onto the floor and sit down; I close my eyes, I whisper a silent incantation;
I unzip my pack, reach in and pull out this document. Another wish fulfilled
by mysterious gods. I close my eyes and wait for class to begin.
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