“My Button”
I have told the doorman that the carpeting in the foyer of this
apartment building is entirely wrong and must be replaced. I have told him this
for the past two years -- nearly every day I tell him -- and yet nothing has
been done. My conversations with him dispel any doubts that he is deaf or hard
of hearing or even Armenian, for he converses in fluent, untainted English, not
only with me, but with everyone who enters or merely passes by. I was quick to
notice a warmer tone in his voice whenever he addressed someone other than me,
but this can be attributed no doubt to a disdain on his part to being upbraided
for failing to comply with my wishes. The simple sound of my footsteps as they
approach serve to re-open wounds that he wishes would heal but never can so
long as I exist and make him aware of his shortcomings, his imperfections. No
doubt on May mornings after a night of rain with the rising sun energizing the
dew he feels Nirvana about to arrive, but instead, I do.
That I do not live in this particular building and never have
(never will, either) seems quite irrelevant to me; and serves only to cloud
this issue of the carpeting, to place a balm of forgiveness on his forehead, if
you will. Of course by now you realize that the rectification I'm seeking is
not for his peace of mind, but mine. In fact, it is only his non-compliance
that causes him to exist, that forges him into a distinct personality. To
mention his name – which I don’t think I even know – to describe his mysterious
blue eyes, or bushy red eyebrows, his doorman’s uniform with its peculiar hat
that looks both oval and square at the same time on occasion, that large navy
coat with its rows of buttons, gold braid and epaulets – to do all of this runs
the risk of making him so real, so pertinent as to make you almost dwell inside
of his coat, feel its thick wool caressing you, feel the perspiration on his
skin, the pulse of life flashing through his veins. My button, thank goodness,
will save you from such a discomfort, such a distressing calm, such a
reassuring claustrophobia. For he is totally oblivious to the abyss that looms
between what is and what must be. I do not know the cause of this ignorance,
whether or not it is willful or simply heredity: the carpeting is totally out
of place in the lobby of this building – though I refuse to seek out its proper
resting place – and as one who is aware, who sees the significance of things,
it was the only rational thing I could do to demand that he correct this
horrendous error. That he is the doorman and not the floorman, let’s say, is meaningless.
It seems to me that it is totally within his power to accede to my wishes, to
render perfect one small corner of the world. If he doesn’t, of course,
ultimately I’ll be forced to use my button; and two years of nothing but
non-cooperation painfully leads me to the realization that this final option is
my only option. Faced with an irresolvable dilemma, a glaring, almost palpable
threat to the instinctive need for power, I will simply stop talking, stop
reasoning, and push my button. And then he will be gone. It has worked before,
and sadly, happily, it will work again.
I ordered my button through the mail, and though its price set me
back quite a bit – emptied my savings account, actually – it was worth every
penny. It arrived four to six weeks later, third class, brown paper, but there
was an air or ceremony surrounding its arrival. Even the surly postal worker
who snatched his pen out of my hand after I signed his form failed to dampen my
spirits. We soared across the room, the box with my button and I, and landed on
the coffee table. I confess: as much as I like to be perceived as a man not
only in control of himself, but of his entire universe, my hands were trembling
as I opened the package. Although no music was playing, a celestial hum filled
my ears, flicked at the candles, mingled with the incense, and tortured my soul
with delight. A small black box, no bigger than a cigarette pack, solid but
light with a red button strategically placed on one side. My button. There was
no electrical cord or other protuberance to detract from its simple beauty or
to make the owner feel as if he needed something other than the button itself
to wield his power. Cords, antennae, battery packs: all are nothing more than
irritants, things to trip over or wrap around one’s neck, all the while serving
as a constant reminder of the individual’s (read: me) need for something
outside of himself, a vulnerable reliance on the power company or even another
human being. But a black box with a red button, self-contained, yes, my black
box with a red button, promises nothing but power, self-reliance so complete,
so devastating, it makes Emerson’s aspirations melt away like deformed models
at Madame Tussaud’s. It fits in the palm of the hand, but it encircles the
world. My hand, my world. I carry it in any pocket I wish, different pockets on
different days – omnipotence affords such frivolity. But I am never frivolous
when it comes to pushing my button; it is a duty I perform with the utmost
restraint and caution. I said that I have used it before, but the number of
times I can count on one hand – even the hand with the fingers missing. The
jubilation of justice is always tempered with solemnity. When they came and
took away my television, for example.
Months ago I began receiving notices that threatened repossession
for non-payment. Of course I ignored their silly notices, for a television can
never be possessed except by the one who watches it, is this not true? The set
I brought home was crated, fresh. The friends who first appeared on the screen
were meant for me and only me. How could anyone else hope to claim them without
deceit in their hearts? Indeed, how could my possession be re-possessed by
anyone but me? I considered presenting this easily discernible logical point to
the hate mongers who harassed me, a little out of fear that they would blur the
concept of possession and then alarm the police with this muddled reality, but
decided against it. Why waste wisdom on the easily confused? Besides, the
envelopes that they used to transport their misguided thoughts I used as
depositories for the rodent droppings that curiously appear on my kitchen
counter. And then a knock at the door. Isn’t it always the case?
Button in tow, I opened the door. Two men, brothers no doubt, with
moustaches like loaves of pumpernickel bread, and bushy eyebrows overshadowing
eyes black and burning like Coppelius’ in “The Sandman”, announced in unison
that they had come for my TV. I had neither the two year’s worth of time to
explain to them (on a daily basis) the error in their logic, nor the
inclination to bestow knowledge upon them. The tone of their voices and the
popping of their gum reflected a similar disregard for propriety considering
the urgent nature of their proposal. At first, I treated it as if it were a
request and suggested some excellent establishments wherein they might purchase
and possess a set similar to mine, but they remained. My heart was moved by
their determination, their valor. Under different circumstances, they might have
been saints. But then they were only sad clowns, together a one-sided coin,
poorly minted, spit out into the world by a cheap, unreliable vending machine.
They stepped into my living room without invitation, as if nudged from behind,
certainly oblivious of what rested in my pocket. Like anesthetized rhinos or
elephants, their gestures and movements were slow and erratic, their thick
tongues rolled out barely comprehensible commands laced with obscenities. I
protested and pleaded with them, both to save my television and them as well,
but to no avail. The small set no longer sucked nourishment from the wall, and
prize in hand, they rushed out of my door, slamming it behind them. With tears
in my eyes, I cursed them as best I could, and pulled my box from my pocket.
Resigned to enact divine providence, I pushed my button. They are gone; they will
never knock on my door again! I did not sleep that night but laid awake;
following visions of King Arthur’s knights drifting across the ceiling and
walls of my bedroom, warping slightly where the wallpaper sagged. The next day
I toyed with the idea of eliminating any and every store that sold appliances
and likewise suffered from mental disabilities similar to those two “brothers”;
but then I remembered a cousin in a faraway city who worked in just such a
store. I pushed the thought from my mind, but considered writing him a letter,
a jeremiad that would only hint at possible ramifications for acting on
thoughts based on seriously flawed philosophical stances. Perhaps instead I
should send him some Heidegger.
But now there’s a doorman to be dealt with. The gaiety in his
voice chills me, quickens the pulse. Why must a man so opposed to perfection be
so kind to everyone else? His willful blindness clashes with a beatific
demeanor. I stand in the middle of the street with fists clenched tight, cars
honking all around, crying out for words that will make him do as I ask. My
requests have gone from humble, almost embarrassed pleas to scathing verbal
assaults; neither volume nor erudition makes any difference. I am weak and
dizzy as I walk away from each encounter. Nothing I say reveals to him the
power, the Vision I possess.
After ignoring me today, rushing past me to help an elderly lady
bring her groceries out of the rain, I am again brought to one choice:
tomorrow, he will be gone. And if he isn’t… but he will be, for I feel the box
rising out of my pocket, the button standing at attention.
No comments:
Post a Comment