Cracks and Crevices

There was a spider web in the corner of the room shrouding with shadow and black. The light was diminishing so that the other corners could also be filled with darkness. It was like the corners were it’s source, and the color bled into the rest of the room, even though I knew it was just the absence of light. The fragile trap set by the spider looked stiff and unmoving. If you took a picture, you’d think it was silent, and you’d be right.

I was lying down since a little before sunset, and I was just now noticing how I didn’t have any lights on when I fell into my late afternoon trance. I looked out the window and most of the apartments also turned on their lights. The same was true for the rest of the rooms in my home. If you looked into the distance, you could hold onto that last, faint bit of warm color before the rest of city lights turned on.

I turned my own light on and the web turned invisible. The only thing you could see now was its shadow, unless you looked keenly and tried to find the thin, white strands. My father would always kill spiders; his reasoning was that it was his home and anything that was a threat to his home would need to cease, like a bear with its cubs. I figured it wasn’t really a threat.

The aimlessness of the evening led me to the corners of the room for some reason. I went into the corner of the closet and pulled out an old shoebox full of memories. Most of them were pictures and some of them were other things small enough to keep, like medals and toys from youth. I came across a picture of a leaf at a park. To me it was, “the,” park. Most people who live by a park call it, “the,” park, like it’s the only one in the world, even though there are many more intertwined with just as many memories as theirs. They act like their park is the only one that holds those kinds of sentiments that go along with it too.

This was my version of that.

The leaf was still on a branch. It had rigid holes that looked like the kind that form from burning rings in the middle of a piece of paper. It had all of its colors: green, yellow, and orange. I guess it didn’t have red. The leaf was small enough so that it didn’t have the chance to go that far in its gradient. The leaf was clear and detailed in the foreground, while the background was blurred and full of trees and sky.

The picture kind of reminded me of the way I was looking at the spider’s web. It wasn’t so much what it was, it was just that the angles and composition were similar. I imagined what I looked like from the perspective of the leaf and spider. I probably had the same, starry-eyed look that people have when you see them look at the sky randomly. Then I remembered I had a camera with the former, and the leaf probably saw me in that photographer’s stance with my elbows out and wrinkles in my closed eye.

I had forgotten that the picture was taken at the park. It had been a long time since I visited that very park. An itch compelled me to go, but it was easily stifled because it looks different at night. Instead, I decided to visit it in memory and take a walk in my mind. This was an era before I took pictures.

“Come on, one picture!” I begged and begged this woman so that I could see her charming face through the lens. She simply shook her head while it was tucked between her knees while she sat. I gave up and sprawled out on the blanket and let the sunlight thatched through leaves fall upon me.

“Are you done?” her muffled voice said.

“Yes,” I pouted. She reappeared promptly.

“Don’t you ever want to take pictures of anything else?”

“Nope. Just you.”

“But what about all of those flowers and nature and stuff you used to take pictures of all the time?”

“Those were with a phone. This is a real camera.”

“Oh, my mistake.” She copied my tone to sound pretentious.

“I’m serious though! It has film and everything.”

“Doesn’t that just mean it’s old, not necessarily good?”

“No, I promise you film looks so much better than digital.”

“You haven’t taken a single picture with it.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that film looks so much better than digital.”

“Well, as long as you’re not using it on me.”

“That’s the only thing I’ll use it for.” She looked at me with malice. “Okay fine, I’m never going to use it unless my first picture is of you.”

“Good luck with that.” She smiled knowing I would never succeed.

A little while passed as we both sat on a blanket underneath the shade of the tree. We ate all of the snacks we brought and our backs rested on each other. She studied for her schoolwork while I read for fun.

“What are you reading?” I assumed she asked because she was bored of her work.

“The Bell Jar.” She turned around reacting to what I said.

“That was due last week!” She almost shrieked the words.

“I’m aware, it’s not for school. I already took the test.”

“Oh.” She calmed down. “What did you get?”

“A ‘D.’” I wasn’t looking at her, but I felt something hard and flat slam the back of my head as I fell to the blanket. The blanket was damp from the dew of the grass.

“If you never read it why the hell are you reading it now?” She was frantic with her words.

“I heard it was good. The sentences are very clean and the imagery is clear.”

“That’s-,” she paused, then sighed, then gave up on her anger and kept working on her thing. “You always talk about the future but you never really think about it, do you?” I thought about it for a second.

“No, I guess I should though.”

“You’re not going to be the invincible town hero forever.”

“Wait a second-,” I turned around this time, “I’m the town hero?” I knew she’d be reluctant to praise me after nagging me.”

“No, that’s the way you look at yourself.”

“When have I ever referred to myself as that?”

“It’s implied by the way you puff your chest.”

“I’m very humble.”

“That’s such an oxymoron. Anybody who says that or needs to clarify that obviously isn’t.”

“I guess so. I am pretty cocky.”

“That’s the opposite!”

“Oh yeah, huh?” She rested her hands in her face, disappointed. I turned over to be in front of her and observed her for a moment. “Where did you grow up?”

“Huh?” She looked at me puzzled by the non sequitur.

“We’ve known each other a while, and I have no idea where you grew up.”

“I’ve lived in that house my whole life.”

“Your mom is from a small town though, right?”

“It sounds like you do know.” She said this while looking away.

“My memory is foggy.”

“She’s from a small town in Mexico that’s less than a thousand people.” I sat in silence waiting for more, but she didn’t speak.

“…and…?” I tried to egg her on.

“And what?”

“And what else? Did she work the land and was familiar with the fruits of the earth? Was it a tiny urban town where she worked at a small clothing store in the middle of nowhere? Did she fall in love with a handsome traveller?”

“No, none of those things, and I’m not writing a book.”

“Okay, okay, my bad.” I went back around to lean on her back.

“She went to our high school.” I processed this.

“You never told me that.”

“It’s kinda crazy, right?”

“Yeah, it is.” I paused for a moment. “My father was born in Lima, but he lived on some city in the coast until he was four and moved here. My mom was born in Seoul, but she was adopted when she was two.”

“Where did they move to?”

“Thousand Oaks. It’s in Ventura.”

“Ventura Boulevard?”

“No miss geography, that city twenty something miles northeast from here.”

“I don’t travel much, okay!”

“And they say you’re the smart one.”

“You know you’re smart!”

“And they say you’re the collegiate one.”

“Just continue your story.”

“I’m not telling a story.”

“You’re telling the story of your hometown.”

“I wouldn’t call LA or Thousand Oaks, ‘hometowns’”

“Why not?”

“Well, they’re giant urban centers. Well, LA is, but Thousand Oaks isn’t exactly small and homely. Actually, it’s pretty homely, but… it’s just not a hometown per se.”

“You were born there though, right?”

“Yeah, but they’re not towns, they’re cities.”

“So if somebody asked what your hometown was, you’d say you don’t have one?”

“Basically.”

“What if you had to fill it out on a for?”

“What kind of form is it?”

“For the DMV.”

“Wouldn’t they use more formal language, like, ‘place of birth,’ or something?” I felt her frowning silence. “I’d put either Sherman Oaks or N/A.”

“That’s a section of LA you could put as a hometown.”

“It still feels too populated and urban.”

“Well, I think it can work.”

It was silent for a while after that. The sun began to set and we worked so fast that the yellow light slipped into nothingness while more passionate colors replaced them. I began to put on a coat, but the cold never bothered her. She was more diligent than I as well.

“How come you always ask me to come with you here when all you do is work?”

“Cause I want you around.”

Little by little the people began to leave too. Things began to feel wet even though they were just cold, like metal bars. Little soccer teams full of kids with too much pressure on them shuffled away into their minivans. Some of them succeeded and pleased their fathers, while others felt like failures.

"I have an idea."

"What is it?"

"Okay, so you know how people refer to life as a path sometimes?"

"Yes."

"Well, I imagine it like a road almost. Some people walk, some drive. Some people even take their bikes and ride along with others. Some ride their skateboards and try to look cool."

"Wouldn't a motorcycle be cooler?"

"To me, yes, to you, no."

"How do you know what I think is cool?"

"Do you think motorcycles are cool?" She was silent. I continued, "Well, I think my hometown could be full of just two people. It doesn't need a name or buildings or anything like that, it could just be me and my wife living in the cracks and crevices on the road of life." I was very satisfied with the way that sounded, but I smiled more at the thought of living with somebody in our own little world.

"That sounds very nice." She looked at me with a peaceful look, one just as peaceful as mine. I went over to her, and we kissed, and embraced.

I woke up the next morning realizing I fell asleep to bittersweet memories playing in my head. I looked up at the ceiling, realizing the spider was still there. I wondered where his hometown was. Did he come here from lands wide and far and find sanctuary in my room, or did he live around here and he's just bedding for the night? Either way, I guess their lives aren't that long. Or rather, they don't think about trivial things like that.

I dressed myself in swim trunks, a very faded t-shirt, and running shoes I hadn't worn in a while. When I exited the room, my brother looked at me with a puzzled look.

"Where are you off to?"

"Going to the park?"

He grinned, "I haven't been there in ages. What's the occasion?"

"Some light exercise."

"Remember when I used to skate there and you'd run the entire time I skated?"

"Yup. Those were good times." I realized my voice became soft, but I corrected it. "Well, I'm off."

"See ya."

When I left and walked into the warm sunlight, my cold fingertips thawed, and I wondered about who would be with me in my own little hometown in the cracks and crevices.

I hoped my kids wouldn't feel like such nomads.