The Crosswalk
I live at the very edge, poised, teetering, the last street, in fact, before the city gives way to what comes next, to what came before, to everything non-city.
At night I climb out onto the roof of the building and sit atop the elevator shaft. From there, I can see it all, what’s on the other side, the dense undergrowth, tenacious and impenetrable, the first trees, trunks creaking, crowns swaying gently. Farther still, I can see the part where the principle of individuation starts to break down, where there are no more particular trees but, rather, a forest, a composition of constituent movements and hues, a totality, decentered perhaps but a totality all the same. In moments of release, of abandonment and distraction, when the chatter subsides, when the compulsive thoughts loosen their grip, I can feel the pull, I can sense it, somewhere over the treeline, behind it all, at the bottom of everything, the sea and cliffs.
At the end of the day, after work, after the toilets are all cleaned and the floors mopped, after I return to my studio apartment, books stacked on the floor, mattress in the corner, neon lights buzzing on the other side of the window, I venture out, up the dank stairwell to the very top, out the hatch and onto the rooftop at last because, from there, everything is clearer.
On one side are the buildings, shoulder to shoulder, the billboards lining the roads, the buzz of the streetlamps, the roar of the freeway, a siren in the distance, a hot-rod sputtering down the drag. On the other side, the forest, stitched together, breathing in unison, chest heaving, eyes staring out from somewhere deep within. In the middle, of course, is the road, the very last street, a perimeter. And, at each side street that intersects with it, there is a crosswalk, a series of white rectangular bars on the pavement, equally spaced, stretching from one curb to the other. This is a convention of city planning, a part of its language, necessary perhaps like a period at the end of a sentence. There is something unsettling, nonetheless, about a crosswalk that leads nowhere, that dead-ends into an impenetrable wall of trees.
At first, atop the elevator shaft, I was more concerned with the city lights, the orange glow, the crackling embers. They had a calming effect on my nerves, almost always frayed. Gradually, however, my attention began to shift, to gravitate towards the non-city, as if drawn by some unseen force. I stared deep into the folds of the forest, the negative spaces, until I felt equal parts empty and full, like the forest itself. Suspended in the tension, a liminal state, I was able to make out a sound issuing forth from the forest floor. Night after night, I listened for the sound, faint but unmistakeable, until I realized that it wasn’t an arbitrary sound but a word, the same word, being pronounced over and over again, slowly, patiently, in a language that I was unable to decipher, until just recently, that is, the night that the skateboarders came around.
Autumn was crossing a threshold, the needle of its dial tipping towards deep fall, the home stretch. The leaves, thoroughly dried out, were making quite a roar in the wind, enough almost to rival the noise of traffic on the city side. There was one sound, however, that stood out from the rest, a familiar sound, unmistakable to the initiated: the crack of the wood from the tail of a skateboard on the pavement.
To get a better look, I walked to the very edge of the rooftop, toes over the line, the edge of the abyss. Down below, three skateboarders darted out from one of the side streets. It was as if they were being chased, as if there were trying to escape from something. They had made it to the road, the very last street, the end of it all, the city. Seemingly, there was nowhere else to go. No longer looking backward, over the shoulders, they set their sights on the forest. Taking their skateboards into their arms they entered the crosswalk at a brisk jog. Halfway through, there was a qualitative change. They were no longer jogging but scurrying, not upright but on all fours, more raccoon than human. Upon reaching the far curb, they disappeared into the undergrowth, which had opened at their approach and closed shut behind them.
It was the first time that I had ever seen anyone in the crosswalk, the first time that I realized that it was possible to pass over to the other side.
Without thinking twice, I scrambled back through the hatch, down the dank stairwell all the way to the lobby of the building, and out the front door into the street. I felt like I was being chased as I made my way to the crosswalk. The first thing I noticed, upon entering, was that my vision had changed. I could see deep into the forest for the first time and discern its inner workings, the particularities. The trees opened at my approach. My sense of smell was heightened enough for me to perceive that I was on the right track, the one that I had been looking for, although I hadn’t always known it. There was a metallic taste in my mouth, entirely new. I heard the word being pronounced, the same one as before, only this time I understood its meaning, an injunction, loving yet inflexible, getting louder at my approach.
Halfway through the crosswalk, however, something stopped me in my tracks. A thought had popped into my head. A doubt, not unlike a fear of drowning. I backtracked slowly until I reached the curb on the city side, dry land. From there, the forest was no longer open. It returned to its former state, a wall, impenetrable once again.
Something changed that night. I still climb out onto the rooftop after work. But I no longer do it as an onlooker. I know now how deeply implicated I am. I know what needs to be done, all the preparations. Clearer than ever before, I feel the pull, the injunction, unobjectionable. And I am confident I will recognize it when it comes, the moment. I can sense its nearness, its imminence, the coming transformation. In the meantime, I am working on the finishing touches, the escape plan, determined to get it right this time.
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