Elle

            It is the march of time that changes our dreams, makes them little, and flies them like paper planes hung by an invisible string in the sky.

            Evelyn thinks of her with a sense of concern when she thinks of her intern, sitting in a 8’ by 10’ cube surrounded by a mountain of files twice her height. Each time she stares at the bland gray carpet though, the pleasantries go out the window as she’s reminded of her own sacrifices.

            There are the literal thousands of hours she’s spent in this office, brooding over an issue related to the business in one way or the other. How about the hundreds spent in this coffee room, or canteen as her international colleagues would put it, waiting for coffee to brew or pouring hot water into her tea cup? And it is a repository for caffeine, she is sure of it, existing for workers to get back to work.

            Yet, funnily enough, no talk of work ever fills the break room. It is all talk of family—of upcoming vacations and weddings and the good news that can pervade a good life. There are no hushed tones—there is only cheery laughter and small conversation. The refuge of middle-aged Americana.

            There is the lady who is the obsessive countertop cleaner who merely says, ‘hello’ as she walks in. She takes time to wash her cup several times before drying it with a paper towel. Evelyn empathizes. It was only a week into her first stint here that she recognized the faint soapish taste of improperly dried cups. She, like her, washes her cup obsessively. It doesn't make for better hygiene, but at least that soapy taste is gone for good.

But the lady, after the inevitable drying of her cups and utensils, takes good care of the surrounding countertop: she wipes everything down with a nice paper towel. 'How much paper does she waste at home,' Evelyn thinks. The old college activist in her would have called her out on the very first day, but out of sheer hesitation and out of a long history of neglecting to do so on account of the hesitance, she can hardly do so now.

Now she doesn't forget to appreciate the cleanliness that the woman has left behind in the wake of her thorough washing and drying. It has, in fact, only lasted a few minutes, if that.

Elle is in the spotlight that never wavers for Evelyn. She is the companion she had before meeting Tom and in some sense the one closer to her heart.

The first baby shower was a short and lonely one, though it was Cory and mom and dad. Dressed in a polka-dotted blue dress, Elle had a yellow bow in her hair and was just about the cutest thing.

About halfway between, their downstairs neighbor joined them with her own two-year-old. The girl, named Serena, would walk over to Elle and give her hugs that left Elle crying, upon which Evelyn would wipe the tears with her fingers.

“Serena, don’t do that,” her mom said.

It is one of the few times that Evelyn has permitted herself to cry. It isn’t that Serena is some kind of stand-in for herself, it is that Elle is—that, somehow, for some unknown reason she wishes that she were Elle at that specific moment.

But the shower goes as planned, with tea and crumble cake. Serena’s mom brings macaroons and they are delicious. Elle is celebrating and showing the inevitable gravitational pull of mother.

It isn’t easy but hell is it worth it to see a life sprout in front of you, to hear her start to form sounds and syllables. It isn’t a coincidence that David feels he can only access half of her—she had already doled out that amount to Elle some years prior.

So each break to pump milk for Elle takes on a special significance.

When she sees her intern and Cory filing, therefore, it elicits pity for her own self only a few years ago. But she had Elle to care for and dinner to plan and diapers to change. They don’t have any of that—not to assume they have easy lives. The intern carries a sadness about her—she is so soft-spoken, so unwilling or unable to look her in the eye as she says hello in the morning.

Past the fertile palm trees and the landscape of old houses there is a white and blue mountain in the shape of a mesa. It is a reminder that nature exists outside of us, independent of human will. And the tranquilty of the cityscape is more fiction than reality; there are thousands of bustling shops and stalls in this urban neighborhood: plentiful in their spirit.

Jim Thompson was a traveler here, fifty years ago, much like and unlike you and me. His story feels more like mythology than accurate historicism, but it is intriguing nevertheless. He came to Thailand in its semi-modern era, as a scholar versed in architecture (having practiced in New York for ten years). He ended up staying until his disappearance in 1967.

Nation of sheep

Ruled by wolves

Owned by pigs

Difficult, is it?

To travel for an extended period of time is like an existential cruise of the mind. Why am I here? What purpose do I serve in the local economy? Is my life a function of the whole?

I guess it has been tough. I’m not getting nearly the amount of restful sleep I would be getting back home. We’re constantly trying to find our way somewhere without getting lost.

The palm trees open up beautifully like the feathers on a quilt pen.

Tom wonders what his life would have been like he hadn’t met Cory. He doesn’t think he would have rushed into marriage, not knowing what arduous work it is to maintain a good relationship with the person you are living with.

He remembers every piece of furniture in the house with clarity because he had to make the final decision of whether to purchase each item. Though Cory was good at figuring where each piece should go, she was more of less indecisive of what they should be.

The piece should fit. Like a round peg in a square hole they fit together, but there was always that empty space between them, around them. Let x equal the length and width of the house they lived in. The circle’s radius was  , making its area  That space equaled   or . Forever irrational, never exactly determinate as an integer.

Integral to their relationship was the semblance of normality. They should be open with one another but not overly so. They should trust each other but not to the extent of complete dependence. They should love each other but not to the point of passion. In truth, their love was a calculation that seemed always to balance.

Equations be what they are, it was a generally pleasant way to live without the threat of argument or heated discussion. Nothing bubbled to the surface. There was no jealousy, no hidden resentment, at least on his part. There only remained a sense of longing for something they couldn’t quite pin down. The house they lived in used to be owned by an older lady who was an AARP member and took care of the backyard as her personal garden. They never received any personal letters addressed to her, so all they had to imagine her were the older cabinets and appliances and the pear trees. There were lemons and grapes and roses; they grew without manual intervention and without precise care.

The house that they lived in was a pleasant house with the remnants of small potted flowers and aged roof tiles. He remembers planting the aloe tree, the kale, and the tomatoes. The earth of the soil was magic. Out of the dirt arose enviable fruits and vegetables. And then came the persimmons. They bloomed in tremendous fashion year by year with a harvest of nearly a hundred for exactly one tree. They had more than they knew to do with.

So they dried them and diced them into salads and made soup and ate them raw. They gave them out to friends and still had many left over.

The house that they lived in was good to them and they were good to it. They were the stewards of their magical garden that seemed to support any kind of plant matter. So they sprinkled it with seeds and waited for the drip water system to work.

Freedom is having a sense of place. A place to live in and a place to enjoy. Some are lucky enough to have both in one house. It is to know there is something to go back to, to rest one’s soul. It is not an easy thing to find freedom.