The Man from Brooklyn is a novella about leaving home, academia, and the Maine woods.
A few days later, the man from Brooklyn woke at two in the morning, which wasn’t unusual. But what terrified him was the feeling that something was hovering over him as if he were prey. There was an obscure blotch on the ceiling above him.
He grabbed his glasses off the nightstand with as little movement as possible, afraid that it would be mistaken for aggression and, hence, a defensive attack. The heavy night rain made the darkness completely enveloping. Even with glasses, all he could see was a blob and for a moment, he thought he was in the clear, that it was simply a darker splotch on the ceiling. Sight gave him bravery and he turned on the small bedside lamp while moving out of the way of the image. To his horror, there was a gigantic, hairy spider on the ceiling just over him. He screamed. Nobody, of course, was there. If the neighbors could hear him, they didn’t come to his rescue. It would have been too abstract of a sound for them to locate.
His body was tense and turned into a killing machine. Eat or be eaten. He felt like a caveman. All rational thought exited his brain as he searched for the nearest large shoes, belt, and liquid. Unfortunately, no cleaning products were nearby, but a bottle of water could be used to stun it if needed. He had no idea what he was dealing with.
On instinct, he used a belt to scare it down from its perch. This meant that it fell to his bed. He felt like screaming again but was determined to stay alert and finish the job. He wouldn’t be able to relax in his house until he did. He used the belt to usher it off and onto the floor. He then poured the water on top of it, which gave him the confidence to smash it with a shoe, not once, but four, maybe five times.
He held it down that last time until he was sure it was dead. A slow reveal showed exactly this. It was curled as if in an eight-legged fetal position. The man ran to grab his phone for purposes of identification and take a photo before throwing it into the toilet to be flushed.
⬩
Day came quickly and after a morning class, the man went to the dining hall for lunch. It was packed and he felt flustered, but he stayed because he was famished.
In a corner booth, he lingered over the comfort foods of lasagne and broccoli until most of the students had left for afternoon class or activities. He immersed himself in his phone, sending off texts to friends and his girlfriend, telling them how great the school was and sharing the photo of the spider for commiseration and possibly to remind himself the nightmare was real.
“Hey now, what have we got here?” Still wearing his chef hat, Barney had wandered over and sat in the empty chair adjacent to the man, “Apologies, I noticed a spider photograph as I came over to say hello and make sure the food is ok.”
“The food is wonderful, thanks so much.”
“You’re one of the new ones, right? I saw you at the lobster bake. Name’s Barney and I’ve been here forever, so I’m a fountain of knowledge. If you need anything, I mean.”
“Oh, thanks a lot. I’m Cliff. I’ve just moved from New York and could probably use some help.” He was laughing at himself but also felt this chef had a grandfather gravitas that he could use in his life.
“Well, for starters, you’ve got a spider. In your house, is it? Let me have a look.”
Cliff passed his phone over and watched Barney zoom in and out in inspection. “What is it? Is it dangerous?”
“No, no. Fishing spider. Harmless! I’m surprised it was in your house. Must’ve been lost, poor thing. Do you live near the water?”
“No, no, just a ten minute walk from here. I guess it was lost…and I killed it…”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it! Nature’s cycle and all.”
“I woke up to it on the ceiling over my head.”
“Ha! You must’ve been scared batty. I’d of done the same thing.”
⬩
The man was haunted by the image of the dead spider for weeks. At first, he thought it was the replay of the fear he had when he had woken up, but he then understood it to be his shame. The shame at killing an innocent creature.
During that time, Barney started to seek him out when he ate in the dining hall, especially for breakfast. There were barely any professors there in the morning. They had included all the meals in his contract, which apparently was typical for new hires they were worried might get isolated or malnourished.
For some reason he enjoyed talking with Barney more than his colleagues. They talked about normal things, like how they were feeling that day and what did the food taste like.
Barney had lived in the area for a long time. His wife was dead. They had a daughter who lived in California who came home each year at Christmas with her son. She was divorced and didn’t have the time or money to come more often than that, she said. Barney said he looked forward to Christmas more than any other time of year, but it hurt his soul every time they left again.
They talked about other things, too. One end-of-lunch conversation turned to moose hunting.
“I hunt one moose a year, as long as I can get a permit. They’re overpopulated here so it actually serves the eco-system, but all the hunters want to do it. I don’t really want to and I’m not a hunter, but I think it’s the right thing to do.”
“Isn’t that difficult?”
“Nah, the difficult part is after you shoot it. Not for the faint hearted, and you need help from others. As a chef, though, I feel like I need to do this. Like a ritual to understand what we are eating, who we are.”
“I can see that.”
“I get help from several Wabanaki Indians; they’re from the Penobscot tribe. The state reserves some permits for them, so if I don’t get one, I often go on one of their hunts. They give me enough meat for a couple of meals. I do the same when they help me, and I always give them the skin or other parts they want to use.”
“Wow, that’s great. I haven’t heard anyone else talk about the Native Americans here. Or seen or read anything either, I guess.”
“They formed the Wabanaki Alliance1 a couple of years ago if you want to learn more. Anyway, I don’t get involved in politics and stuff. I just know a couple of guys. Do you know the land here?”
“Not at all.”
“Let’s take a walk down by the river. Have you been over the bridge before?”
“Sure, that’s where most of the grocery stores and town and everything are.”
“No, I mean the swinging bridge2. Some college kids organized the whole redoing of it a few years ago. Before that it was a little precarious!” He let out a big belly laugh, “You wouldn’t want to fall into the Androscoggin.”
“No, I guess you wouldn’t. Sure, we can walk over that bridge.” He didn’t have anything on his social calendar. He liked to pretend he was busy. But really, without a family or hobbies besides reading related to work and the occasional bike ride, he had heaps of time for rumination or whatever. He needed the company.
“I’m off today at four. Meet me at the corner of campus by the art museum, alright?”
As they approached the bridge, it looked more like a pencil sketch in the practice of understanding perspective. The many lines of slabs of wood and supportive metal were mere threads that would dissipate as soon as they stepped off the ground and into the abyss. It was overcast and the river below was menacing. Rocks with sharp granite edges protruded near the banks like threatening guards.
But after a single step, the mood changed to unplaceable euphoria and the tactile quality was a floating sensation. Despite the slight movement of the bridge underfoot, the man relaxed into the scene as if someone had painted him there. His own movement created a rhythm in harmony with all: the river below, Barney’s plodding steps ahead, the bridge herself. He dared not stop despite a desire to look down. Though the rhythm could not be broken, he began trusting his footing and light grasp of the rails enough so that he could look first out at the horizon front, right upriver, and left down. Then, he summoned the strength to look down sharply over the edge, still in continuous motion. The water spoke back to his silent questions. It seemed to say: come closer, therein lies the answer. And he was not sure if it was menacing him toward self destruction or attempting to heal him with minerals of the earth.
The spell was broken the moment he reached the other side. Life was back to the new normal. They walked silently down to Maine Street3, then Barney said, “Why don’t you come by to try some moose if you’ve never had it? I live just fifteen minutes from here by foot.”
The meat tasted like the earth and the aromas of the forest. It was whole and it was rich, like nothing he had ever tasted before. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes as he chewed. He was unaware of the smoothness overtaking his face as his body at once become more grounded and seemed to lighten.
“This is real food. I don’t know what you guys eat in Brooklyn.4”
To be continued…
Wabanaki Indians guided Thoreau through the back woods of Maine which inspired him to write The Maine Woods. Read more about this journey (& the Thoreau-Wabanaki trail) as well as the Wabanaki Alliance.
Read about the history of the bridge and the current debate about its safety.
In Brunswick, ‘Maine Street’ is Main Street.
I did try moose once. There was this woman who worked at the reception of the field house part time who knew my coach and hosted some of our track team each year for a dinner during the winter term. My coach liked to encourage town-gown relations (as they call it) and also keep us in close touch with older people (and they with us). Anyway, yeah, the moose that Winnie shot and ate the whole winter long was very tasty in this earthy way that didn’t seem to need any seasoning. It’s also the only time I ate moose, so I haven’t really sought it out. Sometimes you need to be somewhere to eat something…you know what I mean? (This may be practical when it comes to moose as well!)
Delighted I got up early for reading time with my morning coffee before cubicle land. So engrossing! As someone who has worn glasses for almost forever, I get this: "Sight gave him bravery." Looking forward to the next installment.
"Despite the slight movement of the bridge underfoot, the man relaxed into the scene as if someone had painted him there." I loved this line. There's a lovely tension between his relaxation and his total lack of agency that the image suggests.