Saturday, October 10, 2009
The typo issue
Okay -- these typos are getting out of hand. I must commit myself to a more careful reading before I click on the Twitter "update" option. But I fixed the one that happened in September -- now my soul can rest.
The Secret Life Of Hamel: September, 2009 Posts
Hamel did manage to rid himself of the stigma of virginity during his junior year in high school. It happened in his parent’s car, parked behind a supermarket, with the windows open to combat the heat from both weather and passion, and the unmistakable smell of decaying lettuce overpowering his date’s perfume.
As a university student, Hamel attended parties thrown off-campus with the regularity of others in his classes, met a few girls who were nice to him, enjoyed some moments of awkward groping while both he and his female companion of the evening were beer high.
His one completed copulation occurred in the first month of his freshmen year.
She was a senior. She’d met Hamel a few days previous in a student lounge, had both introduced herself and smoothly dominated the first thirty minutes of conversation. Then, airily, before heading to a class, she’d suggested a picnic lunch, in a somewhat secluded, park-like area of the campus, to celebrate Hamel’s arrival to the university.
The picnic and the coupling had happened in short order, the latter following closely after the former, with both taking less than forty minutes to complete. While she was rearranging herself, Hamel tried to do what he thought might be expected of him, and asked her if she would like to go to a movie the coming weekend. She turned to him, smiled slightly and said “No thanks – today was good enough.”
Hamel was not certain of all that was meant by this remark but perceived it, correctly, as a sign of dismissal.
He saw her again, two weeks later, talking to another freshman outside the football stadium. He’d waved slightly as he walked by; she did not wave back. They never spoke to each other again, even though Hamel saw her on campus from time to time.
He shook off the experience quickly and unemotionally, like shaking raindrops off an umbrella. He remembered her name, and what she looked like naked on a blanket under the trees, and not much else about her. He never spoke to anyone about the incident.
From Hamel’s point of view, there was nothing to tell. As his private, mental epitaph to the incident, he’d simply concluded that he did not know how to connect with “older” women, especially someone three class years ahead of him.
And now, facing the attractive librarian who was even older — by three or four years — than his picnic date, he was convinced of it. He could not think of a single thing to say. She saved him.
“Why is it, “ she asked him, “that you always come here by yourself? Most students seem to study with their friends, though I am not so sure,” she smiled, “that there is much quality academic work going on.” She paused and looked at Hamel with curiosity.
“Is that why you always come to this spot, to stay away from the other students?” Her voice had softened and Hamel felt uncomfortable, as if she were suddenly and unwillingly divulging his private thoughts. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I am not trying to pry. I just wondered.”
“I have friends,” Hamel said, then realized he had answered a question which she hadn’t asked. “Some friends,” he repeated.
“Oh, I wasn’t asking that,” said the librarian. “I’m sure you have some kind of a social circle — people you spend time with. But when you come to the library, you always come alone. And you always head straight for this spot. And I’m wondering,” she paused, and softened her voice. “I’m wondering if you come here to this out of the way study carrel so that you can concentrate on your work
or simply to avoid others.”
As a university student, Hamel attended parties thrown off-campus with the regularity of others in his classes, met a few girls who were nice to him, enjoyed some moments of awkward groping while both he and his female companion of the evening were beer high.
His one completed copulation occurred in the first month of his freshmen year.
She was a senior. She’d met Hamel a few days previous in a student lounge, had both introduced herself and smoothly dominated the first thirty minutes of conversation. Then, airily, before heading to a class, she’d suggested a picnic lunch, in a somewhat secluded, park-like area of the campus, to celebrate Hamel’s arrival to the university.
The picnic and the coupling had happened in short order, the latter following closely after the former, with both taking less than forty minutes to complete. While she was rearranging herself, Hamel tried to do what he thought might be expected of him, and asked her if she would like to go to a movie the coming weekend. She turned to him, smiled slightly and said “No thanks – today was good enough.”
Hamel was not certain of all that was meant by this remark but perceived it, correctly, as a sign of dismissal.
He saw her again, two weeks later, talking to another freshman outside the football stadium. He’d waved slightly as he walked by; she did not wave back. They never spoke to each other again, even though Hamel saw her on campus from time to time.
He shook off the experience quickly and unemotionally, like shaking raindrops off an umbrella. He remembered her name, and what she looked like naked on a blanket under the trees, and not much else about her. He never spoke to anyone about the incident.
From Hamel’s point of view, there was nothing to tell. As his private, mental epitaph to the incident, he’d simply concluded that he did not know how to connect with “older” women, especially someone three class years ahead of him.
And now, facing the attractive librarian who was even older — by three or four years — than his picnic date, he was convinced of it. He could not think of a single thing to say. She saved him.
“Why is it, “ she asked him, “that you always come here by yourself? Most students seem to study with their friends, though I am not so sure,” she smiled, “that there is much quality academic work going on.” She paused and looked at Hamel with curiosity.
“Is that why you always come to this spot, to stay away from the other students?” Her voice had softened and Hamel felt uncomfortable, as if she were suddenly and unwillingly divulging his private thoughts. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I am not trying to pry. I just wondered.”
“I have friends,” Hamel said, then realized he had answered a question which she hadn’t asked. “Some friends,” he repeated.
“Oh, I wasn’t asking that,” said the librarian. “I’m sure you have some kind of a social circle — people you spend time with. But when you come to the library, you always come alone. And you always head straight for this spot. And I’m wondering,” she paused, and softened her voice. “I’m wondering if you come here to this out of the way study carrel so that you can concentrate on your work
or simply to avoid others.”
Monday, September 7, 2009
The Secret Life of Hamel: August, 2009 Posts
It was not surprising, consequently, because Hamel liked to consider and often described himself as a committed pragmatist, that he decided to put his preoccupation with the lecture to good use: his philosophy paper would be based on peak experiences as they applied to the modern university student.
Hamel was sure that he could fill the paper with more than enough “insights” to earn a passing grade. As he continued his walk across the campus toward the library, Hamel began to consider how the paper might begin. His thoughts were interrupted by a friendly greeting from the librarian as he entered the building.
“Back again?” she said.
Her voice echoed slightly in the large open area of the library’s atrium. Hamel looked at her. She was maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven, not all that much older than the co-eds that Hamel knew from classes, the dining hall, or the occasional party that he attended.
Hamel nodded at the librarian without speaking, then turned to climb the steps to the third floor. He was heading for a small cluster of study carrels, located in a wing of the library that other students rarely visited. It was quiet there. On many occasions, Hamel worked in that location for two hours or more without ever seeing another student. Sometimes he would sneak in a quart of beer to drink while he forced himself to read assignments from weighty textbooks or write, painfully, to complete a required paper.
Hamel turned to the left as he reached the third floor, walked a narrow pathway between two imposing stacks of books, lifted his arms to unburden himself of his backpack. He sat at the nearest of the four study carrels, and burrowed into the backpack for class notes and writing materials. He pulled a spiral bound copy book from a side pouch, discovered a red ballpoint pen with a chewed cap, found his scribbled notations from the “peak experiences” class, placed all of them carefully on the top of the desk, leaned back, and stared.
Thirty minutes later, he was still staring, his mind wandering from one place to another, his thoughts drifting with the aimlessness of a page torn from a student notebook, blown across campus by little gusts of wind.
Her voice startled him; he had not heard her approach. “Hi,” she said, “The library will be closing in about fifteen minutes so I thought I’d come find you.”
Hamel looked up into the face of the librarian who had greeted him earlier. She was smiling at him, in a friendly way, and Hamel half-smiled back but did not know what to say. The librarian seemed to sense Hamel’s discomfort. “Every once in a while,” she added, “students fall asleep studying up here. And then I lock up and leave them. They can get out, of course, through the emergency exit but then Security is alerted. Which causes a big commotion.”
She smiled again. “I didn’t want that to happen to you.”
“Thank you,” Hamel said. “I wasn’t sleepy though. I was just thinking.” For the first time, even though he’d seen her on many occasions over the past few weeks, Hamel took notice of the woman standing near him. He observed those things that young men find interesting: a face that he categorized immediately as cute, not beautiful, with dark eyes and dimples that deepened with her smile; rich, brown hair that fell nicely in place, even after a day behind her desk, and perhaps longer than the styles worn by girls Hamel knew from around the campus; and an athletic body, apparent despite her appropriately conservative dark skirt and maroon sweater.
At this point in his life, while women were interesting to Hamel, they did not occupy much of his time. Unlike his few males friends, who always seemed to be moving from one female relationship into another, Hamel did not have a girlfriend. In fact, he'd never had one, not in grade school when liking a particular girl meant enduring endless whispering and giggling among said girl’s friends, and not in high school where girls Hamel liked took no notice of him, and those that were interested in him were,from Hamel’s perspective, dull or unattractive or silly.
Hamel was sure that he could fill the paper with more than enough “insights” to earn a passing grade. As he continued his walk across the campus toward the library, Hamel began to consider how the paper might begin. His thoughts were interrupted by a friendly greeting from the librarian as he entered the building.
“Back again?” she said.
Her voice echoed slightly in the large open area of the library’s atrium. Hamel looked at her. She was maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven, not all that much older than the co-eds that Hamel knew from classes, the dining hall, or the occasional party that he attended.
Hamel nodded at the librarian without speaking, then turned to climb the steps to the third floor. He was heading for a small cluster of study carrels, located in a wing of the library that other students rarely visited. It was quiet there. On many occasions, Hamel worked in that location for two hours or more without ever seeing another student. Sometimes he would sneak in a quart of beer to drink while he forced himself to read assignments from weighty textbooks or write, painfully, to complete a required paper.
Hamel turned to the left as he reached the third floor, walked a narrow pathway between two imposing stacks of books, lifted his arms to unburden himself of his backpack. He sat at the nearest of the four study carrels, and burrowed into the backpack for class notes and writing materials. He pulled a spiral bound copy book from a side pouch, discovered a red ballpoint pen with a chewed cap, found his scribbled notations from the “peak experiences” class, placed all of them carefully on the top of the desk, leaned back, and stared.
Thirty minutes later, he was still staring, his mind wandering from one place to another, his thoughts drifting with the aimlessness of a page torn from a student notebook, blown across campus by little gusts of wind.
Her voice startled him; he had not heard her approach. “Hi,” she said, “The library will be closing in about fifteen minutes so I thought I’d come find you.”
Hamel looked up into the face of the librarian who had greeted him earlier. She was smiling at him, in a friendly way, and Hamel half-smiled back but did not know what to say. The librarian seemed to sense Hamel’s discomfort. “Every once in a while,” she added, “students fall asleep studying up here. And then I lock up and leave them. They can get out, of course, through the emergency exit but then Security is alerted. Which causes a big commotion.”
She smiled again. “I didn’t want that to happen to you.”
“Thank you,” Hamel said. “I wasn’t sleepy though. I was just thinking.” For the first time, even though he’d seen her on many occasions over the past few weeks, Hamel took notice of the woman standing near him. He observed those things that young men find interesting: a face that he categorized immediately as cute, not beautiful, with dark eyes and dimples that deepened with her smile; rich, brown hair that fell nicely in place, even after a day behind her desk, and perhaps longer than the styles worn by girls Hamel knew from around the campus; and an athletic body, apparent despite her appropriately conservative dark skirt and maroon sweater.
At this point in his life, while women were interesting to Hamel, they did not occupy much of his time. Unlike his few males friends, who always seemed to be moving from one female relationship into another, Hamel did not have a girlfriend. In fact, he'd never had one, not in grade school when liking a particular girl meant enduring endless whispering and giggling among said girl’s friends, and not in high school where girls Hamel liked took no notice of him, and those that were interested in him were,from Hamel’s perspective, dull or unattractive or silly.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
The Secret Life of Hamel: July, 2009 Posts
Author's Note: In order to have my monthly summaries make sense, I have decided to begin and end each blog posting with complete thoughts. In some cases, this may mean repeating sentence fragments from last month's post, or stealing a line or two from the following month's Twitter tweets. I do this under the continuing delusion that anyone cares.
A fellow student once asked Hamel if he found the pronounced scar on the professor’s chin disconcerting. Hamel thought about the question, realized that he’d never even noticed the scar, and then replied Yes, but not that much. Hamel took a close look at the professor during the next class: the scar was probably an inch in length, ugly and red, and virtually impossible to miss. Seeing it, in a sense for the first time, Hamel grasped the obvious: he’d never really looked at the professor’s face before, at least not with the slightest bit of interest or attention.
Six weeks of classes, three times a week, 50 minutes per class. And never, not once, did such a pronounced facial disfigurement make an impression on Hamel’s consciousness. Given such disregard for his professor, combined with his lack of interest in the course, it was unusual that Hamel paid close attention to the “peak experiences” lecture. It was the premise that intrigued him, the idea that life could and should be lived, not as a continuum of existence, but rather a series of highlights, “peak” moments, which could last from minutes to several days or longer, and during which a human being experiences life to the fullest.
Admittedly, Hamel’s professor had a different take on this phenomenon from that espoused by other, more published philosophers. The “big boys” — Hamel’s professor always referred to well-known philosophers this way — universally described peak experiences in highly positive terms. They wrote about joyous moments, occasions of intense happiness, feelings of profound wonder and awe.
According to these thinkers, the catalysts for such experiences were similarly connected with “goodness”: deep meditation, overwhelming feelings of love, gazing at a stunning piece of art, or a wonder of nature, or hearing and being moved by a wonderfully uplifting piece of music.
Hamel’s professor told his students that he believed all of these phenomena could be described as “alpha generators” and that the peak experiences they brought on could be called “white peaks.” Yet, he argued, just as there seemed to be a polar opposite for everything in Nature, the same was true of peak experiences. In addition to white peaks, the professor explained, there are “black peaks”, experiences similar in intensity, similar in their dramatic impact on the individual living in those moments, but brought on by negative, “omega” generators or incidents of profound evil, horror or despair.
Serial killers, he stated, often experienced an intense, almost transcendental euphoria at the moment of taking a human life.
He went on to explain that peak experiences — at least of the white kind — could also be brought on by certain drugs, and that controlled experiments were often conducted to induce the phenomena and give researchers further insights into their nature and their impact on individual subjects. But here is the big idea, the professor concluded, spreading his arms wide for dramatic emphasis: “Peak experiences don’t just define our lives — they ARE our lives. Within our psyches, we all yearn for these zenith moments — they are our only connections to true happiness and real satisfaction as human beings. Most people,” he continued, “don’t understand this at all. In fact, most of you,” he said as he looked intently at each member of the class, “will live your lives unfulfilled, and not know why."
The young woman next to Hamel raised her hand tentatively. The professor turned his head, stared at her, but did not respond.
The professor continued. “In fact, most of you,” he pronounced, “will die wondering and wishing and wanting because you will never have given yourselves a chance to live.” The professor, clearly enjoying his delivery, paused for dramatic impact. He ran his hand through his hair, glanced down at his watch, stared out the window for a moment. Then he concluded, almost whispering, with a theatrical intensity. “But some few of you will leave this classroom today. . . and begin a search. Class dismissed.”
The professor turned away and began to gather books from his desk. He did not look at any of his students. The class sat in awkward silence.
Someone sitting close to Hamel murmured, “What an arrogant ass.” Hamel nodded slowly in agreement. Yet, the professor’s lecture made him feel uncomfortable somehow, as if, hidden within his comments to the entire class, the professor had placed some special truth, some important precept for Hamel to consider. Not purposefully, of course. Hamel knew that, on a personal level, he was insignificant to the professor; Hamel was not even sure if the professor knew his name.
Yet, something in the professor’s remark had triggered an unusual response in Hamel. Over the past several days since the lecture, Hamel had replayed the class in his mind again and again.
A fellow student once asked Hamel if he found the pronounced scar on the professor’s chin disconcerting. Hamel thought about the question, realized that he’d never even noticed the scar, and then replied Yes, but not that much. Hamel took a close look at the professor during the next class: the scar was probably an inch in length, ugly and red, and virtually impossible to miss. Seeing it, in a sense for the first time, Hamel grasped the obvious: he’d never really looked at the professor’s face before, at least not with the slightest bit of interest or attention.
Six weeks of classes, three times a week, 50 minutes per class. And never, not once, did such a pronounced facial disfigurement make an impression on Hamel’s consciousness. Given such disregard for his professor, combined with his lack of interest in the course, it was unusual that Hamel paid close attention to the “peak experiences” lecture. It was the premise that intrigued him, the idea that life could and should be lived, not as a continuum of existence, but rather a series of highlights, “peak” moments, which could last from minutes to several days or longer, and during which a human being experiences life to the fullest.
Admittedly, Hamel’s professor had a different take on this phenomenon from that espoused by other, more published philosophers. The “big boys” — Hamel’s professor always referred to well-known philosophers this way — universally described peak experiences in highly positive terms. They wrote about joyous moments, occasions of intense happiness, feelings of profound wonder and awe.
According to these thinkers, the catalysts for such experiences were similarly connected with “goodness”: deep meditation, overwhelming feelings of love, gazing at a stunning piece of art, or a wonder of nature, or hearing and being moved by a wonderfully uplifting piece of music.
Hamel’s professor told his students that he believed all of these phenomena could be described as “alpha generators” and that the peak experiences they brought on could be called “white peaks.” Yet, he argued, just as there seemed to be a polar opposite for everything in Nature, the same was true of peak experiences. In addition to white peaks, the professor explained, there are “black peaks”, experiences similar in intensity, similar in their dramatic impact on the individual living in those moments, but brought on by negative, “omega” generators or incidents of profound evil, horror or despair.
Serial killers, he stated, often experienced an intense, almost transcendental euphoria at the moment of taking a human life.
He went on to explain that peak experiences — at least of the white kind — could also be brought on by certain drugs, and that controlled experiments were often conducted to induce the phenomena and give researchers further insights into their nature and their impact on individual subjects. But here is the big idea, the professor concluded, spreading his arms wide for dramatic emphasis: “Peak experiences don’t just define our lives — they ARE our lives. Within our psyches, we all yearn for these zenith moments — they are our only connections to true happiness and real satisfaction as human beings. Most people,” he continued, “don’t understand this at all. In fact, most of you,” he said as he looked intently at each member of the class, “will live your lives unfulfilled, and not know why."
The young woman next to Hamel raised her hand tentatively. The professor turned his head, stared at her, but did not respond.
The professor continued. “In fact, most of you,” he pronounced, “will die wondering and wishing and wanting because you will never have given yourselves a chance to live.” The professor, clearly enjoying his delivery, paused for dramatic impact. He ran his hand through his hair, glanced down at his watch, stared out the window for a moment. Then he concluded, almost whispering, with a theatrical intensity. “But some few of you will leave this classroom today. . . and begin a search. Class dismissed.”
The professor turned away and began to gather books from his desk. He did not look at any of his students. The class sat in awkward silence.
Someone sitting close to Hamel murmured, “What an arrogant ass.” Hamel nodded slowly in agreement. Yet, the professor’s lecture made him feel uncomfortable somehow, as if, hidden within his comments to the entire class, the professor had placed some special truth, some important precept for Hamel to consider. Not purposefully, of course. Hamel knew that, on a personal level, he was insignificant to the professor; Hamel was not even sure if the professor knew his name.
Yet, something in the professor’s remark had triggered an unusual response in Hamel. Over the past several days since the lecture, Hamel had replayed the class in his mind again and again.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
The Secret Life of Hamel: June, 2009 Posts
Without knowing what she was looking for, Hamel’s wife scanned the area all around the bus stop. She saw nothing else out of place. She looked up the street in both directions, looked down again to where the coffee mug has been placed, shook her head slowly in confusion. Agitated, frustrated, Hamel’s wife turned and re-crossed the street toward the corner grocery, clutching the mug tightly in her hand. She knew, once she got home, that she’d call the police again and report her find. She was just as sure that it would be a waste of time.
CHAPTER TWO: 22 YEARS, 6 MONTHS, 1 DAY BEFORE HAMEL DISAPPEARED
It was a small, urban campus, in an economically declining section of the city. Academic buildings, once stately and imposing, looked tired in the early evening light, their outsides darkened by the exhaust of too many passing automobiles.
Here and there, walls of individual buildings showcased the talents of local graffiti artists. Iron bars covered first floor windows. Sidewalks were pitted and stained; most were spotted with ugly, black blotches, leave-behinds from a generation of mannerless, gum-chewing students.
Occasionally, in his walk from dormitory to library, Hamel would pass a skeleton tree, barren of leaves, or a concrete bench, cracked and crumbling from age.
For many students, February was a dismal, depressing time on the university campus; Hamel, typically, had little reaction to season or scenery. He walked across campus oblivious to them both.
Hamel’s mind was occupied with other things, principally a five-page philosophy paper due in two weeks and, as yet, not begun.
Hamel was, at best, an average student. He studied irregularly, as much from boredom as anything else. His grades, consequently, were unremarkable, consistent with the effort he applied, at odds with his considerable intelligence.
Hamel enjoyed reading, but his tastes were eclectic and rarely in line with the academic courses in which he was enrolled. His professors considered him to be something of a mystery. This was fine with Hamel. As long as his academic results were sufficient to maintain the financial support of his parents for his education, Hamel was unconcerned.
Occasionally, however, Hamel encountered a topic that piqued his interest. Recently, his professor in Ethics, a wild-eyed, wild-haired individual, with a degree from Cambridge, and an accent from Mississippi, presented a lecture entitled The Peak Experience Life: An Ethical Perspective.
Hamel did not understand why this teacher felt it necessary to title each of his lectures. It seemed a little pretentious, like his wearing academic robes to class and insisting that students address him as Doctor instead of his given name.
Most of the class thought the man bizarre; Hamel considered him a buffoon. Others complained about his poor teaching methods; Hamel simply ignored them. Since the course itself was of little interest to Hamel, the professor who taught it was, by default, insignificant. He was an easy grader and, therefore, neither a problem to be addressed nor an obstacle to be overcome. The professor was, in fact, so totally unimportant to him that Hamel would have had difficulty answering even the simplest of questions about the man. A fellow student once asked Hamel if he found the pronounced scar
CHAPTER TWO: 22 YEARS, 6 MONTHS, 1 DAY BEFORE HAMEL DISAPPEARED
It was a small, urban campus, in an economically declining section of the city. Academic buildings, once stately and imposing, looked tired in the early evening light, their outsides darkened by the exhaust of too many passing automobiles.
Here and there, walls of individual buildings showcased the talents of local graffiti artists. Iron bars covered first floor windows. Sidewalks were pitted and stained; most were spotted with ugly, black blotches, leave-behinds from a generation of mannerless, gum-chewing students.
Occasionally, in his walk from dormitory to library, Hamel would pass a skeleton tree, barren of leaves, or a concrete bench, cracked and crumbling from age.
For many students, February was a dismal, depressing time on the university campus; Hamel, typically, had little reaction to season or scenery. He walked across campus oblivious to them both.
Hamel’s mind was occupied with other things, principally a five-page philosophy paper due in two weeks and, as yet, not begun.
Hamel was, at best, an average student. He studied irregularly, as much from boredom as anything else. His grades, consequently, were unremarkable, consistent with the effort he applied, at odds with his considerable intelligence.
Hamel enjoyed reading, but his tastes were eclectic and rarely in line with the academic courses in which he was enrolled. His professors considered him to be something of a mystery. This was fine with Hamel. As long as his academic results were sufficient to maintain the financial support of his parents for his education, Hamel was unconcerned.
Occasionally, however, Hamel encountered a topic that piqued his interest. Recently, his professor in Ethics, a wild-eyed, wild-haired individual, with a degree from Cambridge, and an accent from Mississippi, presented a lecture entitled The Peak Experience Life: An Ethical Perspective.
Hamel did not understand why this teacher felt it necessary to title each of his lectures. It seemed a little pretentious, like his wearing academic robes to class and insisting that students address him as Doctor instead of his given name.
Most of the class thought the man bizarre; Hamel considered him a buffoon. Others complained about his poor teaching methods; Hamel simply ignored them. Since the course itself was of little interest to Hamel, the professor who taught it was, by default, insignificant. He was an easy grader and, therefore, neither a problem to be addressed nor an obstacle to be overcome. The professor was, in fact, so totally unimportant to him that Hamel would have had difficulty answering even the simplest of questions about the man. A fellow student once asked Hamel if he found the pronounced scar
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Catching up on Hamel
If anyone wants to know what has happened in The Secret Life of Hamel so far, this is the place to be.
Three of my blog postings (April 5, May 3 and June 3) summarize the daily posts to Twitter through May 31.
I will continue to post monthly summaries as I go.
If you are reading the Hamel novel (get a life!), thanks -- only 12 years to go and we'll see how this thing turns out.
I am more curious than you are.
Three of my blog postings (April 5, May 3 and June 3) summarize the daily posts to Twitter through May 31.
I will continue to post monthly summaries as I go.
If you are reading the Hamel novel (get a life!), thanks -- only 12 years to go and we'll see how this thing turns out.
I am more curious than you are.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
The Secret Life of Hamel: May, 2009 Posts
HERE IS THE CONTINUATION OF THE STORY AS POSTED DURNG MAY, 2009. PREVIOUS BLOG POSTINGS PROVIDE THE STORY FROM ITS FIRST TWEET ON FEBRUARY 5, 2009.
Hamel’s wife continued walking, tried to shake off her uneasiness. She was not successful. It clung to her like the heavy, damp air. Five days, she thought. And counting. With no end in sight. And each day bringing her closer to believing she would never see Hamel again.
She wondered, again, if there was anything more she should be doing. During the past week, she’d called a number of local hospitals. They were always polite. No, we have not admitted any male patients without identification. Have you spoken to the police? they’d ask.
Hamel’s wife knew that the hospital calls were a long shot. But she was haunted by the possibility that Hamel was, perhaps, in a coma, a victim of a violent robbery that had left him without his wallet and identification. She wondered how often that happened to people.
Hamel’s wife had handled — pretty well she thought — inquiries from Hamel’s boss, the vice president of logistics and the man who’d given Hamel his promotion several years ago. She’d told him that Hamel was very ill and would probably be out until Monday.
She’d listened as Hamel’s boss voiced appropriate but insincere concern. Please have him call me when he’s feeling better, he’d asked. But today was Sunday. If Hamel did not show up for work on Monday, his boss would be calling back. Then what?
By this point, Hamel’s wife was convinced that the police had forgotten all about Hamel. What was one missing man in a city of several hundred thousand? These were the thoughts that occupied her mind as Hamel’s wife continued to walk.
Looking up the block, Hamel’s wife became acutely aware of something she already knew, that Hamel’s bus stop lay directly ahead, across the street from the corner grocery that was her destination. It was marked by nothing more than a small sign on a post, not being worthy of one of the roofed shelters that the city had built along its bus routes to protect riders from inclement weather.
She kept her eyes on the bus stop as she walked, almost as if she could make Hamel re-appear by staring at it long and hard enough. Perhaps it was the staring — the obsessive scrutiny of every detail surrounding the area — that helped her notice a small object at the base of the signpost. What is that? she thought, squinting her eyes to get a better look. Hamel’s wife wore glasses but she’d needed new prescription lenses for several months. From her location on the block, she could not see the object clearly.
Yet each step — like turning the lens on a slide projector — brought the object more clearly into focus. And then, in an instant, she knew. Even though she was still a good thirty feet away, even though she could not have sworn to it in a court of law, she knew that she was staring at Hamel’s coffee mug, the same mug that he took with him to work every day and brought home with him every night.
Heart beating faster, Hamel’s wife quickly crossed the street, barely glancing to see whether there was any traffic to avoid. She was almost breathless from tension as she reached the bus stop.
She stared down at the coffee mug for several seconds, reluctant to pick it up. Was this evidence? she thought. Will there be fingerprints? Do I call the police?
Her hand was shaking slightly as she bent down, ignoring all the warnings in her head, and reached out for the coffee mug. It was nestled snugly against the post, standing upright. It looked as if it were carefully placed there, not simply discarded or thrown aside. What do I make of that? she thought.
Probably someone had seen the coffee mug lying on the ground, she decided, and was trying to help the rider who’d left it behind. Yes, that made sense. Some thoughtful person had placed it against the post to be retrieved eventually by whomever had left it. But what could have happened that made Hamel leave his coffee mug behind when he boarded the bus? He was not an absent-minded man.
Hamel’s wife continued walking, tried to shake off her uneasiness. She was not successful. It clung to her like the heavy, damp air. Five days, she thought. And counting. With no end in sight. And each day bringing her closer to believing she would never see Hamel again.
She wondered, again, if there was anything more she should be doing. During the past week, she’d called a number of local hospitals. They were always polite. No, we have not admitted any male patients without identification. Have you spoken to the police? they’d ask.
Hamel’s wife knew that the hospital calls were a long shot. But she was haunted by the possibility that Hamel was, perhaps, in a coma, a victim of a violent robbery that had left him without his wallet and identification. She wondered how often that happened to people.
Hamel’s wife had handled — pretty well she thought — inquiries from Hamel’s boss, the vice president of logistics and the man who’d given Hamel his promotion several years ago. She’d told him that Hamel was very ill and would probably be out until Monday.
She’d listened as Hamel’s boss voiced appropriate but insincere concern. Please have him call me when he’s feeling better, he’d asked. But today was Sunday. If Hamel did not show up for work on Monday, his boss would be calling back. Then what?
By this point, Hamel’s wife was convinced that the police had forgotten all about Hamel. What was one missing man in a city of several hundred thousand? These were the thoughts that occupied her mind as Hamel’s wife continued to walk.
Looking up the block, Hamel’s wife became acutely aware of something she already knew, that Hamel’s bus stop lay directly ahead, across the street from the corner grocery that was her destination. It was marked by nothing more than a small sign on a post, not being worthy of one of the roofed shelters that the city had built along its bus routes to protect riders from inclement weather.
She kept her eyes on the bus stop as she walked, almost as if she could make Hamel re-appear by staring at it long and hard enough. Perhaps it was the staring — the obsessive scrutiny of every detail surrounding the area — that helped her notice a small object at the base of the signpost. What is that? she thought, squinting her eyes to get a better look. Hamel’s wife wore glasses but she’d needed new prescription lenses for several months. From her location on the block, she could not see the object clearly.
Yet each step — like turning the lens on a slide projector — brought the object more clearly into focus. And then, in an instant, she knew. Even though she was still a good thirty feet away, even though she could not have sworn to it in a court of law, she knew that she was staring at Hamel’s coffee mug, the same mug that he took with him to work every day and brought home with him every night.
Heart beating faster, Hamel’s wife quickly crossed the street, barely glancing to see whether there was any traffic to avoid. She was almost breathless from tension as she reached the bus stop.
She stared down at the coffee mug for several seconds, reluctant to pick it up. Was this evidence? she thought. Will there be fingerprints? Do I call the police?
Her hand was shaking slightly as she bent down, ignoring all the warnings in her head, and reached out for the coffee mug. It was nestled snugly against the post, standing upright. It looked as if it were carefully placed there, not simply discarded or thrown aside. What do I make of that? she thought.
Probably someone had seen the coffee mug lying on the ground, she decided, and was trying to help the rider who’d left it behind. Yes, that made sense. Some thoughtful person had placed it against the post to be retrieved eventually by whomever had left it. But what could have happened that made Hamel leave his coffee mug behind when he boarded the bus? He was not an absent-minded man.
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