She knew it was an obsession, but the need to recollect and review each moment of the day before he’d vanished had grown stronger. Was it possible that she’d missed something — a sentence, a gesture — that might have foreshadowed her husband’s disappearance?
Hamel’s wife was no longer certain of her feelings about Hamel’s disappearance. Once she’d believed, fervently, that Hamel had been a victim of other people, other forces. Now she was no longer sure. If something bad had happened to her husband, wouldn’t someone have discovered something by now?
Hamel’s wife looked up the street to see if the bus was coming. There was nothing in sight.
She wondered if that was how she was going to spend the rest of her life, looking in one direction, then another, for some signs of her missing husband, and never finding any. Hamel’s wife wrapped her coat around herself more tightly and continued to wait for her bus.
CHAPTER FOUR: 22 YEARS, 5 MONTHS, 21 DAYS BEFORE HAMEL DISAPPEARED
The weather, as Hamel trudged from dormitory to library, was colder, grayer, and even more dismal than all of the other cold, gray and dismal days since the month of February had begun. Other students complained about it incessantly, reminding each other in whining voices how long it had been since the campus had enjoyed a day with sunshine. Hamel thought himself superior to them: for some reason, the cold and damp did not seem to affect him, and the grayness of the skies often matched his outlook on the life he was living as a student, flat and monochromatic.
Hamel often wondered about other students in classes or the dorms. They seemed so enthusiastic about so many things: basketball games and concerts and parties, even activities like food drives and tutoring programs and volunteer efforts. Hamel did some of those things himself, had recently attended a concert with a group of five others from his dorm floor, and had gone to his first basketball game only two weeks prior.
He had never participated in volunteer activities of any kind; as a student, he had plenty of time to do so, but never the inclination. Why spend a Saturday clearing an abandoned lot for the neighborhood? Wasn’t that the city’s job?
It wasn’t a question of time: Hamel was honest enough with himself to admit that he just did not care. The good thing about being a student is that you had an automatic excuse for side-stepping whatever you wanted to avoid: Sorry, I’d like to, but I’ve got this paper I’m working on. Sometimes, of course, the excuse was the reality.
This was clearly Hamel’s challenge as he neared the library. The paper that he’d begun so confidently weeks ago on the topic of Peak Experiences needed to be completed. But since his last visit to the library, when he’d been disappointed by the absence of the dark-haired librarian, Hamel had lost interest in the paper. Now, like so many of his academic endeavors, the paper had become
a burden.
But something had to be turned in. And that meant a dull and painful evening ahead, frustrating hours in the library followed by the tedious job of typing in his dormitory’s study lounge. Perhaps he would finish by 3am; perhaps not. At this point, Hamel was approaching the assignment with the attitude of a person trying to paint a very large room. The best way to do it was to avoid looking at the unpainted surfaces. Just concentrate on what was immediately in front of him.
In Hamel’s case, it was an almost blank page with a paradoxical heading: Peak Experiences in Everyday Life. When he’d first started to work on his paper,
Hamel was sure that this section would be the heart of it, and that he would be able to write lots, and well, from his personal observations of the people around him on the campus.
Hamel considered himself to be a keen, astute eyewitness to the human condition as it played itself out around him. Much more than an onlooker, way past a casual bystander, Hamel believed that he possessed a special gift for discerning the nuances of human behavior. It was the biggest reason why the few minutes spent with the pretty librarian frustrated him so much. He thought
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
A Full Year of Posts -- Now What?
Today I posted the Feb 4 tweet to The Secret Life of Hamel, a novel on Twitter. So a milestone of silliness has been achieved: one year of posts (except for six or seven days which I would claim were due to writer's block except that the idea of a block so massive it could obstruct 140 characters is ridiculous).
Anyway: a break is needed. Time to assess what got writ (I have very low expectations that much, if any, could be salvaged into real fiction.) I learned a lot, had a lot of fun, and really appreciated the fact that there were three or four people whose last names are not Diccicco who took the time to read some of it.
I will post to this blog all of the January tweets -- and the four tweets from February. And then we'll go on hiatus.
Anyway: a break is needed. Time to assess what got writ (I have very low expectations that much, if any, could be salvaged into real fiction.) I learned a lot, had a lot of fun, and really appreciated the fact that there were three or four people whose last names are not Diccicco who took the time to read some of it.
I will post to this blog all of the January tweets -- and the four tweets from February. And then we'll go on hiatus.
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Secret Life of Hamel: December 2009 Posts
she asked. “Who can give me some information about my husband’s death?” The man in the dark suit spoke immediately. “For the record, m’am, we do not know for sure if this man,” he gestured slightly with his head, “is your husband.”
He paused, and then spoke quickly and officially. “One of our officers was on foot patrol near City Park last night. He saw a vehicle that appeared to be abandoned: one of the car doors was left open. He went to investigate and found this man,” again, a gesture of the head toward the covered body, lying beside the vehicle, not breathing.He called for back-up immediately, and tried to administer some emergency medical treatments, but there was no response.”
As he spoke, Hamel’s wife fixed her gaze on the sheet covering the body in front of her, steeling herself for the moment that was to come.
The man in the dark suit gestured to the man in the blue scrubs who moved to the head of the table and gathered the edge of the covering sheet. “M’am,” said the man in the dark suit, “I’m sorry, but I must ask you officially, is this your husband?”
Hamel’s wife fixed her gaze, not blinking, as the sheet was folded back. She stared into the face of a stranger.
“It’s not . . . ” she hesitated, her voice shaking slightly. “It’s not Hamel. It’s not my husband.”
Hamel’s wife looked around at the men, expecting somehow that they would share in her emotion. They did not. She glanced back again to the cold face before her, saw the resemblance between this man and her husband, understood how such a mistake could be made. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, “it’s not Hamel.”
She did not know what else to say, and almost expected that the man in the blue suit would challenge her, ask her to look again, ask her if she was sure.
He did not. The three men glanced at each other. The man in scrubs replaced the sheet. Then the man in the blue suit apologized for taking up her time. Followed by the man with the Coroner Office badge saying, “I’ll walk you to the lobby, m’am.” He turned, took her elbow, started to steer her toward the door.
Hamel’s wife pulled away, politely, and looked directly at the man in the blue suit. “Excuse me, please. What about Hamel? What about my husband?”
She knew her question made no sense at all: how could this misidentified dead man in front of her provide information to authorities about her husband gone missing?
“It’s been three months,” she said evenly, “and I know nothing. Nothing at all. People don’t just disappear. They leave a trail. Some kind of a trail. Clues. Something . . . ”
Hamel’s wife heard her own voice trail off into a murmur. The helpless feelings
of the past three months returned, full force. She wanted to be challenging but she simply felt defeated. Over the past thirteen weeks, she had come to believe one thing: The system was the system and it did not give a fig about a middle-aged woman whose husband was missing.
The man in the blue suit started to say something, but Hamel’s wife overrode him. “Please,” she said, “if all you are going to do is tell me that your department is still actively working on finding out what happened to Hamel – and that you will call me with new information the minute you learn it, well, don’t bother.” She spoke bitterly: “I don’t believe you.”
Hamel’s wife took one more look at the sheet covered body, felt a surge of despair course through her. Then she steeled herself, walked to the door and spoke over her shoulder without looking back. “I can find my own way, thank you.” She did not expect a response and she received none.
Standing outside the hospital at the bus stop, Hamel’s wife thought again about the last day she’d seen her husband.
He paused, and then spoke quickly and officially. “One of our officers was on foot patrol near City Park last night. He saw a vehicle that appeared to be abandoned: one of the car doors was left open. He went to investigate and found this man,” again, a gesture of the head toward the covered body, lying beside the vehicle, not breathing.He called for back-up immediately, and tried to administer some emergency medical treatments, but there was no response.”
As he spoke, Hamel’s wife fixed her gaze on the sheet covering the body in front of her, steeling herself for the moment that was to come.
The man in the dark suit gestured to the man in the blue scrubs who moved to the head of the table and gathered the edge of the covering sheet. “M’am,” said the man in the dark suit, “I’m sorry, but I must ask you officially, is this your husband?”
Hamel’s wife fixed her gaze, not blinking, as the sheet was folded back. She stared into the face of a stranger.
“It’s not . . . ” she hesitated, her voice shaking slightly. “It’s not Hamel. It’s not my husband.”
Hamel’s wife looked around at the men, expecting somehow that they would share in her emotion. They did not. She glanced back again to the cold face before her, saw the resemblance between this man and her husband, understood how such a mistake could be made. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, “it’s not Hamel.”
She did not know what else to say, and almost expected that the man in the blue suit would challenge her, ask her to look again, ask her if she was sure.
He did not. The three men glanced at each other. The man in scrubs replaced the sheet. Then the man in the blue suit apologized for taking up her time. Followed by the man with the Coroner Office badge saying, “I’ll walk you to the lobby, m’am.” He turned, took her elbow, started to steer her toward the door.
Hamel’s wife pulled away, politely, and looked directly at the man in the blue suit. “Excuse me, please. What about Hamel? What about my husband?”
She knew her question made no sense at all: how could this misidentified dead man in front of her provide information to authorities about her husband gone missing?
“It’s been three months,” she said evenly, “and I know nothing. Nothing at all. People don’t just disappear. They leave a trail. Some kind of a trail. Clues. Something . . . ”
Hamel’s wife heard her own voice trail off into a murmur. The helpless feelings
of the past three months returned, full force. She wanted to be challenging but she simply felt defeated. Over the past thirteen weeks, she had come to believe one thing: The system was the system and it did not give a fig about a middle-aged woman whose husband was missing.
The man in the blue suit started to say something, but Hamel’s wife overrode him. “Please,” she said, “if all you are going to do is tell me that your department is still actively working on finding out what happened to Hamel – and that you will call me with new information the minute you learn it, well, don’t bother.” She spoke bitterly: “I don’t believe you.”
Hamel’s wife took one more look at the sheet covered body, felt a surge of despair course through her. Then she steeled herself, walked to the door and spoke over her shoulder without looking back. “I can find my own way, thank you.” She did not expect a response and she received none.
Standing outside the hospital at the bus stop, Hamel’s wife thought again about the last day she’d seen her husband.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
The Secret Life of Hamel: November, 2009 Posts
He was not successful. In frustration and with growing feelings of annoyance, he gathered his things and headed for the stairs.
CHAPTER THREE: 3 MONTHS (EXACTLY) SINCE HAMEL DISAPPEARED
The phone broke the silence and surprised Hamel’s wife. It rang while she was in her family room, arranging dried flowers in a vase, and wondering if she should get the carpets cleaned. It startled her at first — she did not receive many phone calls these days.
She hesitated, looked around the room to see if her wireless phone was in sight. The call had reached its fifth insistent ring before she found it, tucked between two pillows on her sofa.
“Hello,” she said, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t find the phone.”
Hamel’s wife realized that she was doing it again, apologizing when there was no need, though she seemed unable to avoid that these days.
“Can I help you?” she asked. The voice on the other end was not clear; there was some kind of commotion in the background, loud voices arguing. Struggling to hear, Hamel’s wife closed her eyes and concentrated. She did not get every word, but she heard the important ones: “Police department. Missing person report. Body of unidentified male matching description of your husband.”
Hamel’s wife listened to the ever so slight quiver in her voice as she responded to the caller. She had steeled herself for this moment, always felt that eventually she would learn something about Hamel’s disappearance. No one, she’d thought many times, just evaporates into thin air. Not in this day and age.
“I’m Hamel’s wife,” she said to the caller. “Did I hear you correctly? You want me to identify the body? Today?”
Hamel’s wife could feel a tenseness overtake her. What would it feel like to stand in a morgue, surrounded by people she did not know, with someone in a white coat sympathetically looking at her, then lifting a sheet so that she could look into Hamel’s face and nod?
Hamel’s wife had seen too many TV shows with that identical scene: the thought of herself in that role made her slightly nauseous. Yet, simultaneous with the dread, there was an undeniable eagerness Hamel’s wife felt about going to the morgue. She was uncomfortable with the feeling, but it was real. What she wanted, what she needed, was a singular moment of clarity about what had happened to her husband. After so many weeks of ignorance and uncertainty,Hamel’s wife felt that somebody — the police department, the city, God, Life, somebody? — owed her that much. She wanted to know.
“Yes, I’ll come right away,” Hamel’s wife heard herself say. She was pleased with the sound of her voice. It was steady and clear.
Hamel’s wife was met in the lobby of the hospital by a serious-looking young man. He mumbled his name, and extended his hand to greet her. He showed her identification, a card with his photograph and bold type that read Coroner’s Office. He spoke in soft tones, as if they were in church, as he led her through hospital corridors to an elevator and then down to the basement of the building.
The morgue itself was less intimidating than she expected: clinical and sterile, yes, with spotless stainless steel wherever she looked. But she expected hospital smells, and there were none. She expected to be cold, but the temperature was merely cool, not uncomfortable
.
There were two other men in the room when she entered, one from the hospital, an orderly perhaps, dressed in blue scrubs, and the other in a dark suit and tie with an official look about him. They introduced themselves in the same muted tones as the man from the Coroner’s Office. Hamel’s wife wondered why. Is that the way they spoke all the time, or was it for her benefit?
She looked directly at the three men and spoke in her normal tone of voice. “Could someone please tell me who’s in charge here?”
CHAPTER THREE: 3 MONTHS (EXACTLY) SINCE HAMEL DISAPPEARED
The phone broke the silence and surprised Hamel’s wife. It rang while she was in her family room, arranging dried flowers in a vase, and wondering if she should get the carpets cleaned. It startled her at first — she did not receive many phone calls these days.
She hesitated, looked around the room to see if her wireless phone was in sight. The call had reached its fifth insistent ring before she found it, tucked between two pillows on her sofa.
“Hello,” she said, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t find the phone.”
Hamel’s wife realized that she was doing it again, apologizing when there was no need, though she seemed unable to avoid that these days.
“Can I help you?” she asked. The voice on the other end was not clear; there was some kind of commotion in the background, loud voices arguing. Struggling to hear, Hamel’s wife closed her eyes and concentrated. She did not get every word, but she heard the important ones: “Police department. Missing person report. Body of unidentified male matching description of your husband.”
Hamel’s wife listened to the ever so slight quiver in her voice as she responded to the caller. She had steeled herself for this moment, always felt that eventually she would learn something about Hamel’s disappearance. No one, she’d thought many times, just evaporates into thin air. Not in this day and age.
“I’m Hamel’s wife,” she said to the caller. “Did I hear you correctly? You want me to identify the body? Today?”
Hamel’s wife could feel a tenseness overtake her. What would it feel like to stand in a morgue, surrounded by people she did not know, with someone in a white coat sympathetically looking at her, then lifting a sheet so that she could look into Hamel’s face and nod?
Hamel’s wife had seen too many TV shows with that identical scene: the thought of herself in that role made her slightly nauseous. Yet, simultaneous with the dread, there was an undeniable eagerness Hamel’s wife felt about going to the morgue. She was uncomfortable with the feeling, but it was real. What she wanted, what she needed, was a singular moment of clarity about what had happened to her husband. After so many weeks of ignorance and uncertainty,Hamel’s wife felt that somebody — the police department, the city, God, Life, somebody? — owed her that much. She wanted to know.
“Yes, I’ll come right away,” Hamel’s wife heard herself say. She was pleased with the sound of her voice. It was steady and clear.
Hamel’s wife was met in the lobby of the hospital by a serious-looking young man. He mumbled his name, and extended his hand to greet her. He showed her identification, a card with his photograph and bold type that read Coroner’s Office. He spoke in soft tones, as if they were in church, as he led her through hospital corridors to an elevator and then down to the basement of the building.
The morgue itself was less intimidating than she expected: clinical and sterile, yes, with spotless stainless steel wherever she looked. But she expected hospital smells, and there were none. She expected to be cold, but the temperature was merely cool, not uncomfortable
.
There were two other men in the room when she entered, one from the hospital, an orderly perhaps, dressed in blue scrubs, and the other in a dark suit and tie with an official look about him. They introduced themselves in the same muted tones as the man from the Coroner’s Office. Hamel’s wife wondered why. Is that the way they spoke all the time, or was it for her benefit?
She looked directly at the three men and spoke in her normal tone of voice. “Could someone please tell me who’s in charge here?”
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Gremlins abound
I posted September tweets on October 10 -- and just realized today that, for some reason (I prefer to blame this on unknown technological forces), the September blog was incomplete. That has now been fixed. Plus: October tweets have now been posted. The world is in harmony once again. I need a cocktail . . .
The Secret Life of Hamel: October, 2009 Posts
“Mostly avoiding,” said Hamel. He gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t mind sitting here by myself. ” He shifted his position in the chair, tried to think of something else to say, but couldn’t. So he repeated himself, trying to sound casual and offhand about the subject. “I don’t really mind at all.”
The librarian nodded her head. “I like people,” she said, “in small doses. Like fudge. You break it into little pieces that sit on your tongue and just melt — that’s the best way to enjoy fudge.” She smiled at Hamel again. Then she looked at her watch, shook her head and said, “I’ve got to get back to my desk to close up.”
She turned to go, then hesitated and asked, “Will you be coming in tomorrow night?” Hamel nodded yes, with no consideration to any previous plans or commitments. Not that he had many of them anyway.
“Good,” she said. “I’ll see you then.” She walked away, through the narrow stacks. Hamel watched her go until she turned and disappeared at the stairwell.
He did not get up immediately, even though he knew the library would close in minutes. He simply stared at the space she’d occupied moments before, felt a warmth in his face, and mentally ran through every moment of the last few minutes, from the instant she’d said Hi. He examined every word she said, tried to recall clearly every movement and gesture. Then he looked down, at his notes and his books and the blank piece of note paper that was supposed to contain the start of his philosophy paper. He closed his eyes for just a second, opened them, and packed up his things to leave.
On his way out the door, he looked back to see the librarian leaning over some papers at her desk. She didn’t look up. He hesitated just a second, considered stopping by her desk to say good-bye, but didn’t. He opened the door and left.
Hamel returned to the library the next evening about thirty minutes earlier than the day before. He glanced toward the desk, irrationally hoping that the librarian would somehow be available to join him as he walked up the stairs, would take time to talk with him, would focus her attention on him.
When Hamel saw that another person was in her place, behind the desk, disappointment surged through him. He took his usual path toward the stairs, but continued to look back at the desk as if visual concentration alone might change the picture.
He walked slowly up the stairs but his thoughts were racing: Why wasn’t she where he’d expected to see her? What was going on? Was this some kind of mean trick she was playing on him, telling him that she’d see him when she’d known she wasn’t working that night?
Hamel turned the questions over and over in his mind, looking at them from different angles, imagining conversations with the librarian, considering different responses to whatever she might say.
He was surprised at how much her absence from her desk bothered him. He sat at the study carrel and fidgeted, shuffling books and papers. He stood and looked out the window, watched students crossing the campus, became annoyed at himself for even reacting this way. He sat back down, wanting to focus on his philosophy paper as a distraction from the feelings running through him.
Chief among those was a sense of unease that something had changed in his life and he had no control over it. Which made no sense to Hamel. Yesterday, he’d walked into the library as always, not even bothering to look toward the front desk. Today, less than twenty-four hours later, his mood had darkened, his ability to focus considerably worsened, simply because a person, a woman, that he had just met, was not where he expected her to be. Hamel considered this incomprehensible.
He wanted to do something — but he could not think of any single action he could take that would change how he was feeling.
He realized that he had no way to get in touch with her. But, more significantly, Hamel also knew that he had no idea what he would say to her anyway. Hamel shook his head, as if it would clear his mind from the tumult of half-formed thoughts colliding inside his brain.
The librarian nodded her head. “I like people,” she said, “in small doses. Like fudge. You break it into little pieces that sit on your tongue and just melt — that’s the best way to enjoy fudge.” She smiled at Hamel again. Then she looked at her watch, shook her head and said, “I’ve got to get back to my desk to close up.”
She turned to go, then hesitated and asked, “Will you be coming in tomorrow night?” Hamel nodded yes, with no consideration to any previous plans or commitments. Not that he had many of them anyway.
“Good,” she said. “I’ll see you then.” She walked away, through the narrow stacks. Hamel watched her go until she turned and disappeared at the stairwell.
He did not get up immediately, even though he knew the library would close in minutes. He simply stared at the space she’d occupied moments before, felt a warmth in his face, and mentally ran through every moment of the last few minutes, from the instant she’d said Hi. He examined every word she said, tried to recall clearly every movement and gesture. Then he looked down, at his notes and his books and the blank piece of note paper that was supposed to contain the start of his philosophy paper. He closed his eyes for just a second, opened them, and packed up his things to leave.
On his way out the door, he looked back to see the librarian leaning over some papers at her desk. She didn’t look up. He hesitated just a second, considered stopping by her desk to say good-bye, but didn’t. He opened the door and left.
Hamel returned to the library the next evening about thirty minutes earlier than the day before. He glanced toward the desk, irrationally hoping that the librarian would somehow be available to join him as he walked up the stairs, would take time to talk with him, would focus her attention on him.
When Hamel saw that another person was in her place, behind the desk, disappointment surged through him. He took his usual path toward the stairs, but continued to look back at the desk as if visual concentration alone might change the picture.
He walked slowly up the stairs but his thoughts were racing: Why wasn’t she where he’d expected to see her? What was going on? Was this some kind of mean trick she was playing on him, telling him that she’d see him when she’d known she wasn’t working that night?
Hamel turned the questions over and over in his mind, looking at them from different angles, imagining conversations with the librarian, considering different responses to whatever she might say.
He was surprised at how much her absence from her desk bothered him. He sat at the study carrel and fidgeted, shuffling books and papers. He stood and looked out the window, watched students crossing the campus, became annoyed at himself for even reacting this way. He sat back down, wanting to focus on his philosophy paper as a distraction from the feelings running through him.
Chief among those was a sense of unease that something had changed in his life and he had no control over it. Which made no sense to Hamel. Yesterday, he’d walked into the library as always, not even bothering to look toward the front desk. Today, less than twenty-four hours later, his mood had darkened, his ability to focus considerably worsened, simply because a person, a woman, that he had just met, was not where he expected her to be. Hamel considered this incomprehensible.
He wanted to do something — but he could not think of any single action he could take that would change how he was feeling.
He realized that he had no way to get in touch with her. But, more significantly, Hamel also knew that he had no idea what he would say to her anyway. Hamel shook his head, as if it would clear his mind from the tumult of half-formed thoughts colliding inside his brain.
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.
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