THE PLACEMENT OF INTENTIONS

Overlooking industrial infrastructure now beyond its prime, and vast skylines of commerce with their dark buildings--always the shade of concrete with lines and angles rising to various heights--and the twilight moments that brought a luminous closure to otherwise dreary hours, Gerald’s apartment lingered through the years with its elements orderly and, for the most part, deeply cherished.

Constructed during a time of hopefulness and, no less, gratitude for returning soldiers and sailors--even a handful from his own sprawling family of innumerable cousins many times removed, and aunts who were likely unrelated but simply emerged into so many occasions that they were adopted as such--his apartment had become a repository of ideas as much as a place of shelter. In the realm of memory, conversations among old friends and relatives hovered, obscure and fading, in corners of the living room as the decades unfolded, and Gerald would sometimes recover them and smile to himself or, just as often, awaken after a long nap in his chair, pulsating with forgotten dreams and their malaise. Such was the life of his home. Indeed, jarring dreams became more frequent over the years, and their content increasingly difficult to absorb, as friends and relatives visited less often--busy with their own homes and eventual passings--and a shadow life of memories began to replace them, one by one.

Beyond its role as a place of reflection, the apartment also served as a blank slate for creative projects about which he was always excited. After one of several large renovations to the property, initiated by owners who planned to bequeath the building to their children, Gerald decided to situate antique furniture throughout his home, punctuating each space with historical memory, so he might pass through epochs during the course of his days and reflect, with diligence, on the meaning of former things. His meticulous placements were evident from floor to ceiling, and he appreciated each one for its parts as well as the wholeness of its being, with the result that everyone who experienced his home was amazed. Indeed, each object told its own story, written ornately across the surface of time.

The fabric of a chair, for example, a covering that adorned carved wood of ancient heritage, always delighted visitors with its depiction of a distant port filled with people, tiny yet precise figures, insignificant according to the scale of foreground images, as if, on some level, demonstrating the way in which their rulers regarded them. Gerald had thought, on more than one occasion, about the strange imbalances of life and how they sometimes found their best expression in art, subtle bits of subtext he tried not to overlook. And with such activities, his mind remained sharp; he found much pleasure in reading, smoking his pipe, and thinking about paradoxes. And each part of the home contributed to these exercises, sheltering one person--a peaceful man often alone in the world--with a graciousness quite uncommon to our times.

As for the previously mentioned chair, and its remarkable provenance--which he studied at length in his spare time--it graced the living room with considerable beauty, but the kitchen contained its own treasures, as well, tools of daily use and small bits of art preserved through the years. And so the days each possessed their own character, moving through history by the hours, progressing from morning to twilight and then into the darkness, before pausing to create a fresh cycle at sunrise. And there was more; in addition to art and intellectual life, olfactory experiences also found their place within the home.

To accompany each movement of life, Gerald made use of perfumes, of a certain sort, neither for frivolity nor the masking of unpleasantness, but for the sake of enhancing pleasant memories—a respite from his job at a local machine shop. And the contrasts between work and homelife were considerable. In the former location, where noise and danger prevailed, he labored within the mechanisms of industry, surrounded by those who disliked him for reasons that were often unclear to Gerald. However, a reprieve awaited him at the end of each day--his pipe, rich furnishings, and a wonderful library stood as a haven far away from the shop and its cold ambience of machinery. He liked to think of home as a source of equilibrium; for the sake of what we now call mental health, he remained careful to balance the influence of heavy machines, and the dangers of his profession, with an appreciation of silence. Now, we regard his love of olfactory life in a bit more detail.

Each day, fragrances of coffee pass through the apartment, once at the arrival of morning, as shards of glare and sunlight intrude from surrounding office towers. Then, in the evening, Gerald brews a final cup, the perfect conclusion to a dinner seasoned with herbs from his kitchen garden. Apart from the simmering pots that produce his meals, the smell of coffee is the most common aroma of Gerald’s home, a fact that amuses him and, over time, has come to characterize his life. When guests were more common, they joked that caffeine always awaited them in his kitchen, appearing as regularly as winter storms and the gentle thaw of spring. And, to accompany the favored beverage, there are books, of such a number and variety that they might require a separate telling--and much commentary from the man who preserves them with a curator’s devotion.

Bookcases were installed from around the time of his uncle’s passing, when a collection of inherited volumes came into Gerald’s library, at first a few boxes coming by United Parcel, which he would catalogue in the evenings after work, and then arriving in much greater number--almost weekly--with stacks accumulating neatly alongside walls and a crowded dining room table, a platform used more frequently for research and technical drawing than for the convenience of meals. Eventually, he donated certain books to libraries and, with great joy, became a dealer of modest renown, even retiring a bit early as an unforeseen but happy outcome of his passion.

In our technological age, books are sometimes regarded with disdain, as bits of clutter gathered by “hoarders” who have little else to do but accumulate residue. That, however, was not the case in previous decades, as most homes contained libraries for enrichment as well as physical beauty--long ago, when the life of ordinary people was more prosperous and secure. And Gerald, looking back on his career as a bookman, often wishes he could return to those days, a dream reflected by his surroundings; with the order of another age prevailing, the apartment radiates as a place of memory, alive to our collective past and mindful of the future. With that, we continue our visit.

On a small end table, the origins of which remain unclear--perhaps a garage sale purchase or another piece of scattered inheritance--sits the gray shadow of elders, a photo of parents who welcomed Gerald into the world in 1946, several years prior to the construction of his home. By their expressions, his parents appear happy in their little place of honor, overlooking the acquisition of books and furniture and the placement of their son’s intentions.

On spring and summer mornings, Gerald pulls a curtain sheer, of the kind often found in midcentury homes, and blocks the strongest rays of sun from intruding. Then, after introducing a bit of shade, he begins the work of reading and writing whatever thoughts come to mind, delighting in the comfort of his tapestry chair, happily pulling volumes from bookcases in no particular order--the fragrance of sweet pipe tobacco mingling softly with each page. Looking even more closely at the space before us, we discover treasured items from his father’s military career, as well, a few relics enshrined near an alcove where once, in a spontaneous mood, he had situated a cage with two songbirds that lived surprisingly long and healthy lives. Over the years, the library corner became a destination of interest, a favorite gathering place for each visitor to the home.

Even as the age of technology advances, moving with cold sameness into so many distant places, the apartment retains the character of its history, framed photographs, art pieces, and furniture surveyed by Gerald on a daily basis, each item dusted carefully with its heritage in mind. Maintaining the atmosphere of his home, where he began a rich and remarkable journey as a young man, has long been Gerald’s passion, preserving the past as he weathers the shifting seasons of life.

He recalls learning of his father’s death, hearing each word of the unthinkable horror, as he stood at the kitchen sink with a vast horizon looming in the window before him; and in that very hour, the patriarchy passed from his father’s shoulders to his own. And, for a time, the family recognized Gerald’s elevation in status as younger cousins came to visit, first in small groups and then one by one, trembling on the threshold as he answered the door, his hulking form at once protective and a bit frightening. However, after entering the comfortable home with kind greetings from their relative, they were happy to seek advice from the man who had become an honorary uncle. By contrast, on very different occasions, he experienced the end of his own relationships with parting words from various girlfriends, partners who had simply moved on according to their desires; during those encounters, he would listen rather than speak, and sigh in the living room as dreams of a potential marriage and family evaporated, comforted, in no small measure, by his surroundings and the memories that would remain long after the women had departed.

Always, the apartment remained a sanctuary of beauty, where numerous ideas, fragrances, and objects existed in harmony with the man we now visit, an elder known to be one of the building’s first residents. And this fact is still acknowledged by neighbors who always call him, “Sir,” out of a respect common to previous generations but sadly rare to our own. For each greeting offered to him, Gerald waves with a large, calloused hand, smiles, and marvels at the kindness that surrounds him. In many cases, his neighbors remind him of the younger cousins who once visited for coffee and advice, many years ago.

The relationships of a truly remarkable life remain uppermost in his mind, never far from the surface of awareness and conscious memory.

Interestingly, in addition to the various people he cherished, there had been a few apartment cats in residence over the years, as well, a calico or a tabby adopted from nearby alleys, creatures pleased to exchange their freedom for the comfort of warm blankets and cans of tuna, morsels presented carefully on saucers of various shapes, each one bearing the crest of a noteworthy maker. However, at the present time, no pets remain with him, as the years have passed quickly and brought Gerald to an age of increasing solitude.

Even when he is alone, however, the life of strangers is tangible and vibrant to our host, pulsating, as it does, on the streets far below, surging through crowds that hurry along by foot and, quite often, by car--always, there is a river of buses and taxis flowing under the city’s vast towers of commerce. And Gerald can feel them all with the contours of his mind, powerfully, and through the interpretive lens of his seasoned and perceptive memory. And so continues the life of an elderly man whose chief virtue involves remembrance, standing watch in lonely places as the world moves forward.

This morning, as we join him, life unfolds in its familiar way as shadows drift, creating their lines across one wall and then another, until they reach the kitchen with its humming refrigerator and steaming coffee pot. However, on this occasion, something is a bit different; blood, by the span of several drops, interrupts the day, as it mars the otherwise pristine surface of his bathroom sink, and then spreads to the floor, and finally invades the carpet, much to his sorrow and alarm. But it really no longer matters.

Everything is about to change.

After treating the wound, a shaving mishap a bit more serious than the last such occurrence, Gerald hears the glaring intrusion of his phone, the one electronic device he has allowed into his home. The text in no way resembles the elegant sentences issuing from his many books--neither does it reflect the richness of his favorite chair or the fragrance of coffee and pipe tobacco so familiar to his heart. “We’re here.”

With that, the realtor and movers ascend the stairs, enter with a key already in the new owner’s possession, and begin packing the substance of Gerald’s life, filling box after box with efficiency rather than care. Noticing the tears that were beginning to stream down his face, and mingle with blood from his shaving wound, one of the movers smiled at the old man and said, “Hey, boss, nice place. Real nice,” patting Gerald on the shoulder. In recent months, a corporation had purchased the building from its most recent inheritors, unveiling plans to renovate the old units for their clientele--some of whom regard the structure to be charming, with its stories from the previous age, and quite convenient for jaunts into the city.

Sunlight will continue to fall over the building and its gray contours, casting shadows across walls now stripped of their former adorning artwork and floors deprived of furniture and a lifetime of carefully placed intentions.

By nightfall, the apartment was empty and Gerald was gone.

A. M. Palmer is an author and retired City of San Diego park ranger with work appearing in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Brevity Magazine, Decolonial Passage, Belle Ombre, First American Art Magazine, and other publications. A member of the National Association of Independent Writers and Editors, Palmer’s second book, Workman’s Orthodoxy: Collected Essays & Poems, was published in 2023 and received recognition at The BookFest Awards.