Liminal Spaces

DISPATCH 23: LIMINAL SPACES

—no, i’m walking. thanks, man. last one.

Hagatha’s is busy tonight.

Human stew.

[chuckles]

A woman near the door has been wearing her coat for twenty minutes without leaving.

Named for some befuddled television witch from the sixties.

Well, who could that be at one in the morning.

A text.

“Strange spirit in the house. You around?”

[chuckles]

Am I ever not around, Fred.

He’ll call.

Another dispatch from Scott Evers. Read for you by Geezer III.

Hagatha’s has sand on the floor.

Gets under the tables. Into the cracks. Little bit of outside carried in on everybody’s shoes.

Let’s see if I can find someplace quieter.

Damn it. What was that word?

Oh.

Liminal.

I’ve come across it a few times.

Murakami. “Kafka on the Shore.” “House of Leaves.”

Books where a door is rarely satisfied being a door.

Liminal means threshold.

Right.

A place between places.

Airports. Hallways. Bars, I suppose. Nobody comes to Hagatha’s to remain at Hagatha’s.

A transitional moment is different. That happens... in time. One is in the world. The other is in you.

[phone rings]

—there you are.

—

—strange spirit?

—

—oh. am i on speaker?

—

—hi, Marlene.

—

—i can hear her, Fred.

—

—no, i don’t think it’s a spirit.

—

—i didn’t say it wasn’t strange.

[grumbles]

—sorry. right. somebody needs past.

My gut doesn’t belong here.

[pool balls snap]

—behind the paneling?

—

—what boards?

—

—why were you opening the wall at one in the morning?

—

—water stain. alright.

—

—six feet from where?

—

—inside or outside?

—

—Fred, slow down.

—

—she says four feet.

—

—well, houses don’t ordinarily offer a range.

—finished?

—

—baseboards too?

—

—what color?

—

—room color is not a color.

—

—what’d you take the temperature with?

—

—Fred.

—

—that’s for the turkey.

—

—i know it measures temperature. that doesn’t make it an instrument.

—

—i heard her. she wants it washed.

—Jesus. sorry, Fred. say that again.

—

—wait. you went inside?

—

—what was in it?

—

—nothing.

—

—Marlene, was the house cold before he opened it?

—

—

—no. i heard you.

—where are you sleeping tonight, Marlene?

—

—Fred said you weren’t frightened.

—

—alright. i won’t call it frightened.

[crowd swells]

—hang on, Fred. the acoustics in this place are terrible. i’m going out back.

[back door closes]

The alley is... empty.

Usually there’s a whole cadre of smokers back here.

Tonight, nobody. Not even the smell of them.

—alright. i can hear you now.

—

—where are you?

—

—no. where in the house.

—

—what are you doing with the screwdriver?

—

—put it down.

—

—Fred, don’t open it again while i’m on the phone.

[metal shifts]

—Jesus. what was that?

—

—see what you’ve done? got me paranoid.

—our old house never had anything like that.

—

—no. bathroom on the left. our room at the end. Mom and Dad across from—

Hold on.

—

—what was beside the bathroom?

—

—no. before the linen closet.

—

—there was a room.

—

—i remember it.

Funny thing.

That door can’t be more than ten feet away.

—empty.

—

—well, me, i suppose. i was in it.

—

—inside. looking out into the hall.

—

—i don’t know what i was doing.

Waiting, maybe.

Waiting for somebody to call my name.

—leave it boarded up tonight.

—

—because Marlene’s right.

—

—put on a sweater. we don’t know that everything is metaphysical.

—

—goodnight, Marlene.

—

—yeah. call me tomorrow.

Hmm.

Is it really this cold out here?

[exhales]

Will you look at that.

I can see my breath.

Motherfucker.

[back door opens]

Well, hello.

[pool balls]

—just you two?

—where’d everybody go?

—

—right.

Two o’clock.

...

That was mine.

—no, that’s alright. i was finished.

...

Well. I ought to get home.

Rocky’ll warm me up.

Lord, it’s dark.

Keep an eye on me.

...

Aunt Hagatha.

That’s who it was.

Out of breath, nearly.

...

A memory of rooms, I think.

Or rooms missing from the memory.

Little chambers in the mind,

each waiting for its meaning.

I have carried keys all these years.

Still, some doors open only

onto darker doors.

Are they empty—

or am I?

Forget about that.

Just came to me.

Dark.

Dark night.