NO SLEEP IN SAVANNAH
There are times when your mind goes in wonderful directions; other times, less so.
I awoke in the wee hours of morning gripped by an awful sense of dread and the image of a dead deer flickering through my head like an old film reel. The deer I had actually seen earlier in the day on the way back from Tybee Island — it had been struck by a car, and the sheriff and a fireman had dragged it off the highway, leaving a pink-brown smudge across the road. At first I couldn’t figure out what the smudge was. Then I noticed the deer. I cringed bodily and swerved for just a fraction of a second. It was terrifying.
I tried to shake off the image by thinking about other, more mundane anxieties. For instance, had I developed a fixation on the word “ostensibly”? Did I use it too often? Did people notice? I tried to recall my conversations at dinner earlier — yes, I’d said it to that publisher: “I’m ostensibly writing a book for my master’s thesis.” And to the waitress, too? Yes, the waitress too. Oh god. I said it aloud to the dark a few times: Ostensibly. Ostensibly. What does it even mean? It sounds so arrogant.
I felt wretched. I tried to think of something pleasant. Symmetry. Motel rooms have wonderful symmetry; I’ve always appreciated that. When I first moved back to Austin, before the second move to New York and the second move back, I spent a day driving around with an real estate agent looking for an apartment. He showed me all sorts of glamorous properties featuring balconies overlooking clear blue pools, or apartments with chrome Sub-Zero refrigerators and dishwashers. I dismissed all of them as either too expensive, or too “blah” — which I actually said to him, and which he responded to by rolling his eyes. I tried to explain that I had previously been living in a disintegrating loft in Brooklyn, near the elevated subway line, and therefore had certain expectations about what my next living arrangement should look like. Another eye roll.
But no matter, he had just the place for me. A little complex off West 6th Street that looked almost exactly like a cheap motor inn.* A studio with a three-quarter height wall between the bedroom and the living room/kitchen. No interior doors. An unbearably small bathroom. Two windows only. And exposed brick on one wall in the living room. In the leasing office, I gleefully wrote out a check and put my name on the dotted line.
I didn’t own any furniture — I’d divested myself of most of my possessions in a spontaneous fire sale the day before that initial move to New York — but I decided that the primary factor in the acquisition of any item was that it must be in keeping with the motor inn aesthetic. My girlfriend at the time eagerly agreed to help me in this decorating process. I realize now her enthusiasm probably stemmed from the fact that she wouldn’t actually have to live with me in the apartment. She’d found a cute house on South Congress with two roommates. After living with six strangers (like the Real World, only with less sponsorship and more drama) in Brooklyn, however, I was ready to go solo.
Laying awake in my little motel room in Savannah, I mulled over the concept of “motel life.” This particular room had all the proper amenities: permanently affixed hangers, built-in ironing board, bolted down lamps, suitcase stand. Whatever happened to my suitcase stand? I’d had one, I felt certain about that. It was old, made of wood with fabric straps. And I’d actually put my suitcase on it, the one filled with old journals. But I didn’t have it anymore. The stand was such a rare find, why would I have left it behind when we moved back to New York? Unless…
I abruptly rolled over and fumed into my pillow. She’d MADE me leave it behind. Along with so many other things. “Kat, we’re going to be living together in a tiny hovel somewhere. Probably on the upper west side. We don’t have room for all your crap.” Goodbye wine fridge. Goodbye beautiful vintage redwood writing desk. Goodbye suitcase stand.
Then, during a week-long NY apartment hunting expedition, we signed a lease on a 1000 square-foot loft in Bushwick. It’d formerly been a doll factory; you could see the outlines of sewing machine tables on the wood floors. The loft was modern and clean. Huge 10′ by 10′ windows. And plenty of room for a wine fridge, a suitcase stand, and at least four or five vintage writing desks. All of which I’d already sold.
Dead deer. Ostensibly. Suitcase stand. I stretched out on the bed and put a pillow over my face to block the sunlight creeping into the room. A few more hours of sleep and then back on the road, toward Austin. I chanted a little mantra in my head: No deer will jump in front of my bike. I will buy another suitcase stand. I will never again use the word “ostensibly.”
*Sadly this apartment complex no longer preserves the historic “motor inn” look. They realized their proximity to downtown, put in stainless steel sinks, and raised the rent.
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