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| Lorraine Channeling "Smithers" |
Smithers
At three years old and several years following, my son Kanichi, now 21 years, would agree to go to bed at night if I made up a story on the spot. Tucked next to me, lights out, and my daughter Monica also joining us, I'd say, "Ok, give me two facts." Informing the story were facts he provided such as: name, gender, location, circumstance, or anything else he wanted to drive the improvised tale. I never taped them, but each time I finished, his eyes now closed and Monica not far behind, I'd think, "Hmm, that was pretty good." I guess I should have taped them, but I didn't. The story arch was always compressed and drove itself. I'd open my brain and just follow where the character(s) or plot felt like going. It's a similar process and territory I enter when I draw/sketch images or play the guitar sometimes creating a new piece of music.
Recently the name "Smithers" stuck in the front of my brain and hung there insisting on attention. It came forward after writing my recent edgy post about imaginary companies and their services. I first heard the name "Smithers" as a child, when I was busy navigating the 1950's. That was a trip in itself. I always liked that nerdy, quirky name. For me, the "Smithers" persona is intelligent, understated, a bit recluse, and most definitely underestimated. A complex person however, Smithers has the personal power to pull you, unknowingly, into his world or to his view of things. Smithers operates much like an event horizon (the last port of call before matter gets yanked into a black or white hole). Smithers is also the name of a town in British Columbia located on highway 16 in Northern BC. I wonder if the people are decently nerdy there? If so, I should make a point to visit. Smithers is also part of a responsible sounding business: Smithers Quality Assessments, a quality and environmental management systems registrar. You get my point.
The "Smithers" piece, I share below, was intended to be an expansion of the imaginary business name, description, and tag lines I created for my last blog post called "iKeep." Here it is as a reference and refresher:
People vary in their ability to control urges. They gamble, drink,
cheat, steal, insider trade or “appropriate” museum relics that really belong
to another country. The list is long and crosses all sectors of society. You
know who you are, and in some cases, so does the FBI. Denial is a daily
structure you afford yourself when in fact it’s weight-bearing capacity will
fail during the inevitable inspection. iKeep will store and lock away items
that legitimately and ethically belong to you so that you can’t borrow money
against them. iKeep will also help you identify items that you cannot be sure
were ever really yours. Know what’s yours and protect them from your vices.
Return what’s not yours without doing time.
Trust us to make you
honest. Give it up, get, or get out of the country!
However, the Smithers character, that had been hounding me, and that I share in the following short story, decided it would follow a very different angle.This is what was was birthed as I again opened my brain, invited my heart to come along, and let the typing begin:
However, the Smithers character, that had been hounding me, and that I share in the following short story, decided it would follow a very different angle.This is what was was birthed as I again opened my brain, invited my heart to come along, and let the typing begin:
Smithers
Author, Lorraine García-Nakata, June 2012
Copyright ©2012
Brought up recognizing the invisible but clearly marked line between
him and the gentleman he serves, Smithers is never summoned by his first name.
As the headmaster’s butler, he prefers it that way. “Smithers!,” the Master of
the house calls out. It is a house of few words, and Smithers is the most
regularly used proper noun. In fact, Smithers would cringe at the thought of
serving wealthy, “new money” Americans. They would disconcert Smithers. In his
well-oiled mind, he knows they would likely address him on a first name basis to offset
their silent conflict regarding how they came to have their fortune. Smithers
believes a first name summand would diminish his worth and station. He’s old
school this way. Formality to Smithers equals respect. Informality to Smithers
is chaos. Smithers does not like chaos.
Not a tall man, Smithers stands perfectly erect, which gives him the
appearance of additional inches. He believes swallowing is greatly aided the
straighter the line is from his throat to stomach. He’s probably right. This upright
posture also helps to avoid wrinkles in his own white starched cotton shirt that he
smoothes flat before his outer black jacket is layered on top.
With great care Smithers notes detail both at home and during weekly
excursions into a life that’s just his own. Sidewalks and doorways are a
particular fetish. As Smithers walks down neighborhood streets, and to other
parts of the city, he notes what dwells in cement sidewalk cracks. Items, both
new and old, are wedged there. Besides small pebbles that have a way of rolling
in, Smithers observes lost earrings, tiny precious stones, and residual droppings
peculiar to Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter seasons. A man not inclined to
bend or stoop unless absolutely necessary, Smithers never retrieves these items.
Instead, he derives pleasure from recording them in a mental archive that spans
forty-three years. In this way, it’s not surprising that the names Smithers and
the Smithsonian are similar.
Slowing his walk, Smithers also scans doorways. They tell a
particular story about its residents. Wide windowless heavy doors, painted
black or stained dark with highly polished brass fittings indicate formality. A
large brass knocker, stationed higher than usual, is used only by someone who’s
received a clear invitation to visit. Recessed wood stained doors of standard
width, set within a graceful arch, indicate residents whose hearts intend to
beat warm. They invite, but also enjoy unexpected visits from sweet friends.
Doors painted red, attempt to be auspicious, maybe because their former
financial luck lost its luster. Doorways whose fittings are not snug and with
paint chipped here and there, suggest a much older resident that has long since
lost interest in unnecessary expenditure or first impressions. Doorways laced
with iron bars are clearly fearful and attract few warm-hearted and lively
personalities.
There are several doorway entrances to the Master’s house where
Smithers resides. He is one of three servants to the Family. As the headmaster’s
butler, the maid and cook look to him for direction. Smithers visits the front
door of this home only when opening and welcoming invited guests or colleagues.
The service entrance is where he enters. This intentionally well-manicured
single door is recessed and well positioned to one side of the two-story brick
building. French doors to the rear of the house, announce a small but expertly crafted
garden. Here the sun finds poppies, many small well-placed shrubs, and white
lilies that prefer the softly lit corners. When the Family is not resting
there, those serving the house can also enjoy this space during off duty
periods.
The life Smithers leads, at least the life most people see, is
well-ordered. But, Smithers is a complex human. To every expected downbeat tick
of his watch, there are equally regular, counter ticks. In the spaces occupied
by these counter ticks, Smithers dreams, desires, imagines, and even wrestles
with all the order he has created. The counter ticks of his pocket watch pay
close attention to and attempt to sync with the natural rhythm of his heart. His
heart is very aware of the list of dreams and desires. Smithers thinks of his
heart as a muscle that pumps blood and keeps him alive. His heart thinks
otherwise. As his heart pulls and pushes vital red liquid through Smithers, it
considers the best way to send him a message.
Each morning Smithers wakes before the sun emerges. No need for an
alarm since he has long since counted on an internal cue. At exactly five a.m.,
his eyes open. He rests for a moment working to remember the progression of
events experienced in his sometimes very active dreams. In one reoccurring dream,
he often flies without aid of a plane. Because Smithers considers himself a
pragmatic, scientific man, these dreams puzzle him. They puzzle him greatly.
Days pass, weeks pass, months and years pass. Smithers moves through
his finely tuned life in the service of others. He has trained himself to find comfort in knowing what each day will bring. Smithers knows his private
room is exactly one hundred square feet, that there are twenty-three stairs
between servants residence and that of the main floor, and that with seven
white shirts, one will always be starched and ready to wear. Smithers is
deliberate and considers the economy of both words and motion as he performs
his clearly defined duties. Smithers, believes that he’s content and has all
that he needs.
As the chill of winter acquiesces to the hopeful warmth of Spring,
Smithers takes note of a troubling item about himself. Smithers sometimes buys two items when his Master only required
one. This is a recent development that even Smithers does not fully understand.
In fact, initially upon review of his own accounting, Smithers identified these
anomalies. The duplicate items ordered were modest and not readily noticed such
as extra bars of finely milled soap or a coat brush with hand carved walnut
handle. As Smithers noted these duplicate orders, his senses recalled the
sensation he’d feel when opening the individually wrapped soap bars and
inhaling the light spice of their scent as he’d place them carefully in the
Master’s bathroom. Also, his thumb and forefinger slid across each other as he
considered the perfectly crafted walnut handle and how it fit his hand as he’d
whisk the finest of sable hairs across his Master’s collar.
It was later the first evening of this discovery, as Smithers
finished his duties for the day, that he entered his modest room, removing his jacket
and placing it in its proper local. Pulling open the top draw of his dresser,
his fingers unexpectedly meet the texture of tissue. “What?” is the only word
that escapes from his now-tensed mouth. A closer inspection, his hand discovers
a tissue wrapped soap bar and also the smooth hairs of a sable-haird coat brush. At
first Smithers is confused. Very confused. Now holding the coat brush in his
right hand and soap bar in his left, Smithers steps back and sits on the edge
of his bed. He pauses there for a long time. As his watch ticks, Smithers begins
to recall, as if recalling a fleeting dream, his own pen in hand adding extra
items to his monthly supply orders. As Smithers sits and remembers, he is
disconcerted about three things. First, that the orders were made by him, and
only him, secondly that he’d taken the items to his room, and lastly, that he’d
entirely misplaced the memory of these acts. The later troubled Smithers the
most because he normally remembers, everything.
Placing the items down, Smithers stands and walks to a modest sized
mirror that finds home over his dresser. He studies himself, looks into his own
eyes and asks, “Who are you?” And as if speaking to a stranger, separate from
himself, he asks, “How can I not know all that you do? What is happening?”
Smithers continues to stand there for a long time. An exceedingly long time.
As the days, weeks, months pass, Smithers continues to find items in
his room. At first distressed, he is now accustomed to these discoveries as
well as their record in his accounting. No matter how hard Smithers works to be
more alert to avoid repeat of this recent quirk, duplicate items continue to be
ordered and appear in his quarters. Initially, Smithers tries making sure he sleeps
longer, he also walks outside often to breathe in fresh air, and asks for his
tea to steep longer. But, the small duplicate orders keep appearing and soon he
realizes this new part of him is just that, a part of him. What else can he do?
If he can’t change this pattern, he
must manage it. Yes, manage it. Clearly, sharing this tick with his
Master would result in his dismissal. After twenty years of service, this will
not do. As long as the items remain small, and Smithers continues to place them
in a storeroom, he believes it can be explained if, and when, discovered. Normally
trustworthy, Smithers has no experience operating in a secret fashion. Also,
not prone to denial, Smithers knows that one day he will definitely be
discovered. Yes, most definitely.
Spring blooms, then summer stretches through. It's mid morning, and as
the leaves on the trees give up their hold and fall, the maid
drops a dinning room crystal candle stick holder as she works diligently to remove a
spot of wax. “Oh, oh no,” she releases a hushed exclamation. Knowing the cook’s
heart beats warm, she gathers up the two crystal pieces in her polishing rag
and makes her way to the kitchen. Entering the brightly lit and aromatic room,
she doesn’t have to speak before the cook can see what has happened.
Placing her spoon down on a central wooden counter and walking over
to the young maid, the cook soothes, “Now, now, luckily those are not the
finest pieces. It’s not the first time they’ve been broken. Because of that, I
believe we have extras somewhere.”
Inhaling again, the young maid places the broken candlestick on a
nearby counter and followes the amply-shaped cook through a rarely used walkway,
toward a rarely visited storeroom. Smithers took her there once when another
candlestick met a similar fate. The cook knows it will be easy to locate the
extra candlestick holder because she recalls that this small storeroom only hosts a few
items. Flour still on her hands, the cook’s right hand works the sliding door
latch, then pulls the painted wooden door open in one quick motion. Wedging
herself into the narrow door opening, she stops abruptly and blinks twice. She scans
the five tiers of pantry-like shelving from left to right. The cook is
speechless. The cook is never speechless. The maid waiting just behind her and
observing the change in the cook’s expression, raises herself up onto her toes
in order to peek over the cook’s shoulder. “What..?” was both beginning and close of her comment.
“Lord in heaven!” the cook finally comments. “What, on earth, is all
this?”
In this moment, as another leaf on a nearby tree drops, the house
ever so slightly shivers on its foundation. Smithers, sitting at his work
desk, in his tiny office, on the same floor, raises his head. He isn’t sure
what he just felt, but both the tick of his pocket watch and his heart seem to pound
more loudly than normal. Placing his pen at a diagonal onto his pad of paper,
he leans back, his spine still straight. Suspended there, he knows his orderly
world, the one he’s known for over twenty years of service, is about to shift
off its axis. All he can think of is a phrase in a Lewis Carroll book he’d read
many years before, “The time has come, the Walrus said, to speak of many
things.” As the words repeat in his head, Smithers feels a strange combination
of both dread and relief.
Now, in the orderly and clearly defined life of Smithers and the man he serves, there are no middle areas, no gray hues. The lights go on, the lights go off, doors are opened, doors are closed, there’s the upstairs and the down, servants are trustworthy or they are not. Words from the head of the house are not, “Oh dear Smithers, I know this is not you. Though I am disappointed, I believe we can look ahead to making things as they were.” No, in this house, this time, this situation, there is no training, no precedent for breathy forgiveness. No training on this line at all and why choices, decisions, consequence now lurk and insert themselves.
Now, in the orderly and clearly defined life of Smithers and the man he serves, there are no middle areas, no gray hues. The lights go on, the lights go off, doors are opened, doors are closed, there’s the upstairs and the down, servants are trustworthy or they are not. Words from the head of the house are not, “Oh dear Smithers, I know this is not you. Though I am disappointed, I believe we can look ahead to making things as they were.” No, in this house, this time, this situation, there is no training, no precedent for breathy forgiveness. No training on this line at all and why choices, decisions, consequence now lurk and insert themselves.
Time could be spent sharing what you already know. The cook
immediately waddles down another hall to report the contents of the store room to Smithers. Not
being a liar, Smithers cannot explain the many duplicate items in the store room. Being the head
servant, Smithers reports himself to the gentleman he serves. While the Master’s breathing is temporarily stalled, he straightens in his evening
jacket. Looking at Smithers, he begins to relay, with an economy of words appropriate to his station, “Smithers...” But, Smithers interrupts, the only time
he has ever interrupted his Master, and relieves him of what he knows his Master must
say. Standing erect, Smithers states, “Sir, I will be on my way mid morning tomorrow.”
The next morning arrives. Smithers has packed twenty years of
belongings into a suitcase and one shoulder bag without need of any items he duplicate ordered and squirreled away. Luckily Smithers also stored away his
modest salary and can now count on this for an extended period. For the first
time in many years, Smithers is not at all clear as to where he will go or what he will do.
But, as the bright morning light and crisp air brush his heavy wool
coat, felt hat, gloved hands, and not yet mid life face, Smithers feels
unusually light on his feet. No longer noting lost items in sidewalk crevices
or considering the relationship of doorways to the lives of others, Smithers
walks looking directly ahead. And in the spaces of living, that dream and hover
in the counter beats of his heart and pocket watch, who by the way are now
close friends, Smithers finds a new pace and walks, deliberate, toward a yet unknown terrain. Smithers knows he will be fine. He is, after all,
Smithers.
I’ll leave you
with that for now,
Lorraine
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| Lorraine: Here my heart & "pocketwatch" beats unite! |
blog: lorrainegarcianakata.blogspot.com
web site: http://lorrainegn.com/