Earthquake Weather

Earthquake Weather(Martin Green) Earthquake Weather (Approx. 1,200 wds.)

I’m 25 years old and living in San Francisco, as alone as if on a desert island, in a crummy apartment whose rent I can barely afford. The big event of the day, heralded by a knock on the door, is the arrival of the morning mail. Like those old people who talk to store clerks and bank tellers because they see no one else, I’d become acquainted with Howard the mailman and always exchange a few words with him. In fact, Howard, a throwback to the good-hearted postman of old movies, has grasped the bleakness of my life and is determined to change it.

This morning we talk about the unusual weather we’re having, searingly hot, “earthquake weather” as the natives, who regard such weather as a natural calamity and so probably expect an even greater disaster to follow, call it. “It’s not natural,” says Howard, as he wipes imaginary sweat from his face. “Something is going to happen.”

“Yeah, sure,” I reply. “What?”

“Just wait. You’ll see. Did you meet that girl next door yet?”

“No. I never meet anyone who lives in this house. I just hear them.”

“Her name’s Helen,” continues Howard doggedly. “Helen Westerly. I think she’s English.”

“Good for her. One of those English snobs.”

“She’s not a snob.”

“How do you know? You’ve never even met her, have you?”

“No, but we mailmen can tell. We develop an instinct about those things. Just like I know you’re not really a cynical jerk who wants to simmer in his own bile for the rest of his life.”

“Thanks for the analysis. And the mail. And look out for tremors.”

“Don’t get touchy. And don’t forget, something’s going to happen.”

After this scintillating exchange, I toss the day’s mail, the usual assortment of credit card offers, advertisements and requests for donations, onto the kitchen table and clean up the breakfast dishes. At the same time, I can hear through the paper-thin walls (the house would cruumple instantly in even a mild earthquake, it occurs to me) my fellow tenants busy about their own apartments, cleaning up their own breakfast dishes or doing the other depressing chores that single persons have to do on Saturday mornings. If Helen What’s-her-name is home next door I can’t hear her. Maybe she’s out doing something English, like breakfasting at a ye olde tea shoppe.

Never meant to hold so many people, the house has a ramshackle air, as if barely keeping itself together, which has been, I suppose, pretty much my state ever since in quick succession, like two vicious blows, I lost my job and then my girl, Ellen. Although the building’s tenants never have anything to do with each other, the slightest sound in any other apartment is audible and so there’s an oppressive sense, something like being in prison, of being under constant observation. I feel that everyone knows how I spend my time. Alone. Returning from my part-time temp job every evening to have a solitary meal. Reading a little, writing a little, watching TV (a lot), then going early to my sofa-bed. Never having any visitors, rarely venturing outside. Altogether, an unsatisfactory existence.

I reflect on my unsatisfactory existence while waiting for Dennison that night at the Phoenix, a bar about equidistant from our respective neighborhoods. Dennison can’t be called a friend of mine, but, as he works (full-time) at the desk next to mine and as he has a comparable social life, we occasionally meet for drinks and dinner. Being alone is not, in Dennison’s case, a matter of retreating from life, but the opposite, a desperate eagerness to push himself on people, which only succeeds in putting them off. In the office, he spends his time writing memos suggesting improvements, which nobody reads. After office hours, his broad hints that he’s available for whatever activities might be taking place are similarly ignored.

Now Dennison comes puffing in, his first words being, “Sorry I’m late. I just have time for a drink, then I must be off. A party on Pacific Heights I have to attend.”

This statement isn’t too surprising, the same thing having happened before on rare occasions when Dennison has secured a last-minute invitation to some function needing an extra male. “No problem,” I say. “There’s a National Geographic rerun on TV tonight I’ve been meaning to catch.”

“Good,” says Dennison, sitting down heavily. “As you know, I’ve been feeling poorly all week, this oppressive weather. But I feel I should put in an appearance tonight.”

“A Pacific Heights party isn’t something you can easily pass up.”

“Exactly. There are contacts to be made. These are important.”

“Vital, I’d say.”

“You yourself should think about getting out more.” He says this with the authority of a busy man-about-town.

“Just what my mailman told me this morning. I’ll start working on it.”

The rest of our conversation is taken up with Dennison’s account of a memo he plans to send to management on Monday. “You must read it,” he says. “This one will make them sit up and take notice.”

“I’m sure it will.”

Dennison looks at his watch and stands up. “I must be going. Remember what I said about getting out more.”

“I’m making a note of it.”

I sip at my drink. Being deprived of Dennison’s company hardly constitutes a great loss. Still, being left in the lurch, even by Dennison, is faintly depressing. The bar, now almost filled up, has become noisy and quite hot. I hear mentions of “earthquake weather.” I suddenly have the feeling that I must get out of this place. I rise as if some force is pushing me upward and feel as if I’m floating through the crowd and out the door. Outside, I look around. The San Francisco sky is red but not from fire; it’s the sunset. I think I hear a few rumbles of thunder. A wind has sprung up. I imagine I feel a slight tremor in the ground. I look around at the other people on the street but no one is reacting in any way.

Back at my apartment, the gauze curtains are flapping so I close the windows. Then I look through the mail I’d thrown on the kitchen table that morning. Among the circulars is a letter addressed to my next-door neighbor, Helen Westerly. An accident? I think not. Howard at work. Okay, why not? I step out into the hallway. If she isn’t home, I’ll just slip the letter under her door.

I hear footsteps behind me, turn around, and nearly collide with Helen Westerly, who, key out, is coming to get into her apartment. I notice that her dark hair is wet and windblown. “Uh, your letter,” I say. “That is, your letter was delivered to me by mistake. Well, not really by mistake. You see, Howard the mailman . . .” I stop. I’m sure she thinks I’m a lunatic.

But she smiles. “Ah, yes,” she says. “You have my letter. I understand. Thank you.” Howard was right. She’s English
.
“It’s this strange weather,” I say. “There, did you feel that? A tremor.”

“I can’t say I did. Well, perhaps there was something. And, listen. It’s started to rain. This definitely calls for a cup of tea. Would you like to come in and have one?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I would.” Howard was right about this, too. Something is happening.