I don’t know how much time we’ve spent in the elevator. An eternity and a cough. It is a line I have used in one of my stories—they now come easily to me—in a somewhat cryptical fashion. I do understand now that certain writers can get away with such remarks. Fact is Onderdonk coughed and sneezed a lot while we were in the elevator; I did realize that he was going through something but I couldn’t tell what it was. I also couldn’t (and still can’t) tell whether we were moving incredibly fast, in slow motion, down, up, or not at all. I knew what Onderdonk would say had I asked him. It doesn’t matter. It didn’t. All that mattered was that I wanted us to arrive.
The elevator came to a halt with a soft thud.
“Technically,” Onderdonk said, “there are no empty apartments in this building.”
His voice sounded forceful, fresh, unbreakable. I looked at him—and gasped. When he had joined me in the elevator I would have thought him at least seventy years old; now he looked like twenty, not a minute older. Even his skull had grown hair, and his face had sucked in all the wrinkles. His bared upper body—the blue overall had disappeared, and along with it his humongous belly—was bronzed and muscular. He was wearing leather shorts and colorful moccasins, which looked as soft as his shoes had looked shined. He took off his old man’s glasses, held them in the air and let go. They floated to the ceiling—and were gone.
He gave me an encouraging grin, revealing his flawlessly youthful teeth.
Had I grown younger too? The elevator mirror that I consulted told me I hadn’t.
“Do I have to do anything to open the door?” I asked.
“It’s the thought that counts,” Onderdonk said. “That’s how everything comes into being.”
Leisurely, the door opened.
There was nothing, my mind a blank.
from The Legend of Minetta Creek
The elevator came to a halt with a soft thud.
“Technically,” Onderdonk said, “there are no empty apartments in this building.”
His voice sounded forceful, fresh, unbreakable. I looked at him—and gasped. When he had joined me in the elevator I would have thought him at least seventy years old; now he looked like twenty, not a minute older. Even his skull had grown hair, and his face had sucked in all the wrinkles. His bared upper body—the blue overall had disappeared, and along with it his humongous belly—was bronzed and muscular. He was wearing leather shorts and colorful moccasins, which looked as soft as his shoes had looked shined. He took off his old man’s glasses, held them in the air and let go. They floated to the ceiling—and were gone.
He gave me an encouraging grin, revealing his flawlessly youthful teeth.
Had I grown younger too? The elevator mirror that I consulted told me I hadn’t.
“Do I have to do anything to open the door?” I asked.
“It’s the thought that counts,” Onderdonk said. “That’s how everything comes into being.”
Leisurely, the door opened.
There was nothing, my mind a blank.
from The Legend of Minetta Creek
Habitat
We live underground. We go as deep into the earth as we can. Depending on the territory we cover, we use groundhog or subway tunnels. Underneath the old cities, there are still wooden pipes which make some of us feel nostalgic, others nervous. Moving through roots is hard: they’re so sticky. Caves make us merry and frisky. They are our playgrounds. It takes time to get used to life underground but it’s worth the effort; not that we have a choice. The sewer system can be humiliating. It doesn’t bother me. I’ve bonded with many an affable rat and even the occasional cockroach. They know their way around. Some I now consider friends.
We live underground. We go as deep into the earth as we can. Depending on the territory we cover, we use groundhog or subway tunnels. Underneath the old cities, there are still wooden pipes which make some of us feel nostalgic, others nervous. Moving through roots is hard: they’re so sticky. Caves make us merry and frisky. They are our playgrounds. It takes time to get used to life underground but it’s worth the effort; not that we have a choice. The sewer system can be humiliating. It doesn’t bother me. I’ve bonded with many an affable rat and even the occasional cockroach. They know their way around. Some I now consider friends.