The Ampule - Yesterday's events continued

It was well past noon by the time I found myself alone with the envelope in front of me. And despite my growling stomach, I reached for the letter opener. I inserted the tip into the envelope's flap reveal. Just as I was about to enjoy the sound of the shredding fold, I stopped.

This anticipation had been driven to such heights, why do this on an empty stomach? Why allow impatience and hunger to detract from the other senses' enjoyment of this letter? I decided to take the letter with me to the diner next door and open it there, while I was eating lunch. In the private anonymity that is paradoxically granted in public.

Libby's Blue Line Diner in Colchester, Vermont is as classic a diner as you'll ever experience. And, as it is about 100 steps away from the back door of my building, it also has been my surrogate kitchen, complete with a staff of mamas, almost every lunch time for the better part of a decade. The compressed, rail car room has a curved ceiling and a full-length Formica counter with a stainless edge trim, narrowed at two symmetrical ends with glass compartments filled with muffins, mini cereal boxes and cellophane wrapped coffee cakes. In front of the counter are red swivel stools too closely spaced, and behind the counter, there's the long line of blenders, juicers, dispensers, steamers, warmers, coolers, coffee makers, shelves with tea bags, sugar bags, salt shakers, ketchup bottles, mustard squirters. All that is interrupted by a cut-out window to the back kitchen through which gravy smothered plates are served, extra 'slaw is reminded, and above which hangs a sign: "I am not deaf, I'm just ignoring you."

This day, instead of taking my usual spot at the counter, I asked Libby (yes, there is a Libby) for a booth. "Expectin' company," the surely-80-something year old, white-haired Libby asked, almost as an accusation that I should request a booth if I was by myself. "No, just need a little extra elbow room today," I apologized. "Alright, because I didn' wancha to be gettin any big ideas that I would join you," she said dryly.

She led me to one of the red Naugahyde booths across the black-and-white-tiled aisle from the counter, put the menu down with her shaky hand, and on her return to the front, she patted me on the shoulder. Or was she supporting herself on my shoulder to get to the next booth back?

I didn't need the menu. It was Tuesday. American Goulash. With no order taken, Sassy brought me my large water, no ice and some lemon. "Expecting company?" But from her, it was a genuine question, both professionally and perhaps personally.

I was beginning to wonder why I presumed I would have more privacy here than at my desk.

I put the letter on the advertisement-cluttered paper placemat before me. It was perfect to open it here, I decided. This letter represented to me all that was slow (though perhaps falsely so since I didn't even know its contents yet) and I was about to open it amid the hub-bub of order-taking, platters clattering, layered conversations, clinking eatery, table busing, and yet ... yet all this noise and commotion was of the old world.

With proud forethought back in the office, I had the presence of mind to stash my letter opener before leaving. A mailing of such traditional nature deserved to be opened commensurately. And now, once again, I inserted its tip into the flap crevice. With indecent pleasure, I relished the sound of the ripping paper. Then, holding the envelope in both hands and using my thumbs, I coaxed it open as I would two petals on a flower to get a peak at its anther and stigma.

I saw it, but couldn't quite trust my eyes, as if they were suffering from lack of focus, for the scale of the thing just wasn't coming clear. This thing could not fit into an envelope. But it was lying off to just one side. It was a capsule out of, what? some kind of metal. Pewter? But not cylindrical like a capsule; more bulbous at one end. A vile. No, a miniature amphore. No, in fact: an ampule.

An ampule. That's what it was. I tipped the envelope and the ampule rolled into the bowl of my cupped hand. But as soon as it lay there, it felt like a hot coal burning into my palm. My hand jerked and I dropped the ampule on the table; no time to react as it rolled a lop-sided arc toward the table edge. I reached with both hands one swooping down and the other cupping from below the table edge. But it evaded both, bouncing first onto my leg, then onto the red Naugahyde, and then, as if finally free, into the depths below the table.

I wiggled out of my seat and dropped to a crawling position in front of my booth. I winced at the thought of the dirty mop that swished leftover food around on these tiles, but for now that didn't matter. Sassy came to bend below the table with me.

Whatcha lookin for?
A thing. I, I dropped a thing. It was a ... it was a small thing; little thing about this size.
What was it?
Well, it was a... it was an ampule.
A what?
An ampule, you know, a ... a ... it looked like a miniature genie bottle.
A genie bottle? You dropped a genie bottle?
Well, it wasn't a genie bottle, it was much smaller.
Maybe it was a small genie bottle.
Well whatever, it has to be right here. It couldn't have gone far. It got away right here under the table. It's somewhere right here.
Got away?
Well, I mean, I dropped it.
Maybe someone kicked it somewhere else.
No, no! No one kicked it. It dropped and I bent down right away. It's got to be here. Right here under the table somewhere.
Maybe the genie wanted to get away. They do that, you know.
Sassy! You're not helping.
What do you think I am doing down here on my knees under the table with you?
I'm sorry. It's just that I know it's got to be ... Ah! Here it is! I got it. I found it.
You got your genie back.
Well, the ampule anyway.
Your first wish better be that he don't take off anymore.
Thanks for your help, Sassy.
And your second wish better be that you start believing in him cause otherwise there ain't going to be any third wish.

The ampule was not hot, and I wondered if it was possible that it never was. You know how sometimes you touch something cold and it feels like it is burning? Was it possible that my skin was simply confused? I don't know and it didn't matter. I put the ampule back on the table.

As I tried to slide back into the booth, I hit the table. The tall water cup wobbled and then ... my legs froze in mid-bent position ... and one sees it all in slow motion. I often think that if I were to be in a car crash or some other critical accident, it would be like this. The cup is wobbling. I see the lemon jiggling back and forth in its small pool of rippled water. The letter is lying, as yet dry, on the placemat. You still react, trying to be swift but fighting time, gravity and acceleration. Reacting, speculating and processing all simultaneously. Until it's done. The moment lost; the deed irrevocable; the die cast; the water spilled.

The water spilled on the ink-written and, as yet, unread, letter. I lifted the envelope but that just allowed the pool to gain access to the letter. I quickly turned the envelope to let the dribble drain out. Sassy rushed to the table with a hand towel. I held the letter as it began dripping black drops onto the floor. Black drops that once were forced onto paper in forms and patterns to convey words and meaning. Now free and returned in their liquid state, they escaped back into the universe, taking that meaning with them.

I blotted the letter with napkins against a fresh placemat, but I could already tell there was little hope.

There was little I could make out from the letter's blurry remains. Some kind of date in the upper right hand corner. Unimportant. An address. "Dear... ?" me personally? Yes, yes, that was my name-smear.

After that, just assumptions: must? mist? miss?... utmost... critical... procedure or prefers? (couldn't be "pedicure," could it?) ... sequence... charm or chant or can't?... impulse... terminally angered? ... and smaller words in between, but not enough to piece together full sentences. There was a section that was indented, as if a quote. Five lines, it appeared. And somewhat equal in length. A poem? Incantation? A chant? Yes, chant! Because then the above word would be chant. Chant? or Charm? Then a paragraph after that. Again, just vague guesses of vague imagery: must ... unexpected... sequence... oh, it was impossible! Lost. All was lost!

Who cared what blurred name was the signatory to this impressionist smear? It was useless! God damn it! Fucking bump of the table and a whole link in the cosmos is broken. No return address. No name. No nothing! Someone knows me. Sends me a metal plug, writes something and doesn't even have the presence of mind to post a return address! What kind of foresight is that?

I'm sorry I have to end now and go to bed. I wanted to write more. I wanted to tell you how yesterday ended. But it is too late now. I'm sorry that it is taking me this long to tell you all this. Unfortunately, the longer I put off being able to finish this story, the more it unfolds. I promise I will tell you tomorrow. But at least now you know how I ended up with a blister. Oh, well, not on my finger, but in the palm of my hand. I swear, I have a bandaid now in the palm of my hand! It's like stigmata or something. (And no, that is not some foreboding of how this story will unfold. I am good, -- well, mostly -- but no Christ here.) More tomorrow. I promise. Good night.