A woman worked the crowd. For a grilled cheese sandwich, she said, and carried a dollar bill to invite further contributions. When she came to someone with a beard and a wide-brimmed hat, he stared right through her and spoke to his own. They spoke German right through her.
The static said, “Points east.”
A kid showed me an imitation Swiss Army knife. He was part of a group in which everyone carried backpacks, wore black trousers and white shirts. The uniform of some other ascetic order. It was a key chain. I told him I had nothing to put on it and he thought I was bargaining. I gave him two dollars. I couldn’t afford even that but it seemed like some kind of start.
I got up to get a drink of water. A blind man and a German shepherd squatted against the wall next to the fountain. Dark specks jumped from the dog to the man, and from the man to the dog. I went back to my seat not thirsty anymore, just sleepy. I leaned back and closed my eyes. Heard laughter, joking. I was surprised, did not associate this with the beards, the German, the black and the brown. Must have been the length of their journey, I figured. The lateness of the hour.
A security guard woke me up. I opened my eyes and he was tapping my shoulder. His features wide and flat like he had his face pressed against a window. “We don’t park it here,” he said.
I couldn’t speak. I looked around. It was dark and everyone was gone except the blind man and his dog.
“Don’t know how you slept through all that-to-do,” the guard said. I looked at him. “Cops came and arrested one of those Amish boys, whatever they are. Supposably muling dope for someone. Believe that?”
I tried to say I’d be looking for a place to live, that I couldn’t do anything till morning, but I hadn’t spoken to anyone in a day and it probably sounded longer than that.
“You can’t park it here,” he said. He nodded behind me, “Coffee shop’s open. Grab you a cup.”
The coffee shop sold plastic-wrapped sandwiches out of a display case. Hot dogs on a rotisserie, a popcorn machine. Souvenirs. I had a fake Swiss Army knife now, so all I could buy was coffee. The panhandler was at the register trying to buy a sandwich. The cashier told her she was eighteen cents short. She looked at me.
She had bulging wet eyes, an open unconditional face. Baggy shorts and a winter coat buttoned only at the neck. I dug into my pocket. The cashier offered a receipt lengthy out of all proportion to the transaction.
“I don’t need this,” the panhandler said. “You want this?” She waited for my answer.
“I just got into town.” I said it carefully. “You know of anywhere I could stay?”
“You got money?”
“I was thinking the Y.”
“The Y,” she said. “Real estate company took over the residential. Four hundred a month for an efficiency. Call em suites anymore. Security deposit, references, credit check. You want that?”
“What else is there?”
She mentioned a place called the Avenue. It had once had another name, been the kind of place where touring rock bands demolished rooms.
“High-classy days are over,” she said, “lucky for you.”
I asked where. She gave me a corner, the name of one street and the number of another. I pressed my luck and asked her where City Hall was.
“They don’t even have grilled cheese here.” She turned her back to me. The cashier had gone somewhere.
I sat in a booth by the windows and watched the dark turn gray, then blue, then transparent for the rest of the day. I liked the blue and wished it could have stayed that way. You could live in that light.
I knew being back was going to be strange, just not in what way. The streets were familiar but I no longer knew where they went. I heard people talking to themselves, then saw they all had phones. I had to ask someone where City Hall was, heard myself stutter. That was something new.
I was sure it was Monday. It was already warm and you could feel the air filling with sweat. Two new buildings stood over Public Square, sudden shadows across Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument. One of them was a bank and was now the tallest building in town. I saw it pull lightning out of the sky, window washers washing windows where height became altitude. A big sign in the concourse at ground level said they were leasing space. The smaller building was a federal courthouse and would probably have less trouble finding tenants.
Crossing the street wasn’t as easy as it sounds. All the people, and everyone had a phone.
I got to City Hall just after it opened. I recognized the building but I’d never been inside. Huge, white stone, the entrance flanked by enormous fluted columns like an ancient temple. To the left was a wide grassy commons, and beyond that a familiar openness. I knew what was there and wanted it, but it would have to wait.
I went in, through the colonnade.
A vast hall, dim and cool. A woman in the middle of it, under the gold leaf dome of the ceiling, surrounded by frescoes of heroic service. She wore a blue blazer and held a walkie-talkie. I told her I needed a birth certificate and she gave me directions. Everything you said boomed and echoed, there were no small matters here. She was pleasant but the box would have to stay with her. That was a relief.
I went down a corridor to a narrow room with a long wooden counter. I gave someone my social security card and the letter I’d been given. My hands shook, my voice, even my thoughts. She consulted a supervisor. I was given a long form to fill out. The form was stamped and I was advised to take it to another part of the building, on another floor. I didn’t mind, I liked moving through the marble, the high vaulted spaces, the cracks polished and noble. There was an elevator but I didn’t bother with it. I wanted to hear the sound I made on the steps, rise with the curve of the balustrade.
I sat on a bench in the Records Department while they produced the document. The clerk apologized for the wait and for a second I didn’t know what he meant—there is sitting on a wooden bench for ten minutes, and there is waiting.
The brightness outside was harder to take now. I rounded the corner of the building and went into the commons. I walked across the grass with my box and my birth certificate and for once knew where I was going: I was headed for the parapet at the north side where everything rose into view. But even before I got there I saw that today everything wasn’t what it used to be.
In front of the lake the new stadium was under construction. A football team had been acquired while I was away. I’d forgotten. A cloud of dust hung motionless above it and even from where I was you could hear the clank of invisible machinery. Next to it a geodesic dome surrounded by a cluster of new-looking buildings, the spidery vehicle that had landed on the moon parked out front. I realized then it must have been a replica because the real one hadn’t come back.
In the gap between you could see water and sky, and though there was a haze over the lake it was still better than nothing. I knew I had to take things a little at a time anyway, especially the good things.
Fifty feet below me a train went by.
I was already sweating and it was the kind of day where once you started you didn’t stop. My ear throbbed. Without touching it I could feel the seam where they’d put it back on. I sat on one of the benches behind the parapet. For all I knew I might end up sleeping on it—there were people on the grass who didn’t look like picnickers. A girl was sitting on the bench next to me. I glanced at her. I wanted to know what time it was and I wondered if I should ask her. I looked her way again. This time she noticed, or noticed it was the second time, and yelled the name Steve. A guy whose name must have been Steve came over in jogging shorts. He had an overdeveloped