Mitchell's Story Pt 1 "Nebraska"

We're thinking of leaving New York, which I described as hell when we were in Japan. It isn't that bad, of course. I was exaggerating. Sure, there's stress, air pollution, noise. What pushes us further toward moving is the current political situation. We'd like to leave the country, in fact, but failing that getting out of this city seems advisable, as what the people in Washington are doing makes us a bigger terrorism target forever.

In passing conversation on this topic at work, a colleague mentioned to me a house he knew to be available far from here, in Nevada. He was from there and it belonged to someone he knew who was moving away for a contract job. My coworker said the house would be available for from two to four years (the owners were coming back) and for just two hundred sixty dollars a month. His friends weren't interested in the rent money (the house was already paid off, long ago, had been in the family forever), just wanted a caretaker in it while they were away, someone they could trust.

My job was another reason to move. I was tired of it. It and New York had come to seem of a piece, two aspects of a stressful circumstance. Akemi and I hadn't been exactly wracking our brains to get out of here, but the thought was in the background, looming. So my friend's bit of news sparked my interest. A house at that rent? Deserved thought at least.

"Big stone house with plenty of space," my coworker said (come to think of it, he looked like a resident of the rural U. S., had a quality not found on the urban East coast, his attitude both more open and more closed, that is less guarded personally but more prone to suspicion of outsiders, a quality common among people in small communities).

I thought about broaching the possibility of such an unexpected plan to Akemi.

The relatively short span of the stay was a consideration, problematic. Two, even four years go fast. We'd have not much time to really settle in and relax as it would soon be necessary to look for the next place to live. This plan wouldn't solve the future. Though we'd be away from the outer stress of life in New York, we'd still have the inner stress of uncertainty.

Then I realized the house wasn't in Nevada but Nebraska. I'd misheard.

In fact, that was all pretty much the same to me, big American spaces, unknown to Akemi. Would she be open to it, living away from an urban center, somewhere with no connections to her culture, as she could find in New York? Wouldn't she feel isolated if surrounded by all Americans and their way of life. New York sophistication meant a lot to her. She felt less far away from home here.

I knew she would tell me frankly her thoughts on the proposal. If it didn't sit well with her, she wouldn't pretend otherwise.

I could get remote work there. The pay would be less but with that negligible rent it wouldn't matter.

I asked my coworker about the location.

"Isolated?"

"In the center of town, ha ha." He spoke as if to reassure me but had misunderstood. I actually wanted distance from any hubbub. Part of the appeal of a move was the possibility of getting some quiet for a change, a tree or two even. This center of town might be just the same as New York.

He said Akemi and I could go visit if we wanted.

We had a vacation anyway so went to look. Akemi was not opposed to the plan, not exactly gung ho (me either) but willing to investigate.

One of the owners of the house, guy in his thirties, picked us up at the airport.

Akemi was surprised at the flatness of the land we covered (so was I) the pale blue that seemed to go on forever, reaching the horizon softly. The deftness of the driver also impressed her. Sometimes it looked like we were going to hit something (you flinched, moved as it to cover your head) but we went right through untouched. Of course he knew the exact proportions of his car.

On our tour of the place we were shown a basement room with a kiln for pottery.

"Look at that room, the kiln I mean," I said.

The walls were of grey cinderblock with white rough mortar.

"I can use that to write in," I said. "No, sorry, that will be Akemi's painting studio. I can find a writing room elsewhere." Akemi wasn't present at the moment but I made a point of considering her wishes, accommodating them to increase the likelihood we'd take the house. I wasn't wholly convinced that was a good idea but wanted to keep open the possibility. Akemi would need a place to paint. My needs were more easily fulfilled and I was less exacting than her. I could write pretty much anywhere at all. She was very particular about the place where she would paint. A studio had to meet certain specifications or she wouldn't consider it at all.

The family was there. Of course they would be gone when we moved in if we decided to rent the house.

We hung out with them. The first day there was a relay race on the lawn, which was big. Space isn't at a premium in the country as in New York. Races with family and neighbors were something people in rural communities did, different from the activities I was used to at home.

I was confused about how to do a relay. Who do you pass the baton to? There were several players aligned on the course ahead of me. Which one was my connection? And when should I hand him or her the thing?

Off to the right, northwest, was a view of tall buildings, not skyscrapers but definitely for business, not residential like the one and two floor homes they rose above at a distance, in a dark shining cluster. Like all American cities rearing suddenly or gradually from the wide wide landscape, rolling, flat or mountain valley. "That's Omaha," the guy who'd gotten us at the airport said. He was addressing a concern he imagined we'd have about lack of access to city conveniences we were accustomed to. Shopping. His wife overhearing the exchange added with a smile and a slightly wistful look toward that city,"Not far." And it was good to know we could fairly easily drive there for stuff.

Dinner took place in a local restaurant, a chain that was surprisingly full. Waiting at the table, the cousin, driver's sister-in-law's brother who looked like he'd just come of age, was reedlike and still growing at a fast rate, a young man eager to test his strength as an adult, playfully faked an order, made it complex, jokingly testing my memory (I willingly took on the role of waiter for the duration of the game, remembered the first item, a drink, one with as many words as he could give, deliberately making it difficult to recall).

"Amazing" he said, as there really were a lot of menu items on the order he'd elaborated. But I forgot the next. Got one more but missed all the rest. I'd failed the memory test! Was this what it was like to get old and become forgetful, I wondered? Anyway, I saw the limits of the mind, and it was unsettling. I wished I could dismiss the whole thing as a joke, better yet, that it had never happened.

I talked to kids on the lawn, passing the late afternoon with its grass smells and spring sun, a little bored, enough to fill the idle moments by talk with an adult. They told me about the cold weather there and I talked about New York. Their eyes widened but little interest surfaced as they saw that city as too distant from their lives to matter. They didn't imagine ever going so far. "New York has extreme weather," I said. "Summers so hot you can't do anything." I saw at least one of the kids took me literally; his eyes opened further.

"I mean you can do things, you just have to slowly," I explained. The comment didn't draw much of a response, a yawn and faint smile, sleepy, attention fading like the sun at that hour, occasionally quickening as a passing cloud thinned. Thrown back on myself I thought of the future, Akemi's and mine uncertain but definitely no longer as wide as those children's.