‘‘The Orville Reenactment Society’ has been in residence at ‘Fort Elmer’ for as long as anybody in Orville can remember. They are local celebrities and the driving force behind tourism to the area. They perform every Friday and Saturday, rain or shine, and have a special matinee on Sundays (after church). Though popular, tickets will not sell out.
‘The Miracle of Orville’ is not a show to be missed. It draws heavily from the writings of the town founder, a very strange man named Fellowship Orville who claims a great hand came from the ground as he approached the site of the future fort. It pointed to the sky, and then to him, and then it retreated into the earth. Orville has embraced this origin with terrifyingly open arms.’
Thus far, in my stay, nobody in Orville has mentioned the bizarre folktale. They seem to let the town speak for itself, through murals, through massive, many-fingered statues, and through their high school football team ‘The Orville Hands.’ Knowing the town’s history, a smart person might think they are being purposeful in their silence, that their seeming normalcy is more sinister façade than genuine passivity.
And I am a smart person.
Though I was once more sure of that.
The… author… of Autumn by the Wayside sort of sets up this kind of thinking, doesn’t he? By entering a place into the book, a self-described collection of ‘shitholes,’ the author primes the reader for negativity. If I had come to Orville on my own and been asked to describe the… historically-informed culture there I think (no, I’m sure) I would have leaned toward harmlessly eccentric and not at all toward sinister.
Now, in buying gum, I notice an attendant grinning behind me. Before, a knowing nod from an old man. Previous even to that, as I entered town, the wide-eyed stare of short-haired child. It did not smile or frown but it did seem… bad.
Vaguely bad.
With a ticket I bought at the grocery store, I enter Fort Elmer and am greeted, immediately, by in-character ushers.
“Clarence!” a woman cries, seeing me step through the turnstile (which didn’t see widespread use until the early 1900s) “We’ve got our first visitor of the evening!”
“A visitor!” a man shouts from another room, “At this hour? Who is it?”
“A stranger!” the woman says, coming close now in order to make a show of eyeing me over, “By the looks of it… a vagabond!”
“By god, be rid of him!”
I speak before the woman can continue.
“I’m supposed to rent a locker for this,” I say, heaving my bag, “Which way…”
“The armory is just down that hall,” the woman replies, whispering now so as not to disturb the fictionally grumpy Clarence elsewhere in the building, “And don’t mind my husband, you’re welcome to join the others in the courtyard for tonight’s gathering.”
I breathe an inward sigh of relief when I see that the kid running the locker rental is plain-clothes- no banter about ‘funny money’ or theatrical biting of coins. Relieved of some weight, I step past another group of visitors (delighted by the host’s bafflement at their jacket zippers) and into the restroom. It has been some time since I really, closely looked at myself and, if I’m beginning to look like a vagabond, it’s probably past due.
I stare into the mirror and shudder.
She was not wrong.
I’m washing my face in the sink when I hear the too-friendly jingle of a belt from the stall behind. In the reflection, I spot two feet in dirty socks and loose, tarry sandals. Worn jeans pile up around scabby, white ankles and a pale, hanging gut is just visible beneath the door.
And, between the door, a weepy eye.
One circle nested in another.
My hand reaches, reflexively, for the pocket over my heart, for the comb case and for the comb.
The thing in the stall wheezes with some unseen effort. Its foot twists in vulgar clenches.
I turn off the water, stare up at myself again.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Spit into the sink.
I reach for the comb and-
A toilet flushes and a man walks out of the stall at the other end of the room. He’s still buttoning his replica trousers as he makes eye contact with me in the mirror. He hesitates, clears his throat.
“My, what a strange facility this is!”
I leave without saying anything and find my seat on the bleachers in the center of the fort. I sit next to the quietest looking family and the parents nod cheerfully. I sweat, silently, beneath my clothes.
The reenactment begins.
It is quiet until a man staggers into the field, his clothes dirty and torn. A dim spotlight follows his progress. Fellowship Orville stumbles, falls to his knees, and collapses. It is quiet, again, for a time.
The ground trembles but I hardly notice.
-traveler
