It must have been a relief to realize that, in creating a ‘Museum of Glass,’ the gift shop would basically build itself. Shot glasses? Sun glasses? Snow globes in a region that rarely sees snow? As long as there is glass involved, why not a little bit of everything?
Like most privately-owned, roadside museums, the ‘Museum of Glass’ leads with its gift shop. It’s where you buy the entry ticket or, realizing the inside of the museum is not air-conditioned, it’s where you use the restroom and then leave guiltily without buying anything at all. It’s easy to make ‘thank you’ sound like an apology. It must happen all the time here- the woman behind the counter seems surprised that anyone is willing to hand over $15 for a ticket.
“Lucky,” she says, “We’re having a two-for-one promotion.”
I look behind me and startle to see the stranger there, very close.
“Lucky,” he smiles.
‘The ‘Museum of Glass’ starts off well enough with a table-sized glass case, empty except for a paper sign that says, ‘THIS IS IT.’ An optimist assumes it is referring, humorously, to the case as a sample of the museum’s focus, but it is potentially also referring to the entire lower level of the collection which consists only of empty glass boxes and the same sign: ‘THIS IS IT.’
The rest of the building is much the same.
The ‘Museum of Glass’ is confusing and uninformative, which makes it a rather poor museum overall. It is soothing to the mind and the wallet to assume its true purpose is art or some massive, subtle joke you might pretend to understand later on, a joke about society and not about you. It does not advertise and appears on no maps. It does not sell postcards.’
We don’t speak again until we leave the gift shop and stand over the first case. Our reflections in the glass are vague and ghastly.
‘THIS IS IT.’
“Your phone has been disconnected.”
“I have a new phone,” he says, “I can give you that number.”
“What happened to the old one?”
“It got weighty.”
“You seem like a strong guy.”
The stranger breathes heavily and moves on to the next exhibit. It is a smaller glass box, its edges etched in a floral pattern.
‘THIS IS IT.’
“You keep a phone too long and people know where to find you,” he explains.
“That’s absolutely the point.”
“Even you weighed it down,” he says, “I don’t want to be found all the time.”
“You think I do?”
“Want to be found? By me? Yes.”
The next exhibit is a smaller glass box, laced with thin wire like a fire door.
‘THIS IS IT.’
“What have you figured out about this that I haven’t?”
“The most important thing,” he says, “Is to step with purpose.”
“That’s code for starting fires?”
“That’s the most obvious thing I do.”
“This all has to do with the path?”
The stranger sneezes and startles me. He rubs his nose apologetically and then drags his finger across the dusty case. He writes something:
‘THIS IS IT.’
“Imagine a path,” he says as we walk up the stairs to the second floor, “From one place to another. If the people on the path walk at the same speed and in the same direction…”
“I already know this,” I tell him, “They will never meet. But you’re not walking the same direction.”
“I am,” he says, “Sometimes.”
“So?”
“So, imagine a path that was made and is maintained only by those that walk it. Somebody began walking, somebody followed, and they memorize the way. The path has entered the first stage of existence- it exists in their heads.”
The second floor of the ‘Museum of Glass’ is startlingly different. Displays hold a mad assortment of glass shards, varied in shape, size, and color. The floor is also covered in glass, tiled to appear loose. They look like pieces of broken glass you might find on the street- the casual observer would be hard pressed to come to any other conclusion.
“This place is a garbage pile,” the stranger says, and he licks the gaps between his teeth.
The tiling on the floor is patterned into words:
‘THIS IS IT.’
“So, what happens to the path?” I ask.
“Eventually it enters the second stage of existence: it’s worn into the ground. At that point, anybody can follow it, though they may not know where it starts and where it goes,” the stranger’s reflection stares up at me from the broken glass display, “When we come upon a path we can be assured of two things- it’s either convenient or important, and it is, or was, used often. It becomes separate from the people who maintain it, but still indicative of their activities.”
“What does that have to do with Shitholes?”
“If there is a wider, more abstract path that we’re following,” he says, “Autumn by the Wayside intersects it constantly. It might be a map of the path itself. I don’t know, yet.”
“But you wrote it.”
For the first time since I’ve know the man, the stranger looks surprised. He frowns and rubs his nose.
“What?”
“You wrote the book,” I tell him, pulling out the vandalized copy of Shitholes, “This is you.”
He looks at it briefly and his frown deepens.
“That’s not me,” he says, “Why would you think I wrote that?”
The stranger’s mannerisms become anxious. He leans, as though to spit, but realizes he is inside. He reaches out to the rows of glass and fingers one of the points. A speaker crackles to life.
“Sir,” the woman downstairs says over the intercom, “Sir, please don’t touch the exhibits.”
He withdraws his hand.
“Why would you think I wrote that?” he asks again.
“What does the picture look like inside your copy?”
“The cover fell off years ago. Why would you think…?”
“I’ve gotten close to the author,” I tell him, “And everybody who’s seen him describes you.”
“I’ve never heard that,” he says, “And I’ve been doing this for…”
“Why do you start fires?” I ask him, “Why wouldn’t you write the book?”
“It’s dangerous,” he says, “A path like this can maintain itself until a tree falls across it or a landslide obscures the way. Controlled burning… clears the way a little.”
“And the book?”
“I wouldn’t write the book because I couldn’t have,” he says, turning back toward the stairs, “The book was there before I began. I’m going to use the toilet downstairs.”
“You’re going to disappear.”
“Yes.”
“Can I have your new number?”
The stranger does not stop, but he says:
“I still have yours.”
The third floor of the ‘Museum of Glass’ is all windows- it’s sweltering in the midday sun. Somebody has carefully places stones in the field behind the building. They form the words:
‘THIS IS IT.’
The stranger’s car rattles down the highway and, eventually, out of sight.
I walk back down to the gift shop and pretend to browse the shelves one last time. I turn to go and slip a dollar into an empty donation box at the door.
“Sir,” the woman says, “Please don’t touch the exhibits.”
-traveler
