15. Then a Man Dreaming

“Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man.” —Chuang Tzu

Jen, Becky, and Paula walked the five blocks from the food co-op over to the campus.

They emerged from the side street onto Main Street, right in the middle of a small shopping district clearly aimed at the university students. They passed two discount bookstores in a row. The window of the first one was filled with bright purple sweatshirts, visors, binders and notebooks, all stamped with magenta letters spelling out the university’s initials, MNCMU. Several sweatshirts were decorated with a cartoon of a winged rodent wearing a tiny aviator’s cap.

“Squirrels?” asked Jen, basing her guess largely on the ambiguous rodent’s giant, bushy tail.

“Flying squirrels,” said Paula. “That’s Mid-Northern-Central’s mascot. I hope you like that cartoon; you’re going to be seeing a lot of it.”

Even as they stood looking into the window, Jen noticed that a large proportion of the students passing them on the sidewalk were wearing clothing in that same vivid shade of purple, their reflections in the glass matching the merchandise displayed behind it. She wondered if all the students here were so school-spirited. During her brief stay at college in Los Angeles, she remembered, it was the height of un-hipness to own a single piece of school-sponsored apparel. She turned from the window and watched the students directly as they passed by, noticing now that every fourth one sported the purple and magenta colors on a t-shirt, backpack, or baseball cap.

Jen wondered if there were any detractors from this orgy of campus pride. Where were all those hippies from the food co-op? Did any of them go to this school? She didn’t see anyone that looked like them; it was as though she had accidentally slipped into a different universe the moment she stepped onto Main Street. Weren’t there any weirdos at this school?

Right next door was her answer; this second bookstore evidently catered to Mid-Northern-Central’s nonconformists. No sign of purple appeared in the window, which featured a display of comic books alongside notebooks and binders covered in camouflage and skull patterns. Jen did see several flying squirrel t-shirts. One featured a red-eyed and goofy-smiled rodent sprawled on his back, smoking an enormous joint; another showed the mascot getting kicked in the head, karate-style, by a red-headed bird with a long beak. The bird was wearing a little white karate uniform.

“That’s the UPSU woodpecker,” Paula said, noticing Jen and Becky pointing at the shirt. Now that she said it, Jen realized the bird did bear a strong resemblance to Woody Woodpecker, enough to be recognizable but not quite enough to be a copyright violation.

“UPSU?” Jen asked. Before she was set loose on her own in this place, she wanted to make sure she knew the lingo.

“Upper Peninsula State University,” said Paula, rolling her eyes. “Their hockey rival.”

“Why’s he doing karate?” Becky asked.

“Oh, they’re obsessed with that stuff here,” Paula said. “It’s kind of…” She trailed off, sounding unsure of how to finish. Instead, she turned toward Jen and simply said, “Well, you’ll see.”

As they walked farther down the street, they passed three copy shops in a row, each with large signs boasting their price of four cents per copy. Jen was watching the students as they walked by, looking for some sign of nonconformity that would make this school, and the thought of spending months living near it, more appealing.

The students mainly looked just how she would imagine mid-westerners to look, clean-cut and corn-fed, mostly blond or blond-ish, with tidy, all-American hairstyles. Most of the girls had highlighted streaks in their hair—crudely done, Jen noted, probably by their friends. Almost all of the boys wore baseball caps, some in the school purple, others with single letters or logos representing sports teams.

As she continued watching, however, she did start to notice the straggling odd students, slinking along close to the walls, avoiding the crowds, who did not fit this prototype. Several girls skulked by in tall black boots, laced to the knees, and black hooded sweatshirts, their faces pierced with a collection of little rings and studs. A boy hustled quickly by in tiny velour shorts and a mesh t-shirt. She even saw one with a short, spiky green Mohawk, head down, hands shoved into his pockets, as though walking into the wind rather than into the pleasant sunniness of springtime. And yet, beneath their external trappings, Jen could sense the kinship between these rebels and their preppier cousins. Under the black lipstick, the piercings, the funny hairstyles, the faces of these students still had the fresh glow and rosy cheeks of people raised on hearty food and healthy air, rather than the sickly, grayish look she had often seen on the pierced and tattooed denizens of West Hollywood or Venice when she was younger. What was missing, she wondered? “They need to do more drugs,” she thought to herself, before remembering that perhaps these young people weren’t trying to look like junkies. But if they were, they needed to study up on their roles.

“Look!” said Becky, pointing at a t-shirt featuring the flying squirrel riding on the back of a cement truck as though it were a horse. Seated just behind the squirrel was an improbably large snail, the same size as his squirrel friend.

The wearer of the t-shirt made an indignant face at Becky. “Sorry,” said Becky, as much to Jen and Paula as to the student. “But did you see that snail?” she added excitedly, once the student had passed by.

“Snail is a huge sponsor of the school,” Paula said. “There’s like three buildings called ‘Snail’ on campus, and about half the students get jobs at Snail after they graduate.”

“Wow,” said Becky. “That’s amazing. This town is like, owned by Snail. They should all it Snailville.”

“You’re really interested in this Snail thing,” said Jen, who felt startled at Becky’s enthusiasm. She had seen Becky’s obsessive tendencies many times before—focused on economics, acting, celebrities, yoga, tantric sex for a while (that had been an annoying summer, Jen remembered), astrology, health food, junk food, and most recently Groundbreakers— but they had never centered on something so mundane as a factory.

Becky's voice became defensive. “I just know a lot about that company but I never realized it was here. I mean, I knew they were in Michigan.” Becky hesitated for a moment, as she often did before deciding whether or not to say something that would hurt Jen’s feelings. “I just thought this was the middle of nowhere.”

“If you’re interested in Snail,” said Paula cheerfully, trying to make peace, “we should go check out the plant.”

Jen groaned, audibly, but Becky was thrilled. “That’s a great idea!” she said, smiling as though Paula had just offered to buy her a pony, her walk turning to a bouncy skip.

“We can go right now,” said Jen, wanting to get it over with. “I can check out the campus another day.” Looking around the town was interesting, but she was starting to feel like she would rather wait and do it herself, when she could view it without the interpreting filter of Becky and Paula’s commentary.

On the way back to the car, Becky stopped in front of a small drug store that Jen hadn’t noticed before. “Can we hop in here?” she asked, already holding the door open for Becky and Paula to walk through. “I need to get a couple things.”

Jen looked around the inside of the store, wondering if this would be where she would buy medicine, now that she would have to do things like that for herself—although she couldn’t remember the last time she had actually taken any sort of medicine; she hadn’t even taken most of the pain pills for her rib, just one. So maybe she wouldn’t need a drug store.

Happy to have an excuse to part ways with her companions for a bit, Jen wandered back towards the pharmacy at the rear end of the store, passing the aisle marked “feminine needs,” and next to that, the colorful display of condoms and spermacides. Scanning the surrounding shelves, her eyes fell on larger boxes labeled with reassuring names like “The Right Answer,” “Accurate Promise,” and “Know For Sure.” Inside the boxes were pregnancy tests. Jen wondered how much the tests cost, but she didn’t want to pick one up. She leaned in to look for a price sticker. The text on one box read, “Don’t let your future remain a mystery. Know early, and Know For Sure, so you can handle whatever’s coming your way!”

Jen’s future was certainly a mystery. She wished she knew how to handle whatever was coming her way.

She carefully turned the box on its side by poking it with her finger. The sticker on this side said that it cost $23.95.

“Damn,” whistled Jen under her breath. She would have guessed it cost five or ten dollars.

Hearing footsteps in the next aisle, she backed away quickly from the shelf. Paula was coming around the corner,

“I saw what you were looking at!” Paula said, in a jovial but accusing tone. Jen felt her face get hot, and knew it was turning red, even as she tried to look calm.

“I’m telling you, there’s no way you’re going to need condoms in this town,” Paula said. “Get ready for a dry spell, because you are going to be like a monk up here.”

She grabbed Jen by the arm and pulled her towards the front of the store. “Hey, I want to show you something,” she said.

On their way to whatever Paula was going to show her, they passed Becky speed-walking in the other direction. Her arms were filled with bags of candy and packets of chewing gum. “Just need some vitamins,” she called out apologetically, as though she were keeping them from something important and not just from their outing to the Snail factory.

As they neared the cash registers, Paula veered to the side, past the showy little islands of cosmetics. “I had an idea,” Paula said, pulling her into an aisle near the shampoo. She took Jen by the shoulders and pointed her towards a shelf filled with pictures of women’s faces, each woman with a slightly different shade of hair, a color wheel of disembodied heads. “What do you think?” asked Paula, pointing at a box marked “spicy ginger.”

Jen was startled. She was used to resisting changes to her appearance suggested by overzealous makeup artists and hairstylists, whose job it was to predict the next big trend in appearances, while Jen liked to keep things simple and traditional. She hadn’t expected Paula, of all people, to be giving her grooming tips, especially at a time when Jen’s appearance would matter less than it ever had.

But then Jen understood her meaning. This was, in fact, the perfect time to change the way she looked, here where nobody recognized her yet and where she could now take the chance to be more unrecognizable still.

“But maybe this one,” said Jen, pointing at a box two shelves below. The woman pictured on the box had short, spiky hair the color of a “raven’s wing,” as the print on the box described it. Jen had always admired dark hair, which seemed so minimal and dramatic at the same time, so unlike her medium, mousy coloring.

Paula lifted her head to examine Jen’s long, light brown locks with their tasteful highlights, hers certainly not done by a friend at home, although they were growing out now. “Don’t you think black might be a little overwhelming on you?” she said.

“Not if I cut it short like that,” said Jen. “Becky can do it.”

Paula clapped her hands in excitement. “Oh, that’ll be so fun!” she said. “Like a slumber party. Let’s do it tonight.”

Suddenly Jen remembered something. “Wait,” she said, placing the box carefully back in its empty slot on the shelf. “I’m going to run back in the co-op and get a natural one. I don’t want to put chemicals on my head.”

“Oh. Right,” said Paula, looking startled. After Paula’s earlier behavior, Jen had almost expected her to roll her eyes and tell her to stop being a baby and just use the chemicals already. But Paula didn’t say anything more about it.

Jen and Paula met Becky by the cash register, where they added a pair of sharp scissors to the pile of things Becky was purchasing, all manner of little boxes, packets, and jars containing various candies and vitamins.

On the way back to the car, Jen quickly stopped into the co-op and bought a box of black henna. Then Becky drove them back down Main Street to North Middleton Road, back the way they had entered town yesterday evening. Soon Jen saw the large, looming buildings that had welcomed her arrival. It had seemed a long way into town from the giant factory, but on returning, Jen noticed that it was easily walking distance, perhaps a mile, from the center of town to this barren periphery. In daylight, the buildings were even uglier due to their color, an industrial tawny salmon.

“It’s huge,” said Becky, staring in awe at the endless stretch of blank, windowless wall as it passed by. “How do we know where to start looking around?”

“Beats me,” said Paula, shrugging. “I’ve never actually gotten out of the car over here.”

“Look!” exclaimed Becky suddenly, pointing ahead at something in front of the car. Jen leaned forward and squinted, trying to see past the glare of the windshield. She couldn’t see anything but gray sidewalk and pink wall. Then, out of her side window, Jen saw what Becky had been pointing at: a tiny chink in the Snail armor. The pink wall dipped inwards, making room for a small garden with benches and flowers. Beyond that was a set of glass doors, covered in a mirrored surface that reflected the blurry shape of the car back at Jen.

Becky pulled over to the side of the road, right in front of the garden. “Is this legal parking?” she asked Paula, turning her head to look for signs on the long road. Their silver SUV was the only car in sight. “Where’s everybody else?”

Paula was unperturbed. “No one stops here,” she said. “If they make it this far, they keep running straight out of town.”

Becky and Paula jumped out of the car as soon as the key was out of the ignition. Jen trailed behind, unenthusiastic about the prospect of wandering around a strange factory uninvited. By the time Jen had shut her car door behind her, Becky and Paula were examining a set of bronze plaques attached to the recessed garden walls.

“We think it’s some kind of visitors’ center,” said Paula to Jen, pointing at the sign above the glass door, which read “Snail Welcomes You to our Home!”

“These plaques are pretty interesting,” said Paula. "They’re all about the history of the factory.”

“Wow,” said Jen, in a flat tone that was neither sarcastic nor sincere.

“Look, this one talks about Groundbreakers!” said Becky excitedly, calling Paula over to the final plaque, which Jen could see was entitled “Blazing Trails in the Community.” Paula walked over to read it; Jen stayed where she was, looking down at a pretty purple flower in the patch of garden at her feet. The flowers, she realized, were all either bright violet or deep magenta. The garden was landscaped in the Mid-Northern-Central Michigan University colors.

“Nicolai Snail first met Vanto Hatch when he was a young business student just emigrated from Russia,” Becky read aloud. “The philosophies of Hatch’s Groundbreakers program were highly influential to Snail as he developed the business plan for Snail Construction and Mining Equipment. Snail credits Groundbreakers with his success and had become a dedicated sponsor.”

Jen decided to take a walk. “I’m going to look around for a minute,” she called to Becky and Paula. Paula was so engrossed by the plaque that she didn’t seem to notice Jen leaving. But not even historical information about Groundbreakers could distract Becky from keeping track of Jen. She looked up at her, held eye contact for a moment, and then nodded in patient understanding.

“We’ll be in there,” Becky said, gesturing towards the mirrored door.

Jen would have liked to disappear immediately, to get some peace and be unobserved, but there was nowhere to disappear to. The Snail buildings continued without break on both sides of the street; the nearest intersection was far in the distance. Jen could hear Becky and Paula’s voices behind her as she walked. She was curious whether they could see her from the garden, but she didn’t want to turn and look. The long block was in fact much longer even than it looked; the pink fortress walls continued on her left without end.

Finally Jen came to the intersection. She turned the corner quickly, onto another smaller but equally barren street, lined with industrial garages on one side and the same pink stucco walls on the other side, the side where Jen was walking. She felt nervous about being somewhere so isolated; this was the kind of street where she imagined a woman could get attacked or abducted and no one would ever hear her scream. In Los Angeles, she never would have walked alone on a street like this—in fact, nobody seemed to walk on the streets there. But she wasn’t in Los Angeles, she told herself; she was in Michigan, and this was the beginning of a new life of bravery and self-sufficiency.

As she walked, she ran her hand absently across the smooth, pink wall. She wondered what it would be like to work inside a building with no windows. What was going on in there? She stopped for a moment and pressed the side of her head against the wall, hoping to hear some sign of activity within. The wall was cold and still, and she couldn’t feel so much as a vibration. She kept walking, sliding her hand along the wall again, looking at the giant rolling doors on the other side of the street; each was stamped with the image of the snail in the mining helmet.

Suddenly the slick surface of the wall disappeared from beneath her hand, replaced by empty air and something metal. Still looking across the street, Jen lost her balance; her left leg buckled under her and she almost fell over. She caught something, the metal thing, and steadied herself against it. Embarrassed, she instinctively looked around to see if anyone was watching, although she was quite certain she was alone.

She turned to look at what she was holding for support, that thing that had both unbalanced and stabilized her. It was a metal bar, a covering where the wall had ended for a moment. She had found a second crack in the shell. Here was a small opening, only about three feet wide, blocked by a tall iron gate whose bars extended as high up as the building did. Jen held onto the bars as she stuck her face between them, straining like a child to see what was behind. She thought she could hear voices—scary voices, shouting some kind of rhythmic commands. She wasn’t sure if the voices were coming from inside the Snail plant or from somewhere else in the distance.

The gate led into a courtyard, Jen was pretty sure. There were tall shrubs blocking her view, and a few trees, but she thought she could see an expanse of open space beyond them. She squinted her eyes and moved her head around, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the Snail workers or whoever was making that odd noise.

As she shifted her weight to the right, she found a small open patch of unobstructed view between the leaves. Through this opening, she could see a few men in yellow jumpsuits, lined up in a row.

A voice yelled something, a loud, unintelligible command. Now Jen was sure that its owner was inside the gate. She couldn’t see him, but the men that she could see lifted their arms in what looked like some sort of salute.

The voice yelled something else.

The men moved forward, simultaneously, punching the air with their fists. On their last punch, they let out a synchronized yelping noise, a war cry.

The voice barked again. The men dropped to the ground and began to do pushups, counting in unison up to fifty each time they lifted and lowered their bodies. Then they jumped back to their feet and resumed the rhythmic punching.

Jen felt a horrified fascination creep over her. This was an army, she realized. Inside this fortress, Nicolai Snail was training a private militia. Maybe, she thought, Snail is not only a manufacturing company, but something else—something covert and insidious. But what could it be? What did Snail want an army for? Was he just paranoid? Or did he have some reason?

She resolved to find out. Once Becky and Paula left, she could come here and spy all she wanted, every day if she felt like it, until she figured out what was going on here. She would drive the SUV to the co-op, get tea in the morning, and then make the short trip out to the factory. Hell, she could even walk, she thought, adding up the distance—it was only six miles from here to the lake house. It seemed like an absurd whim to follow through with, especially the twelve-mile walk round trip; but then again, she had absolutely no other plans.

Chapter 16:

http://kickoutofyou.blogspot.com/2008/12/16-exactly-through-motions.html