Scarf in the Dark by Crockett Doob

My doorknob is low. The door is regular-sized, just upside down. But I know that can’t be true because the windows are up top. So my new theory has been that the door was sawed off, like a shotgun. The point is my doorknob is lower than most and is demonstrative of what’s inside: a very small apartment. Or, as I like to call it, “My hallway by the sea.” Because I live in a beach town.

Most nights, I go for a solitary walk along the water. But since it was fall and I’d underestimated the cold, I needed to go back inside and get my scarf.

I didn’t bother to turn on the light. Why not? Two reasons. My closet was only halfway down my little hallway apartment. But also, there was a woman I’d met recently and I was thinking about her, thinking especially about what I said that made her laugh.

I always clock laughter. It’s sort of sad. Like a friend of mine, her dad laughed at something I said twenty years ago and I still think about it, even after my friend’s dad died. Same, actually, with another friend’s dad. So it’s likely–depending on who dies first–that if you laugh at something I say, I will remember it after you die.

I met this woman at a wedding after-party and we ended up talking on a couch. She told me about her last relationship. She said they fell in love, bought a house, “in the middle of nowhere, sight unseen,” and then he became abusive, left, and now she’s in therapy multiple times a week, dishes piling up in the sink, her backyard filling up with wildflowers–she likes those–and laundry piling up upstairs.

She described her laundry situation. “I have to carry it down two floors, and then across the big basement to this little laundry room where you have to duck your head.”

It reminded me of a too-big apartment I lived in. “I had two floors to myself.”

“Nice,” she said, which was what everyone said.

But I hated it. Everything felt like an effort. Sitting on the couch on the first floor, I’d think, I have to go to the bathroom, which was in the basement–“the murder basement,” I called it–so then I’d stay down there and sit on that couch. I preferred the basement for some reason–well, I knew the reason; it was because when my dad left the second time, he lived in a basement apartment and I liked visiting him. But I couldn’t sit down there forever. Eventually, I’d need something upstairs and think, better get up and get it. But I wouldn’t want to. So I’d give myself this whole peptalk or create more things to do upstairs to make the trip worthwhile.

And the nail. Everytime I traveled up or down that staircase–where you had to duck your head–I’d see this one nail sticking out and think, gotta deal with that. But I never would–and never did.

When I moved, it was the opposite. A shoebox. And I loved it. Though, as soon as I moved in–and this was quite unintentional–I read books about murderers living in “shoebox” bedrooms, like CRIME AND PUNISHMENT by (you know who) and THE PERFECT GIRLFRIEND by Karen Hamilton. But I’m not a murderer. I even tried to write a murder mystery, and the characters wouldn’t do anything; they would just argue and have sex.

Anyway, what I told this woman on the couch was how anytime I needed something in my shoebox, all I had to do was reach out and grab it. When I demonstrated this, she burst out laughing. So I was thinking about that moment while walking down my hallway in the dark. (I have since upgraded from shoebox to hallway.) Showing off for a woman who wasn’t there. We weren’t in touch. Pride was the sin here, like, look at me, my apartment’s so small, I can keep the lights off and get my scarf out of the closet, no problem.

But there was a problem.

Back outside, locking up again, I noticed something strange on the doormat. A black sock. My black sock. Or it looked like it could be mine. My upstairs neighbors, who threw their cigarette butts onto my doormat from their porch–reason enough to murder–also took off one black sock and threw that down, too, the sock was probably mine. Maybe I dropped it while doing laundry, I thought. Which made me think of this woman again and her arduous laundry. I had no such problem. Again, showing off. Competitive. And about what? Doing laundry and living in a small apartment.

I reached down for the sock, but then saw another sock! How had I not seen the second black sock until now? Maybe because now I was closer to the doormat? I picked both socks. And then? A third sock! This felt like a dream. A bad dream. Or worse, a meaningful dream. Or another possibility, black sock rain? Which was stupid, but I couldn’t help it; I looked up. No. And no upstairs neighbors smoking and throwing socks.

I stood up, tucking the socks into the crook of my elbow to free my hand to get my keys and that’s when I touched the nest. I had a black sock nest–dozens of socks–in the crook of my elbow. There never was a scarf! It was still in my closet! When I reached for the scarf, I’d grabbed a handful of socks!

As I let myself back in (turning on the light), I started laughing and couldn’t stop. I was laughing at me. Which is rare. A happy, spontaneous laugh, even rarer. But could I clock my laughter? Would I remember it until I die?

Crockett Doob

Image: An untidy pile of socks by DD