[Pride 2020] Safe Space

Basements were unheard of in this city. So finding one in the restaurant was a nervous surprise for Van’s parents twenty years ago. When they asked the leasing agent about it later, the anxious woman insisted she “forgot.”

A vestige of the previous business, a small textile company, the underground room was installed when building codes were far more relaxed. The original owners refused to move to another location in spite of the increasing staff. Within a few months, they had somehow improvised the confining and curiously draughty cellar that had since become a sanctuary for Van. Once crammed with decades-old sewing equipment and storage boxes filled with dusty fabric, Van’s parents had it all hauled away before opening. He remembered his mother being upset she couldn’t sell any of it. As Van recalled, absolutely no one was interested. His parents couldn’t even give the stuff away.

Any time Van was frustrated by splattered grease on a favorite shirt, or an especially ornery customer tested his patience, he retreated to the basement. His basement, as Van’s mother would tell people. She never stepped foot down there herself after they cleared everything out, and Van’s father only entered it whenever the exterminator needed access. The severe silence and lack of light made them uncomfortable, whereas Van found it all consoling.

Like clockwork on any given weekday, Van’s mother showed up at the restaurant during her son’s lunch break. He had just cut his sandwich with a bread knife he borrowed from the kitchen. The mid-afternoon rush’s stragglers consisted of cheap college students and elderly regulars. There was no work left to be done except for cleaning the tables once the customers left. In spite of this apparent detail, Van’s mother greeted him with an accusatory stare. He had barely bitten into the sandwich she had made for him that morning before he felt the faint texture of tomato on this tongue. No matter how many times Van reminded her he disliked tomatoes, his mother always put them on his sandwiches.

“Why are you eating?” she asked with a hushed yet harsh tone. “There are people still here.”

Van returned the sandwich to his plate, and then placed that next to the knife on the counter. “They’re about to leave.”

She softly fumed without contorting too much of her ashen face. “I don’t care. Go do something until they go.”

Van’s mother was incredibly superstitious for someone who was all but agnostic. She wore supposedly curative bangles she found in a neighboring gift shop, and she hung an upturned horseshoe over the entrance. Often, she blathered about the power of auras and energy. It was all nonsense to Van, but she swore by it. That day, however, she didn’t recognize the energy she was giving off while berating her son in front of the customers. They conspicuously exited the small restaurant posthaste.

“See? They didn’t want to see you eating.”

Van was used to his mother’s blaming attitude. In the early days of his time back home, he would have engaged with her. Matched her raised voice with his before agreeing to disagree. Eight years later, Van could no longer humor her. He abandoned his meal and bussed all the tables as his mother watched with characteristic scrutiny in her eyes. After locking the door until they reopened for dinner, Van excused himself for the rest of the afternoon.

His mother shouted after him, “Be sure to close the door when you come back. It gets cold if you don’t.”

“I always do,” Van said under his breath.

The creaking steps beneath his feet were almost like the start of a familiar song. Mid-way between the basement door and the bottom of the stairs, the suspended, fluorescent bulb above Van flickered as it normally would. He easily could have replaced the light, but Van joked that would remove some of the room’s character. Formerly empty, Van furnished the area over time. This included a chair his mother wanted to throw away because of a creaky leg. Instead, Van gave it a new home. He also found a discarded bedside stand in the alley that showed great wear and tear.

Van’s habit of going to the basement began shortly after his father died. Less than a year into his return home, Van found his father’s body while getting ready for work. A heart attack, the paramedic summarized to him at the scene. Van had expected to close the restaurant for at least a day or two. To his surprise, his mother kept the place open. Being in that dining hall every day until the funeral, forcing a smile and feigning small talk, Van longed for an escape. That was when he remembered the basement.

One of the restaurant’s customers, a woman who had lived on the block for decades, related her experiences to Van about the building’s original owners. She admitted she found them uneasy to be around whenever she passed by. Their greed was off-putting and their treatment of their employees was reprehensible. She refused to work for them like everyone else in the neighborhood. Curious, Van inquired what made the owners so loathsome. “They did bad things to them,” was all she said as she directed her eyes to the floor. Van didn’t quite understand what she meant and never brought it up with her again.

In the basement, Van frequently spoke to the brick walls or to himself. The conversations were always about the setbacks he endured. They started out as trivial: awkward interactions with customers or minor grievances he had with his mother. In the fullness of time, Van’s complaints grew along with his anger. He talked until his face was no longer flushed, or his hands stopped shaking. Considering Van was essentially volunteering his time at the restaurant, he had no money to spend on legitimate therapy. Shouting his frustrations into the void, twenty feet below the world, was the best he could manage.

The basement was decorated with Van’s growing laundry list of slights and injustices. There was almost no room left for him in the 1000-square-foot space. He brushed his body against the wall farthest away from the stairs, remembering what he whispered to it five years ago. Something he never told anyone else. In great description, he divulged details of his first date since he had moved home. The man was charming both on paper and in public. Yet when no one else was around, he was forceful and presumptuous. He couldn’t stand to be refused. Van learned this the hard way. Just the mere thought of their last time together made him reflexively rub his throat where bruises shaped like fingers once laid. He opted to wear a turtleneck in the days after; his mother complained the garment was somehow offending the customers.

Turning to look at the adjacent wall, Van was reminded of his last birthday. It fell on the day of his mother’s checkup. He woke up that morning, half-expecting to see birthday wishes from all the friends he made at school. Van already burned those bridges, though, when he cut off all contact. The disgrace he felt was more influential than he ever thought possible. It was easier to let them all go than cling to something that wasn’t the same as before.

As with any appointment, just getting his mother there was complicated, if not routine. It always took at least an hour for Van to get her physically ready—the emotional persuasion required more time. That particular morning, Van’s mother was willful in a way that was also cruel. She didn’t mince words during the drive – her observations were as shrewd as ever, and her criticisms were especially blunt – and she didn’t stop until her son reacted.

In the hospital parking lot, Van turned to his mother and asked her, “Why are you like this?”

She did not immediately answer; her russet eyes remained steady. Finally, she said, “Because you’re weak.”

Those three words stayed with him all throughout the appointment and for the remainder of his birthday. He didn’t have much to say to her after, and once the restaurant closed for the night, Van retreated to the only place he felt safe.

The rattling of the small double hung window stirred Van from his thoughts. Outside, a crying wind pushed across the sad sky. Van looked around the basement, which had turned darker and colder than ever before, and he felt anxious. Van dried his wet cheeks with a sleeve. As he exhaled, he saw his visible breath fade away. He desperately wanted to leave, but his legs were shiftless, and his arms hung like sandbags.

Minutes passed and nothing changed. Van’s voice was just as static as the rest of his body. He mustered all the strength he had left inside of him so he could call out for help, but his lips would not even quiver. Whatever had come over him, it was careful enough to leave his eyes unaffected. Stationed in one corner of the room, Van darted his eyes back and forth. It was as if he had been positioned to only watch.

Van was startled by what felt like someone running fingers across his arm. He ignored it until the same feeling happened again but on his shoulder. Soon, the sensation swathed his whole body as if he was being hugged. Something gently pressed into his skin for several moments until it receded. Van was embarrassed to admit he enjoyed the contact even if it was imagined. It had been a long time since he had experienced that sort of tenderness.

Van had been so distracted by the spectral caress, he neglected to see his fingers moving again. Shortly, the rest of his body budged. He energetically spun his arms as confirmation. Van motioned for the staircase when the same force from before nudged him backwards. He froze in fear of what would happen if he proceeded any further. That feeling of uncertainty quickly diminished once Van realized he was safe. He couldn’t explain how he knew that, but he also couldn’t deny an odd sense of ease in that very moment. It took him back to all those times he confessed to his own resentment and unhappiness. As the words fell from his mouth and onto the walls and floor of the basement, Van became lighter. Open.

Understanding what had just happened was proof that everything was going to be okay, Van began his ascent up the stairs. He paused and looked back before continuing towards the door. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Van was compelled to do something differently. He released the brass knob from his hand and left the door ajar.

Assuming his mother was in the kitchen, Van said loudly, “I’m going home to change clothes. I’ll be back for dinner.” He left without hearing a reply.

Several minutes had passed before Van’s mother stepped out of the kitchen. She missed the details of her son’s announcement, but she at least heard him. In lowering her eyes, she saw that Van’s plate and her knife were still on the counter. As she reached for them, she noticed in her peripheral that the basement door in the restroom hallway was wide open. Van’s mother let out a deep, annoyed sigh while going over to close it. A chill came over her as she did so.

Van’s mother lifted the plate off the counter and looked at the sandwich her son had hardly eaten. She was prepared to mutter one of her trademark tsk-tsks until she spotted the slice of ripe tomato sticking out from between the bread. It was then Van’s mother remembered her son disliked tomatoes. Mechanically, she reached down to fetch the bread knife, too. She felt nothing but the smooth surface of the stainless steel countertop—the knife was gone. Van's mother swore it was there just seconds ago, but she refused to admit she was mistaken.

It will show up, sooner or later, she thought to herself.

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