Colson Whitehead - Apex Hides the Hurt

Didn’t history rise to a point? Couldn’t they look down from today and survey all that had come before, all that little stuff we squinted at that was not special and so far away, and pronounce ourselves Apex?

He saw the first ads for Apex. They said Apex Hides the Hurt, and he said, of course it does.

. . . . . . . .

On his return from the library, he had to squeeze past all the pretty shuttle buses queued up in front of the hotel. They idled, hummed, and almost curtsied, it seemed to him. He sighed. Some people went in for driftwood , others were suckers for cellar door , but as far as commonplace word units went, he had always been rather fond of shuttle bus , and back in his office days had spent many an afternoon advocating its case.

The sound of everyday things was a constant topic, with regard to what they might occasionally chisel off the mundane, but that was just pretext for him. Say it five times fast, he maintained — shuttle bus shuttle bus sounded like leaves whispering to each other in your textbook primordial glen. Never mind the initial mental image of the ungainly vehicle, and its battle between intimacy and utility — a shuttle bus approaches grace on the asphalt of humility, he insisted. Inevitably, his colleagues shook their heads when he got to that part, but he never wavered. As perfect containers of that moment between anticipation and event, as roving four-wheeled or six-wheeled conveyances of hope, shuttle buses cannot be blamed if the destination disappoints, if desire is counterfeited, if after all that dreaming all we have to show are ashes. Shuttle buses, at worst, were unwitting accomplices. Being a shuttle bus, he argued, meant never having to say you were sorry. He always expected applause when he finished.

So he felt nostalgic about the old days for a minute there, as he watched Lucky’s pilgrims vibrate before the little shuttle buses. They parsed the signs taped below the bubble windows, searching for the names of their chosen diversions: THE GOLFING EXPERIENCE, BUBBLING BROOK SPA AND MENTAL RELAXATION CLINIC, AU NATUREL. He wondered how many miles away these places were, how far into the region Lucky had reached in order to pull these people to his breast. Every half-baked amusement for fifty miles around had probably been conscripted to his purpose. He had half a notion to slip on board one of these chariots — Thinkin’ ’Bout Spelunkin’ or Take a Hike — and lose himself with the others.

Instead, he took a seat on one of the uncomfortable red sofas in the lobby. The housekeeper needed more time. His trip to the library had been shorter than he’d calculated, and he didn’t want to risk another encounter with She of the Rolling Doom. Better give it twenty minutes, he decided, and he felt a knot or two beneath his shoulder blades ease. It was nice to have a nemesis — on that point there could be no disagreement — but this feeling went beyond the usual joy of combat with a mortal enemy, of having a constant companion through gripe and grudge. The housekeeper was turning out to be a convenient lightning rod, drawing off excess hostility and resentment. He couldn’t take it out on his clients; that would be unprofessional. Masterstroke here was to use her as she was using him: as scapegoat and punching bag for unruly stuff best undirected, for now, at the true targets. He took a deep breath, heard a voice from his single yoga class years ago and held that breath, stretching his arms luxuriously. Shuttle bus, shuttle bus , he whispered. Ah, forget the spa, forget the oatmeal soaps and obscure incenses. He was feeling better already.

Taken with the novelty of this feeling of well-being, he didn’t notice the little white man standing over him until the flash blinded him. He was thoroughly startled, his arms and legs jerking ridiculously. His perimeter of personal space had expanded in the months since his misfortune, and this specimen, with his nefarious digital camera, had crossed the line so quickly and efficiently that he cursed himself for such a grave security lapse. Later that afternoon, when he considered the border of his personal space, he reckoned that it was not so much a perfect circle, as commonly thought, but an irregular blob shape, jellyfishy hither and yon, and constantly shifting.

“I was told you might be available for an interview?” the man said, depositing the camera in a pocket and withdrawing his card in one agile movement. He had the pale, narrowed features of some burrowing creature, a scraper of soil, no close friend of daylight. The tiny eyeglasses civilized him, promoting him to a talking burrowing creature of children’s books, an officious supporting player, Sir Gary Groundhog or Postulating Possum. His name in fact was Jurgen Cross, and the card contained a phone number and an e-mail address, but no other specifics. “I’m writing a feature about Aberdeen and Lucky for the Daily Register ,” Jurgen chirped, “and was told you might offer up a few words?”

“Who told you that?”

Jurgen fell down into the couch next to him. “It will only take a moment — thank you so much!” It was hard to account for his peculiar brand of joy. “What do you think of Winthrop?” Jurgen inquired, grinning stupidly.

“It’s nice.”

“Why is a good name so important? A name is the first thing outsiders hear of a place, yes? It’s the face that we show the world.”

“That’s true.”

“Aberdeen Software is the biggest thing to happen to the town since the barbed-wire factory.”

“Is that a question?”

“I’m writing the article in my head as we speak.”

“Is that why you’re not taking any notes or using a tape recorder?” he asked. The back of his neck felt hot, and he looked around for someone to blame or someone to lean on, but of course there was no one in either category, only Help Tourists with gym bags in one hand and sunblock in the other.

Jurgen tapped his temple and smiled. “I’ve got it all up here, trust me. What makes New Prospera such a great name? It’s very modern, isn’t it?”

“If you compare the two names,” he began, and then looked around the lobby. Anyone overhearing this conversation would think him an idiot. Across the room, two Help Tourists interrogated a map, tapping it in places with their fingers. Their downcast heads presented to him the nearly identical bald circles on their skulls. The freckles were in different places, though. He said, “It’s not my area of expertise, but Winthrop is a traditional place-name, insisting on the specific history of the area and locating it in one man. The man embodies an idea, and the name becomes the idea. Standard stuff. New Prospera is what you might call the contemporary approach. Break it down into parts, and each part is referring to a quality that they want to attach to the town. They bring the external in, import it you might say, to this region.”

“Import it you might say.”

“Right. Winthrop is a mystery to outsiders. Who was Winthrop, what did he do? You have to come here to find out. Why should I care, make me care — this is what outsiders think. But New Prospera, you start making up all sorts of stuff the moment you hear it. It has associations and images. Coming here confirms or disappoints the scenarios in your head.”

“Scenarios in your head.”

“Sure. But there are actually three names we’re talking about here. If you consider Freedom—”

“Your company came up with the name New Prospera. What makes your firm the preeminent identity firm in the country? The tops?”

“I actually don’t work for them anymore,” he said, raising his hands as if to wave off misconception. “I didn’t—”

“What I find so interesting is the world of opportunities that a wonderful name like New Prospera will bring to the town,” Jurgen said. “Big businesses looking for a tax-friendly haven, young people who want a fresh start. To start a family in a positive environment close to the conveniences of a big city.”