Seven Sides of Self

by Nancy Joie Wilkie

  The man simply smiled at me. Then he began to nod his head gently up and down; it seemed to be mimicking the imaginary ebb and flow of the tide in the picture.

  “Yes—and don’t feel bad for asking me. You are not the first person to do so.”

  “Okay, thanks for that.” I waited for something else from him, but he offered nothing. “So, just exactly what is it you do here—or sell here?” And then I added, “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Not at all. I don’t actually sell anything and I don’t really provide any service—at least not in a traditional sense. I simply collect things—anything that emits microwaves. That’s it.”

  Really—that’s it? After all these years?

  “So, for example, if I had a broken microwave oven, I could bring it to you, and you would take it off my hands?”

  “That’s right,” he replied.

  “Is any money exchanged one way or the other?” I queried.

  “No.”

  “And so what is it exactly that you do with old microwave ovens and such?” This is starting to get interesting, I thought.

  “Ah, yes—that is the question, isn’t it?” The man flashed his polite smile at me once again. “That would take a bit of explaining. Meet me here again one week from today.”

  With that, the little man turned and made his way to the door leading to the back room.

  I wasn’t quite sure what to do or what to say at this point. So I retrieved my walking stick, put my glasses back on, and found my way to the front door, pulling it closed behind me as I reentered the bright Virginia afternoon.

  I walked around town, getting the lay of the land as my dad used to say whenever he went someplace new. I found the grocery store, the courthouse, and the local bar. After an hour or two, I returned to the B&B to clean up, got back in my van, and headed due west to a microbrewery I had read about in a recent AAA magazine. It was the first day they were serving food and, despite unnecessary apologies from my waiter, everything was quite good. And even though the pilsner was most tasty, I resisted the urge to have a second.

  When I returned to the B&B, I found the proprietor in the cozy living room finishing up some paperwork at her desk. She was a middle-aged woman—or maybe a few years past middle aged as her hair was starting to make the transition from dirty blond to gray and the skin on her face had started to collect wrinkles.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said. “Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions for me?” I didn’t mean to interrupt her, but curiosity about this afternoon’s meeting with the Microwave Man was in overdrive.

  “Of course,” she answered. “My apologies for not being here when you checked in earlier today. I do hope my daughter saw to your needs.”

  “Oh, yes—she did. Everything is fine and the room is most comfortable.” I sat down in the chair next to her desk and continued. “I had a nice walk this afternoon. I was trying to familiarize myself with Ordonsville as I’ve never actually stayed here before, though I’ve driven through it more times in my life than I can count.”

  Her blue eyes seemed fixated on me, waiting for my next words.

  “Do you mind if I ask you how long you’ve lived in Ordonsville? I am a writer and I’m doing some background research for a book I am working on.”

  Okay, so I am lying about this last statement.

  “Oh, not at all. Glad to help.” She put her pen down and shifted a bit in her desk chair. “My late husband and I moved to Ordonsville about twenty years ago. It was sort of a lifelong dream to head south and run a bed and breakfast. Jim—that was his name, my husband’s name—he passed away twelve years ago. That’s when my daughter’s marriage fell apart and she moved down here to live with me. I’m so grateful to have her company. Not every parent gets along with their grown children and vice versa, you know.”

  “I’m sorry to learn of your husband’s passing. That must have been tough,” I offered.

  “Oh, it was,” she said. “But you know, life moves on and time does heal.”

  “As I was out strolling about this afternoon, I came across an interesting sign. I was wondering if you knew anything about it. Out on the highway—about six blocks south of the center of town—there is a white metal sign with black letters. It simply says, ‘Microwave Man.’ Do you know anything about the business or its owner?”

  I crossed my fingers, hoping she might enlighten me.

  She stared at the ceiling for a moment. “You know, funny thing about that—the sign, I mean, not your question—the sign has been there ever since I’ve lived here and I am not at all certain I’ve ever run across the person who lives there. I’ve heard some say it is a man, that he rarely ventures out, and that he is—how shall we say—a bit eccentric?”

  “Any idea what sort of business this gentleman runs?” I paused for a second. “I can’t quite figure out whether he sells things related to microwaves—presumably ovens—or whether he provides some sort of service, perhaps fixing microwave ovens. But I would think these days it would be cheaper to simply just go out and buy a new oven rather than trying to get one’s broken oven fixed.”

  “I see your point. Perhaps you might find out something at the local newspaper—the Ordonsville Gazette—over on East Main Street. Or you might try the Chamber of Commerce a few doors down from there.”

  “I’ll do that. Thank you—both very good ideas. Good night, ma’am.” With that, I headed upstairs to my room for some much-needed sleep.

  The next morning I awoke with a mind full of questions about this Microwave Man. What was his story? What did he do? How could I find out more about him? The suggestions the innkeeper made on the previous evening came to the forefront of my thoughts.

  I got out of bed, got dressed, and headed downstairs for breakfast. The innkeeper’s daughter served me coffee, orange juice, and a bowl of steaming hot oatmeal with fresh strawberries cut up and neatly arranged. A choice of local honey and brown sugar was on the table. I was left in the dining room to contemplate my plans for the day in silence. Apparently, I was the only guest at the inn.

  After breakfast, I headed back upstairs to brush my teeth and retrieve my backpack, camera, and hiking stick, then back downstairs, out the front door, and out into the crisp morning air.

  I decided to start my day at the offices of the local newspaper. It wasn’t hard to find. Ordonsville is not a terribly big place and its residents are all quite knowledgeable about where everything is and most willing to help an obvious stranger to these parts.

  A small bell chimed as I opened the door to the newspaper’s office. A customer service counter was just inside, piled high with various stacks of bundled newspapers, each with a small tag on it and the name of someone inscribed on it. One might assume the names belonged to paper boys—or paper girls, as the case may be.

  A polite young lady dressed in blue jeans and a print top got up from behind her desk and made her way over to greet me. “And how may I help you today?” Her pronunciation of the word help gave away her strong southern accent.

  “Yes,” I began, not quite certain how to proceed. “I am a writer and am doing some research on a story about the Virginia Piedmont.” I didn’t really want to start off with direct questions about my true target. “I guess my first question is whether or not you all have an archive of your past issues and, if so, how far back do they go?”

  “Well now,” she said as she gestured for me to follow her down the short hallway to a room in the back of the building. “This is our library—if you want to call it that. We have copies of everything we’ve printed for the last thirty years. Why don’t you have a seat and help yourself? I’ll be up front if you need anything. Don’t hesitate to ask.”

  She turned and left me with three decades worth of newspapers to sort through.

  Where do I start?

  I located the oldest issues and randomly picked out one from December 1985—several years after I graduated from college and, therefore, several years after
I stopped making periodic treks through town. I quickly scanned the dozen pages, looking for any mention of “microwaves”—though I didn’t really expect to find any, especially since the innkeeper didn’t know much about this Microwave Man. It struck me I might have better luck if I reviewed the ads—perhaps there might be some sort of advertisement with the word microwave in it.

  No luck with the first issue—or the second or the third. As I looked around I discovered the newspaper had compiled indexes for each six-month period with a short summary of what stories appeared and when. The indexes did save me a great deal of time, but they didn’t yield any answers.

  I also noticed a map of Ordonsville hanging on one of the walls. I searched for the house where I’d been the previous afternoon and got the address. This, I decided, might prove useful at my next stop—the county courthouse.

  I packed up my things and headed back out the hallway. The young lady looked up at me and asked, “Did you find anything useful?”

  “Actually, I might have. And now that I know what resources you have available, I just might be back. Thanks so much for your time.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome. Enjoy your stay here,” she said, adding a few too many vowels to the word here. I turned and headed back out onto the street and to the courthouse next door.

  Upon entering the county courthouse building, I found a directory posted up on the wall. I wanted to start my search for information in the Department of Finance, thinking they would have records on who paid property taxes and for how long. I followed the signs leading me up to the second floor.

  The door to the office was open. Several women were performing the usual administrative chores—punching of holes, stapling, and filing. None of them looked up—they were probably pretty used to having folks make themselves at home in the adjacent room filled with stacks of plat books. And while looking at plat books had been my original plan, I quickly changed my thinking when I saw a computer terminal sitting on a table just inside the waiting area. Signs made it clear anyone could use it, and it was available.

  I pulled the chair out, set my backpack on the floor, and sat down. I took out the piece of paper on which I had scribbled the Microwave Man’s address and entered the house number and street into the appropriate fields. A fresh screen containing the property address, a property description—which included the name of the sub-development—and an account number popped up. I clicked on the hyperlink embedded in the account number. And there, on the next screen, appeared the name of the Microwave Man—Aura Verte. Sort of an odd name, I thought.

  I also noted he had owned the property for as far back as the electronic records went. A short statement was included at the bottom of the page. It said if one was looking for information from earlier years, a request form would have to be filed with the County Clerk. But I had what I needed—a name and confirmation the Microwave Man had, in fact, lived in the home for at least thirty years.

  Before heading back to the B&B, I decided to make one last stop—the library. It took ten minutes to walk the several blocks across town. This fellow’s name perplexed me and I wanted to see if there might be a computer with access to the Internet.

  With this being a small town, it wasn’t totally surprising the library wouldn’t open until noon—and it was eleven forty-five. So I headed across the street to the local hardware store. One of the items on my to-do list was to find out if anyone knew of a hiking trail that would take me up to Boswell’s Bluff—a rocky outcropping about two miles due west of town. Around these parts, such things are called monadnocks. I thought it might offer a nice view of the surrounding countryside.

  An elderly gentleman with frizzy gray hair and matching mustache sat behind an old-style cash register.

  “Well, you don’t see many of these things anymore,” I said, pointing to the machine.

  “Nope. That you surely don’t. Shame, too. All of the electronic gizmos these days—I don’t know if I trust the stuff.”

  “You got that right,” I agreed, trying to be friendly.

  “Now what can I do ya for?”

  “I’m spending a few days in your wonderful little town and wanted to take a hike up to Boswell’s Bluff this afternoon to take a gander at the view. I hear it is supposed to be pretty nice. Was wondering if you might know where the trailhead is—assumin’ of course, there is a trail.”

  “Oh, there’s a trail, ol’ right. Been up that way many times—though not recently. My knees are getting too sore for the trek. But …” He was lost in thought for a moment. “Oh, yes—the trailhead. Follow Second Street out until it ends on the west side of town—just a few blocks from here, so ya don’t need to drive or nothin’. You look like you’re in pretty good shape. Should only take ya about an hour to reach the bluff.”

  “Thanks—much obliged.”

  As I turned to go out, he said, “Enjoy the hike.”

  “I plan on it!”

  Just as I got back to the library, a rather plump woman dressed in a tight-fitting jumper was unlocking the front door.

  “Good timing,” she said to me while putting away her keys. “Just give me a moment to turn on the lights. Can I help you find anything?”

  “I thought maybe the library might have a computer with access to the Internet. I’m a writer and trying to do a little research. My laptop doesn’t seem to find any Wi-Fi around here.”

  “Right over there.” She pointed. “Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  I turned on the machine. It seemed as though Ordonsville was not quite caught up with the rest of the world in its ability to connect quickly to the information superhighway. Several thoughts regarding the name Aura came to me as I was waiting for the Internet to come up on the computer screen. Once the search engine appeared, I typed in the letters a-u-r-a. There was the obvious term used to describe the “distinctive atmosphere or quality that seems to surround and be generated by a person, thing, or place.” Other references reminded me that aura was a French word—the future tense of the verb avoir, meaning “will have.” And I couldn’t help but think it sounded like another French word—or, meaning “gold.” Then I typed in the last name—Verte. More references to French—verte, meaning “green.”

  Green aura? Representing the color of nature and health and balance? Gold green? Will have green? Was there any significance to his name?

  Thoughts of green and gold took me back to the waiting room at Aura’s home and the subtle glow from the walls and from the captivating framed picture.

  Okay, now this really is starting to get interesting, I thought. But time for lunch.

  The trailhead was right where the gentleman in the hardware store said it would be. A well-trodden path zigzagged its way up a gently sloping field until it disappeared in a grove of pine trees. Once under the cover of the dense branches, the narrow pathway became filled with roots and rocks, forcing me to look down so as not to trip or stumble. I relied on my hiking stick to help me with each new step up.

  As I continued to climb, I thought I heard something in the distance. It didn’t take long to realize there was a stream somewhere off to my right. The sound of water falling over boulders soon drowned out the crunch of my footsteps. After another bend in the trail, I was greeted by a staircase of small pools, each one emptying into the next. My gaze followed the water up the hillside for as far as the trees would allow. I smiled at the thought of hiking alongside this wondrous sight.

  The path eventually veered away to the left and led to the base of a set of stairs constructed from stones neatly pieced together. Images of dwarves from Middle Earth came to mind. My knees let out a silent groan as I estimated the length and inclination of the next bit of my ascent. But up I went until I reached what appeared to be a ridge. The trail made a sharp turn to the left, and—within a few minutes—I found myself on Boswell’s Bluff, staring out at the countryside many hundreds of feet below.

  It took me a couple of moments to orient myself. The sun was off to my
right and slightly behind me, meaning I was looking eastward. I easily found the cluster of buildings and homes making up Ordonsville and saw the ribbon of road winding its way down from the north and retreating off to the south.

  I took off my backpack, unzipped it, and reached inside for my binoculars. After adjusting the magnification and focusing the lens, I started looking at Ordonsville. Based on my walk around town earlier in the day, I identified the major landmarks. I located the B&B where I was staying and followed the street out to the main highway. One block up and there was the home of the Microwave Man—Aura’s home.

  Holy moly—what is that?

  Because his house also faced east, I was looking at the back of his home. I refocused the binoculars just to make certain I was really seeing what I was seeing. There—in his backyard—was a reasonably large parabolic dish antenna, perhaps ten or twelve feet in diameter. There were three equally spaced supports reaching in from the rim of the disk to the feedhorn located at the focal point of the dish. Much to my surprise, this dish was not pointed skyward as one might expect if the device were being used to capture television signals from a geosynchronous satellite. Rather, it appeared to be pointed at a microwave tower sitting atop a hill just off to my left.

  More questions for this Microwave Man, I thought.

  A week passed. I did some writing. I did some hiking. I did some more research. But mostly I thought about Aura—the Microwave Man—and about our next encounter. The time passed slowly, but when the week was up, I made my way back out to the main road, up one block, and to the front door of Aura’s home. Still feeling a bit odd about walking in, I again reminded myself this was a business—well, sort of. I went in.

  Everything was as it was before, except this time, the strange man was sitting in one of the chairs along the front wall. He motioned to me to come and sit in the other chair, which I did.

  “You have questions,” he said very matter-of-factly. “You have spent time since we last met trying to learn more about me, yes?”