Spirit Run

by Noe Alvarez

  Every hour on the hour, I complete a tour of the building, starting from level five down to the basement, lower levels, and boiler room, securing all areas, and walking in the many shadows of prominent white men preserved as busts. To pass the time, I peruse the pages of the many oversize dictionaries around the library. I read the words. Retrolenticular: “that which is situated behind the lens of the eye.” It snags my attention. The ability to look beyond that which is in front of you, I wonder, trying to strip meaning from the curious word. To see behind the image of things. For what they really are. I step back into the shadow of my post, cross my arms, and sink back into what may or may not be my true form, where I will remain watched by Zeus, Athena, tortured by the flaying of a man named Marsyas, and cameras.

  At closing time, I do a thorough sweep of the building, clear and secure all areas of ghosts, shutting off all lights and navigating a sea of dark history with a flashlight, never forgetting the shelf of brittle books aged like tobacco leaves: ledgers of the slave trade. I surrender my two-way radio and sever myself from this world for the night. I wrap up any paperwork, collect my belongings, and close the back entrance’s door behind me. I walk to the train station at Boston Common.

  On the train, I hold my bag between my arms, staring out at the dark underground of the city, while biting into my thumbnail. What’s left of it, that is. The T map splits over the doors like a tributary of veins, detailing the many Boston stops. My stop is at the end of the line. I dig and dig into my nail until it bleeds. A construction man, weighed down by heavy tool bags and boots, moves into the train and plops into a corner. There are sounds of him rubbing his fingers over his unshaven face. Three Latina women laugh without restraint over a video on their phone. They are people who know how to enjoy the small things in life. The train resurfaces near Northeastern University where throngs of students crosshatch the night streets. It rains. We pass a fire station where a wet American flag slaps against its pole like a slab of meat.

  At home in my apartment, I can never tear it off fast enough—my tie, suit, button-up shirt, dress shoes that change meaning once inside my apartment. Like shedding snake skin.

  Tomorrow is another run.

  Acknowledgments

  For cracking open my spirit and giving me religion, i.e., running: my friends at Peace and Dignity Journeys 2004.

  For tirelessly championing this story throughout the literary world: Rebecca Gradinger at Fletcher and Company.

  For her advocacy, kind edits, and for giving me restraint when I wanted to yell on the page: Megha Majumdar at Catapult.

  For her loving mentorship and for steering me through the world of memoir: Theo Nestor.

  For teaching me all there is to know about fiction: Scott T. Driscoll.

  For reeling me in from the slush pile: Christy Fletcher at Fletcher and Company.

  For their enthusiasm: Hilary Zaits Michael and Carolina Beltran at William Morris Endeavor.

  For their vital support: the staff at Catapult, Fletcher and Company, and Counterpoint Press.

  For their friendship: Jesus Castañeda Flores, Rigo, Matt Magee, Pedro Meza, Rachel Dexter.

  For the kind invitation: New England Independent Booksellers Association, Mountains & Plains Independent Booksellers Association, Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association.

  For the structures that housed my restless spirit: A.C. Davis High School, Whitman College, Princeton University, American University, and Emerson College.

  For the landscapes that molded me: Yakima, Washington, the Greenway trail along the Yakima and Naches rivers, and Bob and Claudette’s apple orchard (may they rest in peace).

  © Mia Concordia

  NOÉ ÁLVAREZ was born to Mexican immigrant parents and raised working-class in Yakima, Washington. He holds degrees in philosophy and creative writing from Whitman College and Emerson College, respectively. He studied conflict analysis, peacemaking, and conflict resolution at American University and in Northern Ireland, received a fellowship at Princeton University’s Woodrow Wilson School, and researched U.S. drug policy, military aid, and human rights issues in Colombia’s Putumayo jungles. He lives in Boston, where, until recently, he worked as a security officer at one of the nation’s oldest libraries, the Boston Athenæum.