The Edge of Things

Abstract

I felt the cold sweat on my forehead and tore off a piece of toilet paper, wiping it away with short, hard strokes. Most of all, though, I felt relief-shivering, beautiful, all-encompassing-the relief that comes from the sudden cessation of pain. It didn't last long but gave me time to read some of the grafitti on the door. Then the nausea began building up again. It reminded me of why I was there and fear returned, seeping into my cavities, slowly filling them with its substance. Finally I was able to relax in the safety of that little stall, shut off from the outside world. I lit up a cigarette and, after being sure that I'd gotten rid of everything, worked up the confidence to leave the men's room. I still had an hour or so. Looking around for something to do, I saw a sign indicating that there was a cafeteria downstairs. Deciding nervously that I needed to check my notes still once again, I went downstairs, around a bend, and joined the cafeteria line. It was mostly patronized by secretaries and working-class people. I got my coffee and found a seat off to one side, but there weren't many people there. My notes soon bored me. I knew it all anyway, so I let my mind wander into passageways whose door had been jarred open by tension. I stood there, at the top of the Washington Monument. On one side was the White House, on another the Pentagon. I was overwhelmed by the immensity of my task. Who would be so bold, so foolish, as to attack the white society right here in their capital city? What was there that was Indian out there? Maybe they were right! I should just go home. Transfixed, I waited until everyone else had left the viewing platform. Then, just as the elevator was about to disgorge a new group of tourists, I picked up my notes and raced down the stairs. Suddenly, I was in the Bureau of Indian Affairs building. Then quickly I moved into a large conference room where I stood in front of an irate mob of white professors and academicians, their faces distorted by ugly grimaces, their fists held in the air menacingly, and their throats giving rise to obscene and hateful declarations. Just then someone started shooting at me. I ducked behind the solid oak podium, my notes flying everywhere. Lips tightened, eyes narrowed, hardened, I began firing back with a pistol. The noise was terrible, screams, and sounds of bullets hitting nearby. Then, in the general turmoil, a woman of color I had seen before somewhere came up to me and said, C'mon brother, it's time to go. You gotta get outa here! As she led me through a morass of rooms, hallways, doors, and alleys that we passed through in quick