WALDEN POND

From the R.M. Dolin novel, “An Unsustainable Life – The Book of Darwin”

Chapter 3: Walden Pond

It’s unclear how long Darwin wanders around campus in his quasi-comatose state. He vaguely remembers passing the Campanile and sitting alone in Bancroft Library before making his way to Etcheverry Hall where he hopes to find his dear friend and fellow Shadow Dancer to help make sense of what’s just happened. He’s uncertain how long he waits or even if he does but the next thing he knows is he’s wandering aimlessly along Telegraph Avenue and if he had been anywhere else, a good Samaritan would intercede but here, lost souls wandering in utterly despondent confusion is not out of the ordinary.

What Darwin desperately needs is a moment of isolated solitude to sort things out only that’s not gonna happen on Telegraph Avenue. Instead, he meanders into Rasputin’s record shop and mindlessly thumbs through used vinyl until he eventually reawakens. Leaving without a purchase, he crosses the street to a sidewalk café where maybe a double espresso might restart his brain. He no more than sits down when a homeless man with tattered clothes, unkept hair, and a food-stained beard starts his solicitatory speech. Normally Darwin gives a couple bucks to those less fortunate but today he stares at the vagrant in ironic bewilderment. Here’s a guy with nothing, asking a guy who just made a ridiculous fortune to share a bit not knowing the rich man just sold his soul so, how can a guy who owns everything he has but has nothing, be asking a guy who’s just lost everything for anything?

Darwin suddenly sees this homeless man as his metaphor, he can’t go home, can’t face his co-workers either, after what he’s done he can’t ever share any of what happened with anyone, especially the other Shadow Dancers. He’s utterly lost with absolutely no hope for absolution. He has to get out; that much he knows, there simply is no other option. He can’t go to Boeing and it’s not because of Becky; everything there is too much like here and the outcome too likely to be the same. He needs more than out of Silicon Valley, out of California, he needs out of technology, out of access to anything that might ever make him responsible for anything ever again.

He considers his next move from a thousand complex angles; he can wander the world with the lost and lonely, live in Paris under an assumed identity, build a boat to float from harbor to harbor never staying anywhere long enough to be remembered, absolutely anything anywhere that keeps him out of the soft embrace of technology’s subtle seduction would be just fine. As each scenario is assessed and summarily dismissed, the one quietly waiting its turn is the one that’s been in his queue since college, namely, buying a beat-up old pickup and moving way back into the Rockies to live a Waldon Pond existence. That’s a life he can rally around, it’s what motivated him to study Thoreau in the first place; there’s a guy who had plenty to say and he said it in the right way. Darwin recalls the Thoreau quote that seems most apropos for the moment,

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach.”

Thoreau kept journals that ultimately became, ‘On Waldon Pond,’ a book Darwin can be counted on to carry when he camps or ventures off to be alone. Manically moved to motivation he hurries next door to a used bookshop where the musty odor or well-read books hits him like intellectual smelling salts. The store’s overstocked with a random collage of hard and soft bound thoughts wrapped in the wonderfully pungent smell of pressed paper pointing to the profoundness one feels when losing themselves in rows of floor-to-ceiling bookcases constructed from old world walnut and seasoned oak. Darwin watches with wonder at the ease in which the shopkeeper finds whatever eclectic request a customer makes. Given that there doesn’t appear to be any sort of order or structure that can be discerned, the shopkeeper somehow finds any book on any subject in a matter of moments.

Darwin takes his time wandering up and down multiple rows looking for Thoreau. He searches through a section that seems to be about philosophy, but Thoreau is not to be found. He stumbles on a section of travel books but Thoreau’s not there either. When a seemingly out of place book catches his eyes, he pulls it out, only it’s not on travel, instead it’s ‘1001 Arabian Nights’, which Darwin concludes, in an odd Dewey Decimal sort of way, could be construed as travel related. Putting the book back, he slides down to a section vaguely associated with home improvement but no Walden Pond to be found there either. It’s then, as the shopkeeper hurries down the center isle with a customer in tow, that Darwin asks for help.

“Excuse me,” he interrupts, “do you have a copy of, On Waldon Pond?”

The shopkeeper, deeply focused on his current customer, can’t be bothered with new clients but several steps later, he stops, turns around and keenly sizes Darwin up. “Been awhile since anyone’s asked me that,” he states while slowly walking back toward Darwin. He stops a row short of contact glaring deeply into Darwin’s eyes with such probing intensity Darwin’s forced to step back. “Not many people interested in what Thoreau has to say these days but yes, I got a few copies.” He points down the aisle Darwin was about to search, “they’re in the section on edible plants.”

With that the shopkeeper immediately wheels around heading back toward wherever he was going before being interrupted with his current customer in pursuit.

“Edible plants,” Darwin mumbles while watching them leave, “what the hell is Thoreau doing there?”

Knowing the row and knowing the location turns out to be two vastly different things, it’s like being told there’s a treasure boat floating in the Pacific, good luck finding it. He goes down one side of the row without finding any copies let alone any books on edible plants. He’s about to try the other side when -.

“You’re probably wondering what Waldon Pond has to do with edible plants,” the shopkeeper states having suddenly returned. “I can assure you there’s a method to my bookkeeping madness.”

“Well, I’m not seeing it,” Darwin answers in frustration while scouring book titles.

“That’s because you look using your eyes.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t mind me,” the shopkeeper grins, “I enjoy going Yoda on people.” Without even looking, he steps into the row and pulls out an old hardbound book from the exact spot Darwin just searched and hands it to him. “If you’re gonna lead a self-sustaining life,” he lectures, “you have to know how to identify edible plants.”

The shopkeeper hands Darwin the book as he again stares deeply into Darwin’s eyes with unrelenting intensity before disappearing to the store front with his current customer. Before Darwin has a chance to fully examine his treasure, the shopkeeper returns with a box of hardbound books. “Thought you might be like these,” he says. “Anyone asking about Thoreau ought to want these.”

Darwin looks at the box containing more than dozen identical books uncertain why he’s supposed to be interested.

“Not Waldon Pond,” the shopkeeper flatly states, “but you’ll need these where you’re going.”

Darwin picks up one of the books and flips through the pages. “They’re blank.”

“Cause they’re journals,” the shopkeeper says with a grin. “Thoreau wrote every day, kept a log of his time on Waldon Pond; what he did, what he ate, what he thought about in his wilderness cabin at night, he documented it all. You seem like a nice enough fellow, a little lost but someone who knows the difference between what you want and what you need, what’s important and what’s just fluff that’s the kind of stuff Thoreau was all about getting after.”

“Excuse me,” Darwin says caught off guard, “why would you say something like that?”

The shopkeeper again sizes Darwin up ignoring his question. “They’re nicely bound with acid free paper, will last generations; a necessary accompaniment to someone pursuing an unencumbered life.”

“What makes you say that about me,” Darwin asks again, uncertain he wants to know what this old man knows or how he knows it.

“Your book choice for starters,” the shopkeeper reveals, “I’ve been running this shop since before those kids out there ever heard of Berkeley, I’ve seen the idealists, the communists, the socialists,” he pauses for a moment, “ironically not many capitalists anymore. I’ve seen artists, poets, beatniks, men who will one day be wealthy and others who might someday be rich, and if you don’t already know the difference, these journals aren’t for you.” He pauses for effect before continuing. “Every once in a while I see someone who intentionally ventures into the meat grinder of life and manages to survive enough to know they have to get out in order to live. You, my friend, have the look of someone who could do anything, be anyone, yet you’ve come to a crossroad where it’s suddenly clear, all you want, all you need, is a simple life. This box of journals is just what it takes to capture all the thoughts that are raging to come out. I can easily sell these for hundreds to people pretending to be philosophers and poets, no shortage of those on Telegraph Avenue. I’ll tell you what, fifty bucks and they’re all yours.” He grins in approval before adding a sarcastic flare, “cash of course, in small, unmarked bills.”

Darwin carefully examines the journals in a manner any engineer would, “Very well made,” he comments. “Stitched binding, leather bound, pages numbered, each book alone is worth that much.”

“Life should be about more than extracting the most you can from the least amount of effort, wouldn’t you agree?”

Darwin cautiously nods as he continues examining the journals, leafing through the pages to verify they’re empty. “Not sure what you mean,” he concludes, “but I do like your journals.” Darwin considers everything the shopkeeper said in the context of where his crisis has taken him and the incontrovertible way his life needs to change. “I don’t know if you’re a mystic sage or the world’s best salesman, but you have yourself a deal.”

“When you know in your soul someone’s right,” the shopkeeper confidently fires back, “does it even ever matter who they are?” He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out an antique, stoically staring at it as he carefully unscrews the cap, “nobody uses these anymore,” he sadly says mostly to himself. “Seems if a man’s gonna fill journals with thoughtful wisdom, he ought to use a fountain pen.” The shopkeeper looks up at Darwin smiling slightly while handing him his pen. “My compliments, provided you write about me kindly. He hands the box of journals to Darwin and starts for the front of the store. “Got ink cartridges on the counter,” he shouts while walking away, “they’re on sale and you’re gonna need a lot, get them while you can I say.”

Darwin proudly looks at his box of books before watching the shopkeeper walk away amazed at the parallax way the store’s center isle looks so long and shopkeeper so small relative to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. “Deal,” Darwin enthusiastically shouts while starting for the front of the store, “I’ve always wanted a fountain pen.” He sets his box of books on the counter along with his copy of ‘On Walden Pond,’ and patiently waits for the shopkeeper to ring things up. Suddenly, remembering he forgot something, Darwin darts back to the row of travel books to retrieves the random copy of “1001 Arabian Nights,” he previously found. Back at the counter, Darwin plays with his fountain pen as the shopkeeper finishes. “It’s got a sort of walk in the woods charm.” He comments while putting the pen in his shirt pocket. For a fleeting moment, the sight of the books on the counter and the weight of his antique pen in his pocket makes Darwin happy.

After paying in cash per their arrangement, the clerk ushers Darwin to the door carrying his box containing journals, his book by Thoreau, his tales of Arabian Nights, and a lifetime supply of ink cartridges. As they step out onto Telegraph Avenue Darwin’s hit by the brilliance of the bright afternoon sun and the noisy bustle of naive students excited by the false illusion they’re free spirits. The shopkeeper hands Darwin his box then gently places a hand on his shoulder, “may you write with purpose and prepare a path for those who follow,” he wishes, “like Thoreau did for you.”

“I’ll first need to find my pond,” Darwin answers, “it certainly won’t be here in California, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

“Stay away from the coasts,” the shopkeeper advises, “too polluted with people confused about their place in the world. The South’s too placid and it’s too cold up north; New Mexico my friend, that’s a place where a man can still get plenty lost while being found.”

“You’ve got a pretty weird sense of geography,” Darwin comments. “Sort of in line with your book ordering system; random to the point of informed logic.” He considers the notion of New Mexico. “I’ve never been to the desert southwest; do they even have indoor plumbing there?”

“That’s not the kind of question someone who intends to follow Thoreau’s self-sustaining philosophy should be asking,” the clerk contends, “but of course yes, in most places they do. Stay away from the southern desert though, you’ll get lost out there in ways you never get found. What you want to do is head north from Santa Fe and a little west; don’t go east, you want to head west, only don’t do Taos, it’s trashy and touristy. Only thing you’ll find there is posers and ne’er-do-wells. Once you push past Taos, the Northern New Mexico wilderness opens into perhaps man’s last remaining paradise. It’s the kind place a person who reads Thoreau finds what they’re looking for.”

The next morning Darwin makes two stops on his way to the airport, one to put his journals in storage along with the other stuff he’ll send for once he gets wherever the hell it is he’s going and the other stop to buy a book about New Mexico, which isn’t as easy a find as he imagined. He puts one journal in his backpack along with his travel book and of course his copy of “On Walden Pond.” Although he’s not sure why, he puts the fountain pen and some ink cartridges in the backpack’s front pocket as well.

He couldn’t bring himself to face his team after what he had done, so, instead he sends Tien an email outlining how the transfer to the new owners will proceed and attaches a spreadsheet delineating his profit-sharing distribution that ensures each team member receives far more compensation than their previously agreed to formula calculates. He sends her a follow-up email profusely apologizing for the way things went down at Berkeley while trying to explain his need to disappear. He wishes her well and writes in protracted detail about how no one should feel compelled to stay at the company to help the new owners and that no one should feel guilty for what happened, that enormous burden is all on him and him alone.

Darwin was up all night trying to explain to Becky why he had to leave California, but she wasn’t listening. He’s not certain if it’s because she doesn’t care or isn’t interested. When he tries explaining how he’s at war with himself, she says fools and children go to war with themselves and she doesn’t have time for either. That’s pretty much how things ended between them as he heads out of town, her last words still echoing in his heart and soul, “you wouldn’t be having this crisis of conscience,” she said with cruel finality, “if you hadn’t gotten mixed up with your radical Shadow Dancers.”

“That’s it,” Darwin thinks to himself in the taxi ride to the airport, “lost and alone, not knowing where I’m supposed to be or how I’m supposed to go.” In many ways he concludes, this is how things were always eventually going to end up. If he didn’t know that all the way back at college, he wouldn’t have studied Thoreau in the first place.

Darwin doesn’t get the travel book completely read before landing at O’Hare but tries to finish on the taxi ride downtown only he can’t on account of the Cubs game on the radio is heading into the bottom of the ninth with the home team two runs down. He does get far enough in his book to realize New Mexico’s more than the barren desert they portray in movies; in fact, north of Taos is a rugged mountain wilderness with harsh winters, intense summers, and an oddly weird monsoon season where it rains every day. There aren’t many people but those there represent a diversely rich mixture of cultures, traditions, and history. “Something to consider,” he tells himself as he and the taxi driver agree to pull over at the next nearest bar. They rush inside just as Sweet Swinging Sammy Sosa steps up to the plate with two on, two out, down by two, and the cold Lake Michigan wind driving rain from center-left straight down home plate. With both the game and the home run title on the line, Sosa’s just the guy to change the course of history with one swing of his bat. As Darwin tastes his first Chicago draught in a very long time he can’t help but marvel at the envious way Sosa’s calmly able to step into the batter’s box to shoulder such an enormous burden.