Taking a short walk down the ways of Archville, County of Westchester, State of New York, you will often hear her residents, specifically the old and otherwise menially encumbered, make mention of certain curious things.
In fact, first-time visitors often find it impossible to make it through a stroll without intercepting some unusual reminder of their current location along the way. It’s possible that the surprisingly high probability of encountering these curious things in a passing conversation with an Archvillian could be accounted for by how non-curious the things are to the average person there; it’s the kind of town where some stay for their entire lives, absorbing the qualities unique to Archville and not, and living there long enough to lose the ability to tell the difference. Then again, it’s equally possible that the town’s population lives in a greater state of harmony with the surrounding world than they seem to, and that her sixty-year-old men, like all sixty-year-old men from any city, enjoy casually dropping strange and interesting topics amid otherwise habitual talk in hopes that a present foreigner’s stream of thought will be shocked enough to induce some sort of inquiry into the new subject (much like a fisherman slipping a lure into a murky lake, not knowing that he in fact has been lured there by the conniving old fish inside).
I enjoy placing my belief in the first theory, not because I reject certain social notions that certainly are unanimous in all worldly towns, but because I have many times visited Archville and could by the end of each of my short stays feel myself pitching into the strangeness of the place, enough so that upon leaving I sensed a need for reassimilation with the outside world where only days before I had lived.
As a Manhattan man, I am afforded more access to Archville than much of my family, who have made a point of moving across this country and beyond, proliferating out into the farther reaches of honorable Europe. If we have extended ourselves even past that, the conquest has not been recorded; only the fringes of our family history are reserved for those on the fringes of the citied world. This is not to say that the “city life” is what defines us, though, as the one true nexus of our clan is located within Archville and has never moved. That is my good uncle Woodrow, a real magnate, captain of culture and the head of the town. He has never held public office, yet still exudes a careless nobility that, in an old-fashioned way, has furnished him with the spiritual responsibility of the place. In my bedroom at his estate, I have on multiple occasions overheard conversations wafting through the foyers, antechambers, and corridors between him and Archville’s Mayor Jameson, who doubtless confide in each other over the future of the land. It seems that, though authority drifted imperceptibly into his hands like white wrinkles over the years, my uncle has acknowledged his duty and accepted it, along with the appreciation that follows.
I’ve heard him called many things, all affectionate as only his townsfolk can be, but the most intriguing to me has been his title of “Master of the Gloom”. I’ve never seen him labeled this in person, and have always heard an accompanying chuckle when the name is said, but nonetheless it seems the most appropriate description of my uncle Woodrow’s relationship to this strange place.
What’s more captivating about the name than its whimsy is its truth. The Gloom is an institution so tethered to Archville that it’s remarkable its omission from maps and brochures. You cannot touch it, but it paves the streets and pastes the gray bricks together like a membrane of concrete. The same effect that causes mountains on the horizon to blend with the color of the sky in Archville causes the air between your fingers to do the same, until you catch yourself gazing into your hand and, seeing nothing, swear that some enchantment is on you. The funny part, of course, is that there really is. That is what her townsfolk evoke when, in a jovial shiftiness, they cup their hands over their mouths and confess about the Gloom, the most curious thing in the world.
Westchester’s river towns enjoy a passing resemblance in aura to the indelible New England area, albeit resembling it only as a years-younger sister resembles her older sibling as she was before she reached her full potential. Looking out from both of their coasts, you can see these roles fulfilled; from Massachusetts the endless division of the Atlantic Ocean fills the view, allowing the mind boundless volume to wander in, the dry salt in the air applying a stern film to the skin that batters the nerves into action. The palisades of New Jersey that play backdrop to the Hudson River inspire some wonder, yes, but mainly at their impressive height. One feels looking out at Jersey over the river that they are privy already to what all exists out there, the mind captivated between the palisade walls and the immediate coastline. The heart looking into the green Hudson River does not dread an immense tide or more immense creature, it only slumps in its chamber at the scourge of waste that has conquered the flowing water. It has its own kind of dread.
And the cosmic terrors of New England literature, the Old Ones and their ilk, have their own little sister in the Gloom of Archville. It is no monster, but in the shady taverns it is treated like one, as if in a century its then-debunked likeness would be paraded through annual festivals and exported on tee shirts and merchandise much like the nearby Headless Horseman. I could never claim to have much more than a familiar outsider’s knowledge of the Archvillian paradigm, but I’ve come to understand that perhaps the “pitching” I felt was indeed a growing belief in the uncanny reign of the Gloom.
One thing you can never detract from the Archvillian identity is authenticity. From living in Manhattan, I have developed a craving for the truly authentic. This is to say, the unknowingly authentic. The genuine, true authenticity that doesn’t require announcement on the cloth awning of a restaurant. In a place as culturally saturated as New York City, authenticity is the greatest measure of quality there is.
Long billed as the worldwide capital of ambition, I have found that nowadays the city assesses that you are most valuable the way you already are… attempting to expand, to change into something else, seems looked down upon. It is not authentic. There is now even a fascination with the idea of the “New Yorker”, because of an inherent kinship with reality and a cynical complacency of his that people wish to emulate. And advertisements, designed to relate to their audience, reflect this interest: Rugged New Yorkers love our product, Be New York Strong, join our gym, Visit “Disgruntled New Yorker Artisan Coffee”. Its culture has become aware of itself a thousand times over and the best you can do against it is to declare your own genuineness to those who will listen and go on modestly.
Archville, for all of its eccentricities, does not have this problem. Its citizens, bless them, seem to have no perception of their own “culture”, and would likely offer a confused laugh at the positing of its existence in the first place. I suspect I would do well to leave this topic be, sooner rather than later. It would break my heart if these convoluted ideas were unleashed on those undeserving people. From the town’s genesis in the late sixteenth century their insular traditions have been nursed, and I worry that they have become brittle as a result. As in, I fear how little outside force would be needed to deeply disrupt the dreams that make Archville so unique.
Someone from Archville would never write a book about the place, though. Sadly, as my uncle Woodrow has told me, “We just don’t think it could fill up the pages.” I think the irreverence with which he and the rest of the populace treat their home town is undue. And that is why I write any of this: To show them, and the wider world, what a fascinating and mysterious land this is, and one deserving of at least a few pages.
I also need the money. I work in the industry of construction, which has been stagnant ever since Reynolds’ Rot started building up under all the older Manhattan buildings and they had to come up with a tool to get it out. You really can’t hope to work on a building if it’s got Reynolds’ Rot coming up, and since it turns out they all do, we’ve been made to halt all of our current projects and sit tight while the smarter fellows at corporate get to work on a solution. I and most of the guys I know have been waiting for over a month already, and the stimulus checks, as always, aren’t cutting it, so we’re taking our chances as authors.
Old Bill McEck is writing a book about hats, and he tells me it’s going to make quite the splash. We all know old Bill McEck to wear the odd hat here and there, so when he told us about his idea, we all got pretty excited. If anyone can tell that story, we have agreed, it’s old Bill McEck. And I heard tell that John O’Halee’s project was a letter to one Mrs. Maila Nurmi. I’m not sure whether his aim is to comment on the immortality of her talent, or if the poor man doesn’t know that she has been dead for nigh on fifteen years, but as I write this he has already surpassed two hundred pages and so fearfully we applaud him. Big Keith has kept word of his project uncharacteristically mum, and old Bill McEck, John O’Halee and I eagerly await any progress of his that might cause him to let on a bit about his muse.
I suppose I’ve thrown in my hat as the traditionalist of the group so far, as this whole narrative could be boiled down to “memoir”, but I assure you that it will be a worthwhile and unique journey to take.
In any case, me and the rest of the guys are really counting on the funds from these books to take us until we can get to work on the Rot and life can return to normal, so if you are reading this, I ask that you please urge your friends to acquire a copy. When they get to this part, strategically placed near the beginning of the volume, they will do the same, and eventually everyone will have one of my books, or perhaps old Bill McEck’s, or even John O’Halee’s.
I am concerned about Big Keith, though, and his reasoning for keeping us hopelessly in the dark. It’s true that, when the dubious midnight hospitalities of The Well-Fed Wort or Madame Brozine’s Burlesque Bistro are all that welcome us, and we’ve suckled heartily at the teat of the lady Brandy ‘til the night runs dry and our spirits run wet, that old Bill McEck and John O’Halee and me talk about Big Keith. And what words escape our grim countenances I dare not repeat, for we cower at the thought of his vengeance if he were to read them here. (You are in for more good prose like that in my company.) Though, we agree, Big Keith’s not liable to buy any of our books anyway, the cheap bastard. Still, it is good to err on the side of caution, no?
We have conspired to, upon the individual success of each of our works, dazzle the public with the news of our friendship (for those reading this first: surprise!) and release a box-set including all four volumes, which we believe will further bolster sales. We don’t yet know what to call the set, as none of the books are actually finished yet (though I should hope John O’Halee’s doesn’t too far exceed its current length), and we consequently have no idea what atmosphere they will create when brought together. I personally fear that it will flow too much like an encyclopedia, where each book serves only to recount facts, whether about hats or the late Ms. Nurmi. It is in this field I hope to stand out; by producing the only piece with a compelling story. Oh, yes. I don’t believe it’s arrogant to consider an entirely accurate representation of your past experience worthy of full-length short novella treatment, and if you read on, I’m sure you will agree.