The Rabbit Hole
The pavement was as hot and gritty as my pursuit, and the New York City traffic was predictable. Walking, my preferred mode of transportation, wouldn’t have perplexed me if I knew where I was going.
When I woke up, my only agenda was to write a few hundred words, maybe more if luck was on my side. Sitting down on the sofa with my laptop and a cup of coffee, don’t ask me how, my fingers took on a life of their own. They, not me, began to type. Absolutely no mental authorization. Rubbing my eyes didn’t help, neither did the self inflicted pesky pinch as I read the words that could not have been written by me, “Go down the rabbit hole and you will find Edith Wharton waiting for you.”
Staring at that sentence, a part of me really hoped it was true, but my sensibility typed back, this time definitely under my full control, “Is this a joke? Am I being hacked? And if not, where is this rabbit hole, because I would do anything to meet Edith Wharton? I like dead people, especially when the dead person is my favorite author.”
Typically, I am not sarcastic, but if I was being hacked, why not mess with whomever? And typically, I love a mystery, so instead of finishing the chapter I had started the night before, I was all in with a potential criminal mind courting me.
And then, without my fingers on the keyboard the words, “JUST START WALKING IN ANY DIRECTION AND YOU WILL KNOW WHEN YOU HAVE ARRIVED,” appeared like the words flashing on a TV screen, “THIS IS A TEST OF THE EMERGENCY BROADCASTING SYSTEM.”
“Bizarre!” I said out loud to no one. “Why not play along? Or...maybe there is some truth in these words?!” I thought, and dutifully, my obedient hopeful self put on my sneakers, and I left my apartment with reckless abandonment. Forgetting my phone, and wallet, neither crossed my mind, nor did my shabby appearance. Anyway, I was pretty sure even in sweats and sneakers, with a scrunchie bun, I should look better than a dead person. Stranger things have happened. If Peter the Great could have his wife’s lover executed and then make her keep his head in her room preserved in alcohol, I could follow a cryptic message and take a walk in the West village.
Wandering aimlessly without direction on a crazy as it sounds lark, I thought, “What’s the harm in playing detective? If nothing else, perhaps this goose chase will give me something to write about when I get back, and maybe, just maybe more.” Looking more like a sightseer than a veteran city dweller, I searched for a clue, any clue, when I saw a black wrought iron sign displaying the words, Old Rabbit Club #124, with an arrow pointing down an old fire escape. More than intrigued, was I just gullible? I didn’t care or hesitate and gleefully sauntered down what I had hoped was the rabbit hole. It came as a surprise to me after the many times I had walked this block, never once had I seen the “Old Rabbit Club” sign. “If nothing else, maybe they have good beer on tap,” then crossed my mind, because I was thirsty for suds, but more hungry for the dubious mysterious encounter I willingly anticipated.
The door was black too, oddly no handle, with #124 up above in white. About to knock, because why wouldn’t I, I noticed a small white buzzer to the right of the door, reminiscent of the old speakeasy days. I pressed it and as if someone was waiting for me, it opened, seemingly automatically. The hallway was dark, long and empty, and unafraid, I kept on walking, still believing in the crazy premise that I was somehow going to meet the one and only Edith Wharton, dead or alive.
At the end of the hallway, the underground space opened up to a huge bar, suggestive of the images I’d seen about the era of prohibition, the dark wood, brass fixtures, exposed red brick, leather furniture and classic tin ceiling. I was diggin what my eyes absorbed, excited with palpitations, yet still unafraid, while also disappointed since I seemed to be the sole patron, when I heard her clear her throat from the back corner. It had to be her. Turning around slowly, compulsively pinching my arm, it was incredible yet thrilling to accept the lovely vision of greatness across the room. As I live and breathe, apparently so does Edith Wharton, because I would know that face anywhere from staring at her novel profile page. Her books never leave my bedside, Ethan Frome on top with well worn pages. With jello legs, I approached her, not even interested in the absurdness of my current circumstance. I just wanted to sit beside her.
She said, “My dear you have arrived. I took the liberty of ordering you a beer. It’s stout you prefer, am I correct?”
How did she know? “Edith, I’m not going to ask you any how’s or why’s about our encounter, because I don’t want to waste any time on impertinent questions. Let me just say it is my honor to meet you and I’ve read all of your work, but without a doubt, Ethan Frome is by far my favorite book of all time. It is the book I wish I had written, and it haunts me and taunts me to read it over and over.”
“Then write it,” she said, matter of factly.
“Write it? How can I write it? You wrote it. It is already written.”
“I mean write a book such as Ethan Frome. Don’t you know it was inspired by my reading of Henry James’ work? It is true you know, what they say, if you want to write, read. Read what you like over and over and eventually your very own style and voice will emerge through a story only you can tell. We were very good friends you know, Henry James and I, but only after I reached out to him unsuccessfully for a decade. He finally noticed my writing, but only after my publication of The House of Mirth. Hard work my dear. Persistence. That is also what it will take for you to write your Ethan Frome. Yes, I know what you are thinking. Not everyone has the talent or the vivid imagination to write a good book, but anyone can learn to show a story rather than tell one. You do know what I mean by that dear, don’t you? Read everyday. Write everyday, if it’s what you love to do and then published or not, you can call yourself a writer.
Rendering me speechless, I didn’t know how or why I wound up down that rabbit hole, but I was sure I had just been gifted Edith Wharton’s literary sermon on the mount. Within my silence, she lifted her glass towards mine and simply said, “Cheers my dear. To writing. And to living. I might be dead, but thanks to readers like you, in a way, in this moment, I am immortal. Thank you.” And I picked up my glass in awe, touching hers, shocked that it was her that thanked me, appreciating her genius, wanting to sit with her in that moment forever, but not if it meant I had to give up on writing.