Outside In (7 page)

“Being here for so many years, people must have asked about his past.”

“He just always says, ‘It’s past,’ and no one really questions him. He lives day to day—camping at the state park all season and during the winter, looking after people’s houses until they return in the spring.”

Although I can’t hear the music, the rhythmic strumming of his right hand combined with the precise fingering of the left still sends a comforting message.

Stein cruises up on his bike. “Did you think I forgot about you?”

“Another drink and I wouldn’t have cared.”

Trails may be scarce on the island, but hills are abundant. The climb is taxing but the descent is exhilarating. I stand on my pedals, lean forward, and close my eyes. I’m free.

Stein veers off the road toward a white, barn-like building: the Island Bike Shop. Within fifteen minutes he’s equipped my bike with a headlight, taillight, and combination odometer and speedometer. He says, “After we finish up here, let’s grab a cold one at the Presshouse next door. I can show you my apartment on the second floor.”

Judging from the building, the same architect responsible for the red barn must have designed the Presshouse as well. But the inside of Stein’s apartment is much smaller than our setup. It has no living room, only a tiny bedroom, bathroom, and kitchenette.

Stein flops down on his bed. “Home sweet home.” Within arm’s reach are a guitar, a stack of books, a pad of paper, and an ashtray.

“Cozy and functional,” I say.

“It gets the job done.” He glances at his watch. “Ooh, I need to get to work at the restaurant. Want to come by for lunch?”

“No, thanks. I think I’ll ride to the monument.”

“Good idea.” He gets up from the bed. “It’s a clear day. You’ll have great visibility.”

“What’s the best way to get there from here?”

His brow furrows and he smirks. “Just look up. The monument is always there.”

Five mph—7—9—16—20—coast. The clicking from my knobbed tires on the asphalt transforms to a hum as I gain speed. A tour train is ahead. Passing on the left will be too close, so I go right, through the grass.

Perspiration builds on my forehead and sweat streams down my back. The humidity from yesterday has diminished, but my body still reacts to the exercise and to my extreme indulgence since I arrived.

Perry’s Monument, which appears white from a distance, radiates a pinkish hue as I approach. It stands on a narrow tract of land that connects the west side of the island with the east. The surrounding acreage is flat, providing ample space for the four teenagers throwing a Frisbee, the two kids who have brought their kites, and the numerous sunbathers. Closer to the monument, the ground slopes up toward a square cement plaza that surrounds the base of the column. Four large stone urns decorate the corners of the plaza.

A breeze drifts from one side of the water to the other, drying my sweat. I dismount. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and a shiver rifles down my spine as I ascend to the plaza and circle the pink granite base, counting the bevels: twenty-seven.

The interior is tomb-like with domed walls and a limestone ceiling, stained in parts from the moisture seeping in. The inscription on the floor divulges that three American and three British officers are buried in the crypt beneath the white and black marble floor of the rotunda.

The quiet penetrates. I stare at the names. The letters form other words, names from my old life that I want to forget. Breaking my trance, two children rush in and trample the inscription. They don’t care about what the silence might teach them. I follow them up the stairs, dragging my hand along the cool tile.

The elevator returns and drops off fifteen people. A park ranger at the controls greets us from behind his handlebar mustache. “Good afternoon. Welcome to Perry’s Victory and International Peace Memorial. You are about to travel 340 feet above lake level. The observatory is the highest open-air platform in the country. The total distance to the pinnacle of the 11-ton brass urn on the top of the monument is 352 feet. The urn was designed by Joseph Freedlander, one of the monument’s architects, and built by the Gorham Company of Rhode Island. It was dismantled and sent to the island in sections. Upon arrival, it was taken to the top of the memorial penthouse and reassembled. If you were to start at the upper plaza and take the steps all the way to the top, you would climb a total of 467 steps. The monument was equipped with an elevator from the beginning. The present elevator went into service in 1939 and ascends at a rate of 256 feet per minute, or 2.9 miles per hour. On the return trip, you will be moving slightly faster at 325 feet per minute, or 3.7 miles per hour. I look forward to seeing you on the way down to answer any questions
you may have. Please refrain from throwing objects from the gallery. It is slightly windy today, so hold onto any loose articles. Enjoy the view.”

At the edge of the observation deck, only a four-foot concrete wall separates me from an attempt at flight. In just one motion I could be over the side. It would be so easy—too easy. I have to step back.

In each corner of the gallery, a map and recording describe the naval battle that took place in the waters below: “Put-in-Bay was Perry’s base of naval operation in western Lake Erie. During the decisive battle, Perry’s ship was badly damaged. Fleeing an ailing vessel, Perry moved to
The Niagara
, where he formulated a counterattack. Knowing the lake well, he baited the British into a shallow section, rendering them defenseless, as they could not turn around to position themselves for the fight. Perry then levied extensive damage on the British fleet, leaving them minimal opportunity but to surrender and thus leading to Perry’s elevation to hero status.”

Was he a hero, though, or just lucky? Did he win the battle, or did the British just fuck up? What a bunch of crap—just another tale passed down generation after generation to justify bloodshed. Who was Oliver Hazzard Perry really? Does anyone know? Does anyone care? Yet here in his honor is a 36-million-pound column.

My discontent has accumulated over the past months, searching for a leak in the dam I’ve constructed to separate my true feelings from the situation closing in around me. I just want it all to fucking stop. I’m tired of blaming society, my job, and my family for making me into the person I’ve become.

The tape I was listening to has stopped, but I continue to stare at the water below, still picturing the battle and thinking of Perry. I guess it’s better to be lucky than good any day. Regardless of how it happened, though, the battle was won, leading Perry to send the famous correspondence to William Henry Harrison that
Robin mentioned on the trip to the island, reproduced on the plaque in front of me:

How I wish I could encounter my true enemy.

The same ranger operates the controls for the return trip. “I hope you enjoyed your visit. Does anyone have any questions?”

A young boy asks, “How long did it take to build?”

“The monument was built in thirty-two months, from October 1912 to June 1915. It was built to commemorate the centennial anniversary of the conclusion of the War of 1812. It has undergone several renovations over the years, one of them being the addition of a lightning arrestor system. In July 1920, lightning struck the northwest corner of the observation gallery, knocking off a 200-plus-pound piece of granite. It fell through the plaza below and into the foundation room.”

As I imagine a sizable chunk of granite plummeting from the top, the elevator’s abrupt stop startles me. A smirk creeps out from behind our guide’s mustache. How many trips has he made to perfect that delivery?

The steps from the elevator platform dump me back into the
rotunda. In between me and the outside world stands nine-and-a-half feet of rock. I know this feeling. This is my life.

I lay out my uniform for the night, the creases in the chest and midsection still visible in the new shirt. Am I really qualified to be a bouncer? I haven’t been in a fight since the third grade, when Charlie Watters teased me about having a crush on the teacher. Not to mention I’ve spent most of my adult life in a classroom. But to go from prepubescent adolescents to drunks may be a lateral move.

I stare at the postcard of the monument that I bought for my parents, unsure of what to say. I feel bad about the way I acted the last time I saw them. Too late for apologies now. Just keep it light.
Got here safely. Having a blast. You can reach me at Brad Shepherd, General Delivery, Put-in-Bay, OH 43456. Will call soon. Love, Brad
.

Cinch is on the other side of a knock at the door. He enters with his work shirt draped over his shoulder. “Ready to hit the employee lounge? There’s a small bar tucked away upstairs at the Boardwalk where I go for cocktails during my break. It’s owned by another one of the main families on the island. Ya gotta love the setup of Put-in-Bay. A few families own most of the businesses, hire people to come to the island to work, house them in cramped living conditions, and don’t give them anything else to do, so they go out and give their wages right back to the owners. Fucking goldmine.”

The Boardwalk stands opposite the Jet Express, across the four strings of public docks. It appears to be more of a restaurant than a bar, but I’ve already learned, regardless of the façade, most establishments do a significant share of bar business.

Cinch and I pass through the restaurant to a flight of stairs by
the back patio. Upstairs, two people wearing matching shirts are at the bar hunched over cocktails, obviously preparing for work just as we intend to. Bob Marley’s “No Woman No Cry” plays softly from speakers behind the bar, which is lined with candles that fill the air with the smell of vanilla.