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Remembering this place thirty years ago, there was only dirt. Now weeds had taken over the once-barren field like a cancer, butting up to newer apartment complexes to the west and to the south.
I started circling the ground looking for the marker.
“What are we looking for?” Jack asked.
“It looks like a manhole cover. It should be a couple inches off the ground.” As soon as I finished my sentence, Jack fell.
“I think I found it,” Jack said, his head barely popping above the weeds.
“Perfect,” I said. The area around the steel cover was clear of weeds, which meant it was still in use. There were two open holes in the middle of the cover. I reached down and pulled up with everything I had, almost dislocating my right shoulder. Without a word, Jack came over and put his hand through one of the open holes. I grabbed the other with two hands.
“On three,” Jack said. “One, two, three.” We lifted and pulled the cover just off center by a few inches. But it was enough. I knelt down low to the ground and pushed the cover aside, revealing the entire opening.
“There should be a ladder dug into the side. It goes down about ten feet. I’ll meet you down there,” I said. I brought my left leg into the hole, followed by the right, made sure my footing was sound, and descended down the shaft.
There wasn’t the faintest sign of light. I pulled the burner phone out of my pocket. I moved to the side so Jack would have some room and when he hit the ground, I checked the time. It was 1:22 a.m. We had ten minutes. I turned on the phone flashlight.
There were cigarette butts everywhere. Some were white but most were brown and half disintegrated. I wondered which ones were mine. Alex and I spent half of one summer down in this hole.
I double-checked to make sure Jack had the popsicles and scanned for the passageway. I found it quickly, pointing due south toward the crematory. As I scanned the walls with the phone light, Jack and I noticed all the papers stuck to the walls, from about our knees up to the ceiling, as far as the light could stretch.
Each paper was the standard eight and a half by eleven. Something you’d take out of an inkjet printer. But there wasn’t any text on the sheets. They were all color photos. Of me.
The first one I came to was my high school graduation photo. There were other pictures of me as a teenager. Some were in school. Some were me on my bike. Then there was a collage of ten or so of me making out with my high school sweetheart, Robin Kaufman. Further down was Robin and me with our shirts off in the back of my dad’s old car.
Jack and I just looked at each other. I took the phone light to show the other side of the wall. More and more pictures of me from every stage of my life. As we moved down the hall, there were pictures of me at college. One from the first day I moved into my college dorm. One of me during my summer internship at the radio station. More of me working at Pollitt Funeral Home.
When we reached the pictures of Sam, things seemed to intensify. The number of pictures doubled, and they were pasted on top of each other. I found one from our first date. One of us at a Cleveland Indians game. Another with both of us naked in our first apartment.
I felt violated. The only thing that was holding back the regurgitation was the near-death situation of every person I loved. I said nothing to Jack. I started walking faster. I broke into a slow jog. Then I was running, until I finally reached the door, with Jack following a few feet behind. I shined the light on the door handle and briefly noticed a picture of me at Gamblers Anonymous, taken Wednesday.
I looked at the phone time. It was 1:28 a.m. We still had four minutes. I pushed down on the door handle and heard a click, then pushed forward to open the door.