So this was the end of the trail? Could it be possible that this filthy dive, called a room, was the place I was meant to occupy when I was brought to Los Angeles? Or was it just a test to see what I would do about it? Since I, seemingly, had no choice in the matter, the only thing that counted was how I reacted to a situation so desperate.
I gritted my teeth to keep a firm hold upon myself as I looked into the dingy depths of reeking degradation. The room actually seemed to be whimpering in the shame of its dregs. It was a personification of the evil, the tears, the heartbreaks and misery that had been shed with past violence into its, perhaps, protesting embrace. This repulsive room seemed as ashamed to have me gaze at its reeking stench, and almost as shocked, as I was.
I would have fled in shuddering horror had I had any choice in the matter. It was only the knowledge that every test was for a purpose, and was really a privilege, if I could only accept it as such, that gave me the power to step over that threshold. It was the only comforting touch in the whole situation -- this knowledge that all difficulties are sacred assignments because they are the only real stepping stones to progress and the progress lies in the comprehension of their purpose.
I had come so very near to failing once. It was the memory of that failure that made the present situation bearable. Anything was better than failure. Anything! It was this thought that bolstered my spineless courage with backbone. It completely subdued the "yellow streak," giving me the power to whistle in the dark, though with a trembling uncertainty.
This vile little room contained an unclean wash bowl in the corner with a huge, clumsy medicine cabinet above it. There was a wobbly chair, a dingy window that looked out on a dingier brick wall and a bed as repulsive as a swine's wallow. And even as I stood with an involuntary shudder of dismay I saw the cockroaches scurrying from behind the medicine chest, down to the dripping water faucet.
Roaches in the daylight! A mild convulsion went over me as I realized that if there was even one or two bold enough to appear in the daylight, there would be armies of them at night. The floor, the walls, everything would crawl with them.
My natural instinct demanded that I flee. And ordinarily I would have done just that, but my being there was not ordinary. It was the most extraordinary event of my life. I had no choice in the matter. I reminded myself that I should be grateful for even this repulsive, dubious shelter. And by being "grateful" I did not mean that resigned self-pity of a martyr's attitude. It had to be the deep, sincere gratitude coming spontaneously from the depth of my soul.
For a moment the desire for deep gratitude was only a desperate desire without strength or vitality. It was a dead body without a soul. I struggled hard to give it light but the only reaction was an almost overwhelming urge to throw myself and weep with the hysterical abandon of a small child. So great was the struggle it seemed the very walls were swaying in on me.
Then, quite suddenly, there must have been shining legions for I was quite at peace. Don't ask me why, or how. Only this book can explain that or even a shadow of it. But suddenly there was the power to reach down into the inner recesses of my heart and pull forth that singing song of gratitude. And with it came a thousand waving banners of victory. I stood in complete triumph.
This song of gratitude was the most beautiful, the most stupendous thing that had ever touched my life. At first it had been only a game I had practiced with myself when things became too rough. It seemed to make them bearable. It sort of lighted the dark, shadowed places and gave me the power to breathe. That was at first. Then suddenly the game had turned into something very real and very powerful. I became like a small radio that could tune itself in with the great symphony of the universe. It was a song of such utter glory that it could in an instant banish darkness.
It seemed that the only difficulty I was still having with it was the ability to remember that I could turn it on. That room had almost overwhelmed me and made it impossible, for a moment, to remember the power of that singing song of glory, the song of everlasting gratitude, the song of infinite power. I wasn't sure whether I was making that song a very part of me or whether I was becoming that song.
That room portrayed the very bottom of all existence to me.
But after one reached the bottom? What then? I knew with the commencement of that inner song that after one has reached the bottom it is impossible to go lower. After one has struck the very lowest depths one would have to begin to climb. The rising would be as necessary as the descent, unless one just gave up and wallowed.
I knew that the easiest thing in the world to wallow in is self-pity. Even crime and remorse are not as easy to wallow in as feeling sorry for one's self. If one refuses to make any effort to rise it is possible to remain at the bottom until death brings release -- or, perhaps, an intensified continuation of the bitterness. But no one can remain at the bottom who will make even the slightest effort to climb. In fact, it is as difficult to remain on the bottom as it is to lie on the bottom of a lake or swimming pool, or river.
I had ceased striving once. That once had been enough. Nothing could ever make me just give up again. Someway I would climb out of the muck of that filthy room, and until I did I would try to enjoy it. Impossible? Nothing is impossible. Other people lived in such rooms -- well, maybe they only existed. And right there I decided it was just about the best thing that could have happened to me. (...)1
I was grateful to get a place of any kind, really. It was a miracle to me that I could get one for only five dollars a week. It was the winter season and every available dwelling, apartment, room and dive in Los Angeles was occupied.
More than that. It was my last five dollars. What I would do when that one week was up I did not know. But suddenly that song of gratitude within seemed to make me vaguely detached from it, almost as though it were no concern of mine. It was as though the power to rise above the situation completely had been given. It was almost as though it was not I who was occupying that hideous little room, as though I was standing apart watching the drama without being in any way connected with it.
The door closed behind the fat boy who had left without a tip. I doubt if he had ever been given a tip by any of the poor occupants who dwelt in those dreary rooms. The first requisite to existing in such a place would be the utter inability to give out tips.
After the door had closed I sank down upon the chair that was in an almost hysterical state of collapse. I took out my two remaining one dollar bills -- all I owned in the world, and wondered what would happen next. Those two bills, no matter how hard they tried, could not possibly take me through the two full weeks it would require for me to find work and receive a pay check. Besides food, there would be another week's rent due in just seven more days. Another five dollars!
Most individuals in my position would have been worried. And according to all rules I should have been. But I wasn't. I knew I would never go down to that desk and ask for credit. I had never asked for favors in my life, not from anyone -- and it could not start here. If I accepted any favors when I had no money it would bind me to the place when I did leave. And deep in my soul I knew that obligation would not be required of me.
It was that inner knowing that I would not grovel, nor lose my self-respect, nor need to, that made me aware that the song of glory had become a symphony. I guess it was that song of gratitude that gave me the knowledge that I would never need to grovel. I rejoiced that I was no longer striving desperately to clutch that song to me, like a drowning man a straw. It was holding to me, carrying me along on its wings of light.
I unpacked my suitcase. The few articles of clothing I possessed looked luxurious and strangely out of place in that shabby little desperation stop of the earth's "down-and-outers." Only I was neither "down" nor "out." As I shook the wrinkles from my clothing I caught myself humming a merry little tune. I smiled softly to myself. I smiled even as I noted the dusky light of evening increasing the crawling little insects on the walls.
I knew in the gathering dusk that my hunger was not as important as my peace of mind. Part of my precious two dollars was to go for disinfectant. And I was grateful that I could get it. And that gratitude wasn't a forced song out of my mind. It was a singing gratitude right out of the very depths of my heart.
Later I filled the wash bowl with the diluted disinfectant and poured it, with the one chipped drinking glass, behind the heavy, hanging medicine cabinet. It ran down the dingy, streaked walls and an army of bugs rushed out, curled up and died before my eyes.
I soused the solution into the frayed gaps of the rug, around the mopboards, into the corners, and along the moulding. And even as I battled I saw bugs come in under the door, bugs drop though a pipe hole in the corner of the ceiling and my feeling of victory vanished. The whole six-story building of clutter and filth, divided into little bug paradises, called rooms, needed renovating, disinfecting, fumigating, purging -- perhaps burning. Out in the hall, a little distance from my door, open garbage cans crawled with vermin. No matter what I did it would bring only temporary relief. But even temporary relief was worth fighting for.
I soaked toilet paper with disinfectant, then placing my suitcase on end upon the chair, teetered myself precariously upon it and stuffed the opening around the pipe. I soaked my one and only towel in the solution and stuffed it along the bottom of the door.
I was barricaded. No more bugs!
At least that was what I thought before I finally dropped wearily into bed. And within a few minutes other bugs began to crawl. I got up, turned on the light and they scurried. I lifted up the under sheet and gasped in horror. In all my life I had never seen anything so utterly, completely filthy as that huge box, inner-spring mattress. I can't describe it. I shall not try. That white sheet was completely desecrated by the very sacrilegious assumption of what it sought to hide. It was like the robes of the priesthood or clergy seeking to cover the putrified evils of a lost soul. Such attempts have been made but the results are even more revolting than crimes that are out in the open.
With a violent physical shuddering I again spread out that desecrated sheet. Leaving the glaring, unshaded, drop light burning I sank down again upon the sodden stench completely exhausted. I was at the end of my resources and was so infinitely weary.
Thus ended this strangest of all strange days for I must have fallen asleep before my head even touched the pillow.
Footnote:
1. "(...)" represents the following sentences that were removed due to their inappropriate wording for our generation and all future generations. It is the opinion of the editor of A River Great and Broad, RRSW, that the following words used by Mercie with the editing help of Skarin, were most likely influenced by the nationalism that accompanied the World War II era, in which time they lived. The following sentences written by "Christine Mercie", are in this footnote only for historical purposes: "And that proved to be true. I gave my last five dollar bill to the fat, lazy Chinese boy waiting expectantly in the doorway.
I have learned since that most of the low-grade hotels and apartments in Los Angeles are being taken over by the Chinese and Japanese. Many of them, like the mother of the lazy youth before me, could not even speak English. I realized that to some of them these reeking, filthy bug-holes must have seemed like Paradise. While to me it was the very bottom of the bottom. I had never before in my life been in a place so completely, utterly impossible.
And yet I was grateful for it. The gratitude became more real after the first shock had worn off."