In Memory of Oil Lamps

The oil lamps on campus were replaced in ‘83, and it was a big deal to me. I was there, like I was some sort of chosen character in the grand scheme within the timeline of existence, like I had fulfilled the prophecy of attending this particular university in Connecticut just to be here at the end of this phenomenon. I hadn’t known that the lamps outside of Westfield Hall were going to be the last to be replaced, truthfully. It was a coincidence that made me realize that I’d never believed in change in my entire life.

I had come earlier that week so that I could explore the campus. I was an incoming freshman, and I didn’t ever learn how to tell directions properly or make friends easily, so I thought that if I moved in before the other freshman, and if I familiarized myself with the university, I could have an easier year.

I timed how long it would take me to get from the philosophy building by the train station to the chapel for Sunday mass, and how long it would take me to get to my writing club if I slept in twenty extra minutes in the morning. (Unfortunately that happened a lot – the solution to my unease around other people and being alienated turned to avoidance, and I loved nothing more than to not exist when I was uncomfortable.) I timed how long it would take me to get back to my dormitory if I left my final class – which concluded at 8:45pm – later than everyone else because I would probably like talking to the professor.

My last class on Tuesdays would be Advanced Writing Seminar, and I knew I would be too hesitant to speak in class or properly concentrate to write anything of substance, so I’d need to stall and sit somewhere to write some more before I returned to my room.

I found this bench, the one right outside of Westfield Hall, darkened by the low lit lamps, with a cobbled path, and brown leaves on the ground. It was September 1st, and curiously, there was a biting breeze flowing through the campus. I will always remember how odd the weather worked that day, because time was a man-made thing but the temperature and humidity complied. On September 1st, it had rained in the morning, and then a cold chill was introduced, but I enjoyed the little warmth coming from the lamps, so I sat on the bench.

My journal was a beat up thing. This was before I learned how to keep things in order. I usually shoved the journal to the depths of my bag and when I would yank it out, the leather peeled. It was a cheap thing. I wrote stories and poetry, none of which were very good at the time, but they existed. I took time to write everything that I thought of, because writers like Kafka and Hemingway never had the time to do that and I wanted to be a part of their legacy, if not my own family’s.

My parents had never put an emphasis on education, so attending a school several states away hadn’t left us on very good terms. My founding fathers were James Joyce and Scott Fitzgerald, anyway, Charlotte Brontë, a founding mother so to say, and the famous writers that attended this university.

I was sitting on the bench, scribbling about the darkness and gothic architecture of the campus, romanticizing the poetry on the gargoyles and the looming, shedding trees, when there was a sound to my right. I went still, scared because I hadn’t practiced any mock conversation in my head as I needed to before meeting new people, but luckily it was only a worker in black denim and a hat.

He nodded at me, eyes dropping curiously to the journal on my lap, and then walked across to the first lamp.

“Sorry, son,” he called over, “I’ve got to darken the place. Changing the lamps, you see. Mind moving to the last bench?”

I gathered my bag and self. “Sure.”

While he worked, I tried to focus on my writing, but I was too aware of another person’s presence, and therefore became self conscious. I peeked up at the worker, who brought with him a 5 foot half ladder. He propped it up and then wiggled it around a bit, murmuring to himself. When he tried to step on, the ladder lost its footing, sending the worker to grapple at the lamp’s stem for balance.

“Say,” the worker called over again. “Are you busy?” He was talking to me! “Mind giving me a hand?”

I put my things down on the slightly soggy bench and stood. Up close, the worker looked older, lines on his forehead, though the deepest wrinkles were around his mouth, suggesting a jovial nature, so I indulged.

“How can I assist?” I asked.

The worker gestured to the right leg of the ladder. “I think there’s a rock there that’s making my balance all bad. Take a look.”

I bent down. “It’s too dark,” I said. “I can’t see.”

“Use your hands then!”

Blindly, I stuck my hands out. Sure enough, there was a large rock wedged under the leg. I carefully removed it and then checked the other side. It seemed fine. I stood back up.

“Is that better?” I asked.

The worker grasped the stem of the lamp and wiggled around a bit. “Yeah, that’s fine. Just in case, hold the edges, will you?”

I did as I was told. The man’s denim pants were worn, so I could see in the light. As he worked on the lamp, opening it slowly and reaching in to – I assumed – turn it off.

“I didn’t think the lamps were still turned off,” I said to him. I gripped the ladder firmly. “They’ve been lit for the past two days, at this time, and I know because I’ve been sitting here after nine o’clock.”

The man turned to glance at me over his shoulder. “Just using the last bit of oil. The university extinguishes them at eight o'clock every day, but we’ve to use as much oil as possible before we take them apart.”

“Is it for the new electric lamps?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re replacing all of them?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve been doing this all day, actually. This is the last row of lamps. Tomorrow, they’ll be coming down and new ones will be erected in the next few days. Before the new school year starts.” He looked back at the lamp and turned the dial. He stuck two fingers into the now extinguished flame and hummed. He took the tin of oil from beneath the flame and twirled it around, listening to the near silent slosh. “Well, that’s done then. Let me off now.”

I knew that eventually there would be modifications of the campus, but given its gothic look, towering buildings, and bell by the church weighing in at just under three fourths of a ton, I thought that this was the wrong decision. The electric lamps, which my parents had already switched our lamps on our front porch to, were so advanced looking. They lacked the romanticism, casting a sharper light over my journal.

It would be silly to say that I’d ended up many states away from home just because of the electric lamps, but when I stepped close and helped the worker move on to the next lamp, I was genuinely depressed about it.

“Some people plan to keep their oil lamps,” the man said, bent over to check for any large rocks. “Thinking they’ll turn their estate into some sort of museum, but if you ask me, they’ll look stupid. Modern times, eh? You gotta keep up.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Just outside the campus, the bookshop.” He turned and eyed the book and journal I left in my wake on the bench. “Must have been there, eh? Saw the lamps, didn’t you?”

I answered that I had. I’d gone yesterday, half an hour before closing time because it was rainy and dark, and the workers were wrapping up, and I knew nobody else would be there. I’d pretended to wander through the shelves aimlessly for some time, but of course I knew what I was there for. Why would anyone come to a bookshop without knowing, or at least inferring, what they were interested in? I picked up a volume of Lord Tennyson’s poetry, plus a pen because mine had run out of ink. I tried to buy pens one at a time because it forced me to leave my room. I couldn’t live and not interact with other humans.

But the lamps — I liked the oil lamps. Outside the shop, they cast an ominous glow over my hair, causing my shadow to look ethereal. Every time the shop sign waved with the wind, one metal leg swung against the left most lamp, creating a clunk that I could have sworn I’d heard in a horror picture. It was so very unlike the town.

“That’s the thing with the new president. He’s the best of the best, they say, even though he’s not from here. I haven’t met him yet.” Then, the worker added cautiously, “Have you? You look a bit like him, your features and all.”

“No.”

“Politics are really important these days. We’ll just have to pray.”

I knew what he meant: the new president, someone who achieved something huge, was non-White. In ‘83, this was a big deal.

“I read yesterday’s Town Topics,” I supplied. “The town hall seems as if it went well.”

“But were you there, son?”

“I was not.”

I had finally unpacked my suitcase that night. I’d been dreading it, but finally, all my white shirts were organized together, and my ties wrapped, and my freshly polished shoes in the corner away from all the rest of the clothing.

The worker hooked his fingers in to grab the oil and brought it out again. He waved both, now dangling from his hand, in my direction, and I moved suddenly, not having realized that he’d wanted me to grab them from their cool tops. I didn’t have a chance to put them on the ground; the worker was already moving.

There were six lamps in total, three on each side of the cobblestone pathway. With each extinguishing, I saw less and less. We finished the third lamp without speaking. The oil tins were getting heavy so I set them on the ground before rushing to the fourth. My arms were beginning to tingle from the weight of the ladder. By the third lamp, the worker had completely stopped holding onto the lamp’s stem so I was totally responsible for making sure he didn’t fall to the ground.

I looked longingly over at my deserted bench.

“The thing that’s got everyone in a twist is that they’re taking jobs away,” the worker said. “Like mine. Now I’m not as bitter as other people. But the townsfolk, the workers, oh boy they’re mad.”

“Just because of the lamps?”

He smiled. “More than that. But that too.”

“Do you not have other roles?” I asked.

“Besides turning the lamps down at sunset and lighting them at sunrise? Sure, but if they’ve come for the most important part of my job, won’t they come for the rest. If the groundskeeper has lost his land, what else does he have?”

“You’re the groundskeeper?”

“That I am."

“Wouldn’t you be safe from termination? There is still land.”

“Sure there is, but is it mine? This new president. He—” He stopped again, suspicion still scrawled over his features. I looked up at him just as he extinguished the lamp and brought the tin of oil to hang above my face. “You sure you’re not related to him? You look awful like him.”

“I’m not. Perhaps I look like him, or perhaps I don’t. I haven’t seen a picture of him. I only heard whispers.”

“Well he looks like you. Could be your brother or a young uncle.”

“Not much my senior?”

“Not at all. Maybe ten years.”

“Ah. But no. Not related.” I tapped my fingers along the wood. “Even if I were, I wouldn’t say a word. This country is all about freedom, isn’t it?”

This relaxed the man’s features. He came down the ladder and nodded. “Where are you from?”

I startled. “I was born here.”

“Right, but where are you from?”

“Virginia.”

“No, no, you’ve got something else in you.” He laid a hand on my shoulder and gave me a squeeze without asking. But it didn’t seem threatening. “No shame in it. We all come from somewhere. I traveled a lot in my younger years, so I may have visited your country.”

“I was born right outside Richmond.”

To my disbelief, the man started laughing, a full bellied laugh with his hand braced along his bulging stomach. He wiped at his eyes all while I watched, extremely confused, and then motioned to the next lamp. This time, he didn’t help me move the ladder. I hauled it up and carried it myself.

“You’re a strong lad,” he said. “You work?”

“I don’t have a job, no,” I said, still perplexed at what I’d witnessed. “My father manages a farm. He often asks me for help.”

“Any siblings?”

“No.”

“So you’re the man of the house, eh?”

“Er, sure.”

The worker climbed up the ladder and quickly extinguished the flame. With only one lamp remaining, the lone one over by my bench waiting for my return, illuminated the area.

I helped the worker, took the oil tin, and when he came down from the ladder, said, “Will the lights be up tomorrow? The new ones? Or just the lamps?”

“Not sure. That’s not my job.”

“Will they stay on all night?”

“Likely. They can turn the lights off from the inside now. That’s how electricity works.”

I said okay and then followed him to the last lamp. He eyed the book and journal on the bench and said, “What were you reading?”

“Nine Stories.”

“Good stuff.”

“I’ve just reached halfway into the first story. I’m enjoying it.”

“I had time to read when I was a boy like you. Now, well, reading doesn’t make money, doesn’t it?”

He sounded like my father and I immediately disliked it. I kept quiet and nodded politely, as I did when my father spoke about my doomed profession — I wanted to be an editor back in those days. It wasn’t meant to work out, ultimately, but to be robbed of a daydream was a fate worse than whatever I would end up with as my profession. Somewhere deep down, if you ask me now, I knew I was too inexperienced, too plain to become an editor, too foreign, but I had a dream and a thought, and wasn’t that enough for the future?

The worker crunched the rocks beneath his feet and looked at the last lamp in deep thought. Instead of climbing the ladder that I had set up for him, he pursed his lips and said, “You seem like a fast learner. You’ve watched what I’ve done this entire time right? Try to do it yourself.”

I blinked at him. “No, I couldn’t do that. I’m not a professional.”

He laughed again, but it wasn’t mean like last time. He said, “Son, nobody is ever a professional at anything. They say that so you can dream of being a professional, so you have to work towards it, but that’s just a trick they play to get you to not fall into the river.”

I had no idea what he was saying.

“There are no professionals. The word itself is ridiculous. One cannot know everything about something. If that was true, there wouldn't be any casualties in the war.”

I had no idea what war he was talking about.

“I didn’t watch you closely enough,” I said lamely.

“Sure you did. You go up there, turn that dial on the right to extinguish the flame, and then when it dies and when it’s cool enough to grab, you yank that oil out, but make sure not to spill it on yourself because I aint taking anyone to the emergency room at this hour, and then you gotta shut the top and the glass door. Can you do that? Good.”

Clearly, he wasn’t going to let me back out. I looked at my journal again and realized the quicker I was done with what the hell was going on here, the quicker I’d be able to return to my room, light a candle, and write about how useless I suddenly felt.

So I relented. The worker held the ladder for me and I climbed. My new shoes slipped on the damp steps, but I gripped the edges tightly, and at the top of the stairs, I reached out to hold the stem.

The dial was not the easiest to turn, so it took a bit of force, which left my fingers red and aching, and then the flame died before my eyes, plunging the entire corridor into black darkness. The worker made a noise of approval, which made me feel even more useless because I hadn’t done anything at all.

“Looks like it’s putting up a bit of a fight. Blow it out, son.”

Embarrassed, I blew on it.

“Harder, son.”

I did. It slowly died, though the embers remained bright orange for longer than all the other lamps. I was suddenly lightheaded from the smell of the oil and the lack of air.

I waited two minutes for the wind to cool the oil slightly before sticking my finger into the pot.

It burned tremendously. I shrieked and pulled back, waving my finger around.

“Happens to the best of us!” the worker called. “Let it cool by itself!

It ache worsened by the passing second. I cradled my injured finger to my chest as if it were a child, tears in my eyes. I wanted to come back down onto the ground, but the worker stood at the bottom of the steps as if to prevent me from doing so. It took a long time for the burn to subside, and I knew that it would blister in the morning.

“Life is all about discomfort!” the worker said.

God, I wanted to throttle him. I angrily grabbed the oil tin and threw it to the ground where it immediately spilled, but did not splatter on the worker. He didn’t shout about it, just looked at it for a moment, and then went to pick it up. He sat it down by the others.

“Good lad,” he said. “Wrap a bandage on it and run it under warm water every few hours and it’ll be fine.”

I couldn’t see him in the dark, which I was immensely glad of. I would have done something irrational if I could see his smug face there, looking at me like he’d taught me a lesson.

“I hope you aren’t a father,” I spat at him.

“I am, and a damn good one too!” he said cheerfully. “I’ll leave you with your little book and pens. Not sure if the lights will be up by tomorrow, so I’d recommend you stay inside. Light a candle.”

I blindly made it to my bench and snatched up my belongings. On my way back, I bumped into the man and gave him a slight shove off of me. I could have such anger issues sometimes. My mother told me to mind it because people would assume things about people who looked like me.

Back in my room, I scattered my books and journal on the desk and stared out the window. There was nothing but darkness and the moon outside, casting a gentle light on the trees. The entire west of the campus loomed over the horizon, the church in the background with its point and the chapel beside it. If I moved my candle closer to the window, I saw the faint mosaic of the dorm building across the pathway. The entire university was drenched in darkness following the decimation of the last oil lamp for that night.

In a few hours, the sun would be up, it would be the second of September, and a new light would be erected in the oil lamp’s stead. It was the dawn of change in 1983 and I went to sleep that night, hoping that the dawn would bring a radical change in me, that would make me less foreign, lighter skinned, and perhaps a bit more intellectual.

The oil lamps, and my unpalatable dreams were burned that night, bolstered by the blister that grew and remained on my finger until I popped it. To this day, I have a scar on the tip of my index finger where the oil burned me, and where I was too impatient to let it heal by itself.

-----------

I did not see the worker again during my six years on campus. Some twenty years later, I saw his obituary in the paper, when I was a professor at the university, teaching about romanticism. His name was Paul Jenkins and he’d retired from maintenance working in 1984. His father had been an executive in New York City, and according to his son who wrote the obituary, Paul vehemently refused to work in an office. He’d apparently marched behind Malcolm X.

He lived in New Jersey with his family until his death by — unbelievably — accidental electrocution.

I nearly laughed in disbelief.

I showed it to my wife out on our porch under our fluorescent lamps, who listened to my entire story afterwards, said, “Oh, Samin…” and then kissed the tip of my finger, her skin clear and umber, a beauty, my beauty.

I thought for many years that I would visit Paul’s grave to ask him what the point of our meeting was besides to bring upon a sudden confusion about what I knew in life, but couldn’t stomach it. I think I already knew.

That night I saw the obituary, I, aloud, read to my wife the first chapter of Salinger’s short stories, and realized that change, when applied, would always feel like trudging though a damp, dark, lamp-less path, and that I would always be scared.

But it was a dire, relentless, purposeful force and it existed and existed despite my bottomless fear.