Excursion, Max Agigian ’19

Excursion

Max Agigian ’19

Smiling faces, larger than life, greet me as I disembark with a blast of cold air at Boston University East. Neither friends nor strangers, these pastelcolored acquaintances might someday soon decorate my home, or I might leave them behind as I travel to far-removed lands, there to continue my education. But that will be then, and this is now, and I am crossing the street to stand nearer to them. The glowing red hand bids me stay, but the river of cars has parted, and I take advantage of Commonwealth Avenue’s momentary emptiness. As I arrive on the other side of the street, I walk not towards the almost-youths but away from them, in the eastward direction whence I came. Were there rain or snow falling, the awning might protect me; as it is, the bitter chill reaches under it with ease.

I walk along, passing by posters advertising upcoming events, passing by a crosswalk and a green sign entitled BU East, passing by storefronts (much more distinct than those one sees when confirming that one is not a robot), and eventually I come to a Starbucks with a bus stop in front, meaning it is time to turn right. I could not tell you the street onto which I turn, for I know it is not Cummington Mall, but instead some obscure throughway that is the sidest of side streets, bordered on the far side by what is either a very small park or a very large lawn, and on the near by the less publicfacing face of Warren Towers. This is not marked by inviting shops and welcoming murals, but by dark entrances to parking garages with fluidmottled pavement, by sundry signs and traffic cones strewn as if in storage. It feels as though I am seeing something private, perhaps even painful, as if the building is exposing a grievous wound to air and has not noticed me staring.

There are many places on and near Cummington Mall where one feels like an intruder. I have walked through long underground hallways in buildings with no classrooms; I have ascended stiflingly hot stairwells with discarded equipment languishing at the bottom; I have pushed through doors with printed-out warnings reading “CAUTION—FIRE HAZARD— DO NOT PROP OPEN.” There are places whose very atmospheres seem to say that one does not belong, but which have no people, signs, or locks that tell one to keep out. One must step a few paces into an empty garage to reach the desolate staircase that leads into the alleyway separating the backs of the buildings on Cummington Mall from the backs of the buildings on Commonwealth Avenue. As always, I look at the staircase that leads up, wondering what is at the top, but, as always, I take the staircase down instead.

The alley feels even less inviting. If it were open at both ends, it might act as a wind tunnel, stealing my body heat and dispersing it into the ether. Nevertheless, though my surroundings tell me I ought not to be there, and though the cold encourages me to enter one of the buildings on either side of me, I linger a moment. The fact that this alleyway is so hidden and uninviting means that I am alone, and that perhaps I am sharing a secret with myself and no one else. My numbing hands, though, motivate me away from this particular solitude, and I step inside through the nearest door, the first on my left.

My destination is at hand. As soon as I am inside the building, I move a few steps to the other end of the antehallway, and look at the door to the left. This door has drawn my attention again and again, as I have walked through this passage to class, but this is the first time I have come especially to see it. It feels less profane, more like a pilgrimage. I do not know who made the door, I do not know who decorated the door, and I do not know what lies behind the door. Perhaps it is an office, perhaps something more secret. I have never seen it open.

Once again, I begin to read the disquisition written on the worn papers that populate the door. When necessary, I peel back a curling edge to see the words it hides. Some sheets have torn-off portions whose contents may never appear on the door again. Others are covered over by other paper, by images that I might lift but not remove. One page is concealed entirely by a poster for a gathering already hosted. Again the words beneath are hidden. It feels incomplete, but I must accept it as it is.

I complete the thirteenth and final sheet, and I lean back against the opposite wall. I let myself rest for a moment, taking in the door as a whole, its aesthetic and its decorations, overlaid in black and white on the faded grey paint. I lean in again to look at the smaller, less prominent offerings: the poem at the bottom, the paragraph to the poem’s left. At these I scarcely need to look; I have almost memorized them; they are a comfort, a sort of spiritual dessert, a way to ease myself away from the door. Once I have seen them, my journey is complete.

I turn around and leave the way I came: out the door, into the alley, and up the flight of stairs. I pause before going further. Now would be the perfect time to walk up another flight and see what is at the top of the second staircase. I have the time. It is not my habit, though, nor is it a necessity, and, not knowing why, I depart with the mystery unsolved.