“come to philly for the crack!”

August 4, 2010

Pennsylvania, Part Two

When I planned to go to Centralia, an abandoned town destroyed by an underground coal mine fire, I didn’t expect that I’d be spending the night in an even creepier place.

After Centralia, instead of driving all the way back to Jersey City, Sam and I decided to sleep at her aunt’s house in Harrisburg, PA. Her aunt whom she had not seen in four years. The house looked normal enough when we pulled into the driveway: medium-sized, nice lawn, white picket fence… giant flame-painted motorcycle? Alright, maybe not every house has one of those, but who am I to judge? We enter through the side door and immediately the smell of cigarettes smacks me in the face. This may not be significant under everyday circumstances, but considering I had just spent the afternoon in a town that is literally leaking carbon monoxide, I think it is now. Dirty air is dirty. Once I am able to take in my surroundings, I see two over-full refrigerators, a whole cantaloupe on the dining room table, and a hefty-looking baroque clock sitting prominently on the kitchen counter.

For dinner Sam and I dine on leftover flat noodles with Italian dressing. I suppose vegetarians are rare in Harrisburg. We would have had corn on the cob, but Sam dropped the industrial-sized tub of butter onto the floor. The spill probably wouldn’t have been that bad had the tub not been sitting on the hot stove, for who knows how long, days maybe, and had all turned to liquid. All of it. So we spent the after-dinner conversation simultaneously wiping up the greasy floor and almost thankful that we could avoid eating anything else.

And that’s just the kitchen. Upon entering the living area, one is presented with an obstacle altogether stranger. First, let me back up by saying that the house has an interesting layout. It consists of three uneven levels and a basement-type room. There are two stories on one side of the house, the kitchen being the lower of the two, with the bedrooms upstairs. On the other side of the house is the office, which makes up what I’ll call the “middle” level. There is a small set of stairs leading from the living room/kitchen to the office, and then, after a U-turn, another small set of stairs in the other direction, leading from the office to the bedrooms. Now for the aforementioned obstacle. Between these two sets of stairs is a sort of indoor waterfall situation, except instead of a peaceful trickling of water flowing gently over gray plastic rocks, there is a collection of porcelain dolls haphazardly cascading in such a fashion that you cannot stand anywhere near the thing with one of them staring at you.

The middle level of the house is where the proper front door is, and where Sam’s uncle had his office, which looks like it hasn’t been touched since he passed away four years ago. Papers are strewn about a large old typewriter on the desk, and on the other side of the room is a wall-mounted air conditioning unit that looks like it’s been defunct since the Nixon administration. Going up the second set of stairs one finds four bedrooms, all of which are lined with either dark red or blue velvet wallpaper, and a bathroom with the same odd red-and-blue color scheme. And for a bathroom that is frequently used by a multitude of grandchildren, it is surprisingly devoid of soap. Every single bottle sitting in or near the shower is shampoo or conditioner. No body wash in sight. And the bath mat half-covers the drain so that an inch of water builds up around your feet while showering.

And did I mention the floor throughout the house is slightly sticky? It is. Both tiled and carpeted floors. And the porcelain dolls don’t end at the stairwell. There are dolls and various estate sale collectibles on every flat surface, horizontal and vertical. Those dolls and creepy old knick-knacks hang on the walls. In the bedroom Sam and I slept in—the only one with a fan—there were clothes hung not only from the closet, but from rods placed along one whole wall. And clothes creeping out of the dresser aligning the adjacent wall. Of the two windows in the room, one didn’t open properly. When we tried the other window we discovered that it framed a compelling view of a brick wall. And I mean like in cartoons, when the character opens a door to find a brick wall instead of an opening.

When she spilled the butter, Sam had got some on the only pair of jeans she’d brought, so we took advantage of the basement room’s washer and dryer. It’s dark down there, obviously, but there is no light switch. Or, rather, there is a light switch, but it’s located in the living room. There is also a cat litter box down there, filled with cat litter. A perfectly normal place to put a cat litter box, except that in the entire twelve hours we were there I saw no sign of any cats. Also, I’m fairly certain the basement door was closed when we went down there, making the litter inaccessible to any hidden cats on the premises.

Naturally, in the morning before we left I went through the house quietly taking photos of everything I could. I needed to prove that I had spent the night in a house that is totally comparable to the one Augusten Burroughs spent his childhood in. All this house is missing is the personal electro-shock machine, and for all I know there could be one tucked under a bed somewhere. For all I know, Sam’s aunt could have been snacking on dry dog food while we weren’t looking.*

Hungry from the lack of a decent meal and sleepless from a night having a doll stare down at us in bed, Sam and I left as soon as we were able. Ten minutes away from Harrisburg is the town of Hershey, Pennsylvania; Land of Chocolate. The street lamps are shaped like Hershey Kisses. Being the chocolate freaks that we are, of course we stop for a candy run. There actually isn’t much to tell about the experience, except that we got to Hershey Park early and had to spend the few minutes before it opened avoiding small children and the poor employee charged with the duty of entertaining said children dressed as a package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Once inside we each bought a handful of chocolate and got the hell out.

We spent the afternoon walking around downtown Philadelphia in 100-degree heat. We saw the Liberty Bell and sweat a collective ten pounds off in the process. We got onto the NJ Turnpike and drove home. We went to sleep. The End.

-amelia

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*Don’t take this statement the wrong way. If you’ve read Burroughs’ Running With Scissors you’ll know perfectly well to what I am referring and totally get that it is ridiculous. Sam’s aunt has had a rough time of it since her husband passed, but I am trying to make commentary on the crazy house, not the woman herself. She was sweet.

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