What she needed at this very moment could be found in the back of the closet just between her sixteenth pair of heels – these flatter than at least five of the others – and a plastic bin marked “Misc. Winter.” Between the two aforementioned once slipped a piece of paper marked by scribbles, doodles, a short to-do list for a short Saturday (which, if she were to recall, was made even shorter by a blot of late-morning rain), and, just at the bottom left of the paper, depending on which way she held it, was written the name and address of one Mister Maculmaney. She had never met Mister Maculmaney nor spoken with Mister Maculmaney by phone or other such correspondence, nor had she a notion of how Mister Maculmaney looked. She could not nor would not spot him by face had she the chance. For all she knew, she had passed Mister Maculmaney every morning for the last dozen mornings and paid him no heed whatsoever, pushing him into the impressionistic miasma of her morning commute – for this was her ritual and her right to focus on her music, on her book, on her cup of coffee, to let others have their mornings as they wanted while she focused on everything and nothing all at once; it was best that way for everyone.
Still, were she to be quizzed on the identity of Mister Maculmaney, she would probably be ignorant, certainly dumbfounded, possibly apathetic, and the address would confuse her most of all. What did she need with the address of a stranger? (And indeed, a stranger with a strange name: was it MACulmaney? MaCULmaney? MaculMAney? Beyond the stresses, what were the vowel sounds? Long or short? Was the name genuine? If not for apathy, she could ponder these for years.) It read as a home address, but could very well have been Mister Maculmaney’s business address; it could have been both for all she knew. Here she would have it, his address, and no notion why, had she found the paper which had slipped down into an unnoticed crevice in the closet.
She may have even found herself pleased to discover one of her own belongings that she never knew existed, particularly a direct to link to an unknown man. How serendipitous to know just where to find someone whom one does not know. If she so desired, she could go directly to Mister Maculmaney and question him: why would I know you; from where have we met; how do you say your name? Mister Maculmaney could prove to be most helpful, describing in detail the day, the moment, the swish of breeze that passed as she shook his hand, making him believe that she had a chill with in her that passed between their hands – an incorrect assumption, he would later learn, when she found him at his home many months later having uncovered his address in the remotest part of her closet and was composed mainly of warmth.
There was a need for her to seek him out, to know this man; a piece of information, a passage of music, a mutual friend seeing a future between the two of them. How that could be, though, she could not imagine, for she could not see herself allying romantically to a man who answered to ‘Mister’ anything; first names were mandatory, even in strangers. Mister made her think of elderly men, pretentious pomps, and past schoolteachers. Thus, Mister Maculmaney must be a man of considerable age, pomposity, or pretense – perhaps all three – and that is why the paper had slipped away, escaping preemptively to prevent her the inevitable displeasure of meeting Monsieur Maculmaney and his high throne of inaccessibility.
Still, she knew not the need for knowing him, nor did she remember him, nor did she know that her connection with him was lying in her closet – forgotten, forlorn, decaying – obscured by dust and winter clothes just useful enough to be called clothes, yet still packaged as miscellaneous. Eventually she would have to move and would find the piece of paper, taking a course of action (would it be garbage or recyclable?) and barely noticing Mister Maculmaney and his indeterminate address. She would not need him then in the midst of her move, it was only now that she may need him; this moment, this day, this peculiar phase of an altogether – in her view – uneventful life. What she needed right now was a mystery.
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