Uncertainty

Not only is the universe stranger than we think, it is stranger than we can think. 

– Werner Heisenberg, Across the Frontiers

In the Spring of 2009, it is very difficult to hide your presence in the Architecture buildings at Georgia Tech. Especially when you are working late, and especially in the West Building, which is dominated by an enormous atrium joining three stories of open studios. Hallways, studios, and atrium are a single volume – no walls, dozens of moveable partitions, and a sea of identical worktables. Sound carries, reflected off the bare concrete surfaces and glossy floor tiles of an as-yet unchanged brutalist relic. The outside doors beep sharply open and latch heavily shut with after-hours comings and goings. The rustle of backpacks, jingle of keys, and tapping of disembodied feet echoes loudly.

During the lead up to project deadlines, the building is occupied pretty much around the clock, students trying to get as much done as possible on 30 minutes of sleep and 10 cups of coffee the night before a presentation. However, on this evening, early in the semester, no due dates are looming. Riding out a train of thought from an in-class exercise, time escapes me; late in the evening, I find myself the sole occupant of the third-floor studio.

In stark contrast to the cavernous atrium, the studio areas and computer labs remain well-lit after hours. Endless banks of fluorescent lights buzz overhead, providing ample illumination for a grad student finishing up a couple of chipboard massing models. Since no one else is in the studio, I eventually decide to spread out a bit, moving my cutting mat to the floor nearby, freeing up space on my table.

When I say no one else is there, I say that with 100% confidence – when I stand, I can lay eyes on every single table in the room, from any point in the room. When I kneel to cut chipboard on my mat, I can easily see through the forest of widely-spaced, slim metal legs. My workstation is towards the far end of the studio, where large metal lockers block out entry from the hallway to the right, and the movement of someone entering the room in front of me draws my eyes and ears immediately. Each of the rows of tables dead-ends into a continuous wall of windows to my left, so there is only one aisle of access to where I am working. No getting at me from a different direction unless tables are climbed over or crawled under. Besides (sadly), it’s a Friday night – everyone is off doing much better things.

I am cutting out my model with my X-Acto knife. It is special, because it is wrapped in a bright, electric blue skin that makes it easy to hold, and even easier to see. Most students have the same version of a simple, dull aluminum knife, or some boring utility knife. I purchased this knife specifically because it stands out – in contrast to other’s knives, yes, but also against the whites and browns and yellows and greens of cardboard, chipboard, the floor, the desks, the cutting mat and various and sundry papers. No one in my cohort has one like it; therefore, no one in the studio this semester has one like it.

I stand up to add the piece I just cut to the model, and place the knife on the table next to it, so as not to accidentally tread or kneel on the blade. I turn down to pick up another piece of chipboard from the floor, and realize that I still need my knife. Rising, I glance up, and as I reach, it registers that the knife is not where I left it two seconds earlier. It is not anywhere on the table.

I glance down. It is not on the mat, or the floor surrounding it. I turn my attention back to the table and move the model around. I carefully lift everything piece by piece off the work surface, so as not to dislodge a precariously perched knife, or accidentally stab myself. I repeat this process for all the tables bordering mine. No luck.

Carefully, I kneel on the cutting mat. No knife under any of the tables nearby. I stretch out on my stomach, laying directly on top of the mat, cheek to the floor, and take a 360-degree survey of the area. No bright blue anything anywhere on the floor, and not much of anything on the floor, period. I stand up, and take a final 360-degree survey of the area. Still no luck.

On general karmic principle, I try not to let things like this bother me. No point in getting worked up over something I can’t change, or adding angry and frustrated energy to my person and my environment. Besides, it’s late. I may as well pack it in and hit the town with my friends, who already have a good start on me, according to the dozen messages on my phone. I resign myself to my fate, resolving simultaneously to go to the store and buy another knife tomorrow. A shame. I really liked that knife. I turn towards the exit to walk out.

Feet still rooted to the floor, I pause, and think to myself – NO. I am not crazy. I did not misplace it, drop it, or kick it across the room. Someone, or something, must have taken it.

I remember a recently-watched episode of a cable-tv ghost show. The psychic consultant advises a family experiencing a haunting that often, the ghost just wants to be acknowledged. Speaking to it will placate it. If the ghost does something you don’t like, ask it to stop. If something is missing, ask for it back.

Welp, guess I may as well give it a shot. Eyes squeezed shut, I speak too loudly to the empty room, acutely aware of the utter absurdity of my current situation:

“Please give it back.”

As soon as the words leave my lips I am turning back towards the windows. My eyes drop to the cutting mat and the shock is so sudden that I audibly gasp and physically startle as my heart jumps into my throat. I feel an instant, hot surge of adrenaline as if someone has slapped me across the face.

There. There on the floor. In the middle of my cutting mat. In the place I stared at a dozen times, in the place I ran my hands over, crawled over, walked over, and finally laid on my stomach. There lies my bright blue knife, perfectly still, and perfectly aligned with the grid on the mat, handle towards me, blade pointing towards the windows.

An impression overwhelms me – that I have startled whatever it is with my request as much as it has startled me with the instantaneous return of my knife. I am done. Heart beating through my chest, I mumble a thank you to the empty studio, steady my shaking hands long enough pick my things up off the floor, and grab my bag. As if nothing out of the ordinary has just occurred, and still trembling from the surge of adrenaline, I walk out of the building as calmly as I can. I never speak a word of this to any of my classmates, and the semester continues without further incident.

…although occasionally, when alone in the studio, I see quick, shadowy movement out of the corner of my eye, and get the distinct yet harmless impression of another student.