“What do you do again?” she said, narrowing her eyes.
“Urban exploration. I explore abandoned buildings for fun.”
“Mm hmm, interesting!” she said, nodding. “And how does it work, exactly?”
“Well, usually I’ll just notice a place that looks abandoned, I’ll go check it out, you know, scout out the property, and then go back to explore it later with my photography equipment,” I said, shrugging. No big deal.
“I see. And do you do this alone?”
“Usually, yeah, although I’m not opposed to people coming with me. Most people who have tagged along are doing just that—tagging along. They’re usually just friends of mine who aren’t actually urban explorers.”
“Oh, ok, I see, yes,” she said, nodding forcefully. I could tell we weren’t getting anywhere. I could tell she thought urban exploration was in no way a worthwhile hobby and that it only led to trouble. She was on the same wavelength as my parents and the police: they’re all good people, but they just can’t seem to separate the legal ramifications of urban exploration from its intellectual importance as an art form.
“And what about the property owners?” she asked.
“What about them?”
She stared at me. I stared back. I get this particular question a lot, especially from adults who have somewhat lost their sense of adventure. I always play dumb, just to see what their response is. They usually end up accusing me of criminal activity, which I suppose is justified, but they really are missing the point.
“Well, do they know that you’re on their property, um…exploring?” she said tentatively.
“No, not usually.” I tried to look innocent.
“And what do you think they would say if they knew you were…uh…um, on their --”
“Trespassing? You mean what do I think they would say if they knew I was trespassing?”
“Yes, exactly.”
Jesus, lady. Spit it out already. I get accused of this all the time; it’s nothing new and I’m not offended (yet).“Well, I think some of them might be upset, and others wouldn’t really care. See, I choose not to think of it as recreational trespassing; it’s trespassing for a reason. They obviously don’t care much about the building they’ve left rotting on their property, because they aren’t doing anything to fix it up, so why should they be upset if I actually do care about it?”
“Well, because you’re trespassing!” she exclaimed, as if this trivial detail should be more than reason enough to avoid my hobby altogether.
“So legality has a direct connection with morality?” I said.
“Excuse me?” She looked confused.
“Just because something is technically illegal doesn’t make it any more wrong than the legal things we do every day. I consider bulldozing old buildings to be a crime, but as long as it’s good for corporate America, replacing 19th century churches with Wal-Mart parking lots is completely legal, correct?”
“Well, yes,” she said hesitantly. I saw her eyes flit up to the clock on the wall behind me nervously.
“But is it morally right to do that?” I asked her.
“Not necessarily, I suppose.”
“So why is walking onto a patch of grass to document that church before it’s gone considered illegal?”
“Because it’s trespassing,” she said simply.
“Yes, but that’s the only answer you have. Actions shouldn’t be considered morally wrong just because they’re illegal.”
You should always question the rules, never believe something is wrong or right just because there’s a law that says so, is what I wanted to tell her, but I had the feeling that she wasn’t a “question your government” type of lady. She was wearing a navy blue pantsuit, little gold hoop earrings and a simple gold necklace. Her blonde hair was twisted into a perfect bun, and her coral rose lipstick was infallible. She held a clipboard with a yellow notepad and a pen that matched everything in her office. There I sat in my black Converse All-Stars, wearing a glass mushroom dangling from the hemp necklace I wove last summer. My hair hung in loose, hippy strands; I liked it that way because I could run my fingers through it. My socks didn’t match and my pen had bits of Extra Supermint gum stuck to it from being inside my purse, which was a disaster of food wrappers, writing utensils, random receipts, pieces of paper I thought I had lost, and other small objects from my past.
“Okay. So you’re saying that you ignore the legal consequences because you believe that what you’re doing is more important than the law?” she narrowed her eyes.
“Essentially, yes, but I’m not applying this logic to just myself. Urban exploration is important as a hobby that preserves our past, and I’m not the only one who does it.” I could tell she was getting the impression that I thought I was above the law. I decided to clarify. “I don’t consider myself above the law, I consider urban exploration more important than the law, but it isn’t and probably never will be above the law. I just choose to accept the risk of getting caught.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea, given your current situation?”
I have very, very bad luck. Let’s just say most Dickinson College Public Safety officers know me on a first-name basis. I was supposed to be trying to stay out of trouble.
“Maybe not, but it’s what I’m passionate about. I’m totally willing to be a martyr for art, and besides, I’ve never been in serious trouble as a result of my explorations.”
“You think of yourself as a martyr?” Great. She thinks I’m deluded.
“No. I said I would be willing to be one for the sake of a greater purpose, which I haven’t had to do yet. The first step is acknowledging the risk of there being consequences, which I’ve already done. I haven’t yet been faced with any consequences from my explorations, but if I was, I would accept them.”
Her stiff little smile looked like it had been taped onto her face, and her eyes looked like they had fear behind them. I grinned back, and she let out a sigh that sounded more like a gasp. “Well, I think our time is up. How’s next week?”
“I’m going on a trip to explore an abandoned hospital on Tuesday, but I’ll be back Wednesday afternoon.” It was actually an abandoned insane asylum, but I didn’t want to tell her that in case she thought it was a little too appropriate given what she obviously thought was my unstable state of mind.
She let out another gasping sigh. “Okay, how does Thursday look?”
“That’s fine. I’m free all day.”
“Okay then, Claire, I’ll see you at 3:00 on Thursday afternoon?” She smiled and handed me her card with the appointment time written in her perfect handwriting on the back.
“Oh, I thought you meant Thursday morning. I can’t do Thursday afternoon.” She looked absolutely flabbergasted.
“Well, I mean, I’m usually not here that early, but, um—maybe Friday we—“
“I’m kidding, Dr. Chapman.” Now it was my turn to sigh.
“Oh…right.”
Some people just don’t get it.
We come across a rusted German chair swing. It stands tall against the blue sky, its swings hanging sadly by their chains like dirty ribbons. I wonder what it would be like to start up the ride again; I can imagine its rusted parts screeching and groaning into action, protesting against the rude awakening. We head to the merry-go-round, where a plaster menagerie prances, struts and prowls, all staring wide with dusty glass eyes. A white horse is beginning to peel; its teeth are drawn back to its lips in an eternal grimace. Another horse bucks tall, its mane flailing in the still air while its eyes roll back terrified into his head. An ostrich swaggers near the center of the carousel, his beak pointed forward in anticipation of the next turn that will never come when he may see the rickety wooden roller coaster again. A tiger crouches, its jaws growling at an invisible foe, or perhaps prey. His big yellow glass eyes stare vacantly out towards the fun house, which tilts dangerously towards the ground; I wonder if it was built that way. German figures sit atop its balcony, grinning and wild-eyed. One of them is wearing a pair of lederhosen and holds a pint of beer his wooden hand. Another sits atop a scraggly dog with another pint of beer, his legs splayed out drunkenly on either side. He toasts to a ghost crowd; I can imagine his wooden potbelly jiggling, and I smile as I realize something: it's a German interpretation of Bacchus, the Greek god of wine who always sat atop a donkey.
