the folly
i remembered someone who owned the ruin of a telecom tower.
i had known my friend since childhood, when she lived a few streets down from me in our green, overgrown town. for about a year we had been inseperable. we drifted into separate circles as we grew up, but had remained friends until we each moved to different cities and lost contact.
her dad had purchased the decommissioned telecommunications tower on the hill just outside of town: a tall, ziggurat shaped spire, ringed with drum-shaped equipment, which could be seen from most places. it had originally been a uniform white, but her dad had the notion it should be bright orange, instead. he seemed a bit of a lonely figure, given to occasional bursts of inspiration, which inevitably dissipated before they could be fully realised. in this case, he only ever got the contractors to paint the lower levels before he gave up, or the funding ran out, and for years afterwards the tower was a blodgy patchwork of white and orange.
the tower looked quite pretty in that form. growing
up, i remember there were often barbeques and picnics on
the grassy hill. we never went into the tower, however.
it was under permanent renovation. it was to become a
museum to telecommunications history, a multistorey
function centre, a hotel. what it really became over the
years, was an increasingly grimy ruin.
i returned home after years of living in a different
city. the tower was still there on the hill outside
town. i had forgot it existed, had in my recollections
of my home somehow burnished out this ruin which could
be seen from anywhere in town, a constant presence
towering over the streets.
the tower was even more decrepit now. it was covered in layers of scaffolding, either in service of some new renovation, or as a last means of holding the decaying thing up. underneath, its blotchy patchwork paint had faded to a stained grey. but the entry way was open, and lit up against the dusky sky.
inside was the open, ground floor atrium. i remembered this really had been a telecommunications museum, when the government had owned the building. i remembered it had been bright and airy, although i could not recall anything concrete of the exhibits. now it was stripped of all its furnishings and lit with cheap bulbs. they put out a hazy yellow light, or flickered intermittently. the lifts were out of order so i took the stairs up to the next level.
it was a mess. up here, the lift doors were open and spewing out cables and bits of machine parts. i became aware of a constant humming sound resonating through the tower. there were even fewer working lights up here. the walls, somehow, looked filthier than the outside.
i considered crossing the floor to the viewing platform, where i could look out over the town, but then through the far doors that way came a miserably shuffling figure. it did not appear to have noticed me, but it was drawing closer and i did not want to know who it was. i crept back down the stairs, then surprised myself by breaking into a panicked rush and fleeing out into the open air. as i did so, behind me, the lights in the tower began flickering off: first the ones closest to the entrance, then incrementally up each level, until the last bulbs went off in the top floor windows.