I look down the tiny but deep corridor formed by the crawl space under the house. Studying software development at night, I‘ve taken a job as an alarm installer for the Park Cities in Dallas. Park Cities is an umbrella name for two of the more affluent cities in the Dallas area. Each installation has its own quirks as the vast majority of the houses were old and had been expanded and refurbished more than once, some opulently. This particular house wasn’t very wide on the side facing the street but sat deep into the back of the property. There are three of us and we need to get a wire from the front door to the back of the house where the alarm panel resides. John, the team lead, has already drilled the hole in the front door frame and left a rod protruding down into the crawl space. The homeowner loves to talk about the house and the foyer she just had redone. “We flew these marble tiles in from Italy. They are each six inches thick.” I look at the tiles, feigning interest and mention how nice they are. It seems ludicrous that they are six inches thick but then this is Park Cities. I have little doubt her comments were more towards not damaging the tile than how nice they looked.
The entrance to the crawl space opening is located in the backyard and removing a plate exposes the entrance. Usually the crawl space in these old homes are very open and you can easily see in all directions. However, this time there was nothing but a long tiny corridor two and a half feet wide and two feet tall that went from the back to the front of the house, or so we are told. John and I have worked together for over nine months. He is big, nearing six and half feet tall with more than broad shoulders. Kevin, our newest addition is the smallest and the youngest. He is perfect for this run but one look down the tube and he vehemently refuses the task. While I could push more for him to crawl the space I put on an overshirt to protect my work uniform from the dirt, grab the end of the wire, a flashlight, and as my arrogance shushed the voice in my head to not go, start to crawl, the spool of wire left spinning behind me as I make my way.
Not being claustrophobic has its advantage in situations such as this. I can see the end of the small tunnel and have been told there is an opening at the door. As I reach the wall I see it’s not an opening at all but a series of tight turns, first to the right, then down then immediately forward again. As I clear the turns it occurs to me my body could twist around just right to get through. Another fifteen to twenty feet and I enter the area under the foyer. I can see the rod and quickly attach the wire, give the signal and away it goes into the wood. My task is done.
As I turn to go back the twisting of the corridor comes back in stark reality. The angles and the twisting came in my mind and I realize my body cannot bend the same way backward unless I crawl the space feet first. Even then the corridor isn’t large enough to see where I am going should I even attempt it. I shine the light around the space. I am in a box about six by five feet and about two feet tall. The words of the homeowner echoes in my head “…this tile is six inches thick” and there is no way they will remove the floor just to get me out. The realization hits me. I have no exit. I ignore the panic building in my mind and move the light around once more only to find the space seems to be smaller than before and the air, stale and dusty, is starting to press on my chest.
I am encased by walls made of concrete and wood. Twelve inches of concrete from the ground up with an upright two by eight beam on top of it and then a two by something on top of that. Once more I shine the light around only this time there is an opening that wasn’t there before. Someone was kind enough to leave an opening where one two by eight board ends and another begins. The space is just over a foot wide. Can I fit through that? I yell at John to see if there is another crawl space on that side of the house. He tells me he will check. The panic is prominent and I do what I can to keep it at bay while I wait for an answer. What feels like an hour is really just a few minutes and I can hear his voice, distantly, coming from the other side of the wall. Yes, there is a crawl space on that side also. I yell “If I can get to that side, can I get to you?” The distant voice replies “Yes, if you can get to this side the rest is easy.”
It’s amazing how determination and hope can overcome panic. I fit one arm through then my head, it is slow going with the bare wood causing abrasions on the back of my head and my face and ears. My head is through and I can feel my chest being compressed as I force my way through the hole. Something catches my overshirt and I feel like the space is fighting to retain its prey. I push harder and hear the material tear as I inch forward a bit more. My stomach slips through and my pelvis, shifting at an angle to take maximum advantage of the space, moves a fraction up on the left side and then the right and repeats. Suddenly I am through hole. My overshirt is now a rag that hangs around my back and shoulder and my head and ears have been better but I am through the hole.
I regain my focus and shine the light around my new home. It is the same height but much larger. The light hits towards where John is and my heart and hope fall away. Between John and me is an old air-duct that fills the entire space between the ground and the floor above it except for the area where it dips underneath the two by eight board. The dip curves beneath the wood over a span of about two to three feet leaving a space to crawl through smaller but slightly wider than the last hole. I can see John’s face and I incredulously say “You said I could get there from this space!” John’s voice carried across the ductwork “This is easy. You can get through that”.
John’s faith rebuilds mine and my hope increases as I crawl towards the ductwork. The duct is four feet wide. In all the houses I crawled I have never seen one this wide. Even with my arm stretched out I cannot reach the other side. One arm goes first then my head. A bit more squirming and I can just feel the edge of the duct. I wrap my fingers on the corner enough and I have leverage. Strange what goes through your mind at times. I giggle internally as my mind wonders if this is what childbirth is like. As I both pull and push forward something on the duct digs through my pant leg and scraps my skin. Again I am stuck but determined and I pull and push and the fabric gives way and is replaced by a scrape down my leg and I move forward. The house seems determined to keep me and in one last attempt it grabs one of my shoes and keeps it as I slip through to the other side. It was just one more piece of clothing lost but I decide I am good with it. I look at John and say “I didn’t think I could fit through there.” Turning and crawling towards the opening to the outside, John casually mentions “I didn’t think you could either but I wasn’t going to tell you that.”
I had about a month left before I quit and started my new career. I crawled only one other house in that time and the crawl space was spacious, easily three feet high but still the area felt tiny and shrinking with each second.
It’s been almost forty years and even now I hesitate sitting on the window side of a plane because of the wall curving towards me. Seeing anything in a picture or in film that shows a place that even remotely resembles a tight space causes a shiver in me and I have been gifted with a rare but recurring nightmare of that episode in my life. As I look back it occurs to me that I probably could have navigated the tunnel but at the time, whether it was fear or just belief I could not have made it, the thought of crawling from a small enclosure to an even smaller one seemed insurmountable.
I recently explained this story to someone in detail, something I have never done before, resulting in three consecutive nights of intense nightmares. Coincidently a friend of mine posted the following on social media and it hit home, hence this writing:
You gotta resurrect the deep pain within you and give it a place to live that’s not within your body. Let it live in art. Let it live in writing. Let it live in music. Let it be devoured by building brighter connections. Your body is not a coffin for pain to be buried in. Put it somewhere else.
~ Ehime Ora
So many lessons from this endeavor: listen to your inner voice, faith and hope in someone can strengthen that person, help comes in many forms, even years later, and my favorite: the Boss does provide alternate paths, even if you don’t think you’ll fit.
Copyright © 2024 G. Steven Nolte – Rights for non-commercial reproduction granted: May be copied in its entirety, but neither retyped nor edited.