Harvard and Harlem
Meghan Lamb
12:45
It is a humid, sunny day. The air feels liquid and laborious to move through. There’s a smell to it, like burning oil. For some reason, I feel compelled to walk two miles to the empty lot. By the time I arrive, my skin is slick and radiating heat.
I drive by this empty lot on a regular basis (to and from the gym). I chose this lot because it seemed accessible. Or, perhaps it seemed accessible simply because it was familiar: something that I see without seeing.
Apparently, this empty lot is not accessible. At least, not as accessible as I assumed it would be. A chain link metal fence wraps around the perimeter, no gaps. A rusted sign reads KEEP OUT. CONSTRUCTION AREA.
12:50
Red solo cups have been half-crushed, and stuck in several fence gaps. I count eight of them, but I can’t tell what they’re for. Maybe cigarette butts? Makeshift ashtrays? That’s my best guess. I peek inside a few cups, but there’s nothing in them.
12:55
The lot is half a sidewalk block. About a yard’s width from the fence, the sidewalk sharply dips into the gravel. On the other side, there’s an alley lined with garbage cans. On the alley side, another sign that warns KEEP OUT.
On this side, the ground is intact. I can detect the faded yellow lines of former parking spaces, half-meshed with weeds.
12:58
There are big, bushy bundles of heart-shaped weeds. Clusters of finger-shaped flowers. Sinewy sticks of white, pebble-shaped buds. Froths of mauve-hued switchgrass. Clover. Thistle. Snowy dandelions. Stray twigs commingled with same-sized bits of iron pipe.
1:02
Sandbags are scattered all along the inside of the fence.
1:03
A single wood plank, painted half white, half red.
1:04
The only evidence of construction is a raised mound of chopped rocks and dirt, about two and a half feet high, and 20-feet long. The mound has almost been entirely consumed by growth. Clearly, no one has worked on this construction site in quite awhile.
1:10
A garbage truck pulls up into the alley as I pace around the fence. The driver doesn’t notice me, at first. I have to squeeze around the truck. I call, excuse me, to make sure he knows I’m there. I see him nod, acknowledging the sound. He’s looking forward as he nods, which signals, even though he’s heard me, he does not know where I am, did not expect me to be there.
1:13
A used gift card for Uber Eats. A crushed tall boy of Stella Artois. A fringe of snack bags. Cheetos. Doritos. All faded the same shade of blue.
1:17
It’s weird that there’s nowhere to get in without climbing up the fence. Maybe the fence is meant to reassure the nearby residents? This is a fairly nice block, filled with brick bungalow houses. Across from a park. But also near a car wash and a gravel plant.
1:19
A Walmart tag for something that was $5.46. An empty plastic bag labeled Pro Plug System, Trex Honey Grove.
1:22
Flies buzz around me, land on me. They are the awful, biting kind. I have to move, to walk around while I am writing.
1:25
I finally find a small gap in the fence, twined together with some kind of rusted wire. The wire is crude, like the tip of a hanger, stretched out. I untwine the gap, but I can’t push the fence without toppling this segment. It’s propped against a chunk of cracked macadam.
In other words: I cannot break into the thing that I am trying to break into because I am afraid of breaking it.
1:28
A corner with an arm’s length strand of wire hanging down it. The wire is curved and curled in little ringlets. Some plant vines, the same color, the same texture. Without touching them, I can’t tell which is which.
1:30
I watch a tow truck drag away a street-parked SUV.
1:32
A garden of weeds, blooming out of a burst-open sandbag.
1:34
A laminated photo name tag: CANDY SCHWARTZ. A pile of cigarette butts underneath one of the solo cups.
1:36
A pack of Game Leaf dark cigars. A pack of Swisher Sweets. A personal pan, 10 x 10 box of Jet’s Pizza. The box is printed with some kind of strange, ominous-sounding motto: JET’S—BETTER, BECAUSE IT HAS TO BE.
1:42
An orange, oblong ribbon, with some kind of message in block lettering. It’s mostly buried in a mound of dirt. I kick the ribbon loose, step on one side, and use my other shoe to smooth it out. The lettering says, FUNERAL.
Meghan Lamb is the author of Mirror Translation (Blamage Books, 2025), COWARD (Spuyten Duyvil, 2022), Failure to Thrive (Apocalypse Party, 2021), All of Your Most Private Places (Spork Press, 2020), and Silk Flowers (Birds of Lace, 2017). Her work has also appeared in Quarterly West, DIAGRAM, Redivider, and Passages North, among other publications. She currently teaches creative writing through the University of Chicago, Story Studio, and GrubStreet. She is an editor for the magazine Always Crashing and curator of the Always Crashing Reading and Performance Series.
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