Sunday.
In front of him stood a man breathing heavily. His eyes darting to and fro in disbelief. Scanning everything from the chipped paint to the splintering boards. Finally his eyes rested on him standing in the doorway with a newspaper clutched in one hand.
"Who is this man?" I thought to myself. "Why is he looking at the house like that? Does he think it's gnarled and unbefitting of the neighborhood? I bet he's one of those flashy youngsters from one of the big cities who wants to tear down my house to build some garish condos."
I stood there for a few moment giving him the sternest look I could muster as if to say "I'm not interested in your get-rich-quick scheme. Go away and leave me be."
But, no. Now I could see it in his eyes. He wasn't one of those condo builders, he was just a man standing in front of an old house.
"I wish he'd say something, anything. It's been so long since I have talked to someone else, I don't even know if I can carry on a conversation, let alone start one with a complete stranger," he thought. We stood there for another split second, but then it was all too much. I felt overwhelmed. I couldn't bear the torment of being so close to a brief oasis from my solitude that I turned and walked back inside leaving the man standing there, my solitude now my only comfort.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
A Familiar Face
The day's paper lay folded in the trash can under the sink. He had just laid down for his mid-morning nap when he heard a peculiar sound coming from the street below. Usually at this time of day, everyone in the neighborhood was at work or school, except for the few stragglers who had lost the fight with their alarm clocks that morning.
The sound was that of heavy foot steps and frustrated sighs. His curiosity forced his joints to move through the house and struggle with the lock on the front door. When he stepped outside, his body was hit with the heat of the day. He felt like the combined forces of heat and humidity were smothering him. It had rained earlier that day and the sun was evaporating the fallen moisture back into the air like a thick, muggy cloud.
Searching for the noise, he stood staring out from his porch. In front of him was a barren savanna littered with wreckage from those who stood nervously at its edge, but who would not dare to cross its border. His left ear prickled as a muffled sound traveled down his ear canal, its source still out of sight. As he walked through the crispy grass, he stumbled on empty cans, rocks, and an assortment of balls. "If only someone would come and claim one of these balls," he thought to himself, his heart longing for the human contact.
He was suddenly distracted by a figure diving to the ground out of the corner of his eye. He had reached the sidewalk, and found himself looking at a rather odd boy. After diving into the grass beside the road, the boy jumped up and began looking around frantically. He could see the boy's eyes widen in terror as they darted to and fro from the pale sidewalk to the cracked asphalt baking in the midday sun. Something about the boy was familiar, but he couldn't quite place what it was. He felt strangely drawn to the boy as if they were oppositely charged magnets. He now recalled, from murmurings he had heard around town, that the boy was called James or John. No, his name was definitely James. When James finally spotted a box lying not far from him on the road, his faced relaxed. Suddenly he realized why James looked so familiar. James reminded him of his son.
It had happened what seemed like only a moment ago. A shot, the sound of glass shattering into millions of pieces, and then the worst sound of all, a scream followed by a thud that reverberated like an earthquake. They were out of Coke. He pulled the car up in front of the Seven Eleven down the street and sat idling while his son, Peter, jumped out and ran into the store. Usually they both went in together, but his arthritis was beginning to get bad in one of his knees. In a flurry of motion, as Peter was paying for the Coke, a hooded figure ran up from the back of the store, a gun in his out stretched hand. Without a second thought, he shot both Peter and the clerk, then lunged for the open cash register and bolted out of the store.
It didn't matter to him what happened to the murderer; all that mattered was that he was lost. His whole life had been about his family. Peter was everything to him, especially since the death of his wife a year before due to cancer. Guilt constantly plagued his mind. "If only I had gone in instead. My knee didn't hurt that much, I could have gone in. I should have gone in. Why didn't I go in?" It was a battle every morning to get out of bed and face a new day in his now empty house. Whenever he left the house, he was constantly followed by the pitiful gazes of his neighbors. His posture became more slumped to shield himself from the eyes, all the eyes.
Shaken by the memory, he looked up and found James looking at him as strangely, as he imagined, he had looked at James. Their eyes met briefly and for an instant he thought he could see a glint of the same lingering void that he had had for so long. Then, the look vanished. James, now tightly clutching his precious box, hopped away. He slowly turned, and as he did, the house that had sheltered him for so long, yet left him exposed to the harsh elements of the past, loomed before him.
The sound was that of heavy foot steps and frustrated sighs. His curiosity forced his joints to move through the house and struggle with the lock on the front door. When he stepped outside, his body was hit with the heat of the day. He felt like the combined forces of heat and humidity were smothering him. It had rained earlier that day and the sun was evaporating the fallen moisture back into the air like a thick, muggy cloud.
Searching for the noise, he stood staring out from his porch. In front of him was a barren savanna littered with wreckage from those who stood nervously at its edge, but who would not dare to cross its border. His left ear prickled as a muffled sound traveled down his ear canal, its source still out of sight. As he walked through the crispy grass, he stumbled on empty cans, rocks, and an assortment of balls. "If only someone would come and claim one of these balls," he thought to himself, his heart longing for the human contact.
He was suddenly distracted by a figure diving to the ground out of the corner of his eye. He had reached the sidewalk, and found himself looking at a rather odd boy. After diving into the grass beside the road, the boy jumped up and began looking around frantically. He could see the boy's eyes widen in terror as they darted to and fro from the pale sidewalk to the cracked asphalt baking in the midday sun. Something about the boy was familiar, but he couldn't quite place what it was. He felt strangely drawn to the boy as if they were oppositely charged magnets. He now recalled, from murmurings he had heard around town, that the boy was called James or John. No, his name was definitely James. When James finally spotted a box lying not far from him on the road, his faced relaxed. Suddenly he realized why James looked so familiar. James reminded him of his son.
It had happened what seemed like only a moment ago. A shot, the sound of glass shattering into millions of pieces, and then the worst sound of all, a scream followed by a thud that reverberated like an earthquake. They were out of Coke. He pulled the car up in front of the Seven Eleven down the street and sat idling while his son, Peter, jumped out and ran into the store. Usually they both went in together, but his arthritis was beginning to get bad in one of his knees. In a flurry of motion, as Peter was paying for the Coke, a hooded figure ran up from the back of the store, a gun in his out stretched hand. Without a second thought, he shot both Peter and the clerk, then lunged for the open cash register and bolted out of the store.
It didn't matter to him what happened to the murderer; all that mattered was that he was lost. His whole life had been about his family. Peter was everything to him, especially since the death of his wife a year before due to cancer. Guilt constantly plagued his mind. "If only I had gone in instead. My knee didn't hurt that much, I could have gone in. I should have gone in. Why didn't I go in?" It was a battle every morning to get out of bed and face a new day in his now empty house. Whenever he left the house, he was constantly followed by the pitiful gazes of his neighbors. His posture became more slumped to shield himself from the eyes, all the eyes.
Shaken by the memory, he looked up and found James looking at him as strangely, as he imagined, he had looked at James. Their eyes met briefly and for an instant he thought he could see a glint of the same lingering void that he had had for so long. Then, the look vanished. James, now tightly clutching his precious box, hopped away. He slowly turned, and as he did, the house that had sheltered him for so long, yet left him exposed to the harsh elements of the past, loomed before him.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Daily Routine
Bleak sunlight shown through the dusty, half-opened blinds of his bedroom window on the second floor. Shattered glass sparkled on the floor from where a rock had flown through the window the previous night. The clock on the antique night stand read 6:01 am, a minute late. As he got out of bed his bones creaked in protest. In past years the coffee machine could be heard bubbling down stairs, but now all was silent. Soon a piercing whistle would fill the whole house, invading every dust covered inch.
The floor boards popped as he hobbled down the hallway, its walls lined with photographs of faces long gone. His eyes fell to the floor as he passed. Once in the kitchen, he put a kettle of water on the stove. He then bustled making his usual, Bran Flakes. There was no clean bowl in the cupboard, so he found one in the sink from the day before and swished a little water around in it. There were still some crusty, milk-soaked bran flakes stuck on the side, but he didn't mind. As he lowered himself into the only chair at the table, he heard a faint thud.
It took him a minute or two to unlatch the old dead bolt on the front door. These days it was a Herculean feat to get the lock to budge. Once he got the lock to turn, he opened the front door and found his morning paper waiting for him on the porch. For a moment he stood on the porch looking out at the deserted street that bared his name. A sudden shriek from within the house made him jump. By the time he walked back to the kitchen and fixed himself a cup of Earl Grey to go with his daily dose of fiber, his Bran Flakes were soggy.
The floor boards popped as he hobbled down the hallway, its walls lined with photographs of faces long gone. His eyes fell to the floor as he passed. Once in the kitchen, he put a kettle of water on the stove. He then bustled making his usual, Bran Flakes. There was no clean bowl in the cupboard, so he found one in the sink from the day before and swished a little water around in it. There were still some crusty, milk-soaked bran flakes stuck on the side, but he didn't mind. As he lowered himself into the only chair at the table, he heard a faint thud.
It took him a minute or two to unlatch the old dead bolt on the front door. These days it was a Herculean feat to get the lock to budge. Once he got the lock to turn, he opened the front door and found his morning paper waiting for him on the porch. For a moment he stood on the porch looking out at the deserted street that bared his name. A sudden shriek from within the house made him jump. By the time he walked back to the kitchen and fixed himself a cup of Earl Grey to go with his daily dose of fiber, his Bran Flakes were soggy.
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