INTRIGUING FACT: In 1929, this man named Noah John Rondeau decided he’d had enough of people, so he became a hermit. He lived alone in the Adirondack Mountains and called himself Mayor of Cold River City, Population: 1.
Before IT happened, I would have said this guy was a weirdo. But now I get it. It’s not that I suddenly don’t like people; it’s just that I can’t engage with them all the time. These days, a little bit goes a long way, if that makes any sense. Dad usually doesn’t get back from his construction jobs till after six, and that suits me just fine. After a full day of classes and teachers and now Farley, I need some quality hermit time when I get home.
But try telling that to the Vultures.
Vulture 1: Karen Vargas – Apt. 311
Dad and I had barely started carrying stuff from our U-Haul up to our apartment three weeks ago, when Karen stepped out of the building and marched right up to our truck. She was wearing a short skirt and a top that showed off way too much flesh in the boobular area. Her shoes were what my mom would call highly impractical. I think she thought she looked youthful, but she didn’t; she must be as old as my mom.
She held a paper plate full of cookies.
“Howdy, neighbors,” she said as she handed my dad the plate. “Just a little housewarming treat. Baked them myself last night.”
My dad just looked at her like he was in a drug-induced stupor, which, come to think of it, he was.
“Oh. Thanks,” he said.
“My name’s Karen. Karen Vargas.” She waited for my dad to tell her his name, but since IT happened, Dad often forgets basic social skills.
“And your name is?” she finally asked.
“Pete. Pete Larsen. This is my son, Henry.”
“Nice to meet you, Pete. And Henry,” she added, not even looking at me. “You guys must be moving into 211?”
My dad nodded.
“I’m directly upstairs from you. 311. Did you know the last tenant in your place was running a meth lab?”
That roused my dad a little bit. I know I perked up.
“Seriously?” I asked, even though she still didn’t look at me.
“Didn’t the landlord tell you? No, why would he? Probably thought it would scare you away. The guy who lived there was cooking crystal meth. We only found out ’cause he started a fire one day. The whole building could’ve blown up with all of us inside!”
“Wow.” That’s my dad these days: man of few words.
“I always knew there was something sinister about that guy,” she said, which I didn’t believe for a second. After my brother did what he did, people who barely knew him were quoted in the paper saying things like, “I always felt uneasy around that kid,” or, “He scared me.” Which was a huge steaming pile of bull turds. Jesse never scared anyone.
“If you boys ever need anything, you know where to find me,” she said with a smile, and I thought, How does she know it’s just us boys? How does she know my mom isn’t going to step out the front door at any moment? I think she must’ve asked the superintendent who was moving in.
Anyway, Dad just gave Karen a vague half-smile, then the two of us headed into the building, carrying our enormous coffee table. He didn’t thank her for the cookies or anything, just left her shivering on the sidewalk. Which was fine by me. Later that evening, after we’d finished unloading the truck, I unwrapped the cookies. They were so obviously store-bought. Chips Ahoy! is my best guess.
Still, I ate them all in one sitting. Which didn’t help with my wobblies. Not one bit.
Vulture 2: Mr. Atapattu – Apt. 213
Mr. Atapattu knocked on our door while we were unpacking.
“Hello,” he said when I answered. “I am your next-door neighbor, in 213.” He smiled, revealing a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth. He was dressed neatly in a cardigan and beige pants. I’m guessing he’s in his sixties, but I honestly have no idea. Everyone over thirty just looks old to me.
“I brought you a housewarming treat. Homemade coconut barfi.” He held out a plate.
“Barfy?” I repeated.
“It’s an Indian sweet,” he said. “I’m Sri Lankan, but I cook foods from many regions.”
I took the plate to be polite, then my dad came to the door, and he and Mr. Atapattu shook hands. “I just thought I should introduce myself,” Mr. Atapattu continued, with an accent that made each word sound dignified. “It’s important to know your neighbors. You probably heard about the man who lived here before you. Not a good man. I complained that I smelled chemicals, but Yuri, the superintendent, didn’t believe me. He thought I was engaged in a ‘tit for tat’ because a few of the tenants had complained about my cooking smells.”
“Oh,” my dad replied. Yup, he’s a real conversationalist these days.
There was an awkward silence after that. It dawned on me that Mr. Atapattu was hoping we’d invite him in. “If you need any assistance …”
“No, we’re good. But thanks,” said my dad. Mr. Atapattu’s smile quivered slightly as my dad walked away from the door. I wanted to tell him not to take it personally, that lately my dad is more like a hologram of himself – there, but not there.
Instead, I said, “Thanks for the barf.”
“Barfi.”
Then I closed the door.
The barfi was delicious. Way better than Karen’s “homemade” cookies. I ate all the barfi in one sitting, too.
Still. I don’t want food from them. I don’t want anything from them, except for them to leave us alone.
But they don’t. When I got home today, Karen was at her mailbox. She was wearing tight jeans and another pair of highly impractical shoes.
“Hey, Harry,” she said with a smile.
“Henry.”
“You and your dad settling in okay?”
I nodded as I opened our mailbox.
“So it’s just the two of you, huh?”
“My mom will be joining us any day now,” I replied.
Her smile vanished. “Oh. Where is she?” she said as she dumped her junk mail onto the ledge in front of the mailboxes.
I wanted to say, None of your damn business, but instead I said, “She travels a lot. For work.” Which was a big fat lie, but whatever.
When I finally escaped Vulture 1, Vulture 2 pounced.
Mr. Atapattu poked his head out just as I was unlocking our door. I swear he stands there, staring through the peephole, waiting for someone to walk past. “Good day, Henry.”
“Hi, Mr. Atapattu.”
“Forgive me, but do you have the plate I gave you last week?”
“Oh. Yeah.” I went inside and found the plate, stacked amongst a pile of our own dishes, and handed it to him.
“Thank you,” I said. “The barfi was really good.”
Mr. Atapattu beamed. “Would you like to come in? I could make us some tea.” He must have seen the look on my face because he said, “Oh, of course. Stranger danger. Wait one moment, then.” He disappeared into his apartment. A minute later, he returned with a plastic container full of what looked like a thick yellow soup.
“It’s a vegetable curry.” He handed it to me. “I see your dad through my living-room window, coming home with a pizza every night.… ” He said it almost apologetically, which I thought was appropriate since he was admitting that he spied on us. “A growing boy needs his vegetables.” I swear he glanced at my wobblies when he said that.
“Thanks,” I said. “Oh, is that our phone?” It wasn’t, but it gave me an excuse to hurry back to our apartment and lock the door.
When Dad came home – with a bucket of KFC, not pizza, so there – we ate the vegetable curry as a side dish. The first few bites weren’t bad. Then my nose started running, and my tongue started to burn, and I had to stop. I ate seven pieces of chicken and a pile of fries instead.
“That chicken was supposed to last us two nights, Henry,” my dad said when he looked into the empty bucket.
I just belched.
I’m thinking I might have to start using the back entrance to avoid the Vultures. As my mom says, “Certain people, if you give them an inch, they’ll take a mile.”
Karen and Mr. Atapattu are those people. Their loneliness is like a bad egg fart – you can smell it a mile away.
Dad and I, we have a different kind of loneliness. It’s the kind you feel, even when you’re with someone else, because you know something, or someone, is missing.
Other lonely people can’t fill that emptiness.
Other lonely people only remind you how alone you already are.
Other lonely people only make it worse.