The man parked his truck in front of the house. It wasn't his house of course; it was just where he lived. More precisely, it was another place on a list of places he had lived. He had been here for a little more than a year and it was as good as any. The house, like him, was of no interest to anyone. It just existed in this neighborhood, unchanging, unremarkable, unnoticed. No one painted the house. No one tended a garden. No one hung Christmas decorations. The people who lived in the other houses on this street didn't do those things either. This house was a holding pen and the people in it cycled through until they were finally cut loose and forgotten.
So here he was again, parked in front of the house, luckier than the others because he had a truck left to him by his father. Luckier than most because his face set him apart and pity had its privileges. Pity got him a job and it got him his own room. Everyone wanted to make up some for what he had suffered. They couldn't make it better, of course. Only he could do that.
The man got out of the truck and walked up the strip of concrete that led to the front door. It intersected with a perpendicular strip of concrete that, he believed, was intended to be a porch. Really, it was just a slab of concrete.
The man did not lock his truck because no one in this neighborhood had the energy to steal it or vandalize it. Tired after their hard day of labor, their only ambition was to eat and sleep and get on with the next day. They also knew that the neighbors next door were poor and had nothing worth stealing so why bother. Except for him; he had his shovel. Then again, the shovel was probably only precious to him so it was safe in the truck.
He opened the front door, stepped inside, took off his shoes and put them neatly against the wall. There were three pair in the hall already. His pair made four and now everyone was accounted for. There was a hole in the toe of one of his socks and he could feel the old carpeting scraping against his skin. It felt stiff with all the years of dirt and grime. Tomorrow he would buy a new pair of socks. Tonight he would wash his feet well.
He went to a table in the entry hall and touched the top of the silver bell. It was the kind of bell you rang to summon a shopkeeper or that a teacher rang to call an unruly class to order. He liked the ting. It was so much better than the grating bray of an alarm. He hated the sound of alarms. Of doors closing. Of metal on metal. He hated voices that echoed off concrete walls. He hated the cruel laughter of men.
He touched the little bell again.
It tinged.
The woman who came at the call was a worn out person. She didn't smile when she saw him. In fact, he was almost sure she didn't really see him. She just knew that he was on his side of the table at the right time and she was on her side as they had been every evening for a long time. She picked up a pen and looked at her watch. She noted the time in a big book with the date at the top of the page in bold letters.
"Here you go." She turned the book. He initialed the time she had written down. "Are you hungry? You're a little late, but I have left overs."
He shook his head. He preferred not to speak. He liked to rest his face so that the scar at the side of his mouth didn't pull and pinch.
"Okay. Just don't come looking tonight. I'm still locking things up. Mr. Franks ain't got no self-control. I'll give you 'till eight then the kitchen's shut down for the night."
He shook his head again and mumbled that he wouldn't want any food. She didn't know how he kept going; he ate so little.
"Night then."
She went back to her kitchen and he went on. He passed the living room where three of his housemates were watching TV, not talking, not looking much entertained. Not much living going on in that living room he thought as he climbed the stairs. His back hurt so he paused now and again. There was no decoration of any kind in this place. Women decorated houses and there were no women here so the house was not decorated. The person in the kitchen didn't count. Any womanly allure she had ever possessed had been beaten down, or drained out, or used up years ago. Not that the plainness of the house bothered him. It really was better this way. There were no distractions so he could spend his time planning, and reading his maps, and marking in his book, and reading his Bible. Unlike the others, he had plenty to do. He had a purpose.
In his room, he hung up his jacket and put aside his hat as he always did. He went back down the hall to the bathroom and did his business. After he showered, he put his clothes back on. He was careful to always have his clothes on when he wasn't in his own room. Even though the other three men in the house were of an age and experience, one could never be too careful. He had learned that lesson in spades. No one would catch him off guard; no one would get him down on his knees ever again.
Back in his room he undressed once more, shook out his clothes and put them in the dresser drawer. They were a bit dirty, but not bad. Since the door had no lock, he put the chair up against it. He would know sure enough if someone tried to come in while he slept. If anyone did that, he would be ready even if there were a lot of them.
The man dressed in his pajamas and then he sat on the bed. It was a surprisingly good bed and he slept well in it even though it was small and narrow, like a child's bed. Perhaps it had been a child's bed. One time when he had been unable to sleep, after the Spanish man came to live in the house, he watched and waited all through the night. He even brought his shovel inside and held it at the ready. He even took the gun out of its hiding place and put it under his pillow. That's how afraid he had been. The Spanish person did not come for him, but still the man couldn't sleep, so he passed the time by peeling away little bits of the rose-printed wallpaper. Underneath that paper was more wallpaper. That wallpaper had yellow ducks on it. Little duckies. He had thought those words and he suddenly remembered being a child. Rubber duckies in the bath. The sight of that wallpaper made him smile because it was so unexpected. His mouth hardly hurt because he was concentrating on the duckies.
He had fallen asleep then, feeling safe in his child-sized bed. Even now he could still see the little patch of yellow duck wallpaper when he turned over to face the wall, but it no longer made him smile. The Spanish person had gone away after a week and soon after the man forgot all about him. That came as no surprise because his memory was getting worse. He only remembered the brutal things that had been done to him, his mission and dates. People on the outside were big on dates. Still, the man knew there would come a time when he would forget the mission and why he had the maps. That was why he worked so hard now. He had to do as much good as possible before it was too late.
Sitting on his bed, the man took a book from under the pillow and made his notes for the day. They were very good notes. He looked back at the beginning of the book and read through the journal. Had there really been so many? It pleased him that he was able to be so meticulous and that he had accomplished so much.
When he was done, he got up and went to the dresser, an unnecessary piece of furniture. He could have put all his worldly possessions in a small box but, since it was there, he used it. His few clothes were in the second drawer, and the envelope he brought in each night was put deep into the top drawer. He put the maps and journal inside that envelope and tucked it away. Should he die or lose his memory someone would find this envelope and they would mail it because he had put postage on it, and it was addressed. And there was a note in it that said 'please mail'. He only hoped that he would remember to put everything inside when the time came.
On top of the dresser were his medicines. He put in his eye drops and rubbed the salve onto the scars on his face. He took out his teeth and put them in the water glass. There was no mirror so he wasn't tempted to look at the odd reflection of a face grown old, collapsed in on itself, scarred, and ugly. When he was finished with all this, he opened the top drawer again and took out a pack of cards that had come in the mail the day before. Just in time since the pack in the truck was now almost empty. The woman downstairs had opened his package and that was fine. That was her job after all. When she saw what it was, she looked a little embarrassed. She said:
"Sorry. It's the rules to open stuff," she said. Then she added, "God bless you."
He mumbled at her and for a minute they were almost friends. Now he shuffled through the cards, admiring each in turn. It had cost him a pretty penny to get a combo pack but he didn't mind. The printing was beautiful, the colors rich and the gold details bright as a celestial light. He probably wouldn't be able to use all of them in his lifetime, but no matter. It had been money well spent. He chose one, held it between his folded hands, knelt down beside his bed and said his prayers. When he was done, he put the card in the pocket of his pajama shirt.
That was it. The day was done. It was eight o'clock and the sun was down. He closed his eyes and he slept well, as does any man who has put in a good day's work.
"'Tis the game shot, Andrew! My arrow flew straight and sure, it did."
Finn slapped Andrew, Mick's resident wannabe movie star, on the back as he went to collect the darts. He was inordinately pleased with himself since Andrew was an opponent to be reckoned with.
"Pure luck. Besides, I'm handicapped. I can't see straight. My eyes feel like they're going to fall out of my head," Andrew complained.
"Is it a cold you have? I thought your eyes looked a little bloodshot."
Finn pulled the darts from the board and placed them on the ledge where they were kept for anyone who had the urge to try their luck. He turned back to Andrew who had seated himself and was nursing his scotch.
"Nope, my friend," Andrew said with the air of a world-weary traveler dying to recount each step of his impressive journey. "I have been on set all day being dunked in a tank of water that was doctored to look like the ocean. They've got more chemicals in that stuff than Monsanto has patents."
"And what is it you were doing in the tank of fake sea water?"
Finn took a chair at the table, grabbed up his Guinness, stretched his legs and crossed one booted foot over the other.
"I was dying," Andrew said matter-of-factly.
"You didn't do it very well, now did you?" Finn answered. "You're sitting here having your cocktail, after all."
"Very funny. Dying is harder than it looks. I mean you can't be all jerky about it until the director tells you to panic. I've got this assistant-assistant director or something holding my head down—" Andrew held up a finger so Finn would attend to the most important part. "—Oh, and that's supposed to be Jack Nicholson's hand. Did I tell you that I booked a Nicholson flick? Not that I met him, but when you see the movie you'll think it's him. We'll both be in the credits."
"Seems like you're coming up in the world. Booking a lot lately." Finn nodded and smiled so Andrew could see that he was full of admiration.
"I am finally paying the bills with my art," Andrew said and Finn swore the lanky man's chest broadened another inch. "Yep. Yep. I think it's all going to work out. I really do. Anyway, here's the deal – this is where the acting comes in – I'm supposed to think this drowning thing is like a prank and be all smiling and having fun while I'm held under. Then the director gives the cue and I'm supposed to react: oh, God, he's seriously going to kill me! That's when I panic. The director wants my eyes open all the way 'till I'm dead. This director is a real SOB because he likes to hold out 'til the last minute for that transition. Well, I can tell you, do that whole scene ten or twelve times looking through that chemical water and your eyes would be bloodshot too and your aim would be off. Not to mention, it's scary. I mean really scary, but I couldn't let on. I have to show them that I can take it; I'm a real actor."
"Andrew, my friend, let me give you a bit of advice." Finn leaned forward so that he was half over the table. He cocked a finger inviting Andrew to do the same. When Andrew was close, Finn said: "Next time, die right the first time."
Andrew snapped back up and muttered into his drink. "Big help you are."
Finn chuckled, stood and raised his glass.
"Sure, I'm pulling your leg. I'm honored to know a man who has been done in by Jack Nicholson. I think we should be talking to Geoffrey about a party the night the movie comes out."
"Naw, that's okay. I wouldn't want him to go to any trouble."
Finn smiled. Andrew, thirty years old, had blushed at the thought of being celebrated by the neighborhood folks. Finn wondered if he would remember them when he was a star. He hoped he would find out one day, for surely he wished Andrew the best.
"You should go home and rest those eyes," Finn suggested.
"You're probably right. Except I have plenty of time to rest tomorrow. I don't have any calls, no auditions and, now that I'm dead, I'm finished with this project." Finn was about to assure him that his vacation wouldn't last long, but Andrew's attention was elsewhere. "There's Monica. Man, she is gorgeous. I'll see you, Finn."
Andrew was off. Finn glanced at the dartboard thinking to practice a little and then decided he'd had enough of the darts and ambled over to the bar. He crossed his arms on the gleaming surface, put his boot upon the brass railing, and kept a finger on his glass, trying to decide whether to shove it Geoffrey's way for a refill or call it a night. Geoffrey took the matter into his own hands. When the glass was filled up and back in front of Finn, Geoffrey crossed his arms on the bar too. They were silent as they looked over the patrons, both thinking the same thing: the ladies that night were particularly fetching. Finn looked at Geoffrey and realized he was quite the dandy tonight, too. His spectacular dreds were on full display. He looked a bit like a lion with his long thin face and that mane of twisted ropes.
"You've no beanie tonight," Finn noted.
"De spirit be movin' me, O'Brien. It say, 'show de glory of you, Geoffrey'."
"Well, the spirit was right, my man. Not that I don't like the beanies, but change is good."
"So, you be okay wit de funeral and all?"
Finn furrowed his brows and took a drink. It took him a moment and then he remembered sitting in this bar, wearing his dark suit, and coddling his morose attitude after his court hearing.
"Ah, Geoffrey, I'm sorry. No one has died. I was in court. My divorce was made final. It only felt like a funeral."
"Ah," Geoffrey raised his chin. "Like de death. Gotta mourn; gotta let it go."
"Yes, my friend. That is the truth," Finn agreed. Tired of standing, he slid onto a stool. He was getting hungry but didn't feel like a burger. He would finish up his drink and be going on home; perhaps he would pick up Chinese on the way.
"Der be a reason," Geoffrey went on, embracing the roll of philosophical bartender. "De reason is der be another lady just waitin' on you, O'Brien. See me? I know my woman be de only one for me, but we don't be livin' wit each other and dat makes it good all around. I go home and we be happy; I leave and we be happy. Dat's good for us. Everybody be different. But you, O'Brien? You be needin' a good woman in your bed every night sayin' sweetness. Dat's good for you."
"Sure, that is the truth," Finn answered back. "I'm an old fashioned sort."
Laughter erupted from the end of the bar and they both turned to look. Andrew was holding court and not just with the lovely Monica. Two other ladies had joined their group. Finn smiled.
"You know, Geoffrey, here's the thing," he said. "It was hard standing there and having fewer words said to separate us than were said to bind us together. We went off as if the years had not mattered. The woman I married would not have been so carefree about such a thing as divorce."
"That not be de woman you marry," Geoffrey said.
"Agreed. That's why I am fine. I'm more disappointed I think. I truly believed those vows, my friend. I don't know where I'm going to find a woman who…"
Finn never finished his thought because at that moment Mick's Irish Bar and Grill came under attack. The door was ripped open so violently that the women surrounding Andrew scattered, laying themselves back against the bar so that whoever was coming through the door would go for the actor first.
But the woman with the big blonde hair, the woman who had Finn's back every waking minute of the day, had no interest in Andrew or his beauties. Instead Cori Anderson stormed through Mick's and stopped a foot from Finn. She threw back her shoulders, raised herself to an impressive height and, as her nostrils flared, she barked:
"Who in the hell do you think you are, you Irish son of a bitch?"