The man had always wished he could be a poet. He had almost sighed out loud at the thought while carefully restraining his characters under the rickety stairs at the back of the shed. He remained silent; always silent when they were around. Though tied up and filled with fear, they were in charge. He did not speak, but only removed the tape from their mouths and listened. Sometimes they screamed, or cried, or begged, but they all told their story after a time if one knew how to listen. Tape was reapplied and the man lumbered up the stairs with one pause to pull the light’s drawstring when he was near the top. It was a short walk across his weed covered yard to the house where warmth awaited him.
The man entered the kitchen to find his wife had left. A small note lay beside a hot teapot and cup. The man read it with a chuckle before pouring the tea. A couple years ago, he was turned onto green tea by his wife. She worked down at the local Y, administration, and one of the young yoga instructors had introduced the Chinese tea to the office who in turn brought it home to their husbands. According to his wife, he had been the only one to accept this exotic addition to their household with no protest. The man simply smiled and said perhaps she was a better cook than most. This statement had agreed with her, as with most things he said to her.
The routine, perfected over the years, lay before the man in his mind. He would sit down in his breakfast nook and finish his green tea while watching the leaves play across his backyard. After the morning dishes were clean, he would make his way to the typewriter in the den, where he compiled his listenings; first from memory into notebooks before he typed them up for editing. This needed to be done quickly as his memory had faded with age. He was worried that he would soon need to start taking the notebooks with him downstairs; they wouldn’t respect him then.
The man sighed, not interested in tea or his work. The man found his gaze going to the knee high wire fence that ran along the west side of his property, separating him from the house next door. It had been vacate for a couple years allowing its yard to go wild, before being recently bought by a young couple. The Garrisons, according to his wife, were from the city and looking to expand and raise their family. The man was uncertain of the criteria, but his wife had confirmed they were good people and advised him of such during their evening walk.
She had indicated that he would love them; friendly and chatty, with an adorable baby girl. The husband was in the man’s line of work. The man had indicated his skeptical surprise, but his wife replied there was no doubt as she had seen the young man unloading notebooks from their moving van. She then moved onto a discussion of how he needed to engage more with the community and how hermits made poor neighbours. The man had stopped listening, now unsettled by the idea of a fellow listener next door.
It was after that walk the man started noticing things. Lights that he didn’t recall turning on; locked doors found ajar; odd marks in the dust that covered the main floor of the shed. At first he thought it was his failing memory, but that did not sooth a growing, uneasy wondering. The characters said nothing outside their normal pleads, but the man felt they were keeping secrets—the end of his career if they started holding back.
Each day these random events began to collect, nagging doubts that unsettled his mind and stomach. He kept his concerns from his wife—they never discussed his work— leaving her to assume the awkward silence and brooding were a consequence of a problem that he would eventually solve. The characters sensed it but could only clumsily try to use it against him, but their ignorance betrayed them.
The man shook his head and stood up. It would end today. He must see for himself. He grabbed his coat and step outside. He paused only to confirm the street was empty before he stepped over the fence. He circled the house twice before he was convinced that the Garrisons were not home. He stopped at the back of the house, gave the yard one more look over, then struggled his way down the steep cement stairs at the back. He wished he had brought a flashlight— he was too old to wander dark basements unassisted.
The room was freshly painted, the smell tickled the man’s nose. There were no furnishings, the floor covered with white sheets. His wife had been right that young Garrison was in his line of work; the room was filled with characters. Walking closer to them, he could see the hopeful distress in their bruised faces, a misplaced optimism that made the man uncomfortable and aware that he was overstepping his boundary. At the same time, looking at their face, the man felt relief and found a smile come to his face. He nodded to them and turned. They called him through their gagged mouths as he silently closed the screen door behind him, and climbing the cement stairs, his hand gripping the pipe railing.
It had brightened up outside, the man blinked and held a hand over his eyes. Looking up, the man was surprised to find young Garrison standing in the yard. The man stopped at the second last step and looked the younger man in the eyes. They were not angry but red with embarrassment. The man found himself blushing as well. The two men stood looking at each other.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “There’s no excuse for what I have done.”
Young Garrison smiled, “I can’t treat you too harshly when I’m guilty of that myself. Who doesn’t want to look in on another’s work?”
The man looked down the cement stairs, the screen door still shut.
“It is lonely work,” he said
“Tell me about it,” Young Garrison laughed, “makes you wish you were a poet. They don’t really have to deal with characters.”
The two men shared a smile.
“I was glad to discover there was a fellow professional in the neighbourhood. I’m embarrassing myself but I have to say I was really excited when I found out from your wife who you were. Your work has been a big influence.”
“Ah.”
"Yeah, I can't listen so well. I mean you can hear the voices in your writing. I'm so far back on the road in comparsion.
Another pause. The man saw young Garrison's eagerness, that drive for perfection. It had been a part of his life once, so long ago. The man liked the idea of being around that sort of energy again.
“We got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over,” Young Garrison wiped his hand and extended it.
“I’m Rolan Garrison.”
The man smiled and took it, a good respectable grip.
“have you ever tried green tea?” he said.
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