1. Awakening

Evan woke as pre-dawn light filtered through dirty windows. His bedroom was cold, but his down comforter kept him warm and it took an act of will to get out of bed and stumble into the bathroom for a long, hot shower. He dried himself, brushed his hair, didn’t bother to shave, dressed in two layers of Heattech ultra warm underwear, blue jeans, a wool shirt and a dirty pullover made of soft, polyester fleece.

He headed downstairs to the kitchen. A few dirty dishes sat in the sink waiting to be washed. The remnants of a simple, homemade meal for one lay on the kitchen table.  No stickers, no children’s artwork nor clever magnets stuck to the outside of the refrigerator.

Evan glanced at the expensive Jura automatic expresso machine, but it hadn’t worked in weeks and he didn’t have the energy to pack it up and ship it to the repair facility, nor could he afford the money to pay for the repair. He rinsed out a Bialetti stove top expresso maker, filled the chamber with water, gently packed roasted coffee into the filter, screwed it together, set it on the stove and lite the burner. While the coffee water heated, Evan turned on a small radio. NPR’s Morning Edition announced commodity prices and ever-rising stock market values. The confident, professional voice made clear that everything was as it should be. “Morning Edition is brought to you by Freedom Insurance, providing the money you need for a happy retirement. And by the listeners of WAMU.” The smugness irritated Evan and he turned the radio off.

Water percolated up the spout of the Bialetti and dripped down through the coffee, gurgling at the end when it was almost empty.  He turned the burner off and poured himself a cup. When he smelled milk from the refrigerator, it was sour.  He poured it out in the sink, threw away the paper milk carton and drank his coffee black, staring out the kitchen window, watching autumn leaves drift down from oak trees surrounding his home.

Evan was getting old and living alone he spent more time in his own head. His friends had died or drifted away. His wife had passed three years ago. His children had moved West. They called, sometimes as much as once a month, but their lives had become increasingly unknown to him. He asked about their work, but they only shared their triumphs. He asked about his grandchildren, but they kept getting older so quickly that he could never get a grip on them, couldn't really picture who they were or what they hoped to be. They asked him about his health, which he refused to share.

Evan finished his coffee, poured another half cup from the dregs, slurped it down and put his cup in the sink along with dirty dishes from the table. He turned on the hot water to wash the dishes, thought better of it and turned the water off.  He walked into the living room, longed to sink into one of comfortable sofas, surround himself with pillows and doze off, but he knew he’d never sleep. Maybe a short walk to get some milk would help.

Evan put on his heavy overcoat, his battered Borsalino hat and walked out the front door. It was bitterly cold, but the fresh air felt good on his face. He started up his long driveway, the accumulation of Fall’s dry leaves crunching under his shoes. He had lived in his house for more than thirty years, watching the neighborhood slowly gentrify.  The Carson’s house had a new extension. Old Mrs. Everheart’s four room shack on a half-acre next to him had been torn down after she died and two small MacMansions had replaced it. But as he trudged up the hill, it was familiarity not differences that struck him, until he came to the corner of Arden, where two cement barriers narrowed the street to one lane, and his neighbor Mrs. Henderson stood in the uniform of the Community Finance Committee, shifting from foot to foot to keep warm. A banner waved over the intersection, “Money and Time. Don’t Waste Them!”

“Good morning Mr. Petersen. It’s so good to see you on this cold morning.” Mrs. Henderson checked her Apple iPad as she asked, “And where are you off to today?”

“I’m just going over to the Coop to get some fresh milk.”

Mrs. Henderson frowned.  Tapped out a few letters and numbers. “You’ve used up your Local Area Permit for this month, Mr. Petersen.  You can either buy a single pass for this morning or re-up at our premium rate for the rest of the month.  Now don’t forget.  That only gives you the right to walk within ten blocks of your home, and the Coop is, of course, across Seven Locks Road, which means it’s eleven blocks away, and you’ll have to buy the Wide Area Permit to visit there.” Evan looked distraught. Mrs. Henderson seemed sympathetic. “Of course, you can get the WAP at Seven Locks Road, but it’s cheaper to get it from me as an add-on to your LAP, as soon as you renew it.”

“You know it’s late in the month and my Social Security check hasn’t come yet. I just don't have any ready cash. I can pay you back next week. Just let’s make one exception to the rules. Please.”

“You know I can’t do that, Mr. Petersen. We’re both on GPS and the algorithms would catch that violation instantly. And you know, we’ve learned from bitter experience that if you can stop minor crimes then far fewer major crimes take place. You can sign up for a citizen’s emergency loan, and interest is only 25% this week!” She frowned as she continued to examine her iPad. “The bad news is that you’ve put almost everything you own up as collateral for previous loans, and you’d have to put up your house this time to get any further credit from the Community.”

“Community,” Evan exploded.  “It’s not a fucking community. A community is people working together to help each other. This is a fucking government owned and operated by a handful of billionaires.” Evan was about to go on, but Mrs. Henderson held up her hand. Smiling sweetly, she said, “There’s no need to speak to me that way Mr. Petersen. We’re a democracy and our government is elected by all of us, as you well know.”

Evan was about to launch into a tirade about a stolen election, of people denied a win by keeping millions from voting, by targeted advertising and the machinations of an electoral college, but the tired arguments had been repeated so often that they no longer seemed fact based but were simply slogans and exhortations. He turned and headed back down the street to his home.

2. Home Alone

Evan poured himself a glass a water from the kitchen tap and drank it down in one long gulp, standing at the sink.  He refilled the glass and walked over to the refrigerator, opened the door and looked in at a small piece of badly wrapped ham, dry and dark on one side, a moldy piece of cheese and plastic bags of wilted lettuce, limp carrots and puckered cucumbers.  He took out the ham and cheese and searched for bread, coming up only with a triple plastic bag and a dry crust. 

Evan cut eatable parts off the ham and cheese and ate them slowly with the crust of bread as he finished his second glass of water. He felt better. Now he really wanted another cup of coffee, but he wanted it with a little milk. He’d need other supplies before his check came next week, so he made a list on a small pad of paper he kept next to his land-line telephone. Milk. Ham. Cheese. Bread. Apples. Eggs. Dish soap. Toilet paper. He wrote out a price next to each item and it added up to $34.75.  He had $11.00 in his wallet.

Evan searched for money. He checked a small cookie jar in the kitchen and found $6.38 in change, which he left in piles next to the phone. He went into the hallway and checked the pockets of coats hanging in the closet and came up with a $5.00 bill. He dug under cushions on sofas and chairs in the living room, found a dollar bill and $1.10 in change. Up the stairs to his bedroom, where he found $4.00 in a drawer next to his bed and another $3.25 in various jackets and pants pockets.  He had $30.73 cents. He crossed the dish soap off his list and had a little money left over.

Evan returned to the kitchen, sat down at the counter and opened the drawer below his land line.  He pulled out his iPhone and told Siri to dial Uber Delivery Services.  The message “No Service” appeared. Of course, he hadn’t paid last month’s Internet bill. His contacts still worked, and he looked up Uber’s number and dialed it on his land line.

“Good morning. Your call is very important to us, but our service representatives are busy helping other customers. If you go to our website, we can help you immediately. If you need to talk to a service representative, please stay on the line. Your wait time is approximately eight minutes.” Music played. Evan cradled the phone in his shoulder and searched his desk for something to read.  He found piles of recipe clippings and idly looked through them, remembering better times when he was part of a family and cared about such things. Every thirty seconds a voice came on, “Your call is very important to us, but our service representatives are busy helping other customers.  Please stay on the line.”

Finally, a cheery voice said, “Good morning. My name is Jennifer. How can I help you today?”

“This is Evan Petersen, my account number is 701MKLJ6-778. I want Urber Service to come by my house, pick up some money, then go the Coop at Seven Locks and MacArthur to pay for some groceries and bring them home to me.”

“You want Uber to pick up groceries at the Bethesda Coop and bring them to your home. What is your home address?

“6532 75th Street, but the driver has to come here first to pick up the money to pay for the groceries.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“I have to pay for the groceries and the money is here at my house.”

After a delay, the cheery voice said, “You must pay for the groceries before Uber can pick them up.”

“I know. That’s why the driver has to come by the house first to pick up the money.”

Another pause. “I’m sorry, but Uber does not offer that specific service. Can I help you in any other way today?”

“But can’t an Uber driver come to my house and pick up the money just like a package to be delivered?”

“Yes, I can help you with that service. What time would like the driver to come to your house and to what address should he deliver the package?”

“They should come as soon as possible. Deliver the money to the Coop. But then I want them to bring my groceries home.”

Another pause. “I’m sorry, but Uber does not offer that specific service. Is there anything else that I can help you with today?”

“This is crazy. Can’t the Uber driver pick up my groceries and bring them back to me?”

     “I can help you with that service. What time would you like the Uber driver to pick up your groceries and at what location?”

“Are you a fucking robot? Don’t you know what I’m saying?”

     Pause. “My name is Jennifer and I’m here to help you in any way I can.  What can I do for you this morning?”

Giving up, Evan requested an Uber driver to pick up his money and take it to the Coop.  He made a second request to have his groceries picked up and brought to his home. Jennifer was pleased. “I’m very glad we were able to work that out. A happy customer is our greatest goal here at Uber Service! So, you are ordering two services today at $15.00 each for a total of $30.00.  You have $15.00 remaining on your Uber account.  What credit card would you like to use to pay the remaining $15.00?”

All his credit cards were maxed out. Evan glanced at his grocery list to see if he could cut out something else, but to pay $30 for a quart of milk seemed ludicrous. He hung up the phone and stared ahead. He still had on his overcoat, unbuttoned, but as the cold seeped in Evan stood and buttoned the coat back up.  He went into the living room where he found kindling next to the fireplace, but without any logs it wouldn’t last long. His woodpile was gone.  The woods behind his house supplied him with dead wood from downed branches.  The trouble was, it was illegal to harvest the branches.  All measurable trees on private land and all the wood in parks and national forests or on city streets now belonged to the Community, which required permits and payments for citizens to actually use and in practice those permits only went to large corporations. 

The woods behind his house were not heavily patrolled, but a vindictive neighbor could turn him in and heavy fines could follow. He had learned to be circumspect. He took off his long coat and slung sacks off each shoulder, then put the coat back on. He grabbed a pruning saw and clippers, went out the front door and turned down a path to the right, down a flight of stairs where a trail to Cabin Creek began. About a third of the way down the trail was blocked, and he began clearing away brush and fallen branches. It was an authorized and even encouraged activity.  As he worked, he snuck dry, short branches into the two bags.

Evan paused in an unexpected moment of quiet. No noise from overhead jets, helicopters heading up-river to the Pentagon, chain saws and leaf blowers, trucks down-shifting on the I 270 spur. He heard birds, insects, even the babble of the brook far below. He felt a sudden, unexpected surge of hope.  He looked around and could see far up and down the stream bed.  He was alone. If he dropped down the steep bank, he would be hidden by vegetation along Cabin Creek. Why not sneak down stream to the Potomac River, work his way up river and approach the Coop from the woods? 

Evan returned home with wood he had gathered.  He started a fire and sat down in a chair in front of warming flames. He was soon comfortable and unbuttoned his coat. What would be a good time, he wondered, to make a journey through the woods to the Coop? It would be safest at night, but he would never find his way in the dark.  After 3:00 pm kids would be out of school and might be playing in the woods. In the late afternoon, after-work joggers could be having a last run. The safest time was probably right now, but it was warm and comfortable by the fire and he didn’t get up. 

All he needed to be completely content, was a good cup of coffee … with a little milk.

Evan dozed off. When he woke the fire had gone out. He got up and walked toward the hall closet but was interrupted by a timid knock on the front door. When he opened it, his neighbor Mrs. Chenault, dressed in business clothes, was standing there.

“Good morning Mr. Petersen. You’re looking well today.”

“As are you, Mrs. Chenault. It looks like you’re just coming from work.” Somewhat confused. “Can I do anything for you?”

“I’m here on behalf of the Community Beautification Committee. Since losing my position at the law firm, I work for them pretty much full time these days. Of course, it doesn’t pay much, but I feel good about helping the community.”

     “Of course.”

“It’s about your lawn and driveway. I mean, they haven’t been cleared once this Fall, and you know the regulations. I’m afraid you’re unacceptably behind schedule.”

“You know, it’s better for insects and butterflies to keep leaves on the ground over winter. It’s a crucial breeding ground and with species dying out all around us, I think I should do my part to help.”

Mrs. Chenault looked perplexed. “I’m not really the person to talk to about all that.  You need to speak to someone on the Community Species Preservation Committee.  I’m sure they could help.” She smiled knowingly, “But you’ve still got to get that lawn cleaned up.” She laughed, a little nervously.

Evan thought she must be very stupid and there was no point in continuing his arguments “I’ll get right to it, Mrs. Chenault.”

“Today.”

“I can’t do it today. I’ve got too much to do.” Mrs. Chenault stared at him. “All right, I’ll get the blower out this afternoon and get it done.”

“Mr. Petersen, you know you can’t use personal gas-powered tools since the passage of the Community Noise Abatement bill. Such power tools can only be used by authorized, licensed companies.  It really helps all of us. The Community makes sure that companies inspect their equipment regularly so air pollution is kept to a minimum and the equipment can only be used during designated hours so noise doesn’t bother anyone.” Evan was about to question the logic of these assertions, but Mrs. Chenault rushed on “We suggest Freedom Landscaping, which has done a wonderful job for many of your neighbors.  They’re Dutch owned and very well managed.”

“What would they charge?”

“A property like yours, I’m sure they could do it for $75.00.“  Eagerly “They’re in the neighborhood today and I could call them for you. Of course, it’s too short notice to set up a credit account, so you’d need to pay cash.”

“I’m a bit short of that now. And I can’t get out to get more, just at the moment.” Mrs. Chenault looked like she was faced with an unresolvable dilemma. “Look. I can still use hand tools, right? So, I’ll get the rake out this afternoon and get it all cleaned up.”

Mrs. Renault looked relieved but worried as well.  “It’s a huge job. I don’t want you having a heart attack,” she laughed nervously again.

“Oh no worry about that,” he said.

“Well then, I’ll see you in the morning.”

3. Outlaw

Evan had no intention of raking leaves. Maybe in his forties he could have finished the job by eight or nine that night with the help of his car headlights for the long stretch of driveway to the road, but it wasn’t going to happen in his late seventies. He would deal with the fallout tomorrow. He would, instead, go get milk.

It was later than he hoped when Evan finally put on his black down jacket and knit cap and headed out the back door, hidden from neighbors and hikers who might be watching. He avoided the trail he had cleared earlier and slithered down a rocky ravine, one hand steadying himself on solid rock, one foot securely on stable ground, taking his time.  His knees burned, his hips throbed and his legs ached by the time he reached the shrubbery along the creek, but he told himself he was tough.

Evan headed down stream under the one lane bridge and in another half mile under Clara Barton Parkway. He checked, but no Community Peace Officers waiting to catch speeders were surveying the territory around them, as Peace Officers are wont to do.

Evan waded through two feet of water in the abandoned Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. His cold, wet feet squelched uncomfortably as he climbed up the other side. It would have been an easy two mile walk on the Towpath, but Community Finance Clerks stationed along the trail would be checking ids and collecting user fees and Community Peace officers would be patrolling on bicycles. He would have to stay concealed.

Evan worked his way along the rocky shore of the Potomac one foot frequently in the frigid river water, mostly concealed by the dense woods. It was slow going. He climbed over huge fallen oak trees, his arms aching. Where the trees were thin, he hid when anyone passed on the tow path. Crossing a deep ravine, he slipped and slammed his knee into a sharp rock, tearing his pants and the skin underneath.  Blood ran down his leg. After a moment of startled shock, a wave of pain hit him.  He sat down, gripped his foot and rocked back and forth. He wanted to scream but he did not want to give away his location.  He wanted to weep at the unfairness, the injustice of it all, an old man sneaking through the woods to get a little milk. He sat immobilized by pain and despair.

The blood began to coagulate. He knew the pain would eventually go away. He was shaky when he got up. The day was quickly slipping away. He would be helpless after dark, unable to see loose rocks, slippery mud or waiting copperheads. The low sun backlite bright yellow leaves still clinging to high branches.  Evan wondered how it could be so achingly beautiful and so totally fucked up at the same time.

He reached Canal Lock 8 parallel with the Coop. Wind, a precursor of rain or if it was cold enough the first snow of winter, rustled the last leaves. Riverside Drive cut through a tunnel under the parkway. It was the only way to get across MacArthur at this hour of heavy traffic. When the coast was clear he hustled through. A dog roused and barked; a kitchen light went on, but when he moved on the dog quieted.

The small shopping mall across MacArthur was festooned with a large banner that cried out: Remember: Everything Has Its Price! Fifty yards down MacArthur, at the corner of Seven Locks Road, a Community Finance Clerk and Peace Officer chatted at the barricade. A neon sign proclaimed Money is Freedom. Evan scuttled across the road and moved behind the Mall where he surveyed the Coop. It was much as it had always been, except planters surrounding the entrance had been cemented in with shards of broken glass in line with a Community Beautification Initiative. All such surfaces had been converted throughout the Republic.  Citizens, with appropriate permits and paying appropriate fees, could sit in designated public areas, safe from pick pockets and beggars.  It was a win win, but the ruthless aggression of the broken glass appalled him, and Evan missed the old days, when flowers, even dead ones, relieved the monotony of brick and stone.

Evan glanced down at himself. He was a mess. His pants were torn, his exposed knee showed an ugly scar, coagulated blood dripped down his leg, his boots and pants were soaked, his face scratched and bruised. Would the Coop clerk recognize him as a regular or would some new clerk call the authorities? Evan walked steadily without a limp, let his body hang loose to hide the pain, smiled with the self-confidence of a man in complete control and entered the store. The clerk didn’t even glance at him.  

Evan worked his way down the isles with a shopping cart and his spirits sank. The Coop was a place where he had felt at home, a place that had catered to his needs. It had been changing for a while, but he suddenly saw it as a whole. All the items that had been local and idiosyncratic were gone.  There was nothing on the shelves that couldn’t be purchased at Whole Foods. Fresh vegetables and fruits, which once had been seasonal and locally sourced, had been replaced by “organics” packaged in sealed plastic, flown in from countries around the world. Of course, the Coop had been bought by Whole Foods, which was owned by Amazon, which now controlled most retail shopping in the republic. It must have been his exhaustion, but real tears welled up in his eyes. Oh God, he thought. I’m not going to cry over lettuce!

Evan paid. When the clerk looked at him strangely and the automatic doors opened, he quickly stepped outside and headed up Seven Locks Road. He crossed at Thomlinson and walked through his neighborhood, avoiding Community Finance Clerk checkpoints that remained opened.  Unfortunately, the checkpoint at the top of 75th Street was still manned.  He paused. He could reach his house across a steep gully, but he’d never make it after dark with two grocery bags. He would have to bluff his way through.

“Good evening Mr. Petersen, what a lovely night,” the Community Finance Clerk said looking at his bags. “Are you coming from the Coop?”.

“It is a lovely night. The stillness after the wind. The sharp, cold air. It feels like snow. I don’t think I recognize you.  Are you new?”

 “I’m Peggy Current, and we’ve been in the neighborhood for about a year. I recognize you from our photos. Mr. Petersen, 6532. Right?” She smiled.

“Yes indeed.  Good to meet you.” Evan started to move past her.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Peterson. Could I see your LAP? And where did you say you were this afternoon?”

“I haven’t said. But why do you want to know?  Who wants to know where I was this afternoon? Anyway, I was at a friend’s house. John Cassidy.” Evan nodded his head at the Coop bags he was carrying, “He gave me these groceries to tide me over.”

Peggy typed on her iPad for a moment. She waited for an answer and finally turned to Evan. “Of course, Mr. Petersen. You have a good evening.” Evan walked half way down the hill and then glanced back. Peggy was on her cell phone.

4. Community

When Evan got home, he took off his wet boots and socks and hung up his hat, but he kept his jacket on.  Before putting his groceries away in the kitchen, Evan washed out his Bialetti, filled it with water and started a new pot of coffee. He put everything away except the milk and waited for the coffee to be done. He looked satisfied. Finally, a simple pleasure at the end of an exhausting day, a cup of coffee with a touch of milk.

Someone knocked on his front door as the coffee bubbled up. He turned off the stove and opened the door. A group of friendly looking people were waiting. Mrs. Hendersen, the Community Finance Clerk he’d met that morning, seemed to be their leader. “May we come in Mr. Petersen?” she asked

“Well, what’s this all about.  It’s kind of late …”

“Just a few routine things to clear up, Mr. Petersen. We thought it would be best to do it in the evening, not during the workday. May we?”

Evan let them in, although when he realized there were six of them he regretted it. He thought longingly of the coffee in the kitchen, but he couldn’t drink it without offering his guests something, and he didn’t want to do that.  He sat in his chair by the cold fireplace and gestured for them to sit down. No one took off their coat.

Mrs. Henderson looked at Evan as one might look at a doddering elder. “We’re here to help you. We were worried about you this afternoon. There were several sightings of a stranger lurking in the wood, hiding behind the Coop. We wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I was hanging out with Johnny Cassidy.”

“Okay then.” Mrs. Hendersen looked uncomfortable. “The thing is, Mr. Cassidy has been out of town for over a week.  He’s due back this weekend.” She put up her hand to keep Evan from responding. “But we have broader concerns, Mr. Petersen. It’s not just sneaking to the Coop. it’s not just the lawn. You've a major infestation in your house, in the roof above the front porch. The cement facing on the back porch is falling off in chunks.  You’re missing several roof tiles. Many of the shutters are broken. The whole house needs a paint job, and we have no idea about the state of things inside.”

“I can explain …”

Mrs. Henderson held up her hand. “There’s more. You haven’t made your Community contribution in six months. You’re behind on your mortgage and your water bill, they’ve turned off your supply of heating oil. You’re keeping warm by huddling around your fireplace and burning wood stolen from the Community Park. You can’t afford to maintain a car. Your Internet access has been cut off.” Mrs. Hendersen paused for dramatic effect. “You’ve lived here for thirty years and we don’t want to kick you out.”

“This is all coming completely unexpectedly. I need time to consider. Please.”

“We’ve discussed this at endless community meetings, Mr. Petersen.”

“But I wasn’t invited to any of them.  I could have explained …”

“They were all open meetings. You don’t need an invitation. So, here’s the solution. You must take a tenant.  Move into the maid’s room downstairs. You’ve got your own bathroom down there, your own private door to the outside, and we’ve got a small refrigerator and a stove top burner for you. The rent for the house will cover the mortgage and utilities, plus a thousand dollars a month for maintenance and cleanup.  We figure the place will be ship shape in five years. All you have to do is sign these papers and we can get right to it.”

“It’s actually become an emergency,” Mrs. Chenault said. “If we don’t get this done tonight, it’s going to be pushed up to state level, and your fate will be out of our hands. And so will your house, which will go to the State instead of our Community. We just want you to be able to stay here.”

“You just want my house. I need to talk to a lawyer.”

“We have a lawyer with us. Mr. Hanly.”

Mr. Hanly was in his sixties. He wore an expensive suite and had an impeccable haircut. He spoke like a prosecutor.  “Here’s the thing, you’re in criminal debt, you couldn’t cover a medical emergency if your life depended on it, you’ve been stealing wood from the Community and today your escapade broke about ten different laws, including your blatant disregard for our fragile environment, your contempt for rules that have made all our lives so much safer and more comfortable. It is only by the grace of god, well by our grace actually, that the State Peace Officers aren't here. There is, regrettably for you and all of us, someone in the community who plans to call the state officials in the morning.”

“What do you want me to do.”

Mrs. Hendersen took over. “You’ve got to sign this paper. The Community will assume all of your financial obligations and guarantee the continuation of your social security payments and a place to live … in your own home!”

“You just want my house. I don’t think I can do that.”

“It’s really the only alternative.”

“I want to call my sons.”

“Of course.” But on both calls Evan got only answering machines.

“Sign here,” Mrs. Hendersen said.  And Evan signed.

“Plenty of time to call your children when this crisis is over,” Mr. Hanly said. “Pack up your personal items and move into the maid’s room now. We have a nice young couple with three children ready to occupy upstairs tonight. They’ll pack the rest of your personal stuff up and get it down to you. All the rest of the furniture, anything they don’t want, we’ll auction off to cover their moving expenses.”

“I could do my own auction to raise money,” Evan said.

     “You no longer own the property, Evan. But when the State Peace Officers come tomorrow, they’ll be nothing to see. No debt to uncover. No violations to be punished. You’ll be safe. And your house will be in our safe hands.”

It was after midnight when he finally settled into his small room. He had unpacked the hot plate and tiny refrigerator and put away his few possessions. He washed the Bialetti in the bathroom sink and made himself a cup of coffee.   

The maid’s room was under the kitchen and he had heard the bustle of activity as the new couple emptied his shelves, scrubbed them thoroughly and put their own stuff away. The children had been noisy, running around on adrenalin long after their bedtimes, but they had finally been sent to bed.

Evan thought of the maids who had lived here years ago. He felt them in the room with him at the end of a long day. He shared their resignation with the tiny room, the long hours, the noise from upstairs, their longing for better times, except that Evan’s best times were over.

The coffee burgled to a conclusion. Evan turned off the burner and poured coffee into a cup with a picture of one of his granddaughters when she was still a baby and the hope of the world.  Evan poured a little milk in the coffee, just the way he liked it.

The room felt claustrophobic. He opened the door. It was cold, but the air was still. A light snow drifted down. He put on his down jacket and hat, grabbed his coffee and stepped outside. He brushed snow off a cheap folding chair and sat down.  It was profoundly quiet. Evan sipped the coffee. It was delicious. His legs ached. The scab on his knee was healing and painful. He wasn’t worried about the coffee keeping him awake. He was exhausted and sure that he would sleep soundly. When his fingers grew cold, he finished the coffee and set the cup on the ground, put his hands in his pocket and closed his eyes.

He was two years old again, impatient to embrace the world, running off the end of a dock into a small lake, absolutely sure he would survive a plunge into its waiting mysteries. On that same beach, at the age of eleven, he had fallen in love for the first time, a warm melting that left him speechless, a merging with another human being, pre sexual, without lust, all trust, a great faith in life itself. The spirit of those early years had carried him through adventures and disasters, successes and failures, friendships come and gone, love affairs and broken hearts. Finally, life won, beat the spirit out of him. 

He woke and looked around. Snowflakes kissed his cheeks. He shivered. It was very cold. He felt like he’d eaten magic mushrooms, both immobile and alert, overcome by an awareness that he was just another part of the world around him. Hadn’t he recently read somewhere that our human bodies supported thousands of bacteria, viruses, and fungi, a microbiome that might weigh three pounds and was intimately connected one-on-one to the natural world that surrounds us?  

Once high on peyote alone on a mountain peak, he had wondered what he was looking for and without thinking the word “wisdom” popped into his brain. He’d never found it. The older he got the less certain he was about everything.  All that remained was this intimate connection with all living things. “Big deal,” he thought and laughed. “I knew that all along!” He should get up and go inside but it was so beautiful. He closed his eyes.

When he next woke up, he felt warm and comfortable. The feeling troubled him. He shouldn’t feel warm. He had some important decision to make, but he didn’t know what it was. Maybe it would come to him if he closed his eyes again. 

END