Strangers in a Strange Land

I awoke that morning with a raging hangover on a bare mattress surrounded by cardboard boxes. The morning sun was streaming through the bare windows, illuminating the small room and its contents in glaringly sharp detail. My sister Anne was still asleep beside me, still fully clothed, a hoodie pulled up around her face and tied shut so that just her nose was poking out. Anne’s faithful Boston terrier, Little Spanish Eddie, was curled protectively beside her, his ears twitching in mild curiosity as I slowly sat up and surveyed the room.

“Room” is actually an incredibly generous word for our living situation. The “room” was actually a dining nook off the main living area that had been cordoned off by a shower curtain. Our shared queen sized mattress took up almost the entire space.

But is was the best we could do with short notice in Los Angeles. Our previous living situation had imploded suddenly, leaving us scrambling to find a place to land that we could actually afford. Anne’s friend Shannon had offered us her dining nook temporarily for $500 bucks a month and with no other options, we took her up on it. The rest of the house was quite large, but there were 4 other women also living there I had yet to meet. Did I mention there was only one bathroom? 6 women (two of them sharing a queen mattress in the dining nook) and one bathroom. God help us all. I sighed miserably and searched for my phone in the wreckage of our hasty move-in.

Up until a week ago, our lives had been pretty damn awesome. We had been living in a cute bungalow cottage nestled in the sunny Hollywood Hills, with my sister’s boyfriend Simon. The bungalow was actually Simon’s, but he was a musician in a moderately famous band and as such he spent a lot of time traveling on tour, which is why I ended up moving in. I kept Anne company when Simon was away, and when he was in town, the three of us would eat long drawn out dinners on the back porch and visit the dog beach on the weekends. We were like a quirky little family living the California dream.

But our lives revolved around Simon and Anne’s relationship, and Simon and Anne were desperately, belligerently, madly in love (“mad” being the key word here). Everything was intensely passionate with them, including their fights, but I didn’t worry too much at first. They seemed perfect together and were obviously crazy about each other. When the fights erupted, I would just retreat to the quiet of the rooftop and smoke cigarettes, watching the twinkling lights of the city below, imagining each light was its own story, it’s own life unfolding unnoticed.

I started to worry when Anne became visibly more unhappy and irritable whenever Simon was away. Being low-level “famous”, Simon got more attention than most people do and always had exciting things happening, like interviews with SPIN magazine, or sold out shows at the Hollywood Bowl and winter tours in Australia. I think it was hard for Anne to not feel resentful and a little insecure about where her own life was going. Then of course, there were the worries that every band wife or girlfriend has, like what if he meets someone else in Australia or what if he’s hooking up with someone new each night on tour? Living separate lives with so much distance between them took its toll. Anne’s fears needled at her own insecurities and exacerbated her growing sense of futility in her own life.

I started to really worry when Anne’s unhappiness wasn’t assuaged when Simon came home. In fact, it seemed to just make it worse. And Simon’s solution was to just get high and disappear for hours at time in his study, the smell of marijuana wafting from under the door. They were both falling apart, but not together.

The situation escalated until it all came to a head on one unassuming Tuesday evening. The fighting had started as soon as Anne had gotten home from work, and I immediately retreated to the rooftop with my pack of American Spirits. The yelling grew louder and more urgent as the evening wore on and then there was the sound of braking glass, as if a plate had shattered. I sat frozen on the roof, unsure of what to do and certain the neighbors were getting ready to call the cops at any moment. Suddenly the front door burst open, nearly ripping off its hinges and I startled so bad I nearly rolled off the roof. Simon stormed out of the house and down the driveway to his car, a small suitcase gripped with white knuckles in his hand. Anne appeared in the open doorway with a tear streaked face and Little Spanish Eddie pacing anxiously at her feet just as Simon peeled out of the driveway and disappeared down the street. She looked up to my hiding spot on the roof and said, “He’s gone.”

Anne and I had been up all night as I tried to assure her that this was just like all the other fights and Simon would come back, they would be OK. But Anne just mutely shook her head as if she knew deep down that something vital had broken and everything had changed.

Early the next morning, Simon’s manager had come to the house and handed Anne an official looking document that stated we had 72 hours to vacate the property. Anne and I had sat on the front porch drinking Coronas at 9 AM while we tried to figure out what the hell we were going to do next.

A mad frenzy of packing and selling off furniture and other belongings followed. We may have accidentally sold a few of Simon’s things as well. At the end of the 72 hours we piled what few possessions we had left into a sketchy U-haul van and drove north to Shannon’s house in Pasadena, seeking refuge.

We had arrived at Shannon’s house late in the night because the U-haul had broken down twice along the way. When we finally pulled into the driveway, exhausted and shell shocked, we discovered that one of our new roommates was hosting a small party. A few of the party-goers were smoking on the front lawn and watched with mild interest as we drug our meager belongings from the U-haul.

Shannon helped us maneuver our shared queen mattress and the few boxes we had left through the party and into the tiny dining room nook, then gave us a grim smile and closed the shower curtain behind her as she went off to sleep.

The rest of the party continued into the early morning. On the other side of the shower curtain, Anne and I sat side-by- side on the bare mattress, still fully clothed and passing a bottle of red wine back and forth. We said nothing. There was nothing left to say. We sat in the dark drinking our wine and listened to the sounds of the party around us. Little Spanish Eddie sat on Anne’s lap with his ears back, concern etched in his wrinkly face. The music from the party thumped and vibrated the walls and at one point in the night, a pool stick jabbed through our curtain, barely missing my head. Eventually we fell asleep, clutching each other’s hands like we did when we were little girls.

Waking up in this place the next day, our shared reality seemed even more bleak. All I wanted to do was go back to sleep, but despite the chaos of the past few days, I still had to go to work. After all, our rented “room” wouldn’t pay for itself. My temples pulsed with my heartbeat as I stumbled out of the shower curtain to find the kitchen.

The rest of the house was eerily quiet. The other roommates I had yet to meet were still sleeping, but Shannon had left a note and a fresh pot of coffee brewing on the kitchen counter. God bless you, Shannon.

I found a chipped coffee mug in the cabinet and inspected it for cleanliness before pouring a large cup of fresh coffee. There was an array of empty and half-full liqor bottles scattered about on the kitchen table, remnants leftover from the party. I inspected the bottles before selecting an Irish cream liquor and emptying the remaining contents into my coffee.

I sat with my spiked coffee at the kitchen table and took in the view from the kitchen window. It was a typical California neighborhood with small but charming houses. The front yards were in full bloom and meticously cared for, with perfectly hedged bushes and manicured lawns. It seemed wrong that we had brought our misery to this sweet, enchanting neighborhood.

It was then that I noticed a slouched figure slowly shuffling up the sidewalk, back bent, head stooped. The man wore a long worn out military jacket and shoes that appeared to be three sizes too big for him. He had long, dirty blond hair (or maybe that really was just dirt?) and a scruffy beard. The deep wrinkles along his brow and prominent crows’ feet along his eyes made him appear to be somewhere in his sixties. The man was holding a brown paper bag with a mystery bottle of liquor inside.

I found myself growing anxious for this homeless man as he continued his trek up the walk. There were a few neighborhood residents out tending their yards and collecting the morning mail, and I was certain one of them would ask him to leave or call the cops to haul the poor man right back to the homeless encampment where he belonged. But to my surprise, no one said a word and the cops never came and the man walked on, unmolested.

More shockingly, the man didn’t continue up the rest of the street, but instead, turned deliberately into the driveway next door. My chair groaned loudly as I leaned forward to get a better view, but taking care to stay hidden behind the checkered window curtains. Was I about to witness a home robbery? Was this man going to trespass? Or sneak into someone’s open garage in broad daylight?

The man fumbled with something in his pocket and a ring of keys clattered to the driveway. He bent over stiffly to retrieve them and then moved to the front door, inserted his keys and stepped inside, shutting the front door behind him.

Interesting. So this homeless man who was not really homeless was our new neighbor. I thought of the brown paper bag in his hand and double-checked the time: 7:30 AM. Shit! I took another sip of my spiked coffee and went to find the bathroom to get ready for work.

As I walked down the long driveway to find the bus stop, my eyes were fixed to the man's house next door. While all the houses on the street were well kept, this man's garden was shockingly perfect. The flowers were bright and vibrant, as if they had been plucked straight from a floral showroom. The grass was perfectly trimmed, not a blade out of place. Entranced and intrigued, I reached out a tentative hand and stroked the petals of the nearest rose bush. My body stiffened as my brain registered the touch and feel. Fake. Fake flowers. I looked down at my feet and confirmed; fake grass. The entire yard was synthetic. A marvel of plastic and polymers.

Intrigued and somewhat baffled, I quickly hurried on my way to meet the bus, leaving the fake garden behind.

As the weeks wore on, I discovered that the man maintained a very strict schedule. Every morning at 7:30 AM on the dot, I would watch him shuffle up the street with his brown bag liquor purchase. He walked with a slight limp in his right leg, and I wondered if maybe it was an old war injury, or perhaps he had MS or some other god awful disease. I drank my own spiked coffee and wondered about his life and tried to fill in the gaps with the clues I had, which weren't many.

From what I could tell, he never left his house accept for his morning liquor run. No one ever came over. No one else ever left his house. It was safe to say he lived there alone. It was the quietest house on the entire block, as still as an untouched pond. Not even the birds and bees visited his yard but to be fair, they really had no reason to.

I continued to watch and wonder.

Despite the signs of spring becoming evident all around us, our own lives had taken on a grey and somber cast. It is both fair and accurate to say that Anne was pretty traumatized by the sudden break-up with Simon and she was still struggling to put the pieces of her life back together. My own life fell into a nondescript cycle that included 3 dead end jobs that combined barely provided me enough income to cover my half of the rent for the dining nook. I ended each day on the front porch, drinking a glass of red wine and watching the man's house for any sign of life. There were none.

One morning, while drinking my coffee and watching the man make his morning trek back from the liquor store, I felt an intense stab of sorrow. Here this man was, obviously totally alone in the world and slowly drinking himself to death in his house with the fake garden, and the world didn't even notice. No one even cared. He could die today and it would probably be weeks before his body would be discovered.

This thought bothered me immensely. The homeless man who wasn't homeless began to invade my thoughts constantly. While I was working or riding the bus or even just trying to fall asleep while Anne snored lightly beside me, this man's unknown story tormented me.

What had happened to this man that THIS was his chosen fate? Did the love of his life leave him for another man? Or maybe his child was killed in a terrible accident? Or perhaps he had been injured in a war and was suffering from PTSD?

It just seemed terribly unjust and cruel that no one knew or even cared. An entire life and history could be discarded as if it never happened, and the world would just carry on as usual.

I had to reach out. What if that's all he needed? A face in the masses that actually saw him and cared about what happened to him? I could be the voice that called him out of that silent house and back into the world.

On my way home from work I stopped at the drug store and bought a box of sidewalk chalk along with a bottle of red wine, while a small tremor of anticipation rippled up my spine. My plan was beginning to take shape.

That night, I could hardly sleep. I was going to call out into the void.

The next morning I made sure not to wake Anne as I eased from the bed. The rest of the house was quiet as usual, the other roommates still asleep after a long night of serving cocktails and bar tending.

I urged myself to be as still as possible as I lurked behind the kitchen curtains and watched the man shuffle down the sidewalk. As soon as he turned the corner to the liquor store and was out of sight, I raced to the sidewalk in my bare feet, the sidewalk chalk clutched in my hands.

I took out a bright blue piece and wrote in big, defined letters down the sidewalk, "Hello! How are you?" I placed another piece of green chalk on the ground and drew a blue arrow pointing to it.

I stepped back a moment to admire my handy work and then raced back inside to wait, a tight ball of nerves lodged deep in my gut.

A few minutes later, the man re-emerged on the sidewalk, slowly making his way home, eyes to the ground. I trembled excitedly behind the curtain, the anticipation as potent as a drug.

I nearly squealed out loud as the man stumbled to halt in front of my message. He read the words slowly once, then twice. His head snapped up and he looked up the street and down again, his brow wrinkled in confusion. He stood for a few minutes reading the message again, his face hard and unreadable.

Finally, he gingerly stooped down and picked up the chalk. I could see him scribble a few words and then he gently placed the chalk where I had left it. He straightened again, his searching gaze sweeping left then right, and then continued home.

It was torture not to race out of the house that minute and read his message, but I refrained myself and waited until I had to leave to meet the bus. As I approached the message, I tried to casually glance down as if I were stumbling upon it for the first time just in case anyone was watching.

The message read, “I am fine. How are you?”

My heart felt like it was swelling in my chest. He had responded! I had made contact. I had called into the void and a voice had called back. It filled me with an odd sense of purpose I wasn’t quite familiar with. I hurried on to the bus stop, eager for the next morning to continue our conversation.

The very next morning I debated what to write, but decided to keep it light and simple, easy ”I am fine, thanks! Where are you from?”

He responded,”I’m from Michigan but California is my home now. Where are you from?”

I answered the following day,”I’m originally from Seattle, but I don’t really know where my home is yet.”

He replied,”Who said you can only have one?” That made me grin.

Over the course of a couple weeks I learned that the man next door liked fishing and bowling, but a leg injury from a construction accident prevents him from doing much of either anymore. He has two adult children, a girl and a boy, but they live on the East coast and he doesn’t see them much anymore. He was married once for 24 years but his wife died of cancer 10 years ago. She loved roses. He had never remarried. He was currently reading “To Kill a Mockingbird” for the seventh time and informed me it was the greatest piece of literature of our times. He also highly recommended “On the Road” by Jack Kerouac.

Every morning I looked forward to my message. It was a connection that somehow kept me grounded, even on the darker days when Anne was desperately missing Simon and I hated my jobs and wondered what I as doing with my life. No matter what else was going on, I had my messages, my voice from the void.

The sidewalk got quite full and colorful after awhile and it was difficult not to draw other attention to it. Sometimes I would catch our neighbors or a passerby reading the messages with bewildered and curious expressions. I even once saw a teenage girl take out her phone and snap several photos of the sidewalk messages, but I didn’t mind. In fact, it felt as if the conversation was simply expanding to include more voices.

Eventually it would rain and the messages would wash away in neon colored puddles, but we would just pick up where we left off.

He never told me his name and I never asked. That somehow seemed too personal. But we talked about our days and our favorite places to visit. We talked about music we loved and movies we hated. We shared recipes. Until one day, he didn’t respond.

The lump in my throat the moment I saw the blank patch of sidewalk where his message should have been was instantaneous. Right away, I knew something wasn’t right. He had never missed a day before, but I tried not to worry. After all, maybe his leg was acting up or he was under the weather?

I waited anxiously for 4 more days but no more messages arrived. My mornings felt bleakly uneventful.

On the 6th day, there were moving trucks in the man’s driveway and men in grey jumpers were hauling away furniture and boxes. A woman in grey slacks and collared blouse stood in the driveway with a clipboard, inventorying items as they packed them away. I raced out the front door in my pajamas.

“Excuse me?” I asked as I approached the woman and tried to smooth my morning hair into something less alarming.

She looked up from her clipboard, eyeing my bare feet.“Can I help you?”

“What’s going on here?" I demanded, my tone sounding more accusatory than I had intended," This is my neighbor’s house. These are his things.”

The woman’s stoic expression softened just a fraction,”I'm sorry to have to inform you, ma'am, but Mr. Brewer passed away this week and we are here at the request of his next of kin to handle his estate.”

“Oh,” was all I managed to say, “I see.” My mind went oddly blank.

A man with broad shoulders emerged from the front door, hefting a large garbage can in front of him, attracting the attention of the woman with the clipboard.

"Emanuel!" she called to him,"What's in there and where are you taking it?"

Emanuel just shrugged, "It's just a garbage can full of brown paper bags with empty orange juice bottles inside. There are tons of them everywhere. This guy must've really loved his orange juice."

"Ah," The woman nodded her head briskly, "I see. Please leave all recyclables on the curb. I'm told the city should pick it up later today."

"Yes ma'am," Emanuel nodded and lugged the garbage can to the street.

My stomach dropped. Orange juice bottles? I had totally had it wrong. I felt so utterly foolish. I had been so certain that the man was slowly drinking himself to death, when in reality he just really enjoyed orange juice. My mind was reeling. What else did I get wrong?

“Did you know Mr. Brewer well?” The woman asked politely, as if she wanted to really ask, "Why are you still here?"

“We were…” I started, then paused. How to even begin to explain our relationship? “Uh, we were good neighbors,” I offered, settling for the simplest version.

The woman’s eyes brightened suddenly. "Ah, it must be you then!” She said excitedly and began flipping through her paperwork.

“Me?” I echoed numbly.

“Yes!” The woman nodded, finding the paper she was looking for,"I believe Mr. Brewer left something for you. You see, he left a note saying it was a gift for his neighbor, but then forgot to write the name! That’s what cancer will do though, it just muddles up the mind. Just a moment while I go get it.”

The lady hurried off, her high heels clicking loudly on the driveway. She returned a few moments later, handing me a well worn book. My vision blurred as I took it gingerly in my hands. The pages were yellowing and the cover was soft as shoe leather. “To Kill a Mockingbird” read the cover.

“Thank you,” I managed to choke out, my throat suddenly feeling tight, but the women had already turned back to her list and was barking new orders to the movers.

I walked in a daze back to my front porch, the book feeling as fragile as a small baby bird in my hands. Sinking down onto the peeling front steps, a sudden feeling of failure washed over me. Mr. Brewer (at least I knew his name now) was gone and it was just as I had feared; he was all alone and now the world was just carrying on like usual, as if his life never happened. I had been unable to rewrite his ending. I had failed my mission and felt cut adrift from any purpose.

I took a deep breath and opened the book. The yellowed pages were curled and dog eared at the corners. It was obvious that at first glance that this had been much used and cherished possession. As I flipped through the various chapters, I stumbled across a white note card tucked into the seam. I recognized the handwriting immediately.

It read,"This will be my last message and I’m sorry for that. Words fail to express how much I enjoyed our “letters”. Please don’t stop writing. Keep reaching out. Sometimes a single human connection can be just enough to keep a weary heart going, just a little while longer.

Your friend,

Robert Brewer”

I closed the book as realization flooded over me, like being born again with new eyes to see. In that moment, I finally understood that I hadn’t been writing for him at all, I had been writing for me. I had been the one searching for connection, for purpose, for meaning. Robert had heard my call into the void and he had answered me. He hadn’t responded to me that first day because he was lonely or needed anything at all from me. He had responded because he knew I needed it.

In truth, I had been the one that was alone and afraid that I would continue to go unseen, unheard, and the world would pass me by, unnoticed. The tears began to fall in rapid succession then, as I realized the selflessness of this man's gift to me, a complete stranger.

Now, many years later, I still often think of that time, back when Robert and I were strangers in a strange land, until one day we weren’t.