Dearest Rachel –
I occasionally find myself wondering how much you remember of life down here, after gulping down a draft from the river Lethe. To be sure, that’s a completely mythological waterway, but given how memory fades over time down here – and you’ve traveled much further than I have in that intervening time, even if it has been only in your sleep as you await the blast of Gabriel’s trumpet – it might as well exist, for all that reality does to erase this moment or that from recollection. The effect is real, even if the river itself is a long-running fiction.
For instance, you might remember the name – or rather, nickname, as it doesn’t seem to be anyone’s real name – “Treeman.” We first encountered it as the ‘winning’ entry of one episode of World’s Dumbest or another. Supposedly, it was the stage name of an old fellow who seemed to fancy himself a folksinger, but who couldn’t seem to play a guitar worth a darn. Every time he missed a chord, he would react with ever-increasing temper; slapping the guitar with an open palm, slamming it against the floor, and finally breaking it into splinters by swinging it against the wall in frustration, all while the person behind the camera recording his ‘music’ and antics kept trying to hold in their laughter, failing harder with each subsequent tantrum.
Of course, with that image in mind, you might remember a neighbor a few doors down from us with what seemed like a similar temper, especially when we would walk by with Chompers. The fellow was your stereotypical ‘get off my lawn’ type of old man – sporting a Santa Claus beard that also made him look like the performer I’ve just reminded you about – but with the added difficulty insofar as he was cursed with a fireplug on that very lawn he didn’t want anyone treading on. Now of course, you made a point of always bringing bags to pick up after Chompers, but that didn’t seem to make any difference to our Treeman, who would – if he was outside when we were, which was thankfully rare, but often enough to be memorable when it happened – yell at us to get him off his property. And he made his point forcefully enough that we would pull Chompers along if he ever made a move toward that particular fireplug. Look, I wouldn’t say we were afraid of Treeman, but we sure didn’t want to incur his wrath if we could avoid it.
Of course, since your departure and Chompers’ passing, I haven’t had much need to think about Treeman; and I rarely see him on those few times a week I walk from the house to the gym. I have occasionally tossed the papers he still gets delivered to his home (yeah, that’s still a thing! Which goes to show how old this guy is) from the apron of his driveway up to the walkway in front of his house, but that’s about it, really. It’s not an unfriendly neighborhood we live in, but everybody more or less keeps to themselves, as you well know.
A couple of days ago, on my way back from the gym, I was walking along when I very nearly stepped in something that, in our leafy suburb, doesn’t show up a lot on the sidewalk. The dog responsible for this had to have been fairly large, too, and since I didn’t recall encountering on my way to the gym, this must have happened in the previous hour. That, or I had been utterly inattentive to the path ahead of me earlier that morning, which at that hour, wouldn’t have been out of the question. On the other hand, given the size of this mess, if I had overlooked it, I would have been supremely lucky to have missed it; even upon my return trip, I could see that a certain cyclist hadn’t been so fortunate. I found myself hoping that, for all that I prefer not to deal with cyclists while walking, that the unfortunate pedaller hadn’t had his rear tire carry that up and splash him on the back with that horrid stuff.
Now, you were a math major, honey; you can put two and two together. After all that description of our neighbor as a hair-trigger type when it comes to anything being on his lawn, followed by my close encounter with a dropping so sizable it would have taken Chompers two visits to accomplish, I’m sure you can figure out on whose sidewalk this landed. Which struck me as odd in the moment – Treeman is (or rather, was) hyper-sensitive about his lawn; even the threat of liquid ending up on there prompted him to shoo us away, and we complied as best we could with a stubborn dog. But this egregious mess? Nothing. It’s like he didn’t care anymore.
Now, it may just be that he wasn’t aware of it when it happened. It was in the early hours of Wednesday morning, before a typical workday would start (although well into the commute hours, especially on our busy street). But being older than us, and presumably retired, it wouldn’t surprise me to think he was asleep when it happened, and he wasn’t out there to ward whoever passed by with their dog to move on down before leaving anything.
On the other hand, it was still there the next morning, absolutely covered with flies by then, when I made my way to another workout, and its continued presence caught me by surprise. For a fellow who always used to be so concerned about every blade of grass, this particular eyesore didn’t seem to matter to him, and it seemed so out of character. Then again, maybe he saw the sidewalk as the village’s property and responsibility, as opposed to his lawn; it’s up to them to deal with. Or, he could have figured that the rain that came later in the day would wash it away, so there would be no need for him to deal with it. But as of this morning, I can confirm that the mess is still mostly there. I even took a picture of it (complete with the fireplug on the lawn), but despite them being worth a thousand words, there are words that shouldn’t need to be spoken or written down; you’ll not see it here, honey.
The other possibility is that time and age might be catching up with old Treeman, such that he can’t work up the effort to concern himself to care anymore. It’s a shame, really; for all that I assume he wanted to be known for having a beautiful lawn (and no mistake, it is well-manicured, especially in comparison to most of his neighbors), what I remember him for is the temper he displayed in his efforts to keep it pristine. And passersby – the very folks he presumably has been trying to impress – have to deal with this ugly stain on his sidewalk (that could, if they’re not careful, be an ugly stain on their shoes) that completely takes away from the effect he wants to have on them of a beautifully-kept place.
There’s probably a lesson in all of this somewhere, but I simply observe and report, honey. I know you would be able to know who I’m talking about, and given the details, might even muster a little sympathy for him, despite his notoriously curmudgeonly behavior. Still, I don’t know if I’d ask you to check on him, as there’s probably nothing to be done – and if I’m wrong about his decline, he’d just be upset at my presumption. So maybe just keep an eye on us, and wish us well, as we could certainly use it.
Letters to Rachel 