The Man Around The Block

There is a man who lives around the block from me. His house is not directly behind mine, but it is just the next street over. I walk past his house almost daily; sometimes twice a day with my dog. I don’t see him regularly in the winter, but during the summer he is out on his porch nearly every time I walk by. While I often say hello to him, I don’t know his name.

His house could use a little upkeep, but there are no obvious signs of neglect. As my dad would say, everything seems structurally sound. In his driveway, there is always something discarded. An old cooler and parts of a snowblower lay trashed, but never make it to the curb. Occasionally there is an empty beer bottle abandoned on top of the cooler. 

The front porch has a rickety-looking chair on one side. If there is a table next to it, it’s buried under too many discarded cardboard boxes to be seen from the street. A few beer bottles usually stand between the stacks of boxes; cardboard in different levels of decay. The bottles are always Miller Genuine Draft, the 12-pack box re-filling itself every couple days. 

When the weather is nice, the man sits on his front porch in the rickety chair for hours each evening with his cardboard companions. He has an old radio turned on beside him, tuned in to some variety of talk show. He sits, watching the street, with a Miller Genuine Draft in his hand; a line of empty bottles growing by his feet.

Last spring, I smiled and said hello to him for the first time. I figured we see each other almost every day, so I might as well be friendly. He said hello back. It took several weeks, but eventually his returned greeting evolved to include a raised hand, a big smile, and a small chuckle. We only exchange hellos, but I have a feeling it is one of the more pleasant conversations he has each day. 

There are some evenings I don’t say anything when I see him. These are the nights that he is asleep in the chair, chin tucked to his chest, the line of bottles already long. These are the nights that I think about him a few hours later, hoping that he wakes in the morning in his bed and not on his front porch.

The man around the block is almost always alone. Only a few times have I noticed another man on his porch with him; I assume a friend. Each rare appearance is the same guest. The first time I noticed company, the other man was sitting in a chair, laughing and smiling with his friend. By his visit this fall, the friend was leaning against the house, hands in his pockets, a sad smile on his face while the two friends talked. His smile might not actually have been sad, but I imagine it’s hard for him to watch someone he cares about not take care of themselves.

The narrative I’ve made up about the man around the block is almost entirely fiction. It’s my version of his life, and I don’t know that any of it is accurate. I know that he drives a truck and takes decent enough care of his house that it never looks out of place in the neighborhood. He always seems to mow his lawn before it gets too long. And, it might take him an extra day sometimes, but he always brings his trash bins back from the curb every week. 

This man, a neighbor I know almost nothing about, has occupied a lot of my thoughts for the past few weeks. At first, I noticed that his trash cans didn’t come in from the curb one week. They remained in place for another week before moving a bit haphazardly away from the street, but not in a way that convinced me he had left his house to do it. The next week, the cans didn’t return to the curb. 

I wondered if he was okay. I wondered if I should call the police and request a wellness check.

For several days, it seemed like there was no activity. His truck never moved and all the same lights were on every night. Then, I walked by in daylight and noticed his mailbox overflowing, like he hadn’t brought in any mail for at least two weeks. I decided it was time for that wellness check, but I didn’t have his address; I wouldn’t be able to tell the police which door to knock. The next day, I took note of his address, 1554, and saw the empty mailbox. I paused.

A few days later, after another one or two minuscule signs of life, his truck was gone when I walked by. I never called the police.

For several weeks, I worried about a man I don’t know nearly every day. I worried that he was alone, injured or maybe dead, with no one to notice his absence. I worried that his friend would find him; I worried they weren’t still friends and no one would ever come by. The house had stopped breathing for a while, and then it slowly came back to life.

A few months from now, when the weather turns warm, I hope we fall back into our old routine. I hope to find the man around the block sitting on his front porch, beer bottle in hand. I hope I have the chance to smile and say hello.