Little Man

The first time I saw him, he was loading a golf cart with boxes marked in my handwriting. He was quiet and swift and clear streaks of sweat ran from his temples clearing the dirt from his cheeks. He never said a word. The florescent green shirt that rested on his back was stained, hanging to his knees. He took me by surprise. He was just a boy no older than twelve.

The next time I took a minute to fall out of my self absorbed pensive mind and notice him, he wore big yellow headphones and sunglasses. They were the kind of headphones that play AM/FM radio right from the muffs. I imagined he was listening to classic rock, something that was beyond his meager years but fitting for his overly developed soul. In his hands he held a paint bucket and brush. He moved like an uninterested landscaper. Experienced and hardly enthused. He didn't stop moving for a second though. Flipping the lid onto the grass he plunged his brush into the fire red paint. The first slap to the hydrant seemed to rattle him. He hesitated. Not because he didn't know what he was doing, but maybe because he was all to aware of what he labeled life. I watched him paint the hydrant the color of love, all I felt though was hate.

The first time I saw him smile he was with the family across from me. Apartment 704. I can't tell what his relation to them is, all I know is he loves the little boy who lives there. He picked the toddler up in an endearing way, assumingly to say goodbye. It was dusk and the lines on his face began to fade. As he turned away, his demeanor matched the overcoming darkness. The smile slipped into his pocket and his hazel eyes locked with the laces of his shoes as he hurried out of sight.

Sometimes I see him with a weedwacker on the side of the buildings, today on the side of the road. He wears the same shirt, same glasses, listening to the radio on the same headphones. I don't know what to make of this boy. I know he is no kid. I know he has seen life in a more honest form than anyone would wish to believe. I know he makes me sad. I know I just want to hug him.

"Life itself is the assassin"-O.Shamaya

Apartment 814- astronaut boots and feng shui

Phantoms, I swear that's what they are. The noisiest of phantoms to be more specific. I'm not sure how many are there, or if there are children or not, but I do know their living room sits directly above ours, and they walk like the dead. Footsteps heavy enough to leave an impression on the moon. Iron shoes. In the afternoon, I hear furniture knocking. I don't want my imagination to run wild, but its seriously unnerving. I would like to think they follow the ancient art of feng shui, arranging their home accordingly. Their couch is never in the right spot, because they push and pull it in every direction, causing my ceiling to rumble like the tracks under a train suddenly breaking. Drywall cracks and dust floats down like the first blanket of snow. I'm exaggerating. This is just about all I know of them right now, but it's fair to say they aren't half as bad as the people in apartment 815.

Also, Thursday the dorm residents will be moving into town. This lack of silence now will be golden in no time.

Apartment 802- The Man With the Screen Door

We live next to a man with a screen door. He has the only screen door in the complex. The door is makeshift, with unfinished wood and tape covering the holes in the screen so nothing can come in. He is older, with hair like a dirty nickle and soft skin hanging off his thin frame reminding me of wet clothes out to dry. He speaks like a child. Curious and uncertain. He has the mind of a child. Nothing is evil in his eyes. 17 years he said. That's how long this is what he's called home. He's been here longer than some of the maintenance workers have been alive. He talks to my dog every morning, but my dog never talks back. He has a bird that sings every now and again. The bird used to have a girlfriend, a parakeet, but she died. He said that's why he sings. The bird is sad so he sings in attempt to bring her back. The man knows she won't be back though, and looks away with remnants of tears in his eyes. 

Apartment 803

It's been 6 days now since Katie and I moved into our first apartment. Only a mile away from the green quads and lonely gargoyles of Northern Illinois University, but far enough to meet the townies. This is our place now, and this is where I will keep my neighbors. At a safe distance on a blinding screen. For all of us to meet.