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Davis
There was a time, though I admit it was long ago, when I actually took pride in how my yard looked.
Back then, I’d have mowed it weekly, made certain the weeds were under control, and worked hours until it looked like a professional had waltzed in and made it look acceptable.
Now as I stand here on a sunny Saturday morning, I realize I’ve got my work cut out for me. All the other homes in the neighborhood are well cared for. Especially the neighbor’s house next door, whose pristine, well-manicured yard is something I envy. Makes me wonder what he thinks when he glances at my shithole house and crappy yard. Is he curious about the inhabitants? Does he think we’re two scumbags who rent the place and don’t give a shit about what it looks like? Is he sorry he moved in next to us?
Really though….why should I care what some stranger thinks about me or my home?
I’ve just gotten the lawn mower to start when Chantal strolls out the front door, black Chanel purse slung over her slim shoulder, overnight bag in hand. Her father surprised her with the purse on her birthday a few years back, boasting how he paid over $1500 for it, as if that would impress me. It didn’t. I can think of a hundred better ways to spend that amount of cash, none of them accessory related.
She’s dressed in her work clothes—slim black skirt, cream-colored blouse, string of pearls and five-inch heels. She gives me a sideways glance, face devoid of all emotion, and tucks her hair behind her ear. Her chin lifts just slightly, eyes narrowing as if even the idea of speaking to me makes her angry. Most likely it does. “I’ll be back Wednesday evening.”
I offer a nod and go right back to my task. Our days of exchanging empty words with one another have long since passed. I don’t even glance up when she drives off. I’m just happy I won’t have to fulfill my church obligation tomorrow. I’m also slightly elated that I will have the house to myself for a few days and I won’t have to hide away in the loft apartment like some criminal.
We’ve been together almost a decade, but we’ve been strangers for the majority of our relationship. Once upon a time, a beautiful and vivacious Chantal Myer waltzed into the auto shop where I once worked as a lowly mechanic and swept me away with her engaging smile. Once, many years ago, she laughed and talked and was the most present person I’d ever met. Once long ago, we cared about one another and fell slowly and deeply in love. Once, she could actually tolerate my existence. Now she pretends that I’m not there at all.
Sometimes I miss the woman she used to be. I miss her almost as much as I miss the guy I once was; someone happy and positive, who had life by the balls and a beautiful future to concentrate on. Now, Chantal and I are strangers; two people who share a home and a last name. I no longer refer to her as Talley, the nickname I gave to her when we were first dating. She lives her life, runs her own business, and has nothing to do with me unless it’s required. We talk only when it has to do with the house or the bills, or if we’re in public and putting on our game faces, portraying the perfectly happily couple that her well-to-do parents expect us to be. Occasionally, like today, she’ll inform me of her comings and goings. Most often I have no idea where she is or who she’s with. And I can guarantee she’d say the same about me if asked.
Shaking off the frustration about my marriage, or lack thereof, I stow the mower away and decide to take my anger out on the numerous weeds. It’s a starting point, and once I’ve accomplished that I can reassess how else to improve the yard.
Three hours later I’ve made a good dent in the overgrowth, though there’s still a lot to do. I’m covered in dirt and grime, sweat dripping down my forehead, and my knees are aching from hours crouched down in the flower beds. The green waste is overflowing, and I’ve resorted to stashing the rest of the cuttings and weeds in large, black trash bags that now line the driveway.
“What’s your secret?”
My head snaps up at the question that comes out of nowhere. A dark-headed guy is standing on the other side of the low fence that separates my property from the one next door. He’s wearing black slacks, a perfectly pressed white shirt, and light blue tie. He looks vaguely familiar, although the accent isn’t something I recognize. British maybe, or Scottish. I have no damn idea.
“Huh?”
He smiles at me, and nods at the pathetic rose bush in the barrel. “What’s your secret…. for growing roses?”
Getting to my feet, I glance down and wonder what the hell this guy is smoking. Clearly, the pathetic excuse for a rose bush could not inspire anyone to greatness. “Uh…neglect, I guess.”
He chuckles and shoves his hand out across the fence. “I’m Merrick. Merrick Whitley. Your neighbor.” He nods toward the house with the perfect yard, then glances back at me with a smile directed my way.
I let go of his hand the moment I shake it. “Davis Morgan.”
“Nice to meet you, Davis. And for the record, I can’t grow roses either. You’re actually ahead of the game with this one.” He gestures toward the limp, pink flower. “At least you got it to bloom.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Brushing the dirt from my arms and legs, I gather up the few tools that are scattered around and make to leave. The last thing I want is to share inane words with some stranger. “See ya around.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him linger at the fence for a hot minute, then shove his hands into his pockets and casually stroll up his driveway, disappearing from view.
Once all the tools are put away, I head inside to shower, tossing my dirt-covered clothes onto the ever-growing pile in the corner, before stepping under the warm spray. The foreigner next door is now forgotten, and while I soap down I consider the rest of my day. I should probably eat something. And I’m sure Ma would appreciate it if I dropped by. But after a day spent in my yard, and the lingering annoyance with Chantal, I just want to sit on my shitty couch and drink.
I never used to drink like this. Sure, I went through a phase like most teenagers do, spending my weekends drunk off my ass. That waned as I got older, until my life was upended and everything I once loved disappeared in a matter of hours. My loneliness fuels my drinking. My drinking fuels my loneliness. It’s a vicious circle I’m caught up in with absolutely no way out.
Shutting the water off, I step out onto an old shop rag and reach for the lone bath towel that hangs from a nail on the wall. The faucet continues to drip slowly as I pull on clean boxers and step in front of the mirror. This is another curbside find of mine like most of the crap in my place. One corner is broken off and it’s so old the glass is no longer clear, but tinged around the edges in muted gold-beige.
My reflection shows a man whose life is aging him. My close cropped hair has just a few hints of grey at the temples, but the lines on my face are all courtesy of the bottle and the memories. Surprisingly, I’m in decent shape, considering that I eat mostly garbage and consume far too much booze. But I look nothing like the man I was almost six years before; a man high on life and filled with happiness.
Turning away from the mirror with a muttered curse, I pull on tattered blue sweats and a faded white t-shirt. The mini-fridge has nothing of substance, so I quickly phone in a pizza order and head into the house to wait for it. As usual, Chantal has left dishes in the sink and the garbage is overflowing. If I didn’t own half the house I’d let her filth take over completely, but there’s this odd sense of devotion I still feel toward her on occasion, and I’ll be damned if I can explain why. The woman despises me on every level, and makes no secret of the fact that she does. The only time she’s civil is when we’re out in public together; when the family obligation and social expectations far outweigh the hate she has for me.
By the time I’ve cleaned the kitchen, tossed out the moldy food in the fridge and taken out the garbage, my pizza has arrived. In my lame attempt at a fuck-you to the woman I still call my wife, I eat it sitting on the couch with a sports show blaring in the background.
I feel like a stranger in my own home. Sure, the furniture is the same. So are the few pictures on the walls. But the dust and neglect parallel the demise our relationship has taken over the years, and not for the first time I ask myself why I bother. There is a vague list of dumb reasons why I stay; fear of the unknown being the biggest. Memories of the past have me chained to the present, and I have no idea how I’ll ever escape.
Setting the half-eaten pizza aside, I get to my feet and slowly walk across the room. The hallway is darkened and musty, the doors to the three bedrooms tightly closed. A glance inside the hall bathroom shows more neglect—trashcan overflowing, hand towel tossed in a heap off to one side of the small counter. I notice that she’s removed the frames that once lined one wall of the hallway; wedding pictures, if I remember correctly. The dull ache in my chest reminds me that I probably care more than I should. And that I’m a fool for doing so.
Standing in front of the door leading to the master bedroom, I reach out and give the knob a turn. It doesn’t budge. When I look closer, I see that she’s replaced it with a key lock, as if she needs it to keep me away. The caustic laughter that explodes from my mouth is startling in the dreary, dark space. There is so very much that is wrong with us.
