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Merrick
Smooth jazz bleeds from the speakers as I maneuver through traffic.
It’s just after five—an early day for me for a change—and I’m looking forward to a nice, quiet evening at home. Not that tonight is much different than last night or the one before. Quiet evenings at home seem to be more the norm since I moved into my sleepy neighborhood made up of mostly families and retirees. I’ve settled easily into the life I’ve been craving for years, though I do sometimes long for a bit more excitement. My new neighborhood is not what you’d ever call “exciting”. It’s as if the moment the sun goes down, everything comes to a grinding halt and people shut themselves inside their homes. It’s certainly a far cry from the apartment buildings I’ve lived in previously, with constant noise and general chaos everywhere you turn.
Easing into the left-hand lane, my foot falls heavily on the gas as I slide past a tourist bus and a minivan full of toddlers. One thing I’ll probably never get used to is living in a mostly tourism-heavy place. Monterey is a gorgeous coastal city, rich in history, as frequently written about by author, John Steinbeck. The history remains, though the sardine plants that once lined Cannery Row have now been turned into shops and restaurants. The beautiful weather and rugged coastline are what drew me to this magical place, but living here is not without strife. Certain times of the year are busier than others, but this hubbub for family fun can at times be annoying to those of us who reside here. Thankfully I’ve learned quickly where to go and when. And while I love a good stroll down to the wharf like the next guy, I know better than to venture there on a weekend or in the middle of the summer.
A sense of rightness falls over me as I weave through the streets leading to my house. I’ve worked long and hard to get to where I am today, and purchasing my classy ranch-style home six months ago still sometimes feels like a dream. Because of the hours I keep—owning a successful physical therapy practice—I’ve yet to completely unpack. And until this past weekend, and my almost non-conversation with the guy next door, the only neighbor I’ve gotten to know at all is the old man across the street who walks his dog every morning.
I’m not sure what to make of Davis Morgan. In the months I’ve lived in this neighborhood, I’ve only seen him coming and going a handful of times. Sometimes he’s with a pretty dark-haired woman—his wife, I presume—other times he’s alone; always with a vacant expression on his face, head down, intent on getting where he’s going. Meeting him face to face last Saturday was one of those convenient opportunities that come along once in a while. My intention was to introduce myself, and maybe get to know him better. I certainly didn’t mean to run the guy off. He acted almost afraid, or perhaps completely disinterested, to talk to me. I would find it amusing had I not witnessed the lack of any emotion on his face. I’ve never seen such an empty look as the one I saw when his distant brown eyes briefly caught mine.
I’m intrigued. Very intrigued. The mysterious—and admittedly very handsome—Mr. Morgan, clearly does not wish for us to get to know one another. His walls were fully erected, the “stay away from me” vibe clear and present. I’m not exactly lacking in the friend department, so I’m not sure why that brief moment in the yard has been weighing on my mind. But it has, and so has he, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why.
What I do know is that I’ve never met someone who appeared to be as completely disconnected from life in general as he was. His voice was flat when he spoke, the handshake was firm, brief and cold, and the lack of anything—emotion or even life—behind his eyes was almost frightening in a way. The coldness I witnessed there was enough to cause frostbite.
Pulling into my driveway, I kill the engine, irritated once again that my garage is filled with boxes, sports equipment and unused furniture, making it impossible for me to park my brand new Honda inside. I make a mental note to tackle that chore next weekend, then grab my briefcase and jacket and step out. I’ve just set the car alarm when I hear my neighbor’s truck pull up and park in front of his house.
There’s always time to make a good impression, I tell myself as I meander down the driveway to retrieve my mail. I wait until I hear his door slam, then glance his direction. “Hey Davis, how’s it going?”
His head snaps up, eyes darting my direction, that same eerie disconnection crawling across his face. His shoulders visibly pull back and tighten, the muscles defined by a snug blue shirt, a nametag over his left pec.It’s like he’s preparing for battle.“Fine.”
He doesn’t inquire about my day or make any attempt to continue the conversation, which I am not surprised by. He doesn’t linger on the sidewalk either, practically scurrying away from me. His boots smack against the concrete as he moves quickly up the steps of the walkway, as if he’s almost afraid to stick around and see what I might do. Poor guy…the wife must have him on a short leash.
I give it one last shot. “Have a good evening.”
There’s another brief glance my way, before he unlocks his front door and steps inside, slamming it behind him the moment he clears the threshold.
“Well, that went well,” I murmur to myself as I too head toward my front door.
The moment I’m inside, I smile; just as I do most days. I love this house. I love everything about it. It’s a basic Ranch-style home; one story, three bedrooms, two baths. There’s a formal living room that is still unfurnished, a family room where I spend the majority of my time, and a functional yet basic kitchen that was remodeled right before I purchased the place. The front yard is beautifully landscaped, the backyard a constant work in progress. Other than the brick patio and a few large pots with flowers, it’s one space I don’t anticipate getting to for a few more months.
Tossing my keys and briefcase onto the long table just inside the front door, I tug at my tie and head down the hall to the master bedroom, my sanctuary. The space is decorated simply with dark furnishings and a king-sized bed, dove gray paint on all walls, a large black and white Ansel Adams print hanging above the headboard. It’s not a large space, but it’s perfect for what little I need, which is peace and serenity at the end of a long day.
Peace and serenity feel a long way off today. What I really need is a good, hard run followed by a hot shower. What I’ll most likely do is sit my ass on the couch and drink a few beers. Just as I have most nights.
Once I’m changed into sweats and a ratty old t-shirt I’ve had since college, I pad barefoot into the kitchen, extracting a tall ale from the fridge. I have an ongoing list of household things I need to accomplish, but I’m sorely lacking in energy to get any of it done tonight.
I’m damn exhausted.
Running my own practice is more than enough to keep my plate overflowing. Add to that the purchase of my home and all that entails and it’s no surprise I’m worn out. For weeks, months even, I’ve felt like there are simply not enough hours in the day to do everything that needs to be done. My business partner and best friend, Aiden, has helped to lighten the load at work, but there is just too much that must be accomplished each and every day.
I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t have a significant other in my life. The few nights each month that I get together with my friends is about all the socializing time I have. But if I’m being honest with myself, I’ve never really taken the time to make my love life, or my sex life, the priority it should be. Sure, I like sex as much as the next guy, but I just haven’t found the one person who makes me not want to run in the opposite direction. It’s not that I’m anti-relationships exactly, but rather that I’m just tired of all the games that are played in the dating world. I’m tired of the phonies, the men who tell me what they think I want to hear. Simply put, I want someone to come home to each night. Someone who doesn’t need to be wined and dined constantly. Someone who is content to sit on the couch in his sweats and share his day with me. Someone who will share his life with me as well.
When the hell did I turn into such a sap?Christ…I’m really beginning to show my age. Who would have thought that thirty-eight was like a death sentence?
Rolling my eyes at the momentary self-pity, I click the television on and search for something to watch. I’m not exactly hard to please. Give me a sports program or a ballgame of any kind and I’m content. There’s a Lakers versus Celtics game on one channel, a replay of an NFL game on another, and two or three sports shows to choose from, yet tonight nothing intrigues me.
Not like my handsome neighbor does.
I’m wasting my time, fixating on some stranger—some married stranger at that—like I have been. Sure, it would be nice if we became friends. I’m a good friend to have. I have friends like Aiden, who I’ve known for decades. I have other friends that I’ve grown close to the past few years. Davis would do well to call me a friend.
If that was something he wanted.
Clearly, he does not.
I’m so damn curious about this closed-off man and the life he leads, and I wish I knew why. Maybe he’s nothing more than a very private person. Maybe he’s not as miserable as I perceive him to be. Regardless, if the guy doesn’t want to get to know me, that’s his loss.
Doesn’t mean I’m not going to try to get to know him.
