Sorry it took me so long to post – it’s a weird summer… This isn’t finished, but it does have a beginning, middle, and end. I just have to do more polishing; please let me know if you think the heavy oral telling works, and whether or not I should drop the accent or work harder to make it convincing. I have to say, writing to your own prompt is a lot harder than writing to someone else’s…
_C
The White Light of Stars
By C. Brannon Watts
Robert is an unusual guy. We first met when I parked my car behind his, on Hood Street. I had wondered for over a week who owned the totally decrepit white Honda; it was packed with what looked like the contents from the bottom of a trash compactor, and a giant white dog slept in the backseat. The car had no plates, and looked like it couldn’t move. There may actually have been more dirt on the car than on the street. I assumed that whoever owned it was yet another of the thousands of homeless people that migrate through Chicago every summer, and I left whoever it was a note with a couple ones in it under the driver’s side windshield wiper. I can’t help wanting to help, you know. I was raised differently than the majority of this great city was, I suppose. My parents would have blistered my rear end if I hadn’t done something – well, probably not really, but you know what I mean. It would have felt like they had. I call a social consciousness what others call a guilt complex.
In any case, my note just said that he should think about moving his car elsewhere, because either the busybody old ladies from the houses across the street or the guys at the Masjid ‘e Noor Mosque would certainly object to his squatting in the car. And though I didn’t say it, it was obvious he would have no money to get his car out of an impound lot. And God forbid they put the boot on it…
So a week after leaving him the note, I parked behind him again. He had taken the car through a car wash, and it had plates on it now. The other difference wasn’t immediately apparent, but as I walked past the car, someone sat up in the driver’s seat. I had literally caught him napping. In true Chicagoan fashion, I started moving past him so that I could avoid any awkward conversation. That’s when the door opened, and his giant beast of a dog started barking.
I had walked past his car probably twenty times, even left a note on the windshield, and the dog had never made a sound. He’d been parked in the same spot long enough that Kate and I even had a nickname for the dog: the silent werewolf. But all that changes when you open the door, I guess. All hell broke loose. I grew up around dogs, but man that sucker had some lungs on him! I turned around to get a good look at the person climbing out from behind the wheel, and was surprised to see a decently clean, if not fastidious, elderly man closing the door. He was mostly beard, with granny glasses and a tattered green military surplus that barely contained his shoulders. Short guy, but wide. I admit I was also more than prepared to make a run for it. But it seems there was no need.
“You’ll be the one what left that note on the windscreen, then?” I was offered the wrinkled and hirsute hand of a man that for all I knew was some psycho. It was in keeping with the neighborhood, and the rest of my day for that matter. But I somehow didn’t think he was. I hesitated, my Chicago rules fleeing in the onslaught of what was an all-too human gesture. Of course I shook his hand.
“Um, yes sir, that would be me. I’m Brian.” We shook, and he had a dry grip – lots of calluses. It was like shaking hands with a vise. Like shaking hands with my grandfather.
“Sir, is it? I don’t get that much. I’m Robert, then, Chris.” I looked in his eyes, and he must have seen some doubt. He shook his head.
“I know’m not much te see… Much obliged to you fer the paper, though. I won’t bother ye then, I’m leaving. Just wanted to thank ye for the help.” He had turned and started back for his car. The dog had stopped barking and laid back down, but the car kept moving – worn out struts, I guess.
“Wait –listen, Robert. I was just going over to Alexander’s for a bite and some coffee. If you want, I have enough to spare. Well, a little, anyway. I’m a college student, so stick to the under-five-dollar side of the menu, okay?” I didn’t look to see if he was following, but went ahead and walked to the corner. I figured he would or wouldn’t, whatever. But I had three hours or so before Kate came home, and a little idle conversation never hurt anybody. Besides, he might say something interesting. The accent alone was worth hearing a little longer.
I didn’t have to wait long, though it still surprised me that he just appeared next to me. The guy was completely silent, and didn’t say a word as we walked across Clark to the restaurant. Alexander’s is not exactly what you’d call fine dining, though it was fine for poor little old me, and they brewed a killer cup of joe. Marge was working – awesome. She kept trying to set me up with her niece every time I came in, despite the fact that she had seated and waited on my wife and I multiple times. I will never understand the effect I have on middle-aged women.
Marge took one look at Robert, smiled briefly, then looked at me. I could tell she was making sure that I was here of my own volition. I nodded, she blew a bubble, and grabbed two menus. I had been in enough to not have to ask for my favorite table.
“You like watching people?” Robert hadn’t even bothered to open the menu, instead focusing on the cheapo back page.
“Yes, I guess I do. It’s one of the things that I love about this city – though having to drive here has just about taken all the fun out of my life lately. People always surprise you – even when they think they are acting according to some secret code. It’s weird to me. What about you, Robert?” I didn’t need to look at the menu either – I would order the corned beef hash and North Shore potatoes, fried hard. It was one of the best things they had to offer.
“That’s why I travel so much. I can’t stay in one place too long. People start repeating the same words, the same movements. Everything’s patterned. I need to see new patterns.” He raised a hand, gestured across the street at his car. “When we finish here, I should show you something in my car. Nothing weird, son. And don’t worry about Gertrude. She may be the only constant in my life, but she’d never bite a body without me saying.” Marge came back, pad in hand.
“What’ll it be fellas?” I looked at Robert, nodding to him so he’d order first.
“I’ll have the corned beef hash and hash browns, fried hard. And a cuppa, please.” He looked at me, and despite the fact that I knew I hadn’t told him what I was ordering, I still wondered for a minute if I had.
“Um, the same, Marge. And can I have a cup of ojay, too? Thanks.” She nodded once, blew another bubble, scooped up the menus, and was off.
“Here, let me show you something.” Robert twisted in the booth, digging in a back pocket with his right hand. He pulled out one of the weirdest things I’ve ever seen. It was a wallet, which I have seen plenty of. But it was white leather, and the size of a paperback. It had little fake crystals all over, and tassles that hung three or four inches off the ends. That, I had never seen before.
“Cool wallet, Robert. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one like that before.” I tried not to snicker – it was easily one of the most ridiculous things I had ever seen a man carry.
“You’d not have. Seen one like this, that is. Wife made it for me – years ago, before she got sick. We were living in Colorado, the both of us working in the same landscape business. She made leather goods too, and I wrote articles for Astronomy magazine. Don’t look so surprised. I never had the time for a degree, o’ course, but that din’t stop me from gazing and scribbling. I made my own ‘scope, custom ordered the lenses and everything. I used to love staring at the stars, Brian. But since Molly died, I haven’t been able to look any higher than the treetops, unnerstand? I knew you would. You seem a bright and honest man, and that’s surely rare anymore. Now where is that dratted photo?” He had been pulling paper and cards from his wallet the entire time, and now there was a small mountain of paper in front of us on the table. I just hoped the hash waited a few minutes, otherwise this would be really awkward.
“Ahh. Here it is. Take a look, and then you’ll unnerstand what’s in the car, too, after you hear me ramble a bit.” Robert handed me a photograph. In it were two people; a younger but still identifiable Robert, an interesting looking young woman, beautiful in an austere kind of way, and one of the biggest telescopes I had ever seen. The thing must have been over twelve feet in length. My eyebrows must have risen, because I heard him stifle a laugh. It came out as a grunt, and when I looked up, he had somehow managed to return the contents of his wallet. It lay on the table now, pristine and white, light seeming to pool in oily puddles around each of the cheap imitation crystals stitched into the leather. I couldn’t look long. The photo kept drawing my attention.
“The tube collapsed, ye know. I built it so it’d carry in my pickup. Molly hated that thing. She used to always joke about it, but she really felt that the stars were taking too much of my time away from her. Good lookin’ gal, huh?” He was looking at me oddly, and for some reason I felt he was really asking me something else. So I guessed, and answered the unasked.
“My wife hates the fact that I spend so much time on the computer, too. But I’m a writer, Robert. It’s what I have to do if I’m to ever make a living at the one thing I know I can do passing well. Frustrating, but I love her dearly. And you know? Don’t let on to Marge here, or she’ll force-feed me to her niece, but we’re not actually married yet. We’re waiting until we both have jobs before we tie the knot.” I could tell that I had guessed correctly. I’ve never actually seen a brow furrow before or since, but his did. His eyes all but disappeared.
“I’m thinking you need to see what I have in the car, then. Once we’re done, a’course. I’ll have that back, if you don’t mind. It’s the only picture I have left of her.”
“Oops, sorry. I forgot I was holding it. Here you go.” As I handed him the photo back, a little paper scrap fell onto the table. He didn’t notice, but I palmed it because I saw at a glance that it had dates and times on it, and I thought I recognized a name. I used the reach to bring out a pack of cigarettes, and offered him one. He started to shake his head “no,” but changed his mind and held out his hand. I lit mine, then handed him one and the lighter, setting the pack on the table between us. The look on his face as he lit up was sheer joy.
“Robert, why don’t you wait to tell me whatever it is you’re wanting to say after the food has come?” He nodded, and just as he took his second drag, the food came. It works every time – light a cigarette, and what you are waiting for appears. Though in my case it’s normally a bus that I can’t smoke on, and I have to put it out. This once, though, neither of us stopped smoking. We both squinted and blew smoke out the sides of our mouths like crusty sailors while we dressed our coffees. I wasn’t stopping or taking a break until he did – I don’t know when or how it became a competition, but it had.
I ashed all down the front of myself, of course – it would never do to have me pull off anything manually complicated with any sort of panache. Thank God my wife was as klutzy as me. Robert managed to complete his cigarette without ashing once, leaving a slowly down-turned funnel of gray ash a few inches long hanging from the butt. Typical, I thought, outdone by a homeless guy. It didn’t take us long to finish eating, and Robert talked while he ate. I refused to look at him, staring at the table for most of the meal. I didn’t want to see the inside of his mouth, no thanks.
“Here’s the thing, Brian. I have been in and out of hospitals for most of my life. They diagnosed me with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder when I was five, and it’s been one thing or another ever since. In the eighties I caught a break – though it was a rough one to catch. Both my parents were dead, I had been on medication for the majority of my life, and the federal government had just decided to cede control of all the country’s state-operated mental health facilities to the states. This was both good and bad for me, but it was pretty much all bad for the people I had known for years – most of them were Veterans, and had extremely limited insurance coverage. Most of them needed the medicine more than a place to stay, but of course they got the room and not the meds.”
“In any case, I had neither. Within the course of a month after hearing about the collapsing program, and the close of the hospital, I was on the street with the last of the depacote and welbutrin running down the inside of my legs. I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel sorry for me, but so you’ll know where I was. I was nowhere. I had no education to speak of, no training, could barely stay awake for longer than an hour at a time, and I had no one to turn to. The hospital gave me three hundred dollars, my personal effects, and a bus ticket back to my hometown. Never mind that there was nothing there for me, that was where I was headed. I was forty-five. I had been in that hospital since Molly died and I went nuts, ten years before.” He paused here, and looked meaningfully at the pack on the table. I gave him the thumbs up, and he lit up.
“So, long story somewhat shorter, I got home, waited until the drugs let up, tried to ignore the weird things my head was doing, and saved up some money working three or four jobs at a time. I traveled a good bit, enjoying my hobby, and finally met up with the fellow who had bought my telescope from the estate after Molly died. I bought it back from him, used the rest of my money to buy Gertrude and that piece of crap out there, and I’ve been wandering ever since.” He went quiet.
“Robert?”
“What? Oh. So I guess you want to know what I’m doin, wanderin the country with that oversized excuse of an animal? Well, I think it’s significant that you like watching people, Brian. ‘Cause that’s what I do, ye see. I watch people like I used to watch the stars. I pick an area, park the car, watch until I start to get overwhelmed by how boring and predictable who I’m watching gets, and then I go. Each place I stop, I manage to make a few bucks doing something or other. Occasionally someone is nice enough to give me a little money, some food, what have ye. I never really smoked, you know. Only when someone offers can I actually light up. It’s strange – even when I have cravings, I can’t go buy a pack – but if they’re offered, I smoke like a beast. I think it’s the smoke. Something about the smoke – it’s freely offered, like the clouds in the sky that I can’t see anymore, and that makes it okay.” He had stopped again, and I handed him the pack after pulling one out for myself. It was nearly full, and I had another two in my jacket pocket.
“I think it’s time you see what I have in my car. Are you done?” I realized then that I had been taking fewer and fewer bites of my food while I was listening to him, so I scarfed down what little was left and laid a twenty out for Marge to pick up. We sat there waiting for change and finishing our coffee and smokes. We didn’t say another word to one another until we got outside, and even then it wasn’t much – just here, take a look, good luck, thanks. We had said everything that needed to be said while we were in the restaurant.
The inside of his car was covered with diagrams – scribbles on loose pieces of paper, on cups, the headliner of the car, the seat cushion, even drawn in the dust on the dashboard. The strange thing was that the longer I looked, the more sense I could make out of them. For example, it was obvious that that squiggle there, with the date above it and the circle beneath, meant a woman had entered or left a bathroom on such-and-such a day, at such-and-such a time. I could not make out most of his shorthand, but the diagrammatic scribblings were specific enough for me to get the gist of it. And then he pulled out the notebooks. There were boxes and boxes of them, all types – from the cheap dime store kind to the composition notebooks, and most of them looked like they had been dug out of the trash. Stained and torn, and every usable inch was covered in his spidery, old-man cipher. It was more than odd, it was scary in the single-mindedness of purpose. But the really scary thing was that I understood what he was doing, and why he was doing it. He had to watch – it was a compulsion. When I was a kid, I would not allow myself to step on cracks because I had so internalized the lyrics to the Devo song “Whip It.” I wrote with a single-minded passion too, and had nearly placed myself in the unenviable position of having carpal tunnel surgery at the age of 25. I knew Robert. I understood Robert. I was Robert.
Enough was enough, though. I told him that I appreciated his sharing what he did with me, and backed away quickly, hoping that he wouldn’t see the light of recognition in my eyes. He handed me something before he left, though – before I could run away, I mean. I didn’t open it until later, and I still don’t believe it. He gave me two perfectly ground lenses that make the pores on my hands look like three-foot craters in asphalt. They were wrapped in a ton of Kleenex, and placed in a shopping bag. I only realized later that I could use them to decipher the cryptic writing on the piece of paper I snatched off the table. They were dates and times of our movements in and out of the apartment. And he used our names.
