A Summer Salutation

Notes From a Constricted Man

I

I don’t think of myself as a generally immoral man. But suppose I must work through this to make sense of it. One must—if they want to understand—one must imagine, day in and day out, their face smashed up against an immovable object, knowing something could be done yet isn’t and won’t be. And how common that is! No one wanted to take action or responsibility? Wonderful! I know it was coarse and base; but the authorities shirked their obligations and my hand was forced. It was simply madness to let it go on!

For the past twenty five years I’ve lived in a relatively small, uninteresting suburb in North St. Louis, working in a small office building some twenty minutes away. I’ve loved living here my whole life. The school district is fine, the local businesses are fine, my home is fine. Sure, the occasional idiotic, hell bound miscreant burns out down the street in their supped up little Honda Civic or Audi or Dodge Charger and I fantasize about bricks flying through windshields; but in most cases I even enjoy my neighbors (to the extent we interact). I’ve never done anything off kilter. I suppose that’s what makes this all so strange, even to myself.

It was around three months ago when the decay began. Summers in the Midwest are notoriously fickle: there’s a week of cloudless skies where the sun beats the earth into submission, followed by a week of torrential rains, only for the sky to open up again the next week and leave the air a dense, sweltering blanket of suffocation. A nasty, capricious little thing; but something I can’t help but be fond of for reasons I can’t fully grasp. It grows on you, I believe. Now normally I walk my neighborhood each day just to get out; to enjoy the trees, the occasional breeze, sights of the old homes—common things, no doubt. I get easily worked up when I stay cooped up inside for too long, just like anyone else (honestly, just think about what Covid lockdowns did to the average American psyche!), and considering I spend a third of my day in a cubicle anyways, it’s the only way to experience reality to some degree.

It was a particularly blistering evening, right around sunset, and while on my usual walk, two doors down from my own I noticed a smell. It had rained earlier—anyone knows those vapors add a weight and depth to the air, doing something awful in revealing the stench of life. At first, I swore I’d walked into a dumping site for woodland creatures. After retching a few times, I regained my composure and looked about for the cause. It took only seconds to realize the smell came from unkempt mess of a home, the exterior disheveled and littered with small bowls and animal droppings. Initially I was confused. How had the smell not drifted down to my home? Who knows, God blessed the prevailing winds of my street presumably. And so, navigating around all the accumulated filth, I knocked on the door. There was no response. I knocked three more times, but still nothing. I could only stand impatient for so long until I figured the home had already taken enough of my usual peace. I left the stoop in a mix of disgust and contempt. The smell even followed me home on my clothes.

Over the next few days, I inquired about the owner of the home. I was surprised how little I remembered about my neighbors. After talking to a few people, I was reminded that an old woman—Bernice, if I recall correctly—a recent widow, moved out after receiving a large inheritance from her deceased husband and now lived with her eldest son. She came back every so often to feed the local wildlife. I realized we met a few times, only in passing, with a wave and a smile on my usual stroll. Absolutely nothing about her came to mind. She was one of those indistinctly generic old people.

One might think I'd be sympathetic to the situation: a lonely, grieving geriatric, after living there for God knows how long, still recovering from the loss of her life partner, comes back every so often to care for the little animals she made dependent on her. I wish I could say I was as moved as how I’ve portrayed the ordeal. Perhaps I should’ve been, in hindsight. I had nothing against her personally; I’m sure she was lovely; but the idea that she was able to so casually make a mess, tend to it every so often, and leave as if it never existed grated me terribly.

My initial response was reserved and reasonable: I called animal control. I laid out the depravity of the situation, sparing none of the gruesome details: the destitute nature of the home, the rotting bits of food, the excrement all over; I even tried to relay the nature of the smell; but they seemed impatient with me and cut me off mid-sentence and told me they would handle things as quickly as they could. A few days later, lo and behold, a notice was placed on her door. Thank the heavens! A simple call is all it took! Those few days were a magnanimous bliss. Though nothing had been done, the potency of the stench diminished in my mind and I could walk past without an immediately being filled with indignation. After a few days, the note on the door was taken down. The food bowls were nowhere to be seen. But the very next day on my walk, my presumed victory strut, for a split second from a stiff breeze, I could just make out that old foul odor, a ghost of a smell creeping back from the crypt. I could only reason, “Well perhaps she hadn’t cleaned it all up yet”...

What an idiotic thing to think! No sooner did I doubt myself than a band of cats came strolling up to her porch, prancing about, then swiftly broke for the back of the home. Needless to say, I followed them around, and to my horror everything had simply been moved to her backyard! The smell was somehow more vicious back there. The entire back patio was covered in scattered bits of food no longer constrained to bowls, fresh piles of animal filth scattered about; there was also had a small manmade pond overtaken by algae, surrounded by little frogs and toads catching all the insects flying about. The only thing missing was a boiling cauldron and a broom to complete the scene! I left the yard astonished and phoned animal control again. I could hear the displeasure in her voice. She told me there was nothing they could do. “We’ve done what we can sir—it is out of public reach,” she claimed. Out of reach?! What does that even mean? Just walk back there!

Over the next few weeks, each time I passed by, I’d become incensed. My initial thoughts led me to stew on the modern impotence of the assigned authorities. Honestly, what good is a government agency that remains idle? That’s a rhetorical, self-defeating question: they’re all idle money suckers, too fearful of a lawsuit or public backlash. Perhaps if I told them there was an oil reserve hidden deep under her house, they would declare imminent domain and claim the land—an unlikely scenario, but Bismarck’s words ring wholly true that God has a special providence for fools, drunks, and the United States of America. (Forgive me, I worked in the public sector before my office job and know all too well the many leeches still lurking within.)

Anyways, the whole situation began to follow me: when I left in the morning, I’d be reminded of what would greet me in the evening; once home, I’d face the captor of my serenity each time I passed by; before bed, images of the home overrun by animals all dancing in a circle around bowls of food on fire would loop in my mind again and again and all I could do was curse the old wench for creating this whole mess.

I tried to ignore it, truly I did. But there is an odd obsessiveness, a strange neurosis a man finds himself in when alone in an involuntary cell: that wall, that wall, this one, no that one; he becomes an inspector of the bars—there’s a way out, one must imagine, only be creative, no? But he cannot speak it: no one would he hear even if he did. And if they did hear him, they would cringe, recoil, pull away, or laugh at his woes. His teeth meets his mettle, wanting to bite into and find something solid beneath. For as much as I tried to ignore it, the smell, the negligence, all of it, I only grew more and more obsessive. I stopped going outside out of anticipation. I would sit in my room, curtains closed, mulling over what could be done. And what could be done? I couldn’t go back to any government agency: man is blessed and damned with freedom and the ability to make and abandon justice. I couldn’t even go into my backyard anymore. In a cruel twist of fate, the winds shifted and drew the stench to my home. Occasionally I’d walk past a vent, catch a hint of a smell creeping inside, curl up in disgust and damn the woman all in the same breath! A man can’t deal with these things too long!

The idea happened so suddenly. I wouldn’t have noticed if I didn’t speak it out loud. The answer, the summation of everything, laid end to end was handed to my on a dreaded silver platter.

I was telling a coworker about the entire situation, the inept authorities, the filth, visions of the dancing animals, the burning food. I see his stupid grin now. He even gave a light hearted laugh. “Can’t you just walk a different way and avoid it all?” How could a man so thoroughly miss the point! As I stared, he continued in smug, mocking, cheap laughter, and I felt the same well of hatred boil up at him the way it did for the widow, and in a flash of a moment, in my mind, he was on fire, grinning all the way down until he collapsed into a pile of ash. At first, I shuddered at the idea. How could something so vile come into my mind? I’d never been one to indulge in the macabre. There was no way I was capable of such a thing. But the more I thought, with iteration upon iteration, each detail grew more concrete, easier to grasp, a golden path of stepping stones for a summer salutation.

In Leviticus, God gives Moses a prescribed means for cleaning a leprous home. But man is not under such a covenant these days. So man must adapt.

When a house is diseased from wall to wall, top to bottom, inside and out and all ways to Sunday: what is to be done?

You burn the house down.

II

I make it sound so easy! I’m not so cruel. You should’ve seen me tremble at the very thought of setting her home aflame; at times, I was forced to anchor myself to a chair, fingers digging into the wood just to be still. I’d never had such thoughts, such obsessions before; but neither had I faced such a persistent issue. I remember it all so clearly: I’d go out, already fixated, discussing the pros and cons, how it could be done, when and what to look for, all to spin it back on myself and ask “well how is it I suddenly have all this courage?”, only to then curse at myself for having the same cowardice as those government busy bodies. It was a parade of snakes all eating one another.

Each trip out became a secret. More than once I stood in a Home Depot or Lowes, staring at the bottle of Kingsford charcoal fluid, heart racing in panic and ecstasy, all for an employee to sneak up on me, ask if I needed help, at which point I’d turn away out of fear of being recognized if anyone were to investigate. I was paranoid that everyone knew. How could they not know? Who does what I was doing? I’d gone in and out so many times I’m certain someone reviewing the tapes must have thought they’d seen a ghost floating about in mourning.

After enough days of my strange ritual, I began to seriously attempt to reign in my worries. Reason does come to a man before his darkest hour, even if addled and only for a moment. Though the tantalizing flame still danced out of sight, I sat down with pen and paper and tried to lay out a plan to avoid it. A man should work through means to handle things in civility, no? My first thought was to clean it up myself, a martyr for a good cause you could say; but my mind told me somehow that method would only encourage her further. “She might even thank me for my kindness”, I thought. So that was no good. I considered becoming a daily pest to animal control—an old, reliable tactic. People cannot stand being bothered too much, and with the daily fuel lingering about, surely, I could keep up the effort on my end. (I see the irony in writing this now, but at the time it seemed like a profound idea). But I remembered how ineptitude and apathy are so closely weaved into the fabric of public workers that all my pestering would become a sort of running joke to them. “Ah, so and so is calling again! I told you so! Get out the piñata!” I couldn’t have them make a game of me. I kept racking my brain for more solutions over the next days. All the while, I was still going back to the hardware store every so often. I just wanted a push either way. Where was my relief?

I couldn’t recreate the mentality now even if I tried. All those old stories of a fevered brain rang so true. I became entirely restless in my sleep. No direction I turned was sufficient. I tried to hold myself still, but that stillness placed me firmly in a state where everything else was moving, spinning, spiraling, waxing and waning, a total violence against myself. The most awful dreams came to me. She would be in her home, comfortable, happily cooking or cleaning up, and suddenly I’d barge in, tie her down, harangue her over her selfish ways, telling her how much everyone loathed what she was doing, and then I would watch her eyes bulge in horror as I dowsed her home in gasoline or some other accelerant. And just before I’d drop a match to start the inferno, I’d wake, drenched in sweat, heart racing and gripping my sheets.

I decided to take an entire two weeks off of work to stake out the house. I wanted to give myself every opportunity to back out. I couldn’t have a bad decision weigh on my conscience! The excuse I gave to my manager was something about my mother being sick and in need of care though she’d been dead for years; but they accepted, even sending their condolences and wishing for a quick recovery. The first few days were just to ensure there were no unintended visitors. She’d come by regularly, every third day right around three o‘clock, chauffeured by a middle-aged man who I could only presume was her son. Like clockwork, each time they left, I would hastily leave for the store, peruse my usual aisle, and leave. The third time I went, I even purchased the charcoal fluid. The cashier made a joke to me about taking such a long time to choose something most people don’t even think twice about. Oh! I was nearly vibrating in front of him, right then and there! I was so sure they knew, and they were laughing at me! I snatched my item and darted out as quickly as I could. The trembling didn’t stop until I reach home, at which point I became nauseous, staring down my neighbor's home. I looked at my purchase in the passenger seat and felt suddenly shameful, like a wretched beast of a man. As soon as I went into my home, I threw away the bottle, retrieved it, threw it away again, stared at it, and, out of some strange compulsion, placed it under my bed as if putting it there made it less accessible or real.

The dreams still haunted me at night. I got to a point where I wouldn’t fall back asleep, realizing I’d been at home for God knows how many hours at a time because even my time at the store was merely an extension of the thoughts in my home. I’d pace around my room, asking “why, why all these torments? What did I do?” I’d get out the charcoal fluid and start speaking to it, almost begging it to do the work for me. I remember screaming “Take this fluid, take this cup from me!” more than once. There’s a mirror in my room, one that in the inky black of the night reflected nothing. Countless hours were spent staring into it. I don’t understand what I was looking for, but I remembered Nietzche’s little phrase. I promise you nothing stares back at you but whatever truth you hold in that moment.

III

I’d decided after two nights of manic obsession something had to be done. The smell wasn’t even in my mind anymore; my own mania over how easily my thoughts devolved troubled me most. But even in my jumbled state, I knew full well Bernice and her son would be over later that day. The sun hadn’t even risen—but I knew looked a mess and was desperate to whip myself into something presentable. I must have showered for an hour, the water heater failing to keep up with my demand. For breakfast, I made two eggs. When the first egg broke, two yolks came out. They say it’s good luck to get such a thing. I suppose they never accounted for the cosmic eccentricities of the universe, as when the second egg came with two yolks, I thought to myself, “well what are the chances?” I don't even recall if I ate my breakfast.

I do remember it was a Thursday. I remember because I called animal control shortly after eating. I didn’t say anything. I remember expecting to be met with laughter for some reason. I hung up after the lady on the phone continually let out a stream of “hello?” in a bothersome, nasally, uninterested tone of voice. I remember thinking “if would’ve been better if she just laughed.”

I watched the clock incessantly as the minutes ticked down. Half of my thoughts floated around the idea of confronting them head on, telling the son to stop giving into his mother’s escapades; and the other half were desperate attempts to convince myself I wouldn’t say something out of place and reveal my absolute loathing. I even practiced in front of the mirror. Every time I mentioned the word home or Bernice or really anything related, my eyes would involuntarily bulge and grow wide and my arms would twitch. Oh my absolute fright! it only sent me into a more treacherous spiral of attempting to retrain my reactions before I inevitably made myself look to be some sort of madman in front of them.

By some miracle, by the time they arrived, I had calmed down. I believe I was comforted by a single thought: that she, Bernice, being elderly, was sure to die soon. It seemed wrong to me for Bernice to remain so long on this earth without her husband, so it was only right for them to go together in a timely fashion. I hear how terrible it sounds, but it was the only thing keeping me stable.

I waited for the car to pull up and for her to go inside before approaching her son. He was unsurprisingly startled at my sight. I can’t imagine a pale, balding, slightly overweight man to be appealing to anyone. We made quick and easy formalities, discussing the latest heat wave while he was being gently caressed by air conditioning. I mentioned how I lived a few houses down and eventually we got to speaking about his mother (I made sure to lock my body rigid as it came up; I could see the son’s face deform at my actions). He went into the tragedy of his father’s passing, how he had been such a strong and noble man of the community, a pastor at a local Baptist church no less, a man full of virtues and philanthropy, and how he held on so long and so bravely for Bernice. I began to sweat in the heat.

“Well, if you don’t mind me asking, how old is your mother?”

“Ah, she’s only seventy-five.”

“Only?”

I didn’t understand why he had to use the word “only”.

The breeze picked up for a moment, and oh... the smell, the putridness, the foul and festering stench like a rogue band of spices hit me all at once.

“Yes, sir, only seventy-five and healthy as a horse. Her mother is still alive at a hundred, and her mother made it all the way to a hundred and ten! Can you believe it? The Good Lord has a way of giving such blessings to those most in need!”

All of my faculties failed me. I watched as the door to the house opened, Bernice’s frail little body nearly skipping, smiling with a wide toothed grin. She came down to the car, greeted me, and asked her son if she could hurry to get back in time to watch Jeopardy. I watched them drive off.

But a singular detail stood out in my mind. I heard it as an echo. I can see it. I can smell it. I still see it. If only I hadn’t seen it...

The very second she stepped into the car, somehow my mind took note of a distinct lack of the tinkling of little keys on the way down; and as she got in, and I peered in, feigning some generosity, inevitably I caught a small glimpse of the emptiness of her hands. She hadn’t locked the door to her home. And from my many trips walking by, I knew she had no form of security.

Much of the frenzy that occurred I can’t begin to describe properly. I don’t wish to indulge in the revery. The idea of possibly thirty more years of inescapable hell became too much. All sense of morality meant nothing. Of course it meant nothing; it had to take a backseat to reality. In fact, morality became repugnant. You begin to justify all sorts of things revolving around a local truth flying in the face of what people want to espouse as universal. Any idea of some code of conduct sounded like a man’s excuse for holding himself back for others comfort. Had I not been treaded on? I’m embarrassed to even say it, but I even began to filter everything through this idea I’d be doing her family a favor. No more house visits! No more spending on food for the animals! No more caring for the home! I even went so far as considering how much the home was worth, how substantial the payout could be, how she could leverage her position as a lonely old widow and make the insurance people bleed. It was all gift!

The time between the car leaving and end of the day went by unnaturally quickly. The front of the house was unlocked as I believed it to be. The pictures in her home, the plastic wrapped couches, the kitchen appliances, all prime for kindling. In the weeks preceding I had even had a conversation with a fireman about the most common causes of a house fire, claiming I was looking to make some renovations to meet modern standards. Cooking fires are the most common; but faulty electrical work, particularly in these old homes, is equally feasible. I was so calm exiting the home. I even called the fire department after it was sufficiently reduced to a char. After all of it, the weeks of mania, my indecisiveness, the poking and prodding at my psyche, when I laid in my bed that night, the air smelled like a bonfire and I fell asleep to the thought of being a kid again, care free, sitting around the fire, telling stories and roasting s’mores. A few weeks later while walking the neighborhood, I overheard some ladies discussing the whole ordeal, how the husband died, then the house went up in flames, then how poor old Bernice passed away from all the supposed stress. Some sort of aneurism or a stroke. I just kept walking.

I can’t help but think I write all this for no purpose. I hoped in some sense putting it all down into words I would let me see everything and recoil just as I had before when it was all fresh and alive. I feel it all as separate moments, but I don’t have any guilt over what I’ve done in its totality, as if I’m some sort of an unending scab. How could I have known things would go so far? I still pass by the burnt lot and have a sense of relief wash over me. Why didn’t anyone stop me? Did they not care? Why didn’t I stop me? I expected someone to come by my house and ask if I had heard or seen or knew anything, but there’s been nothing. I get to go to my office, smile, joke around, come home, enjoy a meal, go out for a walk. I don’t understand this feeling I’m left to contend with. I don’t get to tell anyone what I’ve done. And no one would understand if I told them. I mean, maybe they might understand the obsession or the anger or even my thoughts of futility, but all individually, never as motive to do what I did.

I don’t know what would be worse: if I asked the Lord for forgiveness and He remained silent, or if I asked and He forgave me. I don’t know if there’s even a difference.