The Dreamer
A story of travel to the other side...

There once lived a boy in a small town, a town not so far from anyplace that we haven't been before. It is a place that exists in our hearts. And a place we retire when we desire tranquility. There is neither fare nor prerequisite for travel to this place. There is however, only one route and one requirement to travel to this place. You must come freely and you must believe.

The little boy who lives in this town comes to life whenever his creator arrives. The town’s lights come on and there is life once again. The streets become filled and the sound of foot traffic is everywhere. Again the excitement of a town’s coming alive fills faces with smiles and glee as trolley cars filled with people pass the little shops on Main Street. Main Street is where passengers disembark and new passenger’s board. A pack of golden retrievers sunning themselves and playing are in the town’s square waiting for little boys to play with them. Birds fly with exhilarating ease above the park while the parks band strikes up a lively melody. Everywhere there is mirth and fun. Being a small town everyone knows each other and everyone knows each traveler who arrives on the train.

A whistle signals the arrival of the train. This time there is someone new. The town’s people were aware of his coming. There is an unspoken approval and welcome from the town’s people to new arrivals. For a along time they had hoped that he would accept their invitation to join them. Thou he had been somewhat reluctant to do so in the past- unpleasant events in his life made the town’s hospitality more desirous.

When he stepped onto the platform of the train he was greeted by a young boy with freckles, sandy hair and a big warm smile. The boy was also wearing kaki overalls and a pair of red ball tennis shoes. He liked the boy instantly. The young boy grasped his hand and held it. He pulled him from the platform and onto the unpaved street of the station. A few yards away from the train he looked back and saw a shadowy figure of a man standing on the platform-waving goodbye to him as the train left the station. Strange - he felt strange as if he knew this person and perhaps had seen this person before.
And even more strange was the feeling of renewed strength. He could run, jump and life seemed to be filled with fascinating new adventures. He could do anything. The little boy soon realized that he was the young boy who had met that tired man at the train station. Somehow the stranger was young again living his boyhood again in a town far removed from anyplace he had been before. He was happy. He was home but unlike the home of his former childhood he truly felt like this was home.

Mr. Baker invited him in to sample his fresh donuts and custards. He ate till his side began to ache. He played with all of the toys in Mr. and Mrs. Pennyman's toy store till not a toy was untouched. He held hands with Greta a long flaxen haired girl in the park, and sang songs with old and young alike. For a moment in time his former life and the memories of his past seem to fade away. There was no more pain and unhappiness and joy became a friend again. He didn't care about time or when the sun was coming down. He played and played. He sang songs and danced to his hearts content. He slept late and frolicked through the woods at night. At night he sang to the moon, and toasted the sun at dawn. At night he slept in a different house, different bed and sometimes he slept outside under a full moon. He ran with the dogs that sunned themselves by day in the park.

One afternoon he heard the whistle blow in the train station. It was time to return. He was not saddened for he knew the little town would always exist in his heart. And, would greet him again and again when he was ready to return.

© Copyright 2002

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The Great Battle Part Three

I found myself standing on the deck of a huge pirate ship and surrounded by the likes of boys I had never seen before. They were all completely clothed in pirate attire, eye patches on some and crimson scarves tied around their heads. Wooden swords were sheathed in their scabbards with gold encrusted eagles as the crest. I was standing in rank when I heard my name called by an old crusty sea dog of a captain. He had one good leg and the other leg was made of wood. He came up to me and asked, "Where have you been all day?" he shouted.
I was sure that he was talking to me. He was in my face shouting. His breath smelled of drink and Tobacco. The others didn't look my way but stood fast in rank maintaining their composure.
"You mean me?" I asked.
"Yes, you spineless dog! We have a town to take and I guess you overslept? Is that it boy?" shouted the Captain.
"No!" I replied.
"Okay, I give up. You want to tell me where you've been or do I have to flog it out of your hide!" said the Captain in an ominous tone of voice.
"No sir, I mean I don't know where I've been, sir". I fast became aware, that I was only frustrating the Captain and so I didn't want that. His face turned a livid red color, flush with anger.
"Boy! Are trying to be smart with me? I have the mind to lay it into you, but we have war on here. We'll settle this later." He then pointed to the big gun on the starboard side of the ship. There were eight guns in position, but there was one in particular the Captain pointed to. It was a white cannon with the skull and cross bones as its firing mechanism.
I want you to man that white cannon over there. Give it the best aim you have. Now bring it to bear on the enemy. You three go with him." He said as he pointed to three boys standing close to me. "If you miss I'll tan your hides." Again shouted the Captain.
The Captain was an old intimidating old coot. A boy standing next to me whispered silently " The old sea horse." Nevertheless, the Captain commanded respect. His demeanor and voice got as much too. Even for a man standing feet he was a mean rascal and one that I didn't want to cross.
The three of us went to the cannon that we were commanded to fire. I later learned their names. Patch a scruffy red haired lad from Wales, Bobby a black kid from Jersey City, and Sorenson-a Dutch boy. Our orders were to hit the town's walls with bubble gum shot. I didn't see how it would topple a wall, but orders are orders.
Soon, the ship's company was at full battle positions and ready to fire. The ship turned into the wind and we were off in the direction of the town called Marte Del Sol, an Island fortress filled with candies of every conceivable kind. This was prizes that boys dream of, a treasure trove of Pirate's booty. We would take the town if the good old Commander of the garrison let us. A fiercest and the meanest commander in the Spanish realm commanded the fortress. His name-Don Carlo de Ponte nicknamed the Dragon. It was said that he fought like the devil himself and never took prisoners. His prison and prison yard was always clean and free of rabble, as he called anyone stupid enough to cross him. Justice was swift.
Patch told me that there were about sixty boys on board. I wondered if any of them knew how to take a real live city, by cannon fire and wooden swords. I was to learn real quickly.

The sea lion turned again and we headed straight into the guns of the fortress. The sea lion's sails were full of wind. The mighty ship plowed gracefully through the soft blue Caribbean waters into firing range.
Then it happened. The fort fired it's guns. Great walls of water rose from the sea as the incoming rounds of peppermint sticks and red vines hit the water around us. I even saw a giant green apple candy bar splash next to my cannon. Into the waters it went. I was lucky. But, it's one of my favorite candies. My mouth watered a little as I saw it hit the water. "Boy, what a waste of good candy," I said to myself.

"Boy! On cannon number one. Keep your attention on your gun. Now, everybody load your cannon. We are going to give them a broadside that they will never forget," said the captain.
Bobby poured a canister of bubble gum shot into the mouth of the cannon. Sorenson stuffed the cannon with cotton candy. Patch, inserted the fuse. I aimed the cannon. We were ready. Then I noticed that Sorenson had swiped some of the cotton candy and was putting the last bit of it into his mouth.

"The captain will keel haul you for sure if he sees you doing that with the ordinance," whispered Bobby.
"Ah, shut your face up. I know what I'm doing," said Sorenson.

"You'll get us all in trouble," said Patch.

I had to agree with patch. As mean as the Captain is he might punish all of us in the thick of battle. So I had to say something. "Listen you guys, we have to stick together in this. We have no choice. If one does something to screw up, then we've all had it? It's either he or we. So what do you say?" I guess my words made sense because they all nodded their agreement.
"Shut up over there and fire!" shouted the captain.
We got in a lucky shot the first round. Our shot hit the wall with a large thud-of-a-sound. The wall shook a moment and then the mass of gum and cotton candy grew, grew, and became too heavy for the wall. It toppled over.
"Great shot lads. You've done well. We'll have all of their candy before the day is over. Marines! Ready for the assault," shouted the captain.
I looked around for the marines. Funny, I hadn't seen anyone else on board. But, there were twenty boys dressed in marine outfits with wood sabers and soda pop bottles with triggers coming up fast from decks below. Each soldier had a wooden horse to ride. They looked like statues and not real boys. The captain went behind each one of them pressing and pulling something.
Meanwhile, Patch, Sorenson, Bobby, and I continued to fire our cannon. We were having a great deal of luck hitting the walls of the fortress. I rather liked the success we were having. But, the gunners of the fortress were having some success, also. I saw a taffy coming in. It swung high into the air, made a seventy-degree turn, and landed on gunner pod number three. They were positioned just two cannons away from me. The taffy hit all four gunners drenching them in it's slimy ooze. It was difficult for them to move. And as it hardened, it made it even more for them to move. Gunner pod three was decommissioned. The Captain was angry.
"You saw it coming, how come you didn't move out of it's way?" shouted the Captain.
One of the gunners reported. "But, captain we were too busy firing to see it coming. "
"Okay, we'll have you out of that stuff in a minute. Meanwhile, you eat as much of it as you can until, I can free some boys to help you," said the Captain. The Captain fumed and walked over to my cannon.
"Now, look here boys, I am depending on you to make this attack successful. You are my best gunners," said the Captain. And then he went to the foredeck to survey the damage to the fortress. He took out his long spyglass and surveyed the damage. He seemed pleased so far, that was the first time that I had seen him smile.
The firing went on for another thirty minutes until we started taking in water. They were using a dirty trick against us. Instead of firing soft candy, they resorted to hard candy. One round found the water line and ruptured the ships plates. Then another round of hard candy found the belly of the ship. The ship started listing and we were uncertain about our fate. The Captain ordered a retreat.
We turned the ship and tried to speed out of the port before we sank. As we moved further out of range of the fortress's guns, we took on more water. The ship's pace slowed. Then we got the order to abandon ship after we were out of sight of the fortress and close enough to shore. Still it was a good hundred meters to shore. All available lifeboats were filled or either damaged and unusable. Patch, Bobby, Sorenson, and I decided to go in at the same time and meet on the shore. Bobby wasn't a good swimmer; so, I grabbed one of the wooded soldiers and threw it over the side into the water to help him float. All of the other boys dived into the water. The Captain refused to leave his ship until the last boy was over the side.
I was a good swimmer. Those swimming lessons at the YMCA last summer were paying off. I kept close boobies side just in case he might need help.
I saw a lot of boys making it to shore. On one of the cliffs I saw dust from riders on horseback. It was the solders from the fortress coming to take us prisoner and they were riding fast. Bobby and I had to get to shore fast so that we could make a run for it. Otherwise, we land up in the Dragon's stockade waiting for the gallows. I assisted Bobby to the shore struggling with the waves as we came inland. We were both tired after the long swim. Once ashore, I wouldn't let Bobby rest we had to make it to the thickets in the forest to avoid the yardarm.

© Copyright 2002

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Cornbread and Catfish of the Central

Within a 12 mile radius in the center of urban Los Angeles was a place known as the Central. Perhaps Central was a short nickname for Central Los Angeles a region of modest incomes, religious and hard working people. They collectively occupied the land between Broadway Ave to the west, Florence Ave. to the South, Hooper Ave to the east, and Adams Ave. to the North. When Cornbread a nine year old black male asked where did the name Central come from, no one really knew. The typical answer was "It has always been the Central". The Central as it was called back in 1959 was a neighborhood comprised of second and third generation blacks whose parents had immigrated from such southern states like Alabama, Texas, Tennessee, and Oklahoma. The lure of better paying jobs and a promising good life away from the problems and the hate in the south brought scores of Blacks into the region. Within a decade they became the majority.
Not by any coincidence, at dinnertime the smell of good old fashion southern cooking rose above the modest homes and filled the air. Cornbread baking in the oven greens with ham hocks, black-eyed peas, and fried chicken permeated the entire neighborhood between 3 and 6 PM where Cornbread and his friend Catfish lived. This was a good sign because it marked the return of working parents and the gathering of the family at the dinner table. The Central was also a safe and secure place for families-all families. The Blacks got alone with Whites who for the most part tolerated the Blacks and the few Hispanics in the Central got alone with everybody. There were a few occasional squabbles between the races and nothing really big enough to become a police matter. Each group had a gang and those gangs respected each other's turf. Fights rarely broke out. Unlike today, gangs settled disputes without spilling any blood. It was safe then to walk the streets at night.
The tire companies Goodyear and Firestone employed nearly all the adults from the Central. If you didn't work for the tire companies then you probably worked for Nabisco, Coca-Cola, or one of the bread companies like Langendorf. Others either drove a bus or worked in the nearby Alcoa Aluminum factory. Both tire plants and the surrounding industries were easy to get to by riding the Green line. So, more or less no one was a stranger if you happen to see somebody on a bus, you'd strike up a conversation all the way home. It was as if the Central was one large family. With so many people working it was a prosperous time for everyone, especially for Blacks. Most Blacks were too proud to get on welfare. There was no such thing as being on welfare if you were able to work. If the women couldn't work the factories most had jobs in rich White or Black homes. Even Cornbread's old Grandmother worked part time for a rich Jew in Sherman Oaks. She'd take 6 buses to get there, but she made her own money and saved it. Summer time 1959 was unusually hot and the crazy heat sometimes brought out the worst in people. Cornbread and Catfish remembered hearing their neighbor's arguments and fights. There wasn't anything unusual about arguments they were yearly things. It's just that the heat made everyone uncomfortable. Once it was so hot during the July 4th weekend of 1959 the crazy heat drove everybody on the block out on his or her front porch under the shade of the roof trying to catch a breeze, but it was hopeless. The air refused to move and what little air there was moved around in hot packets during the exchange from one person to another on the porch. In fact it probably was ten degrees hotter on the porch than anywhere else was, but no one thought of it. On the porches the conversation always focused on the same old complaints, "Oh Lord! It has been a long hot spell of weather, the likes of which no one had seen for five years…. What you gonna do, Oh Lord? Then if the heat wasn't bad enough they talked about how bad the city needed to put down new asphalt on the streets." Cornbread and Catfish had heard it all and was at their limit of boredom. So what if South Central Los Angeles was hot and this sweltering heat slowed everybody and everything down, thought Cornbread and Catfish. They had other things besides the heat on their minds.
Cornbread got his nickname from his grandmother Helen part Black, Cherokee and Choctaw Indian. Helen had long black straight hair and a proud Indian face. She was very fond of Cornbread and so she gave him that nickname when he was only a year old because he loved her hot water cornbread. Cornbread loved the stories she told and would sometimes sit and listen to her stories of life on the reservation, and of how they eventually moved to their own land bought by her father after he saved money from working in the cotton fields back home. The old people as Cornbread and Catfish called them were common in each of the Black homes in the Central. All of Cornbread's friends had Grandparents living in the house. This generation difference solidified the old with the new and gave family life a good contrast. Catfish was from Georgia and was called Catfish because no one knew what to call him and everybody had to have a nickname. By the way, he hated Catfish it was too ugly a fish to eat. But he got use to his nickname, besides he didn't want to be called Theodore his real Christian name. He hated that name more than eating Catfish. He and Cornbread grew to be good friends. Catfish was the first one in the neighborhood and when they both met in school they knew immediately that they liked each other. There was nothing that they didn't share together. They were the closet friends, the best of buddies.
After dinner that evening Cornbread went to go pick up Catfish for their usual round of fun. It was a cool night with a breeze and a welcome break for everyone after such a hot day. Catfish was waiting on his front porch when Cornbread arrived and together they went to old man Myers house to see their buddy Cain. Meyer's house was two blocks north just across the street from the 68th street avenue school where both Cornbread and Catfish attended during school season. So, they had to pass Old man Meyer's house to get to school. Now, Cain never barked nor chased any of the other kids that passed his master's house. He just had it in for Cornbread and Catfish. That was because they teased old Cain, all in fun of course. When they arrived at old man Meyer's house the house was dark. There were no lights on inside. It was unusual to see the house dark, but Cornbread unlatched the front gate and swung it opened anyway to get Cain's attention. Cain hearing the gate squeak would come running. He didn't run fast because of his age, but he was all heart and came running anyway to see who it was coming through the gate. On this night, they didn't hear the usual claw to the ground sound coming from Cain as he came running from the side of the house to the front. Catfish felt something terribly wrong. "We should go knock on the door-do something. Something is wrong." Said Catfish.
"Hold on a minute. Suppose Cain is still sleeping. If we go in he'll get us for sure." Replied Cornbread.
With an air of uncertainly surrounding the both of them, they impulsively went through the gate. Quietly at first as to not wake up Cain if he should still be asleep. Cornbread took a look down the side of the house where Cain's doghouse should be. He saw no doghouse or Cain in the distance.
Meanwhile Cornbread was at the first step of the front porch. He was waiting and looking at Cornbread. Cornbread walked back to Catfish and looked perplexed. "There is no dog house or Cain." Said Cornbread confused. "No Cain and no house." Answered Catfish softly. A sick and terrible feeling hit their gut. Cornbread walked up the steps and knocked on the door of the house. There was no answer, but as they turned to leave the door slowly opened up and a woman appeared from behind the door. She was a young woman they had never seen before. "Can I help you?" She asked.
Both taken slightly by surprise Catfish had the presence of mind to respond in his usual abrupt manner.
"We were looking for Cain. You know old man Meyer's dog" Catfish suddenly realized that he said old man Meyer's instead of Mr. Meyers and was embarrassed.
"I mean Mr. Meyer's dog."
"I know what you meant. It's all right. I am Mr. Meyer's daughter Jessica and I have some bad news. My father passed away two days ago." She said sadly. "He died peacefully in his sleep. How well did you know my Father? "
"Wow, we didn't know." Said Cornbread. There was such disbelief on their faces.
"Cain, I guess died from loneliness the next day. My sister found the two of them. Cain was by my Father's side. She called me and I arrived in the city this morning."
"We're both sorry. Mr. Meyers and Cain was old friend of ours." Said Cornbread.
"You two must be the boys Cain liked to chase on your way to school each morning?"
"Sort of." Catfish said reluctantly. "I have something for you. Wait here for a minute." Jessica disappeared and soon returned holding a small puppy. "Here, I am sure that my sister will not mind. My father told so much about you two. He would want you boys to have him. You see, Cain wasn't as old as you boys thought. He sired his fourth litter before he went on." The bottom fell out of Cornbread and Catfish's mouth as they spied the little brown puppy squirming in Jessica's arms. "Why that old dog!" said Catfish and Cornbread as they both scratched their heads in amazement.

 

© Copyright 2001

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Snippets of Time                                                                                       

To list all places that I have lived and its impact on my life would fill the pages of a book the size of Tolstoy's "War and Peace". Not unlike that famous Novel, the tumultuous and sometimes panoramic portrayal of the elite class, and its endearing struggle to adjust to an insane war, my life was parallel in scope and ambition. I have seen the battles large and small and have chosen only the sidelines for I know my capacity as a soldier. Soldiers are soldiers and whatever the cause or the fight they remain soldiers to the finish. My path as an observer and fight only when challenged best serves me. The honest realization of that path hit home one night. These eyes have seen the twilight of youth extinguished from the eyes of a boy, dying from a gunshot wound to the heart. A debt had been paid in blood and so, the two warring factions from opposite sides of town quietly and quickly vanished as if carried away by the wind. This was the life in the urban refuge called the Barrio of East LA. Sometimes the diversity of people like an artist painting brings the brilliance of life in all its colorful display onto one canvas. Such was the life in the poverty-strewn quarters of the Counties "Project Housing Authority" called the "Projects". The pale gray colored two story brick dwellings occupied by Hispanics; indigenous to all of South America lay along a strip of land adjacent to the interstate 5 freeway. For those displaced not by immigration but through economics, say a few Blacks and Whites, life here was dangerous. The violent Saturday night encounters of non-Latinos and Hispanics were as common as watching Rawhide the Television series; but for those caught after dark, there was no Trail boss to save them. Sadly, as neighbors we had to listen as the drama unfolded on the walkways. The only haven located at the entrance to this land was the only church within three square miles. It was perfect for those without cars because it was in walking distance. Although, it was a Catholic Church, Southern Baptist, Methodist, Protestants and followers of other faiths gathered here for a sense of hope and a few kind words. Then, after Mass a kind of peace settled over the land. It was as if a magical kingdom of Barbecue pits ablaze with Pork Chorizos, Pork Ribs, Hot Dogs, Frisbees and Soccer in the Project's square had materialized from heaven. This unhappy, hopeless region of land was again transformed into one of forgetfulness and peace. Not, unlike the Lotus petal eaters from that mythical land of Homer, the human spirit was given a temporary retreat from reality. The curtain call for my parent's marriage came when in the spring of my early youth they decided to part. Being nine I profoundly realized for the very first time what deep and incendiary pain meant. This unique term that perhaps, I being the only mortal who knew the meaning would constantly be reminded. The break up was such an inhibiting factor in my life that the color of life changed dramatically for me. I became vulnerable. All the certainly and security of life went out of the window and for the next five years a mild depression claimed my childhood. These were unhappy years for me. It was an "E-ride" from the Central to the Barrio of East LA. I wondered who would pay for this ride-any takers? Living with my adopted parent or should I say my parent of choice, for I blamed my mother for the breakup, was like a living nightmare. Ever had a nightmare that you couldn't wake up from? Nevertheless, I knew I had to stay with my Father for he needed us. My three sisters, his Mother, his Brother and I so loved this man that we would have followed him to the ends of the Earth. How could she leave such a good person? My Mother on the other hand was super independent and chose the solitary life. We all knew that she was self-reliant and required not the love that we could give. Contact with her was usually out of need for some small article of clothing that we could not afford after spending all of our welfare check on food and housing. The nightmare that imposed itself into my life with Father was unemployment and his frequent drug use. The unemployment was hard enough to handle but the drug use, as we were to discover brought into our lives another flavor of uncertainty. And like a recurring nightmare that haunts the corridors of a mental patient's anguished mind, the wholesale use of drugs destroys the very essence of the will to live. Its affect on those who care is devastating. That summer, a long slow death descended on us all. Unfortunately, we all had known better times. It was a quiet midsummer's night. The world had stopped suddenly. There was no movement, the moon was high in the western sky, and the shadows of lost souls were clearly visible against the brick walls of my dwelling. I stood outside for what seemed an eternity, listening for the wings of hope. There was a cloud that obscured the view of the moon momentarily. A faint rustle of the branches of a nearby tree could be heard if you listened, and waited for the branches to sound again. The weight of the world was in a Stagecoach and was fast coming towards me at great speed. As I watched its coming closer, in its approach, the trail of steam coming from the horse's nostrils enveloped the wheels of the Stage as if it was gliding on a cushion of invisible air. I was suddenly shaken by the sound of Police breaking into my dwelling looking for my Father and his Brother Lionel my Uncle. The stagecoach had arrived. Much later in time, In Ila Vista, a small suburb near Santa Barbara, California a recent acquaintance came to see me. We met in a vegetarian restaurant near the Universities Campus. I remember feeling happy to see her. She stopped by on her way to downtown for some shopping. No one was in the Commune so we spent a favorable part of the afternoon alone and just talking. What sparked our interest in each other was a mutual feeling of familiarity. There are some thing's one just can't explain at the time but we both felt a need to be with each other. So, I had invited her over an open invitation to stop by anytime. It was to my surprise that she opted to come over so soon, since it had been earlier in the afternoon when we had met for the very first time. Of course, I was happy to see her again. The thoughts of her stayed with me, and I had wondered when I was going to see her again after we had earlier parted company.
Lisa made me feel colorless when color meant so much to the world. A genuine affinity existed between us and at first I didn't fully comprehend the feeling, but as the moments passed I began to feel intimately pleased with this new sensation. She offered me a gift it was a gift from the heart. But, she didn't see and how could she, the raging battle with the ugly world of my past that still haunt my dreams and conscious mind. My soul begged for and wanted to adjust to the moment and take this lovely creature's gift. My worst fear was that I would corrupt this perfect angel and break her heart, for which I had no right. Then I thought that maybe it was her need to feel needed or perhaps she heard my call for help? I couldn't decide what to do. My tormented soul and the fire within spurned the voice of my heart. I suppose loneliness was too familiar.  Lisa played the guitar for me once below the bluffs near the ocean. Her sweet angelic voice soothed my soul like no other messenger of bliss. The seagulls flew away south all the while the sandy foam washed upon the beach and was lost. Now, the pages have turned once written and a five-year plan seems to be the most appropriate scheme in this stage of my life. I am sure that setting aside money for a life away from Aerospace is the right thing to do. I'll work on a plan tonight.

To Simon

Looking over the Chesterfield and Lincoln town square is an old brownstone apartment. This fourth floor apartment and its tenant has remained a neighborhood mystery for fifteen years, and a subject of town gossip. No one has ever seen the person who lives in apartment 404. Mrs. Timins, the manager of the building receives the rent regularly and on time each month in the mail. Mrs. Timins, a widow and retired sea food processor claims that she's never had a reason to disturb her perfect tenant as she claims.
"As long as they pay their rent I've no reason to bother them. And they never complain!" Said the old lady to a visiting friend. Curiously, the living room window is always open at night and closed during the day. "It must be a lovely view of Biscayne Bay in the distance from up there. Perhaps that's why the window is always open." The town's people would say. At night the lights are rarely on, and so whenever they are on it attracts the attention of everyone below. Rumor has it that an old man comes to visit the apartment and that it reminds him of the family that once lived here. It's almost like a sacred ritual and it spooks the residents of the brownstone. Some have claimed to see the man arrive early in the morning and leave before sunrise while everyone is still asleep.
There were once reporters here to do a story on the strange apartment, but they did not find a clue as to who the mystery tenant is nor were they able to find the owner of the old four-story brownstone. So, without much of a lead the trail got cold and they finally gave up. Renting out the adjacent rooms has often been difficult for Mrs. Timins. No one wants to rent an apartment near number 404. They've all heard the story. If it weren't for all the stories, Mrs. Timins has her hand full with stopping the neighborhood children from playing their game called Chicken's run. It is a special game whereby; a kid knocks on the door of apartment 404 and waits two minutes. If they run before time is up they are called Chicken Run. It's a neighborhood favorite and the winner gets bragging rights.  Apartment 404 is like the other apartments in this old brownstone. It has a bathroom, two bedrooms, a kitchen, and one of the largest living rooms. Similar in all respects except that there is one peculiar characteristic that sets it apart from the others. There is only one room furnished in apartment 404. In the center of the living room is an old couch that rolls out into a double bed. There is a brown left handed Catcher's Mitt resting on a table atop a knitted cotton doily. The table is conspicuously seated between two walls, cata-cornered I should say. The name Huggybear is scratched into the leather of the mitt near the thumb. Its leather now worn with age and showing signs of ancient use appears to represent a symbol of days gone by, perhaps a memory of a favorite baseball player or some sort of shrine. Above the table hanging on the wall is a picture of a young boy in his teens kneeling and dressed in full baseball gear? He is smiling and looks happy. His boyish smile below his baseball cap with the Jaybird insignia is mounted in an old hardwood frame. They don't make this kind of frame anymore, and besides someone took special care and attention to have particular details crafted into the wood. Perhaps, the strangest thing is the absence of other hanging pictures in the apartment. There is evidence that there once were pictures. The outlines of the frames are still on the walls. There is linen in the closet. Enough for one person and for one bed change. A gas range left unused, a refrigerator without food and a neat placing for two at the dinning table. A book titled Captains Courageous written in Braille lay open at one of the sitting. Underneath the kitchen sink is a dish drying cloth neatly folded and placed on a shelf. The liquid dish washing detergent is still full. In the smaller bedroom is a pair of baseball cleats neatly positioned on the floor of the closet. The baseball cleats resemble the pair worn by the young boy in the picture. The shoes are joined together by string and a red bow as if presented as a gift. Inside one of the shoes is a slightly yellowed piece of folded paper inconspicuously hidden. Above on a shelf within the closet is a birthday card. It is surprisingly dated with yesterday's date. The following words are written on the letter inside the shoes. "Thanks Daddy for the new shoes, there real swell. But, this world of darkness is too much to bear. I know that losing my eyesight was an accident. It's just that I miss playing the game, and watching the sails in the bay. I am sorry for being so selfish. Please forgive me-Simon."  The words written on the Birthday card read, "Dearest son, I will always love you. Happy Birthday your father." It was Simon's birthday. He would have been twenty eight years of age.

© Copyright 2002

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