Someone from the Audience

“George,” as I think of him, panhandles at the entrance to the big parking lot shared by Home Depot and Chick-fil-A. I pass by him midmorning and midafternoon on my mail route and watch him while I have my lunch in my truck on the Shell station lot across the street. He’s a guy I take an interest in. 

Having to panhandle for a living—what a life, you think, but he seems content enough from what I can tell. In fact, he has it pretty easy. Sits in a lawn chair, a shopping cart with his belongings in it beside him, little cardboard sign saying GOD BLESS YOU propped up at his feet. Most drivers exiting the lot ignore him, of course, but every few minutes, someone will hand him something—generally money, but once in a while, a bottled water or even a paper bag with food in it from Chick-fil-A. Fairly often, someone will wave to him, and he’ll wave back. Not a bad life. 

He won’t be at his post when I arrive at the Shell station at eleven thirty for my lunch break but will show up with his shopping cart fifteen minutes or so later. What’s the first thing he does when he gets there? He’ll clean up the entire grassy area between the stop sign and the maple tree that stands at the edge of the lot, methodically walking back and forth, gathering up cans, plastic bottles, papers, whatever, then depositing them in the trash receptacle. Only then will he prop up his sign and begin waving at the drivers exiting the lot. 

One day, I went over and asked him about it. Wait, you say, you walked across busy Thirtieth Street just to ask a guy why he cleans things up? Yes, I did. I’m interested in people—what they do, what makes them tick. There’s nothing more fascinating than people. 

Anyway, I crossed over and asked him why he went through the trouble to pick up trash every day when Chick-fil-A no doubt hired people to do that. 

He shrugged. “Helps pass the time.” 

“You bet, we all need some way to pass the time,” I said and reached to give him a friendly pat on the back, but he shied away. I understood. A man needs his space. I don’t like to be touched, either. 

I didn’t for a moment buy his “just a way to pass the time” explanation, but that only made him more interesting to me. I thought about him off and on the rest of the day. Why was he panhandling for a living?These “mysteries,” as I think of them, are as entertaining to me as a good movie might be to another person, and it’s always a successful day for me when I have a new one to puzzle over. 

My good mood must have shown on my face when I got home, because my wife, Angie, said to me, “What the hell are you so happy about?” 

“I met a very interesting man today,” I said. 

“That’s funny, so did I,” she said. 

“I hope you enjoyed yours as much as I did mine,” I said, and she said, “Oh, believe me, I enjoyed him,” with that laugh of hers, the laugh of an unhappy person. 

I feel sorry for her. Her problem is she’s bored. The world’s such an interesting place, and the only way you can be bored is if you have no curiosity. Angie has absolutely none. Now, me— I’m not bragging, but just stating the honest truth: I’m a very curious man. 

* * * 

The next day, as I ate my sack lunch, I watched George. I kind of wanted to go over and talk to him again, but what would I say? I’d already asked him why cleaned up trash every day. As for asking how his life had led to panhandling for a living, I’d never go that far. Rarely do I say anything at all to one of my subjects, my “mysteries.” It’d be a violation or something—I don’t know, like a member of the audience running up on stage and questioning a character in a play.

I finished my PB&J at about the same time George finished his policing, and when he turned to his panhandling, I turned to another favorite activity of mine on my lunch breaks: reading the mail. 

Rich Anthony, a guy I’ve been working with for years, steals from the mail. Don’t ask me how I know. I know. By rights, I should turn him in, but I don’t like to interfere with things. I let stories play out on their own. Me, now, I’d never steal—not in a million years. And I’d never tear open a piece of correspondence and read it. That’s not only a violation of federal law but it’s, well. . . just plain tacky. But if an envelope happens to be unsealed, and I take out a letter and read it—making sure my hands are clean, no peanut butter or jelly to stain a page—what’s the harm? I can pass an entertaining half hour and get a glimpse of some very interesting lives. 

Letters are rarely unsealed, but postcards, heck, postcards are an open invitation. I doubt if there’s even an expectation of privacy with a postcard. Most are business communications of one variety or another: utility notices and the like. I don’t waste my time on those. But there are also a lot of postcards from relatives and friends on their travels, and these are a good way of hearing something about the world. I’ve gotten some pretty good ideas for vacations, but who would I ask to go with me? Taking a vacation alone seems kind of sad to me. To each his own, though. 

The most interesting postcards are when people send them instead of letters. You get some real news then. Helena Redd, 701 Sanders Court, gets a postcard every Thursday or Friday (mailed on Mondays) from Mama, eighty-three last August 10. They’re hard to read—the letters tiny, the lines jammed up close together. Mama is obviously trying to get her money’s worth on each card. I understand. Money is tight for her, living on Social Security and that joke of a life insurance policy of Papa’s that pays out a whopping $22.50 a month. That doesn’t even cover the cost of her arthritis medication. I look forward to hearing from Mama. I’m pulling for her. 

The postcards from Jeffrey (Sanger, obviously) to Eva Sanger are, on the other hand, intriguing. At first I thought they were simply boring and almost stopped reading them. Why would anybody bother sending anything so completely uninteresting, especially a man to his sister-in-law living barely a fifteen-minute drive away? But that question itself piqued my curiosity. Why wouldn’t Jacob Sanger’s brother (not just brother, but twin brother) just drop by for a visit? Or make a call? I still can’t answer all my questions, but I did finally notice something that the average person would never have spotted (but I’m a professional, the mail is my business): each card contains a sort of code. At the corners of each card—that is, the first and last words of the first line of text and the first and last of the last line—will be a day of the week, a time (noon, say), and a place (“my house”). I haven’t figured out the significance of the fourth corner yet unless it’s just random to throw off suspicion in case Jacob gets hold of one. But the three are enough. Obviously, each postcard contains the code for an assignation. What a soap opera! 

There was another postcard from Jeffrey to Eva in my bag a couple of days ago. I read it at lunch, and it still must have been in the back of my mind yesterday, because without realizing I was doing it, I rushed around to finish my work and checked out early in the afternoon. As a result, I got home fifteen minutes earlier than I usually do, and there in the driveway was a strange car. One of Angie’s “friends,” of course. You have to give her credit—she’s always careful to have them gone by the time I get home. And then, I blow it by coming home early. That’s not playing the game fair. 

I barely slowed down, just kept on going. Turned onto Mills Parkway and headed toward Memorial Park. That’s when I realized why I’d rushed through work—to get to Memorial Park by five o’clock. On Jeffrey’s postcard was “Wednesday” (yesterday), “five” (five o’clock), and “bandstand.” (“Banana” was in the fourth corner—totally meaningless, or if not, I’d blush to offer an interpretation.) “Bandstand” had to indicate the place for the assignation, and the only bandstand I could think of was the one at the far end of Memorial Park, which is just across the parkway from Fairway Meadows, where Jacob and Eva live. There’s a little picnic area behind the bandstand almost hidden from view. I doubt if most people even know it’s there, and this time of year, there probably wouldn’t be a soul there, anyway—except for Jeffrey and Eva at five o’clock, in his car, in her car, on a picnic table, under a table, doing whatever. Best not to think about the details. 

Yes, better not to think about it, and yet, I was almost all the way to the park before I came to my senses. What on earth was I doing? Was I going over to confront them? Unhand that woman, you cad! She’s your brother’s wife! Absurd. Was I going over to watch? Equally absurd. I wouldn’t slow down to take a second look if I drove by them doing it on Eva Sanger’s front lawn. 

What a terrible violation of the code I live by it would have been for me to go out to that bandstand. To read the mail is one thing, but to act on it? No, never. That would have been as bad in its own way as Rich Anthony stealing mail. 

No, thank God I stopped myself before doing something shameful, and by the time I got back home, the strange car was gone, so everything worked out. But it was a close call. 

* * * 

Despite what Angie says, I have feelings. I’m human. I’ll stray from the narrow path if I don’t watch myself, as the bandstand incident all too clearly shows. Today was worse. I came near straying from the path and falling off a cliff. 

I have a hard time understanding why I did what I did—or almost did. Human weakness will have to do for an explanation, I guess.  

Deborah Tunney, 805 Prentice, gets very little mail, rarely even advertising circulars or duns from charities. When I do have something for her, it’s always a little adventure, for want of a better word, making the delivery. She’s about my age, fortyish, and lives in a clapboard bungalow with a broad, wooden porch. To the right of the front door is a big plate glass window like houses back in the day often had. I walk up on the porch, and before dropping the mail through the slot in the door, I look through the window. There on the sofa, lying spread-eagled, naked as a jay bird, will be Deborah. She looks at me. I look at her. Then I drop the mail through the slot and leave. 

Fascinating. Her lawn and shrubbery are neatly kept. The house isn’t filled with cats, as far as I can see. There are no stacks of newspapers and pizza boxes floor to ceiling. She’s an apparently normal woman, in other words. What possesses her to do what she does? It’s an intriguing question, and I find it very entertaining to conjure up hypotheses to explain her. 

Accept her “invitation,” though, and go inside? Out of the question. I swear to you, it never even occurred to me to do so—until this morning. I walked up, utility bill in hand. She lay spread-eagled with that black muff like a bull’s-eye between her legs. I looked at her, and she looked at me, and all of a sudden, I had my hand on the doorknob. I was absolutely certain, without even trying it, that the door was unlocked. All I had to do was turn the knob, go inside. I even knew what I was going to say: “Let’s close the drapes, Deborah.” 

But I saved myself in the nick of time. I released the knob, turned, and almost leaped off the porch. I rushed back to my truck like someone who’d escaped the clutches of a vampire. 

I might have congratulated myself for resisting temptation, except for this: sitting there in my truck, for the life of me, I was unable to think just why I shouldn’t turn right back around and go in to Deborah. 

* * *

I spent most of the rest of the morning thinking about what almost happened as I made my deliveries, and then, on my lunch break, I decided the man to ask for advice was my old pal George, who at that moment was across the street policing up his area. 

I dodged traffic and saluted him. “Hello again, my friend.” 

“Hello.” 

I told him I knew he was a busy man, and I wasn’t going to take up much of his time, but I had a problem, and he was a fellow who obviously had his life together and maybe could help me out. “I promise I’ll drop a little something for you in the kitty, too,” I told him. Then I described the Deborah Tunney situation, ending with my question: why shouldn’t I go in and “see” her, but adding one more thing that, until that moment, hadn’t occurred to me to say or even think. “After all, my wife has guys over to the house every day. I’m pretty sure they’re not just playing pinochle.” 

If I was surprised to hear myself say it, George didn’t appear to be. In fact, I wasn’t even sure he’d been listening to any of it. He just went right along with his business, picking up trash.  

When he was finished and had all the junk in a Kroger shopping bag for deposit in the Chick-fil-A receptacle, though, he looked up at me and said, “The other day when you came over, you asked me why I policed up the trash around here every day. I didn’t give you a good answer. The real reason I pick it up is that I was the one who threw it down there in the first place. This here’s my trash from this morning. Before I leave for the day, I’ll police up again. If you throw it down, you should be the one to pick it up. Believe me, I don’t go around picking up other people’s trash.” 

This is a wise man. Pick up your own trash. Leave other people’s trash to them. What could be a simpler, better principle to live your life by? 

Yes, George is a man of principle, and I’d like to think I am, too. In fact, haven’t I been living by George’s law all along? I leave Eva to her brother-in-law, Deborah to her own demons, Angie to her little pleasures. Know about it, read about it, take a look—sure, why not? But never touch, never interfere. What business is any of it to me? 

“The proof of the pudding is in the eating,” as they say, and I’ve eaten well. I’ve had a good life. If the curtain came down right now on my mystery, I’d stand and applaud. Hey, it’s been interesting.

DENNIS VANNATTA

Dennis Vannatta is a Pushcart and Porter Prize winner, with stories published in many magazines and anthologies, including River Styx, Chariton Review, Boulevard, and Antioch Review. His sixth collection of stories, The Only World You Get, was recently published by Et Alia Press.