A Changing Neighborhood
by Braeden Sharer
The small house was painted dark green. It had natural wooden trim that had never been covered, and a small wooden porch, on which two rocking chairs sat, buffeted in the wind. This was perhaps the one scene that changed only with the seasons, the chairs covered with rusted leaves in autumn that transformed to glistening snow come winter. Now the paint peeled down the sides of the house, as though the years of neglect had caused it to droop like the wrinkles of the old man who inhabited it. The house had once been charming, cozy.
Gary had lived in this same house for his entire seventy eight years. Following his parents’ sudden deaths, he had dropped out of high school, married young, and lived in the house with his wife, Ruth, and eventually their five children. To make ends meet, Gary had worked as a butcher and Ruth, after the birth of their third son, began a small tailoring business in their basement.
Unlike their old-fashioned parents, the children had escaped their hometown as soon as possible, returning only sporadically. Following Ruth’s death, they staged what they called an “intervention” every two years or so in attempt to move their father to an assisted living apartment, in which he could live a “quiet” and “safe” life. Their efforts were useless. Despite what his children believed, Gary was far from feeble; he still possessed a clever mind. He was aware that his children’s need to interfere in his life was more for their own collective conscience than his benefit. Thus, Gary used his strong will to remain where he had been for nearly a century.
The neighborhood had once been normal. In fact, it had been nice. As a child, Gary had been able to run free through the streets. Children played friendly games of hop scotch, kickball, and baseball. They bought ten cent chewing gum and bottles of Dr. Brown’s celery soda at the general store. Each summer weekend, families held large picnics in the soft grass near the gurgling stream in the park. Remembering this, Gary could virtually taste the succulent fried chicken and potato salad that his mother had made each summer Saturday. In the old neighborhood, everyone had known everyone and children could come and go in and out of each house as they pleased.
Although the old man never changed, the neighborhood did. With every passing season, it became poorer and more rundown. The town had been unable to receive government funding, and those who once cared had simply moved away. Graffiti-covered buildings sneered down at passersby and the scent of polluted streams filled the nostrils of each resident. Cigarette butts and shattered beer bottles, rather than asphalt, filled the potholes that scattered the streets. The neighborhood was a breeding ground for gangs and drug-trafficking. News of shootings and robberies were the norm. Consequentially, the elderly fled south and never returned. But it was Gary’s memories, along with his stubbornness, that kept him here.
Year after year, Gary and Ruth had sat in their rocking chairs each day, thinking, talking, observing. They sipped bitter, hot coffee as they discussed their children, or their debt, or community plans. But Gary also listened to Ruth’s gossip or was given thorough analyses of the ridiculous outfits worn by her church friends. It was their tradition, their therapy. And it had become such a habit that each child had known not to disrupt mama and papa during their sacred “chair time.”
Thus, even after Ruth’s death, Gary continued the calming ritual, accompanied and comforted only by the soft, creaking melody of the rocking. Neighbors passed by and offered consoling, pitiable looks and timid smiles. Gary, however, did not return them. He believed everyone thought him pathetic. He could sense their whispers, “There’s Old Man Gary; sitting in his rocker even though his wife’s dead. Maybe he doesn’t realize it. Maybe he’s gone insane. Maybe he still talks to her.” Gary knew what the people thought, but he refused to be troubled by their judgments and pity, so he merely ignored them. Eventually, the streets became too dangerous anyway. Not a soul was to be found walking past his home.
From his rocker, Gary had observed the swift, terrible changes, and he knew that the transformation must have begun before Ruth’s passing. He knew it was impossible that a neighborhood could transform into something so revolting so quickly. Nonetheless, he did not care, as long as he was undisturbed on his porch. As long as he could be left alone to pretend.
Halloween night had once been a festive, exciting holiday. Children had pranced around in homemade costumes. Ghosts made of starched white sheets with two holes for eyes had scurried up the paths and begged for treats. Witches with painted-on moles in their fathers’ top hats could be seen cartwheeling across lawns, their pillowcases bulging with candy sprawled behind them on the cold ground. Jack o’lanterns grinned menacingly from the porches next to plump, ripe pumpkins concealed by colorful leaves. Each year, Gary would transform himself into a frightening monster, painting his skin green and wearing his oldest, ripped suit. Ruth would put margarine in his hair to make it stick up in a terrifyingly unruly fashion. Although she pretended to disapprove when he chased the small screaming children, Gary sensed that Ruth appreciated his enthusiasm.
But Halloween, like everything else in the neighborhood, had changed. It was now an excuse for gangs to recruit new members and for teenagers to frighten and to bully children. To go trick or treating would have meant suicide. If anyone dared to put out a decorative pumpkin, it was smashed, the pieces oozing with orange juices, scattered in the street like a bloody corpse. Every house was strewn with toilet paper and splattered with rotten egg shells. Often, the homes were graffitied with vulgar words, in permanent paint.
Unwilling to concede defeat, Gary had sat in his chair each Halloween night. While awaiting the ruthless attack on his home, he enjoyed the silence and the glow of the candle in the jack o’lantern at the bottom of the porch steps. Gary understood the significance of that single flickering candle. At one time all the candles had glowed simultaneously, lighting the streets. Each year, Gary put faith in his candle to give him the strength to stay put. But as the gang approached his house, Gary’s survival instincts would kick in. He would blow out the tiny candle, flee from his rocker to the warmth of his house, and listen to the sound of eggshells cracking on his window panes. When they were through, he would emerge, pick up the remnants of the pumpkins, throw away the debris, and scrub viciously at the windows and shingles until only vague imprints of the horror remained.
While Gary was repulsed by the gang members and their activities, he was also disgusted by his neighbors and himself. They were afraid to leave their homes to go to work, let alone on Halloween. Thus, nothing ever changed and no progress was ever made. Gary was the only one to sit outdoors, but even he bolted the doors when anyone advanced. He was unsure how it had come to this or why he had become a coward. When Ruth was alive, he would never have acted afraid and bolted from children sixty years his junior. It was despicable. It was disgraceful, this lack of respect for their elders. Gary now felt as if he were the joke of the gangster’s circle. He was the old man who acted tough, but who ran from them every Halloween. He hated the defeated feel of the neighborhood but really had no idea what to do to alter its appearance and hope for the future. Of course the neighborhood was becoming a cesspool. People fled the moment trouble began, and for good reason. But Gary was nearing eighty and he was alone. Why should he be afraid of those who had interrupted his comfortable life? The mongrels should fear him!
That Halloween night, Gary sat in his rocking chair and waited patiently. He had made a decision. He would not run this year and hide inside his safe, warm house. He would simply sit and wait. As he sat in the cold, bundled in a heavy jacket and sipping his steaming coffee, Gary longed for his wife. He longed for the days when he and Ruth were able to enjoy the evening, watching the costumed children, rather than the destruction that had engulfed the neighborhood. He looked to the glowing jack o’lantern for some familiarity, and was reassured. He doubted this simple act would make a change. He feared the outcome. But Gary was the remaining symbol of hope. He knew that something had to be done. For his wife, for his children, for his neighborhood, for the happiness that had once been, and for hope.
He saw the dark, rusted car come to a stop in front of his house. The gang leader emerged. He was tall and thin, with long, greasy black hair that had never seen a comb. Leisurely, silently, he strolled up to the base of the porch, eyeing Gary the entire way. His heart frozen with fear, Gary could see the butt of a gun beneath the hooded sweatshirt. He could barely breathe, but he would not back down. Gary met the boy’s gaze with a hard smirk, slowly rocking back and forth, listening to the comforting rhythm of the creaking chair.
The boy moved his hand to the gun and Gary took in a sharp breath. No words were exchanged. The boy never took his eyes off Gary’s and Gary never dropped his gaze. He could sense the presence of the weapon, but he did not care. Gary’s mind floated to a young Ruth. He visualized her smiling image, her red hair shuffled by the wind. Then she laughed a small tinkle that made Gary completely relaxed. But the laugh grew louder, louder, until it was a menacing cackle. Gary was confused. And then the greasy boy reappeared. He stooped down and, without a sound, blew out the candle.
The shot fired. The boy strode away without thought, without regret. The tenacious old man who had sat in his chair, creaking, sipping, mocking him each Halloween night, was finally dead.
