Paul and His Poodle

            My neighbors are three girls who won't wave, a guy who won't wave, and two other guys who won't wave. They are all around my age, early twenty-somethings—maybe older—self-absorbed and important, living in a tunneled universe—confused, afraid, and repellent. Only an amnesic middle-aged man, Paul, who walks the street most days, acknowledges me. He has a lot of experience hanging on his face. We talk about the same thing every time we meet out front of my faded house—his accident, a car crash. He walks his poodle with one hand and carries his cane with the other. I have never seen the man's eyes. I cannot see how he sees the road. I know only a little about his injury and consequent amnesia.

            Because of his ever-present sunglasses, I am not sure if he is ever looking at me, but rather still at the road as he turns his head in my direction, like he has this narrow vision that only reaches the end of the avenue, venturing no farther off course than the parameters of the pavement. The end of the avenue is in sight from my house. I wonder, "Is that as far as he can see in life, to the end of this pavement?" I think about his how far he carries himself in his mind. Do the depths of his imagination only run as far as the end of the road? Perhaps he wakes up and thinks only that far ahead. My imagination carries me deeper, too deep a lot of the time, and I find it difficult to construct my future. The amnesic man is held to create but a few hours at a time for himself. Paul's poodle is more patient than me hearing his injury story over and over. He pampers the dog with consistency, trained in Paul's monotony, which to the dog is stability, love, and comfort.

            I never see other neighbors talk to Paul. I see their TV's flashing through the blinds as they absorb their own realities.

            I sit on the front porch reading when no one is contaminating the air with anger and dispute. The urgent sirens, the discordant mix of birds chirping, the cars hovering past—none of it is bothersome, but I cannot read when people fight. But when I am at peace reading on the porch I notice my poor posture and my quick-to-ache back. I have slouched my entire life—always somewhat disinterested with what is happening. It is only straight when I sleep. I straighten up but just to slump again within a minute or two from fatigue. Then Paul walks down the road, waving, slumped over too, his cane in one hand and his dog's leash in the other. He waves; the poodle pays me no mind. They pass by, my back is tired, and I go inside to read on the couch in the living room. The room is too big, too spacey, and instead of moving to my room to my desk I reach for the remote. I watch movies on repeat until I go to work. I talk about those movies at work. My co-workers forget the titles instantly after telling me they have not seen them.

            I think about my posture, my crooked teeth and how I only smile enough to see them when I am happy enough, the movies I watched and the book I did not read. I think about the stories I never finished, about the graduate school applications I did not fill out, about the essays that could have been winners instead of runner-ups with one more patient revision. I have no idea where to step, what to step on, or how to dress while I am stepping. I worry. I am leading a simple life, but I know little about those who paint the brushstrokes. I think about my neighbors who will not wave to me, and Paul walking his path. I remember that not too long ago I did not know Paul's name. He told me when we met but I did not listen, because I was skating and I was thinking about skating when he spoke his name and shook my hand. It was only recently that I shook his hand and looked him in eye through those sunglasses. I knew then that he was looking at me.

            I think about my neighbors who will not look at me, who will not wave at me. I think about what I will do tomorrow, and the future then does not seem too terrifying. Tomorrow reaches to the end of the road, and if the road circles back then at least I will have been distracted for some time, waved at some people who are distant neighbors, and shaken hands of people whose names I will remember the first time they tell me. Experience will hang on my face, and I hope to be able to tell about those experiences. With T.S. Eliot in mind, my trousers are already rolled, but my hair has not grown thin.