I, just a writer.

I met Dan while working at one of the largest grocery stores in town.  He would come by right before closing the doors to the public, and mostly buy fruits, veggies, bread, cold cuts, dog food, ice cream and root beer.  On his way out, he would load his pockets with condiments packets and napkins.

“That might be me, when I get older,” I thought as I observed him untying his beautiful black Labrador retriever’s leash from the pole, where he waited patiently, until wagging his tale when Dan came back out.  At least they had each other.  I had no relatives left and specially no luck with love, so I had accepted the idea of never finding a partner to live with.

After working the same shift for almost six months, we started to greet each other, with a simple “hey.” 

“Hey,” the second one would answer.  It was around that time that I found him looking at the announcements board, as I was on my way out for smoke break.  “Crap,” I thought, “he is looking at my ad.”

He noticed I was watching, and tried to rush, but the dotted line to rip off the phone number did not work as I had anticipated, and Dan teared it in half.  He tried once more without success, ripping my name off the bottom of the page, with the phone number.

I went home after a very long and busy day at the store and crashed on my bed like a potato sack thrown off the roof of a 10-floor building. I was deeply asleep, until I felt my phone vibrating somewhere under my pillow.

“Hello, this is Bill,” I greeted.

“Oh, hi. Calling about the room for rent.”

“The what?”  I was trying so hard to sound coherent, as I was dreaming of whales I was rescuing in the ocean, and for a second, I thought it was the marina calling to offer a medal, or something, for such a heroic act.

“The room, is it available?”

“Right. No, I mean, yes, it is.” Then I realized it was Dan calling.

I had decided to rent that room out, just to help me pay some bills, and to hopefully have some nice company in the quiet, old house in Toronto that I inherited from my grandparents. 

Dan moved in along with Napoleon, who enjoyed barking and jumping up and down frantically, attempting to have one of those little squirrels for supper.  He was still strong and playful, unlike Dan, who was only turning 57 in Spring, yet was slow to respond, to walk or to eat.  He barely cooked, barely came out of the room, except occasionally to come by the kitchen, and grab a cold drink. Sometimes I would barbecue, and both he and Napoleon would join me in the backyard.

Napoleon brought joy into our lives, he was the link between us, two lonely souls without much to say.  He was also getting old and became diabetic. Sadly, his condition worsened quickly, he stopped chasing those playful bastards climbing up the maple and pine trees.  He hardly moved and seemed insecure the odd time he tried to walk.

That’s when Dan knew his end was coming, as Napoleon became blind, and his illness was screwing up both of their sleeping and eating habits.   I could often hear Dan cleaning up after Napoleon’s mess, which would wake me up, even though he tried so hard to do it quietly, I could hear his heavy breathing and the plastic garbage bag being tied up. Then quiet again.

He would not share much about his life, neither did he care to hear about mine, but we preferred it that way, I guess, and neither one of us would push for more details. I knew he was a widower and didn’t have any family left either, so I was not going to pinch that nerve.

I got so used to having Dan as my companionship, more than a simple tenant for over a decade. 

The snowmen started disappearing at the park, one by one, leaving nothing but a couple of twigs that once served as their arms.  Entire families of black, brown and every now and then, weird orange looking squirrels would run freely, without having Napoleon chasing them down anymore. 

One grey and windy Friday afternoon Dan took Napoleon to the vet, and when he came back, solo, he went to his room and did not come out for two entire days.

My day off finally came, and I brought home some meat, buns, and a six-pack of root beer for Dan.  I gently knocked on his door.

“Dan, join me for a burger? I’ll barbecue.”   No answer.  “Dan?”  I announced louder.

My heartbeat pounded harder, and I knew I had to check on him. As I opened the door, the sun blinded me for a second, then I saw Dan on the floor… right by his bed.  Pieces of broken glass under his clothes, from the one and only photo frame that had stood for ages on the nightstand.

“Dan! Damn it, Dan!” I called 911, and although I could hardly speak or give the address, EMS arrived in seconds.

The paramedics said Dan had been gone for at least ten hours, due to a heart failure.

Napoleon’s picture had slid out of the frame, revealing another one. In it, Dan wrapped his arms around two beautiful women who were holding him back.  One of them looked about his age, and the second one much younger than the couple. Her resemblance to Dan mesmerized me.

On the back of the picture, it read: “To mom and dad, love, Molly.”

I was disappointed in myself, for not knowing about her. How disconnected can people be?

I often think Dan could still be here, had I checked on him the night before. Had I checked on him as he grieved Napoleon’s death and dedicated our relationship more time.  What happened to Molly?  What was his wife’s name?  So many things about Dan, I will never know.

But I do know, that as reserved as he always was, I got to respect him and love him, just as Napoleon did.

© Irene Zúñiga, 2019.