"Home Alone"
“Bye, Honey, we’re leaving!” called out his wife across the house.
He flipped the switch on his electric razor to “OFF” and set it down on the bathroom counter. He stared for a moment at the face in the mirror. He recognized it, but was taken aback when he noticed how dark and sunken-in his eyes had become; the lines in the corners of his eyes; the amount of hair missing from some places, yet spontaneously erupting from others. He glanced down at his black and gray whiskers in the sink before turning to see his family out the door.
“You taking all the kids?” he asked as he rounded the corner from the dining room into the foyer.
“Yeah,” his wife replied. She did not look up at him, but rather kept her attention and her hands inside her purse as she fumbled for something. “The kids all need haircuts and they want to go to the jumpy castle place when I drop off the deposit for Saturday’s party.”
He could not help but notice that she had not aged like he had, and that she only looked better with each passing year. He was jealous of her ability to defy the physical effects of aging and parenting and stress.
“Alright, well y’all be careful,” he said.
“Yup,” she acknowledged flatly, her head now almost buried in her purse. She popped up and rotated her head and shoulders all around herself, making sure she had everyone. “Okay, girls, let’s load up. Close the door quick so we don’t let in bugs.”
A high-pitched trio of “Bye, Daddy!” was cut off abruptly by the closing of the front door.
He watched through the beveled glass as the distorted images of his wife and kids climbed into her SUV and backed out of the driveway. After they’d driven out of sight, he watched waves of heat writhe just above the asphalt road beyond the mailbox. His lawn, he noticed, was dry, crunchy, and dotted with bare spots where it had finally succumbed to the heat and the drought. All the outside looked as if it could burst into flame at any moment.
He thought to himself how badly they needed rain. He checked the sky for any sign of hope, but nothing more than the same sweltering steel-gray haze stared back at him.
The house pulsed with an unfamiliar quiet. The air conditioner hummed outside and he could hear the hiss of cool air flowing through the vents in the ceiling above him. From another room, his dog whup-whupped and yelped from the unknown depths of one of his canine dreams. The dog’s nails scratched the linoleum tile, which meant that this particular dream involved running or swimming.
The unusual feeling of being home alone settled in. Usually, he was either at work or out in the yard or doing something with the kids. Even when his wife ran errands she usually left him with a kid or two, for her sanity’s sake. Today’s solitude was rare, and he didn’t quite know what to do with himself or his free time as he glanced around the silent living room.
He turned on the TV and checked the Weather Channel. His excitement rose when he saw there was a severe weather alert for the area, but sank just as quickly when he discovered that it was for ozone. He flipped over to the hunting channels but, as seemed to be happening more and more these days, he was greeted by infomercials peddling gadgets and junk, instead of hunting shows. He turned off the TV and flung the remote onto the couch.
A man left alone at home for any extended period of time struggles to decide what to do with his time, because he’s not used to having it. So there he stood, alone in his living room, free to do whatever he wished, unable to commit to one thing over another.
He thought to himself how much he wished it were winter so he could build a fire. And he wished it were hunting season. Yes, he thought to himself, if it were hunting season, he’d head off to the woods for the afternoon. Instead, it was summer; the temperature was in the hundreds every day and the thought of being in the woods was a grueling one.
Then he spied the long-neglected stack of hunting and outdoor magazines sitting on the table beside his leather chair. He sat down and opened the magazine that topped the stack. At first he leafed through it and checked out the photography and surveyed the titles of the articles. Then he flipped to the back page and settled in. He read the back page piece and worked backwards toward the front of the magazine. He did the same thing with the next magazine. And the next.
Before he knew it, he’d made his way through a half-dozen magazines and still his wife and kids had not returned. Next he retrieved a Tom Kelly book he’d been trying to finish for the past two years. He enjoyed a few chapters and then returned to his book shelf for another. Don Thomas this time. A few more chapters. Then Havliah Babcock. Then Gene Hill. Right about the time he was choking up over Gene Hill’s “Old Tom,” he heard the garage door begin to open, and saw his wife pull into the driveway.
A minute or so later, two of his girls ran through the living room on their way to their room, new toys in hand. Then his wife walked in, carrying their youngest.
“Hey,” she said with curiosity in her voice. “Whatcha been doin’ this whole time?”
“Not much,” he replied. A contented look came over him as he closed the book in his lap.
(c) Roger Guilian 2011
He flipped the switch on his electric razor to “OFF” and set it down on the bathroom counter. He stared for a moment at the face in the mirror. He recognized it, but was taken aback when he noticed how dark and sunken-in his eyes had become; the lines in the corners of his eyes; the amount of hair missing from some places, yet spontaneously erupting from others. He glanced down at his black and gray whiskers in the sink before turning to see his family out the door.
“You taking all the kids?” he asked as he rounded the corner from the dining room into the foyer.
“Yeah,” his wife replied. She did not look up at him, but rather kept her attention and her hands inside her purse as she fumbled for something. “The kids all need haircuts and they want to go to the jumpy castle place when I drop off the deposit for Saturday’s party.”
He could not help but notice that she had not aged like he had, and that she only looked better with each passing year. He was jealous of her ability to defy the physical effects of aging and parenting and stress.
“Alright, well y’all be careful,” he said.
“Yup,” she acknowledged flatly, her head now almost buried in her purse. She popped up and rotated her head and shoulders all around herself, making sure she had everyone. “Okay, girls, let’s load up. Close the door quick so we don’t let in bugs.”
A high-pitched trio of “Bye, Daddy!” was cut off abruptly by the closing of the front door.
He watched through the beveled glass as the distorted images of his wife and kids climbed into her SUV and backed out of the driveway. After they’d driven out of sight, he watched waves of heat writhe just above the asphalt road beyond the mailbox. His lawn, he noticed, was dry, crunchy, and dotted with bare spots where it had finally succumbed to the heat and the drought. All the outside looked as if it could burst into flame at any moment.
He thought to himself how badly they needed rain. He checked the sky for any sign of hope, but nothing more than the same sweltering steel-gray haze stared back at him.
The house pulsed with an unfamiliar quiet. The air conditioner hummed outside and he could hear the hiss of cool air flowing through the vents in the ceiling above him. From another room, his dog whup-whupped and yelped from the unknown depths of one of his canine dreams. The dog’s nails scratched the linoleum tile, which meant that this particular dream involved running or swimming.
The unusual feeling of being home alone settled in. Usually, he was either at work or out in the yard or doing something with the kids. Even when his wife ran errands she usually left him with a kid or two, for her sanity’s sake. Today’s solitude was rare, and he didn’t quite know what to do with himself or his free time as he glanced around the silent living room.
He turned on the TV and checked the Weather Channel. His excitement rose when he saw there was a severe weather alert for the area, but sank just as quickly when he discovered that it was for ozone. He flipped over to the hunting channels but, as seemed to be happening more and more these days, he was greeted by infomercials peddling gadgets and junk, instead of hunting shows. He turned off the TV and flung the remote onto the couch.
A man left alone at home for any extended period of time struggles to decide what to do with his time, because he’s not used to having it. So there he stood, alone in his living room, free to do whatever he wished, unable to commit to one thing over another.
He thought to himself how much he wished it were winter so he could build a fire. And he wished it were hunting season. Yes, he thought to himself, if it were hunting season, he’d head off to the woods for the afternoon. Instead, it was summer; the temperature was in the hundreds every day and the thought of being in the woods was a grueling one.
Then he spied the long-neglected stack of hunting and outdoor magazines sitting on the table beside his leather chair. He sat down and opened the magazine that topped the stack. At first he leafed through it and checked out the photography and surveyed the titles of the articles. Then he flipped to the back page and settled in. He read the back page piece and worked backwards toward the front of the magazine. He did the same thing with the next magazine. And the next.
Before he knew it, he’d made his way through a half-dozen magazines and still his wife and kids had not returned. Next he retrieved a Tom Kelly book he’d been trying to finish for the past two years. He enjoyed a few chapters and then returned to his book shelf for another. Don Thomas this time. A few more chapters. Then Havliah Babcock. Then Gene Hill. Right about the time he was choking up over Gene Hill’s “Old Tom,” he heard the garage door begin to open, and saw his wife pull into the driveway.
A minute or so later, two of his girls ran through the living room on their way to their room, new toys in hand. Then his wife walked in, carrying their youngest.
“Hey,” she said with curiosity in her voice. “Whatcha been doin’ this whole time?”
“Not much,” he replied. A contented look came over him as he closed the book in his lap.
(c) Roger Guilian 2011
posted by Days Afield Host | 6:56 AM
