No Exit To (II)

 

II. Through the Eyes of Someone Else 

Wednesday, May 22^nd, 2019

The scatterbrain of a leasing agent that showed me around decided to wait until the end of the tour to inform me the room wasn’t available anymore; it was mid-process of being leased out as we spoke on that porch. I bit the inside of my cheeks, exhaled a frustrated sigh. She had wasted my time. I wanted to lash out but didn’t because it wasn’t worth it. “We have a waitlist. I-I can put your name down, if you’d like.” Batting those cute doe-like eyes at me was pointless on her part. I was aware of what the leasing agent was doing. Damage control. The frustrated anger on my face was clearer than the moon on a night without clouds. Being able to mask my emotions wasn’t my best skill. 

“Don’t worry about it.” I declined the suggestion, huffing. It wasn’t the end of the world. I would just look elsewhere. The woman received a begrudging thank you for her time. I immediately headed for my car, leaving her standing on the porch. Once inside, I almost banged my head against the steering wheel. “I could have been doing important stuff this last hour.” Pulling out of the parking space, I was startled by sudden yelling from behind my car and slammed on the brakes. 

It was Lea. “Hey there again!” Her appearance took me by surprise when she came up to my window. “I knew you looked familiar when I saw you from my room earlier! What are you doing here?” Lea pulled her entire upper body through my driver’s side window. She had on a lowcut shirt with her cleavage showing in full display. The invasion of personal space and her cleavage made the first few minutes of our conversation unbearable, but I tried my hardest not to appear perturbed. Lea asked me jokingly if I was stalking her. “I’m playing! I’m playing!” She rushed out, seeing the horror in my eyes. “Just a little teasing to break the ice!” The uncomfortable interaction became worse when Lea caressed my arm trying to calm me down. I came to learn she was just a very touchy person. I, however, was the opposite. 

“Umm… I came to check out the room I saw listed on the bulletin board last night.” Lea frowned, disappointed, when I told her the room was unavailable. She looked forward to being roommates (for some odd reason). “Y-you live here?” I directed at the house with a thumb. She did. The landlord also owned the Red Canary café. Interesting… 

“Look…” She pulled back some. “I know you and I don’t know each other well, but you seem like a sweet guy. And I’m all about bringing good karma upon myself.” Lea told me she would put in a good word for me with Rowan, the landlord. Her act of kindness left me stunned. “If I could get your number, if you don’t mind.” She dangled her phone with a hot pink case in front of me. “He’ll probably give you a call for more information.” Puzzled, I asked why he would do that when most landlords utilized leasing companies for those types of things, as far as I knew. “That’s…just how Rowan is. He’s a little unorthodox at times but he’s a sweet man.” I took Lea’s words at face value and went ahead with typing my number into her phone. 

“Umm… Someone’s calling.” The number was restricted. I turned the phone around, but Lea rejected the call. They immediately called back to Lea’s aggravation. She rejected the call a second time. They called again a third time. 

Lea snatched the phone from my hand and answered with a brash tone that frightened me. Who knew someone as sweet and cute as her possessed a foul side when provoked. “That’s enough! I know who this is! Stop calling my damn phone.” She barked at the caller, threatening to file a report with the police if they didn’t stop harassing her. Lea hung up and blocked the restricted caller. Like the flip of a switch, her demeanor went back to normal. It was a little unnerving. “I’m really, really sorry about that just now. I don’t like showing that side of me in front of people.” Lea tried downplaying the incident with a smile. It didn’t work on me, like the leasing agent that tried buttering me up with her eyes earlier. I saw through Lea’s façade. I saw…her distress, her fear. The torment swirling around in her brown eyes. Whoever that caller was had her shaken up; she quivered. And judging by what she said to them, the harassment had been going on for a while. “As I was saying, I’ll talk to Rowan for you.” Lea said, pulling back out of the window entirely. “Hope the rest of your day goes well.” 

I grabbed Lea’s hand before she could walk off. “Lea, wait-” Her skin was so soft I massaged it without thinking about the repercussions. “Oh, damn… I’m sorry, Lea! I’m-I’m so sorry! That was highly inappropriate.” I snatched my hand back into my car. “I… I don’t know why I even did that just now…” I looked away, heart slamming against my chest, ashamed my creepy behavior showed no signs of stopping. First, it was Catherine. Now, it was Lea. I was an embarrassment. “What-what kind of lotion do you use? Your skin felt…nice. My aunt’s birthday is coming up soon and she’s big into skincare products.” The words stammered out of my mouth like a crowd of frenzied people. A poor, last-ditch effort in beating those weirdo allegations. But to be honest, I was more afraid of jeopardizing Lea’s assistance with my housing issue, than I was of her being weirded out by me. 

Lea, surprisingly, overlooked my unwanted molestation of her hand, though I suspected she liked it in secret. She donned a quirky grin in the aftermath. “The hand lotion I use is from this natural health store near the café.” The skinny tube Lea showed me was nearly done for. I snapped a picture, wondering if Catherine would like the lotion. If skincare was something she was into like most women. Once we became closer as friends, I wanted to get her some of that lotion as a gift.

The small talk between us continued. “Lea. Would you…? Do you want to…maybe grab a drink or a meal?” It made my heart stir with restlessness seeing her day and mood ruined by harassment. If there was anything I could do for her, I was more than happy to help. Anything to take off her plate, I would. Wrecked with anxiety, I discretely wiped my palms against my driver’s seat. Treating Lea to a drink and/or meal was the least I could do since she was trying to help me out. The wiser option, however, would have been waiting to see if she truly came through for me. I couldn’t though. Lea seemed like she genuinely needed some company. A distraction. She needed a friend, like the moments when I needed one but had none. 

“Unfortunately, I’ll have to take a rain check for dinner and drinks this time, cowboy.” She playfully flicked my chin. Instead, she invited me to come down with her to the tennis court. 

I leaned out the window, eyes wide as dinner plates. “Wait…there’s a tennis court here?” The court was a secret known only to Lea, who didn’t want its knowledge and whereabouts exposed. She claimed people would find a way to ruin a good thing. I was the only person Lea felt comfortable to tell. The tennis court was Lea’s private retreat. She went there when she wanted to be alone for a while or when she needed a clear mind. 

The forlorn tennis court was secluded deep in the wooded area behind the house. Lea marked the way there using red strings tied to selected trees. “I found it by accident one day. My cat, Usagi, somehow got out of my room and I chased her through her.” Glancing over her shoulder at me as we came upon the gate, Lea asked if I ever played tennis before. I never had nor was I familiar with the rules of the game, even at the basic level. I wasn’t that athletic myself. My answer elicited an innocent giggle from Lea. She told me I would learn to play that day. “Here!” She tossed me a racket (which I dropped). Lea kept some equipment in a locked footlocker she had dragged out there.

I looked down at the worn-out racket in my hands. It had been put to good use over the years. “You still play tennis?” I asked her. She only played recreationally at that point. Two years prior, Lea had played collegiate tennis on scholarship before abruptly quitting. 

“I took up tennis back in middle school after watching Venus Williams in the 2005 Wimbledon Championships with my grandfather.” Lea’s smile softened. “He was in love with tennis even though he never played himself. But I think-I think that’s why my grandfather watched it because he liked envisioning himself out there on the court. Envisioning a life, he could have had if he pursued tennis.” Lea idolized both her grandfather and Venus Williams. “I was inspired after watching that game and asked my parents to put me in lessons, hoping I could become the next Venus, Serena, or Althea Gibson.” Lea told me she played up until the end of her sophomore year of college and then dropped out suddenly. After dropping out, she seldom picked up a racket anymore. When I asked her what brought about the decision, she broke eye contact with me. Tapping the racket against her thigh nervously, Lea was visibly uncomfortable about answering.  “Like some things in life, it just wasn’t meant to be.” The conversation didn’t progress further beyond that. “I’ll serve first.” 

I figured the topic probably disturbed old wounds Lea wasn’t ready to revisit just yet. A plight I understood all too well. I mean, it had only been three years since she dropped out of college. For me, it had only been three years since Elijah’s death. To some people, three years just wasn’t enough time to heal from. 

 

After two rounds, we called it quits. And thank God! I was whipped by the end of the game. Lea, however, had barely broken a sweat while I was fighting for my life trying not to have a medical emergency. I was panting hard to the point of wooziness. “I never realized how strenuous tennis could be.” A stupid statement, right? I had never watched tennis so, I wasn’t aware. “Question. Do you think you would have made it pro if you had never quit?” My question was answered with a shrug of uncertainty.  “Well…maybe one day…you’ll get that opportunity again.” I held out on the possibility Lea would accomplish her dream someday. I told her I would enjoy seeing her out there dominating on the court. 

Lea confiscated my racket. “You’re too sweet a guy, Nathan, but I already knew that.” And apparently, I wasn’t that bad of a tennis player either. If I was open to it, Lea said we could play again another time, promising to go a little easier on me. As thoughtful as that was, I told her not to hold back because of me. Lea was an athlete. A fantastic athlete from what I had seen. She had spent years putting her body through rigorous training, strength and conditioning, and honing her skills to become the greatest tennis player she could be. I didn’t like the idea of someone of her caliber holding back against me, dumbing herself down. It seemed insulting. My comfort didn’t matter because I left my ego at the gate. It was nice playing with her and seeing her happy as she played. It had been a long time since she had felt that alive. I loved seeing people enjoying their passions. 

While trekking back to civilization, I asked Lea about next weekend’s plans for her. “I’m going bowling with some friends. You remember the guy and the woman I was sitting with last night? That’s who I’m going with.” She was welcome to join if she was free. I was impressed with myself honestly. I went from having no friends for years to making three in less than forty-eight hours. My younger self would have keeled over and died from shock. 

“Thankfully, my schedule for next weekend is clear.” She said and abruptly hugged me. I froze. “You can hug me back, Nathan. I promise I don’t bite. It’s okay.” Her hold around my torso tightened a little more. I was cautious about hugging her back. My creepy hand massaging incident from earlier still haunted me. Lea probably knew I wasn’t a pervert by any means. But I’ve been told the seemingly innocent men were deceiving too. “I’m sorry if I’m coming on too strong right now.” Lea sounded like she was fighting back tears. I felt her body tense against me. “Things…just haven’t been going well for me as of late. Maybe one day I’ll talk your ear off about it.” She told me, choking on her laughter. 

 

I could have argued until I was blue in the face and it still would have fell on deaf ears. My parents never wanted to admit they were more on the lenient side with Hannah compared to me when I was her age. Example: the size two lace-up boots I tripped over when I came through the front door. Hannah had left them in the walkway. Had that been eight-year-old Nathan, I would have been reprimanded for creating a hazard. Dad would have threatened to throw away my shoes (sometimes he did, depending on his mood that day). Hannah seemed to get away with so much and it pissed me off. I had half a mind to throw her shoes away like dad had done to me before. The only reason I didn’t was because I didn’t like the idea of turning into my father. “You don’t realize how privileged you are, Hannah.” I grumbled, placing her boots neatly on the shoe rack under the hallway accent table. 

As I ventured deeper into the house, the sounds of Hannah’s giggling and Aunt April giving instructions grew louder. I found them in the kitchen. Popcorn was ready in a large bowl on the table beside a fresh pitcher of lemonade. The s’mores in the oven weren’t quite done yet. “Nathan!” Aunt April greeted with an excited yell. She squeezed me like a bear when I walked into the kitchen. “How’s everything going?” She asked, rubbing her thumb across my cheek. “You smell like outside too.” She commented, pinching her nose. My aunt was only forty-five, but the grief from the loss of her family had aged her significantly. Still, Aunt April’s beauty never faded like polished silver.

“Well…” My eyes scanned the room for Hannah who had disappeared from the kitchen.
“I was having a good day until I tripped over Hannah’s boots at the door just now.” I replied, mouth curling up at the side. 

My aunt sighed with her entire body. She told me to leave my dramatics at the door with Hannah’s shoes. “Don’t bring your dark cloud in here with us, Nathan.” She fanned the air with her hands shooing away said invisible dark clouds. “Hannah and I are about to watch a movie. We’ve got snacks and we’re having a good time in here. So, go somewhere else if you’re going to be a party pooper.” She punched my shoulder and told me to lighten up. 

An excited Hannah came sprinting back into the kitchen with Rosco, my aunt’s mean ass Shit Tzu, right behind her. Rosco wasn’t too fond of males, and he disliked me and my father in particular.  “Nathan! Nathan! We’re gonna’ watch Detective Pikachu!” She jumped up and down, almost on top of Rosco while at it. The mutt could have moved out of her way but didn’t. The movie was a reward to Hannah from my aunt because she passed her spelling test with an A. 

“Hmm…? Now where’d you get those from?” Hannah was in possession of several items that belonged to Elijah. When my cousin and I were seven, his father, Uncle Greg, took us to the state fair for the first time. He bought us both one of those wacky cups. The ones that allowed free lemonade refills while you were there. The stuffed Charizard Hannah clutched under her right armpit, my uncle had won for Elijah in Skee ball. As Uncle Greg moved up the corporate ladder across the years, his job began keeping him away from home at inconvenient intervals. We stopped going to the state fairs after we turned eleven. I spun around to my aunt. My face was hot with irritation. “Those belong to Elijah.” I squinted at her sideways. The cup and the Charizard were just the tip of the iceberg. Hannah also had on his pink/purple G Shock watch and his T-shirt from the Silver Millennium concert we attended back in 2011. If anyone deserved Elijah’s old belongings, it was me, not Hannah. I grew up with Elijah; Hannah entered our family not long before he died. She didn’t have a relationship with Elijah like I did. She didn’t have the memories of him I had.

After that heated conversation with my aunt in the kitchen, I should have been mortified by how I blew up over such meaningless possessions.  

Aunt April protected Hannah from my ire by pulling the child into her side. “I’m finally downsizing from a house to a condo after all these years.” My aunt revealed. The house was just too big for her and mean ass Rosco without Elijah and Greg around anymore. It also contributed to her prolonged depression. She said it was time to move on and find some closure from the tragedy of their deaths. The downsize was also encouraged by her therapist when she mentioned it during their session. “That also means letting go of some of their things.” What she wanted to say was, freeing herself from their things. Three boxes filled with both Elijah’s and Greg’s old belongings waited for me in my room. She told me to look through them, get what I wanted so she could donate the rest. 

I pulled Aunt April to the side so Hannah couldn’t hear us. “I should have gone through Elijah’s things first. Hannah isn’t even his blood relative.” My aunt almost lost it on me. Hannah only being a few feet away saved me from her wrath. She said my statement was nasty. 

My aunt huffed loudly, slapping her hands against her thighs. “Well, I apologize for my sins, Nathan.” She said mockingly. “I’m sorry Hannah got an old watch, a T-shirt, and a flimsy cup from a state fair years past.” She called me a brat as she berated me, saying Elijah would be disappointed to see how I was acting towards a child. “And before you try to argue me on this, Nathaniel, let me remind you that he is my son. I know him better than you do.” Her anger morphed into sorrow when she realized what she said. “I knew him better than you did.” Aunt April believed without a doubt Elijah would have wanted Hannah to have some of his belongings as well. She didn’t believe I deserved all of his stuff, especially when it would have sat in a box collecting dust for another few years. “I wish you could hear how stupid you sound right now.” She poked me hard in the shoulder. And it hurt too. 

Hannah intruded into our conversation. “Come watch Detective Pikachu with us Nathan!” She motioned to the table behind her. “We made a lot of snacks.” Hannah looked up at me with beady, hopeful eyes. I responded with rudeness, telling her, “No” which upset her and pissed off Aunt April some more. 

“Go wait for me in the den, Hannah.” Her tone was flat. 

“Okay…” She dropped her head and walked away, wringing her shirt, disappointed. Rosco started barking at me and nipping at my exposed ankles, which he did every time I made Hannah upset. He was very protective of Hannah, even though I’m sure she got on his nerves most of the time. 

Aunt April snapped her fingers. “You too, Rosco. Go!” He backed out of the kitchen, still snarling at me. Rosco eventually got his revenge against me. When I left the house again later, that mangy dog sneaked upstairs and pissed all over my bedroom floor to spite me.

“This abominable attitude of yours is exactly why June is putting your behind out the house.” Aunt April shoved me hard, her physical violence gradually increasing. Being reminded of my pending eviction had me storming towards the stairs, but Aunt April wasn’t done. She followed me all the way to my room, and I made the mistake of slamming the door in her face. She kicked it in. I moved in the nick of time to avoid being struck by it. “The last time someone slammed a door in my face I took it off the hinges with my bare hands.” Elijah had learned his lesson after that incident. Never slam a door in April’s face, especially if she was your mother. My aunt resumed yelling at me with a burning scowl. “I’m not the nice sister like June.” Mom used to tell me stories about how Aunt April was always in fights growing up because she was the one always starting them (and ending them). 

I felt a sharp sting across my nape. She slapped me! “A-”

Aunt April snapped at me, “Nathaniel, shut up!” I wasn’t allowed to talk anymore. She would be doing it. My aunt then took a moment to calm herself. “I’m making you an appointment to see my therapist.” My aunt swore it came from a place of love. From a place of concern. She thought I needed it badly because the anger that festered inside me was poisoning my soul. Aunt April grabbed my face and made me look her in the eyes. “Look at me, Nathan.” There was so much agony in her brown eyes. They were darker when they were normally a light brown. “You’re pushing everyone away. Me. June. Hannah. Your father. You might not care now but you will when it’s too late.” Aunt April asked, once I was all alone, what I would do.

My aunt’s words and actions (maybe not the aggressive parts) really did come from a genuine place. She only wanted for me what she thought would help me. My aunt saw the pain that was tormenting me. But even so, she had overstepped her boundaries. She was neither my father nor my mother. And I was an adult. I didn’t want her suggestions. I didn’t want any help. I yanked her hand away from my face. “You still need to work on your own healing before you start dictating someone else's.” 

Her face darkened. “And you’re implying what, Nathan?” She asked, lips curling as a sneer appeared across her face. That anger once again boiled to the surface. To stop herself from wanting to choke me out, Aunt April locked her hands behind her back. She would have succeeded too. That woman possessed an inhuman amount of strength when she was pissed off.

The eight hateful words that followed changed the nature of our relationship as aunt and nephew forever. I regretted not biting my tongue in that moment because what I said to her was unforgivable. Diabolical. Repulsive. Aunt April, unironically, had been right. I did need the therapy. I needed a lot of therapy. “Hannah will never be a substitute for Elijah.” The rage my words caused within her made Aunt April disassociate. The homicidal glare in her eyes had me taking several steps towards the window. If she pounced, the only way out was through that window, two stories down. Rather than punching me, Aunt April punched the wall so hard, mom heard the noise from the stairs when she came through the door. 

“April? Nathan? What was that? What happened?” We heard her calling from the base of the steps. “Is everything okay up there?” The stair lift powered on. 

Aunt April jetted from my room right as mom came rolling in. Her accusing eyes fell directly on me after seeing her distressed older sister leaving in such a hurry. Mom, glaring darkly at me, calmly asked, “What…did you do?” 

A phone call interrupted the unbearable moment with my angry mother. “Hello?” It was Rowan. 

“Hi. Am I speaking with Nathan? Is now a good time to talk?” Rowan wanted to meet at the Red Canary; he preferred speaking in person. The man wanted (and liked) to put a face to my name. I told him I could be there in about fifteen minutes. “That’s good to hear. I look forward to meeting you.” 

“Hey, mom I have to-” She was gone when I turned around. 

 

Lea attacked me with another hug, nearly taking us both to the floor, when she saw me through the window. She pointed across the room. “Rowan’s over there waiting.” Funny enough, he was seated at the same table I was at the night prior. “You’ll really like him so, don’t be nervous. He’s a great man!” She patted my back in support. “I hope Rowan’s able to help you out.” Lea sent me on my way with a double thumbs up. “Come back when you’re done and I’ll give you a coffee on the house.” She winked at me before skipping back around the counter. 

I came upon Rowan while he was reading the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe. Looking around the man’s shoulder, I asked, “Which story is that?” He had just finished the last page of The Tell-Tale Heart. 

Rowan closed his book and placed it on the table. “Have you read Poe? If so, which of his stories do you like the most?” He looked up at me with a friendly, pearly white smile and brown eyes that drew you in like they possessed their own gravitational pull. 

Rowan was a dark-skinned gentlemen about early fifties. The salt and pepper color of his hair matched his manicured beard and moustache nicely. The man took exceptional care when it came to his appearance. He was always put together as if he were in and out of important business meetings all day. Every time I encountered him, Rowan was dressed in a mid-sleeved, turtleneck with black pants and shoes polished so well you could almost see your reflection in them sometimes. He never left home without one of his many (expensive) Italian watches on his wrist and a Cuban link around his neck, accompanied by a pungent cologne that made women swoon over him, but my sinuses irritated. One detail about Rowan’s appearance that jumped out at me upon our first meeting was the left side scar on his forehead from an old injury. 

“I’m Nathan, by the way, but I’m sure you’re already aware of that.” I plopped down in the chair in front of him but scooted back when our knees bumped. “I like all of Edgar Allen Poe’s stories and poems. Can’t say I have any favorites.” 

“It’s nice to meet you, Nathan, as well as put a face to the name.” He lightly chuckled, crossing his arms and legs. “Now, let me ask you this. What do you think about The Tell-Tale Heart?” Baffled, I asked for further clarification on the question. “What do you think about its message? Or rather, how do you feel about its message?” Rowan fired off one question right after the other. I thought I was in the hot seat for a moment. Perhaps, I overthought the situation some. On the other hand, I felt like there was an ulterior purpose behind him grilling me. 

“I…honestly don’t know how I would answer that.” I replied, shifting timidly in my seat. Whenever someone made me anxious, I would tap my nails against the table or whatever solid surface was within my reach. “I mean… It’s about a man tormented by his guilty conscience over a brutal crime he committed against an innocent man.” There wasn’t much else I could really say about the story. It didn’t require much heavy critical thinking and dissection.

Rowan flashed a cutesy smirk. “I disagree.” He said, finger wagging. “You can always dig a little deeper because you’ll never know what you may find if you don’t try.” He had apparently done that with The Tell-Tale Heart. “A guilty conscience isn’t always a person’s downfall.” A rather puzzling statement on his part. Rowan raised a finger. “Perception.” He raised another finger. “Specifically, being perceived. The Old Man was killed because the narrator had an irritational fear and dislike for his “vulture eye.’ This is what he and Poe tell us, right? But…what if the Old Man’s eye is an allegory for how we lose ourselves when we’re being judged or feel like we’re being judged?” Rowan’s conclusive argument: the murder wasn’t the man’s downfall, but the loss of his emotional self-preservation in the eyes of someone else which preceded the murder. 

I was impressed with his alternative interpretation. There was potential plausibility within it. However, Rowan was grasping at straws. The moral of Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart was straight forward as a story could have been in regard to the message conveyed. Guilt was inescapable no matter how hard someone tried to bury it. Rowan’s assumption was that: a baseless assumption more than likely thought up after a night of being high on something. “Sorry, Rowan, but I think you’re digging a little too deep with this one.” My doubtful response only fired him up some more. He wouldn’t back down and continued to argue. 

Rowan pulled his chair closer to mine. Our knees once again touching. He had a tenacious light in his eyes. “Poe could have added into the story some logical explanation behind the Old Man’s death. He offended the narrator. He harmed the narrator or contemplated harming the narrator. He swindled the narrator out of some money.” Rowan verbally ran down a list of ‘justifiable offenses.’ “But no… It was the man’s eye.” He pointed to his right eye. “It was the way the man’s eye looked at him and how it’s presence made him feel.” 

“Even so, the narrator has hyperesthesia, which he confirms at the beginning of the story. He was already some level of mentally disturbed before he killed the Old Man.” Our debate, which had started out warm grew heated as we traded counterarguments back and forth. 

“Why do you think people hate it so much when others stare at them? Why it disturbs them so much?” Rowan threw out yet another question. He shook his pursed hands. 

I tightened my lips and gawked at Rowan like he was kind of slow. “Um…because it’s rude to do so?” I said with narrowed eyes; my head tilted to the side. 

A dry laugh escaped his lips. “Yes. That’s one reason.” He wagged his finger at me. “But primarily it’s because they feel like they’re being judged or critiqued. A position no one likes to find themselves in.” 

“Inferring something without concrete evidence is just an assumption.” As I stated earlier. Rowan argued the clues were always there in Poe’s writing. Some people just read the story at a surface level. “The moral of the story: Guilt is inescapable. A guilt conscience will always be your downfall.” I raised my hands. I threw in the towel. I wasn’t giving the aggravating topic anymore of my energy. 

Our table fell silent. Rowan suddenly threw back his head and guffawed. Everyone in the café looked at us, wondering what was hilarious. Lea, who had probably been stocking under the counter, popped her head up for a second. She waved when I saw her; I waved back. “I’m-I’m sorry… I’m sorry.” He said in between wheezing laughs. “This icebreaker wasn’t supposed to go this far.” He apologized for agitating me. “And thank you, Nathan, for humoring me this long.” Rowan found amusement in our friendly, heated debate. He told me it had been a while since he last felt challenged by someone in an argument. “Rowan Baptiste.” He extended his hand. “I’m sorry for being rude and not introducing myself earlier. That’s not my character.”  

I shook his hand. “It’s all right.” Rowan wasn’t the rude one. Technically, it had been me because I walked up and interrupted his reading with a question before introducing properly myself. 

Rowan propped his left elbow up on the table and rested on his hand. “Lea told me about your situation. You’re in need of housing soon as possible, correct?” Yes. 

“Before we continue, I have a question for you now, Rowan. If you don’t mind.” Why did he want to see me in person? Our meeting and conversation could have been over the phone or on video call. 

“You won’t ever be the last person to ask me that question.” Rowan said with a chuckle. He sat up straight again, pulled his right knee to his chest, and propped up his right arm. “I really enjoy getting to know people in person. It’s easy to disguise yourself over a phone call. Even on video call. It’s more personable in person.” He splayed his hands open. “I immigrated here from an island called Tiguan. Didn’t speak a lick of English when I arrived and sure as Hell didn’t know anyone, other than my mother’s aunt. She had immigrated to the States a decade earlier.” Rowan expressed how important community was to him. How it was something we should all strive to have and establish. How being able to interact, relate, and communicate with people across different racial groups, ethnicities, and cultures was good for everyone’s personal development. “You hear so many horror stories of landlords from hell.” He waved his hand through the air. “I want my tenants to trust me. I want them to know I see them as more than a payday every first of the month.” The more I listened and spoke with Rowan, the more I understood why Lea spoke so highly of him. He seemed like a very noble person. A noble man. The type of man my father could have been, but he wasn’t. 

“You said you’re an immigrant? Never heard of a country called Tiguan before.” The only Tiguan I was familiar with was the Volkswagen. I asked Rowan to tell me more about his home country. 

Tiguan was an impoverished island nation within proximity to Hispaniola. “Despite our historical connection to Hispaniola, we’re not considered a part of it. But…that’s a history lesson for another day though.” Rowan wasn’t surprised by ignorance of Tiguan’s existence. His home country was often overlooked or forgotten about entirely due to its lack of interest and the government’s aggressive practice of isolationism. On top of those critical issues, there was nothing aesthetically pleasing about the island that warranted attention from the rest of the world. “Since the early 1970’s, Tiguan has suffered under the tyrannical dictatorship of the Hernán Family. The regime’s Isolationist stance has contributed heavily to the country’s history of impoverishment, in addition to the island’s already limited resources. But as you know, a poor, uneducated population is easier to subjugate than the opposite.” When Rowan was six, his father was executed for openly criticizing and condemning the ruling party’s authority. 

“Spring of 1996, known colloquially known as ‘Red Tuesday,’ the paramilitary faction known as the Tiguanese Liberation Forces attempted a coup. The streets I traversed on my way to school turned into battlefields stained with the blood of innocents and guilty alike. I came of age during a time of darkness. An age of violent trauma no child should ever have to live through.” Rowan’s heartbreaking recollection of his childhood turned darker. He lost his mother and sister in the conflict between the two factions. They were gunned down while attempting to board a cargo ship to the U.S. Rowan made it safely to the ship but carried the trauma of watching helpless as he was robbed of what remained of his family. 

I gave him my sincerest condolences. “That’s…terrible… I can’t imagine what all you’ve gone through just to survive.” The way Rowan carried himself, spoke to others, and interacted with people, I never would have guessed he came from a tumultuous background. If he hadn’t told me about his past upon request, I would have wrote him off as a man from a loving family raised in the suburbs. 

“All right, Nathan. It’s your turn now.”  The veil of sorrow and pain that shrouded Rowan fell away. “Who is Nathan?” Rowan asked, leaning forward over his now crossed legs. 

I rubbed the back of my neck. “I’m not that interesting of a person, unfortunately.” Admitting that out loud embarrassed me more than it should have. Rowan called it nonsense and claimed everyone had something interesting about themselves, whether they saw it that way or not. “Thank you for the kind encouragement, but I’m not bluffing. I’m about as bland as baking flour.” I chuckled apprehensively. 

Rowan hounded me with a barrage of questions. “What are your dreams, Nathan? Your goals? Your desires? What are you most passionate about? What do you hope to accomplish before you die?” The questions overwhelmed me to the point where it took me a few minutes to digest each one and formulate a decent answer. The questions were so simple too. A child like Hannah could have answered them with ease. Yet, I had a difficult time. 

My dream… My dream was to become a writer, an author, someday. Storytelling was an art to me, and I adored the idea of sharing those stories with the world. I didn’t have many goals at the time, outside of graduating university and becoming a writer, but the top one was traveling outside my little city to other fascinating places. My parents, cousin, his parents, and I took an exciting family trip to Costa Rica when Elijah and I were around thirteen. That was the first and the last major vacation we ever took together as a family. Tragedy came knocking some years later and turned life on its head for everyone. And my desire…? Catherine. My desire was to be with Catherine. If not with her, someone like her. Though I kept that last tidbit to myself. I didn’t want to acknowledge how creepy I sounded pining after a woman I had recently met, whose last name I hadn’t even learned yet. 

“You know, Rowan, you’re like the Riddler, except you ask questions instead of spewing out riddles.” He made a wheezy chuckle. “Someday, I want to get married, hopefully. If we have kids…I want to be a better father to them than my father ever was to me.” I would never destroy my family the way my father did. Would never break Catherine’s heart the way he did my mom’s.  

Rowan nodded, content with my answers. “Last question for you, Nathan. What about those answers you gave me screams ‘uninteresting’?” No matter how profound, unique, or plain, Rowan believed every aspect of a person was interesting in their own way. It was all about the person’s mindset. 

There was an air of familiarity talking to Rowan those three hours at the café. Past and present began to collide and blur. One moment I was talking to Rowan. The next moment I was talking to Mr. Foust back in his classroom. The comfort and peace I experienced when I was around Mr. Foust had returned when I became acquainted with Rowan. 

“Ah! Where has the time gone?” Rowan commented, checking his watch. When he returned his eyes to me, there was a warm smile on his face. “I’ve enjoyed our time together, Nathan. I just hate that we spent it being sidetracked from the topic at hand: your housing situation.” Unfortunately, the last room was gone, of which I was aware of already. “But…” Rowan held onto his chin. His eyes seemed to glaze over as he pondered. “I may be able to pull some strings.” He said to give him a few days to work some magic. I knew, somehow, he would come through for me.