The Man in the Yard
by Elliot Alpern
There’s a man in a black suit and tie in the back yard, and I want to have a drink with him, I think, or else, well, I’m not sure. I noticed him there, earlier, as I let my yorkie out to make with the rhododendrons, and the man had been out on the back lawn, and had gestured to me, as if to say, cheers to you, kind soul; though I can’t tell you how this came to my understanding. To think further, I cannot right remember his face, much, no not at all, but I was left with a pervasive warmth upon my and my yorkie’s return indoors.
As though I had been visited, been granted presence by a wandering prophet. As though my house might be a spot on his crawl home, and I am, content, with him there; I think I’d like to invite him in for a drink.
But.
But something stops me, there.
I start to think a stretch, to put my mind squarely on this stranger behind the house, and, well, who might this man be, and why — yes, why has he decided to stop along here, you know, and don’t I live in the countryside some ways, I believe i do indeed, in fact the nearest bar being Fogel’s down five miles, Route 03, and how would this man arrive but a long, long walk, or a car I’d not seen nor heard, with the walls of this homestead thin as card-stock.
And so I look again. Concerned, thinking I might call the authorities, I peel the lace from the window above the sink, and I know the phone is not far, though I’ll have to turn my back upon this yard to get there, and the doors are locked, I am, oh, 97% sure, damned the 3, and there is my father’s old rifle in the basement, if it comes to that, and
And I see him.
And I think, who are you, sir? Who might this sharply dressed man, who might he be? Who is this poor fellow, to be lost here, and how it must feel quite a chill, there, as I myself have felt the crosswinds whipping through this yard, produced by a break in the tree-lines on each side. And see, again, right there, he gestures once more a cheer, a toast to health and life lived lengthily, and he seems a pleasant fellow, amiable, laughing without laughing but on the inside, I feel I can discern.
I had a brother, once. And yes he has been lost quite long since, if you must know, from a gangrenous infection of the lower calf, but he had the same quiet mirth, the unsmiling cheer that cannot help but pour forth, and saturate all our good hearts, no matter his stone-visage. And there I find myself, thinking about my brother, staring off at the wall, my vision broken of the man, him in the black suit and tie, him I cannot recognize nor right remember in image, and at once I chide myself: how am I wasting time, here. I live alone now, without near neighbors capable of hearing, and thus I have always feared some intruder. Because there is no one else to protect the stead; I am by my own and own enough, and that has been fine.
But, gods, there is something about that man in the backyard, something so peculiarly commonplace, that still, I cannot picture — whether he grins with wicked salivation or good promise; whether he grins or grimaces at all. Whether he is even turned toward the house, or away from it, staring through the treeline and off into the windswept evening — as though he might not bear to look upon what he will to do?
There is a block of knives, by the sink. And they pose no distance — they are an intimate sort of defense, if that is sensible — but better than the basement rifle, I do think, and I pull one loose, hand shaking, shedding snowflakes of moonlight reflected onto the counters.
And thus I thrust open the back door, knifepoint forward, as though I might intimidate despite my age and poor physique; as if I might pretend: I am capable of fending for myself. There is no greater truth than you are alive in this world, no law but this life is a gift you must shelter from the ungifted.
And I see him, again.
The man is there, in the wind and the lawn, and he holds my sweet little yorkie, and then it is clear to me: he has come to help me find my lost pup. A samaritan, a gentleman, and he gestures again, not with my sweet little yorkie but the other arm, unburdened, as if to say, all well, all well, and let’s celebrate this arrival, let’s let the light low and the music slow and let’s pour, shall we, two glasses for the living.
And how he does remind me of my dear brother.
So, you see, I have invited the man in for a drink. And I do not know whom he has invited, but that he has, such is all in fortune, and I cry out, weeping sweet joy:
The more the merrier!
Elliot Alpern is an MFA candidate in fiction at Columbia University, and Print Fiction Editor of Columbia Journal Issue 58. He was born in Torrance, California, which apparently does not count as Los Angeles.