A Chance for Spring

Every morning at 6:30, the neighbors of John Davos would notice his bedroom light flickering on almost exactly fifteen seconds after the clock bottomed out. That is, they would have noticed if they were awake, but John lived in a sleepy old town, full of retirees who went to bed early and slept in late almost every day. In fact, on most days the trunks of shiny Cadillacs and Lincolns could be heard thunking around noon as people packed their golf clubs and headed down to the range, even at the zenith of the swampy Florida heat. If the neighbors were to peek into John’s life, they’d see that the first thing he’d do is head to his kitchen and put a kettle on the gas stove, clicking it on high as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Then, he’d head to the bathroom and close the door for seven minutes. He’d emerge with a freshly combed head and washed face, a fleck of mint toothpaste somewhere in his light beard, ready to pour out his tea. 

On this particular morning, John was sluggish, and so it was almost three minutes before he got out of bed, and about ten minutes before his tea was poured. It was summer, so the dawn was eagerly charging through the remnants of night even at this early hour, and John sat at his usual seat by an eastern window in his kitchen as he steeped his tea. He liked it in a specific way. First of all, the tea had to be green, unless it was Sunday, in which case Twinings English Breakfast was called for. The tea had to be steeped in near boiling water for exactly three minutes - one minute longer than the package specified. Then it had to sit for seven minutes to reach the optimal drinking temperature. John knew all of this by heart, but today he steeped his tea for four minutes, and by the time his eyes stopped focusing on his neighbor’s white paneling, his tea was cold. He drank it anyway, almost smiling contemptuously - that is, if his mouth could remember how to smile. 

As it turned out, as John was staring at his neighbor’s house, glassy eyed and frowning, there was someone looking back at him. Nancy Roth had recently been diagnosed with insomnia, and while she took medicine to fall asleep at night, she was always up at 4:00 am or earlier these days. Though seeing as she was in her early nineties and needed a battery of medicine anyway, she wasn’t too concerned. She was content to watch the shaded windows of John Davos light up at fifteen seconds past 6:30, and she liked to gaze upon him, a young man in good health, just going about his morning with careful precision. She knew her time was near, as did everyone else in her family, and so she used John as a way to reminisce on the days when she too could perform her morning routine in less than ten minutes. Nancy thought of John as the son she’d never had. She often wondered what he’d done for a living that he could spend his days typing away at a keyboard, living in a house the likes of which had taken her and her deceased husband decades to afford. 

That morning, Nancy had known something was off. She went to sit in her usual chair at the parlor, which overlooked John’s baby blue paneled house, and waited for his light to turn on. However, at 6:30, the light remained off. Nancy sat up straighter and noticed his curtains were not drawn. Blessed as she was with good eyesight, she was able to see him lying on his queen size bed, a glint in his eyes. His hand was draped over the empty side of his bed, and he remained almost catatonic for a few minutes, before sluggishly dragging himself out of bed and into the kitchen, where he forgot to put the kettle on, only realizing his mistake until after the bathroom light had turned on, causing a strange scene of John rushing back into the kitchen with a toothbrush in his mouth and the front of his nightshirt undone. Nancy watched as John sat at his usual seat without sipping his tea until the tendrils of steam had died away. She watched as he smiled almost grotesquely, staring listlessly in her direction, causing her to shiver. She watched as he drained the whole mug of tea, but didn’t bother to put it in the sink. She watched as he wiped at his eyes and left the kitchen to the unknown alleys of his house. Something was wrong, she knew, but what? And perhaps more importantly to her - what could she do about it? After pondering a couple minutes, she pushed out of her armchair and shuffled off to her kitchen. 

John, of course, knew what was wrong, though it was still forcefully buried in his subconscious. He sat now in his study, a tall hexagonal room lined with books. He liked to organize his books in sections, as they were in his childhood library. He also made sure to separate them by size, so that all his hardcovers lined up together, as did his paperbacks, though he was in the process of replacing the latter with their more durable and hefty comrades. Opening his laptop, John immediately found the file called, “Journal”, and clicked on it. He was greeted with almost three decades of daily entries, some transcribed from when he was a child, and others just a few sentences long. All told, he had to scroll through 356 pages of the journal before he pressed enter a few times and began writing for the day. 

All my life, I have strived to emulate the perfect human being. As you no doubt know from my decades of speaking to you, I’ve honed my daily life into an industrial machine capable of achieving every dream I had set out for myself. I only now realize that I was short-sighted… 

But let me not dwell on that now; let me first take a moment to summarize that which you already know (please bear with me). I begin each day with a rigorous and fervent pace, normally completing my conversation with you before half-past seven, at the latest. I eat a carefully planned diet meant to extend my life to its utmost potential, full of lean protein, vitamin-packed vegetables, and carbohydrates low on the glycemic index. I keep myself perfectly hygienic, showering once in the morning after my meditation (which as you know, follows my journaling), and once at night, after I go to the gym. I do not eat any carbs after lunch. I do not drink. I have never smoked anything in my life. I read for at least one hour every day, and I maintain my writing even though I have sold enough books to retire. 

I recall a time in highschool when I had friends… Before I became this machine. I used to eat candy after school at the sweetshop… I used to have pizza every Friday night at home, prior to the sundering of my family. I remember the laughs I shared with my friends… Ben, Donny, Rob, and Jeremy… We were as close as we could get. Where are they now, I wonder? I have no social media, and I do not wish to obtain any. As rivers divide into tributaries over the years, so too did we split apart, and now the only things flowing along the parent river are memories from a lost youth. 

Remember Claire? In fact, it is about her that I wonder the most. I’m sure you’ll recall my long, passionate entries about her, and forgive me again if I prattled on there in my old, melancholic college writing. I remember what we shared, and I wonder if I’ll ever share that with someone again. I chose to live in this barren wasteland, bereft of anyone my age, simply because I wanted to focus on the next step of my career. My agent told me to follow up Timbers in Fallen Snow with another novel of greater magnificence, and so I holed away here in this tired town. If I had known then what I was damning myself to, I would’ve never written another book. 

Productivity, sales, marketing, and becoming the perfect human being… Where in that blend do you see what I lost? I remember also when Claire told me to make a choice; when she asked me if I was ready to make room for her in my life. I’ll admit, I had been shutting her out ever since I became obsessed with attaining every physical goal which is naturally attainable for a healthy body, but I should have thought further ahead. Where is the person within the human being? Where is the face behind the mask? With every appearance on late night shows and podcasts, the mask cuts deeper into my soul, and now… Now it is the mask which is me, and I am lost. I make tea every morning and wait for it to get tepid so I protect my throat from esophageal cancer. I routinely check my whole body for blemishes to catch melanoma early. The SPF 120 sunscreen I use could be used by astronauts in space, but I wear it even in the house. 

As rain passes over the mountains with haste and fury, so too has my life passed, and while along every metric I set for myself I have succeeded, I woke up today, on my 43rd birthday, alone. The queen bed I sleep in has had a woefully empty left side, and it has been that way since I left Claire. I do not miss her, and I’m sure she doesn’t miss me… But I do miss the companionship. I do not believe I’ve had a real conversation for fifteen years. Talk shows are talk, and I loathe the mind-numbing sweetness of clueless or dotard movie stars with less brain cells than fingers as they tell me things like, “I love the way your mind works!”. 

I suppose there’s some finality in my writing to you today. I do not believe I will wake up tomorrow morning. Now, now I know what you’re going to say: I have too much to live for, and too much to lose. But what have I to lose? Money? It will go to the government to dispense as they will. I have no one with which I would like to share it. Legacy? My legacy is told on the page, and my books will outlive this world. I am confident in that. What else could there possibly be? No, my friend… there is nothing else in my life. Nothing else at all. 

I began to come to this realization last night, when I turned all the lights off in my room and drew the shades. Never before had the darkness so oppressed me, clinging onto every fiber of my being and pushing inward, as though it despised my very nature. All of a sudden, every thought I had was poisoned, every move I made was heavy, and as I sank into my bed, I felt as though it were consuming me. What secrets the night must have, I wonder, from our ancestors? What bitter words have they spoken to the darkness as the world closed in around them. If my thoughts are of any similarity, then the night will know all which we hide even from ourselves. My breathing became shallow; I broke into a cold sweat. There was nothing around me but the inky blackness of a force so eternal that it will exist unto the end of the universe. 

At last I pulled myself up and decided to turn on a light, but it seemed so artificial… I couldn’t stand the sight of it and its pathetic yellow glow. So I went to the window and removed the curtains, allowing the moonlight to bathe my room in its cold white glow. And though I found sleep, the thoughts which plagued me did not abate, and I felt tears on my pillow before I slipped away, joining the torpid night myself. 

I have moved through my life with certainty, and it is with certainty that I will end it. No, no… don’t try to convince me. My vice-free life has led to this timely demise, and I can no longer stand being alive without someone with which to share my life. 

Of course, I know the last thing you will say: It’s not too late, you can find someone, still! But alas, old friend, it is too late. When a plant has not been watered does it not wither? When a pet is neglected does it not die? So too has the pleasant socialite within me died and withered away. Gone are the days when I could make a friend myself. Gone are the days when my world was filled with people who were delighted to be with me. My agent wants me to enrich herself, these talk show hosts want me to bring in views, these fans I meet… they only want me to put out another book they can use to mask the night invading their own lives. Yet what mask is there for me, now, I ask you? I no longer know how to interact amiably with another human being when the conversation is not carefully mediated and directed, and I do not wish to begin the painful process of resurrecting the part of me which is gone. So I thank you for your decades of enduring the worst parts of me… 

John wiped at his eyes and closed his laptop, unaware that he’d been typing for over an hour. Rather than continue with his day’s routine, he opened up his liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Louis XIII Cognac, which he understood to be of high quality. His liquor cabinet was full of expensive bottles he’d been gifted over the years, and he’d never opened a single one. Today, however, he decided to open this rare bottle and pour himself a glass. He sipped cautiously, but nothing came over him, so he took the bottle and his glass to the living room, where he lay on the couch, staring off into the distance. He had realized the coming winter of his soul so late that there was no chance of recapturing summer’s warmth. What he had with Claire-

He was roused out of his pity by the ringing of his doorbell. Normally, whenever his doorbell rang he’d simply wait until whoever it was went away, and if it was important they’d leave some sort of letter in his mailbox. However, today his heart told him to get up and answer the door. Perhaps it was the cognac, but he followed his heart’s will and went to answer the door. Upon opening it, he found a young woman standing outside in a loose sundress. The lack of makeup on her face exposed some age lines in her tanned skin, and her hair was done in a messy ponytail, exposing some grays. In her slender arms, she held a picnic basket. 

“Uh, hello,” said John, his gruff voice surprising even himself. 

“Hi,” she said with a small smile, “I’m Lauren Roth - I’m the daughter of Nancy Roth.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Sorry, who…”

“Oh, Nancy Roth, your next door neighbor.” She gestured over to the white house facing John’s bedroom and kitchen. 

“Ah. Well, nice to meet you,” he said, extending a hand mechanically, “I’m John Davos.”

“Not… the writer?” she said, her clear blue eyes widening. 

He grimaced. “Indeed. Are you a fan?”

She shook her head almost guiltily. “Never read one of your books myself, but my friends can’t keep their hands off them.”

“Well, that’s refreshing,” said John earnestly. “What can I do for you?”

“I came by to drop off these muffins,” she lifted the picnic basket higher. 

“Muffins?”

“Yeah, my mom said you needed them,” she arched her delicate eyebrows. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Afraid not,” John pursed his lips. 

She blushed, placing her fingertips on her forehead. “I swear, her mind’s going these days. She told me you needed these desperately. I thought you’d asked her to make them. I guess you not knowing her should’ve tipped me off, huh?”

“No problem,” he said, feeling a sudden tugging in his gut.

“D’you… still want ’em? They’re fresh, and I think there’s three different kinds in here?” Lauren brushed some hair out of her face. 

“Oh, uh… Sure.” John held out his hands and accepted the basket, feeling its weight. “Thank you.”

“I’ll pass that on to my mom,” said Lauren with a wide smile. “Bye, now.”

The wind picked up and John felt words leave his mouth almost of their own accord. “Lauren, wait!” She turned around curiously, and he continued, “I… These are a lot of muffins, and I… don’t think I can finish them by myself. Would you like to come in and help out?”

She smiled and nodded. “Alright, that’d be great.” 

“I don’t want to leave you out in the sun, either. Not on a day like this.” He opened the door and she stepped through gracefully. 

“You know my mom lives right over there, right?” she said coyly. 

“Hey, you never know… sunburn sneaks up on you.” John wasn’t really joking, but Lauren laughed, the sound like clear water moving merrily through a forest stream. He smiled as he closed the door, leading her to the living room. Perhaps there is a Spring for my soul, after all, he thought, clutching the muffins tightly.