a stranger

short fiction by man of aran

(a short tale today, about 700 words)

vintage Volkswagen Beetle, Richmond Museum, Richmond, B.C.

A Stranger

He’d been there a while, in front of my house, standing beside a decrepit old black Volkswagen bug, one with tiny windows in the rear and running boards. It was almost noon, a sunny July day. I saw him from upstairs, from behind my curtains. He was heavy-set, with a ponytail, perhaps in his late thirties. He stood with his back turned, arms folded, like he was cold. Waiting for someone, I imagined.

Now, though, he was just below me on the porch. His heavy beard and faded skull t-shirt rattled me. His arms were tattooed. As a woman living alone, I had to watch out.

Eventually, he knocked, a light tapping, really, not a pounding or a set of sharp raps. Small chance I’d hear him unless I was listening. Like a part of him hoped no one would answer. He had a softness, I felt, despite how he looked. I let him wait, not too long, though. As he stared at the door, the calm, neutral expression on his face didn’t change.

He knocked again, again softly. So, I went down and for a moment stood facing the door. I pictured him on the other side, staring like me. I felt like knocking myself, having him answer, like it was me outside. Then I lifted the chain, hooked it to the door, and turned the knob.

“Hello,” he said. I strained to hear him through the gap. His voice was gentle and flat, almost a whisper, his smile slight. “Sorry to bother. I broke down. I need a lift. Would you mind if I used your phone?”

I could see his tattoos now, one with a dagger through a heart, another with a wavy ribbon beneath the word, Mom. Not original, I thought, but at least he loved his mother.

I hesitated, thinking I might slip my phone through the opening. I said, “Sorry, I wish I could help you out . . .” Thinking, too, if he might help me.

“That’s okay, miss,” he said. “I’ll find another way.” He turned and started down the steps.

After a moment, I unlatched the chain, pausing before opening the door wide. He was again standing by the Volkswagen, now looking up and down the street.

“Mister!” I called. I held out the phone. I think I saw him smile again as he walked back.

“Thank you very much,” he said, taking the phone. He turned and sat down on the steps. I waited in the doorway.

“Hello, Leslie? It’s me. Yes. Yes. No, nothing like that. It’s happened again, same thing. No, no, I’d rather get rid of it altogether. Can you call them? Hold on.”

He turned and looked up at me.

“What’s the address here, miss?”

He gave the information and passed me the phone.

“Thank you. Can I sit here while I wait?” he asked.

“Certainly. Do you need anything? A water?”

“Thank you, miss, I’ll just sit,” he said.

I closed the door, left the chain off and went back upstairs to the window, parting the curtains. The man sat hunched, elbows on his knees. He stared ahead at the Volkswagen, or perhaps at nothing at all. I thought I’d like to wait with him. I thought of myself sitting there with him. I wondered who Leslie was.

Soon, he dropped his head into his hands, and every minute or so, his body stiffened, convulsed slightly, then relaxed. Something was wrong, something had upset him. It wasn’t for me to interfere, but I wanted to be able to help.

Then they arrived. A brown sedan pulled up, and two clean-cut men wearing black trousers and white windbreakers got out and walked up the path. One bent to speak, and the man nodded. Then, they each took an arm and slowly guided him to the street, as though getting there for him now was too much. They eased him into the back of the car, and again he put his head in his hands. I watched as they drove off, leaving me to wonder: who was this man who landed on my porch? And whose Volkswagen was sitting in front of my house?

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