He woke up each and every day when the sunlight broke in through the curtains of the small, barely furnished bedroom. It was so small that there was only room for the full-sized mattress and box spring and a short three drawer night table that doubled as his dresser. There was no clock there, or anywhere else in the tiny house on top of Pumpkin Hill. Randall had no need for clocks; he didn’t need a contraption whose function was to remind him of the passage of time. After he got up, he washed his face and put on fresh clothes – sometimes they were clean, if he had just done laundry. Sometimes he simply rotated his five shirts and three pairs of pants until they were beyond filthy. He had exactly seven pairs of socks, seven pairs of underwear, and seven t-shirts. For the winter he had two pairs of long underwear and two sweaters. He liked that he could pack his clothes up in a single-suit case in case he ever decided to leave.
Randall shuffled into the kitchen and made his breakfast. It was the same breakfast he had every day: coffee, three fried eggs, half a grilled onion, and three prunes. After he finished his breakfast, Randall drank three beers and listened to the radio. His favorite station was the public radio station. When they talked, it was only when they had something important to talk about, like the weather, or news. After he drank three beers, he poured himself a scotch and looked through the photo albums. The albums contained pictures of his family. His wife. His brother Zack, Zack’s wife Deidre, their kids Sarah and Isaac. His and Zack’s mother and father. Birthday parties, Christmas parties, Halloween costumes. Randall wasn’t in most of the pictures. He never liked getting his picture taken. That was why he learned to take pictures. And he learned it so well that he opened a shop of his own and took pictures. Senior Year. Prom. Homecoming. Family portraits. Baby pictures. People had liked him. They liked his wife, Carolyn, better. Everyone liked Carolyn.
If he got hungry around mid-day, Randall ate a piece of bread with butter and jam. Mostly, he didn’t get hungry. Food had very little taste for him, and he only ate to stay alive. That was the promise he made to Carolyn when she was dying. That he would stay alive no matter what. She wouldn’t have liked him staying in all day, looking through the same photo albums over and over again. She had never liked his drinking; but he only ever tapered off because of her. And without her, he saw no reason. There was no reason for any of it. He kept his promise as best he could; but there were some things he was simply too angry about. He knew Carolyn would want him to stop drinking, to start taking pictures again. But as much as he loved her, he was angry at her, too. Angry because she died. Angry because in the decade since her death, he had been unable to leave their house, or even get rid of her things.
The only time he walked outside was to check the mail. He did this once a week, on Fridays. As he sat drinking and looking through the albums and listening to the radio, he realized it was Friday. So he stood up, slipped on house shoes, and walked outside. The sun was shining and the light hurt his eyes. He wasn’t always sensitive to sunlight; he didn’t become sensitive until after Carolyn died. Then everything about the world seemed too bright, too shiny.
The mail box was stuffed full of junk mail. Hiding amongst the junk mail, there were a few bills. They were all past due notices. Nothing else. Carolyn’s family cut off contact when he followed her wishes and donated her body to science. They wanted something to cry over, a tombstone to put flowers on. Randall knew the lifeless body wasn’t Carolyn’s anymore. They probably knew that, too. But grief does strange things to people. Everyone has their own way of not letting go.
Randall dropped the mail in the empty chair by the door, walked into the kitchen, and poured himself another drink. He knew it was getting late because the neighborhood kids were home from school and running through his yard. The kids ran through his yard because it was a short cut and because he never yelled at them. The grass needed cutting, but he simply couldn’t force himself out to get it done as he had managed in past years. He knew it was pissing off his neighbors. Not that any of them had bothered to talk to him about it. He knew it by the way they looked at him when he was in the grocery store or the way they pointed at the little old house and shook their heads. If they had their way, the little old house would be torn down. It was the oldest house on the street. It was falling apart, and they were tired of it hurting the value of their homes. He knew this because he’d gotten a letter from the town council saying as much. They were going to give him fifteen days; then they were going to evict him. Today was the fifteenth day.
Randall knew that if it were Carolyn that was alive instead of him, there wouldn’t have been any letter from town council. Everybody loved Carolyn. And they liked him until he stopped taking pictures. A drunk who takes nice pictures is still useful. A drunk who is nothing but a drunk is not. Randall knew they were going to send the Sheriff for him. Then the house he had lived in with Carolyn would be demolished so that the neighbors could look at an empty field instead of a dilapidated house.
Randall didn’t know when they would come for him. But he knew it wouldn’t be much longer. The only things he would take with him were his suit case and the photo albums. The albums were heavy, and he intended to make the Sheriff and his deputies carry them out. He drained his glass and poured more scotch on top of the same ice cubes. He had promised to stay alive. But that didn’t mean he was going to like one minute of it.
