Afternoon Of A Hermit

  It holds the heat well.  That's what Casey Stengal said about the old Busch Stadium, Frank reminded himself, and it applies to this place as well.  He stood from the clutter of papers on his kitchen table, poured the last of his coffee down the sink and looked out the open window.  He felt a warm breeze pushing late afternoon clouds.
  This was peak energy time for Frank, other people's end of the day.  After rising late in the morning he consumed his cereal, fruit and coffee into the early afternoon.  Throughout the rest of the day Frank focused on reading and writing.  He read two books a week and wrote three thousand words a day.  His neighbors saw only the pulled drapes.
  Most days after picking up the morning paper Frank's only physical contact with the world was postal mail delivery.  With his computer he had internet and email, but he preferred snail mail for his correspondance with editors and investment brokers.  He liked the adventure of postal mail.  After depositing envelopes in a drop box Frank counted the hours, thinking about the letters lying in dark stillness.  At the appointed time Frank imagined the explosion of light as the carrier opened the box and each letter started on its journey, passing through dozens of hands in rooms he would never see.
  After rinsing the coffee pot Frank checked the mailbox by his door, now in shade.  He foraged through the usual junk mail and pulled out a mutual fund statement and an editor's acknowledgement, a good harvest for an otherwise uneventful day. 
  Despite the cloud cover the interior of the duplex glowed in late afternoon light.  Frank's mind crackled and popped in a caffienated haze, eager to make more connections, but he was written out for the day.  Better to take a walk and just look at things, he told himself.  The usual afternoon tour and, what the heck, pick up a lottery ticket for tonight's drawring.  What was the jackpot up to?  Six mil, cash value about two and a half.  That would do nicely.  Maybe get another computer and a satellite dish, he told himself.
  Walking to the bedroom to pick out a shirt, he thought he caught a whiff of natural gas as he passed the water heater closet.  It had been like that for several weeks.  Got to call Public Service soon, he told himself.  In the meantime close the windows to discourage the burglars who, according to the news, had been hitting the neighborhood recently.  He glanced at the twin phone jacks, one for the modem and one for his personal calls.  What if the phone rang in the built up gas?  Was it gas anyway?
  With the sun peeking through the clouds Frank strolled down his block in the long shadows that stretched across dried lawns.  As he listened to parents calling children to dinner, his mind zipped with quick thoughts, still percolating from his afternoon session.  What if the gas ignited and the duplex exploded, he thought to himself.  Pieces of brick, lumber, furniture and clothing would fly for blocks.  My computer, my files, my writing, all torn into bits of plastic, tin and paper.  Would people look at the fragments?
  What about the stories he sold under another name?  The ones he cranked out for the magazines stacked on his coffee table, the ones with nudes on their glossy covers.  Well, it paid the bills.  If he could just get an offer on that novel.  Maybe an agent would help.
  He slowed his walk as he thougt of the neighborhood being showered with shredded scraps from his duplex.  Everyone would know where they came from. 
  What are my lucky numbers, Frank asked himself as he reached for a Lotto form in the Seven Eleven.  He felt a dull thud in his feet.  Cans rattled on the shelves and the front windows shook.  In the parking lot people climbed from their cars and pointed up the block. 
  END
  Copyright 2007 Rick Hughes