I look through my blinds and can not help but feel a little bit sad, albeit a little bit guilty, for the misery that is before me. Thomas Marrows trudging out of his house like clockwork at the same time every day like an automaton. Traipsing across his browning lawn, and begrudgingly impaling his sedan with his keys just to allow it the privilege of transporting him to the one place more vile than his home; work.
I have been across the street neighbors with Tom for just over three years now and I can honestly admit that I have no idea what this job is that he puts himself through on a daily basis. I have often considered asking, but the game of deduction is so much more entertaining than being so forward, plus I have never actually spoken to Tom and I would not want to sully my streak now. I know he wears a suit to work, so that scratches lifeguard off of the possibility list, as well as luchador, but it still leaves businessman stripper and well dressed janitor in the deck at play.
Tom always seems so depressed, and when Tom is sad it apparently peaks my interest, and for the life of me, or others for that matter, I can not understand why. It is a crazy world in which we live in that the lives of two could be so symbiotic, even when the two are two whom have never uttered a single syllable to one another, and only have one strong connection unbeknownst to half of them. Still I can not help but find myself drawn to the window every morning to see him off; and then redrawn at night to welcome him home from afar only to witness his predictable routine.
I can still remember a time when Tom was not such a despondent bloke, and if I think about it hard enough I think I can pin point the very day his life took a turn for the worst. When I first saw Tom it was alongside two moderately attractive women, one much older than the others, I believe she was a real estate agent, and I believe, for lack of actually knowing, that her name was Claire. Well Tom, Claire, and the woman, who held on excitedly to Tom’s hand as if she would wander off into traffic should she let go, gave the house Tom now resides in a once over. Now it is not my nature to presume, but in this case I presume that they liked what they saw because no more than two months later a moving van pulled in with a lifetime supply of cheap Swedish made furniture and I had new neighbors.
Sally was the hand holder’s name, and sporting faded and trendy jeans and a white tank top she ordered Tom around this way and that, with boxes much too heavy even for his muscular build. I knew then and there that although he smiled and gazed fondly at her, Tom was dying on the inside.
From that day on, their chaotic lives played out before me like a daytime soap opera; I could not get enough. I learned their schedules, and knew when commercial breaks were coming, and I eagerly looked forward to special occasions such as holidays and laundry day. One month Sally surprised Tom with balloons on his birthday, and the next Tom bought Sally a new car for hers; hardly fair if you ask me, but then again who am I to judge?
Days turned into months, and months turned into a full year that they had lived in my life and that is when it happened; Sally was gone. Frantic and publically, the thespian Mr. Marrows put on a show for the neighbors and the police and proclaimed that he wanted her back, but I knew better. He openly cried and mourned for what appeared to be an insurmountable amount of time, but eventually that time was surmounted and Tom went on with his life; just without the spark this time. Mundane at best, and with much less pep in his step.
Tom rejoined society with slumped shoulders and he genuinely appeared depressed, for whatever reason I could not attest to. Perhaps he wished things went differently? Perhaps he wanted the play to unfold on his terms? Perhaps he missed her, but that one I highly doubted. I mean, he would have moved if he was truly that down, right? There could not have been too many fond memories that were made in one year that would require him to stay. Was he just protecting his financial investment? Perhaps, that is logical, but perhaps there was something else too; something else I, or we for that matter, have yet to learn.
For two years he went on like that, and it was like watching reruns day after day, but it was my favorite program so I did not mind all that much. I learned a great deal about his likes and dislikes, his habits and his ticks, and even his fears, all by watching him do his thing; just day to day things. Truly remarkable what can be learned through observation alone.
Then yesterday I was caught off guard as a new character joined the cast, a shorter than Sally and blonder than Sally type character who seemed much too bubbly for her own good. She drove up in a red convertible, probably bought for by her own hard work, and she approached Tom’s house and knocked on the door. Tom answered in business casual attire; he had been expecting her. He greeted her on the threshold with an unenthusiastic embrace and then proceeded to invite her in. They ate a meal Tom had prepared, which I witnessed through the drawn shades of the dining room, but I could not see what the protein was. Perhaps duck, Tom seems like the type of guy who would cook duck even though it was never one of my favorites, but there was no way for him to have known that.
A few uneventful hours later blonder Sally departed with a keener hug and she retired away in her convertible. Then this morning Tom just drove away like he did every other day for the past two years. Same sunken posture, same gloom face, and the very same “hey that guy is missing a step in his stride” kind of walk. He was not happy, and not-so-Sally was doing nothing for him. Sure he seemed all fine and dandy last night, but he was a great actor, that I had witnessed two years prior.
Why did he invite her over anyway? Was she a Sally rebound? Was two years enough time? What were his intentions with her? Down the line was she to be my new neighbor? She couldn’t possibly be worse than real Sally could she? Could she make Tom as miserable as first Sally? Would he even know how he was dying inside; he was blind last time until it was too late. I had so many things to ponder as I anticipated his arrival home from work. The hours flew by as I patiently manned my position and right on time Tom drove up in Sally Number One’s present.
I watched as Tom heaved two bulging brown grocery bags from his trunk and carried them inside; a repeat of the night prior? I hope not duck again. Why not a fine honey and Dijon brushed salmon fillet and some garlic roasted asparagus? There he goes, straight to the kitchen to allow his nightly masterpiece to unfold. Why not make this night truly magical? Yes, why not? “Decisions, Decisions,” I shall name this episode.
I watched the cooking episode and predictably, as the roast was being expertly exhumed from the over, new Sally arrived. She was greeted and went on to help set the table; some brownie points for her I would say, but ultimately the decision is up to Tom. They ate through endless and muted conversations and once it was realized that no dessert was in play they retired to the isolation of Tom’s bedroom. I half expected where the plot was going, as I have grown accustomed to read the subtle hints and foreshadowing Tom uses to tell his tale, but at the same time I was uncertain if I was alright with my show becoming suitable for a mature audience only; well it was headed that way anyway, but the sun was still up and where is the sense of decency and decorum?
I could feel the vigor build inside me, and although I had only made the trip once before, I knew I was going to revisit Tom’s backyard so that I could see this installment play out. With every one of the dear neighbors routinely eating their own dinners with their own families during this hour as I have known for some time, I was able to walk right out of my door, across my street, and into Tom’s backyard with no one being the wiser. Then, once in the comfort of the backyard, the plentiful conifers that littered the property line provided me with more than enough secrecy as I peered into Tom’s bedroom; a room that is regrettably not visible from my home vantage point.
There he was, sitting on his bed with head bowed, and there she was, sitting next to him holding his hand. He certainly had a thing for hand holders. Not what I expected, but that is why I love this show, all of the plot twists, including ones the characters do not even see coming; like the finale. I waited until the sun set, like Tom should have, and I viewed Tom and the hand holder start to get intimate. Still daytime friendly, with all cloths present, but somewhat too suggestive for my taste.
I knew the time was right, under the shade of twilight, and I slunk over to the back door. A glass sliding door which was secured with a laughable brass latch; the same one from two years ago. I reached into my pre-packed satchel and produced a slender metal pick which I wielded to unhitch the brass with the utmost ease. Inside the kitchen I silently made my way through the halls and waited breathlessly outside of Tom’s door with my hand hovering motionlessly above the knob as I listened to muffled voices.
This was it, the moment everyone in the audience was waiting for. The moment of truth. I reached into my satchel for the second of the two key items of the night, flung the door open, and with swiftness sunk my item into the startled back of the two night cameo. There was a gurgling shout as the blond slumped over off the bed and into her own forming pool as I pulled my serrated blade from her abdomen.
Tom stared up at me, not knowing if he should fight, or scream, or call for help. Ultimately he decided to go with blinking rapidly and not do anything but managing to gasp out, “please. Who are you?”
“Me?” I said in shock. “Tom, I am slightly insulted. It is amazing how close you can be to someone and they do not even know you exist.”
“Is Jessica dead?” Tom whimpered.
“Who?” I asked in disgust at the display of the hero of the show loosing face.
“Her,” Tom pointed to the rumpled body dirtying the hardwood.
“Oh you mean new Sally,” I nodded. “Yes, she is not going to be reoccurring.”
“Wait,” Tom gripped himself, and his eyes went wild as I wagged my knife this way and that. “What did you say about Sally? Did you know her?”
“Yes, I knew her,” I smiled. “I was so glad when she was cut out, but the recasting was just poor choice.”
“What are you talking about,” Tom screamed, now the angst and fear were building, adding to the suspense. “Where is she? Did you do something to her?”
“Tom, she was trying to steal your spotlight,” I said, appalled that he could not see it himself. “You were miserable, I did you a favor.”
“Why?” Tom said as he covered his face with his hands and openly wept.
“Tom,” I leaned in, “everyone wants to know what comes next. The choice is yours and yours alone. Who do you choose? Old Sally, or new Sally?”
“What?” Tom looked up from his hands long enough to mutter.
“Answer the question,” I shouted while stabbing my blade into his mattress.
“I need to see her again,” Tom continued the whimper into his palms.
“I am somewhat taken aback, I must admit,” I said with mouth agape. “I truly thought you were over her. I was not expecting this, and although I respect your choice, I think had you chosen differently it would have led to a better conclusion, but alas true love is true love. So, you choose original Sally?”
“Yes,” Tom nodded through a soaked and defeated face.
Upon hearing his decision I sunk my blade into his neck, draining him of his life in a matter of seconds. I spent a few minutes cleaning him up and making him presentable for Sally; combing his hair, tucking in his shirt, scrubbing the fragrance of another off of his skin. I gently draped him across my arms and carried him across the street; it is fantastic what you can do in public sometimes. Society just wants to turn the other cheek, especially when they can do so subliminally.
I entered my home and nudged open by basement door and proceeded to transport Tom down the stairs. I propped him up in the concrete corner, he was still leaking at the neck, but Sally would have to forgive him, I mean after all she was not the looker she once was anymore either. I reached down and pulled on the tarp which covered the neatly picked bones of Sally; disrupting her two year slumber.
“I guess I will leave you two to catch up,” I said as I flicked off the light and shut the door behind me. Now that my show has ended, what am I to do? I am thinking I will leave this house and find myself another, I mean it was never really mine to begin with.
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