It was a large house on the corner of Crock Street and Cuff, with tall, stained windows that could fit the eye of a giant, and hosted a door made from the darkest, sharpest wood anyone could find. I remember a gentleman telling me once that it was built during World War I, and since then has been remodeled four times with four different owners. The brick that stood it up was disfigured and ugly, and the vines that grew from the roof even more so. Its shape resembled that of a tower: casting the streets below it into a cautious shadow from high above. And the windows! Any normal house would use such a design sparingly, but this house used glass that screamed at you; its smeared visage staring into your soul as you pass it by. I knew I wasn’t the only one who wanted to know why that was.
It was a November night with freezing air and howling wind. I had on a large, puffy coat and gloves that were too tight for my hands, wandering aimlessly through the city lights trying my best to conceal my black eye. I don’t know what it was that came over me–spite, I guess–but suddenly I turned my feet towards the one place you were never supposed to go. The house on the corner of Crock Street and Cuff was silent; not a sound daring to sing. And there were no lights, except in the very corner atop the tower. I foolishly drew closer, and in the dim yellow glow I saw the outline of a man in the window.
I won’t go into detail about what occurred next. I am not proud I broke into a disheveled house, and I am not proud all the swirling questions in my mind angered me to this point of breaking the law, but I will say I was stupid enough to make lots of noise while doing so.
The inside of this hollow abode was stuck in the twentieth century: full of neatness and sweet smell like a house full of grandparents, but also sported a worn down feeling where the lamps and tables were covered in a thin layer of dust. Every step I took made the floor creek, and I stopped at a shattered portrait hanging from the opposite wall. But before I could examine the couple inside, a loud voice from the staircase jumped at me,
“What do you think you’re doing, boy?!” The man shouted, raising his cane in the air with one hand and an angry fist in the other as he rushed down the steps.
I reeled back, stepping on the sharp glass fallen from the portrait and letting out a howl of pain. I fell to the floor and scooted back against the wall. The old man shot towards me as fast as he could–which wasn’t very fast at all–and before I could look up he was standing over me with a red face and a grind in his teeth. It may not have been a ghost afterall like I was suspecting, but I never thought I would die to an old man. Raising his shaky fist, I expected a blow and closed my eyes…but after a minute I realized he never meant to. Instead, peering up at him once again, I saw he was staring directly at my face.
“I would’ve given you a black eye for breaking in here, boy. But I see you already got one.”
Offering his hand, I hesitantly pulled myself up and wobbled over to his couch. A whirl of thoughts crossed my mind, most of them being about getting out of there, but one firm push later and I was sitting down in the living room with a throbbing foot.
“Please, sir,” I begged, shamelessly looking down at the carpet, “I didn’t mean to disturb you…I thought you were a ghost…all the kids said so…please, sir, just let me go on back home and you’ll never see me again.”
The old man, however, shook his head with a resounding no. I tried to stand up, but once again he pushed me down. Then he strutted over to the nearby end table and pulled out the worn drawer. I expected a scolding, a beating, or even a call to the police. And as he dug around in that drawer all I could think about was what my father was going to do to me. I’d soon smash my head through a thousand screaming windows before facing him down.
“If you think I’m gonna let you run out into the cold with an open wound, boy, then you don’t know me. Hundreds of kids have spied on this house over the years, yet none of them know me. But I dare say you are the first who has ever broken through my walls and has seen the inside. That’s either a really brave or really stupid thing to do. I know I can’t be the only one who wants to know why that is.”
Holding up a pair of tweezers, the old man waddled back over and kneeled in front of me. He did not speak when he grabbed and lifted my bleeding foot up into the air; an action that made me yelp.
“What’s your name?” He said sternly, digging the tweezers into the cut before I could answer. I bit on the sleeve of my coat hard enough to shatter my teeth.
“Don’t peep a sound, boy. I need to focus.”
I did as he said without question, even though the pain was enough to make any other holler the worst words they could think of. It was minutes later before the last small piece of glass was removed, and I felt I could finally take a breath again with the weight off my shoulders.
“Jordan. My name is Jordan,” I began, huffing with relief and wiping the sweat from my forehead, “Thank you for doctoring me up. People don’t usually care all that much. They usually just look at you funny then start yelling or laughing. They don’t care about the little folks like me. Who ever thought it would’ve been an old man of all people who showed me respect?”
I laughed a little at my observation, an act that the man did not return.
“Jordan’s a good name. I’ve known many Jordans in my time. And it’s not ‘Old Man’, boy, it’s Mr. Gatswicki.”
“Mr. Gatswicki? If that isn’t one of the strangest names I’ve ever heard.”
“If you’re not accustomed to strange names, Jordan, then you’re not accustomed to life. Life means finding strange people with strange names in strange places. Some things are meant to be strange, because if they weren’t then life would be boring.”
Suddenly, Mr. Gatswicki turned his eyes upward to my face. To say he was inspecting it was an understatement.
“Other things can be strange and mysterious…in your case it’s that purple mark on your eye.”
I remember smiling awkwardly and shoving down my eyes like a shy puppy.
“It’s nothing, if that’s what you’re getting at, Mr. Gatswicki. People turn purple all the time. The cold turns you purple…holding your breath turns you purple…people turn purple all the time. Just because you’re purple doesn’t mean something’s wrong.”
“I never said anything was wrong, boy, but now I’m starting to suspect it. Listen here, Mr. Jordan, you broke into my house, you broke into my life, if I wanna know why a kid is walking around with a black eye this late at night then by God you’re gonna tell me.”
I responded with a reluctant eye roll, a move I thought would show him that the injury wasn’t a big deal, but in reality it seemed to tick him off.
“I don’t gotta tell you, I don’t gotta tell anyone. If you would’ve just let me go on back home instead of keeping me around and treating me then we never would’ve talked about it. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
But like an interrogation, Mr. Gatswicki shot back.
“Oh I think you do. That’s why you keep bringing it up, talking about ‘it’s nothing’ and ‘people turn purple all the time’. You got something to get off your chest, boy? Something eating at you? Or are you just gonna keep playing it off trying to show me that your injury isn’t a big deal?”
“It ain’t no big deal! An old man such as yourself better mind his own business, sticking his nose in places it doesn’t belong.”
“It’s Mr. Gatswicki, boy, and you better remember that while you’re stuck under my roof! Behaving like this when a man asks a simple question! What’chu got against this world, huh? What’chu got against a simple question?”
My relaxed hands turned into fists then. Now, I would never hit an older gentleman I don’t know out of anger, it’s not the way I do things, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking about it.
“You know,” He said, looking me dead in my eyes, “I only ask because I care. I only ask because when I see a boy out on the street in the freezing cold I gotta make sure he’s alright. Even if that same boy smashes down my door and curses and hollers, I gotta make sure he’s all well and good. That’s the way I do things! And you’re pinning it on me, saying ‘mind your own business’, well, boy, how about you start minding yours too before someone minds it for you!”
There was a solid pause then, the void of emptiness filled only with the slight sound of ticking clocks and the occasional late night driver. I knew what I did–how I snapped at the man–was wrong. Here he is, after I broke in, after I fell on his clean floor, after I disturbed his night, and still he mends me and talks to me and respects me. It’s like no other treatment that I could imagine.
“Besides, you got your folks. They’ll set you straight. You’re a little rough but they’ll set you straight.” Mr. Gatswicki assured himself, throwing his cane on the ground and pulling out a thin white cloth to wrap my foot. But with all my heart, I shook my head in disagreement at what he said.
“What’s this, huh? No? Boy, you better get on to speaking–”
“My father…” I blurted, almost dream-like. I swore I hadn’t blinked in minutes. What I was about to tell him next I had never spoken about before.
“…My father was the one who gave me the black eye.”
Mr. Gatswicki just sat there for a moment, his expression widening and his eyebrows raising up.
“Oh, son. Oh, son I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s–no. I was the one who started it, I was the one who argued. Then we argued. Then I threw a punch…I missed. Then he swung back…and he didn’t miss. Then he threw me out of the house. And now here I am.”
Others with less sympathy would have left it at that: a bad kid leaving his stain on the world, attacking his own father. But Mr. Gatswicki didn’t. Instead he revealed a pitiful smirk.
“My boy, I can’t shake the feeling that you think something’s out to get you. What I don’t understand is why.”
I took a deep breath before answering,
“Sir, I come from nothing. I lost my momma to drugs eight years ago. And my daddy could make a living playing baseball the way he beats up on me sometimes. I haven’t been fortunate enough to have a single person in my entire life who actually gives more than a penny’s worth about me.”
“Oh, son,” Mr. Gatswicki said, “That ain’t no reason to give up. That ain’t no reason to yell at the world. You’re missing the bigger picture if you do.”
“But then how do you do it? How can anything go back to the way it was when so much bad has happened? When there’s been so much pain? When I’ve made so many mistakes?”
Then Mr. Gatswicki leaned in close to me, and in the dim yellow he spoke,
“Boy, there is no one on this green earth that can answer that question. Life is a strange thing. Full of strange experiences and strange truths. And those truths hurt. I understand your feeling that the world is out to get you, but by God it’s out to get every single one of us. There isn’t a single thing we can do except to keep moving forward. And yeah, it’s gonna hurt, and you’re gonna make mistakes, and you’re gonna fail. You lost people, well I lost people too! But life only wins if you give up, boy. And that’s what I want you to remember. Because even though it’s hard, and even though it feels like you have nothing more to give, if you never give up, Mr. Jordan, then I guarantee you will truly live.”
I cried in that moment, on the cold night in November. Held in that old man’s arms on the corner of Crock Street and Cuff. And snow was beginning to fall.