The Wizard (some more writing)

THE WIZARD

My neighbor was there again today - sitting in his Lazy Boy in the open garage. I catch a glimpse of him as I pull into the driveway. His garage door is eternally open – a fourth wall of some tiny theatrical stage-as if the whole world would want to stand in awe and fascination of the happenings in his garage. Or else he felt compelled by some sort of vanity or need of attention to parade his shirtless–sports-watching before the passing cars as a form of performance art. I park the car in my own garage and walk out to get the mail. There he is- flattened in his brown, beaten recliner. Behind his chair, center stage, a large round wooden table sits surrounded by wooden chairs and littered with playing cards and poker chips. The concrete wall in front of him is swallowed by an enormous poster of 6 naked women on a summer beach of someone’s imagination. They have their backs turned demurely towards him-even in his fantasy they won’t look at him.

A television sits 3 feet in front of him, situated in a corner to give everyone in the neighborhood a good view. A 3 foot stereo sits proudly on a ledge among garden tools. That same infernal stereo that pumps out the sounds of electric guitars, alternating with country crooners lamenting lost loves –all at 2 AM while my wife and I glare at each other, and at our bedroom window that is situated 5 feet from that infernal garage. And there, beyond the table, is a row of beer mugs cluttered on a small shelf with hedge clippers, hammers, nail guns, screwdrivers, and wrenches. A “Bud Light” sign glows on the wall between a ladder and a weedwacker, under which those same beer mugs will later be drained over and over again by loud, careless drunks – also at 2 AM. Then I will lie in bed, fuming, along with my wife, imagining all the things I should say to my neighbor. I should storm over in my pajamas and point out the windows of my two sleeping children and gesture to my nonexistent watch. I could remind him he has a house, and rooms with four walls, and a door on his garage. No, I could be very calm and shame him with my reasonability, with my “Hey, I’d appreciate it if you guys could keep it down – my house is just 5 feet from your garage and my kids are trying to sleep.” Then he would apologize, or we would fight. Instead, I will just roll over and go back to sleep.

He sees me now at the mailbox and raises a hand. I nod. He looks back at his TV. He does have a TV inside doesn’t he? - And a room with four walls? A room that’s not a cement echo chamber, sending every whisper and yell out into the open air with or without the speaker’s blessing. Doesn’t he know we can see him in there? We can see his lust on the wall; we can hear his anger towards his wife from our mailboxes. A garage is for hiding cars and tools, for closing behind a locked door the unsightly inner workings of our lives -the clutter in boxes, the broken appliances, maintenance equipment, useless tools, water heaters- all concealed behind metal doors, like the curtain hiding the man inside the wizard of Oz. And He sits there with the curtain removed, naked, looking unashamed and unconcerned.

Maybe he’s hoping for human contact. Looking for neighborly connection the way people used to when they sat out on their porch swing- when neighbors talked to one another before porches were empty vestibules reserved for potted plants and address numbers. He sits out there, an open book, staring at row upon row of closed doors. I could go talk to him. I could sit in one of those wooden chairs and find out his last name, or his wife’s name, or what he does for a living. All these things I think as I slowly walk back into my garage. I turn and look at the nicely tailored houses lined up along the street - opaque facades holding strangers. The stranger next door has a face. Just before I go inside the house, I press the button on the wall and close the curtain.