Mr. Kent's Home

Night fell quickly.1

It was dark out, though the lights across the parking lot blazed defiantly, such that it nearly seemed daytime. The store was closing now, and many of the lights were turned off, save for perhaps one or two vanguard to illuminate the otherwise pitch blackness. They caught in their beams a light snowfall, a flurry of tiny flakes descending like a swarm to earth. The last of the employees and cleaners had left, beginning their sojourn home for the evening. The lot now was left derelict; all except a solitary car, an old station wagon, its rusting chrome all that remained of what was once red paint. The light from one of the remaining lights, not nearly so strong as it had seemed in the presence of its brothers, cast a melancholy orange glow across it, spilling lazily in a radius around the dilapidated vehicle. It looked as if it had not been driven for years, which was, in fact, becoming quite true.2

The car was not merely a car; it was a home, it was his home. “Mr. Kent” the store’s regulars called him. He trudged through the silence, made almost tangible by the snow drifting gently down. A faint powder was already on the ground, covering the lot in a thin white dust which filled in the pockmarked surface of the asphalt. Mr. Kent silently walked through the quiet to his home, a half-empty bottle of cheap beer hanging lazily in one hand, the swishing of its amber contents barely audible as he travelled. He wore a plaid jacket, worn and frayed at the edges, slightly small on him, and an old pair of blue jeans, long since faded and starting to form a tear on one knee. A pair of once-white shoes in a considerably sorry state covered his feet, shielding them from the cold. On his head he wore a black beanie that caught the snowflakes in its renegade strings that were becoming more prominent as it aged. He had a weary face, the face of a man approaching fifty-four, though his visage bore the demeanor of one much older. His green eyes were quite large, though they always seemed to give the impression of eyes that have spent far too much time open, preoccupied eyes, eyes that do not have time for tears. He had a thin, graying stubble that he didn’t care too much to shave off covering his lower face, just beginning to lengthen into the makings of a beard.3

At length he reached his home, opening the backseat door with an effort—for but a moment—after fumbling with the keys he always kept stuffed in his pocket. He slid into the station wagon deftly, closing the door behind him, and rubbed his hands. He took a final swig from the bottle, then poured the remaining contents into a small hole he’d formed in the front seat along with some newspaper and charcoal. Producing a lighter from the breast pocket of his jacket he held it over the kindling and clicked. Nothing.4

He swore quietly to himself and clicked again. He’d have to purchase a new lighter soon. A faint orange flame flickered up at the end, teetering precariously on the edge of oblivion. He lowered the lighter down to the alcohol-soaked strips of paper, which then flared to life in the small hole. He let the momentary warmth wash over him, savoring its cleansing sensation as the flames greedily devoured the headline “STOCKS DROP AGAIN, LOWEST EVER”.5

Almost immediately the initial flames disappeared, and he had to blow on his fledgling fire to keep it alive, until it could sustain itself on the charcoal. When he was satisfied that it would survive, he relaxed a little, holding his hands over the glowing embers. Slowly the car’s temperature rose, to a tolerable level anyhow, and Mr. Kent looked around his home.6

Home… it hadn’t always been his home. He remembered when he used to drive this station wagon, how he used to wake up in the mornings, come downstairs and eat a smidgeon of breakfast before hopping into the car and driving to Philly, to the far side of town where he’d worked as a warehouse manager for twenty-two years—twenty-three in… when was it? April. He tried not to remember the wife, the kinds—how he came home to find her packing them and herself up, stuffing their belongings haphazardly into too-small suitcases in her haste to get out. No matter how hard he’d tried to stamp it from his thoughts, he would never forget the bleak, mournful look she’d given him as she walked out the door. Every line in her worry-ridden face he could remember with crystalline detail; it had been like a moment frozen utterly and inextricably in time and memory.7

He remembered seeing headlines and hearing news reports on TV about the stocks dropping, four hundred points on one day, five hundred the next, six hundred, nine hundred, one thousand two hundred points, words like “crisis” and “meltdown” appearing like ghostly specters haunting people, rainclouds of anxiety over people’s heads. Whether such worry was truly warranted he could not know, but regardless, people worried. It hung over all like a dismal thought, a death in the family. He recalled—no matter how much alcohol he consumed to drown it away—how his employer called him on the phone—the phone!—telling him about how times were hard and how the company needed to “respond in sometimes not altogether happy ways” to the “current crisis”. He didn’t have to say any more.8

Pulling himself from his reverie, he returned to tending to his flame and warming himself. He leaned back languidly, like a man does after returning from work, looking out the back window of the car, surveying the landscape beyond it. He peered out into the darkness intently, not looking for anything in particular, just looking. There is something quieting about the softness of snowfall. It makes one pensive, thoughtful, makes even the whole universe around you seem to stop, lost in thought, as nature puts a finger to her lips and says musically, “Hush now, Love, and listen to the world.” He smiled wanly, watching like a child the millions of tiny crystals descend from the sky, emerging from the pressing darkness of the night and revealed by the warm luminescence of the streetlight, joining their brethren on the ground.9

He tiredly stretched, pulling his blankets closely around him, hugging himself for warmth. He nearly fell asleep like that, looking like a rather oversized owl stuffed into the backseat of a car, and indeed would have, if the muffled sound of a car pulling into the parking lot had not roused him from his dozings. He looked up from his little cocoon sleepily, blinking a few times before searching the darkened lot for who it might be.10

Two, a mother and a child, stepping now into the light. The mother appeared disheveled, obviously a single mom, her coat wrapped tightly around herself as she walked briskly through the snow, now almost ankle height. She had apparently just got off work, and was stopping at the store before she got home. The child, he observed, a little girl, perhaps five or six, trailed behind her, wearing a big, puffy pink coat with woolen mittens, oversized boots that made it even more difficult to keep up with her mother, a scarf and hat that did not totally keep covered her small ears. Long, curly golden hair protruded from beneath the hat. She was holding an unwrapped piece of candy tightly, as if it were a precious gem. Kent chuckled lightly to himself as he thought of it: how youth will cling to simple things! 11

Her mother stopped, looked up, and frowned, which made her appear all the more disheveled. He heard her sigh heavily before she said, more to herself than anyone else, “Yep, they’re closed. Why can’t Mr. Matheson let me off a half an hour earlier?” she shook her head, then looked out mournfully into the gloom, keeping silent for a few moments. “Come on, Emily, let’s go home.” She drew her coat more tightly about herself, sighed again, and then started briskly toward her car. Her daughter, apparently named Emily, began to set off after her, but then froze and turned, suddenly seeing Mr. Kent’s car. Kent kept stock still, watching her. He turned slowly and looked around the car. He noticed that he’d left the side door open just ajar enough for the little girl to spot him. He swore under his breath and kept even more still, not moving an inch, praying that she would move on. She stared inquisitively at the car, as if asking it a question, her head cocked to one side. “Come on, Emily,” came the sound of her mother’s voice from the semidarkness.12

“But mommy, I want to keep that man company!” she said, turning to her and pointing at Mr. Kent’s car.13

“What man?”14

“The man in the car.”15

Kent swore again quietly.16

“The car?”17

The child pointed more enthusiastically at Kent’s home, saying, “He looks like he should have a friend, mommy. I want to keep him company!”18

Her mother got out of her car exhaustedly, stepping reluctantly back into the light, looking at where her offspring was pointing. She saw Mr. Kent sitting motionless in the backseat and instinctively put her arm around her child, pulling her slightly back.19

“No, Emily, we don’t talk to strangers, remember? Let’s go home, Emily. I’m too tired tonight.” She gave her daughter’s arm a tug, but the girl shook her head.20

“Oh, but mommy, he seems so lonely!” squealed the girl, defiantly clutching the candy, resisting the pull of her mother. She broke free from her hold and waddled over to him in her puffy pink jacket and her oversized boots, with a beaming smile across her face. Kent still didn’t move, merely sat rooted to the spot, not noticing that his fire had all but gone out, having been left unattended for so long. He eyed her warily from under his hood, careful to ensure that his face stayed concealed in the harsh shadows cast by the hood across his visage in the streetlight. 21

The little girl stopped and looked at him curiously for a moment, then held her hand out, offering her candy to him. “Would you like some candy, sir?” she asked, all the purity of youth ringing in her voice.22

He didn’t answer. How could anyone so unconditionally giving of themselves possibly exist? He knew it was just a piece of candy, but she had given it so willingly… he carefully took it from her without saying anything.23

“Emily!” came her mother’s voice, now angrily. She strode over to her daughter and forcefully pulled her away now. “Get into the car—what have I told you about talking to strangers?” her daughter skipped off to the car, waving to Mr. Kent as she left. The woman looked at him for a moment. Was that pity in her eyes? Or contempt? Was she relating to him? Or distancing herself from him? Without a word she turned on her heel and returned to her car, turning on the engine. Then they two drove off into the cold, snowy darkness.24

Kent looked at the piece of candy now resting in his palm, just staring at it for what felt to him an hour, an eternity, a second, a year, a moment. He closed the door, then leaned back again into the seat, huddling deeply into the warmth of the blankets and closed his eyes.25

And for the first time in years, Mr. Kent sobbed.26

-D.B.27