Being different is stressful. Though it might seem that being unique would give one a bit of a boost, I’m afraid not. Everyone and everything else in this place is soundly asleep by 11.30 pm. They are somehow switched off for a couple of hours, completely out to it, but whatever it is that does it doesn’t work with me. Admittedly, I cannot look into everybody’s bedroom but I think that intruding on one is enough.
When I first came here I was boarding with Tom and Elsa MacMahon and had been, supposedly, for some years prior to this. I am one of those with a weak bladder who are forced to visit the bathroom in the middle of the night. I would always tiptoe past their room being careful to avoid the floorboard that only seemed to creak at night. And I would not flush for fear that I woke them. When I became aware on these excursions that I didn’t hear Tom snoring, I began stopping for a moment outside their bedroom door. The silence was absolute which was strange. Even people asleep betray their presence. It was as though there was nobody there.
It was weeks before I could bring myself to ever so carefully open the bedroom door. If Tom woke, I would need to have a very good excuse for my intrusion. Maybe,“I think I heard someone downstairs.” Tom drove for the Town Council, had muscles like Popeye, and didn’t have any need of spinach. A bit fiery Tom. But he didn’t wake. Neither did Elsa. They lay there as if dead and their breathing was not perceptable. I was convinced that they were dead.
I took the courage to touch Elsa very gently, just in case I was wrong, and she was warm but there was no sign of a response. I pushed her arm. Still gently. And nothing. I pushed a little harder. Still nothing. I pushed Tom. Exactly the same. I probably could have jumped up and down on them without their waking. I returned to my room unable to sleep for the revelation. In the morning they were their usual bright selves. Naturally, I said nothing and as soon as I could I found a place of my own.
Sometimes I have a problem sleeping. If there’s a pig of a chassis on the bench that I can’t figure out, I take it home with me in my head. At the MacMahon’s I was always careful not to disturb them. All I could do was lie awake and toss. If I’d only known. Now, with no-one to disturb, I get dressed and go for a walk to try to get myself physically tired. I tend to wander up Main Street for a start. I don’t know why since I see it every day. If it’s still early evening, I browse the window displays and most of the time meet Sheriff Martin who’ll be doing his rounds. After 11 p.m. when the power goes off and I lose the street lights, I’m not going to meet anyone or anything. Usually, I turn off onto Beauregard and go across to come back along Longstreet or Jackson which run parallel with Main and then back across on Ewell or Stuart and home.
It’s safe enough as long as I’m home in bed with the curtains drawn by midnight. It’s best not to be out when everything’s happening. How can it all happen so fast? It must be all over by about 3 a.m. because that’s when Harold Danks tells me he gets up. Harold’s a baker and a nice chap.
And what a difference between the night here and night in the outside world. Outside, there was always traffic and the continuous hum of distant traffic, people walking, lights everywhere, and businesses open regardless of the hour. You could get anything from some insurance cover to a book of matches. You could feel life, you could hear it. Here there is nothing. A complete emptiness. No lights, no dogs, no stray cats yowling, no cricket love calls, no racoons scouting trash cans. It’s eerie. Being the only living thing takes quite a bit of getting used to.