a dream - The Visitor

Hovering above me as I slept in my bed he scratched out, "You don't want to forget this." The somehow familiar hoarse whisper. He set a small box on my nightstand. I woke up slowly, without fear and with too slight an annoyance. In hindsight I wonder how this could be. A looming figure in our bedroom in the middle of the night, three children asleep just across the hall.

Lean and disheveled, his unkempt greying beard disguised leathery sunken cheeks under deep set dark eyes. Well worn khakis two sizes too big were heavily cinched at his waist. His soiled t-shirt fell over them smelling of stale cigarettes, sweat and beer. The faint blue moon illuminated the silence through sheer shades gently wafting. I glanced at my unstiring wife, and scanned his hands for weapons. A gaunt yet imposing visage belying a wiry strength, I knew he didn't need any. So I rolled out of bed gently sliding his clandestine delivery off the nightstand and holding it protectively to my gut.

We stood together in my grandfather's pristine garage with plastic flowery curtains hiding the clean work bench and well sharpened gardening tools. All around was the comforting warm sweet aroma of lubricating oil mixed with grass clippings. Our only illumination from the half light side door spilled askew across the space. His half lit disturbing presence juxtaposed against the light in stark angular vertically. He turned to face me.

"I don't want this," I said, holding the box out to him. I felt like a ghost outside of myself, like I should be fearing for my life, but I am beyond fear of pain or injury. No! Like I should be fearing for my soul, and a nauseating tingle rose up my spine.

"That's fine," he offered slowly through a pursed frown, shaking his head and casually swinging his sinewy arms in a wide gesture that he really couldn't care less. He took a step away from me, his gaze sweeping across the painted concrete floor.

"Then take it back," I thought to myself.

In the driveway now, his dark junker of a work truck, bent and rusting, overflowed with debris and filthy tools. The driver side door was open and an empty beer can fell out, bounced twice and then rolled with a hollow tinkle out toward the street. He stood there pacing in the glow of the orange sodium street lamp where the well trimmed lawn met the sidewalk.

I watched empty handed next to the house as he unzipped and took a leak on my grandfather's roses. "You're going to want it back," he intoned, hostile.

"I don't think so," I offered calmly confidently, controlling a wired alertness ready to react - to run or to fight. He stared right through me, throwing all of his energy into that piercing gaze, penetrating my soul. There he met an outside strength that bolstered me and allowed me to stand despite my fear. A strength that assured me the battle was uneven in my favor.

"Oh, You're going to regret that," he threatened as he undid his belt and let down those two sizes too big khakis and began to defecate on my driveway.

I turned and went inside.