Chester
Chester; Chet to everyone that knew him, had asked Oscar several times if he wanted to look around. His answer was always no. Chet would laugh at him for a moment and move on to something else.
Oscar’s thoughts turned to his friend for a moment. Chet was a wonderful friend and a great person. But Oscar had to admit that he was in awe of the man. He was everything Oscar wasn’t: strong, both physically and emotionally, handsome, charismatic, and just out right attractive.
It didn’t make him feel the least bit insecure to think of his friend as attractive.
Women flocked around Chet; women of all ages and sizes.
One night they went out for dinner. Their waitress was a beautiful blonde. She flirted with Chet all throughout dinner.
“She’s flirting with me. You try flirting with her.” He encouraged Oscar.
As Oscar watched her, she never made eye contact with him. She only looked at his glass. She didn’t even smile in his direction, even when she gave him his check. This was the case with 98.5% of all the women Oscar encountered. He didn’t exist.
He was more in tune with empty old houses than people. People, as a general rule were mean, cold, and downright nasty. These old houses couldn’t stump your guts out; rip your heart out of your chest with a single word; or leave you asking why? They had no expectations of you. Oscar sometimes felt he was an empty old house. The only thing left was a shell.
Here it was another winter and the little house was still empty. There weren’t any leaves on the maple tree by the front window. The walk way leading from the sidewalk to the front steps was cracked in several different places. Poor little house. It looked so alone.
Even though this little house seemed alone, Oscar loved looking at it.
Alone. He thought about that word for the longest time. ALONE. He hated anything to do with talking about being alone or being lonely. He was just now getting to the point where he could admit to himself that he was lonely.
Maybe that’s why he loved this little house. It looked how he felt: lonely, maybe even abandoned by society. This once loved little house was now a shadow of its former self. During its glory years, Widow Morrison gave birth to six children of her own, and raised three more. The story goes that a child was left on her doorstep. Plus she raised two children of a friend of her husbands that got killed in a mining accident. His wife had died during child birth to a third child. Which was common in those days.
But now the house was all alone. Only natures creatures kept it company. Along with the occasional visit from Chet.
It was almost as if the better part of the houses existence was over as well as his. The high light passed. The house experienced births and deaths. No births personally for him.
There were good times and bad. More solemn times though when nothing in particular was going on, life just flowed.
He tried to parallel the existence of the house to his own. He just knew in his heart that the house had lived a more colorful, more meaningful life than his.
The laughter of all those playing children came to mind. The smells from the endless array of food.
He thought now would be a good time to smile but what would be the point? Why smile, when the coffee table was covered with papers to grade. Indeed, why smile?
The only other thing he enjoyed more than looking at the house was winter. What was it about winter; the bitter cold, the snow, that made him so at peace? Winter by design is a cold and gray season. There are no leaves on the trees. No green anywhere; other than the few mighty pines. No blooming flowers. There is no other way to describe winter than just winter.
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