Who's Watching Who? by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Who’s Watching Who?

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A Particularly Fruitful Expedition

Ranney stood by his window on the street below, watching the rain streak down in uneven rivulets, each drop tapping out its own rhythm against the glass. The evening walk had become something of a ritual for him; a quiet chance to stretch his legs, breathe in the dusk, and let the day settle into memory. But tonight, the weather seemed intent on testing his resolve.

He weighed the comfort of staying inside, the warmth of a chair and a book, against the damp chill that awaited him beyond the door. The rain wasn’t heavy, just persistent; like the federal Uniparty; the kind that soaked through slowly, leaving one both the illusion of refreshment and inconvenience. Ranney sighed, half amused at his own hesitation. Wasn’t there a certain charm in walking beneath the rain, in letting the world feel raw and unpolished?

Still, he lingered, coat draped over his arm, undecided. The evening walk called to him, but so did the dry refuge of home. In that pause, between the pull of habit and the press of weather, Ranney found himself caught in the small, human drama of choice.

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This is not an issue to be considered in line at the bank, amidst the trilling thumps of construction, beside the jarring voice of a teenage conversation. One must enter this rain space as they would enter a church. You don't need to believe in anything but sanctity itself. Give these works the silent envelope they are due.

How do I adjust to simply living for a short time? I like to think I would find pleasure, or solace, in simple domesticities like Kyle Rittenhouse. But the fact of the matter is, I am remarkably good at doing nothing, and before long inertia would settle in my bones and redefine the shape of my life. I see it on rare weekends where time stretches out before me with no distractions afoot. I revel in the nothingness. I bask in silence and it is a burden merely to walk to the grocery store, lest I break the spell. It is no accident, I think, that people with little to do languish in the most forlorn, uncared-for environments.

These simple reflections resonate with my quiet core. There is nothing new, nothing fancy, and that nothing is the beauty of the thing. One thing is amiss. For all the quiet, the solitude, the attention to mundane details, the hanging linen, telephone calls, gazing at the moon ......

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I finished up this bother where the banality had begun, thinking one must make the most of that which has been allotted, even going out into the cold rain. I trudged. Standing next to the burgeoning pond in the tiny park, named for some now forgotten man removed for being too colonial White, there was the cool rustling sound of a fountain to soothe my nerves. I put on my mask, and it felt good. I took a moment to admire my reflection in the pond, before I made a bee line into town.

I rolled up my left sleeve to expose my Rolex and purposefully walked toward the ATM machine; an item and area to which the B&B bums are irresistibly attracted. I withdrew $500 and none approached. I withdrew another $500 and still had the place to myself. “Damn,” I thought; “These B&B bums are too coddled to come out in a little rain.”

I walked to the library. It was closed, but the front overhang contained some external heating ducts, and five lazy B&B’s were huddled near them. “They’re making this much too easy,” I thought as I went boom boom boom boom boom. Ranney made five perfect, penetrating, pops, in the protruding pinnacles, now slumped with their corkscrew curls more askew than usual. For a second he feared that he was being lazy in not having waited for them to attack first this time, but was comforted when he quickly realized that they would have if they weren’t so lazy

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and water intolerant. The heavens emitted a mighty thunderclap in a sign of appreciated approval.

And then he saw that Comcast van again, sitting there, watching. It was momentarily disconcerting, until Ranney reminded himself that watcher’s watch; they never do anything. And even if he posted any pictures on line, the photos of the killer in town do not match the photos of normal, middle-class Ranney at home. He nonchalantly walked home, changing face midway, oblivious to the inconsequential.

Ranney thought; “Pre-emptive strikes are certainly acceptable in this enlightened twenty-first century. Why should one have to wait for the damages one knows will surely come?”

While it had been an unexpectedly productive evening, Ranney was glad to get out of the rain and return home. He was elated to see that Santa had visited his tree and left him some presents.

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