The Hermit by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

From an asphalt-driveway-cracks-annually-sealed, back-yard-fenced, front-lawn-meticulously-maintained, resolutely middle-class, 2,153-sqaure-foot (200 square meters) split-level home in King of Prussia (a suburb of Philadelphia) to a cozy-on-demand, 646-sqaure-foot (60 square meters), metal-roofed log cottage in the woods, just outside the town of Marshville (36 miles – 58 km – southeast of Charlotte) in the rural farmland swath of Union County (south-central North Carolina). As 49-year-old, cinnamon-blonde-haired, hazel-eyed Amanda sipped her hot herbal tea on a mild May (2016) morning, she wondered: How in the world did I ever wind up here? Could never have imagined this as a small girl in Pennsylvania. Though, I’m so glad that I’m here now. I’m all set. I’m here – in splendid sylvan seclusion – right where I wanted for a self-sufficient solitary life of writing, music, art, and mapmaking. I surely have it now. Mission accomplished. No more fulltime job – can just work when I want at the local elementary school. No more mortgage. No more car payment. No more noise, save for the evening crickets and cicadas. No more annoying neighbors. No kids. And, no man. Not even a single relative within 500 miles [805 km] of me. Nope, no familial or relationship entanglements to worry about. None at all.

Amanda didn’t hate the masculine sex; she just realized in college (at next-door Villanova University), after a not-much-out-of-the-ordinary, half-semester-long dating experience during her sophomore year, that being paired with a man cramped her uniquely idiosyncratic, independent style. And, after giving in to an impromptu lesbian tryst during her senior year, she ruled out live-in female companionship, too. However, she wasn’t antisocial; much to the contrary, she could be quite gregarious at concerts, parties, weekend outings, and ball games. But, a coupled life just wasn’t going to be for her. At the end of the day, she wanted to be the only one in her humble abode whispering mangled clichés.

An adult blue jay suddenly perched on her sole northeast-facing windowsill. Amanda remained motionless as an old memory was jogged involving an incident with this passerine species at Caley Elementary School in her childhood neighborhood. The startling scene was as fresh as yesterday in her mind. A dictatorial blue jay was running the sparrows, robins, and finches away from the student-installed bird feeder behind the school. Then as this bully-like blue jay flew back to engorge on the prized seeds, a red-tailed hawk swooped down from out of nowhere and plucked the blue jay in midflight. There was a short screech, and then silence as the bird of prey soared away with its talon-pierced meal.

She mused as the blue jay twitched its head to and fro. Death can happen in an instance. ‘Hey, you had better watch out, bossy fellow. There are plenty of hawks around here. I’d stay away from that wide-open soybean field if I were you. And, please check that bad attitude.’

Then the black-necklaced, white-chested, indigo-crested specimen of Aves flew away. Though, Amanda’s mind remained focused on the bird. ‘Hey, what’s your altitude, birdie? Six haystacks high, are you? And, would you happen to innately know your latitude? No? Why, it’s 35º north of the equator – almost exactly. Well, just off by 1.15 seconds, according to that strange surveyor.’ Was his name Walt? Or, was it Will? Walt will walk, but will Will talk? Talk about nonsense. Wonder what he’s doing right now? Maybe he’s drifting down a section of the Catawba River in an old kayak at 1.15 miles per hour, [1.85 km/h] which is one knot. And, 1.15 miles is about the length of a minute of latitude around here. Changes in latitude, changes in attitude, but the buffets all taste the same. Jill was right about me from an early age. ‘Amanda, I can tell that you will live a different kind of life.’ Fourth grade on the playground. There was still snow on the ground. That cold wind. The bare tree limbs. Her overly – almost approaching unnatural – cheerful demeanor. Wonder what became of her? Maybe she married well. And traveled far and wide. Probably. She was cute with her radiant, shiny, almost-yellow-colored hair. Was never sure who she really was, though. I wonder if she even knew. Or, ever found out.

Amanda’s reverie was broken by the sound of the old GE refrigerator’s compressor kicking back on. She studied the front of the olive green, food-and-drink chiller. Is that refrigerator a golden rectangle? 1.618 – the golden ratio. And, a mile is equal to 1.609 kilometers. Both are almost 1.61. And, 1.61 divided by 1.15 is 1.4. Now, what links to 1.4? Oh, why am I so fascinated with numbers? Maybe I’m incrementally going nuts. Yes, 1.4 minutes at a time. What is 1.4 minutes? 84 seconds. 84. Something about 84. Highway [NC] 84. An accident just occurred 1.15 miles [1.85 km] away from Weddington. There were 1.61 fatalities and 1.4 injured parties. I’ll have to use that line in my upcoming surreal novel. [Bored Feet at the C Sawmill] Wonder if I can get it published. Matt said that he has a contact at a big New York City publishing house. But, he tends to exaggerate. Shouldn’t count on him.

Then there was a knock on the front door. Amanda was stunned. Her congenitally weak heart skipped a beat and her palms grew clammy. Who in the world could that be? Hope it’s not that meth-head from down the road. Didn’t he get arrested for burglarizing nearby homes? Again. Is he already out on bail? Again. Oh, please don’t let it be him. He looked scary. [on the local news] Where’s that canister of pepper spray? Can’t remember.

Amanda wrapped her robe and drew the drawstring tight. She then tiptoed over to the door. She looked out the peephole. It was a 30-ish, male, Asian American UPS (United Parcel Service) driver in the typical brown uniform. Am I expecting a package? Can’t recall ordering anything.

She opened the thick oak door. “Hi,” she uttered.

“Good day, ma’am,” the driver said with a smile. “I have a package for you.” He then handed a white box to Amanda. “Now, if you would be so kind as to sign here.”

“Sure,” Amanda said as she used the tethered stylus to sign his small tablet computer.

“You certainly are in a hidden, very remote location,” the driver remarked. “I thought my GPS [Global Positioning System] was in error.”

“Yes, I am. I like the serenity of this secluded place in the woods. I wish that GPS couldn’t find me, either.” She giggled self-consciously. Maybe shouldn’t have said that.

The UPS driver was perplexed. “Well, have a nice day,” the energetic employee stated as he scampered back to his chocolate-colored step van.

Amanda closed and locked the door. She then set the small package down on her compact dining table. With a steak knife, she began to carefully cut the tape on the return-address-less, low-profile, narrow box. Enchanting Occupant? Hope this isn’t a bomb from that guy who I declined three decades ago.

She removed the top. There was a single, long-stemmed, deep-red rose inside. And, a note.

I’ve seen you walking in the woods.

I live just across the creek.

To our future, fellow hermit!

-Morty