Work Text:
I’ve only met my neighbor three times. Three times, and I know him fully.
The first time was when my parents and I moved in. I was 7 years old. I ran up the stairs, excited to finally be living in a building with more than three floors. Reaching the top, I caught a glimpse of him. Black hair at an awkward length, sticking out just past his earlobes. His eyes were red, and his face was swollen. He looked at me briefly before darting into his room like a scared mouse. Later that afternoon, I brought him some homemade pumpkin shaped cookies.
“For the kids tonight,” I said, handing over the bag. According to my mom, new neighbor gifts were always appreciated even if I was the new neighbor.
He looked at me, confused.
“It’s Halloween.” I giggled.
He stared wide eyed at the bag of cookies in his hands. I had never seen a person cry like that before. He didn’t make a sound. He took the cookies, turned his back on me and closed his apartment door.
The next day, I saw the cookies in the garbage outside.
The second time was when I was 10. By then, my constant singing and guitar strumming annoyed everyone around me. We never heard from my neighbor directly, but we knew he was there from his small sounds of life. Beer cans opening, sheets rustling, chairs creaking. I hadn’t ever heard him speak, but his quiet life was so loud.
I don’t think we ever would have crossed paths again if it weren’t for the Japanese girl who came to visit. Akira, I think her name was. She didn’t speak much English, but the two of us bonded right away. We were the only young girls in the building, so it was only natural that we became friends. Because of her, I got to spend a whole day with my neighbor. I even met the man named Sing, who apparently sometimes visited my neighbors apartment, eating his food.
It was strange to think that the man who happily licked an ice cream cone with sprinkles was the same man who had thrown away my cookies. I really liked his smile.
The third time was my first Halloween in middle school. I received an awkward call saying that my friend group was having a party without me. The costume my mom made for me lay quietly in the corner. Not wanting to make her feel bad, I changed into the silly werewolf outfit and left the apartment. Just as I began to cry, I heard a whimper. And then the creak of a door. And then him.
His hair was long, whisps framing his face instead of neatly tied back in the typical ponytail.
We didn’t mean to match eyes. But when we did, I saw my own red, puffy eyes looking right back at me. I think he did too.
“Do you want to,” I bit my tongue, ashamed I had broken the silence, “talk, maybe?” I finished.
He cocked his head.
“It’s just cuz we’re both-,”
A group of children in costumes rushed by. We ignored their cheerful cries.
“Ok,” he said.
“Ok?”
“Ok.”
We walked together to the end of the hallway. I followed his lead by slumping down against the wall, noticing the beer can in his hand. He reeked of alcohol.
“Your costume,” he said. His words were surprisingly articulate for a drunk man.
“My mom made it.”
“I see.” He hesitated, like he wanted to say more.
I waited.
“You’re not-,” he paused, “going out with the other kids?” It seemed as though he was worried about me.
“Apparently I’m too old for that now.” I buried my face in my knees.
My neighbor laughed.
I peeked up at him with one eye.
“It’s just, I have a friend who decided he was too old for Halloween too. And for a second, you sounded just like him.”
I was surprised to hear him speak in full sentences. But his laugh was hard to reject, so I smiled in return.
“Why’d he decide he was too old?”
“He was afraid of pumpkins!” My neighbor bit back his laughter.,
“Pumpkins?” I wasn’t sure why he was laughing so hard, but I guess it was a little funny.
“He was the coolest guy. Everyone respected him. If only they knew he was scared of pumpkins!”
“Was?”
“Hmm?” His smile faded.
“You said was. Is he not cool anymore?”
“No,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s dead.” He smiled a sweet smile, one that hurt me in the hollows of my chest.
That night, we spoke till 5:00am. The thought that it may be inappropriate for a 13 year old girl and a man in his 30s to converse all night never crossed our minds. That night, I learned about Ash. I learned about Bananafish. I learned about how after all these years, my neighbor still couldn’t get through Halloween without breaking down.
“I need to go back into the apartment.” He stood up just as the sun was about to rise.
“Why?” I asked him.
“For another can of beer. For him.”
“Alright,” I said, “I’ll wait here.”
We left the open can in the hallway for Ash.
“This is so much better than crashing on the couch,” he said, rubbing the can with his thumb.
After a full day of sleep, I passed our spot in the hallway. The beer was gone.
I knew I wanted to write a song.
I never meant for other people to hear it. Well, mostly I didn’t mean for Eiji to hear it. But I knew he did. It was about two weeks after I first heard it on the radio. By then, I was a senior in highschool.
After that first car ride when my song was played, it seemed my voice was everywhere. My parents took me out for a celebratory dinner, my friends at school complimented me, my teachers praised me, and extended family members called multiple times. People told me how surprising it was for an 18 year old to gain fame so quickly. I always dreamed of the day my music would be heard, but I never imagined it would come so soon.
Those two weeks I lived in piles of flower arrangements, cookies and cards. Autumn never felt so warm.
When my song’s familiar beat played from next door, I barely noticed. My fingers tapped against my plastic dinner plate instinctively. My mom was still at work and my dad was out buying groceries. I was happy to have a quiet dinner.
I started to hum along.
Someone was humming with me.
I smiled. I had done it. People liked the music I made.
There was a sharp inhale. An inhale at a pitch so high not even a dog would hear it. But I did. The rhythm of guitar continued. The inhales continued, sounding like hiccups now.
Still humming, I left the dinner table, moving over to the wall my neighbor and I shared. He was still humming too, his inhales throwing him off beat. I thought it sounded natural. Like he was singing an unknown countermelody that was equally as beautiful.
I wanted to call out to him. “Eiji.”
He was sobbing now. His sniffles sounded wet. There was a bang from my neighbor’s side of the wall. Then, a whimper.
I opened my mouth to speak.
The crying continued.
I looked down at my feet, just realizing I had stepped in the fruit display my teacher sent me. It was on the ground because the kitchen table and counter tops were filled. My foot felt cold.
I think he was trying to sing along. His words were cut short by sharp sniffs and hiccups.
I leaned my ear against the wall, my foot sliding further into the chocolate covered pineapple.
The skin covering my chest itched, but deep down, it burned. A quiet burn. The only thing I could do was hit it with the backs of my fingernails, hoping it would go away.
I couldn’t cry.
Rushing water sounded from Eiji’s room. A sink, probably.
I slumped down against the wall.
My song was on repeat.
After that night, I turned off my car radio.
It was about 10 years later when I got the call. A woman from the hospital near where I grew up introduced herself and asked for my name.
“This is she,” I said.
“Your uncle is sick. You need to come immediately.”
“My uncle?” My voice faltered. My uncle lived in Germany.
“Yes, Eiji Okumura. You are his only living relative, correct?”
I pinched the skin between my eyebrows. “Yes, that is correct,” I lied.
The woman on the other line started to say something.
“I’ll be right there.” Today, I was visiting my parents. I just happened to be in the area. At the red light, I texted my mom to let her know I would be late.
I pulled into the hospital.
The nurses rushed me to his room.
It was a gray room, with a gray bed, holding a gray man. He looked thin under the covers, his stomach very faintly moving up and down. I did the math in my head. My neighbor wasn’t supposed to look this old.
“What happened to-,” I stopped. My song was playing. I hadn’t heard it in ten years. As if on cue, the burning returned. I heard my neighbor’s inhales, sniffles, and whimpers. I felt 18 again.
“Ma’am? Ma’am?”
She must’ve asked me a question.
“What?” I said. “What?”
“Normally, we don’t play songs for patients like this. But,” she looked at him, “he kept begging.”
I said nothing, refusing to look at him with her.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said. Wasn’t that what doctors were supposed to say when people were dying? They weren’t supposed to talk about songs.
We both kept silent.
“I wrote it,” I said.
“What?”
“That song. I wrote it.”
“I know.” She smiled like we weren’t in a hospital.
I tilted my head.
“Go talk to him.”
I never thought I would have felt so strongly for a man I had only met three times.
Finally, I looked at him. He was smiling. His dry and cracked lips mouthed the words to my song. His tears pooled in the little cave between his eyebags and cheekbones. His pointer finger tapped lightly against his chest. His eyes were closed, but he sensed me walking towards him. The closer I got, the brighter he looked. The room was gray, the bed was gray, and the man in the bed was gray.
But Eiji wasn’t gray, my neighbor wasn’t gray. He was singing my song, and he was bright. I could see the red in his cheeks and the red in his lips.
I bent over the bed, reaching to grab his hand. He pulled it over his chest so that he could tap out the song’s beat on the back of my hand. His fingertips were warm.
“He would have loved your song,” my neighbor spoke.
I didn’t need to ask who.
“It’s a beautiful song.”
The backs of my eyes burned. Warm water fell from the right side of my face. We were crying in time.
I sang to him. We sang together. I lost count of how many times my song replayed.
Soon enough, Eiji stopped singing with me.
I don’t remember leaving the hospital. But I do remember sitting in the hospital parking lot, getting ready to leave. I looked for the song on my phone.
I let it play.