Tom Tibbets takes a job at a small weekly newspaper in Portage, New Hampshire, and an apartment in the old Cooper Building where the residents form a kaleidoscope of the odd, interesting, and insane.
One believes in aliens, another is a pothead philosopher, while still others play with illegal explosives for fun. A vegan pacifist lives there, along with nomadic born-again Christians, a schizophrenic unicycle rider, and a mysterious wise man.
At first, Tom feels like the only ânormalâ person in the building. However, he soon believes that the very people he at first considered unstable and strange have become a lens through which he gets a new look at himself and everything else.
But when something happens that leaves the tenant community changed and off-balance, Tom comes to wonder if his karmic weight, added to the Cooper building, has thrown off the bizarre status-quo energetic equilibrium of the place. In the end, Aliens, Drywall, and a Unicycle is the story of growth from delusion to examination to awareness of what is truly important in life.
Tom Tibbets takes a job at a small weekly newspaper in Portage, New Hampshire, and an apartment in the old Cooper Building where the residents form a kaleidoscope of the odd, interesting, and insane.
One believes in aliens, another is a pothead philosopher, while still others play with illegal explosives for fun. A vegan pacifist lives there, along with nomadic born-again Christians, a schizophrenic unicycle rider, and a mysterious wise man.
At first, Tom feels like the only ânormalâ person in the building. However, he soon believes that the very people he at first considered unstable and strange have become a lens through which he gets a new look at himself and everything else.
But when something happens that leaves the tenant community changed and off-balance, Tom comes to wonder if his karmic weight, added to the Cooper building, has thrown off the bizarre status-quo energetic equilibrium of the place. In the end, Aliens, Drywall, and a Unicycle is the story of growth from delusion to examination to awareness of what is truly important in life.
Unpacking is infinitely better than packing. When a person
tries to fit his old life into boxes, itâs an ongoing series of
decisions about what gets abandoned and what does not.
Tom Tibbetts was unpacking. Bits of his old life appeared from
the containers, settled into the corners of his new life, and filled
the cramped apartment. The place smelled of fresh but cheap
paint, new but bargain carpet, and Pine-Sol. The walls and the
ceiling were white, and the same beige carpet ran through every
room in the place. Tom had the interior door open, and a breeze
coming in through the screen door did its best to push the smell
of chemicals out the windows.
His life had imploded, leaving him hurt and cynical. The entire
thing was quite complicated, he believed, and no one seemed to
really understand. Eventually, he began to see everyone as either
hostile, stupid, or some combination. He knew he wasnât likeable;
he knew people couldnât sympathize. Remembering his fatherâs
saying, âIf you meet more than two assholes in the same day, itâs
actually you who is the asshole,â he understood where he stood.
He just couldnât see the way back up.
He had taken a job in a college town after the students had
returned for the fall semester, and they had snapped up the better
housing. Finding an apartment in the Cooper building, Tom was
surrounded by neighbors. He was in apartment 2B in a threestory
complex with nine units. His was the least desirable in the
building, with neighbors above and below him, and on either
side. Across the face of the building, at each floor, was a shared
concrete balcony with a wrought-iron railing and stairs, and his
door opened onto this. There was no interior stairwell.
Down on the street, someone Tom couldnât see shouted, âHey!
Fuck you, douchebag!â
It was quite a change from his previous address, where heâd
had a house with a yard, a stockade fence, and a trail down to a
brook. The house had come with Vicky, and it had stayed with
her. What he missed most was his old dog, Wallace. More than
a few times, especially after one of the many nasty fights with
Vicky, Tom had thought the dog was the only friend he had in
the world.
Wallace had loved to chase a ball, and theyâd spent many hours
in the dog park, just the two of them. Over the years, Wallace
had slowed, turned grey, and Tom had known the inevitable was
coming. The day Wallace died, he and Vicky held each other,
crying, but when the next fight with Vicky came, Tom realized
how alone he really was. It wasnât long after that day that Vicky
gave him enough reason to leave.
In Portage, he had his new apartment, with no dog, and no
girlfriend. Heâd brought along two houseplants, but they didnât
add any sort of comfort. Instead, at best, they seemed like fellow
refugees, and at worst, hostages.
However, he was not alone for long, and met his first
neighbor before he was completely unpacked. She appeared at
his doorway wearing cutoff jeans and a long-sleeve black shirt,
bearing the oft-seen photo of Kurt Cobain in the cardigan he
wore for the MTV Unplugged gig. Pushing Kurt out of shape
were two obviously unrestrained breasts. Her dark hair was long
and curly, and her feet were bare. She wore heavy eyeliner but
no other make-up.
âHey,â she said through the screen.
âHey.â
âYou need anything, Iâm on top of you,â she said.
Tom said nothing, but then she pointed upward and said, âIâm
in the apartment above you.â
âCute,â Tom said, wondering how many times sheâd rehearsed
that, or used it on previous tenants. She grinned, and he smiled
in spite of himself.
âWhatâs your name?â she asked.
âWhatâs yours?â Tom asked.
âBrynn,â she said.
âBrynn what?â
âJust Brynn,â she said.
âNo last name?â
She grinned again, and then asked, âSo, she threw you out?â
âWho?â Tom asked, but he knew who. Vicky hadnât so much
as thrown him out as she had replaced him. Throughout her life,
Tom knew, Vicky was always on the lookout for the next upgrade,
but she was never single between men. Her relationships tended
to overlap. Of course, a guy doesnât believe heâll be another one
of those stories, or layers, until after it happens to him.
âWhoever got you that sweater,â she said.
It was a lime green v-neck, and Tom wasnât sure why itâd
made the cut, even though it was his mother whoâd given it to
him years before.
âYou want it?â he asked.
She giggled and leaned forward until first her breasts and
then her forehead rested against the screen.
âYou coming in?â he asked. âOr are you going to keep talking
to me through the door?â
âI donât know you well enough yet,â she said.
Looking her over, he knew there was no chance that she was as
uncomplicated as she was trying to seem. Tom asked, âHow old
are you, Brynn?â
âRude,â she said, but then, âIâm twenty-three. How old are
you?â
âIâm almost twenty years older than you,â he said.
âI wasnât looking to hook up or anything,â she said.
He said, âI wasnât implying that.â
âYou were checking me out a minute ago,â she said.
âWas I?â he asked.
She said, âItâs okay, men do that, but I wasnât looking to hook
up. Iâve got a boyfriend.â
He asked, âIs he a Nirvana fan, too?â
âA what?â she asked.
âThe shirt,â he said.
She looked down at her chest. âOh right, Iâm not really a fan
of the music.â
âWhy the shirt then?â he asked, unable to help himself.
âI thought he went out really cool,â she said.
Tom stopped unpacking, and said, âHe was desperately
depressed, chronically sick and in constant pain, addicted to
heroin, and he blew his head off.â
âIf you believe he killed himself, which I doâIâm not one of
those âCourtney-killed-him-whackosââbut he had the courage
to go through with it, and now heâll live always, forever young and
beautiful,â she said.
âAbandoning his daughter,â he said.
âAbandoning his millionaire daughter.â
âI bet sheâd trade those millions for more time with her dad,â
he said.
She paused, tilted her head, and then said, âWhatever. You a
teacher or something?â
âWhat makes you think Iâm a teacher?â he asked.
âWell, you donât look like you lift heavy shit for a living,â she
said.
âA reporter. Iâm taking a job at the newspaper,â he said. âAnd
Iâm a writer.â
âIsnât a newspaper reporter a writer?â
âI also write books,â he said.
âHeh. For Kindle and stuff?â she asked.
âFor Kindle and stuff,â he said.
âCool. I read a lot,â she said.
âYou do?â
âDonât seem so surprised. Eyeliner and tits donât make you
stupid, you know,â she said.
She was beginning to ruin his good mood. He said, âListen, I
didnât mean anything by it. Iâm just moving in, unpacking⌠busy.â
âI get it,â she said. âIâll let you get to it. But you did think about
hooking up with me.â She grinned again, and then was gone from
his doorway.
Tom blinked, stood there quietly for a moment, and wondered
if all his neighbors were like Brynn.
Opening the next box, he pulled out four glasses, all different
sizes. A small one heâd probably never use, a medium-sized plastic
tumbler he would use to hold pens and pencils, a heavy pint glass,
and a wine glass. Holding this last one, he looked around at the
mess, abandoned the current box for another, and pulled out a
bottle of Barolo and a corkscrew. He took the freshly poured glass
out onto the balcony, leaned on the railing, and took a sip. The
wine was warm and tannic, and the breeze smelled of asphalt.
With the railing rocking on loose screws, Tom surveyed the view.
Portage, New Hampshire, had been a mill town, but when the
mill went silent, the town reinvented itself as a college town. The
local school, once Portage State College, had grown to the point
of joining the university system, and had been reborn as Portage
State University. It was hardly the same place. Once a town with
sidewalks full of men carrying lunchboxes, and then a Main
Street of shuttered shops through the tough years, Portage had
become a town of young people, university events, yoga, coffee
shops, and wandering grad students who never seemed to leave.
From Tomâs vantage point, he could see red brick, white vinyl
siding, glass, pedestrians, small patches of green, and cars driving
the short circuitous route that was the downtown. The entire vista
sloped down to the river.
He looked forward to becoming a part of the community.
Tom had been a reporter at a smaller newspaper, writing stories
and occasionally contributing columns, until accepting the new
position here at The Portage Herald.
âAre you a teacher or something?â
Tom turned and saw a man in his thirties, khaki shorts, and
a loose button-down, short-sleeve shirt, Birkenstocks, with a
shaggy head of hair.
âWhy a teacher?â Tom asked. Did he really look that much like
a teacher?
âItâs the middle of a summer workday, and youâre already
drinking wine,â he said, and smiled.
âNot a teacher,â Tom said.
âIâm Ben, 2C,â he said, thumbing back at his door.
âIâm Tom,â he said and took another sip.
âMoving in?â Ben asked.
âJust about done. Just have to unpack the boxes,â Tom said.
âWhat brought you here?â Ben asked.
Tom knew heâd be an object of curiosity for his new neighbors,
but he thought it would look more like furtive glances and silent
wondering. These people just walked up and started asking
questions, as if in a rush to piece together some satisfying oneparagraph
biography on the new guy. He knew, that whatever
he said or did in reply supplied a puzzle piece. If he answered
honestly and sincerely, that would provide info. If he answered
curtly or snidely, that would provide info. If he silently went back
into his apartment, that would provide info. Tom was a journalist,
and he liked providing information, but about other people. Still,
he was in a decent mood. Why not be friendly?
Tom smiled, and said, âIâm taking a job at the Portage Herald.
Iâve been with the Insider. Did you go to school here?â
âI didnât go to school at all; I work at McDonaldâs,â Ben said,
and then added, a bit too loudly, âWant fries with that?â
Just as Tom was about to wonder if any of the neighbors would
be able to participate in an intelligent conversation, Ben said,
âNope. No college, I. Iâm proud to say that Iâm an autodidact.â
Tomâs eyebrows lifted; that was potentially interesting. âWhat
have you taught yourself?â he asked.
Ben said, âName it, man, I never stop learning. I canât get
enough.â
âYou read a lot?â
Ben said, âMan, I read all the time. Whatever I can find. I also
learn from the Internet, TV, and movies. I learn from people, too,
man, âcause even though Iâm, like, fuckinâ Chatty Cathy right now,
Iâm actually, like, an intense listener, you know? Like, I listen, man,
I listen hard, and it sticks. I just get bored if I canât be in charge of
what Iâm learning, you know? Like, be in control of whatâs going
into my head, you know?â
Tomâs hopes were initially raised, but now he was becoming a
bit more skeptical.
âTell me one thing youâve learned. Impress me,â Tom said.
âI donât learn shit to impress people, man. Itâs impossible to
impress people, man. Even when people are impressed, itâs so
fucking uncool to be impressed with anything that no one will
admit it, you know?â Ben said.
Tom smiled, nodded, and took another sip. So, the guy heard
the word âautodidacticâ on Jeopardy or something, and heâs
throwing it around now as an excuse for not furthering his
education.
Ben said, âAlright, man, OK. How about this? I can speak
Spanish.â
âSo can the better-prepared half of Americans,â Tom said.
âOkay, man, but last Christmas? I could barely order at Taco
Bell. Now, I speak Spanish, man.â
âYou speak Spanish,â Tom said.
âI speak fluent Spanish, man. I watch movies in Spanish now
and understand pretty much all of it. I know Russian, too. Iâm
learning Latin now,â Ben said.
Tom lowered his glass. âYou know Russian?â
âIâm not bullshitting you, man.â
âWhy are you learning languages?â Tom asked.
âBecause otherwise when I read translations, there is an
intermediary between me and the author, man, and they canât
help but change it. Not just because of linguistic issues either,
itâs all about ego, man,â Ben said. âAll these far out ideas, but we
get them filtered through some loserâs biases before we get to
experience them for ourselves.â
It did occur to Tom that this fast-food genius had just referred
to translators as losers. âWhy do you work at McDonaldâs?â
âWhy not work at McDonaldâs?â Ben asked. âBecause people
look down on it? Iâm not going to switch jobs because of what
other people think. Iâm good at my job, and the people are
friendly.â
âBut the pay,â Tom said.
âMan, why are you looking for problems in my life? I make
the money I need, and I spend the rest of my time learning and
experiencing shit. Yeah, man, Iâm not a kid anymore, and I work
at McDonaldâs, but I donât live in my motherâs basement, and I
donât make a living building weapons or lying to people,â Ben
said.
Tom hadnât felt he was being negative, and said, âLook, I didnât
meanâŚâ
âYou did mean it, man, but itâs no thing. Itâs normal. Weâve
been conditioned to be in a perpetually dissatisfied state, man,
and we help each other maintain it,â Ben said.
âThe basis of ambition,â Tom said.
âYou say âambitionâ like itâs a good thing, man,â Ben said and
grinned, and they both laughed.
âLook, man, you know the special sauce on Big Macs?â Ben
asked.
âThousand Island dressing? What about it?â
âDude, see, exactly! Why? Why are you trying to take the
âspecialâ out of the sauce? Thatâs a myth, man. Itâs not Thousand
Island dressing. Chefs working for McDonaldâs came up with that
recipe. In fact, it changed over the years, but not that long ago, the
CEO ordered everyone to go back to the original recipe, and they
had to find it, because it got deleted, so they did some intense
detective work and tracked it down. If it were just Thousand
Island, they couldâve just bought some at the supermarket.â
âOkay, sorry,â Tom said. âSo, what about the special sauce?â
Ben took a breath, and seemed to relax again, âItâs special
because it was made for one thing, to be the special sauce on a
special sandwich. McDonaldâs sells 550 million Big Macs every
year in the United States alone, dude. Can you think of a more
successful sauce than that?â
Tom said, âKetchup.â
Ben paused, and then burst out laughing. âRight on, man, right
on.â
âI should get back to unpacking,â Tom said.
âCool, cool,â Ben said.
âNice meeting you,â Tom said.
âYou, too, Tom. Iâll see you on the balcony,â he said.
Tom went back into his apartment, drank the last of the glass
of wine, and surveyed the work he had left to do.
Such a fun read, and filled with a warmth I really needed in our current challenging times. Tom Tibbetts finds his way to a semi-exotic locale hidden in small-town trappings. He finds himself in an apartment building with thin walls and invasive neighbours. His new job is a nightmare - he is being asked to write ârefrigerator storiesâ, slices of life interviews of these very neighbours. They are a motley crew of misfits and at first Tom canât find anything worth writing about, unless he mocks them. But as he gets to know them, he finds not only stories worth telling, but people worth caring about.
The author makes us like all of his characters, even the oddest ones. Very early on in the book we find ourselves charmed and involved, and even the main character, who is busily burning bridges and slipping out of his old life in a languid sort of way, becomes someone we want to root for.
The story runs right along and I found it an enjoyable ride throughout. Well-written, not over-written, edited well. A pleasurable to spend an afternoon, and I know Iâll be looking for more from this author. I love a good character-based story.