To Remember a Man

“Did you hear that?” Poppy hissed after several seconds of what I could only assume was her holding the phone out her apartment window.

“Oh, Poppy.” I said, finally understanding why she was upset.

“Someone is screaming outside!” She was all out of breath with concern.

“Yeah.” I replied, not sure what to say. “That’s the city for you.”

“What? Shouldn’t I call 911?” She asked with an incredulity I’m sure I’d once possessed, when I, too, was new to the charms of downtown.

“You can call,” I paused, “but this sort of thing happens a lot here. I’m not sure the police would even come. Honestly, I would just turn on some music or a movie and try to ignore it. They’ll stop screaming eventually.”

Even now, I remember feeling remarkably inhuman at that moment. Ignore the screaming man— but that’s just how the city operates. It’s not as though rural areas don’t have troubled people; they just don’t live on your doorstep. Whether city or country the end result is the same, thoughts and prayers and head to bed.

Nothing more to say, we hung up shortly after that. And I was left all alone in my small studio apartment. It had long since gotten dark, but I kept the lights off and laid in bed staring at the ceiling. I didn’t know Poppy that well. We had gone to the same Highschool and we were both in philosophy club. I honestly hadn’t thought of her in years, but evidently she had thought of me. When she found out she was moving here, she’d messaged me like an old friend. She reminded me of all the parts of home I tried hard not to think about.

I closed my eyes and for a moment I could force the sounds of the city to fade. I perked my ears to hear the past noises of my grandparents’ house. Somewhere in the distance, just out of reach, I imagined stand mixers whirring and little feet slapping against tile floor. Was that traffic or the wave of voices that came from so many people laughing and talking all at once?

In the distance a car alarm went off, and I was pulled out of my daydream. Daydream? Night Dream? Waking nightmare. Whatever. There was a pain in my chest and I couldn’t tell if that meant I wanted to remember or not.

I rolled over in bed to the soft grumbles of my dog who was curled up right in the middle of the mattress. “Come on, Old Man.” I whispered. “You can’t have the whole bed to yourself.” I scooped him up in my arms and held him there for a moment. When he’s sleepy, he lets me baby him. I kissed the little spot of white on his forehead, a spot that used to be his normal strawberry blonde. One time, I took him to the vet, and they labelled his coloring as “Apricot”. Ever since then I’ve insisted that that’s the correct label for his fur color. My little apricot boy. He was turning eleven then, the next month.

Bubba is his name. He’s the only family I was able to take with me and now he’s the subject of the only prayer I still pray. Dear Lord, let this dog live forever.

After I placed him down on one side of the mattress—to his complete and utter annoyance as he had to get up, spin, and re-curl himself comfortably—I went to my phone to find a podcast to play to lull me to sleep. This was my solution to chase away the horrible silence that invited thoughts of the past. I settle on “Every Time Something Has Evolved Into A Snake”, a dinosaur podcast with a soothing narration voice.

I didn’t remember any of the episode, so I must’ve fallen asleep at some point. But, still, around something like 3 AM I discovered myself conscious, once again staring at the ceiling. It was a standard popcorn ceiling with landlord special white paint, but somehow my eyes were drawn to it every time I was raptured by thoughts I didn't want to think.

I don’t know why it happens. Why is it that when something is playing, I can sleep, but as soon as there’s silence, I am jolted awake like an alarm going off?

My heart ached and I begged it to ache later, in the morning, or another day. But it never listens to me, so instead I pulled out my phone again and turned on some random YouTube drama. Shit I don’t care about, harmless conflict, people I don’t know. This was what I filled my brain with. This was how I scared away the silence.

I didn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night, or maybe I did, sometimes I can’t tell. When my alarm went off, I knew it was going to be an awful day. One of those days I would glue myself to my phone just to survive. Bubba sat up and stretched and jumped off the bed to ask for a walk. “Five more minutes, baby.” After this video I told myself, after this video, I’ll get up and face the world. Bubba, being the world’s best dog, waddled over to nuzzle at my hand. I petted him a bit, before turning away to soak in my five more minutes.

That was when the phone rang.

There are some moments that you know are going to mark you forever. It was October, the season of horror. I think those who haven’t experienced true horror often have this fantasy of what it’s like: blood curdling screams, the monster under your bed. But true horror lies not in what goes bump in the night, but in the heartbeats of silence in between. The moment before the phone rings. An innocuous moment that you could never know would officially become "the before". Before the call. Before they hang up. Before life irrevocably changes forever.

I already had one before: before my family disowned me. I remember that before. Before I came out, when I was still welcome at holiday parties.

Holidays with my family were a blast. Certainly, there were bits that droned on like when Grandpa read the bible or Grandma made everyone sing hymns. But then there was the general joy of a full house. There was never a quiet moment in the house of my grandparents. I don’t think silence would even be possible what with all my extended relatives packed in like sardines in a can. I remember all the noise. I loved all the noise. All the women in the kitchen fussing over spice cookies and caramels. The steady bounce and clack of my male relatives playing ping pong down in the basement. The constant giggles and playful screams coming from my boy cousins searching for opportunities to make trouble.

My studio apartment was always quiet, besides the tiny taps of my dog’s nails on the linoleum or the sounds of the busy world just outside my window.

Or the ring of Poppy calling me.

“They’re dead.” She said when I answered. Her voice hollow and nose stuffed.

“What? Poppy, what happened? Are you alright?”

“The person screaming last night. Eventually they stopped and I went to bed. They died. They stopped screaming because they’d died!”

Everything was moving too fast. Poppy’s words sank in slowly. I could feel my stomach numb as the guilt dropped in.

“Oh, Poppy.” I croaked.

I told her not to call the police. This is all my fault.

“Have you called the police? Were you the one to find him?”

Poppy sniffed, “yeah, I found him this morning, frozen on the sidewalk. The paramedics just took him away. They say he died of an overdose.”

“I’m so sorry.” It was all I could think to say. “I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t ask the obvious question, “could he have been saved?” because, ultimately, it didn’t matter—no one would know because no one ever even tried.

After that Poppy told me she was moving back home, and I wasn’t going to argue with her. I wanted to go home too and I’m sure so did the man on the sidewalk.