Long Face

He looks out his window and sees Long Face lying on the stretch of grass between their two homes. With his face towards the overcast sky, the old man’s eyes are closed, and his chest rises and falls slowly. His body makes no other motion. His eyes don’t flutter, his nose doesn’t twitch, and the back of his skull is resting in the dry, overheated lawn.

“Is he asleep? How could somebody find that comfortable?” his mom asks from behind him, her eyes squinted and peering out. “The ground is so hard and crispy.”

“I think he is, he hasn’t moved in at least five minutes.”

“So, you’ve been watching him for five minutes already? That really isn’t how I imagined you would spend your summer, William,” Will’s mom says with a chuckle as she walks out of the room and into the kitchen.

“How could I not watch him when he’s doing something like that? It’s kind of freaky. He’s kind of freaky.”

Perplexed but also intrigued, Will continues to watch his neighbor. Long Face’s arms are stiff at his side, and his legs are straight as an arrow with his toes pointing upwards. He’s wearing a dingy tank top and worn work jeans that are faded at the knees. His hair isn’t woven in two chunky braids today, not like how he usually wears it. Instead, it’s down, untouched and sprawled beneath his neck, shoulders, and back. Will studies him up and down. He has a strong, well-defined chin and a large nose. His eyes are set hard in his face, never showing any warmth, but not showing any cruelty either. He has a lengthy, often creased forehead, but right now his eyebrows aren’t furrowed with thought. His mouth isn’t smiling from a past, amusing memory, nor are his nostrils flared from the scent of the manure that Will’s father had put down the day before. He looks like a corpse, lifeless and ready to be placed in a grave. But even though the sight is nothing truly spectacular, Will can’t peel his eyes away.

Long Face always fascinated him since the day they moved in. The man, who looks to be in his mid-60s greeted their family as they were carrying the moving boxes inside. He was barefoot, though it was already ninety degrees out by that time of day and the pavement beneath their feet was scorching hot. He was unphased, paid no attention to the heat or the fact that the tops of his feet were toasted darker than coffee beans, while the rest of his body was a smooth caramel color.

‘He must not like shoes,’ Will thought to himself as he looked down.

Long Face’s shorts that day that were alarmingly tiny, like he was an NBA player in the 80s, and he was wearing a faded shirt with a printed wolf howling at the moon. The shirt’s sleeves were long gone, and the edges were frayed a previous hack job. He approached them holding a jar of what looked like jelly.

“Hello,” he said to Will and his parents. “Welcome.”

He didn’t wave, shake any hands, or smile, though the sides of his mouth did lift slightly, but Will thought it seemed only out of obligation rather than kindness. Long Face stood there and said nothing else. Will’s parents looked at each other and introduced themselves and their son. Their new neighbor looked at them, handed them the jar, and turned away. He walked back to his house in large steps, opened the garage door just enough to duck, and closed it behind him. Will’s family didn’t learn his name until a week later, when his mom talked to their neighbor on their left side. When she was told by Doreen that the man’s name was Long Face, she laughed and told her she had to be joking. But she wasn’t.

“That’s how he introduces himself to everybody as far as I know,” Doreen told her, looking at her fingernails. “We don’t question it,” she paused, “you know, out of respect of his culture.”

Will’s mom went back home slightly confused and almost unsure whether Doreen was joking, but when she ran into Long Face the following day while walking to their mailbox, she asked him what his name was. He answered with what she had been told the day prior: Long Face. She nodded and tried not to act surprised, like his name was common and not mythical sounding.

“Well, I hope you have a great day, Mr. Long Face. The jelly you gave us was wonderful by the way. I made toast with it just this morning!”

He responded dryly, “No mister before my name, just Long Face.” He didn’t react to her compliment.

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry,” Will’s mom told him. She followed up her apology with a question: “May I ask what that jelly was made of by the way? It was absolutely delicious.”

“Chokecherries,” he told her plainly. Not shortly, or with any sort of attitude or distaste, just matter-of-factly. With his mail in hand, he nodded politely at her, walked to his garbage can, and dumped every envelope into the plastic, evergreen container. He then made his way back into his house, this time using the front door, and closed it behind him.

That was the extent of the interactions between Will’s family and their quiet neighbor. Long Face kept to himself and hardly said a word. He would be outside on sunny days, sitting in his yard, his legs crossed, his hands placed in the grass. Most times his eyes would be closed, but Will did notice him staring blankly ahead at times. He wouldn’t pay any mind though to what was in front of him. Not the cars on the road, or the people passing him on the sidewalk. His concentration would be farther off that that, so far in fact Will often thought he wasn’t mentally there at all. His consciousness could be floating among the Nasa rovers in the Cosmos, making its way past Jupiter and Saturn all in a day’s worth of meditation. It could be past their galaxy even, reaching far into the depths of another universe where humans never evolved, and wars were never even a thought. His face was so glazed over and unmoving one time that Will thought he had died sitting up. But he noticed Long Face was gone some moments later when he checked on him again.

There was only one consistent thing about Long Face and his demeanor. Just about every night he would come outside and watch the sunsets. At least, when the sunset was something to marvel at and the sky wasn’t simply transitioning from day to night. The man would stand in his driveway, facing west, looking at the pink and purple hues. Tinged orange from the waning sunlight, the few clouds in the sky look fluffy, like pastel sheep. Will could understand this, as he too wanted to go outside and marvel at the natural world around him. There were other things though that Will did not fully comprehend, things that he couldn’t relate to. Sleeping in the dry grass being one example.

Taking a final look at his sleeping neighbor, Will starts to step away, but he stops when he notices Long Face’s hands shoot up into the air, his arms reaching for the heavens. He does a bizarre movement, claps numerous times, and bends his fingers in all directions. He looks like he’s doing sign language to the sky, sending a message up to God and his angels, a physical prayer rather than a vocal one. Suddenly, the man sits straight up with his arms still stretched out in front of him. With his fingers twisted and crooked, he opens his eyes, and jolts his head to look at where Will is standing. Their gazes lock, and Will nearly lets out a shocked yelp, but he doesn’t have the time. Long Face is sprinting emotionlessly back home, and before Will can tell his mother of the ordeal, the man is already shelled up in his house. His door closed, his blinds drawn.

Stunned, Will stands with his mouth agape. He looks at where the man was lying on the lawn, and his eyes retrace Long Face’s path back to his home. He shakes his head and blinks to try and take it all in. Long Face looked straight at him; they made eye contact! Hopefully the man didn’t think he was watching him creepily, but then again, how could he not expect somebody to watch? Will wasn’t the weird one for being the observer, Long Face was for being the yard sleeper.

Trying to think of ways to explain what he was doing if Long Face brings the subject up to his mom, or even him if his path ever crosses with the man himself, Will’s internal rationalization is split in two by a massive lightning strike that spawns before him. The white-hot beam is blinding and deafening, and only lasts an instant, but Will’s eyes are dazzled by the bright flash. The sound that follows is instantaneous as well, and their house shakes from the boom. Will’s heart beats against his chest like a hand rapping on a door. His mother lets out a shocked scream from the other room and calls out to him.

“What was that?” she asks exasperated.

“Lightning,” Will answers quickly.

“That’s strange, I didn’t think we were supposed to get any storms today. Last time I checked the forecast it said it would be cloudy all day, but that’s it.”

Will hears her go back to whatever she’s doing in the kitchen, presumably dishes, when he notices a patch of scorched grass in the yard. The lightning had struck in the exact place where Long Face had been lying just moments beforehand. Thankful his neighbor hadn’t been blasted by the rod of hot plasma, Will’s left wondering. Wondering if somehow Long Face knew, if the man, who he deemed kooky, ran inside at the exact moment he should’ve because he had some sixth sense. Maybe his habit of being barefoot helped connect him to the earth. Will had heard some hippies do that to ground themselves and let them become closer to Mother Nature. Or maybe he just had a gut feeling that something bad was going to happen, so he went back inside to safety. At the same time though, he can’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t just a fluke. Why had the man been laying there in the first place? Why had he gotten up so quickly, and why did the lightning strike happen immediately afterward? What did it all mean, if anything at all?

Questioning everything that just played out in front of him, Will’s racing mind is halted by the sight of the man returning to his napping place. Will’s eyes widen as he sees his neighbor look at the mark in the lawn. Long Face stands there, stares at the spot for a moment, and then gets on his knees. He brings his right hand to his mouth, kisses his palm, then rubs the dry, prickly grass. With his eyes closed, he cranes his neck and points his face towards the clouds. He pumps his right fist once into the air, opens his hand, and brings it back down to his side. Slowly, Long Face opens his eyes, stands, and positions himself to look directly at Will.

Holding his breath, Will’s not sure what to do. He wants to look away, to pretend like this never happened, but he feels stiff. Unable to move, he remains in his window, watching his neighbor. Without any change in expression, Long Face stares at him. It feels like hours before the man finally nods at Will, closes his eyes, and is caught in a downpour of fat, heavy raindrops. Quickly drenched by the cloud’s tears, Long Face is made sopping wet. He makes no effort to escape the weather this time, rather, he’s transfixed to his near-death spot, still and solemn, frozen by the summer rain.