Alvin lives in the eight-by-two-and-a-half-foot space between the walls of our living room, according to his estimates, which may be exaggerated, since, even if he had a tape measure, he wouldn’t have enough light to read it. I have no reason to doubt him. Partly because my grandfather’s name was Alvin, but mostly because he speaks with the unwavering calmness of those who have befriended their illnesses.
Our landlord didn’t tell us about him, which disturbed my roommates. But now, after a few months–it’s amazing how a little time can initiate a fresh perspective–we’re comfortable enough to say, Hello, Alvin, or, Good Morning, Alvin, or, Thank God for another beautiful day, Alvin, when we notice–I should say, when I notice, since my roommates don’t always say Hi–one of his eyes gazing fixedly from the five peepholes subtly spaced around the room’s perimeter.
Peephole–the word has such a nasty flavor. I’ll call them vantage points from now on.
Admittedly, I thought I was losing it the first time I noticed one of his eyes staring from the wall. So I ignored it and didn’t tell Linda, my girlfriend–and roommate–or Phil, my other roommate. I didn’t want to freak them out.
But the next day I saw the eye again. This time from a high corner of the rear wall where I had mistaken the vantage point for a spot of flaking paint. The eye blinked, and I waved in its direction. The eye blinked again, and I walked towards it, still waving when I said, Good afternoon. (I have the tendency to make the irrational rational by means of social convention, a tendency that I’m working on with a therapist. I think I’m making headway, though Linda disagrees, claiming I have trouble accepting the reality of things, what she calls the world’s inherent strangeness.)
The eye blinked a third time, accompanied by a muffled sound. Like someone trying to speak under a pillow. I realized that Alvin was talking through the insulation and the plaster.
My name is Alvin, he said.
He repeated himself a few times before I understood what he meant. When I did, I said, It’s good to meet you, Alvin.
It’s good to meet you, too, Alvin said.
We became fast friends, to the dismay of Linda and Phil. After introducing them to Alvin, Linda immediately phoned our landlord, demanding that our, at that time, two months’ paid rent be refunded along with our security deposit. But our landlord, a forceful mother of three, responded with her usual sternness, quoting sub-section C of section IX of our lease: any creature–animal, insect, bacterium–residing in the house is the responsibility of renters if not brought to the attention of owner before lease has been signed.
A human being is an animal, said our landlord, and don’t act like you didn’t know there was someone living in the walls. There’re as many people as rats these days.
Then she hung up the phone.
You’ve gotta be kidding me, Linda said.
It’s always in the fine print, Phil said.
Couldn’t we call 911? Linda said.
We signed the lease, Phil said. There’s not much we can do.
Alvin’s eye stared from his vantage point above Phil’s bookcase.
Who are you? Linda said.
My name is Alvin.
Since then, Linda and Phil have ignored Alvin’s presence. Their ignoring him is understandable in certain respects, but, still, it disappoints me. I believe there is a lot to be learned from Alvin, even if his methods and ideas are somewhat extreme.
For example, when I asked him a couple months ago why he chooses to live within the walls, he said, I wanted to do it because it frightened me. I wanted to learn how to listen.
Oh, I said.
I didn’t understand what Alvin was talking about, but I respected the intensity of his commitment. Still, I periodically offer to open a door in the wall for him. Just say the word and I’ll get you out of there, I tell Alvin. I’m actually quite good with an axe.
But Alvin refuses my offers. He claims he has not yet heard what he needs to hear. Whatever that is, he claims he will know it when it finally comes, if it ever does. He says that he must continue to wait, even if that waiting takes him to the end of this life, a wait Alvin is prepared for, even if it means that his skeleton is left to lie with the already substantial pile of bones of those who waited before him. Apparently, there have been many like Alvin who listened for a voice that never came. Still, Alvin has hope, even if the hope is small, so small that I would not call it hope.
Recently he has been very quiet. He claims our conversations divert him from his purpose. Now, when he notices me staring, his eye immediately disappears. I hear him shuffle slowly–it’s difficult to maneuver between the walls and all those bones. Then, after a minute, I see his eye resurface from another vantage point. But, if I wait, his eye vanishes for good.
An entire week has passed since the last time I saw him. I feel quite low. The only reason I know he’s still there is the tears he sheds, the tears whose salty residue lines the walls like those shining paths that mark the progress of snails.
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Vincent Poturica lives with his wife and kids in rural Northern California, where he teaches at Mendocino College. His writing appears in New England Review, DIAGRAM, Western Humanities Review, and 7x7.