A walk on brick road ave

There’s not a lot of creative dispositions for bricks in the world. You put one on top of the other, line them up and before you know it: a house. You see it now. A brick house on a brick road. That’s two creative uses at the top: maybe there’s a chance for bricks after all.

Winding out and about in the city, the street takes you here. There are similar houses lining it, of course. Makes it kind of hard to see where one ends and the other begins. Houses sort of fusing within each other, replacing outer walls with inner ones, huddled together for warmth. Quite dark too, and with all the bricks being one and the same; something about it makes vision less of a helpful guide. You decide to count down the address instead.

One, Three, Five, Seven... You stop at seven. Something’s missing.

Then you chuckle and see it. There should be a letter next to the number: assisting, the phone in your hand tells you. Helps to have sort of a primary accomplice. There it is: Three, Five, Seven, Seven ‘A’. You trace the street map. There’s a letter for a door number for a house with two doors instead of one. You perk up.

Two black doors

for one red house;

One has a letter,

The other is its spouse.

Sometimes one door is not enough, you chant under your breath. Sometimes one needs two doors: two doors for one house ..right next to each other - even if one door could do just fine on its own.

Or maybe, you suppose, quite rationally for once - it’s just the inconvenience of having to share a door with someone else. That simply won’t do. So, they put an A after the 7. And suddenly you’re resident of house 7A. House ‘Seven aeeh’ of brick road avenue, eh? You ponder, rhythmically. Not house 7A, by the by. It’s still the same house but this door is for house 7A of house 7. A sub-house seven, if you will. Your phone wills whole heartedly.

“Y o u h a v e r e a c h e d y o u r d e s t i n a t i o n!” It proclaims. You know you’re there. You were the one doing all the counting, after all. You don’t need to be reminded - especially not as loudly.

You hesitate. Don’t hesitate… Bell’s busted - three knocks: thump thump thump.

Damn, nothing. Figures. Seems like an old one, too. The house, the bricks - stained with soot. All that coal dust; carbon coming out of various places: chimneys, cars, mouths - a whole lot of mouths especially - on the faces of many many people. Wonder if it shows on people too. Just like the houses, all speckled with soot. Many people milling around about their business, in their cars, in their chimneys, not knowing what’s happening to them. Like all those processing plant cows releasing all that methane out in the clouds without a care in the world.

No people around at this late hour. No cows either. Some clouds maybe, at least no Moon visible at this angle. An empty street lit glooms for you alone. Quite the honor. But it seems the only welcoming gesture you receive in these parts. Could’ve warmed up the place while they’re at it.

Wonder if he’s died, you think to yourself. You didn’t want to think it but sometimes these thoughts come out on their own. Just saves time to go all the way, you guess. Maybe they’re out, asleep, ignoring you, gone deaf? Nope, just dead. If they don’t answer, they’re dead. No need to dwell on it further. Would save you the trouble of worrying. Makes the miracle of them coming back to life that much more exciting!

You quit dwelling on that, though. But you sure wish he would finally stop being dead. Been a while now.

Knock, knock knock knock Louder this time. Hit the wood right at the base, get that clear hollow sound. Strong door - no hinge noises. The thing’s really imbedded into place, no cracks no nothing. There is, however, a mail slot, but as far as you know, that won’t get you in anywhere. Maybe a peek, you propose. No, what if he opens right at that moment. Wouldn’t want to cause a scene.

“SsSsSfffuuh,” you exhale through bated breath, rubbing at your shoulders with crossed arms. You let the air back in, turning your head left and right with quick shallow glances.

Maybe someone saw? Wouldn’t want them to think you’re snooping. You straighten out, pulling your coat around you tighter. Freezing here, just waiting for a door that never opens. What kind of friends do they think you have that don’t answer doors in a cold night like this? Your wandering mind escapes the ears of the judgmental people you made up. They probably think you’re being ignored.

Seems like the not-so-on-lookers have decided to ignore you too. That’s two for two tonight. But only one of you, alone again, as the fake people crawl back into your frustrated imagination.

Here’s an idea - rummage through pockets. You feel wads of paper: crumpled. Loose change, keys, earphones: tangled. You way your options with kinetic recollection.

There we go. A pen - what an archaic find, right at the bottom. The dig-site of your coat pocket will prove a unique resource for any historical gallery. When’s the last time you’ve used one of these? Handwriting’s probably gone to the dumps. Red ink, huh, guess it’ll strike out. Okay, now for the medium.

You reach in for one of the crumpled wads of paper. Straighten it out: a receipt. Fast food - yikes. Nothing else? Don’t want to make yourself a slob like that - you elope to your own earlier grievances. Rest don’t track - paper’s too thin. Alright, get it over with, take the empty side, maybe he won’t notice.

You write, the strokes of your letters coming out blockish from the stiff fingers of your freezing hand.

There, finished. Uh, sort of? You look at the shapeless blobs, squinting. Hope he understands it.

Hope he sees it, first of all. Wouldn’t make sense to pick up a trash receipt. Have to slide it in carefully. Get the written side on top, perfectly laid down on the other side of the door. Good thing it’s red ink, too. Makes it more of an oddity. But can you do it? You certainly give it a try. Well, it’s probably not going to work out, but you had to give it a try; you ‘owe’ it to yourself to give it a try. At least walking all the way here has made you feel somewhat accomplished.

You take the street another glance over. Your vision tunnels the length of brick road av. Must go all the way to the hundreds, you estimate. Seven, Thirteen, you read. Twenty-four, fifty-six? Your guestimation follows through. Good thing you only had to go for the seven. Nice of him to live so close. Maybe you’ll stumble upon these parts again someday…

You don’t know, and it makes you kind of sad, so you don’t dwell on it.

You don’t dwell on it and take the long trek back home - back to being ‘you’ and not the boy in the tan furlong coat.