Large raindrops pelted the windshield of Mike’s pumpkin-orange Jeep Renegade as he pulled into the modest overhang that management deemed a garage for the apartment complex. The precarious aluminum structure provided shelter, safeguarding aging plastic containers holding Christmas decorations, stacked in a locked closet against the back wall. Despite its apparent protection, Mike harbored doubts about the flimsy construction and draped a tarp over the cherished keepsakes. The relentless downpour had persisted for hours, and while autumn usually held a special place in his heart, the dreary, cold rain wore on him. He knew these damp days would soon yield to the bone-chilling grip of his least favorite season — winter. Michigan’s autumn was a capricious companion, oscillating between chilly mornings, sun-drenched afternoons, and frost-kissed nights. Layering up was the sensible choice during this unpredictable time of year.
Mike hesitated, his hand poised to switch off the headlights. His gaze settled on the uninviting rear facade of the parking structure. The gnarled trunk of a massive oak tree stood incongruously amidst the concrete, its branches stretching toward the sky. 'Why had they built this awning and the tiny storage closets around the ancient tree?', he thought as notes from 'What Are You Doing The Rest of Your Life' played through the speaker system. Perhaps it served as structural support for the parking garage, which seemed to sag under its own weight.
As Mike killed the ignition and the music, the only audible sound was the relentless downpour—each raindrop a heavy punctuation mark from the heavens. Beyond the rain, silence enveloped him. Sometimes, though, silence felt louder than the cacophony of a bustling city. "Tad," Mike murmured, addressing the absent figure. "You could have arranged for a more pleasant evening." With reluctance, he swung open the car door, bracing himself against the cold rain. The large black umbrella, a faithful companion throughout the day, unfurled with a satisfying pop. Mike rarely engaged in self-talk, but tonight, amid the therapeutic patter of rain, he found solace in the quiet conversation.
He sat there, enveloped in solitude. At this very moment, loneliness clung to him like a shadow. Throughout the day, friends and family had offered their condolences, yet now, amidst the quiet, he grappled with an unfamiliar ache. The bustling funeral, a gathering of first responders paying tribute, had paraded past him, but now, he was adrift. This unwelcome feeling echoed a distant memory—the day his parents had unceremoniously cast him out from the home where he’d grown up. It was a peculiar blend of sadness and discomfort, gnawing at his insides. Perhaps a bottle of bourbon could drown these dark emotions. Yes, there was a fifth waiting for him at the bar—a bar that now belonged solely to him, a reminder etched in the recesses of his mind.
Defying the relentless rain, he dashed from the parking lot to the apartment complex’s atrium. Lacking the luxury of a doorman, the space greeted him with an air of desolation, mirroring the chill of his solitary return. His Prada shoes echoed against the imitation marble, a stark contrast to the modest surroundings—a modern paradox. He used the elevator to ascend to the first floor. ‘Surrounded by crowds all day, and now, when I could use the company, solitude prevails,’ he mused. The elevator delivered him swiftly to his doorstep. Shedding his damp London Fog coat over the sofa and resting the soaked umbrella in its stand, he settled into a desk chair. As he slipped off his luxuriously comfortable shoes, his attention shifted to the notifications on his phone, including several voice mails awaiting his attention.
“Messages can wait,” he murmured, finding an odd comfort in the sound of his own voice. It was peculiar, this soliloquy, perhaps a prelude to madness—or so the thought presented itself, more declarative than interrogative.
He strode to the compact wet bar, pouring a shot of cognac and feeling the warmth cascade down his throat. A second, more liberal pour followed into a snifter. Nearby, a large framed photograph on the shelf caught his eye—the image of him with his beloved, a relationship that had only just unraveled. He tenderly lifted the frame, whispering, “Oh, Tad…” when suddenly, the doorbell’s chime jolted him. “God…” With a start, he replaced the frame and approached the intercom. “Who’s there?” he inquired, a note of apprehension in his voice.
The tinny voice on the intercom announced, "I have a delivery for a Mike Hartford."
"I’ll let you up," Mike replied, releasing the answering button and pressing another to grant the deliverer access to the building. As he paced the floor, he sipped from the snifter, anticipation building. Passing a small round mirror, he paused to scrutinize his reflection. Despite the dim glow from a desk lamp, there was enough light to reveal a weathered face—a man of thirty-six worn down by stress and recent drama. His dark brown, curly hair clung to his scalp, and bloodshot blue eyes stared back at him. Days of not shaving were catching up as his beard grew fuller. Mike despised mirrors; they held a truth he’d rather avoid. The mirror itself had been Tad’s idea; he claimed it made the room appear more spacious.
Just then, a quiet knock echoed through the door. Mike swung it open to find yet another bouquet of flowers. "Thank you," he murmured, accepting the fragrant gift and slipping the dark-skinned delivery man a ten-dollar tip. Mike noticed a flicker of recognition in the man’s face as he smiled. "Have a good evening," the delivery man tipped his hat, then turned and departed.
Mike gingerly placed the bouquet on a side table next to the plush microfiber sofa, its fabric still damp from his rain-soaked coat. Extracting a card that had been wedged among the carnations, he read the message: 'We're sorry to miss the funeral. If you need anything, please call. Larry and Scott.' "How considerate," Mike mused. "I should reach out to them." His attention shifted back to the cell phone, its glow beckoning. Downing his drink, he pressed the message button on the screen. Returning to the bar, he poured another brandy, the small cell speaker droning out the timestamp of the first voicemail: "Mike, this is Barbara... I thought we could get together soon and talk. I have some things of Tad's. Please give me a call as soon as you get in." Mike's response was terse: "What in the hell does she want?"
The next voicemail played: "Mike, this is your mother. Please call. I'm sorry to hear about Tad. Your father and I are both worried about you. Call as soon as you get home. It was so good to see you last month."
And finally, the last message: "This is Jason. I need that stock option report as soon as possible. Give me a call..."
“Fuck you, Jason, you’ll receive the report when I damn well please. Now, what the hell does Barbara want?” Mike muttered, his frustration mounting. He needed to call Bill first. Dialing Bill’s number from his contact list, he asked, “Okay, Bill, where are you?” After hanging up, he scanned the papers strewn across the desk. Next on the list was Barbara.
“Barbara, this is Mike. What belongings of Tad’s do you have?.. No, I don’t want anything—especially not if they bear your stench. Wait, he said what?.. Okay, listen carefully. I love Tad just as much as you do—I doubt your loyalty… Yes, Barbara, I hold a lot against you. How could you even ask that? No, I don’t know what I’m going to do… Right now? I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t need any company—especially not yours. Yes, I’d like to read it, but don’t expect me to be entertained. I’m not in the mood. I’ll be here.”
Frustrated, he switched off the phone and flung it onto the sofa. “Jesus, woman! The man was just buried, and now you want to discuss his personal belongings?” Mike raised his glass to an unseen presence. “Tad, I suppose I need to tidy up for your ‘bitch.’ Maybe this loneliness will finally dissipate.” He retrieved his raincoat, properly hung it on the coat rack next to the umbrella stand, and straightened the picture frame. “Why now? I wish you were here to talk to…”
