Written By: Ilan Herman
Harry lived in a tidy apartment complex lined with shady oaks and well maintained trails that weaved through manicured grass and flowerbeds. The visitor section of the complex featured a water fountain set at the center of a circular driveway paved with cobblestones. The apartments were efficiently managed by Lucy, a vivacious curly-haired brunette who never failed to smile and waive when she encountered a tenant, and who encouraged children to stop by her office where they could indulge in chocolate chip cookies set in a glass bowl on her desk.
The complex, appropriately named Shady Oaks, had a decent-sized swimming pool, a hot tub that could hold eight people, and a gym with a stationary bike, weights, and a treadmill. The gym was located in the administrative building, a short pathway from building M, where Harry resided, and was almost always empty in the mornings, when Harry worked out.
Harry was fifty-two, and a professional copy editor dedicated to the unenviable task of reading atrocious writing penned by people he’d never met. His task was to mend the unmendable, to revise the unrevisable, and to do so while searching for the tiniest morsel of talent, so he could encourage his clients to continue and, ‘never give up because writing is just like running. The more you run, the better you will be.’
And in relation to running, I come to why I’m writing this story. I’m Simon, a neighbor who resides in apartment 108, and who’d shared the occasional bottle of wine with Harry, who lived across from me, in apartment 106.
Harry was a generous man but not without his share of cynicism, which he expressed while critiquing stories written by bored housewives yearning to become the next Danielle Steel. I recall an evening when Harry, sitting in his brown leather swivel chair, read from the computer screen.
“Her endowed bosom, whimpering with desire, pressed against his washboard stomach, and her lips curled to suck on his tongue, like a famished doe, drinking his saliva, his nectar of youth.”
He tossed his head back and laughed. “Can we get a little more purple?” and then turned to me, his eyes pained. “How am I supposed to make this crap better? I’m only human.”
But I digress.
Relatively youthful looking for his years, with a full head of dark hair graying at the temples and soft blue eyes, Harry was prone to weight gain, and doggedly fought the extra pounds padding his torso. He exercised ninety minutes daily. The centerpiece of his regimen was the treadmill. He stretched for ten minutes, ran on the treadmill for sixty minutes at 4.2 miles an hour, and used the last twenty minutes to exercise his arms and shoulders with the weights.
Harry emerged satisfied from his workout—shirt stained with sweat, brow glistening, eyes glowing, temper curbed. At almost six-feet-tall, Harry’s weight fluctuated around 205 pounds. Occasionally, when he stood on the scale reading 198 pounds, Harry would remain euphoric for the rest of the day and treat himself to a triple-scoop sundae that rushed to his midsection and tipped the scale back to 200.
On Monday April 13 of last year, I knocked on Harry’s apartment door. The mailman had once again delivered Harry’s propane bill to my mailbox.
My neighbor opened the door. “Come in,” he said in a subdued voice.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, suspecting he’d encountered a particularly painful editing assignment.
“The treadmill in the gym is broken,” Harry said. “It’s leaking oil. They need to replace the screw under the belt.”
I shrugged. “Sounds harmless enough.”
“I hope so,” he said. “I couldn’t work out today. Lucy says she’ll take care of it as soon as possible.”
“You could jog by the lake,” I said.
Harry shook his head. “My knees and shins can’t handle the trail. Within two days my back goes out. The treadmill has the proper cushion.”
I handed him the propane bill. “I’m sure it’ll be fixed in no time.”
Harry smiled. “You’re probably right.”
Three days later I stopped by Harry’s apartment to retrieve a UPS package he’d signed for on my behalf, an arrangement beneficial to me, since Harry worked from home and I—an accountant for an insurance company—worked a tedious thirty-mile drive from Shady Oaks.
A tired voice said, “Come in.”
I walked into a dark apartment. Harry was lying on the couch and looked pale and withdrawn.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“The treadmill is still broken. They had to special order the screw.”
I frowned. “Special order a screw? That sounds incredulous.”
“I know.” Harry sat up with a groan. “You’d think that with all the hardware stores, they could find the right screw.”
“Who are they?” I asked.
Harry shrugged. “The company that maintains the treadmill, I suppose.”
I suggested Harry use the stationary bike, but he shook his head adamantly. “It doesn’t work for me. I gained four pounds.” He squeezed his lovehandles and slumped back on the couch. I wasn’t sure what to say, so said nothing. I felt that Harry was being a tad unreasonable, but I know better than to butt heads with creative types.
“Keep me posted,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”
Harry grunted.
I spent the next week frightfully busy with the tax season and failed to inquire about Harry’s well-being. In all honesty, I’d assumed the treadmill had been fixed. After all, it was only missing a screw.
On Friday, after informing Lucy that the ant infestation in my kitchen persisted in spite of the Terminix man’s genuine effort, I peeked into the gym and was alarmed to see the treadmill still bearing the yellow tape with the caption ‘out of order’ wrapped around its handle bars.
I rushed up the stairs and knocked on Harry’s door. He didn’t answer. I knocked louder. Still no answer. I slowly turned the doorknob. The door wasn’t locked. I quietly pushed open the door. The living room was dark. I was hit by the musty smell of liquor and cigarette smoke. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels stood on the living room table.
“Harry?” I whispered loudly. “Are you here?”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “I’m in bed.”
“Can I come in?”
“Yes. I’ll be out in a moment.”
The man who staggered out from the bedroom bore only a slight resemblance to the vigorous and sarcastic neighbor I’d been fond of. His pallor was deep, as were the wrinkles on his forehead and under his mouth. He wore a tattered bathrobe and hadn’t shaved in some time. His hair was flecked with more gray than I remembered.
“Still no screw,” he muttered.
I sniffed loudly. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
Harry plopped on the couch. “Haven’t in twenty-three years, but I do now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“Sorry, shmorry.” Harry brought out a packet of Camel’s from his pajama shirt pocket and lit a cigarette. He stood up, shuffled to the refrigerator, and took out a two-gallon tub of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream. He wandered back to the couch, moving in dreamy slow-motion, placed the tub on the living room coffee table, and sighed his way back to sitting on the couch.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “This can’t all be happening because of a screw.”
“And why not?” Harry frowned while stuffing his mouth with spoonfuls of ice cream.
“You can join the gym at the mall,” I said. “It’s less than a mile away.”
“I don’t want to join a gym,” he said in clipped tones. “For one, I refuse to pay the monthly fee. I also don’t care to smell the BO of other men, and I really don’t care for gym bunnies. They make me feel old and insecure.”
“I know what you mean,” I said, “but smoking and drinking will not solve your problem with the screw.”
“Screw the screw,” Harry said. His jowls shook with fleshy fat.
It decided that Harry was using the screw as an object of transference, was creating a crisis where none existed, and did so to reward shadowy elements of his character. Noticing his tightly pursed lips, however, I saw no point in sharing my views and raising drama. I politely bid farewell, promised to visit again soon, and then rushed down the stairs and knocked on Lucy’s office door.
“Come in,” the apartment manager said.
I shared my concern about Harry’s deteriorating condition and concluded by asking, “Can you offer any more information regarding the treadmill?”
Lucy smiled. “They’re bringing in a new one.”
“A new one?” I cried. “But it’s only missing a screw.”
“It’s old,” Lucy said. “The head office authorized a new one.” She smiled proudly. “We’re always trying to improve our service to the tenants.”
I winced. “When do you expect delivery of the new treadmill?”
Lucy hemmed briefly. “I hope by the end of next week.”
The scream lodged in my chest. I cleared my throat vigorously. “What about Harry? I don’t think he can wait that long.”
The apartment manager laughed innocently. “That’s funny. What do you mean?”
My shoulders drooped. I couldn’t share with her what I’d witnessed in Harry’s apartment. “Nothing. He’s concerned about gaining weight.”
“He can use the stationary bike or run by the lake,” said the woman with the good intentions.
I rolled my eyes. “I know.” Then I bowed slightly. “Thanks for your time.”
Lucy’s eyes sparkled. “Anytime.”
I didn’t break the news to Harry.
For the next week I found myself several times standing by Harry’s apartment, knuckles ready to rap on the door, but my hand froze. I couldn’t bring myself to knock. I didn’t want to witness Harry suffering and, more so, I hadn’t formulated a satisfactory plan to extricate him from his morass. My guilt mounted as the week passed.
I then decided to exercise tough love. Let Harry come to his senses on his own. He was a bright man, needed to face his demons, wrestle them into submission. I took solace in the thought that Harry will soon knock on my door. Cradling a bottle of Rodney Strong 2005 Cabernet Sauvignon, he would grin and say, “I can be a real pain in the ass. How does one let a screw screw with one’s head is another glaring example of man’s compulsive-obsessive nature.”
I’d laugh and we would share the bottle of wine, and life would take on renewed sensibility.
On Sunday May 17, five weeks after the treadmill’s demise by a faulty screw, the new treadmill had yet to arrive. I found myself exceedingly nervous about Harry’s state of mind. The shutters in his bedroom remained drawn, and I heard nothing when I gently placed my ear to his apartment door.
“Enough!” I said and knocked loudly. “I’m coming in.”
The door handle yielded to the twist of my wrist. The door swung open with a squeak. I stood in the doorway. The air reeked of dust and sweat, alcohol and fried food. The table was covered with empty bottles of liquor and ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts; the carpet was littered with cardboard boxes of KFC and Round Table Pizza.
My voice trembled. “Harry? Are you here?”
He didn’t answer.
I tiptoed through the sea of refuse and came up to Harry’s shut bedroom door. I knocked softly. Nothing. I knocked louder. Still no response. I gingerly applied pressure to the door handle. The door opened silently. I held my breath and peeked in. I saw the silhouette lying on the bed, bundled up in a quilt.
“Harry?” I whispered and took a shallow breath. The pungent stench had me nauseous, I almost fainted, the hair on my arms rose with fright. I shut the door and ran.
I crashed into the living room table. The liquor bottles scattered loudly to the floor. Arms flailing, I fell amidst crusty slices of pizza and rotting chicken crumbs. I jumped to my feet and ran to my apartment. My heart had never beat faster.
I rang the police.
The coroner’s report stated that Harry died of congestive heart failure stemming from excessive consumption of alcohol and fatty foods. He weighed 236 pounds when he died.
At the memorial I stood by Lucy. She was sobbing, “It’s all my fault.”
I reached out to lightly squeeze her fingers. I was sad, but also angry—angry with myself for not being the Good Samaritan, for not realizing Harry’s extremely fragile mental condition, for being absorbed by my life. I was also angry with Harry, for his insanely pedantic nature. He’d caused Lucy and me a great deal of grief we didn’t deserve.
“It’s not your fault,” I whispered to her. “Harry was missing a screw.”