Neighbor

I watched them, one box at a time. Clothes, towels, and blankets were tossed into garbage bags and thrown into the hallway without a second thought about how people would get out if the fire alarm started screaming. I peered into the doorway on my way down to the laundry room. Boxes stacked like children’s blocks, waiting for the child I never saw to knock them down. Furniture, some broken, others stained, cluttered the apartment. A couch sat in the middle of the living room with a large dark stain. I watched as the cleaning crew shoved my neighbor’s dress pants into a bag sitting on the couch. I hadn’t smelled him in a couple of days.

One Saturday morning, I saw him. His hair was damp, and his clothes were lightly stained, the type of clothes you would wear on laundry day. I walked in while he was sorting through his clothes, picking out which pairs of his work pants he wanted to hang dry in his apartment. I caught a glimpse of a few t-shirts and long-sleeved shirts with dinosaurs and monster trucks on them. There were a few pairs of mini jeans and socks to go along with them. He would toss them into the dryer with his button-up shirts, underwear, and the few pairs of jeans he decided to wash that week. 

I saw him every Saturday morning after my first laundry day in my new apartment. Each Saturday, I walked in on him sorting through the clothes, pulling out the knock-off version of Tom Ford dress pants. Each week, the number of boys' clothes grew, and the less he cared about his dress pants. He tossed them in, watching them tumble around the dryer for a moment before leaving to hike back up the stairs. He watched with tears dripping softly onto his stained t-shirt. That was all I saw him in after that: a stained t-shirt and sweatpants. His hair was greasy, not from hair gel that he may have used on the days he went to work, but from sweat and dirt. I stopped seeing his dress pants spin around with his button-up shirts, mixing around with mini jeans and t-shirts with cars and dinosaurs on them. All I saw were the boy’s clothes, worn out and faded, yet perfectly clean with not so much as a stain.

I stood in the hallway, trying to figure out the best path through the towering boxes and hills of garbage bags. The boxes were filled with knick-knacks, kids' toys, and picture frames with a woman with curly red hair and a little boy with dark curls resting just over his eyes. Her smile was brighter than her blue eyes, and the little boy wore a red shirt with an orange Triceratops printed on the front. Another photo was of my neighbor and the little boy wearing matching blazers, standing outside of a restaurant with two large double doors trimmed in gold, surrounded by white flowers.

The laundry room was empty that Saturday morning, like it was the week before. No small socks were tumbling in the dryer mixed with mini t-shirts and jeans. My neighbor wasn’t at the table, sorting through his clothes, nor was his wife or the boy I’ve never seen.