He watered his plants every morning at 7. It was the same time that my son left for school. I would observe him while waiting with my son at the bus-stop. His house was the one right next to ours.
He had to hold onto the hose with both hands to keep it from shooting off from his grip. The splashing water always left the front of his night shirt wet. The wet shirt clung to his bones; a white cloth covering the corpse. The plants weren’t particularly pretty and despite the daily watering they didn’t look too pleased either.
No one knew his name but a lot of people sarcastically called him Captain. A few years ago when he had moved into the neighbourhood, he lied to the people there about having served in the army. One day when a relative of his heard this, he sheepishly informed everyone that the man, in fact, had worked in a drug store. The relative was quick to add, “He’s not crazy or anything. Just a little strange.” He watered his plants with the same vengeance that he took his evening walks. In both cases, he had a sour expression on his face.
The muttering grew louder as the days went by. Some days he’d yell at his plants for having littered. On other days, he expressed deep disappointment in them for not having cured his wife. I once saw him throw the hose angrily into one of the bushes screaming, “Take it! Take all my water! When I die of thirst, you can sing at my funeral!”
He bought milk from the store on our street. He never bought anything else. I wondered what he ate. No vegetables, no meat. No delivery boy was ever seen near his house. One packet of milk every other day. He had no friends. The relative who had called his bluff hadn’t made an appearance after that.
They found him dead in the garden one morning. When I came out to drop my son, I saw a few men standing around in his garden. I went over to speak to them. One of them had seen him in his garden earlier that day, clutching at this neck screaming, “Stop strangling me, you rascals. After all that I did for you!” He had collapsed soon after. The thin pulse that the men felt had vanished almost immediately.
Lined along the garden wall, we found a dozen half empty milk bags, the milk running off in careless streams into the soil. The hose whizzed around the garden, snaking backwards, unable to contain the water and the commotion.
He had to hold onto the hose with both hands to keep it from shooting off from his grip. The splashing water always left the front of his night shirt wet. The wet shirt clung to his bones; a white cloth covering the corpse. The plants weren’t particularly pretty and despite the daily watering they didn’t look too pleased either.
No one knew his name but a lot of people sarcastically called him Captain. A few years ago when he had moved into the neighbourhood, he lied to the people there about having served in the army. One day when a relative of his heard this, he sheepishly informed everyone that the man, in fact, had worked in a drug store. The relative was quick to add, “He’s not crazy or anything. Just a little strange.” He watered his plants with the same vengeance that he took his evening walks. In both cases, he had a sour expression on his face.
The muttering grew louder as the days went by. Some days he’d yell at his plants for having littered. On other days, he expressed deep disappointment in them for not having cured his wife. I once saw him throw the hose angrily into one of the bushes screaming, “Take it! Take all my water! When I die of thirst, you can sing at my funeral!”
He bought milk from the store on our street. He never bought anything else. I wondered what he ate. No vegetables, no meat. No delivery boy was ever seen near his house. One packet of milk every other day. He had no friends. The relative who had called his bluff hadn’t made an appearance after that.
They found him dead in the garden one morning. When I came out to drop my son, I saw a few men standing around in his garden. I went over to speak to them. One of them had seen him in his garden earlier that day, clutching at this neck screaming, “Stop strangling me, you rascals. After all that I did for you!” He had collapsed soon after. The thin pulse that the men felt had vanished almost immediately.
Lined along the garden wall, we found a dozen half empty milk bags, the milk running off in careless streams into the soil. The hose whizzed around the garden, snaking backwards, unable to contain the water and the commotion.
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