Joshua Patterson

I sat by my window, looking out on Summer Street, from the apartment I’d taken after Mary’s death. A potted ivy wilted on the sill. Green in the centre, brown around the edges. I’d never had much luck with plants since Mary’d gone. My pipe needed reaming too, but I couldn’t muster the energy even for that small task.

The sky was darkening with the promise of rain and I watched as the strange little man who lived down the hall came darting up the walk.  

 
No one knew who he was. He lived in our building but his mailbox was simply emblazoned, Occupied. He was a small man with merry little eyes, his features indistinct beneath an incredible growth of facial hair. His nose pushed out of that forest like the stump of a tree. Brown and weathered like the skin on the back of his hands, he must have spent all his time in the sun. I called him Mr. Occupied for lack of a better name.

Gravity did not seem to have the same effect on him as it did on ordinary people. He walked with a spring in his step as though at any moment he would sprout wings and take to the air. But he always carried an umbrella, a huge canopy of red, green and blue. It could shield a small crowd of people from the rain had he wanted it to but Mr. Occupied never had any visitors.

Most days he wore the most enormous galoshes. He’d tromp down the hall whistling like a tree full of birds. In fact, he did remind me of a bird—an incredibly hairy bird man.

The other residents avoided him like the plague. As with all who are different, I think they found him too disconcerting for their tastes. He ruffled their feathers, disturbed their quiet, stagnant pools. He was odd looking, I’ll give you that, but one look in those kind, bright eyes was enough to disarm the most hardened of cynics.

He had a habit of talking to himself too. Not the ramblings of the disturbed, but lively rhetorical statements. Life seemed to fill him to the brim until he could contain it no longer and it burst over the rim of his soul in a cascade of words, but no one seemed to look beyond his umbrella.

I discovered the oddest thing as I observed him. Mr. Occupied had, it seemed, an aversion to the rain that bordered on the paranoid. For all his evident preparation he scurried home whenever the humidity rose. You’d think with all his rain gear and birdlike demeanor he’d be hopping from puddle to puddle telling himself how much he loved the rain. Rather, he carefully avoided puddles and practically shrieked when a nearby tree decided to shed its load of water.

Odd and odder. Mr. Occupied consumed my attention. He was the strangest little fellow I’d ever met and, with nothing better to do, I kept close tabs on him.

It was mid-May and had been raining for four days. I was running desperately low on groceries and decided I had to brave the weather or starve. I descended to the foyer but stopped short. Between the front doors stood the little bird man in a bright yellow rain jacket, big rubber boots, a yellow rain hat and his enormous umbrella. He peered anxiously out at the driving rain, muttering to himself and shaking his bushy, yellow-capped head.

“No, no, no! This won’t do at all. All the rain, all the water, coming down, falling down. What’s a body to do when the sky is falling? Falling in big, fat drops. The road is wet, the walk wet, the trees are wet, this won’t do at all.”

Pushing open the first set of doors I ventured my first words to the little man, “What’s wrong, Mr. Occupied?” I cringed as I said my name for him. I’d been calling him that for so long it seemed natural as his real name.

The little man cocked his head at me and grinned despite the worry in his eyes. “Curious are we? Looking at people’s mailboxes. What if my name is Occupied? Wouldn’t that be a funny joke? The postman would get really confused, confusticated, bamboozled. But it’s wet outside. Maybe the postman won’t come. Do you think he’ll come? Do you?”
       

I smiled. “If he’s not on strike, he’ll be here. Maybe a little late, though. Traffic can’t be good.”
       

“Quite right, quite right. Through rain and snow and fog and hail and the sky falling, the postman always comes unless he’s on strike. No, this won’t do at all. Not at all.”
       

“What won’t do?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

“The rain won’t do, my good man. No, not one bit. Can’t go out in that. Wind’s blowing and gusting.” He shook his umbrella worriedly. “Won’t protect us, no, not with the wind gusting and blowing. Might blow away and then we’d be in the rain. In the rain without protection.”
       

“Would you like a ride? I can drive you wherever you need to go.”    
       

The little man turned and regarded me with a curious melancholy. “Very kind, but you’re not going where I’m going. You can’t come where I’m going and I won’t go where you’re going.”
       

“It’s no trouble, really.”
       

“Wouldn’t think of it, imposing. Imposing, impossible. Impossible imposing. Preposterous impossible imposing. Can’t do it. Can hardly say it. Can hardly say preposterous impossible imposing.” With that he hopped over to me and squeezed through the doors back into the building. “Will just have to wait!” he pronounced, punching the button for the elevator repeatedly. “Wait!”
       

And I did. I waited for the elevator to arrive before exiting the building. By now my curiosity was truly piqued. I opened my own umbrella and went out into the storm. A few yards down the street I nearly stepped on a pair of dandelions, bedraggled and sagging. They were utterly forlorn and I risked falling to avoid crushing them, heeding some obscure compulsion to not harm them.

The next day brought the end of the rain and I watched as Mr. Occupied shot out the door like a bird through an open window.
       

He skipped down Summer Street throwing his umbrella and catching it and whistling a cheerful tune. Shrugging into a jacket, I hurried to follow him. My curiosity was such that it overruled my good sense.
       

Straight down Summer Street he led me. It was not too hard to follow him for he appeared completely absorbed with the flora around him. He paused at a crack in the sidewalk—the very one at which I’d dodged the wilting dandelions—and I stopped, pretending to examine the antiques in the store window beside me.
       

Out the corner of my eye I watched the little man bend down and touch the flowers. He stood hunched for a moment, his chin whiskers bobbing merrily. Then, with a gentle gesture—as a father fondly patting his child’s head—Mr. Occupied resumed his hopping journey. I followed, intrigued.
       

When I drew up to the crack, the dandelions stared up at me brightly. Their stalks were straight now and their petals even and glowing with health.
       

Shaking my head, I followed Mr. Occupied’s lead to a rhododendron whose purple flowers bobbed and nodded and whose leaves were thick, whole and shiny. It was as though spring had stopped and nested in the bush, it was so vibrant. Something very odd was going on and Mr. Occupied was at the bottom of it.
       

I picked up my pace, trying to keep him in sight but despite his frequent pauses he drew ever further from me. I hardly noticed the white house whose daisies had grown so profusely I could barely see grass and whose dogwood trees had exploded into blossom.
       

The air was thick with the sweet perfume of honeysuckle as I turned at a jog onto Bridgend Street nearly tripping over a riotous growth of roses.
       

I realized then that I need not keep Mr. Occupied in sight. Follow the brightest colours on the street and there I would find him. I realized too that I had been so singular in my pursuit that the real miracle had thus far escaped me. Mr. Occupied was doing something. Which may not seem like much on the surface, but most people spend all their lives doing things that amount to very little. They exist in the illusion of accomplishing much while doing very little of any value.
       

And so, half in a dream, I walked from rose bush to tulips to violets to even a greening willow and wondered at how alive everything had become. Every petal trembled with life or budded with such potent virility I could scarcely contain it. It was as if everything had suddenly become new.
       

My feet carried me eagerly. Not for the catching of Mr. Occupied, but to see what further wonders he had wrought. Beyond this shrub, beyond this exquisite bloom, beyond this wild explosion of greenery.
       

At last, pushing my way through a forest of exultant sunflowers I caught sight of Mr. Occupied’s yellow hat bobbing in Bridgend Park, a place I’d spent many happy hours as a child. Into the deepest thicket he plunged as children laughed in the distance. I followed with a hunger I could finally name. It was youth, rebirth, spring in my old bones.
       

In the depths I could hear him muttering. I crept as near as I dared, my knees cracking alarmingly, but he was heedless. Through a screen of leaves I watched him reverently placing a seed in the soil.
       

“There you are, my pretty, my beauty. We’ll hide you here where no young rascals will pluck your tender leaves or pull you cruelly from your bed. My little oak, my mighty tree.”
       

I watched in wonder as a green shoot pushed a shy head up through a layer of dead leaves. Mr. Occupied’s whiskers drew back in an unmistakable smile. He rose and noisily bent overhanging branches away from the shoot’s path to the sun. I crouched as low as I could, praying he wouldn’t see me.
       

“Is that enough light, little prince of the forest?” he asked, crouching once more over the tender shoot. I breathed a sigh of relief. “You will one day be king, you know. The Acorn King and generations will find shelter and rest in your shade.” He spoke on, elaborating on the years of joy the tree would bring, the air it would create, the shelter it would provide. I crouched in rapt attention until the little man tromped out of the thicket.
       

I realized as I came back to myself that my legs had fallen asleep. Struggling to my feet, I made my way out of the thicket, careful to avoid the little oak. Mr. Occupied was nowhere in sight when I emerged.
       

One day, a week or so after I followed him, I contrived to meet him. I waited behind my door until I heard the elevator door open. Then, very casually, I stepped out of my apartment and locked the door. Looking up, I affected surprise at seeing him as he leapt from the elevator.
       

“Why, hello, Mr. Occupied. How are you today?”
       

He stopped short and looked up at me, his ragged beard trembling in vexation. “Ah, what? It’s you. Mr. Pre-Occupied, hello. Preoccupied with my comings and goings, arrivals and departures. Are you a spy? I paid my taxes last year. I did.”
       

I gave an embarrassed laugh. “I didn’t realize I was so obvious.”
       

“Obvious? No, you’re not obvious with your face pressed up against your window. At least you’re not following me yet. I’m sure that will follow, you following me, follow?”
       

I nodded a little confused and a whole lot guilty. “I was just curious—“
       

“Curiosity killed the cat. Run over by a truck while it was trying to get a dead mouse off the tire. Hunger killed the cat. What are you curious about?”
       

“Why you don’t like the rain.”
       

He shook his inevitable umbrella, for once at a loss for words. At last he said, “I don’t like the rain. Not one little bit. If I could wrap myself in plastic from head to toe and not suffocate I’d do it.” He whirled his free hand around his head. “Plastic here, here, here,” his hand descended all the way to his toes. The umbrella stood straight up while he bent over. “And here. Then I’d be safe. Look like a fool. But I’d be safe. What good’s breathing if you’re melting?”
       

“You think you’d melt if the rain touched you?” I held back a laugh, but by the look in his bright eyes I could tell he saw my mirth.
       

“I don’t think, I know!” he shouted, his bird voice echoing up and down the hall. “Scoff if you must, scoff, scoff, scoff. But each drip of rain as touches me might as well be acid. It burns, it hurts, it takes a piece of me away!” He pulled up the sleeve of his raincoat and shouted. “Look!”
       

My eyes widened and a shiver ran down my spine. His forearm was pocked with twenty little craters that had burned right to the bone. “Dear God,” I murmured.
       

“Don’t write a letter to Him, it’s much too slow. The postman is on strike.”
       

“Who?”
       

“The postman.”
       

“No, who shouldn’t I write a letter to?”
       

“God, you ninny! I’ve already asked Him, but He’s not in the habit of replying. Dying. Yes, I’m dying if the rain comes down on my poor brown skin.”
       

“So you’re allergic to water?”
       

“Not water, to rain. Rain is a pain. A pain on my skin, on my scalp, in my soul. They’ve poisoned it.”
       

“No one’s poisoned the rain. Why would you think that?”
       

“Oh, they’ve poisoned it all right,” said the little man, pulling down his sleeve. His eyes were suddenly very somber. “I’m the only one left. The others are gone.”
       

I didn’t understand anything he was saying, but I was wrenched by the heavy weight of sorrow in his voice. Instead of debating with him I said simply, “I’m sorry.”
       

“Yes, but you do drive a car,” he said and scuffed dejectedly to his apartment.
       

I unlocked my door and returned to my drab little apartment and was properly sad for a week. The little man’s dejection was so profound I felt myself caught up in it. Swept up in a mad little bird man’s fear of acid rain. But despite his silly rambling there was an air of great, eloquent simplicity about Mr. Occupied. Something I couldn’t shake. It wasn’t as though he saw things that weren’t there so much as saw things I couldn’t. I found myself longing to see what he saw.
       

The next few times I saw him, he avoided me, muttering and sliding along the wall opposite me with his bright eyes on the floor. It tore at my heart that I had so unwittingly hurt Mr. Occupied.
       

I determined to make it up to him. Lost in thought one evening as I drove home, I found myself passing Sherman’s Pet Store. Eureka! I thought. I’ll get him a sparrow, a companion he could talk to. A parrot would suit him better but I didn’t have that kind of money.
I walked past cage after cage of doves, canaries, cockatoos, parrots and finches. The girl at the counter told me there wasn’t any market for sparrows, but that’s what I wanted. Mr. Occupied reminded me of a sparrow. I asked her if there wasn’t any way to find a sparrow. She told me to look in the park. “Maybe feeding pigeons is more up your alley,” she said sulkily.
       

I drew myself up. “Now you listen here, young lady,” I began, but just then a stout man with a nametag that said “Sherman” emerged from the back. He saw my red face and asked if I needed help.  
       

“I want a sparrow for a friend of mine. It’s really important. Nothing else will do.”
       

Sherman rubbed a thick hand on the stubble at his throat. “Mr. Ling in Chinatown will have what you’re looking for. I’ll have him send one up for you. Come by tomorrow and your bird will be here.”
      

I thanked him profusely, scowled at clerk who smirked at me and drove home in triumph. To the northeast the sky was darkening with leaden clouds.
       

By noon the next day I had Mr. Occupied’s sparrow, a pretty speckled bird with bright eyes. I waited in an agony of excitement for him to appear. He had to come at any moment for the sky was thick with clouds. He did not disappoint. Soon I saw him scuttling towards the building in great haste. He made the doors just as the first fat drops came barreling down.
       

He stepped out of the elevator and leaned against the wall in relief. “That was close. Too close. Too much time in the leaves, the green leaves. Looking at the earth, paying no mind to the sky. Shouldn’t be my job anyway, the sky. Damn Nubes for dying, for going away. His job, not mine. Must do the work of two now. Not one. Two!”
He halted when he saw me, made a move as though to jump back in the elevator. Then he saw the sparrow.
       

His eyes brightened. “What have you got there in the cage? In the wicker cage, the pretty cage. A cousin, eh? And a fine one at that. How are you, little cousin?” he asked as he hopped closer. He’d forgotten me. The sparrow sang to him and he whirled and clapped. “The Chinese, eh? Lucky you’re not supper, little cousin! Or is it snakes they eat?” His eye shone as he looked up at me. “A right clever little fellow, isn’t he?”
       

I nodded. “He’s yours. I got him for you.”
       

“Oh, he’s not mine. He’s his. He’s his. Can’t own a bird, can’t catch a spirit. But I thank you for your thought. Your thought counts.” He took the cage from me gently and his bushy mustache drew up in a smile.
       

It wasn’t until he had entered his apartment talking to the sparrow that I realized he’d left his umbrella behind. It looked lost and limp without its bright little owner. I picked it up and leaned it against his door frame. Through the door I could hear him singing.
       

I was thrilled to be back in his good graces. Grinning, I returned to my apartment and sank into my favorite chair. I spent the afternoon smoking my pipe and watching the clouds gather. I could see downtown from my window and realized I had never paid attention to the colors before. The buildings glowed a rich copper, their lights a warm gold against the gloom of the sky. I put my pipe on the table and laid my head back.
       

I was awakened by a shout in the hallway. Rain beat against the window; the apartment was dark. I went to the door just in time to see Mr. Occupied dashing into the elevator. Glancing down the hallway I saw to my horror that his umbrella was still there.
       

“Wait!” I cried to the closing elevator door and ran for the umbrella. The door snicked shut before I made it back. I banged on it in frustration.
       

“Will you shut up!” yelled my neighbor, glaring out of his apartment. “It’s ten-thirty for God’s sake!”
       

“Then write Him a letter!” I yelled.
       

He stopped. “Who?”
       

“God!”

“Aw, for cryin’ out loud,” he said and slammed his door.
       

The elevator slid open but it was empty. I punched the lobby button. “C’mon, c’mon.”
       

The lobby was empty but the front doors were swinging wide. I ran out into the wild night. “Mr. Occupied!” I cried. “Mr. Occupied!”
       

My neighbor threw open his window. “Shut up, you old fart, or I’ll call the cops!”
       

“Mr. Occupied!”

I heard a faint wavering cry at the corner of the building. I ran, slipping on the wet grass. When I got there the little birdman had nearly expired. His beard was gone, the rain cruelly pocking the fair skin beneath, marring his newly revealed features. His face—what little I could make out—was pale and gentle. He had concealed an otherworldly beauty behind his mask of whiskers. He cradled his dead sparrow in cratered hands. I held the umbrella over him but knew it was too late to save the little man.
       

“I let him out to fly free and fly. But he came back, the little bird, he came back,” he sobbed. “I closed the window. Shut it hard to keep out the rain. He saw my light, came flying back. My little friend came flying back, but the window came between him and me. Me and him.” He was gasping now, finding it hard to breathe. One side of his face was completely ruined. “He hit the window so hard. So hard. So hard.” He wept over the little body, rocking back and forth. “Poor little bird. Poor little—“ he toppled over.
       

“Poor little bird,” I finished, my tears mixing with the rain. I looked down. There was nothing left of Mr. Occupied but his rain jacket, his shoes and old woolen trousers. The dead sparrow’s little carcass lay cradled between the empty yellow sleeves and the rain kept pouring down.
       

I buried him near the park under a headstone that said “Occupied” but it wasn’t true. Wherever Mr. Occupied was it was certainly not in a grave. It was just his rain gear and the dead sparrow in a small wooden box. It was wrong to do anything else with the clothes he’d left behind.
       

It was a simple ceremony of one. I stood in my Sunday best and wished the mysterious, magical little Mr. Occupied well wherever he was. Then I turned toward home.
       

Something—a slight stir in the air, a sudden potency—made me look back. I laughed and my eyes burned as I saw what had become of his grave in moments. It was festooned with living flowers. The wild ones: violets, bluebells, pale roses, and forget-me-nots. His stone was covered in a living veil of ivy.
       

I turned, with every intention of going home, but found myself instead at the oak sapling I’d watched him plant. Mr. Occupied’s prince of the forest. But a prince it would forever remain. Never a king. Mr. Occupied claimed that title. He was the true Acorn King, a rough little green man.
       

I walked back down Summer Street with honeysuckle in the air, flowers bursting with colour and the distinct impression that I was not alone. I smiled and remembered that my pipe needed reaming. If I was going to get a decent smoke out of it, I’d better clean it up.