THE DOOR

By Toney Atkins
     The email was short and to the point. Terry had died. The bearer of the news didn't know any of the details -- just that Terry was dead.
     Terry was my across-the-hall neighbor at my last residence in Daytona Beach. He lived alone, with the exception of a TV, usually tuned to news, sports or poker, his cabinet packed with VHS tapes, a jar that seemed to be packed with a never ending supply of quarters, a carton of cigarettes in a chest, bottles of liquor and more bottles full of pills.
     My first encounter with Terry came the day I first saw the small room that I was to call home for a couple of years. After I paid the landlord the deposit and the initial rent payment, he told me I could wait in my soon-to-be abode to be out of the hot summer sun until the next inbound bus came by. (I wouldn't be moving in until a week later.)
     I felt uncomfortable in the room, which was full of the packed belongings that were waiting for the previous occupant to return for them. I was relieved when the time approached for the bus to come to the stop at the nearby highway.
     As I walked up the road, a black pickup truck pulled beside me and stopped. The driver was a man who appeared to be in his 50s or 60s and his unfriendly eyes were glaring from a glaring face.
     "Who're you?" he demanded. I gathered that he must be one of the residents of the rooming complex, so (instead of telling him what I thought he should do to himself) I told him that I was going to be living in the main building of the complex. He still seemed suspicious as he seemed to memorize my face before driving off without saying anything else. Great welcome, I thought, wondering if I had made a mistake in moving to that almost countrified area outside the city limits. At least, we apparently had a Neighborhood Watch, I thought.
     After I moved in, I eventually met most of the neighbors, including an official introduction to Terry. He still seemed uncertain about me -- probably for good reason after I got to know the other people and heard all the gossip about current and previous tenants.
     He warmed a bit after I socialized for a short time with the entire gang for one of their weekly drinking and smoking gatherings in the pool area. I never knew when he would respond whenever I greeted him as he passed in the hall. There were frequent knocks on his door as one or two of the guys stopped in to chat, to borrow money or to bum cigarettes. The longest resident there, he pretty much stayed in his homey room, leaving only to go to the store for groceries, lottery tickets and alcohol or to spend some time at the dog track.
     Gradually, we started having brief conversations if his door was open when I passed. He was always good for quarters if I needed change for the Coke machine, and I could always buy a pack of cigarettes from him if I didn't want to walk to the nearest store about a mile or so away.
     We shared problems with back pain and high blood pressure. I was to learn that he had suffered a serious back injury years earlier and that he was in constant pain. He also had other ailments, and the more I knew him, the more I was bothered by his mixing of serious pain medication and alcohol.
     Terry was a sad, bitter man, and he seemed to be very lonely. He knew just about everything that was going on around the place, but he would say only so much.
     I was known for not being social, although I was friendly to any of the fellow tenants with whom I came into contact. They were deep-down good people. Like Terry, I preferred my own company.
     Before I came to Georgia when my dad suffered one of the first of many serious illnesses that were to lead to his death, some concerned neighbors knocked on my door to inquire as to whether I knew what was wrong with Terry -- why an ambulance had picked him up early that morning. No one, including myself, had seen him for two or three days. There had been no knocks at his door in the hallway. When I had passed the door, I hadn't heard the TV, so I assumed he was sleeping because his hours were odd as were mine. It turned out that he apparently had lain on the floor for a couple of days without calling out. Whether he had been conscious or unconscious, I never knew. I regretted that I hadn't knocked or called out to him to say hello or to see if he was okay. I heard he returned home from the hospital nearly two months later, after I had returned to Georgia to care for my dying father.
     Though he was eccentric and mostly grumpy, I could relate because I was (and am) myself and, when it came down to it, I liked him. He was a decent man, probably with no more faults than the rest of us.
     When I learned of his death a few days ago, I was sad. I wondered if he was alone in his room when he passed away and how long he might have been there before anyone found him. I wondered if, on the other hand, he suffered alone in a hospital or nursing home. I wondered if anyone told him they loved him before he died.
     God bless you, Terry. You're no longer lonely. You're no longer in pain. You no longer have to wonder if or when someone will knock on the door, caring whether or not you're okay. I'm glad I knew you, Terry. Rest in peace.
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