The Man Who Isn’t There

What if you never saw your neighbor? Is he actually there at all? What is he like? Did you ever consider he isn't there? No? Well, can you prove that?

In the center of a town, in the center of a state, in the center of a country, there is a building. A building in the center of a block, in the center of a long street. On the top floor in the furthest apartment away from the elevator, apartment 721, was a man. Everyone knew he was there. He was a long time resident who had outstayed everyone else in the building, even the previous eight landlords. They all knew him as Mr. Joshua. Nothing more or less than that. It was the sort of presence where you did not need confirmation that he lived there. The other people in the building knew what an empty apartment felt like: dark, cold and distant. However, you could feel the imperceptible warmth of life emanating from the door. No one had ever stepped foot into the room. No one needed to. No one had ever been invited. Perhaps if they did enter, it would take all of the charm out of the figure of Mr. Joshua. So, the residents were reserved to speak of him in hushed tones over half empty bottles of wine and cautious smiles. 

“I heard that he is engaged.”

“Oh really, Janice? Do you also think he has children too?”

Janice, a short yet sprawling woman, spread her being across the old brown couch in the center of Vanessa’s apartment. The apartment, into which she had admitted herself, was adorned with borderline obsessive images of turtles in every crevice. Vanessa handed her a large glass of chardonnay and took her usual place in the dirty white armchair. “Or do you think that Mr. Joshua is waiting for marriage?”

Janice took the glass with a grateful glance. “Well, naturally. He always said you have to wait till marriage. Why do you think I don’t have kids yet?”

Vanessa took a sip from her glass, a sly smile pushing through crimson lips. “Because you never could keep a guy.” 

Janice playfully kicked her friend in the leg. Vanessa did the same and they laughed. When their raucous howls died down, Vanessa stood up and slithered to the fridge. She stood there for a moment in the electric light before returning with a cola. “Who do you think he would be engaged to anyway?”

“Probably a tall blond.”

“His type is brunettes. I stand by that.”

Janice scoffed and the red liquid was brought to her mouth once more. “Shows what you know. Short men always like tall women and guys with green eyes always like blonds.”

Vanessa cracked open the small red can. “Oh please. It seems that you haven’t even met him. Being tall comes with liking brunettes. She is probably shorter than him as well. She might even have glasses. Who knows?”

Janice drained the glass and poured herself another. “Now it sounds like you wish he was in love with you.”

“Who wouldn’t? I have heard he is quiet and charming. Quite the gentleman.”

“He is a party animal.”

“Do you have proof?”

“Do you?”

This was not the first time that Mr. Herbet had been to this building. His mail duties brought him here quite often. Most of the letters that did, were addressed to an old gentleman in apartment 721 by the name of Mr. Joshua. He looked at the assortment he had today. A letter for Janice Goodman, a small package for Matthew Long, a couple of large parcels for Maury Barbos, and twenty letters for Mr. Joshua. Despite coming by so often, Mr. Herbet had never actually met Mr. Joshua. It seemed he was often away when he made his deliveries. He hoped to ask him what it was he did all day. However, when he reached the top floor, it seemed that he was out once again as the light was not visible through the peephole as it was with all the other apartments. He bent down to look through the mail slot but found that his back ached and so he straightened up again. No matter, the mailman did his duty and stuffed the letters through the mail slot one by one. He wondered if he ever read all of the letters. Surely he must, when you get so many you must have a correspondence with a lot of people. Mr. Herbet considered this then thought it odd that, if he was talking with so many people, why were there never any letters going out? He considered, even if it was for a moment, knocking on the door. But, the moment came and went. As did Mr. Herbet and the apartment became dormant once more.

“I heard whispering last night.”

“Joe, we have been over this. You are not hearing whispers. Did you take your medication?” 

Joe leaned over a carefully adorned table and a bowl of steaming stew which had been served only seconds before. “I did. There were whispers from across the hall.”

Maury did not look up as he tucked his napkin into his dress shirt. “Joe… don’t lie to me.”

“I did. I’m telling you I did. Listen to me Maury, it was that creepy apartment again. Mr. Joshua was speakin nonsense last night.”

Maury finished tucking in the makeshift bib and flashed an understanding smile at Joe. Without another word, he picked up his spoon and dipped it into the broth. 

“I see.”

Joe sunk back into his seat. “You don’t believe me.”

Maury sipped the stew and spit it out. “It's too hot.”

Joe did similar. “Maury… we have known each other for over ten years now, why won’t you believe me when I say I heard him.”

Maury poured a small bit of his iced water into the stew. “Eleven actually, and I believe you heard whispers but I don’t believe that it was Mr. Joshua speaking. He doesn’t even exist.”

Joe’s hand slipped and he knocked the contents of his wine glass into the stew causing it to overflow. “What do you mean ‘doesn’t exist’? Of course he exists. Why would the apartment be empty?”

“It is empty, Joe. Look, no one has ever talked to him. No one has seen anyone leave or enter that apartment. No one has ever even met the man. Now, if you want to say he is there then by all means go for it. But I refuse to entertain the notion that there is a nearly, if not completely, invisible man living in apartment 721. Let alone that he was speaking gibberish last night just loud enough for you to hear even though I was in the same room as you. Now, eat your stew Joe.”

They ate in the choked silence. Maury could feel those eleven years of trust splitting at the seams. “Hey, Joe?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m sorry for getting angry.”

“I know Maury.”

“It's just that…”

“I know Maury.”

“Do you want to watch a movie tonight?”

“Sure, Maury.”

“You can pick.”

“It’s ok Maury. We can watch Clint Eastwood again.”

“I know you didn’t like his stuff.”

“I like that you like it, Maury.”

“Alright, we can do that. Ok?”

“Sure.”

A woman hit the door. Once then twice. Then three times, flinging her thin frame against that of the white painted wood. On the fourth time, the number ‘2’ fell out of 721 leaving only the ‘7’ and the ‘1’ still in place. “Take me back!” 

She screamed through the mail slot at the room beyond. There was no answer. “Please! I swear that I will be better this time!” 

She began to cry, cold tears streaking down her cheeks as she slid down the door and onto the carpeted ground. For an hour, she sat with her head against the door. Every so often, she would hit her forehead against the wood. These slams were met with indifferent silence. People watched from peepholes and half open doors yet no one said a word. They were too stunned to speak. This was not the first time someone had done this, there were still scratch marks from the numerous times before, and it will not be the last. However, it was always a different person and they never came back. Perhaps they thought that once was enough. Maybe they had wanted to return but forgot to. Maybe they forgot where they wanted to go. Either way, she was here and she was disrupting the sleep of the tenants with her wailing. 

There was a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see a young man with sea blue eyes that bore into hers. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing miss…?”

She pushed away the tears and began to stand, supporting herself on the doorknob. “Oh, uh…Laura. Miss Laura. And I am doing… nothing.”

The young man helped her to her feet. “Well, excuse me but that did not look like nothing. Name is Paul by the way. So, Laura, why were you bangin on that empty apartment’s poor door?” 

She sniffed. “It ain’t like it's strange. People do it all the time. It also ain’t empty. There’s a man in there. A man who broke my heart.”

Paul shifted his weight from right foot to left. “I have never seen this before but I will allow it. How did a man who does not exist, who I think does not exist, break your heart? Ghosts don’t usually do things like that.”

Laura fiddled with her hands. “There is a man in there, his name is Mr. Joshua. He is no ghost, I assure you. I asked him to set me up with a good man, one who wouldn’t abuse me like the others. He said yes and sent me Noah. Me and Noah got married, you see, and it was a beautiful day. Two months later, he became a drunk. He tore up furniture, kicked my cat, and beat me and my lil baby Oliver. I know I did somethin wrong to deserve this, I just know it. Mr. Joshua did me wrong and it was all because I was bad. I was a worker at a club. But I- I quit, you see. I used to do the bad stuff and I quit that too. I thought I was doin what was right but no. I am a dirty woman.”

Paul, being kind-hearted, offered to walk her home but she pushed his hand aside. “If Mr. Joshua can’t help me, then I don’t think you can. Thank you though. I feel better.” 

She gave him a quick hug before hobbling off down the hall and into the elevator. She was, of course, lying. She didn’t feel any better. The hurt had shifted. Not gone away. She walked into the rain outside without any intent on going anywhere. She had resigned herself to wander the streets and she did just that. All night and day she walked. She walked across streets, passed cars, and down alleys. Eventually she walked herself off a bridge and into the cold water which she found to be warmer than the air. She floated downstream away from life. She felt a strange sense of ennui in the gray sky above. Laura accepted it and let it be, just for now. 

When he had moved in, he had been told about 721. Some people said “Don’t go towards that apartment, Matthew. It's evil.” 

Others said just the opposite. That it was a place to find yourself in the silence. All of these words kept him awake at night. Everyday, he would step out of his apartment and look at the door down the hall. Some days, he would walk up to it and put his ear to the door to hear the profound nothingness beyond. Each time, he would contemplate trying the knob and every time he would walk away and to work. 

Then, on a blustery Tuesday in the middle of the winter, he decided he had enough of being a coward and marched his feet to the door. First he knocked. There was no answer. He looked through the mail slot. Something blocked his vision. He checked the peep hole. It was dark. Finally, he tried the knob and found that the door was unlocked but something was blocking his way. Pushing, he was met with immense resistance. As the door got further into the apartment, something began to spill through the door frame: letters. In the beginning there were only a couple but then they began to fall out in droves. Hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions of unopened envelopes falling out of the door. 

When he had made the entrance wide enough, Matthew slipped through. He was met by a floor that was entirely made of letters at least a foot deep surrounded by sterile egg shell shaded walls. There was no furniture, no lights, no Mr. Joshua. The only thing in the apartment were letters. Curious, he began to open them. As he opened and read more and more, patterns began to emerge in each one. There were two types of letters. Those that were wanting something from the mysterious Mr. Joshua, and those that thanked him for what they had got. Thousands of different names with unique handwriting all with the same general themes. Some were begrudgingly asking for money or a job, others wanted love, some even wanted to die and yet all of them went unanswered. 

Suddenly, as a wave crosses the sand, Matthew was struck by a feeling that he did not belong here. That he had to leave as quickly as possible. With hands moving as if they were not his, he penned a note on the back of a blank white envelope. In shaking handwriting, it read: “Dear Mr. Joshua, It’s Matthew down the hall. Who are you?” 

Throwing the note on top of the pile, he swam his way through the sea of paper to the door. Pushing the envelopes back into the apartment, he forced the door shut. Perhaps there were some things he was not meant to know. He then went to work and never spoke of the letters or the empty apartment again. If he couldn’t understand then no one else would.