by Geoff Gouveia

A black bandana barely conceals white bean sprout hair shooting out the sides. Clumsy hands tied the bandana. Hands that didn’t shake other hands because they belonged to someone who talked only to people he thought he saw around him. I sit here with my MacBook Pro bitten apple illuminating him, unable to see anyone other than those who exist. Here, in my temporary fenced-in electronic yard, I can stare at this new neighbor without fear of interaction. His features keep my attention as I wait for my drink to be called on the bar.

Underneath the black bandana and white spry hair hooks a wild nose. It is large and meets eyes withered by the sun. His brows connect in a pinch of skin. His cheeks are made of tan-colored rubber. The tobacco stained lips are offyellow. With spastic twitches the lips come alive, telling off the transparent trespassing spirit. These outbursts gain unwanted stares from the pseudo-neighbors in the coffee shop. They watch his neck slither in irregular motions, shifting side to side.

The snake that supports his head escapes from a faded red-orange sweater. The sun faded it pumpkin. The sight transports me to a particular first week of November in my childhood.

In front of my twelve-year-old self, the pumpkins sag into the concrete. Last night, I dressed like an undead Vampire. I, like all young boys, was still thirsty for the blood inside of a pumpkin. My unlucky victim would be on the front porch of the house to my diagonal left, Mr. Moore’s place.

Mr. Moore walked with a limp when he watered his pots of flowers, though actual life did not grow in the dirt. The pots had Celtic snakes wrapping around them in knots. In and out they wove themselves round the clay guarding a lack of internal life.

No one came to visit, ever, and the light never brightened the front room. My mother gave me cookies to bring him last week, right before the leaves turned and decorations unfolded. I rang the doorbell and began to dread what he would do to me for disturbing his weird routine. To the left, the window curtain receded and an eye peered at me. It shut as fast as it arrived. I rang the doorbell again and no answer returned my inquiry. I left the cookies near the dirt pots flanked by snakes and walked back home. From my front window, I spied him opening his door and scanning left to right. He stooped low and took the cookies into the house with his limp. The next day, a small pumpkin had found its way on his front porch.

He cut three sad holes into the runt of a pumpkin that adorned his porch. The two top holes were oblong slits and the bottom one elongated in a gaping mouth. It resembled Edvard Munch’s painting Scream I learned about in school. No floating arms by the ears, just a long face hollering for no one to hear. Halloween came and went without event at his place for the lights weren’t on. The next day, as I came home from school, I saw the victim in the distance.

The pumpkin, assaulted by the sun, depressed into the concrete, a mush that yelled for a young passerby to demolish it. I was that curious young passerby; I was the boy willing to end the holiday. When my faded blue vans collided with the soft orange, a vibration mirrored the sky Munch’s painting. The chunks flew everywhere and I laughed. What a mess, I thought as I ran home, Whatta genius I was for thinkin’ of kickin’ that. Mr. Moore came out of the house and stood on the front porch as I giggled behind my protective spy-barrier. The chunks were strewn across his lawn and trailed into the street. He couldn’t see the seeds dried on my shoes as they sat in the garage but I did see his face in frustration as he pushed over a snake pot. The door shut, leaving clay shards poking through lifeless innards.

12 years later, I sit staring at the bandana pumpkin sweater. His neck is the dirt pots, the celtic knots twisting in isolation. This Mr. Moore possesses the same anguish eyes when he banishes the fake beings around him. He is the Scream painting. In this suburban gallery, watching him I realize the content of the one-way conversations. They were cries for help but not even a whisper would be had over the soft hum of individual laptop housed individuals in the shop. In this cul-de-sac, we do not listen and we do not reduce his need for interaction.

The barista breaks the silence with my drink.

“Grande pumpkin spiced latte, to go!”

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