Misdelivered

I used to live next door to Charles L Martin III.

I know this because three to four times a month, like clockwork, for six years, I would inadvertently get some form of mail addressed to him.

I also received mail for Charlie Martin, Chuck L Martin, Cheech Marin, and, “or current resident.”

These I opened. Because, well, best I could tell, Charlie was about 90 years old and I didn’t give a fuck.

How long was he actually going to live anyway?

I wasn’t alone in this little game of postal pickle, as I would just as routinely catch Charlie shuffling up to my porch, either through the shadow movement in my blinds, or the buzzing of my ever-faithful Ring doorbell.

“Shit. Here he is again. I can’t do this today,” rinse and repeat, almost like a bad sitcom, adored by dozens and canceled after four painstaking episodes.

What made the entire situation so comical, and tragic, was that we used to live in one of those quiet communities where the mailboxes are centrally located, and there were actual drop boxes where you could reinsert any letters, bills, or warrants mistakenly delivered to your ancient homeowner next door.

Charlie wasn’t having it though. That wasn’t in the spirit of being a good neighbor, so any time our inefficient handler would carelessly toss our parcels into the wrong box, here came Charlie honorably making the effort to ensure everyone received what was rightfully theirs.

I had to say I grew to admire this in him, even though I never so much as belched in his direction for the first four and a half years we lived next to each other.

Every Saturday morning I would inexplicably have some unfinished project that warranted my attention: sharpening blades on my Dixie Chopper, paint chips on my siding, weeds over taking my postage stamp of a yard, ironically enough.

On more than one occasion, I’d notice Charlie slinking down his short driveway, stopping at the entrance to look both ways, waving in my direction, and wandering on over to the postal island.

Most times I acted like I didn’t notice, but if he happened to turn in my direction and I knew I was busted, I’d manage a waggle of some sort, before turning my attention back to that corner of paint that needed touching up, or nail just dying to to get driven by my hammer.

Seasons would pass and it became a habit to look for Charlie every single day, even Sunday. And, as reliable as the First Baptist Church, chiming in the noontime hour, there he was.

It was as if he weren’t allowed to go before, or after, this declaration of midday, and he was always on time, like clockwork, and ALWAYS alone.

In all my years of “knowing” him, I don’t recall ever witnessing a single person walking in or out of his house. Certainly no one that stuck out for any reason, other than an infrequent delivery from Amazon, or the shuttle for the local wellness center.

I always assumed that was just to get him to and from his appointments, but never bothered to ask.

Then, a funny thing happened one day.

There was a pretty severe storm moving through our area, with hella lightning, thunder, and a torrential downpour we hadn’t witnessed in those parts for the better part of two years, but had needed for at least five.

I peered though my blinds to catch a brief glimpse of Mother Nature proving once and for all that she is still the one in charge, and in a flash of lightning that lit up our cozy little corner of the world, I saw him.

Illuminated as if he were on a stage, singing for thousands of raindrops, cheering him on, in an endless, emotional, show of adoration.

A spotlight focused intently on that same hat, jacket, and old gray beard that gave him the appearance of a roadie for ZZ Top.

Charlie, taking that same walk, if you can call it a walk-undeterred, because it was time and he had a job to do.

I watched him ease his way onto the concrete platform from the curb, water careening in every direction around his feet.

When he open his box, I noticed him glance down, focus, then re-focus, before offering a knowing glance in my direction, shrugging his shoulders, then ambling back toward my home, just about 50 yards off course from his typical intended direction, a patch of trampled brown grass to the west.

As he reached for my doorbell, I decided to do the neighborly thing, the RIGHT thing, and open the door to my guest.

I believe this move startled poor Charlie because he stumbled backward just enough that I was sure he was about to take a swim in what had now become a washed out rut in my front yard.

He regained his composure, however, somewhat deftly to my surprise, before I greeted him for the very first time in either of our lives, “Mr. Martin, I certainly wouldn’t expect you to bring my mail on a day like today. Thank you.”

“I assume you’re “D”? What kind of a name is D anyway?” I expected this reaction based on the fact that he had every appearance of being one of the last holdovers of the Greatest Generation, and took no offense.

“That’s a long story, and I’m not sure we have the time…,” I started before being cut off, mid-sentence.

“I’ve got all the time in the world young man. What I don’t have is another dry stitch of clothing on my body. Would it be ok with you if we continued this captivating conversation inside your house?” He barked.

Again, I was not offended, but clearly the patience meter was wearing on his frail frame.

“Certainly. How rude of me. May I take your coat?”

This made us both laugh at the ridiculousness of the question, given the circumstances, but proved to be the ice breaker both of us needed, to forge what, we did not realize at the time, was a very important, meaningful, relationship.

“I didn’t mean to leave you standing in the rain. You must be freezing. Let me get you a towel and blanket to dry off and warm yourself up. I’ll put on some soup, too. I’m kinda hungry and it might actually help your teeth to stop chattering.”

He smiled again and replied, “Son, if I chatter too hard we’ll be spending the rest of the afternoon trying to find my teeth. They aren’t the ones God gave me and he took my eyesight with it. Don’t ever get old.”

I stared at him for a few seconds, taking in the wrinkles that must have had some story to tell, filled with every experience and emotion you can imagine, before he steered me back to reality, “You think I could get that blanket? I’m not getting any younger standing here banging my knees together. I could break something you know.”

“Yes, of course. I apologize. I just can’t believe we’ve never really formally met, after all of this time,” I continued as I opened the door to the linen closet and collected a towel and quilt for the first real houseguest I had been blessed by in some time, invited or not.

“Well, it wasn’t for lack of trying I can assure you. We’ve been bringing each other our mis-delivered mail for quite a few years now…D,” he remarked, as he studied my face for a reaction, clearly seeking an answer.

“It’s Darren. My name is Darren, but I think I’ve only heard 2 people call me that in my lifetime-my father, but he was REALLY pissed at me, sorry for my french, and my first grade teacher, Ms. Armstrong. And that was on the first day of school. From that day on, it was just D. It is what it is, and it just stuck,” I offered, giving him the CliffsNotes version of how my Christian name went into the tank.

“Well, Darren, I will respect the fact that you were provided with a suitable name, and will refer to you in this manner, until we are friends, or you say otherwise.”

“Thank you, Mr. Martin. I appreciate your kindness,” I responded, touched by this kind but unnecessary gesture.

“My friends call me Chuck. Have for years.”

“Ok then, Chuck,” I answered prematurely as it turns out.

“You can call me Mr. Martin. Now how about that soup?”

I shook my head as I passed him, and lead him into my small, yet suitably comfortable kitchen.

And that is how it all began.

The forging of a relationship that neither of us knew could be this fascinating, but both of us needed to refuel our souls.

We sat there for hours that day, him talking about his life, and what had brought him to this place.

Me listening, mostly, rapt by his recollections of a time I could not relate to, but yearned to experience nonetheless.

I cracked a Shiner, and offered him one.

“No thank you, son. I haven’t had one of those in nearly 40 years. Sweet tea is my vice these days. I don’t suppose you have any of that lying around, do you?” He challenged me.

“No, but I make a mean K-cup.”

Clearly this was lost on him, judging by the quizzical look that crossed his worn, weathered features.

“How about some coffee?” I tried again.

“That sounds wonderful, Darren.”

And so it went.

All day long, and into the night. We had lost track of time, and neither one of us cared.

He needed it. I needed it. And this was just the beginning.

Over the next few months I saw Mr. Martin nearly every day, stopping to wave, share a quick story and, yes, continue our duty of handing off those mis-delivered items that still arrived as scheduled.

It was if our carrier wasn’t necessarily inept after all, but providing us with an opportunity to cultivate something meaningful that we both had required for a very long time, and had ignored just as equally, as men are oft to do.

Like this wasn’t some random, chance, mishap, but something else meant to be.

I don’t believe in much, but I believe this.

Paths cross with intent.

We meet the people we are destined to change in some way, when the timing is right.

The timing of this province proved to be so,  when one day, it was revealed to me when I knocked on his door, enthusiastically holding a gallon of the finest, sweetest, tea in west Texas and I asked if he had some time to help me empty a jug.

He smiled weakly and held the door for me, as he managed, “Yes, Darren. Please come in.”

It was this day he revealed his deepest, most personal inner thoughts.

I knew instinctively there was a reason, and it wasn’t necessarily going to be anything I was prepared to accept.

He recounted his time in the military, when he served in two wars, Korea and Vietnam, and had been awarded the Purple Heart, and Silver Star as a result of his honorable service.

He spoke briefly of his son and daughter, both of whom had been estranged for many years as a result of his absence upon returning from overseas.

He blamed himself. I assured him he was human.

What stuck with me the most, however, was how he spoke of his wife-married 57 years to the one person he was tied to on this earth. The one who gave him hope in the darkest hours of despair, in those jungles, and even during a short stint as a POW. He honored her with story after story of how she was the rock, his reason for being here, above all else. His “Why” as we yunguns like to call it.

And then she was gone. Stolen when the evils of Alzheimer’s robbed him of those remaining years. The years he was “owed”, because he had so much to give back to her.

This was the reason for the trips in the medical vans, on those days I would see it parked across the way.

They were delivering him to visit her bedside, in those last weeks, when she had completely forgotten the years, and sacrifice, she had been bound to by his choices in life.

The hours spent on those rides asking the “what-if’s” that so many only have the courage to ask when it’s too late.

Until the van stopped coming, he said, because she had unceremoniously passed.

The one who truly deserved the medals and honor guard, and acknowledgment of a life well lived, but died a shell of herself.

And now this.

“Darren, I’m dying.”

“They told me about a year ago, around the time you and I met, that I had approximately six months to live. I told them they were full of shit. Please pardon MY french.”

I sat there in stunned silence as he took a sip of his ice cold tea.

“I don’t have much longer. I know because I can feel it. And that’s okay.”

Tears began welling in my eyes before the dam finally broke.

“But I couldn’t let those bastards have their way, because I had just met you, and I grew to love and appreciate our visits, and they sustained me.”

“I’m fine now, because the connection I found in you, I’ve only had a handful of times in this life of mine. I consider it a success after everything, but I realize I needed this final chapter to let go. I appreciate you spending your time with me, Darren, and giving me a chance”

“Please call me D, Mr Martin. It would mean a lot to me if you would.”

“Ok, D. Now get yourself on home. You’re a mess. I’ll see you tomorrow, and every day after, until “then”,” he smiled wistfully as he reached out a trembling hand to shake mine.

“Oh, wait, I almost forgot. I have something for you, and it was important I give it to you in person” he said as he disappeared for a few moments before coming back and handing me a card, sealed, with the name “Darren” written on it, then all letters crossed out except one. “Now go. And whatever you do, do NOT open that until I am gone.”

“I promise, Mr. Martin,” I replied shakily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

At around 2am that night I was awoken by flashing lights on our street. I stepped out into my drive to recognize there was an ambulance and two fire trucks in front of the house next door. Standard, I assume, for calls like this in the middle of the night, but unnerving, because I understood immediately.

He knew tomorrow would not come. He had said what he needed to say before finally letting go and accepting it was his time. And he had chosen to spend those final moments with me, the person he had grown closest to in his final days, and who took the time to listen.

With tears streaming down my face, I turned and walked back into the house. The card was propped up on the mantle, respecting this man’s wish to wait.

I reached up and lifted the card, wiping my face with my sleeve as I did so, opened the envelope, and read the following:

“Dear Darren-

I appreciate you taking time out of your busy life to spend it getting to know me better.

I’ve truly enjoyed the connection we’ve made and your willingness to engage me in recounting the events that were so important to me in my life.

I am ever grateful that our mail rarely made its destination without a little assistance, and for the storm that finally brought us together.

Go out and live your life, do better each day and honor me by giving someone else the time you gave me, who is also in need. You will find them.

Much love in this life and the next.

Your friend,

Chuck”

Love your neighbors. ✌️

D