I met Jeremy on a Sunday and his first words were “the clouds are awful low, aren’t they?” and the ensuing conversation made me want to water my cactus and pay my dentist a friendly visit
Nary ‘fore did I make the mistake of such a return to normalcy, but I’ve just gotten a cavity filled
Every third Sabbath day, the cactus is watered, and I run into Jeremy while tending to the flowers at my great grandfather’s grave
I, strangely, always seem to catch him during these visits. In one exchange, I asked him if he was a religious man, and he replied:
“Y’know, I admire optimists, but God rarely comes down from his clouds. Sometimes the clouds are low, and maybe he catches the interest of ornithologists, but he always returns to an out-of-reach place.”
I didn’t know how to reply, but his teeth were certainly in worse shape than mine
It did kind of rub me the wrong way, though. Jeremy isn’t a talker. He’s just one of those people in your shadow.
This evening was long, and I accidentally watered the cactus again. The night’s dream was of my teeth falling out and my great grandfather mocking me.
First thing in the morning, I pulled every weed from every crack and corner of my yard, waxed my car, re-mulched the garden, and dusted my attic. I felt alive.
I sat on my yard chair for the rest of the day. An ambulance screamed by at 2:00 PM, and, funnily enough, I saw Jeremy jogging on the side walk shortly behind it
I raised my glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice to him, which he saw but ignored. I guess he didn’t recognize me. Or maybe he was distracted by the ambulance.
The glass I held shattered in my hand. I wasn’t paying attention and was gripping it too hard. What the hell? I changed shirts, cleaned up the glass and grew anxious. I set off for the cemetery to see my great grandfather. Longest 20 minute drive of my life. And Jeremy was there.
“The clouds are awful low, aren’t they?” he asked. I was flummoxed. “Woah, Nick, your hand is bleeding bad.” I looked down, and, sure enough, I never bandaged my hand.
I shot a quick glance at my great grandfather’s grave. The flower pot was broken. Jeremy grabbed his first aid kid from his sedan and got to work on my hand. He pulled the pieces of glass out with a nonplussed sort of disposition.
I asked Jeremy what his line of work is. He said “I’m kind of a coroner.” I was grateful for him bandaging my hand and offered to make him dinner. As I made the offer, another ambulance screamed by and he said “Oh, thank you, but duty calls. I’ll see you soon. Seriously, though, the clouds are low” with an odd smile. I said a polite goodbye and cleaned up the pot’s mess of soil, ceramic, and plants.
A week later, I showed up to my great grandfather’s grave in tattered clothing, rank from the engine work I did on my coupe in the morning.
I brought my cactus because I thought it might be a good replacement for the azaleas it had before. No Jeremy. I stood and stared at that head stone for a lifetime. I saw my teeth in its reflection. I looked up and the clouds were low.
Suddenly, I felt a great tension and pain in my chest. I fell to the ground beside the tombstone and my heart palpitated wildly. In a matter of minutes, I was out of breath and fading. The last thing I saw was Jeremy’s face.
From up here in the clouds, I could barely pick out Jeremy breaking my cactus pot with a kick. He looked up at the sky and waved his hand as if to shoo the clouds away