The Old World

The old man had a yearly book sale open to the public, so there was no reason for the boys to break in. But they figured they wouldn't be allowed into any part of the house, only the library (which they heard was on the first floor right by the side entrance) and maybe a couple of hallways. So, really, they had no choice.

He was a recluse, the old man, whatever his name was. A boogeyman, shut up in his giant yellow brick home, set amongst overgrown brush and tall, thinning trees. Stories about him circulated through the monkey bars: "I heard he murdered his family and they're in the basement." "I heard he murdered his family and he ate them." "I heard he murdered his family and skinned them and then used the skin to cover all his old books, and that's why he has those book sales. He's getting rid of the evidence!" "I heard he built the house with his own two hands." "I heard he's over a hundred!" "I heard his house used to be an insane asylum and then when they shut it down he refused to leave."

Indeed, it did look something of an insane asylum, or a least a fifth grader's idea of one. It was not homey in the slightest, certainly didn't look like any other home in the otherwise upper-middle class neighborhood. The yellow brick was faded and stained, and the structure was rectangular so that it resembled a brick itself. What few windows there were were tall and thin, not much more than six inches across. There were three pipes, hardly chimneys, that let out a constant stream of faint, pale smoke. A narrow gravel road led to all of this, and it could let one car go one way, or one the other. No cars seemed to go either way, however, and the only automobile in sight of the place was a rusted out Oldsmobile. No one ever saw anyone coming or going, save the annual book sale. Which is why our boys planned their intrusion.

It was the last day of school. The report stated that Mitchell, the slightly older of the two, had convinced his friend, Robbie, that the break-in should happen and that it should happen that night. Robbie's house was only a few blocks away, so Mitchell told his parents he was sleeping over, and after several Coca-Colas and the sound of the parents' door closing the two boys sneaked out. They dressed all in black and brought one small blag with two flashlights and various tools they thought they might need. And, of course, a camera.

Mitchell said Robbie picked the lock, and Robbie said Mitchell picked it. Each described the other as the picking artist, but they both took turns trying to open the door as it was quite stuck even when unlocked. But after much picking and prying and pulling the boys ended up inside, just as they wanted to. Their flashlights revealed that the library was in fact right next to the side entrance, and it was filled to bursting with books. Novels, tomes, dictionaries, encyclopedias, stacks of old newspapers and National Geographics, political biographies and architectural manuals. Books about frigates, fly-fishing, gerrymandering, Japanese landscaping, the Cold War, all the wars the boys had learned about from school and their fathers plus many more of which they had never heard. Maps, atlases, made from a time when people thought the world was something else. Framed photographs of semi-nude beauties, black and white. There was even a globe that revealed bottles of liquor resting in the Southern Hemisphere. The boys had to hand it to the old man. It was impressive.

It was all they had time to explore. Mitchell said Robbie lit the match, Robbie said it was Mitchell. None of their parents or friends smoked and neither boy had ever been seen smoking, and if they had no one stepped forward to say so. But there was a match, and a cigarette, and carelessness around a map of the old world. Each boy suffered burns on his hands trying to put out the flames. If only either of them had thought to knock the fire to the floor and stamp it out. But that thought never occurred to them, and it only spread. Those crisp and tender parchments, the dry and bound leather, it all lights up rather quickly, each book handed off the flame to another. And before they knew it the smoke was multiplying and they couldn't breathe, were coughing, were light-headed, were out the door, slamming it behind them, were running with unknown terror back to the temporary safety of Robbie's home.

No one has rebuilt in the lot where the yellowed sanitarium stood. The overgrowth has continued to grow and grow, making the neighborhood a bit more wild. Some residents remember, but the newer ones drive and walk by without much knowledge or recognition. The children, though, their stories still continue to make their rounds: "I heard they were getting back at the old man for touching them." "I heard it was a dare!" "I heard they didn't think anybody would miss him." "I heard the guy set the fire himself! He just wanted someone else to take the blame. He was a crazy old man."