The Hermit

ENTER E.

A frustrated landlord is standing in a neglected hallway and bangs his fist against one of the apartment doors. E. doesn't care. He's sitting between stacks of old newspapers and seems lost in his own thoughts. There's water dripping from the ceiling and an old television is broadcasting static. A cat jumps to the top and starts licking itself. The banging continues but slowly fades as E. reflects internally.

Young E. is sitting in front of his school desk and silently observes a female elementary school principal babbling about something. There's a large man standing besides her forcing a smile.

E.
In third grade they introduced us to a new teacher. Big guy. Like real big. Back then I thought he must've been the fattest man alive. Mean fucker, too. Escaped Eastern Germany, back when it was still run by communists.

A German Shepherd is heard barking in the distance. Woof.

The kids write their names on improvised paper stands and look a bit like inmates expected to provide their designated prisoner number. The teacher is walking between the aisles looking like a drill sergeant inspecting his recruits. One of the kids is barely holding it together and seems about to cry.

E.
He had this weird intensity about him. Think Werner Herzog in Jack Reacher, back during the Tom Cruise run. The type of guy who'd lecture you about Siberian winters and how he chewed off one of his fingers, to avoid the uranium mines. That kind of attitude. Only applied to eight-year-olds.

The Fat Man is pan frying some eggs in a dirty kitchen. He's wearing a wife beater covered with mustard stains and takes a big gulp of Jägermeister, straight from the bottle.

E.
I could only guess what his issue was. Alcoholism? Erectile dysfunction? Being chronically constipated? Who knows.

The teachers enormous back is slowly getting bigger. His head suddenly flies around like he was startled by an intruder. He has this look on his face like Clint Eastwood doing an Old Man Logan impression.

E.
Whatever it was, he was on some downward spiral and knew it, too. Wasn't like anybody else was giving a shit either.

The teacher is sitting in class strumming a western guitar. He's smiling, kind of. It looks a bit like he doesn't know how.

E.
When he wasn't suffering from severe PTSD the Fat Man would play the acoustic, North Korea style. Could've been because he had some tragic backstory involving stick beatings and being the third guitar in a weird kindergarden propaganda quintet. But he was still very much in love with music.

Five kids are lined up in the middle of a giant stage and play guitar. They show their teeth like sad little hyenas that pretending to be happy.

Some angry looking functionary is watching the quintet from the sidelines and taps a billy club with the beat.

E.
One time a political commissar shot one of the other kids, for confusing a g with a d-minor.

The stoic leader of the quintet gets put down to his knees and frowns in silent defiance. There's a man in uniform holding a pistol to his neck. He squeezes his trigger finger, BANG!

The gun sound makes him. He's mortified and starts shaking in fear. The commissar walks past the kids and gives them the death stare.

They bury the corpse of their fallen comrade and put stick his guitar into his grave, like a soldier's rifle.

Back in school the sudden reemergence of the memory turns the Fat Man's face into a grimace.

E.
Then his face would grimace and a minute later he'd be screaming again.

Back in E.'s apartment. He's standing in front of an open fridge that's mostly empty. The cat looks at him with anticipation and licks its mouth.

E.
One of the other things he'd lecture us about was writing. He'd tell us all stories have a beginning, a middle, and an end.

*E. grabs a can of tuna and puts half of it on a tea plate that's sitting on the ground. The cat devours the food and meows.

E.
Granted, he was teaching third graders not english majors, but it always felt like a bullshit oversimplification. Sounds great on paper, but it's like when sympathetic women tell you to just be yourself. Wouldn't exactly call that practical advice, you know?

*E.'s head is submerged in cold water. He breathes out and makes it bubble.

E.
Don't get me wrong. I don't know shit, but to me stories are essentially about transformation processes.

E. Raises his head out of the water and looks into a broken bathroom mirror. The light flickers for a moment. His bearded face is dripping. He rubs his chin, like he's contemplating a haircut. It's been a while.

E.
It's various stages of change. External, internal. A bit like Tarot, kinda. Or the I Ging. The dynamics of oppositional forces. The interplay of archetypes.

Outside of E.'s apartment. Something is rattling on the inside. Locks are being turned, chains are getting removed. The door opens and E. sticks his head out. He looks left, he looks right. After monitoring the situation he jangles his keys and steps outside. He closes the door like a burglar.

E.
Every story begins with an opening image. Like a launch pad. Not just in the environmental sense with objects and things, but also in terms of >attitudes and internal states.

The inside of a mail locker gets partially illuminated when E. lifts the cover of the slot. His eyes scan around. A stack of letters, fliers, and other junk that got thrown in. He opens the locker door and grabs his stuff and quietly closes it again.

It has been dark outside for a while. E. is standing in the foyer of an apartment building and rifles through his mail. Some of the bills fly straight into the trash, then E. stumbles upon something interesting. He pauses.

E.
I guess the goto is that whole idea about the Hero's journey.

Someone scribbled something on the envelope: "To my dear friend E." He slides the letter into his inner coat pocket and pops his collar.

E.
Like Star Wars. Or the Hobbit. There and Back Again, I suppose. From the ordinary world, to the underworld, and back to the ordinary.

E. pushes the glass door open and steps out to the street. He rubs his hands and hops around, trying to adjust to the cold. Then starts walking

E.
You return a changed man. Or woman. Whatever.