A young, married couple live in the basement apartment directly beneath us. The wife is the more social of the two. When she stands out on the sidewalk to have a cigarette, she always smiles and waves, but the husband isn’t interested in any sort of communication.
I often pass him on the street while I’m out walking the dog, but he never says anything. He pretends that he doesn’t see me when I nod my head. He has mutton chop sideburns, and usually keeps his longish hair tied up in a samurai knot. Outside, he always wears wraparound sunglasses and is plugged into his iPod. Striding about with his hands in his pockets, his face impassive, he gives the impression of impenetrability, like he feels invincible. Late at night, I can hear the rumble from the shooter games he plays rising up through the baseboards like Earth-bound thunder.
One day while down in the laundry room we share, I was immensely touched to find his yellow Best Buy work shirt in the dryer. His nametag was still pinned to the front–Reginald, a name I had not known belonged to him until that very moment.