The Host

Eric’s Labradoodle. His first dates.

Being older and getting into online dating.

He likes dried fruit and buildings painted white, how they catch so much sun.

He watches a man carry his cello down the street.

He wears a leather jacket and a ring of keys on the belt of his tight black jeans.

He always goes out for lunch at the deli. For dinner, he eats peanut butter sandwiches while reading. He likes mystery novels.

Occasionally art students ask him to do studio visits. He knows the custom is an hour per visit. He usually stays longer. Once, he was asked to contribute to a group show. He sent along a box of his to-do lists. They hung with T-pins.

Missing frying pan in artist housing
Return microphones
Order light bulbs
Thursday dinner reservations, coffee before panel

Eric takes exquisite care of his car. It’s nothing special but always spotless.

Eric realizes you can’t control anything. People cancel, get sick, are mean or late, curse, miss their planes, get so nervous. Still, the speakers he hosts always remark how perfect the projector is, how impeccable the sound and lights.

He has keys and access to everything.

His family is close by now, but they never come to the events he hosts. He likes buying toys for the kids, his niece and nephew, the crafty kind of toys. He asks his local store to hand-deliver them. He suspects his brother-in-law returns them.

He watches a girl on her bike without a helmet.

He went to Johns Hopkins for economics and there discovered the screenings for the film courses and got a student subscription to the symphony. He worked at a big public library in a small city then at a college in the woods. Every time he moves apartments, he moves somewhere smaller and more expensive.

He sends a student to pick up the guest speakers at the airport and take them to dinner. He never goes. He makes excuses when asked to come along.

He was hit by a car once. Cars are so quiet now.

He goes to watch a climbing performance. A woman scales a building with no ropes.

Once a year, he hosts a professional development panel—people with different jobs talk about how they get by. Every two years, he hosts a film series on a theme. On alternate years, a panel discussion on a different theme.

He likes to travel by train.

He likes first dates and thinks he is pretty good at them. If only they could be a thing in and of themselves. He doesn’t want other dates to follow.

His hair is gray.

On his train travels, he copies poems and memorizes them. He recites these in the shower at night.

When he is with other people, if he doesn’t plan carefully, he is usually at a loss about where to go. When he is on his own, he discovers good chocolate, shoes he can afford, another white shirt to replace the one that just got stained.

His doctor tells him to give up bagels. His dentist tells him to give up red wine. This is Eric’s draft list in progress of potential film series topics:

Rage and Cultural Appropriation
Marijuana and Art
Killers of Sheep
Art After 9/11 After Trump

He goes to his sister’s every Sunday. She calls him The Lonely Heart. His desk fan, his clipboards, his half-size index cards.

Eric loves his Labradoodle, Charlie. Walking with Charlie he gets mugged by a group of kids. They run off with his wallet, full of cash and credit cards. One of the kids comes back a few moments later with the wallet, now empty. The kid, short and sheepish, asks: “Do you want this thing?”

Eric imagines raising a family with the roommate he shared a place with after college, his roommate who ran every morning and married a comedian.