Isolation

Mack Tracy

The alarm clock rings out, adding exhilaration to the man’s lovely hibernation, though slight agitation rushes his senses. His aching body stretches over the sound of mattress creaks to hit an imprint on the button. Shadows cast heavily upon the lighthouse which sits lean and proud on the island. Boats bob the water as they gradually seesaw, waving in appreciation. They seem to recognize the lighthouse, but not the man within. 52 years could be cut into 10 for the man of the lighthouse, for it is all the same. It’s a generous offer to the public, though he still questions as to why he does it. The once young and animated man gladly accepted the job, excited to be working such a structure. Now, old and meager, he trots about his house which has confined him. Quarter till seven; dark circular cottage brick walls, walnut wood furniture, open ceilings, a small white carpet on dark wood floors; he’s lost the beauty in it all. He gazes out at his vast property of water. The oversized rocks, seagulls, the seasalt smell; it has all remained the same in his eyes. The man stretches his frail arms and legs. Routinely, he begins by tracing the lines of the dry, leather journal which resembles his worn hands. He jots in his journal. Entry 1: “These circular walls never start and stop of course. Till this day,

they enclose me in. Aren’t walls supposed to hug what contains inside? Not these.” The lighthouse and he share equal boredom for each other, but they remain civil. Climb the stairs, slip on the torn gloves, open the hatch, pour the lubricant, check the bulb, turn on the rotator. He ponders, “remind me, why should I continue? Well, I guess if I stopped that would be dishonorable.” Defeated as always, he hunches over slowly leaning back into the wooden chair, only to follow the spinning light where he spends his time. On his table, the wooden radio box carries out the operator’s voice from the netted speakers. Entry 2: “I get the same radio calls day after day from this gentleman with the voice of an auctioneer.” The calls add to the monotony of everyday and contribute to keeping his sanity intact. The operator mindlessly recites his message, word for word, as he’s done so many times before, “Lighthouse 294, overrr, lighthouse 294 overrr.” Then following up with the daily weather, “Overcast and slight chop but, there seems to be something brewing on the horizon, overrr.” The man blinked hard and pivoted in his chair examining the radio. The word “but” struck him in a fashion. He never heard such a report. He increased the volume knob; his eyes married the radio. The operator copied his report, “Lighthouse 294, overrrr.” The lighthouse keeper was panicked and speechless. The one word, the one he is trained to respond, which impulsively rolls off his tongue daily, was a struggle. “Lighthouse 294, you there? Overrr.” “Okay”, he uttered hoarsely. Entry 3: “I wasn’t sure why I said, or for that matter, what he said. All I know is today has brought a faint unevenness.” The man sat up in his chair, entranced by the beautiful wooden sailboat close to shore as the sailboat responded to the ocean’s friendly movement. Starting from the top of the mast, he worked his way down to the very bottom as a tear of sweat paired its way down his forehead. It was impossible for him to enjoy the beautiful sailboat as internally, he sensed something was off, very off. The seagulls startled as they briskly flew past the windowpane. Jolting up in an awkward manner, as he hasn’t done in years. His younger self would confidently know not to miss a step, and so, he accelerated backward down the spiral staircase; all one hundred and twenty seven steps. He barely reached the front door, having tested his stamina. Opening the solid vault of a door, he is greeted unceremoniously by the wind. Waving his bristle and skinny arms toward the boats, which only waved the man off in laughter. He cleared his throat twice, attempting to challenge his old voice. The squirrels ran past into the nearby bushes to take cover as they listened. He attempted to once again shout at the boats, although his voice was about as quiet and useless as the shore rocks. Once more surveying the scenery, the man blessed the trees and animals. The door rudely shut behind. He climbed the stairs, turned the radio knob, picked up his journal, sat on his home base: the chair. Entry 4: “Wind progressively strikes the brick walls however, I find it calming. The high flying birds, the boats out at sea, the rocks.” He searched his mind for the next move, though it never emerged. Saggy eyes, limp arms, droopy head; losing grip to the led pencil which departs his fingertips, he slips into deep hibernation. “Lighthouse 294, overrr.. Lighthouse 294, overrr” The man woke up to the voice of the operator, which had always been a part of his monotonous life. He trotted over to the balcony, peering over only to see which was once his beautiful surroundings are now in despair. Guilt and sorrow engulfed him. The operator from the other room dutifully called out, anticipating the man’s reply, “Lighthouse 294, you there? Overrr.” Gazing at the sky, the man longed for his new home up above.