ODD MAN OUT

He moved in Thursday afternoon but by Monday midnight everyone wanted him gone. It wasn't because of his appearance for he was a rather handsome man; well dressed, mid to late twenties, rather tall, dark wavy hair, brown eyes, olive complexion, clean-shaven. In fact, most women would have found him irresistible if they'd encountered him at a bar.

From brief conversations one gathered he was quite intelligent and well educated. He had travelled somewhat, spoke several languages fluently and was versed in a number of different topics. It was only later, when we were thinking back, that we realized he hadn't actually initiated any discussion nor had he ever really volunteered any information. All along, he had merely responded to the inquiries of those around him.

Perhaps he felt it was too difficult to break into the group. The rest of us had been housemates for several weeks and a close bond had already been established by the time he arrived. Maybe he thought he would simply wait awhile, let things develop slowly, evolve naturally. Then again, maybe there was no real desire for association on his part. Not to say that he wasn't curious about us because he did come upstairs and watch as we did things. He also stood in the hallway below listening to our conversations and the sound of our laughter as it drifted down.

The house is small and the walls thin. Three of the five bedrooms are on the ground floor. Our room and the one occupied by the Spanish couple are upstairs on the same floor as the kitchen and the common room. Although there's a better view and it's convenient in a number of ways, it's also a nuisance because it means you're disturbed whenever someone makes a meal, watches television, or uses the telephone.

We began to notice odd things happening around the house the day after he arrived. Ice cream treats were missing from the fridge. Milk and water had disappeared from the jugs. Tacos and salsa had been taken from the cupboard and eaten. Nothing like this had happened in the previous weeks. There had been trust and respect. None of us would have done these things.

At lunchtime he came upstairs when I was cooking. He walked over to the stove and stood at my elbow, staring down at the contents of the frying pan.

“Grilled cheese sandwiches,” I said, and pointed, “to go with the soup. Have you ever eaten them before?”

“No!” came his swift reply and he took two or three steps back as if suddenly he had been burned. In truth nothing had touched him.

“I've noticed you have an accent,” I continued, and turned to face him. “Where are you from?”

“Iran.”

“Which part of Iran?” I asked.

“Tehran.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to make conversation. “They eat lots of lamb over there don't they?”

“Yes.”

“I know someone who works in Abu Dhabi. She says it's beautiful there. She likes it very much,” I stated. I turned back to flip the sandwiches so they would brown on the other side. “I don't know if she's still there now,” I continued. “I haven't talked to her since the war started.” By the time I turned around again, he had already disappeared downstairs.

Later that evening as Tom and I lay in bed reading we heard several different voices speaking a foreign language downstairs, in his bedroom, and in the bathroom. First it was just talking. Then loud talking. Then there was arguing and yelling and the sound of drawers being yanked open and closed hard. This was followed by sobbing. A door, and then another door slammed and things were quiet. We exchanged puzzled looks. What had just happened down there? My mind flipped through scenarios faster than a secretary turning the cards on a rolodex.

“Do you think he's alright?” I asked.

“I'm sure he's fine,” said Tom. “Probably just some family or friends letting off steam.”

“But what if it's something else,” I said, “and he's been hurt? He could be lying down there right now bleeding to death.”

“You've been watching too many movies,” he chided.

“Maybe we should go and check anyway,” I urged.

“To do that would be opening the door on all kinds of trouble,” Tom stated. “It's better, safer, not to get involved. Besides, it's really none of our business.”

I thought about it for a couple of minutes. “I guess you're right,” I said, but I was still upset.

Later, in the middle of the night, we were jolted from sleep by the sound of loud footsteps and foreign words. He was upstairs, talking to himself and arguing as he paced the hardwood floor in boots heavy enough to be size twelve-army regulation. He tramped up and down the stairs several times and then we heard him rummaging through the kitchen cupboards and the fridge. He went outside and smoked cigarettes on the patio. When he returned he sat on the couch, still muttering away. A few minutes later he had a coughing spell, spat in the sink and went downstairs, only to return and repeat everything again.

By this time I'm sure everyone in the house was awake because very few could have slept through such noise. Yet no one went out to speak to him or confront him about his behavior. Did we think he would stop if we just ignored him? Were we afraid of him... intimidated by his race and culture because of the recent political climate? Or, did we just not want to get involved, preferring instead to remain distant and detached? For whatever reasons, we chose to stay in our rooms and let him continue. It was at least half an hour before things became quiet again.

Tom and I had just gotten into a deep sleep around 5 a.m. when he woke us again, ranting and raving at someone on the telephone. His words came in quick spurts punctuated by anger, and he slapped his leg and hit the tabletop for added emphasis. Perhaps the person on the other end of the line wasn't buying his story because a minute later there was an abrupt change in his tactic and he was suddenly crying, begging and pleading with them. Then another angry outburst and what seemed like swearing, followed by the slamming of the receiver. He got up and stomped across the room... hesitated... stood outside our door. I held my breath... waiting... wondering. Finally, his footsteps on the stairway, and soon after, the closing of the outside door. It was hours before he returned to the house.

We were just finishing lunch later that afternoon when the young couple approached us. “Did either of you find a phone card up here?” Toby asked.

Tom and I looked at each other. We both shook our heads. “No,” we answered.

“I'm sure I left it right there last night,” he said, pointing at the coffee table.

“Do you think it could have slipped between the cushions or maybe under the couch?” I suggested.

“No,” said Jane. “It's not there. We've looked everywhere up here, downstairs too, and we can't find it.”

“Could you have left it somewhere else?” I asked.

“No, we've already checked,” said Toby. He opened the fridge door, reached inside and took out a plastic jug. “I don't believe it!” he roared. “Someone's been drinking our juice too! We just put it in there yesterday!”

“It's probably the same someone that used the soap and shampoo we left in the downstairs bathroom!” complained Jane. “The same someone that kept us awake all last night!”

There were footsteps on the stairs and we turned. It was only the Spanish couple, back from shopping. They must have heard Jane's comments.

“He's crazy that summin-a-bitch!” said Juan as they walked across the room. “I like to kill him! I no sleep at all! He yell and walk all night like this!” Juan demonstrated. “Then he stop and stand outside the door.” Juan pointed in the direction of the bedrooms. “I listen. I hear him breathing.”

“I no sleep either,” said Maria. “I too scared. I think him waiting there and maybe he have a knife and he break the door and come inside.”

“Don't worry,” said Tom, reassuringly. “He won't hurt you. I really don't think he's dangerous.”

Right! I thought to myself. Like Maria, I too had pictured him on the other side of the door, inches away in the middle of the night, a crazed look on his face, a weapon clutched in his hand, raised and ready to strike. I was angry with this young man, upset by his actions and the disturbance he was bringing to our lives. I also knew Tom was trying to defuse the situation and calm everyone down.

“Who knows,” I said, attempting to help, “maybe he's only doing these things because he's hungry. Studies have shown that people do bizarre things when they've been deprived of food or sleep. I haven't seen him bring any food in here, nor have I actually seen him eating anything.”

“We did hear him going into the cupboards and the fridge last night,” said Tom.

“We hear him too,” added Maria.

“And ever since he arrived,” I said, “food has been disappearing.”

“I don't care!” said Toby. “I pay enough money for this place that I shouldn't have to put up with this kind of nonsense, or worry about my food, or the things I leave in the bathroom. I should even feel safe enough to leave my door unlocked if I choose to.”

“You're right, Toby,” I said, remembering the idealism and innocence of youth. “It should be like that. Unfortunately, there are people you can't and shouldn't trust.”

“Besides,” said Tom, “we can't prove he's taking these things unless we actually catch him doing it.”

Juan nodded.

“Tom and I usually work late,” I stated. “Tonight we'll sit out here where we can watch him if he comes upstairs. Who knows, maybe nothing will happen and everyone will get a decent sleep. Then again, maybe it will, and we'll get some answers.”

This plan met with everyone's satisfaction.

Just after 2 a.m. a taxi pulled up to the curb outside the house. The doorbell rang and Tom went downstairs to answer it. The newcomer had returned. He muttered something about lost keys and offered a quick 'thanks' as he brushed past Tom, went into his room, and banged the door closed behind him.

Five minutes later we heard him talking as he came up the stairs. His words were foreign, clipped and snarled. When I saw him I was amazed at the change in his appearance. He was wearing a wrinkled shirt, a pair of dirty cut-off pants, and mismatched socks. His hair was mussed and he was pale and unshaven. He looked anxious and irritated as he talked and walked the room, went outside for a cigarette, returned and made his way over to the cupboards. He carried on a running conversation as he searched the contents, moving cans and jars and bags around. He took out a glass and placed it on the counter. Then he opened the fridge and pulled out a jug of milk.

Up to this point Tom and I had remained silent. I was writing at the kitchen table and Tom sat across the room, reading in a chair near the couch. Neither of us had acknowledged his presence and he certainly hadn't acknowledged ours. It was as if we weren't in the room, as if we were invisible to him. I glanced quickly at Tom and caught his attention.

“Excuse me,” I said to the newcomer. “I don't think that's yours. It belongs to the young couple downstairs.” I felt like a mother hen watching over her brood.

“Oh,” he said, and jumped. “Sorry. It was a mistake.” Then he turned and went back downstairs, leaving the glass and the jug of milk sitting on the counter.

Tom shook his head and shrugged. I got up, put the glass and the milk away, and then went back to my writing. Half an hour later the young man was upstairs again, pacing the floor and arguing, his words fevered with anger, his face twisted with emotion. He went outside for another cigarette and when he returned he sat down on the couch where he continued to gesture and talk to some unseen being beside him. Suddenly he stopped. He turned and looked directly at Tom and then at me. He leaned forward with his elbows placed on his knees and his chin cupped in his hands. He closed his eyes, drew several long breaths, and began to whimper softly.

“You're having a difficult time aren't you,” said Tom.

There was no verbal response but the young man calmed and sat quietly. A short time later he stood up, went over, got another glass, and took the water jug out of the fridge.

“Excuse me,” I said. “That's our water. We bought it and put it in the fridge.” By the time I'd finished these words, the glass was already half full. He picked it up, quickly drank the water, turned, and went back down to his room.

I sat there, bewildered. Had he purposely ignored me? I wondered. Was all this just a game, an elaborate performance designed to manipulate us, to toy with us for his own amusement? Was it an attempt to make someone pity him so he could freeload on their good will? Was he trying to push someone, anger them to the point of violence so he could reap the benefits of playing victim? Or was this just a distraction, an attempt to divert our attention elsewhere?

Then again, perhaps he really wasn't aware of his actions. Maybe he was ill and needed medical or psychological attention. Either way, one thing was certain. Tom and I had caught him in the act. We had seen him going into other people's things and we had confronted him about it. For a while we heard him muttering and moving around, but he never came back upstairs. We worked until dawn and then at 6:30 we finally went to bed.

I know it was a couple of hours later, but it seemed like only moments had passed when we heard Toby yelling, "That's our juice you're drinking and if you know what's good for you, you'll put it down!”

Tom and I grabbed our robes and headed out the door. Toby had been sitting on the couch using the phone, but now he was standing and glaring at the newcomer who was four to five feet away on the other side of the coffee table. A half-filled glass of orange juice sat beside a plastic jug at the end of the kitchen counter.

“Oh!” said the newcomer, slightly startled. “Sorry. It… it was a mistake.”

“Yeah, just like the milk and the tacos and the salsa!” barked Toby.

“I don't know about that,” stated the newcomer.

“I do! I know it was you!” Toby shouted. “You've been using our other stuff too!”

“Look, I already told you, I don't know anything about that,” said the newcomer, his voice rising. “The juice was an accident. I apologized. What more do you want?”

“I'm warning you,” said Toby, pointing his finger at him. “Leave our stuff alone or...”

The newcomer turned. “I don't have to listen to this,” he hissed as he rushed past us. Then he went downstairs and left the house.

Toby looked pale and shaken.

“Are you okay?” Tom asked.

“Yeah,” he answered. “Just really bugged, that's all.” He picked up his pager and slid it into his pants pocket. Then he walked to the kitchen counter, put the dirty glass in the sink, and the jug of juice back into the fridge. “He doesn't know how lucky he is. He was this close to getting it,” said Toby, showing us a tiny space between his thumb and index finger where he'd almost squeezed them together.

“I'm glad you held your temper,” I said.

“You don't know how hard it was,” Toby stated.

That's when I knew I had to do something before things actually did get out of control. I went to the landlord later and told him everything. After supper when we came back from our walk Tom and I saw an envelope taped to the door of the newcomer's room.

The next morning the same door was wide open, the hallway heavy with the stench of sweat, dirty socks, cigarettes. On the floor in the middle of the room lay the envelope and the letter it held. Books, maps, tapes, diagrams, photos, dirty dishes, empty cigarette packages, and clothing lay scattered about the room. It stayed like that. No one went inside. No one touched it. Then suddenly three days later all of the things were gone, taken by a rough-looking man who claimed to be an uncle. When they asked about the newcomer, Toby and Jane were told he had been attacked by a mad dog and was in the hospital - that he wouldn't be coming back. The uncle refused to tell them anything else.

A week later, I was flicking channels on t.v. when a newscast caught my attention. Earlier that afternoon a visiting U.S. diplomat had been killed in a car bombing outside the embassy downtown. Police were searching for three suspects, all members of a secret terrorist cell. It was an older photo that was shown, poorly taken, but I would have recognized that face anywhere.