Pete's Tower

There he stood in his front yard atop 6 feet of masonry. It was round, like a short tower. Some bricks were outset, some inset, and there was a small gap where one could peer into the dark interrior. The rows were not straight and the mortar was messy in places. Pete's brick laying had become an obsession.

All through the day Pete stood on his little tower, waiting for something. He would wave as the folks passed along the sidewalk below. His awkward presence had sort of grown into the landscape of his street over the previous months, and one could always expect to see him standing there. Sometimes he was anxious to chat to passers by, other times he was completely unapproachable...his head focused into the center of his creation. He watched as an Eskimo with a harpoon over a hole in the ice, waiting for a seal's nose.

Every so often the still and quiet Pete would lunge deep into the center of his tower. He would reach down as far as his stout arms would allow, pants descending from his waist enough to humor the bystanders behind him. Sometimes he would emerge with a curse, shaking his fist in the air. Other times he would stand tall and bellow a crazy laugh, holding a brick over his head while dancing...as much as one can dance with each foot on the rim of a brick cylinder. His rectangular prize brought him more joy than just about anything, to the confused dismay of his small band of hecklers.

The following moments would be spent in concentration as Pete analyzed his tiny fortress. He would look for an appropriate spot, and place the brick accordingly...sometimes moving it here or there before deciding its final place. Once he had made his decision, he would spread the mortar carefully and set the brick, cleaning the excess with his trusty trowel. No one knew where he got the mortar, but he seemed to have an unlimited supply stored within his structure. After the brick had been set, Pete would stand again, ready to strike at his next brick.

No one saw Pete sleep or drink or eat for many months, although he was always happy to chat. His anecdotes were completely nonsensical, but professed with such cheer that some folks would listen nonetheless. He seemed to enjoy these conversations, even if they weren't taken very seriously.

Still, most of the time he liked to hunt for bricks, dance, set, and then hunt some more. Over the years, Pete's tower grew high. His conversations were hollered from an ever-greater distance and his audience grew small. Pete found himself standing among the tops of the trees, a faint and distant figure. It turns out the inability to jeer at the crack of Pete's ass diminished his audience significantly. Yet those with good hearing would still stand at the base of his tower to listen to his nonsense. Eventually, from the street below one could hardly see him hunt for bricks, and there were no longer chuckles from behind him every time he did so.

On one rainy day he was nowhere to be seen. No one admitted it at the time, but most were disappointed that he was not there to holler his usual remarks. On a day like this a dripping Pete could be heard cheerfully shouting: "The rain stings less up here, mates! No need for an umbrella! HA!"

One or two folks down below closed their umbrella in honor of Pete that day. They got some funny looks.

No one knows what happened to Pete. Some say he reached too far for a brick and fell into the middle of his tower. Some say he ran out of mortar, and unable to stack the bricks, he stopped hunting, and eventually became so sad and weak that he quietly tipped himself into the great hole he had built. Others say he waited so long for a brick that his body seemingly froze, and he still hunts atop the great tower, ready to reach as deep as he can for that next precious brick.

Still others say that all along Pete had built a staircase inside the tower, and one day he decided it was finished. So, he walked down to live inside, and to this day continues to improve the interrior of his tower. In fact, some say that if you peek into the tiny gap he left, you can still see him working. Others say it is too dark to see, but every so often, if you listen real close, you can hear his steel trowel slap mortar against the bricks within his tiny fortress.

To this day, when it rains, you still see some folks withdraw their umbrellas in honor of Pete as they walk by his tower. And, if it isn't raining too hard, you may even see an ass crack or two.