Pickleby Willow

I was informed by the landlady that a certain Pickleby Willow had arrived. I had not heard the name before, let alone met the man, and asked her what his purpose was. She told me that he did not give a reason, and simply asked to speak with me. I told her that this was all well and good, only I was a little apprehensive about letting in a stranger who had given no reason for the call. Well how do you think I feel about it, she snapped. Point taken, I said, and followed her down the stairwell. 

He was standing there on the doorstep with the light cast perfectly behind him, so that it looked as if he was an actor preparing to recite a pivotal line from a script. He was in a three-piece suit and holding onto an alligator-skin suitcase that appeared to be quite heavy. His shoes were shiny, I remember that detail specifically – so shiny that the light seemed to bounce off them and into the open hallway. He was wearing a pair of thick-rimmed and bespectacled eyeglasses that would more appropriately have fit the face of an elderly woman in an opera box from the nineteenth century. 

“Pickleby Willow?” I asked. 

“Yes, that’s my name,” the man confirmed. “How did you know my name?”

“The landlady told me. Do I know you?”

The man smiled. “No, but I know you. May I step inside?”

“Hold on there a moment, chief,” I said. “I’m not about to invite you in until you tell me how it is you know me, and what you want from me.”

“That’s perfectly understandable, my good man.” He extended his hand and said, “The name is Pickleby Willow. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

“Yes, you’ve told me that already. How do you know me?”

Instead of answering my question, he looked past me into the foyer. “My, what a lovely home you have.”

“It’s not mine. I’m renting a room.” I stood in the way of his gaze so that he was forced to look at me, and I repeated my question. “How do you know me?”

“How does anyone know anyone?” he asked. “Sometimes fate has a mind all of its own. Won’t you let me in to further explain?”

“I won’t let you in until you start explaining anything, anything at all,” I said. “Now I’m going to ask again, how do you know me?”

He didn’t try to look past me this time, but to my annoyance he didn’t answer my question either. “Do you mind me asking how much you pay per month for rent? I hear it can be quite steep in this part of the country.” 

“You’re becoming quite exhausting,” I said. “If the next words out of your mouth aren’t an explanation of how you know me, I’m closing the door on you.”

“Would you care to know where I acquired this luxurious suitcase?”

I closed the door on him without hesitation and began to make my way up the stairs. Before I reached the landing of the second floor, I heard the doorbell ring. I could hear the landlady getting up from her chair to answer the door, but I called out, “Don’t bother, I’ll handle it.”

I opened the door to find Pickleby Willow standing in the exact same position, appearing unfazed and even a bit invigorated. 

“Where did you acquire that luxurious suitcase?” I asked. 

“I’m so glad you asked.” His lips puckered up, his cheeks turned a bright pinkish hue, and his eyes expanded. “I bought it from a pawn shop in the distant lands of Arabia, southern Arabia to be specific. Apparently the one who pawned it had to hoof it in a jiffy, and was forced to leave it there at the shop. I bought it for a song, an absolute song. Genuine alligator hide as well, none of that fake mumbo-jumbo. Would you care to know what I carry inside it?”

“Not particularly, but you might as well tell me.”

Pickleby gave a horse-like laugh and replied, “Papers. Lots and lots of papers. Oodles and oodles of papers.”

“What kinds of papers?”

“Oh, all kinds,” he replied, and I immediately regretted asking that particular question. He inhaled substantially and then responded, “Tax papers, letters from family members, greeting cards, empty lined notebook paper, brochures, homework assignments, recipes, stained pages ripped out from library books, spells, hymns, instruction manuals, credit card statements, photocopies, post-it notes, pages from magazines and periodicals, newspapers, and oh so much more. I can show you all of it, if you’d like.”

“That’s quite alright,” I said. “Let’s go back to the beginning. How do you know me?”

It seemed as if he was absolutely incapable of answering the question. There wasn’t a hint of arrogance, malice, or perversion about him. He just simply seemed allergic to these kinds of questions. “What a lovely home you have,” he said. 

“I’m renting a room.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he mumbled. “Renting. You’re renting.”

“Let’s re-try the other question,” I said. “What do you want from me?”

He seemed perfectly allergic to this question too. “The name’s Pickleby Willow,” he said, thrusting his free hand back out for a handshake. 

I didn’t accept the handshake this time, and just stood there in the doorway staring at him in all his weird and pitiful glory. 

“Listen, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you might have a screw loose, buddy,” I said. “Like, not trying to be insulting or anything. Genuinely. I think you might actually have some sort of a mental illness, or perhaps got yourself a concussion. Have you been to see a doctor recently?”

Pickleby emitted another high-pitched hee-haw horse laugh, and waved off my concern. “Doctors, who needs ‘em! I’m my own doctor, saves a bit of cash now, doesn’t it? Won’t you invite me in for a cup of tea?”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “But I do hope you get the help you need. You stay out of trouble, now.” 

I shut the door on him again and took the steps slowly to my room, fully expecting him to ring the doorbell again. But he didn’t, to my relief. I could see the shadow of his presence disappear, and waited on the steps. The landlady walked back into the foyer and asked, “What the hell was that all about?”

“I can honestly tell you, Miss, Lawrence, that I have no clue,” I said. “No clue whatsoever. What a nutty encounter. A traveling salesman who’s grown delusional, or an escaped inmate.”

“Sounds concerning,” she said. “Should we alert the authorities?”

“Hard to say,” I responded. “Trying to think on a civilian’s duty in a situation like this.” 

I came back down the stairs and opened the front door. I looked across the neighborhood street, and could see Pickleby Willow waiting outside the neighbor’s front door, suitcase in hand. 

“Yeah, you better call someone,” I said. 

Mrs. Lawrence dialed the number for the local precinct, only to discover a lack of surprise on the other end of the line. “Oh yeah,” the deputy said after a long sigh. “We know Pickleby real well. We’re on our way.” 

“What a strange figure,” I thought to myself as I made my way back to my room. I couldn’t seem to get him out of my head for the rest of the day. 

And all these years later, as I recall this strange and nonsensical memory of mine, I still can’t.