Paradise Ridge (#WonderTheMovie)

Paradise Ridge

He was detestable. At least, no one actually knew much about him so he seemed detestable. Every day the people on Paradise Ridge watched him walk past their pretty brick houses, with dirty shoes on his feet and a muddy satchel slung about his shoulder. He walked down the street, left to right, smiling and waving to the people watching from their windows. Exactly thirty minutes later, he would return - this time walking from right to left, from wherever he had gone back to wherever he lived.

I live on Paradise Ridge. I used to watch him every day from my bedroom window. Sometimes people threw empty bottles and garbage at him, screeching at him to stop coming. Sometimes I wished he would. Each day he merely waved and smiled. And each day, I grew more and more curious. Who was he? Where was he going? What was he doing? I wanted to know, and finally I grew curious enough to find out.

One early spring day, I followed him in my car, out of the pretty neighborhoods and into the ugly ones. The ones lined with dank apartments, the dirty brick walls covered in vines and graffiti. I wanted to turn around, stop following him, go home. But I stayed my fears and continued. He stepped out of the street and into one of the apartment buildings; I left the car, followed him.

A wrinkled, pudgy woman sat on a bench by the door. The man was nowhere in sight, having walked through the building to his destination. Room 102 - Up the stairs, on the left, the woman told me. I reached the top of the stairs just as a drunk from Room 101 threw an empty bottle at the door of 102, stumbled into his room again. I peeked through a crack in the wooden door of 102. The man sat on the edge of a creaking metal bed, dirty shoes on the floor and satchel open on the bed. A little girl sat with him, scooping her tiny hands into the bag, pulling out handfuls of tiny seeds, and dumping the seeds into a dusty gallon jar labeled Community Garden.

Not much today. The man murmured. Had to plant a lot at the greenhouse, but I slipped some into my bag here and there.

The girl smiled. Doesn't matter. Come summer, they'll all be pretty flowers in my garden.

Hundreds and hundreds of pretty flowers. He nodded.

The girl sealed her jar; the man closed his satchel, put on his shoes, said goodbye. I left the apartment, drove away to my pretty brick house, thinking about the man and his dirty shoes and muddy satchel filled with seeds.

I used to watch him every day from my bedroom window. But now, whenever he comes walking down the street, left to right, smiling and waving to the people who watch him from their windows, I rush to the steps of my front porch and wave back.