A Memoir by Leah Mueller
As I wandered down Van Allen Street towards Keenan’s house, I could see that the block looked exactly as I remembered. Immaculate three-story Victorian homes. Massive oak trees, shedding their first autumn leaves. Old-fashioned streetlamps on cement poles. An eerie, Norman Rockwell scene, transported into the early 21st century.
I spent my middle and high school years in downstate Illinois. Popular kids ridiculed me in the hallways. At first, I ignored them, gritting my teeth as I strode in the opposite direction. They were like cockroaches—for each one I saw, ten more waited inside the walls. I learned how to sling insults back.
Keenan was intensely neurotic, prone to nervous tics like hair-pulling. He already had a couple of visible bald spots. Rumor held that he drank a fifth of gin every night. I adored him because he was different from everyone else. Keenan was like a gnome from outer space. He and I often discussed eclectic topics that no one else understood. Social dysfunction was our shared bond, our stock in trade.
His family’s place lay halfway between my parents’ house and the high school. Our home was much nicer than his. We had a well-kept yard filled with flowers and vegetables. Keenan’s front porch was covered with rusted machine parts, old shoes, and broken toys.
Twenty-five years had passed since my last visit. Central Illinois wasn’t exactly a tourist mecca. I gazed at anonymous rows of leaded glass windows. I once knew every step to Keenan’s place. Had somebody torn down his house?
A middle-aged, corpulent mailman lumbered in my direction. He stopped a few feet away and smiled. “Looking for somebody? I know everyone in these parts. Maybe I can help.”
“I attended high school here. Just sort of wandering around. I’m doing a nostalgia tour.”
The mailman erupted in laughter. “That’s a good way of putting it. I’m Gary Hinman. Class of ’75. Been working this route for 24 years.”
“My name’s Leah. Class of ’77. You might remember me.”
“Who could forget?” Gary chuckled. “You definitely stood out from the crowd. Of course, that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”
“Whatever happened to Keenan?” The words burst out before I could stop them. “I’ve been searching for his house, but I can’t remember exactly where it is.”
Gary shook his head. “Man, that’s a sad story. He died only a few months ago. His heart just kinda exploded. Serious drug addict. One day, he showed me a tackle box full of pills. Acted like it was his candy drawer. The house is still there, but nobody lives in it.” His tone sounded casual, like he’d seen many people expire during his years of mail delivery.
I gaped at him, horrified. “God, that’s awful. Forty-four is too young. Poor guy. He always wanted to buy a mansion and listen to Bach all day. Guess he won’t be doing that now.”
“No, he stayed in his parents’ house,” Gary said. “He tried to attend college in Champaign-Urbana but came home after six months. Poor guy should’ve stayed in school. He was smarter than some of the professors. Damn shame.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Hey, I’d better get back to work. Nice talking with you.”
Gary adjusted his bag and trudged towards a row of waiting houses. Halfway up the block, he spun around and snickered, “Nostalgia tour. I like that. You know, I can’t do a nostalgia tour, because I never left. Oh well.”
A moment later, he wandered behind a bush. The mid-afternoon sun had grown frigid. A couple of acorns plummeted to the ground. The street became eerily quiet, like the moment before an explosion.
I no longer wanted to see Keenan’s house. My old friend lived somewhere in the ether, long past Tuscola’s city limits. I tried to imagine him, crouched over an easel or a typewriter, hard at work on his latest project. Both eyes closed, swaying to music only he could hear. Like he’d found his place in the world after all.
* * *
Leah Mueller’s work is published in Rattle, Certain Age, Writers Resist, Beach Chair Press, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, New Flash Fiction Review, Does It Have Pockets, Outlook Springs, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She has received several nominations for Pushcart and Best of the Net. One of her short stories appears in the 2022 edition of Best Small Fictions. Her fourteenth book, “A Pretty Good Disaster” was published by Alien Buddha Press in 2025. Check out more of her work at substack.com/@leahsnapdragon.