One balmy summer morning, as the sun was peeking over the trees and flashing its burning rays, I walked outside out of boredom. I breathed in the air, fresh and clean and calming. I looked down both sides of the street. No cars, which wasn�t unusual; no one ever seemed to bother with Monument Street. As I turned to go back to the house, the light blue house, and the only on of its kind on the street, I noticed that yellow fire hydrant. It looked no different than I remembered. Still, I crouched down to examine it up close.
�It�s a curious thing, really,� I muttered to myself. �It looks brand new.�
And indeed it did. The thing looked as though it had been installed only yesterday. The yellow paint wasn�t at all chipped, and the high-gloss finish caught the sun�s light.
I don�t know how long I stood by the hydrant, inspecting it thoroughly for no apparent reason.
�It�s a waste of space, isn�t it?� I said, aloud this time. �Has there ever been a fire on Monument Street?�
In the thirty-odd years I had lived there, I hadn�t seen a fire of any kind. Then again, for all but the last two of these years, my house had been the only one on the street. Two or so years ago, one of those heartless construction companies came in, tearing up the innocent trees which had formerly surrounded my small house and lined the opposite side of the street. In their place came rows and rows of identical houses- sterile-looking, pale yellow houses. Pale yellow, I thought, the color of decay. Along with these houses came equally similar neighbors, filling the miles of unneeded housing. I had thought these neighbors would break my former peace and quiet, but instead it was quieter than ever. The lack of trees meant a lack of bird song, and my reclusive new �neighbors� never uttered a peep, or even showed their faces. I felt more alone than ever, more isolated.
These houses still disgusted me. I missed the trees, and I hated these people. They all seemed to know each other, all of the occupants of these seemingly hundreds of houses. When they did happen to step outside of their quaint houses, they would greet each other in the fashion of old friends. I, on the other hand, never saw as much as a wave or a �good morning�. I was the only different one, the only one with a blue house, and the only one with a fire hydrant.
There was nothing to do today. I had no one to talk to, no lawn to mow (I�d done it yesterday), no flowers to plant or water (also taken care of), no pets to feed (I was horribly allergic), no nothing. I wandered my house and my yard aimlessly, feeling helpless. Finally, I flopped down on my couch.
�That fire hydrant�s my only friend,� I muttered with a chuckle. I picked up a book from the coffee table. �My only friend�s an inanimate object.�
That was how my life was, solitary and somewhat confined. Monument Street sat in the middle of nowhere, mile from any stores or recreation. As my battered old car could barely handle the weekly trip for groceries, a trip out for sheer enjoyment was out of the question. It wasn�t like I�d enjoy it, anyway.
I couldn�t concentrate on my book, a pointless mystery I�d solved by the second page. Standing up, I peered out the bay window in the next room. I saw the same thing I always saw: the hydrant, those houses, and the cars beside them. Those cars, those shiny silver cars. So new looking, and clean. They shamed my beat up old red box. Glancing around the street, I saw the cars were all identical, as identical as the neatly manicured lawns, tulip gardens, wooden mailboxes, and cute little wreaths that every pale yellow house had. Those mailboxes irritated me, as well. I never saw any of them get mail. They got less mail than me, and all I got were bills and the Sunday paper. I turned from the window in disgust and returned to my faithful old plaid couch. I drifted into a mid-afternoon sleep.
�Well, would you look at that? Nothing! Absolutely nothing! And to think, just yesterday, this place was hopping.�
�Yeah, crazy, isn�t it? Gee, I wish someone could have done something to stop it��
I jerked awake. I could have sworn I heard a knock at the door. No, I thought, that�s impossible. Then, I heard it again. I jumped. My already jangled nerves couldn�t handle this. Sighing, I stood up and walked to the front door.
�Who is it?� I said cautiously. No reply. �Hello?� I said, louder. Still nothing. I peered out of the peephole. There was no one in sight.
�I must be going crazy,� I said, shaking my head. Still, I opened my door and looked out, down both sides of the street. As usual, no sign of life other than myself. I started to shut the door, but stopped abruptly as I noticed something. What seemed to be a paper of sorts was tucked under my welcome mat, blowing in the breeze. Following a suspicious glance to my left, and then to my right, I crouched down to pick it up.
�This had better be good,� I muttered cynically as I stood up. I unfolded the paper and turned it over and over in my hand, scrutinizing both sides carefully. As hard as I had looked at the crinkled piece of paper, the truth was evident: the paper was blank.
�Oh, how exciting,� I said sarcastically. Shutting the door (with an unnecessarily loud slam), I wandered toward the kitchen to throw the blank page away. However, I stopped a foot from the garbage can and glanced back down at the paper.
�Maybe I should keep this,� I said. I brought it back with me to my place on the couch.
I was terribly bored. Sometimes I wished I had a television, or even a telephone. My old radio was broken. All I wad were some books, such as that would-be mystery I�d been reading earlier. And this wonderful blank piece of paper, I thought. I was still holding it. I could feel myself zoning out, drifting away again�
Just as my eyes were beginning to close, I saw something impossible. The formerly white paper now appeared grayish, the color of newspaper. �That�s odd,� I whispered. �Really odd��
