Hello in there, hello

On failing to offer neighborly accompaniment

So if you’re walkin’ down the street sometime

And spot some hollow, ancient eyes

Please don’t just pass ‘em by and stare

As if you didn’t care

Say, “Hello in there, hello”

- John Prine, “Hello in There”

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It was 9:30PM last Sunday when an ambulance and several police cars pulled up to our neighbor’s house. The flashing red and blue was quickly followed by the sound of a front door being forced open. Then, a long silence. When the ambulance didn’t speed away, a sinking feeling came over me: Randy was dead.¹

Randy was my next-door neighbor. Not once did I have a conversation with him. Not once did I spend time with him. He spent almost every hour of every day in his home, alone, and he died in his home, alone.

I lived next to Randy for the last year and a half of his life. In that time, I could’ve practiced what I preached and been a good neighbor. I could’ve checked in on him. I could’ve brought him meals. I could’ve offered him some form of neighborly accompaniment. In doing so, I probably could’ve helped make his final year a little better — a little warmer, a little more connected, a little more joyful. But I didn’t, and now I can’t.

I’ve spent an hour trying to figure out how to anchor this piece. I don’t have any big ideas to spread, any practical actions to share, or any contrarian points to make. I suppose I’m just trying to make sense of my shame over the distance between my words and my deeds: of being the guy who listened to John Prine in the kitchen while leaving Randy to die alone in his.

When I first moved in, I didn’t realize Randy was my neighbor. I thought his house was vacant. The back of the house was overgrown with vines. The kitchen table was littered with empty water bottles, and nothing else. It looked like the home of someone who had already died. Then, one day, I looked through the kitchen window and, to my surprise, I saw a man in a wheelchair.

I found out his name was Randy, and I progressively learned of his situation from our other neighbors. Randy was born in the house next door, grew up there, never married, and never left. As his parents and siblings passed away, he became increasingly isolated. As his health deteriorated, his world became smaller. A life spent outside tending to his beloved garden eventually shrank to a life confined inside the four walls of his childhood home.

We have one of the most lively blocks in town, but Randy was the least active member of it. When hundreds of kids would descend on the block for Halloween, Randy was the only one not out on his front porch giving away candy. When the annual “Porchella” porch music festival flooded our block with music and people, Randy was seemingly the only neighbor not in the streets. On a block where most neighbors participate in the life of the neighborhood, Randy’s absence was a presence.

Still, from what I could tell, Randy wasn’t hiding in his home; he seemed to want to be seen. He spent his days in his living room, perched in his wheelchair, staring out the window into our well-traversed street. Whenever my wife or I would walk by, we would wave at him. If he saw us, his whole face would light up, and he would excitedly wave back. Whenever either of us shoveled snow from his sidewalk, ramp, and steps, he would wave with gratitude. This was the extent of the neighborliness we showed to Randy: small gestures of care, but nothing more.

My wife and I would often discuss ways that we could connect with Randy beyond simply waving or shoveling. One of our neighbors once told us that Randy loved Chick-fil-A. Could we drop him off a chicken sandwich for dinner one night? We often make home-cooked meals for ourselves. Could we make dinner for three instead, and eat it together on his front porch? We have a Saturday morning routine of going to the farmer’s market. Could we knock on his door every week before we go and ask him if he needs anything?

All of this amounted to lots of ideas and plans, but no action or follow-through. Life, with all its other ideas, plans, priorities, and distractions, got in the way — and our window to accompany Randy ran out.

In hindsight, all we had to do was start by saying, “Hello in there, hello.” But we didn’t, and now we can’t.

It’s been 10 days since Randy’s death. In that time, I’ve been asking myself, “How is it that we fell so short of the great commandment to ‘love thy neighbor as thyself?’” Each answer I’ve landed on is as embarrassing as it is inadequate.

I’ll start with my clear avoidance of the possibility of discomfort. On several occasions, I would walk by Randy’s house, see him staring out the window, and think, “I should knock on the door and say hello.” I’d take a step toward the door, hesitate, then take two steps back. Some of the rumors I heard would start swirling in my head — that he had garbage piled inside his house, that he wheeled around with a towel covering his waist (and nothing else) — and I’d immediately come up with a set of excuses to avoid taking the final 10 steps toward his door. What if the house still smelled bad? What if he did just have that towel over his waist? What if he is a little bit crazy? Faced with the tiny risk of having an awkward interaction with Randy, I chose the comfort of waving from afar, then putting my head down and walking the final steps back to my house.

I also was guilty of the evergreen, self-justifying feeling that I was “just too busy.” Oftentimes, when I would walk by and see Randy through the window, it would be in the middle of the workday and I was in between meetings. Caught between my better angels and neurotic tendencies, I’d rationalize my way into another set of excuses I’m not proud of. What if I got stuck in a long conversation with him? What if he actually did need help with something, right then and there? And what if that made me late to my next Zoom call? (the horror!). I prioritized my abstract, mostly remote work over connecting with the particular person who lived next door.

This gets at the most indicting answer for my inaction: selfishness. We had a year and a half to have one conversation with Randy that could have opened the door to a relationship. Instead, we chose our work, our home, and ourselves. How many slow Fridays did we have when we could have had that “terrifying” 30-minute conversation? How many quiet Saturdays did we have when we could have dropped off some food? How many dinners did we talk about doing something for Randy, then ultimately choose to “do it later” (which now means never)? The harsh truth is I could summon the energy to create a microgrant initiative to bring 500-plus Charlottesville neighbors together, but I couldn’t knock on my isolated neighbor’s door.

In a prior draft, I considered telling a story that isn’t solely about my personal responsibility. I considered pointing to our confusing cultural script for being a good neighbor, where I’m expected to both respect my neighbors’ privacy and help my neighbors in need. I considered pointing to our atrophying social structures; for instance, I’m not a member of a church or service organization that would teach me, support me, and give me the practice reps of being a good neighbor. I even considered pointing to the economic reality that I don’t own my home, and thus I don’t have the same stake in my neighborhood as most of my neighbors.

But placing the blame on forces I couldn’t control would mean willfully denying all the things I could control. I had more resources on how to be a good neighbor than 99.9 percent of the population, but I never consulted them. I knew dozens of neighborhood leaders who I could’ve contacted for advice, but I never reached out to them. I felt the moral imperative to love my neighbor, but I never acted on it.

I walked by Randy’s house almost every day. Not once did I say, “Hello in there, hello.”

1. Note: “Randy” is an alias for his actual name.