THE HERMIT OF MAPLE STREET—A FABLEApril 4, 2025

A drive to brunch at a friend’s house provided a jarring encounter with a suburban hermit.

As I parked at the curb at the house next-door, the neighbor’s front door flew open. A white-haired man popped out. He wore a red, white and blue bathrobe over white pajamas. His feet were tucked into red slippers. His face also was red.

“Why are you parked in front of my house?” he bellowed. I said I was going to brunch at his neighbor’s. “Ain’t no neighbor of mine,” he said. “Never met those people, never will. Stay home 24/7.”

“But you must go out for groceries,” I said. “The dentist? Stuff like that?” He shook his head. “Get my groceries delivered. Wait till the delivery boy’s gone before I open the door. No dentist. False teeth. I keep ’em clean.”

“Who do you talk to?” I asked. “Don’t talk to no one,” he said. “Except to tell a repair guy where’s the air-conditioning compressor or the dishwasher. Pest-control guy comes by once a month.” I smiled. “You meet interesting people that way,” I said.

“Don’t want to meet people. Repairmen? You don’t know what you’re gonna get. Maybe the person who answers the phone sounds American but probably’s from India. And they don’t send you white people. You get Mexicans, some Chinese, a few Blacks.”

He stared at me for a moment. “You’re not white, are you?” I shrugged. “Some people think I am, a bunch don’t. I don’t. I’m an Ashkenazi Jew. My family came here from the Russian Empire.” He pointed at me like he had a gun. “I knew it. A damn foreigner.” I took a breath. “I don’t think so. I was born here.”

“Whatever happened to America for Americans?” he went on. “Know what street you’re on?” I looked each way. “Maple Street,” I said.

“There you go,” he said. “Should be a good American name like Elm Street.” I scratched my head. “I turned from Elm Street onto Maple here. ‘Make it Elm Avenue,” he said. “Might confuse lot of people,” I said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Perfect. Keep people away.” I shifted from one foot to the other. “What’s wrong with Maple Street?”

“Maple?” he said. “You know what Maple is?” I thought about it for a moment. “A tree, right? One you get syrup from, right? We’re having maple syrup with pancakes at the brunch I’m going to.”

He shook his fist. “Maple’s a goddam Canadian tree. Canadians, they’re not Americans. Have a big red maple leaf on their flag. Flag’s red and white. No blue like in ours. But they’ll be saluting a red, white and blue flag before you can say, ‘America first!’”

It was time to go. I didn’t think he’d damage my car—security cameras were everywhere—but I thought I’d leave on pleasant terms. “Nice to meet you,” I said. 

“After that liberal-elite brunch,” he returned, “drive up to Canada where you came from and crossed the border illegally. And say hello to the boys from ICE.” He whirled around, stomped inside and slammed the door.

As I walked to my friend’s house, I couldn’t help wondering, “Would Canada let me in? If so, would the United States let me back?”