The story was only one column in length and did look to be a front page story in 1977.

"I know what you're thinking," Stephen said."And I believe it's time that we give you a front page story to write.

And it better be good. If I don't like it, I don't like it." "What's the angle?" I asked. "He's coming out of seclusion after 20 years and you just have to be there to catch his first words.

On July 9th, 1997, as the clipping says, Mr. Harold Bails will open the door to his house and take in the sunshine." Stephen stopped halfway to his office. "That is, if it doesn't rain." He chuckled and closed his smoky, Plexiglas door. At least Straus was giving me a chance at a front pager. At least for the week I wouldn't have to write about area school sports or the blotter.

Once, he made me write obituaries for a month. That nearly killed me. But no more. Now is my chance to shine in an office of secondaries. Depending on how the idea is presented, this has the potential to be a fronter. I read the story. Harold Bails, in the year of 1977, left society to live by himself in his house in suburban Chicago. He threw away his telephone, TV, and radio. He sold his car and his bike.

He had a special hole built into the basement bricks so the grocery boy could deliver food. Of course, he made special arrangements with the owner of the supermarket for this to happen. Mr. Bails got rid of anything related to communications or transportation.

Then, on the day of July 9, Mr. Bails locked his door, closed all the blinds, drew all the shades, and was never heard from since.

People knew that Wild Mr. Bails lived in the house on Columbus Drive, but if anyone outside the suburban town asked, no one acknowledged the fact. The reporter who wrote this story, Bill Owens, died seven years ago while covering a serial arsonist story, so I don't think I can rely on him as a source.

In the story, he quoted some of the neighbors saying that Mr. Bails yelled from his house, "I'll return to the world in 20 years to this day when I have sought the answers!" And that was the story. And that's all I had to go on. But tomorrow, on July 9, 1997, I will be there on Columbus Drive waiting for Mr. Bails to emerge from his house. At 7 a.m., I made my way to my favorite restaurant, Chick's, ordered my favorite breakfast, ham and eggs on bread.

I recalled my conversation I had yesterday with Mr. Bails' neighbor. He moved in one month before Mr. Bail had decided to be alone. "He asked me to do him a huge favor," Gary Ipman had said. "Huge favor?" I asked. "One that would last for twenty years. He said he would pay me handsomely." "And what was the favor?" "Mr. Bails wanted me to mow his grass and keep his landscaping trim and make sure his house was kept in decent condition." "Did you ask him why?" "Of course. He wouldn't tell me, but he did say he was going to find the answers." "And that's all he said?" I asked..

"Yeah." Gary said. "He wasn't too talkative that day. Moody, I would say." "Why did you agree?" "I don't know and that's the thing.

Something inside me--and I'll never forget this--something inside me wanted to do this. I just had to take care of this guy's house and lawn." Gary paused. "Normally, I wouldn't do something like that. A neighbor is a neighbor, but a neighbor can only go so far, and twenty years is too far. But that day that day I was afraid, but I said yes anyway. I don't know why, I just said yes." "Are you okay?" I asked. "Yeah." We then talked of other reasons why Mr. Bails may have shut himself in, but Gary didn't enlighten me with any more details that I didn't know already.

I bid him a good day and said I might get in touch with him again. He didn't want me to. After I left Chick's, I went straight to Mr. Bail's house. I was there in fifteen minutes and I saw that many other reporters and journalists were already stationed out in front of the house, spilling over into the street.

The reporters were preparing their speeches and fixing their clothes and the cameramen checked and rechecked their equipment. The TV vans and the journalists' cars nearly blocked the entire street and I had to be careful not to scratch any of the vehicles. I eased my car through the congestion and parked about a block down from the house. As I walked to join the others, I made sure my mini-tape recorder worked properly.

I guess I was no different from any of the other reporters and journalists doing the same thing. I never considered myself in their league, writing obits and back page stories, but it felt great to finally join their ranks. I could be called a peer,. The house was three stories and all brick. Blue shudders surrounded the windows on the front of the house and the windows on the side were left bare. The house was plainly square, except for the porch that extended from the front of it.

Three steps angled down to a dirt path that led to the sidewalk. The grass and hedges were well-trimmed, as the neighbor had said, and the house looked extremely clean and problem free. No one could tell, especially me, that a man had shacked himself from society for twenty years.