Borderlands 5 (12 page)

What appealed to him most about this scenario was he really wouldn’t be held accountable for his actions. Not for long anyway. He was an old man. Life in prison didn’t have the same meaning to James as it would to some teen who shot another in a drive-by.

There were days when James put the gun in his pants pocket with the intention of visiting his old school and settling some old scores. But common sense always prevailed. At times, though, just barely.

When the weather broke and it was breezy and balmy without being stifling James walked over to Rittenhouse Park where he had often taken his students on scavenger hunts. It literally took up an entire city block. On three sides were apartment houses and office buildings. On the fourth side was a bank and stores. An oasis in the middle of the city, so out of place, James thought often, but somehow just so right. Mothers chatted while their young children played. Senior citizens sat on benches, some feeding bread to the hordes of pigeons who shared the park. A few homeless men made the grass their bed. The police would occasionally shoo them away, but as they seldom bothered anyone the police just as often ignored their presence.

James sat on a bench taking it all in. He tried to ignore the ever present question of what he would do with his days. Today he was sitting in a park taking in the sights, sounds and smells he had so often taken for granted. But this was only a temporary respite. He couldn’t very well come here daily. Yes, he had something to do
today
, he thought, then sighed. But what about tomorrow?

“Mr. Hennings?” a voice asked tentatively, taking James by surprise. He looked up and saw a teenager who looked vaguely familiar. “Mark Connors,” the youth said, when James didn’t reply. “I was a student of yours in the sixth grade. I wouldn’t expect you to …”

“I
do
remember you, Mark,” James said, before the boy could finish. “You’ve grown, of course, but you haven’t really changed,” he went on. James remembered Mark Connors as introverted with few friends. He still wore thick horn-rimmed eyeglasses. He still had a shock of long brown hair, with bangs that reached past the tips of his glasses. Sometimes James thought Mark hid behind the hair, a blanket obscuring his eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be at school?” he asked.

“I go to the School for the Performing Arts,” he said. “They’re having a half day. Some teacher’s conference at the school.”

“You played piano,” James said, remembering how Mark helped out the music teacher during lessons. “You were quite good.”

Mark blushed. “I didn’t think you’d remember. I … well, I sort of blended into the background. The piano was my ticket into the School for the Performing Arts. I do my thing, but I’m still pretty much a loner.” While they talked James noticed several people pass them by, giving them odd looks. A young boy with an old man, he imagined them thinking. James must be some kind of pervert. He ignored them.

Mark looked at his watch. “I’ve got to run some errands for my mother. I wish we could talk longer. There are so few people I can relate to, but I always seemed to be able to talk to you.” He paused. “I … I get an hour for lunch each day. Tuesdays and Thursdays I have a study hall right after. I don’t want to impose, but if you’re not busy we could have lunch here Thursday. You probably have other plans but …”

“I’d love to,” James said. “Same time, same place?” he asked.

“Sure,” Mark said, then hustled off.

James looked at his watch. Two hours had passed. He couldn’t believe it. It seemed more like half-an-hour. Mark was very much like his son Stephen before the divorce and custody battle. He hadn’t known Mark was such a rabid sports fan. They’d talked about everything he’d wanted to talk to his son about. The Sixers, Phillies and Flyers, the city’s hockey team. Yes, James
had
had something to do today. He couldn’t wait until Thursday.

Thursday James was waiting when Mark came jogging into the park. James had felt a bit like a fool. He kept telling himself that Mark wouldn’t show. Yes, they’d enjoyed one another’s company, but Mark surely had had his fill of his former teacher. He’d probably use his lunch hour and study hall to practice the piano. James had bought two hoagies at a Wawa convenience store. The smell was delicious but James refused to give into the temptation to eat before Mark arrived …
if
he arrived. He’d just about given up hope when he saw Mark. Glancing at his watch he saw Mark hadn’t been late. James’s apprehension had gotten the best of him. James took out one of the hoagies and held it out to Mark. The youth laughed. From a bag of his own Mark took out a hoagie and held it out to James. “I didn’t know if you’d bring your own lunch,” Mark said. Soon they were both laughing. Then talking. Time flew, just as it had the first time. The only disquieting moment was when two teens, obviously cutting class, looked at the two of them and began laughing. James couldn’t make out their words. He wondered if Mark felt uncomfortable, but looking at the boy it didn’t seem like he cared at all. Their time together passed all too quickly. If Mark didn’t hustle he’d be late for class, he’d told James, reluctantly getting up.

“Next Tuesday?” Mark asked, tentatively.

“I’d love it,” James said.

“I’ll bring lunch,” both of them said at the same time and laughed.

“We’ll alternate,” James said. “I bring the hoagies next Tuesday. No arguing with your elders,” he added when he saw Mark about to protest. Mark nodded, smiled then jogged across the park, turning around and waving as he neared the exit.

Tuesday couldn’t come too soon for James. This time as he sat on the bench he was far less apprehensive. Looking at his watch he saw he’d arrived fifteen minutes early. He relaxed. Mark has classes, after all. He
couldn’t
arrive whenever he wanted. Mark arrived right on time. James handed him a hoagie and soda. Mark took a bite. His mouth still full he nodded towards James. “Even a bad hoagie—and this isn’t half bad—is delicious,” he said after he’d swallowed.

James and Mark were discussing the failings of organized religion when a mother and her daughter walked by. The little girl, who couldn’t have been older than seven, was holding her mother’s hand. She stopped in front of the bench upon which James and Mark were sitting. Her mother gave a slight tug, but the child held her ground. “It’s not polite to stare,” the mother whispered to her daughter, but James overheard her.

“Why are you talking to yourself, Mister?” the girl said, looking at James.

“Hannah!” the girl’s mother said, in a louder voice. “That’s enough.” This time she tugged a bit harder and the girl went with her mother. She stared back at James several times before being distracted by pigeons her mother allowed her to chase.

James didn’t understand. What did the little girl mean? He turned towards Mark and the boy was gone. On the bench where Mark had sat was a wrapped hoagie. My god, James thought. I’ve been talking to myself. I created a … a friend to talk to. “I feel like such a fool,” he said, aloud. This time a number of others turned and looked at him oddly. James rose and left the park as quickly as his sixty-five-year-old legs would take him. He couldn’t have been more embarrassed if he had peed on himself.

At home he debated with himself long and hard whether he had just been lonely or was going mad? With no one to confide in—not even Mark, he thought bitterly—he chose the former. He vowed, though, never to return to the park again. He took out his gun and for the first time seriously debated ending his life. He loaded a single bullet in the gun. He cursed himself that he hadn’t bought a revolver. Russian Roulette. Let the fates determine whether he’d live or die. But, with the gun he’d purchased with the bullet in the chamber, if he fired the outcome was certain. Still, what the hell did he have to live for? And creating an imaginary friend. How could he? Kids,
little kids
invented friends to play with, not grown men. What have I become? James wondered. He held the gun to his temple, his finger on the trigger. Then he started to cry as he lowered the gun. He didn’t even have the courage to end his pitiful existence. He cried himself to sleep in his lounger, waking up for his nightly pee at three in the morning. His back ached. He jumped at the sound the gun made when it fell to the floor as he stood up. He’d completely forgotten about the gun. Then he began to laugh hysterically. What if it had gone off? What if coward that he was he had
accidentally
killed himself? What a hoot he thought and laughed again. When he got into his bed his sleep was fitful, full of images of all who had wronged him. His gun in his hand he shot each in the face, obliterating their features. But like clay their faces would reassemble and they’d laugh at him for his inadequacy. He couldn’t even kill right.

Soon it wasn’t what should he do with his life, but what should he do
today
? And the day before when he looked at his list for the first time it was blank. He stared for what must have been twenty minutes at the paper, his hand trembling. “
What do I do today
?” he asked aloud. The phone rang. It was a solicitation for life insurance. While fully covered he listened to the man’s spiel, then politely declined. It had given him something to do, even if for just ten minutes. He hung up and looked at the phone for fifteen minutes willing it to ring again.

Surely Sprint or MCI would want his long distance business.

A knock on the door. James padded downstairs in his slippers and bathrobe expecting to be greeted by a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses. They always seemed to travel in pairs he thought. Before his retirement he’d shunned such visitors. Now, though he had no desire to convert, they could at least spice up his day.

He opened the door and saw a package. A UPS driver was on his way back to his tell-tale brown truck. James picked up the box the man had left. Excitement gripped him, which quickly turned to disappointment. Wrong address. He called out to the driver. The man must not have heard him. He got into his truck and drove away.

Later he went outside for a walk. He saw his next door neighbor, Thomas McGinley mowing his lawn. McGinley looked his way. James didn’t know his neighbors well at all. He’d kept pretty much to himself. McGinley, also retired, seemed nice enough, though. Maybe a brief conversation. James waved and said hello. McGinley ignored him. James hand went instinctively to his pocket. He now carried his gun with him
. Ignore me, McGinley? Ignore this
! He imagined taking out his gun and pointing it as his neighbor. How rude would he be then?

James walked two blocks to the mailbox and deposited some bills. On his way back, as he crossed the street, some fool turned the corner to beat a yellow light and almost hit him. James gave the driver the finger, almost hoping the clown would stop so he could at least argue with the stranger. It would be a short argument. James had his equalizer in his pocket. Let the fool vent at him. What would he have to say with a gun stuck in his face? But the driver disregarded him. Everyone’s in such a hurry, James thought.

As he reached his home he saw two of his other neighbor’s children playing in the driveway they shared with him. He watched them on their Big Wheels. They, too, took no notice of him. No better manners than their parents, James thought. They would grow up to be clones of their parents. Maybe he should end their pitiful existence now, he thought. He shrugged. Maybe he should just take out his gun and shoot himself in the head in front of them.
That
would give them something to think about. Maybe then they’d feel guilty for ignoring him. It would certainly leave a lasting impression on them, he considered with a laugh. He didn’t know how long he stood outside looking, but not seeing anything. A car’s horn startled him. The sun had gone down. His neighbor’s kids were in their house.

That night James stared at his empty list. He wrote down one item. The next morning at 6 a.m sharp James bladder provided his wakeup call. After urinating James felt the stubble on his face. When he taught he shaved daily, even on weekends. He continued to do so for a few months after he retired. Then it was every other day, then every third or fourth day. It had been the same with haircuts. Every two weeks without fail he got a haircut when he taught and for the first few months of his retirement. Then once a month, every six weeks, and now every two months. Actually, he couldn’t remember when he’d last had his hair cut. He decided to shave. At least he’d look respectable before completing the one item on his list.
What do I have to live for?
He had asked himself the night before. Nothing … had been his response. He still shaved with an old-fashioned straight-edged razor his father had given him. Yes, a quick shave and then he’d cut his throat with the razor. That he could do.
Would
do. He wouldn’t use his gun. He’d hesitate and lose his nerve as he’d done before. But after shaving, a quick flick of his wrist. Yes, that he
could
do. He was tired of wondering what to do with his days. He realized the night before that he
had nothing to live for
. At least he’d end his life by his own hand. No being a burden to his children as his health deteriorated. No dreaded nursing home. He wondered for a moment how long it would be before he was missed? A few days? A week? Maybe a month if the stench of his rotting corpse didn’t alert his neighbors.