The Walking Man (17 page)

"Excuse me, sir, may I help you?" Maria asked. Her greeting made me stumble like a drunk. Eventually I composed myself and walked up to Maria. She was smiling. I was dizzy.

"I was wondering if you could help me, help me." I stuttered. "I just bought a Victorian around the corner and I need to get a copy of a key made."

"I'd be happy to make you a key." Maria smiled.

I almost fell down as I handed Maria the key to the front door of my new house.

"Ahh hah!" Maria said. "One of these old Victorian keys, you're lucky you've come to Shyshire Hardware; the clerks at Lowes and Home Depot couldn't make a duplicate of this key if their lives depended on it."

"Fantastic," I said, my knees still wobbling.

"Are you the owner of the green-gray Victorian."

"As a matter of fact, I am."

"Oh my God," Maria said, flashing her killer smile. "I absolutely love that house."

"You do?"

"Yes, I do," Maria said.

"Then just keep the key. It's yours."

Maria laughed. "What do you mean?"

"It's yours," I said. "I insist."

"You're giving me a house." Maria laughed again. "I don't even know you, and you want to give me a house?"

She stared at me, and we reconnected.

"Twenty-six years ago we took a ride on a Ferris wheel," I reminded her.

Maria paused and looked at me. Her legs buckled, causing her to grab the Help Counter.

"Buddy," she said.

"Yes."

"I heard a miracle happened at the hospital. I didn't know it was you."

"It's great to see you, Maria."

Strangely, Maria then said, "Buddy, I have two boys—one's in college, the other's a sophomore in high school. They're polite boys. They treat women with respect."

"I'm sure they're good kids," I said. "They have a great mother."

Maria paused. She seemed upset. "You really have to go, Buddy."

I was stunned. "Sure," I said. "I'm sorry if I upset you with the house offer and all."

"No, no, no, Buddy," Maria said. "Would you mind leaving the store?"

"Sure, Maria," I said. "Sorry, I didn't mean…"

"It's not you, Buddy. Thanks for stopping by, but please leave," Maria said in a semi-panic.

"Okay."

"Thanks, Buddy."

Without thinking, I said, "I love you, Maria," before walking away.

As I exited the hardware store I was in shock. Maria's rejection was devastating. I was despondent. I didn't get it. After standing still for what seemed like a year, I walked by the Hardware store's front window. Inside, I could see Maria. She was crying. I felt like an idiot, offering Maria a house. I was a fool. I'd planned to simply say hello.

Desperate, I tapped Smitty's name on my iPhone.

"Smitty here."

"Smitty, it's me," I cried.

"Went bad, huh?"

"Not good," I said. "She asked me to leave the store."

"What did you do?"

"Well."

"Well, what?"

"I gave her my house."

Smitty laughed. "You did what?"

"I gave her my house," I repeated.

"She's a married woman, guy," Smitty said. "Maybe you should have gone a bit slower."

"I know. I lost my mind. Jesus, she's still the same Maria. Now what am I going to do?"

"I'll tell you exactly what you're going to do," Smitty said. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," Smitty echoed. "She knows where you live. It's her move."

"Eeek," I said.

"Nothing," Smitty ordered. "Honor her wishes. No more accidental meetings. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you, Smitty."

"Good."

"Thanks, Smitty," I said as I tried to calm down. "Stop by and I'll give you a Mercedes SUV if you teach me how to drive."

"Jesus." Smitty laughed. "I think I liked you better when you couldn't walk."

~ ~ ~

It killed me, but I followed Smitty's single word advice to the letter because I knew he was right. Months passed without me seeing Maria again. Having been a quadriplegic for many years, I knew how to be patient, and I was certain my story with Maria had chapters left to be written. Subsequently, I lived without anxiety as I waited for something to happen. I passed my time by working on my new house and visiting my nephews, Oscar and Frank, in Apple.

My wait ended as my first Christmas in my new house approached. It was a Sunday morning, three hours after midnight, and a week before the baby Jesus' birthday. Two hours earlier, the final song had been sung at the annual Bash Insurance Christmas Party. The first noise I heard was a scream, more of a guttural yell than a screech. I was pretty sure somebody was calling me a "fucking mother fucker." The swearing was followed by the sounds of breaking glass and slamming doors. Somebody was in my house.

"I know you're in here!" the intruder screamed. I jumped out of my bed and entered the hallway in search of a weapon. I had installed motion sensors in the ceiling lights and the stairway below my room was already illuminated, so I knew a madman was only a few feet away. I froze, not out of fear, but indecision. A second later, Johnny Bash appeared. He had a metal baseball bat in his hand and he was obviously intent on harming me.

Johnny hadn't aged well. Having once been a heavy man, I could tell he weighed at least three hundred pounds. He was bald, and what little hair he had was white despite his being only forty-five years old. It was also obvious he was drunk and out of his mind; a habit, I feared.

"There you are, you lil fuckerer," Johnny Bash slurred. "I'm going stick this baseball bat up your ass. After I beat you to death."

"Merry Christmas, Johnny," I calmly said while Johnny charged forward.

Next, instead of backing up, I rushed Johnny, my intention being to incapacitate him with a kick to his legendary gonads.

My fearless move momentarily stunned Johnny, so he took a swing at me before he even reached the top step of the stairway; I was still two bat lengths away.

Johnny's powerful swing immediately caused him to fall backward. Too drunk to brace his fall with any sort of coordinated arm or leg movement, Johnny fell straight backward slamming his head into one of the stair treads before doing two spectacular somersaults; instantly, he was knocked out. The fight was over before it began. I called the police, using my iPhone, and then checked Johnny. He was motionless but still breathing.

My home was situated five hundred feet from the Shyshire police station, so the on-duty police officer arrived within two minutes. Upon entering my home the officer was clearly agitated. He was an older gentleman. His uniform had three stripes on his sleeve, so I assumed he was a sergeant. Upon entering the crime scene, the police officer stepped over Johnny, and then confronted me. His gun wasn't drawn.

"Are you okay, sir?" the officer asked.

"I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"I'm fine," I reassured the officer. "What about him?" I asked while pointing to Johnny Bash.

"Fuck him," the officer said. "An ambulance is on its way. I just got back from bringing this asshole's wife to the hospital."

"Maria?" I yelped.

"Yes," the officer said. "Do you know her?"

"Yes," I said. "We're friends."

"Well, your friend got beat up tonight. It was bad, but she'll live."

"I gotta go."

"Where to?" the officer asked.

"To see Maria."

"I get it," the officer said. "But you need to make a statement first."

"He swung at me and missed."

"Works for me," the officer said. "Come on. I'll bring you to her."

"Thank you," I said in a panicky voice. "Thank you."

"No problem," the officer said. "Don't worry. She'll be all right."

"What about him?" I asked while pointing at the still motionless and unconscious Johnny Bash.

"Fuck him," the officer repeated. "He's not going anywhere."

Within minutes I was in the Emergency Room of Shyshire Hospital. The police officer escorted me directly to Maria. She was in the intensive care unit. Her face was swollen. She'd received a terrible beating. Both her eyes were black. She had a broken jaw, a broken hand, a broken arm, and a shattered nose.

"Maria," I said. "It's me, Buddy."

"Francis," Maria whispered. "I told him about you. I knew it would end it."

It was the first time Maria ever called me by my real name.

"Shhh," I said. "Don't talk."

Maria extended her hand; I grabbed it, and never let go.

~ ~ ~

Maria's boys joined me the next morning at her bedside. Their father was located in an adjoining intensive care unit, but they never visited him. He had a broken neck. He'd lost the use of his arms and legs. His spine was injured above his C5 vertebra; permanent paralysis was the diagnosis. Nonetheless, there was a policeman posted outside his room, no doubt to prevent somebody like me from stopping by to finish him off.

After a week, Maria was out of intensive care, and the following week she was reposing in my Number Bed while I serviced her every need.

"Francis," she'd often say. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Her vision was poor for nearly a month, so I read the
Shyshire Tattler
and the
Boston Globe
to her every evening. Not wanting to aggravate her healing face, I tried to avoid articles that would make Maria laugh. It was impossible to do.

It took Maria a year to modify her Catholicism sufficiently to divorce Johnny Bash. Shortly thereafter, the Shyshire Justice of the Peace pronounced us man and wife. The ceremony was held in the Shyshire Town Hall. After exchanging vows, we had a small reception back at our house, present was Smitty, Rodrigo, Chef Royalston, Nurse Judy II, an elderly Juliette Dritch, my family, and several of Maria's friends. Although we specified no gifts in our invitations, the folks from Leicester County Hospital insisted on presenting me with a special present.

"Francis," Juliette Dritch proclaimed in her usual formal tone. "In recognition of your thirty-six years of residency at Leicester County Hospital, I am proud to present you with a special part of our beloved hospital…"

As Juliette spoke, Smitty handed me a large and colorfully wrapped box that only he could lift. I didn't need to open it. I knew it was the Walking Man of Room 302.

So touched was I by my parting gift, the next day I had some contractors install the window in our master bedroom suite, facing east.

Now, each day, unbeknownst to Maria, I wake at sunrise to watch the multi-colored walking man traverse the woman I love, my past shining its light on my future.

~ ~ ~

No doubt, you're relieved that my tale is finally over; I thank you for reading. When I was writing this book I often ask myself: why? I'm not an author, and I don't particularly care whether anybody knows of my amazing story. That being said, I've concluded that my compulsion to publish this book was driven by an external force that has a message for you, which I will now impart by ending my story with a brief bio. Hopefully, you will refer to it whenever you need a reminder to always be relentless in the pursuit of your dreams.

Name:
Francis "Buddy" Morris

Birth Date:
February 20, 1958

Hometown:
Apple, Massachusetts

Mother:
Helen Beth Myers

Father:
Robert J. Morris

Sibling:
Hal R. Morris

Wife:
Maria Anne Rivera

THE END

####

Read on for the excerpt of
Even Steven

Excerpt from
Even Steven

~Chapter One~

Getting Even

Steven Zangst’s parents never beat their son, but they understood others’ need to do so.

It was difficult to pinpoint the reason Steven’s peers were overwhelmed by a need to assault him; many theories existed. Some kids blamed the entertaining yelp Steven emitted when you kicked him in the testicles. Others were certain it was the way his eyes bulged when you slugged him in the stomach. Not helping Steven’s cause was his tiny physique and high-pitched voice, plus his inability to pronounce words that began with “m” or ended in “r,” a disability highlighted when Steven screamed, “othah fuckahs” at his “tormentahs.”

Regardless of the reason, abuse by his contemporaries made Steven Zangst’s childhood distinctly unpleasant. Fortunately, Steven was intelligent and he knew how to keep his mouth shut, so by age nine he was able to quiet his detractors by becoming a proficient practitioner of the dark art of revenge. Soon thereafter, as his brutalizers experienced painful and humiliating retribution, the derisive salutations once used to assail Steven Zangst: puny, weenie, munchkin, mini, etc., were replaced by the word “sir.” Many prior offenders sought to avoid Steven’s wrath by offering to buy him lunch or pimp-out his bicycle, but as it became apparent their pleas for leniency were falling on rock-hard ears, joyous recollections of pummeling tiny Steven Zangst were replaced by bouts of perspiration induced by the certainty that a slice of get-even pie would soon be served.

Hector Pounce (pronounced Ponz-say) was the first person to experience the wrath of Steven Zangst. At ninety-three pounds, Hector was the biggest third grader in the history of Sunnyswale Elementary School, or SES as the locals liked to call it. He was twice the weight of his classmate, Steven Zangst, and a foot taller. Hector swore like Ike and wore loud shirts, offset by navy blue rayon shorts that had a three-inch-wide expandable waistband. He looked like a mini-version of the legendary football coach, Bill Parcels. At snack time Hector would devour a rack of cold spare ribs, drink a quart of Coke, and then eat whatever Steven Zangst had brought to school.

By first grade Hector figured he had broken Steven Zangst, because Steven always packed his lunch with Hector’s favorite foods, which he would hand over without a fight.

“Yum, Sour Cream Pringles,” Hector would say. “Remind me to kill you later, Zangst.”