Walter Stickle and the Galactic Rangers, page 3
“Good morning, Walter.” At his door was Bill Ruben, the district manager, Walter’s boss.
Walter jumped to his feet. “Good morning, sir. How are you today?”
“Doing fine. Hey, are you done with the comics?”
“Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” Walter handed him the paper.
“I don’t need the whole thing,” Mr. Ruben said.
“No, go right ahead. Take it. I’m done.”
“Thanks. I can’t wait to see what the Rangers are up to today.”
“They’re headed to Earth to capture an evil criminal before he destroys the planet.”
Mr. Ruben looked exasperated.
“Sorry,” said Walter. “I didn’t mean to ruin it for you.”
“Is everything all right?” his boss asked. “You don’t seem yourself today.”
Mr. Ruben could not possibly see his feet. Walter knew that. So, he tried to act normal by doing something he didn’t like doing and didn’t normally do. He lied.
“I didn’t sleep so well last night.”
Walter always slept well. It never took him more than two minutes to fall asleep.
“I’m just tired.”
Walter was never tired. He had more energy than that bunny in the battery commercials.
“I think I’ll just stay at my desk all day, right here,” he patted the desktop, “behind my desk, my good old desk.”
More accurately, he wished that he could hide under it.
“Well, if you need to leave early, say the word.”
Mr. Ruben walked off.
Walter called after him, “No, I’m good. I might even stay late, eat lunch at my desk, go home after everyone else has left.”
He sat down, and Marilyn Chin, another of the claims representatives, stuck her head in the doorway. “Hi, Walter. You look cute today.”
Marilyn liked Walter. He liked her too, but not that way. They had gone on exactly one date two years ago. She had gotten drunk and thrown up on him at the movies after having too much to drink at dinner, and the date that had been going downhill from its beginning fell off the cliff after that.
He forced a smile. “Thank you, Marilyn.”
“Want to have lunch with us? We’re going over to Bell’s for sandwiches.”
“No thanks, but maybe you could pick up something for me since you’ll be there.”
“Sure,” she said and left for her office in disappointment.
The office receptionist was a sixtyish woman named Palakwapi Charisa. She told everyone that she was part Hopi Indian and that her impossible-to-pronounce name meant “elk in the red rocks.” To make things easy on the old folks who came into the office, her nameplate read “Receptionist,” but everyone called her Red.
“Hey, Red,” Walter said to her as she passed his office on her way toward Mr. Ruben’s.
“Dig it, Walter,” she said.
“Groovy” was another of her favorite phrases. Red had never quite made it out of the sixties. She wore her long black-and-gray hair braided in a pigtail. A headband would have been a good addition, but headwear of any kind was against office dress code. She had a buckskin shirt on that day. She wore it once in a while to annoy Marilyn, who thought it was silly and inappropriate.
Red took a step back and sized Walter up. “You groovy, paleface?”
“Don’t I look groovy?” Walter’s feet were squirming.
“Yeah, just bad vibes, I guess. Peace out.”
“Peace,” Walter said.
She left, and Walter logged onto his computer, pulling up his schedule for the day. He had nothing until nine. That gave him time to check his email and find the phone number for Drissel’s Department Store. His plan of action was taking shape. He would call them at 8:30 a.m. sharp when they opened and ask if he could order a pair of dark blue socks to be delivered to the office. It seemed a reasonable plan, and he was a reasonable man, and that would put his day back on a normal path.
Red buzzed his phone, and he picked it up. “Yes, Red?”
“It’s me, paleface.”
“Yes, I know.”
“We’ve got a ‘no appointment’ that I had to punt back to Ruben for assignment, and you’re the only one clear. Hear those thundering hooves in the distance? They’re heading your way.”
“But my first appointment is at nine. I need to prepare.”
“Too late to circle the wagons, white man. Heads up.”
Walter saw the appointment blink onto his calendar for 8:15 a.m. “Request for Reconsideration with Representation.”
“Great,” he said. “An unhappy camper with a mouthpiece. Just what I need.”
He hung up the phone.
Normal office procedure was for the claims representative to familiarize himself with the case beforehand, check the earnings record, required proofs, case history, and so on. That was especially true in cases of reconsideration. “Reconsideration” was governmentese for claims in which a person had already filed for benefits once and been denied and now was back to try again. It generally took Walter a half hour or so to go through a case. He was very thorough that way. He wanted to make sure everyone was treated fairly, but in this case he had less than fifteen minutes, so he skimmed the details of the previous decision. The claim had been filed online and the Program Service Center in Philadelphia had denied it for lack of sufficient quarters of coverage, no proof of age, no proof of citizenship, no proof of anything, or so it appeared. There wasn’t much else they could have done but deny it, and he saw little hope of his being able to help even if the person did have a lawyer.
As Walter’s computer clock changed to 8:15 a.m. it pinged softly, and an old man in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts appeared in his doorway holding a baseball cap. Walter stood up to greet him, extending his hand. “Hello, Mr. Gen-nis-chew-witz,” he said. “I’m Walter Stickle.”
“It’s Genischewitz, like Manischewitz. You know, ‘Man, oh Mana-shevits, what a wine?’” the old man said in a public service announcement to the entire office. “But you can call me Lenny.”
“Of course, I’m sorry, Mr. Genischewitz. I’m usually better with names, but I’m having one of ‘those’ days.”
“It’s Lenny.”
“All right, Lenny. Please, sit down.”
Walter had two guest chairs. Lenny sat in one.
“’Stickle’ — what kind of name is that?” Lenny asked, frowning at the nameplate on Walter’s desk. “Sounds too much like ‘Stickler.’”
“Believe it or not, that’s my nickname here.”
“I don’t like it. I’ll just call you ‘Walter.’”
“My notes say that you have a lawyer?” Walter said.
“I gave the form to that nice woman at the desk.”
“That’s fine, but don’t you want your lawyer with you while we talk about your case?”
“Just fix the mistake, and I’ll be on my way.”
“Well, Mr. Genischewitz,” Walter began.
“It’s Lenny.”
“Yes, Lenny. I looked at your file.”
“Good. How long will it take to fix?”
“The truth is, there’s nothing to fix. You didn’t have any covered earnings. You don’t qualify for Social Security.”
“Covered, schmovered. I worked for thirty years.”
“But I don’t see any record of that in your file.”
“That’s because they made a mistake. That’s what you need to fix.”
“I didn’t see your birth certificate either.”
“What? You think I wasn’t born? I’m sitting right in front of your nose.”
“Yes, I can’t deny that, but we need to see your birth certificate so we know that you’re old enough for benefits.”
“Look at me. Don’t I look old enough?”
Walter cleared his throat and looked at the clock. “Perhaps we should meet again to talk about this when your lawyer can come too. The receptionist will be happy to schedule an appointment for you.”
Mr. Genischewitz picked up the telephone on Walter’s desk and started dialing.
“What are you doing?” Walter asked.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m calling my lawyer.” The old man raised a finger to keep Walter from responding, and then said into the phone, “It’s me, Lenny. This nice young man at Social Security wants to meet with you. No rush. We’ll wait.” He hung up the phone. “I had to leave a message, but she’ll be right over.”
Walter tapped his fingers on the desk. It was a nervous habit he wished he didn’t have, but that was like wishing his teeth were perfectly straight. “Do you mind if I get some work done while we wait?” he asked.
“Go right ahead. I’m not going anywhere.”
Walter went through his emails while Mr. Genischewitz stared at him. 8:30 a.m. came and went.
“I have to make a call,” Walter said, picking up the phone.
“Don’t worry. I won’t listen. I don’t hear too well anyway.”
He dialed Drissel’s and was connected to the men’s department.
“You don’t have to whisper,” said Lenny. “I told you, I don’t hear too well.”
Walter whispered anyway, ordering one pair of dark blue socks. For an extra $10 they said they would deliver them right away, making them the most expensive socks he had ever purchased.
When Walter hung up the phone, Mr. Genischewitz asked, “What do you want with another pair of socks?”
Walter whispered, “I just need them, okay?”
“You don’t have to be so top secret about it.” The old man shook his head. “Sock issues. I come all this way to talk to a man about fixing my Social Security, and he has sock issues.”
“I don’t have sock issues, just a little problem. That’s all.”
“Sounds like sock issues to me. Let me see,” he said, bending over the desk to look. Walter had little choice but to show him. When he had, Mr. Genischewitz just said, “Bah, they look all right to me.”
They waited until it was ten minutes till nine. Neither the lawyer nor his new socks had arrived.
“I’m sorry, I can’t wait any longer,” Walter said. “I have another appointment at nine. You’ll have to reschedule for another day, Mr. Genischewitz.”
“Rush, rush, rush. Everyone’s in such a hurry,” said Lenny. “Too busy to see me, too busy to call me Lenny, too busy to fix my problem. Suit yourself. I’ll go.”
“Lenny,” Walter said, “just have your lawyer call me. We’ll figure something out.”
“Sure, Walter, brush me off. I don’t care. You wouldn’t be the first.”
“I’m trying to help, Lenny, really, but I have other people I have to help too.”
Lenny dismissed this with a wave.
On most normal days, Walter would escort applicants outside to make sure they had bus fare or help them remember where they’d parked their car. He liked doing that, and he made a lot of friends that way. Many of the people who came to the office made a point of asking for “that nice man who always walks me to my car.” So, on this particular day, Walter forgot that he was wearing one dark blue left sock and one bright green right one, and said, “How about I walk you out, Lenny?”
Walter followed Mr. Genischewitz into the waiting room.
“Sock issues, Kemosabe?” he heard Red whisper as they passed her desk.
“I don’t have sock issues,” Walter said, staring at the cigarette-burn-pocked linoleum floor to avoid any eye contact with the people in the waiting room who must have heard every word Lenny had said about his sock issues.
They went outside where he walked Mr. Genischewitz to the corner, pointed him in the right direction, said good-bye, and watched the old man walk away. When Walter returned to his office there was box of socks on his desk with a receipt from Drissel’s. Despite the ribbing he took from Red, Marilyn, Bill Ruben, and everyone else who heard the sock story, his day managed to settle back into something as closely resembling normal as could be expected of a man with sock issues.
Chapter 3
Walter’s alarm went off at 6:03 a.m. the next morning. He opened his eyes and stared at his neighbor’s floodlights wondering why on Earth they left them on every night. He slid into his slippers, got up, put on his robe, and went into the bathroom where he brushed his teeth, washed his face, and brushed his hair, all the recommended, normal way. It felt good to be normal. Walter liked feeling normal. You could always depend on normal.
He dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, tie, black oxfords, and two matching dark blue socks, of that he made certain. He ate his bowl of cold cereal by the window, staring at the Galactic Rangers action figures on his windowsill, wondering what traveling through dark space was like, and when he was washing out his cereal bowl, he heard the thunk of the newspaper against the porch screen door. At exactly 6:30 a.m., Walter began his walk to work.
It seemed a bit odd that the kids weren’t at the corner waiting for the bus that morning, but it could have been a day off for them. They didn’t have the same nine federal holidays that he had, a lack of consistency he never understood. Mrs. Giamotti’s wasn’t open yet, so he had to skip buying bagels. A policeman other than Jack Weathers was at the corner of Elm and Poplar, so Walter just said “good morning” to him as he usually did to Jack and kept walking. When Ralph Minton wasn’t at the garbage can to give him the weather, Walter began to wonder what was wrong.
As usual, he was the first to arrive at the district office. He unlocked the door, propped it open to let out yesterday’s smells, started the coffee, made sure all the toilets were flushed, straightened up the waiting room, sat down at his desk, and after glancing at the front page, read the comics, starting with Galactic Rangers.
In their last episode, the Rangers had offloaded the Goldotti prisoner to Scout Ship Gamma and were en route to Earth at faster than maximum safe speed. First Officer Gak didn’t like it. Walter wasn’t sure that he liked it either, not because it was too dangerous to go that fast — danger was the business of the Galactic Rangers and always made for an exciting story — but because exceeding maximum safe speed might be breaking the law. In Walter’s mind, it set the dangerous precedent that following orders trumped obeying the law. On the other hand, both Gandor and Captain Kleeg had implied that it was a case of dire emergency. That was the law’s one exception, and preventing the escape of an evil criminal did seem about as dire as it could get. After all, their archenemy, the infamous Tobine, was the Evil One, the criminal mastermind who they had been chasing for years from planet to planet and who was now hiding on Earth. He was a hideous creature from a dark and lifeless world, ruthless and cruel, wanted for crimes spanning many star systems. To let him escape again was unthinkable.
Months ago, after Tobine was first introduced into the comic, Walter had thought to send a note to the comic’s writer, a man named Kelso, explaining how contradictory it was to describe anyone as being from a lifeless world, but instead he began compiling such anomalies in a notebook, planning on sending them to Kelso all at once to save on postage. It only seemed a reasonable thing to do, and if anything Walter was a reasonable man, so he was willing to accept that the question of legality was left unanswered for now. Kelso was a genius. To pack that much moral wrangling into three little panels was sheer genius.
In that morning’s episode, the Galactic Rangers were navigating the Crab Nebula, a risky, mostly uncharted region of space fraught with peril at every turn. Many ships had entered the Nebula, few had ever come out again, but danger did not stop the Galactic Rangers when duty called.
Walter’s eyes jumped from panel to panel. Klaxon, the ship’s navigator sounded the alarm. Battle stations! Captain Kleeg and First Officer Gak came to the bridge.
“Report,” said the captain.
“Sir, we are on a collision course with a rogue comet,” said Klaxon. “Its gravity is pulling us back into normal space.” Beads of nervous sweat poured from Klaxon’s oversized, alien forehead. “Nice touch,” thought Walter.
The captain calmly took his seat. “Prepare to drop to sub-light and execute maneuver Sigma-Centauri,” he said.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” said Klaxon. “Ready at your command.”
“Execute.”
The final panel showed the superheated ship glowing bright orange as it returned to normal space, veering directly into the path of the comet. Kelso always put a teaser at the end of each strip to keep readers on the edge of their seats, another nice touch. This one read, “Next: Space Pirates!”
At 7:30 a.m. when Walter didn’t hear Mildred kicking the chair away from the front door, he checked the waiting room and wondered if he should call Mrs. Pensky to make sure Mildred was all right. Deciding that she had probably taken the day off — at seventy-two, she certainly deserved one — he returned to his desk and checked his appointment calendar. He had no appointments, none the next day either. Thinking how strange that was, Walter checked his email. There was only one new message in his inbox with a return address of “Director of Enhancements, SSA.” Walter didn’t know they had a Director of Enhancements. He opened the message and found it to be from some company he had never heard of, claiming to offer a cure for his erectile dysfunction, which as far as he knew he did not have. It offered him free samples of a pill that could give him an erection lasting more than three hours, possibly resulting in death, presumably by an overdose of happiness. It was then that Walter looked at his desktop calendar. It was Saturday.
He unplugged the coffee pot, turned off all the lights, locked the door, and went home, the not-normalness from yesterday still stalking him like a hungry tiger unwilling to give up on its wounded prey. He needed a reset button, a do-over, a Mulligan, but life was neither a video game, nor was it bowling or golf. It was not supposed to be like this at all.
