Walter Stickle and the Galactic Rangers, page 5
“I’ll bring a few vegetable kebabs,” he said.
Three hours later, the cleanup was done, and Walter was back home. He found a note on the door from the dish technician, saying that he’d installed the upgraded equipment. Included was a list of the twenty new free channels. After a quick shower and change, Walter put together the kebabs and flopped on the sofa in front of the TV to relax and check it out. Nineteen of the twenty channels were shopping and non-stop infomercials. The other, the sci-fi channel, was running The Outer Limits episodes uninterrupted. He watched two of them before falling asleep.
When he awoke, it was nearly 4:00 p.m. so he hurried over to his parents’ house and got there just in time to put his kebabs on the grill for a few minutes before the burgers and dogs were done. They ate on the deck that he and his brothers had helped his father build, the five adults played Scrabble after dinner while Betty Ann and Tommy’s kids splashed around in the wading pool, and Walter’s Sunday and his life began settling back to normal.
Chapter 5
6:03 a.m. Monday morning. Walter’s alarm went off, and he began another day. He was washing out his cereal bowl when he heard the thunk of the newspaper against the screen door, but as he turned off the water, he heard something else — the sound of static on his living room TV. He had watched TV the previous evening, that new sci-fi channel the dish company had installed, but was sure that he had turned it off at the power strip as he always did to save electricity, because, as everybody knows, instant-on TVs are always on and always using power.
He went into the living room. The TV was indeed still on, as was the little red light on the power strip. What he had mistaken for static, though, was in fact the sound coming from a show in which the characters were watching a giant static-filled screen. The picture was fuzzy and the color modulating through the spectrum randomly. It was some sort of old science fiction show. He was curious, so he jiggled the set and smacked it on the side with his palm. A checker at the grocery store had told him once when he’d asked why she was smacking a misbehaving handheld barcode scanner that way, that it was the only way to get those electronic gizmos to work sometimes. This brute force approach was also claimed to work on credit card readers when licking the credit card, rubbing it on a pant leg, and putting plastic wrap over it didn’t. The jiggling and smacking had no effect on Walter’s TV, so he cut the power at the power strip, and was out the front door at exactly 6:30 a.m.
The kids were at the corner waiting for the bus, Mrs. Giamotti had some nice Danish that morning, the policeman, Jack Weathers, was in rare form at the corner of Elm and Poplar because the Pitville Pirates had won, Ralph Minton had a fair amount of garbage to dispose of with his latest forecast, and all was right with the world. When Walter got to the office, he propped open the door, started the coffee, flushed all the toilets, straightened up the waiting room, and sat down at his desk with his newspaper.
The Galactic Rangers had defeated the Space Pirates, but they had been a formidable foe. It had taken two days of strips, one of which was the Sunday edition. Sunday’s comics were always in color, always twice the number of panels as the daily strip, twice as exciting, and always a fitting way to end an episode. The teaser from Sunday’s finale had been, “Next: Transmission Troubles!” In and of itself, that gave Walter little clue as to what the next installment would bring, but he liked it that way. That gave him time to mull it over, to come up with his own theories, and make a bet with himself that he could guess what they would be up to next. If he won the bet, he would treat himself to a nice lunch at the Pitville Diner. He liked their strawberry pancakes, always a fitting prize for a good guess. If he lost the bet, he would ask Marilyn Chin to have lunch with him. He never told Marilyn about his bet with himself. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but he did think it to be the worst of all possible outcomes and therefore a just punishment for being incorrect about his favorite comic strip.
The first panel in that day’s strip showed an exterior view of the ship. The scout class ship was deceptively small. According to Kelso, the comic’s creator, it was no bigger than a B-Class freighter but carried enough firepower to destroy a small moon. Walter pictured it as being not much bigger than the Corning mansion, the largest one in Old Glassville. It could hold an entire company of Argonians, two hundred soldiers. Ethereals didn’t take up much space in a cryo-chamber, but they could adapt and acclimate, taking the form of any species, be it as small as a feather mouse from Begus Andora or as large as the giant cephalopods of Kapor Dakor.
Lieutenant Sparks, the ship’s communications officer, was trying to signal their contact on Earth. Walter liked the way Kelso drew the Argonian Rangers as hairless, elongated, bluish humanoids who shimmered because of their ethereal nature. It made them more heroic in his eyes. He smiled. Just as he had predicted, they were calling ahead to their advance team to make sure all was ready.
“This is Galactic Ranger Scout Ship Alpha calling Earth. Come in, Earth.”
Walter loved the way the cartoonist showed the radio transmissions as thin, lightning bolt-like lines shooting from the bridge of the ship into space.
The second panel was inside the ship on the bridge and focused on Captain Kleeg. “Is there a problem, Lieutenant?” he said.
“We’re experiencing transmission troubles, Captain,” said Sparks. “It might be localized interference from sunspots, or we might just be too far away.”
“On screen,” the captain said.
The third and last panel showed the captain and First Officer Gak standing before the static-filled ship’s viewer. “That’s not interference, Lieutenant,” said the captain. “No one is there.” The worry lines on their faces showed all too clearly that their situation was desperate. The rectangular bubble in the bottom corner with the teaser read, “Next: Plan B!”
Walter put the paper down when he heard Mildred kick the chair holding open the outside door. “Good morning, Mildred,” he said, loud enough for her to hear.
She mumbled something back.
“I have Danish,” he said.
Her head appeared at his office door. “Cherry?”
Walter smiled. “Of course. Is there any other kind?” Cherry Danish was Mildred’s favorite. When he noticed her staring longingly at them, he added, “They’re both for you. I’m not really hungry.”
“Get your socks on right today?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you. I’ve got it all straightened out.”
“Much obliged,” she said, taking the white bakery bag of Danish with her to the waiting room.
Walter heard his boss, Bill Ruben, greet Mildred on his way in, so he folded the comics and set them on the corner of his desk.
“Good morning, Walter,” Mr. Ruben said, eyeing the paper.
“Good morning, Mr. Ruben,” said Walter. “Wonderful day, isn’t it? Help yourself to the comics. I’m all done with them, and I’m not saying a word today, no spoilers.”
“I take it someone had a nice, relaxing weekend?” Mr. Ruben smiled.
“Indeed, I did.”
“How about the way those Rangers dealt with the Space Pirates, eh?”
“That sure was something,” said Walter.
“That phase shift was classic. I understand there’s going to be a comic convention in Dantford. Heard about it on the news last night. Are you going? Kelso will be speaking.”
Walter was always one to sit up straight in his chair. It was a matter of common sense and good posture, but somehow after hearing Bill Ruben mention Kelso, he managed to sit up even straighter. “Kelso? Really? I missed that. When?”
“He’s on the schedule for Saturday. Look it up on their website if you get a chance. They’ll have the times for everything.”
Kelso was a relatively new cartoonist and a bit of a recluse. His strip had only been syndicated the year before but had caught on like wildfire. The chance to hear the man who never made public appearances speak, to get his autograph, to shake the hand of the great Kelso, was too much to resist. Walter was already readjusting his laundry day an hour earlier so he could catch the eight o’clock bus to Dantford.
“I am definitely going,” he said.
“Great! I’m taking the wife and kids, or I’d offer you a lift. Maybe I’ll see you there,” Mr. Ruben said as he walked away.
Marilyn Chin trudged by Walter’s office with a perfunctory wave and a grunt.
“Good morning, Marilyn,” he said. “You look a lot better than you sound.” The moment he said that, he knew he would regret it.
She popped back into his doorway and smiled. “Really? You think I look nice? And I just threw myself together this morning. I’m running so far behind. Overslept. I was out so late.”
She had a way of exaggerating the word “so” with such dramatic hand motions that it always made Walter think she should have been either a ballet dancer or a traffic cop. He could tell she was waiting for him to ask, so he did. “Big date, huh?”
“Oh yeah,” she laughed, “so big. Jealous?”
He avoided the question by asking, “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“I don’t kiss and tell,” she smirked, and gave him a teasing finger wave as she continued back to her own office.
Walter went back to his newspaper and looked at the front page. The national news was fairly innocuous that day. Monday was generally a slow news day after all the effort that went into the Sunday edition, and that Monday was no exception. There were two more murders in Philadelphia overnight, another cruise ship mishap in the Caribbean, and unusual sunspot activity that scientists predicted would disrupt communications satellites, cell phones, and Internet.
Walter put the paper down when he heard, or rather smelled, Red coming down the hall. She often had a sweet, smoky scent clinging to her when she first arrived. Walter assumed that it was some exotic cologne she was wearing. She poked her head around the doorjamb, holding her pigtail over her face like a mask. Her eyes were bloodshot and squinty. “How, Kemosabe,” she said.
“And how,” said Walter.
“Everything copacetic on the sock front?”
“Yes. Allergies bothering you today, Red?”
“Not anymore. I took something for them,” she giggled and padded away in her moccasins toward Mr. Ruben’s office.
Walter checked his email: three more erectile dysfunction ads and the monthly Social Security newsletter. He deleted the ads, skimmed the newsletter, and moved it to a folder he had created on his desktop three-and-a-half years ago that held three-and-a-half years worth of faithfully skimmed newsletters. The first appointment on his calendar was at 8:30 a.m. with Leonard Genischewitz and his attorney. Walter called Red.
“Red, who set up my eight-thirty appointment?”
“I did, paleface.”
“No, I mean did the lawyer call it in?”
“Some chick named Benoit. Never heard of her before. I think she’s new in town.”
“Did she say that she’d be here with Mr. Genischewitz?”
“Yes, Kemosabe.”
Walter heard laughter in the waiting room.
“Red, maybe you shouldn’t call me that with other people around. They might get the wrong idea.”
“What, that you’re the Lone Ranger disguised as a claims rep? I’ll never tell.”
Walter spent the time until 8:30 a.m. looking back through Mr. Genischewitz’s case. There wasn’t much to look at. Nothing had changed. At 8:30 a.m. sharp, Leonard Genischewitz poked his head around the door and entered Walter’s office followed by a woman wearing the thickest glasses Walter had ever seen. Her long brown hair was pinned in a bun and sat on the top of her head like a loose pile of twigs. She wore a square-shouldered pinstripe-gray pants suit that made her look like a gangster from the Roaring Twenties and carried a briefcase big enough to hold a Tommy gun.
“Vivien?” said Walter.
“Hello,” she said.
“You’re Mr. Genischewitz’s lawyer?”
Her shy smile caught Walter off guard, and he broke the first rule of Social Security claims representative training in how to deal with an attorney — never smile. It means you’re not taking them and the situation seriously enough.
The old man took a seat. “Of course she’s my lawyer. Who did you think I brought, my chiropractor?”
“Vivien Benoit,” she said, shaking Walter’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Stickle. I’m representing Mr. Genischewitz in his claim for benefits.”
“Pleased to meet you officially, Vivien,” Walter said.
“Perhaps we should keep this more formal.”
“Okay, Miss Benoit. Formal it is.”
“You two know each other?” Lenny said.
“Not exactly,” said Walter.
“How not exactly?”
“We bumped into each other in the Laundromat Saturday,” said Walter. “We had each other’s socks.”
“I knew it. I knew your sock issues were contagious,” said Lenny. “You should see a doctor before you infect anyone else.”
Walter cleared his throat, but before he could say anything, Lenny threw up his hands in mock surrender. “I was just joking, Walter.”
“Well,” said Vivien. “Should we get down to business?”
Walter offered her the other chair. “Sure.”
It was like a scene from a Roaring Twenties gangster movie where the mob’s mouthpiece dame was getting ready to rub out the dirty rat bureaucrat right there in the Social Security office, and then Vivien produced from her briefcase a manila folder stuffed with documents instead of a Tommy gun. She set it on the desk. “I think the proper procedure is to present the additional evidence for your people to examine and then wait for your decision, so I brought certified copies of everything we have and will just leave it all in your capable hands. We don’t need to waste any more of your time.”
“No, no,” Walter protested. “I’d be happy to look it over now and let you know what I think. That way, if something’s missing I can just hang on to this until you get it.”
“Nothing’s missing,” said Lenny. “She’s good. Trust me.”
“I’m sure she is,” said Walter, “but there’s no harm in double checking. You really don’t want another denial of your claim. If the reconsideration results in a denial, the next step is an administrative law judge, and it could take months before they schedule your hearing.”
“Are you sure you have the time?” Vivien asked.
“Of course, I do. I just want to help.”
There was that shy smile again.
Walter took the file and compared the contents to what he had on his computer. Everything that was missing from the initial filing was in the folder: Mr. Genischewitz’s Polish birth certificate, his naturalization papers, his apartment lease, his W-2s for the past thirty years, copies of his tax returns, everything. “I don’t understand,” Walter said. “Why didn’t they have any of these earnings before? Thirty missing years is a lot. It seems strange.”
Vivien shrugged. “I think it was a reporting glitch of some sort, but as I understand the law, the statute of limitations doesn’t apply in cases where the earnings record lacks any posting for a given year. So, all thirty years worth of wages can be credited. Correct?”
“That’s right,” Walter said. “The earnings record can always be corrected with proof to add earnings to a year for which none are posted, and this looks like proof to me.”
“Lenny has worked for the same employer all that time. It took me a while to get everything together, but I think it’s all there.”
“Pandactic Enterprises,” Walter read. “I’ve never heard of them. What kind of work do they do?”
“Fabrication,” Mr. Genischewitz said.
“Ship parts mostly,” said Vivien.
“See, it says right there. I was a welder,” said Lenny. “Thirty-three years.”
“Well,” said Walter, “I don’t see how they can deny you this time. You’ve got the age, the earnings, the citizenship, everything. You don’t have a wife, do you?”
“A wife?” Lenny said. “Why do you ask if I have a wife?”
“Because she could be eligible for benefits too.”
“Ah, I thought maybe you were proposing now that I’m going to be a rich man.” Lenny leaned in and whispered, “Just so you know, I don’t swing that way.”
Walter gave the folder of documents to Red to scan so the certified copies could be returned. He got Lenny and Vivien coffee while they waited.
“Are you new in town, Miss Benoit?” Walter asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“That’s probably why I haven’t seen you before. Renting, or do you own a house?”
“I have an apartment.”
“I have a house myself.”
While the high-speed scanner zipped through Mr. Genischewitz’s documents, Walter listened to Marilyn chastising an old woman who was there for a new Social Security card because she had dropped her old one in the toilet. He excused himself, went down the hall to close her door, and when he returned, he said, “I guess you have an office in town?”
“Yes, I do,” said Vivien.
“That’s nice. Pitville is a nice town.”
“If it’s so nice, why did they take away all the geese from my lake?” Lenny said. “Now I just have ducks to feed and those squirrels. They should have taken the squirrels. Rats with tails, I say.”
Bill Ruben came to the door. “Sorry for the interruption,” he said. “I couldn’t help but overhear. I can answer that. Squirrels belong here. Canada geese don’t. They dirty the lake and go all over the picnic areas. They’re Pitville’s illegal immigrants. They belong in Canada, and that’s where we deported them. Walter, we’ve got a unit meeting in ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” Walter said. “We’re almost done.”
“Sorry again for the interruption, folks. Have a great day,” Mr. Ruben said and left.
