Walter Stickle and the Galactic Rangers, page 6
“I don’t think I like that man,” Lenny said.
“The geese will be back,” said Walter. “They always come back.”
Walter walked them outside when the documents were all scanned.
“The bus stops at that corner where the sign is, Lenny. It makes a loop through the town every hour. Just tell the driver where you want to go and he’ll drop you off. If you’re walking, it’s that way,” he pointed. “Turn left at the second traffic light.”
“I have my car,” Lenny said. “Now, where did I leave it?”
“You parked in the library lot, Lenny,” said Vivien.
“Oh, right, the library.”
“Good luck, sir,” Walter said, shaking his hand.
“You’re a nice man, Walter,” said Lenny. “I like you.”
Vivien shook Walter’s hand, too. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Stickle.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Benoit. I’m sure everything will be fine now with the claim.”
A moment slipped by in which Walter imagined Vivien without her glasses and with her hair not clumped on top of her head.
“Well, it was nice to see you again,” he said. “Maybe I’ll catch you at the Laundromat.”
“Maybe. Good-bye.”
“Bye.”
Walter’s meeting dragged on for an hour. The day dragged on forever. He received an email that afternoon that Mr. Genischewitz’s claim had been flagged for further action. A computer check of the evidence had revealed a discrepancy on one of the W-2s. The Social Security tax withheld was ten dollars too much for the wages shown. They were requesting a contact with the company to resolve the discrepancy before processing the request for reconsideration unless it was a case of dire need. In that case, they would approve Mr. Genischewitz’s claim without the questioned earnings since there was enough evidence to overturn the initial decision, and they would increase his benefit amount to include those earnings at a later date. Walter’s calendar was clear until the end of the day, so he decided to work on Mr. Genischewitz’s case. He searched for the file of scanned documents on the main server, but they hadn’t set it up yet.
Walter Stickle was nicknamed “Stickle the Stickler” by his co-workers for good reason. He was thorough, always went by the book, and always made backup copies of documents that claimants brought into the office. “You never know when they might get lost in the ether or the network might be down just when you need them,” he always said. Once Red scanned them into the computer, returned the originals to the claimant and emailed them on for processing, Walter always made sure he snagged a copy that he stored in a system of folders on his own computer, classified by year, type of claim, and claimant name. That was the way that made the most sense to him. It was the most organized way to do it. So, he had little trouble locating the Genischewitz file on his computer and pulling up the W-2 in question.
He dialed the phone number on the W-2 for Pandactic Enterprises and hung up after listening to the message, “The number you have dialed, 511-5111, is not in service. Please check the number, hang up, and dial again.” Walter looked at the phone number on the W-2 again and redialed with the same result. So, he called directory assistance, gave them the company name and address, and was told that there was no listing for that company in that town or the three surrounding counties. The W-2 was fifteen years old, so he checked more recent ones that Mr. Genischewitz had submitted, but they all had the same address and phone.
Walter then searched the Internet for Pandactic Enterprises and found an article from five years ago announcing the grand opening of a Big Mart on the site of the abandoned Pandactic factory in Washington Hills. When he read that the factory had been shuttered for five years because the company went out of business, he removed the flag from Mr. Genischewitz’s file and responded to the email alert, “Company out of business, records not available, use least advantageous figure and proceed with claim. W. Stickle, claims representative.” Despite the unresolved discrepancy, he saw no reason why Mr. Genischewitz should have to wait for his hard-earned money.
Walter decided as a courtesy to call Vivien and let her know that the claim was moving forward. He found her contact information on a scanned copy of her business card. Her office was two blocks from the Social Security District Office. Walter dialed the number.
“Benoit Elder Law,” she said, answering her own phone.
“Hello, Miss Benoit. This is Walter Stickle from Social Security.”
“Hello, Mr. Stickle.”
“I just wanted you to know that I cleared a problem with one of Mr. Genischewitz’s W-2s, and his claim is proceeding. Looks like they’ll approve it.”
“Thank you, I appreciate that. Lenny is a nice man.”
“Yes, he is,” Walter said. He waited a moment, and then said, “I’ll be in touch if there are any other issues with the case. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” she said and hung up.
The day dragged on. Walter worked diligently, remaining at his desk until 5:00 p.m. to help with an unexpected influx of people who showed up at the office without appointments late that day, and to his credit, he made many of them feel not nearly as desperate and frustrated as they had been when they first walked through the door. Being at the mercy of big government is a difficult thing for the old and fragile of society. There is a sense of helplessness and inevitability that sets in when something goes wrong and there’s no real live human being around to listen and help, and that helplessness if left to its own devices, more often than not turns to despair. Walter understood that and did everything in his power to make sure it never happened on his watch.
By the time he got home, he was exhausted. He had a very simple plan for the evening: take a shower, make something easy for dinner, and park in front of the TV. He even considered showering for longer than his usual eight minutes. In fact, he considered staying in the shower until he’d drained the hot water tank, but he felt guilty about the extra one-and-a-half gallons of water per minute he would be wasting even with his low-flow showerhead, so he got out of the shower after eight minutes exactly. Dinner was a meatless stir-fry. Afterward, he plopped down in front of the TV.
When Walter had purchased his house three-and-a-half years ago, the cable, dish, and fiber optic companies had descended upon him in force, pushing their packages as the best, fastest, and most reliable Internet, phone, and TV in the universe. Hyperboles aside, he had selected cable because his parents had cable, but after an unfortunate and prolonged outage, coupled with a most unpleasant experience with the cable company’s customer service department, he had abandoned the Stickle family tradition and opted for a satellite dish. He liked the idea of receiving his TV signal from outer space. It sounded so much more high tech and cool. The package he had signed up for had two hundred channels, now two hundred twenty. That sounds like a lot, but not one held his interest that night. He flicked through them all until he gave up and turned the set off.
The sounds of a lazy summer evening in Pitville trickled into his living room: kids playing “kick the can” somewhere down the block, the wind brushing the leaves of the oak tree in his yard against the front bedroom window reminding him that he needed to call the tree trimmer, and the strains of someone somewhere playing a guitar and singing. He closed his eyes for a moment to listen.
When he opened them again, it was 2:00 a.m. by the mantle clock. The TV was spilling static into the room. He went over to the power strip into which every piece of electronic equipment he owned was plugged and jiggled it. The little red power light flickered unhappily. One mental note later to buy a new power strip the next day, when Walter was kneeling on the floor and reaching behind the cabinet to unplug everything, the static changed to something else.
“This is Galactic Ranger Scout Ship Alpha calling Earth. Come in, Earth.”
The voice was distorted and broken. It reminded Walter of an ex-girlfriend whom he hadn’t heard from since high school. When they were breaking up, she always put him on hands-free on her cell phone so they could “talk” while she drove around town reenacting Edison’s first call to Watson.
He stood up and faced the static-filled TV screen. Again, he heard the words, “This is Galactic Ranger Scout Ship Alpha calling Earth. Come in, Earth.”
Snowy shapes appeared on the bridge of Scout Ship Alpha.
“What’s wrong, Lieutenant?” he heard.
“We’re experiencing transmission troubles, Captain,” said Walter.
“We’re experiencing transmission troubles, Captain,” the TV echoed.
The little red light on the power strip popped, and the TV went dark.
“Crap,” said Walter, deciding as he knelt down to bypass the power strip and plug the TV directly into the wall socket that he didn’t need to confess that particular expletive before going to Mass the following Sunday. God would surely understand his upset.
The maze of wires was one that he hadn’t looked at in three-and-a-half years, but he eventually located the ones for the TV and the satellite receiver box and plugged them directly into the wall outlet. When he turned the TV on again, an old Flash Gordon episode was airing.
Walter clicked through every one of the two hundred channels that came with his satellite package and all twenty of the new free ones, but the Galactic Rangers were gone.
Chapter 6
6:03 a.m. came too early. Walter dragged himself out of bed, groaning at his neighbor’s floodlights. He slid into his slippers, put on his robe, stumbled into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, washed his face, and while dressing, remembered that he had only brushed his hair nine times instead of ten. He returned to the bathroom to brush it again, realizing too late when he looked at his greasy hair in the mirror that he had now brushed it nineteen times. He took the stairs two at a time on his way to the kitchen where he ate his bowl of cereal, staring at the Galactic Rangers on his windowsill. When the newspaper thunked against the screen door, he was on his way to work at exactly 6:30 a.m.
“Hey, Mr. S,” Biff said, when Walter got to the corner where the kids were waiting for their bus. “Rugged night?”
“Something like that,” Walter said, and kept walking. When he heard them chuckling behind his back, he looked down at his feet to make sure his socks matched.
He bought a box of doughnuts from Mrs. Giamotti at the corner store to share with his co-workers that morning. Walter sometimes did that on Fridays, but it was Tuesday. He gave one to Officer Weathers, who was nice enough to point out to Walter that his suit coat was tucked into the back of his pants, and one to Ralph Minton, even though the old soldier’s hands were covered with something yellowish and sticky after throwing out his garbage.
Walter left the remaining doughnuts on Red’s desk and made it to his own right on time. He attacked the newspaper with vigor, knowing that the Galactic Rangers would be seeking the help of an indigenous Earthling since they had been unable to contact their advance team, or so he guessed.
Walter scowled at the first panel. The captain was facing away from the view screen with his hands clasped behind his back and the dark shadows of concern drawn across his brooding face.
“Lieutenant Sparks, send the message on all frequencies. Activate the Sleepers.”
That was not Walter’s guess. It couldn’t have been. He had no idea what the Sleepers were. His guess had been that the rangers would attempt to get help from some Earthling, someone normal like him who would jump at the chance to assist the defenders of the galaxy. It hardly seemed fair that his guess should count as wrong. After all, the Sleepers were new to the comic strip. His adventurous day was looking more and more like lunch with Marilyn Chin at the Pitville Diner.
In the second panel, First Officer Gak was questioning Captain Kleeg about his order. Walter loved the way Kelso drew beads of sweat dripping from their foreheads to show tension.
“But sir, is that wise, not knowing their status?” Gak asked.
“What other choice do we have?” said Kleeg. The shadow drawn over the captain’s face and the way his head was bowed so low were clear indicators of his resignation to their fate, but hope and determination were etched into his clenched fists. At least that was the way Walter read it, and he hoped that he would have the chance to ask Kelso about it Saturday.
He heard Mildred arrive and called out a greeting to her, along with a “There’s doughnuts,” and listened only briefly while she dug in before going back to the comic.
The third panel panned back to Sparks. His mouth was open and his hands outstretched — that was cartoon surprise if ever Walter saw it. “Captain,” Sparks said. “I’m getting a response. It’s one of the humans.”
“Next: The new recruit!”
Walter pondered the justice in having to ask Marilyn Chin to lunch when he had been more or less right in guessing that a human would help the Rangers. Although technically wrong, at least initially, the clever twist in the comic strip had brought his guess full circle to being correct. Was he being fair in all this, or was he just rationalizing to get out of an hour of sheer torture with Marilyn? Bill Ruben’s arrival cut short his deadlocked inner argument.
“Good morning, Walter,” Mr. Ruben said, licking doughnut icing off his fingers. “Fine day, isn’t it?” When he saw that Walter still had the comics in his hands, his smile inched downward.
Walter folded them up and handed them to him. “Good morning, Mr. Ruben. Here you go.”
“Are you sure you’re done?” he asked.
“I read the Rangers. I’ll catch the others later.”
“Thanks,” said Mr. Ruben, his smile regaining its full composure.
“Say, Mr. Ruben, do you happen to get the channel that the Galactic Rangers are on?”
“Channel? You mean TV?”
“Yes.”
“They’re not on TV, Walter. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“I saw them last night. I think it was that new sci-fi channel.”
“Really? What time?”
“I guess it was about two in the morning.”
“Two? What were you doing up at that hour?”
Walter shrugged.
“I’ll bet it was a commercial,” said Mr. Ruben. “They must be doing an ad campaign in advance of the comic convention.”
“I suppose you’re right. Well, I’d better check my email.”
Mr. Ruben left and three emails later, Marilyn appeared at his door.
“Thanks for the doughnuts, Walter,” she smiled.
“You have a bit of…” Walter pointed. “On your lip.”
She wiped away the grape jelly and licked her finger suggestively.
Walter’s jaw clenched. “Want to have lunch with me today at the diner? My treat.”
“Walter Stickle, that sounds like you’re asking me out on a date,” she said too loudly, putting her hand on her hip and tilting her head downward to flirt with him over her glasses.
“No, just lunch.”
“It’s a date,” she said and walked away.
Morning blurred by and as Walter’s last appointment was ending, Marilyn took up position outside his door. “Ready?” she asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Walter said with a half-hearted smile.
The Pitville Diner was two blocks north of the office, but when they left the air conditioning and waded into the New Jersey summer, Walter headed south.
“The diner is that way,” Marilyn pointed in the opposite direction.
Walter kept going. “I thought we’d swing by the Pitville News. I want to get a magazine.”
Marilyn struggled to keep up. “Come on, Walter. It must be a hundred degrees out.”
“It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity. Besides, the walk will do us good. It clears the cobwebs.”
“Maybe you have cobwebs, but I don’t.”
A block-and-a-half of whining later, Walter stopped at 103 South Broadway. It was an unimposing place. It had been an apothecary and barbershop once and though the barber pole was long gone, it still had the old tile frontage with its inlaid carvings of vials and pestles and whatnot. Later, it had become a modern drug store, then an offbeat five-and-ten if he remembered correctly, and then it sat vacant for years. Now, it was supposed to be the offices of Benoit Elder Law, though there was no sign indicating that. No lights were on, and the door was locked.
“What are you doing?” Marilyn asked, watching him jiggle the doorknob, knock on the glass, and peer through the window.
“Nothing. Let’s go. I changed my mind about that magazine.”
The Pitville Diner had been a railroad dining car, once upon a time. The train tracks were long gone, and many expansions and refurbishings later, it was hard to tell from the street. The structure was double the size of any railcar and from the outside the addition of a more luxurious dining room gave it an “L” shape that made it look more like a full-blown restaurant than a diner. On the inside, though, it was all classic diner, from the revolving dessert display by the front door, to the swivel seats at the counter, to the chrome, stainless steel, mirrors, and red leather everywhere. Marilyn asked for a booth by the windows overlooking Broadway, and they ordered lunch.
“I didn’t think you liked club sandwiches,” she said, while they were waiting for their food.
“I don’t, particularly.”
“Then, why did you order one?”
“It builds character,” Walter said, watching an old man outside who had stopped to let his dog pee on a fire hydrant.
“You are so odd, Walter. I think that’s what makes you so attractive. Do you find me attractive?”
She fluttered her false eyelashes, and he sipped his Coke.
“Have you ever had a case where the employer was out of business and you needed to verify wage information with them?” he asked.
She sighed. “Oh God, Walter. We’re on lunch. Don’t you ever stop working?”
He shrugged. “It’s just that I have a case like that, and I can’t stop thinking about it, and I was wondering if you’d ever come across anything like that.”
