The Walking Man, page 9
The hurt of losing Maria was another story. To me, Maria wasn't a memory; she was part of me that was missing. My longing for Maria was a diffuse ache that permeated every corner of my being. Just below the surface of everything I did sat Maria. Hers was the name that I spontaneously whispered in my quiet moments and her love was the subject of my nightly dreams. Like a parent of a lost child, so intense was my hurt over missing Maria, I knew my only option to survive was to hope for a reunion, or give in to the darkness that was waiting to suck all sanity from my being.
Noting my feelings for Maria, after five years of hurt, selfishly seeking to preserve the possibility of a reunion, I took extraordinary measures to ensure Maria's wellbeing. Although I wasn't a psychologist, I recognized Johnny Bash's violence against women was a pattern of behavior that wouldn't cease due to a single broken nose and an accompanying death threat from a pathetic and overweight quadriplegic. I knew the only way to ultimately protect Maria was to make sure Johnny Bash lived in constant fear of swift, certain, and severe reprisal. To that end, with the Smitty option being off the table, I made some special arrangements to keep young Johnny's ass in check via Rodrigo.
When I initially told Rodrigo of my need, i.e., a service to prevent a bad guy from hurting the woman I loved, he instantly recognized my problem and knew of a solution.
"Police can't arrest somebody for a crime they haven't committed," Rodrigo said. "You need a private warning service, a warning service."
"What's a warning service?"
"Bad asses that warn people. Bad assess with long memories, the baddest of bad asses, the baddest of the bad asses." Rodrigo smiled.
"Do you know such people?"
"I know people who know people, who know people," Rodrigo said. "We need to go to New York City, NYC, NYC."
"Make the call," I said. "Smitty will get the van."
Luckily, Rodrigo was on probation, so both he and Smitty were available to travel to the Big Apple with me to arrange Johnny Bash's virtual castration. Rodrigo couldn't put a name on his "warning service," but he did have an address and he was certain it was real, having been verified by three men in the know, all serving twenty to life.
"You get a briefcase, full of twenties, and I'll do the rest," Rodrigo said. "I'll do the rest. You get the twenties. You get the twenties."
Getting the money was a simple matter for me, having recently become a man of means following the death of my mother's brother. Getting a two-day pass for a trip to NYC was a more difficult matter. I had to work Juliette Dritch for over a month to get the okay. And her approval required Smitty to be formally certified as a quadriplegic caregiver. This meant Smitty had to go to school for two weeks and then pass a lengthy exam. Luckily, when Smitty finally passed the test, Rodrigo was in between trials, so he was available to be our guide. This was fortunate— Rodrigo wouldn't disclose our final destination because the con who provided the referral told Rodrigo if he mentioned the address to a living soul, he would "eat his liver."
Our trip to New York City was fairly uneventful with the exception of stopping at every other rest area so Rodrigo could process the half-gallon of coffee he'd been drinking.
"Smitty, Rodrigo gotta pee. Smitteeeee, Rodrigo gotta peeeeeee," was Rodrigo's constant refrain.
To keep his word, Rodrigo blindfolded Smitty and me as we approached our destination. This normally wouldn't have been a problem, but Smitty was driving. After several screams and a couple thumps, we finally arrived at our location. When Smitty finally removed our blindfolds, we were facing a two-story dwelling with a small storefront. Behind it, Yankee Stadium was visible. It was less than a mile away.
The building looked like a proper structure for a warning service. It reeked bleak. It was sided in dirty vinyl that was covered by spray-painted gang symbols. Its do-it-yourself second floor was dotted with bullet holes, and worse, on the sole first floor window there was a Yankees decal, a clear sign of evil ahead. Reflective lettering on the gray-steel entrance door read "Triple J Bakery."
Inside the dilapidated structure, there were no ovens and no smell of bread. Instead, there was a small table in the corner, no other furniture and no pictures on the walls. Sitting at the table was an old woman. She was clean and dressed well, with it, not frilly. She was knitting. Her hair and skin were white. There were two empty chairs and room for me. It appeared Rodrigo's contact had made the necessary arrangements.
"Have a seat, boys," the old woman said without raising her head. "I'd offer you cupcakes and a glass of milk, but we're not really a bakery."
"Hello," I said.
"Hello," she responded. "Who are you?"
"I am the man with the briefcase full of twenties."
"Very good," she replied. "With apologies to Quentin Tarantino, I'm Mrs. Pink."
"Mrs. Pink, Mrs. Pink." Rodrigo laughed.
"Perhaps your rat wants some cheese," Mrs. Pink said.
"No cheese, no cheese," a frightened Rodrigo chattered.
"So," Mrs. Pink said.
There was a pause.
"We need to prevent a man from hurting somebody," I said.
"A man," Mrs. Pink said.
"A wife beater," I said.
"I see," Mrs. Pink said. "Our specialty."
"What am I paying for?"
"We'll prevent this man from hurting his wife."
"How?"
"We'll pay this man a visit and make sure he understands the consequences of misbehavior," Mrs. Pink said. "And then we'll send him little reminders that we are watching him."
"And if he persists."
"He disappears," Mrs. Pink said. "We never fail a customer. Our job, I assume, is to protect the woman."
"Yes, it is."
"The briefcase please," the woman said.
"Your boys," Smitty said.
"And there I was thinking the big one was dumb," Mrs. Pink said. "Boys."
The door directly behind Mrs. Pink opened. Two men entered the room, one bigger than the next and both bigger than Smitty. One had a teardrop tattoo on the corner of his right eye.
"Men, meet my boys, Jerry and Jake, two of the three Js of Triple J Bakery," Mrs. Pink said.
"Boys," I said.
"Gentlemen," the boys simultaneously said. They were scary because they appeared to be normal.
"So, Mrs. Pink, who was the third J?" I asked, too curious to keep my mouth shut.
"My daughter Jean," Mrs. Pink said. "She was strangled by her husband."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"You see, our work isn't just about the money," Mrs. Pink said.
"I understand," I said. "Smitty, please hand Mrs. Pink the briefcase."
A week later, Rodrigo spotted Johnny Bash entering his Insurance Agency. He had a broken leg and two black eyes.
~ ~ ~
The briefcase full of cash I gave Mrs. Pink was a gift from my Uncle Ed, if inheritance can be considered a gift. My mother's brother Ed was a single man who liked men. He lived in San Francisco. I never met him. He died of AIDS. He was a marketing executive for an Internet company that never made any money, but somehow made my Uncle Ed into a millionaire. He never visited me but he must have known I existed because he left me one hundred fifty thousand dollars in his will. My brother Hal made a special trip to room 302 to ask me what I wanted to do with the money. I told him I had "no idea."
"I can put it in a savings account for you, or you can buy some stock," Hal said.
"I've always wanted to own some Apple," I said.
"Why?"
"Apple, Massachusetts."
"You want me to buy Apple stock for you because you like the name?" Hal asked.
"Yes."
"How much?"
"All of it," I said.
"You want me to buy you one hundred fifty thousand dollars worth of Apple stock?"
"Yes, I do," I said.
"The place is run by a crazy man named Steven Jobs."
"Crazy people make all the money," I said. "Besides, I have no living expenses. Leicester County Hospital is funded by a private trust. My room and board is free. What am I going to do with one hundred fifty thousand dollars?"
"Very good, brother," Hal said. "I'm putting my one-fifty in GM. Nobody's ever lost money betting on the world's biggest car maker."
The next day, Hal bought me six thousand, five hundred forty shares of Apple stock. The transaction date was October 3, 1990.
I have never sold a share.
Now you know why a picture of Steven Jobs hangs on my wall of fame.
~ ~ ~
Comforted by the relative certainty that the men from Triple J would keep Maria safe, I next went to work—at the urging of my beloved coach Smitty—on straightening out the mess that was my life. Smitty started the process, in a formal planning session, by asking me to list three things I wanted to do in my lifetime.
"You can't get anywhere unless your goals are set in stone, so take your time," Smitty said. "Setting a goal is more important than chasing it."
"I don't need any time," I told him. "My three goals are, marry Maria, marry Maria, and marry Maria."
"Very good!" Smitty said. "There's nothing more powerful than a man who knows what he wants. Now we need to make a plan."
I tried to speak, but Smitty kept talking.
"First off, you need to lose one hundred pounds and then learn to walk again."
"Hello, walk again?" I said. "It would be easier to find a cure for cancer."
"Bullshit," Smitty said. "You need to walk again. You told me your spine isn't severed. You said your fucked-up immune system crippled you. You need to unfuck your immune system and start walking."
"Is 'unfuck' even a word?" I asked my shockingly assertive 'life coach'.
"It certainly is," Smitty informed me with a smile. "It resides between 'unfruitful' and 'unfulfilled' in Webster's Dictionary."
~ ~ ~
My main concern about losing weight was breaking the news to my dear friend, Chef Royalston. I wasn't sure how he'd take my decision; I was his favorite diner. I asked Nurse Judy to back me into Chef Royalston's office so I could face the issue straight on.
"Royal," I said.
"Yes, my dear friend," Chef Royalston responded.
"I'm a blob," I said. "I'm dripping fat. I weigh over three hundred pounds. It takes two nurses to roll me. And even Smitty groans when he picks me up. I need to lose weight."
"Nonsense," Chef Royalston said. "You're a healthy young man."
"Royal, I need to lose one hundred pounds. So I have decided to become a vegetarian."
"A vegetarian," Chef Royalston indignantly responded, "a person that doesn't eat meat?"
"That's correct."
"Not even pâté de foie gras?" the despondent chef asked.
"Not even pâté."
"Oh, my, my," Chef Royalston said.
A minute of silence passed.
"You know this means I must become the greatest vegetarian chef in the world," Chef Royalston said. "I'm never half in."
"I know."
There was a moment of silence.
"Fish?" Chef Royalston ventured.
"Not even fish."
Chef Royalston fidgeted with his rear view mirror as his body stiffened. A minute passed, then his shoulders relaxed.
"It's about time somebody did something about lentil soup," he said.
"The stuff tastes like shit."
"You're not giving up on the wine, I hope."
"Never!"
"Ahhhh, very well, my dear friend," the suddenly invigorated chef said. "Vegetarian it is. Now go. I have a busy time ahead. I need to learn how to make tofu taste like roast beef."
~ ~ ~
The first three months of my diet were hell on earth. The problem wasn't the food. It was the portions. Tiny servings of tasty vegetables made every fat cell in my body groan, "Why?"
True to his word, Chef Royalston quickly mastered vegetarian cuisine, creating one dish more delicious than the next, day after day. He made a spicy black bean burger with salsa sauce served on a toasted honey grain bun that made a regular hamburger taste like Alpo. He glazed nuts with honey and then added them to yogurt along with blueberries plus other mysterious crunchy things; the resultant parfait was more delicious than an ice cream sundae. There were ultra-yummy vegetable quiches, a variety of homemade mac and cheeses, and a raspberry vinaigrette dressing with whole berries that could make any green leaf taste like "buttah."
Every week, my weight was measured by the amount of water I displaced in the wing's bathtub. It took me two years and a month to break the two hundred pound barrier. To celebrate the achievement, Smitty drove me to the Chestnut Hill Mall outside of Boston to purchase a new wardrobe. The first thing I noticed when I arrived at the mall was the distinct lack of Ford pickup trucks in its parking lot.
"Smitty, it appears the working man has little interest in Brooks Brothers," I observed.
"That's because they don't know what they're missing."
Despite being upscale, the mall seemed to lack adequate handicapped ramps, but inside, the people were pleasant and deferential.
"Look, Mommy," one little girl yelled. "There's a man in a wheelchair. Maybe if we give him a quarter, he'll sing a song."
"Don't get too close to him, dear," the mom warned her.
Being a man, I hated shopping, so I bought everything quickly and then made a quick exit. My purchases included a traditional navy-blue pinstripe suit with a deep red tie and white shirt, Republican fare from the aforementioned Brooks Brothers. I bought a pile of Steven Job's turtlenecks from the GAP, a couple Cashmere sweaters from Needless Markups, several pairs shoes, two Nike running outfits, a dozen Izod shirts, plus a couple of high-end wrist watches, being quadriplegic was all about measuring time.
Smitty was delighted as we exited the mall. "Looking good will make you feel good about yourself," he said. "Like Nurse Judy says, 'dress is about dignity'."
"You're right," I said to Smitty. "Clothes make the man."
"Damn straight."
"Smitty," I said. "Why do you always wear a ten year old Patriot's jersey covered with burritos stains?"
"What can I tell you," he said. "I talk a better game than I play."
I led Nurse Judy and Smitty to believe my clothing purchases were strictly about my desire to comply with their good advice. But all along I had an ulterior motive. I was about to embark on a minor PR campaign aimed at an audience of one.
~ ~ ~
If fame can occur within a small town, Gabrielle Smickers was the most famous person in Shyshire. Gabrielle wrote a thrice-weekly advice column for The Shyshire Tattler and an occasional feature article about some interesting person, place, or thing. Gabrielle's column was called Dear Gabby. She was also the person responsible for the outrageous headlines that made The Tattler a notable entity within the fourth estate.
Most often, Dear Gabby offered relationship advice to Shyshire's lovelorn, usually in a comical vein. Gabby once encouraged a desperate teenager to treat her acne with a rotary sander, and on another occasion she divided the town's population into democrats, republicans, and people who'd had oral sex with the mayor.
Juliette Dritch was always interested in promoting the hospital's good works, so she occasionally contacted The Shyshire Tattler to suggest a human-interest story that showed Leicester County Hospital in a good light. At my urging, Juliette Dritch contacted Gabrielle Smickers to suggest a story about a fifteen-year resident that had just lost one hundred pounds due to a vegetarian diet. Since Gabby weighed more than a Dodge Caravan and had tried every diet known to man, she agreed to write the article, which was to include "before" and "after" photographs of me.
The interview took place in my room. I decided to downscale my planned formal look and went with a casual sports jacket and a pink Izod shirt. During the interview, I babbled about the awesomeness of Chef Royalston and talked of my favorite foods, causing Gabby to emit a visible stream of drool on more than one occasion.
Ultimately, the text of the story was of little interest to me. What mattered were the photographs that accompanied the article. My "before" photograph was a picture of Maria standing beside me at our Halloween Party. I was dressed as Frankenstein, but looked like the Blob. My "after" picture looked like a headshot of an aspiring soap opera actor. I had perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect clothes and a perfect smile. I was sitting in a regular chair in front of my wall of fame, which included a discernible and strategically placed image of Maria.
When my story was published, Gabby dropped me a note saying my handsomeness had garnered three marriage proposals from her readers. She then asked if I was interested in having popcorn fed to me at a movie.
The photos appeared in the Living Section of the Sunday Shyshire Tattler above the tagline The Vegetable Who Eats Vegetables. I knew Maria would see my pictures. I was hoping they would inspire a visit, or at least warrant a spot on her refrigerator door.
Chapter Eight
Muscle Soup
Unfortunately, my stunning good looks did not result in any form of contact from Maria. Thus, as Halloweens passed, I was forced to deal with the reality that, at best, to Maria I was a fading memory. Nonetheless, I maintained my spiffy appearance and proceeded to pursue the next phase of my game plan, hoping someday to walk back into Maria's life.
