Snappy Dresser
The old man kept four suits from the days when he was still working, all of them fine wool in European cuts, complete with vests. They had been expensive at the time, and he was glad that he had spent the money, because they still looked good on him all these years later. The old man, when he was fervent, foolish, and very young, had joined the Marines, in whose service he endured two combat tours in Viet Nam. But it had been the sharp uniforms shown in recruitment ads that had drawn him to service, not the thought of the tainted glory he encountered after training. And he had not "let himself go," as the saying was; he took long walks twice a day, sometimes more, and rarely used his building's elevator, habitually climbing the three flights of stairs to his small, tidy rooms. The elevator would be there for him if he was tired or if his legs began to lose strength. But so far he was still relatively slim and could climb the stairs. The younger tenants—which was almost all of them—expressed their admiration for his continued vigor and claimed to emulate him, but of course few of them did: he saw them crowding into the elevator with boxes of takeout food, or opening their doors to a delivery driver. The secret to his discipline, though, was that it required no discipline: he enjoyed walking, the way others enjoy dancing or tennis. And now, at his age, it was What He Did: he was the Old Man Who Walked, the Snappy Dresser with the Fancy Cane.
He didn't need the cane; it was a primarily aesthetic indulgence, adding a modest measure of choreography to his walk. The cane—more of a dressy walking stick—went with the suits. He had pondered for long days before choosing it, at a specialty shop in the garment district downtown. It was intricately but not ostentatiously carved of fine-grained wood stained a reddish tone, and the heavy knob was cast in the pattern of a complex knot. It was a fine cane, or walking stick, and was perhaps, and perhaps foolishly, his most prized possession, now that he had unburdened himself of so many other possessions, even his car. He had kept some of his well-made furniture, a few prints on the wall, several books which he had had rebound in leather in his days of relative prosperity, and his suits, hats, and shoes. |
RICHARD RISEMBERG
Richard Risemberg was born to a Jewish-Italian family in Argentina, and dragged to LA as a child to escape the fascist regime. He's spent the last few decades exploring the darker corners of the America Dream, writing essays, poems, and stories about it all. |
His walk was invariable: two miles to the park by the museum. He paid each year for a pass to the museum itself, where he visited favorite paintings several times a week and made sure to attend all the special exhibits, so as not to become an old fogy who accepted only the Old Masters. The park itself was large and featured an artificial pond in the European style, though with a few rather grubby ducks in residence as opposed to the more elegant swans; there was also a small rose garden, and a native plant exhibit featuring sharply-scented desert shrubs that reminded him of hikes in the dry hills outside the city, which had been his favored practice in the days of his young manhood. The museum housed a passable café, where he often bought a sandwich or an omelet, along with a cup of decent espresso, and a small kiosk offered pastries and coffee in the park itself. The park was molded into low, rolling mounds here and there, and the old man enjoyed watching children run or roll down the modest slopes, an activity which he himself had enjoyed as a child, though in a different park in another city. Joggers thumped along the asphalt paths, other old folks sat sentry on the benches, and the park was kept clean and trimmed by a somber crew of city workers dressed in dark-green coveralls, who labored discreetly at the margins of the open spaces. The old man often returned to the park in the evening to enjoy the sight of couples strolling, leaned against each other, through the pools of light cast by soft yellow lamps on slim poles. He nodded to them all as he wandered past, taking it all in; they nodded back; there was no need to speak. The park was always peaceful, until the incident of the chubby drunkard.
It was almost laughable, though the threat was real if unlikely. The baby-faced young thug, whose eyes were too close together for his face, stepped in front of the old man as he strolled, blocking his way. The old man noted that he was dressed in baggy shorts and two very clean t-shirts, a white one worn over a black one. The young man held his arms out to his sides, looking as if he wanted a hug, except for the balled-up fists, and snarled, or tried to snarl: "Give me all your money, or I'll knock you out."
The old man was startled but had the presence of mind not to show it, and answered, "I'm sorry, young fellow, but I have nothing for you."
The young fellow wavered a bit, then flexed his arms and repeated the demand: "Give me all your money, or I'll knock you out." Then he pasted a snarl on his face and stepped towards the old man.
His time in-country with the Marines had left him with a distaste for political conflicts as well as a number of skills he had considered to be of little utility in civilian life, but years of repeated trainings, combined with their unfortunate application in the field, had stayed in his memory, and in one smooth turn he leveled his precious walking stick and thrust the knob into the chubby drunkard's belly, using his bayonet training but in a maneuver which, this time, was decidedly non-fatal, and which caused his interlocutor to fall on his plump buttocks and sit there, gasping.
At this point two of the park's gardeners came hurrying up to him to ask if he were all right; they looked darkly at the young thug sitting on the asphalt pathway. "I heard what he said to you, man; my buddy back there's already called the cops…. We'll keep an eye on him for you," he added, indicating the open-mouthed thug. The gardener laughed: "He won't be able to brag about this one in prison!"
The old man, who had, during the action felt rather distant from the proceedings, as if he had been watching himself from the sidelines, recognized the gardener's quip as humorous but chose not to smile. He said: "He can tell them he tried to beat up an ex-Marine, and that it didn't work out. But you know, I'm not sure this fellow's a serious criminal…."
The gardener, who was stocky and covered with tattoos, laughed: "He's a serious fuck-up, that's for sure. Sorry about the language, man, but if you were in the Marines…you weren't an officer, were you, sir?"
The old man shook his head. "No. I re-upped once, and that was enough."
"Just like me, man." The gardener offered his hand, and the old man took it. The gardener went on: "Him, he's always showing up here drunk. I drink too, but I don't bother nobody when I do. Let the cops drag him off, I say." The young thug, meanwhile, appeared to have caught his breath, and began to push himself off his buttocks. The gardener pushed him roughly back. "Sit down and stay down, Eddie. You fucked up one time too much, okay?" The second gardener arrived, carrying a short-handled spade, and held it in both hands while staring at Eddie.
"You know this poor fellow?" the old man said.
"He's been a pain in the ass for months. Tried to snatch an old lady's purse once, but she hit him with it instead. That time me and Beto weren't around. Hey, there's the cops…."
Two police officers ambled up to the scene. The short one, whose shoulders bulged significantly under his uniform, looked at Eddie, and said, "Oh, Jesus, him again?"
"Yeah," Beto said. "We heard and saw everything this time. He threatened to knock this old gentleman out if he didn't give up his wallet."
"Is that true, sir?" the taller cop asked.
"In effect," the old man said. "He asked for all my money, and he did promise to knock me out if I didn't surrender it. But he's obviously drunk."
"What happened then?"
"I hit him with my walking stick, and he fell down. Then these gentlemen arrived to intervene."
The tall cop smiled, evidently suppressing laughter: "At least it wasn’t a purse this time!"
The short cop squatted down and stared Eddie in the eye. Eddie scowled and spit at him, but only hit his shoulder. The short cop roughly pushed Eddie down and rolled him over. As he clicked the handcuffs onto him, he said: "Eddie, you are dumber than catshit, you know that? Now I got to book you." He stood up and looked at the old man. "We take him in, they let him out. But this time he's gone too far."
The old man said, "As I understand it, he's an habitual drunk. Perhaps he should be sentenced to a few months in AA? Is that done?"
"He'll have AA in jail," the short cop said. "He shouldn't'a spit on me. That adds a charge. I'm sorry you had to deal with the likes of him." The cop smiled. "But it looks like you done okay."
"I've practiced staying alive for seventy-five years." The old man smiled. He realized he hadn't smiled for a long time. "But I feel sorry for this Eddie of yours."
"Don't waste your time…."
"I'm not sure I can help it. He seems so…."
"Stupid," the short cop said. "The word is stupid."
"Maybe he's not so stupid when he's sober."
"Whenever that happens," the short cop said. "I've never seen it."
The two cops hauled Eddie to his feet and dragged him to the patrol car. Eddie never looked back. The cops had taken the old man's name and number and said he might have to show up in court, in the unlikely event that Eddie chose to plead not guilty. The old man watched the patrol car drive off, with Eddie slouched in the back seat. He thought back to his own days in the Marines, and the times he had been drunk with his buddies while on leave. He had dropped the habit once he left the service. It was one of the reasons he left.
The gardeners smiled at him, saying, "We got your back now, man, if he shows up again, so don't worry." They returned to their labors, planting a short forest of spiky-leaved agaves to pretty up a utility shed. Their dark-green coveralls seemed to blend into the shrubbery, and reminded him of his days in camouflage. He had done much he was silently ashamed of in those days, though many his age were stoutly and loudly proud of the same acts. Eddie's attack, feeble though it was, had awakened the memories. He hoped he would be able to sleep well that night. It had been a long time since he had thought back to those bad old days. He almost blamed Eddie for reminding him. But back then he had also blamed the Vietnamese for defending their homes against his own younger self….
"Bullshit," he said out loud. Eddie had been defending nothing. The young man's only enemy was the bottle, an enemy the snappy dresser had fought as well. They were brothers in arms, in a way.
The old man made up his mind. He would wait a few days for the wheels of bureaucracy to grind their slow way to paperwork, and he would ask for a court report on this young Eddie. Maybe he could meet with him, talk with him, convince him to enter some sort of program, go to school. Did they have classes in prison? They must have. The gardeners would tell him he was wasting his time if he tried. But time was the only currency he had, and it spent itself if you did nothing with it. He would try to help the young fool Eddie. He wouldn't tell anyone in his personal life but he would try. He owed it to the world.
It was almost laughable, though the threat was real if unlikely. The baby-faced young thug, whose eyes were too close together for his face, stepped in front of the old man as he strolled, blocking his way. The old man noted that he was dressed in baggy shorts and two very clean t-shirts, a white one worn over a black one. The young man held his arms out to his sides, looking as if he wanted a hug, except for the balled-up fists, and snarled, or tried to snarl: "Give me all your money, or I'll knock you out."
The old man was startled but had the presence of mind not to show it, and answered, "I'm sorry, young fellow, but I have nothing for you."
The young fellow wavered a bit, then flexed his arms and repeated the demand: "Give me all your money, or I'll knock you out." Then he pasted a snarl on his face and stepped towards the old man.
His time in-country with the Marines had left him with a distaste for political conflicts as well as a number of skills he had considered to be of little utility in civilian life, but years of repeated trainings, combined with their unfortunate application in the field, had stayed in his memory, and in one smooth turn he leveled his precious walking stick and thrust the knob into the chubby drunkard's belly, using his bayonet training but in a maneuver which, this time, was decidedly non-fatal, and which caused his interlocutor to fall on his plump buttocks and sit there, gasping.
At this point two of the park's gardeners came hurrying up to him to ask if he were all right; they looked darkly at the young thug sitting on the asphalt pathway. "I heard what he said to you, man; my buddy back there's already called the cops…. We'll keep an eye on him for you," he added, indicating the open-mouthed thug. The gardener laughed: "He won't be able to brag about this one in prison!"
The old man, who had, during the action felt rather distant from the proceedings, as if he had been watching himself from the sidelines, recognized the gardener's quip as humorous but chose not to smile. He said: "He can tell them he tried to beat up an ex-Marine, and that it didn't work out. But you know, I'm not sure this fellow's a serious criminal…."
The gardener, who was stocky and covered with tattoos, laughed: "He's a serious fuck-up, that's for sure. Sorry about the language, man, but if you were in the Marines…you weren't an officer, were you, sir?"
The old man shook his head. "No. I re-upped once, and that was enough."
"Just like me, man." The gardener offered his hand, and the old man took it. The gardener went on: "Him, he's always showing up here drunk. I drink too, but I don't bother nobody when I do. Let the cops drag him off, I say." The young thug, meanwhile, appeared to have caught his breath, and began to push himself off his buttocks. The gardener pushed him roughly back. "Sit down and stay down, Eddie. You fucked up one time too much, okay?" The second gardener arrived, carrying a short-handled spade, and held it in both hands while staring at Eddie.
"You know this poor fellow?" the old man said.
"He's been a pain in the ass for months. Tried to snatch an old lady's purse once, but she hit him with it instead. That time me and Beto weren't around. Hey, there's the cops…."
Two police officers ambled up to the scene. The short one, whose shoulders bulged significantly under his uniform, looked at Eddie, and said, "Oh, Jesus, him again?"
"Yeah," Beto said. "We heard and saw everything this time. He threatened to knock this old gentleman out if he didn't give up his wallet."
"Is that true, sir?" the taller cop asked.
"In effect," the old man said. "He asked for all my money, and he did promise to knock me out if I didn't surrender it. But he's obviously drunk."
"What happened then?"
"I hit him with my walking stick, and he fell down. Then these gentlemen arrived to intervene."
The tall cop smiled, evidently suppressing laughter: "At least it wasn’t a purse this time!"
The short cop squatted down and stared Eddie in the eye. Eddie scowled and spit at him, but only hit his shoulder. The short cop roughly pushed Eddie down and rolled him over. As he clicked the handcuffs onto him, he said: "Eddie, you are dumber than catshit, you know that? Now I got to book you." He stood up and looked at the old man. "We take him in, they let him out. But this time he's gone too far."
The old man said, "As I understand it, he's an habitual drunk. Perhaps he should be sentenced to a few months in AA? Is that done?"
"He'll have AA in jail," the short cop said. "He shouldn't'a spit on me. That adds a charge. I'm sorry you had to deal with the likes of him." The cop smiled. "But it looks like you done okay."
"I've practiced staying alive for seventy-five years." The old man smiled. He realized he hadn't smiled for a long time. "But I feel sorry for this Eddie of yours."
"Don't waste your time…."
"I'm not sure I can help it. He seems so…."
"Stupid," the short cop said. "The word is stupid."
"Maybe he's not so stupid when he's sober."
"Whenever that happens," the short cop said. "I've never seen it."
The two cops hauled Eddie to his feet and dragged him to the patrol car. Eddie never looked back. The cops had taken the old man's name and number and said he might have to show up in court, in the unlikely event that Eddie chose to plead not guilty. The old man watched the patrol car drive off, with Eddie slouched in the back seat. He thought back to his own days in the Marines, and the times he had been drunk with his buddies while on leave. He had dropped the habit once he left the service. It was one of the reasons he left.
The gardeners smiled at him, saying, "We got your back now, man, if he shows up again, so don't worry." They returned to their labors, planting a short forest of spiky-leaved agaves to pretty up a utility shed. Their dark-green coveralls seemed to blend into the shrubbery, and reminded him of his days in camouflage. He had done much he was silently ashamed of in those days, though many his age were stoutly and loudly proud of the same acts. Eddie's attack, feeble though it was, had awakened the memories. He hoped he would be able to sleep well that night. It had been a long time since he had thought back to those bad old days. He almost blamed Eddie for reminding him. But back then he had also blamed the Vietnamese for defending their homes against his own younger self….
"Bullshit," he said out loud. Eddie had been defending nothing. The young man's only enemy was the bottle, an enemy the snappy dresser had fought as well. They were brothers in arms, in a way.
The old man made up his mind. He would wait a few days for the wheels of bureaucracy to grind their slow way to paperwork, and he would ask for a court report on this young Eddie. Maybe he could meet with him, talk with him, convince him to enter some sort of program, go to school. Did they have classes in prison? They must have. The gardeners would tell him he was wasting his time if he tried. But time was the only currency he had, and it spent itself if you did nothing with it. He would try to help the young fool Eddie. He wouldn't tell anyone in his personal life but he would try. He owed it to the world.