gots an toofache. missed work cuz of it...I hate toofaches, too...my whole fucking head hurts when I gots an toofache

before I hit the couch again, Ill post a story...something to take my mind off an toofache







messed with for about a week...and its still not what I wanted. why cant a story turn out the way it first formed? guess thats a good thing sometimes, eh?


Footsteps on the Pavement
or
Walking on Tarmac
or
Towns and Cities and the Pavement Between


Hell, I don’t know...



After the soft rain receded, while steam rose in reflective ribbons from the blacktop, the scraggly dressed man ventured from under the bridge and resumed walking north on State Route Seven. To his right was the Ohio River, where flotsam from the continent’s interior sometimes floated all the way to the Atlantic seaboard; to his left were trees and the remnants of old overgrown logging roads, some dilapidated houses and shacks, and an occasional buck.

He held a wooden cane but didn’t use it in its accustomed and more common task, instead swinging it like an irregular pendulum. His legs showed nary a sign of a swagger; he traipsed comfortably on the strong healthy legs of someone quite younger than his face suggested.

During this pilgrimage of sorts, passers-by sometimes yelled out negative comments and indecent names, calling the man a hobo or drunk. Three teenagers, one of which shouted “Asshole, get off the road!” from the open window of an older model red Fiesta, had just rode by moments ago. The boy who’d expressed the obscenity also threw a beer bottle, like it was grammatically incorrect punctuation to his clever remark. His projectile missed the man by mere inches. It sailed past him, hitting a tree and exploding.

This didn’t seem to faze the walking man (aside from the fact he detested litter of any type). His forward gait was not (and would not be) deterred by youngsters and their unpredictable antics, nor would it end by almost any means—his venture was set in his mind solidly and would be see through to its completion.

He walked days and nights, stopping only for short rests, maybe a few minutes of shut-eye, or in the case of rain, huddling, shivering softly under whatever shelter was nearby. His journey had started many years ago in a far away place that no longer exists on modern maps and his target destination was known only to him. He’d walked through many towns and cities and oddly enough, not one person could claim to have seen him. No one on Earth had any memory of this man.

A woman of maybe thirty with shoulder-length brown hair, a slightly pudgy but pretty face with a kind smile and trustful eyes pulled to the side of the road and rolled down her passenger window. “Would you like a ride, mister?”

The roadway was already dry but the greenery of the surrounding fauna bled-off the excess water accumulated by the now-passed gray clouds. Local meteorologists were predicting one more squall (the woman had heard this on her radio just seconds ago, which is why she’d stopped and inquired about the man’s transportation) but the old man knew something the weathermen din not—there’d be no more rain tonight.

He noticed her leg braces, saw that from her waist down her body was mostly incapacitated. “No thank you, ma’am.” He avoided eye contact and shuffled his feet as he answered.

After asking if he was positive he didn’t need a ride, she drove off...and as she pulled away, he walked, swinging his cane, cocking his head and listening to birds and crickets harmonize. First they sang a joyous song about the just-passed rain, then the next tune was about the approaching darkness and the magic it would bring.

*

“Gimme that,” said Jerry, reaching over the seat, his hand frantically feeling around for the paper bag. It contained the last beer and damn anyone else, Jerry was By God going to drink it.

Simon started to protest, wanting to claim the tepid Miller for himself, but stopped short. He knew Jerry would rip him apart over that; the last beer, to Jerry, was the golden elixir. And there were no sane reasons to cross Jerry. His wrath could be highly painful. Instead, Simon pulled the bottle from the tattered bag and handed it to him. “Let’s stop up here and get some more, k?” Ahead, a quarter mile up the road, was a carry-out known for selling alcohol to underage kids. Perfect, the eldest (Simon) was still a year and a half shy of the legal age limit for sales of alcohol.

“You got money?” Jerry asked, drinking the entire warm bottle in one fastidious gulp, followed by a burp that out-sounded the Fiesta’s cheap muffler.

Paul, sitting in the front passenger seat, laughed. He also wanted more beer, having just heaved his last empty bottle at some goofy hitchhiker, but he was broke; he’d bought the last twelve-pack. “Yeah, Simple Simon, it’s your turn to buy.”

Pulling out his wallet, counting, Simon said: “I can go half.”

For the next sixty seconds, the three boys argued over dollar bills, quarters, and dimes, finally coming-up with enough to make the purchase—Paul’d found a crumpled five dollar bill in his sock that guaranteed a future purchase.

Jerry skidded into the lot, spewing gravel, then stopped, parking sideways across two Handicapped places. The boys walked into JEN’S Miny Mart with fourteen bucks forty-seven cents and three bad attitudes.

*

Paula Dresden slowed as she read the sign. JEN’S Miny Mart, it said, spelled-out in bent blue neon tubing and just visible in the approaching dusk. And below that, stenciled on with reflective paint in lieu of neon: OPEN ‘TIL NINE. Paula was in a hurry to get to her mother’s house, but also she wanted a drink to wash down the road dust. She’d driven long hours and covered long miles tonight.

Her mother lived on a a nice spread of land in Barnston, another thirty miles up RT7 on the Ohio side of the Ohio River, and she simply couldn’t go any further without something to abate the caustic-like taste in her mouth. She pulled into the lot frowning at the car parked where she herself would have parked had the spots been unoccupied, then drove away from the store’s entrance to the first alternative open place.

With much difficulty but not a single word of complaint, she exited her car and adjusted her crutches, then, while dusk-to-dawn lights flickered into their nightly existence, she carefully entered JEN’S.

*

As the sun set, scenery dulled. Not just the recession of light, but the actual dimensions of his surroundings seemed to alter, giving the illusion of only height and width without the benefit of depth. The man peered in awe at the odd contrast as he continued onward. The surroundings he was used to, those from his homeland, didn’t have this same visual quality.

He neared a sign stating the Bellaire exit was one-half mile ahead. Maybe the populace there would be a bit more welcoming than from where he’d just been. Behind him was a small town (he’d intentionally forgotten its name already) that hadn’t been exactly overly-friendly. He’d walked along the main street: a mother keeping a much more watchful eye on her two children when he came within range, three obviously intoxicated black men sitting on a porch, leaning on the rickety railing, catcalling at him (honky geezer being the most repeated of the names), and as he approached a gray building with excessive signage indicating it was The National Bank, the city police pulled to the curb beside him.

“You lost?” a moderately skinny cop with an overly fat beard asked through the open passenger window. He didn’t have the siren blaring but his red and blue lights brought Christmas in August to the inimical burgh.

After the questioning and answering—followed by the showing of the identification [his ID: Roy James Blonn, Cleveland, Ohio, born in ’53. The scant information pertaining to his physical description brief matched ...close enough—he’d been escorted to the town’s border. The officer referred to it as the city limits, but that term didn’t seem fitting; should have been village limits, in the old man’s opinion.

He thanked the policeman for the ride, and now, fifteen minutes later, stood beside the Bellaire-a-half-mile-away sign wearing gray pants and shirt in the approaching gloom. He could see a business of some sort not too far ahead. He hoped it was a gas station, he could use the bathroom to clean-up, and maybe if they sold some kind of food he could eat. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten anything of substance. A consequence of life on the road was Babe Ruths with a bottled water chaser, McDonald’s sometimes.
Upping his pace, the man walked towards the business.

*

Although the store was well-lit with an abundance of florescent lighting, Paula somehow snagged her left crutch on the corner of a display and down she went. She wasn’t what you’d call overweight, but she wasn’t small by any means, either, so when she hit the floor, she hit hard. A fraction of a second before the stack of canned goods tumbled onto her legs, there was the sound of a bone cracking.

Cans of pears rolling around like blind puppies and a writhing middle-aged woman in their midst sprawled out in aisle nine was just too funny to the three boys carrying a case of beer. All at once, from some strange unspoken cue, they broke-up in gales of mean laughter.

The clerk (above her right breast was a small white tag proclaiming her as Jen in Courier New, possibly 10) hurried from behind the counter to assist the fallen woman, brushing rudely past the boys and giving them a stern look of disapproval. “Are you okay, miss?” Jen asked, kneeling beside Paula, brushing away pears and fawning over her motherly.

Her, the fallen woman’s, left leg twisted unnaturally, was in fact bent backwards too far at the knee. Tears streaked her face but she didn’t seem to be in much pain. Jen briefly wondered if the woman was on drugs or drunk.

And the laughter worsened, thickening and increasing in force. It actually took on an evil echo when combined with Paula’s mumbled apologies. Inserted randomly in the disrespectful teenage cacophony were what might have been words. Paula would later tell police she thought one of them said “I tripped her,” even though Paula had clearly tripped on and of her own accord. “Look at the crip,” was repeated by the tallest boy, the one with blonde hair.

Although the boys were just a few feet away, they, as an alarmingly disruptive trio, pointed at Paula and Jen as if someone nearby couldn’t find the scene of this accident. The shortest one took a few steps forward and feigned slipping, wind-milling his arms and mimicking an old television commercial: I’ve fallen an’ cant get up as he did a clumsy and unrehearsed dance. This only served to make the group’s laughter louder, their verbal taunts more hurtful.

Jen said tersely, “Please have some courtesy,” as she attempted to lift Paula’s prone body from the floor. She immediately found the woman to be too heavy—as well as unable to assist—and once again addressed the boys, this time with a softened pleading tone: “Can one of you help me?”

Their laughter abated slightly, their fingers relaxed and ceased pointing, and the tall one said, “’Fraid not. We don’t touch crippled old ladies.” That started the ball rolling again, laughter louder and more spiteful than before echoed in the aisles. The one boy who’d did the dance number repeated his fanciful routine, much to the delight and obvious approval of his friends.

Then the tall one walked away, in the direction of the entrance. The third boy, the one of medium height and who had possession of the beer, followed. The dancer did one more ungraceful move that almost put on his ass, then trotted after his pals. They went out the door carrying twenty four bottles of unpaid-for Miller’s High Life.

Pam paid then no never mind right then, rather thankful those nasty boys had left. She did, however, make a mental note to be sure and get their license plate number. She would push this case, she decided, to its limits. Those boys need some time behind bars. Lashly Hill Juvenile Detention Center, located on the south side of Bellaire, would make such a perfect home for those bratty punk kids.

But first, more importantly, Jen had to assist the hurt woman. She could just imagine the lawsuit headed her way over this incident—her premiums would triple, she was sure.

Paula, now in a sitting position, rubbed her busted leg and said, “Don’t worry, I can’t feel a thing. My legs don’t work—they’re almost totally useless.

*

The walking man was pleased to find that the business he’d seen from afar was a carry-out. Here he would find a bathroom and something to eat more nutritious than candy. He did not expect to find a red Fiesta. It was the same car than had passed him earlier, its occupants yelling curses and throwing projectiles. That didn’t bother him; his main concern now, he hoped there’d be no major confrontation with those occupants.

His hopes were quickly dashed. Emerging from the store were those three teenaged boys laughing and carrying-on. He recognized the one who’d thrown the empty bottle.

And vice versa; the tall boy looked at the man and said: “There’s that bum we seen.”

Maybe because the boys were so wound up from the incident with Paula, or maybe because they were born with damaged DNA and were simply inherently mean, whatever the reason, they trotted across the tarmac and surrounded the man. They did this wordlessly, as though it had been planned and practiced for years.

The tallest one stood face-to-face with him, about two feet away, glowing with the almost visible presences of a leader. The others flanked him, forming a worrisome triangle. The one behind the man’s left side said, “Let’s roll him, Jerry, see how much money he got.”

The one facing him, the tallest (the one called Jerry), replied, “Good idea.” And in a set of move worthy of synchronized swimmers, Jerry rushed the man as the two boys behind extended their feet. Jerry pushed the man, he stumbled and went down, banging his head hard on the pavement. His eyes fluttered, then closed. His breathing slowed.

“Fuck, we killed him,” said the boy toting the stolen beer.

Paul, going through the tramp’s pockets, said, “Nah, he’s just knocked out. He’ll be fine.” Then he added, “Fine ‘cept for being broke,” as he pulled out a small wad of cash and waved it around in the air, fanning it like a geisha girl’s fan.

Jerry, his voice devoid of any emotion, as though stealing beer and rolling old men was simply a way of life, said, “Let’s get outta here.”

They piled into the car with no positive destination in mind. As Jerry backed-up, too close of a safe proximity to the prone man, he heard a tapping sound—three light whaps that sounded like they came from the trunk. He thought no more about it as he shifted into drive and tossed loose gravel in his hasty exit.

Jen, now on the phone with the police asking them for medical assistance and describing the boy’s car (she’d memorized the plate number and repeated it when asked), watching the man hit those boys’ car with his cane, then he himself getting hit, pulverized, actually, with gravel as they pulled out. This angered her further.

Jen returned to the woman, deciding to check on the man in the lot after tending to her. As she said a few words of comfort to Paula, the man surprised her by walking in the door. He was brushing the dust from his coat with bleeding hands. His left eye ran with red, coursing down his nose. A droplet formed between his nostrils, swung, dropped to the ceramic tile floor near the chewing gum.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, then walked towards Paula.

At first, Jen thought he was going to swing his cane and brain Paula. For as unusual as this days had been, nothing would surprise her at this point.

What he did, he raised his cane, and he did swing it at Paula, and in fact he did hit her with it, but so softly that had she not been watching, she may not have even felt the contact.

No one said a word as the old man exited the building.

After a minute or two of awkward silence, Jen finally said, “An ambulance should be here any second.”

Feeling...in my legs...what is going on?

Paula felt something, she felt the pain from her twisted knee. She’d not had any sensation in her legs in years, so this new throb, although extremely painful, was in many ways welcomed.

At the same moment Paula felt unfamiliar nerve signals from up-to-now numb extremities, Jerry lost control of his Fiesta. The car fishtailed off the road and spun around backwards, and at just under fifty miles an hour, in reverse, hit an oak tree stump a foot above ground level. The upper portion of the car slid another fifteen feet before stopping, the lower half had stopped at the stump—appearing like an oily and smoking accordion in the three-quarter closed position.

All three boys were conscious.

All three boys were in extreme pain

All three boys were alert enough now to realize their feet (and probably legs, too) were currently a part of the steaming twisted wrecked metal several feet away.

Back at JEN’S Miny Mart, Paula, who’d been in a sitting position, Indian style, swiveled and braced her hands on the floor. She was about to try something that she’d not done since the horseback riding accident that’d left her legs numb and unusable: she was going to attempt standing-up.

As if doing a push-up, Paula heaved her upper torso off the ceramic floor at the same moment three boys began crying a mile up the road. Also, at that exact point in time, memories of an old man carrying a cane disappeared from several people’s minds.

In the town just south of their present location, an as-of-yet unfiled police report of a hobo and his subsequent ride out of town went blank. First the ink faded from black to nothing, then even the slight imprint the pen had made on the paper smoothed-out. Even the carbon copies returned to unused. A clerk who would arrive at work at eight o’clock the next morning would put it back in the blank REPORT folder and think no more of it.








actually, I think this needs one more rework...comments and/or complaints, as always, welcome