I sat on the stoop of my building watching the passers-by walk briskly to and fro like rats in a simple maze; one foot in front of the other. Repeat. Looking for a nameless prize promised to them by nobody.
I sat on the stoop of my building, tapping my foot on the bottom stair and picking bright red Marasca flesh from my wicked teeth, gazing foggy-eyed at a child bending as far as he could over the curb about a yard or so away from where I was sitting. He was wielding a grey tree branch, sharp at one end, and was poking, curiously determined, at a piece of carrion on the side of the road; a poor squirrel or rabbit smeared across the ground like strawberry preserves on a slab of concrete toast. Heat was rising in visible waves from the street, and the light yet ripe scent of what was left of the squirrel (or rabbit) was taunting my olfactory senses. The child, I noticed, didn't give a damn, but then kids were stupid. I had been a kid once, full of naive beliefs and full of shit. I wasn't a kid anymore.
I was eleven.
I could think for myself and do things as I saw fit.
So I saw it fit to sit on the stoop, watching the rat-race but placing no bet on the winner. I was pretty sure there was no cheese at the end, no creamy brie to slather on the breadwinner. That's why I didn't run the race.
I was getting a little hot under the collar. I was still in my school threads, a uniform that consisted of a white shirt, a navy sweater, and khaki slacks. The uniform grossed me out enough when I wasn't sweating at each and every corner of my body. I slipped the sweater off and tossed it into a cobweb near the door, making a mental note to retrieve it when I was done with my activities. I was bored with just watching. I wanted to do something. I loosened my gaudy red tie and stood up, temporarily disabled by a wave of lightheadedness. I steadied myself and squinted at the afternoon's delights. There had to be something for a young man of high class and character to busy himself with.
I turned right and began walking along the sidewalk just as the kid slipped from the edge of the curb and got guts all over his shorts. I couldn't help but crack a smile as I shook my head. Kids. In the middle of ridiculing the guts-kid, I almost tripped over a large leather wallet laying smack in the middle of the walkway. How inconsiderate of it! I stooped down to pick it up, hoping that there was money inside. I opened it up and a dead, dried moth fell out of it, swooping from side to side in the wind until it fell into some green grass poking up through the cracks in the pavement. The wallet was empty. All that was inside were a couple of strange looking plastic cards, which I looked at and then discarded off to the side near the edge of an apartment building. I decided I'd keep the wallet because the leather felt nice to the touch. It was probably synthetic, but it was the first wallet I'd ever owned. I tucked it tightly into the front pocket of my slacks and continued onward in my quest for adventure.
A few minutes passed before I felt a firm grasp on my shoulder. I spun around on the spot to face an elderly man smiling at me, kindly but somehow sinister, his face lined with deep canyons around his eyes and mouth. His teeth were stained yellow, and there was an almost fully smoked cigarette between his fingers, threatening to burn his veiny hand, dropping ashes on my shoes. I looked him dead in the eye, silent. This must be the wallet's owner; I‘d really stepped in it now. Before I could say anything, strange sounds began issuing forth from thin, dry lips.
"Hey, kid. Wanna make a quick buck?"
While I tried to decipher what he had just said, I held my gaze steady, determined to make him blink before me. When he did, several times, I replied wittily, "I'm not a kid, mister. Whaddaya want?"
He patted his hand on my shoulder a few times, a chuckle erupting from deep within him.
"Well, it's the darndest thing. You see, I dropped my wife's wedding ring under the dryer, and my hands are too big to get it out from under there! Now I see you walkin' and I imagine you might be able to reach under there and snag it for me. D'ya think you'd be able to do that, fella?"
His breath smelled of beer and chewing tobacco. No wonder he was so clumsy; he was obviously some kind of drunkard. I doubted the existence of a wife. Still, my thoughts wandered to my new, empty wallet and I gave in. I caved.
"Yeah, I'll do it," I said, and he was already spiriting me away to his ground floor apartment. Inside were the beginnings of a sort of surreal nightmare. The place was spotless. Fresh vacuum lines zebra-striped the floor. The walls were bare save for a Van Gogh self portrait above the electric fireplace. There was plastic on the couch. There was plastic on the couch. I suddenly felt my head start to spin. I had to get out of there quick.
"Well? Where is it?" I interrogated.
"Ah, ah, in here, m'boy!" He was hobbling down a hallway and into what I guessed was the laundry room. Lining the walls of the corridor were tasteful black picture frames with nothing in them but elderly roses, trapped forever between cream colored paper and clear glossy glass. These were fancy apartments. My mom and I didn't even have our own laundry room in ours. We had to take it to the local launderette for four quarters a load. It was, however, a small room, and the old man backed out to give me space to work with. I got on my stomach and reached my hand under the--
"Um, that's the washer, boy. Dryer's next to it."
Flustered and angry, I scooted over to the dryer and stuck my delicate hand under it, waving it back and forth. As I was about to feel incredibly stupid, I felt something small and cold in my hand. I slid it out and looked at it. It was the ring all right, with a big diamond shimmering under the oddly cheap fluorescent glow. I held it up the old man, who traded me a crisp two dollar bill for it. A grin spread across my face as I surveyed the unusual paper. I jerked it away from him, shouted "Thanks, mister!" and ran out of the apartment, too high with excitement to close the door behind me. I thought I heard the old bat say something under his breath, probably thanking me for my priceless good deed.
Back out on the street, I stopped long enough to put the two dollar bill in my wallet. It felt like uniting two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Tucking it back in my slacks, I trekked forward, ready to take on the world, and perhaps God himself. I skipped a little, but stopped mid-skip when I realized that only kids skip. I jaywalked left across the street, hearing cars honk loudly behind me. I reached the other side, where the city park was, another green world. A young woman with a baby cradled in one arm was walking a rowdy black Pomeranian. It would jerk the leash left and right and bark at every squirrel running up every grey tree. I was nervous in approaching them. From a young age, I had had an irrational fear and hatred of any dog of any size. I just knew that they were salivating, waiting to leap onto me and sink their teeth into my delicious throat. I was far enough away from them to be able to keep my eyes on them, to make sure they didn't get too close. I liked my throat right where it was.
Suddenly, I heard a piercing scream. Without looking up I realized the likely source: the young tart with the baby. She was screaming a scream so obnoxious I wanted to cover my ears. I tried to make out what she was saying.
"GET--BACK--HEEEEEEEEEERE!"
It was now apparent that her baby-less hand was empty, and I could see the blue leash trailing behind an escaping Pomeranian maniac. It covered a lot of ground and was soon on the other side of the park, barking at--me was it? No. The baby? Whatever it was barking at was irrelevant. It was loose and thirsty for blood. Its tiny bark echoed across a relatively empty park. A middle aged couple were having a picnic, totally oblivious to the danger. I was frozen on the spot, afraid to advertise my whereabouts to the dog, who seemed not to want to return to its master; indeed, it shrank in defense and bolted every time the young girl approached. After her third or fourth (or fifth) attempt, she unfortunately caught my gaze and walked frantically over to me, as I stood still as a statue in the grass. As she got near I could smell her perfume or lotion or whatever it was. It was an overwhelmingly sweet smell, like cupcakes, and all at once I was not so upset that she had come over to talk to me. I even almost forgot about the dog.
"Excuse me?" She said, breathless, panting. Her warm breath smelled like peppermints.
"Yeah?" I answered, a bit more rudely than I had meant.
"My dog--he--can you...?" She trailed off, still panting, still peppermint.
"What?"
"Can you chase him down for me?" She said sweetly, as if she knew of my secret, shameful fear and wanted to torture and taunt me.
I wanted to say "No". I wanted to walk away, back from whence I came, and I almost did when she started talking again, and the peppermint invaded my nostrils.
"Please? Please?" Christ, she was whining now, her voice rising a couple octaves. "I'll give you five dollars."
Like a genie from a dusted brass lamp, her wish was my command, or something. I took my tie off and tied it around my head. I was on the hunt. I tightened my shoelaces and bolted after that damn dog, with it barking all the way to Kingdom Come the whole damn time. Several times I slipped on the grass and smeared mud and leaves on my crisp white Oxford school shirt. After about half an hour, with a blaze of glory and the tiny dog's whimper, I tackled the sonofabitch and held him tight in my arms until the peppermint came back, clutching at his soft black fur while he barked shrilly in my face. His breath didn't smell like mints. His breath smelled like shit. She picked up the leash from where it lay in the muddy grass. I noticed the green in her hands and my heart leapt into my throat. She was having trouble handing it to me.
"Do you mind, um, grabbing that? I kinda have my hands full, kiddo."
Resisting the urge to scowl dangerously at her, I took the crumpled and slightly moist bill from her hand and we both uttered a simultaneous and awkward, "Thanks," after which I stood there blushing until she said, "Well, bye," and trotted off on the trail with the Pomeranian barking his brains out the whole way. I straightened out the fiver as best I could and placed it in the fake-leather wallet.
I wasted the rest of the afternoon nobly looking for good deeds to be done, avoiding the frightening homeless that wandered the streets in the late afternoon. Mom always told me not to go near them, but I didn’t know why. I kept busy, walking along. I helped an old lady not only cross a busy intersection, but also bring her groceries into her house. It must have been heat stroke or something, but she tried to pay me off with hard candies from a wooden bowl straight out of antiquity. I did my best to look unsatisfied and even a little hurt.
“C’mon, lady. I have laundry to do.”
She looked at me sympathetically, trying to decide whether to smile, coming up with a sort of crooked half smile as she reached her shaking hand into her purse and gave me her last four dollars. Completely out of character, I actually thanked her kindly and almost did a bow, or a curtsy, or whatever those kind of people do when they’re thankful, before turning tail and heading back out onto the dimming street. I guessed it might have been time to hang up my hat for the day.
On my way back to my illustrious stoop, I passed by the very place on the sidewalk where I had found the faux wallet what seemed like ages ago. The discarded plastic cards in the grass nearby caught my eye and I thought it might be more professional, more grown up, to have these mysterious cards in my wallet. People would take me more seriously. Wasn't that how it worked? I kneeled down the pick them up, and that’s when a looming shadow darkened the concrete around me.
“Oh, thank God you’ve found it!”
My heart stopped, started, and then became lodged at the top of my throat. I could almost chew on it. I spun around to face a young man wearing atrocious plaid shorts and a polo, his face covered with mop of light-colored hair, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly open. I stood there, red-handed. Caught. I’d really stepped in it now. Would he report me to the proper authorities? Would he rough me up a bit, take my shoes, and throw me in the river, like on TV?
“I’ve been looking all over for it! So glad you found it, and not some ruffian or one of the homeless.” He rolled his eyes. “Okay. Can I have it back now?”
I was in the middle of putting the cards back in. I slowly finished up and then eyed him sheepishly.
“It’s…yours?”
“Well, yeah, buddy. I dropped it…earlier and I’ve been looking for it ever since. So are you gonna give it back or just stand there?”
There was no rudeness in his voice, no malevolent undertones. I decided that he must be telling the truth. Without thinking twice I handed the wallet out to him slowly, avoiding eye contact. I felt like a criminal. He teased my hair with a big hand, and I realized I still had my tie wrapped around my head. I looked stupid. The young man opened the wallet, smiled a bit, and then looked back at me, contemplating something.
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’m gonna give you something special for returning this to me. You can’t lose it, though. Promise?” I promised. He reached into his shorts and withdrew a gold-looking coin and plopped it into my palm with a magician‘s grace, as though he had pulled it out of another dimension and it was hot to the touch. I looked at the coin in my hand. It had a lady on it.
“Who’s this?” I asked.
He chuckled loudly. “That, kiddo, is Sacagawea. It‘s a very rare coin indeed, too. It‘ll be tough for me to see it go.” At this point he grimaced theatrically. “But you, my friend, have earned it.” And with that he snapped his fingers, turned and walked briskly down the street. I watched him take the money and cards out of the wallet, toss its corpse into a steaming trash can, and pull out a second, different wallet from his magical shorts and stuff the cash inside. At first I found this odd, but then I shrugged to myself, immobile on the sidewalk. Who was I to question the activities of grown ups? Besides, there was a new lady in my life. Lady Luck. Sacagawea. My mom was going to have a cow when she heard about this. I held the coin tightly in my sweaty palm as I reached my stoop at long last. I sat down and brushed a spider off my sweater before placing it in my lap. The guts-boy from earlier was at it again, trying to poke the road kill with a longer stick this time. I shook my head, heavy with eleven years‘ knowledge and understanding.
Kids.
I flipped the shimmering golden coin in the air and caught it, grinning broadly.
What do you know? I was winning the race.
