TO PAY A DEBT
by D. R. Prescott
Walking around the corner, John Winkle eyed a place to rest his weary body. Several bushes offered seclusion in a small park across the street from a typical Southern California housing tract. He usually stayed out of the residential neighborhoods because his matted hair, tattered clothes and grubby appearance usually landed him in jail. All he wanted was some sleep. He staggered toward the bushes. He slumped down, belched, dropped a bottle from his hand and fell into a wine-encrusted sleep.
***
The drone of traffic and other moans of civilization seeped into John’s clouded mind. He had no idea how long he had slept, where he was or what was next. Something poked him in the small of his back making him wince as discomfort became pain. He sat up and ran his fingers through his straggly hair, pulling a snag. “Ouch!” He groaned and closed his eyes against the glare of the sun. His legs warmed in the sunlight invading his lair.
“You okay, Mister?”
“Whoa? What the…” John sputtered.
“Mister?”
He squinted at a silhouette in the sunlight. His eyeballs hurt. A pain crawled up his neck and settled rippling across his eyebrows. His mouth was dry. He gagged.
“Mister, you okay?” A young girl asked.
“Yeah… sure.” The words were like razor blades scraping his parched throat passing roughly over his cracked lips. He tried to muster enough saliva to lubricate his mouth; he licked his lips.
“I’m Julie. Who are you?”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to talk to strangers?” He croaked and started to get to his feet. She took a couple of steps backward. She looked like five or so with long dangling blonde curls. Her dungarees and red Mickey Mouse shirt seemed fresh and clean. John stared at her for a moment then said, “Name’s John. Nice to meet you Julie. You better run along before someone sees you. I don’t need the aggravation.”
“What’re you doin’ here?”
“Restin’” His hangover and wobbly knees were all he wanted to handle. “Go on home! Your mother wouldn’t want you around me! Now, go!” He said as forcibly as possible.
“Don’t you have a bed, Mister?”
“No.” He said sharply as he got in a better position to see her and sat back down. Her freckled face glowed in the morning sun as she shuffled on one foot, then the other. She dredged up painful memories. Dora had been about that age when the crash happened and killed her and her mother. “Go!”
“Yeah, I gotta go, Mister. Gotta go to school. Gotta eat breakfast first. Big day! Then, getting’ a puppy! Bye Mister!” She scampered across the street and into her house.
“Great.” John mumbled. He looked about the park. He had no plans; never had plans these days. Things just happened. Time passed merging one meaningless event into another drunken reality. He was shunted aside, admittedly by his choice. He fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette. There it was. He pulled out a filter, loose tobacco and what was left of the wrapper. He angrily threw the mess aside. No cigarette this morning. He cursed. The wine bottle lay on its side where he had dropped it the night before. He picked it up and put it to the light. There was a swig or two left. He raised the bottle to his parched lips. It stung.
The little girl haunted him. She looked so much like Dora, precious little Dora, dying in her dead mother’s arms amid twisted metal and plastic. Tears burned his eyes. He swallowed the last few drops of wine.
“I’ll be right back, Mommy.” The little girl’s voice ricocheted about the neighborhood.
“Good grief…” John muttered. Through the bush, he watched her carrying a glass in one hand and something else in the other. Once in the shelter of the bushes, she held out a sandwich and a glass of milk to John.
“You looked hungry. Here.” She beamed at him.
He took it tentatively. “Now, get out of here before someone sees you around me.”
“Why?”
“Because, that’s the way it is!” He said a little more sharply than he intended. Taking a bite, he said softly,
“Thanks.” It was peanut butter and jam. In spite of the wine, it tasted great. He sipped the milk. “Now, you run along. I’ll leave the glass here and you can pick it up later. Okay?”
“Julie! Where are you?” A woman’s voice pierced the warm, quiet morning air.
“Right here, Mommy.” The little girl said as John shook his head no. The little girl moved into the open.
“What are you doing there? Get over here right now. You’ve got to get to school. We’re going to be late. We’ve got a lot to do today.”
“Okay Mommy. Goodbye Mister John.”
“Who’s with you?” The mother’s voice became tense. “Come here right now.”
From John’s vantage point, he could see her coming across the street. Not good! So, he stood up. The woman gasped.
“Julie, come here right now! Leave her alone!” She shouted.
“It’s okay Mommy. Mister John was just hungry.”
Julie’s mother grabbed Julie up in her arms and backed away. He shriveled under the maternal glare.
“It’s okay, Lady. She’s just trying to help. I wouldn’t hurt her.”
“Get out of here! Leave my baby alone!” She said sternly.
“I’m not…” His words trailed off as she hurried into her house with Julie in tow. Julie waved and smiled. John waved back.
If Dora had been with somebody looking like him, he would have probably beaten the guy to a pulp. It was time to move on. This was really not good. The cops would likely scour the park for him. He had to get away, as far away as possible, quickly. He walked unsteadily, painfully aware of his physical condition, across the ball field, putting the backstop between him and the little girl’s home.
Three blocks later found him at a corner of an intersection. He wheezed grotesquely. His gangly frame wobbled as he made his way to the loading dock area behind a shopping center. He was not sure how well Julie’s mother could describe him. His jacket was a dead give away. He took it off and threw it in the nearest dumpster. He’d need something to keep warm tonight. No matter. Now is now. Get it later.
He knew he should stay off the streets. He sat down between two dumpsters and got a whiff of how badly he smelled. He needed a drink. His breathing returned to its raspy normal. He peeked down the alley to the main street just as a police cruiser passed with lights flashing and siren whaling. He ducked back.
He was sobering up. That was bad. He looked through his pockets and found a five dollar bill. He’d have to mooch tomorrow. Right now, he wanted to get away from memories the little girl had triggered. He struggled to get up and went around to the parking lot where he’d seen a little market. He went in and bought a bottle of cheap burgundy, got his change and walked out obviously to the clerk’s relief. Back between the dumpsters, he pushed one dumpster far enough away from the wall to get behind it. He pulled a tall cardboard box to block the view from down the alley. He struggled to unscrew the bottle cap. He drank a huge gulp.
***
Waking a stupor, the sun was bright on the wall above. It looked to be past midday. But, was it the same day? He screwed the cap on the bottle and clumsily pulled himself to his feet. His head was fuzzy. Not thinking, he rambled down the alley toward the main street. Turning toward the intersection, he stumbled forward. His heart skipped a beat as he saw Julie and her mother waiting to cross the street, their backs to him. Julie had a little puppy in her arms and a leash dangling.
Not thinking, John came within reach of them. They had no idea and he was upwind. Suddenly, the puppy wiggled from Julie’s arms. Julie fought to hold on but the pup dropped to the ground and ran into the street. Julie ran after it. Tires squealed. Reacting faster than he thought possible, John ran into the street, scooped up Julie and threw her toward her mother as a parcel delivery van hit him square, throwing him twenty feet.
***
John opened his eyes. He groaned. His vision cleared enough to see a crowd of people gawking at him. There was Julie with the puppy in her arms, wide-eyed, terror etched into her delicate features.
“Mister! … I…” Tears tumbled down her cheeks.
“It’s okay, Julie. Thanks for the sandwich.” John said before pain choked off his voice. As Julie’s mother whisked her away, he heard someone saying, ‘I saw it! He’s a hero.’ John Winkle heard nothing else.
The End
© Copyright 2006
