Banana Man (a Novella)

by Christian Blake

  He gave one more thought to turning around. At that point he was already halfway through the alley. Turning back was no different than moving forward, but retreat was not an option. Not for Danny. Moving forward was the only choice. Moving forward meant being brave, and Danny was a brave boy; brave and strong.

  The going slowed as he neared the bushes. His sneakers felt like mud bricks. He switched from dragging his bike alongside him to using it as a crutch; leaning on it made it easier to move forward.

  As he neared the bushes, Charlie growled.

  It might have been the growling that caused it, or maybe it was just bad luck, but with his next step Danny’s foot shot out, and he flopped to the ground. The back of his head slammed into the soft mud. The bike crashed down on top of him, and a pedal dug into his side. He struggled briefly, trying to maneuver out from under the bicycle, but it pinned him down, and he wasn’t accomplishing much more than squirming around in the mud. In that moment, Charlie attacked.

  The enraged dog sprang from the bushes, and Danny’s heart just about leapt through his chest.

  The muscular dog charged; snarling, ears flopping, its eyes fixed angrily upon the boy, and those teeth – white daggers flying toward his face! But the mud wasn’t Charlie’s friend either, and the dog slipped and fell. It sprang back up, tried to run again, and fell again. It was so excited to get to Danny that it kept slipping and sliding.

  Danny had nowhere to go. He was stuck in the mud, and he thought he was going to die right then and there. Then he remembered his bike. He shifted his weight and slid out from under it.

  The dog finally reached Danny and lunged at his face. Danny shoved his bike at it, and the dog bit into the steel bike frame.

  Instead of letting go of the frame, the dog started a game of tug-of-war, pulling and jerking on the bike, growling, and trying to wrestle it from Danny’s grip.

  Danny yelled, “Let go my bike, Charlie! My mom bought me this bike!”

  The dog gave a sudden, loud yelp and released its bite. Then it slid backwards, its legs splayed out, its paws paddling at the mud.

  A sleazy man appeared from the back of the bushes. He wore ripped blue jeans, and his razor thin lips pinched a cigarette. He was shirtless, and his chest was bone white, and so were his feet – he wasn’t wearing shoes either. A chain was wound up in a ball around his fist. The other end of it was attached to the dog’s collar, and the man pulled on the remaining stretch of chain in between. Although the dog tried to escape, the man had a white-knuckled grip on the chain, and his lean muscles dragged Charlie through the mud toward him.

  Danny couldn’t help but notice the man’s sunken cheeks. He looked unhealthy. Too skinny. What little remaining hair he had was slicked back and plastered to his nearly bald scalp.

  The man glared at Danny, and muttered through one side of his mouth, his lips still clenching the burning cigarette, “You bothering my dog, kid?”

  “No sir,” Danny said. He managed to stand up. He was a muddy mess, covered from head to toe. So was his bike. He shook his hands to get the mud off.

  The man kept pulling the chain, dragging the whimpering dog closer. Although Charlie had tried to bite him, Danny felt sorry for the dog.

  The dog wheezed against the choke collar, trying to breathe. Its owner didn’t care. The man kept the tension tight, and the collar bit deeper. The dog tucked its tail between its legs and tried to crawl away, but the mud was too slippery for its paws to gain traction. It kept glancing over its shoulder like it knew something bad was about to happen.

  When the dog finally got within reach, the man kicked its ribs and punched it several times in the face. “God damn dog!”

  Danny stood there, shocked, watching the man repeatedly kick and punch the dog. He had never seen someone be so cruel to an animal.

  The dog stopped squirming. It lay submissive, one back leg twitching out to the side. Its darting eyes met Danny’s and then it looked to the ground and rested its chin in the mud. It lay there trembling.

  The man glared at Danny. “I catch you teasing my dog again, I’m gonna turn him loose on ya. You got that boy? Now get the hell out of here.”

  Scared and not feeling nearly as strong as he thought he was, Danny finished the trek through the rest of the alley. It took him a while. His steps were slow and careful. He half dragged, half rolled his bike alongside him as he went.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Officer Tibbs

  At the other end of the alley, Danny checked the time: 3:45. Only fifteen minutes had past since he left his house. The shortcut worked.

  Danny jumped and punched at the sky, “Yes!” he shouted victoriously. He had brawled with Charlie the dog and won. He’d trekked through Tucker Street Alley and lived. And he still had enough time to get to the post office and make it back home – just barely.

  Danny’s celebration ended abruptly when he noticed water inside the watch under the glass. And that big hand, well, it was stuck on the 12. It wasn’t moving. “Dang,” he said, and pressed the watch against his ear, listening for mechanical life. But the watch was quiet, its gears jammed with mud.

  Danny took it off and shook it and blew on it. He even tapped it against the curb, gently, but it was dead, drowned to death by his flop in the mud. And the little bit of water sloshing around inside – it was trapped in there. It wouldn’t leak out. Danny strapped it back on his wrist, figuring maybe his dad could fix it later that night or maybe sometime over the weekend.

  Danny wondered what time it really was: Four o’clock? Four-thirty? Jeez, what if it was five? If it was later than five, Banana Man was probably gone; sold to the first kid with a buck. That old farmer liked money, maybe more so than keeping promises.

  He laid the bicycle down on the street, and kicked it a bunch of times, trying to shake the mud off. But it was still wet, and it clung to his bike. He snapped a small branch off a nearby tree, and scraped the mud off as best he could, careful not to scratch the paint. His bike was still new, and he wanted to keep it that way.

  He worked on his sneakers next, kicking the curb with each one, knocking off the mud. Pretty soon his shoes were mostly mud-free, but his toes ached from kicking the concrete, and even without the mud, his shoes and socks were water logged. His feet were cold. Despite the aching toes and cold feet, his shoes felt lighter from his efforts; most of the mud was gone.

  Finally, he worked at his clothes. He scooped handfuls of mud off his sweatshirt and jeans and flung it onto the asphalt. He got most of it off, but similar to his socks and shoes, his clothes were damp and heavy, and they stuck to his skin. What’s worse, there was a slight breeze. It made him feel awful cold. Getting back home and putting on dry clothes and sitting in front of the fire sounded like a pleasant dream. He kept telling himself he’d there soon enough.

  Danny hopped onto his bike and rode toward the railroad tracks. The tires rolled lumpy and uneven, chunks of mud flying off with each rotation, leaving a muddy trail down the middle of the street. But after a while the tires rolled smooth again, and Danny perked up.

  His watch was busted, and his clothes soggy and cold, but he’d made it through the alley. Charlie hadn’t killed him. That was worth something. Soon, he’d be headed back home, he’d get his dollar, and maybe if he was lucky, he’d still be able to buy Banana Man. Things were looking good.

  The elevated railroad tracks split the town in half and ran parallel to an adjacent four-lane highway. About a quarter-mile down the road was the only traffic signal on this side of town that crossed the tracks. It would be a long ride to get to the signal. That was why the shortcut worked. Walking over the tracks was much faster than riding to the traffic light, using the crosswalk, and then doubling back. He would easily save ten minutes each way. Maybe more.

  The rusty train tracks were clear for miles in both directions. No trains in sight. And the highway traffic on the other side was light. He picked up his muddy bike, made his way over the tracks, and carefully walked down the gr
avel slope before stopping at the highway’s shoulder. From where he stood he could see the post office. It was directly on the other side of the road. He got back on his bike, glanced both ways to see if it was safe to cross, waited for a couple cars to zoom by, and got ready to pedal his way to the other side.

  A police siren wailed loud and sharp, startling Danny, and he almost fell off his bike. A patrol car rolled to a stop next to him, its light bar flashing red and blue. The cop car had snuck up on him. Danny didn’t know where it came from.

  The cop behind the wheel was a heavy-set black man. He’d never met him, but Danny heard folks complain about him, and he’d seen him around town, pulling people over and lecturing them with a finger. He had a notorious reputation, and many people hated him. He gave out tickets to kids and grandmas alike. He didn’t care who you were, if you deserved a ticket, you were getting one. His name was Officer Tibbs.

  Officer Tibbs opened his car door and put one foot out while he talked into his police radio. Danny could hear his voice. It was deep and powerful. Tibbs scowled at Danny over the dashboard. It made the boy nervous.

  Danny sat on his bike and waited. There wasn’t much else he could do, and he didn’t know what he had done. Maybe the dog owner had called the police and complained.

  Tibbs hung the radio handset back on the dash and got out of the car. He kept his eyes on Danny, and the boy couldn’t help but feel like he was in big trouble.

  Tibbs was a broad shouldered man, tall and muscular, with a round belly. His uniform was sharply pressed. He must have weighed a lot, because the car’s suspension bounced up after he got out. He reached back into the car, grabbed his hat off the seat, dusted it off, and put it on. Then he tugged it down onto his head, firm and square.

  The officer approached Danny with an even stride. He clutched his ticket book in his left hand, and plucked a pen from his shirt pocket with his right. Danny noticed his right arm was almost completely bandaged. The wrapping started from the back of his hand and wound all the way up and under his shirt sleeve. Danny couldn’t help but stare; he liked the way the wrapping looked – it was tightly bound and symmetrical. Officer Tibbs caught Danny staring at his arm, and his scowl deepened.

  Danny said the first thing that came to mind. “You got a mummy’s arm. That’s pretty neat.”

  Tibbs eyebrows arched slightly at the boy’s comment. “You poking fun at me?” he said, towering over the boy.

  “No sir,” Danny said. Cops scared him, and this was the first time he ever met one face to face. He didn’t know what to think, and although he was nervous, he couldn’t stop staring at that bandaged arm. It made him think about another one of his comics: The Manhattan Mummy.

  Tibbs flipped open his ticket book. “You shouldn’t stare. It’s rude.” He licked the tip of his thumb and peeled through several pages and got ready to write. “Walking across train tracks is considered trespassing on railroad property. I’m going to write you a ticket, and you’ll have to give it to your parents. Maybe you’ll think twice before you break the law next time.”

  Getting a ticket was the last thing Danny needed. A ticket meant more money for his dad to spend, and that meant more overtime. It would be another unexpected bill. His dad would definitely get upset. “How much will it cost?”

  Tibbs ignored the question. “What’s your name?”

  Danny answered promptly: “Danny Zuco,” he said, and then spelled it out, “Z – U – C – O.” People always asked how to spell it.

  Tibbs scribbled in the ticket book, loud and forceful. Danny could hear the pen strokes.

  The officer had just finished writing DANNY, and then he stroked the Z in the boy’s last name, and suddenly stopped. He lifted his head ever so slightly and met Danny’s gaze. For a brief moment, the big police officer regarded the nervous little boy, and simply looked into his eyes.

  Danny couldn’t be certain, but he thought he saw the officer’s expression soften and his focus drift to something else. Whatever was on the officer’s mind didn’t keep his attention for long, and a few seconds later he snapped back to the moment.

  Tibbs closed his ticket book and slipped his pen inside his shirt pocket. “Why are you covered in mud?”

  “I cut through Tucker Street Alley and fell. I have to get to the post office.” Danny didn’t mention Charlie the dog. If that owner had called the cops and complained about a boy riding his bike through the alley, maybe Tibbs wasn’t sure it was him.

  Officer Tibbs nodded slowly, thinking. “Tell you what, Danny, I’m not going to write you a ticket. But you have you to go back across the tracks and ride to the traffic light and use the crosswalk like you’re supposed to. Does that sound like a deal?”

  The lost time would definitely make him late getting to Cleary’s. He was certain his friend Chris would get there first, and Farmer Cleary might sell the final issue of Banana Man. But what else could he do? Tibbs wouldn’t understand the importance of buying a comic. He wouldn’t care. “Yes, sir. I’ll do it.”

  Officer Tibbs crossed his arms and leaned back against the car door, waiting for Danny to get started. “Go ahead. I’ll watch. And I better not catch you crossing the tracks again.”

  “No, sir. I won’t do that again.” Danny picked up his bike and carried it up the gravel slope and across the tracks to the other side. Then he started the long bike ride to the traffic signal. He glanced back several times to see if Officer Tibbs was still there, and he was. Tibbs watched Danny all the way until he reached the traffic light and pressed the crosswalk button. Then the officer got in his patrol car and drove away.

  Danny checked his watch: 3:45. He’d forgotten it was broken, but he knew by the time he crossed the street at the traffic light, at least another fifteen minutes had gone by.

  Danny was losing time, and he was losing it fast.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Burned Building

  Danny waited at the street corner for the pedestrian light to change. When it lit up in green letters, WALK, he proceeded from one side of the street to the other, rolling his bike alongside him as he went. He made sure he stayed in the middle of the crosswalk lines.

  When he was halfway, two men wearing orange vests and hard hats stepped off the far curb. They walked boldly into the middle of the intersection. Drivers honked at them, but the burly men ignored the horns and pointed aggressively at each driver, telling them to stop. All cars came to a halt.

  One of the construction workers stayed in the intersection, his hands up in a forceful STOP gesture. He eyeballed each driver in turn, making direct eye contact, and slowly spun around, showing his hands to everyone. None of the cars moved.

  The other man gave hand signals and shouted at the driver of a flatbed delivery truck, helping him steer the truck in reverse through the intersection and onto a corner lot. The flatbed carried a giant bulldozer on its back. He yelled: “LEFT . . . GOOD . . . KEEP GOING . . . RIGHT . . . YOU’RE GOOD . . . MORE . . . ”

  The signal was the only access point that crossed the tracks for this side of town, and the sudden halt in the flow of traffic caused the line of cars to back up.

  As Danny stepped onto the sidewalk at the far side of the street, he saw more construction men swarming a small, half-burned building. A telephone pole had crashed through the building’s roof. Fire-burned shadows and soot covered the building’s exterior stucco from a recent fire, and the smell of fire still lingered in the air. The roof had partially collapsed. One construction man walked around the property, tearing down yellow police tape as he went.

  There was a car-sized hole punched into the side of the burned building. To Danny, it looked like a scary entrance to a haunted house. He wanted to walk over there and peek inside but he knew the construction men would stop him.

  On the edge of the street and standing tall was a brand new telephone pole. Danny could tell it was new because the wood was a much lighter color than the other poles, and the big electrical box at the top was shiny and bright.
Even the electrical wires that stretched away from it and connected to the other poles down the street looked new.

  An obese man sat inside a small crane’s cab and pulled on levers. For a few seconds there was a strained, groaning sound as the crane’s cables ripped the telephone pole from the building. The roof collapsed further. The crane then spun the dangling pole around and lowered it onto a trailer.

  Danny inched his way closer to the busted telephone pole, trying not to draw attention. He wanted to get a better look.

  The telephone pole was splintered and snapped near its base, like something big had rammed into it and broke it and knocked it onto the building. Its electrical box was twisted and fire burned.

  Two men tossed retaining straps to each other and began securing the busted telephone pole to the trailer. One of them recounted the story behind the fire to the other man. Danny listened: