As I Walked Out One Evening

by Donald Wetzel

  I have got me a live one I thought.

  Chapter 11

  It is hard to believe the stench which can accompany or surround or appear literally to emerge from the person of a drunken eighty-three year old male especially when said drunkenness—as seemed to be the case in this case—has been caught at full tide at its height at the pause at the turn if I may—I mean not just the incredible foulness of breath the rancid reek of booze and god knows what gone sour-rotten in the gut—not just such as that but a stink that seems to come from the man entire through some foulness of the very flesh itself, as with an old dog—to use a country expression—that stinks through its skin; but it is a stench to be believed believe me.

  And which I find at present unbearable.

  So enough for now of the old man and his stench; I mean when I write of such a thing I am the artist at work for real I get into it I am right in there in that van with that stinking old man I am practically choking on that awful stink or I am no real artist.

  (To be candid about it I am more inclined to speak of my writing when I do—more modestly I trust—as the practice of a craft but now and then I get carried away as why not and think hey this thing I do is art even if doesn’t turn out that way all that often but it is always something one hopes for the surprise the true accomplishment) (not that I mean to make too much of this as Aristotle or one of the Greeks once put it all artists should be honored for their work of course and then taken to the gates of the city and told to get lost as they can be more trouble in the long run then they are worth; and while I certainly do not subscribe to this point of view there is no harm in being humble whatever one’s calling) and right along in a similar vein and speaking of being humble this is probably a good time to get in some information necessary to the further development of this narrative in regard to the author’s credentials or I should more humbly say experiences as an author or writer or artist to be bold about it which experiences include a number (seven) of book length hard cover works of fiction being novels that by-and-large no one ever heard of and being as I say all works of fiction except that one of the works is in fact in the nature of an autobiography but inasmuch and as is generally understood most autobiographies contain considerable fiction anyhow I will not argue the distinction too vigorously at this point and will point out further only that the central subject matter of the autobiographical work is not so much me the author as it is of one very young man’s experiences (mine) including imprisonment as a conscientious objector during World War Two; and for the truly humble but necessary part of this brief resume of my writing history the truth is I never made any real money at all through the practice of my craft until I was in my early sixties even then it was pretty much a fluke an accident being a matter of some occasional material so to speak as relating to what is more properly or formally referred to as flatulence or passing-gas or breaking-wind a work presented in the manner of a field guide to birds of America or roadside flowers only in this case farts and which material was in truth only a very minor part of a lengthy and otherwise very serious highly thoughtful introspective novel that didn’t work and which the flatulence portion of it was sold and published separately as a non-book sort of book an item such as is to be found not in book stores but in the sort of shops that sell rubber dog turds and other gift items of a humorous intent and which book—the most casual and incidental of all my literary efforts—achieved in fact in a period of some ten years the sale of over three million copies—that’s right three million—which you may be assured has served to make my old age considerably more comfortable than it might otherwise have been—proving as I have often since said that it’s an ill wind that blows no good—I mean when complemented on or otherwise personally identified as the author of the work I have to say something—otherwise it can get quite awkward—also let me say here that I do not sign my fart books I only initial them—but all this about my credentials and dubious writing accomplishments has been included here not from mere hubris—a word that is really getting a run these days—but simply because such an inclusion is essential to a full I hope appreciation and understanding of certain incidents and happenings in the narrative due soon with luck to follow.

  And so in the meantime back at the intersection of something and Garden Street:

  I have got me a live one I thought an octogenarian wise guy a joker for sure.

  To be honest he had got my interest.

  People on the cusp will do it for me evey time.

  Well well I thought …

  And then the stench and common sense took over and I immediately thought the better of it; no I thought no indeed forget it best we cut this short get moving get him home get him somewhere get rid of him anyhow so I revved up the van and made other adjustments—like I really believed it would work this time—okay now I said which way?

  Which way what? the old man said

  I suppose I should have expected it.

  Anyhow I turned and for the first time really looked at the man really saw his eyes an amazing pale bright blue and clear as glass not a cloud not a line not a hint of attrition of measured time unbelievable eyes—like a child’s—as clear and deep as water over sand …

  … and I wondered; how could this possibly be?

  … and still I wonder at it.

  … but it was; and it was as if I saw as if I looked right into the old man’s head that I trespassed saw the wind blowing there the disarray the debris the detritus …

  (I have looked in the eyes of a child and felt the same—have seen too much—no matter it was a loveliness.)

  … as was so with the old man too except it was a madness seen I supposed hardly a loveliness …

  … but almost a loveliness even so …

  … a kind of loveliness …

  To hell with it I mean only that the man was drunk and stunk and had no business having eyes that one could step right into so to speak.

  And not to forget either how over the stink of booze and sweat and god knows what hung a clear strong whiff of scoundrel.

  No doubt about it.

  A prize for sure.

  And how the hell do I get rid of him? I thought being sensible again.

  And so I said I understand it is not your wish that you be taken home wherever that is which is your own business of course so very well then perhaps there is somewhere else I may take you?

  Upper class talk might do the trick I figured.

  He looked out the window.

  Any place at all I said.

  He nodded. Any place at all sounded fine to him.

  It is no fun trying to reason with a drunk of any age when they can be like stupid dogs sometimes, they wait to be instructed it is all the same to them if only they understood the instructions which they don’t or they wonder if you mean it (you can see the dog wondering sometimes) or they have other things on their mind.

  There is no point in getting angry the dog is stupid.

  The same with drunks.

  Listen I said try to understand try to imagine what I am telling you; we cannot sit here at this stupid crosswalk all the stupid day just tell me where you want to go and I’ll take you there.

  I waited.

  The old man smiled.

  Thinking about it I hoped.

  Well? I said.

  Yes sir the old man said you’re a good fellow—money ain’t everything even there is people think it is—no sir—you take me to the five and dime? used to be the five and dime Martin’s Auto Parts now—don’t have a part they get it for you yesterday—comes in on the bus—Japanese auto parts—think about that Japanese making cars all those little people over there making trucks used to make tin whistles—used to be a five and dime—fellow name of J.B.—you know him?—owe him ten dollars good fellow though he’ll give me ten dollars I imagine—quit drinking one day took bad sick the next started dying just like that imagine—always knew what he wanted wanted to get rich before he died don’t look like he hardly will—good fel
low though—you know J.B.?—owes me ten dollars—money ain’t everything not when you’re dying—ten dollars hardly more than a dime anymore—the old five and dime you know how to get there?

  (Listening to the old man right then I could not help thinking about Lisa my grand daughter about her telling me once how I talked in paragraphs not sentences—I mean I wasn’t even talking to the kid but to Mark her father when she said that and mostly I thought only that it was the first smart thing I had heard her say in fact I didn’t give it much thought at the time at all but listening to the old man—I remember it well—how it made me uneasy—how I looked over at the old man and thought Jesus do I sound like that to Lisa? no wonder she shuts up like a clam around me.)

  (A small thing I guess but I remember it seven years later now clear as can be)

  Strange the things we remember.

  Anyhow so I said well as a matter of fact I believe I know how to get Martin’s Auto Parts just fine the old five and dime.

  I pulled out onto Garden Street and headed back into town.

  It was good to get moving.

  Back there at the intersection it seemed to me that things had been pretty crazy for awhile.

  So we headed back into town while the old man told me about a Japanese tin whistle he had owned one time when just a kid someone gave it to him or he found it he couldn’t quite recollect but he could read and stamped on it right on the lip it said made in Japan and he though it almost had to be a lie.

  He shook his head at the thought of it still I mean he said seemed to me like it was way too much trouble to make a tin whistle way across the ocean over there in Japan and put it on a boat and send it to America and sell it here in Alabama for a nickel.

  Now it’s stereos and boom boxes I said.

  I was only an ignorant kid the old man said hadn’t never yet even seen a movie or ate a banana—hard to believe now ain’t it?

  We were coming into town and he started nodding at the people we passed smiling and nodding his head in the manner of royalty receiving homage or some damn thing—had to do with riding up high like that in a van I guess or maybe just to be riding not walking—anyhow it tickled me—never come to care much for bananas he said I would take that whistle down to the river or out in the woods and blow it—many’s the time I gave it a try—but nothing different ever happened.

  He looked over at me; seemed like it should have he said.

  Not everybody likes bananas I said.

  What was I suppose to say?

  He smiled.

  And then he started in about J.B. again and did I know him? just ask at the five and dime and about ten dollars that was out there someplace and what difference did it make who owed who? in the end it was hardly worth no more these days than a dime …

  … and I could see him getting a mythical ten dollars established out there more or less loose in space where if we worked it right—the two of us—we could buy a drink …

  No way he meant to tell me where he lived.

  No way.

  I would have to ask J.B.

  If there was a J.B. and he hadn’t died yet.

  Or ask someone at the store.

  Someone had to know the old man.

  Unless he didn’t really exist and I just imagined him.

  Imagine that I thought.

  I pulled up in front of Martin’s Auto Parts and cut the motor; just wait here I said you hear? just stay in the van.

  He nodded and folded his hands in his lap being good.

  I will bring you a cookie I said.

  I have no idea why I said that.

  He smiled and shook his head but I think he was thinking ten dollars.

  I don’t know.

  It was clear the old man was getting to me.

  In the store I walked down the isle between the racks and counters where all the loose stuff was displayed somehow shocked at the newness of everything the glitter and shine of it as though I was in a five and dime after all with everything mostly junk although I knew that was just the way it seemed to me right then with the old man sitting out there in the van eighty-three years old and drunk and believing that in here someplace there was magic grace ten dollars maybe.

  Seemed like a long walk back to the counter at the back of the store where you actually transacted business in the place where the clerks waited for you like robots or manikins it seemed which was okay with me as I wasn’t there to buy anything anyhow they didn’t have to move from where they stood all I wanted was to know was there a J.B. presently connected with their store or in any way known to them?

  It was no surprise to me that there wasn’t that they had never heard of him and so I said I have got this somewhat drunk old man a native to the area I believe out there in my van who as with this J. B. person whose name I got from the old man is also unknown to me and I had hoped perhaps someone here might know him my passenger I mean; and finally a lady got curious in a tired sort of way and walked up front with me and looked out at the van and said oh my you have got old Lucian there oh my.

  She put some distance between us.

  Lucian, I thought.

  I liked the name.

  Chapter 12

  One of the first signs of some possible slippage some changes in my father’s mental processes, of alterations in his customary priorities his familiar value system so to speak as I had come to know and understand it—even thieves have value systems I suppose no matter how rooted in ill gotten gain—not that my father was a thief—anyhow my father—this was shortly after he had got his cottage built down at the river and was living there alone—my father who had never been one to call or write or visibly to give a damn about any of his progeny or his progeny’s progeny in the slightest started sending me little letter/notes in reference to the weather and his health as these might be favorable or unfavorable along with increasingly random it seemed to me newspaper clippings or humorous material cut from the pages of old Reader’s Digests I believe and along with these over time a series of annotated drawings for Mark—quite well done—on the adventures of one Mr. Bandit Raccoon at the garbage pail or up a tree or of the Saucy Family (squirrels) on the cabin roof (my father actually hated squirrels or he came to hate them toward the end it seemed spoke of them to Mark as being bug-eyed rodents rats with bushy tails which gave Mark a whole new slant on his Grandpa even though I had tried to warn him all along) but he drew them cute enough for Mark—cuddly even—which I had to wonder about at the time my father being cute; a change for sure.

  This didn’t go on for all that long a time of course.

  Other changes were on the way.

  But even back then at the back of my mind there was something that said ah ha what is this?

  Clippings yet?

  Nothing more than that however.

  A moment’s uneasiness.

  I was not so sharp on watching for the signs back then.

  Not so keen on the lookout then as I am now; as who really knows which is insignificant happenstance and which is portent?

  What indeed are the first subtle signs?

  That is the question.

  And I write of it now having first this morning—before getting down to business here at my wonderful writing machine—clipped first a political cartoon from the editorial pages of the morning paper (a drawing of the USA capital building and of standing on its dome a business-suited male executive type with both clenched fists lifted skyward in the conventional gesture of male triumph identified by lettering across his chest as simply The Haves) (and a picture in color also clipped from the morning paper of a U of A graduate student holding a laptop personal computer in the angle of arm and body as one might hold a child or a cat which picture I have placed within the folds of a note which reads as follows:… note the thin lips and the baby-fat arm and pudgy fingers Oh he looks innocent enough but at night he goes about bashing Luddites over the head with old computers it is a picture I write of the enclosed picture that gives me cold chills even as
it makes me laugh) and all of this I enclose in a number ten envelope to be mailed this day to that same Lisa mentioned earlier in these pages—my grand daughter that is—no longer a teenage snot and now in attendance at the same university—a Junior and doing very well thank you—as that jerk in the photograph.

  Lisa is the only one—until now at least—to whom I forward such communications.

  But still it is a thing I do these days.

  I do.

  Sometimes I think better of it and just hold the clippings on my desk awhile and then throw them out.

  But usually I go ahead and mail them.

  Along with appropriate and sometimes humorous comment or instruction.

  As see above.

  Every word of it true and just as I wrote it.

  So help me God.

  Really.

  I mean really so help me God.

  Surely given (as it was from the start if one has been paying attention at all) the quest that is the stated burden of this work, is it then to be wondered at that I include the above account? irrelevant as it may seem to all else that has preceded it?

  I think not.

  By way of addendum and in regard to the fart book mentioned earlier of which as I said there are some three million copies here and there on coffee tables or in johns around the country and which for all of that you may never have heard of depending on the circles in which you move—and not to boast but as an intelligence necessary to the further development of this account it should be understood as well—I have this on impeccable authority—that the fart book was for a time—back when Bush was our president—the only piece—I repeat that the only piece—of literature to be found at Kennebunkport the Bush’s summer place in Maine.

  For a fact.

  Actually I would imagine that our former president quite likely never had time to look into the thing however it should be noted that in the fart book I identify and describe a considerable variety of farts among them being one called The President’s Fart which I describe as being oval due to the president’s orifice (which is the only pun in the book but a beauty if I do say so myself) and as to how the book came to be at Kennebunkport—I have given this some thought believe me—the most reasonable theory that I might suggest or advance is that some acquaintance of the president may have thought it was a funny book or at least a neat pun and currying favor gave the book to the president.