The Man Who Wouldn't Stand Up

by Jacob M. Appel

  Arnold was certain of only one thing: He was running short on options. Having been cast out both by society and by its rejects, each time as a result of his own pigheaded intransigence, he no longer had any safe harbour to claim as his own. It was true that he didn’t love America. The idea of loving a country still seemed ludicrous to him. But he did love the idea of having a place to go—a place to call home—and if that meant allying himself with a country, in a pact of mutual convenience, it was a step he was more than willing to take. Better than living as a refugee, alone and hunted. Or trusting himself to the enemies of his country. That was one lesson he’d learned from the Bandit: The enemy of his enemy was not his friend. As he crawled across the tall grass, trying to conjure up his next move, he realized how wrong he’d been to envy the poor lunatic. Arnold’s stupefaction gave way to a sense of revulsion—not so much horror at what the Bandit had done, as awful as it was, but horror at the unfortunate creature’s existence. Even prison seemed more appealing, all of a sudden, than that sort of isolation.

  Arnold arrived at the edge of the grass, opposite a poorly maintained footpath. A homeless couple was arguing under a disease-ridden spruce, threatening each other with all sorts of hyperbolic physical injuries, but they were too engrossed in their own altercation to notice the naked man as he darted into a nearby hedge of privet. Arnold collapsed in the thicket, catching his breath while he listened to them shout. It was impossible to pick up the origins of their row—or even its purpose—but it left Arnold feeling even more empty than before. He’d been a fool to fight with Judith. Ever. It wasn’t as though apologizing or adopting a few children was the end of the world. What Arnold wanted now, more than anything, was his old life back: His playful arguments with Willie Zambrano and his bitter ones with Ira Taylor; his back-breaking morning weeding sessions; even Judith’s unforgiving lectures when he tracked up the carpets in his gardening shoes. Ordinary life was what he longed for more than anything. That, and his wife. To wake up in the morning to find she’d stolen all of his blankets and pillows—“appropriated,” she called it—and to love her all the more. To sit at the kitchen table while she mocked the results of his stab at the Monday morning crossword puzzle. To have someone to whom he didn’t have to explain anything—because she knew what he was thinking before he thought it, and what he was going to do before he did it. There was nothing better in life than sharing it with someone who loved you no matter how much of an ass you made of yourself—who would forgive you even if you didn’t deserve to be forgiven. Judith was certainly that person. But Judith was one hundred blocks away in a townhouse surrounded by police barricades and self-proclaimed patriots with far too much time on their hands. Even if he could find a way home—and you couldn’t just crawl across Manhattan stark naked—he had no way of getting inside.

  Soon the homeless couple reconciled and wandered off hand-in-hand. Arnold used the privet leaves as makeshift tissues to scrub more of the excrement from his chest hairs. Then he continued north toward the reservoir. His first thought had been that he might wait until dark and then dunk himself into the water for a quick rinse. It wouldn’t exactly be a bubble bath—the pond was covered with a thick layer of scum—but baptism by stagnant water was preferable to the stink of human waste. Unfortunately, when Arnold arrived at the southern shore, he discovered that a high mesh fence had been erected around the entire man-made lake to accommodate a drainage project. The one advantage of this renovation—was that a small section of the park had been cordoned off from pedestrians as a workstation. It appeared unoccupied. Arnold darted around a parapet of sandbags and hid alongside the rear wall of the boathouse. It crossed his mind that he could empty the sand out of the sacks and fashion the canvas into a makeshift wardrobe. Like a scarecrow’s outfit. But he had nothing with which to cut into the heavy, tightly-woven cloth. The work crew had taken their tools with them, leaving behind only wrappers and duct tape. Arnold was still attempting to tear open one of the bags when two Parks Department maintenance employees rounded the corner of the shuttered snack bar in a golf cart. The botanist abandoned his refuge and dashed into a raspberry hedge. He was sure the men had spotted him—that they’d chase him into the brush. But the cart drove on, its occupants rehashing the previous night’s Yankees game.

  Arnold’s failure with the sandbags enforced his desire for clothing. He crept through the raspberry bushes to the opposite side of the boathouse, where several large metal dumpsters stood brimming over with trash, and he set about combing the refuse for discarded garments. All he managed to do was to slash his palm on a broken bottle. A few minutes later, he was still perched atop the garbage bin when he heard a trio of joggers debating whether they might ignore the construction barriers. Their approach forced him to plunge again into the undergrowth—this time head-first into a thicket of briars. The branches tore at his bare flesh. His bare arms and chest stung. It was impossible to tell where the blood stopped and the faeces began. He picked the thorns out of his flesh one-by-one. In a moment of weakness, Arnold even considered throwing himself on the mercies of the passing joggers.

  All that separated Arnold from surrender was inertia. And possibly his nudity—because the thought of exposing himself to total strangers seemed suddenly and inexplicably humiliating. But he had no home, no prospect of security, no hope of seeing his wife again. He didn’t even have any cigarettes—the Bandit had stolen them along with his pants. If he’d still had the revolver, he’d have shot himself. Unfortunately, the lunatic had taken that too. And Arnold’s sneakers. His feet, already torn up from his hike to Spitford’s, stung with every step.

  Arnold took a deep breath and stepped out into the open—determined to beg the next passer-by for assistance. But the joggers had already disappeared over a rise and the footpath remained momentarily quiet. The one time he wanted to be caught, he managed to find himself all alone. If there were a God and that God were going to show him mercy, Arnold pleaded, it was now or never. That was when he spotted an abandoned pair of men’s undershorts lying on the concrete beside the boathouse bathrooms. The briefs were crumpled into a ball beneath a dripping spigot, sopping in a pool of icy water. On closer inspection, they also proved to be smaller than Arnold had hoped. But they were better than nothing. He stretched the fabric several times, as best he could, and then inched the frigid cotton up his legs and over his groin.

  For a moment, finding the wet underpants seemed like a great victory to Arnold. But that was merely a reflection of the abject state to which he had been reduced. When the euphoria wore off and he saw things more clearly, he realized how hopeless his situation was. Even surrendering seemed pointless. All he wanted now was to see Judith one more time—to apologize for what he’d put her through—and then he’d be willing to accept whatever additional tortures that fate chose to throw his way. But with the police cordon and Spitford’s army of demonstrators, even that brief solace appeared denied to him. He found himself missing the Bandit—wishing he might ask the lunatic for advice. Because the poor lunatic’s existence might be unfortunate, but he was resourceful. That was another thing Arnold had learned about himself: He wasn’t resourceful. On his own, he wasn’t much good for anything.

  Then the kernel of an idea congealed in his mind. It was implausible, maybe a one-in-a-million. Within minutes, his mood raced from dejected to joyous. With a sudden burst of determination, he navigated through the park—from hedge to hedge—until he arrived at the security headquarters, a long rectangular building with faux gas lanterns hanging from the eaves and a roof shaped like a pagoda’s. Sure enough, there were a pair of recreation department police cars idling at the curb side. Arnold darted out from the brush and exchanged the transponders. Then he pulled onto the gravel road and steered his way toward Fifth Avenue. Soon he was heading south, toward home. They’d catch up with him, he knew, but he at least might have an hour or so of cushion while they figured out what he’d done. Maybe longer. He doubted the police stashed their most astute investi
gators on parks’ patrol.

  Arnold abandoned the cruiser in front of the sex toy museum and scaled the chain-link fence designed to keep vagrants out of the adjacent lot. His back and hands were still bleeding, and he left a trail of blood along the dust. It took him half an hour to uncover the entrance to the Weatherman’s tunnel, now overgrown with clover, and another spell of hard labour to dislodge the storm grating. Then he crept into the underground passageway and lugged out the cinderblocks one by one like a miner. Each brick felt as though he were carrying an entire city on his bare, bloody back.

  All of the muscles in Arnold’s body ached, and several had stopped functioning, when he finally crawled out the other end of the tunnel into the remnants of what had once been his garden. Since his departure—it had been nearly two months—the pachysandra and crabgrass had suffocated what remained of the flowers. Poison ivy vines curled their tentacles around the linden and poison sumac blocked the entrance to the tool shed. Deep black-rot lesions scarred the trunk of the apple tree. An infestation of aphids had left the tea roses with desiccated leaves. Woodchuck burrows pocketed the lawn. Even the bird feeders had collapsed under the weight of rainwater. The gardens of Pompeii and Herculaneum could not have appeared as desolate. But to add insult to injury, Ira Taylor’s kid had transformed the entire northern border of the yard into a makeshift trash dumpster. Where the azalea hedge had once run along the stockade fence, empty beers kegs now bloomed. Also Styrofoam cups, and rotting steak bones, and an impressive collection of used condoms. A small stretch of the fence was charred black as though a discarded cigarette had been left to burn out of its own accord. They were all lucky that the entire neighbourhood hadn’t ignited. Then he caught sight of the open door to the back hallway and all thought of anything other than Judith melted from his mind.

  Arnold saw the back of his wife’s head at the bay windows in the living room, her long sandy tresses cascading over her shoulders. He charged across the lawn and up the rear steps, like a soldier returning home from the battlefield, but at the last moment he recoiled at the sound of laughter. Male laughter. There was no mistaking the resounding baritone of Gilbert Card’s mirth.

  “You really are the man of my dreams,” he heard Judith say. “You drive me up a wall ninety-nine percent of the time, but the other one percent makes up for it.”

  A long silence followed. In the foyer, the grandfather clock tolled off the seconds.

  “It’s so strange how life works out,” drawled Gilbert. “You search and you search and you search—and then suddenly you find someone. And they’re either right or they’re wrong….but it has so little to do with whether you actually get along. Sometimes I think you fall in love with someone because they drive you crazy.”

  Every word pierced Arnold like a saber. He’d known it all the time, of course—but he’d chosen to interpret every clue in Judith’s favour.

  Arnold was on the verge on striding into the living room—of revenging himself on his treacherous friend—when he heard additional footsteps coming from the kitchen. He ducked behind the china cabinet. To his amazement, the next voice he heard was Bonnie Card’s. “What no good are you two up to behind my back?”

  “I was just telling Judith how you drive me up the wall ninety-nine percent of the time,” said Gilbert. “Give or take.”

  “I guess I’m losing my touch,” answered Bonnie. “You wouldn’t accept only 99% from an airplane or a pacemaker, would you?”

  Arnold heard the sounds of chairs moving. “You didn’t have any popcorn in the cabinets,” said Bonnie. “All I could find was a bag of frozen leaves.”

  “Oh, those are forget-me-not sprouts,” said Judith. “They taste sort of like guacamole….only not.”

  “I say we order in Chinese food,” suggested Gilbert.

  “It’s not going to happen,” answered Judith. “The delivery guys won’t pass through the protesters. They view it like crossing a picket line.”

  Arnold crept closer and placed his ear against the French doors. That’s when he heard the sound of his own voice. “Food’s ready,” he shouted. “Jimsonweed burgers and daffodil hotdogs! Just like at Nathan’s.”

  He remembered that barbecue. It was three summers ago, when he’d first installed the gas grill behind his wife’s studio. So they were watching home movies. That was all. Judith had been speaking on tape. About him. She must have purchased a TV and a VCR in his absence.

  “I’m so glad you found these tapes,” Judith said as though on cue. “You’re entirely forgiven for poking that video camera of yours in our faces all these years….No matter how much you miss someone, it’s so easy to forget the details. The shape of his voice and the particular motions of his body and all that. Eventually, it becomes like describing a dead person to someone who’s never met him…I’d nearly forgotten how Arnold used to loosen his belt a notch before eating.”

  “I’ve got to hand it to him,” he heard Bonnie say. “I thought Arnold would have given up weeks ago. Wherever he is, he really is a man of principle.”

  “Some good that does me,” said Judith. “I’d trade all the principle in the world if he’d just slide down the chimney or something….”

  “It’s not good to think like that,” answered Gilbert. “The best thing to do is to pretend that he’s gone forever… Even if he does come back, he may not be the same Arnold anymore….You’ve read about what he’s been doing…How he tried to rape and strangle that girl…Sometimes a shock can change people permanently…”

  “You can’t believe that bullshit,” snapped Judith. “She’s just a hussy out to turn a profit at our expense.”

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore,” answered Gilbert. “A man steals clothes from strangers…It’s hard to make sense of that…To be honest, it’s possible he’s gone truly insane.”

  “Say what you like,” Judith said sharply. “But I know Arnold better than anybody, and I’m telling you he’s going to come back as sane as he ever was—even if it’s only to drive me over the edge.”

  Arnold stepped through the doors. His audience drew back in alarm—and he realized that, for the first instant, they hadn’t recognized him. He was smeared in grime and faeces, after all, bearded and unshorn for months. And he was wearing only a damp pair of underpants.

  “Arnold?” gasped Judith.

  “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, Gil,” said Arnold. “That same girl is the head case who tore up my garden.”

  “Is it really you?” demanded Judith.

  “What’s left of me,” answered Arnold. “But I don’t think I’m as changed as some people seem to think. Rumours of my insanity have been greatly exaggerated.”

  Arnold’s wife stood up and moved toward him. “Good God! Are you alright?”

  “I’m trying to make a fashion statement,” said Arnold. “What do you think?”

  Judith reached out to touch his cheek. He wrapped his soiled arms around her and kissed her face. Her eyes. The end of her nose. It was so good to feel her warmth, her skin against his—but then she started sobbing.

  “It’s okay, honey,” he soothed. “I’m back now.”

  Judith drew away from his embrace. Arnold noticed the crow’s feet around her eyes, the silvery strands in her hair. They’d always spoken of growing old together as though it was like visiting some far-off kingdom, only that kingdom seemed suddenly less distant. Judith held her hands over her mouth and examined him closely—her face inscrutable, but possibly displeased.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Arnold’s wife took a deep breath. “I want to know the truth about that girl,” she said. “Whatever it is, as bad as it is, I need to know. After all these years, goddammit, I have a right to know…”

  Judith stared down at the carpet, her hands clasped together as though in prayer. Gilbert Card inched his way toward the door. “I think we’ll head out now—”

  Arnold held up his hand. “There’s no need for that,” he said. “W
e’re all friends here. I’m not going to keep any secrets…” He glared at Bonnie, who’d made no effort to leave, then reached forward and took Judith’s hands in his own. “The truth is that there’s nothing to tell….Absolutely nothing….”

  He hated lying to Judith. The old Arnold would have told her the truth—told her in order to be forgiven—but he’d have been a selfish ass to have done so. Judith’s peace of mind depended upon his lying and, if that was what it took to make her happy, he could live with that. Sometimes you had to compromise your values to get through the day, to protect your home and your loved ones. Beyond that, the more Arnold spoke about Cassandra, the less his words sounded like lies. His romantic feelings for the girl had faded as rapidly as they’d arisen—so much so that they too now seemed inexplicable. Maybe it was a case of circumstance, of war making strange bedfellows. All that remained in his heart was a paternal benevolence, tempered by the residue of his anger at what she’d done to his flowers. But she was, when you got down to it, just a child—and you couldn’t stay upset with a child too long. In a few months, a few years, he’d have a new garden. Then the girl would fade pleasantly into memory, a lost friend who ebbed deeper and deeper into his past. But Judith would remain at his side forever. That’s why there wasn’t any need to confess. “You’re the only one for me, darling,” he said. “Really. I swear. Nobody else would be stubborn enough to put up with me.”

  “I knew it,” sobbed Judith. “I knew it was all lies.”