Dire Means

by Geoffrey Neil

  “I could have used some favors today,” Mark said.

  “Well, I sent one of them back into to you with the quarters I gave you.”

  Even if Uncle Leon was stark-raving mad, what was the harm in the delusion that a favor was a visible entity? Mark decided to indulge him some more.

  Uncle Leon continued, “I still don’t know why you have so many stuck favors built up. You must live too safe or something. You don’t take enough risks for a favor to help you. If yer life is always the same, yer favors ain’t got no chance to come back to ya different.”

  “I fix computers. My job is to make things as predictable as possible. I suppose I treat my life like that, too.”

  “That’s why you got favor constipation, son! You best step out a little—break your routine. Yer favors’ll come poppin’ back to ya.”

  “I was trying to do a favor this morning. That’s what got me into this mess.”

  “Favors don’t cause harm, selfishness—aimin’ favors the wrong way—that’s what messes folk up. What did you do?”

  “I bought some gas for someone and he robbed me at the gas station.”

  Uncle Leon’s eyes widened. “You did a favor for someone and he robbed you?”

  “My car, my wallet, my phone—that’s why I look like this.” Mark swept his hand from his neck to his waist.

  “And you said this happened today?”

  Mark nodded. “This morning.”

  Uncle Leon shook his head in thought. “That’s confusin’,” he mumbled. He stood up and scanned the sidewalk beside Mark, and looked up and around Mark’s head and then leaned sideways to look far down the sidewalk again.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “If you done a favor for someone who done you wrong, then you should have a hell of a favor waitin’ to get back to you—triple size or bigger, but I can’t see nothin’ of the sort.”

  Mark didn’t answer. He knew that what he did for Ty looked like a favor outwardly and Ty may have thought he was receiving a favor, but Mark knew his own true motivation. He was not trying to show grace of any sort to the gas-can cons. His so called favor had an ulterior motive, but Uncle Leon couldn’t know that.

  Uncle Leon squinted at Mark and squatted, leaning on his knees to look Mark in the eyes. “You sure it was a favor you done, son?”

  Crazy or not, lucky or not, Uncle Leon had either seen or deduced that Mark hadn’t really done a favor. Or just maybe this old man really could see favors and that a giant favor was missing from Mark’s stash. Mark decided to tell Uncle Leon the story of the gas-can beggars. He recounted the morning’s events for him.

  Uncle Leon took it all in, not saying a word. He occasionally grunted and said, “Um hmm.”

  When Mark finished, Uncle Leon gave him a soft pat on the back and said, “That wasn’t no favor you done. But it’s over. And you look like you learned something out of it.”

  “That’s for sure,” Mark said.

  “Now give me my quarters back.”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me. I want my quarters back. Put ‘em in my hand.” Uncle Leon extended his hand to Mark. His face was serious.

  When Mark dropped the quarters into Uncle Leon’s palm, Uncle Leon jerked his shoulders up as if his favor had reentered him. “I’m gonna release this favor again, only bigger. You don’t need a phone call. You need a ride home. Where do you live?”

  “Venice, just off Abbott Kinney, but—”

  “Come with me.” Uncle Leon picked up his bag, stood, and motioned for Mark to follow.

  He took off at the pace of a speed walker—not what you’d expect from a man Uncle Leon’s age. Mark called out, “Uncle Leon, you’re going to have to slow down—I’m injured, remember?”

  Uncle Leon turned his head and said over his shoulder, “Oh, walk it off, son. Hell, I’m twice yer age and probably as sore. You could use a good sprint to keep you from gettin’ stiff.”

  Uncle Leon zigzagged through shoppers and tourists who were walking the same direction. Mark trotted and walked and trotted to keep up. He noticed that people he passed didn’t veer off as far from him, but this was probably because Uncle Leon’s pace gave little time for them to react.

  During their one block trek, Uncle Leon called out greetings by name to four people resting on benches along the way. He, in turn, was greeted by three employees of local shops as they tended to their store fronts. A security guard standing post outside a clothing store said, “Morning, Uncle L,” and saluted. Uncle Leon returned the salute and said, “Should have your socks any day now.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” the guard said.

  Uncle Leon turned without slowing down, pointed to the guard, and told Mark, “He’s been beggin’ for a pair of my green socks for months.”

  A man in a suit standing outside a Mediterranean café called out as they passed. “Hey Uncle Leon—you stopping by for your lunch today?”

  “Maybe tomorrow, I’m booked today.” Uncle Leon thumbed over his shoulder toward Mark. “That’s Romy, the maitre d’,” Uncle Leon explained. “I clean his patio and he gives me a meal. I figure I could eat there for weeks on what I racked up so far. And I don’t gotta order the specials either!”

  Mark, having gained on Uncle Leon, took a pause from his panting and said, “But isn’t that payback of a favor?”

  “Fair pay has its place just like grace does. They’re different. If yer gonna get paid back, with food, that’s the place to do it.” He pointed to Romy’s café. “You gotta try that guy’s barbecue gyro.” He rubbed his stomach, rolled his eyes, and kissed his fingertips.

  As they continued on, more people greeted Uncle Leon like fans, and he returned their greetings with warm sentiments and a tip of his pretend hat.

  He led Mark through a narrow alley beside a pizza place called Allegra. Uncle Leon pounded the back door three times with the butt of his hand. A fat man with swept-back hair opened the door. His apron was sauce-stained and his hairy forearms were dusted with flour.

  “Phillip! Just the man I want to see,” Uncle Leon said.

  “Hi, Uncle Leon, what can I do for you?”

  “May we?” Uncle Leon pointed inside.

  “By all means, come in.” Phil held the door wide for Uncle Leon and Mark. The smell of hot Italian food poured out the door, walloping Mark. He closed his eyes for a moment in an attempt to control his hunger as his stomach growled. As they walked, Uncle Leon introduced Mark to Phil, explaining that Mark had been attacked. Phil turned to Mark and said, “Mr. Clark Kent here was a good person for you to run into if you ran out of luck.”

  “I’m learning that,” Mark said.

  They sat where Phil pointed, in the last booth in the back of the restaurant near the kitchen. In the front, Mark saw customers seated at a counter and window tables tended by other employees in red aprons.

  “You going south any time soon?” Uncle Leon asked Phil.

  “Uhhhhh, two business deliveries on Main Street, I think.”

  “Can you drop off our friend Mark near Abbott?”

  “For you? No problem. Be about ten more minutes—let me check the order.” Phil got up and pushed through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. The smell of hot marinara sauce and baking pizza’s that wafted out produced an encore of growling in Mark’s stomach. “This is another keeper,” Uncle Leon said, twirling his index finger above his head. “Best pizza pies on The Promenade.”

  “It smells like it,” Mark said. He considered asking Uncle Leon if there was any chance he could borrow enough money for a slice of pizza, but he resisted. Uncle Leon had done enough for him and apparently was going to arrange for transportation—as a favor.

  The kitchen door flew open. Phil came through it with two large pizza slices, one flopped over each hand. He gave one to Uncle Leon and the other to Mark before he clapped some residual flour from his hands onto his apron.

  “I’ll be back with plates for you. We’ll be running t
hat Main Street order in about five minutes so down your slices quick.”

  Mark sunk his teeth into his piece of pizza and the explosion of flavor was something he would never forget. If it was his stress or circumstances that made the food taste so good—he didn’t care. He stuffed his mouth with another bite and his cheek poked out full as he chewed.

  Uncle Leon smiled and then began his own slice.

  Phil came back with the plates and then hollered, “Chad!” toward the front of the restaurant.

  They heard the sound of a chair scooting and then feet fumbling. A teen-age boy rounded the corner with a worried expression. “Yes, Mr. Tenelli.”

  “Two big orders for Main Street and you have a passenger.” Phil pointed to Mark who nodded and tried to smile with a stuffed mouth. “Take him wherever he needs to go. Get your bags ready, pies are coming out now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chad went into the kitchen and Mark shook Phil’s hand even though doing so hurt.

  “Good luck to you, Mark,” Phil said. “When you are back on your feet, I hope you’ll come visit us again.”

  “Absolutely, thank you—and thank you for the ride.”

  “You can thank that man right there,” Phil said, pointing at Uncle Leon. “He’s done so much for us and we sure are grateful.”

  Uncle Leon tipped his imaginary hat again and then clutched his heart to show thanks for the recognition.

  Chad emerged carrying twelve insulated pizza bags—high enough to need to balance them. He accepted Mark’s offer to carry some of them and they headed for the back door.

  Mark leaned to Uncle Leon and said, “Thank you, sir. You’ve given me an education I won’t forget.”

  “You’re welcome,” Uncle Leon said. He stepped close, pointed to Mark’s chest and whispered, “Don’t forget they’re hour-glassy and they’re itchin’ to get back into ya. Live a little and give ‘em a chance to come back.”

  §

  Chad turned left onto 2nd Street. Two more turns and they were headed south on Ocean Avenue on what had become a beautiful sunny day. Chad seemed to relax as he leaned back to drive with one hand. He kept looking at Mark’s clothing. Mark felt the interrogation coming.

  “So, how long have you been down on your luck?” Chad asked.

  “Actually, I’m not homeless,” Mark said.

  “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ve had some trouble today. I’ve got a home.” Mark became aware that he was defending his social standing with the fact that he had a home. Why was it so important to him that Chad know that he wasn’t homeless? Why panic and hammer the point home to an eighteen-year-old pizza delivery boy?

  “I was assaulted this morning,” Mark said.

  “Whoa! Did you kick some ass? What happened?” Chad smiled and wiggled down into his seat as if settling in for a great story.

  “Actually, I don’t remember how it ended. I think I got knocked out.”

  Chad whistled as he faced forward again. “K-O, dude! That sucks. Hey, did Uncle Leon rescue you?”

  “No…well, in a way, I suppose. We met a few hours later when he saw me looking for some help on the Promenade.”

  “You had to beg?”

  “Actually, I just needed some change for a call.”

  “Well that’s begging. It figures that Uncle Leon found you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He always finds people in trouble.”

  “Do you think it’s because he can see favors?”

  “What?” Chad said, frowning. Mark realized that Uncle Leon hadn’t shared his “gift” with Chad.

  “Never mind. So what did Uncle Leon do for your boss?” Mark asked.

  “Only saved his life—probably. Last year Mr. Tenelli was robbed on his way into the pizzeria early one morning. Two guys. They stuck him up in the back alley by his car and wanted him to open the door to the restaurant. Mr. Tenelli wouldn’t do it so they started pounding him. Uncle Leon was nearby, saw it and started talking to these guys, and before you know it they not only let Mr. Tenelli go, but Uncle Leon got them both to apologize.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Yeah. Uncle Leon eats at the pizzeria any time he wants for free.”

  “So Uncle Leon visits Allegro often?”

  “Yes, and he’s all over the Promenade when he isn’t volunteering.”

  “Where does he volunteer?”

  “He works at the Soft Landing Shelter House just a few blocks that way,” Chad said as he gave a sloppy hand gesture out window. “I think they feed him there, too.”

  He pulled the car into a metered parking space on Main Street and got out.

  Mark opened his door and said, “Here, I’ll help you carry those in.”

  Chad held up his hand and said, “Hold on. You probably ought to wait—I’ve got it.”

  Mark eased back into his seat and closed the door. “Right. I’m unappetizing.”

  “Sorry, dude.” Chad got out, stacked his pizzas, and disappeared into an office building.

  After the delivery, Chad dropped Mark off on the corner, one block from his apartment at Mark’s insistence. As Mark neared the walkway to his apartment he was excited to be almost home. The notion of rest and food in the privacy of his apartment quickened his pace despite his aches.

  The two-story apartment complex was U-shaped and enclosed a courtyard that opened to the street. Mark lived upstairs at the bottom of the U. His living room window opened to the courtyard, which featured a few planters and a dried-up fountain stained with pigeon droppings. The fountain was flanked by torn, sun-faded patio furniture on one side and resident mailboxes on the other.

  An outdoor staircase led to an upper floor walkway that wrapped the inner perimeter of the building. All unit doors faced inward and enabled all residents to witness the arrival or departure of any neighbor. Slipping a key into a mailbox assured that several blinds in the overlooking apartments would part as nosy neighbors peeked through.

  Mark didn’t have his keys, but did have a magnetic key box that he hid it under the mailboxes. His mailbox was near the bottom so despite the peeking neighbors, removing the metal box without revealing its hiding place was easy. His apartment manager, Todd Felsom, was a friend and next-door neighbor so there was little chance Mark would ever be locked out. Still, he liked the key box; he’d rather not ask Todd for help if he were ever locked out.

  He scanned the courtyard and then retrieved his secret key. As he climbed the stairs, he prepared for the possibility that Todd Felsom might see or hear him. Todd was an irresistibly friendly beach bum who made it a point to know as much of Mark’s business as possible, and would no doubt make a scene if he saw Mark’s current condition.

  Last night Todd and Mark had another of their frequent arguments about the legitimacy of panhandlers that were so prevalent in their neighborhood, and more so north in Santa Monica. Todd maintained that many of the homeless were scam artists who actually made good money hoodwinking well-meaning people who were suckers enough to give. “These guys rack up fists full of cash hidden in their dirty clothes,” Todd insisted.

  Mark disagreed, rebutting Todd’s claim with a news report he had seen saying that even in a busy intersection, panhandlers are lucky to make ten bucks a day.

  Now Mark eased down the walkway, hoping to slip into his unit unnoticed. His plan was to shower, get food to top off his slice of pizza, and then spend the rest of the afternoon contacting his insurance and credit card companies.

  He had almost made it to his front door when he heard Todd’s voice.

  “Hey, is that you, Buddy?” Todd hollered from inside his apartment. A moment later Todd’s screen door flew open and he peered out, dressed in a black unzipped wet suit with an egg surfboard tucked under his arm.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” Mark said, keeping his face low and close to his door so Todd wouldn’t see his busted mouth or swollen eye.

  “Doo-hoo-hoo-d! What happened to you?” Todd’s
voice echoed throughout the courtyard and the curtains in several units parted.

  Mark got his door open, and was inside with the screen door closed behind him before Todd could approach.

  “What happened to you?” Todd asked again.

  “I’ll tell you later. I really have to take care of some stuff right now.”

  “Buddy, you look like you might need a hospital or something. Did you fall off a bus?”

  Mark closed the door to a crack and said, “I’m fine. I’ll see you later.”

  “Hey, will you be here about four? When I get back I’m gonna be hungry.” Todd lifted his surfboard for Mark to see. “Thought you might wanna head over to Bonfiglio Café for some grub.”

  “Not today. Really, I have too much to do,” Mark replied.

  “Suit yourself,” Todd said as he turned and began to retreat down the walkway. “But I bet you’re going to be hungry,” he yelled over his shoulder. “I’ll ask you again when I get back, Buddy.”

  Todd called Mark “Buddy” since the day they met—long before Mark felt like a buddy. Todd always seemed to greet people with more enthusiasm than Mark could understand—like a puppy after its owner arrived home from an extended absence. The excitement was nice for a few minutes, but then Mark wished the pooch would calm down.

  Todd seemed to carry with him an innocence that made it difficult to get mad at the guy. Even when Mark would boot Todd out of his apartment so he could get some work done, Todd never held a grudge. In fact, he would often be standing outside Mark’s door an hour later, hollering in to see if Mark wanted to catch a movie. Life was good for Todd. After inheriting a fortune—that included this very apartment complex—from his grandmother, he moved in to spend his days surfing. Lack of financial worry only added to Todd’s zest for life.

  Mark closed the door and sank to his knees as the weight of the day’s events caught up to him in his first private moment.

  His one-bedroom apartment was spotless. Cleanliness was easy to maintain since his place was so small and furnished with only the bachelor basics: a sofa, an entertainment center, a dining room table and chairs he had assembled himself. He had a cheap particle-board bedroom set.