All That Glitters

In response to D. J. Reddall's response to Mark Gagnon's poem... https://vocal.media/poets/not-another-poem

Time was running out for Alan. The left turn arrow would light up too soon, and it was about to start getting dark. He wobbled on the cement meridian, sodden hoodie clinging to his straggling hair. His grimy fingers dripped clean rain as he held out his left hand, oh, so pathetically, and plodded his way along the train of left-hand lane turners on 87th. His right hand trembled a melamine plate, tiny holes drilled in it so it would drain.

The rain pelted down, like in a movie where the walkers have to hold their umbrellas with two hands, defensive, but staunchly defiant. Every one a mailman of yore. Alan did not have an umbrella. He did not wear a proper hat. Hats cast shadows, and making eye contact with people was key. A drenched hood kept his hair out of the way and left his eyes available. He had beautiful, kind eyes. Apologetic eyes like that British actor who screwed his nanny. What an idiot. Alan was no idiot. It was getting dark, and people did not pay for what they could not see. Once the line started moving, he lumbered across the empty lanes on the other side, balancing the coins and his plate with both hands, as if it were some special offering of a feeble penitent.

No, Alan was far from an idiot. He tipped the coins into his right palm and shouldered through the Rhododendrons that fenced the entire roadway side of the park. They were really quite glorious in bloom, he thought; although, for his taste, too many were pink. He would have preferred a smattering. He tossed the plate into his stashed shopping cart and muscled it out from the looser bark mulch onto the waiting path and the straight shot to the restrooms.

The name still bemused him. Restrooms. Clear as day, he could remember popping into one as a child, hoping for a nap. He was all dressed up like a proper gentleman: baby blue silk shirt, old-fashioned bow-tie, vest and matching trousers, bowler hat and cane - twin to his older brother. His mom had made all the family’s outfits as she did every year ‘til he was eight. They were very good. People took pictures of them. Walking around the whole Fair in the summer morning heat was hard work, even with a cane, so when he searched inside, he was surprised to not even find a bench to lay down upon. He actually went back outside and looked at the sign again, to ensure he hadn’t misread it. Nope. He walked back in and took a wee rest on a toilet, his own private joke.

He arranged his cart near the door and retrieved a towel from under the tarp. He went inside and into the handicap stall and locked the door. He emptied his haul into a big Ziplock bag and hung it on the top hook. He peeled off the soaked hoodie and draped it over the door. He took out his cell phone with his left hand and switched off his warming gear, while he dried his hair a bit with his right. He left the towel on his head as he removed his Gortex shell and heating vest, hanging them on the bottom hook. He lifted his take off the hook and sat down to do his cash. He always made better money when it was wet or cold. A hundred and sixty-two fifty and an Oh Henry - just over forty bucks an hour, tax free, and a chocolate bar tip. He fucking loved Canada.

He wolfed down the bar and rolled the coins, remembering. Looney Tunes came unbidden into his mind, the cartoon show on TV. Something momentous was going on. Everyone was crying. Something bad. He never did find out what really happened. Anyone who might have told him anything he would believe had committed suicide by the time he was old enough to inquire. He was eight, though, at the time. They stopped going to the fair after that. A lot of other bad things happened after that that he remembered very well, vividly, in fact. He folded the bit of paper over the last roll. “That’s all folks,” he said, in his best Porky. “Sailed ships.”

All his jobs complete, he put his vest and jacket back on and exchanged a light toque for the towel. He left the stall, washed and re-washed his hands, and refilled his water bottle from the tap. He grabbed the hoodie on the way out. He threw the wet towel and hoodie in, grabbed his gloves and an umbrella from under the tarp, and re-stashed the cart. He would hit the laundromat tomorrow. He had business tonight.

He walked to the bus stop, virtually unrecognizable from the beggar in the traffic. People complained all the time about the shitty bus service, but Alan did not. He knew a good thing. It was a free ride to anywhere he needed to get, even out of town for a change of scenery. They gave out free passes every month at the Sally Ann. Everyone else pawned theirs. Addicts. Blind and bewildered. Gutter-snipes.

He was not an addict like they were. Suckers. He would never be subject or slave to anything or anyone. His father was a slave to both. His brother was a slave to the idea of who he should be but could never be. His mother and sister were slaves to drugs and abuse. Alan felt only disdain and a vague sense of distance from them all. All dead. Never to touch him again. He was alone and safe. He made his own way, his way, and was, therefore, his own master.

He shook off his umbrella as the doors opened for him to enter. He showed his pass and walked to the back doors and sat. He actually liked buses. He always believed it was so thoughtful to create these warm and dry conveyances that showed up at the scheduled times and did all the work for him, like a chauffeur. Even so, he was always ready for the exit.

He went through his timing checklist. Library ‘til eight. Go to the Seven-Eleven to change coins for bills and then walk up to Don’s to eat and wait until ten thirty. It would be an hour saunter through the neighborhood and then wait in the church parking lot. Slip in through the alley at about one, smash, grab, and gone. Back out the same way.

Alan did not consider himself vain. He had never wanted anything ostentatious, let alone a Rolex. But when he saw it earlier today, in the display case of the Goodwill, he knew he would come get it later. He was not going to pay forty dollars for it. He wanted to take it. He couldn’t explain it. He just wanted to have it. He had never stolen anything before. Well, that’s not true. He stole a penny candy, once. One. And they were two for a penny. He got caught and that was the end of his thieving. His father saw to that. But this watch, it gleamed mastery and the never before attainable. There was just no explaining it. Something from far inside him had spoken and deemed it so.

He got off the bus and walked into the waiting library. He removed his gloves and shook the rain off in the vestibule. He nodded to the receptionist who smiled back, as he pumped a bit of antiseptic into his hands and proceeded to the empty computer terminals. He researched again Rolex and types of Rolex and how to spot a fake. He was certain it was genuine. The weight of it alone. The dull, deep scratches in the thick gold casing. The beautiful feel of it.

He realized he had lost himself inside heated moments of longing and he pursed his lips and sat straighter. He blinked his eyes dispassionate, took a last look at the screen and logged out. He clenched his teeth, slowly, deliberately, a maintenance reminder of who he was. He pulled himself away, collected a local newspaper and sat in one of the comfy chairs by the gas fireplace, while he charged his phone. He regained himself as he carefully read every word of print. The obituary columns interested him the most. All these people dying, mostly old people - their lives condensed into a kind of Reader’s Digest fabrication. Only one thing was surely true; they were all young dreamers for a time.

He reached the parking lot a little after midnight. He had decided to use his secondary tent to stay the night. There may be no honor among thieves, but everyone stayed out of everyone else’s tent. This one was duly tarped, warm, dry and a 20-minute walk. He dared not linger, even in the shadow of the big dumpster. He picked up the rock he scouted earlier, held it close to his side and walked steadily through the alley and around to the front. It was dark and deserted. Without hesitation, he heaved it through the glass door which obliged him directly by shattering completely. He stepped through, crunching over the shards to the counter. He pulled out his phone, the light already switched on, and spotted his treasure. He leaned over the counter, pushed the case closed and plucked it up, repocketed his phone and calmly walked back out the way he had come in. He was walking past the church less than 30 seconds after the rock hit the floor.

Alan could not remember a time when he felt quite so happy. He was almost giddy. No alarm sounded. Certainly no one saw him or even heard the breaking glass. He cautioned himself to keep walking along his prescribed route and not sneak a peek at his prize. 10 minutes later, he made it to the first traffic light and pulled out the small velvet case as he waited for the walk signal.

The rain had stopped and everything glinted. The traffic reds and greens stretched vibrantly on the slick black asphalt. His umbrella tucked under an arm, he gripped the clamshell case to pull it open. It sprung apart and the watch launched into the air right before his stunned eyes. He attempted to catch it, but his brain would not allow his arms to peel away from his body. Instead, he lurched at it like a Praying Mantis, deadly arms seized at its chest. His left foot landed on the edge of the curb and he slipped. His umbrella and the case were still tightly in his grasp when the back of his head hit the same edge of the curb. The toque didn’t help at all. He did hear the watch hit the steel of the storm drain. He also heard it slinky over the edge and splash into the muck below just before he died.