by Nat Kozinn
David approached a toothless old man sleeping in the doorway of one of the collapsed buildings. The elderly man called Lieutenant drooled into a pile of old rags that served as a makeshift bed/entire apartment. David put down his box and shook Lieutenant’s foot, rousing the man to a semi-conscious state.
“Zat you, Savior? How are you doing on this lovely day?” Lieutenant slurred.
“The sun is shining, so I can’t complain. Looks like you tied a big one on last night.”
“Tommy D. made another batch of that moonshine. We had ourselves a hell of a night.”
“I’ll bet. Sounds like you’re lucky you’re not blind,” David said as he reached into his box and pulled out five packages. “I’ve got some things for you. Manna Cakes, protein powder, and some multi-vitamins. You need to take the vitamins. I don’t want to have to haul you to the emergency room again because you gave yourself scurvy.”
“Yes sir, Captain Savior sir. Say, you don’t have any hooch in there?” Lieutenant said with a laugh.
“You know the rules. You get your own booze. And don’t try telling me you need cooking wine again. You still got water?”
Lieutenant shook a drum next to his bed, which splashed, indicating there was still water inside. “Well supplied, sir.”
“When you run out, you just come up to my apartment and we’ll fill you up. You know it’s important to stay hydrated, especially with all your drinking.”
“Thanks for the rations, Savior,” Lieutenant said while delivering a picture-perfect salute—impressive considering he was still lying down.
“You take care of yourself,” David replied and returned the salute. Then he picked up his box and continued down the street.
He approached an elderly woman sitting in an old folding chair on the stoop of an apartment building. A younger woman, the elderly woman’s nurse, sat on the stoop next to her, knitting a pair of socks. The elderly woman’s eyes lit up when she spotted David.
“Hi, Mrs. Gabbert. How are you today?” David yelled, speaking up so that elderly Mrs. Gabbert could hear him.
The woman didn’t answer, but she did smile and nod.
“I’ve got some of those millet cakes you like,” David said as he pulled a package out of his box and handed it to Mrs. Gabbert. She struggled to lift her arm high enough to take the package before David decided to hand the package to the nurse sitting next to her. “I’ll just leave these with Ms. Hubbard. She’ll give you some soon.” Mrs. Gabbert nodded her head and smiled to say thank-you.
“Thank you, David. You’re always so sweet to her,” Ms. Hubbard said.
“How is she doing?” David asked the nurse in a hushed voice.
“She’s great. She’s enjoying a beautiful day and just got a gift from one of her favorite people,” Ms. Hubbard said loudly. “We went to the clinic yesterday. They said the tumor on her spine is getting bigger. They need to do an operation but it will cost five thousand dollars,” Ms. Hubbard added in a whisper.
“When can they do it?”
“Her family doesn’t have that kind of money. They pay me late every week.”
“Maybe I can do something about it.”
“David, that’s too much. You already do so much for her. It might just be her time. Everyone can’t be saved.”
“If you say so… I got some of those cookies you like,” David said and pulled another package out of his box and handed it to Ms. Hubbard.
“Thank you, David.”
“See you later, beautiful,” David said loudly to Mrs. Gabbert, and then he nodded to her nurse and walked up the stairs into the apartment building.
The three-story building was the nicest on the block, which simply meant it had been painted in the last decade and didn’t present any obvious safety hazard. That didn’t mean there weren’t any, just no obvious ones. David stopped at the first apartment, put his box down, and knocked on the door.
A ten-year-old boy opened the door a crack and peered out, leaving the chain on the door. His eyes lit up when he spotted David.
“The Savior of Seattle!” Luis yelled, his voice dripping with excitement. He slammed the door so he could remove the chain and open the door all the way.
“Hi, Luis,” David said. “What are you up to?”
“Listening to Dr. Havoc on the radio.”
“Because you’ve already done your homework, right? Is your mom home?”
Luis shook his head no. “She’s working double shifts all week.”
“How about Mario?” David asked, and Luis just shrugged.
“That kid. Anyway, I’ve got food for you guys. Some raw Manna, palm oil, Manna Steaks, apples, carrots, and cookies you can only eat after you eat the carrots,” David said and handed the boy all the items. Luis struggled to hold the bounty in his tiny arms. “You be careful when you cook with that oil. It gets hot.”
“I know. I’ll be careful,” Luis said and then turned around and dropped all the food on the floor behind him. “Hey, Savior, do you think you could play catch with me?”
“Sorry, Luis, I’m busy. And I told you to call me David.”
“Okay,” Luis said and slumped his shoulders. “Thanks for the food.”
“Take care, Luis,” David said and then lifted up his nearly empty box and proceeded two doors down.
There was a letter sticking out from underneath his apartment door. He bent over to pick it up and then opened the door and stepped inside his sparingly furnished apartment. There was a small kitchen, which consisted of a sink, a few cabinets, and a Pho-Plastic dining table that was clearly the least expensive option in the store. The table was accompanied by just a single chair. The chair was reinforced with two large pieces of scrap wood shoddily nailed to the frame.
Besides the small kitchen, there was a tiny living room with a large recliner covered in holes that had been sealed with pieces of tape. It was more tape than chair. There was also a small coffee table. The paint was coming off the walls in the living room, but that could only be seen in a few spots. The majority of the surface was covered in clippings from newspapers and magazines. They all started with bold-lettered headlines that said things like “The Savior Saves the Day Again,” “The Savior Finishes Construction on the Gilbreth Dam,” “Yancy Street Gang Stymied by the Savior of Seattle.” Several of the articles were accompanied by pictures of a man that looked just like David, only significantly larger. He could have been mistaken for a member of another species as opposed to just the giant Homo sapiens he appeared as now. The articles had all aged into various shades of yellow.
Down the hall from the living room was a bedroom that contained nothing but piles of laundry and a bare mattress. The apartment also contained a small bathroom that was covered in a thick layer of dust. It had not been used since the last time David had a guest.
David walked into his small kitchen, put his mouth on the faucet, and swallowed several glugs. Then he walked into his living room and collapsed onto his recliner, which creaked and groaned under his weight. He ripped open the letter from underneath his door.
Dear Mr. Gilbreth,
Attached you’ll find your statement of account. You’ve been carrying a balance of $3000 for more than 120 days, which puts your mother in danger of being removed from our facility. As you know, if I had my way you would never be charged a cent for our services, but unfortunately my bosses do not feel the same way. I’m not going to bring your account to their attention, but it is only a matter of time until they see it for themselves. Please send a payment as soon as you can.
Your mother’s condition is unchanged, but I am certain she would still appreciate a visit from her son.
I am sorry to have to write this letter, but I have no other choice. I hope you can make a payment soon.
Thank you,
Rhonda Mitchell
Accounts Manager
Cedar Pines Rest Home
David put aside the letter and looked at the statement of account: $4000 greater than 120 days,
$3000 at 90 days, and $2000 at 60 days past due. Youch.
David dropped the paper and leaned back into his recliner. He had barely sunk into the cushioning when he was interrupted by a pounding on the door. With a sigh, he got to his feet and opened the door. He was greeted by a short, skinny man with a long mustache and slick-backed hair that gave him an appearance not unlike a weasel. It was Billy Baldwin, his landlord.
“Mr. Gilbreth, do you know what the date is?” Billy asked in a pointedly unfriendly tone.
“Hey, Billy, how are you? How’s your mom? Did she like those pears I brought her last week?”
“My mother is fine. Her leg is still giving her trouble, but she’ll be better soon. You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Gilbreth. Do you know the date?”
“The fourth?” David said. A clear guess.
“It is the twelfth, which means your rent is eleven days late. And that’s just this month.”
“Oh yeah, sorry,” David said. He pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and handed it to Billy.
Billy took the bills and quickly counted them. “This is only three hundred dollars.”
“Yeah, I know. My gig ended up a little less lucrative than I was hoping for. I’ll get you the rest soon.”
“This just brings you up to date for last month. You still need to pay this month’s rent,” Billy said solemnly.
“I’m sorry. I’ll have it for you in just a couple of days. Say hi to your mom for me,” David said, trying to end the conversation.
“You know, Mr. Gilbreth, it’s not right what you’re doing to my mother. You’re taking advantage of her. You can do no wrong in her eyes, which means she’d never let me evict you. But unfortunately for you, she’s not going to be around forever, and eventually I’m going to be in charge. Then things are going to change. I know you may have been a big hero twenty years ago, but we’re running a business here, and you being a former hero doesn’t do anything to help pay our heating or maintenance costs. I suggest you keep that in mind and find some steady work.”
“I’m sure you’re hoping you won’t be taking over any time soon. Take care, Billy,” David said as he gently closed the door.
“Get me my money, Mr. Gilbreth!” Billy yelled through the closed door.
David lumbered back over to his recliner and plopped down again. He closed his eyes for just a few minutes of sleep before there was another pounding on his door.
“I told you, Billy, I’ll have your money soon. I don’t get paid quicker because you’re harassing me,” David said as he opened the door.
Only it wasn’t the weasel-faced son of the landlord that greeted him; it was a middle-aged woman, or at least that’s what she wanted people to think with her dyed-blonde hair and tight clothes that would usually be worn by a much younger woman.
“You’re not Billy,” David said when he saw her. “Who are you?”
“Mr. Gilbreth, my name is Alexis Quinn. I’m a reporter for the Seattle Times,” Alexis said and extended her hand to shake.
“What do you want?” David asked, ignoring her hand.
“I wanted to call before I came over, but I couldn’t find you on think.Net, not even under an alias.”
“How would you be able to find an unlisted person?”
“I am a reporter, Mr. Gilbreth. If hidden think.Net accounts were enough to stop me, I’d never get to talk to anyone important.”
“Well, whatever tactics you use won’t be able to find me, because I don’t have an account. And you still haven’t said what you want.”
“Isn’t it obvious? I want to interview you for a story.”
“I don’t do interviews. A reporter such as yourself should have been able to figure that out,” David said.
“No one gives interviews until they do. I figured no one had asked you in a while. Maybe you’re ready to talk now?”
“What? Now that I don’t have fifty of you guys asking for an interview every day, you thought maybe I’m ready to do an interview now that nobody will care what I have to say?”
“That isn’t true, Mr. Gilbreth. I can assure you that our readers are very interested in whatever you have to say,” Alexis said. She angled her body to indicate she wanted to come inside, but David offered no invitation.
“You mean old fogies who still read printed newspapers are the only ones who still give a damn about me. They want to read articles about how kids are ruder than they used to be, milk costs too much, and there used to be good old-fashioned American heroes.”
“I’m not going to lie to you. Our demographic does skew toward the elderly. But they still count. They still get to read stories they care about. Should they just get nothing because they were born too late to figure out how to use think.Net correctly? People want to hear your story. Don’t you want to share it with them? You’ve done a great many things for the Seattle Metro Area. People want to know why you did it, what you think about, well, everything. Nobody has ever gotten the story straight from you. They want to hear it. My editor will want to print every word you say.”
David looked off for just a moment before shaking his head. “Thanks but no thanks. Have a nice afternoon, Ms. Quinn,” David said and started closing the door.
“I could offer you a stipend,” Alexis said, which caused David to stop the door mid-close. “Five hundred dollars for every hour you’ll talk to me.”
“Isn’t that against journalistic ethics or something like that?”
“It’s more of a gray area. Not exactly encouraged, but as long as I’m not paying you to lie, I can live with it. And you wouldn’t be lying. I want you to tell me whatever it is you’re willing to say.”
“How many hours are we talking?”
“However many you want. I can keep making stories for as long as you’re willing to keep talking.”
“Okay, I’m willing to give you one hour. We can see about more after that. But not now. I need to get some sleep.”
“I will be here with bells on whenever you want me.”
“Can you pay me in cash?”
“I’ll have to talk with my editor, but I’m sure we can make that work,” Alexis said. Then she noticed the look on David’s face. “You mean now? I don’t have that kind of money on me. I use think.Net for anything that big.”
“How much do you have on you?”
Alexis opened her purse and peered into her wallet. “Fifty bucks,” she said and held out the money.
“We’ll call it a down payment. How does Sunday at 3 p.m. work?”
“I’ll see you then, with bells on,” Alexis said, her face plastered end to end with a grin. She extended her hand for another shake. That time, David obliged her.
◆◆◆
David stared into the cracked full-length mirror in his hallway. He had to slump down like an adult in a jungle gym just so he could see his hair. Except it wasn’t his hair, not in the biological sense. It was a wig, and one that needed to be replaced. He had stopped growing his own hair when everything else changed. Despite the fact that his hair was manufactured out of God knows what in a factory God knows where, it still somehow suffered from a cowlick. He went into the bathroom and poured more water on his already wet hair. He went back to the mirror and tried to press down the stubborn bulge. After a solid two minutes of brushing, combing, and patting down, David sighed and accepted his fate, a barely noticeable bump in his brown hair. David was already wearing a black T-shirt that struggled to contain his massive frame. He went into his bedroom and looked at his choices for a jacket and a pair of pants. He had to choose from one of three jackets and four pairs of pants in the closet. David finally settled on his brown slacks and blue jacket. He gave silent thanks to the existence of other Strong-Men; he remembered the days when he had no choice in clothes.
David went and downed two large glasses of water before one last check in the mirror. After a final futile attempt to force down his finicky hair, David turned and walked out of his apartment and out of the entire building.
<
br /> He was heading down the decrepit street when he walked by an alley where four young men were gathered. David stopped in his tracks. The youngest of the group, Mario Marquez, was in the center of a triangle formed by the other three. He was standing on one leg, trying to maintain his balance, while the three older, tattoo-laden men hurled small rocks and laughed.
They were so engrossed in their hooliganism that they did not hear the five-hundred-pound man approaching the group. David stepped into the circle, intercepting a rock that was destined for young Mario’s head but hit David’s long body right in the center of his chest. The rock hit with a sound that had more of concrete than human flesh timbre. The revelry came to an abrupt halt.
“What is going on here?” David demanded.
Two of the rock throwers kept their gaze pointed down at the ground. One brave young man kept his head up high.
“Nothing. We’re just having a little fun, Savior,” the brave one said with a drawn-out sarcastic twang on the last word.
“It doesn’t look like all of you were having fun,” David said and looked to Mario. “You okay, kid?”
“I’m fine, man. It’s just like they said; we were just playing,” Mario stammered. The small cuts on his face told a different story.
“Doesn’t seem like a very competitive game you’re playing. Three men, or something like it, against one kid. Maybe I can get a turn. One of you three step into the circle and I’ll take a throw. How about it, talker? What’s your name again? Preparation H?” David said.
“It’s Big H, and you’ll know it soon. Everyone in this hood is going to know my name.”
“You’re too young to know you missed a joke at your expense, son. So how about it? You want a turn?” Big H gave a slight shake of his head. “Didn’t think so. Looks like the game is over. Time to go home.”
