| General Fiction posted March 21, 2024 |
  |
Another Rabbit, Allen, and Roy adventure.
Questions to Ask
by papa55mike
Summer has finally started!
Alice left for nursing school yesterday but saw Mom and me before she left. Hearing Mom praise Alice and wish her the best at Ohio State floored me. She even hugged her and kissed her cheek. I just stood there shaking my head and wondered, "Who is this woman?"
It's been easy so far this summer. The goal is to wake up early and make sure my chores get done. Thursday is now lawn mowing day. But the first thing I do every morning is write a little after Mom leaves for work. I have several pages written for a deranged monster story titled The Beast in the Closet! The notebook is hidden under my mattress.
One of the things I like to do while Mom is gone is cook. There's something about the smell of buckwheat pancakes on a Tuesday morning. I asked Mom about making some for Allen and Roy one morning - and she said, "No, we can't feed the whole neighborhood!"
But today, I made a little too much mix, and somehow, two extra pancakes came out of it. Since no one is around to eat them, I believe they'll go to a new friend, Mr. Boyd. That will save me from throwing them out, as Mom hates it when I waste food.
I slowly stroll down the driveway, carrying a paper plate of pancakes and a small syrup bottle in my back pocket. After crossing Infirmary Road, I cut through the alley behind Schnieder's store, leading into the empty field.
The farmer has planted corn on the other side of the fence. It's not very tall yet, but I already see a few tassels at the top.
The sun warms this summer morning. That red and green flannel blanket holds a bundle, and nestled beside the old crosstie is Mr. Boyd. He usually stirs when he hears me coming. So, I'll leave the pancakes beside him and creep away.
I only take a few steps when I hear his booming voice, saying, "What did you bring me this morning, Michael?"
"Two left-over pancakes, it isn't much."
"It means a lot to me. Why are you so good to me, Michael?"
"I wish I knew, Mr. Boyd. Several people have asked me the same question, but I don't know the answer." I turn, and Mr. Boyd is slowly sitting up. He looks a little older than the last time I saw him, and those dark circles under his eyes have grown. I don't know how he sleeps on that gravel.
He slowly picks up a pancake, takes a huge bite, and declares, "These are delicious, Michael. Did you make them?"
"Yes, sir. I had a little mix left over and thought of you."
"You're the only person who thought about me this morning, and I thank you kindly."
"Mr. Boyd, I've been thinking, isn't there a shelter close where you can stay? You know that it's going to rain tonight."
"Oh, don't worry about me, Michael. I've got plenty of ways to get out of the rain. Those shelters are okay for a night but won't let you drink. Some bad people live there, too. Paranoid people from the war. They'd kill you for looking at them."
"How can life be so different for two people? My life isn't perfect, Mr. Boyd. But I have a bed, a roof over my head, and food to eat. I should be happier."
"Then you have me," Mr. Boyd smiles. "A wine-o who lives behind a liquor store and sleeps on gravel. My only happiness comes when I panhandle enough money for a pint of Old Crow. Food doesn't mean much to me except when a nice young man like you comes by with a plate of pancakes. He makes me feel almost like a human being."
"That's what I don't understand, Mr. Boyd." Slowly, I sit beside him. "Why does the world call me worthy of something while you're left to exist behind Schnieder's from one drink to another? There's no justice in that."
"Ah, you're asking the big questions now, Michael. Like, why is life so unfair? Those are good questions; many men have searched their whole lives for the answers. Never to find them."
"Maybe I'll renew the search, Mr. Boyd, and find the answers."
Mr. Boyd says, "I hope you do, son. You'll find those hidden answers and more questions to ask." A sharp pain seems to grip his left side. With his right hand, he begins to rub it away. "I must be sleeping on Gertrude the wrong way. My arm and side have been hurting since yesterday."
"You named the rocks you sleep on, Mr. Boyd?"
"I sure did. Michael, those rocks are my only friends besides you."
We both chuckle.
"I guess friends are where you find them, Mr. Boyd."
"They sure are, son. Well, I better get up to the corner and start panhandling. I'm sure I've lost my spot, but there's always another." He slowly rises, grabs his coffee can, then turns to me and says, "Thank you, Michael." Mr. Boyd's smile is so big his face glows.
"You're welcome, Mr. Boyd," I watch him walk towards Third Street, clutching his side and laughing.
~
I glance at the clock; it's ten o'clock already. I still have two chores left. I didn't hear Mom when she left, so I slept until nine. When I walk out to feel the sun, Roy and Allen ride up the driveway, asking, "What's going on behind Schnieder's Rabbit?"
"I don't know. This is the first time I've stepped outside."
Allen answers, "There's an Ambulance and a Police cruiser back where the wine-os sleep."
My warning light blinks on inside my mind. "Really?"
Roy says, "Yeah, and a nice-sized crowd gathered around. You know, those nosy butts that live beside Schnieder's."
"Let me get The Tank, and we'll find out."
The ride through the back alley is numbing. Like in movies, everything is in slow motion. I'm looking for Mr. Boyd in his usual place, but no one is there. The medics place someone on the gurney with their face covered with a sheet. Two officers are talking amongst themselves when I park The Tank and walk over to them. "Officer, can I ask what happened?"
"Oh, some poor wine-o bit the bullet last night."
"Did he sleep right there," I point to Mr. Boyd's spot with a heavy heart.
"Yes," he stopped writing and turned to me. His dark brown eyes glistened when he asked, "Did you know him, son?"
"Yes, sir," I swallow hard, forcing back the tears. "His name is Mr. Sammy Boyd."
"Do you know where he came from?"
"No, we never talked about that. Mostly, we talked about me."
The officer kneels to ask, "Was he your friend?"
"Yes, officer. I'm proud to say that he was a good friend."
"Son," the officer pauses. "Would you like to see him again and say goodbye?"
"If it's no problem."
"None at all. Come with me," we step toward the ambulance, and the officer says, "Just a minute, guys." He slowly pulls the sheet back a little.
Mr. Boyd's face is a little grayer, and his brown eyes have lost their life, but there's a hint of his big smile. "Goodbye, Mr. Boyd, and God bless."
Slowly, I turn to the officer and say, "Thank you."
"No, thank you for being his friend the last days of his life. I'm sure he appreciated it. For the record, what's your name?"
"Michael James, I live through the alley at 49 Infirmary Road."
"You have a good day, Michael."
"That will be tough," I get on The Tank and quietly ride away - forgetting all about Allen and Roy.
While finishing my chores, all I can see is Mr. Boyd's big smile. Strangely, there's been no tears. Now, I'm throwing sticks from under the tree, thinking about what we talked about just yesterday—the injustice of life and now death. Is there really an answer to those questions I've been asking?
I guess it's the first time I've dealt with death on such a personal level. It's always been a distant relative that I barely knew. How could I become so close to Mr. Boyd in one short month? It's like someone brought us together by stealing bikes.
Just like Mr. Boyd said, the questions are endless.
Well, that's the third time I've seen Allen and Roy staring at me from the far corner of the yard. I finally wave my hand for them to come here. They race up the driveway, throw their bikes down, and kneel at my feet. Roy asks, "What's it like to see a dead man's face, Rabbit?"
"Of all the things that happened today, that's all you can think of to ask," I shake my head. "Mr. Boyd was right. Those answers will be hard to find."
Summer has finally started!
Alice left for nursing school yesterday but saw Mom and me before she left. Hearing Mom praise Alice and wish her the best at Ohio State floored me. She even hugged her and kissed her cheek. I just stood there shaking my head and wondered, "Who is this woman?"
It's been easy so far this summer. The goal is to wake up early and make sure my chores get done. Thursday is now lawn mowing day. But the first thing I do every morning is write a little after Mom leaves for work. I have several pages written for a deranged monster story titled The Beast in the Closet! The notebook is hidden under my mattress.
One of the things I like to do while Mom is gone is cook. There's something about the smell of buckwheat pancakes on a Tuesday morning. I asked Mom about making some for Allen and Roy one morning - and she said, "No, we can't feed the whole neighborhood!"
But today, I made a little too much mix, and somehow, two extra pancakes came out of it. Since no one is around to eat them, I believe they'll go to a new friend, Mr. Boyd. That will save me from throwing them out, as Mom hates it when I waste food.
I slowly stroll down the driveway, carrying a paper plate of pancakes and a small syrup bottle in my back pocket. After crossing Infirmary Road, I cut through the alley behind Schnieder's store, leading into the empty field.
The farmer has planted corn on the other side of the fence. It's not very tall yet, but I already see a few tassels at the top.
The sun warms this summer morning. That red and green flannel blanket holds a bundle, and nestled beside the old crosstie is Mr. Boyd. He usually stirs when he hears me coming. So, I'll leave the pancakes beside him and creep away.
I only take a few steps when I hear his booming voice, saying, "What did you bring me this morning, Michael?"
"Two left-over pancakes, it isn't much."
"It means a lot to me. Why are you so good to me, Michael?"
"I wish I knew, Mr. Boyd. Several people have asked me the same question, but I don't know the answer." I turn, and Mr. Boyd is slowly sitting up. He looks a little older than the last time I saw him, and those dark circles under his eyes have grown. I don't know how he sleeps on that gravel.
He slowly picks up a pancake, takes a huge bite, and declares, "These are delicious, Michael. Did you make them?"
"Yes, sir. I had a little mix left over and thought of you."
"You're the only person who thought about me this morning, and I thank you kindly."
"Mr. Boyd, I've been thinking, isn't there a shelter close where you can stay? You know that it's going to rain tonight."
"Oh, don't worry about me, Michael. I've got plenty of ways to get out of the rain. Those shelters are okay for a night but won't let you drink. Some bad people live there, too. Paranoid people from the war. They'd kill you for looking at them."
"How can life be so different for two people? My life isn't perfect, Mr. Boyd. But I have a bed, a roof over my head, and food to eat. I should be happier."
"Then you have me," Mr. Boyd smiles. "A wine-o who lives behind a liquor store and sleeps on gravel. My only happiness comes when I panhandle enough money for a pint of Old Crow. Food doesn't mean much to me except when a nice young man like you comes by with a plate of pancakes. He makes me feel almost like a human being."
"That's what I don't understand, Mr. Boyd." Slowly, I sit beside him. "Why does the world call me worthy of something while you're left to exist behind Schnieder's from one drink to another? There's no justice in that."
"Ah, you're asking the big questions now, Michael. Like, why is life so unfair? Those are good questions; many men have searched their whole lives for the answers. Never to find them."
"Maybe I'll renew the search, Mr. Boyd, and find the answers."
Mr. Boyd says, "I hope you do, son. You'll find those hidden answers and more questions to ask." A sharp pain seems to grip his left side. With his right hand, he begins to rub it away. "I must be sleeping on Gertrude the wrong way. My arm and side have been hurting since yesterday."
"You named the rocks you sleep on, Mr. Boyd?"
"I sure did. Michael, those rocks are my only friends besides you."
We both chuckle.
"I guess friends are where you find them, Mr. Boyd."
"They sure are, son. Well, I better get up to the corner and start panhandling. I'm sure I've lost my spot, but there's always another." He slowly rises, grabs his coffee can, then turns to me and says, "Thank you, Michael." Mr. Boyd's smile is so big his face glows.
"You're welcome, Mr. Boyd," I watch him walk towards Third Street, clutching his side and laughing.
~
I glance at the clock; it's ten o'clock already. I still have two chores left. I didn't hear Mom when she left, so I slept until nine. When I walk out to feel the sun, Roy and Allen ride up the driveway, asking, "What's going on behind Schnieder's Rabbit?"
"I don't know. This is the first time I've stepped outside."
Allen answers, "There's an Ambulance and a Police cruiser back where the wine-os sleep."
My warning light blinks on inside my mind. "Really?"
Roy says, "Yeah, and a nice-sized crowd gathered around. You know, those nosy butts that live beside Schnieder's."
"Let me get The Tank, and we'll find out."
The ride through the back alley is numbing. Like in movies, everything is in slow motion. I'm looking for Mr. Boyd in his usual place, but no one is there. The medics place someone on the gurney with their face covered with a sheet. Two officers are talking amongst themselves when I park The Tank and walk over to them. "Officer, can I ask what happened?"
"Oh, some poor wine-o bit the bullet last night."
"Did he sleep right there," I point to Mr. Boyd's spot with a heavy heart.
"Yes," he stopped writing and turned to me. His dark brown eyes glistened when he asked, "Did you know him, son?"
"Yes, sir," I swallow hard, forcing back the tears. "His name is Mr. Sammy Boyd."
"Do you know where he came from?"
"No, we never talked about that. Mostly, we talked about me."
The officer kneels to ask, "Was he your friend?"
"Yes, officer. I'm proud to say that he was a good friend."
"Son," the officer pauses. "Would you like to see him again and say goodbye?"
"If it's no problem."
"None at all. Come with me," we step toward the ambulance, and the officer says, "Just a minute, guys." He slowly pulls the sheet back a little.
Mr. Boyd's face is a little grayer, and his brown eyes have lost their life, but there's a hint of his big smile. "Goodbye, Mr. Boyd, and God bless."
Slowly, I turn to the officer and say, "Thank you."
"No, thank you for being his friend the last days of his life. I'm sure he appreciated it. For the record, what's your name?"
"Michael James, I live through the alley at 49 Infirmary Road."
"You have a good day, Michael."
"That will be tough," I get on The Tank and quietly ride away - forgetting all about Allen and Roy.
While finishing my chores, all I can see is Mr. Boyd's big smile. Strangely, there's been no tears. Now, I'm throwing sticks from under the tree, thinking about what we talked about just yesterday—the injustice of life and now death. Is there really an answer to those questions I've been asking?
I guess it's the first time I've dealt with death on such a personal level. It's always been a distant relative that I barely knew. How could I become so close to Mr. Boyd in one short month? It's like someone brought us together by stealing bikes.
Just like Mr. Boyd said, the questions are endless.
Well, that's the third time I've seen Allen and Roy staring at me from the far corner of the yard. I finally wave my hand for them to come here. They race up the driveway, throw their bikes down, and kneel at my feet. Roy asks, "What's it like to see a dead man's face, Rabbit?"
"Of all the things that happened today, that's all you can think of to ask," I shake my head. "Mr. Boyd was right. Those answers will be hard to find."
Many thanks for stopping by to read!
Have a great day, and God bless.
mike
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Have a great day, and God bless.
mike
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