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Wordman


John Blair

    Wordman woke up in the city park, sun blazing into his eyes. How he ended up here was a mystery. He turned his head to see stinking pigeons cooing and pecking at the grass all around. Feeling like shit, he growled at them; they merely skipped a few feet away. Beyond the black iron fence and the sidewalk, the road filled with morning traffic.
    First, he struggled to a sitting position. Then he stood slowly, coughed severely. His stubbled face, dirty T-shirt, and jeans caused people to avoid meeting his eyes as they looped past him on the street each day. Fools. They could not conceive his greatness.
    Where the heck was what’s-his-name?

    Shrugging, he left the park and strode along the sidewalk.
    When he stopped to look behind, Wordman smiled inside.
    “Hey, wait up.” His companion hobbled toward him. “I’m here.”
    “Didn’t see you in the park. Where you been at?”
    “I don’t know.” A shrug. “Anyway, how’s the book comin’?”
    A cold silence hovered between them as Wordman simmered. “You think I’m never gonna do it, don’t ya?” he snapped.
    His companion smiled harmlessly, fearfully. “I just asked how the book was comin’ is all.”
    Wordman stopped, switched on his intense stare. “Don’t you be worryin’ ‘bout the book. It’s all right here.” And he tapped his temple with his index finger.
    The trouble, so his companion thought, was that everything was not all right up there. Wordman was hard to predict and quick to strike. On the other hand, he was able to see and hear things in...unusual ways. He felt things at a deeper level than most. And he detested that not everyone perceived things as he did. And, like an adolescent, he was perpetually impatient.
    His companion was sure if Wordman finally wrote his book, got things down on paper, made sense of everything, the world might yet be saved. There was no telling what havoc the man might wreak otherwise.
    The morning sun now flamed full blast and highlighted Wordman’s red nose and wrinkled forehead. “C’mon bud,” he grunted. “Breakfast time.”
    They shuffled along their familiar journey to Gormey’s Grill.
    Sniffing the brewery’s excrement lingering in the air, and glancing at two lovely ladies who were presumably late for work, Wordman’s companion wasn’t eager about where they were headed. “What if that boy’s there again?”
    “Huh? You ‘fraid of some sixteen-year-old punk?”
    “Yeah, yer right. Who cares, eh?” It was best to agree with him when he showed one of his moods coming on. Wordman’s companion spent much time and energy avoiding confrontation. Participating in even a miniscule argument had the potential to reduce him to a quivering five-year-old being pursued by some nightmarish monster.
    They turned a corner and soon reached the back of Gormey’s, where more filthy pigeons cooed and pecked through piles of garbage.
    A sandy-haired boy emptied small trash cans into a large bin. His clean-cut good looks made him seem out of place.
    “Well,” whispered Wordman to his companion. “See there. Ya got yer wish.”
    The boy gazed at Wordman. “Hey, get out of here. Clear off.” He waved with his hand as if shooing away a racoon.
    “Who’s this kid think he’s talkin’ to, bud?”
    He had that look in his eyes, the edge in his voice, and Wordman’s companion watched nervously as his weak stomach began to flutter.
    There were alternatives to having breakfast at Gormey’s. The doughnut shop was much more appealing at the moment. Wordman didn’t normally go that route because it meant begging for money beforehand, even though his companion did all the panhandling for both of them—and his friend had no qualms about doing it, so long as people either gave money or just ignored him. Any hostile remarks would spring an avalanche of scary feelings with which he could not deal.
    Wordman reveled in the present standoff. “We gotta figger somethin’ out here,” he whispered. “This boy’ll need a lesson taught, for sure.”
    “Are you deaf?” the kid said. He grabbed a broom from inside the back door of the restaurant and struck a threatening pose. “Bugger off.”
    Wordman’s companion tried to understand the purpose behind the boy’s actions. Could any harm come from a couple of guys sifting through garbage to meet their daily nutritional requirements? He and Wordman always cleaned up afterwards. Was this part of the kid’s job, protecting garbage, or some sort of bizarre hobby?
    “Listen, boy.” Wordman said. “You give us trouble; we give you trouble. Got it?”
    Tilting back his head, the kid laughed. “You’re the only one who’s going to be getting anything, man.” He shook the broom fiercely. “A clean sweep. Now scram.”
    Wordman’s companion felt relieved the boy was not addressing him. After all, none of this had been his idea; he hadn’t said a word.
    The boy’s deceptively innocent face was too much for Wordman. Probably the kid went home at night and curled up in bed like a purring kitten, his stomach full of food thanks to Mommy and Daddy. The youngster reminded Wordman of someone, but he wasn’t sure who. Very often he couldn’t gather his thoughts. Like pieces of a complex jigsaw puzzle, nothing seemed to fit.
    The wind whirled. Dark clouds closed like magic. Thunder rumbled and lightning struck. All the pigeons took turns exploding everywhere in the alley, their feathers dancing together, turning into a burgeoning twister.
    Only Wordman could access these parallel universes from time to time, through time.
    He summoned from the distant past the scorching stare of Alexander the Great as, one by one, that prolific warrior had conquered the known nations of the world. His was the ruthless glare of insatiable hunger, the drive that Alexander, and all the other greats before and since, had relied upon to win a glorious battle.
    “That’s it.” The tornado inside Wordman’s head unleashed. “I’ve had enough!”
    His face radish-red, fists clenched at his sides, he stepped towards the kid.

    
“Wordman?” his companion interrupted. “Remember the book.”
    “I tell ya,” he growled, “that boy needs to learn a lesson.” But now he was pausing to think at least.
    “Okay, okay,” his companion soothed, his own body shaking. “Take yer time. Write it down.”
    “No-no-no!” Wordman chanted. “I got no pen. I got no paper.”
    “We’ll get it,” his friend urged. “I’ll pan for cash, we’ll get coffee ‘n doughnuts an’ a notebook ‘n pen, just like always.”
    “Little punk needs a lesson. No respect.”
    “I know,” his companion said gently. “Easy.”

    “Yeah, yer right.” He focused on taking slow, deep breaths. “Who cares, eh?”
    The steady strong sun returned.
    As expected, his companion faded and disappeared into thin air.
    The boy’s face tensed; his eyes widened. “You’re nuts, man.”
    From inside the restaurant, Mr. Gormey’s voice boomed out, “What the hell’s that racket out there?”
    “Nothin’, Dad. Just that crazy bum talkin’ to himself.” The kid hurried back in.
    Rummaging through the garbage, Wordman could practically taste the boy’s fear.
    Breakfast was served.

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