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Walter

Harrison Linklater Abbott

    He knew he was faced with a lonely funeral. Walter had liver cancer and was 68 and living in a retirement home. His two bitter daughters had ceased contact with him a long time ago. The home hadn’t been that bad until he found out the terminal news. There were three meals a day and other old men he could speak to. They were allowed to smoke indoors. One of the guards smuggled in whisky for Walter. Which is what had killed him. Walter asked the same guard if he could help him sneak out of the home. He could pay him for it. He didn’t want to die in this place. He may as well just do something enjoyable with his remaining time.
    The guard agreed. They’d make it look like he wandered out on his own and that the gates were left unlocked. They did it, successfully, at 4 a.m. and suddenly Walter was standing outside in the free street. He had a chunk of cash and was wearing his only suit. The staff at the home wouldn’t come looking for him or even care that he’d escaped. He was free for the rest of his life to do what he liked. Half an hour later he was on the bus into the city.
    He found a coffee shop. There was a beautiful waitress. Her legs made his heart wander. Ate a huge breakfast and then walked along the river. The city hadn’t woken up yet. He bought cigarettes and a newspaper and read it in the park. The content in the paper was ludicrous and scared him. The vernacular was so different from when he used to read his father’s newspaper before school. Even the sport coverage was now so glossy and tacky.
    When it got to opening time, Walter went to the liquor store and bought some nice bottles. He remembered there was a fairground at the end of the street. He drank on the sidewalk, waiting until noon for it to open. Then went in. People gave him suspicious looks. He played the shooting games, bought candyfloss, went on the horror house ride. There was a young man in the booth who must have been about twenty. He didn’t say anything to Walter when he walked in, and seemed repulsed when Walter walked out. Walter slapped him lightly on the cheek and told him to cheer up – even old men need a scare now and then.
    After the fair he walked out to the west side of the city, looking for some marijuana and maybe some cocaine. He used to go there when he was young. And he found the place even more run down now. Wow, it was really bad ... But if he got jumped or mugged then what would it matter? He found some dealers who had those acidic accents: the type that he grew up with. Nice to hear that kind of dialogue again. He bought some plant and powder and talked to the dealer about the neighbourhood. He was friendly and surprised that Walter was speaking like a human. He asked Walter how old he was. Walter told him his age and the dealer said he thought he was younger. They shook hands.
    Walter scouted for a place to take the stuff and found refuge in the abandoned train station. This wind-battered shed overlooking rusted tracks thronged with weeds. He smoked, snorted and drank and admired the witty graffiti on the walls. A lot of it made him giggle. There are many funny minds out there. Walter overdid it a bit on the content and he lay down on one of the benches to gather himself, and fell asleep without realising it.
    When he woke up it took him a long time to remember where he was. This was December and the afternoon darkened. He drank and went back into town. He went to a restaurant and was surprised at how polite they were with him. The streets were flocked with Christmas lights. He’d always despised Christmas because it reminded him of his failed family. So he went into Chinatown and found a bar and drank. Then recalled that there was a red-light district just beyond Chinatown. And he thought, why not? It was audacious to try, but why not just have one more shot with a woman? It had been twenty years since he’d been with one. He found a motel first and paid for the room and then went down to the district. Walter used to be a decent-looking man. He hoped that in his suit he might pass for something like that and for what he was: a sad old man who could pay for a bit of meaningless business. He found a woman who looked heavily experienced, smoking a cigarette. She had purple hair. She smiled. They exchanged names. Molly was her name. He said he had a motel nearby. When they were walking he offered her whisky, which she slugged down.
    In the motel room he gave her some of the coke and after she snorted she took her coat off and then slipped away her jumper and bra to the glory of her bust. Walter gulped at the sight and Molly smiled at how shy he became. Her breasts felt sublime and he kissed her hardening nipples and led her onto the bed. And he was surprised that she was enjoying it and that he lasted so long. Afterwards they shared a smoke and he asked her about her life. Molly said the only interesting thing about her was that she drew pictures. She had a dark childhood, but lots of people do. Then she pulled out this frayed notebook from her coat and showed him her sketches. He was genuinely amazed at how good an artist she was.
    Molly asked if she could draw Walter, and he laughed at first, because he thought she was joking. She said she wanted to draw him as he was, naked and vulnerable. It took a small while and then she showed him the picture. Walter wished that he was her age and that he could befriend her, know her, throughout time. It was the first time since the diagnosis that he felt ashamed and fearful of death. And he asked Molly if she would just stay with him for the night? Please? Just stay with me in the motel – I can even pay you extra, if you will sleep next to me? She said that she wanted to stay with him, that she liked chatting to him. No need for more money. But she would like a bit more of the drink and smoke, if he had any more to spare? And they talked unto the early morning.
    Walter was never talented at anything like Molly was with her pictures. It made his entire life worth it to have this day as one of his last. And he feared it would end. They fell asleep together about the same time. And he awoke in dehydration a few hours later, again with mad confusion, wondering how he got to this anonymous place. There was a flash of terror that Molly was no longer there. That she’d left and robbed his money. But, no, there she was. Purple hair strewn over the pillow and her face contentedly asleep. Walter was a lucky man, and knew now he would never die alone. Even though she would leave in the morning, he would still have her memory.

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