Fiction By F.T. Rea
Jan. 24, 1991:
Bright sunlight lit up the thin coating of freezing rain that had
painted the city the evening before. In the crisp air, Roscoe Swift, a
slender middle-aged man, a freelance artist/writer, walked at a careful
but purposeful pace on the tricky sidewalk.
The ice-clad trees along the
street were dazzling, as seen through Swift's trusty Ray-Bans. The
woolly winter jacket his girlfriend, Sally, had given him for Christmas
felt good.
Since
the freelancer couldn’t concentrate on his reading of the morning’s
Richmond Times-Dispatch, he left half a mug of black coffee and a dozing
cat on his desk to walk to the post office. He hoped the overdue check
from a magazine publisher was waiting in his post office box.
Anxiously,
Swift opened the box with his key. It was empty. He shrugged. An empty
box had its upside, too -- there were no cut-off notices in it. With his
last 20 bucks in his pocket, the freelancer hummed a favorite Fats
Domino tune, “Ain’t That a Shame,” as he headed home.
Before the end of the workday Roscoe had to finish an 800-word OpEd
piece and drop it all off on an
editor’s desk in Scott's Addition. With the drum beat for war in the air
he wanted to focus on the inevitable unintended consequences of any
war. Yet, with the clock ticking on his deadline he was still at a loss
for an angle.
The country was still mired in an
economic recession. With the national debt climbing an invasion of Iraq
was looming. War seemed all but inevitable. Pondering what demons might
be spawned by an all-out war in Iraq he detoured a couple of blocks, to pick up a Washington Post and
a fresh cup of coffee.
Approaching the 7-Eleven store
Roscoe noticed a lone panhandler standing off to the left of the front
doors. The tall man was thin and frail. He wore a lightweight denim
jacket over a hooded sweatshirt. Snot was frozen in his
mustache. The whites of his heavy-lidded eyes were an unhealthy shade of
pink.
When Roscoe had run the Fan City Cinema, in the '70s, he had determined his policy should be to
never
in any way encourage panhandlers to hang around on the sidewalk in the
neighborhood surrounding the theater. The rigid policy had lingered well
after the comfortable job had faded into the mists.
On
this cold day it wasn’t easy for Roscoe to avert his eye from the poor
soul’s trembling outstretched hand. Not hearing the desperate man’s
hoarse plea for food money was impossible. When there are always so many
lives to be saved in our midst, Roscoe wondered, why do we have to go
to the Middle East to save lives?
Inside the busy store
Roscoe poured himself a large coffee. Black. Fretting profusely, he snapped the cup’s
lid in place. It was one of those times when the little Roscoe with
horns was standing on one of his shoulders, while his opposite, the one
with the halo, was on the other; both were offering counsel.
Roscoe's
longtime "policy" caved in seconds later. Still, he decided to give the freeloader
food, rather than hand over cash to perhaps finance a bottle of sweet
wine. It might change my luck, he thought as he smiled.
Trying
to max out the bang-for-the-buck aspect of his gesture, Roscoe settled
on a king-sized hot dog, with plenty of free stuff on it -- mustard,
chopped onions, relish, jalapeno peppers, chili and some gooey
cheese-like product. Not wanting to push it too far, he passed on the
ketchup and mayonnaise.
Outside the store, Roscoe found the starving panhandler had vanished.
Roscoe looked up and down Cary Street but saw no sign of the poor soul.
So,
the crestfallen philanthropist took the meal-on-a-bun with him as he
walked, softly singing a Buffalo Springfield song, “For What It’s
Worth.” With his strides matching the beat he kept to the sunny street,
to avoid the sidewalk in the shade.
There’s somethin’ happening here,
What it is ain’t exactly clear.
There’s a man with a gun over there,
Tellin’ me I gotta beware.
I think it’s time we stop, children, what's that sound,
Everybody look, what's going down.
A
line from that song’s last verse -- “paranoia strikes deep” -- suddenly
snapped an idea for the OpEd into place, which launched an instant
mini-mania. The freelancer picked up his pace and began whistling a
jazzy version of “For What It’s Worth.”
Back in
his office/studio, rather than waste money, he tore into the feast
he had prepared for a beggar. It seemed the food scared, or perhaps offended, the
cat, who fled. Between sloppy bites the freelancer wiped his hands off.
About an hour later the heartburn started.
Eventually, it got brutal. Roscoe pressed on. He wrote about the way
propaganda always works to sell war -- every war -- as glorious and
essential to the everyday people, who risk their lives. That while the
wealthy, who rarely take a genuine risk on anything, urge the patriots
on and count their profits.
Thinking of the war in Vietnam that thinned his generation out, he wrote:
After the war the veterans were largely ignored, even scorned.
Roscoe lamented the popular culture having gone wrong, so there was no
longer a place for anti-war protest songs. Feeling righteous, he asked:
Where are today’s non-conformists? Today's questioners of authority?
With time to spare, the freelancer finished the job and turned in his
work at 4:20 p.m. He even managed to pick up the overdue check for $200
he was owed. An hour or so later his sour and noisy stomach began to
calm down during his second beer at the Bamboo Cafe.
Sally showed up with a smile and joined the group gathered at the elbow
of the marble bar. When
Roscoe recounted the tale of breaking his rule and buying the stuffed
frankfurter he got a laugh. He explained how the old Buffalo Springfield
song gave him an idea for his OpEd piece.
Roscoe's small audience groaned on cue when he finished it off with, “Sometimes it's a thin
line that separates heartburn from inspiration ... ah, for what it’s worth.”
* * *
Art and words by F.T. Rea.
This story is part of a series of Roscoe Swift stories called "Detached."
All rights reserved by the author.
Final score: VCU 73, La Salle 62
