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I slept well that night, well, other than my usual regular trips to the washroom, but I was able to fall back to sleep without the ugly nightmares that had resurfaced after so many years. I woke refreshed and felt positive that my efforts at yesterday’s interview might make some kind of difference. They had told me that once the editing was complete, I would have an opportunity to preview the interview before they used it.
Jeremy Lister, my interviewer, had good contacts in the media and wanted to see if he could drum up enough interest to get an independent exposé of the Nazi organizations off the ground. He felt it would enhance my message rather than just a twenty-second sound bite on the news.
Taking my cereal bowl to the sink, I rinsed it and my coffee cup and set them to dry on the drainboard. Looking through the curtains over the sink, clear blue sky and sunshine reflected my mood and called to me so I figured that I’d head to the park.
Gathering my coat and hat, I thumped my walker out to the street and stopped to inhale fresh air. The coolness of the breeze still had a hint of winter, but the sun’s warmth more than compensated. By the time I made it into the park, I was sweating. Parking my old butt on my usual bench allowed me to regain my labored breath and clean my glasses.
The enormous fountain had been turned on again after it had remained silent all winter, and I appreciated the optimism of the town workers, who seemed to hope that we’d turned the seasonal corner once and for all.
Winter is hard on old coots. Most of the season, I was house-bound except for the odd trip to the Legion to touch base with the gang to make sure we’re all still alive. I had my groceries delivered, as a hip-shattering slip on ice-covered sidewalks could prove as fatal as the ever-present threat of pneumonia to old lungs.
Now, with my cancer diagnosis, I couldn’t say which way out was the favorite. No way I was getting out alive either way.
Having caught my breath, I got up and headed around the fountain, making for the duck pond. Mallards and pintails littered the pond, and their feathers and the milky-gray of duck-crap littered the edges of it. Signs warning people not to feed bread to the birds circled the man-made lake near coin-operated food dispensers with suitable feed for aquatic fowl. A troop of four children stood around one such station, hands held ready as a woman, probably their mother, pressed coins into the slots. Behind the group, a cluster of birds waited impatiently. Laughter and excitement had me grinning as I took in the scene.
Back in the day, I’d bring home dried-up bread and wrinkled produce from the store for Maggie and the kids. We didn’t know about the harm we brought to the birds with food like that, but the genuine excitement was the same for the kids. The memory made me smile. I found another bench, sat, and allowed the sun to warm me while I enjoyed the children’s encounter with their new, feathered friends.
When next I knew it, I was being gently shaken by the shoulder. My lids snapped open, and I found the children long gone. I looked up, squinting into the sun at a silhouette of a man.
“Just making sure you’re okay, sir,” said a gentle voice. “I noticed you’d been sitting here awhile.” He held a small dog on a leash who was more interested in sniffing the leg of my bench than anything else.
“Thank you,” I murmured, embarrassed that I had fallen to sleep in public. “Guess the walk and the sun did a number on me.”
“Can’t blame you for that. The day’s beautiful and park is peaceful. Enjoy.” He gave a tug on the leash and he and the dog continued on their way.
I stood, leaning on the walker, figuring I’d had enough excitement for the day. The wind had died down, and I had to open the top of my coat. It felt good to be warm again. I shuffled towards home, taking care to plant one foot securely on the path before moving the other. I took my time. Ever since my first hip replacement twenty years ago, safety was my second name. Besides, at my age, nothing was that urgent, and not even my diagnosis could change that.
As I shuffled to the crosswalk, I pressed the button for a walk light and leaned heavily on the walker. My stomach rumbled at the thought of food and my mind went to the remaining leftovers in the fridge.
When the light changed, I started across. On the far side of the intersection, two young men were walking towards my apartment building. One suddenly stopped and, from the pouch on his gray hoody, pulled out a can of spray paint. Looking both up and down the street, he quickly painted a large black swastika over the red brick of the building. MY building!
I stopped in the middle of the intersection, not believing what I was seeing. “Hey!” I yelled as loud as I could, but even to my ears, it sounded like a dry cough.
The guy didn’t even look up as he continued to retrace the evil symbol so that it stood out even more on the wall.
Then I was doing exactly what I told myself never to do. I rushed forward to stop the man. The walker moved forward and quickly outpaced my shuffling gait. I was leaning forward, my feet not moving quite quick enough; and before I knew it, I was falling. The pavement rose up and caught my chin and elbows. The walker rolled on and when it hit the curb, it fell over with a clatter. The air went out of me as I gasped at the pain.
I heard the slam of car doors and the patter of running feet.
“Easy, old fellow,” said a voice over me. “You took one hell of a tumble.”
“Stop him,” I cried.
“Oh my God, is he all right?” a woman’s concerned voice asked.
“Stop who?” the man asked.
I tried to point at the man with his spray can, but when I twisted my neck, he was nowhere in sight. Only that blasphemous symbol remained.
“Do you think you can stand? We need to get you off the street,” the young man, maybe in his twenties, said.
When I nodded, he helped me sit up. The woman had retrieved my walker and was holding it steady. The man stuck his arms through mine and locked his wrists around my chest. With the strength of youth, he smoothly lifted me to my feet, only tentatively letting go once I wrapped my hands on the arms of the walker. Both he and the woman walked me to the curb, one on each side of me, like worried parents with an infant taking its first steps.
Some impatient driver honked his horn in irritation, causing the three of us to twist around. The young man raised a middle finger.
“Don’t worry about him,” the young guy said to the woman. “The jerk can wait.” He looked at me, “Are you going to be all right? Is there anyone you want me to call?”
“I’m okay. I’m just upset that asshole got away!”
“Who?”
I pointed at the still wet and dripping swastika. “He was painting it in broad daylight.”
“I better move my car,” the woman said. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Thank you for stopping,” I said, squeezing her arm. She turned away, got into a little pickup truck, gave the honking motorist her own middle finger, and drove off.
The young man took a couple of steps toward the swastika, looked at it for a moment, and said, “No sense getting injured chasing after a scumbag. Let the police do their job.”
I didn’t bother to argue. He was too young to understand. The man watched the traffic and then jogged to a blue Civic with the flashers on. He drove off with a wave as I shuffled to the entrance of my building, only stopping to glare at the hated emblem.
Back in my apartment, with a shaky hand I dialed 911 after I sat down. I could still feel the stickiness of blood on my chin. The dispatcher took my information but said that vandalism wasn’t a priority, and it might be days before they could free up someone to take a statement. “You can use our on-line reporting portal if you have access to a computer,” she said.
“Never mind. Obvious it’s not important enough!” I said, hanging up the phone in frustration.
In the washroom mirror, I examined the scrape on my chin and rinsed the area with a face cloth, turning water red as I re-broke the skin. I cleaned the area as best I could and used the damp cloth to blot the last of the seeping blood. Inside, I thanked the Fates that all I got from the tumble was a scraped chin and not a broken hip.
Back in the kitchen, I bent into the refrigerator, but nothing appealed as my mind kept churning at the blatant disrespect of the idiot with the spray can. I was too upset to eat.
Finally, knowing I’d get no rest until I completed the job, I gathered cleaning supplies and left my apartment again. Minutes later, I stood in front of that poisonous talisman and attacked it with hot soapy water, a spray bottle full of solvent and a stiff floor brush. It was hard work, especially on brick, and I managed only one of the four arms of the symbol before calling it a day. If it took me a month of Sundays, I would tear that image off my home.