As Cullen sat there, his attention turned from
himself and the light, to a Ragman standing no more than ten feet from his car.
He noticed the Ragman was wearing an unzipped, long sleeved winter jacket
overtop of a fully buttoned flannel shirt. Though it was still early, 8:45, it
was already about 90 degrees outside. Sweat
stains soaked through the front of the Ragman’s shirt and he constantly daubed
his forehead with his sleeve. The Ragman stood at the beginning of the intersection on the
double yellow line, so he was sure to be seen.
He wore a crude sign constructed from cardboard and string hanging from
his neck that read hungry.
Cullen knew that he would be at the light for a
while. Plenty of time to spare a few dollars. But then he started appraising the Ragman, looking to see if
there was a brown paper bag sticking out of his jacket pocket, or if he had a
cigarette in his hand or mouth. He
decided that he would not support someone else’s bad habits.
He had enough of his own. He
found nothing to justify withholding his charity, but by then there was too
little time left to do anything before the light turned, so he simply ignored
him.
The Ragman, who had been standing still, looking off
in the distance, now started walking back and forth closely next to each of the
stopped cars, allowing each driver to witness his need.
In his side view mirror Cullen saw the drivers of some of the cars behind
him roll down their windows and give the Ragman a few dollars. This, coupled with the fact that he saw nothing that would
stop the Ragman from getting a decent roadside construction job, somehow made
him feel relieved of his sense of duty.
Cullen noticed the other traffic light turn yellow
and so he shifted his car into gear and braced for a speedy departure from this
uncomfortable intersection. He
counted the seconds before he knew the light would change: 4…5…6…7!
And the light turned green at seven.
His left foot lifted off the clutch and his right foot pressed the
accelerator. Just as his car made a
lurch and a hiccoughing sound, the sound of a car stalling, he thought how this
event was in keeping with the way things seemed to be going that morning.
He turned the
ignition off and then on again to start the car as some of the cars behind him
sounded their horns and others passed him in the other lane.
His car hummed to life again, and he was careful not to make the same
mistake twice. As he slowly
accelerated through the intersection, he took one last look at the Ragman whose
face was now turned in profile. He
noticed that the Ragman had a scar to the right of his nose.
No sooner had he
driven two or three blocks, than Cullen started to feel badly about not having
given the Ragman a few dollars. A
couple of blocks more, past the Fred Astaire Dance Studio and Arthur
Treacher’s Fish & Chips, and Cullen decided he was feeling benevolent this
morning. He pulled in to a gas
station and turned around to go back and see what he could do to help the man.
As he approached the intersection where the Ragman was still employed, he
decided he would invite him to breakfast.
Cullen parked the
car on the side of the road and called in to work to let them know he would be
late. Then he got out, fed the
meter and looked both ways before crossing the lanes to where the man stood.
As he got closer he could smell just how many days the Ragman had been
without a shower. Cullen ran his hands through his hair and straightened his
tie. By the time he reached the
Ragman, the light had turned red again and people were stopping their cars right
next to them. He felt as though the
whole world was watching him. A
rush of adrenaline came over him in anticipation of his pending philanthropy.
As Cullen
approached, the Ragman looked at him blankly, acknowledging his existence.
For a few awkward moments nothing was said.
Then Cullen cleared
his throat and said, “Hey, would you like to go with me and get a bite to
eat?”
“No thanks.
Already ate. Wouldn’t mind a few bucks to hold on to for when it’s
time for lunch though.”
“All right,”
Cullen said. “What time should I
pick you up for lunch?”
“I don’t need
this. If you want to give me some
money because you feel sorry for me, I’ll be happy to take it. Otherwise have a good day.”
“I just
thought…”
“Look, if you’re
a religious nut or something, you’re wasting your time.”
“I’m not.
I just wanted to take you out for a nice meal, that’s all.”
“Well, I don’t
need a babysitter. If you just give
me some money, I’ll find my way perfectly fine, thanks.”
Cullen didn’t know
what to do. This was totally
opposite from any reaction he expected from a bum.
He always had the impression of a Norman Rockwell bum sitting on the side
of the street with his pants pockets pulled inside-out, with rosy cheeks, eager
and expectant and thankful for any pocket change or conversation that might come
his way. He was not prepared for
the real thing. He had never given
money to the needy before—unless you count the few pennies he would drop in
the cardboard Jerry’s Kids display at the 7-Eleven.
After a few moments,
Cullen felt for his wallet in the left inside breast pocket of his Maschio suit
jacket. He pulled it out and handed
the man a five-dollar bill. With
that, he turned and walked back to his car.
Though he tried convincing himself that he had done a good thing, he
couldn’t help feeling that something was wrong. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.
He wasn’t expecting the man to fall down at his feet and worship him
for giving him some money—surely five dollars would barely get him an
extra-value meal at Burger King—but he was expecting something that at least
remotely resembled gratitude. With a feeling of something weighing down inside of him he
started his car, made an illegal U-turn when there was a break in the traffic
and resumed his trip to work.
All day Cullen
couldn’t concentrate. All he
thought of was the Ragman and their peculiar exchange of words that morning.
He checked his e-mail and there was a message from his fiancée, Kim,
asking if he had any plans for the two of them that night.
He decided he would take her out to dinner.
To take his mind off of the Ragman and just have a good time.
He called his friend Gaston and made reservations for two at La Cote
d’Or. When he placed the receiver
back in the cradle, he felt better somewhat.
Then he e-mailed Kim to let her know to meet him there at about
eight-thirty.
The rest of the day
seemed to go by fairly quickly. As
a technical recruiter for a Fortune 500 computer firm, he had a pile of resumes
to go through for some technical writing positions they had advertised in The
Post over the weekend. He was
amazed at the response they were getting. Since
he came in, the fax machine hadn’t ceased printing out resumes.
He also noticed that his voicemail was full even though they had
specifically stated “NO CALLS.”
After work he drove
his car home through particularly heavy rush-hour traffic. At the crest of a hill where 123 rises overtop of Route 7,
all he saw was an unbroken string of brake lights in his lane and another string
of headlights in the oncoming lane. It
reminded him of his mass of tangled Christmas lights brought out from the box in
the attic where they were carelessly shoved the year before.
He decided that he was going to try to control himself just this once.
He would focus on not being the road-raged maniac Kim always teased him
of being.
Cullen hated
traffic. He was used to open roads
and nothing in his way. He
concentrated on relaxing. Even when
the driver of the snow-white Grand-Prix with tinted windows cut him off, he kept
his cool and focused on finding a mellow radio station that would assist him in
maintaining a peaceful state of mind.
After almost an hour
had passed Cullen arrived home at his condo and he pulled into the garage.
He smiled at himself for actually doing it.
For not losing his cool. He
got out of his car, grabbed his attaché case.
After locking the door, he went to the cluster of mailboxes and collected
his daily quota of postcards advertising new homes, credit cards and dating
services. When he saw there was no
mail of consequence he briefly looked around him and shoved it all through the
outgoing mail slot.
Then he walked up
the two flights of stairs to his condo. After
letting himself in he was immediately greeted by his cat, ‘Blackie.’
“Hey guy, how was
your day?” Blackie walked around
and between Cullen’s legs as he pet the soft fur of its back. Blackie purred loudly in approval of this gesture.
When Cullen stopped, the cat mewed and whined.
“Sorry guy, I have
a date tonight and have to get moving. It’s
already 6:45.” With that, almost
as if he understood Cullen, Blackie turned and sprung onto the counter and from
the counter to the top of the refrigerator where his bed was and lay down for a
nap. Cullen went into the bathroom
to take a shower. As he stood there
enjoying the cold water massage on his back, the phone rang.
It rang again. And again. Then
the answering machine clicked on:
“You have reached
the home of Cullen Walther. I am
not home at the present time, but if you would kindly leave your name and number
after the beep I’ll be sure to get back to you at my earliest
convenience……*BEEP!*”
“Cullen?
…Cullen, if you’re there, pick up.
It’s Kim…Ok, well, I was just calling to say that I’d be a little
late tonight. I’ll probably be
there around nine or nine-thirty. See
you then, sweets!”
As soon as the
machine rewound and finished its mechanical noises, Cullen turned off the water
and stepped out of the shower. When
he was dressed and ready to go, he fed Blackie and then left at precisely eight
o’clock for the restaurant.
When he arrived, he
was greeted by the maitre’d.
“Monsieur Walther,
you are a little early, but I believe your table is ready. Where is the lovely Mademoiselle Cahill?”
“She will be here
soon, thank you, Raymond. Is Gaston
available?”
“Go ahead to your
table, Monsieur, I will let him know you are here.”
Cullen proceeded to
his table where he unbuttoned his suit jacket and settled into his seat.
He always sat at the same table in the same seat.
He took in the surroundings. Everything
was the same. He always ordered the
same meal. He enjoyed things that
were constant. That would not
change. He felt safe there.
Secure in his little corner of the restaurant where he could observe the
whole dining area, and the city from the window just to his left.
Eight thirty came
and went. Eight forty-five.
At nine-o clock, the Maitre’d walked up and asked, “Would Monsieur
care to order a drink while he waits for Mademoiselle?”
“Yes, thank you.
I’ll have a glass of Domaine Paul Blanck, and you can leave the bottle
on the table, with another glass for Kim.”
“Certainly,”
said Raymond.
As soon as the
Maitre’d left his table, Cullen saw a party of about ten or more enter the
restaurant. They were all wearing
very fine clothes and seemed to have just come from a wonderful affair, an opera
or some charitable event. They were
seated at once not far from Cullen’s table.
They were laughing and seemed to be having a marvelous time.
They all appeared to direct most of their attention to a tall, well-built
man. He was dressed in such a way
that led Cullen to believe he must have an impressive job.
Perhaps a diplomat. He wore
his long, thick, flowing black hair back in a ponytail.
A few moments later,
Gaston appeared at their table and began joking along with them.
“That’s odd,” Cullen thought, “Maybe Raymond forgot to tell him I
was here.” As soon as he had
finished this thought, the well-dressed man raised his glass in a toast:
“To all those Good
Samaritans who have been good enough to donate to My Cause.” His many friends, as well as Gaston, smiled when he
spoke.
Cullen thought he
recognized the man’s voice when he made his toast.
He thought maybe he had seen him on the news or heard him on the radio.
While he was thinking about it he noticed Kim out of the corner of his
eye entering the dining area. Cullen
stood with a wide smile on his face to greet her.
As he stood, he noticed the well-dressed man turn slightly and Cullen’s
smile faded when he noticed a scar to the right of his nose.
He didn't enjoy dinner because he couldn't stop
thinking about the Ragman. But he
didn't dare tell Kim because he was afraid she wouldn't believe him¾or
even worse that she would laugh at him. He
decided finally that he would take the next day off to see what this guy was up
to. Cullen decided that if the
Ragman wasn't at the same corner in the morning, he would drive around town
until he found him.
The next morning Cullen's alarm clock sounded like a
whining banshee and scared him awake. The
glowing digital numbers read 5:30. Reminding
himself of the day's purpose, he persuaded himself not to press the snooze
button and got up and dressed. He
fixed a cup of instant coffee with plenty of sugar, creamer and Nestle's Quik in
a travel mug, grabbed some untoasted Pop-Tarts and locked the door to the condo
on his way out. He walked out into
the parking lot noticing that the sun was not out yet.
He hoped that something would come of this.
Cullen started the car and let it warm up for a few
minutes while he made sure that his camera had film in it and that he had more
than one pen in his satchel in case the first one ran out of ink.
Then he drove to a commuter parking lot near the intersection where the
bum had been the previous day. After
parking, he walked across the almost silent street to a small diner that was
open 24-hours. He ordered a coffee,
drank it black this time and took a seat next to the large picture window where
he could easily see the intersection. By
6:15 Cullen had finished his coffee and was starting to get fidgety when he
noticed a black BMW pull into a handicapped parking space across from the cafe.
The Ragman got out of the car and reached back in to put a handicapped
tag in the mirror. Cullen could not believe his eyes. He grabbed his camera and took continuous exposures of what
he saw. The Ragman put a hand to
his hair as if to primp it and then walked away in the direction of the
intersection.
Cullen began to scribble furiously in the little
black notebook he had brought along with him.
This will look great as a front story article for the Plain-Dealer.
Cullen spent his day in the cafe, making notes,
taking pictures and ordering enough cups of coffee that his hands started
shaking. At noon he ordered an
early celebration lunch. Cullen was so absorbed in what he was doing that he failed to
notice the cafe's patrons staring at him and wondering what he was doing.
The day seemed to fly by for him and as the sun was setting he saw the
Ragman leave his spot where he had not left, even for a meal, since that
morning. The Ragman slowly walked
back to the car. Cullen hurriedly
put his things back in his satchel and rushed out of the cafe and down the
street to his car. He hurriedly
sped to the exit booth almost running over a pedestrian, paid his parking fee,
and accelerated to the corner where he could see the Ragman was just getting
into the BMW and removing the handicapped tag.
Cullen followed from a safe distance behind (he had known to do this from
watching Magnum, P.I.) so he would not
be detected. With his telephoto
lens, Cullen got a close-up of the license plate as he followed.
He wished he had filled his tank with gas that morning because he didn't
know how far they would be driving¾he
only had a little less than a quarter of a tank of gas.
After about a 25 minute drive out of town into the
suburbs, the BMW pulled into a paved driveway that was bordered on both sides by
rows of trees that cast long shadows from the last flecks of sunlight on the
perfectly manicured lawn. Cullen
parked outside the gate and shook his head in amazement at the scam work going
on here. The more he thought about it, the more it enraged him.
Here he was, a fine, upstanding citizen who worked for an honest living
and paid taxes, but this bum freeloads from people and lives in the lap of
luxury. He thought he should be
living like this instead of that fraud.
Just then, he saw someone walking up to the car; it
was the Ragman. Cullen stared at
him smugly as he approached. The
man motioned for him to roll down his window but Cullen refused.
“Is there any particular reason you have been
following me?” the man asked.
“No reason. I
just enjoy stalking scam artists,” Cullen replied coldly.
“I remember you from yesterday,” the Ragman said.
“You tried to take me out for a meal. That
was cute. Listen, why don’t you
and your curiosity get off my property before it gets you into some
trouble…”
“Nothing would please me more.”
And Cullen put the car in reverse and started to back away.
Then he put the car in park and rolled down his window.
“You might be interested in the front page of tomorrow’s paper.
There’ll be a piece about a con-artist passing himself as a bum with
full-color photos.”
“What are you talking about?”
Cullen started to roll the window up and pull away
when the Ragman lunged through the window to grab Cullen’s satchel.
Before the Ragman was able though, Cullen put the car in reverse,
dragging the Ragman, still trying to get the satchel.
Finally he was able to get a hold of the camera strap, and he let the
weight of his body fall from the window of the car as it was still moving.
Then the Ragman got to his feet and ran for the gate.
Shocked, Cullen opened the door of his car and chased after the Ragman in
a dead-sprint. Cullen was obviously
in worse shape than the Ragman, but since he was still a little dazed from the
dragging and falling, Cullen overtook the Ragman before he got to the gate.
Cullen grabbed the Ragman by the back of his hair.
He jerked the Ragman backwards and onto the ground.
Then using a move his father had used on him he pinned the Ragman’s
arms and started pummeling his face visualizing that annoying scar to the right
of his nose as a bull's-eye. The
Ragman heaved with his legs and was able to knock Cullen off, but he was up just
as quickly as he fell and back on the Ragman.
This time with rocks clenched trembling in his fists.
He hit the Ragman with a deft blow to the left temple causing him to lose
consciousness. But Cullen either
was not aware of this or he didn't care. He
kept battering the Ragman's limp form, but only for a short while before the
shock of what had happened sunk in. The
deadweight of the Ragman lay lifeless on the ground. Cullen looked around to see if anyone had been watching.
Then he quickly retrieved his camera and he got into his car and sped
away, hyperventilating. His heart was pounding rapidly and seemed like it was in his
throat the whole way home. What he
needed was a good drink.
Cullen drank himself to sleep and he woke in the
morning with a terrible headache. He
called in sick to work and lay back in bed as his clouded mind went over the
events of the previous day. He
decided to read the morning paper with his coffee to find out what had happened
the previous evening. He
frantically opened the front door and snatched up the paper tearing it free of
the plastic packaging and scanned the front page.
Nothing. He scanned the
metro page. Nothing.
Wait, there was a murder, but it was a writer who had been on the New
York Times best seller list.
Maybe it went
unnoticed.