The buzzing was magnified by his hearing aid until, SMACK. The sound wasn’t as loud as it might have been, had Walter’s skin not lost that youthful tautness, but that was nothing compared to what the wrinkles had done to his only tattoo. It was bad enough that the artist had botched a clichéd anchor, but aging had shriveled the image until it resembled a limp—albeit upright—phallus; it had been the first and last time he had gotten drunk with his comrades while on an R&R rotation. But with the buzzard vanquished, Walter could continue to pretend that he was enjoying the view from his bench in the park; he was determined to uphold his dignity by displaying a sense of contentment, that he didn't regard his banishment as anything but pleasant “alone time.”
The sun was setting, casting rays of pink and orange that spewed across the blue-white canvas that was the sky. It reminded him of one of those abstract paintings that he despised because he couldn’t see what everyone else saw, what his wife saw. Walter just didn’t have an imagination like that, he preferred something logical to the eye—though he didn’t much care for art at all. It was just a sunset, nothing more than the earth's rotation around a star.
Frogs croaked from all around the pond, and some sounded close, though he could see none. A couple of swans—literally a couple, like they were married, and he wondered why there could never be just one, or none—made their way across the calm water, leaving little wakes behind them. It was like a picturesque scene from a romance novel or film. But Walter couldn’t give a hoot about such fanciful nonsense, as if love needed those annoying little details. Perhaps there was something about the charms of nature that gave people that warm and fuzzy feeling, because he would have given anything to be trekking through the wilderness, hunting rabbit or fly-fishing. Real nature, Walter would always say, not that manicured reproduction in a park.
“And how do you suppose you’re going to get around with that thing then?”She was pointing at his cane, her thin eyebrows raised in amusement.
Walter adjusted his weight so that he was supporting himself, but then his knee immediately began to ache, though at least she couldn’t see that.
Stella continued, “You’re stubborn,” —then he wondered if she had noticed him taking his weight off the cane— “but the doctor said that you shouldn’t be doing anything that might stress the joint. We can’t have you falling out in the middle of nowhere.” She was reaching to cup his face in her soft hands, but Walter pulled away as if she were trying to fix his hair with a palm full of saliva.
“Oh, Stel! Don’t exaggerate like that buffoon of a doctor, I can handle myself,” he announced with his chin up, though his bottom lip quivered when he was frustrated, or in pain.
“Of course, dear. But Craig also isn’t around to pack the gear, set up your tent, build the fire…”
“I built the fires!”
“You lit the newspaper.” Stella was smiling, holding back an even bigger grin as she adjusted her bifocals.
Walter huffed, glancing at the family picture that Craig had sent to them for Christmas, with all four grandkids making faces. “Well, why’s he out in Kansas anyway? It’s a damn dust bowl if you ask me.” When he grimaced, his face looked like a raisin. “It’s almost as dusty out there as it is in Eugene’s house!”
But even thinking about his nemesis across the street reminded him of the community barbecue fundraiser that was taking place the next day; he was told that Eugene now had a solo, to showcase his latest achievement —whatever the hell that was.
Though he would never admit it, Walter knew that his wife had been right; without his son to help, he wouldn’t be camping anymore.
With creaking bones, he slowly turned away from the pond to see that they were still packing up chairs and linens from the barbecue. Walter smiled. In a way, his “timeout” was a lucky thing, he didn’t have to help.
Just then, a crow squawked loudly from an overhead tree bough, causing him to jump. He glanced upwards to scowl at it, before it hopped to a lower branch only a couple of feet above his head.
“Get!” he barked. It squawked again, louder.
Walter lifted his cane and began aimlessly waving it around above his head in an attempt to scare it away. “Bugger off, you pesky little shit-bird—”
“What are you doing?” Stella stood behind him, stunned at her red-faced husband. “Who are you talking to?”
Startled, Walter shifted on the bench, clumsily turning one way and then the other before he was facing his wife. “It was a crow!” He turned back around to glance up to where the bird had been perched, but it was gone. “Well it was there, mocking me, Stel! Vermin, them crows.”
She rolled her eyes, placing her hands on her hips. “Oh for goodness sake, Walter, it was just a harmless bird. Is that any reason to wave that thing around,” she pointed at his cane, “at an innocent animal?”
“No, dear.” He replied blandly. “Are you nearly finished?”
Stella sighed, looking over her shoulder at the clutter on the grass and picnic tables. “Not quite, I still need to sort all the table cloths so that they go home with the right owners. And poor Bob accidentally dropped a platter and it broke on the picnic table, so now we need to clean up the shards as best we can.”
Walter leaned over to see past Stella, where a few able-bodied helpers were on their hands and knees trying to find all the shards that had scattered into the grass beyond the concrete slab.
“Yeah, poor Bob…” Walter replied sarcastically, having noticed that Bob was neglecting his responsibility to be the leader of that particular clean-up—he stood awkwardly nearby, holding a dustpan to pass to the first person who would take it.
Looking back to his wife, he said reluctantly, “I suppose you have enough hands to…” his words trailed off suggestively.
With a sharp exhale, Stella replied, “Yes. Don’t worry, dear, you can just wait here until we’re ready to go.” She began to head back to her duties, but turned to say, “Besides, I don’t need any more shenanigans from you.” Stella squinted her eyes accusingly. “Eugene is still embarrassed, and then you made matters worse. So you can just stay put.”
Walter rolled his eyes just as a breeze blew his wispy gray comb-over up, and as he patted it back down, they both had to stifle a laugh.
As she returned to the group, Walter turned back around and checked his watch, his big brown eyes straining to focus.
“Hi!”
Walter jumped in his seat and nearly soiled his pants at the sudden voice that came out of nowhere. He was clutching his chest—out of instinct rather than actual pain—as he scowled at the five year old girl that stood before him.
She wore jean coveralls with a pink t-shirt underneath and matching pink shoes, and her blonde hair was divided into two braids that hung past her ears.
After a moment to catch his breath, Walter looked around uneasily, anticipating some parent to come running over to claim their rogue child. He had hoped there would be someone, since he was never really good at talking with children, not even his own grandkids—he just couldn’t muster a convincing baby voice, or think of appropriate subjects to discuss.
“I asked what your favorite show is, grandpa!”
Though Walter’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be, he had heard his grandson but just didn’t know how to answer. So he had done what he always did when he didn’t know what to say, he simply smiled and nodded.
But his grandkids weren’t so easily fooled anymore, and Mason held his gaze waiting for his answer. “Well,” Walter began shakily, glancing around to see if someone would save him. “How about MASH, that’s a good show, huh?”
Mason stared blankly at him, then continued to push his train around Walter’s slippered feet. “I dono, grandpa, what’s it about?”
“Um, well,” then out of the blue he found his confidence, “it’s about a team of doctors and army officials that treat the wounded during the Korean War.”
Mason looked up at him. “What’s a war? And why are people wounded, is it like hurt?”
“War is when two or more countries fight battles because some rebels have shot an archduke, or an evil man seeks world domination. In the case of MASH, the communist North Koreans have invaded the South. Good versus bad. And yes, wounded is like hurt. Some soldiers even had limbs blown off like this,” he bent his arm, tucking his hand into his armpit and flapping his elbow up and down like a bird. He had hoped for a laugh, but the poor boy just stared at him with wide eyes, horrified. Then Walter suddenly filled with regret, not only for traumatizing his grandson, but for his insensitive depiction of a wounded soldier; sometimes words just regurgitated from his mouth before he could consider them. He himself had fought in the Vietnam War, and a fellow veteran and friend had lost his arm—and that was their way of making light of his situation—but it just didn’t seem right or funny anymore now that he had passed away.
“Dad!” Craig had rushed over and was picking up Mason; he had presumably heard the whole thing. “What are you doing? You can’t tell him things like that!”
Walter snapped out of his train of thought, shaking his sad thoughts away as he looked up to meet the glare of his son. His voice stuttered as he stood up to apologize, but the thought of chasing Craig into the kitchen only to endure his daughter-in-law’s wrath made Walter pour a drink instead. Since then, he kept to his smiling and nodding, and if the occasion called for it, Walter would change the subject.
Even as he recalled that memory, the girl continued to stand in front of him, smiling contently.
“I said ‘hi,’” she repeated.
Walter shifted nervously on the bench. “Hi,” he mumbled through a grunt.
She took a step closer. “My name’s Jillian, with a ‘J’. But people call me Jill,” she announced giddily.
He tried to ignore her by nodding and staring out at the pond—a contradicting gesture he realized after—but she stood planted in her position. Finally he looked at her and asked, “where are your parents, don’t you know you’re not supposed to talk to strangers?”
“They’re over there helping the rest clean up. My grandma is in the board, so she helped plan this fundraiser,” she said proudly.
Did that still make him a stranger? He hoped so.
Since he didn’t say anything, she continued. “My mom said to go play while they finish up. And I saw you during the barbecue.” She might as well have finished it off with: “so there!”
After a pause, he said, “is that so?”
“It is.” She hopped up beside him on the bench, and he shuffled towards the other side, turning his body slightly so that he was facing away from her.
After balancing his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose, Walter pulled out a rolled up book from his inside jacket pocket, followed by a pencil, and began a crossword puzzle. For a while she just sat quietly beside him, swinging her legs wildly as they dangled over the bench, causing it to shake. This made him irritatingly aware of the sagging skin that hung from his earlobes down his neck, as he could feel it rippling. But he ignored it and continued the puzzle grudgingly.
As her legs swung higher, bouncing her up and down, his pencil staggered drunkenly across the page each time he went to circle a word, leaving a trail of lead in its path. After feeling like he was on a boat during a tempest and having scribbled all over the puzzle, Walter slowly looked over his shoulder at her—his now crooked glasses had slipped half way down his nose. Her eyes finally met his accusing ones, then she followed his glare as it shifted to her still swinging feet. She stopped moving, and Walter adjusted himself, fixing his glasses and resuming his crossword.
“What’s that?”
“What?” He asked sharply as he turned around to see her pointing at his cane. “A cane. It’s to help with walking.” Then he returned to his position facing away from Jill.
“Oh. What’s that?” Now she was pointing at his hearing aid.
Walter was silent, his bottom lip pursed over the top, praying for them to be finished cleaning up.
“That,” she repeated, now waving her pointed finger at him. “In your ear. What is it?”
He sighed heavily before rolling up his book and replacing it in his pocket. He readjusted his whole position so that he was now facing the girl—there was no avoiding this conversation.
“It’s a hearing aid.”
Jill nodded, twirling a braid around her finger. She wrinkled her freckled nose, presumably in confusion. “Does it make you listen better? Because I don’t think it works very well.” She said matter-of-factly.
Walter just stared at her—he felt bested by a toddler—before a smile broke across his stern face, followed by a laugh. She joined him, giggling with her fists held up to her mouth.
When their laughter died down, Walter was shaking his head in disbelief. “Well you are a sassy one, aren’t you?”
Jill grinned harder, which revealed two prominent dimples on either side of her mouth.
Walter thought for a moment and then said, “so, did you have fun today?” That had always proved to be a promising start to any conversation he had had with children.
She shrugged. “Well, it can get kinda boring with a bunch of old people.”
Walter gasped sarcastically, slapping a hand over his mouth. “‘Old people?’ What makes you say that? I feel as young as you!”
Jill giggled at his dramatic response. “Those,” she replied through a smile, pointing at both his cane and his hearing aid, then to the glasses that he still wore.
He took off his glasses and placed them on her face, then leaned his cane against her knee. “Well now look who’s old,” he chuckled.
“I guess you’re right! My grandpa always says ‘you’re as young as you feel.’” she was still sniggering when she gently folded his glasses and gave them back to Walter.
“Well your grandpa is a smart man.” He was surprised at how easy conversation was coming to him—for once.
As the wind picked up, a flock of birds took off from their perches in the tree above them, squawking as they flew into formation to glide above the pond.
Jill looked up suddenly, her mouth open in awe as the crows swooped around one another before fading into the distance. “It’s so cool how they fly like that, all together like family! Pretty black birds.”
“Crows,” he corrected, scowling in the direction that they flew. “And they were probably fighting over a morsel of garbage.”
“But they are black, and shiny! They’re very smart too, you know, and they have to eat.” She looked back at him.
After pondering the simplicity of her observation, without an ounce of scorn, Walter’s face relaxed. “I suppose they are.”
Jill looked around the park. “I think it would be more fun if there was a playground.”
Walter considered this, but shook his head. “But then it wouldn’t be a place of nature and reflection," —peace and quiet was what he wanted to say— "and see that statue over there? It’s a memorial that commemorates the soldiers that,” he searched for an appropriate way of explaining death, “the heroes that gave their lives for our country.” He smiled in triumph.
After pondering this, she replied, “My grandpa was in the army, but he doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“As was I.” Walter interjected thoughtfully, wondering if he should meet this man.
“But most of the playgrounds that I know are in the middle of busy neighborhoods, or by the mall. So I think kids would like nature more if that’s where the playground is.”
“I suppose.” He thought about all the times that he had complained about today’s youth not appreciating nature, with their “eyes glued to their iPod phones,” to which his wife would correct, “'iPhones', dear.”
“And wouldn’t it be good to have more kids around here to learn about soldiers? Because I didn’t know that, about what they did for our country I mean.” Jill scratched her head, still not fully understanding what it meant, though she would make a point to learn more about said heroes later. "Besides," she added with a grin, "statues aren't natural either, so why not have a playground too?"
Walter couldn’t hold back a smile as he patted Jill on the shoulder, nodding his head in acknowledgment; once again, he felt bested by a toddler, but it didn’t feel like defeat this time, more like enlightenment.
From behind them a noise clattered loudly, and they both turned around to see what had happened. Two elderly men were waving their arms at each other from either side of about two dozen chairs that were scattered across the pavement. A lady in the driver’s seat stepped out of the pick-up truck that was idling in front of the mess, shaking her head in disappointment as a few others rushed over to help re-load the chairs.
Eugene was still standing—or more like pouting—in the spot by the willow tree adjacent to the parking lot, stroking a dripping ball of hair as he watched the scene. Walter turned back around, chuckling under his breath.
Eugene fiddled with his obnoxious contraption, sticking his head through one loop, then another until he looked like a potato head with its limbs in all the wrong holes. The audience, who sat at various tables picking away at trays of food, tittered quietly as he struggled to become the one-man band. When the guitar strap, which he had attached to the harmonica piece, became tangled with the tambourine on his shoulder, his arm became stuck in an upward position; his elbow was bent, however, which made it look like a dislocated bird wing. As he flailed, his foot stepped repeatedly on the drum peddle, causing the percussion mallet to beat the drum mounted on his back.
“The rhythm of an idiot,” Walter snickered into Stella’s ear, to which she responded by gently kicking his leg with her heal.
When Eugene’s wife—who had already tried to help him set up, to his stubborn refusal—finally had had enough of the embarrassment, she marched over to her husband and unhooked the guitar strap, releasing him from its grip. It was a simple solution.
Walter rolled his eyes as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. He resented how Eugene always felt the need to show off, especially when it was a matter of one-upping Walter; it was him who was scheduled to play his accordion for the community barbecue fundraiser, but because Eugene—surely upon finding this out, Walter was sure—had built some sort of new “instrument,” the head of the board agreed to the switch. And last year Eugene had beat him for the prize in the classic car show because he had hastily purchased the parts needed to finish repairs for his nineteen-fifty-five Thunderbird in time for the show, while Walter had spent years tracking down the right parts. Walter had argued that it shouldn’t be considered “vintage” if ninety percent of the car was modern parts, but it was too late, and Walter’s nineteen-fifty-seven Corvette went unappreciated yet again; it didn’t help that people would sing “Grease Lightening” as Eugene drove through the crowds, who then paid no attention to Walter’s classic sports car. His only consolation was when Eugene’s fuel pump blew a week later, and Walter had made sure to drive by Eugene’s house extra slow each time he was outside fixing his car.
But this was different, since everyone at the barbecue knew that Eugene had replaced Walter’s performance. As Eugene tripped over the drum peddle just as he began his song, Walter let out an audible laugh, to which everyone turned around to glare. He shrugged his shoulders, and when Stella also turned to frown at him, his facial expression turned to one as apologetic as the time he had cut someone off merging onto a highway.
Eugene’s face began turning a hue of red as Uptown Girl was almost finished—‘the crusty old loon doesn’t even have the lungs for such a tune,’ thought Walter, cringing in the back row. He had also paused numerous times to adjust his chinstrap, which had made the ordeal twice as long. But everyone was clapping, except for Walter, who thought it was off-key and missing notes.
While everyone continued to clap, the wind suddenly picked up, blowing feathered hats and plastic cups away. But what made everyone gasp was when a hairy frisbee went soaring through the air, landing in the pond. Everything and everyone went silent as Eugene’s hands darted up to cover his bald scalp, his mouth agape in horror.
Walter glanced around, and when he realized that it was Eugene’s toupée that had blown off his head, he couldn’t stop the roaring laughter that built in his abdomen and released itself as a loud cackle. A couple younger folks giggled under their breath, but most had covered their mouths in shock and looked back at the bastard that dared laugh at such an embarrassing mishap.
At this point, considering what had just happened, Walter no longer cared what people thought of him, he laughed and laughed—it was uncontrollable anyway. Stella was slapping his shoulder to get him to stop as Eugene fumbled away, mumbling curses as he tried to release himself from his contraption while his wife chased after him to calm him down. Several others headed towards the pond to fish out what now looked like a dead rat floating in the water, using sticks and canes to wrangle it out. Tears glistened in the corners of Walter’s eyes as he continued hysterically in his seat, while everyone else had gotten up to console Eugene or to help the others fetch the expensive hair piece.
“And he,” Walter could barely get out a full sentence through his choking laughter, “he always bragged about his hair line, his ‘thick youthful locks’ Stel!” Walter finally managed through his merriment, clutching the handle of his cane for support as he heaved forward, coughing now between catching his breath and laughing more.
When he had finally controlled himself—or more so when Stella threatened to make him bus home—Walter was stretched out in his chair, breathing deeply and rubbing his sore facial muscles.
“You will march over there, Walter, and apologize this instant! You promised you would behave today and not provoke Eugene.” Stella was standing over him in her usual posture with her hands on her hips and her brow furrowed in anger. “His wife toiled to make this a special day, and you know that Eugene has had enough humiliation this week as it is, what with his granddaughter using his underpants as a flag in her treehouse…”
“Where is this granddaughter, I should like to meet her,” Walter replied, giggling again.
Stella’s lips crinkled inward until she looked about to give him a kiss of death; his wife was particularly frightening when she went silent, it reminded him of the time he accidentally got drunk while stubbornly trying to repair his own shirt, where he lost the needle and ended up destroying the house, ultimately breaking her priceless antique figurine. Needless to say, he had spent weeks browsing antique stores with her to find a replacement, which was a remarkably cruel punishment for a man who not only hated shopping, but for one who had to use the money he had saved for car parts to pay for it—as if tearing the muscle in his knee after doing a homerun-like slide on their floor while trying to turn off the smoke alarm before Stella came in the door wasn’t punishment enough.
Remembering this, and seeing that her face offered no chance of revoking her sentence, Walter’s smile faded. He sighed as he stood up to begin his walk of shame towards Eugene, dragging his feet as he went grudgingly along. When Walter was a few yards away from his target, he glanced back at Stella, who, to his dismay, was right behind him—there would be no fooling her today.
Groaning as he realized that some of the others were within earshot and would be able to witness his defeat, Walter stopped a foot behind Eugene, who was faced the other way. Walter exhaled sharply before clearing his throat in order to elicit his attention, but to no avail. ‘The pompous old codger is going to make me beg,’ Walter thought grimly to himself.
He coughed a little louder, which roused everyone else’s interest as well, before muttering, “Ahem, Eugene.” His name tasted like sour milk and shifted his top dentures downward, but it was the best that he could do to say it like a cold summons, as opposed to such a way that asked for attention like a child.
Eugene turned around haughtily, his fat bottom lip suctioned over the top while his glasses magnified his stony eyes.
For a tense moment, nobody said anything, and Walter couldn’t help but notice a tuft of gray hair that jutted out on his gut between the buttons of Eugene’s tight shirt. ‘Hair’… he thought again but had to quickly shake the distracting thoughts from his head to avoid laughing again.
The words seemed stuck in his throat and he felt like he would have to gag them out. “I, uh,” Walter scanned the faces watching him and he felt his own face redden. “I’m, well you know, sorry ‘bout that.” He spit the last words out so quick that they were nearly incomprehensible.
Eugene simply stared at him, his lip quivering. Then he replied, “I don’t think I heard that. You’re sorry for what?”
Walter ground his teeth. “Seems like you did, or do you need my hearing aid more than I do?” Eugene inhaled sharply through his nostrils at the jab, and a strong nudge in Walter’s ribs told him that Stella was not impressed with his sarcasm.
“You, sir, are as untalented as a deaf conductor! And you ruined my performance because of your petty jealousy!” Eugene seethed, spit spraying out onto his whiskers as he pointed his fat index finger at Walter.
“I did no such thing!” Walter countered, swatting his finger away like it was a locust. “It was your audacity that stole my performance to replace it with a clapping monkey, and your cheap dirty-hairy rug blowin’ in the wind!” Walter turned to leave but spun back on his heal, “I was trying to apologize ya’ calcified turtle waxer.”
Those who hadn’t laughed before couldn’t help their humor now, while they tried in vain to stifle their giggles with their hands—Walter and Eugene had always been promising entertainment anyway.
Stella apologized inaudibly to Eugene’s wife who stood nearby, with a shocked yet not surprised expression on her face, before shuffling after Walter. But he would hear no more of it and accepted his well-earned banishment to the bench by the pond for the duration of the cleanup.
“What is it?” Jill’s voice wrenched Walter back to reality. “You were giggling, what’s so funny?” She was leaning forward now, eager to hear a good story.
“Oh nothing, dear,” he replied patting her hand, but was still grinning like a madman. “I was just remembering what happened today.”
Jill cocked her head and then smiled, “It’s good you remember. My grandpa forgets things sometimes…Like today when he forgot some of the cords during his song. Or the time he forgot what kind of haircut he usually gets—I think he forgot where he even was—and so the barber thought he wanted it shaved off. He didn’t have much hair anyway, but grandma says not to talk about it.” She shrugged her shoulders.
Walter sat forward, his eyes widening as he slowly turned around to look behind him at the people who were nearly finished cleaning up. “What did you say your grandpa’s name was?”
Jill began subconsciously swinging her legs again, watching as a mother duck and a row of ducklings splashed into the pond. “I didn’t. His name is Eugene.” Then she turned around to point him out.
When Eugene finally noticed his granddaughter waving wildly at him, his eyes met Walters’. Walter suppressed a hiccup, which made him suddenly feel gassy, as he quickly turned back around to the safety of his pond view. He was as bewildered as he had ever felt, and Walter scoffed humorously under his breath—what a day, he thought to himself.
“Jillian!” The voice was her mothers’, calling from the parking lot. “Come on, honey, it’s time to go!”
She stood up and brushed off her coveralls. “Well I have to go, it was nice talking to you…”
“Walter,” he finally managed in his baffled state, scratching his scalp.
“Hi Walter.”
He looked up at her and returned her warm smile. “It was very nice meeting you too, Jill. You’re a good kid.”
As she began skipping up the path away from the pond, Walter called after her, “and tell you’re grandpa I’m sorry. That Walter is sorry.”
“Don’t worry, he will get over it.” But then a sense of mischievousness flashed across her face. “He says that you could use a hair piece too, so you ‘don’t look like a cockatoo all the time.’”
Jill grinned, waved, and then ran off towards the parking lot, leaving Walter bamboozled. Then he began to chuckle as he patted down the tuft of hair that the wind was blowing aloft.
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