The man came in through the garage. I was under Unit 9 and
I saw his feet go shuffling by. I called to him and he waited while I
rolled out.
“Can I assist you sir?”
“Where’s the cops?” is what he says. I told him he was
turned around and this was the City Yard. He pointed to ‘9’ and says, “Cops.” I
tell him “You are a block away from the Police Station.” I walked to the back
bay and pointed out the flag pole. “That flag is at the Police Station.
Understand?” He looked confused. “Go to the flag.” I saluted instinctively, and
he saluted me back. Right snappy, like he’d done it before. He nodded and
walked out.
**********
That man has been whittling for the last three months. He
never whittled before in his life, he said, but he had a purpose this time,
just never told no one what that purpose might be. His hands hurt and he grew
frustrated, I could tell, finding half finished objects, almost like a child’s
carving. Looked something like an airplane – like a Cub Scout might try. Tossed
them out his front door in a tantrum…scattered all around on his yard. At first
I worried about the knife and him cutting himself, but he seemed to avoid it,
and handled it proper, that I could see and thought maybe it was some good
therapy. Then, I asked him that
very same week, what he did to his hands. You saw the hands. They were black.
Inky. Like dye. He said he scrubbed and scrubbed and just couldn’t get it off,
but he needed it for his project. I offered to help, maybe with a brush, but he
yelled at me said he needed no help, and he wasn’t my child. Who was I to
argue? I let him be after that. He’d been through a lot. Losing his wife. He
was a most kind man. They both were. Laughing…!!! Sweet people. Life don’t stay the same.
I saw him walking up the street that morning. I was
worried because he had gotten lost on two occasions recently….and…you don’t
know about some people’s state of mind. The police brought him home before, and
I talked to them. They asked questions about his family…his care. I told him I
was a close neighbor and try to keep ‘an eye..’, but that’s about all he had
left. They said something about Social Services, but I don’t know what
transpired. They had my number, but no one called. I watched him walk up that
street. How could I stop him? Why should I stop him? If I’d known, I would have
stopped him.
**********
What time did he enter the building?
10:48.
Front door? Scanner?
East Entry, Front. He ‘Passed’ the scan. He looked to be
lost. Stood in the middle of the lobby gazing around, so I approached him. He
fumbled with something in his pocket. I thought maybe he was stashing a pint.
He was disheveled. I smelled no booze. He cursed to himself and withdrew his
hand…looked like it was covered with grease, like a mechanic. I took a closer
look to make sure it wasn’t gangrene at his age, but found it more like some
blue-black ‘ink’. He said he wanted to talk to ‘cops’. I ask if I could help
but he shook his head. I thought I looked the part, but apparently he didn’t
agree. I asked if he wanted to file a report, witnessed a crime or needed our
services. He nodded yes, and said “…crime.” I wondered if this ‘crime’ might
include counterfeiting…with the ink… so I asked him to take a seat on the
bench. He did. He sat for awhile, then moseyed on down to the drinking
fountain, then the men’s room. When he comes out, he’s smiling. He shuffles
past me, into the duty room and the next thing I know 14 guys are unloading
their weapons…like a firing range in there. He was here on a mission and he
finished it. Wooden gun and shoe polish…damn sad ending. Hope he got where he
wanted to go.
