Missing Molly

I’d wondered if I should tell her—if telling her would be safe. Molly had been coming by since she was a little girl tagging along with her mother, and I knew she’d wonder when she turned the corner and saw the canvas draped down over my produce stand. In all these years, my regulars have only seen the tarp unrolled once, and that was a good fistful of years ago. I’d slipped on some ice and smacked my head on the corner of the stand before landing on my behind. Jacob from the newsstand helped me to my feet and then insisted I have the bump looked at. It was the size of a kiwi even before I was upright. I spent the rest of the day waiting to be seen in the ER while more pressing cases got tended.

To be honest, I think the intake nurse let me rot there as a sort of payback, and I guess I had it coming. She’d taken my blood pressure and asked about my health history. She sounded young. New, I remember thinking. I told her I hadn’t been able to see anything since I hit the concrete. Total darkness. I smiled when I said it, which, looking back, probably made her think I’d really knocked myself senseless. Only after she got worked up and started twittering like a magpie did I add that I hadn’t seen anything before the fall, either. Not for almost thirty-nine years before. So I sat there in a hard chair for the better part of that day, and yeah, I suppose I deserved to.

Not everybody gets my sense of humor. Maybe they think since my eyes don’t work, my brain doesn’t either. Maybe they’re just uncomfortable around me, in general. Maybe their shorts are too tight. I don’t know. What I do know is my ears work just fine and I’ll tell ‘ya, I’ve heard some stuff. Some real interesting stuff.

Molly is special. I guess she’ll probably start buying her produce at the Super Walmart now. She shouldn’t be eating that crap—nowhere near fresh and probably covered in pesticides. Maybe I should have said something to her before I left.

She’d patted my arm when I handed her the bag, just like she’s always done. “See you tomorrow, my friend,” she said.

I stood there for a second, deciding. I wanted to tell her everything. Instead, I just smiled and said, “No, you won’t.”

“No?” she asked. “You takin’ a day off, Robert? Well, good for you! You work too much.”

“I won the lottery and I’m movin’ out of this cold, damn city. By tomorrow afternoon I’ll be a beach bum, poking my toes into the sand in paradise without a worry in the world, never to be heard from again.”

She laughed and gave my hand a quick squeeze. “Then take me with you,” she said as she turned to head east toward her building. I could hear the mesh bag brushing against her slacks as she walked away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Robert,” she called back to me.

I didn’t say a word.

Molly’s a good egg, but I think if she knew, she wouldn’t be able to keep it to herself. Or worse, she might see me differently. Think less of me. Otherwise, I would’ve told her the whole story. Her mama was the same way. Good people. Not everybody is though, that’s for sure. I told you, I hear stuff.

A couple of months back I was behind the stand, stooped to straighten the pile of bags underneath. That’s when I heard him. Now I don’t want to tell you his name, but he was a bigwig politician. Retired now—I made sure of that—but you’d know him. Anyway, I could tell by his tone he was up to no good. I’ve heard that tone before. Plenty of times. It’s amazing what people will say right on the street, like nobody’s listening. But I listen.

I stayed down, crouched with my head ducked low. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This guy was unbelievable. It’s like he was growling, bragging, and threatening all at the same time. Telling somebody off. He was demanding payment, talking about a contract, what this guy owed him. How he built him and could easily tear him down. Practically hissing into his phone. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and pushed the button to record a memo.

After he walked away, I thought about what I should do. I considered calling the police or maybe that guy on the news with the serious voice. He sounds trustworthy. When I played the conversation back later, in my apartment, it hit me. I knew what I’d do.

I’ve spent most of my life in tight spaces. My place is just a studio—the bedroom is the living room, and a corner of that is the kitchen. Only the bathroom has its own door. The area where I’ve spent almost every day for the past two decades behind the produce stand is just twelve paces wide. I don’t need much, but I’ve always craved a wide stretch of space.

I wonder what Molly thought when she rounded the corner this morning to pick out a plump cantaloupe and saw the canvas down and snapped tight. I wonder if she’ll miss me as much as I already miss her. And I wonder when that server is going to bring my strawberry margarita. Even under this umbrella, the beach is really hot.

~*~*~*~*~*~

(GBE #54, Fiction, Prompt: “Lucky Break”)