Shattered (3 page)

“Pretty nice, eh?” he asked.

The two guys between us backed away until all three of them stood side by side. I staggered forward so that the man was now between them and me.

“You really think you're scaring us?” the leader asked. “Not trying to scare anybody. Just want us to walk away in one direction and the three of you go in the other.”

“You're not goin' anywhere except down … let's take'em!” the guy yelled.

The three thugs surged forward. Lightning-like, the man jumped to the side and with his leg swept the feet out from under the leader, who crashed to the gravel with a heavy thud! Almost in the same motion he brought the
metal rod down on the leg of a second, who screamed out in pain as he collapsed to a heap on the ground. The third one skidded to a stop. The man stepped toward him, swinging the metal rod in the air, and the young guy turned and ran away. Now the man spun around and leaped forward until he was standing over top of the two thugs.

“Don't move!” he yelled.

I stood stock still before I realized he wasn't talking to me.

One of the two tried to get back up. The man reached over and kicked his arm out from under him and he crashed back down to the ground. The other one was clutching his leg, rolling around in pain.

“Shoes,” the man said, pointing the metal rod at them. “Sure … he can have them … we weren't really goin' to take them,” the leader whimpered. He didn't sound so brave now—or look so big. He reached to the ground where my shoes had fallen when he was knocked down. He held them out for me.

Cautiously I inched forward and took them. “Thanks,” I said. That sounded stupid.

“Now your shoes,” the man said.

“What?” the thug asked.

“I want
all
the shoes.
Your
shoes … and his,” he said, pointing at them with the metal bar.

“But—”

“Now!” He took the bar and slammed it against one of the shrubs, causing the wood to splinter.

Both thugs scrambled to undo their laces.

“No, wait!” he ordered. “You get to keep your shoes,” he said, pointing to the guy whose leg he'd hurt. He
pointed to the other. “I want your shoes
and
your coat … I hope it doesn't have lice.”

The thug looked shocked and then angry and then like he was going to say something, but he didn't. Instead he took off his second shoe and then slipped out of his jacket.

“Get up.”

The injured one had trouble rising—he was barely able to put weight on the one leg. He was grimacing in pain and his face was stained with tears.

“Now get out of this park and I don't ever want to see either of you back here again.”

“This isn't the end,” the big guy said. Suddenly, on his feet, he was feeling more confident again.

“It is the end unless you want to lose your
pants
as well.”

I almost laughed but restrained myself. The thug now seemed more comical than threatening as he stood there without his leather jacket, bouncing around on his stocking feet—his big toe sticking out of a hole in the one sock.

“I won't forget you or what happened,” the thug said. Brave words, but I noticed he kept his distance.

“I don't want you to forget,” the bum said. “I want you to remember … remember what happens if you pick on people.” His voice was calm, quiet, but menacing. “Remember, if you come back here again, it won't just be your shoes and jacket that you lose.” He held the rod up. “You have any idea what would have happened if I'd hit him in the head instead of the leg?”

Neither of them answered.

“You want to find out?” the man demanded as he stepped toward them, waving the rod in the air.

The two men hurried away.

“Come on back!” he yelled, but they kept moving, not looking back.

We stood there and watched as they limped off into the gathering darkness, the one with his arm around the other, helping him move. The sun was almost completely down and it was becoming darker by the second.

“Are you all right?” the bum asked.

“I'm okay … a little shaky … but okay … thanks.” In truth I felt scared and confused and upset.

“Put on your shoes.”

I bent down and slipped on the first shoe, untied the second, and put it on. My feet were cold and my socks wet. I quickly tied my laces up.

“What are you going to do with those?” I asked, pointing to the leather jacket and pair of boots lying on the ground beside me.

“I almost forgot.” He picked up the jacket and tossed it into a garbage can. Next he grabbed one of the boots. “These are the sort of boots a soldier wears.” He shook his head in disgust. “What an insult to soldiers … men prepared to sacrifice their lives to protect our country and save others' lives … even the lives of scum like those three. Come, I'll walk you out of the park.”

I was going to say that wasn't necessary, but it was—I didn't want to walk alone, not now, after all that had happened, and certainly not in the dark. We walked along in silence. I wanted to say something to him. I didn't know exactly how to say it, but I had to try.

“It was lucky for me that you came along when you did,” I said.

“Luck had nothing to do with it. This is not the best place to be, so I figured maybe it would be good for me to stay close, until you got out of the park.”

“I didn't see you following me.”

He laughed. “You weren't
supposed
to see me. I was off to the side, staying among the trees and bushes and shadows. If nothing happened you wouldn't have known I was ever there.”

“But you thought something would happen.”

“I thought something
could
happen,” he answered. “I told you this place isn't safe … especially not at night. It's good to have at least one friend with you—that's why I always carry this,” he said, holding up the metal rod.

“I'm pretty happy you had that with you.”

He shrugged. “Most people who live out here have something to protect themselves.”

“People carry around pieces of metal?”

“Pieces of metal, pipes, box cutters, knives, machetes.” “People have machetes?” I questioned. I found that hard to believe.

He nodded. “They can be pretty deadly.”

“I can't even imagine what it would do to somebody if you hit them with a machete.”

“I don't have to imagine,” he said, his words so quiet that I almost didn't hear him.

His answer startled me. Did that mean he didn't have to imagine because he'd seen it happen or because he'd done it himself? I edged slightly away from him. He'd saved me, but I didn't know anything about him other than he was some bum, a bum who carried a metal rod
up his sleeve, a metal rod that he'd just used to smash some guy in the leg, maybe breaking it for all I knew. And worse still, he'd basically threatened to kill them if they came back …
kill
them. What was to stop him from hitting
me
in the side of the head with it if I said something he didn't like, or if some crazy voice in his head told him to?

Up ahead I could see the street lights, and then flashes of cars passing by, and then finally the street itself. I felt a huge sense of relief. I'd be awfully happy to get out of that park and back onto the sidewalk. We stopped when we came to the street.

“You okay from here?” he asked.

“Sure, no problem. I really appreciate what you did. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't come along.”

“I have a pretty good idea,” he said.

That sent a shudder up my spine. I had a pretty good idea too. “Thanks again for what you did.”

“You want to really thank me?” he asked.

“Sure.” I started to reach for my wallet.

“Don't pull that out,” he snapped. “I don't want any more of your money. You already gave me some change.”

“But I have more I could give to let you know how much I appreciate what—”

“The best thing you could give me—the way to thank me—is to
never
come to this park at night again. Okay?”

“You don't have to worry about that.”

“Good. You'll be fine. Stay on the street. Do you have far to go now?”

“It's just up ahead.”

“You better get going. The street is safer than the park, but that doesn't make it safe. Keep your eyes open and your head up, understand?”

I nodded. I wasn't going to let anybody sneak up on me again. I started off. I got partway down the block and then stopped and turned around. He was still standing there, watching—watching over me. I waved and he waved back. He turned and headed into the park. He quickly vanished into the darkness. Maybe he was just a bum. Maybe he was even crazy. But he'd been my guardian angel and he was gone. I suddenly felt open and exposed. I looked all around. I wondered if I was being watched. I hurried up the street.

Two

THERE WERE VERY FEW PEOPLE
on the street, so I was surprised when I saw a line of people pressed against a building up ahead. I was just about to reach into my pocket and pull out the slip of paper that had the address written on it when it suddenly connected in my head— this was probably the place. As I got closer I saw a sign on the building—the club. The lettering was in bright orange paint, crudely done and peeling away.

The men in line, and I noticed that it
was
all men, were huddled together, like they were shielding each other from the wind and the cold. They stood unmoving, as still and silent as statues. As I walked by I became aware that not a single person reacted to my passing. Nobody said anything or even looked over. Their eyes were locked on the ground, staring at their feet. Nobody was making any eye contact with anybody else.

With them not looking at me I felt free to look at them. They were dressed in a shoddy assortment of coats and hats and scarves and boots and shoes. Nothing seemed to match anything else. It was obvious that some men had on layers and layers of clothing—they looked puffy. A couple weren't really even that badly dressed while some others looked as if they were clothed
completely in rags, held together in defiance of gravity and sanity.

I stopped in front of a door that marked the start of the line. Should I wait or just go inside? I thought about it for a second. There was no way I was waiting out here with these people. Slowly, hesitantly, I walked to the door and gave it a little push. It opened and I peeked inside. The room was dominated by eight or ten long, long wooden tables, each flanked by benches. There wasn't a soul in sight. I edged in through the door. It was warm and there was the distinct smell of cooking. I wasn't sure what it was, but it didn't smell half bad.

A man wearing an apron and carrying a big pot came into the room through a swinging door down at the far end of the hall.

“Excuse me,” I called out.

“It's almost ready, just wait outside and—” He looked up and saw me.

“I'm not here to eat,” I explained. “I'm here to see Mr. MacDonald.”

“I'm MacDonald.”

I walked over toward him. “I'm Ian Blackburn.” I held out my hand to shake. He just stared at me, looking me up and down. I suddenly felt even more nervous and unsure of myself.

He turned away and put the pot down on a counter alongside another big pot. Both were steaming hot— that's where the smell was coming from.

“So why are you here?” he asked, sounding suspicious. I lowered my hand. “I'm here to apply for a position.”
He laughed. It was a thick, heavy, throaty laugh that forced its way out. “The only position we have is upright. Standing right here behind the counter shovelling out food.”

“That's what I'm here for, to be interviewed to do that … as a volunteer.”

“Volunteers we have, interviews we don't. You showed up so you get to work.”

I felt relieved. Being late hadn't cost me the job. He reached down and grabbed something off the counter and tossed it to me. I unravelled it to reveal a balled-up apron. It was greyish and stained.

“Put it on and then slip on some gloves.”

I started to take my coat off.

“Better leave that on. I ain't got time to lock it up in back and if you lay it down somebody might steal it … best not to lay anything down around here you don't want to walk. Some people might try to rip you off for a nice coat like that.”

It wasn't much of a stretch for me to believe him. For a split second I thought of telling him what had happened and then stopped myself. I just felt embarrassed and stupid about the whole thing. I should have seen it coming.

I took a better look at him. He was a strange-looking old bird. He was shorter than me, but stocky, and looked like he could take care of himself. Actually, judging from the way his nose was all bent out of shape I was certain he'd been in more than a few fights in his time. I tried to figure out his age. His hair was grey and thin and his face was lined and weather-beaten. He had to be in his sixties, if not older.

I slipped the apron on over my head, looped the strings around my waist and tied them up.

“What did you say your name was again?” he asked. “Ian.”

“Well, Ian, I'll explain what you have to do. It isn't particularly complicated. Each man grabs one of those,” he said, pointing to a pile of brown trays. “He puts a bowl and a plate and a plastic cup on it and then moves over here where you give him two scoops of food in the bowl, one slice of bread, and then I pour'em a drink. Think you can handle that?”

“I think so.”

“Some of the guys might ask you to give'em more.

Just tell'em that they only get one serving. After everybody has eaten, if there's any left, then they can come back for seconds. Most of the fellas are regulars and know the rules, but some of'em like to test anybody new.”