"Now that he's alone again—" said Muse Harding.
I stopped short of responding, I really didn't want anything to do with old man Beck. My Uncle Jeffery told me that the old man was dangerous, that he may not look or act it, but he had kind of one of those—so he called, 'evil eyes,' so I figured my uncle knew something. Oddly I thought it was—for my uncle to regard someone in this fashion—but he knew Muse, and the gang I hung around with was troublesome, and they liked to bully folks around, and Old Man Beck was the new guy on the block, sort of speaking, so he got the treatment from the gang I suppose you could say; my uncle got along with him quite well for some peculiar reason though, it baffled me at first. He came from Chicago I've heard (and at one time worked in the Stockyards of South Saint Paul, some twenty years before he moved here), and bought the store down the block, a small store, grocery store. I guess his wife died—she was from Chicago too, and he had met her when he was in the Army, some time ago, and when he got out, moved there with her, in Chicago. My uncle saw a plaque on the wall someplace in the store, WWII, I guess, veteran, and told me to take heed of that. But that was a long time ago, it was 1965 now, I mean, that was twenty years ago when that picture was taken—someplace over in the jungles in Indonesia. I've heard he fought over in Europe someplace also. So my uncle says.
"Frankie, let's go and hassle old man Beck?" I hesitated, but the other two, Sammy and Amble, Muse's girlfriend, all insisted. I liked Amble, she was genuine romance from the word go. When Muse (who was always thinking, or looked like he was thinking) was out of town with his dad fishing, she'd put out for both me and Sammy. She liked sex more than drinking or food, or so it seemed.
I started to walk towards the store, and all three started to applause me, as if it was a bribe they had to give to enhance my loyalty.
Once in the store Muse looked about, took some potato chips and started to eat them without paying; the old man looked a Muse about ready to say how much he owed, I think, and Muse kicked the potato chip stand so hard they all fell onto the floor. Muse was two hundred and eighty pounds, perhaps six-foot seven inches tall; the old man, five foot eight, probably 175 pounds; then Muse opened up a bottle of Coke and started drinking it. Again the old man was about to say something, but Muse yelled,
"Don't open your mouth old man, or I'll shut it for you."
And the old man looked, stared at Muse as if he was a religious man of some kind, you know a convinced assurance this was not the end of this tribulation, almost a remorseless gleam in his eyes. Then I knew what my uncle was trying to tell me. Threats of hellfire came from his eyes, but Muse and Amble and Sammy didn't' see it that way.
With their knees and hands they tore the place apart, everything was on the floor: bread, tin goods, everything all over the place, short of actually taking money out of the register, the place was robbed of its potential to make a source of revenue for the old man, it was a disaster. I stood aghast. The old man looked at me, a smirk came to his face, and again I was the only one that saw it. His voice alternately hummed in a groan like fashion, utterances more than words. Yet in spite of this, he was calm, too calm for my liking; I looked at that picture my uncle told me about, it seemed to flash at me, like his clam eyes, he was calm in the picture also, with a damn rifle in his hands, and a closed mouth, hard looking face, piercing eyes, eyes like at this very moment.
"Mr. Beck, I'm sorry," I said quickly, remembering what my uncle said, looking at his war picture he had on the wall, he had some colorful medals by them, not sure what they meant; a star and a heart shaped medal.
Said Muse without ceasing,
"F*ck the old man Frankie, I'm going to pound the shit out of him, get out of my way…!" and he grabbed the old man and slapped him several times across the face, but he'd not fight back, nor did he blink an eye, or shed a tear, it was like he needed to get mad before he could do anything, and I waited to see the old man do something but he did nothing, but perhaps taking the pain was something, it was surely more pain than I could take, and pain is not a lightly thing to overlook, I bet. It kind of struck Muse a bit, as if he was inquisitive why he was so tolerant, but he didn't put two and two together—not yet anyhow. Like my uncle warned me, the evil eye picks its time and place, it has patience, tolerance, temperaments—, all viewed as distrustful in battle; you got to keep an open clear candle in your mind, and that is what old man Beck was doing.
—The physical and alive portrait of the old man—the way he looked now, this very moment, old man Beck, who owned this store was not good, and wh3n we left I expected to hear from the police, we all did, and Muse had a story for us, that we'd tell them if they questioned us.
We all were together playing cards at his house: simple as that. But somehow I had a chilly or overheated heart it wouldn't end up being that way or so simply in the long run.
For two weeks I walked past the store, you could see through the windows, the old man just sat in the store looking at the destruction, not fixing this and that, anything a little bit of everything, or so it seemed, a lot of [or mostly] staring, and musing. He kept the door locked so no business could come in. Then a few more weeks went by, it was over a month now since the vicious attack on him and his store occurred, and the old man took no pains in fixing anything he just seemingly toyed with this and that in the store—tinkering around fixing whatever, but it was on a Monday morning we all saw him come out of his store and put up a 'For Sale', sign; funny how you can't miss something like that; I mean you got all these things in the world to do, and you spot this immediately. It could have been anyway at any time, but it was just then, at that moment. Why not when I'm sleeping put up the sign. Anyhow, Muse, unimaginative, started to walk over to the old man, across the street, but the old man just kept to himself, nailed the sign up on the store door.
Various moments in my life I remember, and I do remember this one quite clear: nowadays (now that this is in the past) it is like a bell that rings, when triggered by some undisputed moment, happening in my life by someone else, this old moment comes up, up with a few others life cracking through thin ice, and all of a sudden sinking into cold icy water: Muse went to hit the old man, and the police were across the street, Muse had not seen them, and therefore, threw a direct heavy punch at the old man's face, and the old man didn't move. He took the punch, his face now bleeding; he wiped his lips, with the side of his hand, looked at the blood, and tasted it: yes, yes, yes, I didn't stutter, he tastes it and smiles, I'll be hogtied, he liked seeing the blood. I knew a man once, a fighter, my uncle really knew him, I just saw him fight, my uncle took me to the fights, and he let the other man hit him until he bleed, and then fought the man like crazy. I do believe that man after he looked at his blood, felt the pain, could not be beat with a bullet in his head; and he did win the fight, hands down, I mean he beat the man forkful, no mercy, no pity. This was one of those moments. Harmless you might think, but it shook up Muse. He went to hit him again, and the police came running over, and the potential attack was over.
The old man nodded to the police, as if all was ok, the policeman grabbing big Muse, his club in his hand ready for resistance, so says Beck:
"I thank you but no need for your assistance, we can settle this quietly."
The police (there were two, one standing back a foot or two, hands on his holster, where his pistol was) were dumbfounded, and thought the old man a bit wacky, but walked away nonetheless, shaking their heads as if they wanted to mangle Muse for supper. Muse thought for a moment he scared the old man, scared him into a fear that should he not get Muse out of this situation, he'd come back later and finish the job; until the old man's explanation came forth:
"Write and let me know how you're doing," the old man said.
Muse confused said, "Let you know what, write what?"
The man just walked away, waving his hand, nodded his head, brushed against the door as he walked inside his store.
The old man had moved out, and everything was quiet for a long time, perhaps three months. Then various things took place. In the bedrooms of Muse, Sammy and Amble, there were hand writings on their bedroom walls. Rambling descriptions of torments to be, pictures of decapitations; Muse tried to pretend he was not scared, but he was, we all were. He knew it was that old man, but didn't know how he had gotten into his house, and then his bedroom. Amble was scared to death and called the police, but the old man was far away, in another state, and the police could do nothing to lower her fear; and Sammy, who never said much about these mysterious happenings, quivered all the time now.
This one day, I just kind of strolled by the old man's store, now vacant, peeked through the window to see if he was there, knowing he wasn't really, and took a quick look at that old picture on the wall, looked at that hard face, his eyes, that rifle, his solid stance, with the other soldiers. Then I noticed something I had never noticed before, but couldn't see it clear, the faces on the men by him were strange, but I couldn't pin point it, the strangeness to them. What was it, I mean, nothing alarming, just different, and something that didn't belong. You ever get those feelings, something is wrong, but just what is not clear, I was getting on of those feelings. So I opened the window, it wasn't hard, it was just old paint holding it tightly into its place, and once in I examined the picture closer.
The soldiers behind him were Japanese; enemy soldiers, with American Uniforms on. Funny I thought, then I looked closer, and there were soldiers behind them, holding the others up, the Japanese soldiers up, they were dead, all dead. Then I looked by their helmets, you could see round holes in their heads, all three of them. Funny I never saw that before, so I told myself, but then I only glanced at the picture, and it was behind the counter up a ways, blocked a bit by other items or merchandise. I had to take a second look, yes, yes, holes in the head, and not a bit of remorse from his face, from the old man's face—cool as a cucumber. But why was he not holding them, why the other guys? So I asked myself. I looked closer at his rank: hay— I said, yes, he was the commanding officer, that's got to be it, he was a captain, two bars, that's captain rank all right. Then I noticed along side his belt, attached to his belt, on a chain hooked onto his belt, he had ears hanging. I quickly looked at the soldiers: my gosh, my gosh…I must have said it one –hundred times, "…my gosh…they have no ears!!"
—The old man then sent Muse a letter asking him how he was, how the gang was doing, hoping all was well with them. He even gave his new address so Muse, the big ox, so he could write back if he wished, and now Muse handed it over to the police, but the old man was back in Chicago, and Muse, well he and us in Minnesota, what could anyone do?
Sammy asked Muse, or better put, made a suggestion we all go to Chicago and do the old man in. But Muse was too scared, and I was not being tormented by him, it was they, so I refused (I figured better left alone, they did the dirty deeds they can pay the price, plus it was only a little scare tactic by the old man, for the moment).
Sammy did go on his own looking for the old man, bought a gun also, and never returned back to Minnesota. No one ever found a trace of him. The police questioned the old man, but all he said was: they had destroyed his property, and yes, Sammy came around, but he kept his doors locked, and would not allow him in, in fear of what might happen, and that was the last he knew of him. And once his story was checked out—for all knew the story back in Minnesota—the police left well enough alone, I mean, beyond that, what more checking could they do. But what bothered Muse was, the old man's letters kept coming, and were cheerful. No revenge talk, no alarming words; nothing at all to indicate uneasiness, agitation, or apprehension. The disappearance of Sammy did not set well with his parents, but again, what could be done about it? Not a thing.
It was in July of 1966 when it happened, when it all took place. And it happened so quickly, so abruptly, it took a while to put it together. Mr. Beck had climbed up Muse's tree somehow, someway, along side of his house, and opened his second story window, which led into his bedroom, he had cut the whole glass window right out of its frame. He was not a big man Mr. Beck, so he went through it easily. He injected something into Muse's arm and stepped back as Muse jumped out of bed, and fell right back onto it paralyzed, like a big sequoia tree falling I picture it. Then the two-toned colored (green and black) charcoal face man—which looked similar to a leather mask tightly absorbed into his fleshy skin, his face, and neck, who we assumed at the time, to be Mr. Beck, had also a black bandana covering his forehead, silently paced the room, paced it calmly, and then abruptly, climbed upon the bed, like a scorpion, next to the huge Muse he bend his body to face him: head to head, the downed sequoia now had tears, moans coming out of Muse's eye lids and mouth. Tangled, entwined, unable to move inside his own body and not able to unfasten his muscles to save himself, he looked into those eyes of Mr. Beck, he must have, the very ones in the picture; but the old man had no intentions of killing him, yet that would be the only mercy he was granted, if that indeed can be called mercy: for the ugly part had not yet taken place.
The old man pulled out a butcher's knife, one for slicing bacon backs, and cutting the tendons in the back of a pigs foot, hanging from—and coming down from, the conveyer belt at a slaughterhouse, he had worked there once; in addition, he had used it to cut out the infected parts deep imbedded inside the ham pieces of the fleshly pigs, used at the stockyards in South Saint Paul (sometimes he was even told to leave the infectious part in, if they noticed him cutting too much out; and he'd laugh, not at what they said, but at what might happen to the person eating that old boil left inside the ham).
Now the old man grabbed the youth's hand, the one he had been hit with, slapped with, his right wrist was now being severed, and in the clap of an eye, he had cut it completely off with a sweep. Muse's eyes almost popped out of his sockets. Then he cut out his tongue out, and when he left as quickly as he had come in, he had two ears dangling from his belt, along side of his belt, on an old chain.
—That very same night, the night he left Muse's house, he snuck over to Amble's house, into her bedroom akin to the way he got into Muse's house, he knew he'd have to complete his mission all at once: this very evening to be exact, lest the cops catch him, and perchance the mission would have to be aborted because of other extenuating circumstances, thus, it was this evening it had to be done, if done at all; thus, there he stood, there in the melting dark room, looking at her, peering down upon her, like a devil with a long tail, wondering what she was dreaming of, and when she wakes up what her response would be: would she think she woke up in hell? Or perhaps this was a bad dream. He looked at her ears, her nose, her everything; he told himself this had to be done quickly, no time for waiting, he took out a drawer from her dresser, and threw the cloths on the floor, now he had it in the air, when she opened her eyes, he hit her, smashed her in the head with it, clubbed her over the head with it like the butt of a riffle, then cut her foot off as if she might try to chase him, then he kicked her cloths around like she had kicked his food around, the very one that kicked all the food onto the floor: was thumping inside his head. She was out like a light, and off came her ears, and out the window he was, four ears flopping against his thigh.
Everyone seemed to know who done it, especially the victims and their parents, but the old man simply said it was a mirage on their behalf, he had left well enough alone, plus, there was no proof to that anyhow, only cleaver guesses, although guesses that were pretty right on, you could not win in court, so the county attorney said. This is not the end of the story, no, the old man sent flowers to the hospitals they were both at, Muse and his girlfriend, like throwing salt on a wound. The parents of the kids even hired guards to sit outside the hospitals rooms.
One might be saying, this was overkill for a nasty deed done to an old man, and I'd agree with it, except, it might get back to the old man, and he'd come after me, so I'm just saying: justice was done, and my uncle was right.
[4/2005] You may be asking, how do I know this to be true, and to be telling the story to you; well, my Uncle told me the parts I didn't already know, and old man Beck was my uncle's commanding officer in the war…something he forgot to let me know until after the incident; my sense of duty to my uncle was to say nothing to anyone and so I didn't, I mean, I didn't until now—some forty years after the fact. My uncle and old man Beck are dead now—the old man died in 1974 and my uncle in 2003; so I can now let the world know. Muse is still alive so if he reads this, he will know, and so is the once lovely Amble (her nickname we made up for her of course), whose real name is Marybell; sorry I couldn't have told you sooner.
Author/Poet, Dennis L. Siluk |
Atom Feed (xml)
No comments:
Post a Comment