Halfway Man

By TW Roolf

Somewhere along the way, Tony Brouwer's life took a few wrong turns. Estranged from family, unemployed, living off the public purse, and a regular in the meal queue at the Faith Assembly Church, Tony feels like the Good Ship Destiny has set sail before he could even reach the gangway. As he navigates the desperate downtown streets of a major Canadian city, the clock is ticking for hapless Tony, who finds himself caught halfway between hope and despair. 

 

A poignant, humorous, and uplifting novel, readers will find themselves cringing at Tony's missteps while rooting for his successes. An exploration of friendship and betrayal, love and loss, self-isolation and reconciliation, Halfway Man reveals our ability to shed the layers of a dark past and re-emerge into the light.

 

TW Roolf grew up in the working-class town of Jasper Place, Alberta, in a family of thirteen children. Today, Roolf is retired and lives on Vancouver Island, where he enjoys reading, writing, and the great outdoors. This is his first book. 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: TW Roolf
• Release date: Jun 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201556549

TW Roolf

TW Roolf grew up in the working-class town of Jasper Place, Alberta, in a family of thirteen children. Today, Roolf is retired and lives on Vancouver Island, where he enjoys reading, writing, and the great outdoors. This is his first book. 

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HalfWay_Man_ebookcover.jpg

Halfway Man

by TW Roolf

Copyright

Halfway Man

Copyright © 2021 by TW Roolf

First edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews, without permission in writing from the author at: 1247 Augusta Close, Parksville, BC V9P 2W3 or [e-mail].

This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, and places, and all dialogue and incidents portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover design: Sean Thompson (seanthompson.crevado.com)

Ebook: SpicaBookDesign (spicabookdesign.com)

Copy editing: Maureen Phillips (lifeandwords.com)

Behind the Book

behindthebook.ca

Dedication

This story, minus its stylistic profanities and limited lurid content, is dedicated to my family, siblings, parents, and friends, past and present. This story is also dedicated to YOU, the reader, without whom such stories would remain untold, unwritten. And to my sister, Irene, whom I never knew.

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

1. Curderroyal

2. Ms. Congeniality

3. Phone Call

4. Yes

5. Favour

6. Where Is Thy Sting?

7. O.P.

8. Resht in Peace

9. One and Done

10. Tony, at His Best

11. An Unlocked Door

12. Phone Calls

13. Sorry to Interrupt You

Acknowledgements

1. Curderroyal

The long line for the Thursday lunch in the basement of the Faith Assembly Church on Renton Street was getting longer, and slower. But to Tony, every thing, every day, including today, seemed too slow. Slow lineups, lineups, no matter what kind, but slow meal lineups in particular, presented a real challenge for Tony; he hated Slow. And he didn’t care much for the street regulars who’d line up for just about anything. And he’d missed breakfast by fifteen minutes, although he was certain it was only a few, not more.

And did they ever show up for work late? You fuckin’ bet they did, Tony assured himself, adding to his frustration.

Sometimes when standing in line too long, Tony would slowly become red in the face; red in the neck too; and ears, which turned purple-red, and looked like beet slices pinned to the side of his head. Tony would begin to flush, too, when he thought someone was fucking with him, a rare occasion, out of fun, or sheer boredom, with no real intent at all directed his way. And in particular when he was called Toner. As in tone ’er down. Which was pretty well the exact opposite of how he rolled.

At five-foot eleven, give or take, Tony had a sturdy build and broad shoulders. His angular facial features made him appear neither intimidating, nor easily intimidated. He could take. And he could give. And you’d rue the day if you were on the receiving end. His clumped, dark hair and weathered, pale complexion highlighted a sanguine appearance.

Tony had led a hardscrabble life. Or perhaps the converse was true. Yes, he had troubles. And he’d severed ties. With family. And with friends from the neighbourhood; some less than friendly types, much less. But he had escaped, seeking a new horizon. Somewhere along the way he’d taken a wrong turn, however. On the sunset side of his thirties, unemployed, living off the public purse and in the lunch queue at the Faith Assembly was just not where a man of Tony’s capacity was destined to be. And that frustration manifested itself often, and more often than not in places like the cafeteria lineup.

Perhaps anger. Or perhaps it was Tony’s very nature which could quickly impel a particular nastiness. Instantly he could take on the persona of a stern corrections guard running roughshod over the cons under his watch; this tendency provided Tony a semblance of control, however fleeting, over such mundane inconvenience as slow-moving lineups, which he had no control over whatsoever, of course. And which further frustrated him beyond measure. Tony would mumble to himself something that belittled others, put them in their place; this seemed to temper him despite the fact it was his own self-created fiction. But it served its purpose.

Tony wondered what the holdup was when suddenly he was pushed from behind. Nothing intentional. Happens in lineups. But why today? Why today, to Tony?

Tony turned around: Hey, give me some space, you’ll get your turn.

He glared at the shorter, slightly hunched regular in the over-sized gold and royal-blue team jacket with the letters RB and the number 34 on the upper right sleeve; on the upper left front, he could make out the crest of two crossed swords with the words Logan Lancers across the bottom.

He never played for no fuckin’ Lancers; fuckin’ football fraud, Tony confirmed to himself. Lancer-or-not behind him, Tony turned back around, paying no more attention to him.

Maybe his hearing wasn’t perfect, or maybe he just paid no heed, which would be a mistake, because a few moments later Mr. Lancer-or-not fell forward again, leaning heavily into Tony. This time, as if with purpose, although there really wasn’t any. But our Tony didn’t know it; he turned around again and scolded Mr. Lancer-or-not: Hey, you bump me again and you’d better know a good dentist, ’cuz you’re gonna need some new teeth to eat your grilled cheese, spewed Tony.

It was typical verbal overkill on Tony’s part. But the suggestion of receiving a new set of uppers, courtesy of one larger, agitated, red-faced Tony, immediately compelled the required attention.

And after coughing a deep, hoarse cough, Mr. Lancer-or-not piped up begrudgingly, Well sorreee, Buddeee!

It was the kind of response that posed an immediate dilemma for Tony. He accepted the apology, he really did. It was due him — at least the sorreee part. But was Mr. Lancer-or-not fuckin’ with him? You know, with the Buddeee shit?

Do I know you? asked Tony, thinking there was something, maybe, just maybe, behind the Buddeee shit.

Nope. Don’t think so, replied Mr. Lancer-or-not.

Well then, don’t call me ‘Buddee,’ Tony said with unmistakable firmness. And give me some room.

Well, if ever there was a convenient time for silence, for no response, this moment would be exactly that opportune time. But now our Mr. Lancer-or-not became downright upset at Tony.

He wasn’t gonna win no shoving match, never mind fighting bout, instead retorting: You always this charmin’, or just when you’re waitin’ in line for meatloaf? Whoa-a! Our Mr. Lancer-or-not could thrust when the moment called!

Now, Tony could be mean, real mean. You tick him off, and you’re on his bad side forever and a day. And you’ll know it too. For sure your time would come, probably from behind and … ‘wall-aah’! Now you’re chokin’ for air: Tony’s subtle way to remind you never to get on his bad side. More precisely, better never to get on any side; mainly ’cause there ain’t but rarely a good side to Tony anyways.

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Tony bent toward Mr. Lancer-or-not and moved his head menacingly, as if to plant his incisors on the lobe of his ear. And quietly, but real firm, like Tony could, he said, Fuck you.

Now most people on the receiving end of a quaint street greeting might be right set on returning the compliment; probably with an accompanying finger gesture, or fist gesture, too. But our Mr. Lancer-or-not uttered nary a syllable, nothin’. Nothin’. Instead, when Tony turned his back, he smiled to himself, fully satisfied he’d won this go-round: he had thrust his verbal lance good, real good, like the proud Lancer that his jacket purported he was; he’d convinced himself he’d won, though barely, this small chance encounter with Mr. Charmin’.

In fact, Mr. Lancer-or-not clearly understood the gist of Tony’s message, more importantly the imposing tone. In two small words the meaning conveyed was one of, Hey, little fucker, that was pretty good. But shut the fuck up, and don’t bump into me AGAIN. It was, in fact, a begrudging kind of nuanced respect, hidden somewhere in the vastness of possibility between Fuck and You. Yet he fully was aware of it, and would abide by its unwritten code: Shut the fuck up and don’t bump into me again. Or you’ll have fuckin’ hell to pay.

Tony felt better. The redness was retreating from his face. He was still very much in corrections guard mode; but he could now ease up. A bit. Not because he’d been firm with Mr. Lancer-or-not, but because the line was finally moving. Not fast enough for our Tony, but moving, like a caterpillar with so many legs, edging its way slowly towards the tip of the leaf. In this case, towards the tip of the loaf, the meatloaf.

What’s on today, asked Tony, next up to be served.

What’s it look like? replied the first server. Oh, yeah, he’d seen Tony before, too many times, and Tony had seen him. But why the bullshit? Why not just answer the question?

You don’t really want me to answer that, do you? queried Tony as the redness advanced slowly but surely. A corrections guard might normally want to smash a baton across someone’s mouth, but Tony’s remark greatly pleased himself, soothing his tense expression.

Now the meatloaf looked like meatloaf generally does. And it could have been cake, judging by its crusted, dark-brown appearance. Except the Chef Wannabees at Ye Olde Soup Kitchen had sprinkled some green flakes of something or other around the top, as if they were chefs at some fine diner. As well, some sort of whitish sauce was encircling the meatloaf, which must have been their best attempt at mushroom sauce; but it was obviously too fuckin’ thin, looking more like a murky creek of milky-grey mushroom soup. And the slices of meatloaf, already cut to be served, had been cut too thin; they were folded over onto themselves, looking like anything but meatloaf. But they were saved from humiliation by the supporting mound of the surrounding uncut piece of meatloaf.

It’s meatloaf; I already told you. But the answer came not from the server, but from the person behind, Mr. Lancer-or-not. Tony paused and gazed at Mr. Lancer-or-not.

Yeah, guess you did, relented Tony, in a tone unexpectedly forgiving given the circumstances of the last few minutes.

Pushing his plate forward, Tony nodded to the server, who knew he’d won the brief exchange, and at Tony’s expense; he basked in the glow of his lunch-line victory, giving a glance of disapproval with his raised brow as if to say, Take it or leave it, asshole. However, our Tony, who hated losing, hated even more that the server knew he’d won this bout, this time. This time only. As for Tony, he’d rather say, Fuck You! But that would get him a ticket to the back of the line, if not out of the hall for the day, or week.

And besides, the meatloaf was pretty good, most days.

So, it is meatloaf . . . and mashed. And green beans. Ugain. The stringy kind. Tony gathered up his tray and surveyed the room.

The far table was deserted, so he quickly darted towards it, refraining from any eye contact. He’d had enough conversation already to last the whole day. And more.

The basement mess area was starting to fill up with the regulars, as well as a few unfamiliar faces. The noise coming from the queue was loud and getting louder, with occasional shout-outs of names, coughing, and general lineup banter that for so many served as some sort of tribal social connection. Tony hated it all. It irritated him beyond measure. This was not his place. Nor his crowd. He knew in his gut that he was only going through a sort of temporary phase. It would all end. And soon, this basement diner shit would all be a memory. A bad fuckin’ meatloaf of memory. Tony ate quickly, making his way past the now nearly filled tables, towards the corridor to the hallway.

Hey, Toner!

Tony hesitated. Hearing the name Toner was not what Tony ever expected here. He could feel his blood surging, rushing through his neck like relentless waves overwhelming the shoreline. His face now was flushed, and he could feel the thumping in his head. He was not wanting at all to talk to anyone, wanting only to confirm that he knew this voice. And only a couple of people would call him Toner anyways; he looked around, and at a table he’d just passed, he spotted — yep, ole Buggs. And his friends.

Ya goin’ out or coming, or undecided? Buggs was pretty happy with his remark, which propelled him to continue: Ya part of the undecided now . . . one of those there LBJ types, ya know?! With a quirky grin, Buggs’ confidence rose as he motioned for Tony, Toner, to join him.

The Buggs cohort was amused and instantly joined in the dialogue, looking at each other and back at Buggs, repeating, LBJ types. Good one, ha, LBJ types.

Now, there ain’t but a couple of guys, or three, who knew Tony well enough that could call him Toner. Not in the half-filled basement anyways. And then proceed to suggest he was not a regular guy. And just might be undecided or in between if he didn’t join the table! Was that nerve? Or just plain stupidity? Or was it merely common street familiarity?

With a reluctant nod, Tony acknowledged Buggs; he was pretty ticked Buggs was talking to him in that manner, however. In the cafeteria. And with others within earshot too. After all, he’d had his quota of talk for the day. He thought to reply sarcastically with a

Hey, if it ain’t Buggs Buggy — where’d you park? referring to the loaded shopping cart that Buggs usually pushed around all day, like a mother with a baby carriage. But he let the remark pass. No need to embarrass a guy. Not in front of his Band of Merry Men, over whom Buggs held considerable sway.

And Because, mainly because it was Buggs, probably his best friend. No, not a friend really; those were few and far between and nowhere in sight these days for Tony. But best acquaintance anyways.

He surveyed the table; a couple of chairs awaited him, so he scrambled between chairs and greeted Buggs, who was holding out his fist for Tony to tap down on it. Then, reluctantly, he sat down to eat.

Ain’t seen you ’round much. What’s cooking? asked Buggs.

Today, fuckin’ MEATLOAF! quipped Tony, pointing to his fork, simultaneously delighted by a howl of laughter from Buggs and his table troupe.

Fuckin’ meatloaf! in unison repeated the few at the table, heartily, while chewing on the same.

Fuckin’ meatloaf. Ha! repeated Buggs, Good one, hey boys! But serious, what ya up to? Seen Cody around? Chuck?

Tony was pretty pleased with himself and the response from the table choir; he was feeling almost up to some light banter with Buggs, and reluctantly indulged, though only briefly. ’Cause that’s our Tony.

Nope, and nope. Heard they were around but ain’t seen no one. Not been doin’ too much but staying low, you know.

But where ya bin? Been a few days.

Yeah, I guess so; you know here and there; got a couple of things on the go, replied bullshitter Tony, only to realize he’d just left an opening to extend the lunch-table banter. Buggs was ok to banter with, if you liked that sort of thing. Which Tony didn’t.

Ya gotta tone ’er down, ya know. No sense bein’ in a hurry for things. ’Specially not meatloaf, advised Buggs, who was slightly older than Tony and looked older than his years.

The table choir again erupted in unified laughter, repeating

’Specially not meatloaf, as if they’d rehearsed the refrain numerous times.

Yeah, suppose yer right, he paused. But there’s no changing what ain’t gonna change, replied Tony. Now, that would be way more talkin’ than normal for Tony. But he’d taken the remark coming from Buggs to heart as it was, and asked, Whaddaya been up to yerself?

Well, you know, doin’ my route. Been a pretty good week so far.

Buggs had revealed about as much as he needed to, not wanting to boast that he’d picked up over twenty-two dollars in empties. And it was only Thursday. Boastin’ would lead to borrowin’, he knew. And pretty soon you’d be back where you started.

But, hey, you should for sure check out the Good Sam bins. Got some really good stuff some days. I got this from the bin two corners down, as he opened his jacket, proudly displaying a shiny, grey sweatshirt that actually looked newish except for the obvious whitish streak of smeared mushroom sauce reaching from the centre of his tee shirt across to the side. Buggs only then became aware of the stain and closed his jacket to hide it.

And look at Ronnie, look at his new jacket too, custom-made, looks like, said Buggs as he pointed to the end of the table where, seated by himself was — our Mr. Lancer-or-not, proudly wearing his new team jacket, as his tablemates stared enviously at the gold and royal-blue jacket.

Now Tony hadn’t surveyed the whole seating plan, and had somehow completely missed noticing Mr. Lancer-or-not at the end of the table. His stature seemed even smaller as he sat hunched over his lunch plate, as if guarding its contents from whomever might be passing by; he was obviously unaware his impressive jacket would have been enough to scare off any potential thief. Tony felt sorry that he’d been so rude with him. But those feelings never stayed long with Tony: his feelings, too, had better things to do than simply feel sorry for too long, for no purpose.

Tony nodded his acknowledgement of the prized castoff garments, although he was mainly pleased that he knew he was dead right about Mr. Lancer-or-not being a fucking NOT. Which was obvious to him from the get-go, even if the jacket had been a couple of sizes smaller, to better fit the small bent frame that was Ronnie. Mystery fuckin’ solved — NOT!

Good, good, but I gotta go, Buggs. Maybe I’ll catch you later, if not sometime, offered Tony with intent much less than genuine.

You bet, you bet, replied Buggs, who partially rose from his chair to shake hands. Oh, you know, no more lunches after this week?

S’pose everyone knows. They been tellin’ everyone about it for weeks. Not the end of the world. Ok, catch you later then, said Tony, clamping on what seemed a small, cold, shaking claw from Buggs.

Tony released his grip and turned, giving a half-salute as he walked away. That wasn’t so bad, he thought to himself. The corrections guard was off shift now.

Tony made his way to the end of the cafeteria and turned to the staircase where the last of the lunch crowd was making its way down to the cafeteria. To the landing up the flight of stairs, Tony headed to the corner of the room. Seeing the tables and empty chairs surprised him as there always seemed to be someone in the corner, talking to anyone, or to themselves, or reading the daily newspapers strewn about on the tables.

Tony took a seat and pulled a few sections of the daily for himself, tucking them close to his chest as if to ward off any noon-hour poachers. Tony was not, in anyone’s judgement, a good reader. But he liked to read. And he thought of himself as a good reader; slow as he was, he absorbed virtually every word that crossed his visual scan. Trouble was, there were never enough papers to go around at the centre, so you’d hang onto whatever section you had until you could exchange it for another. Assuming someone wanted to trade with you, that is. The scramble for newspapers and Tony’s slower reading never made reading at the centre easy. Today was different.

Tony checked the various sections — comics and sports first — which was pretty typical for most of the church crowd. Headlines, comics, sports, in that order. But today Tony was more focussed on the want ads. He quickly scanned the ever-dwindling jobs section, but this was not quite at the top of his priority list these days. Most jobs were already taken by time they made it into the want ads anyways, he was sure. And besides, he was above the usual retail and sales shit that was more suitable to high school dropouts than to Tony, who had actually completed high school, although he could never prove it when it counted. But first and foremost, Tony knew he was better, much better, than these menial offerings. And the job board at the church didn’t offer much better.

But something else today captured Tony’s attention. Perhaps out of sheer boredom, always a factor, he’d been thinking about something different for a few days. And now, unhurried by time or people, he pulled the copy closer to read the crowded fine print of the obituaries for some reason or other. Or just out of curiosity. Or boredom. Or was it that the obituary notices just took up more space some days, much more than the want ads? That was certain. And they could perhaps even provide information, timely information. Did someone pass away that he knew from around town? That was unlikely.

Tony was not particularly obsessed with dying. Yet he felt death was like your shadow; it was there with you. Always. Even when it wasn’t. Of course, his personal philosophy didn’t have to completely make sense. Nor incompletely, for that matter. A superficial justification was all Tony required to provide himself a convenient outlook — as confused as it was — on one’s ultimate fate. Deep down inside, however, he was just bullshittin’ himself. It was his own peculiar way of not dealing with the dark subject. Basically, all dark subjects. Or grey. He’d tried to understand his own mortality. But it was more a case of confronting his disguised innate fuckin’ fear. Tony, simply, was afraid to die. And fortunately, Death had other suitors, so wasn’t knocking at his particular door. He wasn’t terminally anything, except life. He wasn’t sick. But death, the thought of dying, some days seemed ever present. The shadow wouldn’t go away. But he was intent on overcoming this fear.

Tony was squinting now as he perused the notices. Ok, here’s the one, Tony said to himself, drawing the newspaper even closer. He was certain he had glanced at this one yesterday, paying only passing interest. Not too far, he reassured himself. He took the paper and, looking around to see if anyone might be around, folded the page into a manageable size. He then read it again: 11 a.m., Waverley Funeral Home. He’d passed the place a few times, not giving it much of his attention. He tucked the paper into his back pocket.

Now, Tony was suddenly feeling more upbeat. The idea of being around people at funerals appealed to him. Not in a morbid way, of course. Mainly that people got dressed up. Maybe they were more his crowd. And he had something to pursue, to fill in the day; he was awaiting it with anticipation, an unfamiliar feeling.

He got up from the table and walked past the job board but thought to go back. He turned about and quickly scanned the various notices and job postings which were, as usual, minimal in number.

Nothing new here, he rationalized with a quick up-down glance.

Satisfied he’d done his best, or to appease some lingering feeling of imbedded guilt, Tony turned about to exit the double doors of Faith Assembly, and onto Renton Street. As he turned up the street, he spied a couple of loaded-up grocery store carts that were shoved up close between an empty bike stand and the brick wall of the church. He noticed the bigger cart with its black plastic garbage bags bulging from the metal grates of the cart, and the blue tarp covering the belongings and bags inside. This has to be Buggs’ buggy, Tony laughed to himself. He noticed a long, worn strand of thin nylon cord hanging from the end of the cart.

Now, get it straight. He really didn’t mind Buggs. For what it’s worth, he liked Buggs, as far as Tony could like anyone in his present circumstances and social milieu. But he’d ascended from the church basement in a better frame of mind than when he’d descended the same staircase, not so many minutes ago. But this altered mood never would last. Never did anyways. But he couldn’t let this pass, this chance to lay one on Buggs. Just because.

So, Tony, now grinning from ear to ear, took the nylon strand and weaved it down and through the sides of the front of the cart, hiding it as best he could. And he tied the end to the second cart which belonged to who knows who? Now you would never confuse Tony for a boy scout. No, but he could tie a mean knot. A mean knot, not a neat one. It looked more like an intricate wad of blue something or other, definitely lacking attention to detail. But it was hidden enough not to be easily noticed.

As Tony pulled the tip of the strand with one last forceful tug, he continued to grin; although perhaps now it was a semi-smile, as he ran the video through his mind of the havoc that would ensue when Buggs, or the second cart owner, tried to wheel their cart out from their improvised parking space. Tony was so pleased with his work, his prank, that he’d even thought about watching the proceedings from the adjacent parking lot. And was this his prank? Or . . . his payback? For the minor indiscretion carried over from the cafeteria? But he wouldn’t linger to see the result of his efforts. Not this time. Tony had things to do.

He turned the corner past the church, down the side street. A few street types were standing and sitting in the lane of the parking lot.

Got any smokes? he heard shouted his way as he glanced their way but didn’t care to engage.

Got any smokes? Any spare change? Help a guy out? These were the typical refrains from the street and alley choirs which Tony never wanted any part of. None. This wasn’t his tune, nor his place. Nor his crowd. He was better than this. Why didn’t they know this too? thought Tony.

Up the street Tony walked past the bus shelter but turned around and took a seat, slowly wiling away the time. He drew up the newspaper from his pocket and unfolded the death page to confirm what he’d read: 11 a.m., Waverley Funeral Home. Clayton Bryant. About forty-five, by Tony’s calculation. Survived by blah, blah, blah. Predeceased by blah, blah, blah. Died after a brief illness. In lieu of flowers, donations — blah, blah, blah. Light lunch to be served. Light lunch to be served, read Tony to himself. He was aware that there usually was something served at such services. But that it was actually mentioned was rare indeed. At least from the funerals he’d been to some time ago.

He refolded the paper, tucking it back into his pocket. He continued walking, unrushed. Past the parking lots. Past the overturned shopping carts. Past the boarded buildings destined for demolition, now substituting as self-serve venues where hooded street souls could conduct their dirty deeds. Or sleep in. Past the graffiti-tagged walls and signs announcing new housing units. Past the odorous garbage bins filled with black bags, and clothing remnants draping over the sidesaddle refuse. The wreak of an encroaching decay was manifest.

Eventually he arrived at his destination after a leisurely walk. There it was: the imposing sign with bolded deep-blue lettering on the light-grey background: Waverley Funeral Homes — Care and Compassion from Our Experienced Professionals.

Care and Compassion? My ass! How ’bout Caskets and Cash? asked Tony to himself, in his customary mocking tone. He satisfied himself that he was now there, and could familiarize himself with the surroundings. And he would be again, tomorrow, or was it Saturday? Usually something could, and would, come between Tony and his destination. But not today.

He was pleased, yet he still seemed a bit restless. He didn’t want to turn around and go back to his room just yet. He was for some reason still upbeat. He could be upbeat, you know. But usually it would come fast and go faster, never lasting long enough; something inevitably would intervene to take him back to his normal state of anxious discomfort. Which was what Tony knew best. It was the shadow that follows you on good days, and bad. You don’t see it. But it’s there. Rest assured.

Tony crossed mid-street towards the funeral home like a man approaching his destiny. Then a sudden blast from a passing half-ton jolted him back to reality.

Hey, asshole, cross at the corner, or next time you’ll be a bumper sticker! yelled the driver, satisfied he’d just yelled out the best line of the day into the midday air.

Tony knew he deserved the admonition. He glanced behind him to see racing away the rusted, red Ford half-ton with the angled step bumper; from the back window, the flaying arm of the animated driver could be seen. No doubt he was explaining to his passenger how close he’d come to hitting a