Short Stories: Long Way Around the Short End. James Hill
“I’m glad you have the company’s interests at heart, Mitchell. But that’s why they carry good insurance, and the boy’s going to be fine. Oh, the company is having a safety seminar next week on the proper way to reposition shelving when stocking.”
What’s the use? “Well, I guess I’ll get to work.”
“Was there something you wanted to add, Mitchell?”
“I think it’s been covered.”
“Be safe out there,” she tells me as I pull the door closed.
* * * * *
Robbie is all wide-eyed when I come to the back. “Damn, Mitch, what happened Saturday night? After I finished my skid, I came to check on you. That’s when Frances told me you went home sick. Then later I hear you take off after Wertzel with a mop handle and something about a boy getting his finger cut off. It’s like WWIII has been going on around me, and I’m in a different world.”
“All I’ve got to say is watch that guy when you’re around him.”
“Don’t worry about that. I go out of my way to avoid him.”
I smile at Robbie and clap him on the shoulder. “Let’s go see what we have tonight.”
In the overstock room, we find many buggies of clothing that have not gone out. Usually, the day crew deals with clothing, but they have gotten far behind. Robbie and I volunteer for the assignment. It’s a change of pace. That’s where Frances finds us, in the men’s department, when she comes walking up with Sherman and another guy.
She introduces him to us as Dillard Stein, a new associate of Sherman Wertzel’s. “He will be assisting Mr. Wertzel in his duties.” The new guy sticks out his hand and speaks to Robbie and me both. His eyes seem to be in a constant state of amazement, and though he talks with a slow drawl, his mind wanders as he struggles to keep up with the words spoken.
I’m thinking he’s not the brightest bulb in the pack.
He’s a big guy: almost a head taller and probably eighty pounds heavier.
I’m thinking Dillard’s neck size and his IQ run pretty close in numbers.
I’m hoping he’s a nicer guy than Sherman Wertzel, but I’m afraid that’s why Sherman brought him on—he could be easily influenced.
Frances takes him away, and I look at Robbie and say, “Now there’s a crime-fighting duo, the Weasel and his cohort Dullard.”
Robbie laughs, and we get back to work.
* * * * *
Rest of the work week goes pretty smooth until Saturday night and Sunday morning. That’s when I have my second encounter with Sherman Wertzel.
Robbie and I are working soft drinks when I see him and Dillard escorting a man to the back, Dillard carrying two cans of tall beers. I recognize the guy. He’s a man I used to run into back when I was walking. I’ve always took him for being homeless, and I know he can’t speak because he writes on a piece of paper when he asks for something. I’m not sure if he can hear, but if he can’t, he reads lips well because he understands anything you say to him.
Sometimes when I would see him on the street, I would gesture for him to save his paper and hand him my spare change (or a few bucks) if I had it on me. He would always smile, nod his head, and shake my hand or pat my shoulder.
Poor guy probably wanted a drink for Sunday, and Sherman is taking him to the back to fill out an incident report. I don’t think anymore about it. When I get off, I will track him down and give him a drink.
At first break, I decide to go out on the loading dock for a Coke and a smoke. I bought a pack to repay Joe, and Gwynn likes an occasional cigarette. And since I keep them in my locker, the dock is closer.
As I’m sitting there smoking, I keep hearing low moans coming from the briar patch near the dumpster. At first, I’m thinking it’s a stray dog or some other animal. But the last one, the deeper one, sounds almost humanlike. I jump from the dock and go investigate.
Behind the dumpster at the edge of the brush, I can make out a form. As I get nearer, I can see it’s my street buddy. He’s been badly beaten. His face shows considerable damage, and blood has been streaked across his face. I know better than to ask him who did it because he can’t talk, and I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.
It’s a fairly brisk night, and I motion to him that I will be back. I go to the break room and get a cup of hot coffee. Then, I stop by my locker for a sweater I keep in there. When I return, I help him sit up and help him get the sweater around him. I hand him the coffee, and he smiles. I tell him I will be back when I get off and give him a ride.
On our lunch break, Robbie is having a packed sandwich with chips; I’m having coffee, myself, with a honeybun. Sherman walks in the break room with his dog, Dillard, trailing behind. I motion for them to come over.
“Sherm,” I tell him, “a word of warning. You’ve got two strikes against you. On the third one, I take you out.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks casually.
“That homeless guy out back, he’s a friend of mine.”
He gives me a weasel grin. “You keep strange friends. And how do you propose to take me out, navy man?”
“I plan to kick your ass, break your leg, and report you to the authorities.”
Dillard’s brain catches up with his tongue. “You want to take it outside, Sailor Sam?” he chimes in.
I could splash hot coffee in his face, but I point my honeybun at him instead. “Listen, Dillard, Dullard, Dumbass, whatever you go by, don’t make me get up from here and stick your big head up your nasty ass.”
“And he can do it too,” Robbie jumps in. “The SEALs taught him.”
It’s either fight or flight now. Sherman grabs his partner’s arm and walks him out.
At the end of the shift, I pull my new old Chevy around to the back to give the street guy another cup of coffee, to give him a lift, and to get my sweater back. He’s gone, but he has my sweater hanging neatly from a branch. A note is stuck inside one pocket.
It reads: Thanks, my friend.
* * * * *
Gwynn has stopped by my room for a visit. She has my only chair, and I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. I tell her about the incident with the homeless guy.
“His name is Fred,” she informs me. “Poor man has been a fixture around Oakboro for years. What is Sherman’s problem?”
“Other than being a damn maniac and a psychopath, I really can’t say. I told him I would put a stop to it should I witness another assault.”
“You can’t afford to lose your job,” she says to me.
“Well, I can’t stand by and watch him cripple or kill someone.”
“Is it really that bad?”
“It’s really that bad.”
* * * * *
The rest of the work week went without incident until my next payday. It was early Saturday morning when things went bad for Sherman Wertzel—his third strike.
It was our lunch break, and I happened to be sitting in my car eating a sandwich because I had forgotten and left it there. I hear a commotion coming from the front of the store, and I look down the parking lot to the main door. A young, blond-headed girl has run out and comes charging past me. Sherman comes running out in hot pursuit.
I hurry and gulp the last bite of my sandwich. Sherman is waving something over his head. It looks like a bra in one hand and a pair of panties in the other. “I’ll teach you to steal at Super Sale, missy,” he screams as he runs past me.