Three Stories

by Glen Pourciau

Wardell and I were both pumping gas at a grocery-store station, Wardell at the pump just ahead of me. I hadn’t seen him in over thirty years, but he had the same scowl, his eyes seeming to stare through whatever he was facing. Was he living in town these days, was he here visiting a relative? When we were young teens he’d once beaten the hell out of me, though not quite all the way out. He’d given me three hard blows in front of a howling group of our peers, enjoying every second of it, knocking me down with the last punch. I’d made some remark, as I remembered, about a stupid look on his face and he reacted as if I’d served up my head to him.

He put his pump in the slot and got in his car. I was already in my car, engine running. He drove to the highest part of the parking lot, the part that began the slope away from the seawall. I thought myself lucky that both of us had grocery shopping to do. Why did I think of it that way? I didn’t know. I parked nearby and stayed back so he wouldn’t catch sight of me.

Inside the store I kept my distance, seeing which items he put in his cart and if he looked impatient when other shoppers entered his space. I recalled that he’d had a brother a year or two younger who’d committed suicide with a family gun. The suicide occurred only weeks after the beating he’d given me, and I imagined Wardell could have killed him. I had no basis for thinking he’d done it, just my anger at my humiliation and the pleasure he’d taken in it. I considered walking up to him and introducing myself, telling him I remembered the beating and his brother, but I rejected the idea of getting on his nerves in the store, surrounded by witnesses. I rushed through my list, checked out, and went to my car to wait for him to push his cart up the hill, commenting to myself several times that I should drive off and forget about him.

Eventually he appeared. I saw him cough and spit and fumble for his car key. I emerged and stepped toward him as he put his grocery bags on the floor of his backseat. He saw me coming, his mouth opening, by the look of him guessing what bad news I could be bringing.

“Hello. Are you Wardell?”

He pushed the car door shut, the wind blowing beach sand around us.

“And you are?”

“We went to school together. You beat the hell out of me when we were something like fourteen. You remember that.”

“For a couple of reasons I do. My hand hurt for a week and because of your name. I’ve never run into anyone else named Dog. That’s you, is it?”

“You got me. So-called real name Dogwood but always known as Dog.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I saw you pumping gas and thought it was you.” I mentioned the gas to prickle him, get him picturing my eyes on him for the past half hour or so. “Then I started thinking about your brother. In addition to the beating, that memory stuck with me. I wondered at the time what had happened to him.”

“You want to make me feel bad about hitting you? I see a little smile in the corner of your mouth. It bothers me.”

I went closer to him, within arm’s reach, and stared into his eyes.

“All my life I’ve asked myself what it is in people’s lives that makes them do what they do.”

“You think I know? Did your father name you Dog? Your mother wouldn’t do that to you, would she?”

“He did, but he didn’t know me until after I was born.”

“Maybe he knew himself and that’s where it came from. You tell me.”

“Things go on in people’s houses. People walk around with stuff rumbling inside them and tell themselves they’re adjusting to their lives. On the other hand, some people don’t adjust. My father liked to threaten me with punishment and slap me around. I always had a smart mouth. He died last September. His heart knocked him down when he was standing in front of a mirror.”

“You want to take revenge against me or is it your father? Or do you want me to hit you again? Whatever you’re looking for, I want nothing to do with it.”

“You enjoyed hitting me. That’s what I remember.”

“I can see why I felt that way and why your father wanted to shut you up.”

“What happened to your little brother? Who put the torment inside him?”

Wardell wanted to take a swing at me, but he turned and opened his car door. I spun him around and hit him in the face. He winced, steadying his feet, but resisted reaching for the pain.

“I understand,” he said. “Based on your experience, I had it coming.” He groaned getting into his car, shut the door and locked it.

I resented him saying he understood. How could he understand when I didn’t?

Causing harm to no one, I was strolling down a sidewalk in town when a black SUV came to a sudden stop in the street. The driver’s window rolled down and a bearded man glared out, saying nothing. He appeared to recognize me, but I did not recognize him, possibly due to his beard. The SUV didn’t move, and I looked back and saw the man’s eyes still on me, his head hanging out the window.

I couldn’t stop thinking of him. Would he come looking for me? What did his glare imply I deserved? Back in my tiny apartment I waited for a knock on my door. I shrank from the thought of us cramped in my small space, a fight erupting, the place being smashed to pieces, neighbors hearing us and calling the police.

I kept on the lookout for him. I liked to take walks around town, and on one midday walk I saw him step out of a café, his tongue working over something stuck in his teeth. He caught sight of me and halted, eyes riveted on me, mouth closed. I came near him and let him get a look, a chance to see if this was a case of mistaken identity. I had no idea what memories of past offenses could be churning inside him. I’d been through a couple of rough periods in years past and was sure I’d done things I would regret if I could remember them. I told him my name, hoping to get him talking. He scoffed. If my name was not the one he expected, would he tell himself it was fake? I’d used an alias or two in my day and he could have known me by one of them. He may have found it impossible to believe I couldn’t recall whatever I’d done to him or someone related to him or someone he knew. I leaned closer, waiting. He seemed to be resisting aggressive urges. He went on his way without a word.

I resented him leaving it up to me to guess his thoughts. Why should I be imagining the worst if the worst had nothing to do with him? I developed a fixation on spotting him and increased my walks, frustration mounting when I didn’t encounter him. I repeatedly walked by the same café and finally saw him emerge. He noticed me coming and turned, his glare reaching down to the bottom of me. I asked him who he was. I sensed he wanted me to get away from him, but who was he to tell me where to stand? Bonaventure, he said in my face and walked off. What does that mean? I asked. He kept going.

I went back to my place and took a shower, trying to wash him down the drain, shouting at him, angry he’d left me wondering what I’d done.

I never saw him again, but his glare has stuck on me.

I needed some air. I looked through my front window into the darkness, hoping to see no one. I’d taken a walk at daybreak and another just past noon, but three walks a day was my usual.

I went out my door and down the steps to the sidewalk, and far ahead I saw a person walking, head down. I eyed the front porches, where some people sat at all hours like unwilling hosts awaiting an intruding guest. I noticed a waving hand rising above a porch rail, a hand I often saw when I passed that house. I waved back. A man and woman rounded the corner, coming toward me, speaking to each other. I strode to the other side of the street.

My legs were weary and I opened my mouth to take in more air. I heard a man seated on a balcony cursing into his phone, claiming the person on the other end was too negative. A lone figure walked in my direction and I took a right turn, changing my route. I soon heard movement on a porch and could barely make out two people behind its wood railing, their voices faint. Somebody might breathe on you, one of them said, either to the other or to me. I imagined their breath floating between them.

If I walked much longer I knew I’d wear myself down, yet I dreaded going home and filling my time, my inner monologues and arguments the muted background noise I lived with. I made the block, returning to my usual course, passing townhouses that backed up to the street. Someone’s back door was open, a dim light on inside the house. Had the door not been completely shut, moving air shifting it and swinging it open? The occupant could be unaware that anyone or anything could enter the house. I gazed into the doorway, my mind drawing me into its openness. Was anyone there? Should I walk toward it and pull it shut? If interrupted, would I be seen as an intruder? Would a person thinking that be wrong? If I walked inside the house, what would I be doing there?

I kept on my path, the open doorway remaining in my mind, going up my front steps and through the door with me. I sat on my couch, engulfed by silence. I stared into the open house, my mind’s eye moving toward it, trying to see further inside. What did I think I was looking for? Was I at home or wasn’t I?