Bobby Walks
Evan PalmerThis is a walk through Bobby's life. It's the only way to go.
It's Sunday.
Bobby walks fast: leaning to the left, then to the right, a bit of a hip-hop every third or fourth step, a jitter. Bobby always walks fast. He chews that noisy grape bubble gum. He's walking and chewing, gum snapping in his half-open mouth with crooked bottom teeth, blowing bubbles, looking around, checking on things. He runs his slight hand with ridged nails through his hair: it's thick and wavy; he combs it fifty times a day; he keeps his small black comb in his back right pocket, next to his small army knife.
"Bobby," she yells. He looks up and right at her, no hesitation. He smiles and flashes a brilliant toothy smile.
"Jessica!" he yells back to her. There is something a little off about his voice, not quite all there. She settles back, a satisfied smile on her face. Bobby waves as he turns the corner and out of her sight.
His white running shoes with the blue racing stripes are worn out on the outer front corner from the way he walks. He kinda floats on his toes when he walks, pushing off and up as soon as his heel touches. Bouncy.
"Where you going, Bobby?" the cop Steckham calls to him as he rounds the corner.
"Nowhere, officer," says Bobby.
Steckman laughs and flaps his hand in disbelief. That's Bobby for ya, he indicates with his gesture.
There's not much traffic on Sunday. The fruit market is open. Bobby walks in and picks out an apple.
"An apple a day?" asks the clerk, Maggie, as Bobby stands at the counter to pay for it.
Bobby smiles and nods. "An apple, a sandwich, a drink of milk..." he pauses. She isn't listening; she's attending to another customer.
He puts his nickel and penny change into his right jean pocket and leaves. He shines his small green apple on his loose t-shirt; the green looks good against the brown cotton. He picks up speed as he bounces along the cracked concrete sidewalk, the pant legs of his jeans swishing as he strides. He avoids the sticky patches of gum on the ground. With his free hand, he pulls out his gum wrapper and plunks the purple mass from his mouth into it and puts that into his t-shirt pocket, over and to the left of his heart. He bites into the hard surface of the apple as he waits at the corner for the traffic to open up.
An old big shiny car slows down as it passes. A thin pimply guy with slicked black hair leans out of the open window. "Hey, retard. Stay back from the curb." The pimply guy smiles.
Bobby steps back and waits. He knows that pimply guy. The streetlights change and a path opens for him. He crosses the street. The car is a long way down the street. It's a narrow city street with cars parked on both sides, old half-repaired cars, most rusted a bit.
Bobby walks up to the old man's club. It used to be Portuguese but now it's anyone. Jaime is sitting on the worn white bench in front of the club. The club's window drapes are half-drawn, the front door is propped open. Jaime pulls on his smelly dark-tobacco cigarette, puffs out. Bobby sits down beside him. "Bobby," he says. "Mister Jaime," he replies. Jorge is on the other side of Jaime. Jorge is eighty-something. They chit-chat, Jaime and Bobby, for a couple of minutes and then Bobby goes. After a minute or so, Jorge asks Jaime what color Bobby is.
It's Monday.
There's a drizzle and it's cold for July. It's nine-fifteen and Bobby's at the fruit market buying an apple. He picks out a Red Delicious. He's short two pennies. "Tomorrow," says Maggie. He nods.
Bobby goes slow now, biting his apple carefully. He doesn't want to bite his tongue again. The woman he calls mother told him to be careful chewing: not to talk and chew or run and chew, things like that. It's still swollen a little and hurts.
There's more traffic today. He goes into the fish market. He walks up and down the aisles. He looks at the mackerel and the salmon and the tuna and the swordfish. He stops and stares at the lobsters. The seafood manager comes by.
"Makes you think," he says to Bobby as Bobby stares at the lobsters. Bobby looks at him.
"They're alive, he says with amazement." The manager smiles. "Not for long, he replies." Bobby frowns.
He goes back out. It's sunny and he covers his eyes. He walks a few blocks and then sits down at a wooden bench at a bus stop. There's no one at the stop. He rubs his legs, kneading the faded jeans, whitened at the knees.
It's Tuesday and Bobby's at the curb along Elmside, waiting for the streetlight. A old black Buick glides by; the pimply guy leans out the window when he sees Bobby. "Hey retard," he calls. Bobby smiles. It's almost a hello.
Bobby walks fast with a weaving falling-down kind of gait. He chews that noisy grape bubble gum, blowing bubbles, looking around, checking on things. He runs his hand through his hair.
"Bobby," she yells. He looks up at her and smiles; "Jessica!" he yells back to her with enthusiasm. She settles back smiling and turns to her sewing. Bobby waves as he turns the corner and out of her sight.
"Where you going, Bobby?" the newspaper delivery guy calls to him as he rounds the corner.
"Nowhere," says Bobby.
The radio forecaster says it's going to be a hot one. The temperature is over eighty and it's only ten in the morning. Bobby wipes the back of his hand over his forehead to dry it. The fruit market is open. Bobby walks in and picks out an apple.
"An apple a day?" asks Maggie as he stands at the counter to pay for it.
Bobby smiles and nods. "An apple and a walk," he says. She looks at his slight figure, body at all angles.
"You okay, Bobby?" she asks. "You look thinner."
"I'm okay," he says insistently. "I'm real okay."
He shines the apple on his t-shirt. He bought a Golden Delicious. The yellow looks nice against the red cotton of his shirt.
He rushes past the fish market. He looks in the dusty windows but can't see much. He doesn't like the smell today. He holds his breath as he hurries away.
Bobby walks up to the old man's club. Jaime is sitting on the worn white bench in front of the club. The club's front door is propped open. Jaime is drinking coffee. Bobby sits down beside him. "Mister Jaime," he says.
Jorge is not there this morning. They chit-chat, Jaime and Bobby, for a couple of minutes, and then Bobby asks, "Where's the old guy?"
Jaime likes that, Bobby calling Jorge the old guy. "He's in the hospital," says Jaime.
It's Wednesday and Bobby feels tired and under the weather. It's raining, not hard but not a drizzle. He carries an old black umbrella, three of its ribs bent. He chews gum from yesterday; he likes the extra hardness.
He looks for Jessica but her window's closed. The street is crowded with cars, but the sidewalks are almost empty.
Bobby walks slow today. He steps more carefully and has one hand out for balance and to catch himself if he falls.
He buys a McIntosh apple. Maggie's off. He pays the two cents he owes from Monday. The apple is very shiny so he doesn't shine it. He spits his gum into a waste basket. It's too hard to chew.
No one is in front of the men's club. Bobby walks by. He's picking up speed now as his feet get accustomed to the slickness. He chews his apple.
The florist delivery guy sees Bobby and says hello. "Where you going, Bobby?" he asks.
Bobby stays in bed all day today, sick with a fever and the sniffles. The woman he calls mother goes to work so he's alone. He doesn't mind. He likes being alone. He sings most of the day, humming really. A cat named Thaddeus lives there too. Sometimes Thaddeus scares him but it's okay today.
It's Friday.
Bobby stands in the sunny patch and lifts his face to the warmth. The park clock chimes ten times. There's less traffic on Friday at this time: long weekends, people sick at the end of the week.
He looks for Jessica. She waves to him but doesn't call out. Bobby coughs; his throat is still sore. He just waves.
Bobby walks fast, that hip-hop every third or fourth step. He chews his noisy grape bubble gum. It makes his throat feel better. He runs his slight hand with ridged nails through his thick and wavy hair; he combed it ten times already.
"Where you going, Bobby?" the cop Steckham calls to him as Bobby rounds the corner.
Bobby walks past the fruit market. "No apple today," he mutters to himself. He keeps walking.
Two people on the sidewalk watch Bobby for a while. They look at each other; one raises his eyebrows and rolls his eyes.
Bobby keeps going. He goes into the fish market. He walks up and down the aisles. He looks at the mackerel and the salmon and the tuna and the swordfish. He stops and stares at the lobsters. The seafood manager comes by. "You like looking at those lobsters," he says to Bobby. Bobby nods. The manager smiles and says, "You know those ones are different ones from the last time." Bobby asks him if the lobsters are retards.
Bobby glides so fast and smooth; it's almost as is he's sailing. He walks up to the old man's club. It's still mostly Portuguese. Jaime is sitting on the worn white bench in front of the club. The club's window drapes and the front door are open. Jaime stares straight ahead, almost asleep. Bobby sits down beside him. "Bobby," he says, waking up. Jorge is on the other side of Jaime. Jorge is back from the hospital. They chit-chat, Jaime and Bobby, for a couple of minutes.
"How's the old man feeling?" asks Bobby. Jaime looks over at Jorge: How you feeling? No answer. Jaime says to Bobby, "He's as good as can be expected at his age."
Bobby frowns and then says, "My mother's in the hospital." Jaime nods, not looking at Bobby. "I know, Bobby."
Bobby gets up and goes. After a minute or so, Jorge asks Jaime, "What hospital?"
It's very busy today. It's Saturday. Bobby walks fast, that jitter, that precarious jumble of limbs that is his walk. He's not chewing that noisy grape bubble gum. He's just walking. He doesn't run his hand through his hair. He keeps his small black comb in his back right pocket. He hasn't used it today.
"Bobby," she yells. He looks up and she's on the sidewalk, beside him. He smiles and flashes a brilliant toothy smile. "Jessica!" he yells. There is a startled something in his faint blue eyes. She steps toward him. "How are you?" she asks him. Bobby smiles, some blush in his cheek: okay, he says. "My mother was wondering about you," she says. He sneaks a caress of her flowing brown hair. Smiling, she pats his cheek. They turn the corner. His white running shoes with the blue racing stripes are worn out on the outer front corner from the way he walks. He pushes off and up as soon as his heel touches. "I'm okay, real okay." They walk side by side for a block. Bobby steals glances at her as they walk together. "Are you still trying to visit her?" she asks. "No," he responds glumly,
"I just walk by. Walking by isn't wrong. I know that much." He's stuttering.
They're at the curb near Elmside, waiting for the streetlight. The black Buick glides by; the pimply guy leans out the window when he sees Bobby, then he sees Jessica and says, "Hey Bobby." Bobby smiles. It's almost a hello. Jessica smiles and looks at the pimply guy. The fruit market is open. Bobby stops and hesitates. "Go in, Bobby. Don't let me stop you," she says gaily. He looks into her wide brown eyes. "You want me to go in with you?" He nods. They walk in together and he picks out an apple.
"Let me guess, an apple?" asks Maggie as he waits at the counter to pay for it. Jessica stands behind him and smiles at Maggie.
Bobby nods. "An apple and a walk," he explains.
Maggie gives him his change and Bobby and Jessica walk out of the store.
He shines the apple on his t-shirt. He bought a Northern Spy. The red looks nice against the brown cotton of his shirt.
"It's your favorite," he half-chirps. Jessica laughs and says he has a good memory.
They walk further down Elmside. The florist delivery guy sees Bobby and says hello, then he asks: "Where you going, Bobby?".
"Nowhere," says Bobby.
The florist guy cackles: "You're always going there," he says.
Bobby and Jessica approach the residence, as it's called. He slows down. Her too. He stops and stares at the third window on the left side of the second floor. The blinds are up and he can see in a bit but no one's at the sill. "It's not your fault, Bobby," says Jessica.
She pats his arm. He's quiet. There's a trace of a tear in his right eye. They're quiet. "It is so," he answers.
It's Sunday.
Bobby walks his fast, controlled stagger of a walk. He makes people nervous. They give way. He chews that noisy grape bubble gum; the gum snapping in his half-open mouth. He runs his slight hand with ridged nails through his hair.
"Bobby," she yells. He looks up and right at her. He flashes a brilliant toothy smile. "Jessica!" he yells back to her. There is something about his voice. She settles back. Bobby waves as he turns the corner and out of her sight. His white running shoes are worn out. He kinda floats on his toes when he walks.
"Where you going, Bobby?" the cop Steckham calls to him as he rounds the corner.
"Nowhere, officer," says Bobby.
There's not much traffic on Sunday. The fruit market is open and Bobby walks in and picks out an apple.
"Don't you get tired of apples?" asks Maggie as Bobby stands at the narrow counter to pay for it.
He pauses to think. "I never get tired of something that's good," he replies.
She's attending to another customer.
He puts his dime and two pennies change into his right jean pocket and leaves. He shines his big yellow apple on his loose t-shirt; the yellow looks good against the black cotton. He picks up speed as he bounces along the cracked concrete sidewalk, the legs of his jeans swishing as he strides. He avoids the sticky patches of gum on the ground. With his free hand, he pulls out his gum wrapper and plunks the purple mass from his mouth into it and puts that into his t-shirt pocket, over on the left. He bites into the hard surface of the apple as he waits at the corner for the traffic to open up.
The old big Buick slows down as it passes. The thin pimply guy with slicked black hair leans out of the open window. "Hey, retard. Stay back from the curb." The pimply guy smirks.
Bobby reaches for his knife and pulls it out of his back pocket but doesn't open it. He steps back and waits, the unopened knife in his hand. He knows that pimply guy. The streetlights change and a path opens for him. He crosses the street. The shiny car is a long way down the street. It's a narrow beat-up street lined with crusty poor-man's cars.
Bobby walks up to the old man's club. Jaime is sitting on the worn white bench in front. The club's window drapes and the front door are closed. Jaime pulls on his smelly dark-tobacco cigarette. Bobby sits down beside him. Jorge is on the other side of Jaime. Jorge is mumbling. Jaime and Bobby chit-chat for a couple of minutes. "Do people hate me?" he asks Jaime. Jaime doesn't say anything at first. He's very serious. He turns to Bobby. "Some," he says. "Very few, Bobby. You're a good guy. I like you." They sit quietly and then Bobby gets up and walks away. After a minute or so, Jorge asks Jaime what's wrong with Bobby.
It's Monday and Bobby's been at the doctor's about thirty minutes. The woman he calls mother told him to go. The doctor pats Bobby on the elbow and asks him, how he feels. Bobby shrugs.
"Do you know what day it is, Bobby?" asks the doctor.
Bobby laughs: "Sure," he says, "It's today."
The doctor smiles back at him. "You're doing real okay," he says.
They walk to the door.
"The nurse will call your stepmother for your next visit, Bobby."
They face each other at the door way. Bobby looks up into the doctor's eyes.
"Have a good day, Bobby," the doctor says.
Bobby exhales and thanks the doctor and says, "It's already a good day."
The doctor nods and squeezes Bobby's thin arm again. He asks: "Can you get back alright, yourself?"
"Sure," says Bobby.
It's today.
Evan Palmer (evan.palmer@burningmail.com) lives in Ontario, Canada. His stories have appeared, or are upcoming, in Wings Online, The Paumanok Review, Jack, The Wooly Mammoth, Carve, A Writer's Choice, Alicubi Journal, Stirring, and Melange. He has written an as-yet-unpublished novel, Oaklane Woods, and is currently working on a second long work.
InterText Copyright © 1991-2000 Jason Snell. This story may only be distributed as part of the collected whole of Volume 10, Number 3 of InterText. This story Copyright © 2000 Evan Palmer.