The Rag Man

It was a fragile relationship. In decline since as far back as Edward could remember. Now, at twelve-years-old, he wasn’t surprised when his father ignored him, this time choosing his poker buddies over his son’s latest misfortune. Just more of the same.

Thick and unmoving air collected above the city as it did each evening in summer as the sun withdrew from the sky. It was a Chicago sun, disguised by a permanently fixed haze, disappearing quickly for there was no horizon to delay its retreat. As the sun departed, twilight amplified the haze shrouding the neighborhood like a tattered strip of gauze. Everything appeared distant, as if the earth had recoiled when threatened by the loss of warmth and light.

Edward sat precariously on the back of his friend, Kevin’s, bicycle surveying the houses they passed, squinting against the fading light to catch a glimpse of his neighbors’ efforts at enjoying the muggy summer weather. In the distance he heard the familiar refrain “Rag man, rag man, want yo’ ol’ rags” from the rag collector who unfailingly wound his way through the neighborhood, always late afternoon, always the first Saturday of the month. For a half-hour now, Edward and Kevin had crisscrossed the neighborhood, Edward perched on the back fender, his shoes resting on the axle bolts, arms wrapped around Kevin’s waist. The ride was jarring as they swerved to miss gaps and holes in the sidewalk created from years of traffic and bitter Chicago winters.

As they turned from the alley onto the sidewalk, he glimpsed the top of his mother’s head through the kitchen window of his home, bent over the sink, her graying hair barely visible through soiled glass. She looked up, her cheerless face moving nearer the window. Edward waved but she didn’t see him. She was looking beyond the neighborhood, beyond the noise and traffic, diligently preparing food for her husband’s poker party. The first Saturday of every month she spent her afternoons slicing carrots, placing them on a plate with other sliced carrots, celery stalks quartered and cut in half and Spanish olives, the kind that tasted both rancid and savory whenever Edward slid one into his mouth. Staring out the window, she appeared lost in that other world she sometimes called on, another life she longed for perhaps. 

           Sausages filled the frying pan, Italian and Polish. Sandwiches - liver sausage, ham and cheese and corned beef - packed the refrigerator. Two-dozen cans of beer had been shoved into the refrigerator that morning. Dad liked them ice cold. Edward’s sister, Roberta, washed tumblers, placing them upside down on the kitchen counter, in readiness for anyone who might ask for a highball. It was a lot of food and drink for four men, but the morning after Edward’s mother was always astounded when she cleaned up the mess from what seemed like three times that many.

           Edward’s father sat at the dining room table, hunched over poker chips, stacking them neatly in even piles – one dollar, two dollars, five dollars and ten – at the beginning, smaller amounts tossed quickly to the center of the table with each bet, but as the beer cans emptied, small bets gave way to risk and sometimes anger. When he finished with the chips, he stalked to the kitchen to check on the progress, scolding his wife for getting behind on the preparations. He retrieved the highball glasses and returned to the dining room, carefully placing them on a card table near the window along with bottles of bourbon and gin.  

Outside, as Kevin finished the turn, Mrs. Patrowski appeared, heading toward them with shopping cart in tow, forcing Kevin to abruptly swerve from the sidewalk to a vacant lot lined with deeply grooved paths from neighbors and other bicyclers who had sought a shortcut or were forced to detour by Mrs. Patrowski and others like her. Whoever dared venture there faced assorted litter and discarded tires that decorated the lot as if someone had dumped the trash in a pattern thinking the design would divert attention away from the fact that it was garbage.

           After entering the lot, the bicycle’s front tire hit something solid concealed beneath the weeds. The jounce, for that’s all it was, tossed Edward slightly sideways. He shifted back to the center of the fender, at the same time eyeing his father who stood on the front porch of their home. He started to wave, but lowered his arm after Kevin lost his balance when the bicycle struck another hidden hazard, this time something more substantial. As he fought to keep himself on the back of the bike, his left foot slipped from the axle bolt instantly becoming entangled in the back wheel’s spokes. He screamed, first from pain, then for Kevin to stop. When Kevin jumped from the bike, it fell to the ground, forcing the spokes deep into Edward’s ankle.

His vision blurred. Colors faded to black and white, no red blood, no green grass. The haze thickened, shadows from receding sunlight making everything indistinct - his ankle wedged between the spokes, his sock and the grass beneath it wet and dark, a squeal of brakes, a car door opening and slamming, indistinct shouting. Above him distressed voices.

On the porch Edward’s father stood colorless against a pallid, distorted house, chewing on a polish sausage, exposing his indifference. His back slightly hunched, his face pale, everything around him without luster or life while he greeted his poker buddies and eagerly ushered them into the house. Anxious to get the party started, he stared curiously at the scene for a moment and then followed them in.

A face hovered above Edward, clouded by the chaos. A determined mouth, a glint from a gold tooth, squinted eyes and tightened cheeks as if facial contortions increased his strength. Two deeply creased and callused dark hands reached down, pulled apart the spokes, and lifted Edward’s ankle from the bicycle. A neighbor drove Edward to the hospital. Edward’s mother sat in the back seat, her son’s leg wrapped in a towel spread across her lap, fretting over the unfinished snacks she left behind. Edward’s father played poker. It would have been rude to send his friends home, especially since he felt lucky. Maybe he won, maybe he lost. Edward never knew. 

In the days that followed, after the poker game ended, after leftovers of sausage, potato chips and peanuts had been put away, and empty beer cans discarded, Edward brooded some for the limitations the injury had caused, but mostly for what his accident had revealed, sentiments that had always been present but never so openly acknowledged, emotions that caused more pain than bicycle spokes eating into his flesh.

           His impatience to rid himself of his temporary disability was fleeting, though, after discovering that a limp gave a person stature. Even girls showed him a sliver of attention, another bright spot during his recuperation and causing his limp to continue as a distinct part of his outward presentation far longer than the healing process required. Friends brought him bottles of pop and candy bars because he tired easily, some of them paid for by his friends because they felt sorry for him. They asked questions while gawking at his bandage. Did it bleed a lot? “Yea, it was cut all the way to the bone.” It wasn’t. How big is the scar? Edward held his index fingers out about four inches apart. You think you’ll always have that limp? “Nah, at least I hope not.” he told them. “But ya never know.” Though he knew the limp would vanish as soon as he saw that its use no longer had value and the scar would shrink over time, he savored the attention he never found at home, seeking out his friends more often to exploit it.

           Though it did for his friends, it never gained value for his father. During those weeks of impatience, often resting on the back porch swing, he longed for his father to say, “Wow, you really did yourself in. How ya gettin’ along?” And Edward’s reply, “Well, it’s coming along. I think a few more weeks might just do it.” And his father, “Hey, I’m really sorry I didn’t come out to help you out of that mess, but.…” Even if his reason wasn’t authentic, it would be an acknowledgement, a beginning.

Edward’s thoughts often dwelled on his father’s lack of caring, wondering what it would be like if he gave his son even the smallest sliver of attention. Now, four weeks into his recuperation, he found little comfort on the back porch swing as he struggled with those visions, realizing how deceiving they were. Next to him lay a pile of rags and old worn-out shirts – his mother’s offering to the Rag Man who plied the neighborhood each month collecting items for which the people on his route no longer had use. 

His reflections were abruptly disrupted when the Rag Man’s truck turned into the alley. He was heard before he was seen, a jumble of metal that seemed to be howling in pain with each turn and bump, each revolution of balding tires. There was a smell too, a mixture of pungent exhaust, rusting metal, and countless smells from assorted rags and old clothing piled in the truck bed. As the truck moved into sight Edward heard the gravely voice calling from the open window “Rag man, rag man, want yo’ ol’ rags” announcing his arrival over the rattle of the metal and hack of the engine.

Edward limped to the alley carrying the rags and old shirts his mother had left on the swing that morning. The truck moved unhurriedly, sputtering dirty smoke from its tailpipe, a skinny black arm hanging limply along the door, a bald black head bobbing up and down and back and forth in harmony with the truck.

           When the vehicle jerked to a stopped, the dented door opened, giving up a piercing squeak as the Rag Man hopped to the ground. Edward had never seen the Rag Man up close, and never out of his truck. As Edward approached, he found the Rag Man to be not much taller than himself. His soiled white shirt was buttoned to the collar, the baggy pants in no better shape than the rags he collected. “You really got some banged up there,” he said, eyeing Edward’s ankle. He spoke unevenly, his words jumbled and slurred, startling Edward as he handed him his collection of rags. How was he to answer an old foul smelling, half toothless rag man? How was he to show his appreciation for a rag collector’s interest?

           “Pretty good on the mend, hey?” the Rag Man said, his lop-sided grin revealing a gold tooth. With his calloused and deeply lined hands, the Rag Man tossed the rags in the back of the truck, then patiently lingered next to the door, one hand on his hip, the other grasping the door handle. The truck’s engine shuddered as if distraught at being impeded from following its route. His knuckles were scarred, fingernails jagged and caked with dirt. Calluses filled the palms. They weren’t big hands, not the kind one would think could pry apart bicycle spokes. The indistinct images of his injury and rescue – the callouses, the squint and gold tooth – suddenly became clear to Edward.

“Yeah,” is all Edward could mutter, unable to produce words to voice his gratitude. 

“Well, you really did yourself in,” said the Rag Man. “How ya gettin’ along?”

“Well, it’s coming along.” Edward replied. “I think a few more weeks might just do it.”  

“Well, you take care of that leg,” the Rag Man said with a sympathetic grin. “Can’t play ball with a bum leg.” He grinned and hopped into his truck, exhaust shooting from the tailpipe, the moan of the engine and grate of his voice breaking the silence of Edward’s revelation, “Rag man, rag man, want yo’ ol’ rags.” 

           “Wait,” Edward yelled after him. The truck squealed to a stop. The Rag Man leaned his head out the window, his grin and raised eyebrows anticipating Edward’s words. “Thanks,” Edward called to him. He had more to say but was unable to form the words. The look on the Rag Man’s face told him nothing more needed said. He simply waved as Edward watched the truck rumble down the alley until the refrain “Rag man, rag man, want yo’ ol’ rags” faded into the haze.

The End