Last I Looked

When I found Amos Bunk, he was a mess. I don’t know what happened exactly, he wouldn’t say. I think he is one of those people, who only find the good in people. And we all know where that leads.

It took me nearly an hour to get him to tell me his name. He kept apologizing for having appeared to have been beaten to within an eye lash of death. He looked normal to me in most every way, except he was short. I don’t think he was much over four feet tall, but he appeared much taller. There was just something about him that made him stand out, like the people you see on the screen of an outdoor theater. It was rather scary, if you must know. It took me a while to get over the fact, he was probably not himself. At least he didn’t appear to be himself. Of course I had no way of knowing for sure, as I didn’t really know him, or what he was like previously.

I attempted to get him to tell me how he was injured, and if I should call the authorities, or possibly an ambulance. It is difficult when someone has been traumatized, to determine how serious their injuries may be. Especially, when I have had no medical training at all. I also have a wheezy disposition if you must know, and I avoid physical involvements at all costs, primarily for that reason. 

There was something about this poor small man, who I found lying in the gutter, moaning. It caused me to overcome my aversion to physical uncomfortableness, and help him, or at least attempt to. I even surprised myself, truth be told.

He finally after several minutes of mindless rambling, decided to tell me how he was injured. It may have had something to do with my insistence we call the police, or possibly he felt more comfortable talking about the accident, after I assured him all further action depended solely on his discretion. After all, it was he who was so terribly injured, and primarily just my disposition. He stared into my eyes, as if looking for some sign of recognition, and then began to dictate, as though he’d allowed his mind to escape to the sidewalk.

“I was standing on the platform, waiting for the train like I do every evening, when this young man came by on his bicycle. He appeared to be a paper delivery person, or maybe pizza. He was obviously in a hurry, but for some reason believed reading the newspaper while pedaling like the devil was after him, was a reasonable idea. Well, he ran into me. I would have been unharmed I believe, but the stairwell behind me leading to the parking lot, that had previously been blocked by a barricade, had been removed, and failed to prevent my fall.

I rolled down the dozen or so steps, and as I completed by fall, I landed in the parking lot where I was struck by a bus filled with foreign tourists. The reason I believe they were tourists was they were all looking and pointing, like tourists do. Some were laughing also. I’m not positive, but I believe they thought I was in a movie being filmed for their amusement.    

I managed to crawl back onto the sidewalk where this elderly lady accused me of blocking her way. She prodded me with her cane, and snarled some insult; language I’d never heard before, and having worked as a bar tender at Shorty’s, I believed I’d heard it all. 

A police officer arrived at that point on his, one of those things with wheels, not a scooter or a skateboard; it segued between the two. He told me to get home, or he was going to arrest me for vagrancy. That was just before you found me attempting to get out of the gutter and onto the train bench.”

He then stopped speaking as abruptly as he had slipped from the bench, and found himself once again in the gutter.

I asked if I could help him home, take him to the hospital, call someone he knew? He just looked at me as though I’d forgotten my promise to not intervene. He then smiled at me, as if we were friends, acquaintances, and then handed me a dollar. 

I didn’t know what to do. Why would someone hand you a dollar? For what possible reason? I assumed his injuries were causing him to act abnormally, and accepted the dollar. 

He then looked at me as though I was unappreciative. He reached into his pocket and pulled out another dollar. “Here,” he says, handing it to me. “Will that be enough?”

I didn’t know what to say. Then, before I could answer he says, “I know your kind, nothing is ever good enough.” Then he begins to laugh. Laugh like his mind has snapped and he has become someone, something else. I began to be afraid. If he hadn’t looked like a rag doll on the sidewalk I probably would have left, but there was something about his face, his eyes, his longing, as if he were asking for forgiveness. From what I could only imagine. 

Then he asks, like we were old friends, “Could I borrow a dollar? I’ve got to catch the train to Olivia Hall.”

I’d never heard of Olivia Hall. But I had to ask, “Why? You are injured, you need to go home.”

“Yes,” he says, “home.” 

I could only assume Olivia Hall was a town, the place he lived. “Perhaps I can drive you.” Sometimes I am overly impetuous, I know that, but at times it seems like the only way to be. There seems to be no longer enough kindness in the world.

“You would do that for me?” he says.

“Of course!” I attempted to ease his distress.

He smiled, “That would be wonderful. The service begins at 1PM. I shouldn’t be late.”

“Service? What service?”

“Here,” he says, this time handing me this pamphlet with folded hands superimposed over the image of Christ. The words, Eternal Peace,” emblazoned below the hands in the bold color of eternity.

“You have to realize; I mustn’t be late.”

I had so many questions, and no one to ask them of. When I turned my attention from the pamphlet, he had vanished. The only thing remaining of him was the pamphlet I held in my hand, with a name written in cursive on the back in the flowing expression, no doubt, of heaven. “Rest in Peace Amos Bunk.”

A startling revelation. Had I been party to a contrivance by local deviants intent on causing my mental demise, or did I just witness the failure to comprehend, mystical magic?

“Mr. Bunk, Mr. Bunk, you have to try and remain awake. You have been in an accident. Hit by a, well we are not sure, but…Mr. Bunk! You must try and…”

Remastered stories, removed secretly from the cellar walls of the Guggenheim Museum.

A B