Rich Dill

17 Rich Dill second draft 3/06 3:00 PM

I was sitting in my senior apartment. Just sitting. Not watching television on my laptop. Not listening to any music. Just sitting and staring out of my window. I could see a few trees on the small hill. I like trees. I used to live in a cabin in the woods in the mountains. I loved it. I love the outdoors. Always have. It seems that I spent an inordinate amount of time tramping through the woods as a child. Usually I went with friends, but if they were busy doing other things, things I had little interest in, I would go alone.

I could see Middletown Road on top of the hill, and sometimes I just watch traffic go by. No tramping through the woods for me anymore. At least I can see a few trees.

I also saw a kid go by, walking down the hill into the village. He had on a backpack, just like all the kids do today. Things change. We never had backpacks for school stuff. In my day. We had book bags. Red ones with the school logo on the side. They were very stiff canvas with two handles that came together when you zipped it up. But what was really cool about these book bags was that they had a hard bottom, and on each corner was a knob that kept the bag bottom off the ground. Or floor. A favorite pastime in school was bowling with book bags. If the hall was empty, it was great fun to set it sailing down the hard shiny floor to see how far it would go. And if we were lucky, a kid might walk out of a classroom into the hallway and get knocked ass-over-teakettle. Try that with your knapsack.

I wonder what ass-over-teakettle means? Oh, I know it means getting knocked over... so I suppose if you were carrying a teakettle at the time... who knows? I should google that.

Yeah, kids today aren't the same. I was watching the kid walking down Middletown Road, and just before my view was blocked by a house, he kicked a can. Then kicked it again, in front of him as he walked. Ha! I did that once on my walk home from the village, kicking a soup can all the way. One mile. By the time it got to Swayze Acres all of the label was gone and it was bright and shiny steel. I was going to stomp on it and flatten it, but then I decided to just leave it for another kid to find and admire. Maybe that kid would kick it some more. Maybe today's kids aren't any different than we were, but just growing up in a different time. What kid can't resist kicking a can?

I decided to stretch my legs and check the mail. Each apartment has a mailbox by the entrance. I walked down the empty hall and turned left (when I was a kid we called it “hang a looey”) (I need to google that) to the mailboxes. I unlocked mine with my key. Nothing. Good. No bills. I locked it and turned.

“Good day, Mr. Gibson.”

“Geez! You can sure sneak up on somebody, Mrs. Sciocetti,” I stammered.

“Oh my, I'm sorry I startled you, Mr. Gibson. I only wear slippers to go up and down the hall and I guess they don't make any noise. Are you alright?”

“I'm fine, Mrs. Sciocetti,” I answered. “It's just my heart is pounding a little.”

“Why don't you come over to the community room and sit a spell,” she queried.

“No, no, I'm fine.”

“Are you sure? Are you going for you walk today, Mr. Gibson?”

“Ya know, I think I will. I was going to stay in today and maybe work on a book I'm writing, but it is really too nice to stay in,” I answered.

“Oh, you're a writer?” asked Mrs. Sciocetti.

“I try to be.”

“What is the book about?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing really. Just an old man's ramblings,” I said.

“Well, you enjoy your walk, and be careful. Traffic, you know.”

“Horrible,” I answered.

I went back to my apartment, changed, put on some nice new walking shoes I just bought, and grabbed my magic camera. I smiled. Magic camera. That was stupid. What was I thinking? I wasn't. I'm not as quick on my feet as I used to be. Maybe I shouldn't walk around Swayze Acres anymore. I might get in trouble by saying the wrong thing. Might get in trouble? I think I've got a reputation since high school of saying the wrong thing. I'm always in trouble, it seems.

I hung my camera around my neck, grabbed my cane, and headed out. I passed Mrs. Sciocetti again, still standing by the mail boxes.

“Take care, Mrs. Sciocetti,” I said.

“Remember what I said about traffic, Mr. Gibson.”

“I'll be careful,” I said in a loud voice as I went out the door.

“Hi Mr. Gibson!”

“Hi Richie,” I said. “This is really spooky. Have you been sitting here long?”

I think Richie said his car was a Mazda. Whatever. It looks like all the other cars on the road.

“Naw. Just got here.”

“How did you know...”

“I just know is all,” he answered. “Give you a lift?”

“If you don't mind. If you're headed towards Swayze Acres.”

“That's exactly the way I'm going,” said Richie with a smile.

We pulled out of Van Schoonhoven and headed up the hill.

“You seem to really enjoy walking around your old stomping grounds, Mr. Gibson.”

“How did you know? I never told a soul I used to live here!” I exclaimed.

“Well, you know, Waterford is a small town. Word gets out and everybody knows,” said Richie. “Some folks don't like that. They feel like they're being watched. Like it's an invasion of their privacy and all.”

“Well Richie,” I said with a smile. “My life is an open book. So I don't mind. I'm an author, and what better thing to write about is what you know. And I have nothing to hide.”

“I heard you was an author. What are you writing about now?”

“Oh, I'd rather not say. I'd like to keep it quiet. It makes doing my background research better. If folks knew I was writing about them, for example, they might act and say things differently than they really are.”

“Gotcha. Mum's the word,” said Richie. “Here ya are. Can I drop you off in there?”

“No, I need to walk a bit,” I said. “Richie, I really appreciate this. Really.”

I reached over to shake his hand. He took it, and smiled.

“Just doin' my job, Mr. Gibson.”

Doing his job. Indeed. I slid out of his jelly bean, waved goodbye, and started making my way down Lea Avenue. It looked different. Many of the houses now had additions built on. The cars in the driveways were jelly bean cars. There were pools in the back yards. I looked around. I saw no kids on bicycles. I heard no squeals of laughter. Things didn't look right.

I stopped walking. I put a little weight on my cane. I took off my cap and wiped my forehead with my hand. I closed my eyes. I felt a little dizzy. Something is wrong. Am I sick? I wonder if I should go home? Somehow. How would I get home? I'd have to walk a mile. I don't know if I could. I felt a little weak.

“Hey Mister! Are you OK?”

I looked up and opened my eyes. It was a young boy I hadn't seen before. I looked around. Everything appeared to be back to normal. The houses, the cars, all were as they should be.

“I'm OK son,” I said in a quiet voice. “I haven't seen you before.”

“My name is Rich. Rich Dill.”

“Well, I am very pleased to meet you, Master Dill,” I said. “My name is Gibson. Where's your bicycle? Where are the other children?”

“They're off playing. I play with them sometimes, sometimes I don't. I left my bicycle home. Sometimes I do that.”

“Well, shall we see if we can find them?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Rich. “Let's go this way.”

I walked alongside young Rich Dill. I heard a noise. A metallic sort of noise.

“Do you hear that?” I asked.

“What?” asked Rich.

“A rhythmic ching ching ching.”

“Oh, that's my brace,” said Rich. He was limping.

Oh! Now I remember. How could I forget Rich? Stupid of me. It's that old memory thing.

“I got a brace because I got polio when I was little. Real little,” said Rich. ching ching ching.

“Well, Mr. Rich Dill, I am sorry to hear that,” I answered.

“Sorry about what?” asked Rich.

“Well, I'm sorry that you had polio and have to wear a brace,” I replied.

“Don't be sorry, Mister,” said Rich. “My mom and dad said lots of kids got polio and died. They said that I must be special. And tough. And a real fighter. 'Cause I'm still here and a lot of kids aren't. I'm a lucky kid.”

I stopped walking. I looked at young Rich. I admired his spirit. It is too bad that many adults didn't have that attitude. I wanted to tell him that I knew the fine man he would turn out to be, but I knew I shouldn't. Right? Geezus Gibson don't screw this up. This is much bigger than your magic camera, you idiot. For once in your life, shut the hell up.

“Are you OK, mister?” asked Rich.

“Yes, I'm fine. Let's find the kids.”

“I know where they are,” said Rich.

“You do?” I asked.

“They're on the hill playing baseball. I tried to play once, but I can't run.”

“So what do you do, Rich?” I asked.

“I like to fish. A lot. And when the others aren't playing baseball, I fly my airplane there.”

“Your airplane?”

“Yeah, my dad bought it for me. It's got a small gas engine in it. I start it up and it flies. I control it with two long strings that go from my hand grip to the wings, through the plane to the tail so I can fly it. I don't have to run to do that, only not get dizzy and fall down 'cause it goes round and round in circles.”

“I see,” I said. “How old are you, Rich?”

“I'm ten. But I'm going to be eleven soon.”

“Well, Rich, you are a remarkable young man,” I said. “and you are going to do some really great things.”

“Do ya think so?” asked Rich.

“I know so,” I answered. “I have a lot of confidence in you.”

We continued to Naise's house. There was an empty lot and we cut through there to get to the fields behind the houses. There was a pretty steep hill to climb.

“Can you walk up this hill, Rich?” I asked.

“Sure. No problem.”

We started up the hill. I didn't get too far before I had to stop and catch my breath.

“Are you OK, Mr. Gibson? Can I help you?” asked Rich.

“No, I'm OK. I just need to catch my breath,” I answered. “Getting old isn't for sissies.”

“How old are you?”

“How old do you think I am?”

Rich looked me up and down, evaluating me carefully.

“I dunno. 50?” he asked.

“Spot on right!” I answered with a smile.

“I knew it. You're old! Older than my dad!” said Rich. “Keep going Mr. Gibson. We're almost there.”

And Rich went limping quickly up the hill, we me straggling behind.

“Hey watch it! You guys are in right field!” someone shouted.

Rich and I moved way over to our left and continued on behind home plate. Everyone was there. All the kids. Even Jimmy, the bully. Bob Van, Bob Naise, Tom Bombard, and a whole bunch of kids I hadn't met yet.

“Hello Mr. Gibson!” someone yelled. “Hey Rich, ya wanna play?”

“I can't,” said Rich. “I can't run.”

“We'll make you our catcher, and have a designated runner for you for the bases.”

“Well, I dunno...” said Rich in a low voice.

I prodded him gently.

“Go ahead, Rich,” I said. “Play some ball.”

“Do you think I could?” asked Rich as he looked up at me.

“The boys want you to play,” I said with a smile. “Go ahead.”

“OK!” said Rich, as he ran over to the team captain who called to him.

I stood and watched the boys play. Not only were no girls playing, but there weren't any girls watching. Today, girls are included in everything. In a way, I like that. In a way, I don't. It's bad enough to lose at something, but to be beaten by a girl? Well, that's the new way of doing things I guess, but I think I liked it better when the boys played at their games and the girls played at theirs.

I watched as the teams changed sides. A couple of batters hit pop-ups, which were easily caught by the infield players. Then it was Rich's turn to bat. He stood in the batter's box, which you had to use your imagination because there wasn't one. Another boy stood by the catcher. There was a pitch. Rich didn't swing.

“That was a strike!” yelled a kid on the opposing team.

“That was a ball!” yelled a kid on Rich's team.

“Strike!”

“Ball!”

Oh Geezus here we go. Eventually, after several rounds of was-to was-not, it was decided it was a strike.

Another pitch. Again, Rich stood there without swinging.

“That was a strike!” yelled a kid on the opposing team.

“That was a ball!” yelled a kid on Rich's team.

“Strike!”

“Ball!”

After a time, it was called a strike.

“Hey Mr. Gibson. Would you umpire?” Bob Naise yelled from third base.

“Uh... I don't think so, boys. I'll need to go soon.”

Rich stood at the plate, bat poised, with a determined look.

Another pitch. Rich swung and hit. A hard grounder right between first and second base. Rich's runner took off like his ass was on fire. He got to first while the right and center fielders were running for the ball.

“RUN!” yelled a kid serving as the first base coach.

The runner turned and headed for second. The center fielder had the ball and threw it for the second baseman. Threw it. Right over his head.

“RUN!!!” Rich's team was yelling.

The left fielder had the ball and underhanded it to the third baseman. Rich's runner slid into third at the same time as the third baseman tagged him.

“OUT!”

“HE WAS SAFE!”

And this went on back and forth.

“Let's let Mr. Gibson decide!”

A quiet came over both teams as they looked at me. Crap.

“Well, from my vantage point, it looked really really close,” I said. “But in all honesty, I think the runner was safe.”

Rich's team cheered and gave Rich slaps on the back. Some of them yelled “Way to go!” to the runner at third. Rich had a big grin on his face.

I really don't know if the runner was safe or not. But it's only a pick-up game on a... I don't know what day it is. It doesn't matter. It's only a game for fun, and I think Rich needed that hit more than the other team needed an out. And that is why you don't umpire, Gibson, I thought to myself. You can't be impartial. So sue me. When you're an umpire, you have to call 'em as you see 'em. Yeah, but I was too excited and watching Rich, not the runner.

“Good hit, Rich,” I said as I slapped him on the back.

“Thanks Mr. Gibson,” said Rich.

“Time for me to go,” I said. “It's getting late and I don't walk too fast.”

“Thanks for coming,” said a few of the boys.

I left with a wave and headed towards St. Mary's cemetery. I smiled to myself. Gibson, for once you did the right thing. About time, said another voice in my head. Jeepers creepers, don't tell anyone about the voices. You'll get yourself Baker Acted again.

I got to the road in the cemetery when a car pulled up. A '60 Olds.

“Hi Richie,” I said.

“Hi Mr. Gibson,” said Richie.

“Yes, I would like a ride.”

Richie smiled.

“How do you do that?” I asked.

“I can't tall ya. Trade secret,” said Richie with a bigger smile.