Part 1:
Although he was 65, the one thing that always brought back to him childhood memories so acute, so accurate that he lost himself as he walked through the town was the Autumn leaves. He collected everything he needed for the day's excursion and set off on his own. The cool air required a maroon and white striped wool cap to keep his bald head cool. His blue cover-alls took care of the rest of his body.
This was his daily routine. Waking, dressing, coffee and a sesame seed bagel at the coffee shop with his butter and jam that he brought on his own and collecting newspapers. He didn't care that the people that worked at the coffee shop, and people everyone else, laughed at him behind his back or played mean tricks on him. One time when he wasn't looking, one of the employees took a bite of his bagel and walked away without him knowing. He looked down at the bagel, paused and continued eating as if he had no other choice. He was used to being the clown. He used to work for a traveling rodeo. He dressed up in garish clothing and distracted the bulls from the riders. What he loved most was talking with the small children after the rodeo and making balloon animals for them and juggling and falling down on purpose to make them laugh. Now, his wrinkled face and sunken eyes made him appear threatening to kids prompting their mothers to pull them away when he approached.
So he walked. He pulled behind him a wagon filled, at various times, with old newspapers, recyclable bottles and cans or nothing at all. He walked to the fire station and tried to talk with the firemen only to be picked on and laughed at. He had a history at that particular fire department.
He was injured one day at the rodeo. He was performing his usual distraction act, pulling red scarves from his pockets, running then jumping into a barrel or behind the fence. The rider and bull burst forth from behind the gate and Buck stood behind the fence waiting for the rider to fall off. He fell and ran out in the ring, flailing and dancing about, but the bull was still after the cowboy. He ran straight toward him, but the bull came thrashing toward him and he trembled all over. The bull thrust his horn through his side and tossed him over his shoulder. Other clowns came to his rescue, diverting the bull's attention while the paramedics came. He was in the hospital for a week or so then released into the care of his brother.
He volunteered at the fire department, but his injuries left him unfit to enter burning buildings, drive the engine or do much else besides be a sort of mascot for the department. He didn't have to worry about money after the accident, so he showed up to volunteer everyday for 35 years. He was a clown every year for Halloween, the fall Brunswick Stew and Barbecue Festival and every other excuse he gave himself to make balloon animals, fall on purpose and make small children laugh. They even held a retirement ceremony on his 55th Birthday. But now he just walks, dragging behind him his red wagon.
Part 2:
Buck walked into the coffee shop with the morning sunlight behind him, making him appear like an alien deboarding a UFO. His round, bald head and large, floppy ears exaggerating the effect. The air inside was warm and dry and always smelled like fresh-brewed coffee, musty and sweet and brought a flourish of memories of cold mornings and warm cups. He walked to his table and put down his coat, hat, newspaper, butter and jam. A few of the locals smiled at him sympathetically and said "Mornin Buck." But he only glared at them through his thick-rimmed glasses and went to stand in line. He put his mug on the counter and spat the words "Mill Mountain and a sesame seed bagel."
The young girl behind the counter smiled cheerfully and got his coffee and bagel. She secretly hoped this would be a "Buck Moment" when Buck says or does something that will become coffee shop legend, like the time he was seen eating his sesame seed bagel with his cover-alls around his ankles in the men's room. He pulled out a few crumpled dollar bills and some change, picked up his food and walked back to his table. One time, an employee put a sticker on his wagon that said "Remember My Name, You'll Be Screaming It Later." It lasted 2 weeks before he realized it was there and took it off. But this morning was one like any other.
The usual customers came in and warmed themselves with hot coffee and baked goods, then went on their ways to do whatever they were meant to do that day. He poured his vitamin supplement into his travel mug and walked back to the counter for a refill. The powder danced out of the cup as the coffee went in, causing the pourer to cough and say "Buck, have you gotten this thing tested by HazMat?" No response from Buck but an unsteady, knobby hand reaching out for his coffee.
After his breakfast, he walked over to the table where there were always complimentary newspapers set out for customers. This was a Monday morning which meant three days of newspapers to sort through, including Sunday. This was his favorite part of the week. He sat down by the table with a stack of newspapers on his lap. He picked one up, thumbed through it, put one section in one pile and the rest back on the table. He worked diligently at this task for nearly half an hour. Several customers put down their coffees or books and watched him. There were several theories about why he did this. One employee mused that he was like A Perfect Mind and had thousands of newspaper clippings hanging up in his room spelling out a secret code that only he could read and only existed in his head. Others said that he was just looking for "recylcable" articles or sections. But no one really knew what he was looking for. Maybe he just needed something to do.
It had been an hour. The morning crowd had left and the employees were left cleaning up after them and getting ready for the lunch crowd. No one had really noticed that Buck had sat, staring at the front section of the New York Times, motionless for an hour. Finally, someone walked over and tapped him on the shoulder, asking if he was all right. He looked slowly up at the man with his gray-blue eyes. Behind his glasses, the man could see his eyes, voids of age and regret and mystery. They stared at each other intently for a few moments, then Buck went back to looking at the paper. No one bothered him again. He eventually got up and wandered off, leaving piles of newspaper scattered about the floor.
Part 3:
He laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. He looked over and saw his stuffed monkey Reginald lying beside him, his shiny black eyes staring back at him. He smelled bacon cooking in the kitchen and rolled out of bed onto the cold wood floor. His mother called to him, telling him to come down for breakfast.
The gray sky magnified the vibrant colors of the autumn leaves and the green evergreens surrounding his house. He walked to the window and watched as his grandfather walked across the lawn wearing his red and black plaid jacket, brown wool pants and brown boots, carrying his metal army-issue mug that was always with him. Sometimes Buck smelled what was in the mug, sometimes burning fumes that tickled his nose, other times, a weird mossy smell with steam coming from it. He was told it was his special tea that helps him to see better. He quickly got dressed and ran downstairs just as he was coming in the front door. He gave him a big hug and looked up at him. His grandfather smiled a little and lifted his magnanimous gray eyebrows. Buck smiled back and ran to the breakfast table.
He was to work outside with his father that day, raking leaves. The property around the house was home to 16 old-growth trees, oak, chestnut, maple and elm mostly. The maples were Bucks favorite. Every year for Christmas, his grandmother gave him a small jug of maple syrup just for him and for the few weeks after, everything from his corn flakes to his eggs got a small dose of syrup.
He finished his breakfast and picked up his hat and jacket and walked outside to where his father had already started with the chores. He handed Buck a rake and canvas tarp. Buck surveyed the enormous lawn and scanned his father’s face for mercy but found none. He walked over to the edge of the endless sea of browns and oranges and began the arduous process of clearing the lawn. This was the second year he was old enough to do this for his father. The previous year, he jumped at the chance to earn extra money to buy Christmas presents. The following years he was forced to make presents for his family, and he had found that he had neither talent nor patience for craft, songs or art. He made 15 cents for the entire lawn and had found a way to buy presents for all of his family and still have a little left over to buy two Cokes at Woodfins pharmacy down the street.
He thought about what he was going to buy for his family this year while he diligently, yet absent-mindedly raked the leaves onto the canvas. There was the pair of reading glasses for sale at Woodfins for 3 cents for his mom who always squinted when she was reading her books, a new deck of playing cards for his father for 4 cents, a small baby doll for his little sister Rachel for 2 cents and so on. The progress was slow, but steady and by lunch time he had nearly a quarter of the backyard finished.
He walked inside and looked at his red, raw hands and plopped down at the table and breathed in the sweet, salty smell of his mom’s chicken soup, the steam rising lazily from the bowl. He picked up his grilled cheese sandwich and dipped it into the soup. He did this every time he ate soup to test the temperature. He was always weary of burning himself on hot foods and often waited for others to take a bite first before he did to see how they reacted. The soup was safe. He picked up his spoon and ate hungrily while his grandfather sat down across from him and put down his metal mug. Buck couldn’t see what was in it this time, but steam rose from it. Probably coffee, he thought.
He tilted his bowl and drank the rest of his soup and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve which brought on endless chiding from his mother. He walked outside with his grandfather and picked up the rake. His grandfather sat down on the tree stump used for chopping firewood and picked up his grandson’s hands. Buck noticed the difference between the hands. His, puffy, small, red and perfectly smooth. His grandfather’s, knobby, mangled, covered in spots. He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a pair of small leather gloves and handed them to Buck. “These might help,” he grumbled and slapped the gloves in his small hands. He looked at his grandfather and smiled a little and walked back over to the rake. His grandfather walked over to his garden where he grew tomatoes, squash, carrots, onions and turnips. Buck watched him walk and wondered if he would ever grow that old and tired.
The sun had almost set behind the tree line and nearly half the yard was finished. He looked back at the work he had done and was amazed at his own progress. He could smell dinner cooking in the house and watched the small tendril of smoke rising from the chimney. He loaded up one more load of leaves and started walking back to the house. He walked under the oak tree and suddenly heard a great knocking sound on his head and felt a terrible sting. He dropped the tarp and froze. His hands hovering above the spot where the nut had struck him. He began to cry. Sobbing, big wet tears smeared the dirt and sweat on his face but still he couldn’t move. He stood there for a full minute as if he were posing for a painting for which he felt terribly embarrassed to be in. The trance eventually broke when he saw his father moving toward him through the blur of tears. “What the hell’s the matter with you, boy? Are you crying?” Buck started running. He could barely see where he was going, but running was the only option. Fear, shame and pain blended together perfectly and running as far and as fast as he could was the only way to dissipate the awful feeling. He ran straight toward the burn pile at the edge of the upper field where he had brought dozens of loads of leaves that day and dove head first into the pile of leaves and dug himself in deep until oblivion swallowed him and the darkness and the sound of his heavily breathing comforted him.
Some time had passed, but Buck was unsure of how long. The sun was probably long gone, he thought, and hunger was his main focus. His father had seen him crying. He must have looked like a little girl. But what bothered him the most was what had caused the terrible pain in his head. He rubbed the injury again and again while buried in the leaf pile and felt the small bump. The last thing he could remember before he fell asleep was the faint echoes of someone calling out in the darkness and then sleep overtook him and then there was nothing.
He woke up in a daze. His dreams had been strange and haunting. He had the same dream over and over, it seemed. The preacher from church stood at the front of a great gilded altar. He seemed enormous and god-like, dressed all in black, his eyes dark pools of night sky. Then, the altar behind him caught fire and everyone around him was running and screaming as he sat and listened to the preacher and focused on his eyes. Then he woke up. He heard the rooster crow and saw small specks of light coming in through the leaves. He stood up and pushed the leaves away, disinterring himself from the tomb. He rubbed his eyes and tried in vain to dust off the specks of dried leaves and twigs from his jacket and hair. He began walking back towards the house in a complete daze. He tried to reconstruct the events of the night before, the pain, the shock. He walked closer to the house and saw his mother running toward him with open arms. She gave him a big hug and carried him inside the way she used to carry him when he was a baby. The rest of the family was already at the table having coffee and hot cocoa. Everyone was starting at him with accusing eyes. “Go upstairs and get ready for your bath,” his mother said. He walked slowly up the stairs and began removing his jacket, shirt and pants.
When he got downstairs, breakfast was over and everyone had left to go to church. There was a plate with toast and eggs on it for him. He sat and ate in the cold, empty house. After he ate, he walked outside, put on his gloves, picked up his rake and got back to work on the yard. Why had his family left for church without him? What was wrong with him? These questions ran through his head as he slowly but surely cleared the leaves. His family returned and Buck was exhausted. He walked into the house and everyone was acting perfectly natural as if nothing happened. “Come on and get some food Buck,” his father said using his fork to point at the bacon sandwiches on the table. He sat and ate and stared out the window trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. The family ate in a silence only broken by the occasional murmurings about the sermon.
Part 4:
He walked outside the coffee shop and picked up the handle to his wagon and began dragging it back towards home. The newspaper clipping he found was a story about the death of a World War II veteran. He had died mysteriously forty years ago and the article described how new technologies were going to be used to determine how he actually died. Buck walked through town, staring at the picture of his father in his uniform wearing his Purple Heart and several other decorations he had earned fighting in both World Wars. He walked unconsciously, past his house and through the other side of town. The sun began to set and still Buck walked. He only snapped out of his focused state when he caught a strange glow out of the corner of his eye. He looked up and saw the blaze blowing up from the roof of a house. He stood and watched the strange beauty of the flame and a tear rolled down his check, through the wrinkles and divots of his skin like a mountain stream flowing through the cracks of rock down a mountain.
He dropped his wagon and tucked the newspaper in the front pocket of his coveralls. He walked as fast as he could toward the house. He took his handkerchief out and put it on the handle of the front door and twisted it. He could feel the heat coming from the inside and the smoke burned his lungs as he walked into the house. He called out and waited for a response. He heard a faint voice coming from upstairs. He grabbed onto the banister and pulled himself up the stairs. He was already feeling light-headed. He found the room and opened the door. A woman was lying in bed, her gray hair masked by the smoke. Buck stared at her for a moment and thought about the incident with the leaf pile. It all came flooding back and the shame and fear stung him like needles behind his eyes. She stared back at him as if she understood what he was thinking, as if she knew his pain and embarrassment that had caused him to live a life of ridicule. She knew why he hated his father so much and why he could never tell anybody what he did, she knew about the newspaper clipping and why he had looked through dozens of newspapers a day, she knew what he was looking for. “I,” he said and took a step forward. An enormous crack startled him and he looked up just in time to see several large trunks falling through the ceiling and the blaze that came with it. He fell down coughing and the old lady slowly moved to get out of bed, but her old bones were no help to her. Buck stood up and walked through the flames over to her. He tried to help her out of bed, but she just lay there with her white, stringy hair fanned out on the pillow. She looked up at him and Buck understood. She was done fighting and so was he. He took off his glasses and lay down on the bed with her and closed his eyes.
