The Chair Man

A desperate fugitive breaks into a house. What a relief to find only a man in a wheelchair...

The voice intoned, "Sharks! Deadly predators of the sea! New footage shows them as you've never seen them before!" On the screen, a paddling seabird disappeared beneath the waves with barely time for a squawk. The camera panned to a shot of a hapless surfer screaming for help. The voice continued ominously, "Coming up next!"

 

"I don't think so," the man muttered, clicking the remote. Dark circles made hollows under  gray eyes. Flecks of gray sprinkled his dark hair, and three days worth of beard covered his face. Twenty years ago a beautiful girl thought he was handsome enough to marry, and he had the wedding photo  to prove it. Every day he debated whether to put that picture in a drawer. And every day he left it right where it stood on the side table.

 

Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed, but he ignored it. The TV screen now showed two teens talking about--something or other, it was hard to tell with all the bleeps. Must be the music video station, or what had been the music video station before they replaced their music videos with cursing teenagers. "Keepin' it real," they called it now. It felt more like they were Keepin' it stupid.

 

Wearily he pressed the OFF button. The siren grew louder; the voice of another siren joined in. Traffic accident, likely. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of the wheelchair, wondering what to do.

 

He eyed the book of crosswords on the table. Careful not to look at the picture, he reached for it, then let his hand fall back. He'd already blown through fourteen crossword puzzles tonight. Laundry? A terrifying pile overflowed the couch. He knew he should.

 

All those socks. And the sheets. She had folded sheets like origami. He tried to copy her. He really did. But he always ended up wadding them ina ball and shoving them into the cupboard. At first she'd been appalled, but as time wore on she began to care less and less about laundry, about anything.

 

He bit his lip. He had no right to sit here feeling sorry for himself. He reached over into the pile of clothes and grabbed onto a shirt, already wrinkled. Well, back in the dryer you go, he thought. He lobbed it into an empty basket across the room. The sight of the flying shirt, sleeves whapping, cheered him a little.

 

Somewhere in the distance a helicopter buzzed. More blood and guts for the ten o'clock news. If it was really awful, they'd show it nationwide so everybody could enjoy it. He started folding a pillowcase. Now pillowcases were about his style, laundry-wise.

 

Another helicopter? Yes, he heard two of them. Getting closer, and low to the ground. He'd been wrong. These could not be media buzzards, after all. They had to be police helicopters. Had he locked the back door? He decided to go check...

 

Too late.

He heard the familiar creak of the door hinges; never before had that sound frightened him. 
As he heard the strange footsteps in the kitchen, a icy finger seemed to run slowly down his back. Somebody gasped for breath, leaning heavily on the table. His table! The idea made him ridiculously angry.

 

With the phone was in the kitchen, he could not call the police. Escape out the front door? Not happening. He heard the intruder coming through the dining room, looked around the living room for a weapon. He had a TV set, a remote control, and a pile of clean laundry. And a wheelchair, of course. His mind froze as the intruder appeared in the doorway.

 

He was only a kid, barely in his twenties. Pale and scrawny, with blond stubble on his head and a nose too big for his face, which he had apparently decided would be improved by a nose ring. A tattooed skull decorated one arm. The kid jumped to see that the house was not empty as he'd thought, but he relaxed slightly at the sight of the wheelchair. His hand shaking, he held up a gun.

 

The man held up his hands slowly. "You have nothing to be afraid of here." After a pause he added, "Except yourself."

 

"I'm not scared," the kid snarled. "I got a gun. Mess with me and I'll take you out, man. I got nothing to lose."

 

The man in the chair kept his hands raised. "I believe you. I guess you're the reason for all this excitement?" He gestured slightly towards the window.

 

The kid nodded, his shoulders slumping just a little.

 

"Well, I suggest you sit down and make yourself comfortable. They'll move on soon enough."

 

"Ain't you afraid of me, fool? You see this gun? I already shot one person tonight. What's gonna stop me from taking you out?"

 

The man shrugged. "Nothing. I can't stop you."

 

The kid shoved the laundry onto the floor as he sat on the couch, gun never wavering. "Blast," said the man. "I'll have to wash everything over again."

 

The boy laughed nervously. "You really don't care, fool?"

 

"Not really." The man shrugged again. "If you don't mind me saying so, you seem like you're afraid of getting caught. Why is that?"

 

The boy stared at him in disbelief for a moment. "Why? I told you, I shot somebody."

 

"Well, if you were willing to shoot him, you must have really hated him. Hatred that strong doesn't care about consequences."

 

"I didn't even know her."

 

The man's eyes flashed anger for an instant, but it vanished just as quickly. "Why did you shoot a stranger?"

 

"I knocked over that gas station on the corner. The old lady wouldn't give up the till. I had to shoot her when she reached for the alarm." He gestured up, towards the sound of the still circling helicopters.

 

Into the man's mind came an image of Flo, her frizzy gray hair bobbing as she wished you a great day. And she really meant it. Like a grandma to the local kids, like a mom to him, always ready to spill the latest gossip to his wife. He suddenly wanted to strangle the life out of this little rat.

 

But he couldn't. "You know, if you'd just asked Flo for money, she would have given it to you, and treated you to a sandwich while she was at it. That's the kind of woman she is."

 

"Was," snarled the boy. "I think I got her good. I told her not to reach for that alarm." A whining note came into his voice. "I need that money. If I don't pay off some people, they're gonna kill me. I got no choice. If I get caught, they'll get somebody to take me out in prison."

 

"Does that frighten you?" he asked mildly.

 

"What! Hello! They're gonna kill me!"

 

"Well, if you're not afraid to kill, then why would you be afraid to die? Is something in this world important to you?"

 

"Uh--" the kid stared slack-jawed. "Yeah," he answered, recovering himself. "Lots of things. My mom needs me around. So does my baby sister."

 

"Then why didn't you stay home tonight with them?"

 

"Because I needed money! I had to get it! They'd come around and shoot through my window; you think I want my mom or my sister getting a bullet that was meant for me?"

 

"Did you get enough to pay off your debt?"

 

"I don't know. I didn't count it. I just stuffed it in my shirt and--" he pulled the shirt out of his pants, reaching in and pulling out a fistful of green. "Here. Count it," he ordered.

 

The man divided the bills into their denominations, counting out loud as he went. He said nothing when he saw the smears of red over the bills, would not allow himself to think of Flo or anything else. He patiently counted them out. "Two hundred dollars. Will that be enough for these friends of yours?"

 

Relief softened the boy's features. "Enough for them, and I'll have a little left over." He smiled suddenly.

 

"What will you do with  it?"

 

"Gonna party, man. Oh-oh!" He laughed, making some gesture with his hands that was no doubt intended to be gang-related.

 

The man felt like making quacky-duck motions in return, although he doubted this boy would get the sarcasm. "Nothing to help your mother? You could buy some milk for your sister, or even pay for her lunch."

 

He started whining again. "I gotta let off some steam, man. I really need to do a few shots, maybe get me some to draw a line with, you know?"

 

"No. Why do you need to do shots? And I know I'm a clueless geezer, but what are you drawing lines with that costs so much?"

 

"Coke, dude. You lay it out in a line, snort it up. I lay out a line on the floor and see how far I can go. It's awesome, man."

 

The man yawned and stretched, twisting around slowly in his chair. "It sounds unsanitary. I assume these friends of yours are the ones who keep you supplied with this stuff?"

 

"Well, yeah, dude."

 

"And you want to buy more from them, even though they've threatened to kill you." He twisted his neck as he kept twisting his back, his muscles popping with the strain.

 

The boy shrugged. "Hey, as long as I pay up, everything's great, we're friends. I just got behind this time. I won't let that happen again."

 

"I hope not. It cost a good woman her life."

 

The sound of the helicopter became deafening, and a light flashed in the backyard. The boy's eyes became as big as saucers as he watched the light. "Hey, she wanted to give me a problem." He was about to say something else, but he never got the chance.

 

The man had twisted so that his left hand was now grasping the right armrest. Suddenly the chair flew around, and the boy realized the man was standing, towering over him, swinging the chair across his body. He fired, but the bullet went into the TV set as the large wheel slammed into his head. The gun dropped limply from his hand as the chair continued its arc onto the side table, knocking the photograph to the floor. The man winced as he heard the glass tinkle, then brought the chair up above his head and brought it down on the boy, who collapsed onto the pile of laundry.

 

The man kicked the gun across the room, then went outside to gesture to the helicopter overhead.

 

It took five minutes for the squad car to arrive. They should have gotten here faster, he thought, but decided not to criticize. The officers looked worn and tired, no doubt from chasing shadows through backyards.

 

"In here," he gestured. "I think this is the one you're after."

 

One officer checked for a pulse. He turned and nodded to the others. "Get the EMTs over here." He muttered under his breath. "Let's save his worthless life."

 

"By all means," said the man slowly, still standing in the doorway. "He owes somebody money."

 

The officer looked at the wheelchair for a moment, then back at the man. "I guess that's not your chair?"

 

He shook his head. "It's my wife's. She got so used to sitting in it to watch TV, we just made it part of the living room."

 

"So Einstein here thought it was yours."

 

The man smiled tightly. "It seemed like a good idea let him go on thinking it."

 

"Where is your wife?"

 

The man looked toward the hallway. "She's asleep."

 

The officer stood. "Can we talk to her? She might have heard something."

 

"I doubt it."

 

"Show me." The officer's voice became businesslike.

 

The man led the way to the second door and opened it. The officer took in the hospital bed, the few limp wisps of blonde hair left on the woman, the prescription bottles on the dresser. "So she's on the strong stuff?"

 

He nodded. "It's the only thing that stops the pain now."

 

The officer nodded. "I'm sorry, man. I don't know what I'd do if my wife--aw, buddy." He shook his head.

 

The man turned from her, closing the door gently. "I know. You do what you have to do, you know? Because nobody asks you." His voice became brisk. "Flo? How is she?"

 

"Bullet just grazed her side. She's in the ICU now. Did he tell you anything?"

 

"Said he owed money to his rotten little friends. If he got caught, he said they'd find a way to kill him in prison."

 

"Oh, that's awful," said the officer.

 

"Poor guy," he agreed.

 

"We're gonna be in your house for awhile and you can't go in the living room. Sorry. We'll be as quiet as we can."

 

"That's all right. I'll sit with her." He gestured with his chin to the door.

 

The policeman seemed to want to say something, but biting his lip, he turned away.

 

The man looked past the paramedics, past the rumpled pile of socks and towels, to the corner of the room where the picture lay, shards of sparkling glass around it. Then he opened the door again and disappeared into the room where his wife slept.

 

Author's Note

All right, here's hoping this is a little easier to read,

Reviews

[cartera]

Hi.
Enjoyed the story.
I wondered if you've ever read Hemingway's The Killers? (The plot is not the same) It occurred to me that the situation you write about here would lend itself to that sort of treatment. To achieve that just the littlest tightening up is all that is necessary: a few, a very few, adverbs and a dropping of some, no other word for it, hackneyed stuff, e.g. 'icy finger.' Don't get upset about this critique, there is little wrong with your story. I am only imagining it as a great story. You are an excellent writer. I'll read the next one soon.
There is a problem with critiquing in any detail, if one sticks one own's stuff up, one finds one is a hostage to fortune.

[Bare trees]

A great story with a great twisting finale. You always craft your words and sentences well with suspence and the unexpected as par for the course. Always enjoy reading your stories. Great job.

[Creepy Swine Guy]

I thoroughly enjoyed the story. The ending was unexpected and compelling. Best story I've read in a while.

[Manyfacets]

This is a wonderful story. It is imaginative, edgy, interesting and held readers interest. I loved the story.

[Alphachad]

Err ending too happy for me. Fine story tho but i did expect more profanities and blood. LOL just me i guess

[Eagle Cruagh]

What will make this exquisite story
easier to read? What will help me to
scan through for the meat ?

I know ! Break the story up with spaces'
, two or three spaces between each thought.]

Great story, excellent ! Attention grabbing right
from the start. Sucks you right in to the guts
of the story where your mind is engaged by
the writer.

Good work. Nice writing.

Rated------100 %

----- Eagle Cruagh