Two Fivers

I could hear him coming down Marine Drive. The slow squeak, squeak, squeak, of his bike and the off key singing of some song in his head. Here comes Clarence.

Clarence was a gentle old man. He had special needs and he lived in a group home about a mile out of town from my house. Once or twice a week I would see him slowly ride past the house, his bike rocking back and forth with each push of the pedals. He would have to ride another two miles down the road to reach town.

Clarence’s bike could only be called a bike in the loosest of terms. It was too small for his size, so every time he peddled one of his knees would come up higher than the handlebars. The make of the bike was unknown since it was Frankensteined together from whatever abandoned bikes he could find. On his handlebars he had a thumb ringer and a taxicab squeeze horn. He had also duct taped a flashlight to the center of the bars for his evening rides. Behind the bike, adding to the ever-present squeaking, he towed a grocery cart which he used to haul his interesting finds.

The first time Clarence stopped by the house, I was mowing the front yard. I looked up to see him pushing the monster toward town. It was obvious that he had a flat back tire.

“Hey there, can I give you a hand?” I yelled.

“Yeah, I could sure use some air,” he answered in an exasperated voice.

He pushed the bike and cart into the driveway. Covered in sweat, he looked like he needed to rest a spell, so on the way to grab the air pump I pulled a can of Coke from the fridge and he cooled his parched throat while he watched me reinflate the tire.

“My name is Marty,” I said, holding out my hand.

“Thanks Maudy.”

“It’s Marty,” I repeated. “Marty.”

“Maudy.”

“Yeah,” I sighed, “oh well.”

After that, my newfound friend would pull into the driveway every time he saw me in the yard. He was looking for ways to help me because I had helped him. One such time I was washing my car. From a block away I could hear the squeak, squeak, squeak, coming toward the house. He rode the parts collection into the driveway.

“I can help you, Maudy,” he shouted. “Let me have the hose.”

Clarence had the worst hose/eye coordination for a man that I have ever seen. I have been in water balloon fights with the high school kids at the church and ended up less wet than I got from washing one car with this man.

Each time that he would lose control of the nozzle and spray me in the back or the head, I would hear him shout, “Sorry Maudy!”

“Yeah, oh well,” I muttered.

Then one day I had walked out to the mailbox to retrieve the newspaper and I heard him coming. Looking up, I saw Clarence waving at me and yelling something, so I waited for him to arrive.

“Maudy, you got two fivers for some walkie-talkies?”

How he said it sounded more like, “wall-key tall-keys.”

“What?” I asked for clarification.

“You got two fivers for some walkie-talkies?” he repeated.

In his cart I could see a shopping bag which was partially filled with something.

“Why do you need two fivers, Clarence?” I asked.

“I really need to buy something at the grocery store,” he answered.

“Today?”

“Today!” He said in an anxious voice.

I really didn’t need any walkie-talkies. Maybe I could use them while hunting or the grandkids could play with them. I felt like saying “no thanks” and sending him down the road but then I stopped myself and thought, “Clarence is my friend. Where else is he going to get ten dollars and what is ten dollars to me?” Reaching into my wallet I pulled out two fivers and handed them to him. He sat on the bike seat wearing the clothes he had received from the mission. He was unshaven and was much in need of a bath.

“Thanks Maudy,” he said. He turned around and picked up the paper sack from his cart and handed it to me. Then he turned the two wheeler from the scrap yard around and peddled toward town. Setting the bag on the ground, I went across the street and talked with a neighbor for an hour. We laughed about the walkie-talkies. Everyone knew Clarence.

Upon returning to my yard, I picked up the bag, carried it to the picnic table and dumped the contents onto the surface. Out slid five walkie-talkies. They were five walkie-talkies each made by a different manufacturer who had unique frequencies for their own product. Each walkie-talkie was either missing an antenna, volume knob, or the wiring for the nine-volt battery. In a nutshell, none of the units worked.

I’m not going to call it rage. Let’s call it ticked-off. Clarence had tricked me and made off with my ten dollars. I knew where he went though and even with an hour head start, I was going to find him and make him take his trash walkie-talkies back. I jumped in the car and headed toward town.

As I approached the grocery store, I scanned the area. Surely, he must be somewhere close. And then I spotted it, Frankenstein’s monster. It and the cart were parked at the local burger joint.

“Hah, I’ve got you now,” I sneered, but before I could swerve into the parking lot, my eyes spotted him. Clarence was sitting outside the drive-in at a picnic table. Across from him sat a special needs woman his age. In between them, a large bouquet of yellow flowers lay on the table, and they were both laughing while they ate hamburgers with Cokes. Clarence had himself a date. I drove home.

On the ride back I started to smile. “Good for you Clarence, you have a girlfriend.” I then realized that I was the one who was in the wrong, accusing him of cheating me.

He sold me a bag of walkie-talkies for ten dollars. He never said, and I mistakenly assumed . . . that they worked.

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