A start that ends itself: A TALE TOLD

The events in this story are based on police records. All names and locations have been altered to protect the innocent. Read my tale with a large box of Morton’s  Salt beside you.

 

It is December 1 and winter has set in and I am set out on the street. Mr. Goodson, my landlord, (I scoff at his name) sent the police to evict me from my one and a half room lodging. The half consisted of a small area that held a sink with no sideboard and a single cabinet on which I kept the microwave I picked up at Goodwill. There were three narrow drawers that held my forks, knives and spoons, odds and ends, plus a hammer, two screw drivers, a stapler and note paper. One double wall socket had to suffice as did the ceiling light that sometimes flickered.
My bedroom had a lumpy sleep sofa, a single chair, a nite stand and dresser with wobbly knobs. The usually occupied bathroom down the hall had a shower in the tub and 4 tenants trying to cooperate with each other, keeping the place clean.

 

I am sitting on the cold cement steps on 14th St. My few possessions are in two cardboard cartons the super market allowed me to have. Passersby glance at me, ignore my plight. So far I have not asked for alms but that day may be nearing. A single snowflake wets my nose. The gray sky is ready to let loose. Other flakes gently fall around me.

 

A black still shiny, undented sedan pulls into the curb in front of what was my home. A neatly dressed man gets out of the driver’s seat, looks me over and approaches. He nods to me and asks if I live in this building. I reply, ‘ I did until yesterday.’ Another and another question follows. ‘What are you doing out here with those boxes? Do you have a job? Do you have any place to go? What is your name? Would you like to have breakfast with me?’ I ratatattat my answers. ‘Waiting, No, No, Harold Kopinski, Yes, I would, thank you.’ Whoever he is, whatever he wants, I am ready to hear him out.

 

‘Mr. Kopinski, you can leave off the ‘Mister’ and just call me ‘Angelino. Let me help you with your cartons. I think they will fit nicely in my trunk. Then we can walk around the corner to a pleasant, warm all nite automat. Have you ever been to Augie’s?’ ‘Not in a long time, Sir.’ Little, itchy nerves begin to go down my back and I hesitate to go, but not for long.

 

I carry the heavier box that has all of my clothes and some towels, 2 pillow cases and two sheets  stacked on top of the microwave. The lighter one has a few cans, Sweet ‘n Low that I got from wherever I see it available, a plastic cup, three plates in different colors, and two water glasses. Small but important items are in a pouch over my shoulder. My razor and blades, shampoo, two bars of soap, ½ box of Kleenex pretty much cover my belongings.

 

Mr. Angelino hands me two one dollar bills before we go into Augie’s. He suggests I change them to coins and I tell him, I wasn’t born in Siberia. ‘Just don’t treat me like I’m dog dirt.’ We put our selections on trays and get down to business. ‘O.K., Mr. Kopinski, I need a smart man to do something for me I can’t do.’ I stop him cold. ‘I am not a killer. I won’t even hurt anyone for you. I won’t steal or start a fire.’
‘No, you won’t have to do any of those things. Let’s go into my car and I will explain.’

 

We return to his sedan and there is a ticket on the windshield. Angelino flies into a rage. The officer wrote the driver was parked too close to a fire hydrant. ‘Send check to the DMV by Dec. 12.’ Angelino starts to tear it up, stops for a moment, folds the ticket carefully and slips it into his jacket pocket.

 

When he calms down a little, I learn what he wants me to do, kidnap his son. His wife had absconded with his five year old son when the judge awarded joint custody to each of them. He has been searching for them for six months with no luck. They certainly are not in NY but must be in the States as her entire large family is here, spread in at least eight states, in big cities- LA, Philly, Chicago.

 

I listen. He makes a fantastic monetary offer to me but no money, not even his money, would get me to traipse around this country searching for a mother and child. Tears, real tears run down his face. My heart is tender, about to break but it is a ridiculous thing he is asking. ‘Tell me no more, Angelino. You picked the wrong guy. ‘ But, but, I didn’t even tell you about expenses, cars, hotels, that I’ll pay for. I’ll put it all in writing for you and get it notarized.’

 

He has locked all the doors in his car. I can’t get out. Our voices rise. I push him, he pushes me back. I take a swing at his head and he falls on the steering wheel. That is my chance. I reach over him and unlock the passenger door, jump out and start to run down the street. Angelino comes after me, screaming, yelling, ‘Help, help. Stop that man.’ A policeman blows his whistle and stops me. I am accused of stealing Angelino’s wallet and when I am searched, it is found in my pocket.

 

This was a wild, an insane day that worked out well. I had a good, hot breakfast that didn’t cost anything. I proved to the officer that my belongings were in the trunk of Angelino’s car and I have a place to sleep for a few nights while the snow melts.

 

My possessions I was told are in the locker area and I have a solitary cell in jail. It’s better than on a park bench.