What would we do without memory? Stop learning that everything cycles back to its origin, sooner or later. (Image by Bloogie)
Take me. I’m Free
by Odin Roark
Back in ’59, how quaint, I thought.
I leaned on my elbows, finding the same comfort of a weathered windowsill as my European ancestors, ‘least as my grandmother told it.
There, just fifty feet blow my 4th floor walk up, the next-door tenement’s “presentation” for the month’s end “Bulky Junk Day.”
Yes, quaint was the operative word that morning. An old Frigidaire decorated with little souvenir magnets and a sign “Take me. I’m free,” took center stage this month.
I watched the early morning scurrying of everyone on their way to the subway as I lowered my little Pomeranian/Chihuahua (and God knows what other genes were mixed into this shelter mutt) down, his basket and rope, his only true friend, besides me. How he loved the garbage cans. Such a routine he had; lifted leg, gifted spray, a leap back into the basket, and his favorite carnival ride back to the top at mach speed for the little terror.
His yappy bark notwithstanding (just ask the neighbors) I continued watching, the decorative anomaly at curbside. So old this fridge, so very old. Yellow paint over the white chipped porcelain, with sprinkles decorating the surfaces in the form of what looks like little vacation memories from all over the world. Gotta wonder—why give those away? And that sign. Everybody know stuff at the curb is for taking—don’t they?
Next door to my right, simpler junk awaiting the scavengers.
Chair,
Couch
B/W TV
Stromberg Carlson tube radio.
No sign. No… My eyes trail back to the fridge. Why the magnets? Somebody know something I don’t?
Then it happens. Old D. J. (Dumpster Jack), a fixture of the neighborhood, takes his old, limping body, and still wearing his “good luck” helmet he says got him through Normandy, loads up his Safeway basket with that tube radio, chair, and TV. I shake my head. Where does a homeless guy plug in a TV?
He moves to the fridge. This is gonna be good, I remember thinking. No way he’s got a way of taking that to wherever he goes. But carefully, so carefully, so humbly, he fingers the magnets, his lips seeming to utter the locations as he smiles, a somewhat clown-like smile—basically sad—maybe a tear? Can’t be sure from this far away, but…
He glances up. I wave. “How’s it goin’ D.J.?
He looks back at the magnets, the sign, and says, “Been to all these places—the black and white days, lots of gray. No color, you know what I mean? Been to France, Belgium, Italy. Even Japan. How ‘bout that? Ever been to these places?” he shouts up at me.
“Nah. Queens, Flushing, bit of Brooklyn. That’s me.”
“Better off, probably…maybe.”
I nod. “If you say so, D.J.” Not sure what he means, ‘cept he takes out his magic marker pen, taps his helmet like the habitual of an infantryman readying a cartridge going into a weapon, and adds words to the sign.
Hard angle to read, but—seems it says—Yeah—it says, “Nothings for free.”
Damn if he didn’t wink up at me, give me his usual salute, and simply stride away, pushing his cart down the block, whistling something I knew, but didn’t—really. Wait, it was “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again, hurrah, hurrah.”
A passing Checker Cab gave a gust of impatient air, lifting the sign, “Take me. I’m Free.” Suddenly, it hit me; nothing’s for free. “Is it?” I shout to D.J.
He cups his ear, “What?”
“Nothing’s for free.”
He nods. “Yeah…You’re learnin, Sparky’”
He did a little jump and clicking of heels as he whistled his way around the corner.
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well done
IMO would make a great Norman Rockwell painting(s). I love the 'flash fiction' form. Great work here. Really enjoyed it.
Ron