By Jullius Valentine
Alvin Friedrich loved Luanne St. John the first moment he laid eyes on her behind the counter at the Freezy’s ice cream shop on Main Street. That same day, he set about coming up with an open position at his shoe shop.
“Yolanda,” he said to his counter girl and only employee as she laid out a new line of Stride-Rite penny loafers in the front window, “you are way too bright to be working at a shoe store. You should go back to school. Learn some shorthand. Maybe become a court reporter. You’d get the juicy gossip on all the goings-on then.”
“Not me, Mr. Friedrich. My fingers are too fat for anything like that. I like it here.”
Alvin had to take another tack. The next day he caught her stacking women’s pumps. “Yolanda, you’re too damned fat. It’s disgusting and it makes customers sick.” As Yolanda fled the store crying Alvin pulled the ‘back-in-a-minute’ sign and went downtown to scoop up Luanne from the Freezy’s counter.
“She ain’t here no more.” A young, thick-spectacled girl told him when he inquired after Luanne. “She got a good job with Mr. Farnsley, the accountant.”
Bob Farnsley—if Alvin had an arch-nemesis, it was Bob Farnsley. When Farnsley made captain of the basketball team in high school, Alvin made towel boy. When Alvin got his father’s broke-down ’39 ford, Farnsley was driving a plush white Studebaker. Alvin took a stock job at Shekem’s Shoes, Farnsley got into Indiana University. Ten years later and it was his shop, Friedrich’s Shoes. Next door, through one wall, was the newly appointed office of Robert M. Farnsley, C.P.A.
Alvin parked his ten-year-old brown Studebaker in a spot next to Farnsley’s brand new ’61 Buick. Every morning they arrived at the same time and Farnsley, sounding very much like he was from the East Coast instead of southern Indiana, said, “Morning Alvy!” Alvin hated that nickname. He hated Farnsley for keeping a head full of red hair while he lost his wiry black mop. And as he looked into Farnsley’s office—where Luanne St. John sat at the front desk, talking with Farnsley, who was perched there chummily—he hated Farnsley for being alive.
Alvin sulked for weeks. Yolanda refused to come back, so he took an ad out in the Jasper Chronicle, not the Times, as he did not want to hire a democrat. Every day, he arrived at work to be taunted by Farnsley’s stuck-up voice. Every day, he sat inside his empty store, watching Luanne giggle on Farnsley’s arm as they went out for lunch.
He hired a bookish kid from the local high school about six weeks after Yolanda quit. He had not put out stock for nearly three weeks and he worked the kid hard. One day he heard a loud tumble of cardboard from the back of the store as dozens of improperly stacked boxes went crashing to the floor. He had personally improperly stacked them but he yelled at the kid anyway.
“Leo! What the heck are you doing?”
No answer for a moment then, “Mr. Friedrich. What is this thing?”
Alvin knew what he was referring to. “It’s an x-ray machine. We used to x-ray kids’ feet to tell mothers how they would grow. It doesn’t really bring people in anymore.”
“Wow,” he heard Leo say from the back of the store, “these things are pretty dangerous.”
“Get to work, Leo.” Alvin said. Then he thought a moment. “What do you mean, these things are dangerous?”
“X-rays. They’re dangerous. They can cause cancer or make you, you know—” he whispered the last part—“impotent.”
“Really?” This was news to him. He hadn’t used the machine more than a couple of dozen times and old Mr. Shekem had roundly considered the thing one of the biggest wastes of money he had ever undertaken.
Alvin might have never thought about it again, but at that moment Farnsley went charging to his Buick with a giggling Luanne St. John on his arm. “Go to lunch, Leo.” Leo went to lunch. When he had gone, Alvin stood at the front wall of the store and, counting his steps, paced toward the back of the building. He stopped, at twenty-seven, beside the old wooden ‘X-ray Shoe Fitter Inc’ machine.
When Farnsley returned, Alvin went next door for a visit. He counted his steps from Farnsley’s front door, stopping at ten, beside Luanne’s desk.
“Hello Luanne. Is Bob in?”
“He is, Mr. Friedrich,” she smiled prettily, “I’ll see if he’s available.” She picked up a phone and pushed a button. “Mr. Farnsley, Mr. Friedrich from next door is here to see you.” She began to blush and covered the receiver with her hand whispering back, “Bobby, please.” She giggled, “you’re terrible.” She looked up to Friedrich, mistaking his fury for impatience. “I’m sorry, you can go right back,” she said.
Alvin counted his steps through gritted teeth. Robert Farnsley’s desk, right against their shared wall, was an addition twenty seven paces from the front door.
“What can I do for ya, Alvy?”
“I hit your car with my door. I just wanted you to know.”
Farnsley’s face screwed into a scowl. “Well, that’s no good, not good at all. Let’s see what you did.” He hopped up from the desk and charged out of the office. Friedrich followed. At the car, Farnsley hemmed and hawed as he inspected his door, then stood with a smile. “Good news. Not a scratch. You’re a lucky man, Alvy! The paint job on this baby is not cheap, not cheap at all.”
“You’re right, Bob. I am a very lucky man.”
That evening, after Leo punched out, Alvin locked the door and crept back to the x-ray box. He searched the front of the machine for way to open it. A small hitch on the side allowed him access to the interior. What he found was straightforward enough. Outside of the x-ray tube and apparatus itself, the innards were mostly just wasted space. He retrieved a small dusty toolbox from the storeroom and set about stripping out useless parts. By midnight he had removed the foot shelves, exposure plate, and triple view ports. He remounted the tube and generator to point, at about the height of a seated person’s waist, toward the office of Robert M. Farnsley. He plugged the machine in and it began to hum. He pushed a button and for a moment a high-pitched whine became audible, then a deep pop, like a metal file drawer shutting, indicating that the process was complete. It took about four seconds.
#
“Good morning, Alvy!”
“It certainly is.” Alvin was being honest. At the back of the shop, he listened until he heard the creak of Farnsley’s desk chair through the wall. Alvin flipped the machine on and hit the button. When the popping noise indicated the machine was done, Alvin hit the button again. All told, he gave Farnsley twenty-five doses before Leo showed up and he was forced to shut his operation down.
Alvin had been dosing Farnsley for nearly two weeks when he noticed the first change. When he pulled into his parking spot, Farnsley’s new Buick was conspicuously absent and did not show up for nearly an hour. Farnsley looked disheveled, unkempt. It did not stop there. After a third week, Farnsley began missing entire days. After Farnsley was absent three days straight the fifth week, Alvin popped in to his office. Luanne was sitting at her desk, looking worried.
“Bob in, Luanne?”
“No. I… I don’t know where he is.”
“That so? That can’t be good for business. You ever need a job, I could always use you next door.”
She looked up at Alvin, her cheeks tear-streaked, “Really, you mean it? I don’t know how long Bobby—sorry, Mr. Farnsley—can keep up, at this rate.”
Alvin was on top of the world. He went next door, sent Leo home, and closed the shop. He was going to invite Luanne to lunch on his arm, for once. He was at the door of Farnsley’s office when an idea occurred to him.
“That girl needs flowers.” He said it aloud. He turned on his heel and all but skipped across the street to Dubois’ Flower Shop.
“What do you get a sad girl?” he asked at the counter.
“There is roses sad and then there is lilies sad.” Mrs. Dubois said.
Six roses later, Alvin was headed back across the intersection. He buried his face in the roses, which didn’t really have a smell, one way or the other. He was wondering if he should have asked for scented roses when he heard the screech of breaks coming in close. He had time to look up and see a monstrous ’55 Chevy headed right for him. There was a strange, blurry moment when the world was filled by Robert Farnsley’s face behind a windshield, then the sound of a car bumper crumpling, and Alvin was flying through the air.
Alvin came to in the hospital. He was in a gown and covered by a sheet. There was a bandage around his head. In a seat by the door was a very worried-looking Farnsley. When he saw Alvin awake, his face lit up. “I’m so glad you’re okay. Jeez, you scared me. I—I almost didn’t think you would make it.”
“What happened?” Alvin groaned through a head full of pain.
Farnsley came in close and whispered urgently. “Listen, you got to tell them that you don’t remember what happened. Don’t mention my name.” He looked around the room as if expecting eavesdroppers to be anywhere. “Look at this, Alvy.” Farnsley pulled a small, sharp knife from his slacks’ pocket, and then plunged the blade into his own leg. Alvin gasped, but when Farnsley brought the blade up, it was snapped in two. A small, precise hole was in his pants where he had stabbed himself, but no blood. “Something has happened. I mean, I have these powers. I’m indestructible—strong, too. And you wouldn’t believe it, but I can outrun a horse!” He looked around the room again and leaned in very close to Alvin’s ear. “I’ve been going out at night and fighting crime. I thought I was meant to be a pencil-pusher. Now I know I was meant for so much more. I can really help people.”
The doctor came into the room.Farnsley stood up quickly and laughed loudly as if Alvin had just finished a bawdy joke. “That is so funny, Alvy! Well, good to know you’re feeling better. Oh, hi there, doc. Alvy here is a real lucky guy, huh?”
“Yes, he is very fortunate to have not been killed. Are you a relative?”
“No, doc, just a relieved friend. Don’t worry about me, though, I have to get back to the office. You take good care of my buddy here, all right.”
“Certainly.” The doctor turned to Alvin. Farnsley craned over the doctor’s shoulder and gave Alvin a wink, followed by a second, more exaggerated wink. Then he was gone.
The doctor stood by Alvin’s bedside, looking over some charts he had in hand. “Mr. Friedrich, how have you felt lately—before the accident I mean?”
“Fine, doctor. I’ve felt just fine.” Alvin’s voice was hoarse.
“Yes, well, there is no easy way to put this, Mr. Friedrich, so I will tell you plain. Mr. Friedrich, I’m afraid you have cancer.”