R.J. Caron

R.J. Caron

Worth the Wait

A tall, slim, gray-bearded man waited for the ten o’clock bus. Nils Mathers cursed the morning. “Damn cold for October first,” he complained. For once, the weatherman was right: sleet was falling. Frozen, glistening droplets bounced off Nils’s dirty Red Sox cap. And wetness penetrated his thin-soled boots.

Nils scowled while looking for his cigarettes, stashed somewhere beneath his coat. “Where the hell is it?” he grumbled, frisking himself. “All right!” he shouted, as his trembling hand located the red-and-white box. He pulled one out of the pack and stuck it between his quivering lips. After striking a damp match, a putrid sulfur smell attacked his nostrils. This sucks, thought Nils as smoke streamed past his bloodshot blue eyes, drifting toward the cloud-darkened sky.

Nils sat on the wet bus stop bench and closed his eyes, quickly noddingoff. Groaning, he dreamt of his last day in Vietnam. As a nineteen-year-old Army Private, an EVAC helicopter was coming to lift him out of the jungle. His hip oozed blood, caused by a sniper’s bullet, and his mind screamed, Where the hell is that son-of-a-bitch pilot? From that day forward, Nils hated waiting.

Then Nils opened his eyes and saw the green-and-white transit bus splashing in his direction. It rolled to a stop, the door swung open, and Nils stumbled up the steps.

“Hey Nils! How’s it goin’?” asked Ted, the driver.

“Could be better,” Nils answered. “Where the hell ya been, Ted? Yer late!” Nils took his usual seat, up front, directly across from Ted.

“Hey! Take it easy, pal!” hollered Ted. “It’s slippery out. I almost slid into a car three blocks back!”

“Sorry,” replied Nils. “My Social Security check came late yesterday. I got no money ‘til I cash the damn thing!”

“Calm down,” said Ted. “We’ll be downtown in a little while.”

Nils sat back, staring out the window. The sleet had turned into a cold rain. Nils noticed an elderly lady taking tiny steps, clutching a red umbrella. Oh yeah, he remembered, that lady talked to me at the diner once. He laughed, imagining her and her umbrella being lifted off the ground by a strong wind gust, like Mary Poppins. Nils stopped laughing, remembering that she told him a sad story, but he couldn’t quite remember what it was about.

The vehicle stopped at the corner of Main and Hope Streets. “Hey Nils, this where ya wanna get off?” asked Ted. It was Nils’s usual departure point.

Nils peered out the window. There stood the Freedom Savings Bank, with its brass-and-glass revolving door, imbedded beside the bus stop.

“Yeah, I’ll get out here,” answered Nils. “See ya later Ted.”

Nils stepped into the pouring rain, hurrying past the bank entrance. He knew the tellers wouldn’t cash his check: he’d been invisible to them for years, ever since losing his job and closing his account. Halfway down the street was the only place that could offer help: The Liquor Emporium. Its glistening neon display beckoned him, as did the sign on the door that read Checks Cashed.

He looked through the store’s barred window and saw Phil, the store owner, dusting a sea of bottles. A doorbell sounded Nils’s arrival.

“What can I do for ya?” asked Phil, looking down at Nils. Phil was a big African-American guy: about 6’5”, 280 lbs. He was well-known in town, since playing linebacker for the Patriots a few years ago. Phil still looked imposing: he was all muscle, sported a thick, black beard, and his cleanly-shaved head reflected the overhead lights. Nils was amazed at Phil’s enormous hands, and wondered about the size of the Super Bowl ring he wore.

Nils gave Phil his check. “Can you cash that?” he asked.

“It’s for twelve-hundred bucks,” Phil pointed out. He thought for a minute, then said, “Okay. I just need ta see an I.D.”

Nils pulled out his torn wallet and handed over his state-issued identification card, which he carried instead of a license. He hadn’t driven in years.

“Looks Okay,” Phil responded.”

“Thanks, man. Finally, somthin’ good’s happenin’” Nils mumbled, displaying something rarely seen—a smile.

“You gonna buy anything?” asked Phil.

“Yeah. Gimme a pint of vodka and a carton of Marlboro Box,” Nils replied. “And lemme have a Win Big! scratch-off ticket.”

Phil handed Nils a paper bag with the vodka and cigarettes and the remainder of the twelve-hundred-dollar check. He then took a $10 scratch-off ticket from the display case, turned to Nils and said, “Good luck, man. This game’s endin’ next week, and you got my last ticket.”

Nils said, “I might as well throw ten bucks out the door. I never win anything. Been waitin’ a long time for somethin’ ta come my way.”

“Don’t sell yerself short, man. Look at me: I never thought I’d play pro ball, but the Pats drafted me, and we won a Super Bowl!” exclaimed Phil. “Still be playin’ if it wasn’t for my dammed knee! But Coach always told me to think positively. Ya got nuthin’ to lose, but you might win.”

Phil reached into his jeans pocket and revealed a worn-out penny. “Here man, use this. It’s my lucky coin—the one I kept with me during every Patriots game.”

“Thanks, Phil,” said Nils, while taking it. “But it won’t help.”

Nils took a deep breath and drifted away for a minute. He thought back to when he was a mechanic. A Ford dealership, located on the outskirts of Boston, gave him his first job after he returned from ‘Nam. Nils made $6 per hour, which was nearly twice the pay of the average worker at the time. After paying his rent, he had nearly $600 a month spending money.

Unfortunately, he used most of it to buy drugs, booze, and cigarettes. Nils’s addictions led to his firing after a year, and over the next twenty years, he was hired and fired six more times. Nils attributed his troubled life to bad luck, but people familiar with him knew otherwise.

“Hey man, snap out of it,” said Phil. “Scratch that freakin’ ticket!” He wanted Nils to win a few bucks, maybe even twenty-five or fifty.

Nils thought to himself All right! I’ll rub the damned thing! He did, uncovering a golden dollar sign.

“Wow! Look! I won ten bucks!” Nils said excitedly.

He kept going. “Holy crap, another dollar sign! That’s fifty bucks!”

Nils shifted his eyes to Phil, then glanced outside. The rain had stopped.

A third uncovered symbol—another golden dollar sign! That brought Nils’s winnings to $1,000. He had one scratch left. You’d swear an earthquake was hitting Beantown: both Nils and Phil were shaking.

Nils quickly rubbed-off the last symbol. He started jumping and screaming like a little boy who found a new bike under his Christmas tree. His ticket revealed a fourth golden dollar sign!

“Holy cow! I won! I won! Five thousand bucks a week for the rest of my life!” Nils shouted, feelin’ like he was going to puke.

Phil gave him a hug so hard it nearly popped off Nils’s head. “C’mon, Nils. I’m closin’ early just for you, so we can celebrate! I’ll give ya a lift to lottery headquarters!”

“That’d be great!” Nils yelled, still in shock.

“Consider me your chauffeur and body guard!” exclaimed the big guy.

Phil hung a sign on the door that read SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED. Then the two newly established best buddies took off to get Nils’s first check.

During the ride, Nils thought about his good fortune and thanked God for giving him another chance. After all, his life had been about screw-ups and doovers. He had about a hundred second-chances, and he always felt sorry for himself. So even while he should have celebrated hitting it big, Nils actually guilted himself into feeling lousy.

“Hey Phil! Stop the car! Pull over there!”

“What’s wrong, Nils?” questioned the concerned driver.

“I see someone I know,” Nils replied. “Well, truth is, I don’t really know her. But I feel like I do!”

“What the hell ya talkin’ about?” asked Phil.

Nils pointed across the street. “Ya see that old lady, over there? I’ve seen her a few times, havin’ a hard time walkin’. She always has that red umbrella, even if it’s not raining. And now she’s carryin’ a wet bag of groceries, that looks like it’s gonna rip. I wanna talk to her.”

Phil carefully performed a U-turn, and pulled into a spot near where the lady was walking.

Nils rolled down his window. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m Nils, and this is Phil. It’s cold and windy, and that bag looks heavy. Can we give you a ride?”

“Have we met before?” inquired the confused woman.

“About a month ago, I sat next to you at the counter of The Dreamer’s Diner,” Nils responded. “It was early morning. You talked to me. Nobody ever says anything to me. I remember, you were sad. And you cried, telling me how lonely you were since your husband died. Sorry ta say, but I was wiped-out after a night of heavy drinkin’, so I wasn’t really listening. But I felt your pain. And since I stay away from people, loneliness was somethin’ I felt, too. Anyways, startin’ today, I wanna fix that.”

The woman was tired, and didn’t feel threatened. “Thank you, Nils. I’d love a ride,” she said.

A feeling of warmth came over Nils, and he was thankful. Not so much about the money he was to receive, but for the friendships he developed that day.

Nils got out and opened the rear door. Looking at him, with her grateful grey eyes, she said, “My name is Edna.”

“Wow, that was my mother’s name,” beamed Nils. “Nice to see you again, Edna.”