sights and sounds: the rain on the officers’ shoulders, the word
instantly….
Arthur remembered running over to James Hampton and picking up his broken glasses from the cement floor. He remembered the bitter smell of urine and vomit around him. And he remembered crouching down next to the old man, desperately praying, begging, hoping he was still alive.
“Who are you?” Mr. Hampton said, suddenly opening his eyes and scaring the heck out of Arthur.
“A-Arthur Owens,” he stammered.
The man’s dark eyes looked distant and unfocused, as if they didn’t actually see Arthur but someone else. “I don’t know you,” he mumbled. “Tell me where I am, saint.”
Arthur swallowed, unsure what to answer. “Your garage,” he replied finally. “And I’m not a saint,” he added. “I’m Arthur Owens, the kid doing the probation sentence for you.”
He couldn’t bring himself to mention the brick.
“Oh yes, Saint Arthur,” the man murmured, his eyes sliding closed again. “Now I know exactly who you are. You’re the one who saved me.”
“I didn’t save you,” Arthur started to explain, but stopped when he saw Mr. Hampton’s closed eyes and rasping breaths. He could feel panic rising in his throat. He didn’t know if Mr. Hampton had fallen or had a heart attack or what. With his face crumpled against the cold cement floor, the old man looked like he was dying.
Arthur glanced toward the side door of the garage, desperately hoping someone would arrive. If Mr. Hampton died while he was there, nobody would believe it wasn’t his fault.
But no one came.
Arthur shook the old man’s shoulder, begging him to wake up.
“Can you hear me, Mr. Hampton? I have to go and get some help for you, okay?” Arthur’s panicked voice echoed through the garage, but the man didn’t move or answer. At the other end of the room, the dozens of gold-and-silver wings remained motionless too. Nothing stirred.
Arthur felt as if he was about to explode with fear. He was afraid to stay with Mr. Hampton, and he was afraid to leave.
He’d already deserted Mr. Hampton once. He’d left him lying alone on a city sidewalk and run away like a coward. If he left to get help, would he look like a coward again?
Arthur decided he had to take the chance. He couldn’t stay there and watch the guy die. Standing up, he took one last look at the motionless man and ran to get Groovy Jim.
—
The rest of what happened was a blur to Arthur. He remembered bursting into Groovy Jim’s shop, shouting things that probably didn’t make much sense, about finding Mr. Hampton on the floor and calling the police. He remembered Groovy Jim running up the gravel alley in his slippers, with his burly customer following him. And he remembered almost crying with relief when Groovy Jim kneeled down next to Mr. Hampton and he opened his eyes again.
“What happened to you, buddy?” Groovy Jim said, trying to sound calm as he tucked the man’s coat tighter around him and patted his arm. “You take a fall and hit your head or something?”
“No.” Mr. Hampton’s head moved almost imperceptibly. “I’m ready to go,” he whispered.
“Go where?” Groovy Jim asked, just to keep him talking, Arthur could tell.
“Heaven,” replied Mr. Hampton, closing his eyes again.
Looking startled, Groovy Jim glanced back at Arthur and his customer. “Well, I don’t think heaven is ready for you yet, buddy,” he said loudly. “You need to stay right here with us until help gets here. You’ve got a lot of years left to live. You can’t get rid of us that easily.”
He pointed toward the dazzling display at the other end of the garage. “Man, that’s a pretty cool collection of stuff you’ve got over there. Why don’t you tell us about it?”
Surprisingly, this question seemed to bring James Hampton back to the real world again. His eyes opened and he focused them directly on Groovy Jim. “Not
stuff,
” he corrected, sounding irritated. “It’s
instantly….
Arthur remembered running over to James Hampton and picking up his broken glasses from the cement floor. He remembered the bitter smell of urine and vomit around him. And he remembered crouching down next to the old man, desperately praying, begging, hoping he was still alive.
“Who are you?” Mr. Hampton said, suddenly opening his eyes and scaring the heck out of Arthur.
“A-Arthur Owens,” he stammered.
The man’s dark eyes looked distant and unfocused, as if they didn’t actually see Arthur but someone else. “I don’t know you,” he mumbled. “Tell me where I am, saint.”
Arthur swallowed, unsure what to answer. “Your garage,” he replied finally. “And I’m not a saint,” he added. “I’m Arthur Owens, the kid doing the probation sentence for you.”
He couldn’t bring himself to mention the brick.
“Oh yes, Saint Arthur,” the man murmured, his eyes sliding closed again. “Now I know exactly who you are. You’re the one who saved me.”
“I didn’t save you,” Arthur started to explain, but stopped when he saw Mr. Hampton’s closed eyes and rasping breaths. He could feel panic rising in his throat. He didn’t know if Mr. Hampton had fallen or had a heart attack or what. With his face crumpled against the cold cement floor, the old man looked like he was dying.
Arthur glanced toward the side door of the garage, desperately hoping someone would arrive. If Mr. Hampton died while he was there, nobody would believe it wasn’t his fault.
But no one came.
Arthur shook the old man’s shoulder, begging him to wake up.
“Can you hear me, Mr. Hampton? I have to go and get some help for you, okay?” Arthur’s panicked voice echoed through the garage, but the man didn’t move or answer. At the other end of the room, the dozens of gold-and-silver wings remained motionless too. Nothing stirred.
Arthur felt as if he was about to explode with fear. He was afraid to stay with Mr. Hampton, and he was afraid to leave.
He’d already deserted Mr. Hampton once. He’d left him lying alone on a city sidewalk and run away like a coward. If he left to get help, would he look like a coward again?
Arthur decided he had to take the chance. He couldn’t stay there and watch the guy die. Standing up, he took one last look at the motionless man and ran to get Groovy Jim.
—
The rest of what happened was a blur to Arthur. He remembered bursting into Groovy Jim’s shop, shouting things that probably didn’t make much sense, about finding Mr. Hampton on the floor and calling the police. He remembered Groovy Jim running up the gravel alley in his slippers, with his burly customer following him. And he remembered almost crying with relief when Groovy Jim kneeled down next to Mr. Hampton and he opened his eyes again.
“What happened to you, buddy?” Groovy Jim said, trying to sound calm as he tucked the man’s coat tighter around him and patted his arm. “You take a fall and hit your head or something?”
“No.” Mr. Hampton’s head moved almost imperceptibly. “I’m ready to go,” he whispered.
“Go where?” Groovy Jim asked, just to keep him talking, Arthur could tell.
“Heaven,” replied Mr. Hampton, closing his eyes again.
Looking startled, Groovy Jim glanced back at Arthur and his customer. “Well, I don’t think heaven is ready for you yet, buddy,” he said loudly. “You need to stay right here with us until help gets here. You’ve got a lot of years left to live. You can’t get rid of us that easily.”
He pointed toward the dazzling display at the other end of the garage. “Man, that’s a pretty cool collection of stuff you’ve got over there. Why don’t you tell us about it?”
Surprisingly, this question seemed to bring James Hampton back to the real world again. His eyes opened and he focused them directly on Groovy Jim. “Not
stuff,
” he corrected, sounding irritated. “It’s
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