Picky Walker

            “How long have you lived here?” I said, during the next commercial break.

            Picky turned his head and said, “Two months.  Section Eight,” barely forming the words.  When the show reappeared, he laid the board on the coffee table.  He didn’t offer me anything to eat or drink, or ask if I was comfortable.

            At the end of the program, I stood and said, “I’ll see you soon.  Take care of yourself.” 

            Picky nodded.

            I pushed through the screen door.  Air entered my body and I yelped with relief.  I hurried toward my car.  Inside, I put the key in the ignition and thought about Picky sitting in that empty place, alone.  How long was it reasonable for me to sit there with him?  I held my head up, narrowed my vision, and drove away.

●

            Two weeks later, I stood on Picky’s porch, rocking on my heels.  He walked toward me along the sidewalk.

            “There he is now,” I said. 

            He looked better than the last time I saw him, but he was still stick thin and alabaster pale.  He walked with a funny sort of hunched swagger.  As always, I was surprised by the flintiness of his eyes.                     

            “Missed the bus,” he said, when he reached the door.

            “Did you go to treatment?”

            “Radiation.”  His speech was much clearer than before.

            He went in his apartment and let the screen slam shut behind him.  I pulled it open to enter.  Picky stood at the kitchen counter, opening a can of Ensure.  He carried it to the living room, turned on the television with the remote, and lowered himself on to his couch.  

            Don Johnson, as Sonny Crockett, wearing a powder blue tee and silver sports jacket, was talking in a phone booth. 

            “How have you been doing with the treatment?” I said.

            “Sucks.  Harder than chemo,” Picky said, glancing at me.  “Saps my strength.”  He sported a full set of false teeth, which made his s’s whistle.

            “Do the doctors say how things are going?” 

            He stared at me. 

            “Do they say when your treatment will end?  Are you making progress?    Do they think you can beat the cancer?”        

            “They don’t say.  They tell me six weeks and we’ll see.”

            I could not see myself sitting on that couch for another month and a half, watching reruns, asking inane questions and dying to escape.  I thought about how uncharitable I truly was, despite my intentions.

            “Do you have family, Picky?”  The first personal question I had dared to ask.

            He lowered the volume of the television.  “I have a son,” he said.  “I haven’t seen him in years.  I’ve spent most of my life locked up.  I drove everybody away.”   

            “I’m sorry.” I said.
            “It’s not on you.  I made my bed.”

            I considered the new twist.  Hardened ex-con, who seemed harmless, even pathetic, at the end of his road.  Could we trust each other?