Lee Goldberg: The Walk

“Stop or I’ll shoot,” Buck said.

He gave Buck the finger without looking back and kept right on walking.

2:20 p.m. Tuesday

Marty marched across Glendale Avenue, heading west, staying clear of the overpass on his left.

It was already mid-afternoon and he’d only covered three or four miles since he started. But Marty felt like he’d already walked a hundred. Every joint in his body throbbed in pain. At this rate, it would take him days to get home.

He glanced to his right. He was passing a stark, white, windowless building that looked like a mausoleum. It might as well have been. A sign near the flat roof read “Bob Baker’s Marionette Theatre,” which was now showing a program called “It’s a Musical World.”

Marty had never heard of the place, and wondered who bothered coming to this godforsaken spot to see such rudimentary entertainment. What kid would chose to see a puppet on strings over his PlayStation, the Internet, or a digital-effects blockbuster on DVD? Seeing a show at the marionette theatre made as much sense to Marty as gathering in a cave to watch Grog scratch stick figures on the stone.

He was so caught up in distracting himself with a pointless rumination on the irrelevance of puppetry in a modern world that he didn’t see the homeless man waving the rusty steak knife until they were face-to-face.

It looked like someone had used the bearded bum’s scabby face to clean a couple hundred very dirty dishes. And he smelled just like Marty. A walking urinal.

“You stole my stuff,” the man hissed through broken, rotting teeth. “I saw you.”

So now Marty knew why they smelled alike. Those piss-soaked blankets belonged to this Brillo-faced guy.

“I didn’t steal your blankets-” Marty started to say.

“I saw you,” the bum interrupted. “Motherfucker.”

“I just borrowed them to rescue the kid. You saw me rescue the kid, right?”

“Give me my stuff,” the man repeated. “I want my stuff.”

“I don’t have it,” Marty replied. “It’s on the overpass. You’re welcome to it. Thanks for the loan.”

“Motherfucker,” The bum thrust the knife at Marty, nearly stabbing him with it. Marty jerked back defensively.

“Hey, I’m sorry about borrowing your stuff without asking, but it’s all there, right on the overpass,” Marty said. “I had to use them to save the kid. If you saw me take the blankets, you must have seen that, too.”

The bum studied Marty with the goopy, glassy eyes of a hound. “Give me your stuff.”

“Your blankets are up there. Just go get them.”

“Give me your stuff.” The bum motioned to the gym bag. “I want your stuff.”

“No.”

“Motherfucker!” The bum poked the air between them with the knife. “Give me your stuff or I’ll stick you.”

Marty knew he would, too. But there was no way he was giving up his survival kit. Certainly not in exchange for a pile of piss-drenched rags he never wanted to begin with. No, he was not giving his pack up.

“You want it?” Marty asked, slipping it off his shoulders. “Fine, you can have it. Motherfucker.”

And with that, Marty lunged at him, holding the gym bag out directly in front of him. Marty pushed himself right into the point of bum’s knife, which sunk harmlessly into the bag.

The surprised bum staggered back and, just as he realized he’d lost his weapon, there was a loud crack and he spun around, shoved aside by some invisible linebacker.

It took a moment for Marty to figure out what happened, to make sense of the sound, the bum on the ground, the blood pooling underneath him.

He’d been shot.

Marty whirled around to see Buck marching up, holding the gun casually at his side, a cocky grimace on his face. “Never fear, the professional is here.”

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Marty immediately dropped his gym bag and knelt beside the bum, who was still alive, semi-conscious, groaning in pain. The wound was in his shoulder.

“I just saved your life,” Buck said, “you inconsiderate fuck.”

“I was handling it!” Marty tore open the man’s blood-soaked shirt, recoiling at the smell and the flea-bitten skin.

“You couldn’t handle your prick to piss.” Buck peered down at his victim.

Marty gently turned the man over and saw the exit wound. The bullet had passed right through him. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? He had no idea. Shit!

“You can’t just go around shooting people!” Marty yelled at him.

“I can shoot whoever I want whenever I want,” Buck replied casually. “I’m a licensed bounty hunter. Besides, this was self-defense.”

“He wasn’t threatening you,” Marty snapped. “Get me the first aid kit in my bag.”

“I was talking about your self defense, asshole,” Buck picked up the bag. “Did he or did he not threaten you with a knife?”

“I disarmed him!”

“Your method of disarming an individual is almost as impressive as your method of delivering a punch,” snorted Buck, dropping the bag dismissively, the knife still impaled in it, at Marty’s feet. “You’re owed a refund on your manhood.”

Marty unzipped the bag, tore open the plastic first aid kit, and flipped frantically through the ridiculously small brochure. Bee stings, blisters, broken arms-where the hell was the chapter on bullet wounds?

Buck sighed wearily. “What the fuck are you looking for?”

“Instructions!” Marty retorted. “How do I stop the bleeding?”

“Like this, dumb fuck.” Buck yanked the bum up into a sitting position, grabbed some gauze in each fist from the first aid kit, and applied pressure to both wounds. “Where have you been living?”

Marty looked at the two of them-the deranged, bleeding bum and the homicidal maniac who shot him-and stood up slowly on shaky knees.

“In another world,” Marty said, “and I’m anxious to get back.”

He snatched up his gym bag by one of the straps, plucked the steak knife out of it, and tossed it as far as he could. “You can keep the medical kit. You’re going to need it.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home. Haven’t you been listening?” Marty pulled a fresh dust mask out of his pack, zipped it up, and looped the straps over his shoulders. “You’re staying here and taking care of this man until help arrives.”

“Like hell I am.”

“Oh, you’ll do it, Buck. Because when this is all over, I’m going to tell the police what happened here today, that you shot him in cold blood. So, for your sake, you better hope he doesn’t bleed to death.”

Buck shook his head. “Twenty, thirty thousand people probably died today. You really think anyone is going to care what happened to some filthy homeless guy?”

“We’re all filthy homeless guys now, Buck,” Marty pulled the dust mask on and adjusted it over his nose and mouth. “Don’t forget to give him back his blankets. He really wants them back.”

And with that, Marty headed off once again. Reeking of sweat, cordite, gasoline, and another man’s piss. Feeling the pain of a dozen scrapes, countless bruises, and one passing bullet. Carrying the fresh memories of one dead woman, one terrified boy, and one homeless man wielding a rusty steak knife.

A lifetime of horrible experiences crammed into one morning, and he still wasn’t out of this yet. It didn’t seem possible. It certainly wasn’t fair.

He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. The earthquake and the extreme damage it caused still seemed distant, unreal, even though he’d walked through it. But all of this, the smells and pains he carried with him, were far too personal and almost too ugly to face. He didn’t do a thing for Molly, leaving her trapped to die in a fireball. At least he made up for that failure with Franklin.