The Death of Mr. Reginald

Mr. Leroy D. Reginald owned a small hardware shop on Juniper Street named Reggie’s Supply Co. He checked out at age 76, one day before Father’s Day, 1981; some sort of heart failure in the back office of his shop. And when I informed my bud Charlie about Mr. Reginald’s death, he didn’t react much. He just nodded with a straight face and scratched his chin like it made him think. I think it’s fair to say Mr. Reginald was a father figure to us, but I know Charlie wouldn’t ever say something like that. Charlie wasn’t one to mourn his losses anyway: his family, his friends, his money — he never cared. I knew he wasn’t likely to make a fuss over some old black man like Reggie.

We were 14, Charlie and I, when we started working as shop clerks for Mr. Reginald, doing all the things that his arthritis didn’t allow: assemble parts, run the register, write the books. The shop was three blocks from where I used to live, and I was in there regularly, not just to work. Charlie always missed shifts and showed up late, but Mr. Reginald never gave him shit for it, just docked his pay. Come to think of it, Mr. Reginald hardly spoke up about anything, really. I guess he preferred to keep his wits a secret.

I proposed to Charlie that we go wandering the city to keep from thinking too much in the shadows about old Reggie passing. He said sure and off we went up into the swelter of the inner city. The streets stayed ours as long as the sun stayed high. The road ahead shimmered like a pool of mercury and clouds ballooned across the sky like nervous passersby. The air was heavy with a dampness and smelled of sulfur, leaving an irritating taste in my mouth. Charlie walked ahead of me on the side of the road, ignoring the sidewalk. He had his left hand in his pocket while his right arm swung boyishly. Every now and then, I saw him sip from the flask in his back pocket.

He turned the corner at Juniper Street and we approached Mr. Reginald’s hardware shop. A sad looking black man sat on the wooden bench outside the shop, his head face down. My stomach sank when I saw him sitting there. He must’ve been a relative or something.

A flower pot sat next to the bench, devoid of flowers. The front of the window read “Reggie’s Supply Co., since 1969.” I watched to see if Charlie looked up, but he kept his head down and didn’t lift his eyes till we were past the man on the bench. I was fine passing the old shop by quickly without all the reminiscing. The old shop didn’t really mean anything to me — unlike the man who owned it.

We passed a slew of other places after turning on Ashbury Street. Everywhere reminded me of the friendship between Charlie and me. We walked longer than I’d originally expected, and it was surprising to me that Charlie kept going. It must’ve been the liquor fueling his explorative side. We traveled past the boatyard where Charlie and I’d first met, and later marked as the location for our secret base. Past the construction site where Charlie’s real father worked, and where Charlie first saved my ass from a collapsing support beam. I began to sense a trace of guilt in my stomach, so I broke the silence:

“Goddam man, what the hell’s happened around here?”

“The fuck do you mean what happened?”

“You know what I mean, like, what the hell happened to make ‘round here feel so bum?”

“Well beat me with a sadder stick, will ya? I’m on the search for pleasure tonight, not to pout like a damn dog about ol’ Reggie.”

He looked back at me with statue eyes, his mouth slack like he’d just eaten a jab.

“Forget it,” I mumbled. A bubble of frustration formed in the split of my chest. I sighed thinking he’d pick up on the cue, but he paid no attention to me and walked sternly ahead He seemed to have picked up pace.

The evening carried out and I followed Charlie from a distance. Given the long moment of silence I assumed he was pissed, or at least bothered. The temperature slowly dropped and the energy of crosstown traffic vibrated underneath us. Streetlights clicked on out of sync, homeless cats ambled the streets, and a consistent siren blared from the south. I skipped up to Charlie and held out my cigarette pack to him, a symbol of resolution. He took the box and put a jack in the far right side of his mouth, nodding with smug satisfaction. The smell of whiskey emanated from his grin.

At an intersecting railroad we turned east. The rocks outlining the tracks crumbled loose under our feet, and the black rails reflected little moonlight as night went on. Charlie looked back at me and laughed, shaking his head. I looked down expecting an asshole remark, but when I looked back up, Charlie was starting to jog. He let out a loud, raspy laugh that was almost contagious, but I caught myself.

“What the hell is funny?” I asked.

“Come on,” he beckoned.

I followed him and asked nothing more. Over a tall, chain-link fence and down a wide concrete trench drain, we found ourselves facing a large reservoir of water which appeared the color and consistency of used motor oil.

“Hate to take a dip in that shit, ay?” he mentioned.

“Obviously on that one.”

“I’ll give you all the dough in my pocket right now to jump in and splash around like the little mermaid you’ve always wanted to be, yeah?”

“Yeah, right, right — what you got, a quarter dollar and a stick of gum?”

“I have twenty dollars in my left pocket,” he froze for a second, “I do, right now.”

“That’s a joke, you bum. When are we leaving this shithole? C’mon.”

“So you’ll do it, okay!” and before I could tell him off, he hooked under my arms and put me in a headlock, leaning me in towards the pool of black mud. I kicked behind several times, thinking I nailed his shin at least twice, but he kept pressing my face down further. He pressed his crotch up against the back of my pants and I flung an arm loose to swing around with an elbow. I struck his right ear and he fell back, laughing the pain away. He rolled onto a patch of dead grass and caught his breath on the ground before standing up to brush off his shirt and jeans.

“Are you drunk?” I asked, though I knew the answer already.

“Leave me alone you prick. I do what I want, when I want. What difference it make to you?” He stuck his nose up in the air like he just called checkmate on me.

“Jesus man, you need to take a break from that bullshit.”

And at that, I turned around and started heading back up the trench drain. Charlie continued mouthing off, saying Mr. Reginald was a drunk so, why couldn’t he be one too. I ignored him and drifted away from the scene altogether. I couldn’t understand what Charlie was saying as I neared the fence, and then suddenly, he hushed.

I heard a series of heavy breaths behind me, as if I was being followed. I didn’t turn to look, but rather started climbing back over the fence. A hand grabbed the tail of my shirt and pulled me hard down to the concrete. I landed on my back and wheezed pitifully. My arms wrapped around my waist, trying to ease the pain. Who the hell pulled me down was all I thought. I opened my eyes to a pattern of swirling white dots against a darkening sky. My heartbeat could be felt in my temples. Upon turning over, I saw Charlie throwing his weight around on some raggedy, skin and bone punk.

Charlie was thick — the steak-and-potatoes-every-night-for-dinner sorta thick. And this kid who jumped me looked frailer than my little sister. His skin was so pale it almost glowed a sickly green. His bleach blonde hair, which was thinning on the sides, was covered up by a faded black hat embroidered with barb-wire around the dome. A thin, but long goatee stretched pathetically down his face, stained yellow and tangled from sleeping in alleyways and trash heaps. The kid started shouting:

“Hey! … Hey! … Hey! … Hey! Heyyy!” His voice was high pitched and airy. No one came to answer his cries, but he kept yelling while Charlie pinned him on the ground. In between each set of shouts, he would catch a gasp of air. Every breath was so deep that his chest would curl up towards Charlie on the inhale, and flatten back down on the exhale. I thought he was going to pass out from shock.

“Charlie, Charlie! Get off the poor kid! Let up, man, damn it!” I exclaimed.

“Get off the motherfucker? What do you mean get off? He was trying to score off you. Why the hell would I let this chump go?”

“Not let him go, just get off his damn lungs, or whatever, for at least a sec. Jesus.”

Charlie paused looking down at my feet. “I’m gonna fuck him up,” he decided.

“No! Just sit him up, c’mon. Let’s hear this kid out. Let’s not cave in any faces today. Let’s hear him out, c’mon.”

The kid laid under Charlie’s straddle still breathing helpless. Charlie turned his head to look at the kid, and then stood up, kicking him as he walked away. The kid remained in the same spot for a moment before standing himself up. Charlie and I gave him a heavy glare.

“What’s your name?” I asked him. He didn’t reply. He reached down into his pocket and grabbed what looked like a key and a set of dog tags. Gripping them tightly in his left hand, he looked up at us.

“You, what’s your name?” I asked him again, louder.

“Fleck,” he said sharply.

“Fleck?” Charlie doubted him.

“Fleck, F-L-E-C-K”

“The fuck is this kid on, man?” Charlie mumbled, leaning into me.

“Shut up Charlie,” I took a breath, “I’m Miles, this is Charlie. We’re from Pleasantville, like twenty or so blocks south, or whatever.”

“Yeah, I know where Pleasantville is. I used to live in Pleasantville.”

“Where do you live now?” I asked, curious.

He hesitated and opened his mouth like it was a dilemma to answer:

“I’m a bit of a nomad — urban heathen, ya know?”

“Yeah, ya know?” Charlie said with a grin.

“Why the fuck’d you run up and rip me off this fence?”

“Always on the lookout for fags, ya know? C’mon now, fellas. What, you think I’m a friend? You think ’cause I’m staying and talking I’m just gonna apologize and shake your hand? You think I owe you something? You think I owe you fags anything?”

“What the fuck are you even saying?” Charlie said as he removed his hands from his pockets.

“Cool it man, he’s just — ”

“He’s just what? Don’t tell me to cool it. This kid’s a joke.” Charlie fired back.

Fleck took the keys and dog tags in his hand and clenched them before carrying on: “You guys better split, I’m not messing around anymore. I know these thruways better than any bum out there. Get the hell back in Pleasantville, fags.”

His arms started to shake, and his left foot stepped back out of fear. He wanted us to start walking away, but he was only making Charlie furious. I bumped Charlie on the arm and said “Let’s roll, man. He’s not worth our time.”

“You think you know who we are, you homeless piece of shit?” Charlie asked.

“I do know who you are. I been watching you oafs since you split off onto these tracks. I heard y’all talking, I saw you humping on each other down by the water. Just fuck off, I don’t want none of that.”

Charlie looked at me with eyes that melted glass. His mouth was moving like he was saying something, but I couldn’t hear a single word. I looked over at Fleck who was toeing the gravel, then back at Charlie who was pointing over at Fleck, motioning that we take him out. I shook my head and started to turn. Charlie stepped up and grabbed my arm to pull me over toward Fleck, who was already backing away.

“I see, I see. We got this guy, he’s the dominant one, and you like taking it from behind, right?” Fleck said, pointing from Charlie to me.

My stomach sunk and I looked up at his pale face. Then I slung a fist up onto the bottom of his chin.

“Let’s roll now,” Charlie said.

Fleck dropped back onto the ground spitting blood onto the gravel, lightly tonguing around in his mouth for missing teeth. I took one last look at him before I turned around for good. We continued up the drain and hopped the fence. Charlie followed, sporting a walk that leaned left and right with a confident rhythm. Sirens blared from whichever direction, seeming louder than before. My heart pumped with the pace of my feet. I wriggled the fingers on my left hand and felt the blood pump through my knuckles with quiet rage. The streetlights gleamed with the adrenaline rushing around inside of me.

We walked swiftly away from the scene and when we couldn’t see the fence anymore, Charlie came up to me. He picked up my left hand to inspect it, like I wasn’t man enough to throw a haymaker like that. The knuckles on my middle finger were met with an intense pain. I pulled my hand loose and nudged Charlie away with my elbow. He must’ve still been drunk, or maybe just tired, but he seemed to be strolling peacefully for once.

“Are we heading back now?” I asked him. It felt like a stupid thing to ask once I’d said it out loud.

“Yeah, sure,” was all he said back, and so we continued onward.

When we were getting close to old Reggie’s shop, I slowed, allowing Charlie to walk beside me. I asked him with little hesitance:

“Do you think I should stay here in Pleasantville, Charlie?”

“What the hell are you talking about? Since when do you think you can leave this place?” he said, followed by a laugh that sounded inauthentic. The coarseness of his voice made me look away.

“I could get outta here easy,” I said, “I got places all around — people you never even heard of.”

“Yeah, okay bigshot.”

We didn’t say anything for a minute or so, and the question weighed on my mind.

“But do what you want, man. I know this place ain’t the best,” Charlie said. And at that I stopped talking, though I didn’t stop thinking about skipping town for the rest of the night.

Next to Reggie’s shop, we saw through the dust on the window our two faded reflections. I hardly recognized our faces in the dirty glass. As we started to walk away, I thought I heard Charlie murmur something else to me, but when I asked him to repeat it, he claimed to have never said anything. I think it was something about me leaving Pleasantville.

Charlie split off toward his own home and I went into mine. It was about two o’clock in the morning when I finally got in bed. I thought taking the walk with Charlie would’ve helped me get over the death of Mr. Reginald, but it seemed to have only stirred me up more. I was yet to cry, which I thought was strange — but I embraced it, thinking it was just a sign of me growing up, of me learning how to cope with loss. I couldn’t have been any more wrong.

The night had made me restless, so I sat up in bed. Through the wall of my room, I could hear my neighbor’s radio playing needlessly loud. It reminded me of Mr. Reginald, who was practically deaf himself. Outside the window, I saw two kids walking side by side. One appeared to be laughing while the other was doing something comical with his arms. I swallowed and took a deep breath before crawling back out of bed.

I grabbed a gym bag off the corner of my floor and shoved in it a few shirts and another pair of pants. I grabbed my hat and shoved it in the bag also. I put my shoes on and sat back down on the bed to stop and think about it one more time. Right before I started to cry, I stood up and walked out of my room, out of my house, out of Pleasantville, in hopes that I’d find someplace else.