Suspicious Man on the Bus - Short Story by WD Curry 111

2,800 words . . . World Rights Reserved.

I offer this for the serious reader. It is a modified excerpt from my book, “Prices Always Go Up Near the End of the World”. If you are a happily hopping hubber in a hurry, It's okay. I understand. I can't see breaking this up. I have some short ones for you. I have included links to three that you can chose from.

I hope you enjoy!

There is a suspicious man on the bus. He seems to be from Southern Mexico or Guatemala. He is a slightly dark, indigenous looking man (not really Latin). He is preoccupied, and way too anxious. He keeps shifting in his seat, constantly changing arm positions and flashing his intense, searching eyes from the bus driver to the door. . . takes a quick glance back over his shoulder . . wiggles his glasses . . . stares wildly out the window . . . back again.

Zeek was the only other passenger on the bus bus except for the young couple by the door, They were ready to get off at the next stop. The buses in Brevard County, Florida don’t run beyond 8:30 PM. It was a lukewarm warm, humid winter night. The temperature was dipping and the low ceiling of overhanging clouds made it pitch black dark. It felt like 10 pm to Zeek. He had been waiting for or riding on the bus since he left the Harry and Harriet Moore Justice Center at four forty five.

Zeek had gone to a docket hearing for Lucius Belvin. Zeek met Lucius at a Church in Melbourne. Zeek and his crew were repainting the building inside and out. There were murals, decorative faux walls and varnished hardwood trim to negotiate. Zeek felt like he was wading shin deep in mud. His progress was being impeded by, “We’ll have to get approval from this person or that committee”. Several times during the week, Zeek’s crew was stopped by someone from the church office. Zeek claimed they were under the influence of a demonic spirit, “I am sorry, you can’t get there from here, I am in your way.”

Zeek grew tired of the delays and took charge, much to the chagrin of the office personnel and the portly “Family and Life” pastor who hung around in case someone needed counseling or prayer. Zeek ordered his crew to continue working. He flat out refused to stop. Church personnel were incensed that he defied their authority. Zeek’s response to their bitter protest was, “All of these concerns were addressed in advance of the contract. There is no need to get permission or approval, I already have it.” Besides, the crew was making excellent progress and their work was “right and tight”. There was really nothing to worry or complain about.

Later in the day, the head Pastor (there must have been six or seven Pastors over various ministries around the huge compound) was now in his office. Zeek had been informed that Pastor James would like to see him in his office. This irked Zeek a little. They were going into formal mode and playing the big shot game. Zeek hated church politics. He didn’t hold the Pastor in the same esteem as his fanatically faithful congregation did. He didn’t care for many of the doctrinal perspectives and hard lines that Timothy James drew on his local radio show. Zeek didn’t really care much for "his" church, for that matter. Pastor Tim's face was always on close-up on the giant flat screen monitors in the sanctuary. The lobby reminded Zeek of a small airport terminal with the gift shop, coffee stands, a little food court, book store, interior landscaping under a central skylight, and slick display graphics. He was irked even more by the fact that he had been asked to sit and wait in the plush lobby, “The Pastor is in a meeting.”

Zeek almost asked, “Why did he send for me then?”

No one needed to tell Zeek who was in the meeting, what it was about, or why they were making him wait, alone. He knew the drill. They would work themselves into a feeding frenzy and send for him when they were ready. He settled in for the wait. He picked up a “Charisma Magazine” from the mahogany coffee table. He finished rifling through it and was putting it back in place when a horse jockey sized African American man pulled one of the glass double doors open and walked in carrying a moldy old hickory ax handle in his left hand. His attention was on the floor. He couldn’t see Zeek through the bill of his faded old railroad cap.

Zeek was out of his seat and between the man and the secretary in an instant. The old man was startled to look up and see Zeek looking back down at him. His leathery face drew up in an impossibly taut smile that threatened to cut his head in two. He held up the ax handle to show Zeek, “I picked this up on the road, and kept it for protection. I am coming from Sharpes (county jail). I finally hitched a ride from the water tower in Cocoa to Publix in Rockledge, but I had to hoof it the rest of the way . . . twenty miles or more. This old hickory stick will slow anybody down if they want to mess with me. The lady at the jail said I could get a meal voucher at this church, so I came straight here. They let me out before breakfast . . . about 2:30 this morning”

Zeek cracked a smile, “You had me worried. I thought you were robbing the place.”

“Do I look like a thug?” asked the old man as he thumped his dusty cardigan sweater.

“No, but you looked pretty crazy walking in with an ax handle in your hand!” quipped Zeek.

“I guess so.”, the diminutive old man admitted as he chuckled it off.

To keep the indigent honest, the church rarely gave out cash. They gave food from the food bank, or a pre-paid meal ticket for a fast food joint. This also irked Zeek, he considered their policy to be condescending, even stingy. Most of the tickets were donations, anyway. Zeek figured for the cost of the office furnishings alone, they could feed every hungry family in town with delicious, balanced meals for a year or two. What would Jesus do . . . spend three thousand five hundred dollars on his desk? Would he dip in for a latte and cream filled croissant before he heals the blind man? Zeek was of the opinion that they were carrying the Lord’s money in a leaky bucket. From the looks of this tiny man in the big blue jeans, he would be more than glad to get the Happy Meal.

The church secretary informed the man that they were out of vouchers, but he could get a sack full of food from the food bank. The man was humbly appreciative, but he also insisted that he was, "Hungry right now."

The church secretary apologized curtly and reminded him that he had but one choice. The man was contrite as he gratefully accepted the only offer, "Thank you, mam, for anything at all."

The secretary recited her lines, “First you will have to fill out these forms. This will be enough food for one man for one week. You may not withdraw from the food bank again until this time next week.”

“That’s alright, mam, I live up on Lime Avenue off of University. I’ll go to Daily Bread if I get hungry, again. I’m just here this once, and that’s all.”

The secretary, maintaining a neutral affect, asked for his driver’s license or ID. He lowered his head again, “I got no driver’s license or ID . . . I have a Social Security card.”

The secretary retorted, “By law you must have a driver’s license or picture ID with you at all times. I must verify who you are before you may withdraw from the food bank, your address as well.”

Zeek had heard enough, “Hold on, sister, what if he is homeless? He can’t get food? That’s ridiculous. Just have him fill out the form for the record, and give him his sack.”

Lucius looked at Zeek with a deep earnestness in his eyes, “I can only write my name. I don’t know how to read. Will you help me?”

“Sure. What’s your name? I’m Zeek McCarren.” Zeek extended a hand to his new friend, Lucius Belvin. Zeek pleased Lucius with recognition by remarking that Belvin is the well-known family name of some of the most influential and distinguished black leaders in the State’s history.

Just then, the rest of the office staff emerged from their meeting with Pastor Timothy James. The office manager asked, “Who is this?”

Zeek answered immediately, “This is my good friend Lucius Belvin. He is on his way home from a long journey and needs some food assistance. Will you please escort Brother Lucius to the food bank while I fill out the pathetically ponderous paperwork? You would think he was signing for a mortgage.”

She was taken aback, but when Pastor Tim nodded, she complied. Pastor indicated that he was ready to talk with Zeek. Zeek didn’t hesitate, “Not right now, Pastor Tim. I have to give my friend a ride home. We finished the fellowship hall. It looks great. The crew is cleaning up now. Monday, I am sending them to another job that is pressing. I’ll call Phil Edwards (CEO of the church’s board of directors) and set up a meeting. Meanwhile look over the contract, any changes will need to be negotiated and approved. We’ll start back to work here when everyone is clear on what, and how things are going to be done.”

Lucius returned with his sack of food. Zeek looked in the bag and frowned. He turned up his nose and left it, along with the blank paperwork on the desk as he motioned for Lucius to follow him. He left out of the door in a hurry. Lucius grabbed the bag and followed. They climbed into Zeek’s van and headed south to University Blvd. On the way, Zeek pulled into The Eau Gallie River Crab House. Lucius was thrilled, but unbelieving, “What are you doing?”

Lucius could not contain his excitement when Zeek said, “I thought you were hungry? Its Friday . . . all you can eat rock shrimp and fish! How much can you eat?”

Lucius dreamily responded, “I’m a Florida Boy, I can eat some rock shrimp. I can eat some fish, too!”

After eating jail food for six weeks while waiting for a bond reduction hearing, Lucius was ready to help put shrimp on the endangered species list. It turned out that the cap was authentic. Lucius had monitored the rail lines and performed maintenance between Titusville and Hobe Sound for over 35 years. He worked alone or with a partner from a hand pumped cart. No wonder he was so lean and muscular. He had been retired for over 20 years, and his once adequate retirement never got him through the month, anymore. He had to move in with his younger sister (she was the baby . . . only 72) and she put up her car to get him out of jail until his first docket hearing in a couple or three months. Lucius cautiously asked, “Mr. Zeek, would you mind taking me by the bank on the way home?”

This piqued Zeek’s interest, since Lucius didn’t look like he had two nickels to rub together. He gave Lucius the ride, and sat in the van to wait as per Lucius’s request. About half an hour later, Zeek became impatient and walked into the bank to check on Lucius. Lucius was locked in an intense conversation with a supervisor at her desk. The frazzled lady looked up with hopeful relief when she saw Zeek peer over Lucius’s shoulder. Lucius had paperwork in his hand that he was holding like a handful of snakes. Zeek took it from his grip and gave it a quick scan to see if he could help facilitate communication.

Zeek was dumfounded, Lucius had an account that had over $25,000 deposited it in during the month of November. There were four large withdrawals in the first week of December that left a balance of $200. He also held his paperwork from jail, including the arrest report. Zeek’s jaw slacked as he read. Halfway through, he looked towards the supervisor, who nodded in confirmation. He finished quickly and turned to the beleaguered old man, “Lucius, it looks like they frown on customers pulling out an ounce of 92% pure cocaine and plopping up on the counter in front of the teller. It looks like your biggest mistake was coming back in to get it.”

As it turns out, while attempting to make the withdrawal, Lucius pulled a full ounce of cocaine from his pocket while searching for his account number and casually placed it on the counter in plain view of everyone. After being refused, he left in a panic without his bag of jiff. When he realized it was gone, he came back in for it and was detained. He did have a driver’s license, but it was confiscated and not returned for whatever reason.

Lucius was relieved to spill the beans to Zeek on the way home. Some “young thugs from the hood” approached Lucius to open a bank account in his name. It was not like they gave him a choice. He would withdraw the money, go to a wholesale distributer, procure cocaine, and deliver it to another party. He would be left with payments and bonuses in his account. He needed the money, so made due with the involuntary arrangement. He had been making more than enough to live on and help out his sister for the best part of year. That one day, he had gotten drunk on route to his delivery, and decided to withdraw some of his $200 that was left in the account for his role in the deal. He wanted more booze. The rest is history.

Zeek got Lucius home and gave him a twenty dollar bill, and his card, “If you need a ride to your hearing, give me a jingle.”

Lucius, gushing with gratitude, took the card with a promise to stay in touch.

Sure enough, when the day came, Zeek got the call. Lucius did not want to risk a “failure to appear” charge on top of everything else. Zeek appealed to the Public Defender to take the case to jury, but it fell on deaf ears. The public defender let Zeek stand before the judge to speak for Lucius, but it was to no avail. She had no tollerance for conspiracy stories. It was cut and dry, ”How do you plea?”

Lucius settled for “no contest” and was given five years. Zeek had a few words with the “Public Pretender” (as he called him), “Come on, man. He’s 85 years old. Isn’t there anything you can do until law enforcement can investigate? Bust the real dealers!”

“Welcome to the real world, Mr. McCarren. He was caught red-handed with an ounce of coke. End of case, end of story. I got him off easy. He will be out on probation in about two years.’’ was the fat young attorney’s terse reply. The deputies cuffed the little old man's hands behind his muscular back and escorted him to the holding cell.

It was a long ride back. Zeek couldn’t get his van to start after the hearing. He didn’t feel like coping with it now. He would take the bus home, and have JB take him up in the morning to see what they could do. On the ride, Zeek got two calls from the cell phone that Lucius had used that morning. It was obviously a local African American with a husky voice, and an ominous tone, “Who are you? How do you know Lucius? Let me talk to Lucius.”

Zeek politely responded, ” I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Belvin is indisposed and cannot be reached at this number.”

Now, near the end of the route, Zeek is observing this disenfranchised soul, who is showing symptoms of an extreme neurosis. Zeek’s instinct and experience is telling him to watch out for this guy. Something is definitely wrong with him. He is up to something.

Suddenly, maniacally, the subject sees something out of the window. He yanks the cord to alert the bus driver to stop and bolts from his seat. He appears to Zeek as if he is poised to attack someone, but there is no one waiting for the bus. The crazed man leaps from the bus, runs and slides on his knees next to the bench under the shelter. He reaches below the bench, all the way to the back of the shelter. He pulls out a blue baseball cap and holds it over his head before pulling it down snug.

The bus driver gives him a quickly fading grin and pulls off to finish the route. Zeek laughs at himself. He thinks about the call from Lucius’s associate. Maybe it won’t hurt for Lucius to sit it out for a couple of years, while things in the hood cool down. Lucius didn’t “drop the dime” on the criminals. Time will tell and it be “all good”. Zeek enjoys watching the Mexican or Guatemalan man basking in the delight of his reunion. All is well and right with the world.

More about Brevard County & the Indian River Lagoon.