It was around autumn.
The time of year when if you happened to walk by any given house (at any given time), and the kitchen window was wide open, you’d probably smell a soup cooking or a stew boiling. And because of that romance, you’d almost want to go in. Like a scene from one of the old cartoons, you’d very near climb in through damn window just to get closer to that waft everyone knew.
It got up into your nostrils real easy this thing, hijacking your brain and totally obliterating all the jobs you ever had to do for the wife that day.
“Yeah. If only.”
It was that scent of safety, love, and of course undeniable comfort.
One bright Sunday, shortly after the bell of noon, old Jim Mooney passed by the local eatery on his usual ‘post breakfast’ walk. Grumpy Jim was a much older man, around seventy-six, and for as long as anyone knew him he never stretched above the gloomy height of five foot five, but get this – little did he seem to care.
“How are you, old Jim?” asked the local chef that very same day. He had seen old Jim passing by the window and thought it would be good to go over there and say hello.
“How am I is it?” Jim asked, slightly turning but never properly looking.
“Yes sir.”
“Horrible thanks.”
The chef nodded once then looked to the sky for something else interesting to say.
“Lovely day out there, isn’t it? Best I’ve seen in a while no?”
“Is it?” said Jim, half stopping. “All I can see are me two shoes and these rancid cobblestones that are grouted with nothing but cow shit.”
“Ah yes.” said the chef, and he tapped his whisk off of the window sill. “Blame the damn council for that. I’ve been saying it for years, Jim. For years. Blame the damn council.”
“I DO blame the council.” said Jim, tensing up like a fighter. “They are nothing but a shower of gangsters up there in those offices. Every single one of them. Even the blasted women. And probably their kids, yeah, they are probably low-lives as well, the buggers, just like their parents.” Shaking his head down into the ground, Jim said “Nothing but greed, greed and more flippin greed around here.”
“Aye shur I know Jim.” said the chef. “I know, I know.”
“Anyways, tell me this lad.” said Jim, moving off down the path and only half listening. “How’s yourself keeping?”
The chef was smiling out the window at Jim and with big blue eyes bursting out of his head, he said “I’m horrible thanks Jim. Horrible thanks.”
“Thank you very much.” Jim said. “It really means an awful lot. It really means an awful lot.”
Later that afternoon, while on his walk, Jim happened to cross a group of women he knew, younger women, out on a charity walk, and they had all the gear on them associated with such walks, – colourful headbands, hot-pants, little weights, you name it.
“Hiya Jim.” they all said, in that almost annoying unison. “How are you doing today?”
“Horrible thanks.”
Shoving a bucket in his face, the women then asked if he would be interested in donating to the good cause of homeless children, to which he replied –
“Not particularly. Doesn’t work.” and off he went.
Not long after that, up close to the town square, a burly policeman, Iggy or Ignatius, said hello to Jim as he passed him by.
“Lovely day, Jim.” he said, twirling his thick black baton by his hip.
“Hello Sergeant.” said Jim. “Any trouble today?”
“None thank God. They must’ve tired themselves out after the big, long summer.”
“Right.” Jim said. “I get ya.”
The policeman was far too jovial for Jim at this time of the day. He came on real strong, real quick, lots of questions, and deep conversation, and Jim knew himself that that is all he was after. That the man, the policeman himself, was indeed a very good man and that there was nothing ever strange or dodgy about him.
“And come here. “ said the policeman, resting his elbow on a close-by wall. “How come I didn’t see you at bingo the last night?”
“Didn’t go.” said Jim.
“Tired was it?”
“Yes. Very.”
“And eh…how are you feeling today?”
Jim shrugged once and said.
“I suppose the usual.”
Iggy the policeman took Jim in for a moment. He would study him for a while before quietly asking:“And eh, if you don’t mind me asking Jim, how’s Margo?”
Hearing the question Jim slowly dropped his head, lifted it up, looked at the cop and said “It is what it is, Ig. You know yourself sure. Barely hanging on like.”
The policeman sighed immediately at the news and shook his head. In that moment, he wanted to put a hand on Jim’s shivering shoulder but didn’t really know how to.
“Not good to hear that, Jim so it isn’t.” he said, taking off his hat. He had still wanted to comfort him somehow.
“No.” said Jim finally, resuming his old hunched posture and moving off down the road. “It’s horrible thanks.”
