A Thousand More Steps by Harrison Kim

78-year-old Cameron walked about wearing a 40-pound exercise vest.  His routine included marching every day up and down the mall stairs and then through the mall, back up to the park and along the beach and up some more stairs.   The extra weight gave him purpose and strength. 

“Ten thousand steps a day, we can do it” he shouted to the walkers and joggers.

He liked to tell stories, he liked to talk to people, he’d written a self-published book.

“What a wonderful world this is,” he hummed to himself and beat the time out on his knobbly knees, because all his life he’d been a drummer, right now he played some jazz once a month at Sharman’s and he gave lessons too, always the rhythm in his head, kept him moving.  He kept his clothes clean his shoes shined and his beard trimmed.

 He stopped for a coffee at Umo’s and said “Thanks, Miss,” to the server and the server replied, “I’m not a woman.”

Cameron put his hand through his beard, and took a sip of the coffee, “You could probably bench press a hundred pounds” he said, noticing that in fact the server had a few stray nose hairs that could be termed a moustache.  It was good to have a moustache, Cameron had one himself, it was part of being a man, for sure, Cameron thought, and what else was there in manliness?  Well, there was confidence.  Confidence was what a person needed in life, because life could turn anyone into a wuss.

“My birth age is 78,” Cameron told the server. “But in fact, I’m only 58 in my special exercise vest.”

The server nodded, a thin figure with short hair and now that Cameron could focus better, perhaps a few hair strands of a goatee. 

“Alertness is the key to avoiding accidents,” Cameron stated, and stepped to one side to let the next person order, a thin, small boned, older lady carrying a bag with a computer sticking out of it. 

Cameron stuck his hand down his exercise vest and pulled out one of his self-published books titled “Be The Person You Want to Be,”  about Cameron’s dream to play the drums, a dream born at age five when he was given a tiny flute for Christmas and his brother received a set of child style bongos, and all Cameron wanted was to make a rhythm by beating his little flute upon his sibling’s gift. In Chapter Five He wrote that his whole life had been lived through music, as he learned to understand the beat of the world and the melody of his life within it. 

“It’s a metaphor,” he told everyone, because everyone could benefit from his knowledge and find their own song, no matter how different or impossible.

 He held his book out towards both the server and the older woman. The dust jacket featured an image of Cameron sitting in a giant leather armchair in front of a hardcover bookshelf.  He wore a blue suit and tie and a crooked tooth smile that showed he’d been born years before braces were invented. 

“You can have this book for free, Miss,” he told the server, but then realized he’d made a mistake for the second time.

“I’m already the person I want to be,” the server replied.

“That’s a good title,” said the older woman.  She pointed. “Check out that name tag.”

He peered forward and read “Randean,” on the server’s shirt, and the big print below it told him “Them, They.”

“You need to pay attention,” the woman told him.

Cameron rubbed his nose.   “That’s kind of a gender neutral, eh?”

“Are you going to order anything else?” asked the server.

“Yes, I’d like a tall white steamed milk, no sugar,” Cameron said.  “Although that kind of describes my ex-wife.”

He placed his self-published book back under his vest, noticing that nobody laughed at his joke. 

“All of us should become the person we want to be,” the older woman said.  “No need to hide.”

Cameron nodded.  The woman had steady brown eyes with wrinkles and folds spreading away from the sides of her face, “a life of experience etching from those peepers,” Cameron thought.  She smiled, showing great dental work or else she didn’t eat a lot of sugar.

“She’s maybe even older than me,” thought Cameron, but why should that matter?  Time was elastic, last Tuesday he woke up to a leak in his roof.  All that business with the manager and the repairs felt like years going by, but it seemed merely weeks ago when he hitch hiked his way to the beach after skipping high school the day before graduation, all the cars going by in a rhythmic whoosh whoosh whoosh, young Cameron standing on an upright garbage can with his thumb raised to the sky, watching the smiles on the drivers’ faces, and now he was hearing the same whoosh noise, it appeared to be from the sound coming through the café’s speakers.

“Wow,” Cameron stated to the lady with the computer bag, as he waved his hand in the air. “They’ve got to get some tunes with pizazz, lady,” and told her “When I toured Europe with the Drifters back in the sixties, well, that’s when we had pizazz.”

“If you’re trying to impress me,” said the woman. “You can call me Sally.”

“I was the drummer, Sally” Cameron said.  “From the time I was five years old, I wanted to be a drummer. If you’re not on your way to a wedding, why don’t we sit together, and I can tell you more of my story?”

The server handed him the steamed milk and said, “Three sixty-seven.”

A loud voice rose up at Cameron’s back.

“Oooooh.  Aaaaahhh.”

Cameron looked.  A man leaned against the coffee bar table at the back, a rail thin man stretching a long piece of clothlike material between both hands, “could be an orange sash,” Cameron thought.

He’d seen an orange sash like that at Buddhist meetings, he’d kind of wanted to be a Buddhist at times, they lived in the moment rather than the past or the future, but apart from a few bell ringing meditation sessions, he’d never really got around to it. 

The man twitched, drew the sash up over his head and rubbed, opening his mouth in a huge zero. Then he made the wailing noise a few more times.

“Are you okay?” Cameron asked.

The man kept rubbing his sash and groaning, so Cameron walked over and asked again.  He was very sure the man was not ok, and he didn’t particularly want to get involved, but he’d connected with the server in a somewhat negative way and figured maybe he should make amends by managing this situation.  He also thought that Sally with the computer bag would want to know his true nature, and for some reason he wanted to show that nature to her, as a man.  He noticed the exit door on his right.  A good place to bolt, if things got crazy.  He lifted his head to sense the rhythm of the moment and frowned. Definitely a downbeat scene.

 “I’m burning up with jungle fever,” said the man. “I need some ice cream.”

“This is a coffee shop,” Cameron said.  “You may need an ice cream store.”

The man looked at Cameron, his red specked eyes blinking out of a thin, whiskery face.

“I want some fucking ice cream, and I want it now,” his voice went up to a scream on the last word.

The server backed up behind the counter.  “We have the ice capp, Shay” the server said.  “I can give you an ice capp, like usual.”

The woman with the computer bag kept her eyes on Cameron, who hitched up his pants and felt the forty-pound vest tighten round his chest.

“You better back off,” the server said.  “Let Shay identify a little space.”

“Jeepers, she knows this guy,” Cameron thought. “That’s why this whole world is going to hell.”

He’d worked up a routine and lived his life by it, didn’t have a lot of years left but he was spending them with purpose.  This weirdo guy intimidated shopkeepers out of their ice cream and who knows what else?  I mean, who was this fellow, a child to be constantly indulged?   Cameron needed to walk a thousand more steps before he reached his quota, but perhaps this moment would make his day.

“An ice capp,” Cameron said to the skinny man.  “If you have the cash.” as he looked him right in the eye.

 And before he figured out what to say next the man’s body tipped forward.  From the counter, Sally yelled “Look out!”

Cameron didn’t feel anything as the man’s arm jerked up and down. A flash ran across his vision, and he felt something hit a few times into his stomach area.  He staggered back from the force of it and fell against the counter.  The man opened his mouth wide again, shoved himself off Cameron, and with black, rotted teeth shouted, “You tripped me!” then pushed at Cameron’s midriff, which stayed solid, held by his 40-pound vest.

The man turned, half-ran, half scampered to the door, the orange sash trailing behind him.  He stopped at the entrance, blinked, gave a roar like a mad bull, and dashed off to the left.

“Are you alright?” asked Sally.

Cameron held his side, couldn’t reply for a moment.  “I think he got me right in the book,” he said, looking down to where the blue backs of some kitchen scissors stuck out of his vest.  His voice came out whispery, “Kinda hit the ribs.”

“You should never have confronted him,” the server talked loud.  “He comes in here all the time.  I always give him an ice capp.”.
“Hey, lady, I got stabbed!” he said, but the fact was he wasn’t hurt at all, except for the wind being knocked out of him.  He pulled the kitchen scissors from his clothing and held them up.  “Well, if it wasn’t for my writing, I’d could have been!”

He lifted his book out.

“Got me right in the sideburns,” he said, showing Sally the ripped front cover image.

His fingers trembled like his voice but in these moments, he was acting like the person he wanted to be.  A guy acting with confidence, a guy making quick decisions, no interruption to the rhythm, just a bit of a cymbal crash here and there.  He looked again at his book photo, an older gent with a big wrinkly smile moving through life in rhythm. Somewhere the guy in the orange sash tripped onto the wrong path, but it wasn’t Cameron’s fault.  He couldn’t be responsible for every random person’s choices.

“I called the police,” the server announced and already Cameron could hear faint sirens, but maybe that was for somebody else.

“I believe he mistook ice cream for ice capp,” Sally told him.  “You misunderstood.”

“I didn’t think he carried a weapon,” the server said.  “But you know, if he did it was probably more for protection.”

A jolt crashed through Cameron’s head.  They were trying to blame him!  Everything normal these days turned into something it was not.  He was doing what any guy would do in that situation.  To act or not to act, wasn’t that Shakespeare?   They couldn’t just keep giving that guy free ice caps every day.  That guy needed a wake-up call.

He placed the scissors back into his vest pocket.   For a second, he couldn’t remember if they were already in his vest when he came in, or they’d been shoved there by the yelling crazy man. Then he stopped questioning.  “You must have confidence,” he thought, and decided to write a letter to the strata council that very afternoon about the leak in his roof.  He’d also check if his kitchen scissors were in the drawer.  Then he’d go out and walk a thousand more steps.

His ribs smarted from the sash man’s shove, and he breathed in deep to see how far he could inhale without hurting.  What was wrong with people these days?  And that’s what Cameron said out loud.

“What the hell is wrong with people these days?”

He stared at his book, sitting on the counter with the ripped image.

A twitchy thistle-thin lady with a porpoise shoulder tattoo and huge silvery loop earrings piped up from her chair and table at the back.

“You protected us from that crazy psycho,” she blared, her hands shaking as she held her lipstick-stained cappuccino cup.   “You’re a fricking hero.”

“Are you for real?”  Cameron asked.  “I mean, that’s good, if you are.”

“I’ll give you my number.  If the police want to talk.”  The woman said, stuttering a few times.  “L-L-Lucky your book was there.”

“I’ll give the police my number too,” said Sally.  “They’ll be here any time. Are you sure the guy had a weapon?”

“I’ll definitely talk to the cops,” said the server, looking directly at Cameron’s neatly trimmed beard.  “You should have identified some space for Shay.”

Cameron lifted his book from the counter and showed everyone the rip.  “Here’s where the scissors almost got me.  I’ve been a drummer my whole life,” he continued, “Ever since my brother received bongos and I got a flute.”

As he spoke, he thought, “wouldn’t this have been an even wilder story if the crazy man was in fact my brother,” but his real brother, although he never played a musical instrument, ended up as a very successful used car salesperson with his own dealership and a hobby horse farm in the country. 

Cameron noticed the alternative exit door to his right.  He could slip out, avoid all the  drama, and march his thousand more steps.  But he didn’t.

He stood up. The extra vest weight felt a little heavy, and his chest hurt. He flexed his shoulders, immersed himself in the moment, ready to play into it with his strongest rhythm and beat.  He could carry the load.

“You can for sure be the person you want to be,” he told everyone, including the server, as the police stepped through the door.

Harrison Kim

Image: An Ice cream slowly melting from pixabay.com