The Man on the Corner

by Matthew Hamity

Morris stands in his usual spot on the corner, the pavement still damp from last night’s rain. A station wagon passes, the round face of a child pressed against the backseat window. Morris begins to pace. He wears a white tank-top and green shorts, his only summer attire. As cars go by, he reads the license plates aloud. His dad used to drive a pick-up truck. He painted houses.

Across the street, a dog barks. Its tongue lolls out long and pink. A squirrel darts into the road and the dog follows. Morris hears tires screaming, a loud thump, and then quiet. The dog lies on its side. Morris walks toward it, kneeling down and placing his hand on the dog’s chest. The fur is warm with blood.

A teenage boy gets out of his car. His t-shirt is stained dark brown. “Is he dead?” he asks.

Morris lifts the dog in his arms. He strokes the soft black fur under its neck.

The boy moves closer. He wipes a cut on his forehead with the back of his hand. “Is he yours?”

Morris shakes his head. The dog shudders. Its eyes are crusted and red.

“He’s got no collar,” the boy says. “Let’s get him in the car and I’ll take him to the vet.”

Morris takes a few steps forward. He ducks his head and sits down inside the car, holding the dog at his waist. “You don’t have to come,” the boy says peering in. “I can take care of him.” Morris closes the door.

The boy goes around to the driver’s side, picking up the empty can of Coke on the seat and throwing it into the street. He looks at Morris in the rearview and puts the car in drive.

When they arrive at the vet, the boy runs inside. Morris watches a woman and her dog walking in a square grassy area beside the building. The dog has a plastic cone around its neck, a black snout protruding just beyond the white halo.

The boy returns with a tall, blonde lady. Clumps of dark hair cling to her coat. She wears an “I Love My Dalmatian,” pin. “Hello,” she says, nodding at Morris. “I’m Dr. Swanson.” She rubs the dog’s ears. Her nails are painted white with black spots. “I need to take him for a while. Why don’t you follow me to the waiting room.”

The boy sits in a chair beside Morris, leafing through an issue of Animal Fair. He pretends to read a few articles and then he stops. “I’ve never killed anything before,” he says.

A few minutes pass. Dr. Swanson enters the room. “We have to put him to sleep,” she says. She looks at Morris and turns to leave. He stands up, ready to follow her. “Okay,” she says, “You can come with me.”

His shoes squeak against the hallway floor. They enter the second room on the left. The dog lays upon a metal table. Morris runs his fingers up and down its back, touching its clipped tail. He watches the rise and fall of its stomach slow and then stop.

The boy drives Morris home. He makes it a block and then pulls over. He plays with the brights, flashing them on and off.

“He was too fast,” Morris says.

“What?”

“You couldn’t stop. He was too fast.”

The boy nods and gets back on the road.

“Where the hell were you?” she says, looking down at the cutting board. “I came out at noon with your lunch and you were gone.”

“A dog died.”

“A dog died,” she says. She finishes slicing a tomato and runs the knife under hot water.

Morris takes two ham and cheese sandwiches out of a plastic bag in the fridge. He goes upstairs to his room and turns on the TV. The Cosby Show is on.

“If you make a mess, you’re cleaning it,” she shouts up the stairs. He takes a careful bite of the sandwich and turns up the volume on the TV.

Morris wakes up early the next morning. He has a bowl of Cheerios and two bowls of Fruit-Loops. He walks the two miles to his job at the carwash. When he gets there, Jerry hands him a rag and a spray-bottle of blue cleaning fluid.

“Should be busy today,” Jerry says, “all the rain we’ve had lately.”

Morris hurries over to a white sedan and gets to work. After rubbing the hood dry, he kneels to reach the front-bumper. “10IS NE1” he reads aloud. He moves on to the side paneling and then the rear. Drops of sweat fall from his forehead onto the trunk and he wipes them away. He sprays the windows, peering in at the tennis balls scattered on the backseat. Inside the car, he sprays the dashboard, rubbing the black leather until it shines. When he’s finished, he puts the window down, letting his arm hang out like his dad used to in the pick-up truck.

During his lunch break, he watches the cars as they pass through the automated wash, first through the curtain of long blue strips and then through the foam. When they reach the water jets, the foam melts away and he takes a big bite of his sandwich.

After work, Morris is on the corner again. His mom backs out of the driveway and pulls up beside him. She’s wearing her waitress uniform, a red shirt with white collar. Her nametag is pinned crooked over her breast. “I’m working a double-shift,” she says. “I won’t be home till late.” She drives away and Morris sticks his hands into his pockets. A squirrel stands on its hind legs, watching him. When a plane flies overhead, the squirrel climbs a nearby tree. Morris covers his ears until the plane vanishes behind some clouds in the distance.

“Hey,” a voice calls out. Morris turns around. It’s the boy. “Do you like burgers?” he asks. Morris nods and the boy motions for him to get in. “I’m Elliot by the way,” the boy says.

They eat at Fred’s. Elliot orders a cheeseburger and Morris has a double. They sit down at a picnic table outside. They eat in silence until a gust of wind blows their napkins onto the sidewalk. Elliot chases them around, muttering to himself. He comes back to the table with the napkins in his fist.

“So what do you do for fun,” he asks, “other than stand around on the corner?” Morris shrugs. “What about TV? Everybody watches TV.”

“I like the Cosby Show.”

Elliot smacks his hand against the table. “That used to be my favorite show. Have you seen Rudy lately? Man, did she grow up right.”

Morris finishes his burger. He fidgets with the napkin in his lap. “I’ll be back,” he says. He goes into Fred’s to use the payphone. The phone rings four times and the machine picks up. His dad’s voice is still on the recording, and hearing it, he smiles. “We’re not here right now, so leave a message, and if you’re lucky, we’ll get back to you.” Morris puts another quarter in the slot. He dials again.