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Franky And Johnny All Over Again
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Franky And Johnny All Over Again |
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broker6 Member
since 1999-11-07
Posts 132Bellevue, NE, Sarpy |
FRANKY AND JOHNNY ALL OVER AGAIN by Richard J. Budig It wasn't the flash of light on the knife blade that caught my attention so much as it was her total body gesture . . . the way in one swift and flowing movement she reached into her purse with one hand while shoving his body backward against the bench with her other hand and raised her arm in a continuing and graceful arc and plunged the knife down and into his chest. As is often the case when a life suddenly hangs by one if its many fine threads, there was that moment of utter silence, that moment when time stops, when for one cosmic mini-time-cycle all action ceases. She stood over him, frozen in place, her hand on the knife. They were in the shadows of that late, hot August Saturday night in front of my pawnshop, and yet it was all clearly visible . . . her standing over him, hand against his chest, and him, slumping downward like a formless bag that had just sprung a leak. Beyond slumping back, he did nothing. He didn’t cry out. He didn’t try to stand. It took only seconds to unfold, but it seemed like minutes before the girl withdrew the knife and calmly dropped it back in the large leather purse hanging from her shoulder and stood looking down at him. I remember thinking how odd an ending this stabbing was to a night that had started as a celebration of our wedding anniversary. My then wife, Terry, and I were married in 1957, and this event occurred in the early ‘70s. I had owned this pawnshop -- which I then called Dirty Dick’s -- about a year, maybe less when this happened. Terry and I had gone out to dinner. Nothing special. Just the two of us, the way old married folks do when the anniversary is not a major decade event. We went to mark the occasion, chew over the past, pat ourselves on the back for having made it this far, and I suppose, in a quiet way, to renew a vow or two. Even after that many years, an anniversary is a good time to stop and say something positive to your mate. While at dinner that night, we decided we needed to stop at the pawnshop on our way home. I had taken in a lot of cash in the last few days, and I thought it wise not to leave it there. In those early years, all I had for a safe was something that looked like it came out of a grade-B western movie. I wasn’t so much worried about someone breaking in and taking the money as I was about a fire that could destroy it. I didn’t keep the money in the safe, anyway. Thus, fire was more of a threat. I figured the first thing a burglar would try was that old safe. If he had a really good pair of channel lock pliers, a heavy screwdriver and a hammer -- all available in my pawnshop -- he could peel that safe in about three minutes. I hid the money in various places in the shop. But it was the weekend when anything could happen so I thought it best to stop and grab the cash. I was just pulling up to my pawnshop when I saw her coming toward us on the other side of the street. She was a diminutive young woman whose deliberate gait and the way she held herself said she had something serious on her mind. Actually, it was the way she held her head that caught my eye. She was not tall, but somehow her head seemed to stick up above everyone else's who was on the street that night. She cast her head back and forth like a radar antenna, sweeping the street, looking for someone. Ninth and O streets in Lincoln, NE, used to be a busy place on Saturday nights. The City Mission was just around the corner, Marie’s Oasis Bar was on the corner and the Adult Cinema was about half way down the block. My shop was tucked among them. Although I’ve often said that every day at my shop was Halloween, at times, I secretly held the thought that it was one of the more sane and quiet places on the block. It was about 10 p.m. when I pulled into an open parking space in front of my shop. For some reason, I noticed the man sitting slumped forward on the street bench no more that 20 feet ahead of me. Lincoln’s downtown shopping area had been revamped to include clusters of trees and shrubs that surrounded a bench or two. There were a couple of these clustered benches with shrubbery in each block and on both sides of the street. They were highly prized locations down in the area of my pawnshop. In the summer they drew visiting winos who came up from “the jungle,” an area a couple of blocks away and down an embankment near the railroad tracks. It was a staging area where traveling winos camped out and waited for passing trains to take them on their never ending journey to nowhere. When the jungle filled up, they came up here and camped out on these benches. But their shift didn’t start until after midnight. At 10 p.m. on a hot August Saturday night, it was business as usual at Marie’s, as well as the steady stream of college kids, and others, making their way into and out of the Adult Cinema a couple of doors down. In fact, the street seemed busier than usual, and still I noticed the girl working her way toward us on the other side of the street, and I noticed the hulk of a man slumped on the bench ahead of us, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “Look,” I said to Terry as I switched off the car’s engine. “What?” she asked, trying to follow my pointing finger. “At that girl,” I said, pointing across the street, “under the tree . . . the way she’s walking.” "Hmmm . . ." Terry muttered, her interest aroused. All of a sudden, the girl's radar caught a blip and she stopped dead in her tracks and looked intently at our side of the street. For a moment, I thought she was looking at us. Then, like a grasshopper launching itself, she sprang off the curb, oblivious to the street full of Saturday night traffic. Tires screeched and cars swerved to avoid her. She bounced off the rear fender of a slowing car, and marched straight ahead, aiming for my car, or so it looked to me. When she had successfully navigated the street, she cut directly in front of my car, bounded up on the curb and forced her way through the thigh-high shrubs. She stepped up behind the bench where the man sat slumped forward. Hands on hips, she glared intently down at him, her big black purse locked behind her elbow, riding her right hip. And then a great calm seemed to settle over her. Her movements became certain and graceful, but there was sag, a settling in her shoulders that looked like sad resolve. Slowly, she walked around to the front of the bench, and in that same quietly graceful way, pushed him back, withdrew the knife from her purse, and brought it down from over her head and into his left lung. He slumped backward, hands at his side. His head rolled backward and rested against the back of the bench while she replaced the knife in her purse. She stood quietly, then, gazing down at him. It was dark in the shadows of the trees and bushes, guarded from the streetlights. Still, I could see her face. It was serene for several more seconds. At last, the man began moving. He struggled into a forward-leaning-sitting position and worked to put his hands on his knees. His head fell forward onto his chest and I could see his back and chest heaving as he tried to breathe. The man must have moaned or tried to speak because suddenly the girl looked intently at him. She leaned forward as if trying to catch what he was saying, and then, like a Jack-in-the-box, she exploded. She pushed him back against the bench again, and at the top of her lungs, began screaming, “My God! Look at you! Someone’s stabbed you!” His head rolled off to one side and a look of abject terror gripped her face. Suddenly, she was off a gazelle, screaming for help. She went straight into Marie’s Oasis Bar, arms flailing, head back, purse swinging. Able to speak at last, I said to Terry, “Did you see that?” “I think so,” Terry said. “She stabbed him!” I croaked, validating what both of us had just witnessed. “Better call the police,” Terry said flatly, her eyes still locked on the sagging man. In less than a dozen steps, I was inside my shop dialing 911. The police arrived in minutes, if not seconds. By then, the screaming girl had emptied Marie’s. They were all out on the sidewalk standing around in clumps. Women held bar napkins to their mouths. The guys stood around with beers in their hands. One or two tried to attend to the wounded man while the girl spun and shrieked like a mad ballerina. When the police arrived, the girl ran from officer to officer, jumping in their faces, pleading with them to save the man, to get help. I left Terry safely inside the shop and stepped out onto the street. I knew one of the officers, and I motioned to him over and told him what we had seen. He informed the others, and in seconds, they were questioning the girl. In an act of denial and false bravado, she held up her purse to them and flipped it open. The knife fell to the sidewalk, still red with the man’s blood. A few weeks later, Terry and I were subpoenaed to testify in court. One reason we were called is that the man refused to testify against her. It turns out that this was just another version of Franky and Johnny, of someone doing someone wrong, of love misdirected and mis-applied. In the end, she loved him and he loved her. All she was doing was trying to say how very much he had hurt her, and how very much she loved him . When she drove the knife into his chest, she was saying, “This is how much I hurt,” and when she saved him, she was saying, “This is how much I love you.” The really sad thing about humans and love is that, often, we just don’t know how to take the hand of the one closest to us and simply say, “I love you.” I don’t know what happened to this couple. The case was dropped in spite of our testimony. Perhaps, just perhaps, love overcame all the odds that night. That’s how I choose to think about. After all, this world swings on very little of any importance. But of all the things that make it go, love is the best. 30-30 |
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Saxoness
since 1999-07-18
Posts 1102Texas |
What an intruiging story! Bravo "Glory remains unaware of my neglected dwelling where alone I sing my tearful song which has charms only for me." -Charles Brugnot |
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Dusk Treader
Moderator
Senior Member
since 1999-06-18
Posts 1187St. Paul, MN |
What a well written and interesting story, you never disappoint! Excellent! In flames I shall not be consumed, but reborn. |
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PhaerieChild Senior Member
since 1999-08-30
Posts 1787Aloha, Oregon |
Really like this one alot!!! Poetry~ Words falling on paper, painting a dream. Shawna R. Holder Boise, Idaho |
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merlynh Member
since 1999-09-26
Posts 411deer park, wa |
Very well written. The denial of some confusing love and hate as being the same. Is all too real in life. Thanks for sharing. |
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