The Vivid Man, by Bert Woodall

When George Tilley first moved to the small town in the low mountains he sometimes felt out of place, conspicuous even. But he was never anywhere near as conspicuous as the old guy George was watching cross the street.

This man would have been conspicuous at a convention of vaudevillian golfers: He was wearing polyester knit trousers of a vivid Easter-egg-yellow-on-bright-white plaid, along with an impossibly bright, saffron-yellow shirt under a blazing blue plaid sports jacket.

This stunning outfit was accessorized with a yellow silk pocket-handkerchief, white bucs with matching belt, and a jaunty little sky-blue hat. His socks were a yellow color slightly more pastel, though no less bright, that his shirt, the broad collar of which was fanned out over the lapels of his jacket. He carried a straight black cane, which he wielded more like a baton than a mobility assistance device.

The man might have been going to a costume party—where he could have won first prize—but the notion of a costume party at 9:30 on a Tuesday morning in Prescott was almost as unlikely as this stranger’s bizarre raiment.

George was immediately fascinated by this man.

His time was his own this morning—he’d only come downtown to go to the post office—so when the light turned green George pulled to the curb on the other side of the intersection and watched in his rearview mirror to see which direction the man was headed. When he passed out of sight beyond the little used car lot on the corner, George killed the engine and got out to follow. The guy was headed up the hill, his walking stick clutched in front of his sternum, as though he might twirl it at any moment. He took the hill steadily, walking like a man half his age, and a man in a very good mood, at that.

Two blocks up the hill, with George trailing a block behind, he crossed over to the south side of the street, then walked up the sidewalk and went into the funeral home on the corner! George had been curious about the guy. Now he was baffled.

Certainly the man was wearing improbable garb for a visitation—for that matter, not only was his dress far from funereal, so too had been his demeanor. But why else would he go to a funeral home? To make arrangements for a funeral? Perhaps his own? In that outfit?

George was tempted to wait for the man to come out, but he couldn’t picture himself loitering on the corner—the word skulking came to mind. Reluctantly, he turned and started back down the hill, walking as slowly as he could, looking back often over his shoulder. But the man did not reappear.

George had a secret fear that this oddly dressed man had spoken to, even before he went into the funeral parlor. This secret fear was not of death, but of survival. He simply could not imagine himself in the twilight—and that is just how he perceived the life of the elderly. At least, that’s how he thought of it before his saw that jaunty old popinjay.

He wondered if this inability to visualize himself in his sparse white hair and liver spots was a presentiment, maybe, that he would die before the problems of old age presented themselves. Certainly, he lived that way. He smoked. He drank. He had no health insurance and hadn’t been in for a physical in years. His retirement plan consisted entirely of buying $4 worth of lotto tickets every week. In fact, George admitted to himself, he had stretched a feckless youth into a rudderless middle age.

His notion of old age involved adult diapers and an oxygen bottle on a little cart. An unpleasant, protracted demise in the paupers’ ward of a county hospital somewhere. But today, walking back to his car, he suddenly contemplated a future of, well, perhaps not robust health among a circle of active friends, but one at least of flamboyant sartorial insanity. Plaid suit, a pocket flash and pastel hat? Why the hell not?

“Because that guy is not me,” George said aloud. “That’s why.” Still, though, he sure would like to talk to the man.

He got back into his car and continued on to the post office.

Alvin Barkley, properly and soberly dressed, was putting out fresh tissue boxes in the reception parlor when an erect old man in garish clothing came through the door. The gentleman looked around the room like he was considering redecorating the place, then stepped in and closed the door behind him.

“May I help you sir?” Alvin said.

“I expect you can,” the old guy said, tipping a walking stick toward the mortician, almost pointing with it. “I’ve come to make my arrangements.”

Waiting in line at the post office, George found himself appraising everyone who came and went on the basis of their age first, then their wardrobe, then their posture. He tried to look into the eyes of each person as they left the counter and made their way past him. He learned nothing from this, except that some people looked back at him and some did not. Thinking about this, he decided that he himself was one of those who would try to ignore a staring stranger.

He left the post office in restless mood, and circled back to pass the funeral home, the exterior of which offered no clues to the mysterious stranger Wishing he had somewhere else to go, George turned toward home.

“The vivid man,” he thought to himself, marveling at the impact of this chance encounter. “A transforming experience,” he said aloud. “The vivid man.”

Maybe it wasn’t too late for him, after all. On the one hand, he was 44 years old, for God’s sake. At least 14 years older than he’d ever imagined himself being. But on the other hand, he was only 44, right?

Sure, he wasn’t exactly setting the world on fire. Never had, he thought. “Here I am driving a beat up Toyota nearly old enough to vote. I live in a rented little run-down shithole with a public driveway for a yard. Both of my wives left me because they weren’t stupid ... But, hey, I’m not stupid, either. I’ve just been unambitious, that’s all.”

He barely made a living taking pick-up jobs on three different landscaping crews; his social life consisted of sale-priced beer and a television with a screen the size of a microwave’s window. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made his bed, though he had changed the sheets twice in the 31 months he’d lived in Prescott. On the other hand, he hadn’t spent a night in jail in over five years.

George pulled into the unpaved driveway of the Overnighters Welcome Mobile Home Park — No Bike Rideing — where he lived in a tiny, rented trailer. The trailer had been manufactured in the 1960s and showed every minute of its age. Its interior was a dubious tribute to the early days of Formica and fake-wood paneling, and the plumbing and miniature appliances were original period pieces. The only remodeling the one-room trailer had seen was the addition of a thick, brownish patina of dust, cigarette smoke and extruded despair. The overall effect was that of muddy varnish on tawdry shoddiness. But without this lacquer, George figured, his little hovel would simply fall apart.

“Yeah,” he thought, “I need to get serious. Improve my lot in life. Settle down. Start planning for the future.” He snorted, “Buy some clean sheets.”

George wondered what the vivid man would look like in this house. The image was impossible. The vivid man’s house would be a real one, and it would be better taken care of. There would be plants in the yard, probably, real curtains in the windows. He’d chat with his neighbors and have money in the bank. He’d follow the markets and carefully manage a little stock portfolio. Probably even have a girlfriend, if not a wife. He’d go to bed earlier and sober, have clean dishes drying on the drainboard. There’d be a sugarbowl on the table, napkins in a napkin holder. He’d have a little fresh mint in his tea.

“That could be me,” George thought. “I don’t have to live like this. Shit.”

It was odd. Seeing the vivid man had made him feel better at first—hopeful, almost happy. But now George was seeing only the yawning chasm between what his life was, and what it should be. What might have been, yet what has not. It was just too sad.

He didn’t even want to go into his trailer. But he didn’t want to just sit outside under his battered tin awning, either, probably being watched by all his loony, lonely, suspicious and misfit neighbors.

“I’m Alvin Barkley,” said Alvin Barkley, putting out his hand. “I’m the funeral director here and I’d be glad to help you, Mr. …?”

“Lufkin, Mr. Barkley, Jim Shy Lufkin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He shifted the walking stick to his left hand, clasping Barkley’s hand with the other.

“Well, I’m glad to meet you. Let’s step into my office, where we can sit down.” They entered a small office off a hallway beyond the reception parlor half filled by a large desk. Barkley gestured toward two overstuffed client chairs before the desk. “Would you like a cup of coffee—it’s a fresh pot—or some tea? A soft drink?”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” Lufkin said, choosing the chair turned slightly toward the window. “Some coffee would be fine. Black, please.”

Left in the room, he looked around. Framed certificates decorated the wall behind the desk, which faced the window. The wall to the left of the desk featured a rather crudely painted pastoral scene—cattle in a mountain meadow. The wall to the right was decorated with a print of the familiar cliche of Christ in Gesthemene. A credenza beneath the rendering of Christ displayed booklets and catalogues relating, no doubt, to the disposition of earthly remains. The desk top itself was vacant except for a desk set and a brace of framed pictures facing diagonally across the desk so that the occupant of Jim Shy’s chair could just see a smiling woman formally posed, and a group portrait of the same woman between two young girls, one of whom was smiling.

“Here you go, Mr. Lufkin.” Barkley handed the old man a cup of coffee on a saucer then seated himself behind the desk. “Now, what can I do for you today.”

“Well,” Jim Shy said, “I’m gonna need somebody to bury me and I expect the law requires that I be embalmed before I have that honor.”

“Well, yes, sir, Arizona, like most states, does have an embalming statute.”

“All right, then, I guess I need you to sign me up for the works. Pickle me and bury me—how much would you charge for that?”

“Well, Mr. Lufkin, we can get to that. First tell me a little more about what you have in mind.”

“Dying. That’s what I’ve got in mind. Been on my mind a lot lately. The dying I can do on my own, but I’ll need help with the rest of it. Nothing fancy, just being dead and buried.”

“Certainly, certainly, I understand.” Barkley straightened the desk blotter, correcting some invisible asymmetry. “What sort of service were you thinking of, what kind of casket.”

“No service at all, and the cheapest box you’ve got. I’ll be shopping around for the plot.”

Barkley pursed his lips and looked sympathetic. “Have you considered cremation? It can be very economical.”

“I’ve considered just about everything at one time or another, Mr. Barkley. But as far as being dead goes, I think turning to dirt would make a fine contribution to the planet.” He winked. “As for being economical, that’s not much of an issue. I’m just trying to figure out how much I need to budget.”

He took his coffee off the desk and leaned back into the chair, crossing one bright plaid knee over the other. “Might go for a big stone, for example, might not want any stone at all.” He sipped contemplatively at the coffee, which was weak and watery, then looked across the cup at Barkley.

“I’ve even thought about having a little fence put up around me. What do you think, would that be a little much?”

“Well,” Barkley said, “Some people might consider the fence a little old fashioned…”

“Don’t reckon it would bother me much what people thought, though, would it?” Lufkin grinned while Barkley realigned the pictures on his desk. “Course, if I didn’t care what people thought, why worry about the stone, right? Much less the fence.

“So,” he leaned forward, “About the price, what do you think? Would ten thousand do it?”

“Oh, yes,” Barkley almost sighed aloud, “Certainly. We can arrive at something well within that price range.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a pad of contract blanks.

“All right then, Mr. Barkley,” Jim Shy stood and placed the coffee cup back in its saucer on the desk. “I thank you for your time and I’ll be in touch.”

Acknowledging the funeral director’s quickly concealed expression of disappointment, he gestured toward the blank contracts.

“I’ll be back soon enough. And I promise—unless I die on the road, you’ll be getting my trade.”

“Oh, will you be traveling?”

“Might.” He picked up his cane and started out. Barkley walked out with him toward the door. “But I don’t plan to move ever again. I’ve burned the tent and shot the camel.” He winked again. “My nomad days are over.”

“By the way, Mr. Lufkin,” Barkley followed him back into the parlor, “I must say, you look to be in fine health.”

“Oh, yes, I probably am. I’ve never felt better in my life.” Barkley looked puzzled. “I just wanted to get my affairs in order. You know, just in case.”

“Certainly, certainly.” Barkley stepped forward to open the door for him. “It never hurts to plan ahead.”

“Well, you know,” said Jim Shy said, pausing in the doorway, “I always worried about not planning ahead. And then I went and won the lottery.” He stepped out on the porch, grinning, pleased that he had saved this bombshell till last. “Good day, sir.”

Jim Shy had a nice feeling of accomplishment leaving the funeral home. “I’ve made a start to my finish,” he smiled to himself. “Maybe I should have signed something so Mr. Barkley would feel as good about this as I do, but with any luck at all, there’s still plenty of time to dot the ayes and cross the tees.”

He walked back toward his hotel, smiling and nodding at several pedestrians he passed. He felt so good he decided to walk over to the Plaza and dawdle over a cup of coffee at the St. Michael Hotel. “I can work on my will.”.

This bequeathing process, he discovered as soon as he began meditating upon it, was fun. “Ah, whom to enrich?”

He had a nephew in Nebraska he hadn’t seen in years and scarcely knew. In fact, they probably wouldn’t recognize each other if they got on the same elevator. But Josh would get some money, for sure. Jim Shy imagined the nephew’s surprise at opening the mail one day and finding a cashiers check for, say, $500,000.

“And the SPCA.” Prescott undoubtedly had an animal shelter, and he’d always been fond of dogs, so drop a few large on them, of course. Who else? Muscular Dystrophy? The American Heart Association? The list of worthy causes was infinite.

He asked the waitress for extra napkins, and when she brought them, she smiled pleasantly. “Her,” he thought. “She seems like a nice young woman.” Her name was Donna; he knew that from her nametag. He’d need more information than that eventually, but for now he just wrote “Donna” on the napkin, then, above that, “Josh” and “the pound.” Oh, this was fun. It was just too bad he didn’t know many people.

Come to think of it, he didn’t really know anybody. He couldn’t think of anyone still living he’d call a friend. “Maybe Mr. Barkley?” He could take his wife and daughters to Cancun, or someplace like that. He seemed nice enough, and at least Jim Shy knew his name and an address. But he didn’t write Barkley on the napkin. He wanted to think that one over.

“The library,” he thought. “They always need money.” He wrote that one down. After that he just sat there moving his coffee cup in little circles, suddenly struck by how friendless he truly was.
He’d led a pretty full life, he thought. Looking back, it seemed like he’d stayed busy, and before this odd moment, he’d never noticed feeling especially lonely. But now he did. Right this minute, he definitely did feel lonely. It was a peculiar sensation, almost pleasantly melancholy.

“Now that I’m rich, I have the luxury of feeling sorry for myself,” he told the nearly empty napkin. He set the coffee cup down on it, and lifted it to see the damp ring he’d made. “Well, I’ve always heard it’s lonely at the top.” He signaled Donna with the nearly empty cup, and she smiled at him again.


George went on inside, where he sat at the little banquet, staring glumly at that portion of Overnighters Welcome visible through his “picture” window.

Two of his neighbors, Eunice and Ed, were chatting in the beaten-dirt common area that separated two rows of trailer houses marginally larger than his own, which was the smallest one in the park.
Eunice was a loud, bitter and garrulous woman whose bra straps were always a dingy yellow and always hanging out of a sleeveless dress to loop across her massive upper arms. Ed was a truculent, phlegmy and disabled Korean War veteran who roved around on an electric tricycle looking for someone to listen to his complaints. He told everyone that he’d lost his toes to frostbite at Chosin—“They didn’t even have to amputate ‘em, they just broke right off in the medic’s hands!”— but George suspected a combination of diabetes and alcohol.

Ed and Eunice seemed to get on well together, which was good, since everybody else did their best to avoid both of them. They shared a passionate belief in conspiracies, and were probably weaving another one out there right now.

Watching the misfit pair talk, George’s sour mood deepened into outright depression. He lay down on his bunk and stared at the flyspecks on the ceiling. As he lay there, cicadas started a chorus outside the trailer. The sound grew louder and louder—or seemed to—till the noise filled the room like God’s own tinnitus. Gradually the sound became total, absorbed him when he closed his eyes, echoing and multiplying on itself until he drifted backward into it and off to sleep.
When he woke up it was nearly 6:30 and his mouth tasted like he’d spent the afternoon chewing on dirty socks. He stumbled into the little half-bath, brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face, avoiding the mirror. He decided to go to El Charro for supper.

Jim Shy took his napkin with him when he left the cafe and walked the two blocks to the Hassayampa Inn, where he’d been staying since he came to Prescott. Thinking about his friendless condition had a sobering effect on his mood, swinging it from giddy to pensive to sad. Subdued, he took the elevator rather than the stairs, his usual route to the third floor, where he had a corner room looking out over Gurley Street and the Plaza.

Now that he thought about it, perhaps for the first time in his life, it struck him as odd that he had no friends. Essentially an amiable person, even gregarious, Jim Shy had made countless acquaintances over the years. “But I’ve been a drifter,” he said to the empty room. And in truth, he had.

Except for a few years as a disaster chaser, following hurricanes and tornadoes around the country picking up construction jobs, for most of his adult life Jim Shy had sold advertising for radio stations. He was good at that, and the job was perfectly suited to his personality and to his habits — one of which was moving on. Every town of any size had a radio station, at least one, and most of them needed help in sales. He was glib and he was friendly, so he could usually find work and he was always free to go. He’d rarely stayed anywhere long enough to forge lasting relationships, even if he’d wanted to.

He’d had women friends, sometimes even torrid affairs, but he had avoided entanglements. He had never been in love, had never had a broken heart. He’d had drinking buddies, dozens of them—men and women alike—and coworkers beyond number. But he could scarcely remember their names. He had never felt apart from the people around him, yet he’d never truly felt a part of anyone else’s life, either.

He could not recall ever being particularly bothered by this lack, if lack this was, before. But now he was.

He walked to the window looking onto the Plaza, gazing down at the afternoon shuffle of locals and tourists strolling around the square and lounging in the shade. Every one of them looked connected somehow, even the tourists. Right this moment Jim Shy felt completely disconnected and was very close to tears. “I’ve been a stranger, a friendly goddamned stranger, all my life.”

He sat then, looking toward the windows for awhile, perhaps twenty minutes, before his mood of dejection passed as suddenly as it had descended and his normal ebullience reasserted itself. He told himself that sitting around the hotel was a waste of precious time and decided to join his fellow creatures enjoying the Plaza’s shade. “Maybe I’ll make a new friend,” he thought, taking up his walking stick. “I can add them to my list of heirs”.

In the event he did not make any new friends, but he did enjoy resting on a bench under the elms. He sat, smiling benignly at people and their dogs, feeling supremely beneficent and kindly disposed, for all his lack of friends.

Eventually it was time to think about supper. He considered returning to the St. Michael Cafe just to see if Donna was still on shift but rejected that idea as foolish. Instead, he elected to go to El Charro for Mexican food. He’d eaten there twice already, and figured to work his way through the menu.

George was sitting in a booth at El Charro just starting in on an order of fry bread with green chili, hold the beans, when he saw the vivid man walk in. He was still wearing the same clothes and they still looked fresh from the cleaners. George thought about asking the man to join him, but he thought too long, since the menu girl led him to the table in front of the window. The old guy placed his hat and stick on the seat against the wall then took the chair facing the street. George began to eat very slowly, watching the man at the window. After he had cleaned his plate he asked for more tea, taking his time, stalling so he would leave the restaurant at the same time as Mr. Plaid. Seeing him again, George discovered that he didn’t just want to talk to this weird guy, he wanted to get to know him, he wanted to become his friend.

Jim Shy ordered a Tecate while he studied the menu. He found it difficult to had pick just one entrée Everything on it looked interesting and seemed exotic somehow, even though he’d been eating Mexican food regularly for most of his life. But, then, everything seemed exotic right now, he realized. “I’m seeing the world through green colored glasses.” He was tempted to have the El Charro steak again, but decided finally, with the waitress hovering, to go with the fry bread. “With the green chili, please.”

He sipped his beer and stared out the window and thought how much he liked his new home town.

George almost timed his exit right. He had dawdled over the meal, ordered sopapillas for dessert even though he wasn’t that hungry, then asked for still more tea. Then the vivid man got up suddenly to go. He didn’t even wait for his check, just dropped a bill on the table and left. George grabbed his check and hurried to the cashier stand to pay up, but by the time he got outside the old guy had already reached the sidewalk on the other side of the street and was walking toward the Plaza. George hurried to cross the street and catch up, but a green pickup truck he hadn’t seen speeding up Montezuma caught him square on its grill. George died the instant he hit the pavement.

Jim Shy, now half a block away, heard the squeal of brakes and the thump of metal hitting bone and flesh and turned to look in time to see George land on his head. “Poor bastard. There’s one for Mr. Barkley.”

copyright 2009 James H. "Bert" Woodall -- All Rights Reserved