The Pinocchio Syndrome. David Zeman

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       9

       Manchester, New HampshireNovember 2411:30 A.M.

      His name was Erroll, like the pianist.

      They called him ‘Radio Flyer’ because he was always talking about radio waves. Feeling them, hearing them, even seeing them.

      He had been homeless for eleven years now, since they closed the state hospital. He slept in abandoned buildings, ate at shelters, and drank everything from Ripple to lighter fluid.

      He carried an old Walkman he had found in the trash years ago. He was rarely seen without the little earphones in his ears. He usually had an intent, busy air about him as he dug into garbage cans, bent to collect scraps of newspaper, or, quite often, stood outside appliance stores staring at news broadcasts on display TV sets.

      There were those who wondered if there was any sound coming through his famous earphones. ‘He doesn’t need sound,’ said some. ‘He’s got plenty of voices in his head.’

      Today, though, the twenty-four-hour all-news station was actually penetrating to Erroll’s brain, for he had put new batteries into the Walkman two weeks ago and they were still running. He nodded knowingly as he listened to the news.

      The two beat cops in their cruiser smelled him almost before they saw him. He had an unforgettable odor of stale sweat, urine, alcohol, and tooth decay. They were never glad to see him, for he was full of garbled stories of aliens who were bombarding him with waves.

      ‘They weren’t supposed to radiate me,’ he would say, ‘but there was a mix-up. They got the wrong guy. Now these rays are killing me, and I can’t get them to stop.’

      Usually the cops took him to a shelter whose personnel then escorted him to a clinic where he got medication. But more often than not he didn’t take the medication. He said it made him drool.

      Today he shambled toward the cruiser with a bit more purpose than usual. As he approached the car he took off his earphones.

      ‘Morning, Erroll,’ said the driver. ‘What’s on your mind?’

      ‘I found a dead body,’ he said.

      ‘You found a body?’ the driver asked.

      ‘A dead person,’ he said. ‘Smells, too. Maybe a few days. Wait till you see the hands and feet.’

      ‘Hands and feet? What are you talking about, Erroll?’

      The bum was visibly excited.

      ‘I keep telling you guys. The men upstairs are making changes. I’m not the only one. Wait till you see the hands and feet.’

      ‘Where is it, Erroll?’

      ‘In a Dumpster in the alley off Chestnut Street. Been there all morning.’

      The two cops looked at each other. They had long since learned not to attribute any truth to Erroll’s pronouncements. But a body in a Dumpster was something that had to be checked out.

      ‘Are you sure about this, Erroll?’

      ‘As God is my judge. I told you there would be changes. I’m not the only one. Just wait till you see.’

      The driver sighed. ‘Okay, Erroll. Get in and you can show us.’

      They both wrinkled their noses at his smell after he got into the backseat. He gave them directions. They knew the alley well. Traffic was light, so they would be there inside five minutes.

      The younger cop was in a happy mood and decided to make conversation with Erroll on the way.

      ‘How’ve you been, Erroll?’

      ‘Not so good this week. This pain in my joints … It’s just arthritis. But the waves aggravate it.’

      ‘What waves?’

      ‘The radio waves.’ Erroll took on a brooding look. ‘You can’t just bombard healthy tissue with them. It plays hell with arthritis. I told them it can damage tissue. But nobody listens to me.’

      ‘Who did you tell, Erroll?’

      ‘The new doctor over at the clinic. I’m sending some circulars around to the state health authorities, too, but I have to get a stamp first.’

      ‘What kind of stamp, Erroll?’

      ‘A СКАЧАТЬ