Fiction by Kenneth M. Kapp
I was visiting my grandkids, who can be a handful. There’re two of them, twins. So after the first day I told my son, I have to take at least three walks each day. “Doc says if I don’t, my arteries are going to clog in short order and ‘Mr. S, it’s sayonara.’ So I take my walks, mid-morning, mid-afternoon, and after supper.”
I’m not totally heartless; I told the twins: “You want to walk with grandpa, you need to behave for 30 hours straight – then you can come with me the next time I go out.” They looked at me as if I’m nuts. I tell them: “Look at the clock, little hand goes around three-and-a-half times – good behavior – and you can come with me next time I’m out the door.”
“Grandpa. We only have digital clocks and 30 means we’d have to add. We’re only in 1st grade.”
Well, I wasn’t about to teach the kids how to add, that’s what parents are for. Maybe it’s moot anyhow: the twins are high-spirited, that’s how my daughter-in-law puts it. I wasn’t going to argue, I like to walk by myself anyhow; it gives me time to think.
That’s how I met Whooshie, name I gave a boy I met on one of those walks. He was probably two years older than the twins and six inches taller. His head came up to my chin.
When I walk, I wander. Gets my kids mad when they ask me where I’ve been and I answer: “Oh, hither and yonder,” waving my hand above my head.
“Dad, one of these days you’re going to get lost and find yourself in a bad neighborhood.”
I don’t think so; I have a good sense of direction. Besides, I like the challenge of finding my way home after not paying much attention on my way out. Cloudy days can be a challenge since moss doesn’t always grow on the north side of the trees. I must have a beagle’s nose; anyway I always manage to find my way home. Heck, I know where my kids live, have their addresses and phone numbers, so what’s the problem if I’m rather vague where I walk. For an old man, it makes it more of an adventure.
With Whooshie I walked mostly in a southwesterly direction. Crossed the big divided boulevard. Other side of the tracks like they say. The neighborhood is a little less middle class, but the lawns are all well-kept. I thought I’d go a couple of more blocks, looked like some shops ahead, see if there was a place I could get a cup of coffee since I could use some caffeine for the way home. A block later this kid comes around the corner towards me, slinging his hands around like he was a human windmill.
I wasn’t far from the mark. As I got closer I heard him going, “Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh,” making big, slow circles with his palms turned out to catch the wind. “Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.” I liked the sound and smiled. “Way to go kid. Can I try that?”
He comes up straight, almost could hear his heels clicking, snapping his arms to his side. He inclines his head. “My parents taught me that this is a free country but not in stores. There you have to pay. I asked them how can it be free? They told me it’s not that kind of free, more like free to be stupid.”
I laughed. Never thought of things that way. Racked my brains for a good question. I came up empty and could only think of a dumb one since I think I knew the answer. “You go to school?”
“No. I’m home-schooled. My parents said windmills aren’t allowed to go to school.”
“You’ve always been a windmill?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Ever since I read Don Quixote. I read it in Spanish when I was eight. Decided it was stupid tilting at windmills when you could be one.”
I had to step back – Whooshie started up his arms again.
I decided that was enough for our first meeting and went in search of a cup of coffee, leaving Whooshie to find his own way.
I went that way a couple more times over the next ten days – two weeks was my limit at one time with my kids and I was four days into the visit when I first met Whooshie. No luck. By the end of my stay I was friends with the barista, so I asked if he knew Whooshie, tall, lanky kid with a funny smile.
He laughed. “I think I know who you mean. Kid’s nuts, came in once and starts going round with his hands. I said, ‘Whoa, kiddo! You’re going to knock coffee all over the place. What do you want?’ Kid tells me his parents want he should get a summer job, so since it’s hot, he thought maybe he could get work here as a fan. ‘I can lie on the table, move my hands around like this.’ And he starts going with his whoosh, whoosh, whoosh thing. I tell him I don’t think it’ll work out, but I appreciate the offer, gave him a cinnamon bun for trying. He never came in again. You looking for him?”
“Not really. I met him a week ago. We got to talking and I thought of a question I wanted to ask him. No big deal.”
I went home the next day. Next time I visited my son, I failed to come across Whooshie. Ditto, the following year. Then my son gets a promotion and moves to another city. By that time I had forgotten the question anyhow. Couple of times I tried making like a windmill – whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. It wasn’t the same thing. Must be how you turn out your palms.
Kenneth M. Kapp was a Professor of Mathematics, a ceramicist, a welder, an IBMer, and yoga teacher. He lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night. He enjoys chamber music and mysteries. Read his earlier microfiction story in The Bluebird Word‘s May 2022 issue.
