A New Story Most Thursdays

Hello Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to Thursday Stories. Looking back over my herd of short stories, I realize that more than three dozen of the little rascals have appeared only in print. Some of you may have forked over the dough for this or that literary review, but I don’t expect everyone to buy all of the reviews all of the time. And so, drumroll please, I give you Thursday Stories. I’m not guaranteeing a new story every Thursday, but I will do my best until all the print-only tales have been set free.

This week’s edition of Thursday Stories features Reciprocal Debt. This short story first appeared in Clackamas Literary Review, published in 2023. Without further ado, I give you another edition of Thursday Stories. I hope you enjoy it.

Reciprocal Debt

By Marco Etheridge

Ted Gretzky—never Theodore, unless you’re with the IRS—stands on the metro platform, keeping the maximum distance possible between himself and his fellow commuters. Human beings top the long list of things Ted Gretzky does not enjoy. His list has grown over forty years, but Ted’s fellow citizens still hold the number one spot.

Gretzky is a big man, a full head taller than the suit-and-briefcase drones who mill about the platform. Not much of a puzzle how he got that way. Ted’s tata, Piotr, was the biggest Polack in the old neighborhood. Cecilia, his mama, was a tall black woman. Her height was only one of many anomalies, not the least of which was being married to a giant white man in a time when heads still turned as the couple walked down any street.

Because Ted looms above them, people don’t crowd too close. Perhaps they sense his dislike of humans. Maybe they just need some distance to maintain a perspective view. One can’t see Mount Rushmore standing on Washington’s nose.

Whatever the reason, Ted waits on his train in a small bubble of space enjoyed by no one else. This special status, along with his extraordinary height, gives Ted a wide view of the crowded platform. That is why he sees what is about to happen before anyone else. 

Ted hears the rumble and screech of the approaching train as it hurtles through the darkness. The grimy mouth of the tunnel belches a billow of stale air down the platform, rustling the skirts and papers of the commuters. A stab of light chases the foul air, and the nose of the train appears in the darkness behind.

A scrawny guy darts out of the waiting herd. He’s walking fast, a few steps ahead of the charging train. Time freezes. Ted Gretzky sees the train driver silhouetted behind his glass panel. He sees the yellow caution stripe at the edge of the platform. And he sees how this young guy just stepping past him is going to intersect with all of it and mess up Ted’s commute. 

Ted swings out one meaty hand and catches the dude mid-chest. The skinny punk sort of folds up around Ted’s forearm, and the big man pivots to bring his left hand into play. He plants his left paw over his right and shoves. The dude backpedals away, arms windmilling the stagnant air.

It’s a tiled column that stops him. Dude hits it like a sack of spuds, slides down it the same way that stupid coyote used to slide down a rock wall in those Roadrunner cartoons Ted used to love.

The train lurches to a stop and the doors hiss open. The herd of commuters takes one look at the man slumped in a heap, one look at Ted, and then city-dweller instinct kicks in. They ignore everything as if it never happened and rush for the impossible chance of a seat on the metro.

Ted looks down at the mess he’s made of this skinny idiot, then glances over his shoulder. Down at the other end of the platform, he sees two transit cops showing an interest in what’s happening. The cops are heading his way, weaving through the crowd of drones that pulse out of and into the train.

The big man curses under his breath and bends to grab the fallen would-be jumper. Ted doesn’t like human beings, and he likes cops even less. It’s not that he’s doing crime on the streets. Piotr and Cecilia raised him too hard and strict for any of that nonsense. Naw, Ted follows all the rules all the time, not because he likes rules, but because he doesn’t like to talk to cops. Ever. About anything.

He yanks the little dude to his feet, gets one arm wrapped hard under the guy’s armpit, glad to feel the guy’s heart beating in his birdcage chest. He frog-marches the asshole toward the nearest exit, hoping the punk isn’t seriously broken, that this guy maybe took a shower sometime in the last week, and that the cops are too lazy to follow. He half drags, half carries the dazed would-be jumper up the stairs.

Emerging from the Metro station, Gretzky gets lucky on all three counts. The cops are nowhere in sight. He drops the skinny guy on the nearest bench. The dude is breathing and he’s staring up at Gretzky with big stupid rabbit eyes. And he looks reasonably clean for a hipster. Hard to tell since these white dudes like to dress like homeless guys, but at least he don’t stink.

Ted waves a thick finger in the guy’s face. The dude blinks his eyes like he’s trying to figure out why someone stuck a kielbasa in his face.

“You stay, hear me?”

The white guy frowns at the big finger under his nose, then looks up at Ted, manages a nod that seems coherent.

The big man walks away, muttering under his breath. Stupid white guy messing up my schedule. Not like I don’t have better things to do. And now I’m buying this asshole coffee. Guy’s probably one of those trust fund babies. Million dollars in the bank, and they wear clothes look like they sleep under a bridge.

The old Greek is at the window of the Athena. Like where else would he be? Ted orders two coffees, carries the blue-and-white cups back to the bench. The dude is still there. Ted lowers himself to the bench, and the thing creaks under the added load. He holds out one of the coffees.

“Hope you like it black. If not, cream and sugar are over there.”

The scarecrow takes the coffee, doesn’t say a word, not even a thank you. Ted sips the coffee, waits for what he thinks is an appropriate space of time, and gets nothing. The asshole is just sitting there holding his coffee, staring at a pigeon that’s mooching around his feet. Ted does not have time for any of this shit.

“Yo, strange white guy, do you talk or what?”

Guy blinks at the paper cup he’s holding in his hand like he’s never seen such a thing in his life. Takes a couple of big swigs from it, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Then he looks up at Ted like he’s never seen him before.

“Strange white guy, that’s the best you can do?”

“You got a name you like more, feel free to give it up.”

“We’re like buddies now, or what?”

Ted shakes his head just like Celia did when he tried some sass on her.

“Not even close to buddies. I just stopped you jumping in front of a subway train. While we’re at it, I saved you having to explain that shit to the cops. Oh, and I bought you a damn coffee. So, yeah, I think we’re on solid ground for an introduction.”

He looks away from Ted, stares into his coffee like maybe the answer is floating in there. Nods his head, looks back up.

“I’m Tyler, Tyler Ruskin.”

“Ted.”

Then there’s one of those awkward pauses. Ted wonders what the hell he’s let himself in for and why he’s doing it. The stranger beside him salutes Ted with the half-empty paper cup.

“Thanks for the coffee, and for the other thing, too.”

“You wanna tell me what that was about? I mean, what happens if I get up and leave? Do you run back down there and wait for the next train?”

“So, Ted, you normally ask so many questions?”

 Ted hears the smartass tone in this guy Tyler’s voice. Smartass would usually piss him off in a huge way, but instead, it makes him chuckle.

“Normally, I don’t talk to people at all if I can help it. But here we find ourselves, new buddies and all. And one of us just tried to jump in front of a train. So yeah, I got questions.”

“Okay, fair enough. I got a problem.”

Ted’s eyebrows and Tyler’s hand go up at the same time.

“Wait, just listen. I get it, someone tries to off themselves, obviously there’s a problem. But I’m not some broken-hearted putz throwing himself in front of a train. To quote the head docs, I suffer from Impulsive Control Disorder. They call it ICD for short.”

Ted has an automatic bullshit response, a gift handed down by his tata. Ted remembers Piotr’s rough complaints. All these new syndromes, Theodore, Bah! This is just excuse for bad parents with lazy kids. These are made-up things, fairytales.

But Ted isn’t Piotr. Sure, he dislikes adults, but he enjoys working with kids. Does some volunteer coaching, helps out on a couple of city youth programs, that sort of thing. He knows kids who struggle with one of these alphabet syndromes, good kids who puzzle over written directions or have to work extra hard on homework assignments.

Right, so give this Tyler the benefit of the doubt, at least for the moment.

“Sorry to hear that, Tyler. Nothing with an acronym is good news. ICD, IBS, IED, they all suck.”

“Right? No one wants to hear that. It’s weird that you mentioned IED because that’s a good way to describe my fucked-up brain. Like there’s an improvised explosive device hidden in my head. I never know when it’s going to explode, shoot off crazy messages. Hey Tyler, let’s step in front of this bus. Tyler, what do you think it would feel like to sail off this balcony?”

“That really how it happens? Shit just comes out of the blue like that?”

“That’s how it works for me. My doc tells me some people experience it differently. They’re walking past a jewelry shop. Next thing they know, there’s a five-thousand-dollar charge on their visa card for a watch they don’t even like.”

Ted’s listening now, nodding his head. He finishes the last of his coffee, tosses the cup into a trash can beside the bench.

“Tyler, I’m not trying to be an asshole here, but you’re seeing a head doc for this shit, and yet here we are. You know what I’m saying?”

Tyler spreads his arms, mea culpa.

“Yeah, I know how it looks. And I was making progress, too. Hard to, but it’s true. You gotta understand, Ted. I don’t want to off myself. Didn’t and don’t. That’s not how this sneaky shit works. It’s more like this overpowering desire that pops out of nowhere and then my body responds.”

Ted shakes his head again, but this time with something like commiseration. This Tyler cat is hurting, and he doesn’t seem like a bad guy.

“You saying you’re okay now? I’m asking because I gotta be somewhere. Same time, I’m worried about you. Maybe we should stay in touch. I don’t want to lose no sleep over you.”

Tyler laughs at this, laughs right out loud. The pigeons at his feet started and flutter off. He reaches for his wallet, pulls out a card, hands it to Ted.

“You’re not as hard-ass as you like to put on. You know that, right?”

Ted rolls his eyes, takes the card. Tyler Ruskin, graphics design. He tucks the card in a pocket, stands up, sticks out a huge hand. Tyler splashes the last of his cold coffee at a passing pigeon, crumples the cup as he rises from the bench. His hand disappears into Ted’s and the two men shake on some unspoken deal.

“Okay, Tyler Ruskin, later for you. Gotta tell you, weird way to meet someone. No repeats, hear?”

Tyler rolls his shoulders and tries to crack his neck.

“I don’t think I could stand a repeat. I’m going to be aching tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is a good word. Let’s leave it at that.”

Ted turns away without another word. He walks to the metro entrance, pauses at the top of the stairs. He looks back in time to see Tyler Ruskin walking away.

*  *  *

It’s the next evening, one of those perfect evenings in spring that the city offers up maybe three or four times in a whole season. Ted is walking across the bridge, commuting home on foot. It’s something he does three days a week. He knows what happens to big men who don’t keep after it.

He’s out on the long span of the bridge, high above the swirling waters of the filthy river. The lighted skyline of the city rises behind him and on the far shore before him, but the river is a dark gulf between the two.

Ted reaches the midspan of the bridge, the highest point above the water. He has no fear of heights, never has, but in a flash, a wave of vertigo crashes over him. He reaches for the steel railing, grabs at it with both hands. He steadies himself, looking a hundred and thirty feet down. At that moment, it looks like thousands.

Coming out of nowhere, a voice cuts through the spinning sensation in his head. You could jump. It’s his own voice, but saying crazy shit, saying it loud, shouting it.

Jump, man. Just to see what happens, feel that sensation of flying. Two steps back, a quick lunge, nothing to it. That little railing ain’t gonna stop a big dude like you. Go for it, Theodore. What are you waiting for? Do it!

Ted grips the steel railing as hard as he can, his muscles straining to hang on. Then, as quickly as they came, the urgings are gone.

He’s panting, his heart pounding in his chest. He blinks his eyes, looks up and down the length of the bridge, tries to figure out where he is and why.

He sees other walkers heading out of the city. No one stops to ask him if he’s okay. They slide past him and keep walking, earbuds insulating them from anyone else’s troubles.

Ted forces himself from the railing, falls into step with the others. Gotta walk before someone gets the bright idea to call the hotline on one of those phones that line the bridge. He’s weak as a kitten, but he keeps moving, keeps putting one big foot in front of the other.

He gets home somehow, doesn’t remember much of the walk. Then he’s in the hallway of his apartment, shucking off his shoes. He stands at the kitchen counter, pours a stiff drink. The whiskey burns his throat. Empties his pockets onto the counter, sees the pasteboard card with raised letters: Tyler Ruskin. That skinny son of a bitch. What kind of sick joke is this? What did you do to me?

Then the memory of the bridge slams into him, the dark water swirling far below his feet, calling to him. And his memory drags in more. There are unwelcome ghosts in the room now, ghosts uninvited and kept at bay for years. Ted drinks off the rest of the whiskey. He waves the empty glass at them, but they don’t go away.

Piotr and Cecilia, tall and beautiful, salt and pepper, sad and watchful. Ted can only say their given names. Has done every day since the funeral. Can’t call them Tata and Mama out loud. He can barely think it in his head without doubling over.

Two decades they’ve been gone, lost in the dark water. The same water that flows beneath the bridge he walks across. The bridge you can see from the harbor, and the harbor that opens into the sea.

They named their little boat Nimfa Wodna, the Water Nymph. Piotr loved to catch the silver-bright fish, and Cecilia loved Piotr. That’s what they were doing when they died, somewhere outside the harbor on an evening tide.

The next morning, a tugboat found the Nimfa Wodna capsized and drifting. Divers searched the waters and volunteers combed the beaches, but the bodies of his tata and mama were never found. Now both of them are here in his apartment, a place they never saw in life.

Twenty years Ted has built and tended walls to keep the world out, to hold the hurt at a distance he can manage. He made a mistake today. Let this Tyler Ruskin guy get inside, and see what happens? Ghosts are passing through walls as if stone has turned to tissue.

Ted tries another whiskey to chase the past away, but the past ignores him and settles in for a long evening. A third drink on an empty stomach tucks everyone in together. Ted’s head sags to the arm of the couch and the room goes dark.

It’s three AM when he comes to with an aching neck and a pounding head. The room is dark and empty except for his groaning when he sits up.

Ted drags himself off the couch and into the kitchen. He chugs a glass of water and waits to see if it will stay down. Then four aspirin chased with another glass of water. Braces himself against the sink while his guts lurch and gurgle. That’s what you get. Act stupid and pay the price.

Shakes his head, regrets it instantly, walks down to the bedroom with one hand sliding along the wall. The bed groans under his weight as if it’s dreading the coming day as much as he is.

*  *  *

The next morning is bad. Somehow, Ted toughs it out, slogging through his work without making a fool of himself. It’s touch-and-go, but he survives until his lunch break. After he chokes down a sandwich and yet another coffee, Ted fishes Tyler Ruskin’s business card from his wallet and makes the phone call.

Ted is expecting voice mail. He’s surprised when the phone picks up. Says it’s Ted Gretzky from yesterday, hears the hesitation on the other end. Tyler tries to laugh it off. Hasn’t been twenty-four hours and you’re checking up on me already? Ted ignores the joke, tells Tyler they need to talk, he needs to talk, the sooner the better.

Tyler hesitates again like he’s trying to figure out how far this goes. But then he’s saying sure, he owes Ted a beer at the very least, suggests a place and a time. Ted knows the joint, says he’ll be there. They hang up.

Ted stands on the street with his phone in his hand, not seeing the people moving past him. He shakes it off, pockets his phone, and heads back to work.

It’s a mercy when his workday ends. The worst of his hangover has passed, leaving him empty and tired. He heads off to meet Tyler, threading his way through the currents of pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalks. A hard lump of dread is lodged in the pit of his stomach.

When Ted rounds the last corner, he sees Tyler Ruskin sitting at an outside table, a beer in front of him. Ted turns his bulk sideways to squeeze into the narrow space. Tyler is up and sticking out his hand. The two men shake hands and sit.

Tyler is smiling until he gets a good look at Ted’s face. Then the smile vanishes.

“Damn, Ted, you don’t look so good.”

“Don’t feel so good.”

A waitress squeezes up beside their table. Ted orders mineral water, a big bottle please. The woman nods and disappears.

“So, I’m guessing a rough night?”

Ted nods his head, puts his big hands on the edge of the small table.

“More than rough. And then I made it a whole lot worse. Stupid.”

Tyler sips his beer, doesn’t say anything. Ted waves his hand like he’s trying to brush something away.

“Yeah, so thanks for agreeing to meet. How are you doing?”

“Pretty good, considering. That probably sounds weird, but it’s true. I guess it’s like a pressure valve or something. Me doing what I did, you saving my ass, then afterward all that pressure got released. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

Tyler takes a long draw on his beer, his eyes on Ted. The waitress returns with the mineral water, pours it, steps to another table. Ted drinks off half the bubbly water without a pause, then refills his glass. The silence grows longer.

Then words are tumbling out of Ted’s mouth, out of his guts, and they keep on tumbling. He tells Tyler about walking the bridge, the dark water below, the voice in his head, terrible compulsion to jump.

He doesn’t stop there. He talks about losing his parents, the grief of not having their bodies to lay to rest. About the walls he built to hold his grief at bay, and the ghosts that haunt him despite his walls.

Ted blurts all this out to a total stranger, a guy he’s known less than a day. He wants to stop himself, but he can’t. And with the words come anger and then blame. The blame looks for a place to settle and finds the man sitting across from him.

“What I want to know is, what the hell did you do to me?”

He expects anger in return, something he can push back against, something to refute his confession to this broken guy who is just sitting there listening to him. That’s not what he gets.

“I’m sorry, Ted, sorry about your parents, sorry about your grief. That’s a heavy load to carry around. But there’s something you’ve got to understand. I don’t have the kind of power you’re talking about. I can’t curse people and I sure as hell can’t fix them. If I could, I’d be fixing myself. I’ve got way too much of my own grief to bother throwing curses on other people. And for sure not on people who just saved my life.”

Ted’s anger deflates like air from a balloon. He’s left empty and wrung out.

“I’m telling you, I don’t know what to do with all of this. It’s not working anymore.”

Tyler holds up his empty glass, catches the waitress’s eye, looks back at Ted.

“I think we’re going to be here for a bit.”

“Yeah, so it seems. Look, sorry I dumped on you like that. Not a fair thing to do.”

Tyler waves it away.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve done my fair share of blaming other people for my troubles. Besides, I owe you. Mean, I owe you a life, right? The least I can do is listen to your troubles.”

Ted laughs, and it startles him as much as it startles Tyler.

“You think that’s funny?”

“No, not funny. Something else, maybe. A life debt is what they call it. Like you owe me a life, or I owe you a life. I forget how it’s supposed to work.”

Now it’s Tyler’s turn to laugh and he does.

“That’s not a real thing, you know. People talk about it being ancient wisdom, but life debt is a Hollywood thing, like Han Solo and Chewbacca.”

“That doesn’t work cause you’re not big enough to be a Wookie.”

Then they’re both laughing, and something evaporates in the laughter and drifts away from their table.

“Okay, Tyler, I get it. The life debt thing is bullshit.”

He hesitates but says the next thing.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends, right?”

“Nope, nothing in the rules preventing that. So, from one new friend to another, you need to know that I’m one messed-up monkey. I’ve had other yesterdays.”

“I get that.”

“What I’m not is any kind of mental healthcare guru. I’m a recipient, not a provider. So, friend to friend, you need to be talking to someone about this load you’re lugging around. You owe it to yourself.”

“Same goes for you. You owe it to yourself not to jump in front of any more trains.”

Tyler nods his head, then holds a hand across the table.

“Then here’s to reciprocal debt.”

Ted reaches for his new friend’s hand.

Fini

You can find Clackamas Literary Review here:

https://clackamasliteraryreview.org/

That’s it for this week’s edition of Thursday Stories. More stories are coming your way. How will you know when a new story breaks? Glad you asked, Friends. Read On! Drumroll and… Meanwhile, don’t miss any upcoming stories. You can stay tuned for all the latest by following the MEF blog:

https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/whats-new-in-marcos-world-the-blog/

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