That Other Guy
by Brian Clark
In a switch on the Jekyll and Hyde story, journalist Richard Callaghan transforms from an arrogant, insensitive and stingy man into an easygoing, kind and generous guy who likes to be called Ricky (a nickname that Richard detests). The answer to the mystery of the alternate personality will be found deep inside Richard’s brain, but not before Ricky turns his life upside down.
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Table of Contents, chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 |
Chapter 7
The food bank had been packed when Richard arrived. He had flitted about nervously, trying to get someone’s attention, waving the letter around like a flag, only to be told — politely but firmly — to line up like everybody else.
And so he had.
The letter had arrived that morning just as Richard was preparing to head out for his walk. He was going to leave it until later, but the name on the envelope — Helping Hands Food Bank — aroused his curiosity. He slit the letter open, read the contents, then quickly forgot about his walk.
Instead, he jumped into his old Honda Civic and tore off down to the food bank on Steadman Street, cursing all the way.
And now he was standing in line behind a grizzled old man with a palsied tremor and in front of a sad-eyed young woman holding hands with a little boy in need of a face cloth.
Richard looked down and realized he was wearing his “walking clothes” — a worn pair of sweatpants and a faded I Love New York T-shirt. He hadn’t shaved yet that day, either.
I look like everyone else in line, he thought.
He pulled the letter out of his pocket and read it to himself again:
Dear Mr. Callaghan: Words cannot adequately express our immense gratitude for your wonderfully generous donation of $5,000. Your gift arrived when the food bank was desperately short of stock. You might be interested to know that your donation will provide a week’s worth of food for more than 200 families. I am happy to tell you that the name Ricky Callaghan will forever be included on our Donor Wall of Fame. Again, bless you for your generosity! Yours Sincerely, Jill Henson, manager.
His mind seemed unable to comprehend the figure.
Five thousand dollars.
Five thousand dollars.
Five thousand goddam dollars.
Then it came out, almost unconsciously, as a low grumble: “Five... thousand... dollars.”
The old man turned around and looked Richard up and down with rheumy eyes. “You say somethin’, Mac?”
“No. Nothing. Sorry.”
Richard groaned and looked at his watch. It was 11:30 a.m. Ahead of him was a wide counter where a frizzy-haired woman was handing out cardboard boxes of groceries. There were still six people in line in front of him.
Then he saw a familiar face. Jill Henson had emerged from a corridor behind the counter. She was a tall, thin woman of about 50, and she wore her grey hair in a ponytail.
“Oh, excuse me, Ms. Henson? Could I have a word please?” Richard called out, waving.
Henson smiled warmly. “I know it’s been a long wait today, but be patient. You’re almost there.”
“No, no, no. I’m not one of the... I mean, I’m not here to... I’m Richard Callaghan and I—”
“Oh, Mr. Callaghan!” she gushed, rushing to the counter and extending her hand. “It’s so lovely to meet you.”
Richard approached the counter and shook her hand.
She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You were in the food lineup, did you know that?”
“Yes, I know,” Richard said. “I tried to flag down one of your staff when I got here, but they just told me to line up.”
“Oh, well, I’m sorry about that. It’s been really crazy here today.”
“That’s OK. I understand.”
She gave him a dazzling smile. “But I’m just so glad you came to visit. If I had known you were coming, I would have rolled out the red carpet,” she said with a theatrical sweep of her hands.
Richard contorted his face into something resembling a smile and looked down at the counter.
Henson said, “Anyway, Mr. Callaghan... ah... Hey, do you mind if I call you Ricky?”
“Actually, I prefer Richard.”
“Oh. OK. Sorry. I thought you went by Ricky. That’s how you signed the note you included with your donation.”
“Oh. Right. Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, the donation.”
“Sure. Wanna see how your money is being put to use, eh?”
“Well, not exactly. You see, Ms. Henson, the donation was kind of a... well... kind of a mistake.”
The smile fell from her face. “A mistake? What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s kind of hard to explain. It’s just that it shouldn’t have happened.”
Henson stood gawking at Richard, her eyes wide, her mouth forming an almost perfect O. “Mr. Callaghan, surely you’re not telling me that—”
She glanced at the food line and motioned Richard down to the end of the counter. “Surely you’re not telling me that you want your money back,” she said in a low voice.
Richard looked sheepishly down at his feet. “Well, I’d still be willing to make a donation,” he said. “But I mean, $5,000, that’s an awful lot of—”
“Mr. Callaghan, I’d like you to look at those shelves back there behind me. You see those cans of pasta and cans of soup and cans of vegetables and cans of stew and tins of tuna and jars of peanut butter and boxes of cereal? You see them? That’s where your money went.”
Richard saw panic in her eyes and a sheen of sweat on her forehead.
“And I still don’t understand, Mr. Callaghan, how someone could donate money by mistake. And you can’t expect us to—”
“Sorry to interrupt. You have a phone call, Jill.”
Henson turned around to look at a white-haired man standing in a doorway along the wall to the right. “Please take a message, Arnie.”
“They said it’s urgent.”
She sighed. “OK, I’ll be right there.”
Henson turned back to Richard. “Please just wait here. OK? I’m sure we can work this out. I’ll be right back.”
Henson followed the man through the door. Richard leaned on the counter and exhaled slowly. He glanced at the food line. The sad-eyed woman and the grimy-faced little boy were being served.
The boy gave Richard a gap-toothed grin. “We’re getting Shreddies and peanut butter and some stew and some tuna and my favorite in the whole entire world, PasghettiOs. Right, mom?”
The woman looked down at her son and gave him a weak smile. “SpaghettiOs.”
“Oh yeah. ScettiOs.”
The frizzy-haired woman returned to the counter and handed the mother a box of food. “There ya go, Sandra.”
“Thank you, Trish,” the mother said shyly.
“Oh, I almost forget.” Trish reached under the counter, came back with a cellophane-wrapped lollipop and handed it to the boy. He grasped it with a pudgy hand.
“What do you say, Peter?” said his mother.
“Thank you.”
“Oh, you’re welcome, Peter,” Trish said.
As mother and son turned to leave, the boy waggled his hand at Richard. He waved back.
A moment later, Henson hurried back to the counter, her ponytail bobbing behind her. “I’m sorry about that, Mr. Callaghan. It couldn’t be helped. Now, as for your donation, if you could just—”
“Keep it,” he blurted out.
“Pardon?”
“Keep the money. It was wrong of me to... to come here and throw such a scare into you.”
Henson released a long puff of air and seemed to deflate with apparent relief. “Thank you so, so much. I really don’t know what I would have done if—”
She reached out and touched his hand. “This is a wonderful thing you’ve done. You’re helping an awful lot of people.”
“Thank you.”
“I must admit, though, Mr. Callaghan, I still don’t understand—”
He cut her off. “Yes, I don’t understand it, either.”
Suddenly, Richard felt the room tilt and he had to grab the counter to steady himself.
“Mr. Callaghan, are you all right?”
The episode passed quickly, and Richard nodded.
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” he said.
“OK. Listen, I’m going to put your name on our Donor Wall of Fame, if that’s all right. We usually include a photograph. Can you wait a few minutes while I find someone to take your picture?”
“No, sorry. I really have to go.”
“OK. Maybe some other time.”
Richard nodded, then turned to leave. He had gone only a few steps when he stopped and looked back. “Oh, one other thing, Ms. Henson. Don’t forget to send me a tax receipt.”
Copyright © 2021 by Brian Clark
