The Visitor

Chris, an old friend of mine, visited me yesterday. He came to say "Hi" and talk over old times. He looked the same as when I had last seen him, in fact I don't think he has changed a bit in the last few years. He still wears the same old pair of shoes I helped him buy at the mini-market before they tore it down. I miss that small store. We used to go by that store just to imagine we owned all the products sold there. Chris and I even stole a couple things in an attempt to own it all. I remember the day he was caught. Mrs. Millstone just told him to put the gum back and promise not to steal again. For some reason it almost worked.

Chris had his favorite baseball cap on. He found it on the sidewalk near his house just after running across the road and almost being hit by a car. He said it was a sign of luck. I never saw him without it after that day. It was also an aid at the store. No one thought about checking under his hat. It even helped him when he started losing his hair. It all fell out eventually. The reason was unknown, but he didn't seem to be bothered. He even thought it looked cool. It slowly grew in again the next year. Everyone acted as if he had never lost his hair at all.

His jacket is still worn and torn through the right breast pocket. I remember when I tore it. I was very angry at him for pushing my sister. I grabbed him by the pocket and just pulled it apart. He didn't talk to be for a week after that. I did see the broken strand of thread left from my first sewing attempt. It was the least I could do. It only held about a week when he caught it on a fence and tore it out again. Every time I was going to give him something I would put it in the torn pocket and it would fall through to the ground. We would just laugh. He sometimes said to others that the tear was made by a bayonet from when his dad wore the jacket in the army. The airborne patch on the shoulder and the name patch over the pocket reinforced his story. Still, it was another aid in our American Dream -- to own everything at Mrs. Millstones store.

The dirty white sweater he wore showed that his family hadn't much money. It looked ancient with strands pulled out everywhere. It was terrible looking...except on him. It fit into his outfit making him look even more battle worn.

The baggy battle fatigues completed his wardrobe perfectly. It matched his green jacket with a lighter shade to match his sweater. The knees were worn. A tear down the side of his leg from his knee to his shin showed how thin and scrawny he was. No, he wasn't a large boy and had never eaten well. His parents didn't seem to care. I wonder if he has visited them lately.

I saw Chris' brother last week. The only things they have in common are their type of dress and lack of skill. When I saw Richard, he was on the evening news. His mistake matched Chris' only there was no Mrs. Millstone to be lenient.

If I talked to their parents, I'm sure they would agree that Richard is the splitting and painful image of Chris. I warned Richard time and again not to follow his brothers' footsteps. Chris took the final step three years ago. A radio is all he wanted. He ran scared when the manager approached him with a question about it. Richard now has time to think about his mistake. Chris has an eternity.

I will always welcome Chris into my memory. I don't think of the car accident, I even deny it. I will always remember him for what he was when we were together. We were a team, the best of friends. He spoiled it for himself, but I will keep our memory alive for me. I know it is dumb, but sometimes I can't help the urge to try my skill at the local market. I've never been caught. The things I take are of no use to me except in their personal recollection. I just put them in my closet as a memoir to my dearest friend Chris.