The Emerald Green Soldier by Dipti Ranganathan The Ford Bronco rattled to a stop with a dying gasp, as Ryan tumbled out and thumped on the discolored hood. He could have sworn his grandpa glared at him from a faded splotch near the windshield. He wiped his hand over the mirage and then on his jeans, leaving a dust stain that he rubbed and rubbed, a mere memory. His grandpa was a tough cookie. Don’t be soft like your dad, his grandpa had told him as he walked Ryan to school every day. Ryan’s resulting gym obsession hardened him on the outside but did nothing for his insides. Ryan stepped through the alley, a slushy drizzle dampening his unruly hair. He held his breath as he passed the dumpsters. A cane greeted him near the back door, an emerald-green soldier standing guard over a frozen yellow puddle. ‘Dammit, Mr. Kumar,’ he said as he grabbed the cane and stepped into Café Cinema, closing the steel door behind him. Ryan kept a lookout for Mr. Kumar, glancing out the window and down the street now and again. All he saw was another old man, the one with a ratty black trench coat hanging over a black hoodie and holey black sneakers. At night, he disappeared into the darkness. Mr. Kumar once told Ryan the slumped man’s name was Pete. Mr. Kumar had bothered to ask. In a month or so, when the temps drop below freezing, the city would scoop Pete up and transport him somewhere. And any day, the universe will scoop Mr. Kumar up and transport him somewhere. Mr. Kumar arrived late that afternoon, nodding to Pete before opening the door. A gust shoved him into the café, his head thrust out like a turtle, his lips tight as he caught himself on the trash can. He stepped up to the counter, his bushy, graying eyebrows pointing in all directions, his mouth pulled down by a lifetime of gravity. Ryan poured coffee into a mug adorned with Audrey Hepburn’s face and handed him a glazed donut. Mr. Kumar opened his wallet and frowned. ‘Everything okay?’ Ryan asked. Mr. Kumar stared out the window at the man with the cup between his feet. ‘My cash is gone.’ ‘Did you give it all to the man outside?’ Mr. Kumar smirked. A new gap in his mouth became painfully visible. ‘Yes, maybe I did.’ ‘It’s okay,’ Ryan said. ‘Coffee and a donut are on the house.’ He handed Mr. Kumar the cane. ‘I found this in the alley. Do you remember going there?’ Mr. Kumar shook his head, rearranging his thoughts. Mr. Kumar was an odd duck, but in all the years Ryan had known him, he had always maintained a level of propriety. Bow tie, creased slacks, a tweed sports coat. The many stains were hardly noticeable. If he had peed outside, it would have been a first. Mr. Kumar extended a bony finger toward a glazed donut at the edge of the tray, surrounded by splotches of dried icing and sprinkles. He took his cane and autopiloted to the table with the best view of the street, where foot traffic moved like performance art. As the old man stared out the window, Ryan set his order on the table. ‘Hang on to that cane, Mr. Kumar.’ Mr. Kumar nodded as he swayed to ‘As Time Goes By’ playing overhead. Without warning, his voice rose in song. A few people turned to stare. Most ignored him. Another strange man in the city. Mr. Kumar abruptly stopped singing, his attention diverted by a Chihuahua on the street, shivering under a brown sweater embroidered with orange and yellow leaves around the collar. The little dog ran up to the window, tail pumping, begging for an encore, before knocking over Pete’s cup. A slew of coins rolled onto the street, and dollar bills flew in the wind. Pete shook his head, rescuing a few coins and plopping them into the cup. ‘Oh!’ Mr. Kumar said, rushing outside (as much as an old man could rush). He made a valiant effort to pick up the coins, but his body would not cooperate. He looked around for the bills, but they were long gone, windy city and all. Mr. Kumar said a few words to the man, patted his pockets, and shook his head. He sat back at the café table and rubbed his hands, wrapping them around his warm mug. Ryan poured coffee into his Jack Skeleton mug. He leaned against the counter, savoring the berry-chocolate Ethiopian roast. The café sighed with relief as shadows crept across the floor. Mr. Kumar returned to the counter for a coffee refill. His cane and mug remained at the table, a placeholder. Ryan had warned him of rampant sleight-of-hand theft. Mr. Kumar laughed, clearly forgetting all the stolen items. His tote bag (filled with a comb, a small notebook, a pen, and reading glasses), his wallet (stuffed with a credit card, ID, and pictures of his departed wife), and a small bag of groceries (he could not remember what it contained). His canes? Those were accidentally left here and there. ‘Another donut?’ Ryan asked. ‘Do you have those fried potato snacks? The cylindrical ones.’ ‘Tater tots?’ Ryan suppressed a smile. ‘Yes!’ Mr. Kumar said, smacking his lips. ‘With ketchup!’ ‘I’m sorry, we don’t,’ Ryan said. ‘You should add them to your menu. You’d make a fortune.’ The old man shuffled back to his table with his coffee, like a disappointed toddler. Ryan asked the barista to watch the place and dashed off to Good Stuff Wieners down the block, deftly avoiding the slumped man. Pete. He bought two orders of tater tots with miniature plastic cups of ketchup and, back at the café, arranged the ‘cylindrical potato snacks’ on a plate. He set it in front of Mr. Kumar. The old man raised both hands and cheered. He told Ryan the story of his first meal in America. Mr. Kumar had mistaken a pancake for a dosa, a savory Indian crepe. ‘Can you imagine my shock when my host poured maple syrup all over it?’ Mr. Kumar asked, his voice soft with memory. ‘Like ketchup on a donut,’ Ryan said, the same thing he said every time he heard the story. They laughed and sat with the image for a moment, dunking tots into ketchup, relishing the sacred potato-tomato union. As closing time approached, Ryan turned to his end-of-day routine, refilling napkin bins and sugar packets. He went into the back to grab the mop, and by the time he returned, Mr. Kumar had gone, leaving a gently used donut with one missing bite. Ryan glanced out the window and saw Mr. Kumar hobbling down the hazard-laden street, wobbling this way and that, completely cane-less, heading toward a giant pothole. Ryan stood at the window, transfixed, as if watching a horror movie, aware of the danger ahead yet unable to do anything about it. He was witness to Mr. Kumar’s stumble as his arms flailed and his tote bag whacked him in the face on his way down. By the time Ryan reached him, Mr. Kumar was curled up like a beetle on a pile of dung. ‘A little help, please?’ Mr. Kumar asked Ryan’s shadow before looking up, his legs buckling as he tried to stand. Ryan pulled the old man’s hand, forgetting his own strength. ‘Aah!’ Mr. Kumar’s voice echoed off the buildings as a few bystanders gathered. Ryan panicked and pulled harder. ‘Aaahhh!’ Mr. Kumar moaned louder, clutching his foot as Ryan let go. Contradictory advice swirled around Ryan. ‘Don’t move him!’ ‘Call an ambulance!’ ‘He’s having a heart attack. Get him some aspirin!’ ‘Dad?’ The crowd parted for a woman who ran through and knelt beside Mr. Kumar. Mr. Kumar sat upright and fell silent. ‘What happened? Are you okay?’ the woman asked. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I was coming to meet you.’ ‘You didn’t sound fine a minute ago. Where’s your cane?’ ‘I don’t need it.’ His daughter pursed her lips and supported him on one side, while Ryan supported him on the other. ‘Hmmm,’ the old man said, wiggling his ‘injured’ foot. He grinned at Ryan, then at his daughter. ‘All good!’ he announced. ‘See? You worry too much. I’m just fine.’ ‘We’ve talked about this. You agreed,’ she said. ‘Agreed to what?’ She looked around, catching Ryan’s eye. ‘Never mind. We’ll talk about it when we get back to your apartment.’ ‘See you tomorrow, Mr. Kumar,’ Ryan called out, a bit too forcefully, as the two made their way down the block. Without turning around or breaking his stride, Mr. Kumar gave Ryan a royal wave. The daughter was about to scoop him up and transport him somewhere. Ryan knew the moves. He had tried his grandpa, and it had not gone well. An hour later, Ryan locked Café Cinema’s front door and slammed the back door shut. He held his breath as he heaved a black garbage bag into the dumpster. The streetlight flickered on, highlighting the cane, the emerald-green soldier standing guard over a fresh yellow puddle. At the end of the alley, Pete turned the corner and disappeared into the night. Ryan let out a heavy sigh, grabbed the cane, stepped back into Café Cinema, and placed it next to the counter, with a note: Property of Mr. Kumar
About the authtor
ipti Ranganathan is a first-generation Indian American, currently residing in Chicago. Her stories are rooted in experiences of assimilation and identity. She was a finalist for the Glimmer Train Short Story Award for New Writers and has a forthcoming story with the Old Lady Comedy Magazine. https://www.diptiranganathan.com/
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