Being Henry David - By Cal Armistead Page 0,1

in a black raincoat and he drops a leather notebook on the floor.

“Dammit, kid,” he shouts at me. Papers fly all over. He looks like he wants to punch me. I help him pick up the papers, apologizing constantly, pushing them into his hands while he murmurs, “yeah, whatever, just get away from me.” I swing around to search for the guy who stole my book and he’s gone.

I push through the crowd—sorry, excuse me, sorry—and finally spot him by the men’s room. He’s on the floor, leaning against the gray wall with his thick, stubby legs stretched out in front of him, hunkered down over the book—my book—turning pages and concentrating, like he’s looking for something. Then he grabs the corner of one of the pages from the middle of the book and rips it out.

Before I can react, he takes the torn-out page, crumples it into a ball, stuffs the whole thing into his mouth, and starts chewing. With a black smudged pinky extended, he tears out another one. I stare in disbelief as he swallows that page, and chomps down on another.

“Give me the book.” My voice is a pretty impressive growl, but all he does is glare, sheltering the book with his wide body as he rips out another random page and stuffs it into his mouth.

Somebody else might have given up, just walked away and bought himself another damn book. But somebody else didn’t just appear out of nowhere in a train station with no ID or luggage. No memory, not even a name. Just a book. A book that might carry a clue, like maybe the name of its owner (me) scrawled inside the front cover. Or a receipt from a hometown grocery store stuffed between its pages. Or a ticket home. I have to know, have to get that book back.

So I reach right under the big dude’s reeking armpit, and grab the book. He holds it tight with his pudgy fingers and makes a puffing noise, fighting me off. He’s strong and stubborn, I’ll give him that. We wrestle, both of us grunting and pulling. His tobacco breath is a toxic cloud and his armpits smell like onion soup gone bad, but I refuse to give up. Then, out of nowhere, he lets out this strange bellow, like a walrus at the zoo. I can actually feel the sound vibrations travel through my hands, up both arms, and into my chest. He roars again and pulls at the book.

“Let go!” I shout and yank back.

“Okay, you two, break it up, hear? Step away, now.”

An iron hand clamps around my upper arm, and I whirl around to see a couple of uniformed cops peering down at us. One of them, a redheaded guy with a baby face, has my arm. At the sight of the blue uniform, I have an instinctive urge to pull my arm away and bolt. But I force myself to freeze, as if avoiding any sudden movements will keep me safe.

“What’s going on here?” asks the other cop, a darkskinned guy, taller and thinner than his partner. His face looks young, but he has a thick gray mustache, so I figure he’s at least in his forties.

When I glance at his badge and the navy blue POLICE CAP on his head, a strange terror grips my gut. I swallow hard and lick my dry lips before I can speak. “My book,” I say, and I stand up, glad to pull away from Red the cop and the stench of the big man. “He stole my book, and he’s…” I gesture helplessly, and the three of us look down at him. “He’s eating it.”

The big man, still chewing on paper and drooling into his beard, glances at each of us and grins.

“Frankie, did you take this boy’s book?” The gray mustached cop asks patiently, like he’s talking to a little kid.

Frankie shakes his massive head and swallows. “Mine.”

Red puts his hands on his hips. “Sorry, kid,” he says to me. “Frankie here has some sort of mental issue that makes him eat weird stuff. I’ve seen him eat cigarette butts and string before.”

“He ate an entire bar of soap once,” Mustache Cop adds, nodding. “I watched him.”

We all stare at Frankie again like he’s a science experiment, and he gives us this huge smile.

“Anyway, kid, though I tend to believe you, it’s your word against Frankie’s. He says it’s his, you say it yours.” The police radio on his shoulder