Jake and the Girl with the Pretty Legs, J.C. Laird [speld decodable readers txt] 📗

The butterfly effect. Something seemingly random and insignificant starts a chain reaction of events that somewhere in the future may lead to a life-altering—or as in Rachel’s case—a life-saving event.

This time that “something” was a red traffic light.

Rachel maneuvered her black, Nissan Maxima into the far left lane of I-25, preparing to make a left turn onto Central Avenue. She had thirty minutes to get to the bank, make a withdrawal and get back to the University of New Mexico for her class. She hoped her parents had transferred money into her account; the income from her part-time job at the Athletic Department didn’t come close to covering everything.

As she slowed and approached the intersection she saw an old man standing on the corner holding a small, makeshift cardboard sign with a short message scrawled on it. She squinted in the sunlight—she’d misplaced her sunglasses again—to read the nearly illegible writing: HOMELESS VET-NEED HELP-GOD BLESS.

She glanced up at the looming traffic signal. If it stayed green, the hobo was out of luck. If it turned red, she would find something to give him.

As if responding to her thoughts, the light turned red. She stopped…and the butterfly flicked its wings.

Rachel waved the man over. He came scurrying towards her, dirty and unkempt, wearing a worn army-fatigue jacket, covering a soiled t-shirt, faded and frayed blue jeans and tennis shoes that—maybe—had once been white. A battered ‘U.S. Army’ ball cap was perched on his head, struggling to cover unruly grey hair spiking from the edges in all directions. A matching, scraggly beard partially covered a darkly tanned, weathered face. Rachel estimated him to be in his late sixties or early seventies. She didn’t remember seeing this particular panhandler around before. But then, there were so many of them.

She fumbled through her purse on the seat next to her; she always tried to keep a few one-dollar bills on hand for just these occasions.

Her roommate, Wynne, thought that she was throwing her money away, that the beggars were just using the money for booze and drugs. Maybe some of them were, Rachel mused, but some just needed help, she was sure. And she could never completely reconcile the fortunate circumstances of her life with the less fortunate ones of those destined to wander the streets, with little hope, and a barren future stretching before them. She didn’t understand the whys or wherefores of how these things came to be, only that they made her sad.

When she rolled down her window, a slight breeze carried in the unpleasant odor of unwashed clothes and unwashed body. She wrinkled her nose, but realized that the hobo had at least tried to cover the smell with some type of cheap cologne—a kind of men’s musk scent—that made her want to weep.

No ones, only a lonely five in her purse. She turned back to hand the man the money, only to find him staring at her bare legs.

It was a warm October day, and Rachel was wearing shorts. They weren’t Daisy Dukes, but they qualified as first cousins; there was a lot of leg to see. She was well aware that men found her attractive, with her dark hair and dark eyes on a 5’5,” 125 lb. feminine frame with the curves in all the places God meant them to be.

Maybe she should have been offended or afraid. But the man’s reaction when he realized that he had been caught looking was almost comical. He shuffled back a couple of steps, his watery, pale blue eyes cast down towards the ground in embarrassment. He looked to the left, then the right, everywhere but at her. She thought that he was even blushing beneath his rough, weathered skin.

He began stammering, “I’m sorry ma’am…I didn’t mean…shouldn’t be looking…it’s just…” He kept looking down and around, but not at her. “Sometimes I forget…I’m sorry ma’am.”

Rachel had to bite her lip to keep from laughing; the man’s embarrassment was so acute. As it was, she couldn’t keep her expression from turning into a huge grin. She held the five dollar bill out the window. “I’m only twenty-four. I’m not a ma’am yet, just a miss. Here, take it, it’s okay, I’m not angry.”

He finally looked at her and, seeing that she really wasn’t upset with him, allowed a smile to creep back onto his face. He took the money and said, “You have real pretty legs, Miss.”

She finally did laugh. “Why, thank you.” Men had used various terms to describe Rachel’s physical charms, but she couldn’t recall hearing the simple ‘pretty legs’ before. Impulsively she asked, “What’s your name?”

Looking down at the ground like an embarrassed child, he answered, “Jake.”

Now the horns on the cars behind Rachel had begun blaring; the traffic light had turned green. The old man trotted off the roadway, back onto the shoulder.

Rachel whispered, “Good luck, Jake,” and she slowly drove away.

#

Three days later Rachel saw Jake again. She was out jogging in the early afternoon sunshine, clad in red running shorts and a t-shirt that declared ‘WOMEN WHO BEHAVE RARELY MAKE HISTORY.’ She was moving at a good pace along a path parallel with Central Avenue when she caught sight of the green army jacket and ball cap across the street, near the local Wendy’s Restaurant. She altered her course and crossed over at the light at University and Central.

He was standing near the sidewalk in Wendy’s parking lot, a well-worn army knapsack on his back and a frayed army duffel bag resting on the ground next to him. They may well have been relics from a World War II army surplus store.

Jake looked at her as she jogged up. For several seconds he stared blankly. But then, glancing down, his eyes lit up. “The girl with the pretty legs!”

She laughed. “Okay Jake, enough with the pretty legs stuff; my name’s Rachel.”

His simple, huge grin revealed, amazingly, a full set of teeth, albeit several shades removed from white. Then his smile faltered.

“What’s the problem, Jake?” she asked.

He looked back at her, then at the Wendy’s behind him. “I’m hungry, but they don’t like me inside. I’m bad for customers…or something.” He pulled a dollar out of one of his coat pockets. “And I got money too.”

She took a deep breath. “My treat for lunch. What would you like?” Wynne would probably think she was crazy.

Jake could hardly contain his excitement. “A double cheese burger, some French fries and one of them big Frosties!”

Rachel was back five minutes later, with a Frosty for herself, too

After taking the food from Rachel, Jake was back to looking at the ground and shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Would you…aaah…eat lunch with me?” he stammered.

“Sure, where?” Rachel couldn’t quite believe she’d accepted. Wynne would think she’d lost her mind.

He motioned across the street at a large expanse of University property on the corner adjoining the campus, the grass shaded by a number of wide crowned, long- needled evergreen trees.

It was under one of those trees that Jake pulled from his duffle bag an old, worn army blanket and spread it on the ground. The hem was frayed, and it was torn in a couple of places, but Jake handled the brown blanket as if it was expensive and delicate fine linen.

People walking by occasionally stared, talked and whispered among themselves about the raggedy, homeless man and the pretty, college coed sitting and talking on the blanket. Rachel hardly heard them so engrossed was she in Jake’s conversation.

Sometimes Jake rambled, sometimes his sentences became disjointed and sometimes he forgot his train of thought, but slowly, Rachel pieced together a little of Jake’s life.

Jake Christopher Landry, his “whole full name” he called it, had been born and raised in the small town of Flat Rock, graduated high school there, and then attended a year of college at Eastern Michigan University. With the Viet Nam War in full swing, he had felt compelled to fight for his country, so he enlisted in the Army. He had almost completed his second tour of duty when the helicopter he was in was shot down. Severely injured, he had spent a month in a military hospital in Saigon, was transferred back to the States for another three month stay in a veteran’s hospital, followed by an agonizing, yearlong rehabilitation.

Jake had a girlfriend when he left for ‘Nam, but not when he came back. Because not all of him came back. Oh, he had kept all of his arms and legs, all right. But part of his mind was gone—a permanent sacrifice for his country. He tapped the right side of his head with his knuckles. “I have a metal plate here where part of my head was.”

Since then, Jake had wandered through the years, life becoming not much more than eating, sleeping and basic day to day functions to stay alive. Sometimes there were “special” good things for him, like Rachel, “a pretty girl who was nice to him.” He blushed, something he did easily in her presence.

Besides functioning on a very simple level, Jake forgot things. During the warmer months he lived in the Bosque, the green belt of trees and vegetation along the Rio Grande River. During the winter months he slept at Joy Junction and the other homeless shelters around the city. But sometimes he forgot how to get there and had to ask people, just as he sometimes had to ask how to get back to the First Baptist Church near Lomas and Broadway, where they served free meals to the homeless. He couldn’t remember how long he’d “lived” in Albuquerque. He forgot street names. He forgot people’s names. But he said he’d remember Rachel. He promised he wouldn‘t forget her.

He stopped talking, and pulled a worn picture out of a pocket in the backpack and handed it to her. “That’s me when I went to the Army.” In it was a serious looking young man, clad in an Army dress uniform, hat tucked under his left arm, ramrod straight and staring soberly into the camera. It was a very young version of Jake, with a buzz-cut and clean shaven. He was standing in front of a red Ford Mustang, maybe a ‘65 or ‘66. “You can have it if you want…” A panicked look overcame him, “…uh…Rachel…yes, Rachel.” A look of relief flooded his face when he managed to remember her name.

Handing it back to him, she said, “I can’t take this Jake, it’s too important. It’s part of your life, who you are.”

He was looking down and away from her now. “I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t always like this,” he mumbled. “I used to be a real person.”

“My God, Jake…don’t say that…” Her eyes brimmed with tears, and her throat constricted with grief. The man before her might be a shell of the strong, committed young man in the picture, but they were both still Jake.

Suddenly he was on his feet. “I have to go now. They’re coming.” He was looking past her, down the street.

She followed his stare and saw two uniformed policemen two blocks away, talking in front of a store. “What’s the matter, Jake?” she asked, watching panic contort his face.

“They don’t like people like me hanging around. They make me leave.” He picked up the old army blanket, carefully brushed off the loose grass sticking to it, and gently and painstakingly folded it.

“That must be a very special blanket," she said.”

He continued folding it, and then carefully put it back in his duffle bag. “It was my father’s from when he was in a war, World War II, in Europe. He gave it to me when I was little. Before I was like this. It’s all I have of his.”

Hefting his duffle