The Disappearing Man
Mickey
Gerussi appeared in Bobby’s life with the suddenness of a special news report. It was as if he had stepped from the screen of the television that blared constantly in the front room; he was the Shadow, the Green Hornet and Batman rolled into one.
Bobby’s father had died the previous summer and his mother was forced to rent the attic space to help with the bills. One morning a pale man, carrying his belongings in a large lacquer box, was propelled through the front door by a blast of chilly air. He was tall, but did not fill the doorway like Bobby’s dad.
“Hey there, young fella,” he said, nodding to the boy. “My name’s Mickey.”
Bobby
couldn’t place the man’s strange accent but he sounded like JR Ewing from that new show on TV. His brown hair extended past his shoulders and the boy noticed a scorpion tattoo on the man’s fist when they shook hands. Bobby thought that Mickey’s almond-shaped eyes and walrus mustache made him look Asian, though not as much so as David
Carradine in
Kung Fu.
They quickly fell into a routine that allowed Bobby’s mother to work late at her waitress job. Mickey always worked the overnight shift and slept during the day while Bobby attended school. At supper time he would emerge from the attic to make them fancy sandwiches. On one such occasion, while dressing up their bologna on kaisers with pickles, an olive magically appeared in his hand. He deftly produced another from Bobby’s shirt pocket. Mickey lacked David Copperfield’s talent, but he compensated with Doug
Henning’s flamboyance.
“How did you do that?”
“It’s all in the misdirection.”
“The missed erection…?”
“Misdirection,” he said laughing, his narrow shoulders pumping up and down. “That’s when you use a quick distraction to divert a person’s attention.” Mickey spent the rest of the evening making nickels magically appear and teaching Bobby special card tricks.
The boys from school reported regularly to Bobby about the lodger’s activities. Tim’s brother often saw him drinking beer with tough guys in downtown bars. Alvin’s dad heard Mickey speaking French with bikers at the Brass Rail…even a twelve year old knew about that joint’s reputation.
Mickey always kept the door to his room locked. One morning he came home from work, unaware that Bobby was sick in bed. Hearing the shower start, the boy hopped out of bed and peeked down the hall. Bobby noticed that the door to the attic was open, so he crept up the creaky stairs to inspect Mickey’s lair.
Clothes lay heaped on the floor and the lacquer box sat neatly at the foot of the bed. Bobby had never noticed that it was painted—a pair of birds and large flowers on its side. On the dresser he spied a photo of soldiers standing in front of a helicopter, one much larger than the ones he’d seen on M*A*S*H*. Mickey’s wind breaker, the one he always wore to work, was hanging on the back of a chair. Bobby still heard the shower downstairs so he gently lifted it to try on. Beneath the jacket was a small gun tucked in a worn, leather holster. Breathlessly, the boy ran his fingers over the rough grip of the weapon. At that moment the pipes rattled below the floor, indicating the shower had stopped. Bobby took a final glance around the room and quickly fled downstairs.
While making sandwiches together that evening, Bobby noticed a small triangle of colour peeking out from the arm of Mickey’s T-shirt.
“Is that a tattoo?”
“Yes,” he said, not looking up from slicing a tomato.
“Were you in the war?”
“Yes I was.”
“Can I see your tattoo?”
Mouth set grimly, Mickey sighed and lay down the knife. He rolled up the shirt to reveal a red lightning bolt with the number 23 at its center.
“Cool. What’s the number? That how many guys you’
ve killed?”
“No, that was the number of my regiment,” he said, idly scratching a jagged scar on his other arm. Bobby was a bright kid and, having watched enough TV shows about war vets, figured Mickey was an undercover cop. He was like Kojak—without the
lollypop, like
Baretta—without the cockatoo.
Starsky without Hutch.
The house was unbearably warm that summer and Mickey, when at home, often dragged Bobby outdoors on his “Get Bobby away from TV” initiative. Mickey taught him to play catch and soccer and even badminton. The physical activities were fun, yet foreign to the boy as he and his dad had only ever watched TV.
Bobby discovered Mickey smoking on the back stairs one evening. He stared into the garden’s depths as if seeking a safe passage through the thick patches of sunflowers and hollyhocks. His long, nicotine-stained fingers pinched a small, wrinkled cigarette that smelled unusual yet strangely pleasant to the boy.
“New brand of cigarettes?”
“Yeah, but it’s no good for me and I think it’s high time I quit,” he said as he ground the dead end into his plastic ashtray.
On a warm October evening, after eating pastrami on rye, Bobby saw Mickey for the last time. They were laughing, wrestling among the crisp leaves that obscured the front lawn. Bobby was pinned and conceding defeat when a red Pinto, its windows tinted, pulled up to the curb. It idled noisily for a moment and then the horn beeped twice. Mickey frowned and held up a finger, motioning the driver to wait. He dashed into the house and returned wearing his wind breaker.
Mickey tousled Bobby’s hair as he passed. “See ya later, kid,” he shouted and jumped into the passenger seat of the waiting vehicle.
Bobby chased after the car as it drove away, its exhaust pipe emitting blue puffs. They hung momentarily in the air, like smoke from his dad’s clay pipe, but a light breeze spirited them away.
Mickey did not return the next morning. Not the day after that either. A week after his disappearance, Bobby’s mother emerged from the attic carrying his lacquer box. He followed her out the front door and wept as she passed it to the men in the black sedan. They soon got a new lodger, and Mickey G. was never spoken of again.
Bobby still thought about him, though, while watching Magnum on TV.
Does anyone know what the little 'port holes' are for?
Seeing that little window open kinda gives me the creeps...
This one kind of speaks for itself.
A small French import called an 
Yep, that's me protecting my privates with a plastic bag. Small car, eh?
This was the logo just to the left of the door (V took this photo, not me...)
Relaxing in a nice restaurant after a day of walking in the fog
Can't go wrong with caramel cheesecake and coffee (anyone hungry yet?)
One of the many artifacts on display in the Museum and Archives. Admission price is 4 Euros each (about $5.50)
The infamous guillotine. It was used in 1889. The one and only execution by guillotine in North America.
Slide on in. Try it on for size.
Want a cliche? A clean, close shave...
Oil rig Henry Goodrich in 
A shot from the ferry at a neighbouring island as we neared the harbour
Sorry a bit fuzzy...one of the zodiac tours available out of Saint Pierre
A harbour view of Saint Pierre as we approached the dock
Another view of Saint 
Yet another shot of town from the harbour...bored yet?
Another ferry in the harbour. For tours, I believe
School age kids getting sailing lessons on a foggy morning
A sailboat leaving the foggy harbour
Lighthouse to the east of the town
Place handle into vertical 
Boom
Evil, yet cute
Eyeless dolls
