The first time I saw the man in the old wheelchair he was parked on the sidewalk near the entrance to The Gilded Oak. Rasps and croaks escaped his throat while he scraped out nonsensical lyrics. Gnarled fingers wrapped around a paper coffee cup and coins jingled in time with the song. A smell like wet dog drifted from his toothless grin. One pant leg was balled and tied at the knee.
I put my head down as I passed. The hotel doorman seemed to notice my unease. He stepped out around a cement pillar onto the sidewalk and shook his finger at the man in the chair.
“Come on, pal. Can’t be doing that here.”
The singing stopped and the man in the chair grunted. I heard the chair’s rusty brakes release followed by the whump-whump of the tires rolling over cracks in the sidewalk. The doorman went back to his post. His silver moustache twitched while he held the door for me. I nodded my appreciation and gave him a dollar.
I had three nights in the city; the type of business trip my ex-wife, Cheryl, used to hate. The higher ups at Brooknan Property Group only cared about making money and the core strategy was always the same: find a property with a desperate owner and snatch it for the lowest possible price. A company wide conference where we heard the same thing over and over seemed pointless. There was a time when I looked forward to the trips as a chance to blow off steam but that was before Cheryl left.
When I finally got to my room, I didn’t feel like leaving. A day of meetings and monotonous presentations had taken their toll. I loosened my tie and kicked my shoes onto the purple carpet. The mini bar caught my attention; all expenses paid did have its perks. I found a small bottle of brandy and emptied it into a paper cup like the ones they give you to rinse at the dentist. Then I stepped out onto my balcony and breathed the late winter air.
The Gilded Oak sat near the bottom of a steep hill and my third-floor balcony overlooked a street lined with shops and restaurants. I could just make out the pedestrians crossing the intersection at the top of the hill. To my right was an arcade and a place that made fudge. Then the main street ran down to a bridge that crossed an impressive river. Ice covered the embankment that led to the river’s edge and a large yellow sign warned pedestrians to stay clear.
I sipped my brandy and looked out to the sidewalk directly across the street. The man in the wheelchair was back.
His arms pumped furiously to get the chair up the hill in an impressive display of upper body strength. I could see his face reddening with exertion in the fading light. His eyes shone with fierce determination.
One of his wheels lost traction near the top of the hill. The wheel spun and the chair veered towards traffic.
I found myself clenching the railing.
Somehow, he corrected himself. At the top of the hill he stopped and wiped his forehead. He reached into a pouch at the back of the chair. I could make out a brown paper bag that stayed pressed to his face for a long minute. I started to lose interest.
He put the bottle back and suddenly wheeled out into the middle of the road. The chair stopped in the left turn lane and oncoming traffic swerved around him from both sides.
He’s going to kill himself, I thought.
I couldn’t look away.
He spun the chair so it faced downhill and whooped loudly enough that I could hear from down the hill. The chair shot forward. His arms pumped mercilessly until momentum took over. The skinny tires hissed and sprayed up twin trails of moisture. He was flying.
Right below me, where the road started to narrow, a car swerved sharply to avoid him. The driver honked and the man in the chair cackled. He kept picking up speed. The chair lurched and shuddered when it left the pavement.
I could see the ice warning sign at the river’s edge.
That’s his plan. He’s going to drown himself.
Somehow, the chair skidded to a stop on the frozen grass right before the icy downhill. I shook my head in disbelief. The man in the chair clapped his hands together and laughed through his gummy smile. After catching his breath, he turned around and started back up the hill.
He didn’t make it to the top. A siren wailed and flashing blue and red lights lit up the night. A police car pulled out from a lone side street just up from me. The man in the chair made no attempt to flee.
An officer with slicked back hair stepped from the car and opened the back door. The man in the chair tilted his upper half to the side. The officer picked him up easily and set him in the backseat. With a practiced motion, the officer folded up the wheelchair and laid it in the trunk. The car pulled away from the sidewalk and made a right turn at the top of the hill.
I spent the rest of the evening like I’d spent most nights since the divorce was finalized. I poured a second drink and flopped down on the bed. My mind drifted back to Cheryl as I aimlessly flipped through TV channels. She hadn’t just hated the business trips; she’d hated my job. More accurately, she would say she hated what the job was doing to me. She couldn’t see that the executive money was too good to pass up.
In the morning I showered and shaved. The hotel soap seemed to leave a fine film on my skin and the shampoo smelled cheap. I locked my door and checked that my tie was cinched tight. A young family left their room a few doors from me. A mother and father with a little girl.
The parents looked tired but smiled when their daughter asked about plans for the day. The little girl wore pink pajamas. Her hair was tied in pigtails with a red bow. She ran her fingers along the wallpaper on the way to the elevator and smiled like staying in a hotel was the greatest thing that could ever happen. I found myself wondering what life would have been like if I’d had a child with Cheryl.
The little girl looked up at me while we waited for the elevator. “I like your tie.” Her dad squeezed her shoulder.
I smiled. “And I like your hair.”
She giggled and tucked in behind her dad’s leg.
In the lobby I grabbed a bagel and coffee. I made my way to the front doors and cursed the fact that the conference center was two miles away. The doorman nodded at me when I passed through. Outside, I sipped the coffee while I waited for a cab. I grimaced. The coffee tasted burnt and bitter.
I looked around the concrete pillars to check for a cab and was surprised to see the man in the wheelchair parked in the same spot I’d seen him the day before. He waved his cup and sang loudly. A woman walking by gave him a quarter and he flashed his gums.
I turned back to the doorman. “Who is that?”
He followed my gaze with his beady eyes. “That? That’s Turbo.”
“Turbo?”
“Have you watched him go down the hill?”
I nodded. “Fitting. He trying to kill himself when he does that?”
The doorman shook his head. “Says he’s practicing.”
“Practicing for what?”
“No idea. No one really knows much about him. He’s a vet I think. Cornered me once. Told the same story five times in five minutes. Said he found a wedding ring in the sand while he was in the desert. Took the ring home with him. Says it told him to come here. He’s been causing problems for a while now.”
I watched Turbo sing. His eyes were vacant and wandering. The intensity I’d seen while he rode up the hill was gone. “Are there no shelters?”
“Sure there are. Trouble is he’ll never stay more than a night.” The doorman smirked and added, “Says the ring tells him this is where he needs to be. Right on this hill at all times.”
A cab pulled up and cut the conversation short. The doorman opened the back seat for me and waved as I slid in.
We spent the first part of the day in an impressive conference hall listening to board members give drawn out inspirational speeches. After a catered lunch, we broke into smaller focus groups.
. The last seminar was led by a chubby man with a goatee who introduced himself as Vincent. I found myself looking at my watch while Vincent spoke and was surprised when he called my name.
“Mr. Conlin, your office has performed consistently well in recent years. I’d love to hear your perspective.”
“On?”
He seemed perturbed that I hadn’t been paying attention. “What’s the most important thing you look for when considering a potential candidate?”
That was easy. “Drive.”
“Care to elaborate?”
Vincent wasn’t going to let me off. I leaned forward in the folding chair. “I look for someone who’s willing to do whatever it takes. Someone who knows their purpose and just does it.”
“What questions do you ask to determine whether someone possesses these attributes?”
I recalled the look in Turbo’s eyes when he willed his chair up the hill. “You don’t ask anything. A person like that? It’s in their eyes.”
There was still light left when I got back to the Gilded Oak. I was relieved to see that someone had restocked the mini bar. I poured a rye and then stepped onto the balcony. There was no sign of Turbo and I wondered if he’d already been thrown in the drunk tank.
A family stepped out of the arcade down the street. It was the same people I’d run into that morning. The little girl’s hair was still up in pigtails. She held a big pink ball and bubbled with excitement. The family headed down the sidewalk towards the river.
Then I noticed Turbo rolling in from the side street. He started climbing the sidewalk. I thought I was about to see a repeat of the previous evening’s performance. The intensity was back in his eyes and he looked ready for battle.
A shout near the bottom of the hill grabbed my attention. The little girl’s father was sprinting. Her mother screamed. I saw the girl’s pink ball rolling down by the river. The little girl was chasing it with her arms out in front of her.
She passed the warning sign for the ice.
I felt sick.
The girl’s father tried to close the distance. He wasn’t fast enough.
A hissing sound cut through the air. Turbo. He was riding down the hill at breakneck speed. The wheelchair blew past the girl’s father and Turbo skidded off the road at the same moment the girl hit the ice.
Her feet flew out from under her and she landed on her back. She started sliding down the hill and let out an agonizing cry. Her small arms swung frantically in an attempt to find something to grab. The look on her face was one of pure terror. Then, she disappeared over the edge.
The girl’s mother cried hysterically. Her dad screamed her name while he ran.
“Emily! Emily!”
Ice crackled. Turbo hit the embankment at full speed. His chair spun until one of the tires caught an edge and he flipped violently. Turbo flew through the air and crashed down hard. His head smacked the ice. Turbo didn’t stop.
He dug his bare fingers into the ice and pulled himself down the hill. Momentum took over and he dropped over the edge.
I couldn’t see anything. Every sound in the city seemed to disappear. I held my breath.
The girl’s father reached the ice and managed to keep his balance on his way to the edge. He was shouting and holding his arms over the drop.
The girl’s head popped up. Her blonde hair was soaked and her face was bright red. The father stretched as far as he could and managed to grab the back of her coat. He pulled her up the rest of the way and then laid her on the ice. When she was safe, he leaned out over the edge again.
“Take my hand!”
The girl’s father stayed like that for a long minute. When he finally looked up his face was white. He had a hand over his mouth. The little girl’s crying seemed to jar him. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her then scooped her into his arms. The mother reached the ice and staggered out to them. Sirens wailed at the top of the hill.
Turbo’s faded blue wheelchair was still on its side. Empty.
* * *
I was still thinking about Turbo weeks later. One morning, I stepped off the train on my way to the office. A young man sat on the platform wildly strumming an out of tune guitar. His singing was loud and off-key. It was the smile on his face that stopped me.
An image of Turbo flashed in my head. I saw him jingling his paper cup and flashing his toothless grin. The young man playing guitar finished his song and I knelt down and put a five in his open case. He gave me a nod while I walked away.
As I stepped off the platform onto the crowded sidewalk, I found myself whistling the tune the young man had been playing. I didn’t know the name of the song; but I wanted to remember it.
I made up a name.
Turbo’s Song.
Tyler Koke is an author and musician from Toronto, Canada. He has a degree in History from Trent University. Through his experiences as a travelling musician and his many day jobs, he has gained a unique perspective into people. He attempts to explore humanity and emotion in his works.