Shorts: "On the Corner" by Ben Boulden

On the Corner by Ben Boulden   *          *         *         *   JACK HAD SHOWN UP TWO YEARS AGO with a cardboard sign lettered in what had once been black marker, but had since faded to brown by Vermont’s harsh sun. The sign, in a shaky hand that slanted upwards from left to right, read: STRANDED! NEED AID! ANYTHING HELPS! The sign never changed in those two years Jack stood at the intersection of U.S. Routes 4 and 7, a bounce south of Rutland. His clothes never seemed to change, either. They were always clean, if a little ragged around the edges, and more than one motorist made a flippant remark that always sounded something like, “That lazy bastard dresses better than I do!” Of course, it wasn’t true. Jack dressed like a pauper but he was proud enough to keep his three outfits, which he called “costumes” when no one was listening, as clean as he could without benefit of a washing machine or even warm water. In the summer, everyone knew, Jack camped in a shady thicket of trees a mile south of his roadside work place on a bend of Cold River. He washed his clothes in the icy water, hanging them to dry on the dead branch of an impressive Eastern Hemlock. In the winter, well—the winter was different and no one seemed to know exactly where Jack slept. He sure didn’t take advantage of Vermont’s benevolent motel program that allowed its unhoused residents a free room. He rode, just as he did all summer, his squeaking and rusty Schwinn bicycle south at 5 pm. His summer camp abandoned from November to March with nary a clue as to where he went during those cold months. More than one of Rutland’s finest, both civilian and police officer, had taken it on themselves to follow Jack but none had been able to track him past the intersection of Routes 7 and 103. Right about where Rutland’s tiny airport sat. It was a mystery everyone in town talked about. A few figured he was a ghoul sent to chasten Rutland’s Godless denizens. While others thought him to be an eccentric millionaire with nothing better to do than stand on a street corner and look sad, which everyone agreed he did quite well. But most people figured Jack for an addict, a headcase, or as one old man with a scraggly beard said, “A lazy shit.” They also agreed Jack worked that corner like a job. He peddled into the intersection every morning at seven, stood with his tattered and unchanging sign until five, stepped back onto his bike and disappeared down the road. He did okay, too, since Rutland’s residents were mostly kind. He averaged $15 a day and never spent a nickel on alcohol or drugs. But his sign’s message became something of a joke to those commuters with a sarcastic sense of humor. A few liked to laugh and say, “Just how long can a person be stranded before they call where they are home?” Which is exactly what Janet Walters, a nurse at the local hospital, said to her teenage daughter—slumped down with embarrassment in the passenger seat—after passing Jack an Abe Lincoln through the window of her Kia Soul. It was December and the outside air was sharp. Even as Janet’s window was rolling up, Jack heard every word. He said to himself (but loud enough for Janet and her daughter to hear), “How long, indeed?” Janet’s daughter slumped even lower, and a crimson blotch of embarrassment spread across Janet’s face. She took her finger off the automatic window button before the window had fully closed and looked at Jack. His breath crystalizing in the frigid air. A puppy dog smile decorating his homely face and a benign curiosity in his bovine eyes. Janet said, “I’m sorry. I—” Jack hushed her with a finger to his lips. “No harm meant, ma’am.” “Mom…!” said Janet’s daughter. “It’s—” Janet began. She looked at the bumper of the car ahead of her, studied it for a moment as if an answer to an unasked question would reveal itself. Then she turned to Jack and said, “What are you doing for Christmas?” Jack cocked his head like the mutt Janet’s ex-husband had stolen in the divorce. He said, “Christmas,” like he had never heard the word before. His puppy smile grew bigger, his eyes seemed to dance, and Janet could have sworn Jack was wiggling his hips like a dog wagging its tail. “We always have dinner—” “Mom!” Janet’s daughter sounded alarmed. “We—” The car behind Janet gave an angry honk. She flinched and tightened her grip on the wheel. “Mom,” her daughter said again, “the light’s green.” Janet reached into her wallet and pulled out another bill and pushed it through the window towards Jack. Jack shook his head. “No ma’am,” he said. “You’ve already given me plenty.” “But—”  A second and then a third horn joined the chorus behind Janet. “You better go along, ma’am,” Jack said. “You’ll be late.” He stuffed the five dollars into a front pocket and turned away. Janet sighed and accelerated through the light and turned left onto Route 7. Her daughter pushed herself up in the seat. She said, “Geez, Mom. You almost invited that…that homeless man to dinner!” Janet smiled, just a little. “I’ll have to finish the invitation when I see him again tomorrow.” But no one ever saw Jack again. Two hikers—a woman and her husband—found Jack’s old Schwinn leaning against the Clarendon Gorge Bridge the next spring. The husband posted a photograph of the five-dollar bill with its note clearly in focus on Clarendon’s Neighborhood Facebook page. But it didn’t make sense to anyone— THANK YOU JANET. I FOUND WHAT I WAS LOOKING FOR. NOW I CAN GO HOME. —because Janet lived in a neighboring town and never saw it. But what made Jack’s story, and Janet’s too, truly remarkable is a twelve-year-old boy and his father swear they saw a flying saucer hovering over the tree line on a moonless night just before Christmas. That same day Janet had spoken with Jack about Christmas dinner. Its lights flashing blue and red and white before it zipped impossibly fast towards the star-laden sky and disappeared into the heavens. Fin

Ben Boulden is the author of two novels, several short stories, and more than 400 articles, book reviews, and columns. His latest book, Casinos, Motels, Gators, is available for Kindle, and as a paperback everywhere. Click here to see it at Amazon.

© 2025 by Ben Boulden