A Two Dollar Suit-Part One-Dave Rose

"Trans-for-ma"

Wallace Robert Grimmel struggled with the word.

"Trans-transfor-"

"It says Transformation Revival." The man hanging the signs said gruffly.

"My God man...look at yourself! Now get out of here. This isn't for the likes

of you!"

Wallace Grimmel looked at the man with the signs and the disgruntled look on his face. he

puzzled...he'd never seen anyonesweat so much from such little activity in all his days. He

shrugged his shoulders and turned to his shopping cart.

"Just you wait right here Mr. I got something for ya...something I know you need!" The

shopping cart was piled high with garbage bags full of treasures that Wallace collected on his

daily treks around the city. A perfectly good tennis shoe, a magazine with Britney Spears on

the cover...even an old cell phone that someone had either lost or thrown out. It didn't work

but it didn't matter to Wallace, he had a cell phone...that made him somebody.

"There it is! I knowed I had one somewhere!"

Wallace turned back to the sweaty man with the signs. In his dirt caked hand was a

filthy rag of a handkerchief that he had found rummaging for aluminum cans. It even had his

initials on it "WRG". Wasn't his though...he found it...a ladies handkerchief. It was one

of his prized possessions. Sometimes at night he would take it out, look at it, and try to

imagine what the previous owner looked like and how she had used it.

The sweaty man, disgusted with the fact that Wallace was even daring to share the same

space with him got indignant. "What am I supposed to do with that rag? Wash my car?"

The sweaty man turned back to his sign hanging duties, ignoring Wallace completely.

Wallace tried again to offer the handkerchief to the stranger.

"Its to wipe the sweat off your face. You can use it on your arms too! You're drippin

on your signs. Them costs a lot of money I bet...would hate to see them get ruined before they

all got hung up!"

The sweaty man snapped around and cut his eyes at Wallace.

"Do you think for one minute that I am gonna let that filthy rag touch my face? You are

not only dirty, smelly,and poorly dressed...you are crazy!" and with that, the sweaty man

turned, took up his posters and waddled down the block. Wallace watched him throw the

signs in the trunk of his car, walk around to the door, and fumbling with the keys in his

sweaty hands, get in the car, turn the key and grinding the gears...speed off. He shrugged

as the man ran the stop sign, narrowly missing the police car that was pulling out of the

Freezee treet. The policeman didn't look too happy as he turned on his lights and siren ,

wiped milkshake off his shirt, curse the driver, and pull out in hot pursuit of the sweaty sign

hanging man. Wallace chuckled to himself then turned his attention back to the sweat stained

sign that hung crookedly on the telephone pole.


Transformation Crusade This Week Only!
Second Avenue Assembly every night 7pm


Something on the sign caught Wallace's eye.

Healing and Miracle Service Wednesday 7pm

Wallace crinkled up his nose, fighting back a sneeze. He managed to stifle it only to

begin another coughing fit. He had been doing this for about 3 or 4 weeks. He took the

old handkerchief and held it to his mouth as another spasmodic cough began. He wiped

the blood from his mouth and stuffed the handkerchief down in his pocket. The coughing

was getting worse. Sometimes he couldn't catch his breath during those prolonged spells.

The bleeding had gotten more frequent...he rolled his eyes back to the sign and locked in

on what had caught his eye earlier...'Healing and Miracle Service.'

As he turned and pushed his cart down the block, he thought hard. Healing and Miracle

Service. Those words pierced through the alcoholic haze that he seemed to walk in

continually. Something about those words, healing and miracle. He sure could use one right

now.

As he walked , his eyes scanned the area in front of him. To some people passing by, it

would seem as if the weight and shame of the world kept him from looking up and forward

but that wasn't the case. Wallace had learned to survive these streets by finding things. Things

that people had either dropped accidently or purposefully discarded. Bottles, aluminum cans,

treasures that meant another drink, or another meal or both, depending on how lucky he was

or how careless people were with their belongings. Wallace spotted an empty can across the

street.

"The eyes of an eagle Wallace!" he said to himself as he dodged cars and angry drivers

as he wheeled his cart across the street towards his prize. The drivers seemed to speed up

deliberately sometimes. He didn't mind though. He always tipped his ball cap, bowing his

matted gray haed and waving them by. So much anger...so much stress he would think

to himself.

Wallace bent down to pick up the can when another coughing spell came on him. He

wheezed, gasped and choked as he slumped over on his cart. His head grew light and things

began to spin. He closed his eyes, reached in his pocket for the handkerchief. As dirty as

the handkerchief was, it was a comfort to him. A symbol of dignity as he covered his mouth

and caught the bloody greenish sputum that ripped its way out of his lungs and exploded

out of his mouth. Wallace shook off the dizziness. he had exactly 20 minutes to get over to

the recycling center and turn in his haul of the day. They all knew him over there. They were

amongst the few folks in this town that even acknowledged that he existed. He had been

coming to the cneter everyday it was opened for the past 15 years to trade in what few cans he

could find. He always smiled and made polite respectful conversation with Tom, the guy who

ran the place. Tom always tipped the scales in Wallaces favor when the haul was light...always

making sure Wallace walked away with enough to get some food for the night.

As Wallace stood up to head to the recycling center, he caught his reflection in the window

of the building he was next to. Staring back at him was a shell. His thin guant face, covered in

an interesting pattern of dirt and whiskers, stared back at him. Wallace had not looked at

himselffor, well, he couldn't remember the last time he had seen his face. Suffice it to say

that the man staring back at him was not what he remembered looking like. The eyes were

hollow, empty and glazed. He ran his hand across his face, the stubble of whiskers dirt and

time felt rough against his fingers. His fingers ...he looked down at his hands...they were

shaking, trembling. Wallace looked at the reflection again. The torn overcoat, the oversize

pants with holes in the knees, the misbuttoned shirt...it was hard for him to comprehend

for a moment that this was him. He closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened

them again, the man was still there, staring back at him in the same disbelief. He wondered

how he could have gotten this bad, but the years of drinking had eroded his memory to the

point that he was doing good to remember to eat everyday. As long as he was drinking, he

seemed to survive.

(end of part one....part two will follow depending on whether anyone is interested or not. comments are welcome as always...Dave)