KAREN MULTER
THE YELLING MAN
As I look out the living room window of my city condo, it occurs to me that I’ve never once seen a naked body in the windows of the high rise across the street. Though somebody has probably seen mine. The anonymity of city living is like that. We’re isolated, yet sharing an existence with others who are leading their own solitary lives. The Yelling Man is outside again, incoherently shouting about some grievance, three floors below me. He’s a regular around the neighborhood, limping on his left side and relying on a standard issue cane from the medical supply store. Probably diabetes, I think. He’s about 70, maybe younger, it’s hard to tell. Most days he wears a grey plaid shirt, an XXL on his M frame, tan pants that are badly stained, and a navy blue newsboy’s cap covering his balding head. Today, I’m surprised to see that Yelling Man has been joined by a friend. I can’t make out their words, but it’s clear there’s tension between the two. A word or phrase shouted especially loudly occasionally makes its way up to my window. The dispute may be over a misplaced crate. Whatever the issue, they’re plainly agitated, gesturing threateningly at each other with their matching canes. Man #2, the newcomer, is limping on his right side.
There’s little I remember about my Uncle Donnie, and the memories I do have are fragmented. It’s 1971 and Donnie is reading aloud to me from Bambi, Walt Disney’s Big Golden Book.
“There was a commotion in the forest.”
“What’s commotion?”
“I guess it’s like a big to do? Lots of noise and stuff.”
“Commotion,” I repeated the word.
Another day:
“Watch, you need to criss-cross first, then make a little loop. See? Now this little guy runs around the tree and the bunny pops into his hole. Then you pull the two sides tight. Now you try.” Donnie was patient as we practiced on the sun porch, my size four Buster Browns on the card table. Shortly thereafter he disappeared, and then was suddenly back again several years later; the prodigal son with no home to return to. After that it was coughing and noisy breaths, the first indicators of the esophageal cancer that would eventually claim him and bring him truly home.
My uncle's life hadn’t been easy. During the height of the Vietnam conflict there were stints in Laos and Thailand. Like so many veterans, he returned to the States troubled and struggled with alcohol and loneliness. The Disappearing Years, those years where he could not, or would not be found, were hard on my mother, his sister. Thwarted by Air Force privacy policies, or possibly my uncle’s own unwillingness to be found, she was left to wonder and hope that he was alright somewhere. We will never know the details of his whereabouts at that time, and he was not inclined to share them. It’s enough to say that whatever had befallen him, whether by trauma or personal choice or a combination of the two, his parachute had failed. The last two years of his life brought some degree of peace at last, as he resided at a Veterans Affairs care facility in Tacoma, Washington. He had his own small room, limitless cups of coffee, and was among other men like himself who shared their own difficult stories. In the end, he was found in more ways than one.
Below me, the city continues in its hectic pursuit of the next thing, heedless and unstopping. Cars and sirens, dogs and strollers, so many nameless people all sharing this street, this neighborhood, this rock. The altercation under my window seems to be resolving. At least the shouting has lessened and the two men seem ready to move past their miscommunication. They’re walking side by side, headed eastbound toward the lake and I’m glad to see them together. They’re so clearly matched, these two, their friendship preordained.
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KAREN MULTER IS A CHICAGO-BASED WRITER AND COMPOSER, THOUGH SHE'S NEVER BEEN ABLE TO SHAKE HER WISCONSIN ROOTS GROWING UP ON THE BACK WATERS OF THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER. THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT ICE FISHING IN A ONESIE THAT CHANGES A PERSON. KAREN'S A FORMER DRAMATISTS GUILD FELLOW AND HER WORK HAS TWICE BEEN FEATURED AT THE KENNEDY CENTER PAGE-TO-STAGE FESTIVAL. HER SHORT STORY, THE SPECIAL ONES, HAS BEEN PUBLISHED BY EASTOVER PRESS. SHE CURRENTLY LICENSES HER ORIGINAL MUSIC FOR TV AND FILM INCLUDING ABC, CBS, HBO, NETFLIX, DISNEY CHANNEL, AND AMAZON ORIGINALS.