New Hope For Small Men: Chapter 37

by Grant Bailie

It made the local news. Robert did not see it, but heard about it at work on Monday. The news crews had arrived too late to see Robert save the day or the culprit led away in shackles, but they had filmed the front of the house where it happened, and the house where Frank Taylor lived and the various neighbors of both who did not suspect a thing. The story that Robert worked for the cable company was also widely reported, and how Good Samaritan Robert had investigated on his own, frustrated with the inaction of those around him. This last part was particularly annoying, and did not strike Robert as anything he had actually said or hinted at to the police. He had not talked to the press, but they had called him for an on-camera interview. He declined and that too was added to the report, making some deal out of him not wanting fame and only doing good for good’s sake. But he should have told them not to use his name. He should have told them not to mention the cable company.

Frank Taylor had stolen a thousand pairs of shoes. That was his crime. Over the course of several years he had broken into houses in the tri-county area, taking women’s shoes and adding them to the growing collection in a special room in his house. The word “masturbate” was never used, but the implication was there and was hinted at whenever possible in whatever way possible during family viewing hours, so people in the tri-county area felt safer now, knowing a man who stole and beat-off into women’s shoes was behind bars. And a police officer went on camera and pointed out that these things often escalate to more serious crimes, and Frank Taylor’s actions had become more irrational in the last month, as evidenced by his frequent calls to the cable company and his final attempt to steal a whole bag full of shoes only a few blocks from his own home.

His coworkers applauded when Robert came to work Monday — or at least the few workers who had beaten him there applauded, though not all of them put down their coffee cups to do it. And they stopped by his desk throughout the day congratulating him and even shaking his hand and telling him what a good and impressive thing it was that he had done.

Bree smiled at him and told him he was famous. She told him it was very impressive what he did, and that he should be very proud.

All of it reminded Robert of the way it felt when the policemen had called him a hero. It did not feel good. It was embarrassing, and he felt beneath it all was not so much people impressed with his actions so much as they were surprised such actions would come from him. There was an insult buried in their praise: who knew little you was capable of something so tall.

After lunch the manager called everyone to the front to explain a new symbol on the board, and someone said: “Do you have something to mark down next to Robert’s name for being a hero,” and a few more people clapped and the manager tried to smile and said: “I should. I definitely should have a mark for that. It is not everyday one of our employees manages to get a valued customer locked up for wanking-off in women’s apparel.”

There was a laugh or two but the manager realized immediately that he had made a mistake.

“Shoes,” somebody said. “Not apparel,” and someone else said how these things always started small but escalated into serious crimes and someone else said it was already a serious crime, that the guy was a burglar and a thief and thank God somebody had the guts and initiative to do something about it around here.

“But seriously,” the manager said. Of course it was a great thing Robert did. Seriously. We’re all very proud of him of course.”

But he had lost his audience, and maybe already he could imagine them calling the head office to complain. Maybe his mistake had only been to say “wanking-off.” Or maybe it was more than that, but certainly it was a mistake, and he knew it now and even Bree would not look him in the eye. The manager dismissed them and returned to his office.

At his desk Robert saw Bree staring at the manager’s door and heard her saying: “He is such an asshole,” and Robert was comforted by the lack of qualifiers in the sentence and let himself, for the first time since it all happened, feel a little good about everything.

Still, he did feel bad for Frank Taylor. What if it didn’t escalate? What if his crimes never proceeded beyond masturbating into women’s shoes — or just moved on to panties and stopped there. These things must stop sometimes. People do not always get worse and worse, and sometimes must fail to go beyond their natural pathetic state.

But he had stolen the shoes. He had broken into houses. These, Robert knew, were sins.

Later in the day he received a call from Kate. She had not bothered to hide the fact that she was calling for him this time and asked the first person who answered if she could speak to Robert. The call was transferred back to his phone.

“Look at you with the crazy customer service skills,” she said when he answered. “You track down criminals now? You solve crimes as well as save damsels in distress?”

“Hi Kate,” he said.

They talked for awhile and it was a nice and friendly call, but he was at work and there were calls waiting. They talked about doing supper again some time soon, but no date was set and no definite plans were made. They said goodbye and hung up and Robert picked up the next call in the queue and it was someone who had been billed for a pay per view event that they could not remember seeing.