The Pencil Man

Chapter 1 The Pencil Man It’s a miracle that happens every day, but only once in a lifetime. A baby decides that crawling isn’t enough. He pulls himself up along the sofa with the greatest effort and balances for a moment – perhaps two. Then - like a bird on the edge of a nest - he steps – maybe once – maybe twice – and his legs collapse into the soft thud of a diapered bottom. For an instant he begins to cry, but his determination to walk takes over and he pulls himself up again. This time one step – two – three – four, and into the excited outstretched arms of his mother or father. There is a wild celebration, for this is one of the true miracles of human life. Walking – a common everyday action. From the time we first totter and tumble to the time we step into the grave, we walk, and walk, and walk. We get up in the morning and walk to the bathroom, and to the kitchen, and out the door. We walk to our transportation, and from our transportation. We walk into our jobs or schools, where we must always “walk the line.” We walk home, and through the stores, and into the arenas. We walk up the church aisle as two separate people and walk back down that same aisle as one forever – at least until one or the other walks out - or until six men walk for us, with somber expressions and heavy steps. Billions of people walk billions of miles everyday, with billions of steps that seem meaningless at the final destination. When I was a child there was the common ritual of getting dressed up and walking the two blocks up the hill to take the Meadowbrook bus to downtown Anderson. That was where the shopping was. That was where the action was. There were a few mom and pop stores outside of the mile square of center city Anderson. One could shop at the businesses that fed the thousands of factory families along Columbus Avenue or the Meadowbrook Shopping Center, but it was still downtown, the heart of Anderson, where one found the shopping, the food, the entertainment, the government, and the business of the city. Downtown was a mighty throbbing engine of commerce and society that pulled us together like gravity. One could eat at the YMCA or Ferris cafeterias, or at the Good Earth. There was the Toast, or that hole-in-the-wall hamburger joint - Hill’s Snappy Service. The high rollers ate at the Anderson Hotel – we almost always ate at home. The one dining treat I remember was the lunch counter at Woolworths, where I could spin round and round on the counter stools and drive my mother nuts while I waited for my hamburger. We bought my shoes in the basement of the Hoyt Wright department store, where we passed a colorful picture of Custer’s Last Stand on the stairs. For church, school, and going downtown Mom bought me “breathin’ brushed Hush Puppies.” For play she fixed me up with Keds sneakers, which would always make me run faster when they were new. The rest of the trip was mostly mom stuff. There was the remainder of Hoyt Wright and the other department stores, the Fair store, the Banner store, and J.C. Penney, where the elevator always stopped on the mezzanine, whether there was anybody waiting to ride or not. These stores held no interest for me except to watch the pneumatic tubes where the clerks sent the money in a brass cylinder to the accounting office and the change was returned with a whoosh. The big Sears store on Main Street had enough guy stuff to keep a boy interested. I mostly went there with my dad. It took up most of a city block and had its own parking lot with a small white guardshack at the entrance to keep the cars of non-customers out. Downtown parking was at a premium in those days. The toy aisles at the dime stores, Kresge and McCrorys, drew my interest, but Neumode hosiery was the most embarrassing store in town. There were three great movie theaters, the Riviera, which was smaller but more ornate than today’s theaters; The State, which was a cavernous, domed venue; and the Paramount, a grand palace built in 1928, with a Page organ, and stars in the ceiling. It has since been restored to its glory days and remains one of the few great theaters left in America. Sometimes we would come to a movie as a family, but mostly I came on Saturdays and froze in the alley, with a long line of kids waiting for the ticket office to open for some must-see kid classic like the “Three Stooges in Orbit.” In which Moe, Larry, and Curly saved us from Martian invaders. The city was so full of people that we had scramble bells at the intersections on Meridian Street - the main drag in town. When the scramble bells rang we could cross in any direction, even diagonally, as the cars waited from all four sides. The town was built around a square that featured an old ornate red brick courthouse with a clock in the tower that was probably never in time. From there the city flowed south onto Meridian Street, flanked by Main and Jackson, filled with shoppers, lawyers, doctors, and the ebb and flow of the retail trade. Many landmarks remain in my memory, but the one I remember the most was not built of brick or glass. It didn’t have impressive window displays or neon signage. That landmark was built of flesh and bone. It was a living, breathing, human being - though I’m not sure he always felt that way himself. He was the Pencil Man. The Pencil Man was a beggar. He was dressed in shabby clothes and had no legs from just above his knees. His was a condition that compels children to stare and adults to glance away. My fascination was directed at his mode of transportation. He had fashioned himself a square board with four casters, which he used along with his hands and arms to pull himself about town. He didn’t accost anyone. He just sat on his board against some storefront, holding a can of pencils. People would put some change in and pull out a pencil. Others just tossed in the change and walked on. A few cruel ones would take a pencil and give him nothing. After all, what was he going to do, chase them down? The cruelest of all may have been the ones who passed him with a sharp turn of their heads to avoid his condition. While many were generous with their donations, very few wanted to really know the man. I remember one time I paused and looked at him, he being one of the few adults at my eye level. He offered me a pencil. I think he just wanted to give a kid a present at Christmas. We all wondered how he had lost his legs. Some said it was a railroad accident. Others thought he had lost them in the war. What did he do with the money he collected? Where did he go at night, or in the storms, or in the cold? Most thought he was a drunk who spent his daily take on booze. It would have been simple to answer those questions if we had just introduced ourselves and asked him. Hundreds saw him every day, we all wondered about him, but very few knew him at all. As my childhood passed into my inevitable (and sometimes questionable) maturity, I became a bit obsessed with this local legend. I scoured the archives of Anderson for some detail of his story and found nothing. Several long-time residents remembered him, but no one could tell me any more than I already knew. In the opening of the 21st century - I don’t recall the exact year – the son of a dear friend of mine died. I hadn’t seen my boyhood friend in decades. He had mysteriously disappeared from the scene, and yet somehow I got involved with the disposition of his son’s personal effects. As I emptied the closets I came across a large envelope addressed to the son. Inside the package I found a loose-leaf journal and the story of the Pencil Man. The rest of what you will read in this book is from that journal. It began with: I was one of the few who knew the Pencil Man well.