"The Great Gilroy"
by Michael Dell

"Emerson, can I see you in my office?" requested Mr. Wilson.

"Right away, sir," answered his faithful employee, dutifully following orders only to have the tie of his apron catch the corner of a yellow plastic display bin, spilling a shower of three-inch bolts.

Mr. Wilson closed his eyes at the sound of the familiar noise. "Don't worry about it, Emerson. We'll get it later."

"Are you sure, sir? Don't you think I should pick them up now before any customers fall?"

"No, that's okay, son," replied Mr. Wilson, still not looking at the young man. "We'll get them later. Come back to my office for a second."

Emerson did as he was told. Mr. Wilson was sitting behind his desk when Emerson entered.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yeah, Emerson, come on in and have a seat."

"Thank you, sir." Emerson sat down. "How's the foot, sir?"

"It's fine, Emerson."

"I want to apologize again. I thought you had the hammer."

"I know you did, son."

"I feel awful."

"There's no need."

"I noticed that you didn't seem to be limping as much."

"Really, Emerson, it's fine. But that's not why I wanted to talk to you."

"About the paint, I had no idea those lids could come off so easily."

"That's okay, son."

"That must have been like a one-in-a-million shot or something."

"Yeah, probably."

"But if you ever do decide to remodel the store, I think you should consider that shade of blue for the floor tile. It really brightens up the place."

"I'll keep it in mind. But I think we're getting a little sidetracked here."

"It's not about the rakes, is it? Because I can explain."

"No, it's not about the rakes."

"The copper wire?"

"No, it's not about the copper wire." Mr. Wilson paused a moment. "What happened to the copper wire?"

"Nothing," answered Emerson innocently.

The thought of Emerson and copper wiring caused a pain to settle behind Mr. Wilson's eyes. He took a deep breath and started over.

"Listen, Emerson, I'm afraid I'm going to have to let you go."

Emerson didn't say anything.

"It's not your fault, son. Some people just aren't made out for the hardware business."

"I tried my best, sir."

"I know you did."

"It's a lot harder than it looks."

"It's not for everyone."

"I mean, I didn't even know there were that many different types of screws."

"It is very..."

"And all those nails."

"Well..."

"And bolts."

"Emerson..."

"And nuts and bolts." Emerson's head dropped slightly. "I hope I didn't let you down, sir."

"Of course not," assured Mr. Wilson. "I know you gave an honest effort."

"It's just I always kind of thought of you as a second father."

Mr. Wilson was touched. More than a little confused but touched nonetheless.

"I don't know, maybe it's because you're always calling me 'son' and stuff, but I'd hate to think I disappointed you."

Mr. Wilson got a lump in his throat. "You didn't disappointment me... Emerson." He'd have to remember not to call people 'son' in the future.

Emerson stood up, removed his employee apron, and handed it to Mr. Wilson. "Thank you for the opportunity, sir."

"I'm sure you'll find something else soon. Something more suited to your talents. Something a lot better than this place."

"I don't know if that last part's possible, sir." Emerson remained in place as ex-employee and boss stared at each other in silence. "About my pay..."

"Your pay?"

"Yeah, I was wondering if there was any chance I could get it now. I'm on a really strict budget and something's come up and I kind of need some money in a hurry."

Mr. Wilson looked at his watch. "You've only been working here five hours."

"The best five hours of my life, sir."

"Well, I guess we could tear up the paperwork and I could just give you cash for the time you were here."

"Thank you, sir. It would really mean a lot to me."

Mr. Wilson reached into his pocket. "Let's see, $6.75 times five... I've only got $23 on me."

"Done," snapped Emerson, reaching across the desk to snag the dough. "Thanks again, sir. I wish you well."

Emerson made his way through the store, smiling and whistling as he went. He waved goodbye to Mr. Thursby as he strolled through the exit. Mr. Wilson, who was limping freely, met Thursby behind the counter. They both watched as Emerson stood outside the front door stretching his arms and breathing in the fresh air.

"Did you fire him?" asked Thursby.

"Yeah," said Wilson.

The two men watched through the store windows as Emerson began to walk right, hesitated, and turned left.

"It's for the best," said Thursby.

"He's a good kid, though. A little weird, but a good kid."

The two men watched until Emerson disappeared from view. Neither one saw Emerson streak past the windows, running full speed, with a barking dog in hot pursuit.

---

The ringing bells told Mrs. Meade that she was no longer alone. She put down her coffee and stepped into the body of the store to see a familiar face, albeit an exhausted one. His cheeks were red and he was breathing very heavily, bent at the waist with his hands on his knees in an attempt to catch his wind.

"Oh, it's you," smiled Mrs. Meade. "I was afraid you weren't coming back. I was just about ready to close for the night."

"Sorry about that," huffed Emerson, still collecting himself. He took a peek over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't followed. The coast was clear. Emerson tucked in his shirt and hurriedly pushed his hair into place. He turned his attention to the shopkeeper. "It took me a little longer than expected to get the money. You still have it?"

"Of course," smiled the woman. "I have it all wrapped and ready for you."

"Thank you very much," said Emerson, stepping toward the counter at the back of the store. "I appreciate it. How much do I owe you?"

"With tax it comes to $19.08."

Emerson reached into his back pocket for his wallet put couldn't seem to pull it free. His fingers scrambled in vain to extricate the folded leather. "Sorry," said an embarrassed Emerson. "Pocket's kind of tight." He continued to fumble. "Must have shrunk in the wash."

"I don't believe I've seen you around before," began Mrs. Meade, doing her best to ease the awkwardness. "Are you new in town?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Emerson. He was twisting as far as he could in order to see his left rear pocket. Both his hands were now engaged in the task. "Moved here last week."

"So what brought you to our fair city?" asked Mrs. Meade. She was doing all she could to suppress laughter.

"I've come to make my fortune," answered a struggling Emerson.

"I don't know of many people that come to Hadleyville to make their fortune."

Emerson was tugging furiously at his pants. "Then I reckon I'll be the first." The statement was punctuated by the freeing of his wallet. The fight was won. Emerson gave the woman the $20 bill he got from Mr. Wilson and replaced his wallet, this time in his front right pocket. The woman handed him the change and a small brown paper bag.

"Thank you very much," smiled Emerson.

"Have a nice day," grinned Mrs. Meade.

"You too."

"And good luck!"

"Thanks."

The woman couldn't help but smile at the peculiar young man. He reminded her of her own son at that age, so polite and full of life. And so thin! The poor boy needs to eat more, she thought. His light blue short-sleeved shirt was draping from his shoulders and his baggy tan slacks, baggy save for the back pocket, were testing the belt that was practically lapping his waist. She watched with interest as he stopped just inside the entrance and peered carefully through the window. He gave a final wave goodbye then quietly opened the door, hardly disturbing the bells above, and carefully inched his way outside. Mrs. Meade laughed to herself. She was on her way back to her coffee when the dog began barking.

---

Emerson Gilroy's apartment was the modest sort. It was all he could afford. He signed a six-month lease and paid the entire amount up front in advance. It took the majority of his savings. He figured it would be better that way, not having to worry about acquiring rent for at least half a year. His mind was eased knowing that he'd have a place in which to starve.

The front door couldn't open fully. Its progress was blocked by the bed, which accounted for the apartment being "furnished" upon renting. The bed's framing was gray steel and its mattress was of the comforting quality of salt on an open wound. To the right of the front door was a floor cabinet containing Emerson's supplies of rice, lentils, and other staples not requiring refrigeration. He was on a very strict diet. It was for health reasons. If he ate any more his wallet would die.

The counter supported a hot plate with two burners. The room also had a closet and a window. Windows are nice. The foot of the bed extended into the doorway of the bathroom. The bathroom sink and shower were the only sources of water. Emerson boiled the water before drinking or cooking. He wished he could boil it before showering.

Emerson arrived home, hit the bed with the front door, and locked himself secure. There were six locks all told. Seven counting the bed.

Emerson reached underneath the bed, pulling free a heavy black box. He lifted it onto the bed, along with his recent purchase still in its brown paper bag, and removed his wallet from his front pocket. The box was locked. And fireproof. His parents had given it to him. They told him to keep his important documents inside, such as insurance policies, wills, and the like. Emerson slipped a small key from a slit in his wallet and sat down on the bed beside the box. It was opened with a turn of the wrist. There were no insurance policies or wills inside, only five photographs. He wanted more. But she had only agreed to give him five.

He stared at the pictures with the same admiration he did every night. So committed to memory, he saw them in his sleep. Only five. She only gave him five. They all featured her and the roses he had sent her for Valentine's Day. He remembered how she yelled at him for giving her the flowers. They weren't going out at the time. It was only weeks later that he saw the pictures. She was holding his flowers. Posing with his flowers.

She was so beautiful. Her hair cropped short. He asked her once to grow it out. She never would. It was cut so short. She was beautiful with her short hair.

Emerson chose one of the five, lifted it free, and returned the box, once again locked, to its rightful place under the bed. The selected picture was a close- up of her face. Technically, it wasn't the best picture of the lot. The edges were slightly blurry. She was only going to give him four but allowed this one as a fifth because she didn't like the quality of the photo. But it was his favorite.

Emerson opened the brown paper bag and took out a small gold picture frame. It wasn't real gold. It wasn't fancy at all. But when he saw it in the store window he knew his search had ended. The photo was too long. He had to retrieve his scissors from the bathroom, where they were stored along with his hair clippers and other shaving needs. On returning to the room he kicked the leg of the bed with his right foot. He kicked the bed in a similar fashion every time he left the bathroom. The presence of a shoe had lessened the blow. Only two hops and one curse were needed, and this time there wouldn't be a watery red puddle on the hardwood floor.

He carefully trimmed the photo so that her face was perfectly centered. The frame held true. A spot was marked on the wall next to the bed so that he could see it when he woke up each morning. He took a small nail from his left front pocket, another gift of Wilson's Hardware. He opened the closet and retrieved his dress shoes. He had to buy them when she wanted to go to a fancy dinner with some friends of hers. He hadn't worn them since. The heel did the job. Luckily, the walls were as hard as the room was big. With a delicate hand, Emerson hung the picture with care, making certain of its suspension before relaxing. He smiled at what he had done. Her face, frozen in a moment of happiness, brought new life to the apartment. She was his flame.

Emerson would have sat there all night, but he knew she would think him lazy. He had to hustle. The town library, one of the true hidden gems of Hadleyville, was having a discussion on Steinbeck at 7:00. Then he'd have to hurry home and get a good night's sleep. He'd have to find another job tomorrow. Emerson kissed two fingers and pressed them against the glass of the picture. He hurried out of the apartment, overcrowded key ring in hand, and took caution to turn every lock once outside. He had something valuable to protect.

The picture held for nearly five whole minutes before crashing to the ground.