M.P. Powers

Greg, or Nothing

Greg used to come to my shop to sell stolen tools. 
“You in need of set of needle nose
vice grips?” he’d ask, 
and dredge the set from his backside, 
the packaging still on it. 
“No thanks.” I’d say. 
“Is there anything you do need?” 
“I don’t know, does your supplier
carry diamond blades?”
He’d scratch his head 
as if pondering the word supplier. 
Confucius couldn’t have looked deeper 
in thought. “I’m pretty sure 
they do,” he’d say. 
“I’ll have to check. I’ll get back to you.“ 
He’d then exit the shop and I wouldn’t see him 
until he’d come back with something 
else I didn’t need.
This went on for an entire summer,
and then I guess
he gave up, or something 
happened: prison, rehab, his girlfriend kicked
him out of the house, etc. 
Years went by. Hurricanes happened. 
Presidents changed. 
Wars erupted. Monte Hale died. 
And I’d all but forgotten about 
Greg when one day I glanced at the surveillance 
camera and saw a man 
who looked just like him 
pushing rapidly
an empty 
wheelchair 
along the west 
side of the building. 
At first, I thought it might just be 
the graininess of the camera or the angle
that made it look like Greg. 
But two nights later, as I was walking through 
the parking lot of a strip mall a few miles 
from my shop, I saw the same man 
sitting in the same wheelchair, 
and asking for donations. 
“Greg,” I called out to him.
He looked at me, 
adjusted his legs with his hands.
“What happened?” I asked. 
“You don’t 
even want to know,” he said, and did 
a slow 180°
wheeling 
away from me.