Twisted tales - страница 10

Wendy, our self-proclaimed purveyor of truth and justice, harboured a secret as crumpled and unassuming as a yesterday's newspaper. He wasn’t a psychic, nor a superhero, nor a spy. He was, in fact, a humble paperboy.

Yes, while the town slumbered, dreaming of sugar plums or stock options, Wendy was out on his bicycle,slinging news at sleepy doorsteps for a modest sum. He knew the news before it was the news, because he had a stack of it under his arm, hours before it hit the stands.

The metaphor lies in the fact that Wendy was “delivering” the news in more ways than one. He literally delivered it, but, more importantly, he crafted and delivered a persona of knowledge and mystery based on a profession one wouldn't expect to be the source. He transformed the mundane into the extraordinary, the pedestrian into the profound, much like O. Henry himself used to do.

His nightly escapades, rather than involving daring feats of espionage, consisted of battling overzealous dogs and mastering the art of throwing a rolled-up newspaper with pinpoint accuracy. His 'sleepless nights' were fuelled by lukewarm coffee and the burning ambition to finish his route before the sun rose. Yet, from this mundane reality, he spun a web of intrigue, making himself the oracle of their small, gossipy world.

The irony, thick enough to spread on toast, was that Wendy, in his elaborate act, was simply delivering the news in more ways than one. The truth of his “prescience” was hidden in plain sight, obscured by the very news he peddled. After all, who would suspect the paperboy of knowing the secrets of the universe, or at least, of Main Street?

Andy, a gentleman seasoned by eighty years and a generous helping of life's spices, held court each morning on his balcony. His kingdom? A rusty wrought-iron perch overlooking Central Park, a green lung breathing life into the city's concrete chest. His entertainment? The daily parade of joggers, those spandex-clad sprites flitting across the park's arteries.

Now, Andy wasn’t just watching. He was remembering. Each puff of his morning cigar seemed to conjure a thicker cloud of nostalgia. He'd observe a particularly fleet-footed runner, a blur of determined limbs, and a glint would spark in his eye, like a forgotten ember rekindled. Ah, yes, those were the days.

“Used to be me, you know,” he'd confide to the pigeons cooing expectantly at his feet. “A regular Mercury. A gazelle. A… a wind-up toy wound a little bit too tight, maybe, but a champion nonetheless!”

He was a celebrated sprinter. Ribbons and medals (entirely gold, of course) adorned the walls of his mental trophy room. He'd relive races with breathtaking detail, describing opponents vanquished with the flourish of a seasoned storyteller. “Young buck from Poughkeepsie, thought he had a chance! Pah! Left him eating my dust. More like eating air, I tell ya!”

One blustery morning, a particularly ambitious young woman, headphones blasting, sprinted past, her face a mask of determined exertion. Andy watched, a flicker of something akin to… regret?… crossing his features.

“She's got the fire,” he muttered, grinding out his cigar. Then, a mischievous glint returned. He leaned forward, cupping his hands to his mouth.

“Dig deep, kid! Dig deep! Remember, it's all in the hips! And for heaven's sake, breathe! Breathe like you're trying to inflate a hot air balloon!”