“Come on, Grandpa. You want your cane back?”
Jake Miller twirled the polished wooden walking stick once between his fingers.
“Come take it.”
The two young men behind him burst out laughing.
I stood ten feet away, trying not to show how much my left hip hurt without the cane.
My name is Henry Carter.
Seventy-two years old.
Five feet ten.
White hair.
Gray mustache.
Bad hip.
Old work shirt.
Nothing about me looked interesting that afternoon.
That was exactly how I preferred it.
The Riverdale Community Martial Arts Festival had taken over the public plaza beside our recreation center that Saturday.
Food trucks lined one side of the square.
Children ran around wearing oversized karate uniforms.
Parents carried folding chairs and paper plates piled with barbecue.
Colored banners advertised judo, taekwondo, wrestling, boxing, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, and half a dozen styles most spectators could not pronounce.
In the center was a raised demonstration mat where local schools had been performing throughout the afternoon.
I was not there to perform.
I was there because the recreation department had hired me for maintenance.
A loose power cable needed taping down.
One of the temporary sinks behind the food area had clogged.
Some fool had broken the latch on a portable storage cabinet.
Ordinary work.
I liked ordinary work.
At my age, ordinary was underrated.
Unfortunately, Jake Miller had decided I would be today's entertainment.
He was twenty-four.
Six feet two.
Muscular.
Blond.
Black sleeveless shirt stretched tight across his shoulders.
Wrist wraps.
Silver chain.
The kind of young man who had recently discovered people admired his body and had not yet learned admiration was not the same thing as respect.
I had watched him earlier.
He was good.
Very good, actually.
Fast kicks.
Good balance.
Sharp combinations.
He competed in full-contact karate and had apparently won a regional title the year before.
The crowd liked him.
Jake liked that they liked him.
That was where the trouble started.
I had been walking beside the demonstration area carrying a small toolbox in my left hand and using the cane with my right.
Jake and his friends were blocking the walkway.
“Excuse me, boys.”
He did not move.
I waited.
“Need to get through.”
Jake looked over his shoulder.
Then down at my maintenance badge.
He smiled.
“Walk around.”
“The cable box is behind you.”
“So?”
“So I need to get there.”
His friend laughed.
“Man, he sounds like my grandfather.”
Jake looked at my cane.
“Your leg messed up?”
“My hip.”
“You fall?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Life.”
That got a laugh.
I was willing to leave it there.
Jake was not.
He reached out and tapped the top of my cane.
“Pretty fancy stick.”
“Does the job.”
“Let me see it.”
“No.”
He smiled.
Then grabbed it anyway.
The sudden pull caught me off balance.
My left leg buckled.
I stepped sideways and caught myself on the corner of a folding table.