Buddy and Buster
by Michael W. Mann
In the mall that day, no one paid attention to the man in the shabby brown suit and tie, an old top hat upside down on the floor in front of him, a large, dingy yellow suitcase next to him on the bench. He seemed to be talking to himself, so shoppers walking nearby steered a wide path around him.
A little boy and his mother, carrying numerous shopping bags, sat down on a bench nearby, and after dialing a number, the mother began shouting into her cell phone, asking the person on the other end where they were, when they were going to get there, and did they know how long she had been waiting. The boy looked over at the old man and the suitcase.
“Hey, you going to let me out of here?”
“Why should I?”
“Hey mister,” the boy asked, “is there somebody in that suitcase?”
The old man frowned. “What makes you say that?”
“Let me out!”
“Mister, let him out, would you please?”
The old man put his head down, rubbed his stubbled face a few times, then turned, opened the suitcase, lifted Buster out of the suitcase, and put his hand up inside.
“Oh, man, I got a kink in my neck, and I smell like I’ve been in an old suitcase.”
“You were in an old suitcase, you dummy.”
“Don’t call me that. I’ve told you a thousand times.”
The boy’s eyes got wide in amazement. “What’s his name? How do you make him talk?”
Buster responded. “His name is Buddy, mine is Buster. How do I make the old man talk? It’s a secret, but I can tell you this — it’s taken a long time for me to train him.”
“You don’t make me talk; I make you talk.”
“I just made you say that.”
“If you’re so talented, how come you travel around in a suitcase?”
“Have you seen bus fares lately? I do just fine in the luggage compartment, thank you.”
The boy’s mother took a deep breath, exhaled, and whispered into her phone, “Just get here as soon as you can,” then put the phone back in her purse. She had been listening to Buster and Buddy out of one ear while her other ear had been pressed to her phone.
“You’re very talented,” she said.
“Thank you very much,” said Buster.
“I think she was talking to me.”
Buster turned his head and stared at Buddy. “Look, I’m the star of this show. She was talking to me.”
The boy’s mother managed to smile, despite her smoldering anger. She hadn’t planned to do all the shopping by herself, but her husband had to work late. “You’re both very talented.”
“Name’s Buddy, ma’am, and this is Buster.”
“This? I’m a this?”
“Pipe down.”
“I’d like to put some money in your hat there, but I don’t have any cash on me,” the boy’s mother said.
Buster looked around. “There’s a cash machine over there.”
“Buster! Don’t be rude!”
“Look who’s talking! You said you’re the one putting words in my mouth!”
Buster looked at Buddy, then turned his head and looked at the woman, and didn’t say anything.
The boy’s mother smiled. “Good idea. I’ll be right back.”
When she came back, she dropped a twenty-dollar bill in the hat.
“Thank you, ma’am. Buster, aren’t you going to thank the kind lady? Where’s your manners?”
“I’m the thankful silent type.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, Buster sometimes forgets his manners.”
“So, Buddy, what got you interested in this? Who taught you?” the mother asked.
“I taught myself. I saw a ventriloquist on TV years ago, and it looked like fun.”
“It might be fun for you, but I hate having someone else doing all my talking for me.”
“Ma’am, please ignore Buster … Buster, I think it’s time you go back into your suitcase.”
The mother pulled her phone out of her purse and looked at the time. As she pondered how to exit gracefully. Her son broke the awkward silence. “Buster, are you homeless?”
“I’m never homeless — got my suitcase, you know.”
“Oh. Buddy, are you homeless?”
“No. I live at a shelter downtown.”
Fearing where the conversation was headed, and releasing her pent-up anger, the mother stood up, yanked on her son’s hand, and said, “Let’s go!”
Her son pulled his hand away. “Mommy, wait! Can we take Buster and Buddy out to dinner? You said we’re going out for dinner when Daddy gets here. Can we please?”
“What? No, I’m sure they have plans of their own.”
“Yes, we do, but thanks for the invite.”
“You call eating another meal at the homeless shelter, plans?” Buster said.
“I’ve had just about enough out of you.”
Buster turned toward the mother. “Ma’am, I for one have no plans, and as far as Buddy goes, I wouldn’t believe anyone who is just living hand-to-mouth.”
It wasn’t the duo’s best joke, but it tickled the mother’s funny bone, and her anger vanished in a fit of laughter. Tears streaming down her face, she frowned for a moment as she thought about her anger. She realized it was her choice to be so upset, and she had the freedom to choose differently.
As she gave her son a hug, she whispered in his ear, “Let’s do it — taking them out to dinner is a great idea.”
As her son invited them to dinner, the mother smiled at Buddy, a big, honest, heartfelt smile. No one had looked at Buddy like that in a very long time. Then she looked at Buster and waited for him to say something, but for once, Buster was speechless.
About the Author
Michael W. Mann has been writing short stories for many years, sharing them with family, friends and coworkers. He’s turning 70 this year and decided it’s high time to submit his writing for publication. He writes from Kansas City and enjoys crafting both stories and woodworking projects.
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