The Little Guy

£ 2

by Jeff Winters

I am the grave of all that's nothing."

The taxi took on added interest to the neighbors when it stopped in front of the house with the broken windows. The woman sweeping her porch and the young couple coming from the grocery store stared at the familiar figure getting out. He was a big man around thirty, lean and hard. His face was dark with stubble and he carried his coat and tie over one arm. After digging for change, he stood several moments with his back to the house and pointlessly folded the tie as the cab roared off. At last he took a deep breath, turned around and moved toward the house without raising his eyes from the walk. He kicked aside the four newspapers on the porch, picked out the key and held it poised in air a moment before sliding it into the lock. He first pushed the door open wide then moved slowly forward as if exploring a place he'd never seen before. When the door had drifted shut behind him, the young couple leaned close to murmur over the groceries and the woman left her broom out on the porch to hurry inside.

He stood in the middle of the front room looking at what was left. His eyes went from spot to spot as if remembering each thing as it had been. There was one place over in the corner he avoided. The rest he inspected carefully, thoughtfully.

The books from the smaller case were scattered under the piano. The case itself was in splinters on either side of the broken pianostool. The ash-trays and lamp that had been on top of it were across the room as if flung there with one furious sweep. The records were everywhere: some broken on the edge of the cabinet, some smashed on the floor, others had been stamped on. The record-player lay upside down several yards from where it had stood. The insides of the radio looked as if a foot had rammed into it again and again.

It had taken strength to lift the armchair and bring it down on the coffee table. The flower bowl and cigarette box were in fragments, the table itself split down the middle. The big print of Rouault's Old King was gashed where the fishbowl had hit it; the paper and mat were waterwarped. The fish lay dry and dead on the floor among pieces of glass. There was white sand on the divan and a long strand of shrivelled water-plant from the bowl. Across the top of the piano were long, deep scratches; the letter-opener that made them was rammed deep into the wall. The floor was covered with bits of ceramics and glass, cigarette butts and torn paper. One drape was ripped from the cur-

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