Member-only story
Golden Egg
a short story
Fudge Wheeler has a big toe for a thumb and skin from his thigh for an ear. Some people say that when he was in Nam, the Vietcong blew off his thumb and most of his ear. Others say he got his strange injuries after being burned in an apartment fire when he was just a kid. Others say that he cut off his thumb with a machine. Truth is, no one but Fudge really knows for sure. But what everyone does know for sure is that Fudge is a drunk.
He drinks leftover wine for breakfast, or vodka if he got lucky the night before. You can see him every day of the week on the corner of Walnut Hill and the freeway at seven o’clock sharp setting up for the day. He writes a new sign every day with crayons. Signs that say “Homeless. Hungry. Happy. God Bless.” I watch him from the window of Captain’s Liquor Store where I work.
He’s probably fifty or maybe older, skinny, medium height, needs a shave. He wears this dirty green baseball cap that has a red heart on the front, an orange windbreaker that says PhillipsMart on the back, and an old pair of tennis shoes that defy the rules of nature by not falling off his feet. He keeps a plastic bottle of water up under the cool part of the bridge.
I like Fudge better than the other drunks who come in here to buy their booze. He’s never loud-mouthed, never acts crazy, never talks to himself, never pees where the…
