THE ROSE MAN
by Terry M. West
Copyright © 2014 Terry M. West
Published by Pleasant Storm Entertainment, Inc.
Visit the author at: https://terrymwest.com/
All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Author's Note
The Rose Man is the very first story of supernatural horror that I wrote. It was written in 1987 when I was 22 years-old. I was living in Houston, Texas. I was working a day job, writing, watching horror movies and occasionally chasing a pretty girl.
I was a member of a writer's support group, The Manuscriptor's Guild, and they had an annual fiction contest. I wanted to submit something, so I wrote The Rose Man, which was a departure for me as my early fiction had more of a realistic, thriller quality. And though I often cite Car Nex as the tale that began my fiction universe, I had written several supernatural tales after The Rose Man but before Car Nex. I wrote half-baked, not quite ready for prime time tales such as: Eye of the Beholder, The Gypsy Hen, Easy Pickings, Wedding Night, Day of the Night, Aunt Sissy and many others that I don't even have copies of, now.
But The Rose Man was special, and I wasn't the only one who thought so, because it snagged a first place award in the short fiction category of the Gilded Quill Awards, which were sponsored by the Manuscriptor's Guild.
It was quite a shot in the arm, but nothing more came out of the story. I had been submitting tales faithfully to the horror magazine market and, disappointed that the submission process took anywhere from 6 to 18 months back then, I focused on a freelance writer career, promising to come back to my short fiction one day.
I did feature The Rose Man on the Dark Muse E-Zine in the late nineties, but that was the only place it had appeared. In 2012, I cracked open a dead computer hard drive and had the Geek Squad extract what files they could. Five of the stories recovered this way joined three brand new tales to form my successful collection, What Price Gory.
The Rose Man should have been included, but I felt it needed some finessing before I shared it. There weren't any major issues with it and I haven't changed it that drastically; it just took me a spell to feel comfortable with putting it out there again. I made some minor changes that I feel have benefited it, without taking away from the original charm of the story. I also left it in its setting of 1987. I did not feel it needed to be updated with smart phone references and selfies.
When you finish reading The Rose Man, please check out my story notes if you are interested in some interesting tidbits regarding this tale.
-TMW
11-14
From the emptiness, I pulse occasionally. My name was Dane Morrison when I was alive and names mattered. I've tried to lose myself in this void but a memory stirs in me from time to time to remind me that I once existed. I don't know if this nothingness is a punishment or a refuge. It seems whenever I am ready to finally dissolve into the shadows and disappear forever, the memories come. And I am compelled to watch them and experience them as if I were still wearing skin and drawing breath in that very moment. And of all of the memories that plague me, the one that torments me most often is the recollection of my last days and of the odd vagrant I called The Rose Man...
Houston, Texas
Summer 1988
I spotted him, standing at the same place at the same time as always. Then, the traffic light turned red. He bound into the intersection and weaved between the idling cars. He bowed humbly before each car window, offering the ultimate expression of love and beauty in a hardened, callused hand; red roses wrapped in cellophane.
The Rose Man, a nickname I had given him weeks before, did not look like a man who was afraid of work. He was in his late forties; around my age, I would have guessed. He wore the same dirty gray work clothes and muddy boots every time I saw him but he never struck me as a homeless person.
As he moved gracefully around the cars at the intersection, most would simply ignore him. Others would deter him quite rudely and sometimes obscenely. Why don't you get a real job? seemed to be their national anthem.
I had to give him credit, though; I never saw him lose his composure. He would simply move on to the next car. You had to admire a guy like that and what he had to go through to make a living; inhaling car fumes; dancing around a busy intersection during one of the worst Indian summers recorded in Texas; enduring insults from frustrated commuters who were just looking for an ass to chew on.
I sat in my Buick at the intersection, waiting for the light to change. I was pretty anxious to get home myself. Images of relaxing in my recliner, drinking a cold beer and watching the tube until supper was ready played in my head.
The Rose Man was two cars in front of me, his warm smile never wavering. The woman in front of me rolled up her window and locked her door as the Rose Man approached her car. Usually, I was in the category of people who would smile, shake their heads and mutter: Thank you, anyway. That day, I guess, I really felt for the guy. The humidity in Houston can be terrible; like trying to breath through oatmeal.
Besides, I knew my wife, Helen, would love it. I reached for my wallet and rolled down the window.
"Bonjour, my friend!" he said, crouching to my window. I could tell from his accent that he was a Cajun. Perspiration cascaded down The Rose Man's cheeks and clung to his light brown beard. His piercing, friendly blue eyes gave no sign of discomfort. The summer heat was on him, but he didn't seem that bothered by it. "Nice day today, yeh?"
"Sure is," I replied, paying him. "As long as you don't work outdoors. You can keep the change if you promise to drink something cool and sit in the shade for awhile."
"Ya got yerself a deal there, podna. I'll drink somethin' 'fore I catch fay-yuh," he joked cheerily, putting my cash in the money pouch that he wore around his waist. He handed me a red rose. "Have a bonne journée, yeh. Good day. And give my best to yo' honey." He winked and motioned to the wedding band on my left hand. "Bet ya caught a keeper!"
The light finally changed, and I was on my way home. The final stretch. I entered my neighborhood of Bellaire, turning away from the 610 loop, which was the spine of downtown Houston.
I got home and gave Helen the rose. She gave me star treatment for the thought, steering me to my recliner and slipping a cold one into my hand. I sipped the beer and turned the television on.
And all was right again in Houston.
***
That night, I discovered that a simple rose could do a lot for lovemaking; even for a guy who stopped sucking in his gut fifteen years ago. It had been awhile since we had slept in the buff but there we were. Helen slept on her side, her face and breasts facing me. Her long, blonde hair, with just the barest hint of gray, was slung over her shoulder.
We had been together for twenty-five years; married for twenty of that. There were no children in our lives for various excuses; shitty state of the world, overpopulation, dwindling natural resources. But really we were just selfish and content with what we had. But even with no kids to shield from our passion, we didn't make love as often as we used to. Helen stayed at home, kept the house and did volunteer work. I was employed as a sales representative (i.e., a better dressed carnival barker) for the Morgan, Noe & Rolfe Advertising Agency. I worked downtown and my job consumed most of my time. So, I guess my point here is that we didn't enjoy each other as frequently as we should have, given how footloose and f
ancy free our marriage was. That night, though, had been a wet dream come true and I had The Rose Man to thank for it.
I kissed Helen softly on the forehead and got out of bed. I pulled on my boxer shorts and lumbered to the kitchen and sat at the breakfast table. A late night snack was on my mind and as I considered what to devour, I noticed the rose which rested on the table in a small, glass vase.
I smiled and rubbed its stem with my finger.
"Dane?"
I turned and saw Helen standing in the doorway. She wore her robe. Her eyes were half-open and she was hugging herself. I felt something prick my finger.
"Shit!" I cried, pulling my hand up. A small drop of blood pooled on my fingertip.
"What happened?" Helen said, walking over and taking my hand; pulling it close to her eyes.
"A thorn, I guess," I replied.
Helen released my hand. "Well, I don't think you'll need surgery. Come back to bed. No snacks, mister. We've talked about this."
She took my hand and lead my back into our room.
***
I stood outside of Mr. Morgan's office, waiting to see him and find out if I was going to handle the big shampoo account that all of the reps were clamoring for. Wilbur Straddleson, a co-worker, came strolling down the hall, a briefcase in one hand and six roses in the other.
I thought of the rose that I had bought for Helen the week before and I smiled to myself. Wilbur paused at the drinking fountain, setting down his briefcase to work it. He took a long drink, stood straight then ran his fingers through his silver hair.
Wilbur was pushing sixty and falling apart at the seams. He was overweight, drank too much and he had skyrocketing blood pressure. Years ago, he had made all of the wrong investments with money that would have been put to better use in a 401k plan. Now there was no magical nest egg that would give him an early retirement and a new set of golf clubs.
I felt for the guy, but I had to acknowledge that his voracious appetite for bourbon and any woman other than his wife had contributed to his current state. He came to work late and he took off early and he just didn't seem to care anymore.
He wasn't long for the agency. I think, deep down, he knew that.
I glanced at my watch. 9:17am
"Keeping bankers' hours, Willie?" I said to him, as he resumed the walk to his office.
"Morning, Dane. You know, bad traffic and all. God damn city is turning into an armpit."
His eyes were bloodshot and I could smell last night's booze on him.
I stopped him, looking around to make sure none of the other employees were within earshot. "Morgan's getting tired of it, Willie."
"Really?" he replied, bitterly. "So am I. My car can't sprout wings, you know. What can I do about traffic?"
"Miss it. Leave earlier."
"Your wisdom knows no bounds," he said, with a sarcastic chuckle.
"Who are the roses for?"
"Oh..." he said, nervously. "Picked them up this morning for the little woman. We got into it last night. You know how Carol and I go around. Just mending fences."
"Why did you buy them this morning?" I said. "You could have picked them up on your way home, Willie. Was this why you were late?"
"I bought them on impulse, Dane," Wilbur said, slapping my shoulder. "Impulse buying, you know? What we strive for everyday. I just saw them and bought them."
Mr. Morgan's secretary motioned for me to come to his office.
"Good luck," Wilbur smiled, shuffling away to his office.
***
The tendonitis in my right knee acted up on the way home. I was at the intersection, mere close to my house and stacked behind the other irate commuters of the rush hour. I looked to the sidewalk and noticed the Rose Man.
He was leaning against a street sign, his roses resting in a plastic painter's bucket at his side. His arms were crossed and his eyes stared into the distance. His brow was creased, distorting his usually friendly features. He looked angry. Very angry.
Must be having a bad day, I thought. I tooted my horn and gave him an encouraging hang in there wave. He smiled and walked toward me. As he came closer, I could tell that the smile was for my benefit only. The anger was still etched deep in his face.
"Bonjour," he said, holding his roses close. "Did yer honey like the rose?"
"Very much, thanks. Are you okay?" I asked. "You look like someone shot your dog."
"I was workin' here dis mornin'," he started, eyes darting up and down the intersection as he spoke. "Some thief snatched a bunch of red roses from my hand as he drove by."
"Someone stole your roses?"
"Yes sir. Almost took a finger with 'em, too."
I couldn't believe someone would do that to a cheerful guy like the Rose Man. "That's terrible," I said, reaching for my wallet. "How much did the bastard set you back?"
"Nope. Don't even think it, podna," he said firmly, his eyes still scouting the cars. "That bastard will get what's due, yeh?"
"Karma?"
The Rose Man smiled, all of his attention on me now. He tapped softly on the top of my car. "Somethin' like dat."
The light changed. We said a quick good-bye. The Rose Man's words and attitude change unnerved me. And something else I couldn't put my finger on was bugging me.
I shrugged it off. All I wanted was a cold beer and an aspirin for my knee.
***
In our twenty years of marriage, I made it clear to Helen that she should do whatever she liked to assert her own individuality. She claimed she was happy with being a homemaker and I, with a slight touch of guilt, was overjoyed.
I stepped inside the house, catching a whiff of Helen's homemade spaghetti sauce, which hung in the air.
"And how was your day?" Helen called from the kitchen.
I walked into the kitchen. Helen leaned over a pan on the stove, sprinkling garlic salt into the sauce.
"Pretty good," I replied. "I got that shampoo account."
"Oh, that's wonderful honey," she said, still tending to dinner. "Grab yourself a beer, okay?"
I opened the refrigerator and grabbed a cold one, snapping the top open and draining half the can. "I'd be happier about the account if I wasn't afraid for Wilbur. I don't think he'll be with the company much longer."
"Wilbur made his bed," she said, with uncharacteristic coldness. "Besides, I'm sure Morgan, Noe and Rolfe will get along fine without him."
When you tell your wife how rotten a co-worker is, don't expect her to have a high opinion of him. I wanted to mention the Rose Man, but I kept my semi-friendship with him to myself. I didn't relish a lecture on psychopathic transients.
I noticed the rose I had gotten Helen a week earlier was still on the breakfast table.
Leaves were sprouting from it and the stem had grown about an inch.
I marveled at Helen's green thumb, then retired to my recliner.
***
Ed Levy, a young executive who was vaguely related to the boss, was outside Mr. Morgan's office, contributing to the morning gossip. Five fellow employees surrounded him near the drinking fountain and listened intently to his story.
As I passed them, Levy quickly followed me. "Dane, Dane! wait up. You have got to hear this."
"Leave me alone, Ed. I haven't had my second cup yet."
He ran in front of me and stopped. "Dane, you have to listen to me," he said, his eager, baby face twitched with excitement. Man, I wanted to pound that kid sometimes.
"Look, Ed, I don't care who's sleeping around. I don't have the time or the interest," I maintained, walking around him.
"Wilbur Straddleson is dead," he called after me.
"Don't be so God damn dramatic, Ed," I said thickly. "When did Morgan let him go?"
"Shit, shit, shit," Ed muttered, staring apologetically at me. "Were you close to Wilbur, Dane?"
My stomach churned and I felt light headed. Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised. Maybe I wasn't. "What happened?" I asked.
"His wife found
him dead in bed this morning."
"Do they know the cause?"
"You see," Ed said, his voice dropping to a whisper, though he had already related the story to those within earshot. "This is where it gets weird, Dane. If you go by the obit, it'll say Wilbur died of natural causes. But that's not the case. My brother-in-law, Todd, is a paramedic. He arrived at the Straddleson's around 5am this morning.
"He said Wilbur's skin had turned green. Now, the body has a tendency to take on colors when you die. Purple, yellow, red. And blue. That's the normal color of death; blue. But dark green, Dane, from head to toe? There's nothing normal about that, man. Unless you're the Hulk."
"What the hell would cause that?" I asked.
"No one knows," Ed continued. "But I'm not done, Dane. It gets weirder. Todd and his partner tried to resuscitate Wilbur on the scene and they found six roses shoved in his throat. It was the damnedest thing. Todd said they were too far down to have been shoved without massive external injury. Wilbur was dead, but he didn't have a scratch on him. Todd said it was as if the damned things had crawled down his throat."