Reflections On Water (Vol. 4, No. 1) - Prose

Walter

Ah, Walter. I really could just write pages and pages all about Walter. But then, at the same time, I really don't have to. He's in every town in the world, I think. Well, not him, per se, but someone just like him. Perhaps I should explain.

Walter is our town's Crazy Old Man. Now, surely you must know who I mean. He wanders around all day, talking to anyone who will listen, and many who won't. He has a cane, but moves faster than some joggers with a peculiar little shuffle step that reminds me of Marvin the Martian from the Bugs Bunny cartoons. I almost expect to hear the same "doodle-oodle-oodle" music you hear whenever Marvin walks.

Every town's Walter is a little different, I'll grant you. I've lived in a lot of towns, and aside from their innate Walterness, no Walter is really anything like any of the others. Some are loved by the whole town, some are hated, some merely tolerated. Some will baffle you with their brilliance, while others merely befuddle you with their bullshit. One of the Walters in Kamloops came over to me while I was struggling my way through Stephen Hawkings' *A Brief History of Time* in a park, sat down beside me on the park bench, and proceeded to explain to me all of the parts I was having trouble with. It didn't really seem odd until he left; a little 90-ish man, in yellow and brown checkered pants and a faded blue T-shirt that read "Over The Hill and Picking Up Speed" in glittery letters, who looked like he'd have trouble understanding the basic concepts of a traffic light, explaining quantum physics to me in a park like a Cambridge professor.

Our town's Walter is a little different. "Special" even. He babbles incoherently, and you're lucky if you can understand every twentieth word. I'm pretty sure he's speaking English, but I can't be quite sure. He usually tends to talk about all the young girls at the park in bikinis, or so I assume, since the few words I can usually understand are said with such emphasis that they're hard to miss. He once cornered three girls, around 15 years of age, and told them a long-winded story about his shoes. Or, at least, he waved his shoes at them a lot as he talked.

Yesterday, I saw Walter meet his match. You see, he is Trail's Walter, and Trail is mostly an Italian town -- an aging Italian town, which means you tend to see a lot of jolly little round Italian grandmothers about town.

I was at the park the other day, and two of these little Italian grammas were giving an interview to a TV station for some reason or other. They were dressed nicely, in long flowered dresses and matching hats with flowers in the brim, and were clearly tickled pink about being on television.

Walter, being the type of man who considers Trail to be his personal territory, apparently was offended that this reporter had decided to try and interview someone without first asking his permission, and upon noticing the camera, went storming over to win his fifteen minutes of fame. He stormed up between the two ladies, and spewed out a very loud string of incoherent words, punctuated frequently with loud references to a woman's genitalia.

If anyone has ever watched Buffy or Angel, they are quite familiar with the transformation I witnessed almost immediately afterwards. On television, a normal looking person suddenly grows vicious-looking forehead ridges, their eyes come to resemble those of a cat or a wolf, and they sprout long fangs. From friendly looking human to voracious predator in one second flat.

This was the transformation these two grandmotherly grandmothers underwent at Walter's expense. They whirled on him like wounded wolverines, and started bellowing at him at volumes that could have communicated with other nations.

The second lady, although she said considerably less, was rather preoccupied with hitting Walter around the head and neck with a purse the size of a Samsonite.

Walter panicked and curled up like a scalded dog, scurrying off, hissing and squealing like Gollum smoten by Gandalf. He ran to about fifteen or twenty metres away, and, regaining his dignity, began to yell at them that "you don't talk to Walter like that!"

Our Walter, you see, talks about himself in the third person.

The two grandmothers, who had since returned to their usual jolly matronly selves, whirled to face him again, and gave him a look so withering that he froze from twenty metres away, and quietly shuffled off to safer pastures.

I've often heard the saying, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." Well, I can tell you from experience, that your standard run-of the mill woman scorned STILL has nothing on those two grandmothers. If the Roman Empire had had the common sense to simply turn all their grandmothers loose on the invading barbarian hordes, the Empire would probably still be alive and well today. As would the barbarians, I expect; but I wouldn't doubt that they'd still be frightened.