Short Story: Some Kind Of Hero

Short Story: Some Kind Of Hero

This piece has not been edited by the ShortbreadStories team.

Gerald Novotny, widowed husband, father, Command Sergeant Major emeritus, retired CEO, and eccentric extraordinaire, had enlisted in the Army during the Second World War, desiring to serve his country and become an example for other German rooted, decadent youths trapped on the harsh streets of New York City. He accomplished his mission with flying colors: The prestigious Medal of Honor hung around his neck before his twentieth birthday. That was more than sixty years ago.

Harold Davenport, ambitious freshman reporter for the New Yorker Magazine, was assigned to write an article about any native New York City immigrant who had accomplished great feats in America. By means of a keyboard and a mouse, he selected Gerald’s name from a web-site of distinguished medalist with the simplicity of pulling a piece of caramel coated popcorn from out of a box of Cracker Jacks; and with the same ease, he located him at his gated compound like estate in Florida.

Days later, “Evening Mr. Davenport,” his son, Kevin, welcomed. “We have been expecting you.”

Walking through to the back yard where Gerald awaited was like touring a fine museum of relics of times past: walls mounted with taxidermied animals and fisheries, life-sized knights armed with shields and swords, various antique weaponries, and a vast collection of international flags. Photographs of himself with world dignitaries, awards, and elegantly framed certificates filled nearly every inch of wall space. Noble chivalry silently screamed from within; the aspiring reporter knew that he was in a home of greatness.

As he approached Gerald, sitting a stone’s throw away from a large lake in a wooden lawn chair - a fancy walking cane resting atop his lap - he towed in mind a vision of the soldier as depicted on the old photograph with his internet profile: clean shaven, naïve, youthful, uniformed, still yet a virgin to the atrocities of horrific, bloody combat that would later violently rape him of his chastity. In contrast, he approached a balding, blotchy, gray haired old man resembling Antonio Salieri in the classic, Amadeus.

“Evening, Mr. Novotny,” Harold greeted, offering his hand for a friendly shake.

Dingy, Cataract laden glassy eyes slowly drew Harold into focus, seemingly void of any noticeable expression.

Without warning, Harold felt a powerfully hard whack with the fancy ivory handled cane aside the right side of his head, sailing him backwards to the turf.

Instantly, the war hero was atop the terrified reporter, thrashing him with his hand to the left, right, back and forth across his face.

“Didn’t I tell you not to bother me while I’m at the lake,” he yelled in an exasperated rage. “You will not listen, will you, Kevin?”

“Dad, no!” Kevin quickly intervened, exhaustively pulling Gerald off.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Davenport,” he emphatically apologized. “My dad has been suffering with Alzheimer’s for several years now. Certainly, it was I whom he believed he was beating. His violent behavior and paranoid delusions intensify as the disease progresses.”