Mr. McFinnigan

Mr. McFinnigan

As I hefted my backpack over my shoulder, I dug my hand into my pocket, fishing for my keys. Just as I walked up the front porch and stood in front of the door, I heard a high-pitched warbling sound to my right. I sighed in exasperation and looked up at the ceiling, cursing myself for arriving too late. I looked to my right and laid my eyes on the source of the horrible sound. Mr. McFinnigan, our next-door-neighbor, was playing the bagpipes. Mr. McFinnigan was a wizened old man of 89. He had a pale, wrinkled, and pockmarked face, with a set of reptilian-like eyes. Liver spots covered his hands like some grotesque decoration. He had a frail, weak body, and equally thin legs. His arms were surprisingly thicker than the rest of his body, so it gave him the look of some sort of emaciated ape. The man wore his old WWII uniform, the green-brownish color clashing with his skin. His Kevlar helmet was perched on his bald head, and I could see that the helmet covered half of his face. Mr. McFinnigan played a melancholy tune on the bagpipes, his face turning purple with exertion. I could hear several people cursing and yelling from their windows. I tip-toed as quietly as I could and turned the keys in the lock. I gingerly opened the door. Just as I was about to revel in my success, my foot stepped on one of the stupid, old, floorboards. Mr. McFinn stopped playing, and turned his small head towards me. I was surprised at how adept he was at hearing, even though he was ancient.

“Ah, if it isn’t the young Butch Malone, looking for the nearest sign-up roster!”

I inwardly swore at myself and gave the old man a friendly smile. I could tell that it looked more like a dog baring its teeth.

“Mr. McFinn! How are you doing today?” I responded.

“Oh, the usual! Keeping a stern lookout for Nazis and whatnot. Are you here to sign up, boy?”

I heard the slight senility in his voice, and felt a pang of pity in my chest. I decided to play along. My smile took a warmer tone and I eased up a bit. I leaned on the railing.

“Yeah! I’m planning to serve my country and take the war to the enemy!” I faked a macho voice, making my voice deeper.

Mr. McFinn bobbed his head excitedly like a sugar-charged first grader.

“There’s a good lad! I love how all the young-bloods lead the charge! Are you planning to serve in the Pacific or in Europe?” Mr. McFinn obviously thought that this was still the 1940’s. He probably envisioned everything around him in black-and-white. I mimed an expression of deep thought and scratched my chin.

“Hmmmm. I would enjoy fighting in Europe, but I’ll go where they put me.”

He let out a deep hearty laugh and played a tune on his gargantuan instrument. The screeching music drew more shouts from the neighborhood.

“Turn it down a notch, wouldja?”

“Quit playing that infernal music, Walter!”

“Is someone killing a walrus out there?”

“Shut up, you crazy old man!”

Walter McFinnigan stopped playing and tried to yell back. It sounded more like forceful wheezing. His small fist shook considerably as he berated the neighbors.

“Curse you, villains! None of you know good music when you hear it! I swear, half of you are probably German spies! I wouldn’t be surprised if I found Bouncing Betty planted in my front yard!” he screamed.

“What’s a Bouncing Betty, Mr. McFinn?” I inquired.

“A German land mine, my young friend. Saw one of my platoon members get a limb torn off by one of em’. Be careful of those contraptions when you get to Europe,” he warned. I found myself warming to the subject, a spark aroused when he started talking about WWII.

“What was your rank in the army, Mr. McFinn?”

“Ah, I was a Corporal, Grade 5! Served in the 501st Platoon. Platoon Leader Kirkland called me the most ferocious fighter he had ever seen!”

We instantly started a conversation, and I immersed myself in the world of Walter S. McFinnigan. I could almost feel the heat of the mines as they exploded, and the sadness when Walter received a “Dear John” letter from his sweetheart. Next thing I knew, I was sitting in one of the chairs on Mr. Mac’s porch. We talked and talked, until I saw my mom’s car pulling up in the drive-way. I almost fell off my seat trying to run to the house. I stopped myself and turned to my neighbor.

“Mr. Mac. Thanks for the-” I cut myself short when I saw his face.

Tears were running down his bony cheeks, and he was staring into the purple twilight. He was still telling his story.

“Saw my friend run up the sand dune…tried to stop him…Too late…red sand, blood…yells, screams…Saw him roll down the hill, like a weighted barrel…Too late…tried to stop him…” Tears ran profusely, shining in the bright lantern light.

I put a hand on his shoulder and felt water on my eyes. Mr. McFinn perked up, shaking himself, as if waking up from a bad dream. He looked up at me with a stern face.

“Young lad, what’s with the shiny eyes? I do not want to see sensitive girly-girls fighting in no-man’s-land! Suck it up, boy!” The pure silliness of it all forced a bubbly giggle up my throat. There was a voice to my left. Both of us whirled to see a plump, matron-like woman standing at the door. She wore a nurse’s uniform.

“Having fun, Walter?” she said kindly, smiling at the two of us.

“Yes, Wanda. Butch and I were having this stirring talk that drove up emotions that I have not felt in a long time. Is it tea-time yet, Wanda?”

“Yes, it is. Has been for 7 minutes. Let’s say goodbye to the nice boy, alright?” She waved farewell at me and walked inside. She brought out a wheelchair from the hall. She hoisted Mr. McFinn from the rocking chair and placed him on the seat. For the first time, I noticed that Walter was missing the front halves of his two legs. Wanda helped him set the bagpipes down. She took the handlebars and wheeled him inside. Just before they closed the door, Mr. McFinn looked back at me and spoke.

“I am very grateful for this riveting conversation, Mr. Malone. It has opened my eyes to see new things. I hope to see you soon.” He winked at me, and the door shut with the clatter of blinds. I stood there for a moment, contemplating his last words. I heard my mom’s voice calling me to dinner. The smell of chicken wafted from the open kitchen window, and I ran full-tilt towards my house. As I ran across Mr. McFinnigan’s green lawn, I was careful to watch for Bouncing Betties.