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Fiction Short Story

by Stephen Porter

Finding Your Feet

"I can teach you to walk." Adrian's hands gripped the wheelchair and his jaw tightened as he heard those words.

I've known Adrian for a long time. I helped him come to terms with the accident and often listened to the bitter tone his voice carried when he talked about his loss. Sure, Adrian wanted to walk again, but five years passed and he learned to cope with his disability. Of course some days proved difficult to handle, especially when he experienced what he called 'beautiful dreams' during the night; dreams of walking, running or dancing. Dreams so vivid that it took time to adjust to reality in the morning. Being paralyzed from the waist down forced him to accept certain grim facts.

If a doctor offered a new operation that might lead to movement of his legs, Adrian would have signed up for the first procedure. But when an arrogant young man entered our church and said he could teach him to walk, Adrian wanted to punch his lights out. He didn't empathise with this pushy upstart, dressed in a designer black suit (label displayed), gold cuff-links and shocking red tie set against his brilliant white shirt.

After he whispered these almighty words to my mate, the healer smiled and winked at him, and joined the congregation. The believers jumped up and down and cheered like a bunch of kids at a pop concert. Adrian sat and remained silent. Normally he participates in a lot of the discussions, but this day even his mind appeared paralyzed. He gripped the sides of his wheelchair, clenched his teeth and stayed still.

The zealot gave his speech and people became hypnotized by the words. He promised the same salvation as other preachers touted. He explained how he had seen the promised land and how close we all were to unlocking heaven's gate. I hated the guy. However, he captured my attention and I felt enchanted by the way he spoke. I guess it was a combination of his energy, enthusiasm and the weight of his conviction.

He was charming and handsome. You name it and he had it going for him. I guess it's easy to praise the Lord when you got all the attributes this guy had; he was tall and athletic with golden skin and dark, shoulder-length hair. His striking blue eyes reached out to each and every one of us, and we found ourselves captivated by a smile that flashed like a photographer's camera. I am ashamed to say that I felt threatened by him; he made me feel that my own faith and beliefs were weak and false.

Take Marie, she always had time for me, but when this guy entered the room, she completely blanked me as if I didn't exist. Even Old Miss Boyle acted like a love-struck teenager, and she's seventy two! OK, he wore a nice suit, a colourful tie, and aftershave that ignited the senses. He appeared clean-cut, stood tall, and his voice carried a confident tone. He represented all the things I am not. I understood his appeal.

I noticed Adrian stew in his chair. I watched his eyes follow the repulsive chap around the church. His gaze bore where his legs wouldn't take him. I could see that this guy made Adrian's skin crawl, which was unusual because Adrian rarely disliked anyone. If he hadn't said anything to Adrian about walking, we'd have thought he was an alright guy... well to a degree, I suppose.

The young man wandered toward us and stopped right in front of Adrian. He fondled one of the gold cuff links on his designer shirt. I looked at Adrian and his face grimaced as he stared at the young man. The man smiled, stood triumphant, and winked at my poor friend.

Adrian pounced like a boxer at the sound of the bell, and punched this guy square in the face. The audience remained motionless. The first blow split the young man's nose, the second winded the guy and another cracked his jaw. Adrian's feet danced like Ali in his prime. Another punch to the face followed by one to the gut. The healer didn't even try to defend himself, he just took the punishment. Another jab to the face, and another and another! Face! Gut! Face!

Fist against nose, eye and chin. The immaculate guy crucified, beaten to a pulp for smiling and raising the spirits of a congregation, by the most graceful boxing I'd ever witnessed. Adrian stomped out of the place and slammed the church door as he left.

Adrian 'walked' right out of there! I sat mesmerized. When the police arrived, we tried to tell the truth, but a load of lies spewed from our voices. Our fable cleared Adrian of any guilt. As for the healer, he vanished in an ambulance. I've been trying to find him ever since. I'd like to thank him for helping my mate find his feet.


About the Author
Originally from East London, Stephen Porter moved to Milton Keynes (50 miles north of the capital) in 1977 at age 9. He has tried his hand at a number of jobs: underwriting clerk, building inspector, waiter, luggage porter, customer care advisor and many others. He currently works part time on an IT helpdesk and looks after his two young children the rest of the week. He has been married to Deborah for 5 years.

In his twenties, he travelled around Europe, North Africa and the United States over a two-year period (he narrowly missed being caught in the 1989 San Francisco earthquake, leaving the city the day before). After travelling he returned to England to study and gained a degree in English.

"I often write if I feel a bit down and this was the case here, I was looking for a story that would lift myself more than anything. My wife's religious upbringing helped inspire the setting and I liked the idea that popular people are often hated as much as they are loved, and that hate could be channelled to a positive outcome. By the time I had finished writing this one I felt a lot better."