Free Backward-Facing Man by Don Silver Page A

viewfinder that the man’s right eye wandered. The cameraman slid off the wooden crate and made his way toward the office in the center of the shop.
    It was a curious little room. The outside walls were made of mismatched paneling, which terminated fifteen feet below the roof. There was an air conditioner that spewed moisture-laden air into a factory that must have already been intolerably hot in summer. Above the doorway was a wrought-iron sculpture of a man fishing. Coleman Porter stepped on a doormat that said PUCKMAN SECURITY . Behind him handsets crackled, and there was the generalized hum that seems to accompany disaster. The fat man was mumbling, oblivious to Porter, who tapped lightly on the glass. Getting no response, he turned the knob and pulled the door open so that the two men stood face-to-face.
    â€œI c-c-can’t believe th-th-this. I can’t f-f-fucking believe this,” he stuttered. “I can’t believe this is h-h-happening.” Porter looked down. The man was making rhythmic little circles with one of his orthopedic shoes.
    â€œCan you tell me what’s going on?” Porter asked, flipping his camera on.
    â€œI knew it,” the fat man said. “I knew something bad was going to happen!” His nose was running, and under his glasses his eyes were red from being rubbed.
    Porter put his hand on the man’s shoulder, then walked around him so he could get footage of the paramedics lifting a stretcher with Gutierrez on it into the ambulance. “I’m Coleman Porter,” he said, undaunted. “Independent photographer and freelance journalist. I’m from A and Erie. I was driving past when I heard the sirens.” He took the fat man’s limp hand in his and shook it.
    The fat man groaned.
    â€œCan I get your name, sir?” Porter asked.
    â€œAr-r-thur Puckman,” the fat man stuttered.
    â€œWho’s hurt, Mr. Puckman?”
    â€œG-Gutierrez,” the fat man said as if he was holding his breath. “Ramon Gutierrez. Do you think he’s going to d-d-die…?”
    â€œCan you tell me what happened?” Coleman held his camera at waist level, angling it up toward the man’s face. For once, he was in the right place at the right time. Even better, nobody else would be allowed in once the police arrived.
    â€œI don’t really know.”
    â€œIs this your business?” Porter asked.
    â€œIt’s my dad’s,” Arthur Puckman said, “but he’s in a n-n-nursing home, so now it’s just me and my b-b-brother, Chuck.” Porter’s shoulders sagged. Everything was perfect, except the stutter.
    â€œWhat do you guys do?”
    â€œWe make custom defense barriers and security guards for taxicabs, police cruisers, check-cashing kiosks, and—”
    The photographer feigned a short coughing fit to interrupt the fat man. It was strange to see a guy sobbing into his handkerchief one minute, then pitching his company’s products the next.
    â€œWhat do you do?” Coleman asked, looking for an angle.
    â€œI’m the bookkeeper. Payables, receivables, and payroll…”
    â€œHow about out there?” Porter said, motioning with his free hand toward the factory.
    Arthur Puckman followed Coleman Porter’s hand to an area in the shop. “That’s where we c-c-cut black iron….”
    â€œSo tell me, Mr. Puck Man,” Porter said, interrupting again. “If out there is where you cut iron, how come a guy looks like he’s choking to death?” As many times as he’d been told by Philly news editors that he needed to have a lighter touch, Coleman Porter was not a tactful man. Shifting from one foot to the other, Arthur Puckman seemed alternately to panic and then to compose himself.
    â€œGutierrez should never have been in the t-t-t-t-tank,” the fat man announced. “I told him we shouldn’t even be using that stuff.”
    â€œWhat