The Walking Dude

Author’s preface: Though I like to give Stephen King a hard time, see here for a good example, generally speaking I am a fan. I happen to think the Dark Tower could have been the greatest horror/fantasy series of all time if not for the disastrous Susan Delgado and the most cliched Deus Ex Machina ending of all time. Yes, I get it, time is a circle, everything happens over and over. That was clever series ending the first few times someone thought of it, but after ten thousand other examples it just looks lazy. Sort of like, I couldn’t think of anything better so here you go. Almost makes me wish he would have gone the George Martin route and just not ended it. The Stand is another one of my favorites and though it is far from perfect either, as a microbiologist of course I was gonna be favorably disposed to the main plot device and even after so many books, movies, and tv shows, have done the super virus thing to death, King’s version of a slowly falling to pieces world still resonates with me as one of the best, if not the best description of what such a thing would actually feel like to live or die through. This story is a sort of tribute to one of the main characters from that book and other Stephen King stories, the mysterious walking dude. I don’t find him a particularly compelling bad guy, wearing jeans and a jean jacket is about the least scary thing one can do, unless one is trying to frighten the fashion police. Walking is also one of the least intimidating or evil modes of transport, other than perhaps taking ubers everywhere, but I do find him interesting for other reasons. I have also wondered what it would be like to meet him, or a slightly altered version of him in my own world.

There was this guy that I used to see walking in my neighborhood as I peeked through my curtains several times a week. He always had with him two dogs on a leash, a German Shepherd and another large dog which I think, though am not certain, was a Kangal. He always wore a well broken in Australian outback style brown leather hat with the brim mostly turned down, and a pair of high-quality Italian leather hiking boots that were even more broken in than his hat. He also always wore pants, never shorts, no matter what the weather, which is generally hot where I live, and either a plain T-shirt or no shirt at all. Finally, on his hip he carried a small hatchet in a leather holster hanging from his belt. The head of the hatchet was never visible as it was enclosed in a brown leather sheath, but I imagine it was wicked and kept razor sharp. Despite the outback style hat and Italian boots, I was certain he was not of Australian or European origin. I am not sure exactly how I knew this, since even though I can recall in detail the appearance of his dogs and his clothing, I am unable to give any description of what he looked like. Strangely the more I try to remember the details of his appearance, the less I can recall. His face is like a fuzzy mask in my mind, featureless and without emotion.

One day after I had seen him pass my home with his two dogs many times, I worked up the nerve to approach him and spoke, I said, “Hey man, I see you walking by here all the time with those dogs, can I ask you a question?” He stopped, his two dogs quickly sat down quietly beside him, and he looked at me. I know he looked at me, though I am not sure how I knew this since in my mind all I see is a fuzzy mask which could be looking anywhere or nowhere, and he replied “Sure. Ask away.” “Why do you always carry that hatchet with you on your belt?” He looked at me quizzically (once again I have no idea how I knew this since in my memory of it there is no visible emotion in the fuzzy mask in my mind which is what I saw where his face should have been). I stammered, began to sweat a little, and my heart skipped a beat, but I managed to continue. “Every time I see you walk by you have that same hatchet hanging from that same place on your belt. Why?”

He took a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking. At least it felt like that was what he was doing, in my memory there was no outward change in appearance to the fuzzy mask that was his face. “Well son, you see a fella needs to be prepared.” He stopped there, waiting for me to speak, like he already knew what I would ask next. “Prepared for what?” I said meekly. He took a deep breath, tipped his hat down, and looked directly at me as he replied. In my memory of this all I see is his hat being tipped down seemingly of its own accord over that fuzzy mask where his face should have been. “Ya see, one never knows when a deadly super virus might be released from a research laboratory and cause the deaths of approximately half of humanity in under a month. You know, like the kind you see in the movies or maybe read about in that Stephen King book The Stand. And one can never know for sure if it might not just happen that at the same time a global war erupts which ends with the use of thermonuclear and chemical/biological weapons by all sides in the conflict causing the deaths of almost two thirds of those that survived the virus and rendering more than 75% of the planet uninhabitable. The world could be left a post-apocalyptic hellscape with the few remaining human survivors battling amongst each other and a host of mutated, desperate animals for the planets’ rapidly dwindling resources.”

He stopped there and waited patiently as my mind processed the strange and frightening words that had just come from the man with the fuzzy mask for a face wearing a leather hat and boots and a hatchet hanging from his hip. His two very large dogs had not moved while he spoke, and their eyes were closed. It looked to me as if they were asleep and I could not hear them breathing, which strikes me as odd now as I reflect upon it, though at the time, given the overall oddity of the situation I barely took note of it. I was a fan of Stephen King and had read The Stand and my mind of course connected this fuzzy faced fella to the book’s protagonist the walking dude. Mostly because he was a dude and I always saw him walking, and my mind tended to make strange connections like that. In appearance, at least from the parts I can recall, and in demeanor and attitude, he shared little in common with King’s descriptions of the walking dude from the book. For one thing dogs hated the walking dude and clearly fuzzy faced man’s dogs loved him and he loved them in return. This is a thing I also know with certainty. I could tell it from the way they looked at him and behaved in his presence, and how he in turn “looked” and behaved in theirs. I had seen it many times as I had watched him walk by my house with them. When a man or woman has a bond of love with a dog and it is returned by the animal there is something which changes in them both. Though, exactly like the man’s appearance I cannot describe it, I know it when I see it.

Despite that obvious difference and many more I figured we had the Stephen King thing in common so why not press on that and said, “So I guess you’re like the walking dude then, heh? From the book, The Stand?” Immediately he replied, “If that were the case, I don’t think my dogs Mythos and Ethos would be sitting here so calmly. Do you?” I smiled at that but was a little creeped out by how close his remark had come to resemble the thoughts I had in my mind just before asking the question. “Good point.” I managed to barely eek out, then, before I could say anything else he started to speak again. “If a man were to be livin in that world he would always need to be prepared to defend himself. He might carry a hatchet out in the open so those that might mean him harm might reconsider and maybe a few other secret, more powerful, hidden weapons just in case they made the wrong decision after reconsidering.” He paused there and the sun glinted off the fuzzy face underneath the hat making it appear to shimmer like a shiny steel mask and for just a moment I thought I could see two dark holes where eyes should be, and then as quickly as it had left the fuzz dropped fully in place once more. He spoke again and this time his tone darkened. “And, such a man in a world like that would not necessarily look too kindly on folk he didn’t know spying on him as he strode past. In fact, he might think they were considering violence. If they were considering such a thing, seeing this hatchet and my dogs here would hopefully be enough to convince them how bad of an idea that would be.” He stopped there and stood to his full height. Suddenly he had grown by at least six inches, and he towered over me. The sun was setting behind him and the shadow cast by his body and that of his two dogs enveloped me in darkness. The temperature felt like it had dropped by ten degrees and my breath caught in my throat as my lungs struggled to process the suddenly much colder air. “You wouldn’t happen to be such a person, would you son? A person considering violence? Don’t lie to me now, because I will know.” I was shivering and could see my breath as I replied with the little strength I could muster. “No sir. Of course not. I would never be considering such a thing.” And, with that, just as quickly as they had come the cold and the darkness were gone and I stood with the fuzzy faced man, now returned to his normal height, and his two dogs alone in the street as the sun set slowly behind them. He spoke again, his tone returned to a neutral monotone. “That’s good to hear son. Now you best be getting back into your home there and closing those curtains. You never know who you might see walking by your house and you never know what that person might think about you seeing them. It’s better for everyone if you just mind your own self and keep those curtains closed. I’ll be on my way now. Likely you won’t see me again. Likely if you do, you won’t ever after that.” He dipped his fuzzy faced head in a nod, and began to slowly walk away, his dogs stood as soon as he moved and immediately followed, silently, with their eyes still closed. I was scared. More scared than I ever had been in my life up until that point, but my curiosity got the better of my fear and I worked up the nerve to ask just one more question. “Dude, what’s your name?” There was no reply, he just kept walking, his two dogs by his side, slowly down the street, and I stood and watched him until he disappeared exactly as the sun set. The street was dark and quiet. I went inside my house then, shut my curtains, and went immediately to sleep. I’ve not had the nerve to open them again.