I like simple stories. Heroes who are always heroic. Villains who stay villains. People aren’t that way. You can be with people for decades; think you know them and then suddenly find out what you thought you saw wasn’t there. Or was it?
Tony was my hero. I met Tony when I was a bored thirty-something corporate accountant. Tracking other people’s money isn’t exciting.
Tony worked a food cart on the street which sold coffee, tea, juice, bagels and assorted pastries. Each morning, I bought a coffee and a bagel from him. He was a bit shorter than average, slightly heavier than most and you could see he’d had severe acne when he was a teen. All very unremarkable. But Tony’s cheerfulness could console a man diagnosed with cancer. If he knocked on a recluse’s door, he’d be welcomed in. He greeted each customer by name and always had something to talk to them about. If there was no one behind you, he’d talk as long as you wanted.
People in New York City are often suspicious of friendly strangers. I know I am. We wonder if that person is trying to sell us something. Tony never tried to sell me anything.
One day, in mid-winter, I was a bit down. The cold and wind outside seemed to have taken refuge in my heart, as unwelcome as a squirrel who crawls through a hole in your roof and makes a nest in your attic. It wasn’t much really. There was a growing distance with my girlfriend that, like a plunging barometer, indicated that a vicious storm was coming and that our relationship was likely to end soon.
That morning, I asked Tony how he remained so cheerful. It couldn’t be because he was rich. I had a good idea of how little he made. He said that he did meditation, He didn’t add a single word. He wasn’t trying to push it.
A year later, after my mom died, I asked him about meditation. He said the best way to find out was to come to an intro meeting where they’d show you how to do it.
Two weeks later, I went. There was Tony. He was the greeter, not the teacher. He talked to all the people who showed up and he seemed to be genuinely interested in all of us.
The teacher taught a basic meditation concentration technique which he said would lead to happiness. We sat and practiced the technique for fifteen minutes. It was the longest fifteen minutes of my life. One thought or should I say, obsession, chased another, like a cat hunting its tail, screeching every time it caught it. Afterwards he answered questions. The teacher left. I wasn’t impressed. I spoke to Tony, who had a radiant smile. “Your second meditation will be much better,” he insisted. His genuineness got me to give it a try.
There were formal group meditation sessions twice a week. Tony was the greeter there too. If I had a problem with meditation, I’d ask Tony.
Summer rolled around. For two weeks it was brutally hot and humid weather. Tony’s cheer never ebbed. My new girlfriend and I rented a cabin for two weeks in the mountains.
I returned to work on Monday, August 1st. I stopped to get my bagel. Tony wasn’t there. A girl had taken his place. I thought Tony must be on vacation although he hadn’t told he would be, which was surprising. I was sure he’d be back next week. I didn’t go to any formal meditations that week.
He wasn’t there the next Monday. I asked the girl when he’d be back.
“Tony’s dead,” she said.
“What happened,” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
I went to a meeting and asked the meditation teacher about Tony. He said that Tony had been found dead. No one else told me more. I didn’t even know his last name. I asked and someone told me.
A policeman lives down the hall from me. I asked him if he could find out what happened. He agreed. Two days later, he said that Tony had been found in the trunk of a stolen car which had been abandoned on Fire Island. He’d been tied up in a kneeling position and shot execution style. It wasn’t his case, but he’d try to find out more.
I was horrified and baffled. I didn’t really want to know more. I wanted to believe it had never happened.
“You must see this kind of horror often,” I said to my police acquaintance. “How do you deal with it?”
“You have to compartmentalize. Not let it get to you.”
“Tony’s the last person on earth I would have expected this to happen to,” I said. “Life is so much more complex than we want to think.”
“Sure is,” he replied.
“Maybe I should try and investigate.”
“You’d be insane to get involved,” he said. “Leave it to the police.”
“But…”
He raised his voice and said, “No buts about it. If you value your life, don’t get involved.” I felt like a coward, but I followed his advice. Sometimes I regret that I listened.
Twenty-one years have passed. The case remains unsolved. Every August 1st, I hold a private vigil for Tony. I kneel, imagine myself being tied up. A shot rings out. Death. Tony and I are united for a few seconds. I always wonder why I do this? Does it help Tony or me? I don’t think so, but maybe.
Why was Tony killed like that? I still have no idea. Really, I don’t actually want to know.
Raymond Fortunato writes in Westchester, New York. He has published a short story collection, Joyful, Sorrowful and Ordinary Mysteries. A second collection, The Hypókrisis Mirror and Other Stories, will be published in the spring of 2026. He’s interested in humans, how we relate to ourselves, each other and the worlds beyond, seen and unseen. Some of his short stories and music are on his website www.raymondfortunato.com. He posts to Instagram @raymondfortunatoauthor and to X (Twitter) @FortunatoAuthor.
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