Normal Guy

Mr. Herbert Hinkelman walks at a steady, sure pace, as he does every evening. He walks southeasterly on Grand, through the lower east side towards the East River, as he has done every evening for the past eight years. He is heading home for the night, ambling towards the brownstone apartment building at number 4476 that overlooks the Williamsburg Bridge. He walks ignored and unnoticed. He is unassuming, inconspicuous and completely unremarkable among the throng in which he casually blends in. His suit is brown, his shoes are brown, and his hat is brown. He is little more than a brown blur, a mélange with the brown facades of the brown buildings and brown streets that he passes by. If you saw him, you wouldn’t even look twice. If you did, you would likely only see just another man in the city of a million or more such men. Hebert Hinkelman prefers it that way.

The thing that Marjorie, who works the register most nights at the convenience store on the corner of Mulberry and Grand, ever noticed about the man was his nails. They were always neat, trimmed and clean. She could also say for certain that he usually smelled faintly of Irish Spring soap. Beyond that, she couldn’t really tell you much about Herbert Hinkelman. She didn’t know if he was married, if he had children, where he worked or lived, if he rooted for the Yankees or the Dodgers. She could possibly guess at his age, but it would only be ballpark. She might even hazard to speculate on his height, weight or possible hair-color, but she couldn’t be absolutely sure, not to swear to. He was only a semi-regular customer, after all, who rarely spoke or did anything to stand out or apart from the hundreds of other people who everyday came and went through the same heavy glass door with the iron grates and the clanging bell hanging on a chain from the handle.

Melvin “Boots” Bootman sold Hinkelman a paper every morning from his newsstand on Lafayette, but the best that Boots could remember was that he always had the correct change. Ten thousand people, possibly more, passed by Bootman’s paper stand every morning. Ten thousand people that Boots paid little or no attention to, especially if they didn’t draw attention to themselves. How could he be expected to remember one non-descript guy who didn’t speak and always had the correct change. If pressed, and only after a moment of deepest contemplation, Boots might possibly be able to offer up that Hinkelman was just a normal guy, your typical fellow, the kind you see everywhere in Lower Manhattan.

Mrs. Grabaldi swept the front stoop of the Shadow View apartment building near Madison and Grand every evening before going in to watch Honeymooner’s reruns on channel 7. She could tell you, with absolute certainty, that the man who lived all the way up on thirteen was quiet, respectful and well-kempt. After more than eight years, she still did not know his name, because she thought it impertinent to ask. And as he not yet replaced the old name tag on the apartment directory, Aida Feinster’s name was still attached to 1309, though she had passed away in ‘98. Oh, and he was polite, that Mrs. Grabaldi could also attest to. “Good evening, Mrs. Grabaldi.” he said, tipping his hat. He did so occasionally, when he saw her sweeping, she wasn’t already engaged in conversation with Bette Finn or old Mister Potter out walking his nervous little Papillion dog.

Hinkelman’s routine, as far as anyone could say for certain, never varied. It was always the same. That he was a typically normal, sometimes polite brown haze with neatly trimmed nails, smelling faintly of Irish Spring, jingling with change and striding down Grand Street in the morning and striding back in the opposite direction in the evening, was all anyone could say about him with any conviction. Most people, that is, but not Melinda Perry. Melinda, formerly the 2006 and 2007 Miss Hamilton Fish Park as well as honor student at Henry Street High School, currently a temp receptionist for Geller and Geller during the day and city college pre-business major at night, went missing 3 days earlier. She now finds herself bound, gagged and blindfolded in the back of the bedroom closet of the flat at 1309. Melinda does not think that Mr. Hinkelman is just a typical, normal guy. Rather, Miss Perry, torn silk blouse and runs in her stockings notwithstanding, would likely argue the opposite, if she didn’t have a gag stuffed in her mouth. She would say that he was anything but an average man among men. In a city full of conventional men, Herbert Hinkelman was an aberrant.