The old man, pipe in hand, drink at the ready, sat at his desk overlooking the sea. He couldn’t help thinking he couldn’t remember what he’d been thinking when he started thinking about what he was thinking about now.
A big dog, huge dog really, snored nearby. In the background a mellow cacophony of beatniks walking past three-headed women, under the midnight sun of long-lost love. Don’t take your life for granted choruses. Why don’t you hold on tight to what you’ve been handed. He liked how the music massaged him. Helped with the pain.
I hope your brother’s El Camino runs forever, that was the line running continuously, over and over in his head. The old man thought there was genius and wisdom in I hope your brother’s El Camino runs forever. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. Couldn’t explain it. But he could feel it. He could. And maybe that was the puzzle.
The day was about perfect, patchy blue skies, the water winter choppy. The old man wondered how all the other old men were doing and thought about taking a nap.
Had half a mind to kill the neighbor. So many needed killing, he just didn’t have the energy. And maybe it was wrong. Gotten away with it so far. The key was no discernible pattern.
They all thought he was strange. His car tires ceased rolling completely when the old man came to a STOP sign. He signaled when he was making a turn. And he didn’t signal when he wasn’t making a turn. He stayed to the right if faster traffic approached. He didn’t belong to a political party or drive a golf cart. Nobody came over for coffee and a chat. Zero friends.
Witness protection, the old man thought that was an oxymoron. Where both words together is really two morons. The old man could tell you a few things about witness protection. First thing is, you are never gonna know if his brother’s El Camino runs forever. Witness protection is, you are never gonna see that girl again. Or hear her voice.
The old man sensed he had forgotten what had gotten him started thinking about the neighbor. He blamed the black buzzard soaring in circles, slow circles, like water down a sudden sinkhole.
The bastard killed a gopher tortoise. On purpose. The old man saw him do it.
Six afternoons a week, the old man, he peeked through partially-closed blinds, to see if it was safe to check his mailbox. One day, he looked out and the bastard neighbor just bashed the creature with what looked like a fire ax. He’s maybe ninety years old – the tortoise, not the neighbor – and he made a hole in the yard. Jesus! Get over it.
The old man couldn’t get over it. He just couldn’t. The neighbor in a scratchy voice and a dribble-stained t-shirt had told him to go fuck himself. Words to that effect. He didn’t hear so good, the old man.
But he was still the kind of guy the government thought best to hide.