Heads up. What follows is a tale recently serialized – sixteen chapters in the first draft of a short story. A work in progress, maybe. I hope. – JDW
I. – THE OLD MAN SAT AT HIS DESK
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 axe. He’s maybe ninety years old 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.
***
II. – HIS WIFE SAID SHE WASN’T SUSPICIOUS
His wife said she wasn’t suspicious. The old man liked that about her. There is only today, they told each other.
Today she left him alone. She insisted on working still at the emergency room. Too many troubles in that hospital, the old man thought. His wife thought she could help.
The old man sat at his desk and looked out at the water and thought about burrowing owls. When he was hiding in Punta Isles and courting his third wife, not counting the three he didn’t marry, they loved to drive over to The Point in the green Mustang with the top down and and watch the burrowing owls poke their heads up. Those wise birds, so little and cute with bright eyes, reminded him of her. The old man was not so young even then. But she was.
The locals were getting suspicious of the old man who wore a stars and striped tie over a starched stiff white shirt and pleated khakis. Wore a flag pin and pretended to be a pest control salesman and a respected community leader. The old man couldn’t remember which was worse.
That’s when he decided to kill again. He’d been good too long. And he was too good at it to let that annoying piece of shit councilman breathe another breath of Peace River air. The old man had known some good spooks and he had known some bad spooks. Really, who gets drunk at the Slip-Knot and announces to the bar he’s ex-C.I.A.
A raging hairy fat bald douchebag, that’s who. Had to admit he was a little scary, so the old man didn’t apologize for sneaking up from behind the rusted green dumpster and leaving that hairy fat balding scuzbucket bleeding out face first next to an abandoned fishing trailer. The old man saw his shadow bouncing over puddles in the parking lot. His shadow told him he was in the clear.
The sticking point – almost always – was how to get rid of the body. The old man chuckled as he thought of the woodchipper in the movie Fargo. Forensic science had made gigantic leaps forward, if he could believe half of what he saw on CSI and Chicago P.D.
Law and Order not so much. He liked Criminal Minds the best because of those quotes bracketed every episode. Something David Rossi said years ago stuck with him: “Scars remind us where we’ve been. They don’t have to dictate where we’re going.”
Television may be educational. Think about it, the old man wondered. Where have you learned the most new shit? TV, right?
He didn’t think that way. The way he thought was that’s what people think. How do you know it’s so, you ask them. And you hear back, I heard on television. So, why isn’t there any history on the History Channel; why no tunes on the Music Channel? The old man remembered when you could believe what you read in the newspaper. And now that’s gone. And most of the newspapers with it.
The old man learned the best from old cowboy movies and country & western songs. You stepped in when it was time to step in and the rest of the time you stayed out of the way. And when you got where you were going, you found the time – whatever time it took – to do what needed doing.
***
III. – THE NEIGHBOR NEEDED KILLING
The neighbor needed killing. And soon. Like so much these days, the old man’s patience was wearing out. He wasn’t proud to know that about himself. Been through what he’d been through, seen what he’d seen, you’d think some patience might be in order. Yeah, well, you’d think that, wouldn’t you? Get to be old enough, smart enough, sick enough, you’ve just had enough, patience gets a little thin.
Like the January ice on Lake Michigan that father took his four-year-old boy ice fishing. The old man shuttered and thought to hug himself, just grab on and sing Sweet Jesus. All the terrible shit he’d done in his life, he had never taken his four-year-old son out onto the thin ice and didn’t send him back to the mother, his wife, to the rest of the boy’s bright years. How bad would that be?
The old man and his wife might’ve rushed into marriage. To tell the truth, they got married in a fever. Hotter than a Texas sprout, whatever that is. Sounds hot, doesn’t it. Was hot. Never had second doubts. Never so much as even had an argument. Been years now. Been a miracle really. The old man thought maybe he should throw salt over his left shoulder.
The old man secretly liked giving marital advice. I have so much experience, he’d say. A couple smart people get together, previous marriages so bad, they know what to do the next time. The old man told the girl of sparkle that very thing and she bought in. She knew it true. They didn’t rush into anything but happiness.
The old man heard a silent laugh and hollow chuckle was his. Happiness? Was he going soft? You bet. But not so many would know. He cried at the end of sad movies. He cried every time a pet found his way back home. He cried when a little child showed more courage than he’d seen in ten years in politics.
The neighbor needed killing and the old man needed something to do. Thought about going to church, not the kind of place people would go looking for him. That was their mistake. That was the whole point; never be where they thought you might be.
Hell, his life of crime started in church. Place was a gold mine. The old man became a Methodist as a young boy. His dad was Catholic. But The Church had turned its back on him and he had never forgiven. His mom was a Lutheran but the new town didn’t have all that many churches. And the Methodists had the cutest girls and a gym. Broads and ball, that’s what church meant to him. That changed when he got promoted to acolyte. And they left him alone with the offering.
God will understand, a young boy told himself. Just cutting out the middle man. Money supposed to help the poor and I’m poor. Funny thing, turns out while he was sifting through the plates for small bills and collector coins, his little girlfriend was rummaging around in the choir ladies’ handbags. Sitting in the movie balcony on Friday nights, they necked and giggled and tossed raisinets below.
Come to think of it, the old man thought, might have been the beginning of baroque sexual interests. Didn’t know what that meant exactly, but he imagined many worlds contained in those words. A three-letter poem, baroque sexual interest.
Never had been anything sexual about the killing. Just a job. A good job without an office or co-workers or appointments or some fucking boss who is always on your ass to cover his.
To make something sexual out of taking somebody’s life, that was just sick. Reason right there the old man was against the death penalty. Take a close look at the governor as he signs a death warrant. Forget the gleam in his eyes and the moist lips, check for a boner. That’s just not right, the old man thought.
But some people needed killing.
***
IV. – PRESSING IN FROM ALL AROUND
To be honest, the neighbors had just gotten too close to the old man. He certainly couldn’t hide in a hip downtown where might be able to get lost. And they refused to put him deep in the woods, where he fancied he’d find himself. He had only spent half a year in law school. – somebody had a grudge on a professor; job paid for a Five-Series BMW – but dropping him in a gated golfing country club, deed restricted to seniors, that certainly seemed to qualify as ‘cruel and unusual punishment.’
The old man had raised this issue. You are not being punished, you are being protected. They told him that. He had done things and they knew things but nobody could convict. They said they didn’t have enough on the old man. Like that was a bad thing.
So, those motherfuckers put the old man and the young redhead in the middle of a cul-de-sac up against another cul-de-sac. Back to back. The old man thought cul-de-sac was French for ‘dead end.’ Maybe ‘turn-around.’ That or baroque sexual interests.
The winter was the worst. The snowbirds migrated and the roads filled up with orthodox Canadians and stroke victims from Cleveland heavily medicated. Can’t see too good but the car will do forty. In the Wal-Mart parking lot. Restaurants would fill with people who didn’t know what they were talking about but loud enough to hear three tables away. And never interesting. The old man was still puzzled, you’d think you’d hear something fun just by accident.
They can’t walk, some of them, but they always seem to be in the way. The old man knew that might be him someday. Which he also knew was crap because he had a secret nickname for himself. The old man knew he was his Last Victim. He discounted any sudden surprise. Prayer so important.
Before you could say, unknown causes, his was the only occupied home on the circle.
The neighbor behind drove a cart shaped like a nineteen-fifty-seven Chevy, candy-apple red and a lot of chrome. With a long horn, blared over his yappy dog’s shrill bark. Usually, around nap time on a Sunday afternoon, they’d come racing around the intersection. And the old man would be startled to think how any twelve-pound creature could call up such a wail.
The wife said she didn’t notice. And she could hear a demure squirrel break wind half-mile away. The wife said maybe it was just the old man’s mood. Maybe it was time for him to get rid of whatever was bothering him.
Now that he had permission….
Cleaning out his own cul-de-sac hadn’t been much of a problem. Too easy actually. Turns out the elderly die all the time. Some of it was sad, some not so much. The old man had a feeling he should have felt bad about the widow from New York. Slave all your life, finally get to retire and move south, flee all that snow and noise and traffic and two weeks after moving in, boxes still piled on the lanai, the husband drops dead.
FOR SALE in the front window the next day. She never wanted to come here in the first place. At least she didn’t have to repack everything. Seemed like a nice lady.
The neighbor next door in the pink house with the plastic flamingos and concrete pelicans, she was maybe not so nice. When her husband croaked after a four-day bout with cancer – got the news on a Tuesday, didn’t get to Sunday mass – she simply painted over the “Mr.” on the mail box. One pale schmeer, you could see right through. The old man thought she must be one cold bitch.
Which made it all the more fun.
The old man had to stay busy. Had to. Otherwise, he’d go crazy.
***
V. – HE NEVER FORGOT WHAT SHE SAID
He never forgot what she said. After he said what he’d said.
“I know you are,” is what she said.
And what the old man had said, this is true, he had heard himself utter these actual words,
“I am happy.”
I know you are, that’s what she said. I know you are. How many layers are in those words? She smiled her Mona Lisa smile when she said I know you are and she twirled her head like a angelic nymph or nimphy angel. Whatever, there was actually a light around her. A glow radiated.
And the old man knew better than to fuck with that feeling. He wanted to feel it again. And often. Wasn’t that life, really, after all?
Feelings are dangerous. That’s what made the old man so good at his job. No feelings. Ice. But then he got old and he met her and they caught him. Now he was stuck solid in the world’s largest waiting room. And he was feeling unsettled.
The old man needed to get happy again. And soon. But it couldn’t be often. Already pushing his luck. The only hundred-percent means to throw them off the scent would be to get killed himself. Frankly, that was just crazy talk.
Sometimes the old man just had to wait for the accidental opportunity to present an opportunistic accident. He chuckled. If you know what I mean. He loved how so many people said, but of course, of course we know what you mean. But they have no fuckin’ clue. He was who he was, the old man. He liked being happy.
And active. Vital. Relevant. And left the fuck alone!
His wife almost backed over Bubba Roy one foggy morning. Wasn’t her fault. The windows are all steamy and she’s late for work, practically still dark, Bubba Roy tries to stop her by standing behind the Grand Cherokee. Frantic tap on the window. Did she think he and his mother should paint their house white? My wife’s input seemed necessary because she always dressed so nice when she walked the dogs.
Walked the dogs might as well been code. Code for whatever the crazy idiot was talking about. The old man managed to push the guy in the wrong direction, pushed the bastard to safety.
What the hell was he thinking?, he thought.
The old man was thinking two things.
Too much paperwork and no guarantee of the results. None.
And that was crazy.
***
VI. – ANGRY OLD WHITE MEN ARE ANGRY AND OLD
She was taking her usual Sunday afternoon, her lips let little whispered puffs accompany his dog’s snores. It was quiet. A good day to lay low.
Angry old white men are angry, the old man heard that on television. He knew at least one angry old white man. With liver spots, varicose veins and a receding hairline. And he was in good shape. Practically impervious to pain. But he had five grandchildren he never saw. He worried more than he liked to admit. That made him angry. Has the country completely lost its fucking mind?
Years ago, Hunter had told him, ‘you buy the ticket, you take the ride.’ A young man, that might’ve made sense. But now, the old man thought, not so sure. Today the old man was thinking of Papa, a couple lines seemed to speak to him. Every fucking morning, as he inventoried his body. In a constant pale whisper he’d hear echoing in the back of his head; “Today is only one day in all the days there will ever be. But what will happen in all the other days can depend on what you do today.”
And to whom.
Call them angry old white men, gives them too much power. They are really just old men. That’s what really pisses them off. Short fuse but not enough powder.
He had long ago determined better for all concerned if he kept to himself. Especially when he was feeling like an angry old white man. Hadn’t even realized he was like this until the campaigns started a year early and the pundits blamed him personally for all the tragedies on the American landscape.
A Cuban, a Socialist and a realty television star walk into a bar. Don’t get me started, he thought. Then tried to think of anything else. Which was so damn hard sometimes.
VII. – A DESCRIPTION OF SOME HOMICIDAL MANIAC
The old man heard a description of some homicidal maniac. If it bleeds, it leads.
He was washing his morning face listening to the morning news and realized he fit the description.
You ever notice how many of those bastards are killing good-looking young women, lithe with bright smiles? The old man remembered thinking, hey, how about killing some of those old fat guys who took all our shit.
A description of some homicidal maniac would have you believe he spends a lot of time alone. He doesn’t go out much. Quiet, keeps to himself. Wears dark clothing. Never seen him in Bermuda shorts.
You know, that kind of guy.
Probably loves sitting around alone in his house drinking Steel Reserve eating crunchy Cheetos, orange crumbs on a black t-shirt, watching unpopular sports on his gigantic television. Travis Bickle Stays Indoors.
God knows, God knows, he’d tried. But all the neighbors, they look to be crazy. Fucking insane. Just no other explanation. No sane person outlines a driveway with forty-two ceramic animal sculptures. Back away from the kiln, for god’s sake!
One of them, the old man took for a drink. They were waiting at the door when the bartender arrived to open at 3 p.m. The old man couldn’t see to drive after dark. Neighbor was going on and on about the old man’s new Mercedes which is smarter than either can figure out. They were sitting at the Beer Frog and the neighbor couldn’t believe a glass of beer could cost six dollars. Four unbelievable glasses later, neighbor looks at the old man and says, “You’re not like the rest of us. And we know it.” Said it straight out.
They rode back together in silence each thinking, I don’t know about the other guy but I had a good time.
And never again. No! Thank you. Once is good. Thanks.
The old man’s idea of a homicidal maniac was Aileen Wournos. She’s out there killing awful icky awful middle-aged men.
She should have gotten an award.
***
VIII. -THE OLD MAN WAS READING THE SPORTS PAGE ON THE TOILET
The old man was reading the sports page on the toilet. The paper was giving him gas. In between farts, he was talking to himself. Which sometimes freaked the dog out a little. Like he was worried there’d be a test later. Maybe just knew they were alone in the house.
The old man read the brief note “The league is reviewing whether the act of jumping on a player’s back to intentionally foul him should be interpreted as a flagrant foul.” Most places that would be a felony, he mumbled.
The old man read the brief note again. “The league is reviewing whether the act of jumping on a player’s back to intentionally foul him should be interpreted as a flagrant foul.” Just crazy. Like something his neighbors might say. Or, worse, argue about.
Enough to make your ass hurt.
Politics were covered like the sports and sports pages looked like a combination financial report and the police blotter. Give me ten million a year, he thought and I guarantee I will stay out of trouble. He was doing it now for free, pretty much.
The old man read the papers to see who was buying houses nearby and who died. The turnover was nothing if not steady. House prices were climbing back up a little. And the obits were amazing. Who knew there were so many folks out there who all lit up a room and was friends to everybody and performed so much community service?
And not everybody actually dropped dead. A neighbor down the road went to ‘A Home.’ Seems she was on a number of confusing medications. And she was the kind of lady who followed instructions. Why she’d become a Republican in the first place. And if she was supposed to Take Two Upon Rising, she was going to do exactly that. Turns out she napped three times a day and almost overdosed herself.
Some moved north to be closer to the kids. Like their kids wanted to take care of them. A few came back. They’d mumble something about grandchildren and winters if you asked.
Some kids came back with them. Usually from New Jersey. Seems bad as this place is here, it’s better than New Jersey. Maybe he should write a letter to the editor, suggest the Chamber’s new motto: Better Than NJ.
Judging by the looks of her, she was crowned Miss Hooterville 1964 and never got over it. Huge chest, plaid with ruffles, tight jeans and a blonde wig. Drove a big red diesel rig right down the middle of the road and it was up to you to get out of her way. She might wave at the old man as he high-tailed to safety. Bright false teeth shining, she undressed him with her eyes. He didn’t figure she could see so good. Too much medication.
Giselle started to go downhill when her errant son moved back in. Saw that a lot in the great recession. Perfectly groomed home, manicured lawn, polished mailbox, old lady working all the time. A good neighbor except for the truck.
Next thing you know. The old man is listening to more Kid Rock he can stand, like the CIA playing AC/DC to drive Noriega crazy. Lawn going to hell. Smudges on the mailbox. And a living room sofa – striped in an Indian pattern – in the driveway because his mother won’t let him smoke in the house.
Just came jogging right up to the old man. He said his name was Bubba Roy and he was something of a scientist. Mostly self-taught. Finally able to flee home, the old man asked his wife, Remember Reverend Jim on Taxi? Crazy guy with weird eyes and strange hair?
Of course. Loved Reverend Jim!, she says.
Like that, only shorter. And he never stank on TV.
***
IX. – THE OLD MAN SUBSCRIBED TO SPORTS ILLUSTRATED
The old man subscribed to Sports Illustrated. Read that magazine since he was a little boy, since back in the day when professional athletes had jobs selling cars and insurance in the off-season.
Back when everybody knew steak was best for a pre-game meal. And you shouldn’t have sex – whatever that was – for two weeks before the big fight. You could teach yourself to read and write with a subscription to Sports Illustrated. When he’d been on the run, the old man had worried they’d finally find him at the local library, catching up on back issues he’d missed. And he had a thing for librarians, but right now he was reading of the newest darling of mixed-martial arts. An eighteen-to-one underdog, she had knocked out the queen. How was she going to deal with the crown? “Living a comfortable life doesn’t usually result in something big,” is what she said.
What if you think living a comfortable life is itself something big, the old man puzzled.
Killing Bubba Roy may seem a big thing to some people. Maybe the first step to a comfortable life for the old man. And the neighborhood. Yeah, that’s it, just think of me as the Association’s Beautification Committee, the old man thought that kinda funny. A little demented, sure, but amusing nonetheless. Plant a body, feed a tree.
Normally, the old man had a routine. A routine so routine, he didn’t even know he had it himself. Both comfortable and comforting. That’s what scared him. Because he was hiding in plain sight and he had thought he had stopped running. But sometimes the old man just had to smack himself. So he took different roads back home from the gym, never walked the dog the same route. He waved friendly-like at everybody and sometimes used a different name. Hagrid was his first choice. Rarely recognized as a nod to Harry Potter.
The old man bunched his tasks, so if you saw him just the right couple of times a day, he looked like a real go-getter. But he cobbled together those chores like a song, one note after another. One floated into the next. Just efficient. Because once you got him started, he was hard to stop. The problem was getting him started.
Bubba Roy had been on the old man’s list since day one. The kind of guy you wouldn’t let throw water on your house if it was burning. Just looking at him you could tell that. Made the old man’s missus uneasy. And he couldn’t seem to stay the fuck away from them.
Another time there’s a knock on the door. Bubba Roy and his mother want to get a dog and they wondered if the old man could tell them what kind of dog they should get. Some kind of scientist. One that doesn’t bark came to mind. Is it too soon to call Animal Welfare, he wondered. Why don’t you go to the Wal-Mart parking lot and get a free kitten, the old man suggested. Helpfully.
Good idea, Bubba Roy exclaimed. Why didn’t I think of that.
If you killed everybody who pissed you off, where would you put all the bodies? That’s why killing total strangers is so smart; you can leave them how you leave them. Nothing links back to you.
Neighbors on the other hand have to look like they checked out on their own.
***
X. – AN ACCIDENT WAITING TO HAPPEN
As far as the old man was concerned, Bubba Roy was an accident waiting to happen. Just a matter of time. And the time was nigh, he thought. Next thought, you have never known, never known, what the fuck a nigh was. His wife would probably just look it up on one of her newfangled technological things. The old man, no idea about fangles of any age.
Being something of a scientist, Bubba Roy didn’t seem to require any instructional manuals. Once he got the sofa out on the front yard and the table for the ash tray and beer bottles, turn up the music, place was nicer outdoors, so his mother would join him. Imagine a pale zombie kabuki dancer in shiny short-shorts and a fluorescent tank top.
Bubba Roy did all the wiring himself. Which apparently pulled out when his mother tripped in the dark. She couldn’t see so good. That explains the new Polynesian lights.
The old man had a pair of binoculars for bird watching. Turd watching now, he chuckled. Sometimes he amused himself.
Lot like reality television. Like Duck Dynasty meets one of those scientific guys looking for aliens and shit. Bubba Roy should have his own show. He had gone around the neighborhood telling folks he was something of an electrical engineer – self-taught – and did they have any small appliances needed fixing. The old man wanted to tell Bubba Roy about his wife’s broke vibrator. Thought better of it. That was a Ray Romano move.
If his missus, if she killed him, the old man, who would get rid of Bubba Roy? As chairman of the Neighborhood Beautification Committee, it was clearly his duty. Fearing the glare of stringent and uncomfortable enforcement, the old man had limited membership to one. Wouldn’t want to break any sunshine laws. And nobody to testify against him.
So the old man just watched through partially opened, almost closed blinds. And before you knew it, he wasn’t retired, he was on a stakeout.
Bubba Roy, he’s got a power saw, soldering iron, a gas grill, a lawn mower, a hoist, anything could happen. A drill. That’s all so dangerous. Hope he’s careful, the old man said.
Once every three years, a couple died of natural causes. In a fire maybe. Or a gas leak. He liked that better. Sometimes a gas leak followed by fire. Which usually meant !explosion! And very little evidence. The fire was too personal, inhuman, and he just couldn’t bring himself to go pyrotechnical all over somebody’s ass. Except for special occasions, the old man thought. Like that guy on Kelly Ridge who swerved to hit the sand crane. Exploded into a ball of grey feathers, crumpled stick figure. Drove OUT OF HIS WAY to kill another living creature. Well, if he could do that, so could the old man.
And when those deaths were mentioned, the deaths, he pretended his hands were clean. They thought it was an act. Which tells you something about your local law enforcement. Actually, house fires are fairly rare. That’s why they’re such at hot topic in the news. Plus a conflagration involving the loss of human life gives good video.
The old man thought of Joan of Arc every time he heard somebody died in a fire. Always thought Joan deserved better. Not that she needed it.
The old man and his wife watched a drama – maybe you saw it? – starring Richard Dreyfus as a pretty credible Bernie Madoff. Sixty billion dollar ponzi scheme. And he bragged he was the greatest crook in history.
Bullshit! What’s wrong, honey?
The old man hadn’t realized he was talking aloud. Was this becoming a problem, he wondered. The greatest crook in history doesn’t get caught. The greatest doesn’t die in a jail cell, playing cards with forgers and purse snatchers. Think about it, people. You got caught. That’s not great.
Would you like me to get you a beer? Please.
***
XI. – HOPE HE’S CAREFUL, THE OLD MAN SAID
Bubba Roy, he’s got a power saw, soldering iron, a gas grill, a lawn mower, a hoist, anything could happen. A drill. That’s all so dangerous. Hope he’s careful, the old man said.
The old man reviewed the options through the cracked blinds, morning sun behind him. He couldn’t really do what he wanted to do. What he wanted to do was to tape Bubba’s balls to a generator and clip his boobs to a RV battery and shove that leaf blower he started at seven-thirty one Sunday morning right up his ass. Turned on high. Then the old man would lower the blades on the noisy fucking lawn mower that only started up when he was trying to nap. And drive it back and forth over his face. Full-throttle.
Only then would I use the hoist, he thought. Make it look like suicide.
Leave a note.
Oh, Christ. Just what would Bubba Roy’s note say? The old man decided such a composition would require the skills of a consummate and talented professional. He took a walk and got a beer.
What would a moron – self-taught – say in a farewell address. Probably keep it short.
Something warm like… Mom, this is not what it looks like. Got the lawn mower fixed. Have a nice day. Bubba Roy.
The old man walked whenever he was confronted by something he didn’t understand. Big reason he was so skinny.
A power saw would just be too messy. Got all tingly thinking about carving a large slice out of Bubba Roy’s southern brisket. So fun that would be. But too messy. Much too messy. The old man decided to go with the hoist. Had a certain auto-erotic asphyxia sense to it. And he wanted the motherfucker to suffer. Wanted to see his legs twitch and reach for life.
Shit got personal at seven-thirty one Sunday morning when Bubba Roy started pressure-washing his driveway. You could hardly hear Kid Rock over the whooooshing noise. Don’t get me started. Just the other day Bubba Roy had dropped a bag of fertilizer on a fire ant mound and drowned the whole pile in gasoline. Something of an animal behaviorist – self-taught – Bubba Roy was none the less surprised when the ants only became more belligerent.
More retirement communities should have science fairs. Just an idea. But Bubba Roy, the self-taught entomologist-slash-chemist, drags that block of crap looked like IED out in front of his driveway and tries to prove you can melt a toxic chemical down the road and all that is left is a gigantic orange stain like a red carpet in front of the old man’s lawn, now poisoned back a good three inches. Edged so to speak. As was the old man.
Definitely, the hoist. And the note? Two words, two screams scratched on a pizza box,
NO MORE.
***
XII. – AN ADDICTIVE PERSONALITY
The old man had an addictive personality. He knew that about himself. He knew that much. Liked to think it meant you couldn’t get enough of him.
His wife told him he was wrong about that. Doesn’t mean you are charismatic or attractive, she told him. Means you have trouble controlling yourself.
He was always trying to prove her wrong. And failing, falling flat on his face. But always trying. You could say he was addicted to trying. He tried and he felt good and then the feeling would wear off. So he would try again, searching for another hit of effort and self-restraint. Crazy.
The old man woke up one morning and found a strange note next to his chair. Written in pencil In his own handwriting. Note said: Had one of those days where I did everything right but then I ate too many chocolate chip cookies. You are getting wound real tight if you are worried about too many cookies at midnight.
The old man had a hearing problem, she’d tell you that, too. At least he thought that was what she said. But this way is better, far funnier. Just this morning, he’d heard on Fox News, “a Chinese beacon on the hill.” Something Reagan supposed to have said. And on another channel, the amazing scientific discovery – which Einstein had suggested a century ago, “nipples in space.”
Guess that means there really is an heaven, the old man thought.
Killing is like drinking for some and the old man knew he was a drunk.
***
XII. – KILLERS ANONYMOUS
My name is Not Important and it’s been eight hours since my last homicide.
When they came to the door, the old man was on his spinbike and he was watching a movie. A riveting film yet one left time for your mind to wander. Against The Sun, true story about three Navy airmen lost and out of fuel in the middle of the Pacific. No food, no water. Rescued thirty-four days later, the story happens in between. A story of strength and luck and tenacity and hope. A tale of survival. Hell, that was the story of his whole life. Story of most people. Most of us just aren’t lucky enough to get jumped on by a shark.
And some of us are the shark.
All the old man knew about sharks is sharks had to keep moving to stay alive.
It wasn’t his fault. Really, it wasn’t. A couple days ago, wife napping, ballgame on – his team winning, bet covered – dogs sleeping, beer nearby, just a lovely Sunday afternoon. And then canine chaos, woof! on my God woof! Somebody seems to be breaking into the lanai. Bubba Roy was shaking the screen door like he couldn’t believe it was locked. Why would anybody lock his doors?
Bubba Roy wanted to know if the old man would like to buy some of his artwork. He is a bit of an artist – self-taught – and well, what do you think? The old man thought Mrs. Draughn down the street might be missing a couple of outdoor ornaments from her backyard tiki hut. This one is me, he said, the other is my mother. Some things cannot go unseen.
What’s the ruckus, Mr. Sweetie? his wife asked. That’s what she called him. He hoped she wouldn’t make him watch a movie on Lifetime. But let’s face it, the day the old man planned, a double-header and a six-pack, that day was dead.
Apparently, Gisele had found the body as she was heading out to a Bingo for Singles meeting. They like to start early in case somebody gets lucky. Apparently, Bubba Roy had wrapped a length of leaf blower cord around his neck, looped it over a hoist and leaped off a wooden Taste-Lee box. Apparently.
The papers said there was a note but its contents were being withheld by the family.
The old man told the deputies all he could. He hadn’t seen anything. He didn’t hear anything. He didn’t know anything. And, of course, he would be happy to help in any way he could.
He could help. He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t help the door was unlocked. Couldn’t help Bubba Roy was passed out drunk and there were all those dangerous tools and a wooden milk box. Couldn’t help if the guy was so unhappy. Maybe the old man could help move the furniture back into Giselle’s house. Maybe now she could have her special plumbing handyman visit again soon. Maybe he could have some damn peace and quiet.
A chocolate chip cookie would be good about now. Just one.
Or two.
***
XIII. – What Relatives Are Calling A Diabolical Devil-Worshiping Ritual
And why did this have to be the first thing he heard in the morning? A Houston teen has allegedly confessed to murdering his best friend in what relatives are calling a diabolical devil-worshiping ritual.
First of all, that seems redundant, you know, a diabolical devil-worshiping ritual. You mean there’s another kind of devil-worshiping ritual?
And at what point in a young person’s life does devil-worshiping seem like a good decision? So many questions.
Skip school, drink beer, steal a car, be normal. The old man was still not completely over high school.
The old man’s wife said a human’s brain isn’t fully formed until she was twenty-three or he was twenty-four. Way he remembered it, men got an extra year just to be safe. Apparently, the old man had been an outlier and not in a good way.
When a reporter asked the lad’s father, “Has your son talked about the devil and worshiping him?” he replied, “Yeah. He just said he don’t believe in God; he just believe in the devil.”
The old man simply did not know what to think about this before his first fucking cup of coffee. His wife had left the TV on and suddenly he had to listen to where Charlie Rose had been all weekend while Gayle King was jetting around with Oprah. You ever notice how the private planes of annoying people never crash into each other in mid-air. Yeah. Me, too.
Later – oh the luck – the old man came across the story online, a technology he believed to be both devilish and diabolical. The old man read aloud to himself and the old dog who continued to sleep.
Meanwhile, a woman who said she was the suspect’s mother echoed these claims. She told ABC 13 her son composed devil art and killed family pets.
“I didn’t raise him like that, as a child he was born and raised in the church home,” the mother said, adding, “He doesn’t believe in God, he believes in the devil.”
The woman said she expected her son to be arrested for Ryan’s murder at any time, ABC 13 reported. “He did the crime he needs to do the time,” she said.
Still, Christina Roberts wasn’t buying suggestions that her son’s alleged killer was in the throes of insanity or possessed by Beelzebub.
“He’s trying to play like he’s crazy,” Roberts told KHOU. “He’s far from it. He know right from wrong.”
She added, “My son did not deserve to die the way he died.”
I know what you’re thinking, the old man told the dog. Was she really the suspect’s mother or not?
Kinda hoping those family pets were cats, the old man chuckled. Yeah, maybe that’s what you were thinking? Want to go for a walk?
Rather go for a run. But the old man and the old dog knew they were both, plain as fact, too old.
It was good anyway. Every day is an important day.
He did his best thinking on the walks. Does the announcer really need to explain the split screen to us? “The men on the left, the women on the right.” Trust me, I can still tell the difference; I’m old, I’m not dead, the old man thought. Mostly the pony tails give the girls away.
Day too late he finally thought of a good suicide note.
“The world is too noisy. And that’s just in my own head. Need some quiet time.”
Pinned to Bubba Roy’s plaid shirt.
The old man wondered maybe they hadn’t seen the pizza box.
***
XIV. – OH, MY ACHING BACK
The old man told Giselle he couldn’t help her lift the sofa up those stairs into her house. The old man had a bad back, he told her.
Oh, okay, he was more than a little scared she would jump his aged ass. She was squinting at him, looking at him like he was just a morsel of awesome male awesomeness. He couldn’t be imagining this.
He’d rather pick up the sofa.
The old man told her he was interested in some of Bubba Roy’s art. The old man knew once an artist dies, prices often skyrocket. Who’s to say? Just compare, that’s all he asked. Stuff looked a helluva lot better than a million dollar Rothko.
The old man had long been puzzled by that man’s acclaim. Who was kidding whom? HEY! He wiped down a monotone square in one coat of solid black. Look for yourself.
Old man couldn’t help but notice, those tikis kinda did favor the artist and his mom.
Certainly more decorative than that Rothko. And Bubba Roy was self-taught.
***
XV. – THE OBITUARY
The old man had never managed to be nice to everybody. Everybody was just too many.
Misanthrope is a word too often misunderstood. Not that the old man didn’t like people. He simply could not abide thoughtlessness or cruelty or stupidity or rudeness or bullying or a lack of consideration for the rights of others.
Like peace and fucking quiet. Really, what requires six hammer blows at seven a.m. and another six hammer blows at noon and another six blows of the same force round about three p.m? What are you doing? Crazy.
The obituaries in the Sunday paper took up three full pages 10-B to 12-B.
The old man had started reading the obits religiously when he stopped going to church. Too many new faces at church, too many cheery greetings and the singing was bad enough to cause ear aches.
The picture had to be forty years old. But there he was, innocent face beaming, wearing a cap and gown. If you can imagine that.
Bubba Roy Bobbie Lee Moore, died peacefully surrounded by his family’s love. The son of Giselle, “Burble” as he was known to kinfolk, was an enthusiastic dynamite fisherman who loved to entertain friends the French way al fresco. Bubba Roy, who also used the names Tom Jones, Jeff Koons and Tony Montana, gave freely of his mind and his heart no matter what role he played. Rejected as a Section 8 due to a misunderstanding of which he never spoke, Bubba Roy loved to knit beer cozies for disabled veterans. He hoped someday to take up wind surfing. Bubba Roy transformed his family’s home into a winter wonderland in the Christmas season. Countless animated and glowing ornaments could be enjoyed by others right up to St. Patrick’s Day. His thirst for knowledge and acumen for learning enabled him to excel in various industries from electronics to floral design. He could carve a miniature ship in a bottle out of a single bar of soap. He shaved his legs. Bubba Roy loved his quiet moments. He was a foodie who enjoyed all the local cuisines from Bob Evans to the Golden Corral. His positive giving nature was shared with all around him. Bubba Roy will be missed dearly by all those who knew him. Send flowers.
The old man missed him already.
***
XVI. – QUIET TIME
I wasn’t there and if I was, I was sleepwalking.
And really, at the end of the day, what is more human than killing somebody? Besides, if you think about it, he really punched his own ticket himself.
The old man had some quiet time to do serious thinking. Always like this after he completed a beautification project.
His hearing hadn’t improved, which he figured was normal. Today somebody introduced rock icon Patti Smith. The old man heard Pantie Sniff. Maybe it wasn’t his hearing after all.
Throughout the history of mankind, eons of humanity, most folks didn’t live to be as old as the old man.
Not everything has to be about anything.
He spent too much of his idle time watching real estate porn. Searching for places to live out his golden years in the sun near the water with a big dog and a little woman. When he won the lottery. Every man is a junkie for something. He was a dreamer with an addictive personality.
He spent too much of his time watching B-movies of cowboys crawling through the desert without water on a broken leg rescuing their wives from cannibalistic troglodyte Indians. Which is how it felt to grow old. Old age is not for sissies. So his love for tales of survival. A man may plot his course but God decides. Are you really ready for a zombie apocalypse?
Hurt to move. Hurt not to move. So, the old man kept moving. His mother taught him that. Adapt, she said. Get used to it, she said.
Thought of himself like an iceberg. Hemingway wrote, ” The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water.” He was cold and he was – to a large extent – invisible. Hemingway also said, “Anything you know you can eliminate and it only strengthens your iceberg.” Well, there you go.
The old man was an iceberg. And there was much left unknown.
He read more than most. Just couldn’t remember shit.
He listened to current artists. A young friend had just discovered a band and asked the old man, Do you like Led Zeppelin?’ Of course, the old man replied. But, good as they are, after forty years or so, you have heard them. He was to be honest more a Pearl Jammer. And some of the new kids aren’t so bad. Just give them a chance.
When it was his time, when God decided, the old man just wanted his ashes put into a warm blue sea. Where a fish might drink him and a bird might take the fish for a flight. Into the warm blue sky.
***