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The sadness of waffles drives me to Craigslist. Happens like that sometimes.

Amelia got the house in the divorce. And the TV. And the couch. And the microfleece blanket we used to snuggle under as we watched that TV on that couch in that house. She got almost everything.

I got the waffle iron. And the dog.

I’d say I made out okay.

In hindsight though, I should’ve let her keep the waffle iron, too.

The waffle iron was a wedding gift, and one morning I got the bright idea to surprise my new bride with waffles for breakfast.

Amelia was surprised alright. She was so surprised that when the smoke alarm started bleating and the house filled with acrid smoke produced by the carbon squares that were technically waffles, she almost called 911. Apparently there’s a learning curve to making waffles. Things they don’t tell you in Home Ec.

After that, thanks to Amelia and her firm grasp of the culinary arts, I learned how to make waffles. They became the cornerstone of our marriage, really. Waffles on weekend mornings. Waffles for dinner sometimes. Waffles on our anniversary, even.

You know when you see a couple laughing about something, and you ask what they’re laughing about, and they tell you, but you don’t get it because it’s some cutesy inside thing that only they get? For Amelia and me, waffles were that cutesy inside thing.

I should’ve known things were bad when she started to want pancakes.

I install myself in an apartment that has a wonderful view of an alley where several homeless people shit in the morning. And afternoon. And evening. That’s the apartment’s only redeeming quality.

One morning I’m hunched over the faded linoleum kitchen counter, staring at the brushed chrome surface of the waffle iron. The box of Bisquick sits next to the mixing bowl, which is flanked by milk, eggs, vegetable oil. I have everything I need except the will to make the stupid things.

I regard the iron some more, give up, fill the mixing bowl with Corn Pops, splash in some milk.

Standing over the kitchen counter, I shovel soggy Pops into my mouth, chew slowly. I pick out a few mushy nuggets, feed them to my dog, Bella. Then I pad over to the living room, Bella trailing me.

I plop down on my futon, the only piece of furniture I own. The green mattress is strewn with a blue sheet, an off-white comforter, a flattened pillow. There are sour cream and onion potato chip crumbs scattered about, remnants from the night before. I pick my laptop off the floor, boot it up.

Bella hops up next to me, the patch of white, arrow-shaped fur on her forehead contrasting against the brown. She sniffs at the potato chip crumbs, mewls. I give her a few more Pops. She sucks them down, lays her head in my lap. She’s the only bitch who sticks by me.

The laptop wheezes to life. I check my email, find a message from my buddy, Florist, in my inbox.

The subject is “Gonna try to bang this crazy broad.” All that’s listed in the body is a link to a Craigslist personal ad.

I have another spoonful of Pops, suck in an errant droplet of milk that’s threatening to add itself to the stains on my t-shirt, click the link.

The headline reads, “My pussy is dripping, will you fill it?” The ad says, “I’m a super horny 25-year-old looking for a hung dude to watch me pee and then fuck me in front of an open window. Send pic (full body, dick out) to get one back. Must be able to host.”

Jesus.

To Florist, I write, “Don’t get stabbed.” I send my reply, return to Craigslist.

Florist’s been using Craigslist to hook up with randoms for a while now. The last girl he was with was really into being choked. When I asked Florist if that was weird, he said, “Fuck no, it was awesome!” Before that, it was a girl who loved being fisted. When asked if that was weird, he said, “Fuck no, it was awesome!”

At the time, I was skeeved out by Florist’s debauchery. At the time, though, I was still married. Now, sitting in front of a computer cruising the Casual Encounters listings with nothing but a big-ass bowl of cereal and my dog for company, I get it. Loneliness is like Amelia; it’s a fickle cunt.

I’m clicking on random ads, most of which echo the one Florist sent me. One catches my eye. The headline: “Cute married chick looking for NSA hook-ups.” The ad says, “I’m looking for a regular, NSA, DDF friend with benefits. I’m married so it needs to be super discreet. And please, no questions about personal life. I’m 28, 5’5, 120lbs, red hair, hazel eyes. Send a pic to get a pic.”

Always had a thing for redheads. Amelia’s a redhead.

I hoist the mixing bowl to my lips, guzzle the sugary milk. I belch, look down at Bella. “What do you think, Bell?” I say. “Should I answer?” She yawns. I take that as a yes.

Before I compose my reply, I run through some photos stored on my hard drive. I find a recent one of Amelia and me. We’re smiling like our world isn’t going to violently bisect at any moment. The memory stabs. I shake it off, crop out Amelia, resave the picture.

I go back to my email, bang out a message: I’m interested, I’ll be discreet, blah blah blah. I attach the photo, send it off.

I hear nothing from the redhead, forget all about the ad. When I finally get an email from her, it says more or less what mine said: if you’re interested, let me know. A picture is attached.

I click on the attachment. The photo fills my screen. Her skin is pale, her neck long, her shoulders broad, her breasts small. Her face is round and freckled, a small collection of acne scars on each cheek. She has long, curly, orange-reddish hair.

“Hmm,” I mutter. “Not bad.” I type a reply.

I hear back from her a little later. She says her name is Vera and that she likes the cut of my jib. Tough to tell if she’s making a joke. Probably she is.

We decide to meet at a Holiday Inn Express in northwest Portland in a couple days. I tell her to call the front desk when she gets there, have them transfer the call to my room, at which point I’ll give her the room number. She agrees.

I buy a pay-as-you-go phone from a convenience store.

I figure if this goes well, she might want to hook up again. I’d rather not give her my actual phone number because I use my phone for work.

Florist told me a story after he started up with all this Craigslist stuff. He met a girl on there, gave her his cell phone number. One night he got a call from a number he didn’t recognize. He was half in the bag so he answered with his “sexy voice” and asked the caller if she was fingering herself. “She” was Florist’s boss, Paul. Paul was calling from another phone because his cell phone died, and he needed Florist to fix something on some report. Florist got the heave-ho due to “insufficient performance,” but Florist and I both knew it was because of that phone call. Lesson learned: don’t use a work phone for anything but work.

I show up to the hotel an hour before we’re supposed to meet. I get a room, go up, lie down on the bed.

I turn on the television, flip through the stations idly, switch it off.

Half an hour passes. I have second thoughts.

I use the bathroom, finish, decide this isn’t for me, go to leave. The phone rings. I pick up. A buttery voice says, “Hey, it’s Vera.” I give her the room number.

A few minutes later there’s a knock at the door. I answer.

Vera wears a black down vest over a white long-sleeve shirt. Brown leather boots cover the calves of her tight jeans. I stifle a grin – she’s dressed like Han Solo.

She smiles, sticks out her hand. “Hi. I’m Vera.”

“Lyle,” I say, taking her hand. Her grip is warm and firm, her skin soft.

I stand there, grinning like an idiot.

Her brow raises slightly.

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Come in.”

Vera crosses the threshold, hitches up a satchel-style purse on her shoulder.

She walks to the foot of the bed, looks at the nightstand. Three condoms sit on top of it.

“Oh, um,” I say. “I didn’t mean to.” I put my hands on my hips. “Shit.”

She moves toward me. I’m pretty sure she’s going to walk right by and out of the room. She stops inches in front of me, kisses me. We move toward the bed.

We undress each other down to our underwear. I have my hands at the waistband of Vera’s panties. She pulls away, goes to the window, closes the shades, plunging the room into near darkness.

She comes back to bed, pulls the sheets aside, slips in. She smiles, reaches under the covers. She pulls out a lacy purple thong, fires it at me like a rubber band. It hits me in the face. She giggles, motions for me to join her.

As I slide in between the sheets, Vera turns onto her side, facing the window, away from me. I remove my underwear, spoon her. My boner parks itself in the crack of her ass. She cranes her head back, kisses me, grinds her ass against me.

I reach around to her crotch. She intercepts my hand before I make it there, directing it to her mouth instead. The diamond of her wedding ring winks at me as she sucks my finger. When she’s finished she puts my wet finger on one of her nipples, tracing little circles with it. She moans, says, “Get a condom.”

I grab a rubber off the nightstand. I start to roll it on, and Vera reaches back to finish the job. Then, still on her side, she guides me inside her.

Pumping away, I feel like a marionette. She’s pulling the strings; I’m moving to her whims. Dance, puppet! Dance!

Vera moans intermittently. Each one is soft, barely audible, like her parents are in the next room. She clenches up as I’m about to come. When I do, she shivers, says, “Mmm.” I assume she came, too.

She sighs, gets out of bed, gathers her clothes from the floor, beelines to the bathroom. I pull off the condom, search for something to wrap it in. She emerges from the bathroom fully dressed, a Wookiee being the only thing missing from her ensemble.

She picks up her purse, rifles through it. The room is still bathed in darkness so I have no idea how the hell she can see what she’s looking for. A second later she pulls out a slip of paper. She places it on the foot of the bed. “Call me sometime,” she says. “I had fun.” She hurries out of the room.

I drop the condom on the bed, reach for the paper. It’s got her name and number on it.

I sit back against the headboard, study the piece of paper. Vera’s handwriting is the nicest I’ve ever seen.

I feel a wetness against my leg. It’s the condom, leaking onto the bed. Yuck.

I stare at the rubber, all used and forgotten. “I know how you feel,” I say.

A couple days later I text Vera from my burner. I hear back immediately. We decide to meet at the Holiday Inn again. She texts me the room number, tells me to just come up.

I get to the hotel, wander up to the room, knock out “Shave and a Haircut” on the door. She opens up, greets me in nothing but a pink thong. This one appears to have a silky quality to it. I mean, I think it does. The shades are drawn again, so it’s tough to see.

Vera pulls me into the room and kisses me so hard our teeth click together. She pulls back, giggles, kisses me again.

Unbuttoning my pants, she leads me to the edge of the bed. She yanks my pants down to my ankles, taking my boxers with them, pushes me onto the bed. Leaning over the bed, she proceeds to give me a blowjob.

I’m close to coming when she stops and rolls a condom onto my dick.

She turns around, squats over me, pulls her underwear to the side, rides me reverse cowgirl-style, makes very little noise. Once again, it’s her show. I’m just the apparatus, so to speak.

Like our first time together, we finish simultaneously. And like the first time, she scurries to the bathroom immediately after, scooping up her clothes along the way.

I stare at the ceiling. I feel dizzy and disoriented, like I just fucked a tornado. Is that good? Bad?

Vera steps out of the bathroom fully clothed, throws her purse over her shoulder. Instead of making a speedy exit, she crosses to the window, flings the shades open. The afternoon sun spills into the room. I squint.

She takes a yellow elastic from her wrist, ties back some of her hair so that a small bun sits above a curtain of orangey curls. She narrows her eyes at me. A beat passes. “You want to get some coffee? I know a great place.”

Still staring at the ceiling, I say, “Sure.”

“Ohhhh shit,” Vera says. “They have strawberry millefeuille. If I get one, will you have some?”

We’re at St. Honoré Boulangerie, down the block from the hotel. Vera stares at the case of pastries next to the cashier.

“Um,” I say. “Meal what?”

“It’s a pastry, son.” She smiles, points to the case, to the cake-lookin’ thing with strawberries in it.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll try some, I guess.”

“Alright,” she says to the cashier, “one strawberry millefeuille, one café au lait for me, and,” she turns to me, raises her eyebrows.

“Oh, uh,” I say. “Just a coffee, please. Black.”

“And two blackberry macarons, please.” She turns to me. “Trust me, you need to have one.”

I nod slowly.

The cashier punches keys on the register, gives us the total. I take out my wallet, produce a credit card.Vera makes a face. “Let’s pretend you didn’t just do that,” she says. “I got this.” She pays the cashier. We take our pastries and coffee to a table.

I sip my coffee, take a forkful of the millefeuille. It’s rich, creamy. Berry-y.

“Well?” she says.

I shrug. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” she says. “It’s almost as good as what I had in Paris.”

“You live there or?”

“I studied abroad for a semester in college,” she says. “Ever been to France?”

I shake my head no. Amelia always wanted to go. I could never get away from work.

“So, um, where do you live?” she says. “Thought you said no personal stuff.”

“I just put that in there because other people had it in theirs,” she says. “I don’t actually care.”

“Ah,” I say. “I live in South Tabor.”

She smiles. “Oh wow, that’s not far from me,” she says. “I live in Sunnyside.”

“Oh. Cool. You, um.” I sip my coffee, clear my throat. “You do this a lot?” She raises an eyebrow. “Go for coffee with strangers, I mean.”

Her smile widens. “We’re hardly strangers now.”

“You know what I mean. Your husband know you do this?”

“My husband doesn’t know I do this because my husband is at work,” she says. “He’s always at work.” She stares into her mug for a moment, looks up. “And to answer your other question, I don’t do this very often.” She takes a bite of pastry, chews. “Mmm.” She concentrates on the millefeuille as she separates another morsel with her fork. “You ever been married?” It’s like she’s asking the pastry.

“Once,” I say. “She died.” Technically true; Amelia’s dead to me. Vera puts the pastry in her mouth, chews slowly. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says. “When’d she die?”

“A few months ago.” Again, not complete bullshit.

“Oh my god.” She puts her hand over mouth.

I pile on more details. I don’t know why. She had cancer. Breast cancer. Started as a lump, metastasized. Moved to her lungs. Then her brain. I do Susan G. Komen walks now. I quit while I’m ahead, ask her what kind of work her husband does.

Vera says her husband is in finance. Works 80- to 90-hour weeks most times. Comes home exhausted, barely acknowledges her when he flops into bed, sometimes still wearing his suit. He used to be in shape. Now he’s overweight and pasty, the byproduct of processed trans fats and fluorescent lighting.

I’m on the verge of blurting out that it’s not his fault, that he’s only trying to build a life for her, for them, for their children if they choose to have them. I’m on the verge of blurting out all of this because I was in finance, and Vera is describing what led to the decline of my marriage. But I stay quiet, play the role of the sensitive widower.

I look at my watch, tell Vera that I have to get going, that I’m “watching my buddy’s dog and need to let her out.” A half-lie – Bella does need to go out. Truth is, I’m feeling ill. Maybe it’s the pastry.

“Thanks for the coffee and the meal thing,” I say. “See you ‘round.”

Driving home, my stomach does a floor routine, bouncing and flipping. I open my window. Cool air rushes in.

I quit my job after Amelia and I split. Didn’t see the point in working that hard if I wasn’t building a life with somebody. I became a consultant instead. Pay isn’t as good, but the hours are much more tolerable. Wonder if Vera or her husband knows that’s an option. If I were a nice guy, I’d drop the charade, help her save her marriage. Some sensitive widower I am.

I curse myself for asking about Vera’s marriage. “No questions about personal life.” Should’ve abided by that.

I get home, walk Bella, my stomach having settled. My pocket vibrates. I take out the burner.

It’s a text. From Vera. You left your macaron 🙂

I ignore it, turn the phone off.

A week later I’m texting with Florist about the pee fetish girl: did he meet her? Was it weird?

Instead of saying, “Fuck no, it was awesome!” he starts telling me about her interests – she likes to make mosaics with pieces of sea glass; her job – she works at a zoo in the small mammal exhibit; her favorite food – Indian is first, Greek is a close second; and so on.

Wait. Is he in love?

“And holy fuck,” he adds, “girl knows how to suck a dick.”

Yup. Love alright.

Ever been the only single person at a wedding? That’s how this feels.

It’s enough to make me flip on the burner.

Vera’s texted only two more times since the one a week ago. I start to punch out a response but give up and call instead.

She asks do I want to come over. As in to her place. My stomach lurches at the idea of seeing The House of the Unraveling Marriage, so I ignore the suggestion, tell her to meet me at the hotel in an hour if she wants to see me. She agrees.

I attack her when she gets to the room. I’m like early man, tearing at her clothes. She ain’t in charge this time; I am.

The room is dark because I closed the shades. I still don’t understand why the room has to be pitch black, but whatever, I can compromise. She’d find a way to close them anyway.

I get almost every stitch of clothing off her and move in to kiss her when she pulls away. She walks over to the bed, takes off her underwear, bends over. I remove my clothes as I stomp over.

It hits me: I’m doing what she wants me to do, she’s still calling the shots. I wanted to face her, but she won’t let me have my way. I pump away, grunting through gritted teeth.

Most women would be disgusted, stop me, call me an animal. Not Vera. She pushes back, making those faint “uhh uhh” sounds.

We finish. I collapse onto her, our faces buried in the bedspread. Vera elbows me off her. I don’t fight it. What’s the point, why pretend I have even a modicum of control.

Wait. Fuck that.

I grab her wrist when she starts for the bathroom. I try to pull her back to the bed, but it’s no use. She twists away, grabbing her underwear off the floor. It’s a surprise when she stops short and puts them on, disregarding the bathroom entirely. Her back is still turned to me.

Vera goes around to the other side of the bed, pulls the comforter down, gets in. She props herself up on an elbow, smiles. “Bad day?” she says.

“Something like that.” I’m a furnace so I stay on top of the comforter.

“Wanna talk about it?” She runs her hand through my hair, leans over, kisses my forehead.

My stomach throws itself against my ribcage. Guess it wasn’t the French pastry after all; my body is rejecting Vera. I exhale. “I can’t do this anymore.” Sweat pops out on my nose. “You need to fix your marriage.”

Vera sits up. “But I—“

I put up a hand. “Save it.”

I get up, but my stomach tries to stay behind. I put a hand against the wall to steady myself as I grab my boxers off the floor. “Your husband is trying build a life for you guys.” I pull them on and reach for my pants and shirt. “That’s why he works so hard.” I wriggle into my pants. “So be a big girl and grow up.” I tug my shirt over my head. “Seeya.” I snag my shoes on the way out the door, put them on in the elevator.

When I get to the lobby, I snap the burner in half, toss it in the trashcan. Then I vomit into it.

I’m at the Mount Tabor Dog Park with Bella a few days later. The sun is shining. My life still blows, but my conscience is clear.

Things could be worse.

I’m sitting on a bench, watching Bella sniff a schnauzer’s ass. I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look up. It’s Vera.

Things are worse.

“Hey.” She points at the vacant spot next to me. “Mind if I sit?”

I turn my attention back to Bella. She’s moved on to the ass of a corgi. I shrug.

She sits. “So.”

“So.” The diamond in her ring catches the light, redirects it into my eye. Blinded by her love. Fitting.

Vera jerks her chin at the canines. “You still watching your friend’s dog?”

“Yeah,” I say. “He travels a lot. For work.”

“Which one is yours?” she says. “Or his. Whatever.”

“Brown mutt.” I point at Bella. “Sniffing the dachshund’s ass.” I’ll never figure out Bella’s fascination with small dogs.

She smiles. “Cute.” Her smile fades. “Haven’t heard from you.”

“Lost my phone.”

“You could’ve emailed me.”

“How’s your marriage?” My eyes move to her ring and then to her. “I assume you’re still married.”

Vera considers her ring, twists it this way and that. “Oh,” she says. “Yeah. Um. He’s. I mean, we’re.” She sighs. “It’s complicated.”

“Right.” I stand, whistle for Bella. She trots over, leaving the ass of a rat terrier in her wake. I clip the leash to Bella’s collar. She sniffs Vera’s knee as Vera scratches behind her ear. I give the leash a gentle tug. “C’mon, Bell.” To Vera, I say, “Bye.”

A little later, I’m home, spread out on the futon.

Bella sits beside me, gnaws on a dried chicken strip. It was a treat for sniffing so many tiny canine asses. Pretty sure she set a record this time.

The mutt takes her attention away from the strip, looks toward the door. A second later there’s a knock.

I answer the door. It’s Vera.

“Uh,” I say. “How did you—“

“Followed you home from the park,” she says. “Gotta use your bathroom.” She grabs my hand. “Show me where it is.”

I lead her to the bathroom. She flicks on the light, stands in front of the toilet.

She takes off her wedding ring, holds it up. “See this?” She drops it in the toilet, flushes it. “Got that for thirty bucks at Walmart.” She turns off the light, steps out into the hallway. “I’m not married.”

My mouth hangs open, an aircraft carrier for flies.

“I’ve never been married,” she says. “All that stuff about finance? Got that from my brother, he’s an investment banker. I described him.”

I laugh.

I laugh because I’m relieved. Because the situation is nothing if not amusing. Because only on Craigslist can you find a married woman who wants to have an affair who isn’t actually married.

I laugh because what the fuck else can I do?

“You’re not mad?” she says.

I smile. “No.”

I kiss her, lead her to the futon. My hand slips under her shirt, glides across her stomach.

Trembling, she exhales.

I pull off her shirt, kiss her chest, unbutton her jeans. Her hands gently pull mine away. She turns around, drops her pants. Her underwear hugs the cheeks of her round ass.

I press my lips to her freckled shoulder, turn her around. “Not this time,” I say. Vera hangs her head. “I can’t.”

“Sure you can.” A tear drips down her face, briefly pools in one of her acne scars before moving along. “What’s wrong?”

“You don’t know me.” She clasps her hands in front of her.

“You don’t know me, either,” I say. “So let’s start over.”

I move to kiss her, but she puts her hand out. I stop.

She shakes her head. “Don’t.” Her hands move to the waistband of her underwear. “You need to see something first.”

I nod. Her panties drop to the ground.

Buried in a small thatch of ginger curls is a tiny penis. Like, baby tiny. An inch and a half at most. It’s where her clit should be. Testicles and scrotum not included.

“I’m intersex.” She crosses her arms over her bare stomach, hugs herself. Her head droops. Curls fall in her face.

Intersex. Some people might define Vera as a hermaphrodite, but a hermaphrodite has full sets of both male and female genitalia. A real deal human hermaphrodite is extremely rare. Like, almost never happens. Intersexuals are more common, and their reproductive organs are usually…mixed. Like, one ovary and one testicle, stuff like that.

I know this because Amelia knows this. She told me all about intersex folks. Because Amelia knows about all that stuff. Because Amelia is transgender. Before she and I got together, she was Patrick.

So Vera’s little testicle-free penis? I think it’s cute.

I drop to my knees, bury my face between her legs, show her just how cute I think it is. Next thing I know, we’re a sweaty tangle of limbs and heavy panting.

She becomes a different animal. She doesn’t make the little coquettish moans I’m used to; her cries of exultation are accompanied by the occasional whimper.

We go and go ‘til we’re sore and used up. Gooey and slippery, we puddle together, her arm flung across my chest, my hand in hers.

I breathe in her warm funk, close my eyes.

The next morning I smell waffles. The smell takes me back to Amelia, our house, our marriage. A wave of nausea sucker punches me, but it passes.

Vera isn’t in bed, but her clothes are still scattered around the room. I get up, pull on a t-shirt, a pair of boxers.

I shuffle into the kitchen. Bella scampers in behind me.

The waffle iron is tucked into a corner. Vera is at the stove, gripping the handle of a frying pan. A mixing bowl sits next to the cooktop.

She’s wearing the shirt she tore off me the night before. It hangs open a bit. Her penis peeks out at me.

In one motion, she maneuvers a spatula into the pan, gives the pancake inside a quick flip.

I come up behind her, wrap my arms around her waist, bury my face in her curls. They smell like apples.

“Pancakes, huh?” I say.

“Saw the waffle iron,” she says. “Thought you’d like something different.”

I chuckle and put my chin on her shoulder. “My wife isn’t dead,” I say. “She’s alive and lives in Clackamas. We got divorced a few months ago.” Bella noses around Vera’s knees like she did the day before. “And I’m not dog sitting. Bella’s mine.”

“I know.” She pats my hands. “You’re a terrible liar.”

If a bug gets into the house, Jared traps it between his hands, takes it outside, and releases it. He literally wouldn’t hurt a fly.

So it’s surprising when he slaps me across the face hard enough to draw blood.

I go sprawling on the kitchen linoleum. He stands over me, unsure whether to be shocked, angry, or hungry for more.

Holding my hand to my face, I kick out. My foot connects with his thigh. He goes down.

I run to the bathroom, lock the door behind me.

 

Jared’s cell phone is on the toilet tank, sitting next to an old issue of Cosmo. My issue of Cosmo. The cover boasts “10 Ways to Make Your Man Worship You.”

I spit blood into the sink and throw the magazine into the wastebasket.

I grab the phone, dial 911.

Jared leaves his phone in the bathroom sometimes. He likes to play games on it while he’s “dropping the kids off at the pool.” His words. Ironic that I’m using it to call the cops on him.

The operator picks up. I start to give him the details when Jared hammers on the door, yelling at me to let him in.

My face flushes. I tear up. Not because I’m scared. Because this whole situation is such a cliché. Because I have horrible taste in guys. Because I’m afraid that’ll never change.

I tear up because I have daddy issues.

 

For most of my childhood, Daddy was a good daddy. Tea parties and piggyback rides, soccer games and dance recitals, Daddy had his bases covered.

Then Daddy lost his job.

Daddy managed a chain of grocery stores. Another company bought the chain, laid Daddy off. “Redundancy elimination.”

He looked for other jobs but didn’t have any luck. Mom was as supportive as she could be, offering to get a job to help pay the bills. Daddy refused. He was too proud, too old fashioned. Thought a woman’s place was in the home.

He kept looking, kept getting rejected or hearing nothing at all. What little extra money we had he started spending on booze.

Another cliché in a too-long line of them.

Daddy started drinking more and more, looked for jobs less and less.

Unbeknownst to him, Mom got a job. At the grocery store Daddy used to work at. Just some shifts here and there. Somehow Daddy didn’t notice.

Until he did.

He was drunk one night, pissed his pants.

He and Mom had separate dressers. Separate but identical. Still in a drunken haze, he went into what he thought was his dresser looking for a fresh pair of underpants. Found an apron from his grocery store instead. ISABELLE was printed on the plastic name tag pinned to it. Mom’s name is Isabelle.

Daddy didn’t like that.

When Daddy confronted Mom, she was in the kitchen making dinner. Eggplant parm. Our favorite.

My little brother, Danny, and I were playing in the family room when we heard the crash. We ran to the kitchen. Found Daddy looming over Mom, her lower lip split. The eggplant parm and the dish that held it were on the floor. The eggplant, sauce, and cheese mixed with the glass shards, a delicious, dangerous mess.

I somehow had the wherewithal to nudge Danny behind me. He didn’t need to see that.

I didn’t need to see that.

But it was in my face, impossible to avoid.

Daddy turned around, saw us standing there.

“Hope, take Danny upstairs,” she said. I didn’t move. “Now!”

“Shut up!” Daddy said. He hit Mom again.

I jumped. So did Danny. We started to whimper.

Daddy pointed at the eggplant parm. “Who’s gonna clean this shit up, huh? Who?!” He backhanded Mom. A cut opened up on her cheek.

Tears in my eyes, I stepped forward, took Daddy’s hand. The one he didn’t use to hit Mom with. “Daddy, stop!” I said.

He pulled away, hit me too. His wedding ring caught me across the cheek, gave me a cut like Mom’s.

Mom didn’t like that. She popped up, punched Daddy. Barely phased him. “Don’t you dare hit her!” she said.

Daddy wheeled on her, hit her again. Closed fist this time.

Mom collapsed.

I grabbed Danny’s hand, pulled him into the bathroom off the kitchen, and yanked the door shut behind us. I looked into his eyes, all red-rimmed and teary. Just like mine. I said, “Stay here, lock the door. Don’t come out ‘til I say. Okay?”

Danny nodded. I left the bathroom, closed the door behind me. I heard it lock.

I rounded the corner into the kitchen. Daddy was in mid-shout. “—you do the one fucking thing I told you not to do!”

Mom cowered on the ground, flattened herself against the cabinets. Glass shards clung to her hands.

“Look at me when I talk to you!” Daddy said, slapping her.

I scampered to the garage, bypassed Daddy’s ’67 Camaro, his pride and joy, went to the

corner where we kept soccer balls, tennis racquets, bicycle helmets. And baseball bats.

I picked up an aluminum Easton and hefted it as I walked to the door.

I stopped and took a couple practice swings. On the second swing I got too close to Daddy’s Camaro, took off the side view mirror and some paint. I laughed like a mental patient.

Fuck Daddy’s pride and joy.

I marched back into the house, came up behind Daddy. He was still shouting and had taken a few more shots at Mom. Her face was swollen. Blood and snot ran from her nose.

I gritted my teeth and choked up on the bat. I swung low, aiming for his ankle.

There was a crack! as the bat connected. Daddy went down.

Beauty swing. Under any other circumstances it would’ve made Daddy proud.

After he crashed to the floor I went to work on his ribs, his other leg, his arms. I huffed and puffed as I laid into him, my ten-year-old arms burning with the effort.

The only reason I stopped hitting him was because I’d started to cry.

I dropped the Easton, went to Mom’s side.

She was beat up but conscious. She put her hand to my face, gentle as could be.

I helped her up and got her to the couch in the living room.

Then I got Danny out of the bathroom. He ran to Mom when he saw her on the couch.

Then I called 911.

 

Jared’s still banging on the bathroom door, demanding entry.

The 911 dispatcher is having trouble hearing me. I’m yelling the address into the phone when I hear the door crack.

I look over. Not the door. The doorframe.

Jared keeps it up, he’ll get through in no time.

Another wham! and I startle, dropping the phone. It clatters on the floor tiles.

My eyes dart around the bathroom, searching for something I can use as a weapon.

Plunger? No.

Toilet brush? Definitely not.

C’mon, there’s gotta be something….

Ah. Towel rack.

I rip the towels off and yank on the rod. It takes a few pulls but it comes free just as the doorjamb splinters and Jared stumbles in.

The stainless steel rod brings drywall dust with it, fogging up the room. Jared waves his hand in front of his face, sees me, and charges.

I swing the rod at his head. It catches him in the temple. He stumbles sideways and crashes into the bathtub, banging his head on the porcelain.

I retain my stance, expecting him to get up. He doesn’t.

Still holding the rod, I lean over the tub and take Jared’s pulse. Alive but out cold.

There’s at the knock at the front door. I jump, drop the rod.

I touch my finger to the corner of my mouth as I approach the door. It comes away bloody. I wipe it on my tank top.

When I open the door and see two police officers standing there, I start sobbing. Didn’t see that coming. The sobbing, I mean.

I fall into one of the officer’s arms. His name tag says BENDIS. His badge says DEWEY BEACH POLICE DEPARTMENT.

 

Everything after that is the same as it was with Daddy: cops and medics, statements and questions. Jared’s fate is the same as Daddy’s was: he’s carted out on a stretcher. I catch the word “concussion.”

I’m sitting on the couch, talking to Officer Bendis. I ask how the rest of this will go, how it will play out since there weren’t any witnesses, since it’s he said/she said.

Officer Bendis jots something down on his notepad. “It’s always ‘he said/she said.’ But ‘she said’ usually wins out because men are fucking animals.” He looks up from his notebook. “Pardon my language.”

Officer Bendis sounds a lot like the judge who sentenced Daddy to prison. Minus the profanity, that is.

The medics ask if I want to go to the hospital, do I want to talk to somebody. Thanks but no, I say.

The house clears out, and I go to the bedroom to gather my things. Throwing clothes and toiletries into a duffel bag, I vow to be single for a while, to vet future suitors more carefully.

My track record, I’ll be shocked if I follow through with either one.

 

Bag slung over my shoulder, I head for the front door.

I’m at the threshold when I remember my jacket.

I drop my bag on the floor, go to the adjacent coat closet and root through it. I find my jacket and pull it off the hanger. When I do, something hard falls on the floor, landing with a clank.

I feel around and get my hand on something cold and metallic. I remove the object and laugh when I see it in the light.

It’s a bat. Louisville Slugger, aluminum, worn rubber grip.

Feels like an old friend.

I go to return the Slugger to its resting place in the closet but I stop. Bat still in hand, I close the closet door instead.

I place the bat on the floor and stuff my jacket into my bag. Then I pick up the duffel and the bat and walk out of the house, the screen door slapping closed behind me.

I doubt Jared will miss the bat, and if he does, fuck him, let him riot. I need the Slugger more than he does.

For me, the bat’s a reminder: Daddy didn’t get the best of me.

And neither will anyone else.

Sitting in the windowless shoebox that housed the NYPD’s Omnicide Division, Plank and Darwin were waiting for a call and doing what they usually did while waiting for a call: they were arguing.

“Look, pal, all I’m saying is the English language is full of so many good words that you don’t really need to use swear words,” Plank said. “I’m not saying substitute ‘fudge’ or ‘sugar’ or anything like that. I’m saying go without.”

Darwin looked up from his crossword puzzle. “Do you know what the median IQ of the NYPD is?”

Plank stared.

“Didn’t think so,” Darwin said, scratching his chin with a thick mitt. “And actually, I don’t know either. But I’d guess it’s around 110 or so. Maybe. Don’t quote me.”

“Kinda low, isn’t it? 110?”

“Eh. It’s average intelligence. And as such, the average person doesn’t speak the King’s English so it’s completely normal for them to say ‘fuck’ or ‘shit’ or ‘cockknocker.’” Darwin giggled at the last one. Plank cringed at all three. “That’s how people fucking talk, Plank. And those words are especially useful when you’re pissed off. So knock it off with that ‘curse words are for the unenlightened’ bullshit.” He turned back to his puzzle. “Now what’s a five-letter word for ‘bouncy orbs’?”

Plank folded his arms and scowled. “Balls,” he said.

Darwin giggled again and scribbled on the paper. “Hey, that fits.”

The phone on Plank’s desk rang. He picked it up. “Omnicide, Plankard.” He listened to the voice on the other end. He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know. ‘Omnicide’ means ‘the destruction of all life.’ They’re still working on the name. Something I can do for you?” Plank picked up a pen and started jotting on a steno pad. “Uh huh. Uh huh.” He put down the pen. “Alright, we’re on our way,” he said, hanging up the phone.

Pencil poised over his puzzle, Darwin said, “Well?”

“Body at 62^nd and 3^rd. Human.”

Darwin put the puzzle in a desk drawer, trading it for a holstered Glock, which he attached to his belt. “Want me to drive?”

“Very funny,” said Plank.

 

Barreling down 3^rd Avenue, Plank and Darwin’s squad car got a lot of stares. Of course it did, it was the mongrel offspring of an SUV and an M1 tank, all rounded edges and armor plating, designed to hold up under nothing less than a stampede of maladjusted apes. Darwin hadn’t gotten his license yet (he’d failed three times already), and it made him nuts. He ached to drive the Bastard. However, Darwin found the Bastard’s plush passenger seat quite comfy and was enjoying the ride. That is, until Plank decided to ruin it.

“Could you go a day without swearing?” Plank said.

“Holy living Christ.” Darwin turned and glared at his partner. “Again with this?”

“Seriously. If I bet you fifty bucks, could you go a day without swearing? Bet you couldn’t, pal.”

“Lemme ask you. What is a swear word exactly?”

“It’s a word that, um, you know, hurts my ears when I hear it. Something that sounds…boorish. Uneducated.”

“And that makes it offensive? It offends you when you hear ‘shit’ or ‘fuck’?”

“’Offends’ isn’t really the right word. Like I said, it. Well. It hurts my ears. It’s distasteful.” Plank paused. “You like fruit. What’s your favorite fruit?”

Darwin cocked his head and closed one eye. “Peaches. Those freestone guys.”

“And if you bite into a peach that’s past its prime, one that’s all mealy and mushy, what do you do?”

“Spit that shit out.”

“Right.” Plank held out his right hand. “That’s what curse words are to me: bad peaches.”

Darwin nodded. “Interesting analogy.” He spotted a piece of lint on his suit jacket and flicked it off. “You realize, though, that by finding these words offensive and shooting your mouth off about them, you are, in effect, giving those words even more power. If you calmed down and simply ignored them, maybe they would cease to bother you. Maybe they’d become powerless.”

Plank rolled the Bastard up to the corner of 62^nd and 3^rd, parking it inches from the yellow crime scene tape. “Yeah. Maybe,” he said.

Exiting the car, Darwin smiled. “Yeah. Maybe.” was Plank’s way of crying uncle. For the moment, anyway.

 

The first thing Darwin and Plank noticed at the scene was the smell. Not the smell of the dead guy decaying on the sidewalk in the afternoon sun but rather the stench of the shit that was strewn all over the body.

“Hoo boy,” Plank said, crinkling his nose at the odor. Approaching the officer at the edge of the cordon, Plank opened his suit jacket to reveal the badge clipped to his belt. “Plankard, Omnicide.” He jerked his chin at the body. “Was the vic found like this? Covered with, you know, feces?”

The officer, whose nametag said HARR, nodded and put a hand under his nose as a breeze blew the smell toward him. “Sure was.”

“Any witnesses?” Plank said.

“Not sure,” Harr said. “Haven’t gotten a chance to find out, been securing the scene since I got here.”

“It’s secure now so do us a favor,” Darwin said, pointing at the growing throng of rubberneckers near the taped barrier. “See if you can rustle us up a witness or two. Broad daylight, lots of foot traffic, somebody must’ve seen something.”

Harr, quite a bit taller than Darwin, stared down at the detective.

Plank snapped his fingers in front of Harr’s face. “Hello, Earth to Harr.” The officer’s eyes fluttered and shifted to Plank. “You heard him,” Plank said. “Chop chop.”

Harr nodded, gave a thumbs-up, and went to do their bidding.

Plank looked at his partner. “Shall we?”

“After you,” said Darwin, his arm outstretched.

Peering past the Crime Scene Unit techs who were bagging, tagging, and photographing everything in sight, the two detectives studied the victim. He was wearing a Ferragamo suit and loafers, looked to be in his mid-40s, and had a full head of curly black hair that was graying at the temples. Other than the golf ball-sized goose egg above the victim’s right eye socket, the body looked untouched. There was no blood, at least none that was visible. It was one of the tidiest crime scenes they’d ever seen.

“What’s up, doc?” Darwin said to the small Indian woman kneeling next to the body. She was wearing a dark blue jacket with MEDICAL EXAMINER emblazoned on the back.

Making notes on a clipboard, she said, “Oh, Detective Darwin, aren’t you the clever one.”

“Actually, Dr. Parveen, he is the clever one,” Plank said, removing a notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. “I’m just the driver.”

“Only because ‘the clever one’ failed his driving test three times,” said Parveen.

“Alright, alright,” Darwin grumbled. “Couple of ball aches, you two.” He sat on his haunches and rested his knuckles on the sidewalk. “So what’s the story here?”

“Well,” said Parveen. “It would appear that the victim was hit above the right orbit, fell down, and then once he was on the ground, his chest was beaten until his breastbone shattered.” To illustrate her point, the doctor opened Zatmary’s shirt, exposing a large, dark purple bruise in the middle of his chest. “My guess is that the blunt trauma induced cardiac arrest.”

Plank flipped open his notebook and started writing. “Commotio cordis, right, doc?”

“Why Detective Plankard.” Dr. Parveen smiled at Plank. “Been doing some studying, have we?”

“Nah, just a baseball fan,” said Plank, ignoring Darwin’s incredulous gape. “It’s why catchers wear chest protectors.”

Shaking his head, Darwin directed his attention back to the body. “We have an ID on this guy?”

“Not yet,” said Parveen. She looked past the detectives and said, “Ryerson!”

“What?” The voice came from a nearby CSU tech who was too immersed in cataloging bags of evidence – what few there were – to look up.

Parveen said, “Do you happen to have the victim’s wallet over there?”

“Yup.”

“Kindly bring it over, would you?”

“Yeah, okay.” Gripping his clipboard and an evidence bag with one hand, Ryerson continued making notes as he walked over. When he reached the body, he looked up from his clipboard, immediately noticing Darwin. “What can I, uh.” His eyes slid from Darwin to Plank to Parveen and then quickly back to Darwin. “Do. For you guys.”

“For starters, Ryerson, you can stop staring,” Darwin said.

“Sorry, Detective,” Ryerson said. “It’s, uh, just that I never—“

“Never what?” Plank said. “Seen a detective doing his job? Ain’t your first crime scene, right?”

Ryerson shook his head.

“So quit gawking and try to divide your attention between all of us,” said Plank. “You got the wallet?”

“Yeah.” Ryerson tucked the clipboard under one arm and held up the evidence bag with the other. “Right here. What’d you guys need this for anyway?”

“Beer money,” Plank said. Ryerson’s lips parted as if he was going to say something but didn’t. “His ID, genius. We need his ID.”

Darwin smiled. He hated being on the receiving end of Plank’s ball breaking but he loved witnessing it.

“Oh,” Ryerson said. “You mean you guys don’t recognize the vic?”

“Obviously,” Parveen drawled.

“Drum roll. That.” Ryerson pointed at the body. “Is Ron Zatmary. As in Zatmary Cosmetics Ron Zatmary.” An adamant proponent of animal testing, Zatmary was often in the news because of his outspoken beliefs. A friend of PETA he was not.

Parveen and the detectives were speechless.

“Right?” Ryerson said. “Check this out.” He opened the plastic evidence bag and took out the calfskin wallet. He extracted a New York driver’s license from the wallet and held it out for them to see. “Beard.” Ryerson cocked his head at Zatmary. “No beard.” He put the ID back in the wallet. “I didn’t recognize him without it either.”

Darwin snapped on a pair of latex gloves and held out his gloved hand. “May I?” he said.

“Be my guest,” said Ryerson, handing Darwin the evidence bag and wallet.

Plank paused from writing. “What do we got?”

“Besides the ID,” Darwin said, thumbing through the wallet’s contents. “A few hundred in cash, a Black AmEx, and this.” He held up a photo of a ridiculously beautiful woman holding a ridiculously adorable little boy. Darwin turned to Ryerson. “Where’d you find the wallet?”

“Pants pocket,” said Ryerson.

“Looks like everything’s still here,” Darwin said. “Guess it wasn’t a robbery.”

“Man, Ron Zatmary,” said Plank. He shook his head as he scribbled in his notebook. “We better pray for an eyeball wit,” he said. “This guy’s got so many enemies anybody could’ve done it.”

“Who could blame ‘em,” Darwin muttered. He was no fan of Zatmary’s either. He caught Plank giving him the same disapproving look he gave him when he cursed. “Sorry,” he said. “Slipped out.” He turned his attention back to the wallet photo. “Who do you suppose this is? Wife and kid?”

Parveen’s eyes darted to the ring finger of Zatmary’s left hand. “No wedding ring,” she said.

“Somebody might’ve swiped it,” said Ryerson.

Darwin said, “Take the ring but leave the wallet? I doubt it.”

“Whoever she is, we’ll find out. She should be notified,” Plank said, making a note. “So what do you think, pal? Probably rule out premeditation, huh?”

“Yeah I’d say so,” said Darwin. “What you said before though, about how anybody could’ve done this. It couldn’t have been anybody.” He pointed at the bruise on Zatmary’s chest. “It takes a hell of a lot of force to shatter somebody’s breastbone and induce cardiac arrest. And there doesn’t seem to be any sign that a weapon was used, right, doc?”

“It wouldn’t appear so,” said Parveen. “A weapon would’ve made more…mess.”

“Right. So. It was either a bodybuilder or.” Darwin looked at Plank. “The obvious.”

A breeze kicked up, and Plank caught a whiff of the dung. Grimacing, he said, “And what of the, uh.” He waved his pen at the putrid logs. “Leavings.”

“Oh, right. Almost forgot,” said Darwin. He tucked his tie into his shirt and leaned over the body, his nose damn near touching the small turd that lay just above Zatmary’s belt.

Parveen said, “Oh god, is that really necess—“

But it was too late. Darwin was in full-on hound dog mode, taking long sniffs of the excrement. After the fifth, he stood up. “Elderberries.”

Plank jotted it down. “Yeah?”

“Yup. Got the same ones in Central Park.”

“We can have that analyzed, you know,” said Parveen, whose face was a mask of revulsion.

Ryerson gagged. “Seriously.”

“My way’s faster. But we should still run it for DNA.” He pulled his tie out of his shirt. “But who knows how long that’ll take. Probably solve this thing before we get the results back.”

“We can hope anyway,” Plank said. He felt a light tap on his shoulder and turned around. “Oh. Harr,” he said. “Any witnesses?”

“Just one,” Harr said.

Plank held out his hand. “Lead the way.”

Making a point not to look at Darwin, Harr walked a few steps ahead of the detectives. He led them to a young redheaded woman standing just inside the cordon. She was holding a paper shopping bag with SEARLE printed on the outside of it. “This is Lacey Horrocks,” said Harr. He turned to Lacey. “These gentlemen are detectives. They just want to ask you a few questions, okay?” Lacey’s head bobbed, signaling that it was. “Guess I’ll leave you to it then,” he said, walking away.

“Hi Lacey,” said Darwin, smiling. “I’m Detective Darwin.” He motioned to his partner. “This is Detective Plankard. Like the officer said, we just need to know what you saw so if you could start from the beginning, that’d be great.”

“Oh, okay, so, like, I was coming out of Searle? And this, like,” she waved her hand at Zatmary’s body, “total d-bag—“ She gasped and covered her mouth. “Oh, um, I didn’t mean to, like, speak ill of the dead or whatever. My mom? One time she accidentally called my Gramma the c-word and this was, like, literally right after her funeral and she said, ‘Lacey, do as I say, not as I do’ and I get it, right? Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. Anyway, this guy is walking down the street, like, talking on his phone, I think he might’ve been FaceTiming? He’s walking toward 62^nd and this mom and her kid, they’re, like, walking up the street toward me. And they’re totally minding their own business and this guy is walking toward them, like, not paying attention to where he’s going, like, at all, and he literally walks right into the mom and the guy drops his phone and as he picks it up, he calls the mom,” she glanced at Darwin, “the m-word. Like, ‘Stupid effing m-word’ or something like that.” She looked at Darwin again. “I was, like, totally disgusted. I mean, get with the times, right? Anyway, the mom hears this and sort of tries to, like, brush it off or whatever. And the kid, oh my god, he was so cute. He says, ‘Are you okay, Mom?’” Lacey put her hand to her chest. “You could literally hear my heart breaking. And then the guy says something like, ‘Keep your m-word on a leash.’ And that was when the mom, like, totally lost her shit. She, like, punches the guy in the face or whatever,” she brought her fist up to her right eye, “and he falls down and she literally starts, like, beating on his chest and yelling. All this happens and, like, I had to do something, right? So I, like, ran back into Searle and had them call 911 because I totally left my phone at home.” Lacey hung her head and scratched her arm. Dropping her voice to little more than a whisper, she said, “In the interest of, like, full disclosure or whatever, I have to admit that I think the guy kinda, like, had it coming. I mean, you can’t use words like that and expect people not to, like, lose their shit.” She raised her head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not glad he’s dead but you can’t, like, underestimate the effects of hate speech.”

“True,” said Darwin. The expression on his face matched that of a funeral director’s.

Plank glimpsed his partner’s somber demeanor. Turning back to his notes, he said, “So. When you came back out of Searle, the mother and the kid, they were gone?”

“Yeah. Totes.”

“Could you describe the mother?” Darwin said. “She have any distinct features or anything?”

“Um,” Lacey said, playing with a strand of her hair. Examining it for split ends, her face brightened. “Oh! She had, like, bright auburn hair? Her son totally did too.”

“Anything else?” Darwin said.

“I guess she was, like, around your height or so,” Lacey said, looking at Darwin. “It’s, I don’t know, tough to tell?”

“Do you remember what she was wearing?” Plank said.

“Jeans and a t-shirt? It wasn’t, like, fashion forward or anything.”

“Understood,” Darwin said, handing her one of his cards. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”

“Oh yeah, totes,” she said, accepting the card. “Do you happen to, like, have an extra one of these? I can give you my digits in case you need ‘em or whatever.”

“Absolutely.” Darwin handed her a second card.

Lacey took it, searched her bag, and came out with a pen. Flipping the card over, she started jotting on the back of it. “I’m, like, such an idiot,” she said. “I can’t believe I left my phone at home. I could’ve totally just, like, put your number in my phone, and you wouldn’t’ve had to waste another card. Save some trees, you know? And I probably could’ve, like, taken a video or whatever with it.” She finished writing and handed the card back to Darwin. “That would’ve helped, right? A video of the crime, like, in progress?”

Plank’s ears pricked up, and he rifled through his notes. “Lacey, you said before that you thought the victim was FaceTiming, right?”

“I mean, I think he was? He was holding his phone, like, away from his face, and talking to it. And he didn’t have, like, earbuds or a Bluetooth or anything so I just assumed he was FaceTiming.”

Plank said, “Excuse me a second, I’ll be right back.”

Darwin and Lacey both nodded.

Trotting over to where Ryerson was boxing up his evidence bags, Plank stuck his pen behind his ear and wedged his notebook under his arm, slipping a pair of latex gloves out of his jacket pocket. “Ryerson,” he said, putting on the gloves as he approached the tech. “Please tell me you found an iPhone near Zatmary’s body.”

“Sure did, boss,” said Ryerson. He pulled a bag out of the box and handed it to Plank.

“Okay if I take a look?” Plank said.

Ryerson shrugged. “It’s your dime.”

Plank removed the phone and was stonewalled by the passcode screen. “Should’ve known,” he mumbled. He pursed his lips and examined the phone. It had a fingerprint scanner. That gave him an idea.

He approached the EMTs who were fitting Zatmary’s lifeless form into a vinyl body bag and said, “I get in there a sec?” One of the medics nodded. Plank reached into the body bag, gingerly pulled out Zatmary’s hand and pressed the thumb against the phone’s sensor. The phone made an audible click as the home screen appeared. “Thanks, guys,” he said. The EMTs finished sealing up the bag as Plank accessed Zatmary’s call log. His most recent call was indeed a FaceTime call, and it was with someone named Ada. Plank took out his own phone and copied Ada’s number into it. Then he resealed Zatmary’s phone in the evidence bag and handed it back to Ryerson.

“Get something good?” said Ryerson.

“Fingers crossed,” Plank said as Ryerson went back to work. Plank turned to see Darwin coming towards him. Alone. “You finish up with Lacey?”

“Yeah, think we literally got, like, everything we’re gonna get from her?” Darwin said.

“Wait, you’re goofing on her for how she speaks?” Plank said.

Darwin smiled and shrugged. “Nice girl and all but you gotta admit, some elocution lessons wouldn’t hurt.”

“But, to quote you, ‘that’s how people talk.’”

Darwin’s smile vanished. “Actually, killjoy, I said that’s how people fucking talk.” He nodded in Ryerson’s direction. “Anyway, what’d you need from him?”

“Got the number of whoever Zatmary was talking to before he got killed,” said Plank, waggling his phone in the air and starting back toward the Bastard. “Lacey was right, it was a FaceTime call. I figure we find out where this Ada person lives—“

“Ada?” Darwin said, following his partner to the car.

“The name in the phone. Ada. I’m thinking we find out where she lives, talk to her, see if she saw anything. Bit of a long shot but a lead’s a lead.”

“True.”

The detectives reached the Bastard and got in. Using the on-board laptop, Plank ran a database query on Ada’s number. Seconds later, a result came up. “Ada Zatmary,” they said in unison.

“Who’s that, you think?” said Darwin. “The woman from the picture?”

Plank scanned the details on the screen. “Only one way to find out.” He put the Bastard in gear and aimed it toward Ada’s address on Central Park West.

 

Over the years, Plank had had to tell quite a few people that their loved ones had been killed. And it always went horribly wrong.

Either he went into unnecessary detail about how they were killed (“Your wife was stabbed eight times in the neck with a railroad spike. Sorry.”) or he giggled while delivering the bad news because he sometimes giggled when he got nervous, he couldn’t help it.

Luckily for Plank, Darwin’s bedside manner was exceptional. Thus, Darwin took the lead when Ada – who was indeed the woman from the wallet photo – opened her apartment door.

After introducing Plank and himself, Darwin, his hands held in front of him, said, “Ma’am, I’m sorry to inform you that Ronald Zatmary was killed this afternoon.” His tone was so tender that he could’ve been on PBS teaching people to paint “happy little trees.”

The detectives waited for her to say something or do something or simply tear up but nothing came – Ada appeared as if she hadn’t heard Darwin at all. She just stared at Plank, and he, awkward as it was, stared right back.

“We’re very sorry for your loss, Ms. Zatmary,” Darwin said. “If you need to talk to somebody, we can put you in touch with a grief counselor.”

Still nothing. Ada’s blue-green eyes remained dry and focused on Plank.

Plank licked his lips. “I’m sure. Heh.” He stifled a grin and the chuckle that was sure to follow, took a breath, cleared his throat. “I’m sure this comes as a shock—“

“It’s not a shock,” Ada said, blinking slowly. “I know Ronnie was killed, Officer.”

“Detective,” said Darwin.

Ada looked down her nose at Darwin. Then she turned her attention back to Plank. “My son was talking to Ronnie when that…,” she glared at Darwin, “animal killed him.”

Plank said, “May we speak to your son, Ms. Zatmary?”

“It’s Mrs. Zatmary, and you may.” She pointed at Darwin. “He may not.”

Darwin began to seethe. “Ma’am, do you want to help us catch who did this or do you want to go to jail for obstructing a homicide investigation?” Ada’s lips disappeared into a thin line. “Well? What’ll it be?”

She stepped back into the apartment, holding the door open. “Please come in.”

The detectives followed Ada through the foyer into the living room, which could have easily held Plank’s entire apartment and a good chunk of Darwin’s house. As if that wasn’t impressive enough, the living room had floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a marvelous view of Central Park.

Despite its opulence, the apartment was quite warm and homey. Its walls and shelves displayed many framed pictures: some depicted Ada, the same little boy from the wallet photo, and a man who looked similar to Zatmary; some depicted Ada, a slightly older version of the boy, and Zatmary himself; some depicted all four people. In each photo they were smiling, hugging, laughing. They were on beaches and boats, in parks and backyards.

Leading the detectives down a hallway, Ada caught them slowing a bit as they inspected the photos. “Ronnie’s not my husband if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said. “Ronnie was my brother-in-law. I was married to Vernon, Ronnie’s younger brother. Vern died a few years ago, and Ronnie got us this apartment shortly after. He has, well, had an apartment down the hall.” She stopped in front of a door. “This is RJ’s room.”

“RJ?” Darwin said.

“Ronald James. My son,” said Ada. “We named him after Ronnie.” Facing the door, she put her hand on the knob. “I haven’t told RJ about Ronnie yet. Mostly because I didn’t know for sure.” She shut her eyes. “You aren’t going to tell RJ about Ronnie, are you? That he’s dead?”

“No,” Plank said. “We just want to ask him some questions, that’s all.”

“You can tell him when you’re ready,” said Darwin.

Ada nodded and opened the door.

The walls of RJ’s bedroom were decorated with Philadelphia Phillies pennants, a panoramic photo of Citizens Bank Park, and autographed action shots of various Phillies players. It was as if the Phillies had thrown up all over the room. The only non-Phillies items were several framed pictures of RJ and his uncle – most taken near or on a baseball field – that sat on the dresser.

RJ, who looked to be eight or nine years old, sat cross-legged on his bed, head down, sorting baseball cards into different piles.

“RJ, honey?” Ada said.

The boy lifted his head.

As Plank and Darwin entered the room, Ada gestured to them and said, “These are police detectives, sweetie. They need to ask you a few questions about what you saw when you were on the phone with Uncle Ronnie, okay?”

He nodded and put his cards down.

“Hi, RJ,” Plank said. “I’m Stanley Plankard and this is my partner, Oliver Darwin.” He pointed to the bed. “Mind if I sit?” RJ shrugged. Plank sat. “So. Phillies fan, huh?” No response. “I’m a Mets fan myself but—“

“The Mets suck,” RJ deadpanned.

Plank and Darwin howled.

“RJ!” said Ada.

“It’s true, Mom!” RJ said, looking up. “They got no pitching!”

Darwin turned to Ada. “He’s right, ma’am. They don’t.”

Plank grinned sheepishly and shrugged. “It’s a rebuilding year.”

“Isn’t it always?” said Darwin, winking at RJ.

RJ grinned.

“But who was it who beat the Phillies the other night? Let me think,” Plank said, tapping his chin. “Oh that’s right, it was the Mets.”

“But their record stinks and they still got two games left in the series.” RJ’s head drooped and gloom settled over his face. “Uncle Ronnie was s’posed to take me to the next one.”

Darwin and Plank exchanged a glance. Plank said, “Is that what you were to talking to him about this afternoon on the phone?”

RJ nodded. “Yeah, before he said that mean stuff to that lady.” He picked up a card and, as if it were too heavy, his hand flopped on the mattress. “She didn’t have to hit him. He didn’t mean what he said.”

Darwin had his doubts but kept his mouth shut.

Plank said, “Could you tell us what you saw?”

RJ nodded and proceeded to tell them. Aside from a few missed details – he’d witnessed the whole thing via cell phone camera, after all – it matched up with Lacey’s statement. That is, until RJ said, “Then Mom took the phone away from me and told me to go to my room.” He went quiet and regarded his cards again. “Uncle Ronnie is dead, isn’t he?”

Darwin said, “Uh…”

Ada took a step into the room.

“Yes, he is,” Plank said. His tact, that wild pony, had broken free and hurled itself out the window once again, causing him to go against his word to Ada. Fortunately, children, unlike adults, were better at handling the truth, even in its rawest form. That’s how Plank rationalized his mistake, anyway.

If Ada had had something in her hand, she would’ve thrown it at Plank. But she didn’t so she stayed quiet and waited for her son’s reaction.

RJ just picked up a few cards and put them back down. He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

Plank put his hand on RJ’s shoulder. “I promise we’ll find who killed him. There will be justice.” He never made promises with murder investigations because he couldn’t promise anything. But a major part of the kid’s life had been wiped out, and a promise that might’ve been empty was all he had to offer in the way of comfort. And comfort, even a modicum of it, was sorely needed. “You know, I was a little older than you when my dad died.” It was an admission he hadn’t expected to make. He had more to offer after all.

His attention still directed at the cards, RJ said, “Did it hurt?”

“Yes, it did. Very much,” said Plank. “Sometimes it still does. But I have good memories of him so that helps. And from what I can see,” he gestured to the framed photos on RJ’s dresser, “you have some great memories of your uncle. As long as you have those, he’ll never be truly gone.” He paused. “Some people might call that a cliché but that doesn’t make it any less true.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out his card. “We need to talk to your mom privately for a little bit but before we go I want you to have this.” He placed it on the pile of baseball cards. “Like I said, I know what you’re going through so if you ever want to talk, my number’s on the card.” He gestured to the baseball cards. “Even talk baseball if you want.”

RJ, clearly not in the mood for consolation or social gestures, was still. He picked up Plank’s card and held it by the sides as he would a Mickey Mantle rookie card.

The detectives got up and went to the door. Plank paused, turned to Ada, and said, “We’ll be in the living room when you’re ready.” He closed the door behind him, and he and Darwin went to the living room to wait.

A bit later, Ada emerged from RJ’s room and joined them in the living room. When she came in, Plank, who’d been sitting on the couch, writing in his notebook, stopped writing and stood up. “Listen, I’m sorry for telling RJ back there, I—“

Ada slapped him across the face. Plank just stood there and took it. Darwin

winced.

“Apology accepted,” said Ada. She lowered herself into a leather easy chair adjacent to the couch. “Now. What would you like to know?”

“You can start where RJ left off,” Darwin said. “After you took the phone away from him. Just tell us what you saw.”
Ada folded her arms across her chest. “After I stopped screaming Ronnie’s name into the phone, you mean? After he’d been beaten to death? Is that where you want me to start?”

Darwin and Plank sat there, blinking.

“I’m sorry,” said Ada. She put a trembling hand to her forehead. “It’s just, uh.” She lowered her hand and composed herself. “Never mind.” She swept a lock of strawberry blond hair out of her face. “Where was I? Oh, right.” Her eyes locked with the detectives’. “That little brat threw his feces at Ronnie.”

“I assume you’re referring to the assailant’s child,” said Plank.

“Yes,” said Ada. “Him.”

Darwin, who was sitting next to Plank on the couch, leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Are you sure?” He spread his hands. “I mean, the camera angle—“

“The camera was pointed down the street,” said Ada. “It was pointed upward while Ronnie was being hit but the angle changed afterward, I don’t know how. It was pointed down the street, and as he and his mother were walking away, I saw that kid reach into the back of his pants, pull out a fistful, and throw it at Ronnie. And then he started talking about muffins.”

“Muffins,” said Darwin.

“Muffins,” said Ada. “He threw his excrement at my brother-in-law and then asked his mother if he could have a muffin when they got home. As if what he’d just done wasn’t the most repulsive thing ever.”

Darwin slowly sat back, sinking into the couch.

Plank made some notes. “Anything else?”

Ada shook her head. “The call ended after that.”

Plank nodded. “Out of curiosity, you know why Ron shaved his beard? We didn’t recognize him without it.”

“He got tired of all the negative attention so he shaved it off, figured he could go incognito for a while.” Ada managed a small smile. “It was his disguise.”

“I see.” Plank closed his notebook. “Alright, well. Guess that covers it.” He stood up.

Ada pushed herself up out of the chair. “I’ll show you to the door.”

They both looked at Darwin, who was still sitting.

Plank cleared this throat. “You comin’, pal?”

“Oh, yeah,” Darwin said. “Yeah.” He got up slowly, mechanically, as if on autopilot.

Ada held the door open for them. Darwin trudged into the hallway but Plank stopped short, dug into his jacket pocket, and came out with another card.

“Thank you for your help, Mrs. Zatmary,” Plank said, handing the card to Ada. “If you or RJ think of anything else, please let me know.” He paused. “And what I said to RJ back there. The same goes for you; you want to talk, call. You’re not alone in this.” Like with RJ, this was unorthodox but, as with RJ, it was the right thing to do.

Ada nodded, and, for the first time since they’d entered her apartment, tears breached her eyelids. Her hand went to her nose as if she were holding back a sneeze, and she closed the door behind Plank as he exited, the latch fitting into its notch with a snick.

 

Plank flipped through his notes as he walked toward the elevator. “We ought to get the super to let us into Zatmary’s place,” he said. “Probably a dead end but we should check anyway.” It took him a second to realize that Darwin wasn’t by his side. He stopped and turned and saw Darwin still standing outside Ada’s door.

Darwin, his arms hanging like wet spaghetti at his sides, had his back turned to Plank, and he was facing the floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hall. Like the windows in Ada’s apartment, it too looked out onto Central Park.

Plank went to his partner’s side. “You hear what I said about Zatmary’s apartment?”

Darwin waved him off. “Forget about that.” Furrows creased his brow, and his eyes were aimed straight ahead at the park. “We gotta go across the street. We gotta stop by my place real quick.”

“Um,” Plank said. “Okay.”

 

Once they hit the street, Plank did his best to keep up with Darwin, who was zipping right along as they crossed over into the park. Darwin didn’t offer an explanation, and Plank didn’t ask for one. He just tried to keep up as best he could as they approached the Tree Houses. Darwin’s breakneck speed was such that Plank wasn’t able to stop and marvel at the sheer magnificence of them, which is what he’d done every other time he’d seen them.

Located smack dab in the middle of Central Park and suspended in the boughs of genetically modified, speed-grown sequoia trees and held in place by a complex network of bolts, girders, and high-tension cables, the Tree Houses were, well, tree houses. With running water, electricity, and even cable TV, the fully functioning domiciles were also a 12-year-old’s wet dream.

When they arrived at Darwin’s quadrant, a small panel on the side of a tree irised open and Darwin positioned his eye in front of it. A beam of light scanned his eye from top to bottom and side to side. Darwin stood back as the panel beeped and a metallic voice chirped, “Welcome home, Mr. Darwin.” A carbon fiber ladder shot down from above and came to a quick yet gentle stop in front of him. Darwin immediately began to climb with the same furious determination he exhibited while jetting through the park. Plank followed.

Plank’s lungs and muscles were screeching at him to stop when he reached the platform at the top of the ladder. But his body’s cries went unanswered as he trailed his partner across one of many high-tech walkways that spanned the evergreens. A few moments later, Darwin, with Plank in tow, burst through the front door of his house. Storming through the living room and into the kitchen, Darwin stopped when he saw the tinfoil-wrapped plate on the table.

Licking his lips, he went over to it. After he removed the foil, he rested his hands on the back of one of the chairs. “Muffins,” he said, his shoulders slumping. He picked one up and sniffed it. Even though he didn’t need to, he bit into it anyway. It was delicious, as always. “Elderberry,” said Darwin.

“So what does that mean?” Plank said.

“It means that my neighbor might’ve killed Zatmary.” Darwin ran a hand over his face. “Fuck.”

A cop arresting somebody in his or her own neighborhood was always a dicey proposition. It was like farting at a funeral – you tried to avoid it but sometimes it happened. Eventually, people realized that it wasn’t personal, that cops just have a job to do, and life would slowly return to normal. It was a different story in the Tree Houses.

A few weeks earlier, the detectives had worked a case that had occurred in the vicinity of the Tree Houses. That is, the victim, a Tree House resident, appeared to have fallen from the Tree Houses and landed on the concrete walkway below. Plank and Darwin hadn’t been able to rule it a suicide or a murder because nobody in the Tree Houses would talk to them. They went to each house and asked the residents (the ones who would actually open the door, which was only two) if they knew or saw anything, and they both unequivocally said they hadn’t. It turned out the victim was set to testify against a murder suspect who didn’t even live in the Tree Houses, let alone have anything to do with anybody residing there. Living in the Tree Houses, it seemed, was tantamount to swearing a blood oath of secrecy. Some called it omerta, like in a mob movie. It was a tenet not to be violated under any circumstance. But if Darwin was right about his neighbor, he was about to.

“Might not be her,” said Plank. He sincerely hoped it wasn’t. He remembered the looks Darwin got on that other case, how both residents treated him like he’d peed in their corn flakes, as if just asking them a few questions made him a turncoat. Plank didn’t think the Tree House residents would grease a cop as they probably had with that witness but he couldn’t entirely put it past them.

Darwin was silent as he put the half-eaten muffin back on the plate with the others. He sighed and waved for Plank to follow him.

 

Standing at his neighbor’s front door, Darwin tilted his head from side to side, stretching his neck like a boxer about to enter the ring. “I’ll do the talking,” he said, sucking in a lungful of air and knocking on the door.

Scampering feet sounded from inside the house. When they stopped, the door was flung open, and the detectives were looking down at a kid whose auburn hair looked a bit damp. He was standing on a welcome mat – it said FOSSEY in block letters. A smile plastered across his face, he said, “Mr. Darwin!”

“Hey, Stevie,” Darwin said. He tried to smile but the result made him look constipated. “Your mom around?”

“You get the muffins we left for ya?” said Stevie. “Elderberry’s my favorite. Mom puts cimmamon in them, you know.”

“Oh, yeah, they, uh, were great as usual,” said Darwin, scratching his bald pate. “I actually wanted to thank your mom for them, is she here?”

“Yeah, lemme get her.” Stevie tilted his head back. “Moooomm! Mr. Darwin’s here!” The kid had a bell in every tooth.

Seconds later, Stevie’s mother, who had the same auburn hair, sauntered to the door. She was wearing jeans and a loose-fitting shirt and smelled like soap. She was smiling until she spotted Plank. Her hand on her son’s shoulder, she said, “Do me a favor and go to your room for a few minutes, sweetie.”

Stevie was prepared to protest but the scowl on his mother’s face changed his mind. He raised his hand in a pitiful wave to Darwin, turned heel, and trudged to his room.

“Can we come in, Marlene? Gotta talk to you about something,” said Darwin.

Marlene studied Plank. What she was searching for Darwin had no idea but it was clear she didn’t like what she saw. “Make it quick, I gotta start dinner soon,” she said. She held the door open for Darwin but let it swing shut in Plank’s face. Plank caught it and paused at the threshold. When it was clear that Marlene didn’t care whether or not he came inside, he entered.

Marlene and Darwin were in the living room. Darwin installed himself on the couch while Marlene was ensconced in a leather recliner. Plank stood next to the couch for a moment, feeling like a spoon in a drawer full of knives. “Sit down,” Marlene said. “You’re making me nervous.”

Plank did as he was told and sat beside his partner. He slowly got his notebook and pen out of his pocket and held them in his lap.

Darwin leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “There’s no easy way to say this so I’m just gonna say it,” he said. “We got three witnesses put you at the scene of a murder this afternoon, Marlene.”

“Me or someone who looks like me?” Marlene said, straight-faced.

“You, Marlene,” said Darwin. “They gave a description of Stevie, too.” He sat back and crossed his arms. “Found Stevie’s fecal matter at the scene, too. There were elderberries in it.” He paused. “I was surprised he threw it like that. Thought you broke him of that habit.”

Marlene stiffened.

“Look,” Darwin said, “we can take you out in cuffs and make a big scene or you can come quietly to the station with us.” He shifted just enough in his seat to expose his holstered Glock. “Or we can tranq you, do it that way. Up to you.”

“Fine,” Marlene said, holding out her wrists. “Handcuffs it is.”

“Doesn’t have to be that way,” said Darwin.

“Only way I’m leaving is in handcuffs.”

Darwin inhaled and let it out little by little. “I’m not looking to embarrass you, Marlene.”

“Oh cut the shit, Ollie,” Marlene said, boring into him with her dark brown eyes. “You’re not looking to help me save face; you’re looking to help yourself. You walk me out in cuffs and you become a pariah, which you obviously don’t want. But guess what? If I’m fucked, so are you.”

“So you admit to killing Ronald Zatmary this afternoon?” Plank blurted. He couldn’t help himself – screw this lady and her complacency.

“Plank—“ said Darwin.

“Is that who that was?” Marlene said. “Thought it was just another dickhead bigot. Piece of shit disrespecting my son like that. Ask me, I did the world a favor. Assholes like him aren’t meant for longevity.”

The detectives looked at each other and had an entire conversation without saying a word – Plank was sorry, Darwin let it go, the situation sucked but what could you do.

Darwin stood up. Taking handcuffs from a pouch on his belt, he said, “Marlene Fossey, you have the right to remain silent.” As Darwin slapped the cuffs on and continued to Mirandize her, Stevie poked his head into the room. He glimpsed a flash of silver at his mother’s wrists and rushed to her side.

“Mom, what’s going on?” he said. He turned to Darwin. “What are you doing to my mom?”

Darwin uncuffed Marlene. “Tell him,” he said.

Marlene crouched in front of Stevie and put her hands on his shoulders. “Remember how I hurt that man this afternoon?” Stevie nodded slowly. “Well, that wasn’t a good thing to do. Mr. Darwin and his friend need to take me away for a little while.”

“What? No!” Stevie said. He clamped his arms around his mother’s neck. “You can’t take her, Mr. Darwin!”

“Is Phil here, Marlene?” Darwin said.

“Nope, won’t be back ‘til later,” she said, smirking.

“We could get child protective services down here to get the kid,” Plank said. Marlene’s smug look was replaced with a worried one.

Ignoring his partner, Darwin said, “Can we call him?”

“You can,” Marlene said. “But he ain’t gonna like it.”

Unfortunately, she was correct – Darwin called Phil, explained the situation, and Phil just yelled “Fuckingchrist!” into the phone before promptly hanging up. When Phil got home, barreling through the front door and nearly blasting it from its hinges, Plank’s hand went to the butt of his Glock.

Phil came bombing into the living room, chest heaving, hair matted with sweat. He was wearing construction coveralls.

“Hey, Phil,” Darwin said. “I don’t know when Marlene’s bail is going to be set so—“ He was interrupted when Phil’s fist collided with his face.

Plank drew on Phil.

Darwin raised his hand. “Don’t,” he said, rubbing his jaw. Plank lowered his weapon but kept it in his hand.

“Fuckin’ traitor,” Phil said.

“Sure, it’s all my fault,” Darwin said. “I made Marlene kill Ron Zatmary just to fuck with you.” He threw the handcuffs to Plank and nodded.

Plank holstered his weapon and went to put the cuffs on Marlene. He was a few feet from her when Phil launched himself at the detective.

Darwin pulled out his sidearm and fired. The tranquilizer flechette buzzed across the room and stuck in Phil’s side. Plank barely had time to move out of the way before an unconscious Phil cleared the sofa and crashed into the wall. Stevie, who’d been relatively calm the whole time, started to cry.

Darwin sighed and reseated the Glock in its holster. “Guess we better call for backup.”

 

The black-and-whites, once they got to the house, were tasked with keeping an eye on Stevie until Phil woke up. The officers suggested that perhaps it wasn’t the greatest idea to leave Phil unrestrained but the detectives assured them it would be fine; the flechette, besides being a tranquilizer, also contained a mood-altering cocktail that would leave Phil feeling groovy and placable when he awoke. The officers were still wary but took the detectives at their word. They asked why Phil had been sedated and, after they were given the rundown, why charges weren’t being pressed. To which Plank replied, “No harm, no foul.”

Darwin wouldn’t have blamed Plank if he’d wanted to run Phil in. If somebody had come at Darwin like Phil had at Plank, that somebody would’ve been fucked. But Plank shrugged it off.

As the detectives ushered Marlene out of the house and onto the walkway, the officers were at the door, flanking a bawling Stevie who was yelling, “Don’t take my mom, Mr. Darwin! Come back! Come back!” Forget about the bodies and the blood, it was stuff like that that kept Darwin up at night.

Since they had Marlene in handcuffs, they couldn’t use one of the ladders to get down; they had no option but to take one of the open-air elevators. But to get to the elevator, they had to walk past a bunch of other houses, the doors and windows of which were now filled with prying eyes. It was a small miracle that Plank was blasé about the Phil situation because it was already awkward as hell perp-walking Marlene down the walkway. It would’ve been ten times as bad if they’d had both Fosseys in custody.

When they got to the elevator, the three of them got on board, and Darwin hit the “down” button.

“Take a good look, Ollie,” Marlene said. “Nothin’s gonna be the same after this.”

Darwin mashed the button repeatedly and, even though he tried not to, he looked at the residents lining the walkways, their eyes all pinned on him. He didn’t want to admit it but she was right – his life as he knew it was over.

The elevator sank slowly, and Darwin tried to put himself in Marlene’s shoes. Would he have come quietly or put up a stink like she had? He wanted to think he was a little more righteous than to make an innocent suffer needlessly. But then, if he were in Marlene’s shoes, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have flipped out on Zatmary, too. It didn’t matter though, he had a job to do and that’s what he was doing. But doing the right thing should’ve felt better.

 

The detectives guided Marlene to the Bastard and loaded her into the back. Once she was situated, they got in, and Plank fired it up.

As Plank drove them back to the station, Darwin sat back, closed his eyes, and massaged his forehead. The idea of booking Marlene, calling it a day, and relaxing at home appealed to him until he remembered that home wasn’t exactly his sanctum anymore.

“Maybe this isn’t the best career choice for you, Ollie,” Marlene said.

Darwin ignored her.

“You could do a million other things, and you choose the one thing that puts you at odds with your own,” she said. “You really think you’re accepted by them, don’t you?”

Again no response from Darwin.

“Hate to break it to you, Ollie,” she said, “but you’re just another monkey to them.”

Plank peered at Marlene in the rearview mirror. “Say, how come it’s okay for you to throw around the m-word but I can’t?”

“Oh, c’mon, you know why,” Darwin said, his arms crossed. “You’re a human and we’re monkeys. You ain’t one of us, you shouldn’t use the word.”

“’One of us’?” Plank said. “Don’t lump yourself in with her.”

“You know what I mean,” Darwin said. “We’re monkeys and you’re not.”

“Technically, pal, you’re a hairless chimpanzee,” Plank said, again looking at Marlene in the rearview, “and you’re an orangutan.” He paused. “And, really, the proper nomenclature is ‘sim.’ Or ‘simian’ if you’re not into the whole brevity thing.”

“That’s what you call us,” said Marlene. “Just another label.”

Plank considered arguing but thought better of it – it’d be like reasoning with a brick wall. He stayed silent and so did she.

“She’s got a point, you know,” Darwin said, breaking the silence. “We’re given labels, treated like second-class citizens. You saw how Harr and Ryerson acted around me. How Ada treated me like a piece of shit.”

Plank said, “I don’t think—“

“You don’t think what?” Marlene said. “You heard him, we’re treated like second-class—“

Darwin whirled in his seat and gave Marlene the ol’ eye-fuck. “You. Shut up. Or I swear to Christ we’ll hit you with a resisting arrest charge on top of everything else. Isn’t that right, partner?”

“Technically, she was resisting, yeah,” Plank said. “The whole ‘give me cuffs or give me death’ schtick.”

Marlene acquiesced and shut her piehole.

Darwin turned back to his partner. “You were saying.”

“I was going to say that I don’t think that Harr and Ryerson have anything against you. I’ll bet they’re probably just not used to the concept of sims as citizens yet. To them it’s still got some novelty. I mean, it’s a brave new world, pal. Some people just ain’t ready for it. As for Ada, that was misdirected hostility.” He hooked a thumb in Marlene’s direction. “Mother of the Year back there kills Ada’s brother-in-law so of course she’s going to be a little less than civil toward the next sim she comes in contact with.” He put up a hand, traffic-cop style. “I’m not justifying it or saying it was right but it was a natural reaction. She lost family, can’t blame her for going off the rails a little.

“And really, it took me a little while to get used to working with you,” he said. “‘Course that had more to do with you being surly than being a sim.” He smiled and playfully elbowed his partner. “But still. Gotta give it time. I mean, Doc Parveen doesn’t act weird around you. And that girl, Lacey, she was nothing but nice to you.”

“Fair point,” Darwin said.

Marlene muttered something involving the word “blame.”

“What’d I tell you about talking?” said Darwin.

“Wait, what did she say?” Plank said. Darwin shrugged. Plank looked in the rearview again. “What’d you say?”

Marlene opened her mouth, shut it.

“It’s okay, I honestly want to know,” Plank said.

“I said you can’t really blame me for killing that shithead,” said Marlene.

“How the fuck you figure that?” Darwin said.

“Your partner there said he couldn’t blame that woman for going off the rails since her brother-in-law was killed,” she said, “and I’m saying that you can’t blame me for going off the rails either. He called my son, an innocent kid, who doesn’t know from prejudice, a monkey. Guy bumps into us and we’re the assholes? Fuck him.”

“Bit of a stretch, no? Kill a guy just because he used a word you didn’t like?” Plank said. “Look, you love your son and want to protect him and I get that. But nobody needs protection against words because they’re not a threat. And because you didn’t stop to think about that, you’ll probably do twenty to life now. Where does that leave Stevie?”

Marlene face went hangdog, and she looked out the window. “You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Oh, what, you’re the only one who’s ever been called a monkey?” Plank said. “Look at my skin, lady. I’m black. I’ve been called monkey, nigger, coon, you name it. But unlike you, I don’t let that rule me. Because, in the end, they’re only words. They don’t matter.” He smiled and shook his head. “Damn it.”

“What?” Darwin said.

“I hate it when you’re right, pal,” Plank said. “No offense.”

A grin slowly spread across Darwin’s face. “None taken.”

Wrote a little something called “A Bad Time For Blasphemy” for a contest at Medium.com. Check it out here. Or read the text below. Enjoy!

Almost nothing was under my control.

After I insulted the Boss, I began to choke. The edges of my vision darkened as my throat closed up. My life was a top nearing the end of its spin. The only things I could control were my hands so I tugged at my collar as if that would suddenly allow my throat to unclench. It didn’t.

Actually, wait. Let me back up a bit.

I’m in the, well, call it the construction business, and my company had been working on this enormous, one-of-a-kind building. So much went into this thing — I’m talking billions of dollars, countless man-hours, a lifetime worth of stress, and after all the late nights, all the arguments, all the hand wringing, this monster came together beautifully, it was complete. We could finally kick back and relax, it was Miller time! Then, out of left field, our competitors up and steal our blueprints.

This unnerved us. Of course it did. We bust our asses for years (years!), and this group of jerkoffs comes along and swipes our designs. Hell, we heard they even had moles inside our organization to steal that stuff. It was industrial espionage of the highest order. Disgusting. The Boss was so pissed he took it upon himself to retrieve the plans. But even he, in his infinite wisdom, couldn’t. When this was revealed at our next board meeting, I kinda sorta broke his balls about it. Maybe not the best idea, I admit.

During the meeting, a co-worker and I were discussing the implications of the theft when it hits me: the project is completed. I say, Who cares who has the plans? We have the final product — we’re gold, baby! Well, my co-worker is having none of that; he fights me tooth and nail, saying what if our competitors do this, what if they do that. I respond, reiterating my point in hopes that my halfwit co-worker gets it, and the Boss picks this very moment to spout off about his religion. His religion! Of all the times to bring up his ridiculous beliefs, it has to be now? At this point my blood is boiling — I’ve had it up to here with the company, my co-worker, and especially the Boss. Without thinking, I turn to the Boss and say, If your religion is so great, where are the plans? Why didn’t your magical friend help you recover them? The Boss, clad in that stupid black suit (he always wore the same thing — such a freak), raises his hand and that’s when I feel my throat close.

The Boss says, “I find your lack of faith disturbing.”

Then the Boss’s boss says, “Enough of this. Vader, release him!”

The Boss says, “As you wish” and turns away from me, at which point my throat opens, and I hit the table, gulping air. When it came to his religion, the Boss could be such a dick.

Patricia Wiggins walked the six blocks home after working the graveyard shift at St. Raphael’s General Hospital. It was a few minutes past 6am so she didn’t worry much about walking alone; by her estimation even criminals had to sleep sometime. An icy wind sliced down the dark boulevard, and she turned up the collar of her wool coat to keep it at bay. Nothin’ to bother me ‘cept the wind, she thought.

She was a block away from the warmth of her apartment and the company of her overweight tabby, BB, when a greasy arm shot out of an alley and latched onto the sleeve of her coat. He came out of the shadows, all scabs and bloodshot eyes. A rusty knife with a duct-taped handle hung from his other hand. “Gimme your stuff, bitch,” he said through cracked lips.

Patricia cursed herself for carrying her pepper spray in her purse instead of her coat pocket like she should have. She let her purse slip down the length of her arm and was about to hand it over when Greasy Arm said, “Uh-uh, bitch, all your stuff.” Brandishing the knife millimeters from her cheek, he pulled her close. His breath was a corpse’s wet turd.

She wanted to scream but couldn’t. She closed her eyes for a brief moment and when she opened them, Greasy Arm was on the ground, both arms bent at grotesque angles, his nose smashed flat. And then she was staring at an unassuming, stocky man who stomped on the corroded blade, shattering it. A navy baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes so she couldn’t quite make out his face. His hands were buried in the pockets of his matching navy utility coat. A small patch on the left side of it said Corporal City Zoo.

“Who are you?” she said.

The corners of his mouth turned upward ever so slightly. “I keep the animals in check, lady. I’m the zookeeper.” His voice was warm and slick. It sounded the tiniest bit familiar but she couldn’t place it.

Before she could respond, he turned and disappeared down the same alley Greasy Arm had come from.

When Patricia got home, BB was spread out on the couch, supine but awake. She took off her coat, sat next to the chubby feline, picked him up and hugged him. She said, “You ain’t gonna believe what just happened to me, Buddy Boy.”

 

Later than day, Mr. Greasy Arm, known to the other fiends on Broadus Road as Roy “Fish” Frye, slogged out of St. Raph’s Emergency Room. Both of his arms were in casts and a bulky splint was taped over his nose.

He dug around in the pocket of his grimy hooded sweatshirt and came up with the small bottle of Percocet the ER doc had given him. Fish thanked God that he was wearing said sweatshirt because it was the only article of clothing he owned with a pocket big enough to accommodate his casted arms. Seemed he’d be wearing that particular hoodie a lot for the next few weeks.

As he thumbed one of the five Percs into his mouth and dry swallowed it, he tried to recall as much of the previous hours as he could. Fish worked especially hard to conjure up the face of the prick who’d busted his arms and nose. However, the perpetual haze that was his memory made that difficult.

He’d heard the rumors, the whisperings about the zookeeper, the local vigilante who would pounce on you if you misbehaved. Fish recalled one particular story he’d heard from another junkie named Marsh who had been on the nod at the time. Come to think of it, Fish thought. So was I.

“I seen a guy with his whole face punched in,” Marsh had said. “Said he’d robbed the Snappy-Mart, the one up on Reese? Said this guy with a hat on just come out of nowhere, started beatin’ on him, took the cash, and that was it. Come to find out the guy with the hat returned the money to the store. And the guy’s coat? It had a Corp City Zoo patch on it, man, like he was a zookeeper or somethin’. Strange world, man, strange world.”

Strange world, indeed.

Even stranger that the zookeeper rumors had apparently been true.

Who was this guy, Fish wondered. And why the hell couldn’t he leave well enough alone?

“Messin’ with the natural order never amounts to shit,” Fish mumbled, feeling the opiate wave of the Perc wash over him. Fish thought Mr. Zookeeper ought to know better, that he should recognize that Corp City was no place to play cowboy.

Fish struggled to come up with some idea of who it was who’d fucked him up but nothing came. One minute he was pulling that fine-looking bitch toward him and was on his way to breaking off a piece and then bam, he’s on the ground with two useless salamis for arms and breathing through his mouth because his nose wasn’t an option. He saw that hat and matching coat though. And the zoo patch, he’d definitely seen that.

There was something else though, something on the very edge of his mind. Fish closed his eyes and focused on it. Was it something the guy said after he laid me out? While he couldn’t think of the exact words the guy used – other than something about keeping animals in check, whatever the fuck that meant – he did remember the tone of the guy’s voice. The guy had a voice that could melt butter, Fish was sure of that much.

Shaking his head, Fish continued past the hospital, back home toward Broadus Road.

He put his casted arms inside his hoodie pocket and grasped the pill bottle, secure in the fact that at least he had his high for the day. Fish was reveling in that tiny victory when his shoulder hit somebody else’s. He looked at the burly man who’d run into him.

The fireplug said, “Sorry, animal.”

“S’okay,” Fish said. He did a double take and narrowed his eyes. “Wait, what’d you say?”

“I said sorry, man.”

Fish looked the fireplug over. He appeared to be in his 30s, had a receding hairline that said as much. What hair he had was slicked straight back. His navy peacoat was hanging open, and Fish could see what looked like a khaki work shirt that matched the guy’s khaki pants. Aside from the duffel bag hanging from the guy’s shoulder, the fireplug looked like some dumbshit janitor.

Fish nodded and blinked. “Uh, yeah, right, no problem, man.”

The fireplug smiled, turned, and walked toward the hospital.

Fish started back toward home when he swore he heard the fireplug say, “Be seein’ ya” in that same slick-ass, melted-butter voice as the zookeeper. He turned around and the fireplug was gone. He shook his head and plodded down the street. Maybe I’ll lay off the Percs for the rest of the day, he thought. I’m hearin’ things.

 

Months earlier, Victor Plintz was handing out candy to schoolchildren. The kids were pouring out of a school in Afghanistan. He handed each child a piece of candy, digging into the pockets of his fatigues to get more. Out of nowhere a car exploded, obliterating the kids and some nearby soldiers. As he was thrown off his feet, machine gun fire erupted, tearing into more soldiers. The gunfire thundered, and the soldiers, blood pouring from their eye sockets, were howling, “Pliiiiiintz! Pliiiiiintz!” Victor looked down and saw one of the soldiers, his lower jaw obliterated and his lifeless tongue lolling out like a meaty pink ribbon, poking at his feet. He gasped and his eyes popped open.

He looked at his feet and saw the end of a nightstick prodding them. The nightstick was jutting through the bars of his jail cell. The nightstick was attached to a guard named Maggs.

“Plintz. Plintz,” Maggs said, his voice flat.

“Yeah, whatisit?” Victor sat up, rubbing his throbbing jaw. He’d been grinding his teeth again.

“Got a visitor.” Maggs opened the cell door.

Sighing, Victor got out of his bunk and exited the cell. He walked a few feet ahead of Maggs as they made their way toward the visitor area.

Walking past the other cells, Victor picked up scraps of conversation. His ears perked up when he heard somebody say, “Yo, I’m sayin’, you know how a bus stop has those glass walls with, you know, pictures and shit on ‘em? Zookeeper put my boy through one of those. Just for grabbin’ some bitch’s bag! And check this shit out: my man stabbed that muh’fucka, you know, ‘fore he got thrown through the glass, and the zookeeper just walked it off like it was nothin’!”

It wasn’t the first time Victor had heard about this elusive zookeeper, the bogeyman who seemed to have Corp City criminals spooked; he’d heard other cons talk about the guy as if he were some kind of fucking superhero. Only this zookeeper sounds like a chump, Victor thought. Who the fuck wears a zookeeper uniform to fight crime anyway? Wouldn’t catch Batman wearing a get-up like that.

When they arrived at the outer door of the visitor area, Maggs knocked on the adjacent window behind which sat a guard at a desk. He nodded at Maggs, buzzed the door open, and, through the crackling speaker, said, “Booth 5, Plintz.” Victor walked through the door, went past the other booths occupied with cons visiting with their loved ones, got to booth 5 and sat down on the cold metal stool. In front of him, on the other side of the safety glass, sat his father, Francis, who already had the phone, which was attached to the booth wall, against his ear.

Every week, Victor walked from his cell to the visitor area and every week during that five-minute walk he thought that maybe it’d be somebody different. A buddy from the Marines, maybe. Every week he thought, Maybe it won’t be him. You never know. Every week though, much to his chagrin, Victor was greeted by his father, a smile on his wrinkled face.

That smile. That stupid fucking smile. If not for that smile, Victor might have been able to muster a modicum of tolerance for his father’s visits. Why did Francis insist on looking like he was attending a carnival when he visited? I’m in jail, Victor thought. Save the smile for when there’s something to be happy about, like when I get the fuck out of this dump.

His lips in a tight line, Victor groaned, picked up the phone, and put it to his ear.

“Hey, boyo,” Francis said, still smiling.

“Hey, Dad,” Victor said.

“How you doing?”

Victor shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

“Just okay huh?”

Victor had endured this every week for almost five months. He couldn’t take it for another seven. “Why do you keep coming here, Dad?”

Francis’s mouth, which was starting to arrange itself into a frown, opened and closed.

“We go though this every week,” Victor said. “I tell you not to come, you pretend you don’t hear me, and you keep showing up. Why?”

Francis couldn’t meet his son’s gaze. “I just…wanna see you is all.”

“Yeah, well, I want spaghetti and meatballs.”

Francis looked up and grinned. “Food that bad, huh?”

Like his father had done to him in the weeks prior, Victor acted as if he hadn’t heard him. “I’m gonna say this once. You come back next week, I’m not coming out to see you. I’ve had it.”

If Francis were a balloon floating peacefully in a cool breeze, Victor would be the asshole kid who yanks it down and pops it. The old man sighed. “Alright, Vic, you win. I won’t come back.” He paused. “Call me every once in a while though, okay? You know I worry.”

“We’ll see. Phone time ain’t easy to come by around here,” Victor lied.

Francis nodded. “Okay, well, I love you, kid. Keep your head down in there.” A hangdog look on his face, Francis hung up the phone, picked up his coat, and walked toward the door. Francis was putting on his coat as he walked through the door and Victor glimpsed the embroidered patch on the front. It said: CORPORAL CITY ZOO.

Victor stared at the door as he slowly hung up the phone. He’d completely forgotten that his father had worked at the zoo. Maybe the old man knew something about that zookeeper person the cons talked about, maybe he had some idea who the vigilante was. Of course I think of something to talk about after I tell him to leave, Victor thought. He shook his head and trudged back to his cell.

Every week following Francis’s last visit, Maggs’s footsteps would echo through the cell block and as the guard walked past Victor’s cell, he thought for a split second that Maggs would stop and tell him he had a visitor. Instead, Maggs, his eyes pointed straight ahead, would cruise right by his cell. He was amazed that Francis was staying true to his word and keeping his distance – he’d never listened before so why start now?

Victor presumed that his father’s absence would somehow make his jail time more tolerable. Instead, he became annoyed with himself for telling the old man to stay away and annoyed with Francis for actually adhering to Victor’s dumb wishes. His brain had split up into warring factions that led him to the conclusion that he didn’t know what the fuck he wanted in the first place.

A similar notion kept gnawing at Victor as time wore on: since when did he know what he was talking about anyway? And what right did he have to tell his father to stay away? It wasn’t Francis’s fault that Victor followed in his dad’s footsteps and joined the Marines even though Francis begged him not to. Wasn’t his fault that the USMC got sent to Afghanistan. Wasn’t his fault that Victor came back with an apparent case of post-traumatic stress disorder. Wasn’t his fault that, according to some court-appointed shrink, the PTSD caused Victor to get ossified drunk on a regular basis and, on one particular night, beat the piss out of those three dickheads at The Watering Can. Wasn’t his fault that those pussies couldn’t take a beating and squealed to the cops. And it sure as hell wasn’t his fault that Victor got locked up behind that shit.

Nope, it was all Victor’s fault and what did Francis want? Simply to visit his idiot son in jail, to see if he was okay, because he loved him. That’s what the smile was, merely a sign that his father loved him and was genuinely happy to see him. And Victor hadn’t even seen that. So what did he know? He didn’t know shit.

It was this eventual state of self-loathing that led Victor to break down and call his father. Standing by the pay phone with the handset to his ear, Victor punched in Francis’s number and heard it ring. And ring. And ring. And ring. Then the answering machine picked up. Hiya, this is Fran Plintz, I’m out at the moment so if you could leave your name, number, and a message, I’d appreciate it. Thanks. A lump formed in Victor’s throat at the sound of his father’s genteel tone. He swallowed hard.

At the beep Victor said, “Hey Dad, it’s Vic. Listen, I, uh, just wanted to call to see how you’re doing.” He paused. “And, look, I’m also really sorry about how I treated you last time. You didn’t deserve that and I’m sorry. So, um, if you want you can visi—“

“Hello? Vic?” A woman’s voice. She sounded out of breath.

“Yeah, who is—“

“It’s Cindy, Vic.”

Cindy. Yet another family member left in his wake. Victor recalled seeing his cousin at his trial, remembered the perpetual scowl on her face. She’d looked ready to beat him half to death. He’d seen that same dirty look when they were kids. He’d pissed her off so badly one time that she punched him in the side and cracked one of his ribs. A lesson there: don’t fuck with Cindy, she hits like a man. He’d have to tread lightly. “Oh, hey Cin, what are you do—“

“What the fuck, Vic?” Yep, Cindy alright.

“Huh?”

“You banned your own father from coming to see you?”

“What? I mean, yeah, I did but that’s why I call—“

“Oh, what, you think you can call and say you’re sorry and the ship’ll right itself?”

“Well, I—“

“You have no fucking idea what’s going on, do you?”

“No, I haven’t talk—“

“Because if you did, you’d know that things are pretty shitty.”

“Cindy, I don’t—“

“Some of us actually give a shit about family, Vic. Some of us actually take our responsibilities seriously. You obviously don’t and if you did you wouldn’t be in ja—“

“Cindy.”

“—il and everything wouldn’t fall on my shoulders like it always does. I mean, Jesus Christ, Vic, aren’t you a little old to start a bar fight? Who—“

“Cindy.”

“—does that anyway? Fucking children, that’s who. And let me tell you something el—“

“Cindy!” Victor was getting stares – angry ones from the guards and curious ones from the cons waiting for the phone. He lowered his voice. “Cindy, please, just listen to me for a second, okay?”

Silence from the other end and then, “Fine.”

“You’re right, okay? I fucked up. But there’s nothing I can do about it now.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. A headache announced its arrival with a faint throb. “As for Dad, you’re right about that too. I was really shitty to him and I was only calling to apologize, whatever that’s worth.”

Silence again.

“Cin?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

“Well? What’s going on?”

“Fran’s got cancer.”

Victor’s eyes went wide. “What? W-when?”

“Found out a couple months ago. It’s in his pancreas.”

“Well. Why. Why didn’t he tell me?”

“You seriously want me to answer that question?”

Walked right into that one, he thought. “Can I talk to him?”

“Not right now, he’s sleeping. He had a chemo treatment today and that stuff wipes him out.”

Victor didn’t know what to say. His face flushed and a sheen of sweat followed.

“Vic? You still there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m still here. It’s just, you know, I still have about a month to go in here. Is he gonna, uh, gonna be there—“ He wanted to add “when I get out” but he couldn’t. His eyes started to fill up with hot tears, which he choked back.

Cindy sighed and answered his unfinished question. “He should be. He’s been doing good with the chemo and radiation and stuff and his spirits are high but the doctors haven’t been that, you know, optimistic.”

Victor thought he heard his cousin sniffle, as if she too were fighting tears. It was the first time he’d ever heard her get upset or anything vaguely resembling upset.

She said, “Listen, can you call back another day? He’d love to hear from you.”

“Yeah. I mean, the soonest I can call is next Tuesday. Would that work?”

“That works. I gotta take him to the hospital in the morning but we’ll be back in the afternoon.”

“Good, I’ll call then.” He looked at the line of cons waiting for the phone. They were starting to look anxious and annoyed. Never a good combination. “Listen, I gotta go.” He paused. “Tell Dad I’m sorry for everything and that I love him, okay? Will you do that for me?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, Cin. And thanks for taking care of him, really, I appreciate it. I’ll talk to you next week. Bye.“

Victor was about to hang up when he heard Cindy say, “Vic.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m. I’m sorry for hitting you with both barrels before. I’ve just been, you know, stressed out with Doug and the kids and work and now Fran.”

“You don’t need to explain. I get it.”

“Even if you were here, I’d still be there to help, you know that, right?”

“No, I know.”

“He’s the sweetest guy in the world and now this. It’s really fucked my head up, you know?”

“I can imagine.” He paused. “But if anybody can pull through this, it’s him, right? He’s tough.”

“I hope so.” She didn’t sound convinced although Victor couldn’t say that he was either.

“So next Tuesday, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, talk to you then.”

“’Kay. Keep your head up.”

“You too. Bye.” Victor hung up the phone and went back to his cell. His cellmate wasn’t there – Victor guessed he was probably in line for the phone – so he lay down on his bunk, buried his head in his pillow, and cried harder than he ever had in his life.

 

The next day and every day for the following month, Victor steeled himself and packed each day with so much activity that he didn’t have time to think. It was one of the most valuable things he learned in the service: in times of stress, keep busy, keep your mind sharp. When he was in his cell, he was doing calisthenics. When he wasn’t, he was running around the exercise yard and using the free weights. His father wasn’t giving up on life and neither, Victor had decided, was he.

Francis tried to reschedule his chemo, which fell on the same day as Corp City Pen’s visitation day, so he could resume his visits with Victor but it wasn’t to be. It was for the best though. As much as Victor wanted to see his father, it was evident that Francis needed all the rest he could get and schlepping all the way out to CCP every week wasn’t conducive to that. Instead, Victor called Francis every Tuesday and Thursday like clockwork.

Cindy was right, Francis sounded upbeat given the circumstances. When Victor asked him how the treatment was going, the old man said, “Ah, it ain’t so bad, kid. Not like I had much hair to lose anyhow,” laughing at his own joke. Even so, Victor could hear the strain, the weakness, in his father’s voice. He was fighting hard but cancer was a motherfucker.

One day Francis had been asleep when Victor called, and when Cindy picked up, she assured him that he tried to stay awake to catch the phone but he just couldn’t – the treatments were taking their toll. On the other hand, she’d mentioned that the doctors had grown more optimistic given recent changes.

“I think talking to you turned things around, Vic, I really do,” Cindy had said. “I mean, ever since you guys started talking again, he’s been different somehow. He has this look on his face like he’s, I don’t know, building a house or something and whatever happens, he’s gonna get that thing built and not even a tornado could stop him.”

When Victor heard that, he discreetly rubbed his eye with a knuckle so the other cons wouldn’t see his tears.

A week later, Victor was released. He’d tried to persuade Francis not to pick him up, that he could take the C train home but the old man wouldn’t hear of it. So when Victor walked out of the main gates of CCP, Francis, holding onto Cindy for support, was there to meet him.

Despite his gaunt appearance, Victor thought Francis actually looked pretty good – the color in his face and an ear-to-ear smile went a long way. Victor’s boots crunched over the newly fallen leaves as he walked over to Francis and threw his arms around him. When Francis’s arms clamped around Victor like they always had, Victor took heart. Still plenty of strength it seemed.

“Hey, Dad,” Victor said.

“Hi, boyo.” Francis stepped back, smiled, and, with his hands on Victor’s arms, said, “You look good, kid.” He squeezed Victor’s arms. “Jesus. S’like you’re made outta iron.”

Victor grinned and looked at the ground. “Yeah, been hittin’ the weights a little.” He looked over at Cindy, who was actually wiping away tears with her coat sleeve. He couldn’t believe it. “Hey, Cin. Thanks for comin’.”

Francis lowered his arms and said, “Well, give your cousin a hug.”

As they hugged, Cindy said, “Good to see you, Vic.”

“Yeah, you too.” When he let go of her he couldn’t look her in the eye. He hadn’t forgotten what she’d said to him the month before and it still stung because, well, she’d been right.

When his eyes finally met hers though, she smiled and gave him a wink. It was a very un-Cindy-like thing to do, and Victor knew that all was forgiven, even though he wasn’t sure that he deserved her clemency. He heard Francis’s voice in his head: That’s how family is, boyo. You crap on them the most and they forgive you the quickest. He looked at Francis, who was smiling ear to ear, and returned the smile.

“C’mon, boyo, let’s get you home,” Francis said, clapping his son on the shoulder.

Victor smiled and helped Francis to the car.

As far as homecomings went, Victor thought it was a pretty good one. That night he had dinner at home with Francis, Cindy, her husband, Doug, and her kids. Victor wasn’t sure if the meal was Francis’s idea of a joke or not (he guessed it probably was) but it didn’t matter, it was the best spaghetti and meatballs he’d ever tasted.

That night Victor lay in his old bed in his old room, his hands behind his head. Listening to the wind whip through the dried leaves outside and his father’s light snoring in the next room, Victor wondered what he was going to do next. He came to the conclusion that he didn’t care if he was mopping up shit all day everyday as long as he could be there for his dad. Francis was his priority. Beyond that, fuck all mattered.

 

Victor spent a good portion of his first full day as a free man at St. Raphael’s General Hospital. He sat next to Francis for six hours as he went through a chemo treatment.

Francis dozed off and on while Victor flipped through the poor selection of magazines. He was perusing a good-looking eggplant parm recipe in an old issue of Woman’s Day when a shapely black woman wearing pink scrubs approached. She smiled at Victor and put her finger to her lips, signaling to stay quiet lest Francis was awakened.

She gently ran a long-fingered hand up and down Francis’s arm. “Fraaaaannnnciiiiis,” she purred. “Fraaaaannnnciiiiis.”

The corners of Francis’s mouth slowly turned upward but his eyes didn’t open.

The woman continued. “Fraaaaannnnciiiiis.” Her hand glided down to Francis’s hand, which lay open, palm up, on the armrest of his chair. She tickled his palm and as his fingers slowly closed over hers, his eyes opened.

Francis looked up at her and said, “Patty.” A smile filled his face. “Patty Patty Patty.”

Patty smiled back and said, “Hello, Francis.” She leaned down and kissed his mostly bald pate. “How are you, sweet love?”

“Eh, I’m getting by,” Francis said. “What about you, doll?”

“About the same,” Patty said.

Victor smiled. He’d forgotten that women, all­ women, loved Francis. And the old guy didn’t just eat it up, oh no – he dipped huge hunks of bread in it and savored that shit.

Still holding Francis’s hand, Patty looked at Victor and said, “And I’m guessing you’re Victor?”

“That I am, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” Patty pulled a sourpuss. “Old ladies are called ma’am.” She pointed to the plastic nametag hanging from her scrub top – it said ST. RAPHAEL’S GENERAL HOSPITAL and, underneath, PATRICIA, RN. “You call me Patricia. Or Patty. Just not ma’am.”

“Sorry, force of habit. I used to be a Mari—“

Patty patted his arm. “It’s okay, I know. Francis told me all about you.” She grinned and cocked an eyebrow. “Also told me you got a bit of a temper, hmm?”

Victor nodded. “Little bit.”

Francis chuckled.

“Well, I’m sure they had it comin’,” she said. She walked around to the back of Francis’s chair and started to massage his shoulders. A beatific smile was plastered across the old man’s face as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Victor was sure it was innocent but still marveled at his father, the Female Whisperer. “So what’s next? You lookin’ for a job?”

“I just got out yesterday so I haven’t had a chance to look yet but yeah, I need one. Not exactly sure where though. I mean, being an ex-con and all.”

Patty bit the corner of her mouth and cocked her head to the side. “You know, I think they might be hiring in maintenance.”

“Work as a janitor you mean? Here?”

She grinned. “Too good to push a mop?”

Victor shook his head. “It’s not that. It’s just, you know, ‘cause of my record, I doubt a hospital will hire me.”

“Ah, they’d be lucky to have you, kid,” Francis said, eyes still closed. “Shouldn’t hold a bar fight against you.” He blew air through his nostrils. “Those pussies should’ve kept their goddamn mouths shut,” he muttered. Francis’s eyes popped open. He craned his head back to look at Patty. “Sorry for the language, doll.”

She patted Francis’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, baby.” She redirected her attention to Victor. “Anyway, it’s not like you’re gonna be performing brain surgery. And this place doesn’t only hire saints, pardon the pun.” She paused. “I know the manager, Wendell. I can talk to him, put in a good word for you. If you want.”

“Yeah, I mean, that’d be great. You really think he’d give me a shot?”

“I think your chances are pretty good. Wendell’s a vet too so he’ll at least have a better understanding of where you’re coming from.”

“He was a Marine?”

“Long time ago but yeah.”

“If you wouldn’t mind that’d be terrific. You need my number or anything?” Victor pointed at Francis. “I’m staying with my dad right now so…”

Patty smiled. “I know where to find you.” She stopped massaging Francis’s shoulders and bent down to kiss him on the head again. “I gotta get going on my rounds, boys.” She smiled at Victor. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Vic. I’ll be seeing more of you I take it?”

Victor smiled. “Yes, ma—“ He caught himself. “Yes, you will.”

“Good.” She reached for Francis’s hand and squeezed it. “And I’ll see you in a few days, sweet love?”

Francis’s eyes slowly glided up her form. When his eyes met hers he said, “You bet, doll.”

Patty smiled at Francis, winked at Victor, and went on her way.

Francis closed his eyes and leaned back again. “Nice girl, that Patty.”

Victor nodded, watching her leave. “Yep.”

“Single, too.”

Victor didn’t respond to Francis’s comment; he just smiled, and let it lay.

 

The following weeks turned into months, and the crispness of autumn intensified, turning into the crackling cold of winter. As the brittle leaves faded away, so did Francis. It happened more slowly than the doctors predicted but still too quickly for Victor.

Victor got the job at the hospital. Patty was right, Wendell had understood completely. After Victor told him his story, Wendell said, “Haw! Three pricks against a Marine? They’d had three more guys it would’ve been a fair fight.” He stuck out his hand. “Job’s yours if you want it, Vic.” Victor smiled and shook it.

Victor worked the second shift, 3pm to 11pm, so he had enough time during the day to take care of his dad. He was glad he was there for his father and wouldn’t have had it any other way. But as the cancer ate away at Francis and he became more and more of a papery husk, Victor felt something he didn’t expect.

There’d been a time when, as a kid, he’d watched his father split wood in the backyard for hours, hardly breaking a sweat. The axe would keep slamming down and slamming down, and, in that moment, Francis was the stuff of Greek mythology to Victor, legendary, a god. Now he had to help the old man take his shirt off because he couldn’t lift his arms. The feeling Victor didn’t expect was heartbreak.

 

One day he was clocking in at the hospital for his shift when his cell phone – a cheap, pre-pay thing – rang and he dug it out of his pocket. It was Cindy.

She told him that Francis had collapsed at home and was unconscious. Breathing but unconscious. An ambulance was bringing him to the emergency room.

Patty had all but forced the janitor gig on Victor. Had he been a gambling man, he would’ve bet a hundred bucks that she did it just so he would already be at the hospital if something like this happened. His father had been spot on – Patty was good people for sure.

After the medics brought Francis in and he was settled in the ER, Victor was allowed to see him. The sight of his father awake took his breath away, he was that relieved.

Francis smiled when he saw his son. “Hey, boyo,” he said. His voice was a whisper. The nurse stood next to his bed, taking notes on a clipboard.

“Hey, Dad. How’re you feeling?”

“Pretty good. I gotta go. Gotta go…keep the animals in check. I’m the zookeeper, ya know.”

“Yeah, Dad, I know, you worked at the zoo.” Victor’s eyes met the nurse’s.

“I’ll go get the doctor,” she said.

The ER doc didn’t have much to offer in the way of new information. It was exactly what Victor thought: the cancer was simply getting the better of his father and he collapsed because he was just…used up. And oh yeah, his mental faculties seemed to be slipping too. The doctor was finishing up his useless summation, adding that he was going to admit Francis to the hospital for at least a couple days, when Cindy joined them.

As the doc continued on his rounds, Victor filled Cindy in, and they both sat with Francis for a little while in silence. In between dozing, Francis would repeat what he said to Victor about having to “keep the animals in check.”

Victor looked at Cindy and said, “He ever do anything like this before? Mention any of this zookeeper stuff?”

For a moment Cindy was silent. “Um,” she said. “Not that I remember.” Another pause. “Maybe he misses his job?”

“Maybe.” But who would miss cleaning up shit in a zoo?

Although it took some effort, Victor convinced Cindy a while later that it was okay to leave, that she should go home to her family. Once he assured her that he’d keep her posted, she gathered her things, kissed Francis, and left.

Victor continued his bedside vigil when a hand pushed aside the curtain that surrounded Francis’s bed. Victor smiled when Patty poked her head through and said, “Hey.” Victor motioned for her to join them.

Patty slipped in and sat next to Victor. “What happened?”

“He collapsed at home. Luckily, Cindy was there when it happened and she called 911.” He narrowed his eyes at Patty. “How’d you know he was down here?”

“I saw the admission orders up on my floor.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that some kind of violation?”

She shrugged. “Probably.” She grinned. “But why follow the rules, right?”

Victor chuckled. After a few moments, he said, “Did my dad ever mention anything about being a zookeeper?”

“Only once, in passing. Why?”

“When he wakes up, he keeps saying that he has to go take care of the animals, that he’s a zookeeper.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, I think he’s just out of it.”

Patty reached over and took Victor’s hand. They sat there like that until Francis was taken up to his room.

 

Victor stayed with his father until 11pm – he figured he might as well stay until what was supposed to be the end of his shift. Not like I have anywhere else to be. He turned off the TV, kissed his sleeping father on the head, and made his way to the door when he heard Francis’s voice. He said, “Don’t forget to check my coat, boyo.”

Victor turned around. Francis’s eyes were trained on him. He slowly approached the bed and said, “Your coat? Your coat isn’t here. It’s—“

Francis’s eyes started to close, as if getting that sentence out required every last shred of energy. “Gotta keep the animals in check, kid, gotta—“ Francis fell back asleep.

Creases formed in Victor’s brow as he tried to make sense of what his father said. Shaking his head, he left the room. Once he made it home, he climbed into bed and passed out.

The next morning, he woke up thinking about what Francis had said. He got out of bed and, still in his t-shirt and boxer shorts, went downstairs and started rummaging through the coat closet. When he got to the Corporal City Zoo coat, he found a folded-up piece of paper tucked away in the inside pocket. He pulled it out and saw Vic written on the outside. Victor unfolded it, sat down on the couch, and began to read.

 

Hey boyo,

 

Not sure when you’ll get this or how you’ll get it or, hell, even if you’ll get it. But I wanted you to know that I’m truly proud of you, Vic. As I write this, you’re in jail and I’m proud of you. When you went to jail, I was beside myself, I really was. I couldn’t stand the idea of my son being locked up like an animal. I kept asking myself how this could’ve happened, what I could’ve done differently to make sure you’d stayed out of trouble. I finally figured that you were a grown man and your decisions are your own and there’s nothing I could’ve done about it. Once I accepted that, I didn’t feel better about you being in jail but it was sort of the sugar I took with the medicine to make it go down, you know? Anyway, once I accepted it, it got me thinking. For the life of me, I just couldn’t believe you beat the piss out of three strangers for nothing. It simply didn’t add up. Even when you were standing in that courtroom and pled guilty and everything, I still couldn’t believe it. And I wanted to ask you about it when I went to visit you but you were always so annoyed when I was there that I didn’t want to make it worse. So one night after work I went over to the Can. I only been in there a handful of times and never after your fight so I figured screw it, I could use a drink and maybe by being there I’d understand why you did what you did. I go in there and Ernie’s behind the bar as usual and he gets me a beer and asks how you are and I tell him okay and I ask him what happened the night you were there and he says it was so busy that he really didn’t see anything, that he’d wished he had because he always liked you and would’ve been happy to be a witness but he didn’t see anything. That was probably bullshit because I know Ernie from when we were kids, always such a weasel that kid, and Ernie only takes care of Ernie but it was still nice of him to say that stuff. Anyway, I’m sitting there with my beer, just nursing it, and this girl, maybe in her 20s or so, attractive enough but kind of looks like she’d been rode hard and put away wet, comes over and sits down right next to me. I look over at her and smile, ask her how things are going. She seems kind of shy and says fine. Then she asks if I’m Vic’s dad. I said I was and I ask how she knew and she says she overheard me asking about your fight and that we look alike, which made me smile, so she took a guess. Then this girl looks like the whole weight of the world just fell on her shoulders all at once. She leans in close and her voice gets quiet and my ears aren’t what they used to be so I have to listen close. She says that she was there when you got into that fight, that she saw the whole thing. Now I think big deal, everything’s done and you pled guilty and you’re an honest kid so what news could she possibly have? I don’t say any of that though, I just keep quiet. She keeps on talking, saying that she was the reason the fight started in the first place. That those three dopes you knocked around were giving her a hard time and even though you were shithoused, her words, you stepped in and those guys got in your face and you were trying to be calm. Then she says that one of the guys called her a dirty cooze, again, her words, and that’s when you took those guys apart. She said that she freaked and ran right out and didn’t go back and had no idea that you’d been arrested and got locked up, that she’d only heard about it after everything was said and done. She’s telling me this and my jaw’s on the ground, I can’t believe it. I wanted to shake her, to ask her why didn’t she come forward no matter how much time had passed but I couldn’t, I was in shock. So she says she’s sorry, and I nod like a dope because I can’t find the words and she goes off to do whatever she was doing before she saw me. I’m sitting there at the bar, my beer still in front of me and I’m staring at the bar, just staring. I swear I can close my eyes and still see every single water ring on that bar, I stared at it that long. After a while Ernie comes over to me, asks me if everything’s okay and the cobwebs clear a little bit and I say yeah, finish my beer in two gulps even though it’d gotten warm, put my hat and coat on, and head out. I’m on my way home, thinking about what a good thing you did standing up for that girl, and I’m walking by that convenience store over on Reese Ave., I forget the name, Quick-Mart or something, and this dope in a ski mask comes spilling out the door, waving a gun like a maniac, some money spilling from a plastic bag in his hand, and this schmuck starts running toward me. I’m ashamed to admit it but my first instinct was to let the guy pass, that it wasn’t any of my business, let the cops take care of it, all that. But like I said, I was thinking about what you did so as that idiot ran toward me, I started running toward him full steam. This guy is so wild eyed that I don’t think he realized I was coming for him. I start to get real close, like maybe ten feet away, when this knucklehead realizes that I actually am coming for him. He starts to raise the gun but I close the distance, drop my shoulder, and plow right into the guy. The gun goes flying off I don’t know where but he’s holding on to that plastic bag like his life depends on it so when he falls, he’s still got the bag. He’s on his back and I’m standing over him and without thinking I start to whale on this guy. When I hear something crack (I think it was his nose), I stop hitting him and get a hold of myself. I yank the mask off this guy and it’s some kid, maybe 18. Maybe. His face is pretty busted up but he’s still breathing. I noticed he had one of those stupid Brothers of the Star gang tattoos on his face so I suppose the kid was trying to make his bones or something. Such a waste. Anyway, I grab the bag of money, walk it into the convenience store, give the clerk the money back, and start back toward the door. I’m halfway out when the guy asks who I am and I look down at the patch on my jacket and I do that thing with my voice, you know, like when I croon like Sinatra, and in that olive oil voice I say, “I keep the animals in check. I’m the zookeeper” which sounds so dumb now that I think about it. I mean, who am I, John Wayne? Then I leave and go home. I’ll be honest, kid, I don’t think I slept a wink that night, I was so keyed up from what happened. For maybe the first time in my life, I really felt like I did some good in the world. Don’t get me wrong, Vic. When I look at you I also feel like I did good cause I raised you right and you turned out great but I’m talking in the grand scheme of things here. In other words, I did something to help out somebody who wasn’t friend or family. And that felt goddamn amazing. So I went out and did it the next night and the night after that and the night after that and on and on. And every now and again, I hear people mention the zookeeper this or the zookeeper that so who knows, maybe you’re aware of my, well, secret identity I guess you could call it. Anyway, the reason I’m writing this letter, and I think this is the most I’ve ever written in my life, ha ha, is I wanted you to know why I did what I did, that your father actually made some kind of difference in the world, even though it was really only a small one. I’ll keep this zookeeper stuff up as long as I can but I’m no spring chicken so who knows how long it’ll last. Anyway, the point I want to make is this: do something good in this world, boyo. Do something to help a stranger, for no other reason than to help them. Do it because life is short and if you don’t do something good for somebody you don’t know, you won’t know how good it feels when you do. And let me tell you, that is not something you want to miss out on. Granted, you were in the service so you already know what it’s like to help people without getting any thanks in return, ha ha. But really, kid, be good, be nice, help strangers just because it’s right. And know that I love you, you’re the best son a father could ever hope for.

 

                                                                                    Love,

                                                                                    Dad

 

 

Victor sunk into the couch as he stared at the letter. Sitting in his hand, the thin pages had the weight of an entire encyclopedia. He certainly felt like he had that much information in his head jostling around, trying to find room to fit. He had a million questions but with his father in the hospital, he wasn’t sure that he’d ever get any answers. He shook his head. What happened, happened, he thought.

Scratching his head, he realized that he was still in his underwear. He got up, put the coat back in the closet, and took the letter up to his room, where he stashed it in his sock drawer.

Then Victor showered, put on his work uniform, and set out for the hospital.

 

Victor spent the day with his father, who was in pretty good spirits although still out of it and very weak. They watched crappy daytime TV, ate crappy hospital food. Francis slept off and on.

After lunchtime, Cindy stopped by. She had bags under her eyes.

“Hey,” Victor said. “You okay? You look tired.”

“I look like shit, you mean.” Oh look at that, she was grumpy to boot.

“No, I mean you look tired.”

She plopped down in a chair and put her purse on the floor. “It’s okay, I do look like shit. Didn’t sleep very well last night.” She looked at Francis, who was asleep. “Lot on my mind.”

Victor looked at his father, too. “I hear ya.”

“How is he?”

“No change, really.” His mind flipped back to the night before, how Cindy had hesitated when he’d asked her about Francis and his zookeeper talk. He hadn’t given it a second thought at the time but now, due to recent revelations, it seemed suspicious. “So, uh, this morning I found a letter that Dad left me.”

Cindy raised her eyebrows. “Letter?”

“Remember how Dad kept talking about being the zookeeper last night?”

“Yeah…”

“Have you heard about this vigilante—“

She put up her hand as if she were directing traffic. “Lemme stop you right there. I didn’t feel like getting into this last night but since you’re obviously looking for answers, yes, I knew that Fran was,” she made air quotes with her fingers, “‘fighting crime’ or whatever the hell you wanna call it.”

“Well. Why. Didn’t you try to stop him?”

“Pfft.” Cindy chuckled. “What, change him? You know how hard it is to get somebody to change? Especially a man?”

Victor stared back at her, a bovine expression on his face.

“Of course you don’t. See, you can’t change anybody if they’re not lookin’ for it. The only person you have any hope of changing is yourself.” She paused. “And really, you should know better than anybody that trying to change Fran is a particularly tall order. I couldn’t have gotten him to stop with that zookeeper bullshit any more than he could’ve stopped you from joining the Marines. Once your minds are made up, forget it.” She leaned back in her chair, her face pointed toward the ceiling, and closed her eyes. “You Plintzes, I’ll tell ya. Getting a 5-year-old to eat lima beans is easier than getting you two to do something you don’t want to do.” She opened her eyes and looked at Victor. “And as a mother of two, I can assure you that getting a 5-year-old to eat lima beans is no goddamn picnic.”

Still looking at his father, Victor grinned. His old man was persistent, no doubt. After all, it had taken the better part of five months of Victor harping at Francis week in and week out to get the old man to stop visiting him in jail. “Guess you got me there.” He paused. “Out of curiosity, how’d you find out?”

“About the zookeeper stuff?”

Victor nodded.

“He showed up at my house one night covered in blood.”

“Um.”

“That’s what I said.” She closed her eyes again and rubbed them. “I’m getting ready for bed, brushing my teeth, and the doorbell rings. I go downstairs, open the door, and there’s Fran, bleeding all over my stoop. And get this. He was smiling. As if he’d brought me flowers or something.” She shook her head. “Anyway, I throw him in the car and take him to the hospital. Which was stupid now that I look back on it. Should’ve just called 911. But all that blood.” She cringed. “Yeesh. Guess I wasn’t in my right mind.” She pulled at a loose thread on her coat. “So I get him to the ER, and it turns out that he’d been stabbed in the gut. Matter of fact, that’s how we found out he had cancer.”

Victor peered at Cindy. “The hell you say.”

“The hell I say.” She wagged her finger at her abdomen. “They took a bunch of x-rays to see if he had any internal injuries and they didn’t find any but they did find a mass in his pancreas. Which of course turned out to be cancer.” She waved her hand in the air. “But I’m getting off track. When I brought Fran in, I’d left my purse in the car. Totally forgot about it. After I got him into the ER, I went back out to the car to get my bag and that’s when I saw the coat in the backseat.”

A puzzled look crossed Victor’s face.

“You know, the one with the…zoo patch,” Cindy said. “He took it off on the way to the hospital so the cops wouldn’t see it when they questioned him. Fran just told them he fought off a mugger and couldn’t remember what the mugger looked like.”

“The cops bought that?”

“Guy Fran’s age? Why wouldn’t they. Anyway, once the cops left, I asked him what really happened and he told me he’d been patrolling the streets or whatever, jacked up some purse snatcher and the guy pulled a knife on him.” She put her hands up as if to say Ta-da! “That’s how I found out.” Cindy glanced at her watch. “Shit. I gotta get back to work.” She got up and slung her purse over her shoulder. “You here for the duration?”

Victor eyed the wall clock. “Just a little longer. ‘Til I start my shift.”

She nodded. As she moved toward the door, she stopped and put her hand on Victor’s shoulder. “You need anything?”

Victor watched his father sleep. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks though.”

“’Kay.” Cindy squeezed Victor’s shoulder. “I’ll see ya.”

Settling back in his chair, he sat and rubbed his temples, trying to absorb all the new information Cindy had relayed. The seams of his head felt fit to split.

He looked at the clock again – there was some time left before he had to start his shift so he closed his eyes and let his mind uncoil.

He was back in Afghanistan, handing out candy to kids. There was the same explosion, kids dead, guys in his unit dead, other guys torn up and bloody and poking at his feet, pleading for Victor’s help. Like many times before, he awoke with a gasp.

Victor saw his father watching him, his brow furrowed.

“Bad dream?” Francis said.

“Yeah.” He rubbed his eyes.

Francis nodded. “I used to get ‘em too. Bad ones. After the war.” Victor had trouble visualizing his father in Vietnam, marching through the jungle, M-16 cradled in his hands. In Victor’s head, Francis in the Vietnam War was like Sesame Street – “One of these things is not like the others. One of these things doesn’t belong.” But whatever, he wasn’t about to interrupt the guy. Besides, after reading that letter, maybe the thought of him at war wasn’t so strange. “I’d wake up in a cold sweat. Terrible.” A thousand-yard stare occupied Francis’s face.

“You still have them?”

“No. No. Not anymore. Ever since. Um.” The vacuous gaze again. “Shit.” He rubbed his wrinkled forehead. “Lost my train of thought.” He smiled and pointed at the wall. “The caboose is over there.”

Victor returned the smile. That old chestnut. He looked at the wall clock. “I gotta get to work, Dad. But I’ll be by later, okay?”

Francis winked at his son. “Sounds good, kid.”

 

At the end of his shift, Victor stopped by Francis’s room to check on him once more before he went home.

When he got to the room, Patty was standing by the bed, holding Francis’s hand. Francis was smiling. Patty was smiling too although the tears in her eyes told a different story.

“Hey, boyo,” Francis said.

“Hey, Dad,” Victor said. “How you feeling?”

“Oh you know, not bad.” Francis was like a bunch of twigs wrapped in cellophane – not exactly Victor’s definition of “not bad.” Francis pointed at Patty. “I want you to meet Patty, Vic. She’s a nurse here.”

“Oh, h-hi, Patty,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” He looked at Patty and understood where the tears came from.

His father said, “Real sweetheart, this Patty. We were just talking, and it’s like we’ve known each other forever.”

Patty covered her mouth and, in as calm a voice as she could muster, said, “Excuse me for one minute, Francis, ‘kay?”

“You bet, doll,” he said.

Victor looked over his shoulder as Patty quickly passed by him. He said, “I’ll be right back, Dad. I gotta ask Patty something.”

Francis gave his son a thumbs-up. “You got it, kid.”

Victor found Patty in the hall just outside Francis’s room. She was covering her eyes with her hand. He put his hand on her shoulder and said, “You okay?”

Without hesitation, Patty wrapped her arms around Victor, buried her face in his shoulder, and sobbed. He hugged her, and rubbed her back as she cried.

It didn’t take long for Patty to pull it together. She stepped back from Victor and wiped her eyes with heels of her hands. “I swear to God this never happens,” she said, sniffling. “It’s just. That man. It’s like I’m losing my father.” Her eyes went wide and she looked at Victor. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—“

“No, I know. It’s okay.” He looked at the floor. A couple beats passed. “Has he ever, you know, not recognized you before?”

Patty sniffed and shook her head.

Victor nodded. “You just getting off?” he said, purposely changing the subject.

“No,” she said. “Night shift.” She motioned to Francis’s room. “I just wanted to check on him before I started my rounds.”

“Gotcha,” he said. “Listen, I’m gonna say goodbye to him real quick and head home. You sure you’re okay?”

Patty pulled a tissue out of her scrub top and wiped her nose with it. “Yeah, I’ll be okay.” She paused and looked at the tissue as she fiddled with it. “They tell you not to get attached, you know? To keep it…clinical. And up ‘til now, I did that just fine.” She looked at Victor. “Sorry you had to see me like this.”

Victor shrugged. “S’okay. Can’t be easy seeing all the shit you see.”

“You’re a good man, Vic,” she said, staring into his eyes. “Don’t ever think differently.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, lingering for a couple seconds. Her lips were soft and warm. Definitely the highlight of Victor’s day. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned and walked down the hall.

He turned and went back into Francis’s room. The old man was asleep and snoring lightly. Victor kissed his father’s head. He said, “Night, Dad,” and left.

 

When he got home, Victor hung his coat up in the closet. He was about to close the door when the Corp City Zoo coat caught his eye. Without thinking about it, he took it out and put it on. He zipped it up, remembered what his father wrote in the letter, and lowered his voice like he’d heard his father do so many times. He said, “I keep the animals in check. I’m the zookeeper.” He chuckled. “Huh, does sound stupid.”

Victor turned and saw his father’s navy blue ball cap hanging from a hook on the door. He grabbed it and put it on his head. Perfect fit, just like the coat. And, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he turned out the lights and walked out the front door. Hands jammed in his coat pockets, he started walking.

Still on autopilot, Victor walked to Broadus Road, the so-called bleeding sphincter of Corp City. There was garbage in the street, strewn up and down the sidewalks, peppered on the stoops, all over. Had it been a photo in an art gallery, it would’ve been titled “Happiness’s Scumbag Brother.”

Victor walked down the street, past one ramshackle tenement after another. Most of them were vacant, some were occupied by junkies. When he spotted one marked with a six-pointed star – the sigil of the Brothers of the Star – on the other side of the street, he ducked down a dark alley, watched the branded building, and waited.

He felt like he was back on patrol in Afghanistan, keeping vigil to make sure the bad guys didn’t disturb the peace. Just like then, he felt strangely comfortable, the sort of comfort that comes from being exactly where you’re supposed to be and doing exactly what you’re supposed to be doing. It was reassuring.

Victor stayed in that alley most of the night, just watching. For all the stories he’d heard about the infamous stretch of hell known as Broadus Road, he wasn’t impressed. It was dirty enough and looked like a demilitarized zone but other than that, it was much ado about nothing. There weren’t any Brothers hanging around, no screams, no cries of despair. Victor checked his watch and saw that it was nearing 5am. Deciding to pack it in, he started to walk to the mouth of the alley when the door to the Brothers’ house opened and a long-haired man spilled out of it.

The scuzzy long-hair tripped over the stoop and fell to the ground. A tall, skinny guy filled the doorway. Wearing a wife beater and a broad-brimmed black hat while holding a gleaming hatchet, the guy cut a menacing silhouette against the light that leaked through the doorway. He stood there long enough to say “Fuck off” without actually saying it and then receded into the house, slamming the door behind him.

Another scraggly creature came scampering around the side of the house and was hopping from foot to foot as the long-hair picked himself up. “You get it, fish? Huh? You get it?”

Fish groaned and rubbed his arm. “What’s it look like?”

Scraggly stopped hopping and scratched his head. “Um, no?”

Fish shoved past Scraggly and walked down the street.

Trailing Fish, Scraggly said, “You use that knife I give ya?”

Fish didn’t answer.

“Thought you was gonna cut a couple of them Brothers and grab the dope. What happened to that?”

Still no response.

Scraggly scurried in front of Fish, walking backward when he pulled ahead. He said, “What are we gonna do now, Fish, huh?”

“M’goin’ to St. Raph’s, Marsh. Maybe score some Oxy or Vics or somethin’.”

Marsh stopped in his tracks and pouted. He said, “Hospital already turned me down today.” He spread his arms wide. “What am I gonna do?”

“Guess you’re on your own.”

Marsh scratched his head and, seconds later, dashed down a side street.

Once Marsh was out of sight, Victor started to follow Fish.

 

When Fish tromped through the main entrance of the hospital, Victor posted himself across the street, leaning against the wall of a bus stop alcove as if he were waiting for the number nine. He wondered if the ER folks would show Fish some mercy and throw him a few pills or just give him the boot. It was anybody’s guess.

When Fish doddered out half an hour later, he turned, hocked up a wet one, and fired it at the glass doors. Guess they gave him the boot.

He watched as Fish walked down the street, cursing “those doctor fucks” as he went. He waited until Fish was a block away and followed him. Fish had only gone five blocks when he took a sharp turn into a nearby alley. Victor walked past the alley and sensed the junkie’s eyes size him up as he passed. He hoped that Fish would try something and was surprised by his own disappointment when Fish didn’t. Not so stupid after all, Victor thought.

Spotting a closed storefront near the alley, Victor slipped into the darkened doorway and waited. The doorway was set back into the building and was flanked on either side by big glass display windows that provided Victor a perfect line of sight.

About fifteen minutes had passed when Victor spotted a figure walking down the street toward him. He looked at his watch: it was a few minutes past 6am. The person passed under a streetlight. Son of a bitch, he thought, recognizing the person. Patty. He remembered what time it was – she was on her way home from work. He tensed as she walked past the alley and inhaled sharply when an arm darted out and grabbed her. His actions after that were automatic.

 

Once he laid Fish out and he’d had his brief interaction with Patty, Victor faded into the shadows of the alley that Fish had oozed from. Hiding behind a dumpster, he watched Patty hitch her purse back up onto her shoulder as she stared down the alley. She squinted, trying to see through the gloom but failing. She shook her head and walked down the street. Victor waited a few seconds and followed her to make sure she got home okay. When she entered her building a block later, Victor went home too.

Stepping through the front door of his house, Victor took off the coat and hat and, handling them as though they were ceremonial garb, hung them back up in the closet. He closed the closet door and, as if it were a switch being thrown, he went from awake to exhausted in a blink. A grin on his face, he went upstairs, flopped on his bed, and fell asleep.

 

Victor woke up hours later with that same grin on his face. First time that ever happened. He looked at his bedside clock. It was early afternoon. He stretched his arms and noticed something was gone. A feeling that he’d had every day before was simply not there. The…heaviness had vanished.

He rubbed his face and there was no jaw pain, no soreness. He hadn’t ground his teeth. He tried to recall if he’d had any bad dreams but as far as he could remember, he hadn’t dreamt of anything. He’d just slept. Slept better than he had in a long time.

He thought about what his father had said the day before, about the bad dreams he’d had after Vietnam. The old man forgot what he was going to say but Victor guessed it was something about the dreams going away after he’d started with the – how had Cindy put it? – zookeeper bullshit.

“Huh.” He threw back the covers and bounded out of bed.

He’d just gotten out of the shower and was putting on his work uniform when he felt his stomach grumble. Realizing he hadn’t eaten anything since the night before, he headed downstairs to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. Once it was assembled, he brown bagged it, pulled his peacoat on, and put the bag in his coat pocket.

He was about to head out when, as if an invisible hand was guiding him to do so, he put his father’s hat and zookeeper coat in a duffle bag, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he left the house and headed to the hospital.

On his way, Victor noticed that the streets seemed different somehow. Less oppressive, more vibrant. He took the sandwich out of his pocket and chomped down on it. There was nothing remarkable about the sandwich – it was just a couple slices of uncured ham, a slice of sharp cheddar, some bib lettuce, and brown mustard on white bread – but to Victor it tasted like a work of culinary genius. With the sun on his back, the brisk winter wind in his face, and that sandwich in his hand, he felt like his shoes fit right again. He remembered what his father had written in that letter, how being in the service and doing good for next to no reward were one in the same, and at the time he saw his dad’s point but after last night, forget it, they were definitely not the same.

Being a Marine was a job to Victor, a slog like any other. It was a selfless act to some extent but you were paid for your time and you were ordered to protect somebody or something, you never got to choose; Victor always felt like he was just carrying out somebody else’s agenda. Helping Patty wasn’t like anything he’d ever done in the service. What he did in that alley was his choice, and it filled him with the sense that he’d truly made a difference. It was no wonder his father had kept at it night after night because, well, there was nothing quite like it. It felt good enough to make him consider doing it again.

Lost in his thoughts, Victor had just swallowed the last bite of his sandwich when he bumped into somebody. It was Fish.

For a split second, Victor thought Fish would recognize him. When Fish didn’t, Victor, unable to stop himself, screwed with the junkie. He was practically giddy when he hid behind a nearby ambulance after he said, “Be seein’ ya” in his “zookeeper voice,” causing the junkie’s head to swivel back and forth as he looked for Victor, making Fish look like a nervous rat.

As Fish turned and walked away, Victor heard a rattling sound come from Fish’s clothes. It sounded like a pill bottle. Victor guessed it was probably painkillers from the ER. Asshole should thank me, he thought, sneering. I got him what he wanted.

 

Before Victor clocked in, he went to check on his father. As he approached Francis’s room, he ran into Cindy, who was coming out.

“Hey,” he said.

“Oh, hey.” Cindy still looked like sleep wasn’t her friend. “You just getting here?”

“Oh, yeah. I overslept.” Not the full story but what Cindy didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. And it would save him from an ear-splitting lecture – a nice bonus.

She gestured to Victor’s shoulder. “What’s in the bag?”

“Just some clothes and stuff for Dad.” Victor pointed his thumb in the direction of the elevators. “You outta here?”

“Yeah. Just on my lunch break.”

Victor jerked his head toward Francis’s room. “How is he today?”

Cindy let out a heavy breath. “Um.” Tiny pockets of tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “I mean, shit, he’s. He was awake for a while but he’s um.” She ground the heels of her hands in her eyes and sniffed. “He thought I was your mom. He even said he’d see me soon. See your mom soon I mean.”

“Oh.” Like that, the high he was riding dissolved. He didn’t know what else to say so he gave Cindy a hug.

After a few seconds, she disengaged, wiped her nose on the back of her hand and said, “I guess I’ll.” She tilted her head in the direction of the elevators.

Victor managed a small, tight-lipped smile and nodded. Watching his cousin plod down the hall made him think twice about entering his father’s room. Did he really want to see the old man like that? The thing with Patty the night before was one thing but this. Damn.

But the reluctance retreated, and Victor entered the room.

Francis was staring into space when Victor walked in. His father’s skin looked gray and tight, like it was trying to keep whatever life he still had from escaping.

Approaching Francis’s bed, Victor hesitated for a second before he said, “Hey, Dad.”

His father’s head turned slowly. At first Francis stared through Victor, as if he wasn’t there. Then recognition crept in little by little. Francis’s colorless lips transformed into a feeble smile. “Boyo,” he said. “How. How you doin’, kid?”

Francis’s scratchy voice was a shot through the heart. It took Victor a moment to register the old man’s question. “I’m okay,” he said, putting his hands on the bedrail. “How are you feeling?”

His father exhaled and looked like he lost twenty pounds when he did. “Pretty shitty, kid. I won’t lie.”

“Anything I can get you, anything you need?”

“Besides a genie in a lamp?” Francis chortled then started coughing. He got it under control, said, “Nah,” and put his hand on Victor’s. “Got everything I need.” He smiled again but it melted away as quickly as it appeared. “Can’t be the zookeeper anymore though.” Francis’s eyes pivoted up and fixed on the ceiling. “Somebody’s gotta keep the animals in check.”

“Yeah, Dad, about that.” Victor rubbed his neck. “I found your letter. And. I took care of it for you.”

Francis’s head spun toward his son.

Victor unslung the duffle bag, opened it, and took out just enough of the zookeeper coat for Francis to recognize it. “I took care of it. Last night.” He recounted the previous night’s events for his father, leaving out Patty’s name so as not to confuse the old man. When he finished, Victor said, “You were right. No feeling quite like it. Felt great.” For a moment, he and the old man stayed silent, basking in the warmth of a shared truth. Then Victor smiled. “Even used that Sinatra voice you do. Gave ‘em your line and everything.”

“You did the voice?” Victor nodded. “Prove it,” said Francis.

“I’ll do you one better.” Victor cleared his voice and, after considering for a second, began to sing. “And now, the end is here. And so I face the final curtain. My friend, I’ll say it clear. I’ll state my case, of which I’m certain.”

Francis, in his skin and bones, joined in. “I’ve lived a life that’s full. I traveled each and ev’ry highway. And more, much more than this, I did it myyyyyy way.” His father’s voice was rich and full, which startled Victor because he had no idea where it was coming from. As they sang together, Victor’s eyes welled up. But he didn’t want his voice to falter so he did his best to choke back the forming droplets.

Down the hall from Francis’s room, the elevator doors binged open and Patty stepped out. Digging around inside her purse for her ID badge, she felt a pang of irritation at being at the hospital when she shouldn’t have been. Somebody had called out sick, and Patty, being Patty, agreed to fill in at the last minute. Although, having just gotten off from the night shift hours earlier compounded with not having slept well due to the nerve-jangling effects of narrowly escaping a mugger, she wasn’t happy about it.

Even so, she tried to put on a happy face as she approached the nurses’ station to clock in. That’s when she heard it.

Singing.

Not terribly loud but distinct. She stopped and listened. She heard two different voices singing: “Yes, there were times, I’m sure you knew. When I bit off more than I could chew. But through it all, when there was doubt. I ate it up and spit it out. I faced it all and I stood tall and did it myyyyyy way.”

Patty couldn’t quite pick out the song. Sounded like something her grandparents would’ve listened to. Patty’s musical taste tended more toward classic rock. Electric guitars and drums, stuff that rocked. Hendrix. Springsteen. The Who. This was something else. But she knew one of those voices. She knew it.

She followed the sound down the corridor and stopped just outside Francis’s room. She peeked around the doorjamb, saw Francis and Victor singing together. Patty’s eyes ran over Victor and went wide when she realized that he was her buttery-voiced guardian. I’ll be dipped in shit, she thought. Jaw agape, she pulled back from the doorway, and went to clock in.

Patty had just finished hanging her coat up and was clipping her ID badge to her scrub top when an announcement sounded over the PA system. A female voice, calm as prairie grass, said, “Code blue, 3^rd floor, room 314. Code blue, 3^rd floor, room 314.”

Shit.

Patty followed the other nurses’ to room 314 where Francis was flatlining.

As nurses and doctors quickly filled the room, Victor stepped toward the door, allowing them the space to try to revive his father. Patty exchanged the briefest glance with Victor before she joined the staff in the task at hand.

Not knowing what else to do, Victor waited in the hall.

Several minutes and a flurry of activity later, one of the doctors came out to tell Victor what he already knew: his father was dead. Victor nodded and was told that he could go back in to say goodbye if he wanted to. He thanked the doc and waited until everybody filed out of the room. They all walked past Victor silently, avoiding eye contact. Once they were out, he went in.

Patty was still in there, standing next to the bed. Her back was to the door.

Victor joined her at her side. For a few minutes they didn’t say anything. Just stared at Francis’s body, as if by staring they could will him back to life. Tears free flowed down their cheeks.

Patty bent down and kissed Francis’s head one last time, which Victor found a tad creepy. But grief took different forms, he supposed.

Breaking the silence, Patty put her hand on top of Victor’s, which was resting on the bedrail, and said, “Thank you.”

Still staring at his father, Victor said, “What for?”

“That…guy. In the alley this morning.”

It took him a minute but he got it: she must’ve heard him singing, recognized his voice, and put two and two together.

Still looking at his father’s body, Victor squeezed her hand. “S’alright,” he said, nodding at the old man’s lifeless form. “He would’ve done the same.”

 

After he discovered and developed the polio vaccine, Dr. Jonas Salk was asked, during a televised interview, who owned the patent. He replied, “There is no patent. Could you patent the sun?”

You have to admire that. Here was a guy who was responsible for stopping a disease that killed who knows how many and left who knows how many more paralyzed. And he did it because it was the right thing to do.

Not for personal profit. Not for notoriety.

Dr. Salk was a saint.

And I’m sure that pharmaceutical company execs all over the world heard that story later on and shit their collective pants, the level of their incredulity was probably that high.

For the record, I am no Jonas Salk. Though I’ve been compared to him.

To be fair, I’m more comparable to a virus. Or better yet, cancer.

 

Speaking of which, the disease that almost did me in was Stage 2 melanoma.

It started out as a mole, like most cases of melanoma do.

The small, black/brown mole, shaped a little like the state of Alaska, made itself at home on the back of my shoulder, where it meets my neck. I first noticed it after I got out of the shower one day. All of a sudden, boom, there it was.

After trips to my primary physician and a dermatologist, it was decided that it’d be a good idea to get a biopsy done.

A biopsy. I’ll be honest, I was scared out of my mind when I got that done. I’ve gone skydiving, I’ve been in three car accidents, and I’ve been audited by the IRS. Believe me when I say that if you want to really get your blood pumping, go get something biopsied. You’ll experience a completely new level of terror. Just the very thought that you could have a terminal disease is enough to make you sweat. What’s kind of funny about a biopsy though is that the anticipation is the worst. It’s so bad that when the results are finally revealed, no matter what they are, you’re just relieved to know something definitive. That’s how I felt when I was told that I had Stage 2 melanoma anyway.

Soon after I got the news, I had to have blood work done. A couple weeks later my oncologist, Dr. Naveen, delivered some unexpected news about the results.

Sitting in his office, I remember saying, “Come again?”

“I said it seems that your body is fighting off the cancer.”

“Fighting it off? How do I have Stage 2 melanoma if I’m fighting it off? How’d it go from Stage 1 to 2?”

The doc shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure. But it isn’t getting worse.”

“How do you know?”

“The lab called me at home when they noticed some irregularities in your blood. Apparently, your body has been producing an unusually high number of large granular lymphocytes.” He paused, his eyes narrowed. “Do you know what those are?”

I shook my head.

“A large granular lymphocyte, or LGL, is a type of white blood cell that essentially defends your body from disease. Those cells are responsible for fighting the cancer in your body.”

Dr. Naveen went on and on for another 10 minutes, explaining what exactly was happening in my body. I’m not sure what he said because I zoned out – partially from shock, partially from elation, partially from relief – for most of it.

There were two points the doc made that did get my attention, however: 1) high levels of LGLs were a symptom of a rare form of leukemia but he added that I didn’t have leukemia and 2) he had sent my blood to a colleague of his at Johns Hopkins for further examination.

When he stopped talking, I said, “So, um, I’m. I’m gonna be okay?”

“Better than okay actually. She tested…”

“She?”

“My colleague at Johns Hopkins.”

“Oh, right.”

“On a hunch, she tested your blood against a number of different diseases. AIDS, HIV, other forms of cancer, Alzheimer’s, the flu even. Your blood fought off every single one of them.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not.”

“But how can this be? I’ve gotten sick before, I’ve had the flu, my grandfather had Alzheimer’s.”

Dr. Naveen sat back in his chair and shrugged. “I don’t know. My colleague’s guess is that the melanoma activated some part of your immune system that had never been used before.”

I sat there speechless.

“She would also like to do some more tests, if that’s okay with you.”

“Um, sure, yeah, whatever she wants.”

He picked up a pen and began scribbling on a notepad. “I’m going to give you her name and number so you can sort out the details.”

“’Details?’ I already said okay.”

“She’ll probably want to see you in person, get more blood…”

“Hold it.” I sat forward. “She wants me to be a lab rat?”

He frowned. “I wouldn’t put it like that. Your body could possibly hold the cure to every disease that’s plagued humanity.” He lowered his head a bit and looked at me over the top of his glasses. “You don’t think that’s worth exploring?” How to Make Your Patients Feel Like Complete Assholes 101 must be taught at every medical school because every doctor I’ve ever met is great at it.

“You have a point.” I paused. “Gimme the number, I’ll call her.” He handed me the slip of paper. Dr. Irene Jacoby, it said.

 

I saw Dr. Jacoby a number of times over the following months. She’d take my blood, check on my Alaska mole (which got much smaller and eventually disappeared), pretty standard stuff. She also told me that she’d been talking with some researchers at a pharmaceutical company called PopeInnisLeland – more commonly known as PIL.

The researchers at PIL wanted to try to synthesize certain properties of my blood in order to make a drug out of it. To do this, they needed a pint of my blood every two months to run more tests on. They even offered to pay me for it. $1000 per pint, that was the offer. The original offer.

Now, what I did next could seem a little less than, well, altruistic. But I figured that if my blood could quite possibly cure the human race of every disease, why shouldn’t I cash in? There are some who probably think that I had no right to cash in, that I should’ve given my blood away as freely as I was born with it. But I got to thinking. Do professional athletes, who have amazing physical skills that they were born with, play for free? Are geniuses expected to use their advanced intellects for nothing more than a pat on the back?

Fuck no!

Anyway, shortly after PIL made its original offer, I did what any American does when potential riches hang in the balance: I lawyered up.

My lawyer drew up a contract that stated, along with a lot of other legalese, that A) I’d be a full-time employee at PIL, B) my salary would be $10 million per year, C) I’d be paid that salary for life, and D) the drug would be sold to anyone – insured or not – for $10 (How’s that for altruism? I made it affordable. So there).

Granted, the fine print said that the contract was predicated on the condition that PIL could turn my million-dollar blood into an FDA-approved drug.

Fast forward about six years, after the drug was synthesized, tested, and approved by the FDA, when lymphovox – more commonly known as Panelix (I still think the name sucks, they just slapped “panacea” and “elixir” together. But given what it could do, they could’ve called it Shitsonex and it wouldn’t have mattered) – hit the shelves. Looking back, I should’ve asked for more money; I could’ve bought several houses with what I made but PIL could’ve bought several countries from the cash it raked in.

 

The media blitzkrieg that followed the drug’s release was like nothing I’d ever experienced in my life. I was on the cover of every major magazine in the world. I was Time Magazine’s Person of the Year for chrissakes.

Then I was awarded a Nobel Prize, a surreal moment for sure. Granted, PIL and Dr. Jacoby each got one too but all the focus was on me. Like I had anything to do with it. Okay, Panelix was derived from my blood but it came at a steep price; as I said, I’m no Dr. Salk. But nobody paid attention to that.

At any rate, I turned into a celebrity. Everybody loved me, I was hounded for my autograph, it was crazy. I heard somewhere that a bunch of kooks started a religion based on how I lived. The mind reels.

As wild as all of that was, nobody, and I mean nobody, could’ve predicted what came next.

So a cure-all hits the human race and nobody is getting sick anymore. For a while, things are absolutely wonderful.

Everybody is in a good mood. Morale, on a global scale, is at an all-time high.

The fewest cases, ever, of suicide are reported.

In war-torn countries, the fighting tapers way off and completely stops in some cases.

Cities like New York and Philadelphia, where everybody seems generally pissed off all the time? People walking down the street are smiling and saying hello to each other.

It. Was. Amazing.

Then the wind blew and the cradle rocked.

 

Since nobody was getting sick anymore, the need for doctors plummeted. Like a lead balloon, as they say.

Although hospitals started laying people off left and right, emergency rooms still did decent business. After all, Panelix couldn’t stop people from cutting themselves or twisting their ankles. Cardiologists did okay too; Panelix couldn’t make people exercise or stop eating poorly. And plastic surgeons, well, nobody gave them shit about boob jobs and lipo not being “real medicine” anymore.

AIDS clinics though? Gone.

Oncologists? Out of business. I still wonder if Dr. Naveen regrets sending me to Dr. Jacoby.

Pharmaceutical companies also took a huge hit, quite a few folded completely. Hundreds of thousands of employees of the surviving companies were laid off. PIL came out on top of course, although they’re struggling now too. There are only so many drugs you can make when disease is eliminated. Companies that pulled in several billion dollars a year are lucky to make a few million now.

And the insurance companies, oh, the insurance companies. If there was one silver lining, it was that people who had been screwed over by insurance companies for years got to see Aetna, United Healthcare, and the rest of ‘em get a big ol’ helping of the desperation pie that their customers had been eating for years. The elimination of the phrase “pre-existing condition” made the whole thing seem that much sweeter.

Ironically, Panelix spawned an epidemic. Anybody in the healthcare industry who dealt with disease was suddenly out of work. Healthcare, one of the most recession-proof, financially secure fields in the world, was suddenly the most at-risk. Hell, enrollment at medical schools thinned out like there was no tomorrow. Never thought I’d see the day when parents urged their children to become anything but doctors.

The fall of the healthcare industry was the first domino. Then the economy tanked. Again.

 

In an economy that was already the second worst in history, the healthcare industry collapses and shreds the rest of it. It was officially worse than the Great Depression.

With billions out of work around the globe and those people just trying to figure out how to simply survive, who’s worrying about buying a new car? Or a 42” Sony flat screen? Or an iPhone? That beautiful thing called capitalism packed its bags and went bye-bye.

The only things people were worrying about were food, clothes, and shelter. And after a while, shelter was in short supply too.

A ton of people stopped being able to make house payments so foreclosures rained down worse than when the housing bubble popped in ‘08. Only this time, there were so many that some cops gave up on evictions after a while. Squatters’ rights became unwritten law.

Some people, who didn’t want to be forced out, took what money they had, bought motor homes, and lived on the road. Nomadic life was en vogue.

All this happens and everybody thought they’d hit bottom, that it was impossible that things could get worse. Then came the food shortage.

Since nobody was getting sick anymore, natural selection had been more or less eliminated; the herd wasn’t being thinned out. This led to overpopulation on a planet that was already grossly overpopulated.

Of course, this was a huge strain on resources. Namely food.

 

There were so many healthy people around the world that the farming industry just couldn’t keep up. And I truly thought the big food corporations would come up with a solution. My hopes were high. Those people had completely bastardized food, going so far as to make genetically modified organisms, yet they couldn’t solve the problem. Just too many mouths to feed.

Thus, gardening became everybody’s favorite hobby. People took to backyard and rooftop gardens like crazy but although people grew and harvested as much as they could, the winter always came and the growing always stopped. The nails were hammered into the coffin every time.

Some folks had greenhouses, sure, and people in warmer climates were still able to grow but there was an overwhelming demand and not enough supply so things still went sideways real quick. Some people got so desperate that they were barbecuing squirrels, rats, raccoons, anything they could get their hands on.

You’d think that people would’ve been rioting, flipping cars over in the streets, looting supermarkets for every last can of soup, going crazy. But that wasn’t the case. Instead, a general feeling of despondency settled over most of the world. People were just too emotionally – and physically in some cases – devastated to do much of anything. It became known as The Global Depression, which seemed like an understatement.

 

You don’t hear much talk about it but I’m sure that everyone is looking for someone to blame. On the days when things seem particularly bleak, which is all the time now really, people must want to point a finger at somebody. That’s how it works, right? When things go awry, people want, more than anything, to be able to look at someone and say, “This is all your fault.” The ol’ Laurel and Hardy routine. This is another nice mess you’ve gotten me into, Stanley.

If that’s what you’re looking for, blame me. It started with Panelix and that can be traced back to me. I’m Patient Zero; I’m the rock in the pond that caused the ripples. Throw me in and you’ve got shantytowns set up in abandoned shopping mall parking lots.

And soup kitchens that are on every block in every town.

And gunshots that ring out every 20 minutes as people hunt their next meal.

And the fact that cable television is now kaput.

And the thousands of people who now live like the Amish since, let’s face it, the Amish were just fine before, during, and after the shit hit the fan.

So go right ahead and direct your anger and frustration at me, I can take the heat. After all, I’ll be long dead before my PIL money – and the food I bought with it – runs out. Having said that, try not to be too hard on me. I mean, look at the bright side: at least you don’t have to worry about germs.

The below video depicts what I do when I don’t have a snow shovel. It’s also a fine example of how high my IQ is. For further amusement, you can click here and scroll down to read all the comments that address my genius. Enjoy.

This is where I hate on one of my heroes. I’m not exactly pleased with this. But seeing as how I know his work pretty well (dare I say better than most?), I gotta do it. This is not something I thought I’d ever say but here goes: George Lucas ain’t a genius.

 

There, it’s out. Can’t say I’m exactly pleased with myself either so don’t think this isn’t painful for me. It’s true though, George Lucas really ain’t all he’s cracked up to be. I have my reasons for this though, my statement definitely isn’t unfounded. That would just be stupid if that were the case. See, George Lucas isn’t a genius exactly but he’s obviously way above average and definitely sniffing around the edges of genius. The reason George Lucas, creator of Star Wars, isn’t a genius is because he’s a victim of circumstance; George Lucas was pretty much at the right place at the right time.

 

It’s sometime in the mid-1970s. The film industry is floundering. The post-Vietnam War American attitude is bleak and Hollywood reflects this. Anti-heroes like Jimmy “Popeye” Doyle (played by Gene Hackman in The French Connection) and John Shaft (played by Richard Roundtree in Shaft) pepper the cinematic landscape. Hope and heroes are in very short supply and dwindling rapidly. Along comes George Lucas, a self-effacing dreamer from Modesto, California, who changes everything. Lucas comes up with Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope and fights tooth and nail to get the film made (he worked so hard on the movie that he actually suffered severe chest pains at one point and had to go to the ER because of this) and, obviously, it’s a smash hit. Star Wars gives the American people reason to believe in hope and heroes again. Despite the wild success of not only A New Hope but The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi later on, Lucas ain’t exactly happy with the movies. He delivered a product the likes of which had never been seen before and the fuckin’ guy wasn’t pleased with himself. Why? Because, according to Lucas, none of the original three Star Wars movies were up to snuff effects-wise.

 

Before I go any further, I need to make a quick digression about the effects used on the original movies. One has to realize that for 1977, Star Wars was the crème de la crème of blockbuster movies. The effects, for that time, were absolutely groundbreaking and set the bar for the blockbuster movies to follow. It isn’t hyperbole when I say that nobody had seen anything like Star Wars before 1977 simply because the effects that Lucas used for Star Wars had to be invented (fucking invented!!) by him and the crew who would later on become the founding members of Industrial Lights and Magic, the A-1 best special effects company in Hollywood today. George Lucas did the absolute best with what he had at the time and the movies that came out of it were fucking brilliant. From 1977-1983, I will admit that George Lucas could definitely be considered a genius. And he would’ve stayed that way. That is, if he didn’t pull the bullshit that he pulled in 1997.

 

In 1997, twenty years after the first Star Wars movie came out, George Lucas decides to re-release the movies. Only this time, they’re cleaned up and re-cut with new effects and new scenes. Now, I always find the expression if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it to be one of the best cornpone expressions ever simply because it’s true; if there isn’t something wrong with whatever, don’t try to improve it. George Lucas, obviously not a fan of old-timey expressions, didn’t pay any attention to the one I just mentioned because he tried to improve three movies that didn’t need to be improved at all. He took Episode IV: A New Hope and inserted a bunch of scenes that didn’t need to be there (such as the infamous Jabba the Hutt scene), put in a bunch of effects that were unnecessary (overly detailed camera pans and other Michael Bay-esque bullshit cinematic wizardry), and chopped Han Solo’s balls off (in the original A New Hope, Han Solo, after being threated by Greedo, that green bounty hunter who confronts Han in the Mos Eisley Cantina shortly after his meeting with Luke and Obi-Wan, quietly unholsters his laser blaster and non-chalantly blows Greedo away and walks out of the cantina, flipping the bartender a coin and uttering “Sorry for the mess.” Han Solo, just by this act alone, is definitely recognized by the audience as one bad, space pirate motherfucker. In the 1997 version of the movie, however, fuckin’ Greedo shoots first, misses, and Han then returns fire, which makes Han look like he’s defending himself instead of aggressively dispatching a lowlife bounty hunter for no reason other than the fact that he annoyed Han. In other words, the 1997 version kind of made Han Solo out to be a pussy, which he ain’t. But I’m digressing). Lucas also inserted the same sort of worthless crap into the other two movies, again fixing what wasn’t broken. A genius wouldn’t have done this. A genius probably also wouldn’t have made episodes I, II, and III the way Lucas did either.

 

In 1999, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace is released and fans are frothing at the bit for something that has been the talk of speculation for years. The hype is through the fucking roof. The trailers look stunning. And the actual movie, well, the actual movie is…a complete piece of shit. Everything’s shot against a green screen, one of the main characters, Jar Jar Binks, is annoying enough to make random geeks personally edit him out of the movie later on, the acting is on par with that of a high school play, and it absolutely does not live up to the original three movies at all. In 1999, George Lucas shat the bed and the audience had to lay in it while Lucas raked in fucking millions. Or, hell, billions for all I know (actually, it probably was billions by the time the two subsequent movies came out. Which were – pretty much – just as god awful as the first one, by the by). This all begs the question: why? Why did Lucas fuck up his magnum opus? How did he take one of the best concepts of all time and actually manage to make it nearly unwatchable? The best answer to this question, in my opinion, is to explain how episodes I, II, and III should’ve been made.

 

My friend Brian and I were talking one day a couple years back and somehow we came to the conclusion that The Phantom Menace (episode I), Attack of the Clones (episode II), and Revenge of the Sith (episode III) sucked ass because they were nothing like the original movies. What I mean by this is that, like I said before, 95% of the newer movies were shot against a green screen, the acting was horrible, and Lucas himself directed episodes I, II, and III. If Lucas were really a genius, he would’ve followed the same pattern that made the original movies such a success: A) used as few green screen shots as possible and make huge, elaborate sets – and shot on-location – like he did for the original movies, B) vetted and obtained well-trained actors (to their credit, Liam Neeson and Ewan McGregor are A-list actors but they simply weren’t used properly; it ain’t their fault the direction sucked), and C) gotten other directors to direct the second and third – if not all – movies (Lucas only directed Episode IV; Empire and Jedi were directed by Irvin Kershner and Richard Marquand, respectively). If Lucas had done that, I can almost guarantee that the newer movies wouldn’t have been as horrible as they were. But, hey, this isn’t what Lucas wanted and it’s always about what Lucas wants, right?

 

George Lucas obviously has a vision, nobody can argue that, the guy has enough vision to fill, well, a galaxy far, far away. What I can argue is that George Lucas’ vision has one mission: to please George Lucas, not the audience. If a genius saw that the audience was happy with the original Star Wars movies, they never would’ve been re-touched. A genius simply would’ve left them alone and made other movies, which Lucas actually did until the technology got to the point where he could take that technology and use it to take a steaming dump all over the originals because he was less than thrilled with them. I mean, I get it, in Lucas’ eyes, the movies weren’t perfect, they weren’t exactly as he envisioned them. But once the product is out there and everybody likes it, is it really up to him anymore? I mean, if the movies were being complained about constantly, that’s one thing but everybody liked the original Star Wars movies, nobody was screaming for a change. Lucas made the changes he wanted to satisfy what I can only imagine is a gigantic fucking ego. He never once thought about the audience, how they’d respond. This is exactly why the re-touched originals and the newer movies sucked balls; Lucas thought about his vision in his eyes, he never thought about his vision in the eyes of the audience. A genius, especially an artistic genius, always stops to consider the audience because, let’s face it, if an artist expects people to shell out hard-earned money for his or her art, an artistic genius makes sure that it’s well fucking worth it.

 

I’m a HUGE Star Wars fan. I love those original movies. I’ve literally watched them dozens of times and they are some of the best movies I’ve ever seen. And every time a new Star Wars tale is introduced into the world, whether a movie, a cartoon, or a comic book, I always give it some consideration because the Star Wars universe has always fascinated me. And let’s face it, that universe is the product of one man: George Lucas. He gave birth to the entire thing. And that’s something that only a few people have ever been able to do well. But the term genius is thrown around way too much nowadays. George Lucas isn’t really a genius. He’s a guy who came up with a genius concept but his ego got in the way and pretty much fucked things up, which simply isn’t an act of genius. In other words, the Force was strong with George Lucas before he turned to the Dark Side.

I’ve never been into sports; I’ve never played many sports, I’ve never watched many sports, I hardly ever talk about sports. As a kid, I was harangued by other kids in the neighborhood to play sports but I never enjoyed it. I got into street hockey for a while but the enthusiasm for that fizzled out flatter than old soda. In middle school and high school, I ran track and cross country, and I also played lacrosse. I was okay at all of them but I can’t say that I was ever exactly passionate about (or pretty good at) any of them. Not sure what it is about sports that I can’t get into. Maybe I’m not competitive enough to enjoy ’em. Maybe I can’t get into them because, on a subconcious level, I figure what the fuck is the point of being into a game that just goes on and on; there’s always a different winner, nobody ever plays for keeps. Maybe it’s because sports seem too fucking mundane to me. I don’t know, I just don’t dig sports. Conversely, I’ve always been something of a geek; I’m way into comic books, Star Wars, and I’ve seen every episode of Battlestar Galactica (the new version). That being said, it’s no surprise that I think fantasy sports are, for lack of a better term, fucking mind-boggling and, when it comes down to it, quite hypocritical. I might be reaching but stay with me on this one.

Fantasy sports leagues are HUGE these days. Whether it’s fantasy baseball or fantasy football (what I think of as “The Big Two” when it comes to fantasy sports), fantasy hockey or fantasy basketball, fantasy golf or fantasy auto racing (yep, they have those too), fantasy sports have a grotesquely large, intense following. Why? Because everybody who’s into fantasy sports is harboring the soul of a Dungeons & Dragons enthusiast.

That’s right. I don’t care how goddamn manly or “cool” you think you are, if you participate in fantasy sports, you’re a biscuit away from rolling a pair of 8-sided dice and having Reckdor the Ruthless don his cape of invisibility to defeat the Orcs of Verdom. I can hear you now. You’re saying, “Oh but it’s different, it’s grounded in reality.” You’re right, but you’re still no better than a D&D nerd.

See, everybody probably thinks that since fantasy sports are based on real sports and work in tandem with them, that makes it different, and thus much cooler, than D&D. As a geek who can sniff out his own, I can say with 100% certainty that you are dead fucking wrong. Fantasy sports are grounded in reality but let’s not forget that they’re fantasy sports; every time you have a fantasy draft, every time you arrange your fantasy team just so, every time you wheel and deal with a fellow fantasy league participant to trade a player, you’re entering a glorious little fantasy land where you control how things are done. Just like people who play D&D. Actually, those who participate in fantasy sports are, in my opinion, more over-the-top than D&D nerds because D&D nerds, I’m guessing 75% of the time, grow out of D&D. Full-grown men (and some women, let’s be fair) all over the fucking place participate in fantasy leagues.

When it comes right down to it, nerds don’t always stay nerds. Some do, sure, but most of the time the nerds come out of the basement, make a ton of dough in something that probably involves computers, and end up banging the hottest chicks on earth, thus leaving no time for D&D. Fantasy leaguers, on the other hand, are usually adults (usually men but some women) who are completely immersed in that world and participate in it whenever they have a spare minute in order to escape the humdrum that is ordinary life. Now, I know it sounds like I’m just hating on fantasy leaguers but I’m really not. Everbody has his or her own thing that they “geek out” over; if you’re intensely into something (read: ANYTHING), you eventually geek out over it. And that’s cool, it’s awesome to be passionate about something. It seems to me, though, that the D&D nerds get a less-than-desirable rap whereas the fantasy leaguers are embraced without a thought and that’s a crock of horseshit. Why? Because, really, it can all be traced back to adolescence, the root of all things ridiculous.

Growing up, jocks pick on the nerds; the strong fuck with the weak. It’s Darwinism at its finest and, other than in the wild, purest. In the case of jocks v. nerds, however, something was always lingering in the background. Jocks, it would seem, were probably somewhat jealous of the nerds. The nerds, although seemingly weak and certainly vulnerable, were usually much smarter than the jocks. The nerds didn’t have to use their physical abilities or muscles to have fun, they just had to use their minds. On some subconscious level, this probably drove the jocks nuts. More than likely, they wanted to enter a fantasy world too; they, too, wanted to geek out over something. They just had a problem with the word “geek”. They wanted to geek out over something that didn’t obviously seem “traditionally” geeky. Thus, fantasy sports were born. 

You’d think that fantasy leaguers would realize this connection. You’d think. Honestly though, I don’t think fantasy leaguers deserve that much credit. After all, they (most of them, more often than not) have that jock “I’m better than the lowly nerds” mentality. And, like I said, this is biggest load of monkey shit ever; it’s pure, unadulterated hypocrisy.

Could I be wrong? Sure. Could I be stereotyping and basing my opinions on those stereotypes? Certainly. Am I onto something? Bet your ass I am. After all, I’m a geek, I can read between the lines. And I’ve never even played Dungeons & Dragons. I mean, c’mon, comic books and Star Wars are so much cooler than D&D. 

See? I’m a hypocrite too. So, from one hypocrite to another, let’s cut the shit. We’re all sailing on the U.S.S. Nerd.