Tony hated afternoons. All the promise of the morning had been spent and all the good TV was hours away. Something about watching TV while the sun was shining made him feel depressed. As if he should be out there, where the achievers were, finishing up whatever it is they had been doing all day–skiing, running, building something, cleaning the yard, walking the dog, going to a movie, having an upbeat brunch with friends, shopping for a snappy new ensemble.
So far, Tony had managed to get up late, eat some cereal, rifle through the paper and go back to bed. His brain fogged by too much sleep, he managed to push off the covers and flip on the TV. One of the local stations was featuring its weekend “Million Dollar Movie,” an inexpensive time-filler for when there were no sports available. Tony recalled watching fishing, golf, and even strongman competitions but for some reason all that was put aside for Dr. No. He was watching the start of the movie, and was just at the part where a gun barrel with a gentle spiral of rifling was aimed directly at Sean Connery. The gun barrel lingered on 007 for what seemed like a long time, certainly long enough to get off a shot, but somehow James Bond shot the shooter and a curtain of blood lowered over the screen. For the next three hours Tony lay on the couch, watching the TV sideways as Sean Connery battled evil doers and got the girl, all with a heavy layer of poorly produced local advertising for furniture, cars, carpet, and appliances.
The movie over, Tony sat up to contemplate his next move. It was then he heard the sound of crunching metal outside and opened the door for a look. An old Cadillac had smashed into a weathered Honda and pushed it partway onto the sidewalk. A tiny man stepped out of the Cadillac, appearing shrunken in his dress shirt, slacks and cardigan sweater. His back formed a slight hump and he limped as he walked. He eyed the damaged car, then noticed Tony and began to approach. Tony hesitated, then started to close the door as the man called out, “Young man! Hello! Can you help me?”
Even in his sloth, Tony decided to see what the man needed. He waited as the man loped his way toward Tony’s stoop, leaning heavily on his cane.
“Thank you for waiting. My legs don’t work like they used to. Did you see what happened?”
“I heard it. Sounded pretty bad,” Tony replied.
“Yes, I’m afraid there was a bee in my car, which startled me, and now look what happened. My reflexes aren’t what they once were. Do you happen to know the owner?”
“No. I’ve seen the car out there before but I don’t know who owns it.” Tony didn’t know any of his neighbors. He worked nights as a janitor at an office building and usually came straight home after. His apartment was on the end of the row, so no one even walked by on their way in or out.
“Well, I’m in a bit of a pickle, could I use your phone?” The old man asked.
Tony looked at his smiling face, and his shrunken husk of a body, and feeling sorry for him said, “Sure, c’mon in.”
“Thank you so much, you’re very kind. My name is Howard,” the man said.
“Tony,” Tony said, as he shook the Howard’s hand.
“May I use your bathroom? I’m afraid all this excitement has stirred things up a bit,” Howard said.
“Uh, sure. It’s just down the hall. Sorry if it’s a little messy, I wasn’t expecting company.”
“Not at all, not at all. Don’t give it a second thought,” Howard said as he shuffled down the hall, his feet scuffing and cane clicking along the wood floor, occasionally steadying himself on the wall as he went.
“Poor old guy. Hope he doesn’t die in there,” Tony said.
In time, the old man reappeared in the hall and moved toward Tony. “Now then, may I use your phone? I’d like to call the police to report the accident.”
“You sure you want to do that? You could just leave a note with your insurance information, you don’t want to get the police involved,” Tony said.
“Why not?” Howard asked.
“You had an accident, which was the bee’s fault not yours. The cops will probably give you a ticket. If you leave a note, whoever owns the car can just get a hold of you and you can work it out, no big deal.”
“You’re a very helpful young man, and I appreciate it. Still, I’d feel better if I called the police.”
“Suit yourself,” Tony said, thinking the old man was nuts. As Howard called the police, Tony thought he heard the sound of water coming from the bathroom. The door was closed, and a small puddle was leaking out from under the door. He tried to open it, but it stuck. A towel was wedged under the door and as Tony forced it open several inches of water poured out into the hallway.
“Aw crap, what the hell?” Tony said as he ran to turn off the water supply to the toilet. He found the supply line had been cut and the handle broken off. The same was true for the hot and cold water under the sink. Water was spraying around like the inside of a dishwasher.
“What the hell did he do in here?” Tony asked himself. He tried to remember where the main shutoff for the apartment was, but realized only the landlord had access. He knew this from the time he was late on his rent and he turned off the water. Tony decided against calling his landlord for this, knowing that the repairs for any water damage would likely cost more than he could afford. He wrapped towels around the water lines and using a tool kit he kept in a cabinet, secured the towels with duct tape, managing to slow the flow to a trickle. He threw all the remaining towels on the floor to try and mop up the mess. As he worked his way into the hall, he saw the old man sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of milk. Tony, soaked and dripping, stopped mopping up and approached Howard.
“What are doing?” Tony asked.
“What does it look like?” Howard asked with a smirk.
“It looks like you’re drinking my milk without asking,” Tony said, reaching for the glass.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Howard warned.
“What are you going to do about it?” Tony said.
With that, Howard swatted the glass. Milk splashed across the table and floor, the glass shattering against the wall.
“What’s wrong with you?” Tony, now angry, asked.
“What do you mean? You’re the one who spilled the milk,” the man said, still sitting calmly.
“Dude, you’ve got some serious Alzheimer’s going on. You need help,” Tony said as he reached for some paper towels. As Tony took a step, Howard looped his cane around his ankle and pulled sharply, causing Tony to crash into the counter. His forehead split open and blood poured out over his face. Tony’s vision blurred and he thought he might black out. The doorbell rang, and Howard sprang from his seat, cane still in hand. He let the police in and explained that he had suffered a home invasion.
“He kept threatening me, officers! Cutting the water lines in the bathroom when I let him use it, then throwing a glass of milk at me! He started acting crazy, saying he wanted all my things. Then he lunged at me, but missed and hit the counter. And he’s sweating like a pig! I think he may be on drugs.”
“How did he enter your home, sir?” one of the officers asked.
“He crashed his car into my Honda! I went to see what happened, and he started to apologize and asked to exchange insurance information. That’s when he went into the bathroom and made the mess! I don’t know what he wants!” Tony, still dazed from hitting his head, couldn’t focus and fell when he tried to stand.
“Stay down, or we’ll be forced to keep you down,” the officer warned.
“Can you just get him out of here? Please! I don’t know what he’ll do next!” the man said.
By the time his head started to clear, Tony found himself handcuffed in the back of a squad car. He protested but the police were unmoved.
That night, once Tony made bail, he returned home. The door was open and everything had been removed. All the carpet, the lights, the wiring, the appliances, kitchen cabinets, sinks, the toilet, the shower—it had all been stripped away down to the sheetrock. The only thing left behind was Tony’s High School yearbook in the living room with a note, “Nice senior quote asshole. Thanks for the milk.”
As Tony stood looking down at the yearbook, there was a knock on the door. It was the owner of the Honda with a flier in his hand.
“Excuse me, I’m—wow, remodeling huh? Looks good. Hey, I’m handing out these fliers. Some jerk hit my car and didn’t leave a note. My number’s on there if you see anything. Thanks.”
***
When he was seventeen Howard had been offered a choice—prison or Vietnam. He’d been getting into trouble for years, but topped himself by stealing a milk truck one morning, skillfully crashing it into his high school and spilling a flood of milk, cream and butter through the hallways. The stench of fouled dairy products made the building uninhabitable for weeks and cost thousands to repair.
He chose Vietnam, and found that he enjoyed it. He liked the action, the violence, the drugs and even the high-tension tedium. He was good at killing people both with a gun and hand to hand in the sweaty jungle. He learned to use most of the equipment including the boats, planes, trucks, tanks and helicopters. He survived in-country for a decade without a scratch, but was finally picked off by a sniper as he peed by the side of the road. He lost a kidney, his spleen, three ribs, and twenty feet of small bowel. He was given a purple heart and sent home. The injury gave him a comfortable lifetime pension which meant he had plenty of money to get into trouble. He was in prison within a year of returning stateside for assault, burglary, grand theft and public mischief. While on a bender he and a buddy stole a helicopter, loaded it with pumpkins and dropped them all over town. The mayor’s dog Cuddles was hit and never went outside again. After landing the helicopter on the roof of a hotel, he and his buddy managed to escape on foot only to be arrested later that night in a bar. Howard had started a fight that ended with him jamming the broken stem of a wine glass into someone’s neck. Howard plead guilty on the condition that his partner would go free.
Howard preferred prison life to the civilian life, but had a bad habit of picking fights or smoking crack when he got bored. He remained in prison most of his life, growing old yet remaining a reckoning force. When he turned seventy-five, he was released to avoid the state having to pay for his anticipated geriatric medical bills.
Over the decades he was incarcerated, Howard’s military pension continued to accumulate and upon release he found himself to be a millionaire. Since he had never lived on his own, he bought a condo in a high-end retirement community that offered in-home cooking and housekeeping services. He bought a gold Cadillac Fleetwood 75 Sedan, one the longest cars ever made. He remembered them from when he came back from Vietnam and had always wanted one. With all his larcenous friends long dead, he hung out at the VFW hall and in the lobby of the local VA, chatting with patients as they waited for appointments. Gradually, he found vets with shady histories like his own and who longed for some action. They started with nighttime runs—robbing a pharmacy, beating up a gang of teenagers, starting a fight in a biker bar—anything to get their adrenaline going. They were fast, sure, and swift to punish anyone who gave them any lip. No one was killed, but there were some broken arms and legs—Howard had missed the satisfying crunch of a victim’s bones since his release from prison. Over time, Howard’s gang died out, leaving only Howard. He was on his way home from the military service for the last of his men when he decided to ram the Honda. He didn’t have a plan, but he didn’t like feeling sorry for himself. The rest just played out. It was Tony’s bad luck to open the door.
Once the police took Tony away Howard drove to Home Depot, rented a truck and loaded it up with day workers instructing them to strip the entire apartment for a remodel. He had one of the workers take it all to the dump and return the truck. Howard surveyed the now stripped apartment, pleased with the random chaos he had inflicted. He could tell as soon as he spotted Tony from the street that he was an easy mark. He had the stink of failure about him, a sadness in his eyes but also exploitable kindness. In Tony’s bedroom Howard noticed something in the corner of a closet. It turned out to be Tony’s Senior High School Yearbook. Howard thumbed through it, looking for the man whose life he’d just turned upside down. There were a surprising number of signatures in the book, and it seemed that Tony had once been well-liked. Under his senior photo it read “Live your dreams and your life will come true!” Howard snickered at the sentiment and looked to see what else he could learn about the teenage Tony. He’d been a member of the chess club, the art club, was on the intramural soccer team and the debate team. Howard was glad to see that Tony didn’t play football, basketball or baseball—he hated those assholes. Photos of Tony were scattered throughout the yearbook and he always had a broad smile–he looked happy and confident. Nothing like the Tony that had let him in the door. Howard wrote a note under Tony’s photo, tore out a blank sheet from the back of the yearbook and left if for Tony to find.
***
Tony picked up the yearbook and noticed one of the pages was dog-eared. He opened it and saw his senior photo with a new inscription written beneath it, “check your closet and get a life.” Tony went to the empty closet, looked around and finally saw a check thumbtacked to the wall. It was for three hundred thousand dollars made out to Tony. The memo read, “live your dreams, asshole.” Tony thought it was a cruel joke, but since he was broke and newly homeless he took it to the bank and it cleared. He immediately enrolled at a Liberal Arts College he had always dreamed of attending and graduated with a dual major in sculpture and printmaking. After he graduated he moved to an artist community in Japan and learned pottery, iron work, weaving and calligraphy. He married a woman who was a master of paper making and origami.
Howard continued his driving rampage and despite resisting arrest and punching an officer, only had his license revoked and his car impounded. Unable to get arrested, he decided to relax with some methamphetamine. He had learned to make it in prison inside an empty two-liter bottle of Coke, but didn’t screw the cap on tight enough during the “cook” phase of the process. Howard was watching TV as odorless gas leaked out of the bottle. He passed out on the couch and never woke up.
Weeks later when the police found him, they had to send in the hazmat team to scrub the condo of meth residue and to collect the puddle and bones that had once been Howard. On the coffee table they found a check made out to Tony for seven-hundred thousand dollars.
The police did a Google search and Tony popped up immediately. His work was in museums around the world, he sold many pieces to distinguished collectors and had numerous free tutorials on YouTube about his work process, teaching others his how to do it themselves. When he received the check, Tony set up a scholarship for non-traditional students at his former college which included a six-month internship at his studio in Japan. He named it the “Howard Fleetwood 75 Cadillac Second Chance Award” in honor of the mysterious old man who destroyed his life and made it better.