Harmless
Copyright © 2013
by Ernie Lindsey.
All
rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or
transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or
other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of
the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Publisher’s
Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a
product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes
used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or
dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is
completely coincidental.
Harmless
/ Ernie Lindsey. -- 1st ed.
Consider the postage
stamp: its usefulness consists in the ability to stick with one thing until it
gets there.
—Josh
Billings
Here’s how it happened,
and most of this is true.
That night, a single
pop
of gunfire next door interrupted a well-earned scotch.
Long day. Feet up.
Tie loosened with the Giants down by two runs in the ninth. You know how it
goes. You wake up expecting normal things to happen—like a shower without the
hot water heater going bust, or fixing your eggs without burning a fat blister,
or the judge deciding that you are, indeed, entitled to see your kids every
other weekend. One bang of the gavel and you trip backwards down the stairs of
Progress, rolling and tumbling until you land on your rear, dazed, alone, and
seriously pissed off.
First floor: defeat,
desperation, ladies’ lingerie.
It’s amazing how a thin
slingshot of material—a mixture of lace and cotton, a thong, or
thongs
,
plural—can ruin ten years of marriage, a career, and the relationship you’re
supposed to have with your children.
The fault lies with
me. I’ve admitted it. I’ve apologized. I’ve begged.
I am, and remain, an
unforgivable wretch.
At least, according to
the court system.
And those who are
unfamiliar with me.
I jumped to my feet,
drenching a pants leg with sloshing scotch and melting ice, and pulled two
blinds apart at the window.
The woman next door,
the first time I met her, she initially said her name was Jan.
She
said
Jan, I
know she did, but we’ll get to that later. The mistakenly delivered mail from
Sterling Savings & Loan referred to her as Kerry Parker—do I really look
that sketchy? Sketchy enough for her to lie? Also, I used this joke on her,
an old standby: “I think I know you from somewhere…maybe from high
school…yeah, didn’t we have Chemistry together? No? Well, we do
now
.”
Jan, Kerry. Kerry,
Jan. I’ll call her Kerry. It’s easier that way.
She moved in six months
ago and lived alone in a modest ranch home with dark, red brick and white shutters.
Her plants died in the summer heat while her yard stayed over-watered and
jungle-like. What kind of person does that? I was positive that an
entomologist could find a number of undiscovered species crawling throughout
its vines and lush green canopy. I’d offered to mow it for her several times
while mowing mine (shirtless, of course—the tan stays even, period), but she
always declined, said she could use the help but no thanks, and then would
scurry inside like she was trying to get away from me. Cute butt waggling in
short shorts, flip-flops slapping against her heels as she climbed the three
steps leading up to her porch.
I mention the cute butt
because, well, how could you not? I mean, really, it’s like a bubble. The one
time I got a better look from my office window, as she sunbathed in her
backyard—no top and a pink thong, of all things—that was all it took to confirm
that yes, “bubble” was the perfect word. It’s not like I was spying. I just
happened to be on the computer upstairs and looked outside. Maybe for a little
too long—what’s the harm in that?
The difference between
a peeping tom and coincidence is timing—and duration.
She was thirty-two,
eleven years younger than me. And I know this because I got a quick look at
her driver’s license—Kerry Parker, confirmed—which I
found
in the front
seat of her car. (A storm was coming. Her windows were down. I try to be
helpful in such situations. I do. Honest.)
She was separated from
her husband, according to the letter from Wellington & Wellington,
Attorneys at Law, which, coincidentally, was the same firm handling my case.
So it was a complete accident that I opened the envelope. I thought it was
mine
.
When I gave it to her, I
got the feeling that she was slightly unnerved. Explaining what happened eased
her apprehension, I’m sure of it, but she still gave me the same kind of look
you give a car salesman when you know he’s trying to give you the shaft and
guaranteeing that you’ll enjoy it. I should know. I’ve gotten that look several
times peddling metal over at Thrifty’s Used Cars.
In such a ragged,
succumbing economy, it was the only place I could land a solid forty hours
after Donny Row, the treacherous beast, fired me for sleeping with his wife,
Johanna. She didn’t have a bubble butt like Kerry. It’s flat and unshapely,
like the rest of her. I don’t know what I was thinking.
If, in fact, I was
thinking at all. I tend to lose any sense of judgment the moment an attractive
woman, even one flatter than a baking sheet, grins at me with a glimmer of
libidinous intent. I’ve been known to do that a time or two—or eleven, if
we’re splitting hairs—and I’m fairly certain it might’ve led to the destruction
of my marriage.
Really, who can be sure
these days? I left the toilet seat up a lot, but Shayna was the one that
refused to have a joint bank account. There was some mention of me being, um,
“frivolous” with our income, but I can’t abide a lack of trust when it comes to
money. If Johanna, the traitorous beast, hadn’t left her panties in the
backseat (and all indications point to it being on purpose), then I most likely
would’ve been on the outs with Shayna at some point anyway. After all,
financial disagreements ruin more marriages than infidelity, right?
So anyway, back to Kerry.
She had this guy that came around about once a week. With a body like hers,
wavy blonde hair, and a tattoo of a dolphin on her lower back, tanned from head
to toe, plush pink lips, and a nose that wiggled slightly every time she said,
“No, thanks,” you’d think she would’ve had some dude rolling up on a Harley.
Square jaw, too cool for a helmet, aviator shades, and windblown, jet black
hair.
Wouldn’t you? Ain’t it
just picture perfect?
Nope, not even close.
Clarence drove a Volvo. I had no idea what his real name was at the time. I
called him Clarence because he
looked
like a Clarence.
The Volvo, it was
beige. The car made me want to vomit whenever I saw it. It was an ugly,
rectangular box, and the thing reminded me of Sparkle’s litter pan.
Sparkle, and his
accoutrement, were nearly the only things Shayna gave as a peace offering when
she kicked me out of the house. I had to buy a new wardrobe—clothes singed by
fire and smelling like lighter fluid aren’t appropriate attire, no matter where
you go. Unless you’re a pyromaniac fireman. It was time for some new outfits,
at any rate—too many bad memories associated with Shayna. What I really
regretted losing was the Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck tie given to me by our kids,
Smoke and Shade, for last year’s birthday. Don’t judge, by the way. Shayna
chose their names. I wanted something simple like David and Beth, but no, we
had to keep the alliteration absolutely alive. Steve, Shayna, Smoke, Shade,
and Sparkle. I cringe at the thought.
Every Thursday evening,
about an hour after I got home from work, Clarence would drive up in his litter
pan, and he’d climb out with his stupid receding hairline—seriously, it’s like
a peninsula of baldness—his stupid, milky, pasty white skin, his stupid,
punch-me-in-the-face glasses, and his stupid trench coat worn over a dime-store
suit, even in the middle of July, and she’d greet him with a hug and a kiss on
the cheek. Kerry even bent her leg at the knee like she was
soooo
happy
to see him. I wasn’t buying it. I knew better, because when he’d leave an
hour later, she’d wave goodbye, then cross her arms and shake her head when she
thought he wasn’t looking. And when she thought I wasn’t looking, too. I
watched this happen from my front porch. It’s this compulsion I had. To make
sure she was okay.
At that point, I hadn’t
figured out what the nature of their relationship was, but a buddy of mine down
at the police station, Officer Planck, he’d promised to run Clarence’s plates
for me once he got a free moment. I’d been waiting for over a month. You’d
think it’d be a five-minute job—who doesn’t have five free minutes in
thirty-four days? Not that I was counting. And when I say “buddy,” I don’t
mean lifelong friends, or even five-year friends. I sold him a car back in
April, but we really hit it off. He seemed excited when I told him I’d treat
him to a round of golf and then Thrifty came down from on high and told me I
couldn’t get my new friend the price he wanted for the convertible.
Here’s where my mind
went: I thought Clarence might have been paying to plow Kerry’s field—not that
there’s anything wrong with prostitution. I’ve partaken a time or two myself,
truth be told, but I knew Kerry was better than that. At the very least, if
she was desperate for money, she could’ve stripped down at Pussyfoot’s and
blended right in with all the other eighteen to twenty-something girls. The
fact that she was thirty-two didn’t show at all, trust me.
But then, this one
Saturday, I thought I’d do her a solid and hand-deliver her mail.
Look, let me make a point
here: I know I have a thing for mail, but the system captivates me. We’re
overrun by email and the internet; we have instant information blaring at us
from our myriad of screens every minute of the day.
I could fire off a
polite note to my lawyer, to Shayna’s lawyer, and to Shayna herself, all at the
same time and it would arrive as soon as I finished clicking. Sometimes it
would take them a week to respond, usually with a polite retort or unwarranted
vitriol, depending on who bothered to send a reply, yet it didn’t change the
fact that it arrived in their inbox before I could reconsider what I’d done.
That’s fine by me. I’m
cool with it, and I accept that this is our reality. On the other hand, I can
walk into the post office with a yellow nine by twelve clasp envelope, stuffed
with evidence of the bullshit I’ve had to endure during this entire ordeal and
I can mail it to Brian Williams at his NBC office in New York.
I’m positive he’ll find
my story enthralling—I already have my interview suit on layaway.
Brian Williams—he’s
over three thousand miles distant, and if I could afford to overnight it, the
envelope would arrive on his desk within twenty-four hours, supposedly.
Doesn’t that fascinate
you?
I can hand over a
package to the guy behind the counter—the one that doesn’t move his bottom jaw
when he talks—it’s entrusted to the care of some folks in the back, and then it
disappears within the machinations of the United States Postal Service, only to
reappear in the hands of the individual it was meant for. A solid, tangible
object traveling through space and time, delivered to the proper location
thousands of miles away, from one single person to another single person using
nothing more than a name and an address, for less than twenty bucks.
And that’s just the
result of my own efforts. One simple package, delivered weekly, to Brian
Williams. There are
millions
of these things flying around on a daily
basis from every post office in the country.
How in God’s name does
it all work? Are you even aware of the miracle that’s happening all around
you, right now, at this very second?
Granted, most of it is
bills and junk mail coupons that you’ll never use, but some of us, the wistful
dreamers, like to envision that flying through the air or riding in the back of
a truck are letters of love and redemption, hate and loss. Make-ups and
breakups, healing and agony. It used to be that way.
It used to be that
way
. With every arrival of the postman came hope of good news.
He’s here! He’s here!
The postman has arrived! Dear God, let there be a note from Jessup saying he’s
on his way home from the war.
The mailman has been
replaced by the
ding
of your inbox.
It’s such an amazing
system and it saddens me that the postal service is losing money and shuttering
locations. How can we just toss aside something so marvelous?
Sorry. I got off track
a bit. It’s a sore point. Did I mention I have a thing for mail?
Okay, so that Saturday,
I knew Kerry was tired, because she’d been out in her backyard all afternoon
turning one corner of her lot into this little mini-garden.
Again, let me
reiterate, I was merely upstairs on the computer, researching child custody
cases for a few hours. I can’t help it that I had an unobstructed view into
her yard. This thick hedgerow separated our houses. The thing was about six
feet high and I’m only five-eleven, so if I were intentionally spying I’d need
a stepladder, or at least a stool. The one time I was
actually on a
stepladder
, trimming the hedges—they’d gotten way out of hand, too scraggly
to look at anymore—she walked out onto her deck, on the phone, with her
bathrobe open. This is how I unintentionally found out she was tanned from
head to toe. And let me say this: it’s unlike me to judge, but she also had
the grooming habits of a stripper. Ideas don’t just spring up out of the
ether, you know.
I’d picked up our stack
of envelopes from Mailman Jeffrey—I consider him a friend, too, even though it
took some convincing that it was fine for me to handle Kerry’s mail. I don’t
tell lies often, but when I do, they’re white ones. No harm done. She was
tired. She’d appreciate it. Mailman Jeffrey understood. More or less.
