Settling a Score

A work of fiction. All characters are over 18. I wrote and edited this in one afternoon; a flash story, if you will. It's short. Not a stroker.

*****

I was eating lunch at the same table, like I always do, when two characters walked in. I knew them both: The Mole and a new kid I called Rooster. His nickname hadn't caught on yet with the others, but I knew it would, eventually. It suited him. Now in my later years, I fancied myself a good judge of character. Or more like it, a good judge of bad characters.

"Joltin' Joe, good to see 'ya pal. Mind if we sit down?" said The Mole.

"Sure, have a seat," I replied. The Mole gave me a look like I should know something was coming.

Rooster seemed anxious, so I looked right at him and said, "How 'ya doin', kid? You like eatin' here?"

"Yeah, sure, it's okay, I guess. The food is pretty good."

The Mole was smiling at me so I figured I knew what was coming. I've kinda gotten used to it over the years. I'd learned long ago to let sleeping dogs lie and keep my mouth shut; it's healthier that way. But this new kid, Rooster, had a lot to learn. Maybe I could help him learn.

I chewed quietly, waiting for him to ask the questions I knew were coming.

"Uh, Joe, uh, Myron here says you are a particularly bad ass, that you, uh, really spilled some shit back in the day. That true?" He couldn't hide the eagerness in his voice.

I chewed some more and let him wait. I looked up and stared into his face. I'm smarter than the average bear and good at psychological warfare. I wanted this kid to know he was poking a bear by asking me, but long term I wanted to get along, so I'd go along with it.

"One thing you should know, Rooster, is you can't judge a book by it's cover. I may look like a mild-mannered accountant, but yeah, I spilled some shit. Major shit. That was my pride, my

hubris.

I didn't take shit from no one, not even my wife. Especially my cheating wife. So, yeah, I walked in on them and I didn't think, I just reacted. I spilled the shit," I said, taking my last bite of pastrami sandwich.

I glanced around and noticed a guy sitting nearby who was obviously eavesdropping. So what? It'd been years and I could tell the tale one more time. I was a tough guy, or used to be.

"Well, what happened then?"

"The cops came, of course. I didn't pretend, I didn't try to run, I had them dead to rights

in flagrante delicto."

"In 'flagging' what?" Rooster asked.

I sighed.

"In flagrante delicto.

It means I caught them red-handed, fucking in our bed."

"But he was a cop, wasn't he? The guy screwing your wife? What did you do to him?" Rooster asked excitedly. He wanted the full version.

The Mole was grinning now. He liked this story, and never got tired of telling new guys what a bad ass I was. I figured he must have had a cheating wife himself and never did anything about it. I knew he was divorced and his ex-wife wound up owning his whole trucking business, but I'd never asked for specifics. Sleeping dogs and all that. I figured The Mole liked to live vicariously through my story.

"I suspected something was up, so I snuck home one afternoon and crept up the stairs with a baseball bat. I could hear them in our bedroom.

My fuckin' bedroom!

I opened the door and roared like a lion. I didn't know who the guy was, but it was definitely my wife underneath him getting a comprehensive fucking. She was screaming and he was trying to defend himself while I methodically beat him with the baseball bat to within an inch of his life. I actually thought he was dead when I'd finished. Turned out, he wasn't dead. Also turned out, he was the Chief of Police."

"Wow! That is so awesome, so badass!" the kid enthused. "You sure didn't take any shit from them. You divorced her?"

"No, she divorced me. Look, that's all I want to say. I'm kinda tired of telling this story, ya' know? It's all water under the bridge."

I could see hero worship in Rooster's face. An old guy like me had taken no baloney from a cheating wife. I hadn't fared too well in the divorce but I had rid myself of a cheating slut. Well, we were both young and stupid. Unfocused, rudderless, and too easily swayed into making bad decisions, both of us. I'm glad to say we eventually grew up. Aged, matured, but too late smart.

I had parting advice for young Rooster. "Bus your tray and clean up after yourself. Don't get on the wrong side of the screws."

*****

I see her every now and then. Over the years I've kept tabs on her but I try to stay out of sight. I wouldn't want to upset her or her new family; I owe her that much. She told me how awful she felt, tried to help me at trial, told the jury I was a good guy, and said it was all her fault. But laying waste to the Chief of Police sets the whole criminal justice apparatus against you. I wasn't connected; he was.

A year after I went in, she divorced me. I served all fifteen years.

*****

Somehow, the universe keeps itself in balance. A particle disappears here, another particle, or maybe the same one, pops up simultaneously somewhere else on the other side of the universe. It's called symmetry. Physicists know it's true but haven't definitely proven it outside of lab experiments. The Yin and the Yang, the give and the take. The tide comes in and the tide goes out; the ebb and flow of human-tide. That seems about right to me.

I paid a price, 15 years in the slam, but Mr. Policeman paid, too. He was sentenced to life. I'm trying to ameliorate that, but there's only so much I can do.

I know I'm damaged goods. Some tough guys say they can shrug off 15 years, but for me it was hard time. Lots of new guys wanted to hear my story. A few wanted to fight me but it turned out, I'm no good in a fight without a baseball bat and the element of surprise. So I took a few hits, some to the head. I'm pretty good and I can still drive, but I wear those weird concussion glasses so I can see straight, like Hillary wears, and sometimes my mind moves too slow.

*****

I was sitting in the park one day when she saw me.

"Joe," was all she said.

I looked up and tried to keep her face in focus.

"Can I sit down?" she asked. I nodded.

She said she was sorry, said she thought of me every day, prayed for me, prayed we could get past this and still be friends. I nodded. I'm not too good with speech anymore but I can write. She patted Sandy, my service dog. Sandy is trained to detect seizures, roll me prone if I have one, and to go get help. Just like Lassie.

I can imagine the scene.

"What is it, girl? Joe had a seizure? You rolled him prone? You want me to call 911?"

"Bark! Bark!"

My mind wanders. I've been to their house for dinner. Ernesto is a nice guy, wary of me but friendly enough. Their kids are great but I'm just a curiosity to them. Theirs is a modest existence, but somewhere in their hearts they find $200 every month. It comes in the mail like clockwork, first of the month. It makes all the difference.

It's that Yin and Yang again, that universal balance. Every Sunday afternoon I visit Mr. Policeman at Rest Haven. I feed him his lunch and visit with him. I hold his hand and tell him again how sorry I am for how things turned out. Talking tires me so I wheel him to the dayroom and we watch the game together on TV. The staff always tells me I'm his only visitor that week, so it turns out I fared better in my divorce than he did.

Sandy gives me confidence and mobility. Oddly enough, she seems to keep my seizures at bay. My neurologist says as long as I have Sandy, he'll sign off on my daytime-only, limited drivers license.

I go before the SSI disability review board again in another month. I haven't had a seizure in two years. I suspect the fix is in; service dogs are expensive and medical care is rationed. If they think I'm fit, I lose the dog for sure.