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The Million Dollar Problem
I don’t know exactly what happened, or why it happened, or how it happened. All I know is that an error of some kind forced me into this position. What kind of position? I’ll get to that. It started on a Friday- payday- when I went to the bank to deposit my check. I work at a local bar as a bouncer, and while it isn’t bad money, it isn’t enough for some of the ‘finer things’ in life. In fact, it’s pretty much just enough to keep me afloat, y’know? Anyway, I went to the bank, to deposit my check, and asked for my balance back. I’m not all that good with numbers, and I use the balance that the bank gives me to write checks off of throughout the week. I’m sure a lot of you do the same. Anyway, when I got the little slip of paper back, I did a double-take. There were too many zeroes. Far too many zeroes. Like, nine extra. Figure that one out, friends and neighbors. Suddenly, I was a millionaire. Oh, yeah, I’d heard the buzz about the Y2K problem- knew it could do some weird shit with your bank account, but I thought that it was beaten. I walked out of the bank as fast as I could without drawing undue attention to myself. A few people stopped and stared at me anyway- I’m sure my face was as white as a sheet. What do I do? I’m sure the question seems kinda stupid to a lot of you, but I really was torn- do I tell the bank that they’ve made a mistake, or do I just keep my mouth shut and maybe get away with it? Looking back on what happened, I wish I would have told them about it. Here, take it! Get it away from me!” That’s what I’d tell them now. Needless to say, I kept the money. I wasn’t stupid with it, though. I didn’t go on an immediate spending spree or anything like that. What I did, I just left it sit there. That was hard enough, let me tell you. Buying generic cigarettes when you’ve got a million bucks in the bank isn’t exactly an easy thing! Two weeks went by. Every Friday, I’d go in, deposit my check. Still, the same thing. All those extra zeroes, callin’ out to me...spend me, spend me...so what else could I do? Well, I hired a stockbroker. Figured that it’d do me no good if I went and blew it all on a Caribbean cruise or something that’d draw attention to me. That’s the last thing I wanted. I put around two hundred thousand..200,000...in stocks and bonds and mutual funds- all the safe stuff. I figured that would be enough to retire on, when the time came. Of course, I spent a little on myself. Not stupidly, though- I didn’t get a Lamborghini or anything like that, but that black Dodge Ram 4x4 looked nice sitting in my driveway. That’s all I bought, really. Some new furniture as well- I still had all my college furniture and it was getting run down and torn up- but that’s about it. About a week later, that’s when things started getting weird. Started with a letter that I got in the mail. No return address, and it only had two sentences in it. “You’ve got something of ours, you bastard. We want it back.” Well, what can you do? There wasn’t a return address, and I couldn’t give it back to them- even if I wanted to at that point. Three weeks does a lot to someone. That money was mine now. Three weeks, nothing. As soon as I spend a little bit of it, I start getting this nasty shit in the mail? I don’t think so, friends and neighbors. That money was mine now. * * * Then my dog died. Well, it wasn’t like he was actually my dog, just a stray really. I fed him, and occasionally he’d come up on the porch with me when I was having a beer and just sit there with me, enjoying the company. But I think that they thought he was my dog. I can hear you now. “Who are they,” you’re askin’. Well, I’m getting to that. I buried the dog in my backyard. I don’t know what they wanted to accomplish by that, but all they did was piss me off royally. To get their money back- what else could I have- they killed a poor mongrel dog. That’s almost subhuman, there. Didn’t accomplish anything, really. I still didn’t know who they were, and I still couldn’t have given them the money back. Of course, the small fact that I was riled up pretty much guaranteed that they weren’t getting that goddamned money. The day after burying my dog, I went shopping. Bought myself one of those home security setups. Put me back a pretty good chunk of change, actually. I went in and signed up for a couple guns, too. * * * A week after those bastards killed my dog- I never did name that dog, by the way- I guess I might have looked a bit smug as I left for work. My security system had just been installed, and it was a beaut. Infrared sensors, a really loud alarm, and a panicbutton setup that would ring the local cop-shop if anyone tripped it. Real nice setup, that was. Well, I put the thing on ten-minute delay, because it was cold out and I was going to try out a new toy that I bought. I turned around and pushed the button on my auto-start thing- one of those rigs that makes it so you can start your car from a distance on cold days (it was towards the end of September, and a bit chilly)-- and my truck blew up. That’s the last thing I saw that evening, because when the truck went it took the front half of the house with it. I was thrown back clear into the kitchen by the blast, and the paramedics said that I was pretty much lucky to live through that. What saved me? The fact that I had one of those auto-start things, and the new reinforced glass in my windows- part of the new security system. * * * I woke up in the hospital two days later. The candy striper that was in the room when I woke up heard my groan, I guess. She smiled real bright at me and said something that I couldn’t hear. I guess it showed on my face, got she got a ‘disgusted-with-myself’ look, rolled her eyes, like. She held up one finger and walked out of the room. Never saw her again. It’s really a shame, too- she was cute as a button, and I wouldn’t have minded seein’ if guys with some bucks could get a girl like that- but a doctor showed up pretty quick. He scribbled something on a pad and held it up. ‘Your ears were damaged by the blast, Mr. Jenkins,’ it read. ‘They’ll heal alright in a couple of weeks.’ I tried to croak out something. He looked at me all puzzled-like and scribbled something else. ‘Broken ribs, a broken arm, some head trauma, temp. deafness, missing teeth, a broken leg, and a small fracture in a vertebrae in your neck,’ is what he wrote that time. Damn! I was pretty messed up! Looks like whoever-it-was is playin’ for keeps, now. I croaked something else. The doc smiled and gave me a glass of water, then scribbled again. ‘We’d like to keep you here for a while, for examination. At any rate, you can’t leave until we’re satisfied that there’s nothing else that’s going to crop up.’ I was stuck. I’ve never disobeyed a doc’s orders in my life, and I figured that a hospital was about the safest place I could be. I was wrong. * * * They came in the middle of the next night- I don’t know how they found out I was awake, don’t want to know. Two men, wearing black. They had sunglasses on, and their faces were in the shadows of the broad-brimmed hats they wore- I think they’re called fedoras, but I could be wrong. I woke up at the first feeling of having my hair pulled roughly forward. I tried to yell out, but as soon as my mouth opened, I got something put in it. It would have been almost funny, if I hadn’t have been the one they were trying to get information from. Whoever told them the news that I was awake forgot to mention one kinda important thing to them. I couldn’t hear. They put a pad of paper down and shoved a pen in my hand, then proceeded to talk to me. Of course, when I just looked at them for a second without answering, they got a bit pissed off. They broke my good leg first. Eventually I was able to write down that I couldn’t hear what the hell they were saying, but by then I was a cripple. They broke my good leg, the pinky finger and middle finger on my bad hand, and my small toe on my already-broken leg. I was in some serious pain, crying and sniveling like a kid who’s scraped his knee for the very first time- but worse. They snatched the pad from me, took the pen from my fingers,
and wrote down three words. We’ll be back. * * * It’s a week later now. I’ve gotten most of my hearing back, and I’ve made a couple phone calls. Well, I really should tell you what happened the day after my little visit. Those bastards left whatever it was in my mouth- I found out it was a little ball, like dogs play with, with an elastic band attached to it- so I couldn’t call out. They’d left the nurse-call button a good distance away from my bed as well, so I couldn’t do a damn thing to get help. I had to lay there in my own sweat, shit, piss and pain all night. A nurse came in as soon as it got light out- let me tell you, it wasn’t soon enough for me- and I guess she screamed when she saw me. I don’t think I was a pretty sight this morning. Well, a whole crew of nurses and doctors came runnin’ in at that, and I got wheeled away to surgery. After sedation. I come to, and there are some cops in the room. They start writin’ down all these questions for me. Like ‘do you know who these people were,’ and ‘could you identify them in a lineup,’ and ‘if we brought in a sketch artist, could you describe them?’ They weren’t happy when I answered in the negative to all their questions. After they left, I asked for a phone. I’ve got some old friends- rough people- that have been in and out of the slam a couple times. Bad seeds, my mom called them. I want payback, not justice. I had a nurse come in my room and listen after I dialed the numbers. She’d hand the phone to me when they answered and she explained my condition to them. I spoke for a while, told them to tell the nurse ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and called her back in. I’ve got four buddies comin’ into my room tonight, for security. The doc ok’d it, and he also wrote me that a couple of cops were going to be watching the entrances to the hospital. That’s ok by me. I think those guys- whoever they are- will be able to avoid the cops. I think they’ll make it up here. I think they’ll be surprised.
ARLINGTON - Six people were killed at St. Mary’s
Hospital early |
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