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Cornell lounged on his worn sofa, a perspiring beer in hand, an empty on the vinyl covered coffee table. He was watching the evening news, where the announcer was reading a tragic story about five members of an Ohio family being murdered, killed execution style in their beds. The local sheriff had few leads, no suspects. The announcer speculated that this could be yet another of the terrorist acts roiling the nation. Gratuitously, photographs of Stickman and Maple flashed on the screen. And these two men remain at large, each carrying a twenty-five million dollar bounty.
“Holy Mother of Christ!” Cornell yelled. Though the photos were shown for only a couple of seconds, he was sure. “My next-fucking-door neighbors!”
Suddenly, he was shaking, in part from fear but mostly from anticipation. All that money. And fame. “I’m gonna be America’s next hero,” he shouted, thumping his concave chest. He leaped to his feet and uncontrollably broke into a pitifully uncoordinated dance, beer foaming. “I’m gonna be bigger than Bryce Harper, Madonna and Donald Trump all rolled into fucking one. I’m fucking going to be something, baby!”
Finally willing himself to be calm, Cornell drained what was left of his beer and snapped open another. “Slow down, now. You’ve got to think, Cornell, about how best to do this. Okay, all you have to do is call the sheriff’s office and tell them where to find these bad-ass dudes. No risk. No fuss, no muss. Easy-peasy, the money is yours.”
But fifty mil is an awful lot, he muttered to himself, an awful lot. Who knows how some dipshit sheriff could arrange things to steal the credit and leave me pounding sand. Might even disappear me, for fifty mil. He walked in small circles, talking quietly, urgently. “I’ve got the upper hand. I just got to be smart. I’m a vet, man, a pretty mean mother. Did a tour in Afghanistan, or most of one, until that chicken-shit major got me drummed out. That bitch corporal had wanted it until she didn’t. She’d have got it, too, except for her lucky knee. They knew her case sucked. That’s why they let me fucking walk with a dishonorable. But I do know I carried my weight, bro, every time we were in the field. I shot the shit out of some of those al-Qaeda ragheads. And I learned some heavy shit about explosives, how to wire them up. Learned well, man. Messing with my bad-ass terrorist fifty mil neighbors don’t bother me, not a fucking bit.
“Maybe that’s the smart way. Really mess them up. They’re wanted dead or alive. Get ‘em dead and then get some unselfies with them. That would be proof. Proof no dipstick sheriff could mess with. I’ve already got dynamite and my tool box has everything else I need to hook it up. They’re gone for a few days. Convenient. Fuck yes! I can do this, man. I can be ready when they come back. I get the unselfies and then I call the TV. Yeah, call the TV. No way can fucking John Law screw me once I’m on the boob tube. After what these dudes have done, that will go virile, man. Truly virile.”
Cornell stopped circling, got another beer from the fridge. Stood silent. Rocking in place as he thought hard. What if something does go wrong? I mean, things do go wrong, even good plans. I need a little insurance that these fuckers would still get nailed. I’ll take my chances because I know I can do it. But if something did happen and they still got caught I’d still be the all-fucking-American hero. That’s worth something even if you’re dead. Like, you know, being in the historical books. And I won’t be dead ‘cause I’ll be so ready for them.
He studied his beer for several minutes before finally smiling. Out the door with a slam, swift strides took him across the rough lawn to the nearby house. Wilbur answered the loud knocks, Violet behind him.
Recognizing Cornell, Wilbur swung the door wide. “Come in, young man. I have been waitin’ to show someone my pin collection and you are the lucky someone.”
“Wilbur, Cornell doesn’t want ...”
But Wilbur was already hobbling down the hall to the small office that doubled as a nonagenarian’s man cave. Cornell followed, then the reluctant Violet. They went to the only side of the room with enough wall space for a four-by-four-foot cork board. “This is my pin collection,” Wilbur said proudly. “I doubt there’s another that equals it.”
A red linen cloth was thumb-tacked symmetrically in place, almost covering the cork board. The cloth was nearly full of horizontal row upon horizontal row of silver straight pins. The little balls atop the pins were perfectly aligned, with the top left row starting one inch from the top and one inch from the side of the cloth. But while the silver balls were in perfect order, the pins pierced the cloth, in and back out, at different places on the shaft and at various angles – to the extent that some of the shaft points overlapped. The result was conflicting – shafts and points in disarray, silver heads perfectly aligned.
Cornell stared at the rows, blinking. Was Wilbur’s pin collection perfectly imperfect or imperfectly perfect? He shook his head. This could be unorienting, he thought.
“Don’t you love the colors?” Wilbur asked. Colors? Not just silver? Cornell peered harder, saw Violet lower her head, shaking it slightly.
“Which color do you think is best?” Wilbur asked. “Personally, I like the orange ones best. I do believe I have every color in the rainbow except for chartreuse. I’d have that one, too, if I knew what it looked like.”
Cornell gave that a moment of thought, felt himself tottering on the edge of a profound discovery, but it slipped away. True, he decided. “Wilbur, that’s a good point.”
Wilbur moved to his desk and picked up a century-old wooden cigar box. He opened it to show Cornell more pins, hundreds of them, maybe thousands.
“This is the rest of my collection – so far. Far too many to get on that cloth,” he said, indicating the only area still empty, at the lower right. “I’m goin’ to have to clear this wall to get more space,” he said, waving at what appeared to be family photos. Violet’s mouth pursed at what obviously was news. Not welcome news.
“Well, sir, this certainly is impressive, not be underestimated for sure. Now, if you have a minute, let me tell you why I came by.”
“You’re here to pay the rent, four days early.”
“Actually not, but I will be on time. Yes, actually, that’s a good thought ...No, I’m here to tell you I’m having a little difficulty with my neighbors. I don’t want to bother you with details ...”
“It would be no bother,” Violet assured him.
“Really, I’d rather not. It’s just that if I’m not up here to pay the rent in four days, you could tell the sheriff’s office that my neighbors would be a good place to start investigating.”
“Investigatin’ what, Cornell? Oh my, you think you could be in ...Oh, my. Alexander and Demetri seem like such fine men. I barely know Demetri, mainly from when he got my tripe soup recipe, but Alexander is always so considerate of Wilbur’s, of, well you know.”
“Know what, Mother, you’re confusin’ me.”
“Without goin’ into details, if you really don’t want to, can you let us know why they concern you?” Violet fished. “I mean, if you’re concerned maybe we should be too, ya know?”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, ma’am. No, I can’t think of no good reason for you two to be concerned, none at all.” Cornell cocked his head in a practiced way, to show he was being thoughtful, chewing on whether he should toss out just a little information.
“I’ll just say this: When you’re watching the TV you might stay extra alert, just in case any mirages catch your eye. If they do, don’t do anything right then. Just sit tight until after rent day. Then do whatever you think is best.”
“So if we see something unusual or suspicious we should wait for you showin’ up on rent day and if you don’t we might want to do somethin’ the next day. Like call the sheriff, maybe. Got that, Wilbur?”
“I got it. Simple enough. Sounds like a good plan. Oh Cornell, how’s your vacuuming going?”