| |
Peter’s morning begins when he bolts awake at four from the sound of the daily paper hitting the welcome mat.
He retrieves the news roll and spends the next hour combing through it. Reading the obituaries and skimming local headlines, he pauses at anything that might be connected to Glen. He reads while he eats breakfast, flips pages as he gets dressed, and holds the paper at an odd angle so he can read one-eyed while he shaves and brushes his teeth.
The rest of the day is a blur of numb activity punctuated by crisp moments of scouring the internet for the story of Glen’s death. By the time he returns home from work, Peter’s despondent, stuck in a cycle of analyzing each step of his failure.
No matter how many sites, forums, or talk radio stations he subscribes to, the satisfaction of Glen’s death never comes.
Two months pass in this way. Days bleed together in an endless merry-go-round of work, hopelessness, and remorse. He can’t eat. Can’t sleep. He’s stopped answering the phone. Considers trying to find a new therapist, but can’t figure out how to spin what he’s going through in a way that won’t raise suspicion.
The agitation builds until he can’t stand the suspense any longer. It’s time to pay the would-be victim a visit.
Peter has reviewed Glen’s prize form entry so many times, he has the street address memorized. He drives across town, checking his mirrors to make sure he’s not followed. He turns into Glen’s neighborhood, slowing to a crawl. Every house looks like it’s in the running for the next homeowner’s association Yard of the Month. Bushes stand at exactly the same width and height. Despite it being a chilly day, the yards practically glow with green grass.
He repeats Glen’s address aloud as he searches the lane for his destination. Pulling around a bend in the road, Peter finds the house. Glen rakes grass clippings in his front yard, oblivious to the stalker creeping by. He wears the same flannel shirt as the last time Peter saw him, along with a pair of metallic silver shorts and open-toed sandals. At least his black knee-high socks appear to be keeping his calves warm.
Parking a couple houses away, Peter watches Glen in his side mirror. He’s very much alive, slowly dragging bundles of grass toward him in a neat pile. Someone calls to him from over the fence along his driveway and he waves.
Exiting the car, Peter checks his reflection. He doesn’t think he looks nearly as flustered as he feels. He pushes a shock of hair away from his forehead and straightens his collar before walking toward the house. He’s casual about it. He looks at a flower and smiles at a kid riding by on his bike. Peter’s just another guy out for a walk. Off to see the man who should be dead.
Peter passes Glen’s yard and waits for a spark of recognition to alight in his eyes. He smiles briefly, the way someone might smile at a stranger in the aisle at the grocery store. But he doesn’t stop raking. Peter makes it to the edge of Glen’s property and stops. He turns, pretending to think for a moment, then forces his best smile. “Glen? Is that you?”
The homeowner looks up when he hears his name. “Yeah?”
“I thought so!” Peter trots over the lawn and thrusts a hand out for a handshake. This time, he grasps Glen’s palm before he complains about measles. The heat radiating from his skin makes Peter’s inner demons come alive. Despite the aggravation of the pulse throbbing against his fingers as they shake hands, Peter keeps a smile pasted to his face.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Glen asks.
“Ted Willard from Alphabet Apes. You, Mister Crookston, were our grand prize winner.” Peter tucks his fists under his arms and dances like a monkey as he sings, “When you want to feel great, try some Alphabet Apes!”
Glen’s face relaxes into a natural scowl. “Oh, that’s right. The guy with the contest. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I’m surprised you remember me.”
“Three months, actually. How’s that mountain of cereal holding up?”
He chuckles. Peter hates the way the folds of his skin jiggle with the effort. “Oh, man. The first couple weeks, it seemed all I did was eat cereal. But then... too much of a good thing, you know? Had to switch my meals up a bit.” Glen pauses and the look of befuddlement returns. “Say, what are you doing here?”
“Don’t take too long of a break. That cereal won’t eat itself, you know.” Peter pauses, trying to come up with a reason to be trolling the neighborhood. “As for why I’m here, can you believe the contest went so well, I got a promotion? My wife likes this area, so I thought I’d check it out. You know, make sure there’s no riffraff hanging around.” Peter winks.
“It’s a nice enough neighborhood.” Glen looks around at the cookie-cutter houses. “Everyone knows their place.”
Peter disagrees. If everyone knew their place, Glen would be six feet under the turf. “Say, how much cereal have you gotten through, anyway? That second shipment should turn up in a few weeks.”
“Between you and me, I got sick of it. The church down the road was doing a big food drive, so I donated what I had left.” Glen pets his beard, apparently pleased with his unusual act of charity.
Peter feels his stomach drop to his ankles. “You did what?”
“Donated them. There must have been a good dozen boxes left when I got tired of the stuff. But I’ll be back to craving that sugary goodness by the time the next delivery comes, don’t you worry.”
Peter searches Glen’s eyes. He loses all pretense of a jovial coincidence at their meeting. “When did you do that?”
“I don’t know. A couple weeks ago, I guess.” Glen changes his stance, turning away from Peter’s hard glare. He resumes raking. Peter interprets the shift as a signal he’s ready for the conversation to be over.
“Do they still have the food at the church?” He swipes at beads of panicked sweat collecting on his forehead. He’s not sure how he’ll convince a church to let him sort through their donations, let alone walk off with them.
Glen’s beard waves as he shakes his head. “No. They were sending it all to the city. They told me they’d collected five thousand pounds of food in one weekend. Isn’t that something?” His focus slips, and he looks at Peter. “Ted, you aren’t looking too great. You okay?”
Peter draws his fist back and punches the bastard square in the mouth. They’re both surprised by the action. Peter’s knuckles throb in time with his racing heart. “No. I am absolutely not okay.”
Glen tilts off balance, but catches himself with the rake so he doesn’t tumble to the ground. He massages his jaw with his free hand to make sure it still works, then spits out a trickle of blood. “What the hell, man?”
“What part of, ‘prizes are non-transferrable,’ do you not understand?” Peter stomps off the property, loudly cussing the entire way back to his car. He swings the door wide and slams it shut again as he cranks the key in the ignition. He screams at the top of his lungs as he fights the seatbelt into place. The second it snaps in the buckle, Peter shoves his foot against the gas pedal. His tires chirp on the pavement as they launch the vehicle forward.
Peter tears through the neighborhood, leaving the disaster of Glen’s continued life behind.