If you can enable yourself to believe in complete absurdity for a moment, I will explain. Chester totaled his car in a Taco Bell drive-thru. After he had procured his order (which was most of the dollar menu), he attempted to leave. He claims he was ‘distracted’ by a French fry sitting in the bag on the passenger seat. When he reached over to grab it, his body leaned with his arm, and the steering wheel in his other hand followed in the pursuit. That, combined with his foot smashing against the accelerator, caused him to hit the curb as he rounded the corner, flipping his car. His defense to this day is: “Because it was a crinkle cut fry.” And he has sworn off driving ever since.
Now back to Taylor’s car. It’s amazing. It handles well, looks awesome, and has a flawless sound system. What a difference from my Datsun, which only has one working speaker and only plays one tune. If I haven’t said so yet, there has been a cassette lodged in the tape deck since I first owned that car. For some unknown reason (probably poltergeists), the player rewinds and then replays only one song from the tape over and over. Now don’t get me wrong, I like Kiss, and the Love Gun album is cool, but after listening to “Christine Sixteen” on repeat, it just gets old. I know I could remove the tape deck and install a new CD player, but with doors that often refuse to lock and the absence of a sensible alarm system, I would pretty much be putting a sign on the new CD player that says ,‘FREE’.
Here in this moment of pseudo-solace, I turn up the volume just a tad so I can hear the amazing vocals of Royal Blood belt out, “Come on Over” in absolute clarity. Both of my buddies continue to doze in their seats, and as the music continues to play, I’m left to my thoughts. I ponder again how I’ll manage to get out of this mess with my life still intact. It all seems hopeless.
11 The Report of the Reports
Sleep comes uneasily. Chester is talking in his slumber, which sometimes happens when he gets drunk. With everything else on my mind, I still have a moment to think about Liz. Disregarding the time, I send her a single text with a single word: “Sorry.” I stare at the screen for few minutes, waiting for a reply that doesn’t come. I put my phone on the dresser by the bed and finally go to sleep.
I get up early the next morning at nine twenty-one. Thankfully the soreness in my bones and body from yesterday has vanished. I grab my phone and see there is a lone text from Liz, sent at just after seven this morning. It reads, “Don’t text me anymore.”
I think maybe I’ll send the response, ‘As you wish’, in the hopes she’ll get The Princess Bride movie reference and see it as being romantic at the same time. But I have this feeling deep within the marrow of my bones that it will not be understood. She isn’t the movie aficionado that I am, and that little ploy would be wasted. I’m most definitely not the Dread Pirate Roberts and she is not Buttercup.
Shit. I’ll just let sleeping dogs lie. Or lay. Or whatever it is I’m supposed to let them do.
I walk – but it’s more of sluggish, lazy saunter – over to the community laptop that Taylor bought, but we all share.* (Thanks again for Taylor’s parents being successful in life. I hope I can be too when I go professional in the UFC.)
Using one of the numerous web browsers – Fire-zilla or Safari-explorer – I check my e-mail. Spam litters my inbox. One wants to sell me solar panels. Four guarantee to enlarge my manhood by 324%,* (That’s just scary.) Another begs the questions: am I sick and tired of being sick and tired and am I serious about getting serious in the gym again? And if I act now I can quin-piple my testosterone and pack on 20 lbs of lean muscle in 30 days. I’m quasi-interested. I read more of the message due to my curiosity and discover that this new packed chemical formula boasts superior gains over other leading products. It details specifically how it can shed weight faster than pure crack cocaine and only 9 out of 10 people actually die. Maybe I could be the lucky one. But I haven’t been lucky in a while and those odds – well, they are not appealing in the least. I trash the e-mail, but not before I forward it to Taylor.
Below all these obnoxious e-mails is the copy of the credit report I ordered. I open the file, scan it for a mere second and hit print. After it spits out of the Deskjet 2.5 Million, I give it a quick read through. My jaw falls to the ground, hitting my nut sack on the way down. According to the paperwork, I own a house in Cary, NC. For those not too familiar with the dynamics of North Carolina, Cary is a pretty upper crust area. To my knowledge, last year sometime it was considered to be the safest city to live in when compared to other cities of similar size.* (Taylor’s parents moved there in 2012.)
The records indicate that on February 14th of this year, the house was placed in my name.* (Happy Valentine’s Day to me!)
I open up another page in the browser. I search for the address, and information pops up showing the state of the housing market for that region, purchase and sell date, etc.* (I’m not really that smart when it comes to real estate; remember, my main area of expertise happens to be global economics.)
So to my understanding, the last purchase date of the home was in December of 2011. And a transfer to a new owner did take place in February. Which I’m guessing just so happens to be me. The flow chart, line graph, Venn diagram (or whatever it is I’m looking at) shows the steadily improving value of the home. At the time of purchase the home was at 1.2M; the ‘M’ means million. Now the current price sits at 1.6M. Ouch.* (Sorry, my jaw just smacked against my balls again.)
As I’ve said before, I’m not a rocket scientist, but whoever has stolen my identity is about to ruin my life completely. As it stands, this million dollar mansion is in my name. With the market the way it is, I can smell a sale coming on like I can smell Chester’s stinky-ass feet across the room. I grab the can of Lysol from the table and spray him from head to toe while he sleeps. I focus a concentrated beam on his feet sticking out from beneath the sheets. He doesn’t even budge, but lets out a giggle and mutters, “Don’t stop,” in his sleep. I freeze in gross-stricken horror and drop the can.
Okay, where was I? Right, the selling of the home I didn’t know I had. If that house is sold for close to its current value, the profit is considered capital gains. And it can be taxed by the federal, state, and local governments. I’m just assuming it’s all three here, but it doesn’t matter. It’s bad either way. If whoever benefits from this transaction doesn’t pay up on the taxes, the governments come looking for restitution. Once again, I’m positive whoever the sneaky bastard behind this is, they won’t be sharing their ill-gotten gains with me.
I consider calling my father to let him know the situation just got a lot messier, but I don’t want to put that kind of pressure on his heart, so I hang up before I even dial the area code.
There is still one more thing I want to look into. I check my watch. My shift at The Sub Shop starts at twelve-thirty. Right now, it’s just after ten. I’ve got time.
12 Just the Car Facts Ma’am
I look like easy prey to any car salesman. My vehicle, as you might know by now, isn’t the best. As a matter of fact, I almost don’t make it to the lot this morning. Not because it didn’t want to start – because it did after only three cranks – but because there’s a slight drizzle today. My tires are as bald as Mr. Clean, and I hydroplaned six times, and with each skid my sphincter tightened so hard it almost dined on my briefs.
My car … is an absolute beaut. The 1986 Datsun is a two-tone coupe that goes from sunshine yellow to rust and the left side back window has been ‘custom’ made with cardboard and duct tape. It is … a classic … piece of shit. I’m driving into the lot going 110 MPH according to the speedometer. That’s broken too; it always says I’m going that fast. I think I should clarify that my car is a big time compulsive liar. She’s about as trustworthy as Kaiser Soze.* (I hope you understand that reference.) Anyway, it spits out misinformation to me all the time. It tells me I’m out of oil when I just filled it, that the battery is dead when it’s not, alive when it’s dead, and it doesn’t matter the circumstance or the display on the radio, it only picks up the 6
80 AM frequency. These qualities are just to name a few.
Needless to say, I’m surprised when I’m not flocked immediately by salesmen as I exit the passenger side door, but they’re all maintaining a safe distance. None want to come near the smoking vehicle for fear it might explode at any moment. Chicken shits.
You might be wondering how my car even passes the North Carolina mandatory smog test. It doesn’t.
My Datsun Sunny S.U.X. 50 is considered a senior citizen by vehicle standards and is exempt from such examinations. It is also only 1 of 23 cars that were manufactured as test prototypes, which makes getting parts for it a bitch, and everything I have had to do to repair the internal mechanisms was Mickey-Moused together with kits. The only thing my car needs to pass is a safety inspection … and, well … I just happen to know a guy.
Back to the Ford dealership. I pull out a pan from the trunk, place it under my car to catch the oil that leaks from a hole somewhere in the engine, and head inside. I speak with two individuals who give me three different answers, but with my super sleuthing skills I discover that I need to talk to Marjorie in accounts payable – which is in the back behind the main showroom floor. I take a gander at all the vehicles I can’t afford and daydream about my future as a stuntman and every illegal thing I could do on the street with one of those bad boys. Illegal. Oh, yeah, illegal – that reminds me. It’s why I’m here to begin with. I want to get a copy of the documents that were signed for the 2014 Mustang I apparently own but don’t have the keys for.
Finally. A cute older woman. Marjorie is probably around thirty, black, petite, and small-framed. And I can tell she has the kind of boobs I happen to like: two of them. I lean against the desk. “Hi. You must be Marjorie.” Now that I think about it, I must sound like all kinds of the wrong creepy.
“Oh, no – I’m Celeste,” she says.
Quick fact: I knew a Celeste once. She was a dumbass bitchy girl in my Algebra III class in high school. Now, although I’m attracted to the woman who stands in front of me in physical terms, I can’t help that those previous experiences I had with the turdy girl are rising up into my chest and I feel immediate angst and revulsion toward her.
“I was told to come see Marjorie in accounts payable. Are you covering for her today?” I say, managing to cover the disdain building in my voice.
“Sorry, hunny – I was just borrowing her stapler.”
Something in the way she says ‘hunny’ calms my nerves, and she becomes an instant turn on again … and now I feel slighted that this hot chick will be walking away. Damn. I remind myself why I’m here. But then again – maybe Marjorie is good-looking too.
“I’ll tell her you’re waiting.”
“Thanks,” I say, crushed on the inside.
It appears that Marjorie is already walking back to her desk, having been in the restroom during my short conversation with Celeste.
Let’s say fortune isn’t smiling on me today. In fact it seems like it hasn’t been for quite some time; lately it’s been more of a gnarly gapped-dead-toothed grimace. Ugh … so, Marjorie is at least forty-five but doesn’t look a day over sixty. Her hair is shoulder length, dyed a bright shade of orange, and her face bears a close resemblance to Don Rickles. I’m also not sure that she washed her hands. Life always seems to be such a gamble, and the house usually wins.
She sits down, her seat letting out a screech, and looks up at me. That’s when I notice she has a stiff underbite that reminds me of a deep sea anglerfish.* (I’m laughing inside as I look at her because now I’m remembering a rather hilarious video on YouTube regarding the anglerfish.)
“Can I help you?” she asks in a polite voice.
“Yes. I’m Ellis DeAngelo. I came to get a copy of my purchase agreement.”
A look of recognition crosses her face. “So you’re the guy with the foul mouth.”
Yes. Yes I am. But instead I apologize, and she seems to understand, forgives me, or maybe she just doesn’t care.
A few minutes later she returns with a folder full of forms. She’s made extra copies and hands them over to me. I start to thank her for her time, but she’s already yelling, “Next!”
Even though I’m not currently conducting business with the dealership – because technically I already had a few months ago when I ‘bought’ a Mustang – I make use of a front lobby chair to sit down and peruse the contents of the folder. I find copies of my social security card, my driver’s license, and then I do a double take. It’s not a North Carolina license at all. In different print to the right of my picture are the words, ‘New Hampshire’. I check the address on the photo as well. It reads, 1278 South West Myrtle Park Drive, Lake Winnipesaukee, New Hampshire.
I pull out my phone, go straight to my maps app and search the address. A red pin drops on the map for Park Drive, indicating this is the ‘approximate’ location. I scan back on the map, and the marker is sitting in Pensacola, Florida.
This is the reason the address didn’t validate for the dealership; it doesn’t freaking exist. I flip through some papers and find where the signatures are. One after another I see exact forgeries of my own.* (Actually, they look like something that came from the end of a two year old’s crayon.)
At least I’m making some headway with this whole ordeal. But I still feel like I’m being buried by the mountain of debt piling up.
I need a phenomenal plan of attack to deal with all this madness so I pop a Mentos into my mouth. I’m not surprised when an epiphany doesn’t strike as it does in the commercials, but it is tasty.
My Casio says it’s now eleven forty-one. I’m officially going to be a few minutes late to work. I pull Detective Kline’s card from my wallet and paperclip it to the top page, put all the files back in the folder, and head out the door.
I know I’ll have to break a few driving laws on my way to The Sub Shop, and in my erratic brain, I envision taking the easy way out and crashing my car into the next brick wall. I see the images clearly in my mind: the air bag fails to deploy, and even though my head will be squashed like a pumpkin I have a graceful death, and magically everything is fine because I’ve been put out of my misery.
I snap back to the real world. Although my foot is mashing the gas pedal to the floor as I attempt to conquer this hill in the rain that just started, I doubt I’m exceeding fifteen miles per hour.
13 Closed and Open
This is weird. I’m in my car, the windshield wiper* going to town on the rain. (That’s not a mistake; only one wiper works.) I should clarify also, the only good thing about my car is that it doesn’t have a sunroof, because if it did it would surely be broken too – most likely stuck in the open position – and I would be getting drenched in rain right now. However, the gushing leak from the rear window still works like a charm and is performing fantastically. And the partially acidic rain will add to the musty mildew fragrance that I have gone nose-blind to, decreasing the resale value even further.* (In truth, I’ll probably end up having to pay someone to take the car in the future.)
So as I was saying, it isn’t strange that only one wiper is working. It’s strange because I’m in the parking lot outside The Sub Shop, looking at the front entrance, and there’s a sign on the door that says, ‘CLOSED’.
Sam is never closed for business. I’ve seen the schedule many times over the last three months. The Sub Shop is open every weekend and holidays too. So why is it closed now?
A series of thoughts, some of which are random, cross my mind. Sam is a hefty guy; maybe he had a mild heart attack this morning and never made it to work. I missed last week’s episode of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. It could be possible Sam had an accident on the freeway. The itch on the back of my thigh is really annoying. Maybe Nesbo is just sick today.
I call in, thinking maybe Sam is in the back office and just forgot to turn the sign around. It rings indefinitely; there is no answering machine for The Sub Shop.
There is a stirring in my stomach, a curdling sound hits m
y eardrums, and I begin to feel that maybe the sausage biscuit I had for breakfast is going to be coming up soon. I don’t want to see the day wasted so I push the thought of my noisy belly aside, open the map app on my phone for the second time today, and type in the address for the home in Cary that’s in my name.
I check the fuel gauge. It’s sitting on half a tank, which – along with my speedometer – is lying to me. I begin to do mental calculations of my recent driving patterns and the approximate mileage I’ve driven since my last fill up. I should probably get gas. So I do.
I’m supposed to get my paycheck today from Sam, and my funds are getting low, so I only pump twenty dollars and sixty-two cents.* (I found the change under my seat; I’m sure there was more but I was in a hurry.) I still have the money that Tony has been giving me. But that’s stashed away in my Converse shoe box under my bed; I promised myself I won’t dig into it for obvious reasons.
I cruise through the expensive neighborhood and finally come to the address I’m looking for. It’s expansive, but I know I’d never have paid more than a million for it. That’s when I see a sign staked in the ground on the front lawn. I get out of my car and run to investigate it further. I pull a piece of paper from the plastic tube attached to the sign and read it quickly before the rain disintegrates it in my hands.
An open house is scheduled for next week. I drop the paper.* (I’m not normally a litterbug, and despite my vehicle’s carbon footprint, I do care about the environment; but at the moment my life is collapsing in upon itself.)
The one thing that comes to mind first is Taylor. Not because I need help from a friend, but because Taylor has an internship at the moment with Wabash, Something, and Something. The possibilities are slim, but maybe a favor can be pulled with one of the partners and I might just find a way out of this downward spiraling rollercoaster.