Of Mice and Molecules...
No Time For Mysteries: An Ed Schott Mystery
The continuing adventures of a hero who lives on the edge of life and death… because he could die at any moment… unless he kills you first... The geriatric Jack Reacher, the misogynistic Mitch Rapp, the racist John Rambo. We not-so-proudly present:
Sometimes life just goes your way. God knows I deserve it. Sometimes when I pray, He whispers back and tells me so.
The news crew had just finished packing up, but the residents of Sunset Acres Retirement Estates were still a captivated audience. Thirty or forty looky-loos, packed around the edges of the common room, the front rank in motorized wheelchairs, with the walker crowd behind them, and finally the ambulatory who still had farsighted vision. All of them trading a good-sized chunk of their remaining hours on this earth for a chance to watch history being made. As the reporter for WMBF (The finger on the news pulse of the Grand Strand, Myrtle Beach, and surrounds!) passed them, the wrinkled masses parted like the Red Sea. A few of the bolder souls reached out, hoping for a brush of physical contact with an honest-to-god celebrity. I mean, this was Dan Chapman, a guy who ruled a single-digit channel with an iron fist. The best the assembled rabble kowtowing before him could hope for was a coherent sentence or two before the plaques and tangles in their brain choked out their few remaining neurons.
Thing was, for all his star power, Dan Chapman was here to interview me. I sat in the central recliner, basking in the aftermath of the experience and rummaging through my pockets for a smoke.
“Do you think your story will be on the 4:15 news or the six o’clock edition?” Marvin Gessel asked excitedly.
“Why not both?” I mused, taking a drag from my cigarette and feeling the blood vessels dilate pleasurably under a torrent of nicotine. We weren’t supposed to smoke indoors, but rules were for people who weren’t just interviewed on northern South Carolina’s second-most-watched regional evening news program.
“Six PM? I’m not sure I can stay up that late,” Marvin’s girlfriend Lucille said anxiously.
Marvin laughed. So did I. Of course, Marvin didn’t get the joke. The man had no clue he was a cuckold. On the heels of my old flame Marlene disappearing and being replaced with either a ghost or an imposter, I had been forced to find greener pastures for my continuing sexual peccadilloes, and Lucille was the choicest target in the Acres. All I had to do was convince her that Marvin’s social security check wasn’t quite as generous as he made it out to be and Lucille practically staggered into my still-reasonably-muscular arms. The moment Marvin’s head hit the pillow, I’d be canoodling his woman in the crafts room until she couldn’t tell a garter stitch from a stockinette.
Where was I? Right - the subject of today’s triumph was a (practically) national news story, subject: me, for Veteran’s Day. It’s going to be a deep dive into my illustrious military career, which spanned Fort Benning to Korea to Fort Benning before ending in an honorable discharge. The reporter was practically fawning over me the whole time. I’d even shown him some medals I’d purchased in flea markets. If he chose to believe that I’d won them while in the service, that was on him. I never said it, at least not while the cameras were rolling. Stolen valor’s a tricky thing to prove, but you can’t be too careful.
4:15 rolled around and the TV room was so packed that the staff had to set up extra barcaloungers to accommodate everyone. The show itself was a cavalcade for the senses. Imagine it if you can: a massive 48-inch plasma screen, sound jacked up to maximum for the hearing impaired, with closed captions driving the message home in hundred-point font. Just like the Emmys. And then, there it was: fifth story of the evening, a one-hundred-and-eighteen second think piece on yours truly. The camera zoomed on in from a low angle as I saluted the flag in the courtyard near the memorial bench. The actual interview was sandwiched between additional glamour shots, close-ups of my medals (once again, ‘my’ refers only to possession/ownership), and a final majestic shot of Roscoe, the facility’s therapy dog, staring attentively at me as I dispensed folksy wisdom to a completely captivated newsman.
“That shot with the dog was dicey to film,” I told the assembled masses. During the actual interview, Roscoe had quickly moved on to sniffing my crotch once he honed in on the bacon I’d filched from the dining room that morning, but the story editor had cut before it happened.
There was a round of applause at the conclusion of the piece, although this was cut off prematurely when Ethel Anderson demanded we pipe down so she could hear the weather forecast for the weekend. But that bitch’s obsession with the humidity couldn’t dull my shine on this lovely evening. Finally, I was getting the recognition I deserved. Indeed, as I’d dared to dream, the story did play the early and late news. They don’t do that for every piece (as the chumps organizing today’s high school’s walk-a-thon could tell you). I fell asleep on a cloud that night, with the smell of Lucille’s Aspercreme on my skin and a heart fuller than one of those stuffed baked potatoes they serve at Ponderosa.
The next morning I was still riding high. So much so that I set the seat of my trusty Hoveround (which I call Night Rider, in homage to the booty calls I make in it) a couple of notches higher as I headed for the cafeteria. It was pancake day, and I was all about being seen on pancake day. I ate an enormous, 450-calorie breakfast, then headed straight for the day room. My plan was to settle into the central couch like a king at court and let all the nobodies here bow and scrape for a scrap of my time. People don’t remember things very long in these parts, so you have to strike while the iron’s hot.
But what awaited me in the great room wasn’t the encore standing ovation I’d anticipated, but rather distracted silence. A handful of residents were clustered on the opposite wall, looking at something posted on the community billboard. “Who died?” I asked. I meant it. Usually they put a notice up when someone kicks the bucket. But what was pinned to the board dropped my stomach into my bowels like I’d swallowed a sledgehammer.
It was a photo of me from thirty years ago. Christ, I looked good. I was so handsome I didn’t even realize it was my old mugshot until Hugh Papson made a crack about my height. I’ve been six feet tall since I was born, but there was something wrong with the height scale, which only showed 5’7”. Probably a metric conversion issue.
Where was I? Right, the mugshot. I studied the unwelcome visitor from my shadowy past with clinical detachment. The glossy headshot gazed back in mutual admiration. I still look great, but the younger me was something else. My eyes drew you in with lethal seduction, two smoldering chips of crystal blue diamond set deeply into a skull that once absorbed the kick of a mule after a bar bet went the wrong way.
I’ve talked my way out of worse situations before. “Hey, is that an old photo of my evil identical-twin brother?” I asked, borrowing a plot line from an old episode of General Hospital. Obviously, this would have worked just as well for me as it had for Dr. Kevin Collins and his serial-killer identical twin Ryan from season forty-six, but for the fact that the photo in question clearly identified the incarcerated as Edward Dangerfield Schott.
“Jesus, Schott,” Lester Mcrary said. “You were losing your hair even back then.”
“I thought you said you shaved your head?” Nora Robinson said.
“I like to get slippery smooth,” I mumbled.
“What’d you do, anyway?” Lester asked.
“I killed Koreans, that’s what I did,” I said stiffly. “If that’s a crime, then lock me up.” I held up my wrists, like I was waiting for someone to slap the cuffs on me. “Now let’s take this down and get back to the news. The national outlets might have picked up my story overnight.”
Lester did no such thing. Instead, he squinted at the block lettering in the corner of the photo. “The little inset says the charge is… failure to pay child support.”
Fuck. I had to think fast. “April Fool’s!” I sang. “It’s a joke!”
“It’s November twelfth,” Lester observed. Lester, with his fancy associate’s degree in community studies from Orangeburg-Calhoun Technical College. The man’s the personification of every terrible thing you hear about Orangeburg people, all rolled into one. Look how smug he was being right now, as though thirty-five years working as an insurance adjuster made him a master of the calendar.
Well, I’d take care of him later. Instead, I snatched the photograph and stalked away. In my room, I cried a little bit. Then I ate the photo. Had to - they go through my trash most nights, and I have to contain this.
Why was this happening to me the morning after my greatest triumph? Obviously, someone here is gunning for me, only they aren’t man enough (or woman enough - women can be even more shitbaggy than men once a month, heh heh) to come at me directly. They wanted to take me down a peg. Probably a Democrat. I’d made a list of suspected liberal residents once. Where had I left it? Or had I eaten that as well?
The following morning was cereal day in the dining room. It took me a couple of hours to eat. All that time, waiting for the bran flakes to soften in the milk so they don’t cut my fragile gums. Does nothing for the disposition, let me tell you, so I was in no mood to be trifled with when I rolled into the common room on Night Rider.
Unfortunately, another crowd was assembled. Another mugshot decorated the bulletin board. My heart sank. “Who’s putting up fake mugshots again?” I asked.
“This one looks real,” Joe Morshead said. “Looks like Mike Wilder got caught stealing baked goods from the 7-11 again.”
Relief (and deoxygenated blood) flooded the ventricles of my pounding heart. “The store clerks call him the Cookie Monster,” I said, strolling up to take a look at old pathetic Mike. But next to his photo was another photo of yours truly! Someone had reposted the picture. Was I trapped in yet another Groundhog’s Day-style time loop? I prodded my gut, verifying the crumpled paper was still there. It was.
No time loop, but that was the only good news. “Goddamn it,” I muttered. “Not again.”
From his recliner, Lester giggled. I was about to whoop his old ass, but my lactose intolerance was flaring up something fierce. Cereal day. Hurts bad, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone here see me drinking soy milk.
As I ate the new mug shot that night, I realized I couldn’t chew my way out of this. Information metastasizes in retirement communities almost as quickly as tumors do. If this boneheaded jokester kept dragging up my past, I’d fast be caught flat-footed, reacting to the story instead of making it up like I normally do.
A new mugshot appeared on the third day. That was it. The only solution was to set up an ambush and murder whoever was doing this. People have accidents all the time. You mess with the bull, you get the horns. You mess with Ed, you get Schott.
I had a lot of options on my choice of weapon. Obviously I wasn’t going to be able to discharge a gun again on the premises. Not after last year, but the silent options were equally deadly and equally ubiquitous, if you know where to look. Dental floss, for example, is the garrote of choice among professional assassins. I’d read that in Soldier of Fortune. I’d also purchased some throwing stars from an ad in the back of the same periodical. Per the ad, these spinning discs of death are known far and wide as the poor man's firearm. I'd never thrown one before, but how hard could they be to use? And there was a - yes, there was a ceremonial samurai sword in Lester McCrary’s room I’d had my good eye on for some time. I could use it to lethal effect, then leave the weapon behind to frame him. Settle two scores in a single frame.
Selecting a weapon was one thing, but knowing where to spring the trap was considerably simpler. The common room pretty much shuts down around eight PM. That’s when the poster boy would make their move. All I had to do was creep up on the provocateur and, you know, take them out.
Around six PM I took three or four NoDoze and chased them down with several cups of coffee. This could take all night, maybe as late as nine PM, and I couldn’t afford to drift off.
After much deliberation, I’d selected a less-lethal weapon. It was possible that whoever was framing me was using a fall guy to put up the mugshots. If that was the case, I’d need to take the intermediary alive so I could beat the information out of them. That need to incapacitate was a job requiring a special tool, and I had just the thing.
The modern bola is a thing of beauty, as weapons go. I'd bought it at the flea market, at the booth that sells all the African shit. Some say the bola is the only useful thing ever to come out of the continent. A simple device of two weighted balls connected by string, it’s spun above the head and released in the direction of the target as a whirling dervish of kinetic energy. Done properly, the cable will wrap around the legs of your prey, ensnaring them and instantly bringing them down to where they can be kicked into submission.
Now that I was armed, it was a simple matter of disguising myself and taking up a position where I could observe the bulletin board unnoticed. This took some doing, but I engineered a characteristically elegant solution. I parked Night Rider at the edge of the unofficial parking lot of mobility devices adjacent to the common area, then donned a special camouflage suit. A long time ago, I realized it was almost inevitable that I’d be conducting regular stakeouts at Sunset Acres, so I’d had a special sweatsuit made, created from a custom fabric that perfectly matched the paisley floral wallpaper so favored by the decorators of this facility. When I wear it within The Acres, I’m virtually invisible, little more than a dissociated head floating above the floor.
There I perched next to the wall, patiently waiting like a shark as the common room emptied and The Acres plunged into the depths of night. A deep silence took hold of the facility, one punctuated only by the distant shrieks of residents experiencing night terrors.
It was practically morning - close to nine PM - when the rustling of slippers on linoleum roused me from a safari fantasy where I’d just hunted some weak-ass species into extinction.
A hunched figure was working the billboard, back to me, shrouded by darkness and glaucoma. Regardless, the trap was ready to be sprung. I turned the throttle, and Knight Rider leapt forward. I glided toward my quarry, who was totally unaware his or her day was about to get a hell of a lot worse. Night Rider is completely silent below three miles per hour, so there was no way for them to hear me coming. It really wasn’t fair.
Finally, I was within range. “Jesus take the wheel,” I cried, releasing Night Rider’s wheel as I whipped the bola into a lethal disc of death. Angling the cord deftly, I released the weapon so that it scythed under the legs of the interloper, sending them crashing to the floor where they thrashed, immobilized.
“Talk, motherfucker,” I said.
“What?!?”
“You got a problem with old mugshots?” I asked. "Cause I'm here to fix it."
“I’m sorry, OK? But it’s not fair - it was just a shitty cruller. Besides, they have me on a low-sugar diet!”
I sighed. Below me, Mike Wilder writhed and wriggled in pain. I’d just taken out the vaunted Cookie Monster, who’d presumably returned to filch his own mugshot, presumably to be eaten in the privacy of his room.
The man deserved to be punished, but not by me. “Consider this your final warning,” I growled, quickly donning the mask I use to conceal my identity when things like identification become inconvenient. “7-11 never forgets,” I added in my special fake voice. Donning my metal horse, I faded into the night before Wilder could get a look at my ride’s vanity plate (SCHOT HPPNS).
So that’s where we are, me hiding out in my room while security looks for the intruder who jacked up Mike Wilder. It’s now quarter past ten, later than I’ve stayed up in decades, but between the caffeine and the bloodlust I was too wired to sleep. To channel my aggression, I watched a stand-up comedy program with ethnic comedians while I planned my next move.
Normally, one of my sugar journeys would be in order, where I disconnect my insulin pump and take a glucose-fueled trip deep into the knowledge core of the multiverse. But I’ve been doing that a lot lately, and my left foot has gotten dusky enough for me to believe my doctors aren’t just idly making amputation jokes.
Given tonight’s kerfuffle in the common room, the mystery poster wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon. But the damage has already been done; three days of being on nonstop blast puts my little secret is out in the open. The really bittersweet thing is that people will probably feel sorry for Mike Wilder, instead of hating him for ruining The Acre’s sterling reputation in the convenience store community. Had I faked an attack on myself instead, there’s no doubt this would all be in the rearview mirror by lunchtime tomorrow. Instead, I have to deal with this problem the only way I know how: head on, and violently.
The truth is, there are one or six shadowy bits of my past, things where fortune has conspired against me, despite my best intentions. One of these might be a little misunderstanding during the early eighties, when I accidentally forgot to pay child support for my second child from my third wife for a little bit. Fourteen years really flew by, which is exactly what I’d told the deputies when they showed up with a warrant on that fateful day.
Now there’s nothing in the constitution that says you have to pay child support, especially when you’ve already offered to go halfsies on an abortion. But the judge didn’t know the law very well, and wanted to try and tell me about responsibility. Me, the guy the US government entrusted with latrine maintenance for an entire company of men from 1951 to 1953.
Even in the face of an insult from a sanctimonious judge who was clearly looking down his World-War-Two-veteran nose at me, I never lost my cool. My respect for authority is too great. So instead of wiping my ass with the courtroom’s flag, I decided to lighten the mood with a joke. When the judge asked me what my defense for not paying child support for the past one hundred and sixty-eight months, I replied that I didn’t want to make [paying] less special by doing it too often. Next thing I know, I’m being booked for contempt and someone’s snapping pictures of me. And now this innocent misunderstanding comes back to haunt me.
But how? I knew how to cover my tracks, and dirt on me is hard to find. The hoodlum in question must have hired private detectives to track my movements over the last seventy years, searching through millions of records at each step, in an attempt to find something that would stick. Then, after stumbling on that needle in a haystack, he or she uses it as ammunition to humiliate me. Such a scheme would cost years of manpower and millions of dollars. They must have a hell of a grudge against me. In fact, I could only think of eight or nine dozen people who fit the bill. I’d have to find a way to narrow that down.
The next morning was oatmeal day. I sidled up to the grits station and asked for a double with sawmill gravy. “Gravy’s for people without records, Schott,” the kid manning the station quipped.
“You know too?” I said.
“Everyone knows,” the kid replied. “Hey, can you say ‘There’s not a Schott in hell of you getting a dime from me!’?”
I repeated the line, and the kid did a little something with his phone, which he then held up for me to see. It was my mugshot. The kid pressed a button, and the picture’s lips moved, as if animated by Christ Jesus himself, and the the digital Eddie Schott repeated what I’d just said.
I should have been mad, but seeing my old self fighting the power gave me a chuckle. “How did you get that photo?” I asked.
The kid shrugged. “I just looked it up on the internet.”
“What’s an internet?” I asked.
Three hours later, my grits were cold and I understood that my past might not be so secretive. The kid explained everything as he scooped. Apparently there’s a large network of tubes that transmits information around the world. My mugshot must have been sucked into one of those pipes and, instead of being pulled out to sea, fell into the hands of one of my nemeses by mistake.
Two can play at that game. While the kid from yesterday explained the internet to me, I watched his hand motions as he operated the device that controls the tubes’ opening and closing. It remains to be tested, but I believe I can now internet as well. We’ll see how well these meddling punks do, now that Schott is online and on their case.
The next morning’s breakfast was dental health day, basically soft foods as far as the eye can see. I passed on the cottage cheese and applesauce, opting instead for a far more manly soft-boiled egg topped with karo syrup to fuel up for my big day. Big side of coffee, which I take black, save for a healthy sprinkle of salt. You heard me right: salt. I learned the technique from Lester McAvoy, the oldest resident in The Acres. One-hundred and twelve years old, and he can still pitch his tent for female staff members, if you know what I mean. Every day, Lester has a cup of joe with salt in it. Some say his olfactory neurons are completely dead, that he thinks it’s sugar. I say it’s his secret. Now it’s mine.
Where was I? Right, salty coffee and interneting. My gums were tingling like I’d been swimming in the ocean when I left the dining hall. Normally, on Thursdays, I’d go to crafts, where I’d been carving a wooden statue of Dwight Eisenhower for the past four years, but today I snuck off to the technology lab. It took a while to find, and when I did, it was locked. I had to get one of the hispanic orderlies to open it up for me. Inside was a room not much bigger than a closet, with a desk and a device that looked nothing like the internet machine the kid from the breakfast buffet had. This was much larger, basically a typewriter with a boxy screen, plus a plastic box that was warm to the touch.
First step was to - what did they call it - “hack in” to the device. I sat down at the keyboard. Typing is for secretaries, so it took some time, but I eventually oriented myself to the pattern of keys. Now to activate the machine. I typed in my bank PIN, but the machine didn’t turn on. Hmm. Then I typed in my phone number. Nothing. Social security number. Same thing. I swiped my credit card (well, a credit card). Still, the computer failed to turn on.
“Hit the power button,” the janitor said, as he passed by. It was a whimsical clue, but I went with it. There’s a hidden button that, when pressed, made the computer’s engine cough to life.
I was in.
A cursor flashed like a blinking eye. The computer was watching me. Millions of circuits versus yours truly. To do this right, I needed to take a technological leap forward, a feat so daunting it would require a mental feat possible only for one who had my unique talents. I wanted to keep that dusky foot of mine, but I wanted revenge even more. There was no choice but to risk it - I pulled my insulin pump and started in on some hard candy I’d taken from reception. As I began my sugar journey, I suddenly knew how to operate the computer.
…
When I came to, I was unconscious in a booth at the Denny’s across the street. A negro waitress was chastizing me in her thick patois. “Nuh-Unnnh, baby! No sleepin’ in here - you gotsta stay awake!”
I shook off the familiar hangover of the journey. There was a cup of coffee in front of me. I tasted it. Yep, salty coffee. My secret antidote.
Night Rider was nowhere to be seen, so I faked an infarct so they’d call an ambulance to take me back across the street by way of the local ER. When I got back to Sunset Acres, I told everyone my family had visited and that we’d gone to Ripley’s Believe It or Not. If you’re going to lie, go big or go home, am I right?
“Really?” Ethel Anderson asked. “I thought they hated you, on account of your little-” she raised her voice “-child support problem.”
“I paid plenty,” I bragged. “Too many comforts makes ‘em weak though.”
Truth be told, I had no memory of what had happened after I’d turned on the juice this morning. No idea where I’d been or what had transpired during my fugue state. I had a vague recollection of playing solitaire, but that could just be a false memory, planted by the machine. We’ll just have to wait - my elevated self has a way of making their discoveries known.
The next morning was quiche day in the dining hall. It’s really just scrambled eggs in leftover pie shells, with old vegetables from the night before and a little velveeta, but I let it slide because there’s no way I’m eating authentic foreign food. When I returned to my room for my morning depression nap, there was a package waiting for me.
Odd. I didn’t remember ordering anything. But then I remembered my epic computer afternoon. It seemed I’d been busy. Busy solving problems, which is basically all I do here all day long.
The package was addressed to me. Slim box, wrapped in nondescript brown paper. Some sort of adult toy, perhaps? I tore it open with the same impatience that I showed toward unconstitutional mandatory firearm waiting periods. Inside was a box with a frowning woman on the front. Behind her, a man grinned broadly.
It was a paternity test. Oh, this was absolutely brilliant. In my enhanced cognitive state, I must have realized that I could probably get the charges scrubbed if I could just prove that the child wasn’t mine. No charges, no mugshot, no problems. All I had to do was beat the test.
Now I’m not the most accomplished scientist - I got my PhD at Hard Knocks University - but my expertise in the field of paternity has certainly grown over the years. There’s a scientific program that comes on in the early afternoon. The host, a fertility specialist by the name of Gerald Springer, explores the physiological and psychological ramifications caused by the addition of children to nascent and fragile relationships. At the signature moment of the program, Dr. Springer reveals the results of the paternity tests he’s administered, which come in sealed envelopes delivered by God, whose wishes could only be divined by the good doctor’s prayers. That’s the high-tech medical science explanation, but there’s no need to get bogged down in the details. Pray, test results arrive, exoneration. That’s how it worked.
There was no results envelope in this kit though, just a couple of swabs and some instructions, which I immediately threw away on principle. My high school sex ed class taught me all I needed to know about how babies happen. Sperm and egg, that’s where the precious DNA was kept. With the help of some of my under-the-bed literature collection, I collected my sperm sample, no problem, but I was at a loss as to how I could get the mother’s egg needed to complete a faked test. But then I remembered that the bible teaches that woman comes from man, made from his rib. It seemed all I needed for my message to reach baby Jesus was just a slightly different piece of Schott. I didn’t have a rib handy, but I did have a sliver of hip bone I’d saved from my last resurfacing procedure. Close enough. I slipped it in the other sample tube, slapped everything in the box and mailed it back.
Long story short, that results envelope did eventually come back. Perfect genetic match.
Thwarted again! No chance of using science to deny that I didn’t have a child to support. I’m done with science. Maybe God too, after this one. Obviously he isn’t listening.
I wrote, “I didn’t want a match, IDIOT!” on the letter and stuffed it back into the mailbox for the post office to send back to heaven, as required by US law.
While I waited for the Almighty to sort this all out, I had to go back to the drawing board. Time pressure was mounting. The Sunset Acres Sadie Hawkins Formal Sock Hop was coming up in just a couple of weeks. I’d hoped to use the season’s biggest event as a coming out of sorts for Lucille and I, a firm reminder who the alpha male was ‘round these parts. But Lucille was now wavering on jumping to the good ship LollySchott, at least publicly. She said it was my lack of respect for women, but I knew it was just the potential PR hit from being with mugshot guy. I tell you, this black cloud that follows me could threaten everything unless I move to clear my name more quickly and decisively than any human has ever moved before.
What’s my Plan C? Simple - I’ll just patch things up with my daughter, the same way I did with my son a few months ago, when I convinced him I was dying and needed to revisit Europe. That trip was really part of a top-secret mission to rescue a hostage caught up in a web of international/South Carolina politics (and also hit the duty-free shops), but he never figured it out, the dense little nugget.
If memory serves, the child I was popped for not paying on was named Caroline. Or maybe Carla? Either way, I’d had her with Carla - or maybe it was Caroline - my third wife. Or was she just my second? When the good times roll, they have a tendency of running together.
Where was I? Oh yeah, I have a lot of estranged children, so I’ve had to develop the skill of repairing relationships every time I need a free dinner or a little walking-around money. Usually I just tell the affected individual that I’m moving them up to #1 in my will. If they’re dumb enough to believe that I won’t die peniless, that’s on them. But I’d already played that card with Caroline and Carla back in the nineties, so that trick won’t hunt. Manipulating their heartstrings would require something new the second time around.
A heartfelt apology sure sounded good, but I opted for the sure thing. I’d invite Carla and Caroline down here, figure out which was which, and then this old draft stallion would do what he does best: re-seduce mom and use her remaining credibility to get the child support charges dropped. Once that happened, the information in the tubes of the internet would be sent to the landfill and I could dump that old witch. Again.
I sent out a few olive branches over the weekend. One of my little tricks is writing the primary weakness of every individual in my rolodex. According to my records, the Achilles’ heels of mother and daughter are gift certificates to Blockbuster Video and Forever 21, respectively. These proved hard to get for some reason, but I was able to source both on Sunset Acres’ gift card black market. Once the letters were in the mail, I just sat back and waited for the sheep to come crawling back to the lion’s den.
It worked like gangbusters. Both mother and daughter wrote back, thanking me for the lavish gifts. Like a lurking shark, I skillfully guided them into a face-to-face meeting. Unfortunately, the only time that worked for both women was on Saturday afternoon, when I normally visit my rub-and-tug place on Hornwood Ave. Well, this was a big deal, I guess, so I bit the bullet and called madame Esmerelda to reschedule. It was a big financial hit. Even if I could re-seduce my estranged wife, it would cost a pretty penny to wine and dine her. In contrast, my appointments with Esmerelda are fraudulently billed to Medicare as physical therapy. But what can you do?
I’d crafted a shrewd plan for the reconcilliation, with no detail going unattended. Unbeknownst to either woman, I’d scheduled mom to arrive a half-hour before our daughter. Plenty of time to put the moves on the old battleaxe. I had the old routine oiled up and ready to roll out. A little verbal foreplay in the visiting area, then a “surprise” visit by our daughter. Maybe an on-site brunch at the seaside dining room for our newly reunited family, then ditch the kiddo and take a quick trip back to Chez Schott, where the former Mrs. Schott and I would dance the horizontal mambo on my hypoallergenic sheets and anti-pressure sore mattress. Once the oxytocin was flowing and she was firmly ensconced in the familiar charms of her former lover, I would slowly bring up the idea of wiping the slate clean. Legally. Worst case, I could write her a bad check and stall for time.
Things went according to plan for about ten seconds. Mom arrived first. I met her at the door, sitting proudly astride Night Rider and clad in my best tweed suit and finest double-knit pants. The ones that enhanced little Ed, if you catch my meaning. I caught Carla/Caroline casting an approving nod towards my package. This thing was practically in the bag.
“So good to see you, Carrrrr-la?” I began.
“Caroline,” she corrected.
“Must be the dementia!” I joked, and we both laughed a little too hard.
“You’re the same as you were in the late seventies,” Caroline said.
“In more ways than one,” I quipped. I had no idea what it meant, but I’d seen this particular line used to devastating effect on just about every episode of The Honeymooners. Ralph Kramden's secret, now mine. And it worked brilliantly. Caroline laughed again. Looked like maybe we could skip brunch.
“I have a special guest joining us in a few minutes,” I said. “But let’s sit down and catch up first.”
To be honest, I’d forgotten quite a bit about the woman in front of me. Wasn’t my most exciting marriage, not by a long shot. Couldn’t let her know that, though. I’d have to make casual conversation. Play it cool, like always. “So,” I began breezily, “you wearing a thong?”
Caroline blushed. “How long have you lived here?” she asked.
“It’s been some time,” I admitted. “I was living in town, doing some volunteer work for the local police department. Nothing major, just doing some volunteer armed patrols around the crack houses in my condo complex and scaring off some of the local child thugs, when some of the HOA people got involved. Long story short, I was invited to a ceremony at the local magistrate’s office to receive an award.
“What kind of award?” Caroline asked.
I didn’t like the jealousy in her tone, but I let it slide. “It’s called the ‘Non Compos Mentis’ - that’s latin for ‘The bearer can never be punished, because of his heroism.’ That’s how my lawyer explained it, at least. Part of the award was a lifelong appointment to The Acres.” I leaned in and put my hand on her knee in a meaningful way. “They need me here,” I whispered seductively. “Real bad.”
I could tell my charms were working. But then I saw Carla enter. Our daughter, early as usual, and just in time to cock-block good ol’ dad, also as usual. Now that I think about it, my daughter’s tendency to show up unexpectedly definitely contributed to the end of this particular marriage, but that’s a story for a different day.
Where was I? Right, enter the daughter. Despite her terrible timing, this was still a two-phase operation; I’d just have to roll with the punches. Smoothing my erection down one woolen pants leg, I rose and spread my arms. “My baby!” I crooned. “Come give mummy and daddy a hug.”
Caroline didn’t budge. She didn’t seem amused at the unexpected surprise I’d engineered. “Ed!” she hissed. “That’s not our daughter - that’s your daughter!”
I laughed. “Be serious, my love. I’ll never forget the day we brought Carla into this world.”
“That’s not our daughter!” Caroline repeated.
“Huh?”
“Karla - with a ‘K’ - is the daughter from your previous marriage. I thought it was weird you wanted to give our daughter the same name as her, but you told me Karla was dead and wanted to honor her. I knew that it was just you not wanting to memorize any new names.”
Jesus, she had my number down cold. “Just to be clear,” I asked, “is this Karla the one I owe child support on, or is she all paid up?”
“Go fuck yourself, Ed,” Caroline said, as she whirled and marched out.
I turned to Karla, who was doing a terrible job of suppressing her emotions. “Must be the dementia!” I quipped.
Karla didn’t laugh.
…
Suffice to say, the Midas touch I’d sought to impart on my overly sensitive former relations didn’t happen. A couple of days later, I got a letter from Caroline’s lawyer, demanding immediate payment for Carla with a ‘C’’s outstanding child support. I was forced to use my get-out-of-jail-free card. On the demand letter, I wrote “I have received the Non Compos Mentis award, and cannot be compelled to pay. Nice try, IDIOT!!!” Then I jammed the paper back in the mailbox for the postal service to return to the lawyer, as required by US law.
That clever maneuver would protect my wallet, but it wouldn’t do anything to clear my name. I was burning through schemes the way the federal government burns through money on immigrant welfare.
Today was porridge day in the dining room. I like it runny, thin enough to drink with a straw. As I slurped down the paste, I realized just how bleak my future was. More mug shots had appeared sporadically over the past week on the common room bulletin board, so many that I’d had to hire one of the wheelchair boys to station himself there like a semi-vegetative scarecrow to prevent further postings. Despite these extreme measures, though, word was still leaking out.
Fact of the matter is, I’m too old to rebuild my reputation or take another identity and start over in a different state. The pressure had been building in me for some time. Now I needed to release some of that tension, so I called Esmerelda to see if she had any spots available for a walk-in. As I waited for the brothel’s desk staff to check if anyone was free, I had a massive epiphany. If I couldn’t win in the courts of law or science, perhaps I could win in the court of public opinion. When Esmerelda came back on, I told her I’d need her most skilled sex worker for a full three hours. Offsite work. Dress was formal. Well, maybe just a little slutty.
“What is this for,” Esmerelda asked. “Fantasy? Role play?”
“Something like that. I’m looking for the usual service, but with a twist. I need an escort to an upcoming ball. Very classy.”
“Sure it is,” Essie muttered. “Your usual. Fine. When?”
“Next Friday night.”
“We get a special rate at the Red Roof Inn on Jackson. You want that?”
“Nah. The job site will be Sunset Acres.”
“Nuh-Uh,” Esmerelda replied. “Those people know my girls’ faces, and they call the cops at the drop of a hat.”
“The residents?”
“The staff, Ed. You think you’re my only client who has to pee sitting down?”
“Interesting,” I mused. “It’ll be fine. Believe it or not, there’s no hanky panky involved in this particular job.”
“That’s the thing, Ed: I don’t believe it. You’ve been coming to me for eight years. I know what you’re capable of.”
“If you stop arguing, the next words out of my mouth will be my credit card number.”
Silence greeted this revelation. Esmerelda was nothing if not practical. I read the numbers from the Blockbuster gift card that Karla had hurled in my face before storming out, made Esmerelda promise not to run a preauthorization, and hung up. A huge smile played across my face. Lucille was going to have to wait for our debut as a couple, because I was taking my young sexy “daughter” to the Sunset Acres Formal Sock Hop for all the residents of The Acres to see our perfect relationship. Once I’d convinced them that there was nothing to see here, I’d have angry hooker sex in the handicapped bathroom. The perfect evening.
Since most of the local hussies were known to the security staff here, Essie had agreed to send someone new and fresh for this special assignment. On the night of the formal sock hop, I wore a pair of high-waisted olive khakis, a chambray work shirt underneath a formal MetLife windbreaker. I looked amazing.
My date/daughter was scheduled to arrive at 5:30, and bedecked seniors were already trickling into the cafetorium - our hybrid dining hall and auditorium - when a battered Chevy Tahoe rolled up to the front door. JoeJoe, the backup bouncer for the main flophouse, opened the driver’s door and walked around to open the passenger side. I strained for a glimpse of the goddess who would be portraying my daughter. As I strained to access my farsighted vision, I glimpsed a slender leg reach out from the car and delicately paw the ground. As the rest of the leg’s owner emerged, I realized this probably wasn’t going to work.
It was an Asian woman. An ASIAN woman. Long red dress with a slit up the side. The nerve of these flesh traffickers. I was too angry to use a cell phone, so I went back in to use the landline at reception. “I can’t have an Asian daughter!” I yelled at Esmerelda. “How can I pass her off as mine?!?”
“You’re not supposed to pass her off as your daughter,” Essie said.
“That was the whole point!” I said. “I’ll make it real simple. I’m white. Pure as the driven snow. For me to produce an Asian daughter, my wife would have to be as Asian as a nail place that also sells chop suey and does dry cleaning. You know, double Asian. That’s how the math works. The genetics.”
“Not that part,” Essie said. “That’s no girl I sent you. You said you wanted your usual.”
“You sent me a ladyboy?” I hissed, shooting a look back at the person in the red dress. Indeed, there was a bulge that was either a small-caliber pistol or a large-caliber dong. “I- I-” I lowered my voice, mindful of the receptionist a few feet away, who was shooting me weird looks. “I need a… a proper lady for this gig. Do you get my meaning?” I winked, forgetting Essie couldn’t see me. The desk girl, on the other hand, looked even more weirded out. I’d probably have to get her fired when this was all over.
“That’s not my problem!” Esmerelda shot back. “You’re the one throwing change-ups at me all of a sudden! Besides, ‘she’s’ the only ‘girl’ I’ve got that doesn’t have profile in that old coot village of yours!”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” I mumbled. Focus, Ed. Deep, raspy breaths. Concentrate on your heart pounding against your fragile ribcage like a tiny demolition hammer, ripping me apart from within. “Maybe I can still sell this double Asian story,” I mused. “Make it part of my war-hero heritage.” One of my friends once dragged me to a musical called Madame Saigon or something. I’d fallen asleep before the end, but that’s probably the way it played - white people charging in to solve minorities’ problems, and all that.
“Jesus, Ed,” Essie said. “You got some issues.”
It wasn’t clear if I’d said the Madame Saigon stuff out loud. “Hey, you,” I called out to Red Dress. “Any way you can, you know, whiten it up a little in the bathroom?”
“Are you asking if I’ve got coke?” Red Dress asked. Her voice was as baritone as a tuba. Unless I told everyone she was a mute, the illusion would break down immediately. But then how would she be able to tell everyone what a wonderful father I am?
Catch-22. I turned back to the phone. “Send. Another. Girl. Right. Now.”
“Fine, but I’m charging you double. That reminds me, I forgot to run your card...”
Dammit. I should have taken out a payday loan, which were frequently advertised on Dr. Gerald Springer’s programs. Instead, I’d trusted my fate to the solid-but-unspectacular performance of America’s favorite movie rental chain. “Did it go through?” I asked.
There was silence on the other end of the line. Essie had hung up. Then Red Dress’s purse rang. She fished out a phone, answered in her impossibly deep voice, listened, then hung up. She shot me a dirty look and, without another word, turned heel and headed back to the car, where JoeJoe already had the engine running. I was Block-busted. The play on words was so spectacular I almost chuckled at my burst of Aristotelian wit, before rage and frustration drowned out everything else. As more seniors trickled into the social event of the year, I remained outside, left at the altar of redemption by a beautiful tranny. I released a single hiccuping sob. The receptionist passed me a pill. I gobbled it up, thinking it was an oxy, but it was just a tic-tac. Even then, it did nothing to take the bad taste out of my mouth.
...
Breakfast Saturday was pigs-in-a-blanket. I covered mine in syrup, pretending it was Esmerelda’s ladyboy I was drowning in a thick blanket of tears. Lucille was back with Marvin Gessel, officially and unofficially. There was a disciplinary notice in the Sunset Gazette, the local newsletter. They’d been caught en flagrante delicto after the sock hop. Details were thin, but they’d apparently besmirched the physical therapy room something fierce. Rumor was, Lester had taken so much Cialis that he was rushed to dialysis after they were discovered.
The jagged highs and lows were too much for even my Abilify-stabilized constitution. Schott can take a beating, but I need to be able to fight back. I have nothing left in me but revenge (and barium from my catheterization procedure).
The problem, as I saw it, was that I had no idea who was doing this to me. Since I have too many enemies to count, I’d have to come at this from another angle.
Think, Schott. The mug shots began right after I’d appeared on TV. Being glorified before a national television audience used to be a sure-fire way to summon an army of adoring fans, but not anymore. In fact, I hadn’t received a single note of congratulations from grateful Americans. Even the crippled old bumpkins at The Acres hadn’t kissed my ass as much as it deserved to be smooched. It was almost as though there was something in the broadcast that had turned everyone against me.
There had to be a clue, buried somewhere in the tape of my interview. I sprang into action. I wrote a letter to the director of programming at WMBF explaining my interest in the interview, called information to get their address, and then went to the post office and bought a stamp. Three days later, my letter came back as undeliverable. Then I did some research, realized that I needed to add something called a zip code - that’s a new one - and re-mailed the letter. Three days later, the letter came back as undeliverable again. I made some more calls and learned that a returned letter needs a fresh stamp. Back to the post office, where I complained about having to pay twice until they comped me a stamp, and the letter was finally in the mail. Two weeks later, I received a reply. The station had a copy of the interview in their archive. What exactly did I need it for?
I probably should have mentioned that. Seeing that time was now of the essence. I wrote back, explaining my urgent need for a copy of the tape. The program director replied, offering to email me a link to the piece. I wrote back - got the zip code on the letter this time - and explained that the internet had already betrayed me once. I wanted a hard copy. A week later, a CD arrived, along with a note saying that this disc contained the interview segment in question.
Unfortunately, there was no CD player in the tech center at The Acres. No matter. I wrote away for a specialty catalog, which eventually led me to a company that specialized in niche media transfer. Needing to speed things up even more, I called the company directly and left a message, but it was the weekend, and they didn’t return until Monday. After describing what I needed, we haggled on a price and I sent them the disc to convert to VHS tape. I forgot the zip code trick this time, which cost me a few more days, but I got it done. Or so I thought. After a week, I got another call from the company. Seems they wouldn’t accept the Blockbuster gift card I’d enclosed as payment, and wanted a real check. After a brief back-and-forth, I arranged an express payment via Western Union (side note: now I’m a proud owner of a payday loan from the only service that Dr. Springer trusts), and the wheels were set in motion. Six short weeks later, a package showed up for me - a copy of the interview - on tape, as requested and required.
I settled into The Acres’ tech lab to analyze the evidence. One hundred and eighteen seconds of footage, obtained over the course of two-and-a-half months. Cheetah speed. I’d done myself proud with this one.
There was a clue somewhere in this tape, something that, when prodded just right, would untangle all the complexities that conspired to work against me these past terrible months. I sat, poised with notepad and pencil in hand as the bold station logo flared across the screen and the dramatic music rolled. There I was, looking handsome as ever. As I strode purposefully across the grounds of the community, the voice-over rolled. “This is Edward Schott. Big Ed, as he’s known around these parts, is one of the so-called ‘good guys’, a decorated veteran with a sterling past. Or is he? As Twelve On Your Side reports tonight, this veteran has a complicated history with the law. Schott has spent decades running from past due bills, back taxes, and unpaid child support for many of his eight children. And tonight, one local group has decided it’s time to hold our heroes accountable.” As the intro played out, the chyron below the screen changed to read “Hero Or Zero?”
What’s that? Over a close-up of me saluting the flag, the announcer continued to describe the web of deceit and lies that have attracted the attention of a local victim’s rights group. They cut away to a woman who leads said group, who claimed without proof that I was at the top of a long list of veterans who owed child support.
I’ll be honest, I may have missed this part of the story. The woman looked familiar from the original broadcast, but the story was about glorifying me, after all. I’d tuned her out, naturally assuming that her bit was a commercial for hair-care products. And yet here she was, this woman vowing to put me on blast in my very sanctuary.
As the piece rolled on, I began to notice other things I’d missed during the heat of the interview. It was almost as though there were two conversations buried in the interview, one lying on top of another. For example, when the reporter asked how I could live with myself, I’d thought he was asking how I’d survived the war. In retrospect, it’s possible he was seeking some sort of counter-commentary on these wild accusations, but I didn’t realize that when I’d replied, “You gotta know when to duck the really bad stuff.” And when he asked whether I had any regrets over all my victims, I’d assumed he was still talking about Korea. I’d replied, “None. I didn’t do this because I wanted people to thank me. I signed up because I enjoyed killing people. Wait, can you ask that again?”
Naturally, they didn’t let me clean it up. The reporter just kept talking about responsibility and money and alluding to my modest run of bankruptcies during the eighties. I thought I’d smelled a surprise gratitude check coming my way, so I’d nodded along and emphasized how me paying my bills just wasn’t going to happen, probably ever. In retrospect, probably not the right way to play it.
So, local news thought they could get away with running a hit piece on me? Time to fight fire with fire. I took the VHS tape back to the mailbox and wrote “I was the Non Compos Mentis Prize recipient, and this is how you IDIOTS treat me?” in sharpie, directly on the tape. Then I realized I didn’t have a stamp and didn’t remember the zip code for the TV station, so I called a cab. This was personal, so I was going to file my complaint in person.
Honestly, I don’t think I came out of my rage fugue until breakfast the next morning - fruit salad day, which I usually take canned or bust. I remember cussing out the station manager, finding out that he was just a sound technician, then meeting the real station manager and not believing it could be a woman. Then she started getting mouthy and we really got into it. In each other’s faces, chest to chest. In my day, we called it bumping dicks, but I don’t know what you call it when one of the parties doesn’t have a pecker. At some point, one of the studio guys started filming us on his phone while another one kept yelling “Worldstar!”, whatever that means.
My rage was only forty percent fake, though. We were playing a familiar tune, and I was about to drop the beat. When the lady producer brushed up against me a little too firmly after I dropped a couple of C-bombs, I crumpled to the floor and began yelling that she’d separated my pelvis. It was all part of my master plan. A male praying mantis knows when to strike and when to be eaten by the female. I’d learned that from one of Dr. Gerald Springer’s patients. His secret, now mine.
I turned to the cameraman, who was still filming. “Why?” I wept. “I won the Non Compos Mentis Award! Why?”
“What’s that mean?” Worldstar guy asked.
“It means he’s nuts,” the camera guy said. “Duh.”
“Stop filming,” the lady station manager said suddenly. “Delete that video.” Her tone made me believe she was going to kick me to death and didn’t want it on tape. I readied myself to spring into action. I was going to make some local news on her ass, if that’s how she wanted to play it. Local Man takes it to uppity bitch. Story at eight. But as soon as the camera was off, she was apologizing and getting me a wheelchair and ushering me from the studio and into the street. I was still hot, so I was hurling epithets, which the station manager absorbed stoically. By the time she was bustling me into a cab, she’d earned my respect enough for me to ask for a date, but she probably didn’t hear me over the sound of the door slamming. I told the cab driver that local news got their ass whupped by a pimp on disability.
The following week, a letter came for me. The station agreed to retract the story in exchange for me signing a document saying I wouldn’t sue them. Like they thought I’d ever admit I was brutalized by a woman in an official record. The media’s liberal values working against them, I guess. Anyway, I couldn’t sign fast enough. Finally, a legal document where I’m not labeled the defendant. This is what heaven is like.
The retraction is due to air tomorrow. I’m planning a watch party. From now on, Ed Schott will be the guy who wasn’t accused of bailing on his family. It’ll be a clean slate. Tabula rasa. At breakfast tomorrow, pancake day will be the first day of the rest of my life. And that’s the best part about starting over - no one sees me coming until it’s too late.
Ed Schott will return in: Diagnosis? Murder!: An Ed Schott Mystery
Sometimes life just goes your way. God knows I deserve it. Sometimes when I pray, He whispers back and tells me so.
The news crew had just finished packing up, but the residents of Sunset Acres Retirement Estates were still a captivated audience. Thirty or forty looky-loos, packed around the edges of the common room, the front rank in motorized wheelchairs, with the walker crowd behind them, and finally the ambulatory who still had farsighted vision. All of them trading a good-sized chunk of their remaining hours on this earth for a chance to watch history being made. As the reporter for WMBF (The finger on the news pulse of the Grand Strand, Myrtle Beach, and surrounds!) passed them, the wrinkled masses parted like the Red Sea. A few of the bolder souls reached out, hoping for a brush of physical contact with an honest-to-god celebrity. I mean, this was Dan Chapman, a guy who ruled a single-digit channel with an iron fist. The best the assembled rabble kowtowing before him could hope for was a coherent sentence or two before the plaques and tangles in their brain choked out their few remaining neurons.
Thing was, for all his star power, Dan Chapman was here to interview me. I sat in the central recliner, basking in the aftermath of the experience and rummaging through my pockets for a smoke.
“Do you think your story will be on the 4:15 news or the six o’clock edition?” Marvin Gessel asked excitedly.
“Why not both?” I mused, taking a drag from my cigarette and feeling the blood vessels dilate pleasurably under a torrent of nicotine. We weren’t supposed to smoke indoors, but rules were for people who weren’t just interviewed on northern South Carolina’s second-most-watched regional evening news program.
“Six PM? I’m not sure I can stay up that late,” Marvin’s girlfriend Lucille said anxiously.
Marvin laughed. So did I. Of course, Marvin didn’t get the joke. The man had no clue he was a cuckold. On the heels of my old flame Marlene disappearing and being replaced with either a ghost or an imposter, I had been forced to find greener pastures for my continuing sexual peccadilloes, and Lucille was the choicest target in the Acres. All I had to do was convince her that Marvin’s social security check wasn’t quite as generous as he made it out to be and Lucille practically staggered into my still-reasonably-muscular arms. The moment Marvin’s head hit the pillow, I’d be canoodling his woman in the crafts room until she couldn’t tell a garter stitch from a stockinette.
Where was I? Right - the subject of today’s triumph was a (practically) national news story, subject: me, for Veteran’s Day. It’s going to be a deep dive into my illustrious military career, which spanned Fort Benning to Korea to Fort Benning before ending in an honorable discharge. The reporter was practically fawning over me the whole time. I’d even shown him some medals I’d purchased in flea markets. If he chose to believe that I’d won them while in the service, that was on him. I never said it, at least not while the cameras were rolling. Stolen valor’s a tricky thing to prove, but you can’t be too careful.
4:15 rolled around and the TV room was so packed that the staff had to set up extra barcaloungers to accommodate everyone. The show itself was a cavalcade for the senses. Imagine it if you can: a massive 48-inch plasma screen, sound jacked up to maximum for the hearing impaired, with closed captions driving the message home in hundred-point font. Just like the Emmys. And then, there it was: fifth story of the evening, a one-hundred-and-eighteen second think piece on yours truly. The camera zoomed on in from a low angle as I saluted the flag in the courtyard near the memorial bench. The actual interview was sandwiched between additional glamour shots, close-ups of my medals (once again, ‘my’ refers only to possession/ownership), and a final majestic shot of Roscoe, the facility’s therapy dog, staring attentively at me as I dispensed folksy wisdom to a completely captivated newsman.
“That shot with the dog was dicey to film,” I told the assembled masses. During the actual interview, Roscoe had quickly moved on to sniffing my crotch once he honed in on the bacon I’d filched from the dining room that morning, but the story editor had cut before it happened.
There was a round of applause at the conclusion of the piece, although this was cut off prematurely when Ethel Anderson demanded we pipe down so she could hear the weather forecast for the weekend. But that bitch’s obsession with the humidity couldn’t dull my shine on this lovely evening. Finally, I was getting the recognition I deserved. Indeed, as I’d dared to dream, the story did play the early and late news. They don’t do that for every piece (as the chumps organizing today’s high school’s walk-a-thon could tell you). I fell asleep on a cloud that night, with the smell of Lucille’s Aspercreme on my skin and a heart fuller than one of those stuffed baked potatoes they serve at Ponderosa.
The next morning I was still riding high. So much so that I set the seat of my trusty Hoveround (which I call Night Rider, in homage to the booty calls I make in it) a couple of notches higher as I headed for the cafeteria. It was pancake day, and I was all about being seen on pancake day. I ate an enormous, 450-calorie breakfast, then headed straight for the day room. My plan was to settle into the central couch like a king at court and let all the nobodies here bow and scrape for a scrap of my time. People don’t remember things very long in these parts, so you have to strike while the iron’s hot.
But what awaited me in the great room wasn’t the encore standing ovation I’d anticipated, but rather distracted silence. A handful of residents were clustered on the opposite wall, looking at something posted on the community billboard. “Who died?” I asked. I meant it. Usually they put a notice up when someone kicks the bucket. But what was pinned to the board dropped my stomach into my bowels like I’d swallowed a sledgehammer.
It was a photo of me from thirty years ago. Christ, I looked good. I was so handsome I didn’t even realize it was my old mugshot until Hugh Papson made a crack about my height. I’ve been six feet tall since I was born, but there was something wrong with the height scale, which only showed 5’7”. Probably a metric conversion issue.
Where was I? Right, the mugshot. I studied the unwelcome visitor from my shadowy past with clinical detachment. The glossy headshot gazed back in mutual admiration. I still look great, but the younger me was something else. My eyes drew you in with lethal seduction, two smoldering chips of crystal blue diamond set deeply into a skull that once absorbed the kick of a mule after a bar bet went the wrong way.
I’ve talked my way out of worse situations before. “Hey, is that an old photo of my evil identical-twin brother?” I asked, borrowing a plot line from an old episode of General Hospital. Obviously, this would have worked just as well for me as it had for Dr. Kevin Collins and his serial-killer identical twin Ryan from season forty-six, but for the fact that the photo in question clearly identified the incarcerated as Edward Dangerfield Schott.
“Jesus, Schott,” Lester Mcrary said. “You were losing your hair even back then.”
“I thought you said you shaved your head?” Nora Robinson said.
“I like to get slippery smooth,” I mumbled.
“What’d you do, anyway?” Lester asked.
“I killed Koreans, that’s what I did,” I said stiffly. “If that’s a crime, then lock me up.” I held up my wrists, like I was waiting for someone to slap the cuffs on me. “Now let’s take this down and get back to the news. The national outlets might have picked up my story overnight.”
Lester did no such thing. Instead, he squinted at the block lettering in the corner of the photo. “The little inset says the charge is… failure to pay child support.”
Fuck. I had to think fast. “April Fool’s!” I sang. “It’s a joke!”
“It’s November twelfth,” Lester observed. Lester, with his fancy associate’s degree in community studies from Orangeburg-Calhoun Technical College. The man’s the personification of every terrible thing you hear about Orangeburg people, all rolled into one. Look how smug he was being right now, as though thirty-five years working as an insurance adjuster made him a master of the calendar.
Well, I’d take care of him later. Instead, I snatched the photograph and stalked away. In my room, I cried a little bit. Then I ate the photo. Had to - they go through my trash most nights, and I have to contain this.
Why was this happening to me the morning after my greatest triumph? Obviously, someone here is gunning for me, only they aren’t man enough (or woman enough - women can be even more shitbaggy than men once a month, heh heh) to come at me directly. They wanted to take me down a peg. Probably a Democrat. I’d made a list of suspected liberal residents once. Where had I left it? Or had I eaten that as well?
The following morning was cereal day in the dining room. It took me a couple of hours to eat. All that time, waiting for the bran flakes to soften in the milk so they don’t cut my fragile gums. Does nothing for the disposition, let me tell you, so I was in no mood to be trifled with when I rolled into the common room on Night Rider.
Unfortunately, another crowd was assembled. Another mugshot decorated the bulletin board. My heart sank. “Who’s putting up fake mugshots again?” I asked.
“This one looks real,” Joe Morshead said. “Looks like Mike Wilder got caught stealing baked goods from the 7-11 again.”
Relief (and deoxygenated blood) flooded the ventricles of my pounding heart. “The store clerks call him the Cookie Monster,” I said, strolling up to take a look at old pathetic Mike. But next to his photo was another photo of yours truly! Someone had reposted the picture. Was I trapped in yet another Groundhog’s Day-style time loop? I prodded my gut, verifying the crumpled paper was still there. It was.
No time loop, but that was the only good news. “Goddamn it,” I muttered. “Not again.”
From his recliner, Lester giggled. I was about to whoop his old ass, but my lactose intolerance was flaring up something fierce. Cereal day. Hurts bad, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone here see me drinking soy milk.
As I ate the new mug shot that night, I realized I couldn’t chew my way out of this. Information metastasizes in retirement communities almost as quickly as tumors do. If this boneheaded jokester kept dragging up my past, I’d fast be caught flat-footed, reacting to the story instead of making it up like I normally do.
A new mugshot appeared on the third day. That was it. The only solution was to set up an ambush and murder whoever was doing this. People have accidents all the time. You mess with the bull, you get the horns. You mess with Ed, you get Schott.
I had a lot of options on my choice of weapon. Obviously I wasn’t going to be able to discharge a gun again on the premises. Not after last year, but the silent options were equally deadly and equally ubiquitous, if you know where to look. Dental floss, for example, is the garrote of choice among professional assassins. I’d read that in Soldier of Fortune. I’d also purchased some throwing stars from an ad in the back of the same periodical. Per the ad, these spinning discs of death are known far and wide as the poor man's firearm. I'd never thrown one before, but how hard could they be to use? And there was a - yes, there was a ceremonial samurai sword in Lester McCrary’s room I’d had my good eye on for some time. I could use it to lethal effect, then leave the weapon behind to frame him. Settle two scores in a single frame.
Selecting a weapon was one thing, but knowing where to spring the trap was considerably simpler. The common room pretty much shuts down around eight PM. That’s when the poster boy would make their move. All I had to do was creep up on the provocateur and, you know, take them out.
Around six PM I took three or four NoDoze and chased them down with several cups of coffee. This could take all night, maybe as late as nine PM, and I couldn’t afford to drift off.
After much deliberation, I’d selected a less-lethal weapon. It was possible that whoever was framing me was using a fall guy to put up the mugshots. If that was the case, I’d need to take the intermediary alive so I could beat the information out of them. That need to incapacitate was a job requiring a special tool, and I had just the thing.
The modern bola is a thing of beauty, as weapons go. I'd bought it at the flea market, at the booth that sells all the African shit. Some say the bola is the only useful thing ever to come out of the continent. A simple device of two weighted balls connected by string, it’s spun above the head and released in the direction of the target as a whirling dervish of kinetic energy. Done properly, the cable will wrap around the legs of your prey, ensnaring them and instantly bringing them down to where they can be kicked into submission.
Now that I was armed, it was a simple matter of disguising myself and taking up a position where I could observe the bulletin board unnoticed. This took some doing, but I engineered a characteristically elegant solution. I parked Night Rider at the edge of the unofficial parking lot of mobility devices adjacent to the common area, then donned a special camouflage suit. A long time ago, I realized it was almost inevitable that I’d be conducting regular stakeouts at Sunset Acres, so I’d had a special sweatsuit made, created from a custom fabric that perfectly matched the paisley floral wallpaper so favored by the decorators of this facility. When I wear it within The Acres, I’m virtually invisible, little more than a dissociated head floating above the floor.
There I perched next to the wall, patiently waiting like a shark as the common room emptied and The Acres plunged into the depths of night. A deep silence took hold of the facility, one punctuated only by the distant shrieks of residents experiencing night terrors.
It was practically morning - close to nine PM - when the rustling of slippers on linoleum roused me from a safari fantasy where I’d just hunted some weak-ass species into extinction.
A hunched figure was working the billboard, back to me, shrouded by darkness and glaucoma. Regardless, the trap was ready to be sprung. I turned the throttle, and Knight Rider leapt forward. I glided toward my quarry, who was totally unaware his or her day was about to get a hell of a lot worse. Night Rider is completely silent below three miles per hour, so there was no way for them to hear me coming. It really wasn’t fair.
Finally, I was within range. “Jesus take the wheel,” I cried, releasing Night Rider’s wheel as I whipped the bola into a lethal disc of death. Angling the cord deftly, I released the weapon so that it scythed under the legs of the interloper, sending them crashing to the floor where they thrashed, immobilized.
“Talk, motherfucker,” I said.
“What?!?”
“You got a problem with old mugshots?” I asked. "Cause I'm here to fix it."
“I’m sorry, OK? But it’s not fair - it was just a shitty cruller. Besides, they have me on a low-sugar diet!”
I sighed. Below me, Mike Wilder writhed and wriggled in pain. I’d just taken out the vaunted Cookie Monster, who’d presumably returned to filch his own mugshot, presumably to be eaten in the privacy of his room.
The man deserved to be punished, but not by me. “Consider this your final warning,” I growled, quickly donning the mask I use to conceal my identity when things like identification become inconvenient. “7-11 never forgets,” I added in my special fake voice. Donning my metal horse, I faded into the night before Wilder could get a look at my ride’s vanity plate (SCHOT HPPNS).
So that’s where we are, me hiding out in my room while security looks for the intruder who jacked up Mike Wilder. It’s now quarter past ten, later than I’ve stayed up in decades, but between the caffeine and the bloodlust I was too wired to sleep. To channel my aggression, I watched a stand-up comedy program with ethnic comedians while I planned my next move.
Normally, one of my sugar journeys would be in order, where I disconnect my insulin pump and take a glucose-fueled trip deep into the knowledge core of the multiverse. But I’ve been doing that a lot lately, and my left foot has gotten dusky enough for me to believe my doctors aren’t just idly making amputation jokes.
Given tonight’s kerfuffle in the common room, the mystery poster wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon. But the damage has already been done; three days of being on nonstop blast puts my little secret is out in the open. The really bittersweet thing is that people will probably feel sorry for Mike Wilder, instead of hating him for ruining The Acre’s sterling reputation in the convenience store community. Had I faked an attack on myself instead, there’s no doubt this would all be in the rearview mirror by lunchtime tomorrow. Instead, I have to deal with this problem the only way I know how: head on, and violently.
The truth is, there are one or six shadowy bits of my past, things where fortune has conspired against me, despite my best intentions. One of these might be a little misunderstanding during the early eighties, when I accidentally forgot to pay child support for my second child from my third wife for a little bit. Fourteen years really flew by, which is exactly what I’d told the deputies when they showed up with a warrant on that fateful day.
Now there’s nothing in the constitution that says you have to pay child support, especially when you’ve already offered to go halfsies on an abortion. But the judge didn’t know the law very well, and wanted to try and tell me about responsibility. Me, the guy the US government entrusted with latrine maintenance for an entire company of men from 1951 to 1953.
Even in the face of an insult from a sanctimonious judge who was clearly looking down his World-War-Two-veteran nose at me, I never lost my cool. My respect for authority is too great. So instead of wiping my ass with the courtroom’s flag, I decided to lighten the mood with a joke. When the judge asked me what my defense for not paying child support for the past one hundred and sixty-eight months, I replied that I didn’t want to make [paying] less special by doing it too often. Next thing I know, I’m being booked for contempt and someone’s snapping pictures of me. And now this innocent misunderstanding comes back to haunt me.
But how? I knew how to cover my tracks, and dirt on me is hard to find. The hoodlum in question must have hired private detectives to track my movements over the last seventy years, searching through millions of records at each step, in an attempt to find something that would stick. Then, after stumbling on that needle in a haystack, he or she uses it as ammunition to humiliate me. Such a scheme would cost years of manpower and millions of dollars. They must have a hell of a grudge against me. In fact, I could only think of eight or nine dozen people who fit the bill. I’d have to find a way to narrow that down.
The next morning was oatmeal day. I sidled up to the grits station and asked for a double with sawmill gravy. “Gravy’s for people without records, Schott,” the kid manning the station quipped.
“You know too?” I said.
“Everyone knows,” the kid replied. “Hey, can you say ‘There’s not a Schott in hell of you getting a dime from me!’?”
I repeated the line, and the kid did a little something with his phone, which he then held up for me to see. It was my mugshot. The kid pressed a button, and the picture’s lips moved, as if animated by Christ Jesus himself, and the the digital Eddie Schott repeated what I’d just said.
I should have been mad, but seeing my old self fighting the power gave me a chuckle. “How did you get that photo?” I asked.
The kid shrugged. “I just looked it up on the internet.”
“What’s an internet?” I asked.
Three hours later, my grits were cold and I understood that my past might not be so secretive. The kid explained everything as he scooped. Apparently there’s a large network of tubes that transmits information around the world. My mugshot must have been sucked into one of those pipes and, instead of being pulled out to sea, fell into the hands of one of my nemeses by mistake.
Two can play at that game. While the kid from yesterday explained the internet to me, I watched his hand motions as he operated the device that controls the tubes’ opening and closing. It remains to be tested, but I believe I can now internet as well. We’ll see how well these meddling punks do, now that Schott is online and on their case.
The next morning’s breakfast was dental health day, basically soft foods as far as the eye can see. I passed on the cottage cheese and applesauce, opting instead for a far more manly soft-boiled egg topped with karo syrup to fuel up for my big day. Big side of coffee, which I take black, save for a healthy sprinkle of salt. You heard me right: salt. I learned the technique from Lester McAvoy, the oldest resident in The Acres. One-hundred and twelve years old, and he can still pitch his tent for female staff members, if you know what I mean. Every day, Lester has a cup of joe with salt in it. Some say his olfactory neurons are completely dead, that he thinks it’s sugar. I say it’s his secret. Now it’s mine.
Where was I? Right, salty coffee and interneting. My gums were tingling like I’d been swimming in the ocean when I left the dining hall. Normally, on Thursdays, I’d go to crafts, where I’d been carving a wooden statue of Dwight Eisenhower for the past four years, but today I snuck off to the technology lab. It took a while to find, and when I did, it was locked. I had to get one of the hispanic orderlies to open it up for me. Inside was a room not much bigger than a closet, with a desk and a device that looked nothing like the internet machine the kid from the breakfast buffet had. This was much larger, basically a typewriter with a boxy screen, plus a plastic box that was warm to the touch.
First step was to - what did they call it - “hack in” to the device. I sat down at the keyboard. Typing is for secretaries, so it took some time, but I eventually oriented myself to the pattern of keys. Now to activate the machine. I typed in my bank PIN, but the machine didn’t turn on. Hmm. Then I typed in my phone number. Nothing. Social security number. Same thing. I swiped my credit card (well, a credit card). Still, the computer failed to turn on.
“Hit the power button,” the janitor said, as he passed by. It was a whimsical clue, but I went with it. There’s a hidden button that, when pressed, made the computer’s engine cough to life.
I was in.
A cursor flashed like a blinking eye. The computer was watching me. Millions of circuits versus yours truly. To do this right, I needed to take a technological leap forward, a feat so daunting it would require a mental feat possible only for one who had my unique talents. I wanted to keep that dusky foot of mine, but I wanted revenge even more. There was no choice but to risk it - I pulled my insulin pump and started in on some hard candy I’d taken from reception. As I began my sugar journey, I suddenly knew how to operate the computer.
…
When I came to, I was unconscious in a booth at the Denny’s across the street. A negro waitress was chastizing me in her thick patois. “Nuh-Unnnh, baby! No sleepin’ in here - you gotsta stay awake!”
I shook off the familiar hangover of the journey. There was a cup of coffee in front of me. I tasted it. Yep, salty coffee. My secret antidote.
Night Rider was nowhere to be seen, so I faked an infarct so they’d call an ambulance to take me back across the street by way of the local ER. When I got back to Sunset Acres, I told everyone my family had visited and that we’d gone to Ripley’s Believe It or Not. If you’re going to lie, go big or go home, am I right?
“Really?” Ethel Anderson asked. “I thought they hated you, on account of your little-” she raised her voice “-child support problem.”
“I paid plenty,” I bragged. “Too many comforts makes ‘em weak though.”
Truth be told, I had no memory of what had happened after I’d turned on the juice this morning. No idea where I’d been or what had transpired during my fugue state. I had a vague recollection of playing solitaire, but that could just be a false memory, planted by the machine. We’ll just have to wait - my elevated self has a way of making their discoveries known.
The next morning was quiche day in the dining hall. It’s really just scrambled eggs in leftover pie shells, with old vegetables from the night before and a little velveeta, but I let it slide because there’s no way I’m eating authentic foreign food. When I returned to my room for my morning depression nap, there was a package waiting for me.
Odd. I didn’t remember ordering anything. But then I remembered my epic computer afternoon. It seemed I’d been busy. Busy solving problems, which is basically all I do here all day long.
The package was addressed to me. Slim box, wrapped in nondescript brown paper. Some sort of adult toy, perhaps? I tore it open with the same impatience that I showed toward unconstitutional mandatory firearm waiting periods. Inside was a box with a frowning woman on the front. Behind her, a man grinned broadly.
It was a paternity test. Oh, this was absolutely brilliant. In my enhanced cognitive state, I must have realized that I could probably get the charges scrubbed if I could just prove that the child wasn’t mine. No charges, no mugshot, no problems. All I had to do was beat the test.
Now I’m not the most accomplished scientist - I got my PhD at Hard Knocks University - but my expertise in the field of paternity has certainly grown over the years. There’s a scientific program that comes on in the early afternoon. The host, a fertility specialist by the name of Gerald Springer, explores the physiological and psychological ramifications caused by the addition of children to nascent and fragile relationships. At the signature moment of the program, Dr. Springer reveals the results of the paternity tests he’s administered, which come in sealed envelopes delivered by God, whose wishes could only be divined by the good doctor’s prayers. That’s the high-tech medical science explanation, but there’s no need to get bogged down in the details. Pray, test results arrive, exoneration. That’s how it worked.
There was no results envelope in this kit though, just a couple of swabs and some instructions, which I immediately threw away on principle. My high school sex ed class taught me all I needed to know about how babies happen. Sperm and egg, that’s where the precious DNA was kept. With the help of some of my under-the-bed literature collection, I collected my sperm sample, no problem, but I was at a loss as to how I could get the mother’s egg needed to complete a faked test. But then I remembered that the bible teaches that woman comes from man, made from his rib. It seemed all I needed for my message to reach baby Jesus was just a slightly different piece of Schott. I didn’t have a rib handy, but I did have a sliver of hip bone I’d saved from my last resurfacing procedure. Close enough. I slipped it in the other sample tube, slapped everything in the box and mailed it back.
Long story short, that results envelope did eventually come back. Perfect genetic match.
Thwarted again! No chance of using science to deny that I didn’t have a child to support. I’m done with science. Maybe God too, after this one. Obviously he isn’t listening.
I wrote, “I didn’t want a match, IDIOT!” on the letter and stuffed it back into the mailbox for the post office to send back to heaven, as required by US law.
While I waited for the Almighty to sort this all out, I had to go back to the drawing board. Time pressure was mounting. The Sunset Acres Sadie Hawkins Formal Sock Hop was coming up in just a couple of weeks. I’d hoped to use the season’s biggest event as a coming out of sorts for Lucille and I, a firm reminder who the alpha male was ‘round these parts. But Lucille was now wavering on jumping to the good ship LollySchott, at least publicly. She said it was my lack of respect for women, but I knew it was just the potential PR hit from being with mugshot guy. I tell you, this black cloud that follows me could threaten everything unless I move to clear my name more quickly and decisively than any human has ever moved before.
What’s my Plan C? Simple - I’ll just patch things up with my daughter, the same way I did with my son a few months ago, when I convinced him I was dying and needed to revisit Europe. That trip was really part of a top-secret mission to rescue a hostage caught up in a web of international/South Carolina politics (and also hit the duty-free shops), but he never figured it out, the dense little nugget.
If memory serves, the child I was popped for not paying on was named Caroline. Or maybe Carla? Either way, I’d had her with Carla - or maybe it was Caroline - my third wife. Or was she just my second? When the good times roll, they have a tendency of running together.
Where was I? Oh yeah, I have a lot of estranged children, so I’ve had to develop the skill of repairing relationships every time I need a free dinner or a little walking-around money. Usually I just tell the affected individual that I’m moving them up to #1 in my will. If they’re dumb enough to believe that I won’t die peniless, that’s on them. But I’d already played that card with Caroline and Carla back in the nineties, so that trick won’t hunt. Manipulating their heartstrings would require something new the second time around.
A heartfelt apology sure sounded good, but I opted for the sure thing. I’d invite Carla and Caroline down here, figure out which was which, and then this old draft stallion would do what he does best: re-seduce mom and use her remaining credibility to get the child support charges dropped. Once that happened, the information in the tubes of the internet would be sent to the landfill and I could dump that old witch. Again.
I sent out a few olive branches over the weekend. One of my little tricks is writing the primary weakness of every individual in my rolodex. According to my records, the Achilles’ heels of mother and daughter are gift certificates to Blockbuster Video and Forever 21, respectively. These proved hard to get for some reason, but I was able to source both on Sunset Acres’ gift card black market. Once the letters were in the mail, I just sat back and waited for the sheep to come crawling back to the lion’s den.
It worked like gangbusters. Both mother and daughter wrote back, thanking me for the lavish gifts. Like a lurking shark, I skillfully guided them into a face-to-face meeting. Unfortunately, the only time that worked for both women was on Saturday afternoon, when I normally visit my rub-and-tug place on Hornwood Ave. Well, this was a big deal, I guess, so I bit the bullet and called madame Esmerelda to reschedule. It was a big financial hit. Even if I could re-seduce my estranged wife, it would cost a pretty penny to wine and dine her. In contrast, my appointments with Esmerelda are fraudulently billed to Medicare as physical therapy. But what can you do?
I’d crafted a shrewd plan for the reconcilliation, with no detail going unattended. Unbeknownst to either woman, I’d scheduled mom to arrive a half-hour before our daughter. Plenty of time to put the moves on the old battleaxe. I had the old routine oiled up and ready to roll out. A little verbal foreplay in the visiting area, then a “surprise” visit by our daughter. Maybe an on-site brunch at the seaside dining room for our newly reunited family, then ditch the kiddo and take a quick trip back to Chez Schott, where the former Mrs. Schott and I would dance the horizontal mambo on my hypoallergenic sheets and anti-pressure sore mattress. Once the oxytocin was flowing and she was firmly ensconced in the familiar charms of her former lover, I would slowly bring up the idea of wiping the slate clean. Legally. Worst case, I could write her a bad check and stall for time.
Things went according to plan for about ten seconds. Mom arrived first. I met her at the door, sitting proudly astride Night Rider and clad in my best tweed suit and finest double-knit pants. The ones that enhanced little Ed, if you catch my meaning. I caught Carla/Caroline casting an approving nod towards my package. This thing was practically in the bag.
“So good to see you, Carrrrr-la?” I began.
“Caroline,” she corrected.
“Must be the dementia!” I joked, and we both laughed a little too hard.
“You’re the same as you were in the late seventies,” Caroline said.
“In more ways than one,” I quipped. I had no idea what it meant, but I’d seen this particular line used to devastating effect on just about every episode of The Honeymooners. Ralph Kramden's secret, now mine. And it worked brilliantly. Caroline laughed again. Looked like maybe we could skip brunch.
“I have a special guest joining us in a few minutes,” I said. “But let’s sit down and catch up first.”
To be honest, I’d forgotten quite a bit about the woman in front of me. Wasn’t my most exciting marriage, not by a long shot. Couldn’t let her know that, though. I’d have to make casual conversation. Play it cool, like always. “So,” I began breezily, “you wearing a thong?”
Caroline blushed. “How long have you lived here?” she asked.
“It’s been some time,” I admitted. “I was living in town, doing some volunteer work for the local police department. Nothing major, just doing some volunteer armed patrols around the crack houses in my condo complex and scaring off some of the local child thugs, when some of the HOA people got involved. Long story short, I was invited to a ceremony at the local magistrate’s office to receive an award.
“What kind of award?” Caroline asked.
I didn’t like the jealousy in her tone, but I let it slide. “It’s called the ‘Non Compos Mentis’ - that’s latin for ‘The bearer can never be punished, because of his heroism.’ That’s how my lawyer explained it, at least. Part of the award was a lifelong appointment to The Acres.” I leaned in and put my hand on her knee in a meaningful way. “They need me here,” I whispered seductively. “Real bad.”
I could tell my charms were working. But then I saw Carla enter. Our daughter, early as usual, and just in time to cock-block good ol’ dad, also as usual. Now that I think about it, my daughter’s tendency to show up unexpectedly definitely contributed to the end of this particular marriage, but that’s a story for a different day.
Where was I? Right, enter the daughter. Despite her terrible timing, this was still a two-phase operation; I’d just have to roll with the punches. Smoothing my erection down one woolen pants leg, I rose and spread my arms. “My baby!” I crooned. “Come give mummy and daddy a hug.”
Caroline didn’t budge. She didn’t seem amused at the unexpected surprise I’d engineered. “Ed!” she hissed. “That’s not our daughter - that’s your daughter!”
I laughed. “Be serious, my love. I’ll never forget the day we brought Carla into this world.”
“That’s not our daughter!” Caroline repeated.
“Huh?”
“Karla - with a ‘K’ - is the daughter from your previous marriage. I thought it was weird you wanted to give our daughter the same name as her, but you told me Karla was dead and wanted to honor her. I knew that it was just you not wanting to memorize any new names.”
Jesus, she had my number down cold. “Just to be clear,” I asked, “is this Karla the one I owe child support on, or is she all paid up?”
“Go fuck yourself, Ed,” Caroline said, as she whirled and marched out.
I turned to Karla, who was doing a terrible job of suppressing her emotions. “Must be the dementia!” I quipped.
Karla didn’t laugh.
…
Suffice to say, the Midas touch I’d sought to impart on my overly sensitive former relations didn’t happen. A couple of days later, I got a letter from Caroline’s lawyer, demanding immediate payment for Carla with a ‘C’’s outstanding child support. I was forced to use my get-out-of-jail-free card. On the demand letter, I wrote “I have received the Non Compos Mentis award, and cannot be compelled to pay. Nice try, IDIOT!!!” Then I jammed the paper back in the mailbox for the postal service to return to the lawyer, as required by US law.
That clever maneuver would protect my wallet, but it wouldn’t do anything to clear my name. I was burning through schemes the way the federal government burns through money on immigrant welfare.
Today was porridge day in the dining room. I like it runny, thin enough to drink with a straw. As I slurped down the paste, I realized just how bleak my future was. More mug shots had appeared sporadically over the past week on the common room bulletin board, so many that I’d had to hire one of the wheelchair boys to station himself there like a semi-vegetative scarecrow to prevent further postings. Despite these extreme measures, though, word was still leaking out.
Fact of the matter is, I’m too old to rebuild my reputation or take another identity and start over in a different state. The pressure had been building in me for some time. Now I needed to release some of that tension, so I called Esmerelda to see if she had any spots available for a walk-in. As I waited for the brothel’s desk staff to check if anyone was free, I had a massive epiphany. If I couldn’t win in the courts of law or science, perhaps I could win in the court of public opinion. When Esmerelda came back on, I told her I’d need her most skilled sex worker for a full three hours. Offsite work. Dress was formal. Well, maybe just a little slutty.
“What is this for,” Esmerelda asked. “Fantasy? Role play?”
“Something like that. I’m looking for the usual service, but with a twist. I need an escort to an upcoming ball. Very classy.”
“Sure it is,” Essie muttered. “Your usual. Fine. When?”
“Next Friday night.”
“We get a special rate at the Red Roof Inn on Jackson. You want that?”
“Nah. The job site will be Sunset Acres.”
“Nuh-Uh,” Esmerelda replied. “Those people know my girls’ faces, and they call the cops at the drop of a hat.”
“The residents?”
“The staff, Ed. You think you’re my only client who has to pee sitting down?”
“Interesting,” I mused. “It’ll be fine. Believe it or not, there’s no hanky panky involved in this particular job.”
“That’s the thing, Ed: I don’t believe it. You’ve been coming to me for eight years. I know what you’re capable of.”
“If you stop arguing, the next words out of my mouth will be my credit card number.”
Silence greeted this revelation. Esmerelda was nothing if not practical. I read the numbers from the Blockbuster gift card that Karla had hurled in my face before storming out, made Esmerelda promise not to run a preauthorization, and hung up. A huge smile played across my face. Lucille was going to have to wait for our debut as a couple, because I was taking my young sexy “daughter” to the Sunset Acres Formal Sock Hop for all the residents of The Acres to see our perfect relationship. Once I’d convinced them that there was nothing to see here, I’d have angry hooker sex in the handicapped bathroom. The perfect evening.
Since most of the local hussies were known to the security staff here, Essie had agreed to send someone new and fresh for this special assignment. On the night of the formal sock hop, I wore a pair of high-waisted olive khakis, a chambray work shirt underneath a formal MetLife windbreaker. I looked amazing.
My date/daughter was scheduled to arrive at 5:30, and bedecked seniors were already trickling into the cafetorium - our hybrid dining hall and auditorium - when a battered Chevy Tahoe rolled up to the front door. JoeJoe, the backup bouncer for the main flophouse, opened the driver’s door and walked around to open the passenger side. I strained for a glimpse of the goddess who would be portraying my daughter. As I strained to access my farsighted vision, I glimpsed a slender leg reach out from the car and delicately paw the ground. As the rest of the leg’s owner emerged, I realized this probably wasn’t going to work.
It was an Asian woman. An ASIAN woman. Long red dress with a slit up the side. The nerve of these flesh traffickers. I was too angry to use a cell phone, so I went back in to use the landline at reception. “I can’t have an Asian daughter!” I yelled at Esmerelda. “How can I pass her off as mine?!?”
“You’re not supposed to pass her off as your daughter,” Essie said.
“That was the whole point!” I said. “I’ll make it real simple. I’m white. Pure as the driven snow. For me to produce an Asian daughter, my wife would have to be as Asian as a nail place that also sells chop suey and does dry cleaning. You know, double Asian. That’s how the math works. The genetics.”
“Not that part,” Essie said. “That’s no girl I sent you. You said you wanted your usual.”
“You sent me a ladyboy?” I hissed, shooting a look back at the person in the red dress. Indeed, there was a bulge that was either a small-caliber pistol or a large-caliber dong. “I- I-” I lowered my voice, mindful of the receptionist a few feet away, who was shooting me weird looks. “I need a… a proper lady for this gig. Do you get my meaning?” I winked, forgetting Essie couldn’t see me. The desk girl, on the other hand, looked even more weirded out. I’d probably have to get her fired when this was all over.
“That’s not my problem!” Esmerelda shot back. “You’re the one throwing change-ups at me all of a sudden! Besides, ‘she’s’ the only ‘girl’ I’ve got that doesn’t have profile in that old coot village of yours!”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” I mumbled. Focus, Ed. Deep, raspy breaths. Concentrate on your heart pounding against your fragile ribcage like a tiny demolition hammer, ripping me apart from within. “Maybe I can still sell this double Asian story,” I mused. “Make it part of my war-hero heritage.” One of my friends once dragged me to a musical called Madame Saigon or something. I’d fallen asleep before the end, but that’s probably the way it played - white people charging in to solve minorities’ problems, and all that.
“Jesus, Ed,” Essie said. “You got some issues.”
It wasn’t clear if I’d said the Madame Saigon stuff out loud. “Hey, you,” I called out to Red Dress. “Any way you can, you know, whiten it up a little in the bathroom?”
“Are you asking if I’ve got coke?” Red Dress asked. Her voice was as baritone as a tuba. Unless I told everyone she was a mute, the illusion would break down immediately. But then how would she be able to tell everyone what a wonderful father I am?
Catch-22. I turned back to the phone. “Send. Another. Girl. Right. Now.”
“Fine, but I’m charging you double. That reminds me, I forgot to run your card...”
Dammit. I should have taken out a payday loan, which were frequently advertised on Dr. Gerald Springer’s programs. Instead, I’d trusted my fate to the solid-but-unspectacular performance of America’s favorite movie rental chain. “Did it go through?” I asked.
There was silence on the other end of the line. Essie had hung up. Then Red Dress’s purse rang. She fished out a phone, answered in her impossibly deep voice, listened, then hung up. She shot me a dirty look and, without another word, turned heel and headed back to the car, where JoeJoe already had the engine running. I was Block-busted. The play on words was so spectacular I almost chuckled at my burst of Aristotelian wit, before rage and frustration drowned out everything else. As more seniors trickled into the social event of the year, I remained outside, left at the altar of redemption by a beautiful tranny. I released a single hiccuping sob. The receptionist passed me a pill. I gobbled it up, thinking it was an oxy, but it was just a tic-tac. Even then, it did nothing to take the bad taste out of my mouth.
...
Breakfast Saturday was pigs-in-a-blanket. I covered mine in syrup, pretending it was Esmerelda’s ladyboy I was drowning in a thick blanket of tears. Lucille was back with Marvin Gessel, officially and unofficially. There was a disciplinary notice in the Sunset Gazette, the local newsletter. They’d been caught en flagrante delicto after the sock hop. Details were thin, but they’d apparently besmirched the physical therapy room something fierce. Rumor was, Lester had taken so much Cialis that he was rushed to dialysis after they were discovered.
The jagged highs and lows were too much for even my Abilify-stabilized constitution. Schott can take a beating, but I need to be able to fight back. I have nothing left in me but revenge (and barium from my catheterization procedure).
The problem, as I saw it, was that I had no idea who was doing this to me. Since I have too many enemies to count, I’d have to come at this from another angle.
Think, Schott. The mug shots began right after I’d appeared on TV. Being glorified before a national television audience used to be a sure-fire way to summon an army of adoring fans, but not anymore. In fact, I hadn’t received a single note of congratulations from grateful Americans. Even the crippled old bumpkins at The Acres hadn’t kissed my ass as much as it deserved to be smooched. It was almost as though there was something in the broadcast that had turned everyone against me.
There had to be a clue, buried somewhere in the tape of my interview. I sprang into action. I wrote a letter to the director of programming at WMBF explaining my interest in the interview, called information to get their address, and then went to the post office and bought a stamp. Three days later, my letter came back as undeliverable. Then I did some research, realized that I needed to add something called a zip code - that’s a new one - and re-mailed the letter. Three days later, the letter came back as undeliverable again. I made some more calls and learned that a returned letter needs a fresh stamp. Back to the post office, where I complained about having to pay twice until they comped me a stamp, and the letter was finally in the mail. Two weeks later, I received a reply. The station had a copy of the interview in their archive. What exactly did I need it for?
I probably should have mentioned that. Seeing that time was now of the essence. I wrote back, explaining my urgent need for a copy of the tape. The program director replied, offering to email me a link to the piece. I wrote back - got the zip code on the letter this time - and explained that the internet had already betrayed me once. I wanted a hard copy. A week later, a CD arrived, along with a note saying that this disc contained the interview segment in question.
Unfortunately, there was no CD player in the tech center at The Acres. No matter. I wrote away for a specialty catalog, which eventually led me to a company that specialized in niche media transfer. Needing to speed things up even more, I called the company directly and left a message, but it was the weekend, and they didn’t return until Monday. After describing what I needed, we haggled on a price and I sent them the disc to convert to VHS tape. I forgot the zip code trick this time, which cost me a few more days, but I got it done. Or so I thought. After a week, I got another call from the company. Seems they wouldn’t accept the Blockbuster gift card I’d enclosed as payment, and wanted a real check. After a brief back-and-forth, I arranged an express payment via Western Union (side note: now I’m a proud owner of a payday loan from the only service that Dr. Springer trusts), and the wheels were set in motion. Six short weeks later, a package showed up for me - a copy of the interview - on tape, as requested and required.
I settled into The Acres’ tech lab to analyze the evidence. One hundred and eighteen seconds of footage, obtained over the course of two-and-a-half months. Cheetah speed. I’d done myself proud with this one.
There was a clue somewhere in this tape, something that, when prodded just right, would untangle all the complexities that conspired to work against me these past terrible months. I sat, poised with notepad and pencil in hand as the bold station logo flared across the screen and the dramatic music rolled. There I was, looking handsome as ever. As I strode purposefully across the grounds of the community, the voice-over rolled. “This is Edward Schott. Big Ed, as he’s known around these parts, is one of the so-called ‘good guys’, a decorated veteran with a sterling past. Or is he? As Twelve On Your Side reports tonight, this veteran has a complicated history with the law. Schott has spent decades running from past due bills, back taxes, and unpaid child support for many of his eight children. And tonight, one local group has decided it’s time to hold our heroes accountable.” As the intro played out, the chyron below the screen changed to read “Hero Or Zero?”
What’s that? Over a close-up of me saluting the flag, the announcer continued to describe the web of deceit and lies that have attracted the attention of a local victim’s rights group. They cut away to a woman who leads said group, who claimed without proof that I was at the top of a long list of veterans who owed child support.
I’ll be honest, I may have missed this part of the story. The woman looked familiar from the original broadcast, but the story was about glorifying me, after all. I’d tuned her out, naturally assuming that her bit was a commercial for hair-care products. And yet here she was, this woman vowing to put me on blast in my very sanctuary.
As the piece rolled on, I began to notice other things I’d missed during the heat of the interview. It was almost as though there were two conversations buried in the interview, one lying on top of another. For example, when the reporter asked how I could live with myself, I’d thought he was asking how I’d survived the war. In retrospect, it’s possible he was seeking some sort of counter-commentary on these wild accusations, but I didn’t realize that when I’d replied, “You gotta know when to duck the really bad stuff.” And when he asked whether I had any regrets over all my victims, I’d assumed he was still talking about Korea. I’d replied, “None. I didn’t do this because I wanted people to thank me. I signed up because I enjoyed killing people. Wait, can you ask that again?”
Naturally, they didn’t let me clean it up. The reporter just kept talking about responsibility and money and alluding to my modest run of bankruptcies during the eighties. I thought I’d smelled a surprise gratitude check coming my way, so I’d nodded along and emphasized how me paying my bills just wasn’t going to happen, probably ever. In retrospect, probably not the right way to play it.
So, local news thought they could get away with running a hit piece on me? Time to fight fire with fire. I took the VHS tape back to the mailbox and wrote “I was the Non Compos Mentis Prize recipient, and this is how you IDIOTS treat me?” in sharpie, directly on the tape. Then I realized I didn’t have a stamp and didn’t remember the zip code for the TV station, so I called a cab. This was personal, so I was going to file my complaint in person.
Honestly, I don’t think I came out of my rage fugue until breakfast the next morning - fruit salad day, which I usually take canned or bust. I remember cussing out the station manager, finding out that he was just a sound technician, then meeting the real station manager and not believing it could be a woman. Then she started getting mouthy and we really got into it. In each other’s faces, chest to chest. In my day, we called it bumping dicks, but I don’t know what you call it when one of the parties doesn’t have a pecker. At some point, one of the studio guys started filming us on his phone while another one kept yelling “Worldstar!”, whatever that means.
My rage was only forty percent fake, though. We were playing a familiar tune, and I was about to drop the beat. When the lady producer brushed up against me a little too firmly after I dropped a couple of C-bombs, I crumpled to the floor and began yelling that she’d separated my pelvis. It was all part of my master plan. A male praying mantis knows when to strike and when to be eaten by the female. I’d learned that from one of Dr. Gerald Springer’s patients. His secret, now mine.
I turned to the cameraman, who was still filming. “Why?” I wept. “I won the Non Compos Mentis Award! Why?”
“What’s that mean?” Worldstar guy asked.
“It means he’s nuts,” the camera guy said. “Duh.”
“Stop filming,” the lady station manager said suddenly. “Delete that video.” Her tone made me believe she was going to kick me to death and didn’t want it on tape. I readied myself to spring into action. I was going to make some local news on her ass, if that’s how she wanted to play it. Local Man takes it to uppity bitch. Story at eight. But as soon as the camera was off, she was apologizing and getting me a wheelchair and ushering me from the studio and into the street. I was still hot, so I was hurling epithets, which the station manager absorbed stoically. By the time she was bustling me into a cab, she’d earned my respect enough for me to ask for a date, but she probably didn’t hear me over the sound of the door slamming. I told the cab driver that local news got their ass whupped by a pimp on disability.
The following week, a letter came for me. The station agreed to retract the story in exchange for me signing a document saying I wouldn’t sue them. Like they thought I’d ever admit I was brutalized by a woman in an official record. The media’s liberal values working against them, I guess. Anyway, I couldn’t sign fast enough. Finally, a legal document where I’m not labeled the defendant. This is what heaven is like.
The retraction is due to air tomorrow. I’m planning a watch party. From now on, Ed Schott will be the guy who wasn’t accused of bailing on his family. It’ll be a clean slate. Tabula rasa. At breakfast tomorrow, pancake day will be the first day of the rest of my life. And that’s the best part about starting over - no one sees me coming until it’s too late.
Ed Schott will return in: Diagnosis? Murder!: An Ed Schott Mystery
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