Ridding the World of Vice
by Laura Cody
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
part 2
The small blue house looked welcoming in the clear daylight. He could hear a television inside — some show with upbeat voices and cartoony singing — punctuated by the giggles and coos of a happy toddler. He took a deep breath and knocked.
Kate came to the door, dressed in stretch pants and a billowy tunic. Vice estimated she was about seven months gone. He hadn’t known she was pregnant. She looked at him like he was a pile of flaming shit in a paper bag, then slammed the door.
From inside the house, Vice heard her shout, “Leo!”
He stared at the door, suppressing an urge to kick it in. After a minute, it was jerked open by a giant scowl affixed to a tall, muscular frame. Six feet tall, close-cropped hair, icy blue eyes. A handsome face, Vice thought. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree! When it didn’t burn with rage, that is.
“What are you doing here, Vice?”
“Hello, son.”
“What are you doing here?”
Vice cleared his throat. “You’re looking well, Leo, and I saw Kate at the door, beautiful as ever, and—”
“Why are you here?!”
“I would like to speak with you, son.” Vice’s eyes shifted toward the small living room off to the right. “May I come in?”
“No.” Leo, following the direction of his father’s eyes, shouted to his wife. “Kate, bring the baby upstairs.”
“Don’t be silly,” Vice said, struggling to keep a steady voice in the face of Leo’s theatrical affront. Asshole. “I’d like to say hello to my grandson.”
“You lost that right a long time ago.” Leo’s icy eyes bore into Vice.
“Look,” Vice sighed, “something happened to me last night... something strange. It’s a long, unbelievable story but, let’s just say, I need to make amends.”
There was a dramatic roll of the icy blues. “So, you’re doing another twelve-step program?”
“Not exactly,” Vice began, but Leo wasn’t listening. He was ticking points off on his fingers, his voice rising in anger with each tick. “First, you abandon me with my mother before I’m even born. Then you come in and out of my life at random intervals, never actually adhering to a visitation schedule or keeping a single promise. Then, you do Al-Anon and convince everyone you are making amends when you show up at my house for Thanksgiving, goose my sister-in-law, and fall back on the dinner table, breaking all of my wife’s family China and ruining the dinner.”
“Wait—”
“Then, there’s the time that you break into our place and steal all of our electronics to pay off a betting debt.”
“Well...”
“Or the time you steal our car, high, and crash it into a tree and then run off, leaving us to deal with the police.”
“Well, I served my time on that one,” Vice said, looking down at his feet.
“And we served ours,” Leo growled and began closing the door. He paused halfway to add, “We gave you enough chances, wasted enough time on you. We won’t do it again. And, in case you don’t remember, we have an active order of protection against you, so I suggest you get the hell away from my house right now before I call the police.” The door slammed.
“But, son—”
The door opened again, and Vice felt a flicker of hope. A son was a son, and blood was thick. Leo leaned in, searched Vice with his eyes, lowered his voice. “By the way, you smell like shit.” Slam.
Vice stood there for a moment as the echoes dissipated. When he was sure Leo was not going to open the door again, he shrugged and turned down the walk, tossing his empty coffee cup onto the lawn.
He strode angrily back to his car, laid his palms flat against its roof, and gave it a powerful kick. What is wrong with these people? Why do I have to be surrounded by pansy-ass whiners my whole life? He looked at his watch. It was 10:21 a.m., meaning he still had about twelve hours left to do one nice thing. One easy-as-pie nice thing.
Vice drove his car absently through the sprawling suburban streets. He didn’t know where he was going but hoped he’d find a sign. And then he did, literally. He found a sign that read “Animal Rescue Center” and skidded to a halt against the curb.
Vice walked into the Center. A bright linoleum floor and a small desk were the sole features of the empty front room, but a chorus of yips and arfs drifted from beyond.
“Hello?” he shouted.
“Oh, hey,” a thirtyish male responded, poking his head into the doorway. He wore a ponytail, jeans and sandals, and had a furry gray thing nestled into the crook of his arm that he was feeding with what appeared to be a baby bottle. “I’ll be right with you.”
Oh, Christ. Vice swore to himself. He waited, glancing impatiently at his watch. A minute later, Ponytail came out to the front room and took a seat at the desk. “What can I help you with?”
“I’d like to adopt an animal.”
“Oh? That’s great. What type of animal did you have in mind? Dog? Cat?”
“Whatever you’ve got ready. I don’t really care.”
Ponytail’s expression changed a little bit, and he studied Vice more closely. He inhaled and wrinkled his nose. Vice considered punching him but was distracted by the next question, “Well, sir, what experience do you have with pets?”
“What do you mean ‘what experience do I have with pets’? It’s not rocket science, for Chrissakes.”
“Do you currently have any pets at home?”
“Currently? No.”
“Have you ever owned a pet?”
“No.”
“What makes you interested in a pet today?”
“What is this, Twenty Questions? What does it matter to you what my reasons are?” Vice shook his head, the logic of assholes lost on him. “I’m offering to take one of these mutts off your hands. Isn’t that the point?”
Ponytail’s face went stony. “No, that’s not the point. A lot of these animals have been neglected or abused. We go to great lengths to make sure they end up in good homes.”
“My home is good,” Vice said, unconvincing to even his own ears. The little vein on his temple pulsed.
“Okay,” Ponytail said, clasping his hands together and looking around the desk. “Here’s an application. Why don’t you take this with you? Think it over, and if it’s something you are sure you want to try, you can bring it back, and we can talk it through some more.”
“No, you don’t understand.” Vice slammed a fist onto the desk. “I need a dog now!”
Finally, he had Ponytail’s full attention. “You need—”
“Right now. I’m trying to do a nice thing here. Give me a dog, and I’ll take good care of it.” Vice fixed Ponytail with his most practiced earnest gaze and plastered a syrup smile on his face. He thought about punching him again.
“Well,” Ponytail responded, inching his chair backwards, “that is a kind thought, but I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. You see, for our animals, there is an application process, an interview, a meet-and-greet with the animal, and a home visit before anything is agreed to.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Totally serious.”
“Well, damn,” Vice said, and he got up and walked out without another word. There was no use wasting any more time here. Douchebags everywhere.
A glance at his watch showed it was coming on noon as his angry feet marched up to a homey-looking luncheonette. A small bell jingled when he pushed open the glass door.
“Just seat yourself anywhere, hon,” a round, jovial woman shouted from behind a counter. Greasy fumes escaping the deep-fryer had a soothing effect on his nerves. Vice ambled past a couple fussing with a baby and found the table furthest away. He hated babies, the noise, the mess, the general inconvenience. He ordered coffee, a club sandwich, and an order of fries, then settled back to consider his peculiar challenge.
He still couldn’t decide if the thing was real or not — it seemed so damned crazy — but thought back on the monsoon of brown water that sullied him the night before and remembered how real it was at that moment. Crazy, he thought, but real. Anyway, it was no big deal. One nice thing. He could take care of it in the next twenty minutes. Give the big, round waitress an extra-generous tip. He still had Sheree’s cash in his pocket. He watched the waitress bustle around the small diner, and hoped his nice thing would be nice enough. The toilet guy had said, “Easy as pie,” so, yes, this should do it.
Feeling confident in his resolution — and with pie on the mind — Vice ordered a celebratory wedge of blueberry crumble. Finally, in a happy place, a smile tickling his lips, he dragged a few soggy fries through the little puddle of ketchup on his plate and waited for dessert. Way station, he thought, shaking his head.
An obscenely loud wail erupted from the corner, making Vice flinch. He hated to flinch. He looked over to see the couple fidgeting with the baby, bouncing it from one arm to another, making silly faces and sounds. The mother was trying to shove a bottle in its mouth, but her efforts only seemed to make the baby angrier. She looked around the little shop wearing the helpless, nervous expression of the new mother, the one that begged, Please don’t judge me, I’m really trying. When her apologetic eyes locked on Vice’s, he gave her a death glare, and she quickly looked back down at the baby.
Vice felt his blood pressure ratchet up several notches. He shut his eyes and counted to ten, but the incessant wailing didn’t stop.
“Do something about that baby!” he shouted. “People are trying to eat here!” Vice was, in fact, the only other customer in the diner.
“I, um...” The woman looked up at him, the baby suddenly quiet in her arms. She looked like she was going to burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. The baby, recovered from the shock of someone’s lungs actually reaching a higher decibel than its own, started up again.
The baby’s father placed a hand on the mother’s arm. “Hey, you take him outside. I’ll settle up in here.” The mother clumsily put the baby back in a stroller and struggled out the door, her companion holding it open for her. Once the door closed, he turned and glowered at Vice. So did the waitress, but Vice could care less. He finished the last of his pie and signaled for the check. The waitress tore a sheet off her check pad and dropped it on his table as she huffily began clearing plates. She halted, bent at the waist over the table, and looked up in baffled disgust. She made a dramatic sniff, shook her head, and walked off.
Bitch. Vice eyeballed the check, extracted the tally — and not a dime more — from Sheree’s wallet, tossed the cash on the table, and walked out the door.
Vice and his bad mood meandered along the streets, no particular direction in mind. Realizing another hour had passed, and he was no closer to achieving his goal, he kicked a random trash can, toppling it over and setting cellophane bags and used napkins free on the breeze. Somehow, he ended up at the town library, although what town he was in, he wasn’t even sure now. Normally, the building would have held no interest for him, but a sign in the window caught his eye: Volunteers needed! Inquire within!
With elevated spirits, Vice opened the door, bounced into the vestibule, then came to an abrupt halt. Another obstacle. He was stuck behind an elderly woman with a walker slowly — painfully slowly! — struggling to make her way through the inner doorway.
Why don’t these people just stay home? His patience already stretched thin, Vice pushed around her and entered the library. “Oh, my!” he heard her gasp as her walker banged against the door frame.
The woman at the circulation desk, having observed Vice’s entrance, wore a disapproving scowl as Vice approached, which he ignored. “I’m here about the volunteer job.”
She gave him a once-over without speaking, her face hard as stone. A second woman standing next to her scrunched up her face. “What’s that smell?”
The first woman jutted her chin ever-so-slightly at Vice. The second one raised her eyes to Heaven as though questioning why she was being tested thus and turned away.
“We’re not taking any volunteers at the moment.”
“Wait a minute. The sign says...”
“No.”
“No?!”
“Sir, if there’s nothing else I can help you with, I’ll ask you to leave now.”
Vice felt his face get hot. He puffed out his chest and sniffed with indignation. He smelled shit. “This is a public library, for Chrissakes!”
The second woman had a phone in her hand and a dead-serious face. “I’m calling the police.”
Vice put up his hands in irate surrender. “For what? Is it a crime to volunteer? I’m just trying to do something nice here,” he mumbled.
“I told you. We have no volunteer positions for you. Now, please—”
Vice looked about. The place was silent, the patrons frozen, all eyes fixed on him. “I’m leaving,” he huffed angrily. He turned and headed for the exit, a woman holding a child by the hand side-stepping out of his way just in time. Vice heard a little voice shout, “Pee-yew!”
Out on the street, filled with rage, Vice hightailed it to his car. “One nice thing,” he muttered to himself through gritted teeth. “He set me up,” he continued mumbling to himself. “That little toilet rat set me up.” He climbed into his Escort and pulled away from the curb without looking. An oncoming car leaned on the horn and swerved to avoid a collision. Vice gave him the finger.
He drove to his favorite watering hole, O’Shaughnessy’s, and abandoned the bright sunshine of the day for the murky dim light of the bar, relatively empty so early on a Saturday afternoon. A few stools were occupied by regulars, eyes glued to a mounted television airing a game. The place smelled of old wood and stale beer. Vice inhaled deeply, and his nerves began to settle as he relaxed onto a stool. The time-worn owner, Shags, approached from behind the bar. “Will it be the regular today, Vice?”
“Make it a double.”
Shags raised his eyebrows. “Little early in the day, isn’t it?”
Vice didn’t answer. He looked at his watch to confirm that it was still, in fact, early in the day, then put his elbows on the bar and dropped his head into his hands, clawing at his hair.
“What’s the problem, Vice?” Shags asked, placing his drink down in front of him. “Is it love or money?”
“Neither,” Vice sulked, lifting his glass.
“Glad to hear it’s not money,” Shags said in his heady brogue and laughed amiably. “That’ll be six dollars there. Or should I start a tab?”
Vice started to shake his head “no,” but as he took his first deep gulp and the liquid burned its way down his throat and warmed his chest, he reconsidered. “Yeah, a tab.”
Three hours later, Vice sat slumped on his barstool, eyes bloodshot, words slurred. “And he said I had twenty-four hours to do one nice thing or he’d take me.”
“Take you?”
Vice nodded his head vigorously, but Shags only laughed. “This story sounds like malarkey to me,” he said, expertly clearing Vice’s glass and casually replacing it with a seltzer. “You’re telling me you bet your soul to a bald little man in a pub toilet?” He laughed out loud and banged a fist on the bar. “Quite the story, lad, but could it be you may have had just a wee dram too much?”
Vice rubbed his hands across his face and studied Shags with hopeful, watery eyes. “I don’t know.” He looked down and rested his chin on his chest and hunched his shoulders forward while his breathing became steadier and deeper. Oh, it feels so good to sleep.
Copyright © 2021 by Laura Cody
