A Small Courtesy by Héctor Hernández, Dark Roast Coffee
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Sixty-eight-year-old
Gilbert Ostermann craned his neck over the steering wheel of his pickup truck,
looking for street signs. His face was
nearly pressed against the windshield as he crept along this unfamiliar part of
the city with its confusing layout of narrow streets. ‘Where the hell is Avenue
Tibbitts?’ he grumbled.
He had received a call from the cremation coordinator
to come over and pick up his wife’s ashes, but somewhere along the way, he had
taken a wrong turn and gotten lost. Gilbert didn’t see why he couldn’t have
picked up the ashes from the funeral home where the service had been held. The
woman had said something about chain-of-custody paperwork or some other such
nonsense.
He rounded the corner of the next block but
immediately stopped short. The shoulder belt snapped
him hard in the chest. ‘Jesus!’ He had nearly collided with a small, sporty looking car driving on the
wrong side of the road. The car had crossed over into Gilbert’s lane to
make its way around a semi-trailer that was blocking the left side of
the street. Workers were busy unloading large boxes.
Gilbert swore under his breath. ‘God damned moron.’ He
supposed he could back up, but he was in no mood to be generous. He flicked his
rough, sun-weathered hand with irritation, signaling for the other driver to
back up. Nothing happened. ‘Asshole,’ Gilbert muttered.
He flashed his high beams. Still nothing. Gilbert gave
the driver a fearsome glare. What the driver’s reaction was, Gilbert didn’t
know. The car’s entire windshield was tinted. Gilbert saw only a black void.
‘Not just an asshole,’ he growled ‘but a stubborn
one to boot.’ He stabbed at his horn—two quick bursts. Still no reaction, but
he did get the attention of the men unloading the boxes. They stopped to stare
at Gilbert. He returned
their stare with a fierce scowl. The men quickly went back to work.
Frustrated, Gilbert bore down on his horn. One, long,
annoying blast.
The car’s front door swung open.
‘Uh-oh.’ Without taking his eyes off the car, Gilbert
unbuckled his seatbelt and patted his waistband, reassuring himself that his
pistol was still in its holster.
The driver stepped out.
Gilbert opened his door and stepped out, too. He would
not be intimidated. If this fellow wanted to tango, Gilbert had an open spot on
his dance card. He preferred that the other driver not do anything stupid, but
if things happened to go south, he felt confident that his state’s ‘stand your
ground’ law would back him up.
The driver—whether it was a man or woman was hard to
say—stood motionless behind the open door of the car, only a head visible above
it. The driver wore a knitted cap pulled low below the ears even though the
early morning air wasn’t cold enough to bite. The driver also wore a large pair
of mirrored sunglasses. The cap and glasses together hid most of their face.
Standing behind his own open door, Gilbert wrapped his
fingers around the grip of his pistol and eased it out of its holster. He
thumbed the safety switch. When the driver brought up some small, rectangular
thing, holding it between the index finger and thumb of both hands, Gilbert
tensed. It didn’t look like a gun, but that didn’t mean anything. Nowadays
there were all sorts of crazy looking weapons. He blew out a breath of relief
when he saw it was only a cell phone, but he was surprised when the driver
pointed it at him and snapped a photo. ‘What the . . . ?’
After taking the picture, the driver got in their car,
put it in reverse, and set the tires squealing. The wheels spun wildly on the
asphalt and smeared the road with a heavy layer of rubber as thick as cream
cheese spread on a bagel. The workers who had been unloading cargo from the
semi-trailer stopped what they were doing and peeked out from behind the truck’s
back end. They were met with noxious fumes and billowing smoke.
When the tires finally caught traction, the car
rocketed backwards, and the surprised workers scrambled for safety. The car
traveled half a block before whipping around 180 degrees and roaring forward,
all in one smooth motion, something Gilbert had seen done
only in the movies. The workers looked at one another, shrugged, and went back
to work.
At 6:45 a.m. the following morning, Gilbert left the warmth of his house and
stepped into the chilly November air to start his
day. ‘Son of a bitch.’ The rear passenger tire on his truck was flat.
He was headed to his wife’s favorite hiking trail to
scatter her ashes. She had been an avid hiker, had even joined a club which met
every Saturday morning. Gilbert hadn’t shared her passion for hiking, and after
she died, he felt pangs of regret for not having accompanied her at least once
in a while. This particular trail ended at the highest point in the county and
had a nice view of the city. She would like that.
With a grunt of annoyance, Gilbert set to work and
replaced the punctured tire with the spare. Before tossing the flat into the
bed of his truck, he inspected it, hoping to find the nail which he was certain
was buried in the tread somewhere. He found nothing. He would drop off the tire
at the auto service shop on Howard Street. The technician would find the
nail. Gilbert would pick up the patched
tire after he got back from his hike.
***
‘Didn’t find no
nail,’ said the technician. He was young and lanky, his grey coveralls hanging
loose on his frame. His embroidered name tag read ‘Tom,’ but his actual name
was Brent. The coveralls belonged to his uncle who owned the auto shop.
‘Okay. If you didn’t find a nail, what did you find?’ Gilbert
asked.
The young man led Gilbert into one of the service
bays. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t find nothing wrong with your tire.’ He
pulled Gilbert’s tire from a metal rack and bounced it expertly onto the
concrete floor. He set a pressure gauge onto the valve stem. ‘See. 35 psi. She’s
holding air pretty good. No leak.’ He removed the gauge, rummaged through a box
of caps, and screwed one onto the valve stem.
‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ said Gilbert. ‘There
has to be something wrong with it. A tire doesn’t just go flat all by itself.’
‘Well . . .’—the young man rubbed his thinly stubbled
chin—‘maybe someone let the air out.’
‘What?’ Gilbert was startled by the thought that
someone would have done this deliberately.
‘You know, as a prank. You got any teenagers in your
neighborhood? Teenagers are always doing stuff like that.’
‘No. There aren’t any teenagers in my neighborhood.’
‘Oh. Well, maybe someone has it in for you. Did you
piss anyone—I mean, did you upset anyone lately?’
Gilbert snorted. He was always upsetting people but no
one recently. And then he remembered the wrong-way driver. The fellow—he was
now certain it was a man—had taken a picture of him and his truck. He must
know someone at the DMV. Sure. That had to be it. That fellow could have easily
tracked me down through my license plate number.
But let air out of a tire? What kind of payback is
that from a grown man? No. A real man would have slashed my tires. That’s what
I would’ve done. Letting the air out was something a kid would do.
A realization set in.
Of course. That’s it. The driver was a kid, some
snot-nosed kid who didn’t have the guts to take a knife to my tires.
‘You want me to take the spare off your truck and
remount this tire?’ asked the technician.
Gilbert broke from his thoughts. ‘What? Oh. Yeah. Go
ahead.’
But before the young man could roll the tire over to
the truck, Gilbert held up a hand. ‘Whoa! Hold up there.’ Gilbert bent down to
look at the valve stem. ‘Where the hell is my chrome cap?’
His wife had bought him a set of four chrome caps one
day when she stopped at the local car wash. They were displayed on the counter,
mixed in with all of the other impulse items next to the cash register. She
thought they would look nice on his truck. She was always doing things like
that, buying small items for him that caught her fancy. It was one of the many
qualities he had loved about her.
Gilbert looked up at the technician. ‘I had a chrome
cap on that valve stem,’ he said, barely controlling his anger. ‘Now there’s a cheap,
black, plastic cap.’ He stabbed a finger at the offending item.
The young man bent down to look. ‘You sure this isn’t your cap?’
Gilbert
directed a
murderous glare at the young man.
‘Oh! I guess not. I’ll go look for yours.’
At 6:45 a.m. the following
morning, Gilbert once again left
the warmth of his house and stepped into the chilly November air to start his
day. ‘God damned son of a bitch!’ The rear
passenger tire on his truck was flat. Again.
That night and for the following two nights, Gilbert camped out in the cab of his truck. He knew in his gut that sooner or later his
tormentor would return, and Gilbert planned to catch him when he did.
At first, Gilbert thought of simply parking his truck
in the garage, but that would have meant hauling out all of the junk that had
accumulated in there over the past 35 years. Most of it belonged to his two
boys—men, really, but to Gilbert, they would always be his boys.
Funny. As much as he loved his sons, he wasn’t all
that close to them. It wasn’t that he was
estranged from them, but it was obvious that they had been so much closer to
their mother. He had been hard on the boys when they were growing up, and
whenever they made their weekly calls and he answered the phone, they would spend
just a quick minute with him before asking for their mother. They would spend no less than a half hour with her, and it was only
through her that he would learn of the joys and disappointments that wove in
and out of their lives.
At around
three a.m., after draining the last drop of coffee from the second
of two thermoses that he had prepared, Gilbert heard the sharp ‘crunch’ of
gravel through the thin opening of his window. He froze.
He was sitting low in the passenger seat of his truck
and had previously angled the side mirror to catch the rear tire in its view,
the same tire that had been deflated twice before.
Out here in this semi-rural part of the city, there
were no street lights. What little light there was tonight came from the waning
crescent moon, and it was a weak light. Gilbert saw only a dark shape come into
view. It hunched near his rear tire. Whether it was man or beast was anyone’s
guess. Gilbert guessed man.
When he heard the hiss of escaping air, he felt a knot
in the pit of his stomach. He realized he didn’t have a plan for actually
catching this stalker of his. If he stepped out now, wouldn’t the fellow just
run away? And if that happened, what had Gilbert really accomplished? His
tormentor would just come back at some later date—a week, a month—and it would
be the anticipation—the not knowing when—that would fray Gilbert’s nerves, not
the actual flat tire itself. What the hell did I get myself into?
Gilbert wished he had backed up to let that little
sports car pass. It would have cost him nothing to have shown that small
courtesy.
The hissing stopped. It was now or never, while this
fellow was still crouched, busy putting the cap back onto the valve stem.
Gilbert took a deep breath. He pulled his pistol from its holster and bolted
from the truck. The man had been steady on one knee but toppled backwards onto
the gravel driveway at Gilbert’s sudden appearance. He scrambled away in panic
on hands and feet.
‘Stay right
there! Don’t move!’ Gilbert
fired a warning shot into the ground. The blast cracked like thunder throughout
the quiet neighborhood and set in motion a chorus of barking.
The man halted and raised his arms. ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’
Gilbert guessed the young man was in his early twenties,
more of a kid than a man. He was thin. It wouldn’t surprise Gilbert if this
fellow was a drug addict. He wore dark clothing: black jeans, black sneakers,
and a black hoodie with the hood pulled over his head. A 21st century, urban
ninja.
‘You sorry piece of crap!’ Gilbert bellowed, his anger
boiling over. ‘I should shoot you. What the hell is wrong with you?
Terrorizing me like that.’ Gilbert shook his head in disgust. ‘And for what?
For a stupid little traffic incident? Huh? Grow up, man!’
As Gilbert unleashed his tirade, the young man sat
slouched, staring at the ground, not meeting Gilbert’s eyes the way a child
avoids the eyes of a scolding parent.
‘Well? What have you got to say for yourself?’
The young man mumbled something that Gilbert couldn’t
quite hear. ‘What? Speak up for chrissakes!’
‘I said, “you should have let me pass.” I got there
first.’ He said it quietly, his eyes still focused on the ground.
‘Oh for crying out loud!’ Gilbert said, exasperated. ‘You’re
nothing but a whining baby. That’s what’s wrong with your generation. It’s all “me,
me, me.” Well, let me tell you something, young man. It isn’t all “you, you,
you,” so you better come to terms with that and pronto, or the next time you
tangle with someone like me, you might not get off so easy!’
‘What are you gonna do,’ the young man asked.
‘Turn you over to the police for one thing.’
‘For what?’
‘What do you mean for what!’ Gilbert shouted. ‘For
vandalizing my truck! That’s a crime you knothead!’
The young man looked at Gilbert for the first time. ‘I
didn’t vandalize your truck,’ he said.
Was that a smirk? Was this little pissant smirking at
me?
‘The hell you didn’t! I just caught you red-handed!’
‘Letting air out of a tire isn’t a crime. I didn’t
damage the tire.’
Gilbert was taken aback. First by the self-assured
tone of the young man but second because this punk may have a point. If there
was no damage, had a crime actually been committed? Gilbert didn’t know.
‘Well, maybe it is a crime and maybe it isn’t. But I
know that accessing personal information from the DMV database without
permission is a crime, and your buddy who gave you my address is not only going
to lose his job but he’s going to go to prison.’
The young man’s back stiffened. That got his
attention. Gilbert had hit a nerve.
‘And when he gets out of prison, good luck finding
another job with a felony conviction—any
job. That’s right.
It’s a felony to abuse state records.’ Gilbert had said this with authority,
but he didn’t know if it was true or not. It didn’t matter, though. He saw fear
in the young man’s eyes, and that was a satisfying feeling.
‘Get your wallet out and show me your driver’s
license,’ Gilbert barked. He would call the police—although his neighbors had
likely already done that—but he didn’t know how long it would take for them to
arrive, and if this vandal got antsy and decided to make a run for it, Gilbert
would at least have his ID.
The young man reached behind and pulled out his
wallet, extending his arm to hand it to Gilbert. Only it wasn’t a wallet. Gilbert
saw a flash just before he heard a loud bang, followed by two more flashes and
two more bangs.
Gilbert stumbled back against his truck. A burning
started in his chest and stomach and began to spread throughout his whole body.
He slid to the ground, his rear hitting the gravel hard.
Gilbert’s eyes began to lose focus. His mind began a
slow drift. Wasn’t he just talking to someone? He couldn’t remember.
Thanksgiving was only a few weeks away. He wondered if
the boys would spend it with him. He thought they would. Of course they would.
A wailing rolled in from far away. It filled Gilbert’s
head and then ended abruptly. Red and blue lights flashed. Gilbert didn’t remember
putting up the holiday lights, but of course he must have. There they were. He always
put them up the week before Thanksgiving, but for some reason he put them up
early this year.
He was so tired. Stringing up the lights must have
exhausted him. Gilbert Ostermann closed his eyes. He would take a nap, a short
one, just to refresh himself. And then he would call the boys, ask them what
their plans were for the coming holidays.
about the author
éctor Hernández received a bachelor’s degree in civil engineering. He lives in California and is now retired. His short stories have appeared in various publications, including Flash Fiction Magazine, After Dinner Conversation, and Literally Stories.
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