Wasted Money
Arnold Tower hummed along with the radio. Stuck at a red light, with an A/C barely working, the song ended and he spun the dial. The light went green. Arnold pushed the accelerator and his Honda Civic lurched into the intersection.
SCREECH! BANG! CRUNCH!
A beat up jalopy, two hubcaps already M.I.A. and a side-mirror adhered by bungee cord, raced into the intersection and slammed into his passenger door. Arnold bounced with his car, his head thumping off the side window. The cars lurched and came to a smoking stop.
Dazed, but more annoyed than hurt, Arnold popped his door open. Already cars behind him were honking. He swung his arms in a gesture meant to say, C’mon! Don’t honk at me! Honk at this guy! Emphasizing this point further, Arnold pointed to the sizable dent on his passenger door.
It was during this pointing he saw the other driver for the first time.
Arnold’s thoughts in two words? Oh. Shit.
Out the jalopy’s sunroof climbed a massive spider, one long, hairy leg after another. A pink bow-tie dangled at its neck, the aviator shades crooked on its face. Stumbling, the spider tried to catch itself, but only succeeded in crossing up its many legs. Cursing and mumbling, the bug slumped over and retched, the putrid bile smelling of half eaten crickets and Irish whiskey.
It was easily the drunkest spider Arnold had ever seen.
He’d planned on getting the other driver’s info and simply letting the insurance companies sort everything out. But now, Arnold didn’t know what to do. For one, with how drunk this spider was, he assumed there was little chance of even speaking with him. Secondly, arachnids were known to be incredibly litigious. And while Arnold clearly hadn’t been the driver at fault, he kept thinking back on how he’d been playing with the radio dial right before the accident.
He worried what the spider’s lawyers might make of that.
So Arnold hesitated. Traffic edged around them, drivers shooting him dirty looks. The spider vomited again and used the bowtie to wipe its mouth. Taking this as a sign that calling the cops was a good idea, Arnold pulled out his phone just as a navy blue Chrysler Imperial pulled up. Two men in crisp suits stepped out.
“Oh yes. Certainly,” the taller man said, answering some question that hadn’t been asked. He pointed at Arnold’s dented car. “Really got ya good there, friend.”
He whistled to his buddy, who unfurled a wad of cash and broke off enough green to fix the busted car three times over. Reaching out, he grasped Arnold’s hand, slapping the money in his palm and shaking with the same motion.
While Arnold stood slack jaw, using his thumb to silently count the bills, the tall suit and his partner guided the intoxicated spider into the backseat of their Chrysler. They huffed, puffed, and heaved, both needing all their muscle and coordination to get him inside.
Watch it.
Don’t pinch his legs.
Careful.
Careful.
Yeah, that’s good.
Right there.
Perfect.
Spider safely deposited, they returned to the bug’s car and set about searching inside. He watched two liquor bottles, a handgun, and a baggie of white powder find their way into the men’s pockets. They were finishing up when Arnold spoke.
“Just uh, what’s going on here?” he asked. The cash they’d given him would fix his car and leave plenty remaining, and he hadn’t been hurt in the accident or anything, so it was mostly curiosity that made Arnold speak up.
“What’s going on is some clown ran into you then, took off on foot,” the man in the suit said, checking his watch. “You didn’t get a good look at them. If you had to guess it was an octopus, or maybe a middle-aged housewife or even a unicorn for all I care, but most assuredly not a spider. Not. A. Spider. Understand?”
Arnold looked at the bills in his hand.
The tall suit put on a pair of sunglasses, mostly for the effect, and said, “Your tow truck is here.”
A tow truck split the intersection and squealed to a stop. The mechanic hopped out and wordlessly set to work on Arnold’s car.
“But I didn’t…” he started, but the whoosh of the Chrysler speeding past cut him off.
It made a sharp turn at the corner and was gone.
#
That should’ve been that. Arnold would have happily let it be. He told everyone the same story about a hit and run. Totally didn’t see the driver. Totally didn’t know what happened to him.
The money, after paying for his repairs, he hid in a coffee mug on the top shelf of his kitchen cabinet.
That should’ve been that.
But it wasn’t.
#
Weeks later, Arnold lay on his couch, feet kicked up and watching baseball, when a knock sounded at his door. He almost didn’t hear it over the volume, but by the second, third, and forth strikes, unmistakably someone wanted his attention. The couch groaned as he got up and checked out the peephole.
The spider, adjusting his bow-tie and shuffling antsy stutter steps, stood on the doorstep.
Arnold drew back. What the hell was he doing out there, he wondered. And how did he know where I live? The whole exchange with the car accident had left a strange taste in Arnold’s mouth, and he pondered the wisdom of just ignoring the knocks entirely and settling back on the couch.
But his curiosity drew him back to the peephole
“It’s me,” the arachnid said when Arnold opened the door, as if the two of them were old friends. He walked right in, Arnold scooting to make room for all eight legs to go past. The spider’s eyes were red rimmed and he moved in quick, unsteady bursts. Settling on the couch like it were his own, the spider reached for the Newports on the table top. “Dodgers are losing. Always a great day.” A lighter appeared from somewhere hidden on his abdomen and the cigarette puffed to life.
Arnold didn’t know what to make of this odd, obviously drunk spider, making itself at home in his apartment. But, lacking options, he decided to just go with it.“Their pitchers are always banged up.” He volunteered, grabbing a smoke of his own. “Don’t matter how many runs you score if you only throw meatballs.”
“Just be glad the Padres aren’t any better,” the bug said, sending a stream of smoke into the ceiling fan.
Arnold looked his apartment over, seeing the empty pizza boxes and overflowing garbage can, the stains on the carpets, and the watermarks on the ceiling. But the spider didn’t seem to notice, and Arnold didn’t sense anything malicious from the bug. So he grabbed a cigarette too and deposited himself on the other end of the couch.
“You know who must hate this?” the spider asked, holding up the cigarette like a science exhibit.
Who, Arnold asked.
“Drive thru fast food workers. Other day I pulled up to a window, smoking and minding my own business, and this twerp catches a lung full as he’s handing me my burger. Man, I thought he was gonna collapse a lung with all the hack’in and wheez’in he did. Think how many people smoke in a drive thru. I’m telling you, that’s real second hand smoke.”
Arnold bobbed his head in an oh yea, obviously fashion and wondered where to take the conversation from there. He didn’t see a lot of options, or any for that matter. Luckily, the spider moved them along.
“Still got that money?” he asked. Despite his attempt at nonchalance, the mood in the room shifted. Talking about money, especially money gained in odd circumstances, will kill any vibe quick. It did here.
“If by here you mean in my car, having fixed the damages, then sure it’s all here.”
The spider stubbed his cigarette out on the table, purposely avoiding the ashtray just inches away. “Don’t give me some line man. Just c’mon. Don’t do that. I ain’t stupid,” he slurred. “Not here to take it from you. All I want is knowing how much they gave you.”
The number leapt to Arnold’s mind. He knew it exactly. A payday like that isn’t something you forget. He tossed out a number, a smaller number than the truth. It seemed the spider bought it. Pulling loose another Newport, the arachnid shook loose another Newport. It took him a few tries to get it lit.
“Do you think he paid you that much ‘cause he loves me and wants to keep me outta trouble. Or ‘cause I embarrass him and he wants to hide me?”
Arnold wasn’t sure who the ‘he’ in that statement was, but, after thinking on it a minute, said, “Love, man.” Arnold gave a half shrug. “Sounds corny, I know. But given the choice between love and shame, I gotta go with love. If only for how that choice makes me feel.”
That was the best Arnold had. Whether it was heard or not, he couldn’t tell. The spider lay back on the couch, smoking while the Dodgers bullpen coughed up two more runs.
A knock at the door brought him back to life.
“That’ll be them,” the spider said. He rose from the couch and opened the door, revealing the two suited men from the accident. They didn’t come inside.
Lumbering into the doorway, the spider paused, bracing himself against the doorframe. His head hung low, he said, “Don’t think I agree with you. I wish he loved me, but he doesn’t. I’m a fuck up. For a guy like him, that’s not something he can look past.”
The spider shuffled out the door and Arnold never saw him again.
#
But he heard about him. It was in all the newspapers. Apparently that spider, or Phillip, as the article identified him, had been the oldest son from one of the well-to-do families in the area. A stint in a rehab up north was followed by another on the East Coast. Then yesterday’s paper said he’d died. The details were murky, but it didn’t seem a happy, or surprising, death.
The money was still hidden in the kitchen. After the spider’s visit, Arnold hadn’t felt right spending. Like the bills were dirty, or cursed.
But right then, with Phillip’s face staring out at him from the newspaper, Arnold knew what to do.
On 5th and Powell, near the sight of their accident, Arnold handed a pair of hundreds to two hummingbirds on a date. A paperboy on the corner accepted a high five and came out a hundred richer. The lopsided stool at the closest bar got balanced by a thick fold of Franklins.
With his stack now only a few green sheets, Arnold scanned the street for his last big waste. He didn’t have to look long.
On a bench outside the park sat a scorpion. Her skinny legs, white abdomen hair, and limply hanging stinger placed her age somewhere around very old. A brown bag barely concealing an empty 40 sat on the ground at her feet. Arnold watched the old bug for a minute, then dipped inside the nearest convenience store.
The scorpion didn’t see Arnold coming, jumping when he sat on the bench beside her. He handed the old bug a new brown bag, a matching one in his other hand.
“Don’t ask why,” Arnold said, holding up his 40 and tipping it, splashing malt liquor onto the pavement. He waited for his new drinking buddy to follow suit.
After a momentary indecision, the old scorpion did.
“Seems like a waste,” the scorpion said.
Arnold nodded. “That’s the spirit.”
END
