Nicebomber

by Charles, Colleen

  But I nod with a burst of hope because I can work with this. This Pinky dude isn't homeless or mentally ill, just creating a strange fashion statement for downtown Chicago. However, he is still disabled. An idea pops inside my brain. Service animals are supposed to be invaluable to disabled people. And Pinky doesn’t have one—if he did, it would have been out with him, since those animals are supposed to go everywhere with their owners. At least, I think they are. I don't know much about disabled people, but I’m willing to learn.

  Steeling myself for the gloom to settle into my chest, I visit Google again and start searching about service animals. And girls love men who love animals, so chances are, this will be a solid way to get the hot nurse to warm up to me. She'll see me with some cute pooch, and her heart will melt, and then I can ask her out and redeem myself.

  Everybody wins.

  Until now, I hadn’t really considered it, but the whole Nicebomber routine is a damn good way to get in good with the ladies. I'm a little surprised Sid didn't bring that advantage up while he practically masturbated over this app during the board meeting. Maybe it didn't occur to him. Sid doesn't exactly look like the world's foremost expert on getting laid. Hell, he probably collects bugs and SeaQuest DSV memorabilia for fun.

  I slap my palms together, crack my knuckles, and scroll through more of the search results.

  The first items to come up are a series of headlines from the past twenty-four hours about a yellow lab named Flyer. In the photos, the dog looks pretty and good-natured, so I click the top few links and skim through the opening sentences of each.

  According to the articles, Flyer is eight years old and used to be a service animal for a performer named Tandy Beauchamps. Tandy was a famous acrobat who fell from his high wire in Vegas six years ago. The accident snapped his spine, paralyzing him, and that's when he got Flyer. Tandy died a few days ago, and now Flyer doesn't have a home.

  Hmm. The timing seems perfect. Too perfect.

  Since Flyer belonged to a celebrity, that must mean he's the best service animal a person can get. Only the very best dogs would be given to someone that high profile, and Flyer is from Helping Hands and Hearts, a charity overseen by some Vegas head honcho named Nixon Caldwell. Can't ask for higher quality than that—especially since according to the listings, it costs over $20,000 for a top service dog. At those prices, Flyer must talk and lick your balls instead of his own!

  It's a lot of money, and for a moment, I balk at the thought of having to pay that much out of pocket for my father's stupid scheme.

  Then I think of how it might feel to drop off my mostly empty resume at clothing outlets and fast-food restaurants after my father stops sending me money. God forbid, I have to clean toilets like dear old dad wants me to do as my penance to ‘hard work and paying my dues’. I let out a heavy sigh and go to the seller's page, preparing to transfer the cash via PayPal. Flyer it is. It has to be.

  Chapter Five

  Keeley

  I stand in the kitchen, preparing Pinky's afternoon pitcher of hibiscus iced tea while he naps in the living room. As much as I've come to enjoy bantering with him, I appreciate the momentary peace and quiet.

  Being a full-time caregiver doesn't leave much time for private moments. I can't remember the last time I finished a book, wrote in my journal, or even had a chance to hear my own thoughts. Most of the time, when not directly attending to Pinky's medical needs, I watch television with him, or we play board games, or put jigsaw puzzles together. It's important for him to have companionship and ways to keep his mind active, so he won't fixate on the old days or brood about his illnesses.

  Time alone seems like a distant memory. Let alone dating or a relationship of my own. For now, Pinky needs me. The time will come to put myself first once he no longer needs me.

  With a husband.

  Kids.

  If I ever have time to do more than shoot a glance at a cute guy while passing him on the sidewalk on the way to get supplies for Pinky.

  Lord, please, just give me a break? Just this once? Make it so there's a knock at the door, and when I answer, it's a handsome man whose eyes are filled with desire when he looks at me, and he's tall and dark and intelligent and funny, and he's brought an adorable puppy with him with a red bow around its neck and he takes me in his arms and sweeps me away from all of this...

  A loud rap sounds at the door, and I jump, almost dropping the pitcher of tea.

  Okay, I feel silly. Obviously, God isn't answering my prayer with an express delivery. Is He?

  Smoothing down the hair that always escapes my pony, I head toward the knocking, wondering who could possibly be visiting Pinky. It can’t be Lu—she has Soul Cycle sessions at this time of day, and she'd rather saw her own arm off than miss one. No one else ever comes over except some of Pinky's old showbiz pals, and they always inform him of their visits at least a week in advance.

  I walk through the living room, noting that Pinky's still snoring in his chair. Good thing he's a heavy sleeper. I've been trying to get him to agree to wear a face mask while napping—he's clearly got apnea on top of everything else, and it could deprive his blood cells of oxygen or choke him outright. But he keeps waving me away, saying he's too busy dealing with all of his existing conditions to worry about one more.

  And when it comes to hospice patients, let's face it, there's only so much a nurse can push for something before letting it go. More than anything else, it's about making them comfortable in their final stages of life, even if it means doing things that aren't always good for them.

  I open the door, and my jaw drops.

  No, it can’t be him. Damn and double damn. God didn’t answer my prayer because this looks like a delivery from the devil.

  My mind races with the dichotomy of good news and bad news. It is a hot-as-hell man who's looking at me like he finds me attractive, and he does have a dog with him.

  But it’s not my knight in shining armor… it’s the douchebag who harassed Pinky in front of the coffee shop a few days ago. The light in his eyes is more like a goofy mix of horniness and self-congratulation, and the dog's so old I can see its ribs through its dull yellow coat.

  Oh, that's a good one, God. Why don't you just honk my boob and spray seltzer down my pants while you're at it?

  “Hey, great to see you again!” he exclaims with a wide grin.

  “Shh, keep your voice down!” I hiss, edging out into the hallway and pulling the door shut behind me. “Pinky's asleep. Who are you and what are you doing here? How did you even know where Pinky lives? What are you, some kind of psycho stalker?”

  He tries to keep his smile in place, but his lips start to fall into a frown. “No, nothing like that. I looked him up on Wikipedia to find his real name, and then there are lots of sites where you can pay to find someone's address...”

  I lean back against the door, preparing to kick him in the balls if he decides to come after me. “Yeah, I know those sites. Creeps use them. Now you have exactly ten seconds to tell me why you went through all that trouble without sounding like a perv or a psycho, and then I'm calling the cops.”

  His face reddens as he trips over his own words. “To apologize! I'm here to say how sorry I am for acting like... just a complete total dick the other day, and... I got this dog for Pinky to make amends. It’s a top-notch service dog, Flyer.”

  “Okay.” I cross my arms. “First of all, now that I know the dog's name, what's yours?”

  He glances between the dog and his shoes. “Shane. Shane Kleinfeld.”

  I look him up and down, trying to find a cell phone or mounted camera. There doesn't appear to be one. “And are you recording this good deed for that moronic app you mentioned before, Shane?”

  “No.” He shakes his head.

  My eyes narrow into slits. “So you're just doing this out of the kindness of your heart, and you swear that this visit has nothing to do with that whole thing? And you’re holding a very expensive dog as a gift only to make amends?”


  “I swear.” He swallows hard, then adds, “I mean, okay, I won't lie. I was hoping that if this went well, you'd be willing to maybe, possibly let me record you guys accepting this gift, just to show people I didn't screw up this time. As a gesture of goodwill on all sides.”

  I shake my head angrily, preparing to go back inside. What a complete prick.

  “...but even if you don't,” he continues in a rush like verbal diarrhea I don’t care to hear, “I'm totally fine with that too, and I just, um, I really hope you'll let me do this anyway, because I just feel terrible about how I acted, and I want to do something to make me feel better.”

  Sucking in a breath, I consider how much I’d like to slap him. Typical rich bastard without a clue to how real-life works. “I see. You want to do this because of how terrible you feel.”

  “Yes!”

  “And once you do this, you'll feel better.”

  His eyes light up with relief. “Exactly! You totally get it.”

  What a glaring disappointment. Part of me really wants to like this guy. There’s something likable about him, but then he opens his mouth and inserts his foot. Every. Single. Time. “So really, then, this is still all about you.”

  Shane's shoulders slump and his smile goes out like a lamp that just had the cord ripped from the socket.

  “Look,” he begins with an awkward sigh, “I get it, okay? You want the truth? Fine. I suck at this. I'm not good at empathy, and I never have been. That's the truth. I was born with the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth. But I want to learn. Grow. Become a better man. And maybe I could be good at this at some point. And this seemed like a really good second chance at it. I guess maybe I fucked it up again, I don't know. No one ever showed me how it's supposed to go. Anyway, if you want me to piss off and not bother you anymore, I will. Seriously, though, I hope you at least keep Flyer. He is a service dog, and he's supposed to be one of the best, so maybe Pinky will like him.”

  I cock my head at Flyer, who promptly cocks his head back at me, panting with his pink tongue slightly askew.

  I can't believe it, and I fight it with everything in me, but a few of my least cooperative cells actually feel sorry for this Shane guy. He's a bit like a lost puppy himself. And to be fair, he doesn't seem to be recording this encounter, so maybe he really is trying to genuinely atone and do a good deed for the sake of it. Maybe his heart's in the right place, even if he's clueless and sort of a dick like your typical rich bastard.

  Plus, if Pinky does like the dog, he can play with it and it'll occupy him for a few hours a day so I can do some reading or writing in the next room.

  Suddenly, I realize I'm no better than asshat Shane in this moment. Thinking of the service dog in terms of what it'll do for me, not my patient. With a heavy sigh, I give him a second look and a second chance. I suppose we're all capable of disguising selfishness as altruism now and then.

  “Flyer, huh?” I ask, holding my hand toward the dog. “Okay. So what does he do?”

  This catches him off-guard. I think he expected me to tell him to go to hell. “Huh?”

  “You said he's a service dog, right? That means he's been trained. What does he do?”

  Confusion flits across Shane’s face. “Oh, um... tricks, I guess?”

  I put my hands on my hips. “What tricks?”

  “You know, uh, dog tricks. The usual ones.” Shane fidgets with his collar. God, if he weren't so annoying and absurd, he'd actually be smoking hot. Black hair falls over his forehead, sexy scruff lines his chiseled jaw, muscles bulge through his t-shirt and jeans, and blue eyes sparkle with contrition and...

  Hope.

  Heavy on the hope.

  “Well, let's see, then.” I bend at the waist, putting my face in front of Flyer's. “Flyer, roll over.”

  Flyer keeps looking up at me expectantly, wagging his tail.

  I offer my hand. “Flyer, shake.”

  Flyer's paws stay firmly in place.

  “Flyer, play dead.” I try. And try. And try again.

  Still no reaction. Just the same big, friendly Golden Retriever smile tugging his black lips upward and outward.

  “Okay, so he doesn't do those,” Shane concedes. “But here, I'll bet he knows this one. Flyer, stay!”

  Without warning, Flyer trots past me, pushing the apartment door open with his nose and darting inside. I follow him, shooting Shane a dirty look. He looks appropriately sheepish, entering after me.

  Flyer stands in front of Pinky's chair, his front paws on the old man's chest as he barks and licks Pinky's face. Pinky snaps awake, smiling and cooing affectionately.

  “Oh, and who is this delightfully friendly fellow? Who is this beautiful poochie, huh?” He turns to look at me. “You know, I'm used to being approached by fans, but usually, they just want an autograph!”

  Pinky spots Shane behind me and his eyes narrow. “Wait just a fling-flangin' minute, now, because I remember you, youngun. You publicly accosted me mere days ago, and now you're in my house?” He grabs a table lamp, brandishing it. “Get out! Get out now, or so help me, I'll break this on your perverted head!”

  “He brought the dog, Pinky,” I say. “To apologize for the other day.”

  “Oh,” Pinky grunts as his hand rubs Flyer’s silky head. “I suppose that might be a different kettle of fish altogether, then. If he really came to apologize.”

  “I did, sir,” Shane offers, hanging his head. “I am so sorry for my behavior the last time you saw me. It was inexcusable, and I hope you'll do me the honor of accepting this service dog to help make things easier for you in your time of need.”

  “He is a nice dog,” Pinky admits, scratching him behind the ear. Flyer barks again then hops down and starts exploring the rest of the apartment. “What's his name?”

  “Flyer,” Shane answers promptly. “He belonged to a famous acrobat... Tandy Beauchamps? Maybe you knew him?”

  “Certainly I knew Tandy, yes. We used to play poker every Wednesday night with Keanu Reeves, Liam Hemsworth, and David Copperfield.” Pinky rolls his eyes. “Not all celebrities know each other, kid. I was the host of a third-rate kiddie game show. The most famous person I ever met was Dave Coulier during the Full House glory days, and that was only because we happened to be in the men's room at the same time.”

  “Well, anyway, he's yours now, if you want him,” Shane finishes, raising his eyebrows with that pathetic hopeful expression again.

  “Who wouldn't want such a magnificent beast to keep him company, huh?” Pinky sees Flyer across the room, looking out the window, and calls to him. “Flyer! Here, boy!”

  Flyer's back remains to us as he wags his tail, his nose pressed against the window.

  Pinky frowns, then puts two fingers in his mouth, whistling loudly. “Hey, Flyer! Come here!”

  Flyer doesn't budge. He doesn't even turn to look in the direction of the noise.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Suddenly, I remember something I read a few days ago, and all of this starts to make sense. “Hey, this acrobat guy who owned the dog... did he die last month in an Uber crash?”

  Shane raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, why?”

  I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. “And did you bother to actually read the articles themselves or just the headlines?”

  “I read them!” Shane insists. “Well, I mean... parts of them. I skimmed, I guess. Why? He's a service dog and he needed a new home, right? What else is there? Flyer’s a dog without a job and Pinky has a job for him. Win/win.”

  I take out my smartphone and type Tandy Beauchamp's name into the search engine. When the first article comes up, I click on it, highlighting a section near the bottom and handing it to Shane. “Flyer was in the car when the accident happened, and as a result, he lost his hearing. Which means he's no longer a 'service dog,' he's just a dog. And one that requires special care to boot, so probably not the ideal pet for someone in hospice.”

  Shane sighs and hands the phone back, covering his face with his
hands. “I can't believe it. I just can't. I can't believe I fucked up this badly again. Oh, God. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Now, young man, you watch your language!” Pinky snaps. “There's just no call for that sort of talk, especially in the presence of a lady. Besides, it doesn't matter if Flyer is a service dog... he's a dog, and he deserves a home where he'll be loved and appreciated. Deaf or not, he's staying right here with me. I like him. He has kind eyes and a gentle soul. Besides my daughter and this beautiful girl right here, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend my rather limited time with.”

  Great. Now I'll be taking care of my patient and a special needs dog. But when I see the happiness in Pinky's eyes, I can't help but feel another sting of shame for thinking of myself instead of him.

  Okay, so the dog is deaf. Maybe it needs medication, or a vet trip now and then. It'll be fine, especially if it lets Pinky forget how sick he is for a while each day.

  “Keeley, dear, would you please offer our guest a glass of iced tea?” Pinky asks, turning to Shane. “That's if you can stay awhile, of course?”

  Shane smiles, flashing straight white teeth and I feel it from my heated cheeks to my tingling toes. “Sir, it would be my pleasure.”

  I lead him into the kitchen, pouring some of the tea over ice since it hasn't been in the fridge very long. “Sugar?”

  “Yes, please.” He lets the grin fall, replacing with it an earnestness that almost looks like constipation. “By the way, I won't pretend I didn't want to see you again, but I wish you'd believe me when I say I'm not here for any nefarious ulterior motive. Honestly, I'm just here to do the right thing.”

  This time, I can't help but laugh. Wow, he's so clueless it’s almost endearing. “Fake sincerity won't earn you any brownie points with me, Shane.”

  He lets out an exasperated growl, draining the glass of iced tea like a man wishing he could get drunk on it. “You want real sincerity? If I can't figure out how to do a better job of this, I'll fail at this stupid fucking Nicebomber nonsense and let my father down, and then I'll be catastrophically screwed, and I'll lose everything. That's as sincere as I can possibly be. And it's not even anything complicated, it's just doing good deeds. How the hell does someone mess that up?”