Grey Areas

by Brad Carl

  When Henry was in middle school, his father was fired from his job as the operations manager of a trucking business. The company had hired some consultants to come in and tell them what they were doing wrong and how they could do things better. Henry's father was caught in the cross-fire of the changes. It wasn't that they wanted to fire him, but his father was so openly opposed to many of the changes that were being mandated, his employer felt it was best to part ways with him after ten years of service. Three years later the company went out of business. Henry had just turned sixteen and was looking for his first job at the time, so the subject of his father's dismissal was a good dinner topic one evening.

  "Does it make you feel better knowing they went under after you tried to tell them they were wrong about so many things?" Henry asked his father.

  "It makes me feel better because they did me a favor," his dad explained. "If they had kept me around, I would now be known as the guy who helped sink it."

  "But that wouldn't have been true," Henry replied.

  "No, probably not. But how would anybody else know that? It's like being on a bad football team. Is it the coaching that stinks? The players? The ownership?"

  "You had a lot of the answers. You could've helped them," Henry said.

  "I could've if they were willing to listen. But they weren't."

  The pained look on Henry's face told his father to explain more.

  "Son, the one regret I have—the one lesson I learned from this experience is—you can talk and plead all you want, but if you're talking and pleading with someone who has already made up their mind, you're wasting your time and energy. Always assess a situation before opening your heart and mind to anyone. You simply have to know what they will do with what you provide them, or if they even care.”

  "In other words, lie?" Henry suggested.

  "Be in control," his father clarified. "I should've shut up and looked for another job. Instead, I let my emotions get the best of me and had the door shown to me."

  The situation with Claire was one that probably could've been easily avoided had Henry not tipped her eight dollars. This gave her a reason to roll out the drama and let him know up front she had more baggage than JFK International. This wasn't intentional. She was only trying to get Henry to notice her. It was like a boy pulling a girl's hair on a playground because he likes her. Henry was thinking things might be better if she had simply pulled his hair.

  When she didn't see him for several days, Claire worried she had run him off with her outburst. Naturally, she overcompensated for this concern by getting drunk and throwing herself at him. Henry liked Claire despite what he already knew about her. He was only human. And he was attracted to her, of course. But getting wrapped up in an intimate relationship was at the bottom of his to-do list right now.

  Around nine o'clock, Sergeant Jackson strolled into the Corner Store for his morning cup of joe. The door had yet to close behind him when he began speaking.

  "Rumor has it our little town has a new hero," he belted in Henry's direction.

  "I don't know if I'd call it that, but you know how the media is," Henry replied.

  "At least they're not calling you a 'super hero,'" Jackson said, walking to the coffee machine. "I've always found capes to be kind of femmy."

  "There really aren't a lot of them that don't wear a cape, are there?" Henry mused.

  "You almost sound like you believe in superheroes," Jackson said, laughing.

  "No, no. Not anymore," Henry admitted. "I used to know a lot of adults who probably did, but I'm not one of them."

  "I know what you mean," Jackson said. "I've worked a comic convention before. Strange folks, most of them." He finished pouring his coffee, added his sugars, and grabbed a fruit pie while heading to the register. "Sounds like you were involved in quite an ordeal last night," he said.

  "Let's put it this way," Henry replied, "I'm hoping it doesn't happen again tonight."

  "You and me both," Jackson commented while handing a five dollar bill over the counter. "I was lucky enough to be off duty and at home in Adler during that one."

  "I could've used your help," Henry said.

  "Sounds like you did okay."

  "Flying blind," Henry admitted. "Everything I did was either instinct or something I saw on an episode of ER."

  "Pretty gruesome, wasn't it?" Jackson asked with frown. "I remember the first bloody call I got sent to," he recalled. "Suicide attempt. Gunshot to the chin."

  "Attempt?" Henry clarified.

  "Yup. He lived. Three-fourths of his face was gone. It was just a giant, bloody crater. His tongue was hanging halfway down his chest. Shortly after we arrived and the paramedics began working on him, the guy started digging into what used to be his face to try and clear an airway and help himself breathe."

  "Wow," Henry said, handing Jackson his change. "That tops last night by a mile."

  "What's sad is I've seen worse, but I won't bore you with the details now," Sergeant Jackson said as he opened the front door. "I've got to get back to business."

  Suddenly, Henry felt a jolt in his memory.

  "Wonder Woman!” he blurted out.

  Jackson stopped, the door still open. "What's that?" the police officer asked.

  "Wonder Woman doesn't wear a cape," Henry said with conviction. Jackson considered this for a moment before replying.

  "I tell you capes are femmy, and the first superhero you come up with that doesn't wear one is a woman?" He chuckled.

  "I'd look weird in that outfit of hers, wouldn't I?" Henry said with a chuckle of his own.

  "See you later, superhero," Jackson said as he walked out the door with a smile.

  Henry was glad to see Jackson had a sense of humor. In the past, he hadn't received any warm and fuzzies from police officers. His first experience with one set the tone for years to come.

  One snowy winter night, eleven-year-old Henry was lying in bed. He had just fallen asleep when someone came to the front door. The sound of the doorbell woke Henry, but he didn't think much of it and began going back to sleep. That is, until his mother opened his bedroom door and told him there was a police officer outside who wanted to speak to him about a stolen motorbike.

  The officer claimed he had followed a set of footprints in the snow from where the bike was stolen, and the tracks led directly to their front door. He had not stolen the motorbike, but when Henry told this to the policeman it was, of course, not good enough for him. He asked to see Henry's snow boots for comparison's sake.

  Even though Henry was innocent, he was flooded with overwhelming emotion at the thought of having to prove it. This police officer came to his family's home believing that a thief had recently walked into it. Despite the principle of being innocent until proven guilty, Henry received a vibe from the officer that was the complete opposite. It felt more to him like the policeman was saying, "I've got you, you crooked little brat and I'm gonna prove it." Henry wondered what life would be like for his parents after he became the first sixth grader in the neighborhood to go to juvie.

  Thankfully, the officer was honest enough after a ten-minute investigation to come back to the house and admit he was wrong. For starters, Henry wore a size nine. The original footprints the policeman was tracking were much smaller. Apparently, the prints Henry had made on his walk home from school had blended at some point with the footprints the officer followed from the scene of the crime.

  Of course there was no apology, no thank you for helping. Just a quick explanation and he was on his way. Even at the age of eleven, Henry thought it was strange the policeman didn't notice the change in print size while he was sleuthing through the neighborhood. Or maybe he didn't want to notice. Maybe he liked scaring the crap out of children. Or maybe he was just so hell-bent on catching the bad guy that he missed the obvious clues that would have pointed him in a different direction.

  Henry never heard what happened, if the motorbike was ever found. There were plenty of candidates in the area, but wh
ether or not the police officer matched up the tracks with the culprit was a mystery. Maybe he just successfully pinned it on some other innocent boy.

  Suddenly, the store phone rang. It startled Henry so much he jumped slightly from his chair.

  "Corner Store," he answered.

  "Hey, Henry. You're just the guy I was looking for. This is your buddy and landlord, Tom Chumansky."

  Strange. I wonder what he wants, Henry thought to himself.

  "Hi, Chum," he replied. "What can I do for you?"

  "Well, I'm having a little get-together tonight at my house and I wanted to invite the local hero to join us," Chum explained.

  "News travels fast in a small town," Henry said.

  "That it does," Chum agreed. "It's hard to keep a secret around here. So, look, all the food and booze is provided by me. All you have to do is bring yourself. Dress casual. I'm not into that stuffy, formal shit. We live in a field for God's sake, right? We usually just hang out, tell stories. Nothing too crazy. Seven o'clock. What do you say?"

  "Aw man, Chum. I'm still pretty tired from last night," Henry explained. It wasn't a lie. "I just don't know. It might be a better idea for me to get a good night's sleep."

  "I'm not taking no for an answer, Henry," Chum said. "Besides, I know where you live. If you don't show up, I'll just bring the party to you. It wouldn't be the first time we've had one at that house."

  Just then, the door to the Corner Store opened and Claire walked in. She smiled at Henry but said nothing, noticing he was on the phone. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing her work clothes. She walked to the register and stood in front of Henry, still smiling. He returned her smile as he spoke to Chum.

  "Can I bring a guest?"

  VI

  When Henry's shift was over at three, Bruce came in to manage the store and pay his only employee for his first week of work. As promised during their initial meeting, he paid Henry in cash. It was a thick block of money.

  "I didn't think you'd want it all in hundreds, so I gave you a little of everything," Bruce explained.

  "No problem," Henry replied. "It all spends the same."

  "That's true," Bruce agreed. He grabbed a plastic merchandise bag and handed it to Henry. "It doesn't matter how small the town is—you'll look suspicious carrying a big wad of cash around." Henry took the bag and placed his money in it. Bruce continued speaking, "Big plans tonight?"

  "Chum invited me to his place for a party or...whatever you want to call it," Henry said. "I think I'm going to try and sneak a nap in and then go over there for a while."

  Bruce smiled. "Ah, yes. Chum and his parties. You'll meet some interesting people, that's for sure," he said. "You never know what might happen when you hang out with him.”

  "I figured as much," Henry said. "I'll keep my guard up."

  After saying goodbye, Henry drove home and did exactly what he told Bruce he would: he took a two-and-a-half-hour nap. At five thirty his alarm went off. He was still groggy and felt like he could've slept another eight hours. After jumping in the shower and putting on some fresh clothes, he felt better.

  Claire arrived at the house a few minutes before seven o'clock. She was dressed in white capris, a navy blue button-down blouse, and white tennis shoes. Her hair was down and Henry could tell she had used a curling iron to style it.

  "Is this a date?" Claire asked when Henry opened the door. He was wearing blue jeans and a dark red polo.

  "And hello to you, Claire," he answered her with a smile. "I thought we agreed we were taking things slow."

  "No. You said that," she corrected him. "Technically, I never agreed."

  "You can call it whatever you want," he told her.

  They agreed to walk the quarter mile to Chum's new house along the extended gravel road. On the way they discussed the day’s events at their respective jobs, almost like a married couple would. Henry told Claire about Balinda Walker's visit to the Corner Store and how he had to work around being on TV.

  "I thought everyone wanted to be on television," she said, laughing. "What's wrong with you?"

  "I guess I get nervous," Henry explained. "You know, your heart starts to beat fast and your breathing becomes heavy. Almost like hyperventilating."

  "You're weird." Claire laughed again. "But I like weird."

  "Is this the part where we talk about our exes?" he inquired, trying to change the subject.

  "No, God no!" she exclaimed. "I need a lot of alcohol in my blood to start that conversation!"

  They both laughed some more as they walked up Chum's concrete driveway. Henry did enjoy Claire's company. When she wasn't falling all over him or complaining about an excessive tip, that is. As far as Henry was concerned, "taking it slow" was code in his book for "you're gonna be difficult to get rid of if we ever have sex." He was just trying to take control of the situation by keeping his distance.

  They walked up the front steps and Henry rang the doorbell. The Chumansky dogs began barking immediately as the bell played a melody Henry didn't recognize.

  "That's the Mecca Warehouse jingle," Claire said, shaking her head.

  "His modesty is overwhelming," Henry joked. Behind the door, Chum could be heard rounding up his dogs. After about thirty seconds, the door opened.

  "I knew you'd show up!" Chum exclaimed. "Greetings to both of you. Claire Mathison, great to see you. It's been a while. I apologize for taking so long to answer the door. I threw Millie and Hazel outside through the back door."

  He ushered his guests through the front door and into his recently built home. The walls had a lacquered wood finish, giving it a homey, country feel. Chum led them to the left where a petite woman was sitting on a sofa with a glass of wine. She was wearing blue jeans, a purple V-neck blouse, and sandals. Her brown hair was long and hair sprayed into a style that looked like it was from the eighties.

  Some fashions never die, Henry thought.

  "Honey," Chum said, "this is Henry, the guy who is renting our house."

  The woman stood up and walked over to them. She extended her hand towards Henry and introduced herself.

  "Maddison Chumansky. So nice to meet you, Henry. I heard you on the news today but didn't get to see your happy face."

  Her voice and delivery were far more restrained than her husband's. She was an attractive woman and, like Chum, looked to be in her late thirties.

  "Well, my happy face is here now," Henry responded, changing the subject and shaking her small hand. "I assume you know Claire?"

  Henry enjoyed moments like this. He could observe Maddison's reaction to Claire to see if there was an issue he hadn't picked up on yet between Claire, Chum, and his wife.

  "Yes. Hello, Claire," Maddison said with a smile. "It's so good to see you."

  Claire returned the smile with a compliment.

  No contempt or glaring issues here, Henry thought.

  "The new house looks fantastic," Claire said. "It's so big!"

  "Yes, it is," Maddison replied. "Would you like a tour?"

  "That would be great," Claire replied enthusiastically. She looked at Henry as they began to follow Maddison.

  "Hey, wait!" Chum called from behind them at the front door. "Henry, come here. You can take the tour later. I want you to meet someone."

  Henry looked at Claire and Maddison and shrugged.

  "We'll catch up with you in a few," Maddison said. "The house isn't that big." Both ladies snickered and went on their way. Henry turned and walked to the front door where Chum was still standing, half inside and half out.

  "Check this out!" he bellowed as Henry rounded the corner to the doorway. "Fire it up!" Chum yelled out the door. Immediately the roaring engine of a large motorcycle exploded through the peaceful early evening. There was a man with a Fu Manchu mustache sitting on the bike, revving it up. He was dressed in blue jeans and a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt. Chum looked at Henry with a toothy grin and then back at the man on the motorcycle. He made a throat slashing motion and
the man powered the bike down.

  "Purring like a pussy cat!" Chum shouted to the man climbing off the motorcycle.

  He began moving in the direction of the door, where Henry stood with his landlord. “A Heritage Softail with thirty-three-inch Samson True Duals, eighteen-inch Ape Hangers, no baffles and lowered two inches with lots and lots of chrome," the man said. "I'm in love."

  "Eddie, meet the new guy," Chum said. "This is Henry."

  "Hey, man. Eddie Clark," the motorcycle man said with a handshake.

  "Fast Eddie," Chum added. Eddie shrugged.

  "Dare I ask what's fast about you, Eddie?" Henry asked. People love to talk about themselves, and he felt certain Eddie was no exception.

  "Well, Henry, I like fast cars, fast bikes, and fast women, for starters," Fast Eddie Clark explained as the three men walked into the house.

  "And he's a fast-talking salesman," Chum threw in. "Walk into my store, and if Eddie isn't already with someone, he'll find you and sell you. You'll be leaving with an entire new home entertainment system."

  The men walked to the kitchen and Chum opened the refrigerator. He pulled out two bottles of Budweiser, handing one to Eddie.

  "Henry?" Chum offered.

  "I'm not much of a drinker," Henry said.

  "Neither am I," Eddie said, looking at Chum with a grin and taking a swig.

  "Here," Chum said, reaching back into the refrigerator and pulling out one more bottle, handing it to Henry. "Humor me by carrying this around and making it look like you're having a good time. You can nurse it."