by Corey Deitz
“I eat this shit,” said the ginger defiantly.
Ford’s replacement took a hefty bite and looked him straight in the face.
“CHAMPIONS motherfucker!!” he announced with a full mouth of food.
“Whatever. I gotta’ go. I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Ford.
“I’ll be 10-feet tall with the dick of Hercules!” replied the annoying redhead.
Ford’s utterly annoying co-worker continued to chew his breakfast as he walked around the counter to assume his position for the next shift.
Without looking back, Ford exited with only a dismissive wave of his right hand.
Chapter 2
Ford pushed open the door to his place and almost as quickly closed it with the back of his hand. Home, sweet home. That is if you did not mind living in a 1980s-style RV that sat in the backyard of Kunkle’s resident Doomsday Prepper. This “apartment” was all his convenience store salary would support. At least it was better than living in his parents’ basement. Of course, it also meant that once-a-month “The Major” would leave his house and walk back to collect the rent. Everyone in town called Ford’s landlord “The Major” because apparently he was some sort of big shot in a local militia that spent most of their time hording freeze-dried food, buying extra ammo, and shooting at shit every other weekend on some private patch of land outside of town.
Ford seldom saw The Major. His landlord spent most of his days inside a permanent bivouac most people would commonly refer to as “a living room.” The Major had allotted quite a bit of time, energy and money in reinforcing his home with enough supplies and defenses to outlast any natural disaster, grid interruption, foreign invasion, and of course - zombie attack.
Living in the RV apartment was a last resort. Ford was only there because the rent was ridiculously low. It wasn’t very roomy but it did have the basics like electricity and running water which The Major had covertly arranged by illegally tapping into his neighbor’s utilities. Ford didn’t care and The Major figured the world would surely end way before he would ever have to be accountable for his utility transgressions.
Ford tossed his mail down on what substituted as a kitchen table and was immediately greeted by the only real friend he had in the world: his dachshund, Kitty.
Kitty the dog.
Yes, a damn cruel joke to play on man’s best friend.
But, Kitty wasn’t aware of the irony.
The dog began to jump up onto his master, using its front paws to try and climb Ford’s calves.
It was a useless gesture, but a loving one.
“Hey, Kitty,” smiled Ford. “You’re a good girl. Yes, you are. Let’s go out. Come on.”
Ford walked back over to the door and opened it to allow Kitty to exit.
It had been a long night and longer morning.
He dropped down onto a worn, avocado green couch and began to replay events back through his head.
“Let’s see, “he thought to himself. “I hate my life, I hate my job, I hate the Kunkle Kash ‘n Karry, I hate this RV…but I like the Popeye Rose.”
He began to daydream.
In his fantasy, Ford walked down that street in Paris the Australian traveler told him about. What was the name of it? Rude Mongrel? No. That wasn’t it. Rue...Rue…Rue something.
Whatever. It didn’t matter at the moment.
He figured he could find it on Google if it was that important. He wondered what it might be like to be an artist and love what you do. He suspected the artist was probably admired by all – even strangers - as he painted on the street. Passersby probably said lovely things about his art and inquired about the cost but, he never acknowledged the freely given compliments and cared even less for their offers because being an artist was the best tribute of all.
“I am an artist,” Ford whispered to himself as if he was speaking from the lips of the painter. “It is my gift to give, to create, to make - no matter how anyone feels.”
He suddenly adopted a French accent.
“Plus, I am good at what I do so fuck all of you. Especially you fucking American tourists. You make me sick with your big thighs and your ugly fanny packs.”
Ford’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Kitty’s barking.
“Sorry, girl,” he said as he walked a few steps to let her back in. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat.”
As he walked past his kitchen table, Ford glanced at the small stack of mail he had tossed there just a few minutes earlier. The letter on top caught his eye. It was addressed:
Kitty Fallon
18 Oak Terrace
Kunkle, Ohio 43531
“What?” he laughed to himself. “My dog is getting junk mail?”
He picked up the envelope and eyed the return address.
Citibank Client Services
100 Citibank Dr.
San Antonio, TX 78245
Ford continued to eye the junk mail, turning it over as if another clue to its meaning might suddenly reveal itself. Finally, he ripped the right side of the envelope off and pulled out the contents. He began to read the letter.
Dear Kitty Fallon,
Enclosed you will find your new Visa card. Please call the number below to activate it. Once you have done so, remember to sign the back of the card. We hope you enjoy the benefits of being a Visa cardholder. Your credit limit is $5,000 dollars. Should you need to raise it, you can contact us at…
Ford stopped reading and popped the credit card out from its temporary housing in the letter. He raised it above his head to get a better look and just stared at it for a moment. It looked completely legitimate.
“Kitty, you’re a cardholder,” he said with a smile.
“What a bunch of dumb-asses,” he thought to himself. “They’ll give anyone credit these days. You know what will destroy America? Not terrorism. Errorism! Our own mistakes will eventually do us in.”
Ford began to wonder how many mistakes a big bank made each day. Dozens? Hundreds? And how did they make things right? Or did they write off the errors as just the cost of doing business? Hell yeah, they probably did! Nobody wants to tell their boss that they sent a Visa to a dog and now there are charges on it.
Fuck that.
It’s self-preservation.
Survival of the fittest.
You lie!
After all, good jobs are just too hard to find these days. The last thing anyone needs is some Goddamn dog screwing up your track record. So, you tell the boss everything is great while you shuffle that mistake deep into a trash can to your right. Hello “File 13.”
It didn’t take Ford terribly long to realize he might be the unintentional recipient of a substantial favor – like a passerby who finds money blowing across the roadway. If there is nobody chasing it, why should he let it blow by? What stops him from bending over and catching it? It is not his fault there is money loose on the asphalt. If he doesn’t stretch his hand out to grab it then, it will just go to waste – or worse – somebody else will grab it and make good use.
How could this be so wrong?
After all, he had done nothing to instigate this situation. They sent a credit card to his address. He asked for nothing - was just minding his own business wasting away at the Kunkle Kash ‘n Karry. He was under no obligation to explain the circumstances. Whether it was incompetence, a software glitch, or some other error, why should he worry why or how the credit card arrived in his mail?
It was there now.
And so was the sweet allure of temptation.
He certainly could have cut it up and immediately thrown it away. He could have called Citibank and told them of their mistake. He could have just put it back into his mailbox and raised the red flag.
He had choices. We all have choices, don’t we? Or, are the choices we perceive really only predetermined options? Are we being played by a force mightier than ourselves? Is this game rigged from the beginning?
Maybe on any other day (one that had gone better) Ford would ha
ve made a different choice.
The safe choice.
The moral choice, according to most.
But, this was not that day.
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” Ford thought to himself. “If I remember correctly it’s an old adage based on an even older rule of human behavior called: finders, keepers, losers, weepers.”
“Kitty, let’s see how good your credit really is,” he announced to his dog.
With that, he grabbed his car keys and left the RV. What better way to test Kitty’s new found credit than to charge something? It was still pretty early in the morning so the only places he could find open was the town’s two fast food restaurants. He drove into McDonalds and placed an order at the drive-thru speaker.
“Your total is $6.49 cents. Please drive through,” said the woman on the speaker.
Ford, anxious to inaugurate Kitty’s new credit card, nervously drove up to the window and handed the worker the card. He quickly looked around to see if anyone was watching. Of course, it was unjustified paranoia.
Nobody expects credit card fraud over a McDonald’s Big Breakfast with Hotcakes.
She took it, never looked at it, ran it, and handed it back. He drove to the receiving window and out came a bag of food and a receipt.
“Have a nice day, sir,” she said.
“Thank you,” answered Ford with a big smile. “I will.”
He drove off with a great sense of accomplishment, looking several times in his rear-view mirror to see if anyone had finally noticed.
But, no.
No one came out of the restaurant.
No police or flashing lights chased him.
Nothing.
It was just that easy.
The realization then settled in that Citibank had basically just given him $5,000 dollars because Kitty certainly wasn’t going to complain and the dumb clerk who sent the card was never going to admit it – at least not when the truth was revealed that a $5,000 credit line had been extended to a dachshund.
Ford drove back home and shared his breakfast with his benefactor, Kitty. As he chewed his ill-gotten food, an idea took shape. He wondered how hard it might be for Kitty to get another credit card. After all, it seemed as if his dog had a better credit rating than he did at this point!
The worst thing they could do was say no, right? It never hurts to ask, right? But, he was a little torn. His initial analysis of the Visa card led Ford to think the credit company would write off a loss, especially to someone who didn’t really exist. But, a few credit cards might increase the odds that somebody might actually try and do the right thing and pursue payment.
Maybe a collection agency.
Maybe a private investigator.
Maybe the police.
He looked around the RV he was living in and took it all in: the particle board furniture, the dated non-flat-screen television, the couch that stunk of stale Doritos and dog hair.
“Homeless people have better shit,” he thought to himself. “What do I have to lose?”
There are moments when we cross lines we know we probably won’t be able to retreat back over later. This was such a moment. It was then Ford knew he was going to take full advantage of Kitty’s new status with the banking lords. There is a little bit of larceny in all of us but, only few allow it to manifest much past our daydreams.
Let’s say you’re driving down the road and a bag of money falls out the unlocked back door of a Wells Fargo armored truck. The bag hits the pavement and bursts open, scattering hundred dollar bills all over the pavement. The truck driver has no idea what’s occurred and there’s nobody else on the roadway except for you and your conscience. Are you the kind of person who gets out and tries to gather the cash up so you can return it? Or, do you see this as an amazing lucky moment that requires only that you reach out and grab the good fortune that has been dropped in your lap?
It’s the classic dilemma: morality versus survival.
Ford’s situation was already barely survival so for him, the answer was clear. But, he also knew that if he chose this path there was always a risk that everyone he counted on to cover their ass and write off their errors might choose morality over survival. For every credit card Kitty might be issued, the odds would also increase that someone might actually do the right thing, confess to screwing up when pressured, and sacrifice their own job survival. Ford had to plan for that possibility as well. If he was going to risk credit card and identity theft – even though it was from his own dog – he also had to accept the possibility that he might wind up caught and eventually in prison. It is commonly known that there are only two ways to avoid going to prison: do not get convicted or be dead.
“I’d rather be dead,” he faintly whispered aloud.
And as soon as he verbalized it, Ford understood the full extent of his commitment. It was instantly settled. He was going to acquire as many credit cards as he could, spend his way through the greatest time of his life, and then just check out when the plastic went dry. He was going to go where he wanted, order the food he wanted, buy what he wanted, and do what he wanted. Best of all: he would never again have to stand behind the counter of the Kunkle Kash ‘n Karry or listen to anymore of The Major’s bullshit.
“Live large, die on a full stomach!” he muttered to himself.
Charge everything and then commit suicide.
It was a no-brainer.
Chapter 3
The decision to commit suicide is often either a spontaneous reaction brought on by a long battle with depression or a quick analysis of the best possible exit when faced with life-threatening circumstances. Seldom is it the final step in a well-thought out business plan. Yet, in this case it was the obvious culmination to Ford’s new lease on life, as ironic as that sounds.
Oddly, Ford wasn’t afraid of dying. He was more afraid of living a bad life - which he had already proven he was quite capable of doing without anyone’s help. Thus, living a great life seemed a much better prospect, even if it was to be a shorter one. After all, what’s 25 years, 50 years, or even 100 years when you measure it against eternity? Dead is dead and even the longest human life is still a blip on a radar screen that stretches into infinity.
The only thing he found somewhat disconcerting about killing himself was doing it alone. Sure, he could take a black capsule in the middle of Times Square but, it still would be kind of lonely. Killing himself would be so much better if he had company.
Someone who cared at least a little.
But, Ford was not an optimist about love. As a matter of fact he had proven over-and-over again he was a klutz when it came to affairs of the heart. He often was not capable of saying the right words, found it difficult to express himself fully, and was fearful of rejection.
Actually, he was terrified of rejection.
He had theories as to why. He could list a few people he might easily blame. But, in the end it was probably mostly just due to the kind of introverted and sensitive person he was. Not all of us are born with the bravado and moxie life sometimes insists we display in relationships with the opposite sex. Confident people exude a certain measure of courage in these things. But, confident people don’t look at rejection the same way. It doesn’t exist for them. If love is the most powerful human emotion, then rejection might be the second most influential. You can get over love but, rejection will wound a person for years. It will leave a deep, emotional scar. To say he was guarded would be to minimize his absolute fear of rejection. Ford would happily kill himself before being rejected by someone he loved.
So, for those reasons he put his chances at pretty-slim-to-none that a female would think he was worth dying with. Besides: he would never be as presumptuous as to expect that kind of devotion. Who dies for somebody else? Maybe Marines do on the battlefield in an act of heroism to save a fellow brother. Okay, Mr. Spock sacrificed his life for the Star Trek crew in The Wrath of Khan. But, other than that, what would make someone voluntarily just pop their cork for you
?
Ford already knew the prospects of finding a life partner (or in this case a death partner) in Kunkle were miniscule. He’d already dated most of the available women still living there and it was hopeless.
Actually, he was hopeless according to them.
Either way, it was an exercise in diminishing returns. If he wanted to find a female who was adventurous enough to buy into his scheme - and interesting enough to keep his attention - he knew he would have to go online.
Ford had never before cracked open his laptop to find love online. He had consciously avoided dating websites because he suspected they were mostly like used car dealerships: pretty on the outside but damaged on the inside. He was wary of the selfie photo tricks everyone used to make themselves look like reality show stars. Give anyone a camera phone and enough time and they will inevitably stumble across one pic that makes them look pretty good. But, nobody wakes looking through the lens of a camera phone positioned just perfectly on their partner.
Nope.
We all wake up the way God had intended us to look and just like computer programming we are GIGO.
Garbage In, Garbage Out.
What Ford wanted was another kind of GIGO.
Gorgeous In, Gorgeous Out.
He needed a fine specimen of a woman who had nothing better to do than hook up with a loser and grab on to his coat tails as he spent his way into a corner. He needed someone who was – well let’s face it – damaged.
Call it what you want: emotionally damaged; mentally damaged; just fucked up.
Hopeless - just like him.
Someone so disenchanted with the rest of humanity, so jaded by the bullshit in their lives, they could easily tag along on his ridiculous ride toward the grave.
Ford reasoned that to find a partner with those particular prerequisites would require more than just a Google search. Maybe it required using something he detested: an online dating service. Just the thought of having to create a profile and then waste time rejecting rejects was almost more than he could stomach.
