by Scott Meyer
They didn’t make another attempt at a kiss goodbye. They both knew that was a much more fitting end to their relationship.
Chapter 29.
Walter and Margarita Banks were living a nightmare. Their son Martin was acting crazy and running from the law. He was holed up in his childhood bedroom, but he kept reemerging for nonsensical reasons, and the authorities were threatening to break down the door.
“One moment! I’m coming!” Walter bellowed, more out of alarm than any anger he might have felt. He gave his wife what he hoped was a reassuring look, and got one back from her in return as he started toward the door.
Martin once again came out of his old bedroom and shouted, “No, Dad, stop!” He was wearing a shiny silver muumuu of some sort and a matching Wee Willy Winkie night cap. He had mounted his old bust of Santo the Mexican wrestler on a pole. It was clear to Walter that his boy was insane.
“Martin, baby, what’s going on?” Margarita asked. “What have you done?” It broke Walter’s heart to hear her sound so distraught.
Martin said, “Nothing! I haven’t done anything.” He grabbed an armload of linens, all the while yelling, “I especially haven’t done any of the things those men are going to tell you I did.” Martin awkwardly carried the bedding and the wrestler on a stick back into his bedroom, saying, “Thanks for everything! See you later! Dad, you can open the door now,” as he went.
Walter knew what he had to do. There was no doubt in his mind that his son needed help. He opened the front door and said, “He’s in his bedroom. This way.”
Walter walked quickly to Martin’s bedroom door and knocked firmly. The hall had instantly filled with men in dark suits and uniformed police officers.
“Martin,” Walter said, “The police are here, and some men from …” Walter trailed off.
One of the men in dark suits said, “The U.S. Treasury.”
Walter and Margarita, who he could barely see at the back of the crowd of officers and federal agents, exchanged a look that only those who have been married for a long time can understand. Walter looked at the doorknob, then asked the agent closest to him, “Do you have a nail? If he locked the door, we’ll need a nail.” The agent glared at him.
“Martin!” Walter shouted in as calm a voice as he could muster. “We’re coming in.” He tried the knob and it turned easily. He opened the door, and the officers rushed in past him, but not before he saw that Martin was not in the room. He and Margarita watched as the officers flipped the bed, noting that the mattress was missing, which was odd. They looked in the closet, but Martin wasn’t there. They opened the curtains, but there was a uniformed officer standing outside who insisted that he’d stood there the whole time, and had not seen anybody in a silver robe dive out the window. The police seemed confused and angry as they searched the rest of the house, but the Treasury agents just seemed irritated. After a few minutes, the two agents who appeared to be in charge arrived. They introduced themselves as Miller and Murphy. Agent Murphy did all of the talking. He had a quiet, kind manner. He gently asked them questions, the answers to which were almost always “no.”
“Did he tell you what he was up to?”
“Do you know where your son went?”
“Do you know how he went there?”
After a couple of hours of this, the police announced that Martin was not there, and the Treasury agents announced that they knew that already. Agent Murphy left a business card. He made a point of saying that Martin had not hurt anybody, and that they didn’t think he was dangerous, but if he did make contact, to please call the number on the card.
Walter and Margarita Banks stood on their front lawn and watched the law enforcement officers drive away like they were watching relatives leave after a holiday dinner. The squad cars drove down the street, around the corner, and hopefully, out of their lives. Margarita mentioned that it looked like someone had driven a car into the big tree at the end of the road. Walter reflected on the little things you notice when you’re upset. They kept their arms around each other as they walked back into their home, closing the door behind them.
They didn’t have time to sit down before the doorbell rang. Margarita opened the door without bothering to ask who was there. When the door opened, Martin was standing on the front step. He had gotten a haircut and had shaved. He was wearing a nice dark gray suit, but no tie, instead leaving his dress shirt’s collar open to the first button. Behind him, on the street, there was a taxi idling. Margarita gasped.
Martin said, “Mom, I’m so sorry.”
She pulled him inside and hugged him to within an inch of his life. His parents wanted an explanation, but knew they weren’t going to get one. Martin promised that he hadn’t broken the law, and that it was all a big misunderstanding which he intended to straighten out. In the meantime, he wouldn’t be around much, but they could always call him. He’d never be far from his phone.
“You know my old mattress, and all that bedding I took?” Martin asked. “You’re not gonna be getting that back. Sorry. Do you still have that second box from Amazon I ordered?”
Walter shook his head. “No, the cops took it. What was in it?”
“Nothing important. There’s a company that makes modern computers that look exactly like an old Commodore 64. I’d bought one for a friend. I can just go buy another one before I go back.”
“Go back where?” Margarita asked.
Martin answered, “Home.”
Martin walked out of his parents’ house and got in the cab. He and the cabbie talked for a moment, and then the cab pulled away and turned left at the end of the block, disappearing from view. A man sat on his bicycle at the end of the street, next to the now-damaged tree. He made a note of the exact time of departure, the license number of the cab, and direction of travel. He scribbled furiously into a tattered notebook with a small greasy stub of a pencil.
He let the saddle of his long-suffering bicycle support his weight. The worn-out toes of his off-brand sneakers rested on the sidewalk more for balance than to carry any load. He was in his sixties, but looked terribly haggard. A ragged fringe of gray hair ringed his deeply sunburned bald spot. His skin was deeply creased and leathery. He had the gaunt frame and unhealthy demeanor of a man who had gotten far too much fresh air and exercise.
The man finished his notation and closed the notebook. He slung his backpack off of his shoulders and opened it. It contained a little food, a few articles of clothing (mostly socks and underwear) and a great many cheap notebooks. No two were the same brand. Their labels were printed in a mix of English, Spanish, and Portuguese. All of them had a range of dates, stretching back to the nineteen-eighties. He placed his notebook in with the others, zipped the bag closed and put it on his back where it belonged. He started riding down the sidewalk. He instantly became graceful once in motion. He clearly had plenty of practice riding his bike.
A woman driving a huge SUV was trying to pull out of a parking lot. She stopped short of the sidewalk to let the man ride by. As he passed in front of her truck, the engine died. The man on the bicycle looked at her briefly, but kept moving. The woman cursed. She’d only had the vehicle for a few months. She really didn’t want to have to deal with a tow truck and a mechanic tonight. She turned the key and was tremendously relieved when it started easily. She looked at the traffic, trying to find a place to jump in. She saw the man further down the street, still riding his bicycle.
He’s lucky, she thought. I bet his bicycle never breaks down.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, this book would not exist without the assistance, encouragement, and tolerance of my wife, Missy.
I’d also like to thank Allison DeCaro, Deborah Wolf, Jen Yates, John Yates, Mason Wolf, Philip Nolen, and Rodney Sherwood for their feedback and support.
I’d like to thank Ric Schrader for putting up with my co
ntinued abuse, and Scott Adams for having pointed out to the world that I exist.
Last, I’d like to thank the readers of my comic strip, Basic Instructions, whose support made the writing of this book possible.
About the Author
Scott Meyer has been a radio DJ, a stand-up comic, a writer for video games, an office manager, a pretend ghost bellhop, a cartoonist, and has now written a novel.
He and his wife live in Florida, to be close to their cats.
Also by Scott Meyer
Help is on the Way:
A Collection of Basic Instructions
Made with 90% Recycled Art:
A Collection of Basic Instructions
The Curse of the Masking Tape Mummy:
A Collection of Basic Instructions
