Zeke, one of the two grungy delivery guys who'd hauled in the washer and pedestal, scratched the back of his tattoo-slathered neck. If his neck and arms (left bare by his sleeveless black Harley Davidson t-shirt) were any indication, a high percentage of his body was covered in tattoo ink. "I wouldn't even put that in my house, man."
Zeke and his partner, Greg, had just carted the pedestal off the truck, but it looked as if they'd tied it to the rear fender and dragged it all the way from the warehouse.
The pedestal was a two-foot-high box, a metal platform on which the front-loader was meant to sit. It matched the washer in color and shape, but its condition was as battered as the washer's was pristine.
Three of the pedestal's four sides were severely dented. The mounting brackets were gone from two corners, and the remaining two brackets were twisted and cracked. The top surface of the pedestal was smeared with black grease, and the whole thing was coated with some kind of brownish film.
Simon shook his head in amazement. "But I ordered a new pedestal."
Zeke checked his clipboard and snorted. "You sure did, dude. That's exactly what it says here."
"You call this new?" Simon laughed, though he wasn't amused. He looked at Zeke, and Zeke just shrugged.
"New in some mirror universe, maybe." Chip scrubbed his fingers through his spiky green hair. "Some alternate reality where everything sucks."
"New in that we've never actually seen it before," said Josie. "It's new to us."
"New in the sense that when it comes to palming off junk on paying customers, this is a new low." Ankha folded her slim arms over her chest and glared at Zeke.
"Well, I think it's just beautiful." Simon smiled and hunkered down beside the pedestal. "It sets off the new washing machine perfectly." He lovingly ran his hands over the dents and black smears. "Really ties together the whole laundry room."
"For real?" said Zeke's partner, Greg, an emaciated specimen with a dull gold nose ring and ratty ponytail. Simon stared at Greg in disbelief. He couldn't tell if he and Zeke were in their forties or just in their twenties with wear and tear beyond their years.
Simon got to his feet. "Nope. Please take it away now."
"Are you sure?" Josie tipped her head to one side and tapped her lower lip with a fingertip. "I kind of feel sorry for it."
"I'm sure," said Simon. "When can you bring me a new one?"
"Hold on a minute." Zeke grabbed the cell phone off his belt clip and flipped it open. He dialed a number and waited. "Hello, Leila?"
As Zeke stepped outside with his phone, and Greg followed, Simon leaned against his new washer. "What I want to know is, where'd they get that thing? A junkyard?"
"I can't believe they had the nerve to send it out here," said Ankha. "Did they actually think you'd take it?"
"You might be surprised," said Chip. "People trust Strayer-Roland."
"'We're family.'" Josie quoted the Strayer-Roland slogan.
"But not in a good way," said Chip.
"Okay, here's the deal." Zeke flipped his phone shut as he ambled back in. "We'll take this pedestal away, but you'll have to go to the store to order a new one."
"Wait, what?" Simon frowned. "It wasn't my mistake."
"Right," said Zeke. "Some kind of mix-up at the warehouse...but you'll still have to go to the store. Bring your receipt, and they'll cancel your order, issue a refund, and place a new order for a new pedestal."
"That's just crazy talk," said Chip.
Zeke shrugged. "It's how they do things now."
Simon shook his head. His sense of humor was fading. "This is ridiculous. Can't you call a manager or something?"
"Wouldn't do any good," said Zeke. "5G5 is just the delivery company. We didn't sell you the pedestal, and we can't exchange it for a new one."
"But you're acting as representatives of Strayer-Roland in the field," said Simon.
"I'm not even an employee of 5G5," said Zeke. "I'm an independent contractor working freelance for a subcontractor. I barely represent myself, dude."
Simon sighed. "So if I go to the store right now, I could still resolve this today?"
"It's worth a shot." Zeke handed over his clipboard and pen. "Now just initial by the red X's, and we can get that hunk of shit out of your house."
Simon signed where he was told. "This is all gonna work out, right? I don't need to worry?"
"All I'm saying, dude," said Zeke, "is there's no need to make a federal case out of it."
*****
Chapter 5
One week later, after Simon had jumped through the right hoops at the Strayer-Roland department store, Zeke and Greg returned to his house. They brought him a brand new washing machine pedestal, a vast improvement over the wreckage they'd delivered the first time around.
Everything seemed to be squared away, and everyone was happy. But then it happened.
One minute, Simon was admiring the new pedestal on the laundry room floor, all gleaming white and perfect in every way. He was feeling good now that Strayer-Roland had finally sent him what he'd ordered.
The next minute, Greg the emaciated delivery guy was screaming his lungs out.
"The fuck?" Tattooed Zeke, who'd been fussing with some paperwork, whipped around with clipboard in hand.
At first, Simon couldn't see what the problem was. Greg was hunkered down behind the washing machine, disconnecting the hookups in preparation for installing the pedestal.
But the problem soon became clear. Still screaming, Greg leaped out from behind the washer, clutching his left arm. Blood poured from his left wrist, streaming onto the floor.
"What the fuck did you do?" said Zeke.
"I was...using a box cutter...to slice off those zip ties." Greg clenched his teeth, sucking back another scream. "Fuckin' thing got away from me!"
Suddenly, Josie loomed in the kitchen doorway in her blinding pink t-shirt du jour. "Holy shit!"
"Call nine one one!" said Simon.
"Fuck that!" said Zeke. "I'm drivin' him to the emergency room!"
Greg stood in the middle of the room, dripping blood on the new white pedestal. "Finish the installation. I'll drive myself." He choked back another scream and headed for the back door.
"Just wait for the ambulance." Simon saw Josie in the doorway, pulling her cell phone from a front pocket of her bright yellow shorts. "And hurry up with that nine-one-one call, Jo!"
"Forget it!" Zeke shook his head. "This isn't your problem."
Simon pushed past him and scooped a towel from a laundry basket in the corner. "Too late for that." He wrapped the towel as tight as he could around Greg's arm. "Now hold this in place."
"It fuckin' hurts!" Greg let loose a piercing cry and fell against the side of the washing machine.
"Boss!" Josie flipped her cell phone shut. "Ambulance is on its way!"
"Hang in there." Simon tied a shirt around Greg's upper arm and cinched it tight.
Greg sank to his knees. Tears were flowing from his eyes. "I don't wanna die! Please God, don't kill me!"
Simon heard the ambulance siren in the distance. He turned to look out the window...and Zeke thrust his clipboard in front of him.
"Before we go," said Zeke, "could you just initial beside the red X's?"
"What?" Simon was distracted by Greg's latest round of screams.
Zeke raised a black pen and clicked the button with his thumb, popping out the tip. "Beside the red X's, please. Just acknowledging we were here."
Greg was still wailing. Simon took the pen.
"Just a formality, dude," said Zeke. "CYA makes the world go round."
*****
Two hours later, Greg and Zeke were gone. So was most of the bloody mess, thanks to the In¢entive$ crew.
Josie, Chip, and Ankha had all pitched in to help Simon mop and wipe up the blood Greg had left behind. By the time they'd finished, the only trace of the incident was the heap of bloody towels in the drum of the washing machine.
"Awesome work, you guys
." Simon closed the washer's glass door and set the controls on the digital front panel. "I can't thank you enough."
"A raise is the perfect gift for any occasion, you know." Chip clinked the neck of his beer bottle against Josie's, then Ankha's. He took a swig, then snagged a fresh bottle from the laundry table in the corner, uncapped it, and dropped the cap in the pocket of his red and gold bowling shirt.
"How about an increase in my admiration and gratitude?" Simon pressed the "on" button, and the machine chimed softly. Turning his back, he reached for the open bottle of beer Chip offered him.
"I think we'd settle for less admiration and more money," said Ankha.
"Hear, hear!" Josie pumped her beer bottle in the air, then drained it in one chug.
"Be that as it may," said Simon, "my admiration continues to exceed your paychecks." He raised his bottle high and let his gaze drift over each of them in turn--first Ankha, then Chip, then Josie. "I cannot thank you enough for helping me here today. Once again, you've gone above and beyond the call of duty."
"Yo ho ho, Captain!" Chip raised his bottle to his eye like a telescope. "Yer the scurvy blackguard what keeps this pirate ship of ours afloat!"
Suddenly, Josie gasped and pointed at the floor. "Keeps it sinking, is more like it!"
When Simon looked down, he saw sudsy water rushing around his feet, pouring out from under the washer. "What the hell?"
Chip ducked between the washer and the wall for a look. "Turn it off! Do it now!"
Simon smacked the power button with the flat of his hand. The washer chimed twice and shut off. "What's going on?"
Chip looked out from behind the washer. "The delivery guys didn't hook up the drain hose!"
"Shit!" Simon splashed through the soapy water, which was still pouring out from under the machine. The entire granite gray linoleum tile floor was already swamped, and the tide was moving into the kitchen.
When Simon looked behind the washer, he saw the water's source: it gushed from a black rubber hose that Chip was fighting toward a drain in the wall.
"It's what Greg was doing when he cut himself!" Chip wrenched the hose hard to the left, then pushed it inside the recessed box cut into the wall three feet up from the floor. Aligning it with the drain hole in the base of the box, he stuffed the hose inside. "He hacked off the zip ties holding it in place, but he never put it back!"
"And I didn't think to check it." Simon winced.
"Which reminds me," said Chip. "Could somebody bring me some zip ties?"
Simon sloshed across the room, heading for the back door. "This floor is ruined. Not to mention the kitchen floor."
"Hey, Boss." Josie handed him a fresh beer. "Were any children hurt?"
Simon sighed. "Nope."
"And the world didn't end, did it?" Josie swept her arm across the doorway, taking in the world outside.
"I guess not." Simon took a swig of beer.
"Then go get your zip ties." Josie pushed him out the door. "And get your ass back here, 'cause there's a mop with your name on it!"
"Because I own it," said Simon as he hiked across the yard.
"Details, details," said Josie.
*****
Chapter 6
Normally, Simon played the role of a caped crusader to help other people, like little old ladies getting conned out of comic book treasure troves. But in the weeks after Greg's slashed wrist and the washing machine mess, Simon had to fight for himself for a change.
All he wanted was a little compensation for the damage from the disconnected washer. It seemed fair that 5G5 should pay him something for the ruined laundry room and kitchen floor.
But getting paid for damages turned out to be harder than he expected. Just filing a damage claim turned out to be an ordeal.
After the accident in the laundry room, Simon called 5G5 and said he wanted to file a claim. The guy at 5G5 told him they'd send someone out right away to assess the damage.
Three weeks and fifteen phone calls later, 5G5 sent out someone Simon thought was a claims adjustor. The guy took a few notes, shot a few photos, and that was that. On the way out the door, the guy said a real claims adjustor would be in touch soon.
But the 5G5 guy was full of shit when he said that. Six weeks went by without a peep from an adjustor. Simon spent the time getting more and more pissed off and making over thirty phone calls to 5G5.
Then, finally, a claims adjustor called him back from the 5G5 claims center in Pittsburgh.
During their conversation, the adjustor seemed like a perfectly nice guy. He had a deep, soothing voice, and he acted polite and concerned and helpful.
His name was Horne Shaw. He went over Simon's claim over the phone, then said it would take a while to process. He told Simon he'd have to call him back.
After which three weeks flew by without contact. Totally fed up, Simon started calling every day, leaving messages on Shaw's voice mail. He didn't hear back for another three weeks.
Just when Simon couldn't stand it another day, just when he thought he was going to lose his mind, Shaw called back. He said he had the results of Simon's damage claim in front of him.
"We have considered your claim carefully, Mr. Bellerophon." Shaw's deep voice was congenial over the phone. "I'm pleased to say we can finally put this regrettable incident behind us."
"Great." Simon shuffled In¢entive$-related paperwork on his kitchen table, phone handset clamped between his ear and shoulder. "So what's the good word?"
"Just a minute," said Horne. "Now where did I put those numbers?" Simon heard the sound of rustling papers over the phone, then a smack, as if Horne had slapped his desk. "Here they are. Now let's see. Dum de dum dum."
Simon sorted more paperwork as he waited. His neck started to ache from keeping the phone clamped against his shoulder.
"All right, okay," said Horne. "Here it is. The word is...you get nothing."
Simon stopped shuffling papers. "Excuse me?"
"That's right," said Horne. "You get absolutely nothing. Your claim is denied."
Simon was in shock. "For what reason?"
"Because you waived the right to sue," said Horne. "Remember that release you signed?"
"Release?" Frowning, Simon slipped the phone from his shoulder. "What release?"
"Our delivery man, Zeke Cutler, handed you a form just before he left for the hospital with his partner, Greg Weyland. Any of that ring a bell?"
Simon's frown darkened. He vaguely remembered initialing a form in the chaos before the ambulance arrived for screaming, bleeding Greg. He hadn't realized at the time that it could lead to this...that Zeke had had the presence of mind, even as his partner was gushing blood from a slashed wrist, to protect the 5G5 company from paying out a damage claim.
"So you won't pay for the buckled linoleum tile or the warped underlayment?" said Simon. "Or the ruined drywall and cabinets, all of which were your delivery men's fault?"
"Not a fucking cent." Horne's tone remained as smooth as ever. "But you already knew that if you signed the release."
"I had no idea it was a release," said Simon.
"It said so clearly at the top of the form," said Horne. "And several other places on the form, too."
"You know damn well I couldn't read it," said Simon.
"The fact that you're illiterate doesn't cancel the agreement you signed."
"I didn't read it because I was too busy dealing with your injured delivery man," said Simon.
"Not mine," said Horne. "He's a subcontractor."
Simon was on the brink of going off...but he caught himself and drew a deep breath. Maybe it was time for a different tactic. "I'd like to speak to a manager."
"No can do," said Horne. "When it comes to damage claims, I do all the talking for 5G5."
"Then send me back to the receptionist," said Simon.
"She won't connect you to a manager, either," said Horne. "We run a tight ship around here."
They sure did. Simon was boxed in, and he knew it. Bett
er to end the call without giving asshole Horne any more satisfaction...then look for a better strategy later. "Well, thanks a lot." He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "Have a great day."
"Don't mind if I do!" Horne sounded more smug than ever. "You, too, Mr. Bellerophon."
"Yeah, sure," said Simon.
Horne paused a beat...then added one more thing. One more straw on the camel's back. "See you later, alligator," he said, and then he laughed.
And that, of everything he'd said, was what put Simon over the edge.
See you later, alligator.
Horne was still laughing on the other end of the line when Simon clicked off the phone and put down the handset. And that was when he knew.
That was when he knew exactly what he was going to do next.
*****
Chapter 7
Tucker County Courthouse
Melville, Pennsylvania, 9:31 a.m.
Three weeks later, Simon sat at the plaintiff's table near the front of the main courtroom in the Tucker County Courthouse. The first phase of his plan seemed to be going pretty damn well.
He was suing to have Horne Shaw legally declared a dick...and so far, Judge Jonah Bartlebaugh hadn't thrown out the case. In fact, Judge Bartlebaugh actually seemed to be enjoying it. He didn't seem to be in much of a hurry to wrap it up.
Horne's lawyer, the enormous blowhard Delroy Swope, was trying to get the judge to dismiss the lawsuit as frivolous. But Judge Bartlebaugh wasn't rushing to take his side.
"Is it frivolous?" Judge Bartlebaugh raised his eyebrows at Simon. "You don't want a new washing machine. You don't want money. You don't want any form of compensation for the damages you've suffered."
"Correct, Your Honor," said Simon.
Judge Bartlebaugh grinned and shook his head. "You just want the court to acknowledge officially that the defendant, Horne Shaw..."
Dick by Law Page 2
