Bad Games

14



For a brief moment Patrick wished his four-year-old son could read for all the wrong reasons: along the road’s edge, leading into the white-graveled lot of the bait shop, a signpost stood tall, announcing one large and crudely painted word to all who drove by.

BAIT.

He couldn’t resist saying it anyway. “Think this is the place?”

Father and son locked eyes in the rearview mirror. Caleb shrugged at his father, wide-eyed and innocent.

Patrick smiled back. “Nevermind, buddy. This is the place.”

Caleb leaned forward in his child seat in order to get a solid look at the bait shop. Patrick pulled left into the gravel lot, glanced back and caught his son’s curious expression. He appeared to be taking his father’s sarcastic joke quite literally; Patrick felt sure Caleb’s wary brow was declaring that this didn’t look like any store he had ever seen, Dad.

The place was a weathered one-story home that doubled as a bait shop. A white wooden porch led to a screen-door entrance. On either side of that screen door were two cloudy windows, each displaying an array of lures that dangled and glimmered from fishing line above the window’s pane like tiny puppets with jewelry.

To the right of the entrance a rusted porch swing designed for two—likely capable of holding none—swayed lightly from side to side, each sway giving out a metallic groan, as if warning all it would not be held responsible for those crazy enough to deem it fit for sittin’ and, God forbid, swingin’.

Patrick had expected nothing less from such a place. In fact he’d counted on it. He loved these rustic mom-and-pop spots, and it was the precise reason they were visiting Crescent Lake as opposed to being stretched out on a sandy beach somewhere, sipping margaritas.

The screen door screeched metal against metal as father and son entered. The interior of the shop had a sharp smell of burnt wood and heavy dust that immediately made Patrick feel like picking his nose. He looked down and spotted Caleb already going at it. “Digging for gold?” he asked his son. Caleb yanked his hand away from his face and shook his head. Patrick smiled and bopped him on the top of the head.

The layout of the shop was basic. To the right were three rows of shelves that held all things fishing, and to the left was a wooden counter top. Behind it stood an old man who Patrick guessed to be at least eighty. He was short, thin, stoop-shouldered, and wrinkled from head to toe. His head was covered with an old baseball cap decorated with fishing lures. Resting on the bridge of his nose was a pair of thick glasses that doubled the size of his green eyes.

Yup, Patrick would have been disappointed with anything less—or actually, more.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the shopkeeper announced. His voice was loud and clear despite his fragile appearance. The magnified green eyes were warm and pleasant.

“Good afternoon to you too,” Patrick replied.

The shopkeeper leaned over the counter and looked at Caleb. “Hello down there, young man.”

Caleb immediately clamped onto Patrick’s leg. The old man laughed.

“Name’s Edgar,” the elder said, extending his hand. “I’m hoping you folks are aiming to do a little fishing today, ’cause I’m afraid I’m all outta surf boards.”

Patrick laughed and took the man’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Edgar. And yes, my son and I aim to do a little fishing today.” He looked down at his son, still wrapped to his father’s thigh like a koala to a tree. “Isn’t that right, brother-man?”

Caleb looked up and nodded, not ready to commit to a smile just yet.

“So is it some fishing poles you’ll be needing?” Edgar asked. “My selection isn’t too great I’m afraid, but any one of ’em will get the job done.”

“No, no,” Patrick said. “We’ve got poles. All we need is some—”

“Bait!” Edgar said.

Patrick touched the tip of his nose and smiled. “You got it, Edgar.”

Edgar turned his back to father and son and shuffled down the length of the wooden counter. Just near the wall’s end a large rectangular cooler hummed and lay length-wise along the floor. It reminded Patrick of something you’d find in an old thrift shop, carrying an array of ice cream bars.

Grunting, the old man bent over and slid open the rectangle’s glass door. He reached in and pulled out a large Styrofoam container shaped like a cylinder.

“Don’t know why I don’t store these things in something a bit higher up,” Edgar said as he began making his way back down the length of the counter. “I swear every time I bend over to grab something from it I hear the creaks and cracks getting louder and louder. Soon I reckon I’ll be able to play a darn good symphony just standin’ still.”

Edgar placed the container down onto the counter in front of Patrick, adjusted his cap, and pushed his glasses high up onto his nose. The screen door screeched and banged as someone else entered the shop. Edgar gave a quick look towards the entrance.

“Be right with you, sir,” he said. He turned back to Patrick. “How do these work for you?”

“Are they night crawlers?”

“Yes, sir. Big suckers too. Fish won’t be able to refuse.”

Caleb tugged on his father’s pant-leg.

Patrick looked down. “What’s up, bud?”

Caleb hesitated.

“You wanna see them?” he asked.

Caleb shook his head. His brown eyes looked desperate and he was shuffling his feet as though standing on a hot plate.

“Ah ha,” Patrick said. He looked up at Edgar. “Edgar, you wouldn’t happen to have a restroom here would you?”

“Sure do.” Edgar smiled in Caleb’s direction. He turned around and snatched a key off the wall behind him. “Gotta go back out the way you came, then around the shop and to the left, past the porch swing.” He handed the key to Patrick.

“Thanks. We’ll be right back.” He tapped the top of the bait container and smiled. “Keep ’em on ice for us.”

“Sure thing,” Edgar smiled. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The screen door screeched and banged again as father and son left.



* * *



“And what can I do for you, kind sir?” Edgar asked his most recent customer.

The customer was a decent-sized man wearing a blue Penn State cap and a white sweatshirt with jeans. He didn’t answer Edgar, merely reached out and took hold of the bait container on the counter.

Edgar stuttered. “Is…is it bait you’re after, sir? I can get you some from the cooler if you like, but those belong—”

The man in the Penn State hat cut Edgar off by turning his back to him. When he turned back around a moment later, the man placed the bait container back on the counter, held his index finger up to pursed lips, and breathed a gentle shush.

Edgar did nothing in return. He stood rooted, unable to comprehend what was happening. Yet there was one thing he was sure about. Nearly three quarters of his eighty years in sales had given him a keen sense for reading people. And something about this man just plain wasn’t right.

The screen door called out its familiar screech again as Patrick and Caleb reappeared. Patrick handed the key back to Edgar. The man in the Penn State cap took a few steps back and stood behind Patrick and Caleb.

“Thanks, Edgar,” Patrick said. “How much do we owe you for the bait?”

Edgar took the key and looked behind father and son at the man in the Penn State cap. The man smirked at Edgar, put his index finger to his lips again, changed the shape of his hand into a gun, pointed it at Edgar, the back of Patrick’s head, and then the back of Caleb’s head, each point followed by an imaginary click from the hammer that was his thumb.

Edgar swallowed hard and went pale. His blood ran like ice water and he regretfully acknowledged his previous instincts about the stranger. Should he tell the father and son what was happening? Call the police? No. He was a good Christian. If this man did have a gun he could never live with himself if a father and child lost their lives because of some old fool like him. He wouldn’t say a word. He would let the father and child leave peacefully and pray that the stranger didn’t have plans for him once they’d gone.

“Edgar?” Patrick followed Edgar’s eyes over his shoulder towards the man in the Penn State cap.

“How are ya?” the man asked Patrick.

Patrick nodded. “Good thanks.” He looked up at the man’s hat. “You a Penn State fan?”

The man nodded once. “Die hard.”

“Good man,” Patrick said with a quick smile. He thought of Arty for a fleeting moment then quickly shook the thought away. He turned back to Edgar. “So how much, Edgar?”

Edgar said nothing. He was still a pasty white, his magnified eyes skirting and unsteady.

“Edgar, you okay?”

Edgar nodded weakly. “Fine,” he said, still avoiding eye contact with Patrick. “Something I ate earlier, I think.” He risked a quick look behind Patrick again. The strange man was laughing silently at his feeble excuse.

“Oh, okay,” Patrick said. “Maybe pop an Alka-Seltzer when we leave.”

Edgar nodded fast. “Yeah, good idea.”

Another moment of pause.

Patrick smiled. “So, are you going to tell me how much I owe you, Edgar?”

“On the house.”

Patrick frowned. “No, no, come on, Edgar, how much?”

Edgar risked one last peek over Patrick’s shoulder. The stranger shrugged back at Edgar, black eyes wide with amusement.

“Threevin,” Edgar said fast.

“What?”

Edgar cleared his throat. “Three even.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow, handed Edgar a five and said, “Keep the change.”

Edgar grunted a thanks and watched Patrick and Caleb leave through the screen door with their container of bait. He waited until their car pulled away before looking at the man in the Penn State cap. He swallowed and steadied his voice. “I have very little cash in the store, mister. But you’re welcome to all of it. Please…”

“Please what, Edgar?” the stranger said.

Edgar’s next words were a frightened whisper. “Please don’t shoot me.”

The stranger burst out laughing and rapped his knuckles on the counter. “Come on, Edgar, man-up! Has time shriveled away both your balls?”

The stranger reached over the counter and gently pulled Edgar’s cap of lures off his head. The thin hair beneath was gray and oily. Edgar didn’t dare move.

The stranger turned and flung Edgar’s hat to the floor. He then took his own hat off and scratched the shaved-bald head underneath.

“I was only having a bit of fun with you, Edgar. Just playing a little game. You like games, right?”

Edgar nodded, still rooted to the floor, still afraid to even breathe.

“How about Penn State? Are you a Penn State fan, Edgar?”

Edgar swallowed, his Adam’s apple pronounced like a thick knuckle.

The stranger leaned in and placed his blue Penn State cap over Edgar’s head. He left it there for a short moment, smiled, then yanked it down tight over the old man’s head causing him to pitch forward, his glasses falling with a clatter onto the countertop.

“You are now, right?”

Edgar’s voice was gone.

“Right?”

Edgar nodded quickly.

The stranger picked up Edgar’s glasses and put them on. “Whoa! Coke bottles!

You’re damn-near blind aren’t you?” He reached behind his back and withdrew a pistol, held it up in front of Edgar.

Edgar did have poor vision, but his bad eyes knew a gun when they saw one. He thought of his wife, long since gone, and knew he would be seeing her soon.

The stranger pointed the gun at Edgar and aimed it just over his head, targeting a wooden bass mounted on the wall behind him. “Hold still now, Edgar; I’d hate to miss the little fishy and hit you instead.”

Edgar managed a plea. “Please…”

“Shhhhh…I need to concentrate.” He adjusted Edgar’s glasses. “It’s not easy in these ya know.”

The stranger slowly lowered the gun off the wooden bass, pointed it directly at Edgar’s face, smirked, and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. The stranger frowned and pulled the trigger again. And then again. More empty clicks.

“Well I’ll be a son of…I guess I forgot to load the f*cker.”

Edgar found his breath; it whooshed out of every pore in his body.

The stranger took the glasses off and placed them on the countertop. He touched the point of the gun gently to Edgar’s nose. “I forgot to load it. That means you’re either very lucky or I’m very stupid. Which one you think it is, Edgar?”

Edgar felt his bladder fail him. He hardly cared. “I’m very lucky,” he said.

The stranger smiled. “Yeah, I’d say you are as well. After all, you’ve got a brand new Penn State hat now. This weekend is all about being a Penn State fan.” The stranger dug the point of the revolver into Edgar’s nostril. “I’m going to be coming back here in a couple of days, Edgar. I’ll be back and I won’t forget to load it next time. If you’re not wearing your new Penn State hat when I return I’m going to fire a lot of bullets up this wrinkled nose of yours. Sound fair?”

Edgar nodded, the gun barrel digging deeper into his nostril with each nod.

“And you won’t do anything silly like calling the police, will you? Because if you did that, well, jeez…I may just have to come back sooner than later.”

Edgar shook his head.

“Promise?”

Edgar nodded.

The man pulled the gun away and smiled. “Great. This was fun wasn’t it? It’s fun to play games like this don’t you think?”

Edgar looked down at his soiled trousers. The stranger’s eyes followed Edgar’s and spotted the stain.

“Whoopsie,” the stranger said. “I guess accidents like that happen when you get on in years, yeah? Something about the prostate not working the way it used to?” He took hold of Edgar’s neck and pulled him close. “I could check it for you if you like.” He brought the gun over the counter and tapped the barrel against Edgar’s rear. “Might be a little cold going in, but I’m sure we could make it work. What do you say?”

Edgar swallowed dry and his throat seized up on him. He coughed.

The stranger let go of Edgar’s neck. “I’m just kidding, Edgar. I was having some fun again.” The stranger then gave a deep, wet snort, and hocked a thick wad of yellow on the counter. “You won’t forget your promise now, will you, Edgar?”

“No, sir.”

The stranger smiled and dropped his head. He began swirling the wad of phlegm on the countertop with two fingers, seemingly lost in the moment the way an infant might be distracted by a messy toy.

A brief silence passed. Edgar’s pulse was in his ears. The stranger just kept his head down, still swirling two fingers in the slime, still in a daze. And then he looked up and casually wiped the phlegm on the front of Edgar’s nose.

“Some people spit in their hands and shake on a promise,” the stranger said. “I didn’t feel like spitting in my hand. That okay?”

Edgar nodded, the yellow slime hanging from the tip of his nose.

“Good.” He then gestured to Edgar’s nose, the countertop of phlegm, the dark stain on Edgar’s paints. “You might wanna get all that cleaned up before the next customer comes in, Edgar. It’s gross.”

The stranger left, and Edgar collapsed to the floor holding his chest. He wiped his nose then touched the brim of the Penn State cap. He would never take it off again.