Other People's Lives

Come and Get It

Be careful what you wish for

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He decided that he hated his car; he could not believe that he bought it in such a hurry and without proper evaluation and testing. He knew it was reliable enough and a reasonable price, but afterwards, he found several faults he had not noticed at the time. He had not purchased many cars in his long life but, even so, he should have known better. He knew it was irrational, that, on balance, it was a fine car, good to drive in a bland, un-exciting way, reliable to a fault and his wife liked it - he could not convince her to part with it.

However, he could not see the good in it for the faults - to him at least. There was the annoying reflection in the windshield from the dashboard, the ultra-bright lights in the radio console that gave him a blinding headache every time he drove at night, the low beam headlights that he was never sure were working they were so dull. Besides, it was forever giving him static electricity shocks, and he could never get quite comfortable in the driver’s seat. He once drove a better car, a luxury imported sedan, powerful, comfortable, climate control air conditioning, good sound system, satellite navigation and wood-grain and leather trim. However, that was before his redundancy at the bank, after which he had to return it. He was very angry at his redundancy, particularly as there were many younger men lazier and dumber than he was who retained their jobs. He was tempted to add some sand to the sump before he gave it back, but he admired fine machinery too much to do so.

Now all those younger ones drove better cars than his, bigger, faster, with more equipment. It riled him; he knew he was smarter than they were, and he told his wife that he was. She laughed at him, used words like old fogy and useless, and went back to her clothes and shoes and the endless rounds of coffee she drank with her friends. The Gossip Club, he called it, knowing the main topic of conversation was the friend who was absent on that day.

He found work, a lousy part-time accountant’s position at a struggling hardware store, where the younger men laughed at his lack of knowledge about building supplies and paint, pipefittings and tools, but it was all he could get. His wife said that there was no way she was going to get a job at her age. She was five years younger than he was. After all those years driving on the bank’s dollar, he was shocked to find out just what it cost to own a car; his pension certainly could not support two such money pits.

His hatred of the car grew to be an obsession. He imagined other drivers were secretly laughing at him in the commuter traffic each day. Younger men in faster cars continually sped away from him at the lights. At work or in social situations, he refused to join in the car talk of the other males. He became depressed, but he drove with more and more aggression until one day he almost ran over an old woman on a pedestrian crossing. After that, he knew he was going slowly mad and the car was the cause; he must get rid of it! When he broached the subject to his wife, it ended in a blazing row. His wife long ago gave up sex for Lent, and never resumed it, so she could not apply that punishment to him anymore. Never the less, he knew he would be in discomfort of some sort for a week or two - nobody crossed her with impunity. Cowed, but not vanquished, he resolved to work on the problem, with or without her approval.

HE BEGAN BY SURREPTITIOUSLY reading the newspaper advertisements for similar cars that were for sale. He knew little of the car market and he was surprised to see that those listed by private sellers always bore asking prices much higher than similar cars offered by motor dealers; he had discovered the triumph of hope over reality. He got on-line and listed his car at an imaginative price - his wife would never know, because she was illiterate as far as the internet was concerned and he used his work number and email address as contact information. His advertisement garnered only one response. This man offered him half the asking price and was very rude at the refusal of his offer. Disillusioned, he called on a few dealers and asked them what they would pay for his vehicle. Invariably, this was more than $5000 less than he wanted, in fact needed, to pay out the finance. He learned another lesson; dealers wanted to make a solid profit on cars they purchased. How else could they cover the statutory warranties and consumer protection demanded by Government?

Defeated, he returned to the depressing daily torture of the crowded streets, feeling demeaned by his vehicular inadequacy, growing more depressed and angry as each mile passed under his hated wheels. One day, he opened the mail to find a renewal notice for the car’s insurance. For once, he examined all the convoluted wording closely and discovered that his car carried insurance for its market value. The small print pointed out that the insurance company determines the market value at the time of a claim. He thought for a while and then picked up the telephone. After a short conversation with an operator in New Delhi, he learned that market value in his case was a figure considerably higher than he expected. I vill be telling you, sir, said his new Indian friend, that you vill be having to smash your car to a total wreck, oh my goodness, if you vill be vanting to claim the money! He hung up and remained deep in thought for some minutes before returning to his longue room. He had made his decision.

HE SAID NOTHING TO his wife, but that evening he left the car unlocked, windows down, and went to bed. He and his wife slept in separate rooms now, so he sat at his window and watched the car until he fell asleep. In the morning, he was disappointed to find it still there. He imagined, from the shape of the grille that it was grinning insolently at him. Then he noticed that when he moved towards it, it appeared to wink at him. No doubt it was just the sun glinting off one of the headlamps, but he became even further enraged. The drive to work that morning was not a pleasant one.

For the next three nights, he followed a similar pattern, but when the dawn pushed over the eastern horizon each morning, his automotive nemesis remained, squatting determinedly in his driveway.  You prick, he said, you prick; let’s see how good you are tonight! That evening was a Friday, pub night in his neighbourhood. Surely, the thieves will be out tonight. To encourage them, he left the keys in the ignition this time.

The noise of the revellers awoke him around midnight. He watched from his window as they passed his door in dribs and drabs, some shouting out, some staggering along, unable to shout; it was as much as they could do to remain upright. Then, as the mob dwindled, along came two youths, incognito in dark hooded sweatshirts. They paused by the car, engaged in a short, whispered conversation, then moved to the vehicle and reached out to open the doors. You bloody beauty, he said to himself, rid of you at last! Just then, the ferocious yapping of his neighbour’s fox terrier caused the would-be thieves to bolt down the street. He cursed and hammered his fist on the windowsill. So near, so near! To add insult to injury, in the morning he discovered, after sitting in it, that the cat from next door had regurgitated a half-digested mouse on the driver’s seat. Only the animal’s absence saved its life. His wife found it amusing but remonstrated with him about not locking the car. He replied by inviting her to do something that she had not done since that long-ago Lent and drove off to work.

He took to having a few drinks after work, asking around the sleazy bars on the south side about getting rid of the car and still collecting the insurance money, He was asking for a friend, he said, who was in financial trouble. How would you do it? How could he get away with it? His sense of morality, permanently damaged by the way the car wriggled into his mind until he was certain that he must get rid of it or go mad, deserted him. He must do something.

One night, a sharp looking character said to him. What’s with the bullshit, man? Why don’t you just leave it in the street unlocked? Any number of likely lads would have it gone in an hour. What sort of a car is it? ...Oh, I see...Well, maybe not. He followed this man’s advice, but he was right. No delinquent in his right mind wanted to be seen by his pals driving one of those. He decided to target a different kind of thief. Perhaps he could go to another part of the city, where it was rumoured that criminal gangs gathered, but they were too smart to befoul their own nests and left the hated vehicle alone.

He began to drive it to random places late at night and leave it near nightclubs or railway stations. Nothing happened for a while. Then, one evening, he left it and began the long walk back to a bus stop, when he felt a creepy feeling; he was being followed! He glanced over his shoulder, and, sure enough, there was a car just behind him, crawling along at his pace, looking for an opportunity to pounce. He was terrified; a soft life in a bank hardly equipped him for any kind of physical confrontation; he began to walk faster. Then, he was shocked into near paralysis by the blast of a police siren and the flashing of blue and red strobe lights; the car drew up alongside him and two police officers got out.

Evening, sir, said the driver, a big sergeant. Been drinking, have we? Err...no, not tonight. Are you sure? Yes, I am sure. Perhaps we should check on that, just in case. The sergeant produced a breathalyser. Just blow into the tube please, sir, continuously until I tell you to stop. Ok? He was confused. Did he have a drink before dinner? He could not remember, but he there was no choice; he took the test. Maddeningly, the cop did not tell him of the result. Thank you, sir, he said, now...are these your keys? The sergeant held out a set of keys attached to a distinctive key ring. They were his, all right. Yes... yes, they are. How did you get them?

Well, sir, we were watching that nightclub; lots of unsavoury characters around here, you know, not a good place to go for a stroll late at night. We saw you leave your car and noticed that the lights didn’t flash. My mate said, Sarge, he forgot to lock it. We were about to go after you when a couple of our local hoodlums jumped into your car. Lucky for you we managed to stop them. He flashed a torch into the back of the police car, revealing two scruffy youths who immediately gave him the finger. Nasty looking aren’t they. Could have done your car some damage, that lot! He handed the keys back. Here you are, sir. I suppose you know it is an offence to leave a car unlocked, let alone with the keys in it? The constable here will write you out a ticket. You should be more careful in future.

Five minutes later, in possession of a traffic infringement notice that was going to cost him $397, he sat trembling with rage in the driver’s seat of his car. You bastard, he told the car, you vindictive bastard. Can I never be rid of you?

HE CONSIDERED STAGING an accident by running into a tree or a river or something, but he reckoned that any accident sufficiently serious to write off the car might conceivably write him off as well. Besides, he didn’t have the nerve to do it, so he kept creeping around late at night without success. One evening when he returned home just before midnight, he found his wife waiting for him. Where have you been, and why are you out every night. What have you been doing? He mumbled a few lame excuses and went off to bed. Next morning, he read in the paper that the body of a young woman had been discovered in an alley, partly clad, raped and strangled. Nice goings on, said his wife, you didn’t see anything, did you? That’s not so far from here. He said nothing to his wife and went off to work.

He eased off on his evening drives - the result he had been counting on had not occurred; he lost heart. It looked as though he would have to pay someone to steal his car and burn it. He thought of doing it himself, but he needed to be home when it happened - he needed an alibi.

A week later the big story broke. Police reported the discovery of two more bodies, both raped and strangled. They believed it was the work of the same man - they had a serial killer on their hands! They named the three murder sites and asked the public to report anything they might have seen. They were particularly interested in a silver sedan, of Japanese origin, with some damage to the right rear bumper, seen near the crime scenes on those nights. Christ, he thought that sounds like my car and I have been near all those spots too, over the last two weeks!

Then, a fourth murder drove the neighbourhood into a panic. People became paranoid about locking doors and windows, women stayed home at night, and the sale of guard dogs took a sharp rise. His wife began to question him more and more closely about his nocturnal movements. He could only answer that he was just driving around. You don’t think I am the killer, do you? She was not going to give him any reassurance on that; she just grunted something unintelligible and went about her housework.

He didn’t know what to do now. If he tried to sell the car, any potential buyers would be suspicious, as would any criminal he sought out to do the job for him. He became nervous, strained, and apprehensive. His boss noticed and enquired after his welfare. He could not sleep, and he began to imagine his wife was watching him carefully. One day she discovered him applying touch-up paint to the scratches on the rear bumper. That has been damaged for months, she said, why are you so anxious to repair it now? He told her not to worry about it, rather unkindly suggesting that she was in no danger from the rapist, that he couldn’t be that desperate yet. She flounced off and did not speak to him for the rest of the week, but she let her resentment fester, and on the Friday, she made a telephone call.

HE DIDN’T WORK FRIDAY afternoons, and, to his surprise, when he arrived home, there was a police car parked next to his house. He entered to find his wife serving tea to an attractive female police officer, accompanied by the large sergeant he encountered that night some weeks ago. He knew he was innocent, but he felt a flush of guilt, sure that it showed on his face.

Well, well, sir, said the sergeant. We meet again. He felt, rather than saw, his wife glance suspiciously in his direction. Yes, repeated the sergeant, we meet again. What do you want? he croaked. His throat seemed to clog on him. We’ve received a report from a member of the public, said the sergeant. He thought that he saw the beginnings of a smirk on his wife’s face. Your car matches the description of the car seen near three murder scenes. Do you mind if we take a look?