Chapter 4:

Allen grimaced at an empty spot in the night sky and thought of the way his kids just trounced off like he were some surly war veteran who refused help after falling out of a wheelchair. He imagined them sitting together under the sun at a café full of yoga pants, shaking their heads at one another and laughing between sips of matcha lattes. The way Paul just got up from the table, walked out, and drove away. Who do my kids think they are? They think I’m a joke!... That’s no way to treat your father, he thought.

Allen tried calling Steele but only got an annoyingly cheerful message: “Hi, friends! I’ll be out of the office this week. I’m going to Cuba. I’ll be most unreachable for the next ten days. If you don’t hear from me… just assume that I’m having a really good time and maybe even extending my trip. If you’re experiencing any very serious conditions, please visit your emergency room… But I know most of you pretty well, and…you’re probably fine. So, just chill out and stop bothering people. BEEEEEEEP”

“Asshole!” said Allen as he slammed the phone down. He already knew Steele was on his coveted holiday. Allen’s anger burgeoned because he had made the same mistake two days before when he wanted someone to watch a new Harry Potter sort of movie with him. “That was strange.” He looked down at his hand. He’d just slammed his cell phone into a bowl of fruit. He started walking towards the bar cart and thought of Paul refusing to join everyone for a drink. Pansy-ass fucking health nut. He could imagine him showing up one day with a Colombian woman he met on a meditation retreat announcing, ‘This is Calypso. We’re getting married. She’s pregnant. We’re going to take some time away from all of you and let our child develop in a non-toxic environment.’ Allen clenched his teeth. He had an urge to drive to Paul’s apartment, slap him in the face, and see if his son had the stones to fight him. He wiped the table. Man, that would be a really crazy thing to do. He took another sip from his glass. 

         The phone rang, and he scuttled over to it, hoping someone important would tell him he was needed. “Hello?” No answer. Allen had picked up a banana by mistake and spoke into the stem as the tip poked his ear. He looked up and saw himself in the mirror. “Damn it!” He was glad no one saw that. But witnessing the stressed and humiliated expression on his own face was frightening. He looked like a character from a children’s television program who was trying to call a gorilla. A pitiful new reality that he couldn’t hide from was taking shape. He walked over to his office and picked up a half-empty bottle on the way.  

The following morning, Allen awoke with the grinding suspicion that something really annoying was in the offing. Something designed by the universe to fuck with him exclusively. He walked out to his mailbox, clenching his fists. Most people might have found the quiet mist hovering in the driveway a peaceful, mystical experience. Allen, on the other hand, resented the biting cold of it as he approached his gate. Sixty feet of ‘fuck you’ fog between the warm interior of the house and the box of annoying news that’s just collected there to poke him in the ribs. It was empty save for a flyer announcing that his neighborhood was soon going to play host to ‘Horse Trials.’ Meaning an equestrian competition where children growing up to be pompous pieces of shit would be trotting down his street obstructing traffic and filling it with horse shit.

Allen had several ideas. One, to sneak in at night and drip massive amounts of Viagra into the water troughs of both male and female horses. That way – instead of having a peaceful trotting competition where people applauded and gaffored when a horse bowed – the enthusiasts would have a loud and unscheduled fuck-a-thon. The second idea felt a bit over the top: gather a bunch of long tree branches, sharpen the ends, and erect them in a barricade in sneaky places along the horse paths like Scottish partisans ambushing an English cavalry charge. But that last plan seemed like a lot of work, and Allen didn’t think he contained the malice to undertake it all. It dawned on him that in both scenarios, he’d seriously injure or kill the horses. It’s just the country club that’s trying to fuck me over, not the horses. 

  The third idea: Call in a bomb threat on the morning of the trial. Allen figured that since he was a rich guy who lived in the neighborhood, no one would ever suspect him. But isn’t it always a disturbed middle-aged white guy who does this kind of thing? Eventually, Allen decided he was nettled enough to spook everyone with a bomb threat, and he quickly dismissed the notion that he might be the prime suspect for such a callous act.

Allen went into town to get supplies. He didn’t hear anything from Matthew or Paul and imagined that if they cared even the slightest what he was doing, they’d try to talk him out of this bonkers idea. He ignored a call from his daughter because Grace was thoughtful, inquisitive, and had good instincts:

“What are you doing, Dad?”

“Oh, you know…nothing. Just gonna get a haircut. Got a date tonight with a recent divorcee.”

“You’re lying right now. I can hear it in your voice. What are you really up to? Dad, What’s going on!?” His imagination made him shudder.

She was kind enough to leave a message. He played it on loudspeaker through the car stereo as he blew through a stop sign and raced up North Canon Drive to get home before the sun could fully abandon him outside in the dark. He needed the remaining daylight to stay put while he listened to Grace’s voice: 

“Hi Dad, I like the idea of us spending more time together. Maybe we could do a weekend meditation retreat somewhere up the coast. What do you think? Anyway, I’m concerned for your health, and I just want to know you’re just as concerned and taking the best care of it. Ok? Call me when you get this. I love you.”

All Allen heard was ‘meditation retreat.’ Fuck that. 

Allen put on a dark blue kimono and sat at his heavy wooden desk. No time like the present! He went to his bedroom and peered out over the gate at the quiet residential street. The phone was at his ear as he shut the curtains around his face, leaving only enough space to poke his head out: “Hello, Bel Air Equestrian Association? This is…Oh, never mind. Anyway, you’re gonna want to cancel the show today. You know why?”

“Sir, if you’re calling to complain about the lack of parking for the golf course, I just want to let you know we’ve given the community ample warning and time to…” 

“Sir?” Allen suddenly realized he wasn’t holding down the red button required to alter his voice. He pressed it. “Because I put a BOMB in there! Yeeaaaaah. Several bombs, actually. If that show goes down, I’m going to blow the place to high heaven…”

“Are there two of you? Hey, can you please not do that? I have a lot to do here, and if I’m the one who tells the manager they have to cancel this, I’m going to get shit canned! Hello? Sir? Ma’am?” Allen mulled the poor lad’s request for a moment, then decided he had already crossed the Rubicon.

“Buh-bye!.. Bombs away, bitch!” Allen trailed off by laughing in a maniacal high-pitch into the voice modulator, sounding like a cartoon witch. Time to celebrate. 

Two hours later, Allen drove drunk back up the various hills, accentuating and expressing his loopiness by taking very wide turns and honking every once in a while for no reason. The lush material that covered the passenger seat was being abused with loose popcorn and M&Ms. He picked up the cell phone and voice modulator from under his snacks, then tossed them toward a storm drain. He pulled in and attempted to chuckle in the same victorious manner as when he left home hours earlier. He exited the car in the cool, quiet air. As far as Allen knew, no one had even been able to let the horses out of those containers. He felt unusually alone heading towards his front door. The night air carried only faint engines from planes passing high above. Were it not for him, the night would probably carry the voices of neighbors, friends, and excited youngsters leaving the Horse Trial for nearby barbeques. He’d deprived them of that. Why? 

Allen watched the desolate street from his bedroom window. Two lone cars were seconds from passing in the night before Allen’s gate. But they both stopped, blocking the entrance. It’s the cops! He stepped away from the window, started biting his nails, and wished he had a panic room. Poor alibis and justifications presented themselves to his panic-stricken mind: “The country club really should get unanimous approval from the residents before they hold an event!” and so on. How did I think that I’d just get away with it? 

The police rang the doorbell. For the first time, Allen became aware of how annoying this was - a loud, triple-chirp phone ring followed by “front door. front door.” He didn’t hear it often because he rarely had visitors beyond his kids or the gardener.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked outside holding a hot toddy, wearing a blue and white striped robe and fuzzy brown slippers, attempting to demonstrate that he was having a very private evening. But with every step he took toward the officers without them speaking, Allen’s desire to bound back toward the house and barricade the doors grew stronger. Now they could see the whites of each other’s eyes. Two bald men, one white, one brown, with thick necks and forearms. Two southern California fascists who weren’t satisfied with two Marine combat tours. 

“Good evening. Sorry to disturb you, sir.”

“Not at all, officers. What can I help you with?”

“I’m Officer Bradley. This is Officer Ramirez.” The white one leaned his head toward the brown. “Well, as we’re sure you know, there was an event at the horse lodge up the hill.”

“The horse trials at the country club? Yea, I know about it. How did it go?” said Allen. . 

“I mean…something bad happened, sir. The police are here.” The cop pointed to his partner, then himself.

“What happened? Is someone hurt?” Allen spluttered out the next sentence: “I haven’t been here all day!” and then took a sip of his cocktail with a shaky hand.

Officer Bradley explained slowly with a lot of hand gestures: “No, no one was hurt. It’s just…someone claimed to have planted a bomb at the complex.”

“Oh my god!” said Allen. He took a quick sip of the hot toddy, then sprayed it out into the night air between him and the officers. They didn’t move or speak. He puckered the cocktail off his upper lip with the bottom. “Sorry…the drink is really hot.” The cops looked at each other.

“Well, er, sir. Do you mind if we come in?” The officers were still speaking to Allen behind the iron gate.

“Oh! Yes, of course.” Allen took his phone out of his pocket and hit a few buttons, then kept his eyes on the policemen as the gate rumbled open. They stepped forward into the driveway after a minute when the process was halfway complete.

“The bomb threat was a hoax. We’re just talking to the community to find out if anyone knows why someone would want to sabotage the event…”

“Do you think they were terrorists?” asked Allen.

Ramirez spoke. “It doesn’t make any sense that a terror group would do this. But it is by definition an act of terrorism.” 

Bradley said, “No, just some pathetic low-life son of a bitch who wants to fuck up a nice day for everyone else.” Allen jabbed his drink hand out at the cop and pointed a finger at him. 

“Hey! You…” But he stopped on the verge of outing himself. “You’re telling me a phone call canceled this whole thing? That’s nuts. What kind of dickhead would do something like that?” Another sip. 

“The secretary at the country club said there were two people, a man and a woman with a high-pitched voice,” said Ramirez.

“Poor guy got fired just for giving the news to his boss. Imagine if he shrugged it off and didn’t say anything. None of us would be here right now. The event would have gone as scheduled. People would do their jobs and go home satisfied with a day - not hurting anyone.”

“Ugh.” Allen sighed heavily, and the two cops regarded him like he’d just asked for their attention. “Can the guy get fired just for reporting a safety hazard? There must be laws against that.”

“Naw, man. They can do what they want. We’re actually not allowed to give them grief for this kind of thing. It would be overstepping our jurisdiction. So, pffff, out of a job. I tell ya, it’s really the fault of the jerk-off who called this in.”

“But we’ll get him,” said Ramirez. 

“I thought you said there were two,” said Allen. 

“Yeah, I don’t know. I bet it was one dipshit who got a voice modulator but forgot to use it at first.” Allen’s anus clenched. So did the hand holding his glass. It succumbed with a crack. The drink, shards, and cinnamon stick hit the driveway beneath. “Whoa. Are you alright, sir?”  Alan froze momentarily.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. I’m just so angry at that bastard.”. They both stepped back and took him in. 

“We understand, sir. I just wish everyone cared as much as you do. A lot of people want to beat this guy’s ass for getting us out here. That wouldn’t really bother us.” The two cops laughed. Allen swallowed, then he realized the pair were looking at him, and he hastily joined in on the laughter. 

“Well, we’ll get out of your hair,” said Bradley. “You just take care and let us know if you see any suspicious behavior,” his eyes dropped to where the shards and liquid lay, “and if you know why anyone around here might want to harm the community.”

“Will do, officer!” 

“You probably won’t hear anything, though. Whoever did this is going to prison,” said Ramirez stepping in to look into Allen’s eyes. “A lot of cold showers and sodomy is in the offing.” He held Allen’s gaze and smiled with a devious nod - excitement for caging men. “Yep. If I were this guy, I’d be long gone by now. Get the fuck outta Dodge before Dodge can get the fuck in him.” He began to chuckle. 

“That’s enough, Ramirez.” Officer Bradley broke his partner’s trance over Allen.

“Thanks for coming by, gentlemen.” Allen waited for them to walk out of the gate before going back inside.  

  That Ramirez fucker must have been at Abu Ghraib. He went back to the kitchen and poured himself a nightcap, then stood in the place he had days ago when he presented his children with his hasty death plan. What if they saw the day I had? It’s already begun. The descent., I’m only one tear gas grenade from a full-blown standoff. 

Whether they liked it or not, someone was going to have to kill him. Not just for his sake. He guzzled half his glass. Allen was horrified by his own unreasonableness. Issuing bomb threats, killing horses, finding fault with the morning air itself…terrorizing people! What’s going to happen to me? I am the bomb. A ticking time bomb, marching towards its date with destiny: total oblivion.

Allen retreated to his study to book travel arrangements.