Kids' Stuff
"Carol decided the maniac pounding on her door deserved the kill. The life of a door-to-door murderer, she figured, couldn't be easy."
Carol was too tired to be scared. As she pulled on her sweatpants in the dark, Carol decided the maniac pounding on her door deserved the kill. The life of a door-to-door murderer, she figured, couldn't be easy. And if this all ended up on Dateline later, at least she wouldn't be awake.
"Yeah?" said Carol, exposing her apartment to a slice of icy light from the gas station across the street.
"It's me," said her killer, whom she now recognized as Peter. Sweet, sad Peter. Even if Carol couldn't make out his face yet, the ashtray voice and wiry build — pure tweaker by way of U.S. Army — were as good as ID.
"Ohhh, hey?"
"It was just something you said. Earlier. Today. At the bar?"
Running into people from her past always bummed Carol out, but the feeling usually took a full day to set in. Peter couldn't wait, it seemed. Back at Fox Lake Middle School, he was a hopelessly eager child, one of several qualities that sent him to the loser table with Carol. It was nice to know that that, at least, hadn't changed.
"Look, it was really great seeing you," said Carol, "like so, so great, but I have work tomorrow and..."
Peter shifted from one foot to the other and back again, apparently unaware it was his turn to talk.
"Oh yeah, I guess it is kinda late," he said finally, glancing down at the Monster Energy tattoo on his wrist like it was a watch. "Were you asleep or something? Even if you were, though, I'm glad you're up. You need to hear this."
Here it comes, thought Carol. She decided to stop her old pity pal before this got too awkward, before hurt feelings turned into a year of threatening Facebook DMs.
“Running into people from her past always bummed Carol out, but the feeling usually took a full day to set in. Peter couldn't wait, it seemed.”
"Peter, like I said, it was so great seeing you, but whatever connection we had as kids—"
"Oh, oh wow. Did you think this was, like, a romantic thing?" Carol suddenly felt very aware of her appearance, including the sweatpants she now saw were on backwards, "DTF" written in front. "Hah, I'm flattered, but, uh, no thanks!"
"What I mean is," he continued. "Well, what I mean is: It's what you said about the Pokemon cards."
"Pokemon?"
"About your sister tricking you into giving up the good ones? I just kept thinking about it and got so... pissed!" Peter tensed up, shaking the backpack that hung from his right hand. "Like really, crazy pissed, y'know?"
Carol remembered now. After recognizing each other on the smoking patio at O'Sullivan's, they made a token attempt at catching up, but neither of them really wanted to discuss the last 20 years. Instead, they revisited the old days and the simpler grievances of youth. Peter's complaints centered on Mrs. Rosso, Fox Lake's vice principal, who administered a series of humiliations he could recite like the Pledge of Allegiance. For Carol, it was a Pokemon card, a fire lizard she named Beepo. Carol last saw Beepo, she explained, when her sister convinced her it only made sense (financially speaking) to trade it for the "rare" Eminem CD she won in a radio contest.
Clearly, Carol would need to ask more probing questions if she wanted to learn how Beepo had brought her former classmate to her door. "Huh?" she said.
"It just reminded me of, like, everything. The way everybody lies. Lies to their husbands, lies to little kids. Lies about... about fuckin' Iraq!"
On the second syllable, Peter let go of the backpack and swung his arms out, revealing a bloody cut on his palm. The wound looked deep. It reminded Carol of the fat envelopes that medical bills came in.
“Carol would need to ask more probing questions if she wanted to learn how Beepo had brought her former classmate to her door. ‘Huh?’ she said.”
"Jesus Christ, Peter, what happened to your hand?"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you. It, like, really pissed me off and I wanted to, y'know, do something about it for once. Something to make the world just a little less fucked up."
Peter knelt down and zipped open his backpack. Like the world’s most contagious blackjack dealer, he pulled out a small stack of cards smeared with blood and flipped them over for Carol with a smile.
"Oh my god, dude, where did you get those? What did you do?"
"Like I said, I tried to make it right." Peter had a face made for surveillance footage — it was easy for Carol to picture him smashing a comic book store window with a rock. Did places like that have alarms? In the distance, she heard what was either a police siren or a chained up dog barking or the sound of nothing at all. "Look, just tell me if any of these are the special one you talked about. Beepo, right? Tell me if any of these are Beepo."
"I'm not going to call the cops or whatever, but I'm closing the door now," said Carol, already stepping back inside.
"Okay, okay, just do me a quick favor first. Just take a look at a couple of them." With a magician's twirl, Peter pulled a Pokemon card off the ground and up to the light. "Is this it?"
"That's not it," said Carol. "Not that one either." She looked at the next card and, for the first time in decades, saw the face of dear, sweet Beepo. His wet eyes and little mouth weren't so cute anymore. Beepo looked lost and ready to cry. "None of those are him," she said.