Wasted Money

  Arnold Tower hummed along with the radio. Stuck at a red light with an A/C barely working, he changed the dial when the song ended and an ad began for Big Sun home solar panels. What’d he need with solar panels? If he didn’t have the money to fix his car brakes or get a haircut, what the hell did he need with solar panels? The other stations were all commercials too. This one about a pet fair in the park, that one about window tinting. The light went green. Arnold pushed the accelerator and spun the dial again. Finally, some music. Britney Spears was building to a chorus when SCREECH! BANG! CRUNCH! A beat up jalopy, two hubcaps already M.I.A. and a side-mirror adhered by bungee cord, slammed into his passenger door. Arnold bounced with his car, his head thumping off the side window. The cars lurched and came to stop. 

Dazed, but more annoyed than hurt, Arnold popped his door and got out. Already cars behind him were honking. He swung his arms in a gesture meant to say, C’mon! Don’t honk at me! Honk at this guy! To emphasize this point even further Arnold pointed to the sizable dent on his passenger door and at the smoking jalopy beside it. And it was during this pointing he saw the other driver for the first time. 

Arnold’s thoughts in two words? Oh. Shit. 

Out the jalopy’s sunroof climbed a massive spider, one long, hairy leg after another. A pink bow-tie hung at its neck, aviator shades crooked on its face. The spider stumbled on the pavement and tried to catch itself, only succeeding in crossing up its many legs. Cursing and mumbling, the spider leaned on the twisted hood of it’s own car, coughing at the smoke rising from the engine. 

It was easily the drunkest spider Arnold had ever seen. 

He’d planned on getting the other driver’s info and simply letting the insurance companies sort it out. But now Arnold didn’t know what to do. For one, with how drunk this spider was he assumed there was little chance of reasoning with the bug. Secondly, Arachnids were known to be incredibly litigious. And while Arnold clearly hadn’t been the driver at fault, he kept thinking back on how he’d been playing with the radio dial as he drove into the intersection.  He wondered what the spider’s lawyers might make of that. With this in mind, he figured it smart to let the cops take things over, hoping they’d document how absolutely wrecked this spider was. 

So he waited. Traffic edged around them, drivers shooting him dirty looks. As if they couldn’t see the guilty party, hiccuping and clinging to the side of his beat up jalopy. Arnold could only wave at each horn. And wait. He waited and waited and waited, then finally a navy blue Chrysler Imperial pulled up beside him and two men in crisp suits and ties stepped out. 

“Hmmmm. Well, yes,” one of them said to Arnold, answering some question that hadn’t been asked. “Really got ya good there, friend.” He whistled to his buddy who unfurled a wad of green and broke off enough cash to fix the busted car door three times. He reached down and grasped Arnold’s hand, slapping the money in his palm and shaking it in the same motion. Then he turned sharp and helped his partner guide the intoxicated spider into the backseat of the Chrysler. They huffed, puffed, and heaved. Watch it, they said, don’t pinch his legs. Careful. Careful. Yup. Yeah, that’s good. Right there. Perfect.  

The spider safety inside the men returned to its car and set about searching inside.  He watched two liquor bottles, a handgun, and a baggie of white powder find their way into the men’s pockets.  They were finishing up when Arnold spoke.

“Just uh, what’s going on here?” he asked.  The cash they’d given him would fix his car and leave plenty remaining, and he hadn’t been hurt in the accident or anything, so it was mostly curiosity that made Arnold speak up.

“What’s going on is some clown ran into you then, took off on foot,” the man in the suit said, checking his watch.  “You didn’t get a good look at them.  If you had to guess it was an octopus or maybe a middle-aged housewife or even a unicorn for all I care, but most assuredly not a spider.  Not.  A.  Spider.  The boss  doesn’t need any more stories about his family in the papers.  So I made sure you have enough dough to fix your car and forget who it was that hit you.  Understand?”

Arnold looked at the bills in his hand and nodded.

The suited man put on a pair of sunglasses, mostly for the effect, and said, “ Your tow truck is here.”

Arnold turned as the truck pulled to a stop beside him.  “I didn’t call a…” he started, but the whoosh of the Chrysler speeding past cut him off.  It made a sharp turn at the corner and was gone.

#

And that should’ve been that.  Arnold would have happily let it be.  Not everything needs to be gossiped, so he told his girlfriend, roommate, and father all the same story about a hit and run.  Totally didn’t see the driver.  Totally didn’t know what happened to him.  The money, after repairs, was hidden in a coffee mug on the top shelf of his kitchen cabinet.

That should’ve been that.

But it wasn’t.

#

    Weeks later Arnold was on his couch, feet kicked up and watching Johnny Carson, when a knock sounded at the door.  He almost didn’t hear it over the volume, but by the second, third, and forth strikes it was unmistakable someone wanted his attention.  The couch groaned as he got up and checked out the peephole.  

The spider, adjusting his bow-tie and shuffling antsy stutter steps, stood on the doorstep.

Arnold drew back from the peephole.  What the hell was he doing out there, he wondered.  And how did he know where I live?  The whole exchange with the car accident had left a strange taste in Arnold’s mouth, and he pondered the wisdom of just ignoring the knocks entirely and settling back on the couch.  

But it was damn curious.  What did the spider want?   

“It’s me,” the Arachnid said when Arnold opened the door, as if the two of them were old friends.  Then he walked in, Arnold scooting to make room for all eight legs to go past.  The spider’s eyes were red rimmed and he moved in quick, unsteady bursts.  Settling on the couch like it were his own, the spider reached for the Newports on the table top.  “Carson always gets the best guests,” he said, pointing at the television.  A lighter appeared from somewhere hidden on his abdomen and the cigarette puffed to life.  

“It’s Clooney and The Decembrists tonight,”  Arnold volunteered.  “He just finished doing Carnac.”

“Love that Carnac bit.  Gets me every time.  ‘Sis Boom Bah!’  Haha!  Man, don’t get better’in that,” the spider said, sending a stream of smoke into the ceiling fan.

Arnold looked his apartment over, seeing the empty pizza boxes and overflowing garbage can, the stains on the carpets, and the watermarks on the ceiling.  But the spider didn’t seem to notice, and Arnold didn’t sense anything malicious from the bug, so he grabbed a cigarette too and deposited himself on the other end of the couch.

Clooney had come and gone, The Decembrists up next, before the spider spoke again.

“You know who must hate this?” he asked, holding up the cigarette like a science exhibit.

Who, Arnold asked.

“Drive thru fast food workers.  Other day I pulled up to a window, smoking and minding my own business, and this twerp catches a lung full as he’s handing me my burger.  Man, I thought he was gonna collapse a lung with all the hack’in and wheez’in he did.  And think how many people smoke in a drive thru.  I’m telling you, that’s the real second hand smoke.”

Arnold bobbed his head in an oh yea, obviously fashion and wondered where to take the conversation from there.  He didn’t see a lot of options, or any for that matter.  Luckily the spider moved them along.

“Still got that money?” he asked.  And despite his attempt at nonchalance, the mood in the room shifted.  Talking about money, especially money gained in odd circumstances, will kill any vibe quick, and it did here.

“If by here you mean in my car, having fixed the damages, then sure it’s all here,” Arnold answered. 

The spider stubbed his cigarette out on the table, purposely avoiding the ashtray just inches away.  And it was only then Arnold realized how drunk his visitor was.  He didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed until then, but now he saw and there wasn’t any mistaking it.  The bloodshot eyes.  The way his cigarette shook as he held it.  The swaying back and forth as he spoke.  This spider was drunk.  And not just drunk, but hammered. 

“Don’t give me some line man.  Just c’mon.  Don’t do that.  I ain’t stupid,” the spider said, a slur on his words Arnold hadn’t noticed before.  “Not here to take it from you.  All I want is to know how much they gave you.”

The number leapt to Arnold’s mind.  He knew it exactly.  A payday like that isn’t something you forget.  And though he still didn’t sense any malice from the spider, Arnold went cautious.  He tossed out a number, a smaller number than the truth.  And it seems the spider bought it.  The Arachnid pulled loose another Newport and leaned back on the couch.  Arnold could almost hear the digits bouncing around inside the bug’s head.  It took him a while to come up with his next question, and when he finally put it to words Arnold was surprised.

“Do you think he paid you ‘cause he loves me and wants to keep me outta trouble, or ‘cause I embarrass him and wants to hide me?”

Arnold wasn’t sure exactly who the he in that statement was, but after thinking on it a minute said what he felt.  

“Love, man.” Arnold gave a half shrug.  “Sounds corny, I know.  But given the choice between love and shame I gotta go with love.  If only for how that choice makes me feel.”

That was the best Arnold had, especially for a drunk spider he’d only just met.  But whether it was even heard or not, he couldn’t tell.  The Arachnid just sat there, smoking while the Decembrists played, the television reflecting on each of his blank eyes.  

A knock at the door brought him back to life.

“That’ll be them,” the spider said.  He rose from the couch and opened the door, revealing the two suited men from the accident.  They didn’t come inside.

“I don’t think I agree with you,” the spider said from the doorway.  “I don’t think he loves me.  I wish he did, but he doesn’t.  I like what you said though, about believing because of how it makes you feel.  I know he doesn’t love me, but I’m gonna believe he does.  See if that makes me feel better.”

Arnold wished him luck with that.  What else could he say?

And with that the spider turned and shuffled out the door.

Arnold never saw him again.

#

But he did hear about him.  It was in all the newspapers.  Apparently that spider had been the oldest son from one of the well to-do families in the area.  A stint in a rehab up north was followed by another on the East Coast.  Then yesterday’s paper said he’d died.  The details were murky, but it didn’t seem a happy passing.  His father, an executive at Big Sun Solar, had asked for privacy, but there were all sorts of rumors floating about.  Arnold wished he could’ve been at the funeral.  Why, he didn’t really know.  He hadn’t known the spider, or Phillip as the obituary had identified him. 

The money was still there in the kitchen.  It hadn’t felt right to spend it.  But right then, with Phillip’s face staring out at him from the newspaper, Arnold had an idea what to do. 

On 5th and Powell Arnold handed hundreds to two hummingbirds on a date.  It looked like a first from all the nervous flapping going about.  The cabbie who picked him up got a fat tip and a fifty on the floor for his next customer.  A paperboy on the corner accepted a high five and came out a hundred richer.  A lopsided table at the cafe got evened by a thick fold of Franklins.

With his stack now only a few green sheets Arnold scanned the street for his last big waste.  He didn’t have to look long.  

On a bench outside the park sat a scorpion.  Her skinny legs, white abdomen hair, and limply hanging stinger placed her age somewhere around very old.  A brown bag barely concealing an empty 40 sat on the ground at her feet.  Arnold watched the old bug for a minute, then dipped inside the nearest convenience store. 

The scorpion didn’t see Arnold coming, jumping when he sat on the bench beside her.  He handed the old bug a brown bag, a matching one in his other hand.

“Don’t ask why,” Arnold said, holding up his 40 and tipping it, splashing malt liquor onto the pavement.  He looked to his new drinking buddy and waited for her to follow suit.  After a momentary indecision, the old bug did.

“Seems like a waste,” the scorpion said.  

Arnold nodded.

“It was.”

END