Mr. Ed had come to believe that he had an angel on his shoulder: just a week ago it seemed that he would be implicated for murder. Then the most unlikely thing happened. The bad element that had come to torment his life turned out to be hunted down by another element that had tormented Martossa in the past. Mr. Ed had been there when it had happened and he discretely slipped away.
Since that day Mr. Ed had asked himself why he deserved this much good luck, because as Mr. Ed himself, or any other person would state, Mr. Ed wasn’t a particularly good man. There was the fact that he had created employment through his frozen pizza plant, but the way he went about his business and the things that he did in his free time didn’t exactly balance the score.
In a way how Mr. Ed judged himself came down to that old question of good and evil: does a certain measure of good, justify an evil? These kind of deliberations usually end up in a concentration camp where an evil doctor experiments on victims for the good of science. At heart Mr. Ed knew very well that good and evil are not balances, but instead they are different realms. A person is either good or bad and it seems there’s little room for a middle ground, unless for those poor office drones that have all the passion sapped out of them.
What Mr. Ed didn’t know was that according to those that he spoke with as a therapist, was that they considered Mr. Ed to be a good man, mostly because he had all given them good advise. The strange, or insidious thing is that all of them saw what lurked beneath the surface, but they were all willing to give Mr. Ed the benefit of the doubt.
1
The news of the death of the Debt Collector had spread quickly around town and by the time the Sheriff and coroner came down there was a large crowd. In a way the mutual murder had been the kind of cleansing that could only be reconciled with bloodshed. Victor Vaughn had been the bad news and a bad element that his death by a bullet in the skull was a good thing instead of the bad that a murder usually was. Then again, the other guy that got killed by a bullet from Victor Vaughn was also bad news and he was also sorely missed.
It was almost like a revolution had taken place —the kind that overthrows dictatorships that can only end by the public lynching of its illegitimate head of state. In a revolution the tragedy is already implied, revolution, revolt, which is a turning like a wheel, which already implies that a new kind of torment will present itself in some future.
On the other hand, that might also be considered the kind of doomsday preaching that feeds on the bad that will come. The simple fact is that the bad thing will always come for us, because there will always be a bad corner, or a bad alley where dungeons await, like a predator waiting patiently for its prey.
It was just that, statistically speaking, bad things happened more frequently in Martossa and some Martossians had started to believe that it was somehow pre-ordained.
2
A few weeks had passed and Bradley was brooding on what he could put his mind to. On a subconscious level he must have registered what Mr. Ed had said about the life of the mind. What Mr. Ed had only said in so many words was that the life of the mind might be something that would help us pull through rough stretches, whether they are tough or plain boring like a desert road.
After a little over two months, the three instances when the wicked voice had entered Bradley’s mind were still fresh enough to keep him on edge. The memory of those three times had very subtly warped into this notion that those three times would make him into a schizo, but at the same time he was unwilling to just give in like that. On some level whether it was fact or fiction was irrelevant, simply because for a schizo it was always subjective, an account that was relayed to professionals and documented in reports. Then there were the manifestations that could be observed: a complete melt-down and dysfunction. Those reports were facts that could’t be changed and also the foundation for the diagnosis of schizophrenia.
No one knew of those three instances and that fact gave Bradley leeway to redefine those three instances into a fiction —for all intents and purposes it had never happened and he was as normal as the next 16 year old. He was still in full control, as Mr. Ed might have put it.
*
Forgetting and processing takes time and Bradley simply needed something to put his mind to. Sometimes the solution to problems is right in front of us and we know this in the back of our heads.
Since the summer two modern classic cars had been for sale by a guy on the edge of town who claimed that he had bought the two carsa good ten years ago, but he never came around to doing the work needed to fix them up. In his yard this guy had two Mitsubishi Starion’s, one from ‘84 and the other of ‘86. These cars are older than Bradley himself, but there’s just something about the 80s design of these coupes. These cars have a very distinctive slick line, headlights that pop up, a chunked dashboard and what can only be described as an 80s swagger.
Bradley had his eye on those two cars since the summer and until recently he hadn’t seriously considered buying one of them. Fixing up old cars is something though that almost came with the territory: his dad, Ian, had always had a ‘68 Mustang that he spend a lot of time fixing and fine-tuning. When Bradley finally asked his dad to have the car registered under his name, he didn’t need to think twice.
Bradley’s mother, Holly, wasn’t too thrilled about buying the car at first. She worried about Bradley’s school performance, his safety in case the car broke down at high speed, but at the same time she realized that it might be something that he would really like and that would help to sustain the bond with his father.
*
After four weeks the car was running and Bradley could take it for a spin. The engine was running, but it didn’t run smoothly. It sounded like it may need to be taken apart to clean its smallest parts and replace components, such as belts and hoses that were past being worn out. At this point it also looked like an old car, because it needed a very thorough paint job to bring it back to any kind of glory.
Bradley drove down to the lot with the junked up cars where they used to hang out and where Victor Vaughn and the other guy had murdered each other. The bikes of Brandon, Tommie-Lee and Bobby were where they usually stashed their bikes, but they weren’t around. Bradley knew that this probably meant that they had gone fishing. He had parked the car and gone down to the water.
“You guys want to see my ride?” Bradley asked when he was near.
“We don’t see this guys for weeks and all of a sudden he pops up….” Tommie-Lee says in a fake gangster voice, “We thought you ran off with some girl or something.”
They all start laughing at that, because they know that Bradley still harbors something for Cassie, but according to them he’s too chickenshit to pursue it.
“What can I say….” Bradley says, “There was a certain golden opportunity.”
“That’s good, man,” Brandon says, “It’s better to do something than to just fuck around all the time.”
“Are you calling us dipshits?” Bobby asks.
“Not you, us,” Brandon says, “We all ain’t exactly the smartest kids on the block, but he, this kid, he’s got a real chance.”
“He’s just messing with you guys,” Bradley says, “It’s just an old car that I’m fixing up. Nothing fancy schmancy.”
“Let’s check out this ride,” Tommie-Lee says and he starts tying the fishing line to a tree, “You never know when fish is gonna bite.”
*
Bradley shows them the car. Dented, scratched, faded paint and an engine that runs like it has a cold. The guys don’t look too impressed.
“I know,” Bradley says, “But listen to this….”
Bradley revs the engine to 5000 rpm and the sound of the raw power gives a glimpse of what’s under the hood and what this ride can be restored back into.
They all return back to the beach and continue fishing together. They catch a few fish, roast it on the fire and sit around and talk until midnight.
*
“You’ll remember this drive,” Ian said, when Bradley returned, “Right now it’s running, but it’s running like an old heap of junk. Just wait and see in a few months: the engine will be thoroughly cleaned, it will have a new paint job and the interior will be updated.”
“Can’t wait to get started,” Bradley said, “Where should I start?”
“We’ll lift the engine out tomorrow and then the hard part comes,” Ian said, “Taking it apart and arranging the pieces in such a way that you’ll be able to put it back together after.”
“How long would that take?”
“Depends on the time that you have,” Ian said, “But since it’s mostly the evening hours, it will take a few weeks.”
“I don’t mind,” Bradley said and he could already picture the restored car before him: swift and cool and totally back to the future.
3
Mr. Ed was on the other end of town. Even though he was sure that no one saw him near the kill-site, he still had this very strong feeling that it would be better for him to stay low for a while. And that’s exactly what Mr. Ed did.
Bradley was obsessing over his car and therapy wasn’t on his mind that week.
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