My neighbor two doors down in my apartment building bought a new TV with the money he got for reporting Teddy to crimestoppers. Teddy was too drunk to go anywhere, so he tried stealing a stereo form one of the cars in our lot in the back. As it turns out, somebody else had had this idea long before Teddy and had been doing just that for the past few weeks. This guy was much better at it, though. No punching through windows or anything. He usually just put a strip of steel in under the window and popped the locks. He never took the cars, just whatever shit he found inside. Kind of like what Teddy had in mind. But this guy never got caught. Fortunately for Teddy though, he had set the precedent, and now my buddy’s taken the fall for this other asshole.
Well, they’re both assholes.
And so is my neighbor.
He didn’t have to call Teddy in. He could have told him to fuck off. He knows who Teddy is. But he also knew he could make a quick five-hundred or whatever he did by telling the cops that this was the guy who had been doing it all along.
Now I know what you’re thinking. That it’s obvious that I’m going to rip off this scheme to get Teddy out on bail. But it’s not my style. I thought of that right away. Soon as that dumbass cop told me that some dumbass guy called Teddy in. Everyone in the building knows us. One way or another. So the only way he’d get called in was for someone else’s benefit. Even the two old chicks that always ask if we’re eating well know us. They call me “deary” and “young man.” So someone knew there was a few bucks to be made at Teddy’s expense. My expense.
So I’m hanging out near the pub that Teddy and I started going to the year he stopped hearing from his parents during the holidays. There’s guys in there that I see in passing every night. I always wonder when it will be that Teddy and I have to fight them.
These guys always look like they could fuck us up. If they could walk straight. Which is never. They do always ask us for a couple of bucks for drinks. We always give it to them. My life is kind of like grade three in that way.
Anyways, tonight I figure I’m going to ask them if I can give them money before they ask me for some. Beat them to the punch. It will probably catch them off guard and put them in a good mood. It will probably also get them to do whatever little thing I ask. I’ll probably ask them to rough up the next group of guys that comes out of the bar.
I do.
They will.
I wait at the payphone across the street.
I dial the number. I tell them that I think I know where these guys live. That these guys that have been mugging people in my neighbourhood. The ones that have held up grannies and shit. These guys that aren’t actually the two sixteen year olds that I’ve seen do it before with their knives they bought from Home Depot. They tell me that someone is on the way.
A half hour later a couple of cops show up. I’m sitting at the bus stop across the street watching the guys get arrested. The one in the hockey jersey tries to punch one of the cops and misses. That’s going to look good on me. I helped catch some potential cop-killers tonight.
Well, that’s what they’ll think.
They’ll Thank fucking God these guys aren’t out on the streets anymore. I’ll cash in and Teddy and I can eat at Boston Pizza tomorrow with whatever’s left over after the two-hundred.
So I’m on the phone with the crimestoppers bitch. She’s telling me how my call was important to them. She’s telling me how my cheque for one hundred is in the mail. Ten business days. Thanks for helping keep the city safe. You’re a good citizen.
Do I have to get someone to actually kill a cop to make some money around here?
Fuck.
I need money. And I don’t want to steal. I’m a man of few principles but that one stands. Taking is not earning. There’s a difference.
The red and gold carpeting that’s all over my apartment, even in the kitchen, is spotted with stains.
I miss Teddy and it’s only been one night. I don’t even know what they do to guys like him. He’ll probably just go to court and get fined I guess. Maybe have to do some community service. Some Whatever work in the Middle of Nowhere.
The lawyer calls and tells me his client is pressing charges. Teddy told the guy’s lawyer to tell me. I don’t know why.
Well, I do know why, but I don’t want it to be my problem. But I can’t help that. His burden is mine, I guess. And it makes sense. Why wouldn’t the guy press charges? Teddy busted up his car and now he’s sitting in a cell. It’s not like he’s some bandit in the night. He’s a fish in a barrel. My fish. Wrong barrel.
They always pick on the innocent. He’s harmless. It’s pretty fucking obvious. The guy doesn’t eat and he only ever really speaks to people other than me if it’s to get food. Everyone knows him because everyone knows me. People treat him like my pet. I resent that, but he doesn’t.
I stopped “work” working when I got hurt. It wasn’t all that bad, but it was enough for a few months off. Few months turned into a few more. The holidays came around.
I got my daughter a really great gift. Bought myself an oven and had a real turkey to myself. Being as busy as I was spending the government’s money, I hadn’t really accounted for what was gonna happen when they figured out I wasn’t hurt anymore. I could move my arm fine now, more or less. Well enough to carve turkey for myself. That’s what they said they had pictures of, at least.
“I can call you once a day, Led.”
Led and Ted. Leonard turn to Leo. Leo was too fruity for me. I can’t dance so I can’t have a name like Leo. I don’t know how to paint, either. I’m not an artist. So Teddy said if it can’t be Leo it was gonna be the first and last letters of my name cause there was no way he was gonna cough up Leonard every time he wanted my attention. So it’s Led, I guess.
“You reload any magazines lately?”
“Stop calling it that. And no. Anything I do isn’t gonna come for at least—“
“Six to eight. I know.”
Teddy falls quiet. Nothing to cling to now.
“I’ll get something.”
“I know.”
“I’ll have better news for you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
“I gotta do, Teddy.”
“Okay.”
I hope they don’t let him make another call tomorrow. I’m not gonna have anything ready by then. I have that first hundred, but that’s about enough to get Teddy’s little finger out of jail.
Grand theft auto? Really? A guy like Teddy? Get serious. It’s always a guy like Teddy that hits the pavement first. So every one else can walk on him.
At night, I think about him sitting in the cell. I think about him there like some stupid kid would think about a puppy he saw at the store, still in his store cage. I want to take care of him, I want to feed him, I want him to be a good boy.
Fuck.
He is my pet.
Okay, time to stop thinking like that. I need to help him. In a normal way. Not a puppy-in-the-pound way.
Too bad I can’t afford a lawyer.
Or food.
Or anything.
It’s gonna be hard figuring this out on an empty stomach.
Teddy calls while I’m eating the last of the beef-a-roni. It rings once and I curb the impulse to jump up and grab it. Maybe they let him out and he’s calling for a ride home. I shouldn’t seem so eager though. I gotta be level-headed for him.
It rings again, and I take another bite.
It rings again, and I mash up the noodles, squishing them against the roof of my mouth.
It rings, I stir my beef-a-rony.
It rings, I look at the phone.
No more rings. I take a slow bite. Nothing.
He’ll call again tomorrow.
The next day, I sit down with my bic pens, about to write to Latter-Day Saints about the after school care program I’m setting up for the neighborhood. I’m about to list out the most expensive Christian books we’re going to need, and suggest an allowance for our program with a nudge that they should be providing it. Later, I’ll go downtown and snap some shots of the daycare near city hall and mail those out in a few weeks, after the books come. Those kids always look so happy there.
The phone rings.
Shit, it’s Teddy.
I’m writing Teddy, I’m writing. I’m trying. I’m trying to think of something faster that it’ll take to send this stuff out.
It’s still ringing. I pick it up.
“Fuck sakes, Led! I tho-”
“Don’t talk to me like that I’m trying to help you.”
“What? Help me? Where were you yesterday, Led? I called. I only get one call. I told you that. Who am I supposed to talk to here, Led?”
“I know. I was out, taking pictures of the daycare.”
“Oh. Nice. The Church always sends us gold. But that’s…it’s gonna take a long time, Led.”
“I know, Teddy.”
I’m snapping photos of this real ugly bastard. Five feet tall. Picking his nose. Looks like he could be shaving already. I’m not taking pictures of him because I think he’ll get me some sympathy and a few extra dollars from the Church—I’m taking his picture because this kid fascinates me. He’s a primate. Well, so am I, but this kid is the prototype. He looks more like a monkey than any monkey I’ve ever seen, except all dressed up in a white and orange toque with a blue, puffy marshmallow jacket.
I’m afraid he’s going to notice me. That he’s gonna start screaming and beating his fists on the ground—that’ll he want to take me by the throat after he leaps, in a single bound, over the chain-link fence separating us.
Taking pictures of these kids has always felt like hunting.
I’ve never been caught, and these kids are the cute kind of eye-sore that the mags love, so—until I get caught—there’s no reason not to shoot here.
The air is cold and this kid’s frozen snot is starting to itch my gag reflex, so I start scanning the crowd.
Maybe I can get a shot of a few munchkins on the swings. That’s always a gem, getting one of those nice pictures with the kid on the upswing, stupid grin all over his face, lovin’ every second of that weightless freedom. That shot, that kid on the swing—no matter what the weather, no matter what color the kid—it always make my article go down smooth.
So I’m gonna wait for that.
I have the worst camera. I still have to develop this shit myself. I don’t have to, but I do if I don’t want Wal-Mart calling the cops on my ass because of all the surveillance type photos I take of children, having some guys with neckties and badges bust my nice door down. So I got a dark room.
And I hate it. I had to teach myself to use it. I’m alone in here, in this weird Dracula lighting and it freaks me out sometimes. I just concentrate on the pictures—try to think about what the little fat kid’s name will be when I write my letter. Who pigtail girl will be. Will she have disease? Does the black kid have a daddy? Does snot not-nosed ugly kid have any friends? Who knows.
The mystery is all in my letter. And donors are going to solve it with dollars.
