Hertz, Don't It?

Harold didn’t have an anger problem, goddammit, and if you keep it up, he’ll punch you right in the fuckin’ face. He was a sensitive and tightly-wound old man. He cared about the welfare of others, which was head and shoulders over most of the other assholes in this neighborhood. He had a keen sense of justice, and always sought to find the high ground in any situation. Harold’s track record wasn’t really all that great, of course; but hey, kudos to him for trying. He was kind to animals and children—well, most children. There was that time he turned the hose on that little bastard that wouldn’t stop riding his bike in Harold’s driveway. And the time he made that whole group of kids cry. It was their own damn fault, of course. Harold wouldn’t have to resort to screaming and brandishing a running chainsaw if they would just stay the hell out of his yard and stop throwing their frisbee on his roof. Oh, and don’t forget the time he threw that kid’s skateboard over the side of the Salem-Beverly Bridge. In Harold’s defense, the kid really should not have been skateboarding on the Salem-Beverly Bridge. It’s busy. It’s dangerous.

At least he was kind to animals.

Harold was a simple man. He had his little house and his yard, and his nice view of Collins Cove. He liked to watch the people jogging and walking their dogs (and they had better be picking up after their dogs) and laying out on the sand in the summer. He liked to watch the tide go in and out, the seagulls, the occasional kayaker or paddle boarder out on the water when the tide was high. Kids playing ball in the park, as long as they didn’t start vandalizing the benches or whatever other destructive shit kids do for whatever reason. Collins Cove was, most times, a quaint and nice place to live.

Harold loved to walk up Arbella Street on the one side, or the bike path on the other, on his way to New Market to buy his Winstons every few days. He had cut down from a pack a day because of his goddamn, goody-two-shoes doctor’s unsolicited advice. I mean, who do these overeducated douchebags think they are, anyway? What the hell was next? No more rum nips, Mr. Callahan, alcohol is bad for you. Well, thank-you for sucking the fun out of the last few tired years of my life, Doctor Douchebag.

Anyway, Harold loved to walk over to New Market, and he would chat with Hussein, the owner, about the weather, or the most recent bombing attempt at The Satanic Temple up the street, or how much the Red Sox were sucking this summer, and he would buy his Winstons, and he would smoke one on his way back home. And he would look at all the pretty girls that he couldn’t do anything with even if they wanted it from a crotchety old man for whatever reason. And that was because the massive amount of blood pressure medication he was on made it impossible for Mr.  John Thursday to even stand at attention anymore (thanks again, Doctor Douchebag).

One pleasant summer morning in early July, while returning from one of his New Market ventures, Harold noticed a big, yellow truck parked at the end of Arbella Street, right along the water. The word ‘Hertz’ was written on the side in black letters. “Great,” Harold said to himself, dragging on his cigarette. “Another asshole moving in.” He thought for a moment. “Or moving out. Let’s be optimistic.” Harold walked past the truck and peeked in the cab as he went. A filthy microwave sat on the passenger seat amongst two or three smaller boxes, a roll of packing tape, and other such moving-related clutter. “Disgusting,” Harold said, shaking his head, and pitched his butt into the street.

The next morning, when Harold went out on his front porch to smoke his first cigarette of the day with his first cup of coffee, he noticed that the Hertz truck was still there. He lit his Winston and glared. “Why is that hunk of shit still there,” Harold said more than asked himself. “It’s ruining my view.”

When he went out for his second cigarette a few hours later, after watching the news and that son-of-a-bitching meteorologist, Jason Mikell and his dumb shaved head that made him look like a thumb, Harold was royally pissed off to see the Hertz truck still sitting there. “What in the ever living Jesus H. Christ,” he said. “Why has that thing still not moved!” It was no longer a statement, but an exclamation.

Life has a tendency to happen, and it just so happened that a few days after the Hertz truck arrived to torment him, Harold had a minor medical event which caused him to be kept overnight for observation at Salem Hospital after driving himself in. “I’m not paying $35,000 for a goddamn ambulance!” he vowed, clutching his chest as he weaved and swerved dangerously on the wrong side of Highland Avenue en route. It ended up being nothing very serious, mind you—no cause for real alarm at the moment—but we just want to make sure you’re ok before we discharge you, Mr. Callahan. We also want to emphasize how important it is for you to relax. Yes, I know it’s a major disruption in your life. No, you may not smoke while in the hospital. In fact, you shouldn’t be smoking at all. Yes, alcohol is bad, too.

Salem Hospital discharged Harold the following morning, earlier than the usual time, because he ended up being such a difficult patient. That was fine with Harold. He needed a cigarette. It was also fine with the doctors and nurses at Salem Hospital. 

When he got home, the first thing that Harold noticed was that the goddamn Hertz truck was still there. His face turned beet red. His hands began to tremble. Harold remembered that the presence of that big, yellow log of shit on wheels was what landed him in the hospital in the first place, so he forced himself to look away. He took some deep breaths, and could smell the salt water from where he stood in his front yard. Harold felt his color return to normal. His hands stopped trembling. Ahhh.

Now, about that cigarette.

Harold avoided his front window that entire day, and started going out onto his back porch for his smoke breaks. He was a little miffed at having to do this—he did love his view of the Cove, after all—but there was plenty to look at back here, and he dealt with it. “It’s just the same old view I’ve always had,” Harold said, kicking a small stone toward his fence, which was in desperate need of repair. “Besides, it’s for my health. I’ll give it a couple of days, and then try taking a quick look out the front door. Just a peek. Just to check. I’m sure it will be gone by then. It has to be. Son-of-a-bitch….”

A couple of days later, the truck wasn’t gone. Harold pulled open the front door, whistling tunelessly, trying to focus his thoughts on some happy, far-off place, and trying to convince himself that the Hertz truck had driven off—maybe late last night—and was hundreds of miles away by now. Or overturned in a ditch somewhere out in Ipswich, for all he cared.

Or it was still right across the goddamn cove! Harold thought, enraged, when he saw the big, yellow monstrosity with its stupid Hertz logo and windshield covered in bird shit. Harold slammed the front door. A picture hanging on the wall nearby fell from its nail and crashed to the floor. Harold stepped over it, unlit Winston dangling from lips pursed so tightly they had turned white, on his way to the back porch.

Days passed. Then weeks. And all the while, Harold Callahan avoided his front door, front window, front yard, and Collins Cove altogether. He walked well out of his way to avoid the bike path running along the water, and ended up going down Fort Avenue onto Cousins Street, right onto English Street, and then left down Essex Street to Walyos Variety Store, which Harold thought sucked. But at least they had his Winstons. He tried to strike up a conversation with the guy at the register about the weather, but it ended up taking too much effort.

Oh, and your store sucks, Harold thought as he walked back outside, smiling and nodding at the greasy, glassy-eyed, mouth-breathing cretin with the stain on his ripped AC/DC shirt behind the counter.

Harold was dejected. He missed his front porch, he missed his view, he missed his walks down Arbella Street and he missed New Market. But Harold also knew that he was a ticking time bomb. If he risked another peek out his front door and that goddamn Hertz truck was still there…. Even the consideration made his color rise and his hands clench into fists. He had resolved himself to an indefinite period of avoidance. Goddammit.

Late that night, as he lay in his bed, listening to the clock ticking out in the hall, Harold slowly became cognizant of an orange glow dancing on his ceiling, faintly. It almost looked like flames. Did I put my cigarette out? he had time to think before dozing off. Two minutes later, an explosion nearly threw Harold out of bed. He screamed and hit the deck. There were definitely the reflection of flames on his ceiling now.

Crawling over to his bedroom window, Harold hesitated before looking out. His window faced the cove, and if that goddamn truck was there, no matter what the hell chaos had descended upon Collins Cove…

…But it wasn’t. Not anymore. The Hertz truck had exploded.

Out on his front porch, puffing merrily on his celebratory Winston, Harold laughed and laughed. He even bobbed and swayed and shimmied back and forth—the single attempt he had ever made to dance. He giggled like a schoolboy, pointed, slapped his knee, hooted and hollered. “Ha ha, asshole!” he cried. “Hurts, don’t it?” In fact, some of the people who had come out of their houses to watch the firefighters extinguishing the burning truck thought that he was the person responsible. Who else would carry on that way while something like this was happening? Who? Someone even called the police and gave them an anonymous tip. Officer Tracy answered, and she thought it was kind of funny, because someone was taken in just a week ago for trying to break the lock on the back of the same truck. Must be cursed, she thought as she jotted down an address, and laughed to herself. Officer Tracy loved Salem.

“Long time, no see, my friend!” Hussein exclaimed as Harold sauntered into New Market the very next day. “Where have you been? Did you have another…event?”

“No, no,” said Harold, waving his hand, “nothing like that. I’m in tip-top health.” He thumped his chest to demonstrate. “I was just away. Can I get a box of Winstons, please?”

Hussein nodded. “Did you hear about the explosion?”

“Sure did. Can I get a lighter, too? No, no, the blue one.”

Apparently, they arrested someone in that house right there. Across the street.”

“Really?”

Hussein nodded. “Molotov cocktail. That’ll be $27.98.”

“Jesus H. Christ, Hussein, you’re killing me!” Harold counted out his money.

Hussein shrugged. “Tough times, my friend.”

In spite of himself, Harold felt his face flush. He watched his hand shaking as it received change. He began to perspire. “This goddamn neighborhood is going straight to hell, Hussein, you know that?” he screamed. “Straight to goddamn hell in a son-of-a-bitching hand basket! I’m glad they caught the degenerate punk!” Harold pocketed his change. “I hope he gets crucified!” he thundered, and stormed out of New Market, fuming.