Comeuppance
Short Fiction (with audio) - Written Fall 2022
Audio (read by the author):
I’m not sure why, but Logan Mendocino wants to kick my ass. Logan Mendocino, who has done time at the Rosedale Rehabilitation & Opportunity Center (The RROC). Logan Mendocino, who skipped 27 days of Sophomore year. Logan Mendocino, who knows taekwondo.
“Good kid,” they say. “He’s really not a bad kid, at the end of the day. He’s just been through a lot.”
Fair enough, but try telling that to my mangled body, clinging desperately to the last precious wisps of life, this afternoon when he finally comes for me.
And if (when) he does, it’s plain for all to see that I won’t stand a chance. I’m nobody’s Francis Ngannou. Logan’s pretty skinny, too, but you can tell he’s got power. He’s a quick-twitch, sneaky-strong, feather-weight grappler, with no regard for his opponent’s safety and one thousand years of hatred in his eyes. Kid’s a beast.
I discovered his intentions roundaboutly.
After school on Wednesday, Austin Muncey passed me standing at my car and whispered, “Good luck this weekend, Jesse.” He walked away shaking his head and laughing the laugh of one who has no choice but to sit back and watch the sick, unstoppable gears turn as they will.
Seeing as I had no plans for the weekend that would require any luck, and based on his condescending, ominous tone, my chronic paranoia flared up something awful: a brutal medical prognosis was coming down the pike and Austin had an inside line with the doctor; my parents had located my modest stash and planned to crack down hard on my sorry ass; Emery Nickels found out how I feel about her and has made her decision.
But not until yesterday (Thursday) did I suspect he meant to indicate that I was in physical danger. Maddie and Steph approached me in the senior lot before first period.
“You know, a lot of shit’s being said about you right now.”
“Good morning to you, too, Stephanie.”
“Seriously, Jesse,” added Maddie, furrowing her brow. “A lot of people are talking about you.”
“Well, you know what I say. You’re nothing if you’re not talked about.”
It’s important not to speak directly to these two. No matter if they themselves raise the topic, never show interest. Even when they try to reel you in, they’ll pull away and act aloof if you take the bait. Best to play it cool.
Steph said, to Maddie: “He’s helpless.”
“C’mon, Steph, he needs us.”
“Psh!” added I, indignantly.
“It’s his funeral.”
But, goddamnit, they must know something. It’s undeniable that they have their fingers in many pies.
I decided to take the middle path: start dancing around what they might be referring to, but skip the “please please please tell me, I’ll be thankful forever” routine. The only way they’d let slip is if they thought I already knew.
“Y’all have been talking to Austin Muncey, haven’t you?” I ventured.
They stared at me disdainfully for a beat and then broke out in vicious laughter. Apparently I’d overplayed my hand.
“Oh boy,” Maddie said, as they walked away. “He’s more fucked than I thought.”
The strange thing is, I really couldn’t think of anything I’d said or done recently that would get people talking and in such distressing abundance (according to these unforthcoming informants). No more than normal, that is. If anything, I’d been talking less shit, as of late. Certainly didn’t have any actual, full-blown beef with anyone.
There’d been times in the past, sure, that I’d run my mouth a bit too much about the wrong sorts of people and should’ve probably had my teeth kicked in a few times as a result. Maybe this new episode was the sins of my past, finally come knocking to settle the score. Maybe all the knuckleheads I’d undermined and halfway inadvertently pitted against one another had gotten wise to my ways and formed a militia to take me down. Can’t be too pressed about it, really. Comeuppance is a bitch.
After my first class, Stats, I came across Logan in the hallway. He had with him an unusually organized formation of disciples, walking through the school as if on some unsavory bullying errand. They weren’t the most traditionally rough and tumble bunch, but their faces were contorted to express malicious intent. It seemed to me they should have been snapping their fingers in unison with every step.
Unalerted, at that point, that my worries had anything to do with this bonobo and his flaky-skinned henchmen, I found their “stay out of our way” shtick amusing. But, not one to test any potentially perilous waters even when amused, I stayed out of their way alright.
Still, despite my strategy of cowering against the be-lockered wall, they slowed, semi-circled up, and began whispering and giggling in a way that could’ve deflated all the intimidation they’d worked so hard to cultivate but, sadly, didn’t. In reality, there were probably only about four of them. But even just one would have been enough to send me running home to my mommy, had they not had me cornered.
“Spriggs,” Logan said. No one had ever called me Spriggs. Not even sports coaches in middle school. I guess when you intend on fighting someone, you automatically end up on a last-name-basis with them. “Look me in the eye, bro.”
I would not. Last thing I planned on doing. I’d kiss him on the mouth before I looked him in the eye.
“Whatever. Meet me at the firehouse tomorrow after 4th period. Don’t pussy out. Everyone will be there.”
Jesus.
Logan head-faked at me as if tomorrow afternoon was too long to wait. Did I flinch? I sure did. With whoops and guffaws, the gaggle left me curled in the place where the lockers met the cold, dirty, vinyl floors.
Before you go saying, “Ooh! The firehouse! Dashing, muscular firemen with mustaches will be onsite to save you!” keep in mind that the firehouse is long since abandoned by any emergency personnel or first responders. Nowadays, it’s occupied by a nice little local coffee shop with pretty laissez-faire policies concerning what goes on in their parking lot. The firehouse was far enough away to not technically be school property, but close enough that every one of our peers would naturally gravitate towards it if they saw a crowd beginning to form. I couldn’t deny, it was the ideal venue for our one-sided grudge match.
Putting aside the idea that “everyone will be there” was a claim that was supposed to encourage me to show up rather than flee the country, my main query, if I could be so bold as to venture one, was, essentially, why me?
Logan Mendocino meant very little to me. The most time we’d spent together was as fellow members of the 8th grade b-team defensive secondary. Since then, we said “hi” to each other in the hallway about 1 out of every 3 times we passed each other, mostly when there was no avoiding eye contact without it being obvious. He hung out with dirty stoners who got into trouble, I hung out with respectable stoners who got away with everything. The only time I’d paid him any significant thought within the past year was when his girlfriend, Lucia, dumped him and seamlessly infiltrated my friend group. Turns out she was way cooler than we’d assumed. But even getting to know his ex gave me no reason to assume he was worth noticing.
Maybe he wished to beat the apathy out of me. “Here I am! I’m important!” If he could rock my shit in front of everyone we knew, we’d have to keep him in mind for at least a few weeks. Or maybe I was simply the first in a long string of kids he planned to invite behind Firehouse Coffee and teach a lesson. He might have been looking to bolster his boxing resume. Someday I’d be nothing but a nameless tally on his amateur record. Setting his sights low to start, I guess. Possibly wise. Or was it impersonal, categorical trouble he was after? A foolhardy juvie-wish or misguided reputation builder.
Apparently my internal agitation had a sort of audible whimpering component as I remained on the floor of the empty school hallway. Scott Ohto, my sophomore English teacher, who I hadn’t spoken to in at least a year and a half, came out of his class to see what was the matter. Imagining he had come to reprimand me for truancy (the bell for second period having rung at some point during Logan’s invitation), I made a sloppy attempt to get to my feet and stagger backwards and away. But, mercifully (or maybe just dutifully, as a member of the school faculty), he showed concern.
“Jesse, what are you doing on the ground?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ohto.”
“No need to apologize, but what’s going on? Do you need help?”
“Ask me again tomorrow evening.”
After school, I drove straight home in order to confer with my consigliere and younger sister, Summer, who always seemed to know more about the storylines in my grade than I did. As if I was a contestant on something like Survivor and she, an avid fan of the show.
“People are still pissed at you for the Damien Snee thing.”
“That was a joke. Plus why would Logan care about that?”
“I’m just letting you know. Geez.”
“What else?”
“I think Steph has been telling people about New Years.”
“That’s just hurtful. And unhelpful.”
“You come to me for information. And then get mad at what you hear. I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to help me out here! What can I do?”
“Well maybe try being less of a low-grade asshole all of the time.”
“Little too late for that now!”
Now it’s Friday, 3rd period. Slept the whole night last night, but had a dream that I stayed wide awake in my miserable bedroom, with a pounding headache, for roughly 48 hours. So now, effectively, I’m 6 times less well-rested than I would have been had I just not slept at all.
Haven’t been able to sit still or even face forward in either of my two classes so far. No one’s said a word to me all day. No Maddies and Stephs come to freak me out further. The warning phase is over. The thing now is to treat me like I don’t exist until we all meet up in that fateful parking lot.
It is evident that all my teachers know. They haven’t corrected my posture. They’ve made no effort to get me involved in the lesson plans. Not a single “Jesse! Pay attention!”, which would feel like a warm hug at this point. They plan to stop by “for coffee” after school and just so happen to catch glimpses of me getting what I’ve always deserved out of the corner of their eyes.
Despite the radio silence, I have some idea of how the general populace is handling this situation. Mostly because I have functioned as master of ceremonies and ringleader for a few comparable scenarios, when I wasn’t party to the activity itself.
Basically, it’s Christmas morning for them.
Today has become one of those Fridays when the anticipation and thrill throughout the school day ends up being more enjoyable than the main event the excitement was all about. Like the Friday before a three day weekend, or the day of an important Girl’s Volleyball game at a rival high school everyone plans on attending. Or even the day before summer vacation.
Folks are running between classes to try and speed the day up. Meetings are taking place in bathrooms when kids should be in class, just to pass around vapes discuss plans to get the best seats. Bets are being placed at steep odds. Even against the financial incentive, all the action is on Mendocino.
The problem with only a single day’s notice is he caught me woefully underprepared. I never had the time to find the silent kid with long black hair and a violent past to lead me through an impressive training montage. He’s probably training Logan instead.
The truth is, I’m sure I do deserve whatever I have coming.
Last month, Ed, one of my few remaining allies, texted me, “Why the fuck would you do that?”
The permanent lump in my chest shot downwards through my stomach and began rounding the first few turns of my small intestine. Genuinely wondering, I texted back, “What did I do?”
He didn’t answer. After a couple minutes, I called him, he declined my call and texted “nope,” and I entered a spiral of broad, visceral panic.
Truthfully, I can’t speak to why I do much of what I do. For Ed to be pissed, though, it must have been something. I racked my brain as hard as I could, lying down, face in pillow, closing my eyes and envisioning every conversation I’d ever had in which Ed’s name came up.
In my heart (or wherever this type of thing resides), I felt no ill-will towards Ed. More precisely, I felt nothing but admiration and gratitude for him. We weren’t exactly thick as thieves, but he’s never seemed to be rubbed the wrong way by me, which is grounds enough for a friendship in my book. Pretty low bar, I admit, but that’s where we’re at, these days.
I couldn’t imagine why I would have talked down on him or done anything to publicly soil his good name. But “why” had no part in this. Reason or not, I knew I was capable of it. The guilt that overtook my body upon getting his text confirmed my culpability. I knew the other shoe had to drop. But I’d constructed such a substantial web of malicious gossip that I’d forgotten when the first shoe did.
He left me in the dark for 30 minutes. Finally, he called me and said, “Yo! What’s up?”
Shocked at his nonchalance, but careful to withhold any discernible relief, I hesitated a moment, then said, “Are you mad at me?”
“Course not. What’s good?”
I never got an explanation. I’ve been too scared to ask. My most plausible hypothesis is that he felt pity for me and pushed down whatever anger he’d been feeling because he didn’t care to join the chorus of my detractors.
I make a break for it, skip 4th period, begin walking. It would be fair to say, if you must attach words to it, that everything is literally spinning. Not literally. Like, none of the stuff is actually moving. But physically. As in, within my physical mind, it seems like everything (e.g. the hallway, the double doors, the sidewalk and grass on either side, the parked cars I have to take care not to run into due to loss of balance, myself) is going round and round. Which is, you might imagine, an unpleasant sensation.
The only thing to do is to continue moving until the spinning stops or Saturday morning comes and the Firehouse incident has passed. Or to continue moving through the rest of senior year, on through college, into adulthood, when I’ll (hopefully) develop the ability to no longer provoke those around me to the point of violence.
I’m not afraid of the physical pain; at least I don’t think I am. My body is among the least of my concerns when compared to such important concepts as my reputation.
“Everyone will be there.”
Sheesh.
I tell myself I wouldn’t even mind the attention; maybe I’d come out as the victim and win some paltry notoriety for that. Nothing I couldn’t laugh off in a week or two as a crazy story I’d become randomly wrapped up in.
What I’m worried about, though, what, if I had to guess, these disorienting and, come to think of it, deeply unnatural spins are all about, is that Logan Mendocino, Austin Muncey, the gang of 4 who cornered me in the hallway, Steph, Maddie, Emery Nickels, the Firehouse Coffee staff, Summer, who isn’t above watching a little recreational violence even at her brother’s expense, and everyone else out there who wishes me ill will are right. That I deserve the worst and I’m gonna get it. That this pummeling is but the first in a series of embarrassments and humiliations the crowd I’m stuck with have planned for me. That my life is a Truman-Show-esque staged performance, but that instead of a curiosity-based, generally benevolent fishbowl, it’s all a big torture chamber. And that it’s all of my own creation.
Dear God, if you’re out there, I understand now what it is you’re trying to teach me. Your methods might be a little heavy handed, but, hey, who am I to tell you how to do your job? I get it, I’ve been bad. I don’t care about anyone but myself. I’m Ebenezer Scrooge. I am! There’s really no need to go through with this. The threat itself has been plenty to show me the error of my ways. Call off your demons. I’ve had enough. Trust me, I’ll be different. You think I’m just saying this to avoid the punishment you’ve lined up for me? Maybe. But if you wanted me to change all on my own, what's the point of the punishment in the first place? Isn’t this whole thing designed to scare me into behaving? You can’t have it both ways, bud. Anyways, you get what I’m saying. Send me an escape pod, stat. I’m desperate here. K thanks, bye. Amen.
Feeling somewhat reassured, but still lying in the middle of the street (which I guess is why the spinning has felt a bit more manageable for the past couple minutes), I realize a car has stopped and a Being of Infinite Compassion is walking towards me. Surely: the angel sent to answer my prayer.
“Jesse?”
“Mr. Ohto?”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Maybe?”
“Come on. I’ll take you home.”
“That’s ok, Mr. Ohto. You’re not supposed to know where I live.”
But I know a way out when I see one, so I load my weary bones into the back seat of his car and drape myself over it in the style of one of those melting clocks in a Dali painting.
I might have passed out in the car ride out of relief, an overload of conflicting neurotransmitters floating around my noggin, or pure confusion. But, I can’t imagine I was out for very long. The ride has seemed far too quick for him to be pulling into my driveway so soon. Plus I never gave him my address.
Nonetheless, he says, “We’re here.”
I look up, but not before the backseat door above me is jerked open and both my arms seized by unfriendly forces. They drag me out, making no effort to stabilize the head. They lug me over, kicking and screaming, behind the coffee shop, through the fiendish crowd, onto the pavement, and into the cold embrace of my doom.
This is not a cry for sympathy, the sad monologue of a boy whose own big mouth has failed him one too many times. Nor is it a cautionary tale for those of you who, like me, have no control over their own actions. Nor am I whining that there’s no rest for the wicked. There isn’t, but I guess that’s how it should be.
The toast of karma is not buttered evenly. The amount of butter applied is proper. It’s just that some parts of the bread are empty for bites at a time and then other times, you come across thick, runny globs like you’d never expect. And you think, “Hey! Where was all this for those last, dry bites?” Or maybe what I mean is that the butter of karma applied to the toast of life is spread by a reckless hand. But that implies some sort of agency. If there was any agency at play, the spread job would be a lot more tidy. Maybe karma can’t be thought of in regards to bread.
Either way, I guess what I’m saying is: eventually, we get what we deserve. I sure did.
Hey Jack, I have a somewhat scattershot approach to your entries. Today I was walking and wanted an audio file. Loved Comeuppance! Also loved you reading it. This might get me in trouble, but my enjoyment of your reading leads me to give my opinion on the Camembert‘s Kitchen. Having read it first myself, then listened to the audio file, I found the narrator read too quickly and swallowed the end of sentences. The story, your writing, has too much information and nuance packed into every word, and sentence to let some of it go unheard. I think you should re-record it yourself.