Payoffs

Five minutes in the bank line, and I’m hoping I get the attractive woman as my teller. Landing in front of the older, married fella would be odd for both of us.  

It works out. I approach the smiling Jillian, who certainly didn’t wake up this morning expecting the kind of deposit I’m going to make.

“Can I help you?” she says to me as I get to her plexiglass.

I make sure my phone is angled correctly, and while looking at her nametag, I say, “I’m in love with you, Jillian.”

Her lips curl into a scowl.

“Excuse me?”  Her face defines dumbfounded.

I respond. “Sorry. I know we have never met, but when you know, you know. I saw you when I came in, I watched you while I was in line, and yeah, I’m definitely in love with you.”

Jillian looks side to side at her colleagues to see if any of them are responsible for me. When she realizes nobody at her workplace put me up to this, she looks back at me.

“I’m going to get my manager.”  She makes a determined move like she plans to have a higher-up come over to bring me down.

“Wait. Hold on, Jillian. You don’t need to get anyone. I’m leaving. I just needed to say that.”

I quickly walk away.

As I head out the front doors, I turn off the video on my phone and text it to Jeff. 

Jeff is the guy I lost the bet to, and he always insists on video proof of my payoff. 

“Express your love to a complete stranger in a public place” was my bookie’s demand since I couldn’t pay my debt with cash.

I bet $500 on the Cowboys. 
Never smart.  
Especially when you don’t have the money to pay.

Thankfully, Jeff is not a knuckle-breaking sort of bookie. He’s got a YouTube channel with a million followers, where he features fools like me shaming themselves in various ways to pay their debts. He makes more money from advertisers than he would if I paid him actual dollars.

Works out for both of us.  

As I step into the bank parking lot, I approach my car, which has some worried people standing near it, pointing at the pounding coming from my trunk.

Ah, the sounds of my second payoff. 

“Put a drunk stranger into your trunk for an hour.” 

That was for the $4,000 bet I made on the Lakers. 

And I do have video proof it wasn’t kidnapping – dumb, hammered, college kid just climbed into my trunk thinking it was his pub-crawl Uber, I guess.

I comfort the onlookers. “Stupid fraternity dare.”

They buy it.

I’m sure glad the guy knocked. I had forgotten about him. 

He’s been in there since last night.

I’m a jerk and an idiot -

With three more bets to pay off…


The worst payoff will be for the $7,000 bet I made on a badminton match.  

Who bets on a badminton match?  

Well, I do.  And I had good reason (for a degenerate gambler).
After a night of drinking a gallon of Baiju, I had a dream about playing backyard badminton with a handsome panda who was a total beast with a birdie. So, foolishly I thought this was a supernatural sign I needed to drop a major bet on whatever Chinese badminton player I could find the next day.  Jeff usually doesn’t take badminton bets, but after hearing my reasons for doing so and after some research that showed my Panda pick was up against the top Thai player in the world, he was happy to indulge my dreams.

When my human panda was soundly beaten, Jeff issued the payoff I dread the most: Run naked down Rodeo Drive from Wilshire up to Little Santa Monica while loudly singing the Baby Shark song.  Why do I so dread this streak? I’m not fast, I’m not well-endowed, the Beverly Hills Cops are hard to evade, and I will need to convince someone to run alongside me to video my live-action mini-marathon of shame.  Who wants to be an accomplice for this embarrassing crime?  I have no friends and obviously no cash to drop on a stranger for this favor. Where is Eric Andre when you really need him?

But that payoff must come later today.  
First, to pop the trunk and set my young captive free.  

When I open it, will he leap out and kill me?  
Or will he be too oxygen-deprived and hungover to do me much damage?
Will he be more Gandhi or Mike Tyson?  
Guess it’s time to find out.
I set my phone to video because Jeff wants to see the post-lock-up altercation about to ensue, and I back up 10 feet to give myself some space to respond.  Then I hit the trunk button on my key fob while quoting Morpheus, “Welcome to the Real-World, Neo!”

Could be my last words…

The trunk door raises, but nobody leaps out. No cursing or violent threats. Just an extended arm and a voice saying, “A hand, please.”

I move toward the trunk with my phone recording.

As I reach out, I point my camera over and catch the most shocking sight. 
A man about 95 years old is in my trunk.

I drop my phone.

How long did I leave this guy in my trunk?

Had 75 years magically passed?

I grab my phone and rewind the video from the night before to see if I captured a geriatric rather than a youth. No. The video shows I’m not crazy. Black-haired, college-age drunk kid begging to get into my trunk.

Contrast that with the gray-haired man who’s taken his place. “A hand, please,” he says again.

Pure Madness.

I pull him out.   He’s wearing the same clothing as the youngster from last night.

“What the hell?” I say. “How…?”

He smiles. “Doesn’t matter. All you need to know is this. I’m here to help with your payoffs. I made a deposit into your account. Check it.”

I open my bank app and am shocked once again.

“There’s a million dollars in there,” I say, flabbergasted.

“Transfer the 20k you owe to Jeff, and let’s move to your other debts. Your real debts.”

“What real debts?”

“You were abandoned by your dad, right? He was a gambling fool, too.”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Now you’ve done the same. You’ve abandoned your wife and son, all to chase that rush. Well, it’s time you fix that. Do right by the ones you left.”

“And I can keep the million bucks?”

“Yes, but I’ve got three payoffs you’ll have to complete first. When those are done, you won’t care about the million anyway.”

I shrug, certain I’ll still care about the million. 
“Okay. What’s first?”

The old man snaps his fingers again, and I’m in a familiar spot staring at someone I haven’t seen in quite some time.

Payoff #1:  

The Bellagio in Vegas has aged, but I think it’s still the coolest spot in town.  I’ve been drunk and broke in every casino in town, but Bellagio is my favorite location to be drunk and broke in.  I won’t give details about the one time that management had to put my alcohol-soaked, tear-stained, and vomit extinguished body onto a moving dolly to get me off of their marble floors, except to say I’ll never forget how kind they were about wheeling me to my room.  They took care of me.  They tucked me in on my side so I wouldn’t choke to death.  They even called me in the morning to check on me.  I was considered a “mini-whale” because of the serious money I spent on their premises.  

Ah, my glory days – filled with shame and waste – shame and waste I can now thankfully afford again with the million dollars now stashed in my account.

The old man with the magic snappers must have read my mind.  “Hey, hey!”  He grabs my chin in his bony fingers and pulls my head back in the proper direction.  “This isn’t a vacation.  Focus.  That’s your first payoff.”

He aims my eyes at my dad, who is wearing a worn tuxedo and flirting with a cocktail waitress forty years his junior.  A young lady willing to allow him to hold her hand just as long as her other hand was free to take his tips.

Such a slimeball human.  And what a Bellagio buzzkill - samurai sword-slashing all my good memories of this place.  My dad belongs at the penny slots downtown.  His presence here takes this five-star resort and immediately turns it into a classless three-star Holiday Inn Express.

“I hope you want me to throw him in a trunk too - or in a hole because I don’t owe that loser anything but pain and suffering.  Look at him.  What a joke!”

Just then, my dad turns his attention away from his waitress and stares at me.  I turn my back to him, wondering if he recognizes me.  He must because he is really boring a hole into me now.  He drops the waitress’s hand and takes two stumbly steps toward me with mouth agape and both hands raised into the air.

“No way!” he yells out.  “No way you are really here!” he says again as he jabs his index finger into the air like he has just accomplished something.  He continues walking over with a look of shock and surprise, rubbing his eyes and his face.

I look over at the old man who is smiling at my father’s approach.  “What is this? My dad has never been this happy to see me.”

“He’s not seeing you, kid.” He gestures at a mirror nearby. “He’s seeing that.”

I turn my head and catch my reflection.  

Oh, my good Lord.  No wonder my dad is heading this way, looking that way.  I’m me, but not me.  My mirror image has shifted.  A LOT!

Five minutes ago, I was a relatively handsome fellow.  Now, I’m a neon yellow elephant.  More accurately, I still have my normal body, but I’ve got a highlighter yellow elephant head atop my neck.  I’m basically Babar, and I’ve got a three-foot trunk curling out over my mouth to prove it.  I’m the elephant man.  “I’m not a human being. I’m a damned jungle animal.”  

I’m staring at my reflection the same way my dad is staring at me until I do the right thing and pass out on the floor.

Two minutes later, when I regain consciousness, I look up at my dad, who is cradling my elephant head in his arms, tears in his eyes.  When he notices my awakening, he raises his hands back up to the ceiling and yelps a sentence I swear he has never said so sincerely, “Thank you, God!”

I let him help me to my feet as I look around for the old man.  He’s nowhere to be found.  

My dad puts his hands onto my shoulders and asks, “Are you okay?  Are you hurt?”

A crowd has formed around us, and iPhones are videoing us.  I am speechless, but I manage a grunt. 

My dad fills the silent void.  “I told a guy last night at the Craps table that I would, well, I was drunk and joking, but that if God sent a yellow, elephant-headed man to me, I would stop gambling, stop drinking, stop cheating, stop, all this.  I was totally kidding.  But now, here you are.  The answer to my prayers.  To my joke.  I didn’t even say Amen.”  He rubs his eyes and his face again.  “You’re real, right?  I mean, you must be real, or all these fools wouldn’t be filming.”  He reaches over and tugs at my head to make sure my elephant head is actually attached.  Then he pulls on my trunk.

I suddenly come back to myself and push his hand away while glancing at the mirror in disgust.  “Yeah, David. I’m real.  Unfortunately, all too real.”

“You can talk!” my dad exclaims.  “And you know my name!?  My Lord, why did I say yellow-headed elephant man?  Oh yeah, I saw it on that weird kid’s t-shirt who was passing by.  And like I said, I was hammered and kidding.  And winning for once.  But f-it all.  I said I would change my ways if you showed up, and I guess I have to do that.”  He turns and takes a few steps away and then back to me.  “Yeah, yeah.  I have to.”

The realization is making him panic.   I’ve seen my dad panic before.  I’ve heard him promise before.  I’ve suffered under far too many of his panic-breaking promises, and so I decide to help him think extra hard about breaking another one.

“David,” I wrap my trunk around his neck and drag him away from the buzzing crowd, and into a family bathroom I can lock us into. “David, sit down.”

My dad slumps onto the toilet seat and stares at me while still muttering to himself about how he has to change – just has to turn it all around this time.

“David, I know you are kinda freaking out right now.  I know me appearing like this, God calling your dumb-ass bluff like this, is messing with you.  And that’s good.  Because this is your last chance.  You do have to change.  You abandoned your wife.  You abandoned your boy.  You have lived like an idiot for your whole adult life.  Now, when you leave this bathroom, you will go to your hotel room, lock yourself in, take the Bible out of the drawer and read it cover to cover.  Then you will go to the nearest church, confess all your stupid sins to whoever is there, and dedicate your life to serving God.  You will be a missionary to the elephant tribes in Africa.  But before you do, you will write your boy a letter apologizing for everything, and you will leave him all of your worldly belongings.  If you don’t, your penis will dry up and fall off, and a group of rodent-headed men will capture you and torture you until you die.  Then you will go to hell and suffer….”
My dad pulls his hands from his eyes and starts shaking them at me.  Tears are pouring out of his eyeholes.  “Stop, stop, stop, Mr. Elephant Man.  I’ve got it.  I don’t need to hear anymore.  I’m gonna do all you said.  Right now.  I’m heading to my room.  I’m gonna read that Bible.  I’m gonna write my idiot son.  I’m gonna become a missionary to whatever elephant tribes I can find.” 

Then before I can stop him, he ducks under my trunk, throws his arms around my neck, and starts weeping so hard that I can feel his whole body shaking.  My made-up speech that came out of my ridiculous yellow elephant head broke him.  It’s like all his rebellion is pouring out, and I’m happy he is going to change, but mostly I’m having a hard time with him calling me an “idiot son.”  

This idiot calling me an idiot?

Can there be a greater insult?

Or is it, as kids like to say:  Takes one to know one? 

Does it just really take an idiot to know another idiot?

As I ponder my own selfish questions and consider asking him why he said his son, me, is an idiot, he lets go of me, and with a head of steam, heads out of the bathroom, past the throng waiting for us to exit.  To his room.  Genesis 1, chapter 1.

I lock the bathroom door behind him and walk to the mirror to stare in wonder and regroup.  As my elephant eyes stare into my reflected elephant eyes, all I can do is shake my big head and identify myself correctly, “You are an idiot.  Same as him.”

As I say those words, a tear of my own drops out onto my yellow trunk, and the old man appears on the toilet seat, snapping his fingers and laughing.  “Nice speech, my friend.  I don’t know where those elephant tribes are located, but I am about 99% certain your dad will find them and be their Billy Graham.”

I give the old man a disdainful look.  “I’m betting you were the guy next to my dad at the Craps table last night, huh?  Hell, you were probably the weird kid who walked by in the elephant t-shirt, too, right?”

He nods, stands up, and moves behind me.  “Your penis warning was a nice touch,” he says, laughing.  “And the rodent people…Creative.”

I wipe the tears out of my eyes and laugh with him.  Despite my boiling anger, I can’t help but laugh along. What else am I gonna do?  This guy just transformed me into an elephant-headed evangelist and my dad into a gospel-minded God-fearer.  If I punch him, I figure my penis will dry up and fall off at his command.  No need for that.

“Okay, so if we are friends now, can you at least give me a name to call you?”

He holds his hand out for a shake and says, “You can call me Mike.”

I shake his hand.  “Well, you can call me the idiot son then.”

He lets go of my hand and puts it on my trunk while closing his eyes.  “No.  That won’t do.  It doesn’t fit.  I’ll call you by your new name.”

My elephant trunk starts to burn, as does my whole elephant head under his touch, and I see a new name appear like a tattoo above my eyes.  “Benjamin.”

“Son of the right hand,” he says as he removes his hand from my head.  “I like that one for you.”

I nod my goofy elephant head, “Okay.”

Mike snaps his fingers in front of my face, and the elephant is replaced by good, old me – or maybe by a good, new me.  As I rub my normal nose wondering what Mike’s deal is with trunks, I smile at myself.

“You ready for payoff #2, Ben?”

Before I can answer, I hear another snap, and we are up and out of Vegas and in a doctor’s waiting room in some small Texas town – staring at the back of the head of my ex-wife, who might be cool with me as Babar, but who surely won’t be happy to see me as me.

Payoff #2:

“Mike, this isn’t going to be good,” I whisper.  “Do I need to look into a mirror before I greet my ex?  Do I have a pig head?”

Mike smiles and whispers back.  “No, Ben.  You already look like a pig to her.  No need to change you up.  Just say hi to her.”

I look at him and see he has transformed himself into a younger Brad Pitt lookalike – The Thelma and Louise version.  And I smack him on the arm.  “Is there a reason for that?”

He just grins wider.  “Just say hi.”  Then he takes his hotness to a comfortable seat on the third row, left side.

Saying “hi” sounds easy, right?  But after how I mistreated this woman in front of me, I would prefer the payoff of running nude down Rodeo and singing Baby Shark.  An unexpected “hi” from me could lead to my crucifixion – a knee to the groin at minimum.  

But Mike is calling my shots, and so I have to oblige.

I take a beat to calm down and watch her toss a few fresh Altoids into her mouth as she prepares to talk to the woman behind the front desk.  Kimmy, my ex, has always been breath conscious.  I never had to worry about her breathing ‘dirty diaper’ in my direction when we were together.  Not even in the mornings when everyone’s breath stinks of rotten mayonnaise and ethanol.  Nope.  The first thing she did when she woke up each day was pop out of bed and head to the tongue scraper station, where Listerine bathed her gums after a thorough double brushing.  

I should have appreciated that more about her.  

Women I’ve been with since our divorce have not been so attentive, and many of them tortured me by laying unbrushed, unscraped Frenchies on me when I was still pillow-headed.  Let me just say that’s a nightmare upon waking.  I might have been having sweet dreams, but morning breath make-out sessions slaughtered them all.  

Kimmy was cool in tons of ways.  I was uncool to her in every way.  And I was the one who filed on her.  I was the one who had her served papers.  At her workplace.  

Kimmy was green grass, but I was a selfish sheep searching for salads made of greener AstroTurf.  And that’s just what I got - AstroTurf.  Fake and spray-painted greener pastures.  Artificial relationships that looked good to the eyes of this stupid sheep, but which trashed my stomach and soul.  Dumb ASStroTurf.  And you know who I feel most sorry for:  Me.  Not her.

I could have been happy with organic green and fresh breath Kimmy.  I should have tried, just once, to make her happy to be with me.  But, instead, I daily mowed her down, edged her crooked with my dull blades, and took a weed eater to her flowerbeds.  When I left, I left her scalped, un-watered, and yellowed, with a gambling debt crushed credit score, a self-esteem to match, and a young kid to figure out.

It's been 7 years since we went final, and from a fast glance at her, I note she has recovered greenly.  Hopefully, she has found a John Deere yardman who has a superior sprinkler system too.  And hopefully, my boy, Cade, has grown up and out as he should – like an oak and not like a weed.  I say hopefully because I wouldn’t know.  I know nothing about either of them now.  I ghosted them both before ghosting was even a thing.  And here I am, a walking scare, about to say “Boo!” to my ex-baby.

Just before she steps into the spot at the front desk, I tap her on the shoulder to get her attention and say, “Hey, Kimmy.”

She swings around at the sound of my familiar voice and lays eyes on me.  Her eyes are blazing and her face crinkling up in shock, and instead of saying something to me, she sucks back a gust of air as if I am a freezing cold pool she has just been pushed into.  This shocked air-suck pulls her Altoids back into the wrong part of her throat, and I watch as my Kimmy gasps for air.  At first, I think all will work itself out.  She will dislodge those air fresheners, regain composure, and then begin beating on me for this unannounced visit that must seem like a “sleeping with the enemy” stalker scenario.  

(Yes, I just referenced a terrible Julia Roberts movie – but since this situation is terrible thus far, I think it fits.)

Back to the scene…

Green grass Kimmy is not doing well with her swallowing.  The Altoids are not dislodging, composure is out of the window, my ex’s face is turning blue, she is clutching at my arms and stumbling around, and in this freaking medical office, nobody is doing a damn thing about it.  It’s like a fire starting at a fire station, and the firemen are too surprised to grab a hose.  Is there a doctor in this house?  I know there is because I see white coats and stethoscopes and a set of golf clubs behind the plexiglass.  So why isn’t anyone with medical training popping out and jamming a straw through Kimmy’s neck so she can breathe through it?  Isn’t that what you do when someone is choking and can’t breathe?

I stare wide-eyed back at my wide-eyed and actively dying ex-wife and then glance back at my buddy, Mike/Brad Pitt, who gestures at me to handle it.  “Do the Heimlich.”

Oh yeah, the Heimlich Maneuver.  The good old Heimy.  Sure, Ben, just do that – Turn your choking ex-wife around, put both your arms around her midsection, pull her buttock area near your penis region, clasp your hands together into a fist, and then with several violent thrusts that will look like you are committing clothed rape along with some assault and battery, crush Kimmy’s abdomen until the Altoids fly out, and then pray she doesn’t knock you out while dialing 911.  

Thanks, Mike/Brad.

I’m going to earn his million bucks, it seems.

Hello Kimmy.  It’s me, your long-lost deadbeat, slime dog, pig of a husband, and I’m about to give you some backward hugs…

Lord, have mercy.  I’m wishing for the elephant head as I spin her around and perform my hero duties.  First hard squeeze – unsuccessful.    Second harder squeeze -  unsuccessful.   Third anaconda squeeze lifting her off of the ground, and BOOM – out fly the Altoids.  I watch them exit and hear her coughing, but I forget to let her go.  My brain is in outer space as I keep my arms wrapped tightly around her like a psycho.  Her right elbow to my ribs brings my mental spaceship back to earth, and I let her go so she can figure out how to breathe on her own again.

I step back as the waiting room waiters finally start doing something, which is clapping.

Clap, clap, clap, clap, then SLAP.  Kimmy ends my hero turn with a fierce pop to my left cheek.  “Asshole!” she yelps as she gives me a hard double push backward.

The room is dead silent until one unhelpful guy in the waiting area yells out, “He just saved your life, lady.”

Good thing he is more than five feet away, or he would have been slap victim number two.  “Saved my life?  Ha!  This is the guy who ruined my life.  So shut your damn mouth about the things you don’t know.”  Her threatening tone matches her threatening facial expression.  Neither of her ‘threatenings’ seems like they are of the empty sort.

There is wisely no reply from this guy who must have decided it is best to tend to his own business – not exacerbate his existing flu symptoms with a broken jaw.  Smart boy.

When Kim hears no rebuttal and realizes her standoff is a simple and singular one with me, she turns her hard stare at me as she holds one hand to her stomach and grimaces from the anaconda squeeze I just put on her.

Then softer, she repeats herself with a rapidly shaking head, “Asshole.”

Expected.  Deserved and expected.  I can think of about 40 more words I could add to Kimmy’s description of me – some adjectives and some nouns not to be used in polite company.  I know me and could help her thrash me with all kinds of insulting jabberwocky.  She seems satisfied with “Asshole.”

That was the expected.

Followed by the unexpected.  Suddenly, Kimmy throws her arms around my neck, hugs me, and whispers a sincere “thank-you” into my ear.  She steps back, and I can see she has traded threatening for relaxed.  “You are an asshole, and I’m not thanking you for “saving my life” because you are the one who made me choke.  But you are here!  I can’t believe you traveled all this way to make it to Cade’s big appointment.  How did you even find out about it?  I didn’t think you even had social media.  Is that how?”

I look around a bit, searching for an answer bubble to float into my airspace – some clue as to what the hell Kimmy is referring to.  “How did I find out about Cade’s big doctor appointment?  Well, ummm, I have no idea how I found out about it.  An old man from my trunk who is now Brad Pitt snapped his fingers and landed me here.”  I doubt that answer would make my ex-wife very happy.  

“Oh, is Cade sick with sniffles?  Colic?”  Those questions would surely get me another one of her slap-hands.  

Even worse would be this set of queries: “How old is Cade now? Is he walking yet?  Potty-trained?”

The physical damage following those questions would require multiple surgeries to repair, but those questions would be real for me because I can only recall Cade as a crying, crawling infant.  Put Cade in a lineup with nine other budding adolescents, and it might take me 10 guesses.  

I stall with this winner, “Yeah, you know I typically hate social media, but once in a while, I open an account to check you out on there…” (pause, rewind those words…please tell me I didn’t use the words, “check you out.”)

Kimmy furrows her brow and kind of laughs.

I recover.  “I’m kidding.  I…”

Thankfully car trunk Brad Pitt has inserted himself into our midst.  Mike/Brad points casually at her and says, “Ok.  So you must be the “beautiful and accomplished Kim” this guy’s always telling me about.  The one he failed.  The perfect young lady he let get away.”  He turns to me and shakes me.  “Dude, you were right on with all that.  You are, and I am quoting you again here, “the dumbest, blindest, most immature idiot in the world” to leave this knockout for a lonely life of addiction and depression.”

I notice Kim is suffering from a mix of pleased disbelief about the words he is saying that I had been supposedly saying about her and a lustful disbelief that she is looking at such a perfect human male like Mike/Brad.  

Around this version of Mike, I am a yellow elephant head in contrast.

He shakes Kimmy’s hand.  “I’m Mike.  It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Kim.  And thanks for not murdering my boy here on sight.  Neither one of us would have blamed you.  He undoubtedly deserves brutality, hatred, and unforgiveness for all the crap he has done.  My God, he’s always crying on my shoulder about it.  I’ve heard all the confessions and all his self-pitying repentance over and over ever since I became his AA, NA, and GA sponsor.  And I’ll tell you, there have been times I have even wanted to beat him to death for what he did to you and Cade.”

At this point, I am hanging my head in shame as I realize I should have daily been feeling the shame Mike is saying I have been feeling for years.  My shame is about being unashamed.  It’s a shame about not being sorry.  It’s a shame about not giving my ex and my abandoned son a second thought.  Not even once.  And why?  Because I have been too busy with me – too busy making selfish, joyless grabs for happiness – too busy pressing the buttons controlling the flippers on my pinball life so the world’s shiny ball would keep hitting my dopamine receptors and lighting me up.

Hearing Mike continue to talk to Kimmy is turning my shame of being unashamed into actual sorrowful shame.  If he keeps going, I might start dressing in sackcloth and downing a diet of ashes and kombucha.  I was a tyrant.  I am a tyrant.  It’s true, and if he keeps speaking out this awful truth and I keep listening to it, I might have to actually overthrow the tyrant inside of me and actually say something crazy, like…

“Kim, I am so, so terribly sorry.”  I interrupt Mike/Brad’s apology for me and offer one myself.  “I know it doesn’t matter.  I know it doesn’t fix all the crap I have done to you.  But you deserve to hear it from me.   Not just from him.  I’m sorry.”

Then I start crying.  Again.

What the hell is wrong with me?  I guess I must really be sorry.

I wipe the tears away quickly, and Mike kicks into gear again.  “Yeah, Kim.  His little weepy sorry isn’t anywhere close to anything.  But when we found out about Cade, about the problems with his kidneys, well, your useless ex-husband said he had to come here to see if he could “show” his sorry in some tangible way rather than just mouth it out.”

Kim has been speechless throughout Brad Pitt’s monologue.  She is visibly shaken and speechless still.  Finally, she blurts, “Wow. Okay. Yeah. I still mostly hate you. I might always hate you quite a bit.  But I might hate you quite a lot less at this moment because we do need a tangible sorry.”

“Okay,” I say.  “What kind of tangible sorry?  Anything you need.”

She holds up her hand.  “Wait here just a second.”

All this time, we have been talking near the front of the line, but nervous patients have been sliding their way past us.  Kimmy sees an opening and reclaims her spot with a renewed spirit while Mike and I stay where we have been.  As she talks to the front desk, I stare Mike down with a smirk.

“So, Brad.  In Vegas, you told me that I wasn’t an idiot.  But you just really kicked my ass here.  Made me long for the days of just being an idiot.”

Mike smiles and shrugs.  “Well, I just said what she needed to hear, and what she needed to hear was what you needed to hear.  Two birds, one stone.”

“I think there’s only one bird still standing after that one boulder you dropped.”

He laughs.  “Ben, some reality: Before I started talking to her, you weren’t even a bird.  You were just a heartless hunter shooting birds in cages you put them in.”

“Ouch”

“Yeah, but when you told her you were sorry, I could tell you meant it.  And with that sincere apology, you opened the door to her cage and grew some wings yourself.”

I hit his arm.  “Man, is this Kung Fu?  Are you the blind Brad Pitt Kung-Fu master?  Am I Grasshopper?  That was some deep something there.  I grew some wings, huh?  What kind of bird did I become?  Something majestic, I imagine.  Bald Eagle?  The Roadrunner?”

He shakes his head at me, smiling,  “You’re still a vulture at best.  But in a few minutes, you might become a better bird.”

“In a few minutes?”

Right then, Kimmy grabs my arm and leads me through the open door from the waiting room into the inner sanctum of the medical facility.  I turn to see Mike just whooshing me away.

A few minutes later, like 75 minutes later, I become Big Bird with a racing, hummingbird heart.  Turns out my kid, Cade, who wasn’t even at this appointment, needs a working kidney because his are failures like his father.  His kidney failure is apparently chronic, and he could use a donation from someone compatible.  And guess what?  Kimmy isn’t a match.  But guess who is?

You guessed it – Me.  The once elephant-headed idiot, heart-hunter, and caged bird killer who promised a tangible sorry to the ex-wife he destroyed once upon a time.  The newly named Me – Benjamin – the one at the right hand of God, who just agreed to say his sorry with a donated internal organ.  Oh, and yep, I also volunteered to pay for the whole deal.  I have a million bucks, and though this will make a small dent in that bankroll, I will still have plenty to do with as I please.

This will be the first real gift I’ll give to my son, and while it’s not a PS5, I bet he will use it at least as much as a video game system.  You know, now that I think of it, I will probably go ahead and buy him a PS5, too, so he can have something to do while he is recovering.

I tell all this to Mike in the parking lot after a tearful kiss is planted on my recently slapped cheek by my thankful wife, who I am pretty sure doesn’t hate me all that much anymore.

“I love you for doing this!” she said out of her rolled-down window before driving away.  I blame her exhaust for making me tear up again, but Mike knows better.

Now I realize Kimmy’s “I love you for doing this” is not the same as “I love you” straight up, and I know Kimmy and I aren’t going to end up back together in the cage as happily married lovebirds.  But I have to say that one drive-by sentence she shot at me on her way home felt better than any bet I’ve ever won.  

Damn, to be honest, it felt better than anything I’ve ever felt. 

When she gets out of sight, I turn and throw a bear hug around Brad Pitt/Mike.  “Thanks so much, Mike!  You’re changing my life.”  Then I break down like my dad had done back in Vegas. I think Mike is hugging me tighter just to keep my wailing body from quaking into the ground.  I’ve never cried so much or so hard.  It feels fantastic.

“Being a generous man and a real dad feels good, doesn’t it, Ben?” he says in my ear.

I nod and step back, finally composing myself.

“Yeah, it does, man.  But I’m no real dad yet.  I just promised a kidney to a kid I still haven’t laid on eyes since he was crapping his pampers.”

“Surgery is in 6 weeks, right?  Dallas, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes.  6 weeks from tomorrow.  So, you better get to snapping your magic fingers, Mike.  Get us to my third payoff so I can get back here and get to know the kid I’m giving my kidney to.”

Mike smiles, nods, and snaps his fingers right in front of my face.  But nothing changes except for his appearance.  Brad Pitt disappears.  The old man from my trunk re-appears, but this time with wings folding out from behind his back.

“Whoa, Mike.  Who’s the big bird now?”  I walk behind him and put my hands on his flyers.  “Those are pretty cool, my man.  Any chance I can get some of those now that I’ve put my heart-hunting rifle down?”

He laughs.  “I think you know these wings are reserved for certain creatures.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say as I flap my arms.  “These will do just fine.” I rub my hands over my face and go on. “Okay, angel man, so you just snapped your fingers, but we didn’t go anywhere.  And my face isn’t elephant shaped.  What’s the third payoff?”

“I think I mentioned it.”

“Not that I recall.”

Payoff #3:

“Your third payoff is becoming a real dad, Ben.  The next six weeks you are going to live in the hotel nearest to Cade’s house.  When you are in that hotel, you are going to follow the instructions you gave to your own dad.  Bible cover to cover.  Learn a bit more about my kind.  Get to know my boss and your Maker a lot better.  He’s the One who sent me your way in the first place, and He’s gonna teach you how to be the best kind of dad to Cade. Then when you are outside of that hotel, you are going to do everything you can to become what your father never was.”

I frown and put my hands through my hair, knowing I am going to suck at this payoff.  “Mike, that kid is going to be happy I’m giving him a kidney.  But he won’t ever let me be his dad.  And he probably shouldn’t.”

“You’re right.  Cade probably shouldn’t and probably won’t.  But that’s not the payoff.  Remember: The payoff is to become the best kind of dad to Cade and to become what your father never was.”

“Okay.  I heard you, and I hear you.  But we both agree I won’t be accepted as his dad.  So…?”

Mike goes on, “To complete your final payoff, you don’t have to do anything to be dad approved.  Just be here.  Live in this place.  Be available.  Help him recover.  Buy yourself a PS5, too, and let him teach you how not to suck at Call of Duty. Help his mom like you did today.  Make their lives better.  Pay for whatever they need.  Buy them fun stuff.  Take them on the best vacations.  Handle his college tuition.  Be a faithful ally for both of them. Listen to them.   Fight for them.  Become a friend they can count on.” 

“Well, I do have a million bucks in the bank to pay for some of that, right?!!”

“You sure do.  And if you run low on cash or if you need my Kung-Fu wisdom, you can always just snap your fingers and then go check your trunk.”

“Are you really going to show up in my trunk again?”

“Actually, the only reason you will ever see me crawl out of your trunk again is if you decide to leave this payoff incomplete.”

“So, if I was to wake up one day and try to sneak back to LA and become who I was just a few days ago, you’re going to pop out of some trunk?  And do what exactly?”

“I think what you told your dad continues to apply.”

I laugh.  “You are going to make my penis dry up and fall off?”

He laughs along.  “That and the rodent torturers…. I guarantee both.”

I hold my palms out in surrender.  “Okay, Mike.  I guess I will have to trust you on that.  And you can trust me that I’m always good for a payoff.  Especially this one.”

I hear a massive explosion behind me as I finish saying this, and I turn to see the cause. It was nothing but a distraction. When I turn back around, Mike is gone.

But taking up the space where he was standing, I see he has left me a little something to remind me of him.

Smirking, I pick up the plush toy – an elephant headed man dressed just like me – with a short note pinned to his trunk, reminding me to check on my own dad in a few months.  According to the note, that’s who Mike will be snapping around for the next little bit.  Maybe Mike will help him become the dad I never had, or at least the dad I could use once and while now.

I shove the note into my front pocket, grab my phone, order an Uber, and look up the hotel closest to Kimmy’s place.  I need to get a move on.  I’ve got a Bible to read, a son to meet, two PS5s to buy, and an ex-wife to give tangible sorries to for the rest of my days.

I take a deep breath.  

All is well.  

All is more than well.

My third payoff just began, and I hope it never ends.