Accountability
Red ink, black heart, even score.
The shop opens at nine. I’m there at 8:47, truck idling, first load ready—fourteen little orange coffins, size 12, stacked neat across the bed.
Manny unlocks the door, sees me through the glass. Shakes his head.
“Paul, you crazy bastard. What you got this time?”
“Give me a hand.”
He opens the first box, unwraps a pair of ‘89 Air Jordan 4s, “Black Cement” colorway. Never worn.
“These are clean.” He turns them over, checks the soles. “Where’d you get’em?”
“Kid left them at my house.”
“Kid’s got good taste.”
“Kid’s got debt.”
He laughs, starts scrolling prices. “I can do five hundred for this pair.”
Inventory Management
Seventeen trips.
I tally each load in a ledger: Jordans and warm-ups to Manny’s. Tires and rims to Miguel’s. Catalytic converters that could feed a family for a month—gone.
Manny doesn’t ask questions. Neither does Miguel. They’ve been buying and selling other people’s mistakes for thirty years.
“Your kid coming back for any of this?”
“Doubt it.”
“He know you’re selling his shit?”
“Doing him a favor.”
Standard Deductions
Fish tanks next.
Three of them. Forty-gallon, sixty-gallon, and one custom job that cost more than my mortgage payment.
Gary, from high school, owns a pet store in town. Agrees to meet me at the house. Says he’s interested until I tell him I need them gone today.
“What’s the hurry?”
“Moving.”
“Where to?”
“Somewhere less tropical.”
He buys the tanks but not the fish. Says I need to handle the livestock myself. Clean the tanks, bring them in after.
“You know what you’re doing?” he says.
Bright colors, fancy names, dollar signs darting back and forth.
“I’m learning.”
The garbage disposal hasn’t worked right since 2019. Doesn’t break things down the way it should.
I run the water for a long time after.
Accounts Payable
The deadbeat makes a rare appearance Sunday afternoon. Camaro, freshly waxed, glass rattling, bass booming. Eyes, shot with blood—chains, gold, and heavy.
His cologne enters first.
Kisses my daughter, tousles the boy’s hair, asks about lunch.
After twenty minutes, he stiffens, eyes wide, his head spins him around.
Aquariums. Gone.
His distorted face leads him to the basement.
I follow him down. Stand at the bottom of the stairs, hands in my pockets.
“Where’s my stuff?” he barks.
The space looks bigger now. Clean. Just a concrete floor, hand-built shelves loaded with Christmas decorations, my books, winter clothes, odds and ends.
“What stuff?” I ask.
“My things, man. Jordans! My gear!” his arms slash the air. “Everything. Where’s it at?”
Long strides carry him across the basement. Corner to corner, eyes bulging, neck stretched.
“Three tanks.” He jabs at empty space—turns. “My warm-ups, hanging right here.” An empty rack.
“My Jordans, man. Limited editions. Mint!”
“You sure you left them here?”
“They were here, man. Right here,” he insists.
My head drops. “Gosh, I’m sorry,” I say. “You know, I read someplace that weed messes with your memory. I guess that’s more than a theory, huh? Must be frustrating.”
His patchy mustache goes crooked, eyes go narrow.
He’s twenty-seven. Muscled. Cornered in my basement.
He takes a step forward. “Man, fuck that. You know what’s up.”
“I know my daughter’s upstairs making lunch. I know your son’s learning to walk. I know you show up empty-handed from time to time.”
“That ain’t what it’s about,” he snaps.
“No? What’s it about then?”
He turns, flaring nostrils lead him to the stairs; he stops.
“This ain’t over,” he says to the wall.
“It is for me.”
Ledger
I get a text at 2:17 AM.
want my shit back
What shit?
don’t play old man.
Not playing. Sleeping.
Three dots bubble up. Disappear.
u gonna pay me back! $$20k min.
He’s not far off.
That’s a lot of money.
goddam right 💰💰💰💰!
Shame you lost it.
u stole it
Hard to steal something that doesn’t exist.
want cops?
And tell them what? Someone stole your imaginary fish and invisible shoes?
they not invisible
They are now.
Write Offs
The Deadbeat stops coming around—no more sleepovers, no more weekend visits, texts, calls, no more cologne.
My daughter cries for days, won’t speak to me. Then she gets practical. Registers for school. Same program she dropped when Deadbeat first showed up. Starts making plans for herself, for the boy.
I don’t mention the twenty-seven grand sitting in a trust, earning interest, all in the boy’s name.
Deadbeat’s contribution to his son’s welfare, whether he knows it or not.
Balance Sheet
Outside, something moves near the deck.
I go out after dinner, dismantle the pen, watch the tortoise explore what used to be a boundary.
The ancient stops. Starts again. Slow through the darkening yard, he lumbers away. I watch him disappear into the trees. Don’t stop him.
The garage is clean now, basement quiet. Things feel lighter.
My grandson’s account grows every month. With hard work, time, and patience, the boy’ll have a bright future ahead of him.
That’s what he’ll inherit. That’s what he’s stepping into.
Not his father’s shoes.
Special thanks to Bekky Bekks on Unsplash for the graphic that accompanies this piece. Thanks, Bekks ✌️
Bravo! I was furrowing my brows in the beginning. Not sure if you were going to take me to a warehouse for more stolen goods or across the border to escape being caught. And then...you took me straight to the bum. And I love how he got handled. Well done.