Distant Friends With Benefits

Crime Fiction by J. Marquez Jr.

Every time I see the work van with the wrap depicting a smiling security camera cartoon, holding a top hat with one four-fingered white-gloved hand and a cane with the other, I cringe. The fancy writing across the top reads, Richardson Bros Security Systems. Every time it makes that sharp right and pulls into my shop’s driveway, I hope the laws of physics, once and for all, topple it and roll it over three times into Walmart’s parking lot next door. Every time. And the metal of the gas tank rubs against another metal to create friction. Every time. And the tiniest of tiny sparks ignites like the tiny spark that makes an arsonist’s creativity tick. Every time. And the explosion that occurs happens to be the arsonist’s master piece. But, every time, the laws of physics let me down. Instead, the errant van pulls into the disable parking spot and screeches to a halt inches away from my shop’s entry door. It doesn’t even have disabled plates. But that doesn’t matter, no, because it parks there anyway. Then the driver’s door opens and vomits a little man who always straightens his collar and jitterbugs through my shop’s doors. The same gold Elvis Presley sunglasses hide his red bloodshot eyes, but a buttoned down shirt always reveals the velcro on his chest. He dances to my counter, taps twice—always twice—and the bitching begins. Every time.

He bitches about this. He bitches about that. Meanwhile he attacks a gum in his mouth. Why don’t I have this and why do I have that? He attacks the gum. Why do I open at this time and close at that time? The gum attack continues. This wire I sold him isn’t like that wire he wanted. Attack. He isn’t conformed with anything I do. My deposits, my prices, my policies, my right to breathe, even though he’s been purchasing from my poppa for over fifteen years. I always agree though. I always give in. But he’s not conformed with that either. So the comparisons to my competitor begin. Joe’s Wire Shack knows what to stock. Attack. He knows when to open and close. Attack, attack. He knows how to treat customers. Attack. And, get this, Joe knows how to breathe. Every time. It’s like dealing with a naughty eight-year-old brat. This one, however, sports a tiny diamond in his front tooth, flashy jewelry that looks cheap and a scraggly five-o’clock shadow. A battle between Old Spice aftershave and halitosis takes place when he talks. Every time. But I know customer service so I contort my attitude, my facial expressions, my ego, my policies, my whole life like some acrobat. Every time. But, every time, my performance is subpar according to him. Every time—every fucking time—with this David Fucking Caruso.

Today is no exception. After not rolling his work van and taking more capacities away from the incapacitated, David struts into my shop, his jewelry sways like hula-hoops on an epileptic whore at a Sunday sermon against adultery, fornication and prostitution. He taps twice on the counter.

“Hey, Flaco!”

I’m in my office, deciphering the coded messages in my poppa’s life insurance plan, a hobby I was forced into three years ago when Life, in all its benevolence, stashed a box of pancreatic cancer under Poppa’s Christmas tree. I was living in Los Angeles at the time, mopping the mess a twenty-year-old marriage creates at its end, especially one that ends due to infidelity like mine. I was in no mood for anymore of Life’s little tricks. But ask me if Life gives a shit about our moods. Not a damn bit. But if you look at the bright side, because there’s always a bright side, the timing was right. I was recently divorced. I was ready for a new scenery…a new life…a new start.

So with a fruitless marriage behind me, I packed my suitcase and flew back to Jersey. I’d help Poppa with his illness and run his shop, The MidCity Voltage. In spite of Poppa’s plight, Jersey was a breath of air. Along with a cheating ex-wife and her lover who happened to be my boss, I left the suffocating life of a high school English teacher. No more pencils. No more texts. No more obnoxious teenage brats. Instead, I kept Poppa company and maintained the shop’s outstanding reputation Poppa built over fifty years.

Ever since my poppa acquired the MidCity Voltage in the mid-60’s, our shop’s loyally provided tools and wiring equipment to the locals of Fairview, New Jersey. It is indeed a landmark of the old world. Up to this day, Poppa’s shop has withstood the wild storms that the new world brought Fairview with the Home Depots, Walmarts and such in the 90’s. In spite the disastrous aftermath and discarded mom-and-pop-shops-remnants these giants left after their invasion, Poppa’s shop dodged a tornado, so to speak. In part because Home Depot constructed its orange box on the other side of town. But I know that it’s mostly because of the old-fashion friendly customer service my poppa’s provided the community and local do-it-yourselfers. The proof of such can be read on review sites like Yelp and Google. All 5-star reviews that Poppa and I gleamed about. Not one bad review.

Life, however, is a bitch. At least that’s what they tell us. I say that Life is a pranking bitch, though. It runs around the world with a sack full of gifts it distributes to us. Then it sits back and, driven by amusement, it points and laughs at the mischief its little gifts cause upon us. Yup. Life is quite the mischievous bitch alright. I’ve known this for years. What I didn’t know is that, in addition, Life is a vengeful retaliatory pranking bitch who declared a tug-o-war battle against the optimistic son-of-a-bitch inside our minds. And we are the disheveling battered rope getting pulled left-to-right then right-to-left in the fucked up game. In the end, we are torn and discarded. For my poppa, it was three years of a lycanthropic pain that finally, on a full-mooned night, transformed into death. For me, it’s been three years of David Fucking Caruso.

 “What’s with ya, huh? You don’t like me no more, Capricorn?”

I’ve got no idea what David’s talking about, but I’d like to tell him that he’s wrong. I’ve never liked him. I don’t tell him this, of course. Those questions are rhetorical, and in turn, a prologue to bitching.

“Where’s the love, Capricorn? I don’t feel the love, Flaco.”

Flaco means skinny in Spanish and is the nickname I earned through a year-and-a-half of warring with Nancy, my cheating ex. Capricorn? I don’t know why the hell he calls everyone Capricorn. But he does. This guy’s consistency in stupidity is unbelievable.

I exchange my attention from the papers I’m holding to him. My eyes produce invisible laser rays that just miss the top of my lenses.

David continues, “I was working ova at The Factory late last night—ya follow me, Capricorn? Then suddenly I’s run out of the SMF Opts I bought from you’s last week.”

He pauses but his mouth remains busy chewing the flavorless gum he’s been chewing for years. I still have no idea why he’s telling me this. Prior experience tells me that, through the six degrees of separation, I will be the cause of this misfortune. My gaze remains upon him. I pray it becomes heat vision. For a second, I think I see my vision glow red, but then I realize the gods have let me down. Again. David doesn’t ignite before my eyes. Instead, he stands before me, desecrating an innocent piece of gum.

“You should’ve bought a longer spool,” I say.

David’s silent gaze tells me that he, too, wishes for heat vision.

The clock on the wall behind me ticks.

David chomps away.

“No…no…no,” he waves a stubby finger at me. “You’s missing the point. I specially ordered five-hundred feet of this…this…this expensive cable from you’s, right? I wait one week—one week, Capricorn. And when it finally comes, it’s three feet short.” He escorts every syllable with a jab to the air with his stubby index. “Three feet! Now tell me, Flaco, is this right, huh? Is this the way we do business now? Are we in those terms? Your poppa treated me right. Even your competitor, Joe, treats me with some respects. But you’s…I don’t know bout you’s. Ever since you’s took ova, I feels like you do business the funny way. You know, maybe the California way. What do I know? All I know’s that I’s don’t like it, Capricorn.”

My line of sight remains just above my glasses.

“You need to refund me, Flaco…”

“Sorry, David,” I remove my glasses with a single swipe as I stand up. Refunding this special order means I eat six bills, and I can’t afford to do that. “You know that there are no refunds on special orders. Plus, I can assure you that the five-hundred-foot spool you ordered had five-hundred feet. I’ve never had any issues with that supplier…”

“But I have! I always do, Capricorn!” 

“Look, David, you’re a good customer.” He’s not. “I have no reason to doubt that you were short three feet to complete your job.” I have all the reasons to distrust this slimy, scandalous deadbeat. He’s as dishonest as the letter N is in the word environment. “So I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll special order fifty feet at no extra cost to you…”

“And how long will it take to get here?

“Usually a week but I’ll pay to prioritize it and you’ll get it in two to three days…”

“Nope.”

“Nope?”

“Nope. I need it now.”

“Okay, okay. Look, if it’s only three feet you need, I know I have at least a twenty-foot leftover spool laying around somewhere. If you let me…

“No, Flaco. That’s not gonna work.”

“But…”

“That’s not good enough for me, Flaco. You cheated me.”

“Come on, David. We’ve been doing business for such a long time. You know I wouldn’t do you like that. How about I find you the twenty-foot spool. In addition, I’ll order the fifty feet as well. It won’t cost you a single dime…”

“No, Flaco. All I want is a refund.”

“I’m sorry, David. You gotta understand…”

“No…no…no…”

“It’s just that special orders cannot be refunded. You know that. Not my rules. What else can I do to make this right?”

Silence hovers, a disturbing silence.

“You know what, Flaco…fuck yourself. That’s what you can do to make things right! Go and fuck yourself!”

The words splash over my face like iced water.

He beckons me with a curling index that looks like a party blowout noisemaker. In spite of my shock, I answer his call.

“Fuck you’s and your wire, ya hear? I don’t want nothing but a fucking refund. Plus, you owe me for the gas I’ve spent making these unnecessary trips to this shithole of a shop you got here. Gas ain’t cheap these days, ya know.”

“But, David, that’s not fair…”

“In addition, you’s gonna pay for my time, babe. You know my time is valuable. I can’t be wastin’ it here, reamin’ your cheating muttafucking thieving ass.”

Cheating muttafucking thieving ass?

I may be lots of other things. Loser. Fool. A failed husband. But a cheating muttafucking thieving ass? How dare he. My shop has nothing but 5-star reviews, for crying out loud. Fuck this little man!

There comes a time when a man reaches the crossroads of what he should or shouldn’t say. This is my time. What I wanna say is, “choke on a dick”, or “fuck off and die, ya piece o’ shit” or, you know, the ole conservative “fuck you.” What I say, though, is, “it’s fine, David. No problem. I’ll refund you the spool.”

Six-hundred dollars is a lot of money to eat when you’re barely making ends meet. But in the end, if it pays for a disgruntled customer’s satisfaction, then six bills becomes an investment. It’s all about keeping that 5-star streak unblemished.

I hang my head like wounded prey, but the hyena bites with his locked scavenger jaws.

“Fuck your spool, I’m tellin’ ya. You owe me more n’ that.” He’s shaking a finger at me. “You ain’t screwin’ me like this without payin’ me some sort’a restitution.”

“Listen David…”

“It’s Mr. Caruso! You done, fucked up this relationship between me’s and you’s, Flaco. Nobody steals from me. Especially a no-good piece of shit muttafuckin’ thief like you…”

“But David…”

“Shush! How dare you’s interrupt me like that. A trained dog’s job is to sit. Stay. Roll. Fetch. And wait for its master’s command. Not to whine and whimper when commanded to shut up. So like a good doggie, you need to sit, stay and shut your fuckin’ mouth when I’m talking. Your daddy was trained to do it, so why can’t you’s too?”

Physically, I become the still and well-behaved doggie David wishes me to be. Mentally, I am the three-headed Cerberus shaking the foundations that the early-man used to build upon: GOD. It is clear that there isn’t one. For thousands of years, all the religions of the world have been wrong. The Christians. The Jews. The Greeks. The Buddhists. The Hindus. Wrong. Wrong. And wrong. No god would ever create such a despicable creature like David and allow it to run around demoralizing the others. Creatures like David should be restricted to the sacred piss-pots and crappers the angels and saints use to dispose the digested Nectar and Ambrosia or whatever the fuck they eat and drink.

“…so Mr. Caruso is how you’s will fucking address me from now on…”  

“How about Asshole!”

Even Golden Retrievers gnarl their teeth and bite when cornered.

The look on his face tells me that my words splashed over his face like iced water. I capitalize.

“I’ve had enough of your venomous tongue, Little Man. You’ve used it to humiliate and demoralize me with it for far too long. I’ve allowed it for three years now. But this is it!”

I feel a boldness I’ve never felt before. It seems to grow larger and larger as the meekness he’s never felt before grows larger and larger in him. I wonder if anyone’s ever stood up to David before. I doubt it. The David Caruso’s of the world are always on the top, not at that bottom. They’re the squatters not the recipients of the massive shit they drop upon us.

His mouth is open. Silent. Quivering. Even his tooth-diamond is nowhere to be seen. Hiding. Cowering somewhere inside David’s filthy mouth.

Tick…tock…tick…tock, the clock’s uncomfortable presence hovers above. The heat of my anger cools into a cold dish of shame. In spite the gifts Life has bestowed upon me, anger is an emotion I seldom turn to. The last time I recall feeling this upset was over four years ago, the day my marriage unravelled the way things do on the last episode of the first season in a soap opera.

***

I was grading student essays after school hours when the scumbag who, unbeknownst to me at the time was having an affair with my wife—and, who come to think of it, oddly and coincidentally looked a lot like David—knocked twice on my classroom door. At first I thought it was Robbie Madrigal, the school’s star football player. Robbie had the arm of a canyon but couldn’t spell the word canyon. He’d been coming by daily for help. I looked up, but the three-inch slit of window reinforced with wire showed me otherwise. The handle turned and Principal Jim Taylor walked in.

“Working late?” He flashed his politician’s grin. “Or lately working?”

“Huh?”

Jim’s one-liners were always as senseless and stupid as David’s Capricorns.

He chuckled and handed me a grenade disguised as a manila envelope.

“Never mind. Nancy wished me to pass this love note along to you.”

“W-w-what is this?”

“Open it.”

He towered above me and bathed me with his politician’s smile. He waited. Like a well-behaved fool, I obeyed and pulled the grenade’s pin. The header on the first page read: Petition for Dissolution of Marriage—AKA divorce papers. Ironically, with the grenade’s explosion, everything fell into place. Nancy’s sudden disinterest in me. Jim’s sudden interest in her. Nancy’s sudden indifference at home. Jim’s uncomfortable attentiveness at school. Their sudden number of unexpected assignments that required them to be together longer periods of time than usual.

Jim chuckled again, turned around and said something I’ll never forget. 

“I don’t need a key tattooed on my dick to unlock Nancy’s legs apart,” Jim chortled, in reference to the heart-shaped lock my wife had tattooed below the line of visibility her panties formed and to the key I had tattooed below my navel in correspondence—an intimate, but cute, deed performed under the advice of too much wine in a previous Mexican getaway. This stupid senseless statement told the story I’d failed to read.

“My penis is my key,” he continued and walked out. 

I grabbed the first accessible object, a frame that housed a picture of Nancy and me, and hurled it at the closing door. The glass became a blizzard of shards upon contact, releasing its two prisoners forever.

***

Tick…tock, the clock brings me back to the present.

“Look, David, I am so sorry about the outburst…”

“Fuck off, Flaco! You’s a bad doggie,” he stutters. “Bad, bad, bad. And like a bad doggie, you’s gotta be reprimanded. Your master here’s gonna make sure you’s pay for your insubordination.”

David turns around to leave.

“Hold on, David. Let’s talk this out.”

He turns back.

“Thank you, David. Look, I apologize…”

He grabs my ear, pulls me toward him and slaps me twice. He says, “ fuck you, Flaco”, hurls a mouthful of spit that covers the left side of my face, shoves me away and walks out. The swinging double-doors slowly close behind him.

My cold dish begins to warm up. Again.

Two hours later the single ding on my phone notifies me that someone posted a review on my shop’s Google page.

Ding!

I open the app and realize that even single ding-notifications on phones have claws. David posted a one-star review. It reads:

Beware of The MidCity Voltage. It is not a business. It is a den of thieves. Their name shouldn’t be The MidCity Voltage. It should be The MidCity Hustle. Flaco-baba And The Forty Thieves. The HiWay City Voltage. Cheats-R-Us. Brigand’s. Trickster’s. Get the gist?

I’ve bought product from this dump many times before and it’s always been subpar. This time, however, not only was the product subpar but it was less than the amount I’d been sold. I bought five-hundred feet of expensive optic wire but was given only four-hundred feet. I was one-hundred feet short! When I approached the owner, Flaco, he became angry and disrespectful. He didn’t offer a solution nor did he try working with me. The least he could’ve done was offer me ten feet of the cable I was short. Being that it is a wire supply shop, I’m sure he’s got scrap cable laying around somewhere. As a repeat good customer, I shouldn’t be treated like this.

Fun fact: their 5-star reviews are all fake just like the owner, a fake and a shyster. Do not trust them.

As I read this review, I’m more astounded than I am offended, initially. I didn’t think David had the ability to put two words together. Then it hits me. This one-sided review only paints blotches of the overall picture. It is unfair and quite frankly untrue. I grab my laptop I intend to use as a paintbrush. I search up Richardson Bros. Security Systems and, again, I’m astonished. I can’t believe the number of 5-star reviews that orbit around Richardson Bros. Security Systems. The ideas in my head, then, begin to take the shape of letters. The letters begin to take the shape of sentences. And, in turn, those sentences begin to morph into creative vengeance. After all, I was an English teacher, remember? And English teachers are, in essence, literary artists who paint literature. I entwine my left fingers with the one’s on my right hand. I crack my knuckles and start painting away:

A business’ reputation should derive from the relationship it has and creates with everyone, including its customers as well as its vendors. Therefore, it is only fair for a good reputation (and judgement) to come from both parties. It is sad and unjust when a business only rakes the benefits from 5-star reviews while it kicks and abuses those who provide it with the vitals and goods it relies on to sustain itself.

Richardson Bros. Security Systems has two faces, and David, the owner, has two masks. David is great here and David is great there (with his customers only). But don’t you dare provide him with goods because like a “Greek stage actor” he changes his mask to kick you and beat you.

David Caruso is an abusive customer, who falls quite a long distance short from being what he is portrayed to be on Google.

In turn, he does not represent Richardson Bros well. The air around this company is so polluted with arrogance and insolence to the point that its money has lost all its face value as a customer.

In conclusion, a business’ reputation should derive from the relationship it has with both, its customers and its providers of goods. In turn, it is only fair for it to be judged accordingly by both. And here it is…

David gets a camera installation job. Through measurements and calculations, he strategically places the cameras around the desired area his customer wishes to monitor. The location is secured and under surveillance from angles. His customer can now scan and view the whole picture. He gets his 5-star review. All is good. Now what happens when the spotlight is redirected and we make Richardson Bros Security Systems our desired area of surveillance? We strategically place our cameras to get a different angle on them and what we get is this 1-star review. The reader can now scan and view the whole picture. All is good.

Fun (historical) fact: Greek stage actors were called hypocrites.

A week later, the ding on my phone notifies me that I have a new review on Google. I open the app, expecting to see another 5-star review, perhaps from the gentleman I helped last week. But instead I am punched in the face by another scowling and unexpected review from David. It reads:

MidCity Hardware sucks. The guy that runs this show is a pile of turd just like the product he sells. He is a bandit. A thief. And a cheat. He is the worst of the worst. I wouldn’t recommend The MidCity Hardware to nobody…not even Hitler.

Once again I fall under the influence of the vengeful artist of literature:

Upon reading other people’s reviews, I came across some whiner’s review that ended with, “I wouldn’t recommend this place to nobody…not even Hitler.” I pondered on this statement and chuckled at its ridiculousness (and grammatical error).

Slap me once, shame on me: after dealing with David at Richardson Bros Security Systems the first time, I began to feel like that whiner. Although Hitler was the terrible man that he was, I would not recommend RBSS to him.

Slap me twice, shame on me: after dealing with David a second time, I fell deeper into the hole that only whiners can spiral into. Hitler was indeed a horrible creature most deserving of the worst. If he asked for a referral of someone to install cameras across his camps, I would certainly recommend David at RBSS.

Two days later. Another solitary lingering ping:

Math does not lie. Two plus two will always equal four. And anything you multiply times MidCity Voltage will always equal zero stars alike the zero that runs the place. If you go there after reading this review, you are stupid and deserve to be ripped off.

Short, clever and humorous. I have to give him that. I suppose it’s my turn. So I fire back:

Lady-consumers and gentlemen-consumers…dear reader, Richardson Bros Systems is bad. Bad…bad…bad (and I waive my index at my screen). This business is strictly for masochists, who find pleasures and gratification in pain and humiliation. One does not have to be a mathematician to deduct that the common denominator in this equation is indignity for those who do business with it which are indeed the variating numerator. So if you like to be treated with courtesy, respect and appreciation, this is not the place for you. However, if you’d prefer to be left sticky and humiliated…this is the place for you.

A few hours later—a ping and:

The guy that runs this pile of turd’s name is Flaco. He has no customer skills and no culture. Flaco’s a pile of turd just like his shop is a pile of turd. Go to Joe’s Wire Shack. Joe’s got the best product. The best prices. And the best service.

My turn:

It is unfortunate that bad customer service exists in every industry. Every consumer will agree and attest to this. It’s like a malignant spirit—the spirit of bad service—takes over individuals in every industry to haunt and chastise the consumer. After my experience with Richardson Bros Security Systems, I was certain that this bad spirit dwelled in David Caruso. But after a long relationship with said business, I’ve come to the conclusion that it isn’t the spirit of bad service who dwells in David but it is David who dwells in the spirit. David Caruso is the epitome of bad service. Every industry has a David. Let us analyze this theory and put David across the board.

David, the burger-flipping man, spits on your double cheeseburger just in case you’re a cop.

David, the Uber driver, texts while he drives you around. He gets lost. He yells at his GPS. He asks for directions. And finally crashes as he yells at you.

David, the plumber, upper-decks your toilet, bills you and leaves.

David, the pool man, tries to seduce your wife but settles for the dog.

David, your crackhead mechanic, steals your catalytic converter.

On and on, the spirit of David dwells inside the souls of the innocents within the business world. Richardson Bros Security Systems happens to be the abyss this evil spirit sprung out of.

That’s the last. No more reviews of retaliation. No more pings. Just silence. Did he run out of words? I don’t think so. David never runs out of words. His jaw never tires from the yapping. His neck never stops swaying.

Two days later, the black Escalade that pulls into the driveway is the complete opposite of David’s piece of shit van. As oppose, everything it does is sound, law abiding and melodic. It doesn’t make that vicious right turn into my driveway. It doesn’t screech. It doesn’t block the handicapped parking and, finally to add unto my relief, it doesn’t spit the little creature who’s made my life a living nightmare this past week. Instead, the rear passenger door of the black Escalade opens and gently introduces a thin man in an elegant gray suit. He wears a tailored goatee customized to complement the smooth bald head that has been symmetrically placed on a pair of muscular shoulders. The man doesn’t strut to the point of a hula-hoop-sway. He simply walks through the doors of my shop. The air of authority precedes him as he walks in with a briefcase and heads toward my counter.

“You don’t need to literally extend a red carpet to make people feel welcome and important,” he says. “The minute I walked through the front doors, I felt the plush of an imaginary red carpet under my feet and instantly gave you three stars. Your smile earned you a fourth. And your last star depends on the outcome of our upcoming confabulation.”

I instantly like this man.

He extends a manicured hand and raises one matching manicured eyebrow. “Flaco?”

“That’s me,” I respond as I’m shaking his hand. “And to who do I owe the pleasure of speaking to?”

“I’m Gino.”

He places the briefcase on top of the counter. It’s dark gray. Or light black? No. It’s actually a dark shade of expensive. Very expensive. Buccio Veneto expensive.

Gino smiles. 

“Please put the gun down…don’t shoot,” he jokes, never misplacing his charismatic smile. “I am only the messenger.”

He unclasps the briefcase but doesn’t open it.

“I am here on behalf of my boss. He apologizes for his absence. He truly wished to come by in person. He sincerely wanted to meet you, the son of a friend, but other matters of importance didn’t permit him. He is an extremely busy man, flying from one side of the country to the other. But never mind that. That is why he hired a messenger, to be in two places at once, right?”

The son of a friend?

“Anyhow. Never mind that as well. I am here not just to patch things up but to reconstruct a damage done to you by one of our organizations. I understand that our colleague, David Caruso, has been a bit of a thorn on your side.”

“Try a pain in my ass.”

“Unfortunately,” he continues. “You are not the only one. In fact, everywhere I go I hear his name spat out of mouths in venomous tones. Furthermore, I understand the ill aftertaste he leaves behind like intestinal gasses in a bath and body wash shop.”

I start to giggle but his seriousness halts me.

“But the negative reviews to Richardson Brothers need to stop. They are not good for our business…”

“But what about…”

“In return,” he overpowers me. “I promise you that the negative reviews to your shop will stop as well. Let’s end this war. As restitution to the damages already done by our colleague, David Caruso, my boss wishes you to accept this gift.”

He opens the jaws of the briefcase and swirls it around. I briefly stare at the hungry briefcase that looks like the mouth of an alligator.

“Would fifty-thousand, deletion of the bad reviews David posted and an upcoming 5-star review cover for the repairs toward the damages our colleague made?”

I shake my head yes. I feel as if this man, Gino, just got on one knee, pulled out an engagement ring and asked me to marry him.

“In exchange, you must delete all the 1-star reviews you posted on Richardson Bros. Security Systems and replace them with a 5-star. What do you say, Flaco?”

I keep shaking my head, “yes!”

“Good.” He pulls out a cell phone, swipes the screen open and taps on some icon. My phone instantly pings—a review has been posted on Google.

“Then it is done.” He turns around and heads towards the waiting doors. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Flaco.”

“Wait a minute.”

He stops and turns back to me.

“Earlier, you called me the son of a friend. What did you mean?”

“Well let’s put it this way, the relationship between your ole man and my boss is bonded by more than merely a business one.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that your ole man and my boss had a friendship that went way back before your time and mine, Flaco. Did he ever tell you about how he got that scar on his neck?”

“Yeah.  He said it was a work-related injury. It happened at the plant he worked when he was in his 20’s…right?”

“Nope.”

I feel the breeze of an incoming train transporting a long lost tale about my poppa’s past.

“That scar is as much a work-related injury as a Cadillac converter is a catalytic converter. That scar is what we call a war wound. Your dad made many contributions to the making of my boss’ organization and that scar is one of them. While your dad was never a made man, he has always been regarded as a friend—not a friend of ours or a friend of mine, just a distant friend.”

“Wow. I had no idea.”

“True story, Flaco. Your dad was well respected around these parts. It’s a shame that David, a slave to his arrogance, could not submit himself to prudence and abide within the boundaries of respect. Tell me, Flaco, where would we be without respect?”

“I suppose we’d be in chaos…”

“Exactly! Anarchy! Disorder! And David represented all that.”

“But earlier you said that my poppa was well respected in your organization. Hasn’t David heard about all those ‘contributions’ you said my poppa made to…to your boss?”

“Of course he’s heard the stories about your dad, but he chose to disregard them. And that presents a problem…a very big problem. If he can’t respect a friend then he can’t respect the organization. And if he can’t respect the organization then he is chaos—a walking and talking disruption—and we can’t have that. You see, in our line of business we can’t afford chaos. As oppose to common misconception, we like peace, order and respect.”

He pauses.

“Anyways, I believe I have overstayed and said too much.” He turns back around and heads for the doors. “But before I make my departure, allow me to point out an admirable observation: you’re quite the clever opponent, Flaco. The Organization has had its share of wars in the past. Vicious wars where people get physically hurt. The war you offered was very different and unique. An unforeseen silly war…of words.” He shakes his head and chuckles. “Take care, my distant friend.” 

This time I let him leave. The wide-jawed alligator he left on the counter challenges me to dig in and bathe myself with fifty-thousand dollars. Instead, I open and read the new review posted on my Google account.

It reads:

Excellent, old-fashion customer service from beginning to end. I’ve been a customer of MidCity Voltage for 15+ years and, for 15+ years I’ve been treated with the respect that is nowadays rare. Flaco is courteous, honest, helpful and knowledgeable. The shop is well maintained, clean and in good condition. And the red carpet he rolls out for his customers on a daily basis is still plush and feels comfortable under one’s feet. MidCity should be the source of all electrical equipment and/or supplies. It is definitely mine.

I suppose it’s my turn to fulfill my part of the bargain.  So I go back to the my office and type away.

We’ve all heard countless quotes regarding the road that leads to success, from the desks of ancient Roman emperors like Marcus Aurelius to the desks of modern entrepreneurs like Tony Hsieh. In the midst of them all, one illuminates the boulevard on cruise night like a buzzing neon sign, promoting the services of Richardson Bros Security Systems: “the secret to success is to do the common thing uncommonly well,” sprung out of the very lips of John D. Rockefeller Jr.

With RBSS, security camera installation has never been so smooth and painless. They are great people to work with—overflowing with answers and the desire to help. What the other companies call the extra mile, RBSS calls it the normal walk-in-the-park. They provide their clients with the utmost importance, respect and understanding. And with that, RBSS fulfills the Rockefeller quote by doing the camera installation thing (a common-day practice) uncommonly well.

Bravo RBSS.

Two weeks later, while the early bird is yet to find and catch the worm, the local authorities find David’s body at Columbus Park, five miles away, gently spinning to a mild breeze on the playground’s merry-go-round. His eyes had been cut out and his ears cut off. His legs were feetless and his arms handless. His teeth had been pulled out. All except one. The front tooth with the small diamond was mysteriously spared. David’s remains were then stuffed in a trash bag, attracting thousands of flies that buzzed like…like flies on shit, ironically. It appears that, in the end, the religions I deemed wrong have been right about god all along. I’m the one who’s been impatiently wrong all this time. There is a god after all and, like Santa, he’s been watching all along. His name is Vinnie Riccardi.

You see, Vinnie Riccardi is the acting underboss for the Lombardi Crime Family that runs the underworld of North Jersey. Vinnie and his brother, Tony Riccardi, oversee many of The Family’s enterprises, including Richardson Bros Security Systems, named after the Riccardi brothers. Vinnie, in turn, is Gino’s boss, who also happens to be Poppa’s distant friend. David? Well, David was just a pawn who didn’t know his place. David was to keep his mouth shut, lay low and not draw attention by keeping peace with the locals. You know, he was restricted to one-step-forward moves like a pawn. But instead he chose to stir the peace with the locals, which in turn, began to draw unnecessary attention, not just to Richardson Bros Security Systems, but to the rest of the Riccardi empire. In doing so, David neighed, trotted and bucked like a knight without having been granted the status. Many of the local businesses began to grieve about him. In turn, those cries rose to the crime gods like burnt offering and put David on their radar. The crime gods soon realized that David was not just disrupting a tranquil city’s sleep but was also yanking on old strings and fragile ties that connected distant friends, like my poppa, to the family. So the crime gods had no choice but to strike David down. For me…well, it was just another little gift, neatly wrapped and left under my Christmas tree by Life.

Have I mentioned how beautiful and benevolent Life is? No? Well it is. David is no longer contributing pain to my ass. My poppa’s shop is thriving with business and 5-star reviews. Also, I met a smart and attractive lady who helps with the continuity of those 5-star reviews. Gosh, I wish Poppa was around to see.

Now that I’ve witnessed the existence of a higher power and discovered these open lines of communication to them, I requested and was granted an audience. I had a meeting with Vinnie and Tony Riccardi a couple of days ago and through an international network of favors from a friend of a friend, they made me a promise that keeps me alert to the news in Los Angeles. Any day, amid the feral weeds that grow on the restless grounds of the Belmont Tunnel, within angry shards of glass, forsaken rimless tires and the acrid stench of transient-urine, the authorities are bound to find the eyeless and footless body of a high school principal. Any day, now.

They say, good things come to those who wait, right? I’ve learned a valuable lesson on patience; therefore, I now patiently wait.

After all…I am a distant friend.

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Author’s Notes (Apologies):

Neil Gaiman writes in the special intro to a Ray Bradbury book—Fahrenheit 451? (can’t remember)—the point is that he writes something along the lines that stories come from authors’ what-ifs. A writer will be waiting in line at a drive-thru, eating or taking a shit when suddenly, a what-if pops into his/her condemned mind and, voila, the idea for a story materializes.

Well…here’s the what-if behind Distant Friends With Benefits: a whiny customer once awarded a measly star and wrote a bad (unfair) review for the company I worked for at the time. By doing that, he blemished the 5-star streak we had. Naturally, after reading this guy’s sniveling unnecessary tantrum, I looked up his reviews and noticed that his business, too, had a trend of 5-star reviews. And then the what-if came. What if I retaliated? And if I did, what if he responded with yet another retaliation of his own? But what if his business is a front for the mob? And so forth, the train of what-ifs kept rolling. So like a marionette to the music of Pink Floyd, Tool, Puscifer, etc., I wrote the 6,500-word monster you just read. Voila! Magic á la Gaiman!

If you also read the Bradbury book with the Neil Gaiman intro I’m talking about, please don’t shoot me if I got it wrong. Give me a break…I can’t even remember the color of my underwear. I am merely a wannabe of the Great Arts, that’s all. Anyway, one more thing, in case you are of the curious type, let me tell you that I did. Muahahaha. I did, indeed, write that 1-star retaliation that Google took down for verbal indecent exposure (though that was the end of that fiasco, I swear). And speaking of indecent exposure, in case your curiosity extremities haven’t been fulfilled yet, they’re blue…my undies are blue. I just looked.

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Bio: J. Marquez Jr. has never been interviewed before. However, if he’s ever interviewed, he will be happy to divulge that he likes Pink Floyd. One can find some of his riffraff on recent issues of The Literary Hatchet and/or at The Yard: Crime Blog. He sends his regards from Los Angeles with love.

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