One Armed Bandit

“And for the many blessings you have given me, Amen.” I touch my hand to my heart, kiss the palm of my hand, and dig into my dinner brought to me by Marie Calendars. Chicken Parmesan. For the first little while after cooking for myself, I was a Banquet dinner kind of guy but Banquet decided to switch up their meal choices and put pudding with pizza and the brownie in with the chicken nuggets. After several emails with nothing but a form response, I took the change as a slight dig at me and began shopping for my meals elsewhere. Marie Calendar was not my first choice. The price tag gave me food sticker shock. But the first time I took a bite of the turkey medallion meal with mashed potatoes and a side of green beans, I was hooked. Of course, any meal is better when not interrupted by someone knocking on my door but with a new meth supplier in my apartment complex, it is inevitable that some of his customers come to my apartment number 313 instead of his apartment number 131. I sure don’t support that kind of thing but I also like to stay out of other people’s affairs as much as I can so I never complain. Just redirect.
“The apartment you are looking for is 131 not 313,” I hold the knob ready to shut out the world again.
“It’s me stupid. Don’t make me stand out here.”
Surprisingly, instead of a lost customer, the knock is from my recently ex-wife, Brionna. She shoves her way past me and drags a boy in behind her by his hand. Guess I have visitors.
“What brings you by?” I ask casually trying not to let my lack of excitement of the visit seep through.
“Have you got the money yet?” Brionna demands.
The money she inquires about is a little life insurance policy she has been waiting a year to collect on. A policy for her own “death”.
“No body…” my comment drifts off not feeling the need to reiterate the desire of the insurance company to have a body before they pay off a policy for the deceased. I take a seat in my old brown dumpster recliner. My visitors sit down on the Nguyen’s couch I rescued from the dumpster after they moved out hastily in the middle of the night.
“Fine,” Brionna says and pokes the boy. He pulls off his jacket and removes a backpack from underneath.
“I’m sorry, we didn’t meet.” I stand and extend my hand. “My name is Chris.”
The boy ignores me as unzips the bag. A big plastic heap of something hides inside. It must be something of mine Brionna broke or just got tired of having around. The outer shell is a giant Ziploc bag. The second layer is at least a fifty-foot roll of Saran Wrap followed by a fifty-foot roll of foil. As the layers are removed, I have less and less idea what this is. Once the boy finishes unwrapping the last layers of paper towels, I regret ever being curious.
“That’s one fifth of my body,” Brionna announces in regards to the severed arm sitting in the middle of my cardboard box coffee table, “that should be enough to count for a body of proof.” The two snicker together. Their time with the arm gives them the advantage of not worrying about vomiting all over the floor at the site. “Go bury it in woods where I “disappeared” at and then go back a week or two later and “find” it.”
“Money money money, money!” The boy speaks. And dances. I can’t hold it in anymore. I hustle to the kitchen and utilize my sink and garbage disposal. I’m sure pieces of my last three meals wasn’t the original design idea for the garbage disposal but sometimes inventions carry unseen advantages at the time of inception.

After thirty minutes of intense debate, I finally get through to Brionna that me finding the arm would bring up lots of additional questions from the insurance company (and the cops) so we should ride it out and letting someone else stumble upon the arm. We could also be in a race against the infection sure to arise from a self-mutilation but for now, we will hope someone stumbles upon the arm fast. Once we are on the same page on problem number one, it is time to tackle number two. How should we approach the lack of wear and tear on an arm that is suppose to be out in the elements for close to a year? Brionna and I have bupkus. Her boy is all ideas.
“Cook it.”
So after my houseguests depart, I do. Stick the limb in the oven and let it broil for a while. The logic seems sound until ten minutes after the cookie sheet hits the oven. The smell. Even my Pakistani neighbors cooking with curry can’t stop the stingy of melting flesh on the nasal passages. Well, I’ve already passed go on this. Might as well let things play out. I’m going to church.

Wednesday night service is a looser affair than Sunday’s festivities. Most perception based church goers had only time in the week for one day to devote an hour or two to praising God so the crowd is usually die hards and lonely old people looking for the way home. This evening, Pastor Carr has picked out a few verses of Old Rugged Cross for the congregation to chime in on.
“So I’ll cherish that old rugged cross….” Most times, I can hold my attention through most any hell, fire, and brimstone stories but my brain couldn’t concentrate when every inhale I take, the dish in the oven seeps back into my nose. I use the next fist pounding on the podium rant to sneak out the back door. Over at the den of inequity (the smokers corner), Jimbo, one of our local detectives, puffs away. Brionna always said how friendly he was getting to know him while smoking but I don’t think any law enforcement personnel would be friendly while they cuffed her one hand behind her back and stuffed Brionna in the back of a squad car.
“How you holding up,” Jimbo calls out.
“Just fine,” I reply and scamper to my car. I’m terrified I’ll be seeing that face again. Right before he hauls me off to jail.

Opening my door induces another round of vomiting. Guess that means the arm is ready. I try a new approach to wrapping the limb back up. Not accounting for the heat cancels out any preplanning. The arm soaks in the Saran Wrap into all of the pores. Immediate removal only gets about half of the plastic off. At least the forecast calls for rain. Before I try and wrap the package up again, I let it cool for a bit in the fridge and begin to light anything I can to change the consistency of noxious gases in the air. My cheap candles are no match. A cigarette Brionna’s boy left gives a brief respite but I can’t keep it going without coughing and with each deep coughing fit, I feel the need to puke again. Even lighting some hair I pull from my bathtub drain is no match.
Cooling down the arm has taken a little of the sting out. At least long enough for me to wrap it in the leftover foil from its original packing. I sprinkle some Arm and Hammer in the Ziploc bag and toss the limb in and pray the smell doesn’t taint my car before I can get this thing in the ground.

Once the arm is buried, all that’s left is to wait. And stress. Surely, there was no way this insane idea could work. I wish Brionna could have come to me before she chopped her arm off. Maybe if they pick me up first, I can fall on the sword long enough for Brionna to enjoy some of the money on the run. Probably a better gift than I ever bought her when we were together.
I spend most days after at the church. Cleaning. Organizing. Repenting. I visit the church seven times interim. Three Sundays, three Wednesdays, and one Thursday for the Methodist men’s dinner. On the third Wednesday, Pastor Carr lets me pick out the verses for service. He is also by my side on Sunday night when I get the call that the arm has been found. I spend the next fourteen hours trying to give him the shake.
I follow Jimbo down a dingy dark hallway underneath the police station. It is Monday. Fourteen hours since I got the arm call. The gap in time isn’t because I’m trying to dodge the arm. I certainly don’t want to see it again but I also want to get this over as quickly as possible. The money or my time in jail. My slow response correlates with getting rid of Pastor Carr. I’ll have a hard enough time seeming surprised alone. I don’t need God’s intermediary over my shoulder. I only manage to ditch him when he hears that old man Watkins died this morning. The pastor must make an appearance but he tells me he will be back soon.
“I know this isn’t easy for you,” Jimbo says but I still need to know what isn’t easy? Not thinking when I first got the call, I assumed “we found the arm” meant that I was to come down and verify the identification like a John Doe body. Now that I am here, in this basement, things are starting to feel like “we found the arm” meant we know everything and are hoping you come to us so we don’t have to hunt you down.
My heart is racing by the time the hallway ends. Some of the speed might also have to do with the distance from the front desk back here. The tunnel dumps into a room that looks to be a washed out storage area. One fluorescent lights illuminates the front area. A baby face in uniform sits behind a desk.
“Nicholas,” Jimbo barks before we make it inside the door. The officer looks up, glances back at his computer, then jumps to attention.
“Yes sir,” he says. Only after does he notice that his pants hold the form of a triangle right underneath his belt.
“Jesus Nicholas, sit back down.” Jimbo continues on past the front desk. I don’t think I can get back to where I started even if I wanted to run so I keep following Jimbo on my death march. To the inevitability of the end. Layers and layers of boxes line the shelves on all sides. The arrest records that traverse through the local generations. Statistics that will soon include me. We keep pushing farther into the dark. Things are beginning to feel like a secret military “answer” room. I hope no one thinks they are going to have to torture me to get answers.
“Where’s this lead to?”
“Shit,” Jimbo stops and puts his hand to his heart, apparently startled from my presence. “I thought you stayed up front at the desk.”
I shrug. “I’m sorry.” I turn back around into the shadows. Jimbo puts his hand on my shoulder and turns me back towards him.
“You’ll never make it out alone. We’re almost there anyhow.”
A slit of light finally spills over into the darkness from a room at the back. To my surprise, the room looks a lot like the break room.
“This is our break room,” Jimbo tells me.
“Nice,” I mumble now completely confused about this whole thing. Apparently, I’m here to be some lunchtime entertainment for Jimbo. He rummages around the fridge for lunch. From the back, Jimbo pulls out a giant red Reebok shoebox and motions me to the table. That’s some kind of appetite.
“Unfortunately, we had to separate things into two boxes. We thought for sure Larry’s big ass foot was going to be somewhat the same size but it was more about the flexibility or lack thereof.”
My mind lurches back into recognition as to why I am here when Jimbo opens the box. Exposes a severed arm. Brionna’s arm. The arm she used to wear a beautiful little black bracelet I bought her one Christmas from Zales.
“Ah shit man, I don’t know if we have any tissues down here.” My brain’s still piecing things together so it takes me a moment to realize Jimbo is talking about a tissue to stop the flow of tears down my face. Once I feel the tears, I realize my nose has taken off on it’s own as well. The whole thing has left my face one giant slippery slide and I can do nothing but use my hands to cover my face.

I am able to get out of the station without any additional lies (my tears kept any conversation at arm’s length) but by the time I hit the car I know I have to end this charade. As many lessons as I’ve learned over the years being married to Brionna, I still forget the most basic. Never let her plan anything. It’s doomed to fail before liftoff. And that’s just concerning dinner choices. An outcome of jail time should have swayed me before but since it didn’t, it’s weighing on me now. I’ll just go back inside and tell them everything. Throw myself on the mercy. I open my car door before I consider that I do owe Brionna at least a heads up in case she wants to join me in absolving our discretions. Or get out of town as quickly as possible.

I take a leisurely drive to a gas station off of Audelia to use one of the few public payphones left. As long as it’s cheaper than a throwaway cell phone, I’ll stick with the pay phone. I just hope I am finished with situations needing to worry about phone tracing. Only with Brionna. After my cryptic voicemail, I grab a Double Decker taco and a bean burrito with no sauce or onion and head back to my apartment. I’m halfway through the taco by the time I put my keys in the door. It’s a good thing too. I only have time to use the bathroom and one more bit of taco before Brionna bangs at my door.
“What the fuck are you saying?” she squeals at me as she pushes through. Her lap dog scurries in behind.
“I just think that if we turn ourselves in now…”
“Did you listen to any of my plan at all?”
“Well,” I hesitate to finish. The fire burning in Brionna’s eyes sucks all the words out of my mouth.
“You’ve already passed the point of no return when you buried the arm. Hell, even before that when you took the arm from me in the first place.
“I don’t remember having a choice,” I interject.
“Do you think that they are just going to let you roam free after that?”
“I’m very aware of the consequences,” I advise Brionna. The conversation stalls while we stare at each other for a few moments. Waiting to see who will blink.
“Okay Troy, go get our things. We’re moving in.” Troy heads for the door.
“Wait,” Troy stops, “What?”
“Troy, get our things.” This time, Brionna’s volume wins the face-off. Troy disappears out the door.
“Why would you stay here? This is the first place they are going to come for evidence when I turn myself in.”
“That’s why we will stay here to make sure you don’t. After the money comes through, do whatever you want to help clear your conscious. We’ll be long gone.”
The plan on how to keep me here isn’t laid out for me but I’m sure Troy’s size and youth against my feeble structure would put me at a distinct disadvantage for leverage. Once Troy returns with a random assortment of garbage and grocery bags filled with things and covers up the floor in the living room, I’m reminded why the apartment limits this place to one tenant on the lease. This place is not designed for multiple-occupancy.

Maybe with all of us in one place, the cops will at least take it lineate on us. Not have the pent up aggression for searching all over town. I lay claim to the bedroom before the couple gets any ideas and tries to soil my mattress. They can do what they want to the Nguyen’s couch. And, I’m close to the bathroom. The perfect location to help with my ever-increasing nausea spells.

Two days of sitting here on the bed, eating Banquet meals Troy picked up at the store, and wondering if the phone company has shut my phone off. I pick the receiver up each time the clock hits the twelve just to test the line. Each time I get a dial tone. Even when the phone does ring, like now, I have no doubt that it’s someone trying to collect money from me.
"Yes," I say, waiting to hear what money I owe to whom this time.
"Mister Christopher O'Rourke?"
"Uh huh."
"Good afternoon. This is Phil Stevens from the insurance office." I stiffen up. Inevitability has arrived. I begin to pack up my things. See what I need to put into storage while I’m away. "Just wanted to let you know your check is ready to pick up whenever you are ready. Stop by the office and we’ll get you all squared away. Again, we are very sorry again for your loss."
I sit the phone down leaving Phil to hold or to hang up. I’m sure the insurance company has trained him how to handle certain situations. Thirty seconds before disconnecting just in case the bereaved has any additional questions before picking up the payment for their dead loved one.
But this isn't death. This money is for someone alive and well (minus an arm) in the next room. This whole thing has been abhorrent since inception but I’ve just let it go on. At least this money will certainly get them out of my hair and then I must do some real repenting from my old self. I need to remember I am Brionna’s ex-husband.
I head out into the living room to share the news but the bedroom door is more difficult to open than normal. Seeing through the crack I can make between the doorframe, a pile of clothes is the door-blocking culprit. I give a few more shovees before the shirts decide to slide under the door and the pants just move back. The sun illuminates the living room. More sun than I have seen in days. I raise my left hand to try and shade my eyes from the sun. For a moment, I catch a glimpse of Troy as he lunges at me. His shoulder stays implanted into my ribs as we fall back into the kitchen floor. Troy uses my midsection to dampen the force of his fall. My breath disappears.
"We told you no one is leaving here til this thing is settled," he balls his fist up. I curl up managing to catch the punch on my arm. I try to tell him the phone call was THE phone call but all I can do is suck air in. Nothing comes out. I use the dishwasher to pull myself upright. Grasp my chest. Nancy comes over to join the party.
"Why do you make us do this?" she asks while trying to kick me in the chest. My arms gather enough strength to grab her foot on the way up. Stop the attack and take her down to the ground with me.
"Shit," the boyfriend says and kneels down beside Nancy. She wheezes. Sounds like me just a few moments ago. "What the fuck?" The boyfriend asks as he stands back up and kicks at me. I duck my shoulder down. Take the brunt of the kick the same place his punch hit me. The lack of pain from the combination is surprising. If Troy’s lucky, he may have left a little mark.
"I got the call." I blurt out to try to end the violence. "When the phone rang just now, that was the call."
"What?" Nancy squeals as she rolls to her knees. Her head hangs low. Her chest compressing and extracting trying to regain what was lost on the fall plus the realization of the inevitable. The boyfriend steadies Nancy by the arm as they both work to get her to stand. Nancy takes a few more deep breaths then begins flailing her arms at me.
"Troy, grab your keys. Time to go for a ride."
"Wait," I say, "Who do you think is going?"
Nancy watches me slowly get to my feet. "We are going to get my money."
"Well first of all," I brush off the stray food crumbs that attached to my shirt from the floor as I struggle to my feet, "you know you can't go."
"Troy's got a whole blanket system set up in the back of our car that I hide under anytime we think things are getting sketchy." Nancy extends her left arm out for Troy. He finds the keys and scoots back to Nancy and cuddles up into her arm. "He's always the best at taking car of me."
"No offense," I tell Troy, "but I think this might not be the situation for a blanket system." I pivot myself towards Nancy to make sure she knows where my attention is. "All I have to do is pick up the check, cash it, and hand it to you. That's it. Then you two are gone off to do whatever you want to do with more money than you ever could make."
"I took classes to be a medical professional," Troy informs me. He might have been a decent nurse if he would have stayed with it. Even now, Brionna’s arm doesn’t look that bad.
"Look, I want you out of here as soon as possible. I think we both know that. But I don't want any unnecessary risks right before this is over that sends us all to jail. Am I right?" Both stare at me. I attempt to exude trust and reliability.
"Fine." Nancy mutters.
"Will you get me some Taco Bell?" Troy asks. I take his order and slowly make my way to the door. Just in case this is a setup. I only stop moving in slow motion once I'm out the door and down the stairs.
The insurance company apologizes again for my loss when they give me the check. Fifty thousand dollars. Wow. The trip to the bank was just as easy. Ten five thousand dollar cashier checks printed and handed over. Now to disperse.
The church is active with people coming to have spaghetti for a fundraiser of the Boy Scouts. I ask around to a few people before one of the scouts point me in the direction of Pastor Carr.
"Morning pastor," I say and wait in the doorway to be invited in.
"Chris," the pastor says with a smile and stands to welcome me. "How are you doing today?"
"Just great." We shake hands and sit down across from each other at his desk.
"What brings you down today?"
"Well, a couple of things. First, I just wanted to say how much I appreciate all the support the church has given to me in this, my most trying point in my life. I wouldn't have made it through this whole ordeal without it."
"That's what the church family is here for."
"And I hope that I can find another place just like this one as soon as I get settled."
"Are you going somewhere," the pastor asks, intrigued.
"I am."
"Son, is there something that God has placed on your heart that you need to talk about?"
I get the feeling Pastor Carr wants in on the gossip. "Just need to get out of here. The memories and all." He nods then rests his chin on his fore fingers. "Before I go..." I reach in my pocket and sit one of the checks down. "No special requests. Wherever it is needed most."
I get out of my chair while the pastor inspects the check. We shake hands. He keeps the puzzled look on his face even as I walk out of the office.
I pass out a few more checks to the children’s shelter and the rehab clinic among others. No one asks any questions. They accept my spreading the wealth as a lucky break for them and immediately try to figure out where to spend.
My last stop is the police station. Parts of me are still saying to turn myself in. Take responsibility for my part. But jail isn’t my desire. I can repay my debt just fine outside a cage.
“Is Jimbo in?” I ask the secretary through the glass window at the front of the precinct.
“Out on a double.”
“A what?”
“Double murder sir. Is there something another officer can help you with?”
“Oh I’m sorry,” I stall trying to figure out my plan. “My name is Chris Spillman and I just wanted to say thank you to the detective.”
“Spillman,” the lady says and spins her back to me. “Spillman…Spillman,” she mumbles to herself. She grabs a giant red Reebok shoebox and another, a smaller Nike box, and steps outside her area to the waiting room. She hands the boxes over.
“I’m so sorry mister Spillman. So sorry for your loss.”
I leave a message with the secretary to have Jimbo visit me at my place whenever he got a chance. Somehow, I don’t think Brionna or Troy will have gone anywhere since they have no money and nowhere left to go. I pick a dot on the map. A place labeled but not too big. The closet highway is I-10 so I jump on the entrance ramp and take off.

The multitude of animal heads mounted on the wall of Nick's Taxidermy is typical of a taxidermy store. At least, I will forever assume so since this is my first and hopefully last visit inside.
"Can I help ya?" the man in the overalls behind the counter asks.
"I need to see if you can help me out."
"Whatever you need stuffed, I'm your man. A buffalo from the hunt. Maybe if you hit a deer on the side of the road and you want to always remember who was boss that day."
"Uh huh," I say pulling the box out of my bag. "What about this?"
I sit the box on the counter and let the man take a peek. Maybe he has heard of my story in the news so I will not have to do as much explaining.
"Is this an arm?" the man almost squeals his question as he slams the box closed.
"I could tell you that it is from a weird type of mammal I shot in Borneo."
"Nope," he tries to hand the box back to me, "that's an arm and we don't do arms here. Just heads." He pauses. "Well, I mean animal heads. Not the head of the person that came off of."
I sit the box back down on the counter and place two of the checks on top. He gave the checks a once over and twice more. He said that he would need to get a nice mahogany box to keep it in.
"No matter how much I work on this thing, you are going to want it inside a box to preserve it."
I put an extra hundred on the counter and told him to call me when it was done. I’ve got to get some household items for my new place. Toilet paper. Dishes. Silverware. That kind of thing. If they carry them, I also need a hanging shelf for my bedroom that will hold a non-descript mahogany box across from my bed to see. Each and every morning that I’m here.