Nicebomber

by Charles, Colleen

  From the looks on the faces of the board members, you'd think I'd castrated my father with a melon baller in the middle of the conference table.

  His face goes stony, like a dead president on Mount Rushmore. “You're right, Shane. I can't make you do it. I can't make you do anything you don't want to do. But I must say, I'm a bit perplexed that you wouldn't want to help this company. This company that's financed your, frankly, luxurious lifestyle for your short time on this earth. This company that has essentially supported you monetarily well past the age when a boy like you should be expected to stand on his own two feet and make something of himself. This company that has granted you a seat on its board of directors, despite the fact that you have never done a single thing to benefit this great and worthy organization. Honestly, after all of these years, I would think you'd be eager for a chance to finally contribute.”

  I feel the catch in my throat and swallow it down. “But…”

  “But nothing. If you can’t contribute,” he finishes sadly, “if you would truly prefer to humiliate us, not to mention damage the worth of our stock... well, then I suppose the best course of action would be for the board to re-evaluate our prior generosity toward you and put your status as a member to an immediate vote.”

  I don't have to scan the room to figure out how that vote would go, but I do anyway. I can see by their faces that each of them wants to be the first one with their hand up. Hell, Sid's probably wishing he had three or four hands to vote with, to go with the six or seven tongues he's got shoved up Jack’s anus.

  The roof of my mouth feels like sandpaper. This is my choice? Really? Mortification spreads across my cells on a slow roll.

  But even worse than this unique brand of humiliation is being poor and homeless.

  “I apologize for my initial reaction to this... concept,” I say, measuring my tone. Each word tastes like cough syrup slipping out. “Certainly, I would be willing to assist this company in any way I can.”

  Dad slaps me on the back. “I knew you'd see it my way.”

  Chapter Two

  Keeley

  “Please hold still for me, Herschel,” I say, giving the injection. “I don't want to leave a bruise.”

  Working as a private nurse has its rewarding moments, and it may even provide a decent living—but anyone who calls it easy is lying their ass off.

  Some of my patients are tougher than others. Some have dementia, or they're belligerent, or incontinent, or a combination of all three. No matter what they've got going on health-wise, or how they behave, they’re human beings and worthy of all the kindness and empathy I have in my soul. And I have a lot. Ever since I played nurse as a little girl, I’ve been dreaming of making a difference in the healthcare industry.

  “Keeley, girl, I’ve told you before, it's Pinky,” he answers, his mouth scrunching up into a pout. “No one calls me Herschel anymore. Not for decades.”

  I specialize in hospice care, and even though it can be stressful and draining, I feel like it's among the most important jobs in the world. Dying is one of life's most significant moments, and everyone goes through it eventually. It's lonely and scary and sad, even under the best of circumstances. But I can make that moment less terrifying and more peaceful. I consider it an honor to help my terminally ill patients’ transition.

  Because no one should go through it alone, without a trained professional to care for them and make their passing as easy and positive as possible.

  Even the so-called easy patients—the ones who still have most of their faculties but can afford my services earlier in the process than most—can present issues tough to prepare for. Like the one blustering at me right now, Herschel “Pinky” Applebaum.

  When I first started treating Herschel, I almost forgot he’s a bit of a celebrity. Back in the early nineties, he hosted a quiz show for kids on Nickelodeon called Bobbin' With Applebaum. I think it came on between Double Dare and Eureka's Castle. Pinky asked the kids to bob for apples, and then he cut the apples open with a comically huge axe or smashed them with a sledgehammer and asked the trivia questions hidden inside. It was a cute show, developed a huge cult following, and lasted about six years.

  Unfortunately, even though the kids, parents, and network executives loved it, Herschel—who was a classically-trained actor, and even headlined as Tevye in a touring production of Fiddler on the Roof early in his career to great critical acclaim—found it beneath him. He loved the attention and the money, but the artist in him grew bitter and jaded at the idea that he sold out.

  Toward the end of the third season, he started to drink heavily.

  When Nickelodeon canceled the show and filled his timeslot with a cartoon about a foul-mouthed chihuahua and his nose-picking feline friend, he drank even more.

  And after over twenty years of nostalgia conventions and autograph signings in Sheratons and Marriotts in the middle of bumfuck nowhere—twenty years of two bottles of grain alcohol every day, washed down with enough sparkling cider to float the Bismarck—Herschel got the triple-threat diagnosis that haunts so many aging heavy drinkers.

  Cirrhosis of the liver.

  Imminent renal failure.

  Catastrophic diabetes.

  Diabetes cost him his right leg below the knee, but it can still be treated. The other two maladies are fatal, obviously, but Herschel's got enough money saved to ensure that he'll have at least another year or two and that he'll get the best care available before he passes.

  I kneel beside his wheelchair, preparing to administer his insulin injection. Just as I'm about to put the needle in, he heaves a great sigh and shifts his weight. “Pinky… remember?”

  The corners of my mouth twitch. “Well, it's a little difficult for me to say the name Pinky with a straight face.”

  He snorts a laugh and flicks a wrist. “Maybe it's a little difficult for me to say the name Keeley with a straight face, did you ever think of that, young lady? Gosh sakes, what kinds of nicknames must you have had in high school, huh? Tell me, when you were well-behaved, would people say you were 'on an even Keel?' When you got drunk at mixers and had to be carried home, did they say you'd been 'Keel-hauled?'”

  Despite the corniness of the jokes, they’re well-intentioned. He likes me, but he enjoys pushing my buttons a bit. I let him. It keeps his mind active, important for people in his condition. And I have to admit, a surreal buzz blossoms from a game show host I watched as a kid toss hokey puns at me. All in all, Pinky is one of my all-time favorite patients.

  He picks at the dark suit I helped him put on, then tugs at his tie with a grimace. “I can't believe you dug far enough into my closet to find this monkey suit, by the way.” He flares his nostrils like an immobile bull. “I can't even remember the last time I wore such a boring garment. It looks like something I'd wear to a funeral... my own!”

  I place a hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry if it's not comfortable. But it fits you well, and I'm willing to bet that the more you wear it and break it in, the better it'll feel.”

  He scoffs and slaps his thigh. “Oh? You're willing to bet on that, are you? Well, let me tell you something, Florence Nightingale. I've made better bets on blind, three-legged nags at the racetrack! I could wear this horrible thing for thirty years and sleep in it too, and it'd still feel like it was made out of ants! Why the heck can't I have my old suit, huh? I like my old suit!”

  “I like that one too, Pinky,” I lie, “but it was dirty, and I had to send it to the dry cleaners.”

  And I'll probably forget to pick it up for the next year or two. I feel compelled to keep him from making a catastrophic fashion statement.

  Because I hate it when ignorant people whisper about you behind your back, Pinky. It breaks my heart in two.

  As if on cue, the front door of Pinky's modest apartment opens, and his daughter Lucinda walks in holding a dry-cleaning bag. “Hi, Daddy! I swung by the cleaners and picked this up for you!”

  Lucinda, my friend from undergrad, strides inside th
e apartment waving the garment bag like a door prize. I shake my head. It’s hard to be mad at her with her bubbly personality. She flicks her long blond hair back over one shoulder, her blue eyes sparkling as she hands her dad his favorite suit.

  Pinky sees the dry-cleaning bag and smiles like a big kid, clapping his hands together. “Lucinda, my darling! You're a lifesaver! Open it up, let me see it! I hope they got all the stains out.”

  Lucinda unzips the dry-cleaning bag and spreads it, revealing Pinky's old costume from the game show. I cringe as I stare at it the green polyester suit with a candy apple red pattern all over it, and a yellow shirt with a bow tie. A crow of happiness escapes his lips. “Bring it over here! Let's get me out of this banker's nightmare, so I can look sharp like I used to!”

  “Lu, before you do that, may I talk to you for a moment?” I ask, gesturing toward the kitchen. “In private.”

  “Sure,” she replies, trailing behind me. She already knows what's coming, but she pretends not to. Ever since her dad’s diagnosis, she indulges him to a faulty degree. “What's the problem?”

  “My suit is the problem, I'll bet!” Pinky calls from the other room. “She's a spoilsport and a killjoy, and, and... and a wet blanket!”

  “Yes, Pinky, I'm all of those things,” I call out behind me before turning to Lucinda again. “He's right, it's the suit.”

  “But he likes it,” Lucinda sighs, throwing her hands up in the air. “You can see he likes it, and he wants to wear it. He's a grown man. Why can’t he wear it? He should get to do whatever he wants for as long as he has left.”

  I sigh and smooth my thick ponytail. “You're right, he is a grown man. In fact, he's grown so much in the past twenty-plus years that his old clothes don't fit him anymore.”

  Those azure eyes widen, pleading with me. “So? They're a little tight on him. Fine. It adds to the comedy of it, or whatever. It makes him feel funnier. More like himself.”

  “But as his nurse, I have to warn you of the medical implications. That suit limits his mobility and cuts off his circulation. I don't know how much you know about diabetes, but it just so happens that maintaining healthy blood flow is extremely important in ensuring that your dad stays alive and keeps the rest of his limbs.”

  She chews on her lower lip. “Really? You’re not just pulling my leg, so you don’t have to take him out of the house wearing it?”

  “First of all, kiddies, let's make one thing crystal clear,” Pinky announces loudly in his most chipper gameshow host voice. “If it's simply a question of my health, you should know that I'd rather lose all of my limbs and spend my remaining time on this earth sliding around on my belly like a snake than continue to wear this drab Brooks Brothers knock-off for another second.”

  “I can't blame you, Daddy!” Lucinda chirps, smiling in triumph.

  “Second,” he continues, “since there are three of us and that's the most democratic number of them all, I propose that we put it to a vote.”

  “Since it's a health-related issue and I'm the only healthcare professional in this room, don't you think you should just accept my expert input?” I ask. “Or at the very least, shouldn't I get more than one vote?”

  He shakes his head. “No and no! Everyone who thinks I should leave the house looking like Howdy Doody's undertaker, please raise your hand.”

  I don't bother. I already know how this is going to go, so there's no need to look more foolish. Instead, I put my hands on my hips and keep my expression neutral. I know Lu means well, but she’s all wrong on this one.

  “And all in favor of me actually looking like me, just like I have my entire life, please raise your hands.”

  He and Lucinda raise their hands, then cheer like children at a birthday party.

  “Okay, I'll help you get changed, then.” I turn to Lu. “Would you like to assist?”

  “Absolutely!”

  Chapter Three

  Shane

  I sit on my bed in my boxer shorts, staring at my phone as it blinks and chirps at me with multiple notifications. My body protests, exhaustion setting in. Six words scroll across the shamrock green screen, over and over, like a playground song.

  NICEBOMBER: Wake up, Shane! Time to Nicebomb! Wake up, Shane! Time to Nicebomb!

  I groan but it comes out more like a wail of pain. Jesus. This is going to get old in a hurry. I tap the center of the screen and the text changes.

  NICEBOMBER: Aww... What a NICE guy you are, Shane! Let's make someone's day brighter today! Are you with me?

  Two options with radio buttons appear beneath the crap about day brightening.

  Yes, I want to make the world a better place!

  No, I want to think only of myself!

  Suddenly, I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I lurch over to my laptop and flip it open, entering the URL for the Nicebomber website. Sure enough, I see a colorful button labeled, Naughty or nice? Watch a Live Stream of Shane Kleinfeld's Nicebombing Adventure!

  Holy hell. They even used my company ID photo. The least my dad could have done is spring for a professional photoshoot. As I stare at my not-so-charming and handsome corporate visage, I can't believe I agreed to this. No money, no lifestyle, can be worth this much embarrassment.

  With a racing heart and throbbing pulse, I click on it.

  A live feed of my Nicebomber account appears with a hit counter underneath, the number slowly but surely climbing to a quarter of a million viewers.

  Publicly shaming me into being the perfect son my father always wanted.

  With a heaving sigh, I choose to suck it up and carry on, if only so I can turn the damn thing off when I'm done and get on with the rest of my day. Besides, all I have to do is a quick favor for some random asshole. How hard can that be?

  I hit the first radio button. Stab it into submission is more like it. Yes, motherfucker, I want to make the world a better place.

  A cartoon icon of a smiling cherry bomb appears on the screen, hovering and bouncing. Word balloons emanate from its mouth like cheery gas bubbles.

  NICEBOMBER: Hi, Shane! I'm Mr. Nicebomb! Here's how we’ll make some lucky person’s day.

  I'm going to give you THREE CHOICES, and you're going to pick the one you like best! Then, when you're ready to do your good deed for the day, you can hit Record and show the world how swell you are! Don’t forget, unless you record your good deed, Mr. Nicebomb won’t give you any credit. Ready to get started?

  Good thing the live stream isn't hooked up to my phone's camera or the viewers might see me trying not to vomit at this cutesy trash while I give the dancing bubbles the middle finger salute. I hit the button, and my three choices pop up.

  A wave of apprehension flows over me.

  Option One: Give a 500 percent tip to a server

  Option Two: Offer a tissue to a crying stranger

  Option Three: Give a homeless person lunch

  I tug my lower lip in my mouth as I mull it over. Give a five hundred percent tip to a server? That aggressive number immediately eliminates all of my favorite restaurants. Those entrees are at least three figures, and cocktails are around fifteen each. Throw in dessert, my favorite part of any meal, and I'm probably out a grand or more. No way in hell am I dropping that kind of cash on this little game my father wants to play with me simply to yank my chain. I could try to cheat the system by doing a fast food joint, maybe, but the people watching the live stream would probably see that and down-vote me as a cheapskate. So no, the first option screams warped penny. Totally worthless and always in a stranger’s pants.

  Offer a tissue to a crying stranger. Hmm. At first glance, this seems like the safest option, because how often do you randomly run into a crying stranger in Chicago? I mean, it happens sometimes but not most days. And I’m not a fan of blatant displays of emotion, especially negative, so I run the other way whenever I see someone sobbing. This could be just the loophole I need. But what if my sick fuck of a father anticipates me and decides to screw with me by hiring
an actor to play a crying stranger?

  Or worse, what if—in some one-in-a-million coincidence—I legit find a crying stranger and give them a tissue. It's not like I'll just be able to walk away after that. The stranger's going to insist on telling me why they're crying, and I'm going to have to pretend to care. What if they actually touch me or expect me to touch them? What if they hug me? Yuck. Then the next thing I know, I've got some pathetic, desperate, creepy person who thinks they're my new bestie and I can't get rid of them... no damn way. Hell to the no, not doing the second option.

  So that leaves number three. Give a homeless person lunch. I have to admit this seems like a difficult one to mess up. See a homeless person, probably a veteran, hopefully without a dog, run in somewhere, buy a lunch, hand it to him, accept his slurred gratitude, and avoid a hug.

  Boom.

  Done.

  With a confident grin, I hit the radial button for choice three. Mr. Nicebomb bobs up and down with an excited squeal.

  NICEBOMER: CONGRATULATIONS, SHANE! YOU are on your way to becoming a BETTER

  PERSON! But don’t forget, do your good deed in the next twenty-four hours and make sure to record it, or it DOESN'T COUNT toward your point total. Just wait until you see all the fabulous prizes from our sponsors!

  I hate capitalization shouting in my face. Twenty-four hours? Fuck that shit. I'm completing this charade in the next twenty-four minutes.

  I jog down the stairs of my condo building, wave at Felix, my most excellent doorman, and step outside, looking for the closest guy who looks like a derelict. It only takes less than a few minutes—after all, this is Chicago, famous the world over for its homeless problem. Easy peasy. Maybe this whole thing won’t be as hard or painful as I originally thought. Ingenuity for the win! Dad’s not the only creative one in our family.