Nicebomber

by Charles, Colleen

  My target sits in a wheelchair in front of a coffee shop, missing one of his legs—so already, I can feel the up-votes flowing in. Viral video, here I come. Do-gooders are going to love this guy with a vengeance. They said I had to help a vagrant, but deciding on my own to help an aging, invalid vagrant? That's got to be worth all kinds of extra empathy points. I can already see the amount of hot ass I’m going to get out of this. Women go crazy for the soft sensitive type.

  In addition to the missing gam, he's wearing—swear on a stack of Bibles—a dirty, worn Kelly green suit with a red apple pattern on it and a yellow bow tie. His gray hair corkscrews in every direction. A wave of actual empathy flows over me, stopping me in my tracks. He looks mentally ill. I wonder if I should call Joan down in HR and see if I could refer the poor guy for some help someplace close by. Maybe he doesn’t need to be out on the street. I palm my phone, then decide to go for it and I fire off a text that hopefully, she’ll respond to before this interlude ends. Regardless, I’m going to look like some kind of angel sent down from heaven.

  A wave of good feelings infiltrates my cold, dark heart and I find that I kind of like it. I can actually see how this app might become addicting and no matter how much I hate to admit it, my dad’s idea holds merit. Regardless of the hypocritical way he’s doing it, the end result can only help people in need. More energized than I’ve been in months, I duck into a nearby gourmet sandwich place and head up to the counter.

  “Welcome to Earl of Sandwich,” the pimply teenager behind the counter drones. “Would you like to try today's special? It's roast beef and pastrami with Swiss and Thousand Island dressing on grilled focaccia.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure, sounds good,” I say, handing him my credit card.

  He snorts and points to the overhead menu. “Would you like to add chips and a drink for a dollar more?”

  Hell, yes, I would because I’m starting to dig this app. “Yes, of course. A sandwich isn’t a sandwich without chips.”

  “What kind of chips would you like? We have salt and vinegar, barbecue, sour cream and onion, Old Bay, cheddar and bacon, horseradish and chives...”

  “That last one.”

  He smiles and pushes a button on the computer. “For drink choices, we've got...”

  “How about water?” My head swims with all these minor decisions. “Two bottles?”

  The teenager shoots me a look but a few minutes later hands me the bag of food and the bottles of water. Enthused and actually looking forward to this task, I dart out the door and almost start running toward the homeless guy before I remember to hit the Record button on the app.

  I walk over to him and hover until he notices me. Then I offer the bag and bottles to him with a big smile. I can’t believe how much fun this can be. “Here you go, sir, a free lunch. It's focaccia.”

  Dread punches me in the gut. Instead of looking grateful and happy, he looks at me as though I've just landed in a UFO and I’m about to drag him to my spaceship for a medical experiment. “What did you just say to me, young man?”

  His blustery tone catches me off guard as he glares ice picks. Maybe he’s too mentally ill to understand a word I'm saying. Yikes, he might even be schizophrenic. I read in the Trib that mental illness causes many vets to become homeless and out on the streets in the first place.

  I lean in close, speaking slowly and clearly. “The sandwich bread. Focaccia. You should try it, since it’s very delicious.”

  He glares and then raises a shaky finger to stab it in my direction. “Young man, I may not speak Italian, but I can certainly understand profanity in any language. How dare you?”

  Frustration seeps into every cell as I think of the recording. Keeping my temper at bay is something I’ve struggled with since grade school. I inhale a cleansing breath and try again. “It’s a free lunch. Just for you.”

  “Who the heck do you think you are?” he challenges. “I'm sitting here, minding my own business, waiting for my daughter to bring me my coffee...”

  I take another deep breath, summoning all of my patience. “Sir, I understand that you are confused and frightened right now,” I shout, “but I'm afraid your daughter isn't coming. You're sick, and you need to eat. So please...”

  He snorts and points again, this time toward one of his cherry-red apples. “I'm sick? Young man, I’m not the one talking dirty to strangers! Can you do a backbend?”

  I’m taken aback. “A backbend, sir?”

  His eyes narrow into beady slits of fury. “Yes, a backbend. You must be very flexible to have your foot in your mouth and your head up your ass at the same time!”

  Before I can open my mouth to reply, two women run out of the coffee shop, scowling at me. “Who are you?” one of them asks, her nostrils flaring, and her eyes dilated with panic. “Why are you upsetting my father?”

  He turns to her. “Lucinda, thank God you're here! This man just walked up to me and told me to perform a lewd act with a sandwich! He should be locked up! Alert the authorities!”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. What have I gotten myself into now? My eyes widen, with his crazy, dirty outfit, ten sizes too small for him, I can’t believe this guy isn’t actually homeless. He has people. People who are staring at me as if I’ve sprouted two heads and mean to use them to incite World War III.

  The other woman holds a cup of coffee. She gets in my face, and wow... she's so gorgeous, my heart flips over. Emerald green eyes. Voluptuous curves encased in baby pink cotton. Electricity crackles between us. If I tried, I could probably reach out and touch it. Although, on my end, it’s lust, but on her end, it’s something completely different. I’ve never seen such a hateful stare in my life directed straight at me.

  Her long chestnut hair cascades down her back, held in a ponytail holder. Two rosy spots of color blaze fire in her high cheekbones, and those green eyes scream at me in a way I haven’t seen since college. The pale pink scrubs that hug her tits and ass look as good as Armani. That’s when it hits me.

  This hot-as-hell fire-breathing dragon is a nurse.

  His nurse.

  Damn and double damn.

  “No, no one gets to film me!” the elderly man yells. “Not without a contract, a producer credit, and points on the back end! I learned my lesson back in the mid-nineties! Won’t be bamboozled like that ever again, you charlatan!”

  “This man is quite ill. Why are you harassing him like this?” The raving but pissed-as-hell beauty glances at the phone in my hand. “And what makes you think you have a right to film him? That’s illegal!”

  I jerk a thumb at cherry-apple suit man, anxious to redeem myself in her eyes. If only to soften them the slightest bit. Right now, they’re emerald, but if she liked me, I bet they’d be sage. Before I can stop it, I imagine her underneath me. Writhing. Moaning.

  Coming.

  I freeze under her gaze before she can attack me again. “I saw him, I figured I'd do him a favor, buy him a sandwich...” The way she glares at me makes me feel like I'm five inches tall, but what can I do except double-down? It’s imperative that she understands my heart was in the right place for once. “And the phone thing, um, that's... I mean... it's not my idea, it's this new app where you do good deeds for people, and, uh... you get... points...” I trail off as waves of hot embarrassment flow over me.

  I’m such a douche.

  “He's not homeless, you ignorant asshat!” the girl named Lucinda says, standing on her tiptoes. “He's Pinky Applebaum! The game show host from the nineties? Have you been living under a rock? How can you not recognize him?”

  I stare at her and blink a few times. She may as well be speaking Farsi. “Huh?”

  She purses her lips, her false eyelashes fluttering. “Seriously? Didn't you watch any TV when you were a kid?”

  A black cloud of desperation creeps up my body, landing on my throat and squeezing. “No, I was mostly too busy trying to unscramble the cable channels. You know, the ones that you have to pay for?” I attempt a laugh, but it comes out
more like a moan. Then I remember I'm still recording this, and my head starts to hurt. Yikes. This couldn't possibly go worse.

  Until it does.

  Because I’m about to go viral, but for all the wrong reasons.

  The chestnut-haired goddess hovers inches away from me. Her voice, low and full of rage, spears me where I stand. “So let me get this straight. You offered a sandwich to a man you assumed was homeless, just because you're using an app to show people how nice you are and earn points doing it? That about cover it, Einstein?”

  All I can do is nod because any words I might have been able to conjure up stall inside the lump in my throat.

  She grits her teeth. “I think that's the most selfish, wretched, needy shit I've ever heard in my life, and you should be ashamed of yourself. I hope you get a case of VD so bad your dick shrivels up and falls off. If you even have one.”

  Then she hands the coffee to the guy called Pinky. “Come on, let's get you home, Pinky.” She grabs the handles of his chair, wheeling him away with an irate Lucinda in tow. After they’ve gone about fifty feet, Lucinda turns back and flips me off, her nostrils flaring her disdain.

  I exhale slowly, imagining what the comment section on the Nicebomber live stream will look like when I get home.

  Apparently, this is going to be much harder than I thought and I’m not sure I’m up for it.

  Chapter Four

  Shane

  Staring at my laptop as if it’s laced with poison, I finally muster up the strength to open it up and go online. As expected, the Nicebomber live-streaming page explodes with activity and I find myself overcome by people with silly usernames attacking in human waves.

  GoblinYouUp: OMG this guy’s a complete and total MORON!!! F*cking rich BASTARD!!!

  PikaChooChoo: THIS is NICE?! Why dont he just kick my childhood hero in the balls and steal his wallet while hes at it??? Go, Pinky, go!!!

  APPLEOFYOURiPHONE: 'the channels you have to pay for' ROFLMAO IM DYING

  A wave of nausea attacks my gut as I read that last one a thousand times over. Jesus, I still can’t believe it went viral that fast. Were all of these people just sitting in front of their computers, watching the live stream and waiting for me to screw up? Don't they have jobs? Lives?

  Kiss my ass, haters.

  I can take a bunch of poorly punctuated criticism from total strangers with names like cartoon characters. It's embarrassing but could be worse. I’m nothing if not resilient and I’ll get it right next time. I just needed a test run. A mulligan.

  With a sigh of resolution, I realize the serious problem is the knock I just heard at my door. Because I know who's standing on the other side of it, and I'd rather drink a gallon of nitroglycerin and stick a fireplace lighter up my ass than open it.

  He won't go away, though. Not him. My stubborn streak comes from the old man. I have to answer it, or he will knock hard enough to blister my eardrums.

  I stand up with a groan, roll my shoulders like Mike Tyson, and head toward the door to my penthouse condo. My father stands waiting, his wide shoulders nearly eclipsing the doorframe. He pushes me aside and enters without an invitation.

  “Sure, come on in,” I say, shutting the door behind him.

  He glances around, staring long and hard at the hand-scraped hardwood, stainless steel and quartz kitchen, and floor-to-ceiling windows. “My business pays for this penthouse, and I'll enter it whenever I damn well please, with or without your permission.” He grimaces at the buttery leather couch that set him back five figures and remains standing, looking around as if he’s never seen any of it before. “All the money we give you, and this is how you live? Disgusting.”

  “Yeah, well, I'm waiting for my next issue of Better Homes & Gardens to get here this month so I can turn this into a showplace. Some nice tapestries, a couple of shelves of Delft Blue plates for decoration, maybe a ficus or two... I really want to make it come alive; you know?” Since I realize he’s not really talking about the décor but about the mess, I brush an empty beer can off the nearest chair and sit down in it.

  “Your mother and I tried to teach you personal responsibility and strength of character,” he says, shaking his head. “We always wanted the best for you, and we worked so hard to make sure you had it. I wish I knew where you learned to be such a feckless slob. I truly do.”

  I shrug. “Blame television. That's always a safe bet. Technology runs a close second. Maybe social media. Zuckerberg makes an excellent target.”

  He moves to stand and look out the window, shoving his hands in his trousers. “What I saw from you online today was beyond humiliating, Shane. How could you do that to me?”

  “Hey, blame this dumbass app you came up with.” With my testy words, I wallow in my own guilt over getting it wrong and I groan from the black depths of my soul. “The thing said to buy a homeless person lunch, so I bought a disabled elderly guy lunch. I didn't know he was going to look a gift horse in the mouth by going ballistic. Even if he wasn’t homeless, he could have just graciously accepted. Who has a fit over a free meal?”

  Dad rocks back on his heels. “So you became rude. Disrespectful. Belligerent. And on top of that, when things didn't go your way, you actually had the nerve to tell them the only reason you were doing something nice in the first place was because of the app. The app inspired by your mother.”

  “Because that is the only reason I'm doing it.” Frustration winds around me like a boa constrictor. “At least it was. And anyway, isn't that the point of this whole idiotic exercise? To spread the word about Nicebomber? Fine, so I spread the word. You're welcome.”

  Turning around, he glares at me. “The point is to put something positive out in the world. The point is to make someone other than yourself feel good for a change. The point is to honor the memory of your late mother.”

  Why does he always have to find my sorest spot and poke? “Oh, here we go again. During your little corporate circle-jerk, Sid made it very clear that the actual point is for users to earn points for a free biscotti at Starbucks or some such shit and for you personally to make enough money on advertising to fill a pool with money and swim around in it like Scrooge McFuck. Do you really think my sainted mother would have approved of your motivations?”

  His mouth tightens into a straight line. “I think your mother would have approved of anything that made you see how rewarding it can be to do something good for someone, even if that good involved a carrot and stick at first. I think she'd believe in you enough to hope that, ultimately, it would open a door to a better you. Unfortunately, I'm having a hard time holding onto that belief myself.”

  Each word is clear, like he’s testing the weight of them and the verbal boulders are falling squarely on my shoulders. “You don't believe? You want to give up on me? Awesome. Let's end this right now. You can find someone else to publicly test this app, and I can go back to staying out of sight and out of mind. That's always worked out pretty well for you before, hasn't it? You can go back to playing 'Captain of Industry,' and I can go back to just fucking up my own life instead of yours too. Sound like a plan?”

  I should jump to avoid the incoming grenade, but I don’t. I just sit here in my supple leather, letting everything explode around me as he says, “I wish I could give up on you, Shane. But you're my only child, and I have a responsibility to you and your mother to try to show you there's more to this world than your selfishness. So, not only are you going to stick with this, but you have a new mission now, one that’s not inside Nicebomber. You're going to make it up to that man and his daughter.”

  “Oh, fuck,” I say through gritted teeth. “Look, okay, you win, I'll keep doing the Nicebomber thing. But let me start over with someone new, all right? Don't make me face those people again. That's not going to go well. I’ve never been hated so brazenly in my life. Is that what you want for your only child?”

  He clucks his tongue. “You're going to do whatever it takes to make it go well. That's your next Nicebomber assignm
ent.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” Again, I realize I'm whining a little, but I can't help it. This is starting to feel like some medieval form of torture.

  Lifting his hand, he points at the center of my chest. “You're going to figure out a way all on your own. And when you do, and you succeed in improving those people's lives with an idea you come up with yourself, you'll feel like a better person.” He heads to the door, then turns to look back at me with a scowl. “Because if you don't, Shane, then I'm cutting you off financially for good, and you can go find a job scooping ice cream or selling shoes for all I care. Hell, cleaning toilets. That’s honest work and you’re actually qualified for it.”

  And with that, he leaves, slamming the door behind him.

  The finality of his ultimatum settles in, bone-deep. Racking my brain for ideas, I guess the first step that makes sense is to find these people so I can make it up to them. That shouldn't be too difficult—the daughter said the old guy's name is Pinky Applebaum, a very unique moniker, and that he used to be a game show host.

  A quick peek at Wikipedia reveals that his real name is Herschel, that he hosted a kid show called Bobbin' with Applebaum, and that he does indeed live here in Chicago. According to the Trib, he's got a list of medical problems as long as my arm, and a hospice nurse takes care of him more or less full-time. So that explains the sexy woman who considers me a devastating disease on the ass of humanity. I pray the article will also mention her name—and maybe even a link to her own page—since I’d give anything to add a name to the fantasy. But nope. Only Z-list celebrities and up rank their own Wikipedia pages, it seems. Too bad because I can’t think of anyone more worthy of one than that gorgeous nurse helping a terminally ill guy.