Nicebomber

by Charles, Colleen

  Shane shakes his head as I listen in rapt attention. “You would think so, right? Because that's what good kings do—they care about their people more than themselves. But this king was selfish and greedy, and he wanted the Grail all to himself. He even took money from his subjects to go on quests and find it, not caring that it left them poor and hungry.”

  The kids boo, hiss, and mumble. A wounded expression flickers across Shane’s face, until he realizes they're jeering at the selfish king, not him. He laughs, holding up his hands to quiet them down.

  “You're right! He was a very bad king, and no one liked him. He didn’t live by the golden rule. Everyone who lived there wished they had a different king instead. But he didn't care. As far as he was concerned, once he had the Grail, it wouldn't make any difference whether he had any friends or not. He'd have what he always wanted, and that was all that mattered to him. So one night, while he and his knights were out riding around searching for the Grail, he lit a fire to keep warm... and you wouldn’t believe it! He saw it! The Grail hovered in the air just above the campfire, finally within his grasp. But just as his fingertips reached the Grail, it vanished, leaving his hand to burn in the flames.”

  A boy with freckles and huge blue eyes raises his hand. “Why did it vanish?”

  “That is a very good question,” Shane tells him. “No one knows for sure. Maybe the Grail held a very special brand of magic. Or maybe the king just wanted it so badly that he had a hallucination.”

  “Like a mirage in the desert?” the first girl asks.

  “Exactly. The knights took their king back to his castle, and he called on all the doctors and sorcerers in the kingdom to heal his burned hand. But no one could, and his wound became horribly infected. Who here knows what an infection is?”

  The blue-eyed boy raises his hand. “It's when you get a cut or a scratch or something and germs get into it, and then you get a bad fever. That's why my mom always puts Neosporin on me when I get hurt instead of just a Band-Aid, even though it stings sometimes.”

  “Correct,” Shane agrees. “It sounds like a lot of you have extremely smart mothers. But unfortunately, Neosporin hadn't been invented yet, so the king got deathly ill. He couldn't even get out of bed, and everyone prayed for his recovery, even though they thought he might die.”

  I feel a surge of pride as I watch. He's really doing it! These kids are loving him, and we're getting it all on video! At last, something's going right for Shane with this stupid app! If he just gets one solid win, he can get his father off his back and get on with his life.

  His new and improved life. The one that now includes me.

  Us.

  “Then one day,” he continues, “a jester came to the king's chamber.”

  The kid with the freckles answers this time. “Weren’t jesters like clowns for kings back in medieval times, with the pointed shoes and bells on their hats, right? Because people didn't have TVs back then?”

  “They didn’t even have electricity!” one shouts out.

  The others laugh, and Shane joins them. I look over at Simone and see her smile, nod, and give me the thumbs-up. I can't believe this is going so well! Just a few more minutes, and we'll have done our first successful Nicebombing activity.

  Deep in my chest, hope springs eternal.

  “That's right,” Shane says. “The jester isn't a smart man, so he doesn't know he's in the presence of a king—just a man who's unhappy and in pain. The jester asks if there's anything he can do to help him. The king can barely talk, but he croaks, 'Please... I'm so thirsty. Please bring me a cup of water.' The jester does, and as the king begins to drink from it, he realizes that water can rapidly heal his wound. He looks down at his hands, and what do you think he sees there?”

  “The jester's cup?” the blue-eyed boy asks.

  The girl with the frizzy hair rolls her eyes dramatically. “No! The Grail!”

  “It was the Grail that the king had looked for his entire life,” Shane says with a flourish.

  “How did it get there?” the boy with braces asks.

  “That's exactly what the king wanted to know. He asked, ‘How is this possible? How could you have found what my bravest and cleverest knights couldn't?’ And the jester simply said, ‘I don't know. I only knew that you were thirsty.’ The end.”

  A moment of tense silence hangs in the air... followed by a burst of fervent applause. The kids give him a standing ovation, and Shane looks as surprised as I feel. He stands up, takes an awkward bow, and thanks them.

  Simone sidles up to me. “That's quite a fellow you've got there,” she says, cocking her head in Shane’s direction. “You’re one lucky lady. I can’t imagine many good-looking young men who would walk into a library at the spur of the moment and tell a story to grade school kids from memory.”

  “He sure is,” I sigh, feeling the wisdom of her words deep in my bones. I let my demanding body scream at me to fall in love with him right here and now, while my stodgy brain screams at me to stop before I get hurt.

  As soon as we're both outside the library, I grab Shane, kissing him and holding him as tightly as I can. “Where the hell did you come up with that story?”

  He gives me an embarrassed grin. “Monty Python—guess my penchant for old comedies came in handy for once. The message stuck with me for some reason. I might have mixed up some of the details here and there, but...”

  “No, you were perfect,” I say, kissing him again. “Just perfect.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Shane

  Thank you, John Cleese.

  Granted, the first several attempts at this Nicebombing thing were complete failures and made me feel like I’d flamed out. But telling the kids a story based on one of my favorite movies—doing it right while making them and Keeley happy—felt fantastic. And frankly, so did helping out Esther next door... even before the reward Keeley gave me afterward. For once in my life, I feel like I’ve made a positive impact on the world instead of just thinking of myself. And what did it cost me? Nothing really.

  Minimal time and effort.

  There’s something to be said for this helping others philosophy. I could live like this every day. I could keep doing things that I know would make my mother proud. And what's more, I don't need an app to tell me how.

  What can I choose to do today? With a heaving inhale, I realize that I really do want to know.

  My mind drifts back to a park from my childhood. One my mother used to enjoy taking me to when I was a toddler. Oz Park. It boasts a funny metal statue of the Tin Man. And although I can’t recall the exact timbre of her voice, I remember her saying she wished there were more trees. I heard her mention that during one of our visits there, while she pushed me on the playground's swing set. I also seem to recall Dad mentioning once or twice that the environment was one of Mom's favorite causes.

  And I can see why. Mother Nature rocks. Trees are beloved by people and critters alike. They're pretty, they give shade in the summer, they pump out oxygen. Little kids who visit the park can climb on them. Granola-loving hippies can hug them. So what could be better than going to the park and planting a tree in honor of my mom?

  I can’t think of a better way to remember her and do a good deed for nothing more than the pleasure of it.

  First, I rent a van so there'll be plenty of space for a tree in the back. Then I drive to the closest Home Depot and browse their live potted trees. I keep waiting for someone in an orange vest to come help me, but they all seem to be too busy helping other shoppers, so after about ten minutes, I figure I'm on my own.

  Scoping out the selection, I note most of them are evergreen trees with weird names—Leyland Cypress, Carolina Sapphire, Blue Point Juniper, and something called a Thuja, which sounds like a villain from a Conan the Barbarian flick. But those don't seem like much fun for kids. They're too flimsy to climb, plus they've got all those rough needles. I need a tough tree. The Dwyane “The Rock” Johnson of trees.

  Oak.

/>   Elm.

  There's a pretty one with bright crimson blooms called the Red Hot Black Diamond Crape Myrtle. The card on it says it can grow up to twelve feet, which is kind of cool. But in the end, I walk away.

  Then I spot it. The perfect tree for a park. A live oak.

  According to the card, these trees can grow up to eighty feet if they've got enough room. They're perfect shade trees, and they even produce sweet, edible acorns. The kids can go around picking them. The text even specifically states that planting these trees is a generous gift that future generations will cherish, since they can live and grow for centuries.

  A tingle races up my spine as I imagine contributing something that will still be here hundreds of years from now. That's the kind of legacy I want to leave with my good deeds, especially since I'm dedicating this one to my mom’s memory. I reach out and caress its silky leaves. It seems like God put this tree on the earth for me to do this with it.

  I grab it, pick out a decent-looking shovel, and pay for them both. Then I place them in the back of the rented van and head over to Oz Park.

  As I stroll through the park with the tree in one hand and the shovel in the other, I realize I haven't been back here since my mother was alive. There's so much about it I didn't remember, like the statues of the other characters from The Wizard of Oz—Scarecrow, Cowardly Lion, and of course, Dorothy and Toto. I remembered the Dorothy's Playlot area where I used to climb and run around, but not the tennis and basketball courts or the areas reserved for football and soccer.

  I watch the kids playing together as their parents look on, and an unexpected sadness wells up in me. I should have come here more often after my mother died. I shouldn't have been so afraid to confront my memories of her and the feelings that would soon follow. Maybe confronting the grief would have helped ease it. When it comes to facing my own feelings and dealing with them, I'm a bigger coward than the lion looming over me.

  I've wasted so much time, so many years, running from my pain and loneliness. No more. Today is the day I finally overcome my self-pity and move on.

  Step into the man I’m meant to be. Then I’ll claim my forever with the woman I didn’t think I deserved.

  Until right now.

  I find the section of the park I've been looking for. It’s called The Emerald Garden, with lots of gorgeous flowers for the little boys and girls to ooh and ahh over. I locate a section that looks large enough for the tree to spread out a bit once it gets going, put the potted oak down next to me, and thrust into the grass and soil with the shovel.

  A flare of agony immediately sears the left side of my back like a red-hot poker, and I let out a yelp. One swing of the shovel, and it feels like I've either pulled or torn a muscle. Obviously, I need to ramp up my weightlifting efforts at the gym.

  Even through the pain, I have to laugh. Well, what did I expect? I've never used a shovel before in my life. I probably bent or twisted the wrong way somehow and wrenched something I shouldn't have. In retrospect, maybe I should've watched a few YouTube videos about how to use a shovel properly—or how to plant a tree.

  But I've started, so I will finish. Finishing what I’ve started now seems imperative. It’s my new way of living and learning and growing. It'll hurt, but it still shouldn't take too long, and then I can go home and put some ice or a heating pad on it. I'm sure the pain will be dulled by doing the right thing.

  I glance around and notice that about a dozen people have gathered around to watch me. A handful of them point their phones at me, taking pictures and recording videos.

  “Is that Shane Kleinfeld?” one of them murmurs loud enough for me to hear.

  I smile at them, hoping I'll even inspire some of them to do the same. Wouldn't that be fantastic? What if everyone who's watching me right now planted a tree? Wouldn't the world be a better, greener, healthier, prettier place...not just for us, but for our children, and our children's children?

  With renewed vigor and on the strength of my conviction, I swing the shovel again, and again, trying to keep my smile firmly in place—even though the sharp, stabbing pains in my back make me feel like I'm being kidney-punched by Floyd Mayweather. The directions state to dig the hole slightly larger than the root ball.

  Just when I'm about ready to put the tree in and cover its roots, a stranger taps me on the shoulder. At first, I think it’s a bystander wanting to tell me I’ve chosen the perfect tree.

  Then I hear the sound of a police radio chattering, and my stomach plunges into my shoes.

  I turn around to see a cop eyeing me with confusion. “Excuse me, sir. What are you doing?”

  Thankfully, I bite back the urge to give him a snappy answer, even though I'm not sure why he's hassling me. “I'm, uh, planting a tree, Officer. Why, is something wrong?”

  His annoyed gaze sweeps over me. “That depends. Can I see your permit?”

  “Permit? What do you mean?” I feel my brain slowing to a halt, like a car stuck in the mud. Why the hell would this be a problem for anyone? It's a tree. A very expensive hardwood.

  The cop raises his eyebrows and starts speaking slowly, as though he's addressing a three-year-old. “Did you get authorization from the Chicago Park District before planting this tree in this park?”

  My heart stalls in my chest. “I, um...is that a thing? Was I supposed to do that? I didn't realize.”

  He sighs. “So let me get this straight. You thought it would be fine for you to just dig a hole in a public park and put a tree here, without anyone's permission? You seriously believed no one would have any issues with you doing that, is that what you're telling me?”

  “But... I mean... it's a big, beautiful tree!” I stammer, getting flustered. “Everyone loves trees! Especially little kids. What kind of park board wouldn't want people to plant trees?”

  My good intentions fall to the vicinity of my feet. This isn't how this was supposed to go. I look around, desperately hoping people don’t have their phones out. Why the fuck do people need to capture every single moment in life and splay it all over social media? Whatever happened to live and let live? I suck in a ragged breath. If anything, the number of onlookers with cameras has doubled, and most of them stare at me like this is the funniest thing they've ever seen.

  “Sir,” he replies coldly, “lots of plants and trees have leaves, barks, and berries that are poisonous to children. We can't just let anyone plant anything they want, anywhere they feel like. And if we did, can you imagine how sloppy and overgrown this place would look? This is public land, owned and maintained by the city. We have a landscape designer.”

  “Well, aren't I a member of the public?” I demand, my voice rising. “Don't I live in the city? Don't I have a right to donate trees to improve the landscape, if that's what I feel like doing?”

  “You have every right to contact the Chicago Parks District and coordinate your donations with them, so they don't interfere with the current landscaping. Short of that? No, you're vandalizing city property, and I'll need to give you a ticket and confiscate the tree. The shovel, too.”

  Something inside me snaps and screams for release. “But I want to donate them!”

  “And you're about to donate a lot more,” the cop says, tearing off the ticket and handing it to me. “You'll need to appear in front of a judge, and he could sentence you to a fine of up to fifteen hundred dollars. Plus, you could serve up to six months in jail, depending on how much it'll cost for the city to fix your little excavation here. Oh, and I'll need to see some ID so I can write this up in my official report.”

  I drop the shovel and flip my wallet open, handing over my state ID. “They give you the important jobs, is that it, Officer Lorax?” I sneer, slipping right back into old Shane. Why the hell did I ever think doing good deeds would improve my life? “Tree Patrol, is that your jurisdiction?”

  He hands the ID back with a smirk, then picks up the tree and shovel. “Have a nice day, Mr. Kleinfeld. Glad to see you’ve improved yourself since the last time
I saw you. On your knees.”

  Only one knee. When he's gone, I leave the park quickly, trying not to break into a run. I can still feel the cameras pointed at me. What a fucking nightmare.

  I return the rented van and take an Uber home, kicking myself. Even with the children's ward fiasco, even with the babysitting disaster, I've never felt so humiliated in my life. The library success won’t redeem me in the eyes of the internet hate patrol.

  But when I get home, my shame pales in comparison to what comes next.

  I sit down in front of my computer and bring up YouTube so I can create a playlist of relaxing music and zone out for a while. Before I can type a song title into the search bar, I see a trending video with the title, Kleinfeld doesn’t believe in love, but he lusts after Mother Nature!

  Oh. Fuck. No.

  I click on it before I can stop myself, and alerts and reshares pepper the screen.

  It starts with me digging the hole, and through some artful edits, I shovel and smile at the bystanders. Even though I only swung the shovel a handful of times, whoever uploaded this put it on a loop, so it looks like I'm digging into infinity.

  Then comes the part with the cop, and I sound like a total psycho arguing with him. I can't believe I stood there like that, stuttering and protesting. What's wrong with me? I can even see red creeping up my neck and into my face as I get increasingly upset with him.

  But I did it again… I lost my cool in the face of a challenge. Face palming myself, I welcome the sting.

  The video already has thousands of views. And it gets worse, because there are the other versions in the sidebar—ones where my voice is autotuned, ones with video commentaries by snarky vloggers, ones with stupid GIFs inserted.

  Oh, and let's not forget the comments. How could we ignore the hateful vitriol directed at me? Already, close to a hundred people have written about how I'm a moron, a loser, an enemy of the environment, a public menace, a serial child poisoner, and on and on and on. Plus dozens of unoriginal jokes about how I should have saved myself some time and trouble by simply planting the tree in my ass where it belongs.