Bad Reputation: The Complete Collection

by Matt Hader

  “You must be lost,” said Peter in a shitty tone.

  “No, dude, I’m not lost. I’m with Meals for Seniors,” said Larry, dismissing Peter.

  “Yeah, right. What’s in the bag?” asked Peter with eyes squinting, looking as if he was ready to fight.

  As a twenty-one year old black man, Larry experienced people questioning his motives from time to time, especially when traveling into a few of the far flung suburban areas, but this particular neighbor seemed unusually aggressive.

  “Take a wild guess, man. I just told you who I’m with,” said Larry, stepping around Peter.

  In the back yard, a tough-looking uniformed Balmoral cop named Jimmy Caul stood between an old man and a detached garage. Larry noticed the polished grill of a classic car inside the garage as Jimmy shut the door, and watched as the officer turned and snatched the car keys out of the old man’s hand. The old man had a shock of thick gray hair and appeared physically sturdy for his advanced age.

  It was Larry’s first time venturing into Balmoral, Illinois with the Meals for Seniors program that he volunteered for. The usual driver called in sick that morning, and since Larry was “volunteering” as punishment for a misdemeanor criminal case he lost, he took it upon himself to use his own gas money for the seventeen mile ride west into town.

  Actually, the tough-as-nails woman in charge of the meals program would’ve made him do it anyway. At least this way it was his idea and not hers. And it allowed him to stay away from his own troubles at home a bit longer. Larry tried to make it a habit of looking for any of the small victories he could as he traversed life. Lately though, it was getting more difficult for him to recognize even the tiniest of wins.

  On the long drive to Balmoral, he daydreamed about asking friends if he could couch-surf just so he could get a break from living at home. But who was he kidding? Larry didn’t have any close friends, and none of his acquaintances would ever allow him to crash at their homes.

  Larry had enjoyed a modicum of underground notoriety as a rogue artist in the Bucktown neighborhood of Chicago. Not quite “Banksy” unique, but he was still a significant enough name among the spray-painting taggers of the north side. No one could identify him by looking at him, but the taggers knew his work. He also realized that living as a rogue artist didn’t pay the bills. That’s why he decided to keep art as a hobby as he tried to find his place in life. The going was very tough because he couldn’t pin down what he should be doing. His only goal in life: try and find a goal in life. He was a hopelessly lost soul.

  Larry was extremely quiet by nature. He lived mostly in his head, but he did peacock a bit with his outward style. He was inked to the hilt and wore dreadlocks in his hair. He was sure that his personal style, and possibly his skin color, had raised the neighbor’s ire.

  Artistically, Larry’s Mona Lisa was the piece that he was arrested for: an elaborate rendition of Godzilla having sexual relations with a stacked female Mothra on the side of a yuppie couple’s brand new garage.

  Long before his arrest, as his artistic life was just taking off, and while attending his junior year at Trier High School, Larry snagged a part-time dishwashing job in the kitchen of a famous pancake house owned by two brothers. It was so close to his home that he could walk to the eatery. He never had any real friends growing up and only a couple of casual girlfriends along the way, and so getting the job helped to fill up his days and thankfully, his wallet.

  His close proximity also allowed the owners of the restaurant to count on Larry whenever someone didn’t show up for their shift. He would regularly come into work on a moment’s notice.

  He soon found himself in the prep-cook position, and before his senior year of high school was completed, he moved up to line-cook at the pancake house. His meteoric rise through the ranks thoroughly pissed off the other line-cooks who had been working there for years. After graduating from high school, Larry was given a partial scholarship to attend the Art Institute. He was able to finagle a schedule that allowed him to work the morning shift at the pancake house and attend classes in the evening. So as Larry plied his avocation as an artist, he began learning more and more about how to cook professionally.

  Larry was fired from the restaurant after tagging the back of the building with a fantastic and delicious looking, eight-foot tall stack of colorful pancakes. He had been goaded into creating the impromptu advertisement on the ugly back wall of the building by those same pissed off older line-cooks. The other line-cooks never appreciated that Larry could out-cook them. As a group, they set out to bully him into submission. Larry created the pancake mural to show them he had even more talent on reserve and to finally shut them up. It was a bone-headed move on his part.

  Whether Larry was flipping over-medium eggs or forcing his art through the tip of a spray can onto the pristine walls of Chicago’s North Shore, he was a hard working sort. At least that’s how he had operated before being fired from the cooking job and losing his way in life. After his dismissal, he floundered. He would only pick up odd bits of work here and there. His father soon began his verbal assaults in what he said was an attempt to get Larry moving forward again. But that’s not how Larry saw it. He thought that his father’s tirades were personal attacks over Larry’s failed life.

  Larry’s cooking background was the reason the judge gave him the spot on the senior’s meal program. The judge figured that Larry could also work in the kitchen of the organization when not driving all over the northern portions of the Chicago area delivering meals to the elderly.

  “Mr. Herman, if I catch you driving with a suspended license, I’m tossing your ass in jail,” said Officer Jimmy Caul, the Balmoral cop. “You can’t drive for now. Period.”

  “You have to pester an old man? Go catch some crooks.” said Mr. Herman, the spry looking man of 88 years. “My eyesight’s just fine.”

  Jimmy and Mr. Herman finally noticed Larry and Peter standing in the driveway.

  “Don’t just stand there. Bring it inside.” said Mr. Herman, looking Larry’s way.

  “The kitchen okay?” asked Larry.

  “No, put in in the bathrom.” said Mr. Herman, sarcastically, then glanced over at Peter, “Beat it, you putz. You’ve done enough.”

  Peter never took his eyes off of Larry, but said, “I’m not the one who caused the accident, old man.”

  Larry’s patience was being put to the test this morning – first with his dad and now this nosy neighbor and the old man.

  Larry stepped up the creaking back steps, walked into the kitchen, and stopped in his tracks. The interior of the house did not match the exterior in any way. The place was immaculate and looked as if it hadn’t changed since the 1940’s. Hand-crafted dark wood finishes were the crowning jewels to the home’s interior. From the rich, highly polished, oak floors to the original built-in shelves, the wood touches added cozy, and inviting, warmth to the dwelling. Mr. Herman was an obvious stickler for keeping the interior of his home in order.

  Larry placed the meals on the counter but watched through the back screen door as the cop handed the keys back to the old man. Jimmy then pointed at Mr. Herman, making sure he got the message about not driving. The cop walked from view. The asshole neighbor had a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Mr. Herman said something to him. The neighbor suddenly lost the smirk and stepped back into his own yard.

  Mr. Herman ambled up the steps, opened the door, and walked into the kitchen. “I can make my own meals, you know. Just can’t get to the damned food store now,” he barked. “The Village of Balmoral thinks I can’t take care of myself, that’s why you’re here. This is all because of that idiot neighbor of mine. They can go to hell!”

  Larry said, “Okay,” and tried to leave – but Mr. Herman didn’t budge.

  “You want to know why?” asked Mr. Herman.

  “Got to go, man,” sai
d Larry, turning to exit through the front door.

  “I clipped that idiot neighbor’s car a couple of months ago. Cop said it was my eyesight. Didn’t do a lick of damage to his vehicle. I got great eyesight,” said Mr. Herman as he opened the refrigerator door and stuffed the bag of food inside. “Now they’re talking about taking away my driver’s license for good. The police told me not to drive in the mean time.”

  “You have a great day,” said Larry, oozing sarcasm as he opened the front door.

  Mr. Herman spouted, “Was it Meth?”

  That stopped Larry in his tracks. “What? What the hell is that supposed to-”

  “The reason you got roped into helping old people with their food. Was it Meth?” asked the old man, stepping closer.

  Larry hesitated, then said, “I’ve got to go, man.”

  “Then what in the hell was it?”

  Larry, with doorknob in hand, just wanted to leave, but something in Mr. Herman’s no-nonsense approach made him hesitate. Larry had not been engaged in life of late, usually side-stepping any and all confrontations. But for some reason the way the old man spoke aloud, save for the exact vernacular, was quite similar to the way Larry did in his own head. He was blunt and without any undue bullshit. The moment of reflection was just long enough for Larry to finally notice the artwork hanging on the walls of the home.

  There were no famous pieces, but he could tell that nearly every framed painting was original. The work was raw but showed a lot of promise, just like the instructors at The Art Institute had said of his work before he quit on his professional art career and stopped going to classes.

  Mr. Herman followed Larry’s gaze to the framed artwork – noticing his interest.

  “My friend Beth painted all of these,” said Mr. Herman. “They’re something, aren’t they? I can tell that you’re an artist too, you know. Just by the way you’re looking at her work. She’d look at ‘em the same way.”

  Mr. Herman lowered himself into a chair at the dining room table like a master salesman luring in his next victim, and said, “Sit the hell down.”

  Larry cautiously took a seat at the table and then a better look at the artwork.

  The old man peered about the room. “She started painting bowls of fruit like those over there,” pointing towards the living room. “Then she got on a bird craze. Flowers were next,” he said, motioning toward the open hallway between the living and dining rooms. “She painted those mums when she was 17.”

  Larry immediately detected the progression of work as the artist grew into her craft. The paintings visible in the living room were unrefined, as if created by a child, but as his eyes scanned, he could tell the artist became more comfortable in her own creativity.

  Of the thirty or so paintings that he could see, the landscape mounted on the wall next to his head was the finest piece, with clean lines and minimalistic colors.

  That’s when Larry saw the smattering of old photos among the paintings in the dining room. In one photo, a younger, uniformed Mr. Herman looked back through steady eyes.

  “You were a Ranger,” said Larry, noticing the big red “1” on the shoulder of the young Mr. Herman in the photo. “My grandfather was in World War Two.”

  “Is that right?” asked Mr. Herman.

  “I never met him, though. He didn’t come back,” said Larry.

  “I was just a cowardly supply clerk hiding behind the front lines. Always hiding. The brave ones like your grandfather are still over there,” said the old man, allowing that to sink in.

  Then, seizing on the moment, Mr. Herman asked, “How’d you like to make $200?” He laughed at Larry’s reaction – immediately adding, “It’s nothing weird. I need someone to drive me somewhere.”

  Larry was finished delivering meals for the day but didn’t want to go back home. His dad would be there. His dad was always there rehabbing the house and belittling Larry. Larry could use the money, too. “I’ll do it for $300.” he countered.

  By way of an answer, the old man smiled and said, “Do you know where Freeport is?”

  “Is that where you need to go?” asked Larry. “Freeport?”

  “No, I need to go to Australia. It’s beautiful this time of year. Yeah, of course, Freeport! It’s near Rockford,” said Mr. Herman getting to his feet. “We’ll use my car. To the garage!” And like a slow moving tornado, he trudged through the kitchen and out the back door.

  Larry hesitated once again, thinking that he could just sneak out the front door and be gone from this house. He could hang out at Northbrook Court mall for a few hours before going back home. But then the thought of aimlessly meandering about the upscale mall without any cash troubled him. He hated the flat-broke image that he conjured. He finally walked through the kitchen and out the back door.

  The old man waited at the door of the detached garage and said, “Come on, kid. You’re going to love this.” He then opened the garage door where a pristine maroon colored 1940 Packard filled the space.

  “It’s three on a tree. You know, on the steering column. You know how to drive that?” Mr. Herman asked as they stood admiring the vehicle.

  “It’s the same concept as the stick on the floor, right? Yeah, I can drive that. When do I get the money?”

  Mr. Herman gave Larry a wry grin and said, “Don’t know where you’ve worked, but I always got paid after the job was completed.”

  ***

  The Packard handled like a dream as they drove west bound on Highway 20 just outside of Rockford. Larry could tell that Mr. Herman was watching him as he drove.

  “You were pimping, weren’t you? That’s it! Selling those working women. Or boys?” asked the old man.

  Larry shot him a humorless look but stayed silent.

  Mr. Herman smirked and said, “You’re not one for talking.”

  Larry would’ve loved to open up to another human and tell them about how he would rather live in his own head, create plates of food, or paint on walls instead of carrying on an actual conversation, but what he said was, “Nope.”

  “Me neither,” said the old man. “I like quiet. Just need it sometimes. To think.”

  The road rumbled rhythmically under the car’s tires for another two seconds.

  “Boy, that cop, Jimmy, pissed me off today. Son of a bitch. I’ve known that boy since he could piss standing up.” When Larry smiled, the old man added, “I hope I didn’t offend you with my word choices.”

  Larry shook his head. “Good, cause I really couldn’t care less,” said Mr. Herman with a big smirk.

  Larry glanced over to the passenger seat, “So what’s in Freeport?”

  Mr. Herman lost the smirk on his face and peered out the passenger window at the passing, low rolling hills. “There’s someone I need to see,” he said, his voice plagued by memories.

  Larry was just about to ask for the old man to elaborate but something in the rear view mirror caught his attention. It was an Illinois State Trooper’s car edging up behind them doing 65 miles per hour.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Mr. Herman, but his question was answered when he heard the police siren burp a couple of times. “What the hell?”

  After pulling onto the shoulder, Larry lowered his driver’s window and awaited the police officer.

  “License, registration and proof of insurance,” asked the male Trooper.

  Larry was hoping upon hope that the Trooper wasn’t profiling him because of his race and age, but it was Mr. Herman who became even more upset.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked the Trooper. “We were going the limit, my plates are valid, and my friend here has his license.”

  The Trooper got a good look at Mr. Herman, smiled and said, “I apologize, sir. I didn’t see you there. She is a bee-ute.”

  �
�So why in the hell are you pulling us over? You figure that we’ll go along with you because you’re bored and looking for something to do? What’s your name, copper?” asked the old man.

  “Dude, stop. You’re just making it worse,” pleaded Larry.

  “I will not! I think that this guy believes that just because you’re driving a $100,000 car that it can’t be yours,” said the old man. “Is that’s it?”

  “A hundred thou? Holy shit,” Larry said.

  “Whoa, take it easy, sir. That’s not it at all,” said the Trooper.

  “So you really just wanted to see the car up close? Answer me!” yelled Mr. Herman.

  The Trooper nervously twitched his lips and his hand rested on the butt of his sidearm. Larry closed his eyes and raised his hands over his head, awaiting his imminent arrest.

  Then the Trooper said, “I am sorry. I really did just want to get a better look at your vehicle.”

  “So you waste our time to please yourself, is that it?” asked Mr. Herman. “Just drive away, kid, he won’t do anything. Go. Drive! We wasted enough time here.”

  The Trooper waved a sheepish apology, and Larry couldn’t believe that he was following the old man’s orders. He put the car in drive, and they took off.

  “I bought this car with my first big commission check, and kept it in tip top shape ever since. This car better look like a million bucks,” Mr. Herman said with a laugh. “Don’t look back, kid, he’s not going to follow us anymore. What a jerk.”

  Larry stared at Mr. Herman in total amazement of his handling of the situation. A second too long.

  “Watch the road, kid.” barked Mr. Herman.

  ***

  The retirement center was a utilitarian cement structure, four stories tall and situated across the street from a park where the Lincoln-Douglas Debate statue was erected. Larry parked the Packard in the side parking lot and got out. Before he closed the door, Mr. Herman reached into his pocket and pulled out a small purple felt bag and handed it to Larry.