Should Have Left It Unscripted

Simon sat on a bench behind the repair shop, pulled a sandwich from a brown bag, and cussed as two slices of tomato slipped from it, falling on the grimy floor. He sighed, resigned. This was his luck, always slipping away, forever losing something, never whole. It is not that he loved tomatoes, but his dear aunty Charlotte, the only living relative he had, would always pack him a BLT sandwich that was mostly lettuce and a smidge of bacon to try and get him to eat vegetables. Even at age twenty-two, Simon was still Charlotte's little boy. That thought soothed his shitty mood, and he munched into the sandwich.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a young woman sneak out to the dumpster in the back of the building and throw a backpack in it, then rush back to the front. Simon sat there, chewing the last bite of his sandwich, curiosity getting the best of him. Curiosity and resentment: the girl was part of a crew of big city hipsters that drove to the shop, rich kids by the looks on them, completely ignorant about what was going on with their luxury SUV. The driver had mumbled something about a weird screechy noise, but so far, the whole garage crew had taken a look, and they had not found anything amiss with the car. They probably drove over a piece of wire that got caught on a tire and freaked out when their perfectly smooth ride made a tiny noise. Spoiled motherfuckers.

And now this brat just threw a backpack in the trash. Simon waited until they drove away and walked to the dumpster to retrieve it. It was a brand new, expensive bag. Maybe his luck was finally turning around, he thought. Unzipping the bag, he saw only one thing: a small black notebook, like a diary. The book opened up on the last written page, where there was only one line: I want you gone. He decided to hide the backpack and its content in the bushes behind the dumpster so Clinton, the always-too-honest owner, wouldn't call the hipsters to come back and retrieve their property. Fuck them. They could always buy more. Rich motherfuckers can always buy more stuff.

That night Simon came back to get his newfound treasure. Sitting on the bench, he perused the scribbles on the black notebook. The hipster girl had written all about her resentments in it.

Kyla came in today wearing a navy blue jacket that would look so much better on me. I want it.

I hate seeing Laura make out with Justin. He is so hot; I want him for myself.

That bitchy Professor Summers gave me a C minus. As if. I want that bitch gone.

On and on the grievances went, the laments of somebody who had it all and still wanted more. Simon hated this girl with all his soul, but he couldn't stop reading. She was so full of resentment and unfulfilled desires. She was just like him. He kept reading pages and pages of wants and needs, many of them not too different from his own desires. A piece of clothing, a fashionable watch, the love of a person, someone hated gone. Then among the desires and grievances, there would be footnotes:

Your gift has arrived.

The footnotes were written in different ink than the original scribbles as if added afterward. It dawned on him. The hipster girl's wishes had come true. What if this could also work for him? What if, by writing his desires in this notebook, they would materialize? It was a stupid idea, yet a tempting thought.

Simon had very little sleep that night. Sitting at the tiny eating table of the double-wide trailer, the young man wondered: if he could ask for something, what would it be? If writing in this notebook could bring you all the riches in the world, how come this girl had not merely written: "I want everything?" Why withhold when you can have it all? Maybe she was already so rich that she could only see the small, stupid stuff missing in her life, unlike him, who had nothing. He was brought back to the present by Charlotte's voice.

"Who's Mammon?"

"What?" Simon asked, rushing to take the notebook from her hands.

"The owner of that book. It says right there," Charlotte explained, pointing at the hardcover. Simon saw a scribble in black ink that he had not noticed before over the dark notebook cover. He muttered something about having to be at the garage early and run out.

The name was strange; he doubted that it was the hipster girl's name. Maybe her surname? She looked too white to have a last name like that, though. Simon's feet seemed to be moving of their own volition until he was standing in front of the public library. He walked in, greeting the old librarian.

"Well, this is an unexpected pleasure. How can I help you, Simon?"

"Good day Mrs. Calloway. Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, boy, go ahead."

"Does the name Mammon mean something?"

"How yo spell that?" She asked, offering a piece of paper and pencil. Simon wrote it down.

The older lady typed on her computer and smiled.

"Well, it is something. It says here Mammon was the Syrian god of wealth. Do you want a printout?"

"Yes, please, Mrs. Calloway. Thank you."

Simon sat to read the printed page. It explained that Mammon was the Syrian deity of riches and wealth. The medieval theologians had associated him with the sin of greed, the desire to possess what others have. So this was it. Maybe this hipster girl had done some witchcraft thing to this notebook, and it worked only when you asked things one by one. You see what someone has; you ask for it. Simple as that. He thought of what would be something that he had coveted for a long time. The first thing that came to his mind was a gold watch. It belonged to a hateful teacher from back in high school. Without hesitation, Simon opened the notebook and wrote down:

I want Mr. Peters' gold watch.

The next day Simon was walking back home from the garage when a woman in a hurry bumped into him. She dropped a box that she was carrying, random objects falling on the ground. He helped her pick up some of them, but she seemed in a rush, haphazardly throwing stuff in the box without checking what was missing, then she kept walking.

"Ma'am, you missed some things."

"I don't give a shit. It's all going to goodwill or the trash," she spat without looking back.

Simon looked around on the floor and saw some old baseball cards, a few coins, and something more. There, against a brick wall, was a watch. A gold watch. He picked it up, astonished. He read the engraving in the back:

To Petey with love.

Simon gasped. He had heard the other teachers call Mr. Peters "Petey." This was amazing. This was no just a gold watch. It was the gold watch, the one he dreamed of ripping off the annoying teacher's wrist. Served him well, the young man thought, for being an asshole. He ran to the garage, eager to write some more on the notebook. He scribbled quickly:

"Asshole Tyler Martin's motorcycle."

"Michaella Thorton."

"Old man Thompson's rocking chair."

That last one made him laugh. The cranky old man was always yelling from that stupid chair on his porch, scaring the kids away. For a while, when he was about eight or nine years old, his favorite game with his friends was sneaking into the old crook's front yard and playing football as quietly as they could while them man snored in the rocking chair. They put bets on how many points each team would score before Mr. Thompson would wake up and shoo them off.

A couple of days later, Simon was walking back home when his phone rang. He flipped it open to answer.

"Yo!"

"Yo, Simon, hurry up. We at Old Man Thompson's house. He croaked. Sheriff says we can take whatever we want 'cause he ain't got no relatives, and the house gonna go to the state but is full of garbage, and he no want nothin' to do with cleaning it."

Simon laughed.

"Yo, make sure nobody takes the rocking chair. That's mine."

Sometime later, a smiling Simon walked into the trailer.

"Aunt Charlotte! Got you a present!" he said, beaming.

"Where in the heck you got that?" she asked, looking at the rocking chair. It was in excellent condition.

"It was old crook Thompson's. The old man croaked, the Sheriff wanted help emptying the house, so I got this for you.'

"God rests his soul," Charlotte crossed herself. "That's mighty kind of him to leave us something, cheap as he was all his life," she smiled.

Friday night Simon went to a party, feeling nervous. Michaella Thorton was there, looking cute as a peach. He grasped the courage to say hi but was pushed aside.

"Fuck off, loser," yelled Tyler Martin. "That's my girl."

"Leave him alone," Michaella screeched, slapping the drunk asshole in the face. "I just broke up with you, remember? Ten minutes ago? Get out of my house!"

Tyler was about to respond when he saw Michaella's brother walk toward him. The bully backed up, gave them all the finger, and walked out, getting on his motorcycle. They all saw him wiggle on it.

"Shit. He shouldn't be driving," Michaella said.

"Serves him well if he falls on his ass. For being a shithead to you," Simon answered.

The girl smiled.

"Do you want a drink? I'm sure you are not driving home."

"Of course he ain't," Michaella's brother snarked. He a loser that lives with his mom."

"She's his aunt, asshole," Michaella yelled back. "Leave him alone," she added, grabbing Simon by the hand and walking towards a bedroom. When she closed the door, he saw a bathroom in there.

"I'm gonna wash my hands if that's ok?"

She smiled.

"Go ahead. I'll be right here," Michaella patted the bed where she was sitting.

Simon shut the door, pulled the notebook from the back pocket of his jeans, and wrote:

"I want my own house. And twenty grand to impress my girl."

The next Monday he was at the shop when he heard his boss talking to someone.

"Ask Simon. Maybe he wants it. Kid's good at rebuilding garbage."

A moment later, the Sheriff found him working under a car.

"How you doing, son."

"Hello, Sheriff. What can I do for you?"

"Well, we have no impound lot here, small town that we are, and last night Tyler Martin wrapped his motorcycle around a light post. He been drinkin' two days straight. His momma don't want nothing to do with them motorcycle. Do you want to fix it, keep it?"

Simon sat up, astonished.

"He's dead?"

"Yeah. Third person we lost this week. Unusual for this town."

"What do you mean third? It was Old man Thompson and now Tyler, right?"

"And Mr. Peters, the school teacher. His wife caught him cheating, threw him out of his house. He blew his brains yesterday."

Simon went pale. He stood up and ran back to the trailer, not hearing the Sheriff call. When he was a block away, he saw a man in a suit walk out of his house and get in a car.

"Aunt Charlotte?" he called, breathing hard. "Who was that?"

"Oh, hi honey. That was a lawyer. I decided I needed a will. When I die, you, my boy, will get this house. And I even purchase some life insurance. Is not much but twenty grand would do you some good," she smiled.

Simon felt the blood drain off his face.

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