Once upon a time in a housing project somewhere in the American west, there lived a poor family comprised of five members. Their extremely small, government subsidized two-bedroom apartment, number 16B, sat nestled between Smack-Head Rob’s number 16A and Dr. DJ Dougie Z’s number 16C. Between Smack-Head’s constant stream of endless guests coming and going for five to twenty minute visits and Dougie’s perpetual mixing and remixing operations there was rarely a moment when external noise was not penetrating the confines of number 16B. Of course, 16B responded by penetrating right back. The apartment was relentlessly filled with the noises of shrieking, screaming, fighting, obnoxious children who, it seemed, had made it a goal to personally put a hole through every panel of drywall in the home.
The raucous inhabitants of 16B were none other than 14-year-old Zach, his mother Brandy, and his three younger brothers Willis Nicks, 10, Arthur Washington Marks, 8, and D’Nante Reginauld Willis III, who was almost 4, but they all affectionately referred to as “Tres”. Brandy possessed two very exceptional talents. First was fertility that would be the envy of any 19th century Mormon homesteader and second was her innate ability to attract men of questionable background who had about as much interest in getting to know her and forming as lasting relationship as Paris Hilton has in gutting fish. At last count, Zach’s father, Alan, was in prison serving a ten year sentence for a botched GTA that fell apart when he’d popped the clutch causing the Mustang he was lifting to lurch forward and slam into the rear end of a maroon-colored Dodge Neon that just happened to be driven by a former high school wrestling state champ. Alan tried to flee the scene. Unfortunately for him, the wrestler not only outran him, but was able to put him in a wicked half-Nelson hold while simultaneously calling the police. Willis’s father was also serving time, Arthur’s father was supposedly working at a cannery in Alaska, and it had been almost four years since anyone had seen D’Nante Reginauld Willis, Jr., whose friends had called him “Dos”. Needless to say, Brandy had never seen a single child support payment.
Despite the first of Brandy’s talents being highly marketable in 1876, it didn’t exactly lead to a life of prosperity in current times. She was lazy, tattooed (the needle work had all been done at home by Willis’s father), overweight, and had hair so oily it would have tented the pants of an entire board room of Exxon executives. If she was bright at all, the dimming lampshade crowning her brain blocked any semblance of good ideas, creativity, or general intelligence. Her days were spent sitting on the $10 sofa she had picked up at Goodwill, which had enough stains to destroy any black light that dared shine upon it, watching soap operas with a bottle of whatever was cheapest at the liquor store that day with a pack of Marlboro Reds sitting next to an ashtray so full it would make the residents of ancient Pompeii feel lucky. This routine was only interrupted when she heard another hole punched in the drywall when she would, in one fluid motion, roll her head back and to the left, close her eyes, and scream, “Knock that shit off!” Relinquishing her position on the sofa to see what her children were actually up to, however, was never high on the agenda.
Since money-making did not even crack Brandy’s top-40 talents, the budget in Zach’s household was tighter than Newt Gingrich squeezing through dark passages on a spelunking expedition. It was Zach’s job to be the family’s paterfamilias and being that he was too young to hold legitimate employment the entire source of income relied on the money-making schemes hatched in a 14-year-old mind. The latest of these endeavors was to acquire library cards, check out the limit of the coolest looking new books, and then, after carefully peeling off all evidence of belonging to a library and, just to be on the safe side, stamping them with a “DISCARD” stamp he had jacked from his middle school library, he would sell them to used bookstores throughout the city. The problem, Zach soon realized, was that there simply weren’t enough libraries to steal from. He needed a new plan.
Upon coming home from school one day, Zach was greeted at the door by his mother. Her actually getting up to meet him was a rarity and was usually a very bad sign. “I’m all outta booze and I need more cig,” she slurred.
“I ain’t got no money,” Zach protested. This wasn’t quite true as he hid away about a quarter of his earnings to ensure there would be enough to buy Ramen Noodle Soup, which he used to feed the family.
“Well, let’s sell some stuff then,” Brandy stumbled, but caught herself on the doorframe, “We can put it on Craig’s List.”
Zach had hatched some pretty decent as well as some pretty lousy money-making ideas in his day, but selling their very few second-hand and mostly worthless possessions seemed like the worst idea he’d ever heard.
“No one wants our stuff, Mom, nobody’s gonna buy it.”
“Craig’s List!” shouted Brandy before retiring to her favorite spot on the couch and flicking her cigarette ashes on the Vesuvius-like mound completely engulfing the tray. “We’ve got the car. Sell it!”
It was true, their most valued possession was an ’89 Civic, which Dos had left before disappearing. It went against all his instincts, but Zach decided to follow through with his mother’s orders. He had to go to the library to write and post the ad, so he donned his hoodie in hopes he wouldn’t be recognized by the pesky librarian who would most certainly be upset about the missing books.
His ad was simple, “1989 Civic for sale $1,000 obo.” This was followed with Brandy’s prepaid cell phone number. Zach realized he’d be just about as likely to get $1,000 for the Civic as for Brandy’s nasty stained couch, but figured it was worth a try.
Zach was shocked to get home and find Brandy’s cell with three voicemails, each inquiring about acquiring the Civic. The third message was from Smack-Head Rob. “Hey baby-girl,” Smack said, it was well-known throughout the project that Smack and Brandi were working really hard to add a sixth inhabitant, and for that matter last name, to apartment 16B, “I just gots me some coin. I’ll buy that ol’ Civic, help you’s out.” Smack had been an incredible high school athlete and had been offered multiple-sports scholarships to several D-1 schools, but two weeks before graduating he tore his ACL doing squats. His scholarships revoked, and with no other skills, he turned to meth and now lead a fairly plush lifestyle for a guy in the projects, which he funded by selling drugs full time. He didn’t use much anymore, but the damage had been already been done. He was missing several teeth, and those unfortunate enough to still be fixed to his jaw were disgustingly infected with a double dose of gingivitis and periodontitis. Dealing, it turned out, didn’t come with a dental plan. His nose resembled the illegitimate offspring of Tom Petty’s and Owen Wilson’s misshapen snouts while the dark circles under his eyes and jutting cheek bones left a clear indication of former, if not current, heroin usage.
Zach didn’t waste time. If anyone was going to drop a grand for their piece of crap Civic, it would be Smack. Zach was certain the motivation behind the purchase was for no other reason than getting some tail later that evening, but he didn’t care. Money was money.
He shuffled all the way over to Smack’s door to the beat of Dougie’s latest mix and knocked. “’Sup, Son,” answered Smack, “so you’s guys givin’ up on the Civic, huh?”
“Well, not exactly, but we could use the coin. You willin’ to pay full price?”
“Yeah, Son, I’d pay full, buts I’ve gots a way better offer if you’ll consider. See, I’ve got these…well, we’ll call ‘em magic beans,” Smack held up a baggie full of small brown pellets, “I need to get these magic beans planted in a hydroponics system, but the hydroponics and grow lights, they don’t fit the ambience I’m trying to maintain in here. Anyways, if you’s will take the hydro system and the beans, you’s will get a cut of all the profits from my, shall we say, magic bean sprout sales. Whadd’ya say, Son?”
“I ain’t takin’ no magic beans for the car, Smack, we needs coin not your beans.”
“My, my you’s drives a hard bargain, Little Man, I like that. New deal then, Son. You take my magic beans and let ‘em grow and I’ll let you in on an operation I’m puttin’ together that’ll really net the skrilla.”
Zach loved schemes and so this naturally peaked his interest. “What exactly you plannin’?”
“I gots lots of clients, anyways this one guy, big dude, he’s super rich and super dumb. He lives in a gigantic crib way up on a hill. Huge pad. He makes me deliver the goods up there. Anyways, last I seen him he tells me he’s headin’ outta town so I knows he ain’t home. Guys a real ass, but makes good on all his payments so I keep him as a client. He brags ‘bout layin’ people off, ‘bout cuttin’ pensions, and takin’ his employees medical benefits. No one deserves a B and E more than this A-hole. I mean, I’d never rip off good people like us, but dickweeds like this guy, they’s need to be taught a lesson. Thing is, it’s a two-man job and I need someone small and quick. If ya do it with me, I’ll give you half the payout for your mom’s Civic. Sound good?”
“Yeah, I’m in,” Zach agreed quietly.
Brandy was none too happy to hear about Zach’s negotiations with Smack. Zach built the hydroponics system to the rhythm of DJ Dougie’s bass, the opening and closing of Smack-Head’s door, and Brandy’s incessant yelling about losing the car and getting nothing in return but a sack full of magic beans. Smack had also sent a fifth of Jim Beam over, which had subdued Brandy a little, but in the end she decided the best punishment was to send Zach to his room without dinner. Zach agreed, then made Ramen Noodle for his younger brothers, serving them, and then taking his own bowl into the bedroom which he finished before squeezing earplugs in and falling asleep.
That night he dreamed the magic beans Smack had given him grew through the roof of their apartment, high up into the clouds. He climbed the stalk which led to treasures beyond the possibility of being counted. Enough so that he and his brothers and mother could live comfortably for the rest of their lives.
Zach awoke to pounding on his bedroom door. “Hey! You’s get up, it’s time!” Smack shouted. Zach glanced at his alarm clock. It was 4:30 in the morning. Clearly, Smack had spent the night. On his way out the door, Zach glanced at the hydroponics system he had built the night prior. There wasn’t so much as a sprout.
The pair set out in a giant Penske truck Smack had rented. It turned out that this client had given Smack the code for his gate so he could make deliveries with no human-to-human interaction. The tricky part was going to be to get into the house, but Smack was fairly convinced this guy was too arrogant to have an alarm system and simply smashing the door down would be easy enough.
The Penske truck drove higher and higher up the hill toward the estate. It was a rainy day and as the truck climbed it passed into a layer of low-lying clouds. Higher and higher they drove until, completely enveloped by the clouds, they reached an enormous wrought iron gate. Smack rolled down the window and punched in the six-digit code, “6-9-6-9-6-9,” he said aloud, “Christ, this guy’s gots to be the stupidest SOB I ever met in my life.”
They continued down the drive, which was done completely in golden-hued paving tiles. Zach thought it resembled the yellow brick road. The drive twisted ever higher through the thick forest. With the spookiness of the fog and the sun just slowly beginning to rise the possibility of being confronted by either a lion, tiger, bear, or at the very least a flock of flying monkeys seemed nearly inevitable.
Smack hadn’t been kidding when he had described his client’s house as a gigantic crib. The place looked like a cross between Neuschwanstein and Windsor Castle. Its mix of architectural styles from several countries and time periods made it look both imposing and comical. Its laughable grandness was nearly beyond scope. “See what I mean?” asked Smack rhetorically, “This guy’s a first class fool.”
The front doors were massive. They were made of wooden planks and held in place by huge iron hinges. Zach half expected that a drawbridge would be lowered at any minute despite the fact the castle had no moat. One thing was certain, however, and that was there would be absolutely no way to knock these doors down without a splitting maul and a chainsaw of which they had neither. The double-door to the right was adorned with a lovely decal that read, “I don’t call 911, I call .357.”
The two thieves had discussed their plan on the drive. There wasn’t much to it, really. Smack was convinced that anything they found inside would be worth something and they would take anything that would fit in the truck. It was an easy plan and if the resident of this gaudy palace wasn’t home nothing should go wrong.
The pair pushed on the door and much to their surprise it creaked open. The room they entered was a grand chamber with marble floors and 25-foot ceilings. It was ornately decorated with items of priceless values. Banded hundreds filled one table. There was no doubt; they had hit the mother lode.
Quickly they started loading the truck with anything they saw. The hundreds went first, then the art off the walls, they found solid-gold candle holders, and antique furniture. This payout would be enormous!
Zach was in the process of carting out an original Dali painting when he felt his foot catch on something. Behind him a Tiffany lamp scooted off the table, dragged by its power cord and crashed upon the marble floor breaking into thousands of little, formerly valuable pieces. Shortly after the crash, he first heard the yelling. For an instant, he thought it was Smack, but listening more intently, the voice was much deeper and much fiercer. Whomever the voice belonged to seemed like a formidable power to be avoided at all cost.
“WHO BELIEVES I’M SO DUMB, I SHALL SHOOT YOU WITH MY MAGNUM!” screamed the voice.
Zach ran. Smack ran. Zach threw the painting in the back of the Penske and slammed the rolling back door shut. “Go, go, go!” he shouted at Smack who had intended to throw the van into reverse and was peeling out, tires screeching. At that moment the largest man Zach had ever seen came sprinting out of the double doors brandishing his weapon like a villain cowboy firing wildly at the van all the while screaming at the top of his lungs. Just then, the tires caught hold of the slippery yellow pavers, but Smack had missed reverse and had put the van in drive. It shot forward like a rocket slamming into the Sasquatch of a man. The man squeezed the trigger one final time hopelessly sending his last round into the clouds before he fell backward with a colossal thud.
Smack devised a plan on the spot. “Okay, here’s what’s we do. Obviously this guy ain’t gonna show up to work on Monday and when that happens there’ll be a search, so we’s gots to beat ‘em to it. This guy, he ain’t married so no one’s gonna miss him right away. We’ve gots a few hours at least. My buddy, he’s gonna turn this truck into lookin’ like a legit business mobile. He’ll paint Rob’s Art and Antiques on the side. I’ll make an order inventory for all this crap we’s gots in the back. Then, in about three hours we’s come up here again, move some stuff around inside so it don’t look like nothins missin’, then we calls the cops and tells ‘em we came up here to deliver this stuff and this maniac came out shootin’ at us. This guy almost single-handedly sponsored a ballot initiative last year that slashed cops’ salaries in half. Funded it so well it passed in a landslide. Anyways, cops hate him and there ain’t no way they launch a big investigation, they’ll just be glad he’s gone.”
They did just as Smack had suggested and it worked flawlessly. The cops actually went out to happy hour after the investigation to celebrate their hated nemesis’s death. The death was ruled as self-defense and since Smack had so skillfully created an inventory of all the items they had taken he was able to sell them on ebay for an incredible profit. He was also able to launder the hundreds, a skill he had acquired after years in the drug trade. True to his word, he gave half of the payout to Zach who hired an accountant and monetary advisor who helped him buy a comfortable five-bedroom home in an upscale neighborhood while investing the rest which yielded an annual payout well into the six-figure range.
Brandy and Smack were married and together they had a son they named Robert Dwayne Caulkins, Jr. and who quickly took over the former family business of putting holes in the drywall. Brandy and Smack’s marriage lasted two and a half years.
Zach was eventually able to barely graduate from high school and then move on to community college where he got an associate’s degree in economics and now works as a produce manager at a local grocery store while he still draws a portion of the interest payments from his market investments and is living happily ever after.
