"SOLO"

by Pavelle Wesser

Butch was sitting in the kitchen with his son Brandon, who was home sick, when the doorbell rang. Cursing softly, he went and opened the door to a skeletal man who held a briefcase.

And you are? Butch asked. Solo. The man extended a bony hand. Butch gave him a cold stare.

Your wife sent me here. Solo smiled. Maryanne?
Yes, so you could make the final decision.
Regarding?
Why, the tiles for the upstairs bathroom, Sir.
Well, she never discussed this with me.
Maybe she forgot. Solo shrugged. Anyway, I’ll only take a second of your time.

He pushed his way through the door and into the kitchen, where Brandon had just emptied a bowl of Jell-O on the floor and was dancing on top of it, singing, Squish, squish, Squish-eeeee,
Brandon! Go to your room! Butch turned to Solo. Kids...
Yes, Solo nodded, they do nonsensical things until they grow up and commit inexcusable acts.
Butch stared at him with hard eyes: Just show me the tiles, OK.
Certainly. Solo opened his briefcase, and Butch tried to focus on what he thought was a green glow hovering just above it, but his eyes kept glazing over.

Which of these samples do you like, Butch?
I…don’t know. Butch mopped the sweat from his forehead and pointed randomly.
Bad choice! Solo shook his head.
Why? Butch yawned.
Well, it’s kind of like putting perfume on a pig.
Butch forced his eyes open: What pig?
I m referring to the tiles, Butch.
I’m no good at this. Butch stood and shuffled unevenly toward the stairs. I’ll check on Brandon. His beefy hand grasped the banister before he reconsidered and lowered himself to sit on the steps. I feel like crap.
You’ll cheer up when your girlfriend calls. Solo chirped.
Butch’s eyes darkened. How did you…?
I know all of your secrets, Butch.
Get out of my house!
But you haven t chosen the tiles yet.
I said get out!

The phone rang. Solo picked up the receiver and handed it to Butch, whose face brightened in spite of the on-set of partial paralysis. Hey, Betsy, I m so glad you called, but I really can’t talk right now. I’ll call you later. Bye. Love you.
It kind of makes me sad for your wife. Solo sighed and picked at his fingernails.
You shouldn’t be here anymore! Butch snapped.
Solo positioned himself in front of Butch’s vacant gaze.
Listen closely, Butch. When Maryanne gets home early today, she’ll find you unconscious in a puddle of your own piss and Brandon upstairs crying. But if I hadn’t come, she would’ve found you in bed with Betsy.
Why, you goddamn…Butch’s pallor took on a deadly hue. He clutched his abdomen.
There have been so many women in your life, Butch, and you’ve selfishly destroyed each of their lives. When will you stop playing your destructive games? …whore of mother whores.
Butch waved impotent fists through the air before collapsing across the base of the stairs. Saliva smeared his cheek. He let out a tortured sigh as Solo trampled over him on his way upstairs.
Sweet dreams, Butch.
Solo’s green eyes glowed as he opened the master bedroom closet and deftly spun the safe’s combination. He stuffed his pockets full of cash and turned to leave.

Where's my daddy? Brandon stood in the doorway.
Sleeping downstairs. Hey, want some candy?
I don’t take candy from strangers.
Wow, you’re smart. Want to know something else about strangers?
What?
Never ever let them in your house, no matter what cockadoodle excuse they give you. They’re dangerous.
Brandon’s lips began to tremble.
Go back to your room now. Solo stared into the boy’s eyes until they glazed over.
Brandon nodded distantly and walked away.

A strangled groan escaped Butch’s throat as Solo stomped on his stomach while clearing the last step. He whistled and the green glow disappeared inside his briefcase, which he snapped shut. As he headed out the door, he thought of Maryanne, who would return home shortly. In her epic fight with Butch, she would insist that she’d had no plans of renovating the bathroom, didn’t he know that? Was he really so stupid as to believe a total stranger, one named Solo, no less? Her conversation with Brandon would confuse her even more. Long after their marriage had dissolved, she would continue to question the events of that day without ever reaching any logical conclusion.

Solo’s briefcase bumped heavily against his leg as he trudged along. It was becoming a burden to carry, full as it was of peoples pain. He rang the doorbell. Mr. Parsimmon was home today, recuperating from a bad case of poison ivy that he’d caught while helping his wife plant decorative bushes that were on sale and out-of-style.What really interested Solo was the life savings that Mr. Parsimmon kept stuffed inside his bedroom mattress, unbeknownst to his wife.

The old oak door swung open, and there stood Mr. Parsimmon, his arms scratched red and raw.
Do I know you? He grimaced.
Solo.
Mr. Parsimmon stared in open hostility at the bony hand Solo extended.
I’m from the medical clinic, Solo explained. Your wife, Esther, called saying you needed better medication for that nasty outbreak of yours.
Mr. Parsimmon grinned, exposing graying teeth.
Come in, he said. I was just making a pitcher of iced tea.

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