Accountability

Goodness!

All a man wants out of life is accountability. Okay, maybe not all men, but this one does. And yeah, I probably want more than just that. But accountability? That’s a good start. The world would run a lot smoother if people had some.

Too many grown adults walking around like toddlers in an unsupervised daycare. No idea what they’re doing. No concern for the mess they leave behind. There’s a lawlessness in people. Been sitting there too long. Starting to rot.

I don’t like it.

A person should own what they do. Say when they’re wrong and move on. Simple. Half the time, “I’m sorry” saves you a whole lot of trouble. I hate trouble. I like things simple—do what you like, take care of your people, and do unto others. Pretty sure that last one’s from the Bible. I wasn’t great at Sunday school. Liked going. Pretty sure I made at least one teacher quit.

I own my mistakes. If I do wrong, I say it. If I do right, I don’t keep it a secret.

I’m working on humility next.

I don’t expect mercy. Not here, not later. If I end up standing in front of a judge—earthly or otherwise—I know how that’s going to go. I did what I did. That’s it.

Accountable.

So when someone doesn’t hold themselves accountable, I get involved. I believe in “do unto others.” You don’t want to handle it yourself? No problem.

I’ll take care of it.

Usually involves blowing something up.

I love to blow stuff up. It’s kind of my thing. Some people run. Some people do yoga. Some people paint sunsets. I make things disappear. You ever see a kid watch a fireball climb into the sky? That look?

Yeah.

I rest my case.

I’m not great at talking to people. Never have been. I miss things—say the wrong thing, or nothing at all. Either way, it doesn’t usually go well. So I keep it simple. Better a Chevy Impala smolders in a parking lot than I put my hands on some guy who cuts me off in traffic.

That’s growth.

I know how that sounds. Loose cannon. Psycho. Guy with access to things he shouldn’t have access to.

Maybe.

But I get paid to do it.

So now who’s the crazy one?

What I really like is when the job lines up with the principle. Someone acting like they don’t answer to anything—that’s my kind of work.

Now hold up.

Let me say that better.

I don’t blow people up. I’m not that far gone. I believe in a Maker. I just blow up things people care about. Cars. Houses.

One time a McDonald’s.

Smelled like fries for a week.

That was a good week.

You look like you’re getting the wrong idea. Let me walk you through it.

Take tonight. There’s a guy at a bar. You know the guy. Loud. Too loud. Hitting on anything that moves. Doesn’t matter what he’s wearing—you’ve met him before. Thinks money makes him interesting. Thinks volume makes him right.

Doesn’t tip.

That part always tells you everything you need to know.

He’s ruining the room. You can feel it. Everyone can. The bartender sees it too. Slides me a Whiskey Sour and gives me the look.

I like that look.

Says I don’t have to pay for the next few rounds if the problem goes away. I’m a big guy. I drink a lot.

I’m also cheap.

Got a lot of mouths to feed.

I could walk up and put him on the floor. Quick. Clean.

Not my style.

Too much attention.

Instead, I get up and head for the door, pass right by him, give him a chance to say something.

He doesn’t.

Smart man.

Somewhere deep down, people know better than to mouth off to a six-five biker covered in tattoos. Or maybe he just didn’t like my face.

Hard to blame him.

Outside’s quiet. Parking lot’s easy to read. His car stands out—red Maserati, parked in the handicap spot.

Guy’s not handicapped.

Not in a way that qualifies.

I’ve got options. C-4 would be quick, but I don’t want quick. I want something that sticks. Something he remembers. A few rows over, I see a cargo van sitting by itself. White. Minding its own business. Name of a painting company down the side.

I remember the guy in paint-spattered work pants sitting three stools down from me.

Perfect.

I grab a claw hammer out of my bike’s saddlebags—yeah, I’ve got saddlebags—and make my way over. Saddlebags would look stupid on a Prius. I break the window, pop the locks, and check the back.

God loves a painter.

Five-gallon bucket of paint thinner.

Sometimes the world lines up just right.

I take the bucket and grab a screwdriver while I’m there. I don’t have one in the saddlebags. Can’t have everything.

I could light it up right there in the handicap spot, but I’m considerate.

No need to ruin anyone else’s night.

I climb in, push the seat back, give myself some room.

Big guy.

Need the space.

Movies say you can jam a screwdriver into an ignition and go.

Movies lie.

This one’s got a button.

Doesn’t matter.

I’ve got an app.

Illegal as hell.

Works like a charm.

Sometimes it pays to know people.

Not that I’m a criminal.

I mean—I am.

I just don’t think about it like that.

First thing, I move the car away from the others. No reason to drag innocent vehicles into this.

Then I pry the lid off the bucket and pour the thinner across the passenger seat. Convertible. Top down. Makes things easy.

I light it.

Fire moves fast with the right encouragement, spreads across the hood like it’s happy to be there.

I watch it for a second.

I always do.

Then I head back inside.

He’s still talking. Still king of his little world.

Won’t be for long.

I nod to the bartender. He nods back. I hold up two fingers, slide him two hundred, and tilt my head toward the man in the paint-spattered work pants.

Accountability.

Man didn’t ask to be part of this. He gets his window fixed, gets a new bucket.

Everybody’s square.

Do unto others.

The bartender handles it. Tells the painter somebody broke into his van and pushes the money across. Painter’s confused at first, then not so much. He leaves. Probably telling himself a good story about how decent people still exist.

He’s not wrong.

I’m frugal. People don’t get that. Two hundred now saves me a whole lot later.

Silence is cheap when you buy it early.

Nobody in here’s going to talk. Cameras don’t work—never do when it matters. Sirens will show up soon. Somebody always calls. They’ll look around, ask questions, point fingers.

They won’t land on me.

That’s how this works.

Only problem is if Maserati Man matters. I don’t think he does, but you never know anymore. Used to be you knew who was who.

Now everybody thinks they’re somebody.

I blame the internet.

If my boss knows him, I’ll hear about it. Nothing too bad.

I’m valuable.

That’s what I tell myself.

I’ve messed up before. Blew up the wrong house once. Flip a six into a nine and suddenly everyone’s upset.

Nobody wants to talk about learning disabilities when arson’s involved.

Nobody died, but it still cost a lot of money. Boss wasn’t thrilled. Kept me on payroll at a discount until I worked it off. Stayed out of jail. Judge got the message anyway.

I’m still employed.

Leash is shorter.

People ask if I learned anything.

Yeah.

Use gasoline next time.

Harder to trace.

House is a house.

Message got delivered.

That’s what matters.

Tomorrow I’ve got work. Boss called.

So I drink tonight.

I’d stay longer, watch Maserati Man find out, but the cops will be here soon, and I don’t like talking to cops. Buzz killers. We don’t get along.

They’ve got a real problem with authority.

Yeah.

I said that right.

I finish my drink, think about leaving, and the bartender sets another one in front of me before I can.

Free drink.

Can’t say no.

Wouldn’t be very frugal.