Aldo slid into the driver’s seat. Brought the sweet new Volvo to a low purr. He was on a tight time schedule but couldn’t resist leaning back and breathing in that new car smell. Marvelled that his career had brought him to this place where he’d be sitting in a rig like this. Checked the mirrors. Backed slowly out of the driveway, palming the leather wheel, the quartet of pricey Pirelli Scorpions gripping the tony suburban cobblestone as he straightened the ride and put it in drive. He began to inch his way down the leafy lane.
Then the rear windshield exploded.
Jesus H. Christ! thought Aldo. What kind of jackass shoots out his own back window? Same kind who buys a car he can’t afford, I guess, and then misses the first three payments.
A wise man would have accelerated away. We’ve already established this was not his car. But Aldo was nobody who would be accused of arriving at a manger with an armful of myrrh. He slammed on the brakes. Exited the sedan. Marched up the driveway and proceeded to disarm and pistol whip the aggrieved, albeit delinquent, proprietor of the vehicle.
A short three months later, Aldo was back at the same address. This time he rang the bell. The homeowner hesitated when he spied his erstwhile abuser through the peephole, but Aldo insisted. Finally, the man emerged, bruises barely healed from their last encounter.
Aldo surprised him. ‘I’m not here to hit you, I’m here to apologize.’
The man relaxed.
‘One of my twelve steps. I don’t drink. Don’t smoke. Don’t gamble. My drug was anger. Wrath. It’s a sin. Remember that Brad Pitt movie?’
Aldo continued, relaying what he’d learned in dank meeting rooms over dishwater coffee. Trying to convince them both. ‘It’s a disease. An addiction. Just like crank. But I’m working on it. Reclaiming my life. Taking it back.’
The other man finally spoke. ‘A little on the nose for a repo man.’
‘Maybe so.’
‘So, you’re not here to take the Beemer?’ The man pointed at the new X-5 in his driveway. ‘IM current.’
‘Sorry man, she’s gone. Insurance lapsed. That violates the lease. But this time I’m not starting it with a screwdriver. Keys please.’ He held out his palm. Adding, ‘Dude not for nothin’, you need to get your act together. Control your spending. Maybe you’re a Kia man?’
The man considered. Maybe he was.
‘I know. I need to make some changes.’
Aldo felt his hands reflexively ball into fists as he tamped down, barely, his growing desire to pulverize this poor excuse.
‘You know,’ said Aldo helpfully, speaking slowly in hope of restraining himself, ‘there’s a program for that.’ As they say, there’s no zealot like a convert.
The former lessee, a natural skeptic of rehabilitation plans, chewed that over, unaware of just how right he was, and that how he chose to reply would determine whether his next moments would be pain and violence free.
Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in various publications, with more forthcoming. His Son of Ugly weekly flash fiction newsletter can be found on Substack at https://scottmacleod1.substack.com
Instagram: @scottmacleod478,
X: @ScottMacLe59594
Urban Pigs Press 
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