A Bad Investment.

Grade 12 Writer’s Craft Short Story Assignment.

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The car in the driveway is brand new. No financing. A pretty good down-payment. They even let me drive it home. Confident buy, I think. It’s spacious and wide, almost like an SUV, but it’s a minivan. Looks homely from the outside too—perfect soccer mom car for the everyday drive to school. I sit in the middle row of seats. Behind me are boxes of something. I forgot what. The keys are still in the ignition and the passenger door is open. I can feel a cool breeze pass through the car and out the open window of the other side. It sends chills down my spine.

I smell something barbecuing at the house next door. Maybe I should go there in a bit. I want to sit in the car for a little longer though; I have to settle into my new investment. A few weeks ago I had argued with her about buying a car. I told her it’d be a good investment—those were my exact words. She said I didn’t have a job anymore, and asked how I could afford paying for a car and a house at the same time. I told her she should think about the kids, and how they deserve a decent car to grow up with. She didn’t bother trying to argue with me. I was disappointed, since I thought I hadn’t proven my point yet.

If she could see this thing now, she’d know what I was talking about. The kids could fit right in here. Big, comfy seats. Maybe if I invested a little more into it, I could have one of those fold-down television screens and let them watch cartoons on road trips or something.

“Damn it.”

I should have thought about that at the car dealership. I should have bought it earlier, so she and the kids could have seen it. The old car was such a piece of crap. I should have sold it when I had the chance. I should have done a lot of things when I had the chance.

“Damn it!”

The back of the seat is surprisingly hard on impact. My knuckles bruise within a few seconds. I stretch and clench my hand to try and get the feeling back. It’s almost as hard as the fridge.

This car is starting to make me sick, so I get out. I look at the paint finish. The silver gleams in the sun. Good choice on my part. I notice the phone and the piece of paper in the passenger seat and go back into the car to get them. Cordless phones; another good investment. Pretty useful in everyday life.

The window of the front door blurs the interior. It’s dark inside. The door won’t open. I forgot the keys. I make another trip back towards the car. The car’s front end is round, but sleek at the same time. I open the driver’s door and pull the keys out of the ignition. Phone and piece of paper in one hand, keys in the other; my hands are full for once. I hear the door unlock when I twist the key to the right. It opens with a loud creak.

The mat under me has ‘Welcome Home’ stitched into it. I stomp my feet on most of the letters. There are still those bills on the desk. The vacuum is still on the floor. I was cleaning the living room when they called. What if the stove was on and I was cooking something? All these investments burnt to the ground. The bills I pay for those investments disintegrated. The vacuum cleaner would probably be melted to the wood. All these pictures, the television, the fridge—the cars wouldn’t survive either; the crap one or the new one I brought home. Good thing she took it. Good thing the stove wasn’t on.

I yawn while I make my way to the kitchen, stepping over the vacuum cleaner and ignoring the bills on the table. I throw the phone and piece of paper onto the counter. Water is an important investment too. I pour myself some out of the pitcher and gulp it down quickly. Cold and refreshing, it hits the back of my throat and goes into my stomach. I can feel it sloshing around.

The dishes are piled in the sink and the dinner table has coloring books on it with crayons scattered all over. They drew on the table too. I don’t bother trying to clean it up. The living room looks clean, seeing as I vacuumed it before I left. The couch looks lonely, so I occupy it.

The remote was where I left it yesterday after putting the kids to sleep. I didn’t even finish watching the game; I guess I was too tired to see the ending and spent the night on the couch. She left before I woke up in the morning and took the kids and that crap car with her. I would have driven them, but she kept insisting that I rest and relax. “You’re under too much stress,” she said. Maybe she was right. I turn on the television. I guess she changed the channel to check the weather this morning. Otherwise, it would have been on the game highlights.

The news featured some lady behind a desk telling me that streets should be safer to avoid accidents like this. She’s referring to the two mangled cars sitting on the side of the road. One of them is a piece of crap—maybe both of them. A bad investment. I see the emergency vehicles surrounding the crash site; little people in black and others in yellow scrambling around. The lady’s voice starts breaking. She says when kids are involved it becomes a whole other issue.

I agree.

Kids are another kind of investment, I think. You have to invest a lot more in them though. More than a car. A wife is another investment. An investment you’re supposed to be committed to, like a binding contract. Life is full of investments; some more important than others, as I’ve found out in the years I’ve had a life, and a family.

The thing about investments, though, is that you have to watch them. Watch them so they don’t end up going bad. I didn’t do that with the car.

Why didn’t I do it with the car?

I don’t know. But I knew it was a bad investment, almost from the start. And she always said that it’s either that piece of crap or taking our kids to school in a bus. I should correct myself—lately it seems that life is filled with bad investments. Everything I invest my time in, my attention, my heart and my soul; everything seems to be a bad investment. Not that new car though. No, I think that one is pretty good.

I think I can make good investments. I always tried to tell her that I could. I always tried to convince her with the things I did and the stuff I bought; they were good investments. I don’t know if she agrees with me. This car would have convinced her though; it’ll convince anyone. I don’t think I’ve had a bigger investment.

I don’t think I’ll ever have a bigger one.

I’ll just have to wait till then. I stare at the television and notice that the news story has changed to something else. I turn it off and go back to the kitchen counter. The piece of paper lays crumpled and folded a few times beside the phone. I didn’t read it at the hospital. I don’t really want to read it now, either. I’ll wait till she gets back. I’ll wait till everyone gets back.

The house is quiet and empty. I walk towards the centre of the foyer and look at the upper levels, then into the living room, behind me to the dining area and back towards the kitchen where the piece of paper I have yet to read lies. Technically speaking, this house was a bigger investment. But I don’t live technically.

I wish I did. That way, I would know what good investments and bad investments are. It’s the damn car. I always hated it. Now I begin to feel light-headed. I have to lie down somewhere. I lean against the wall of the foyer and slide down to sit against it. I didn’t even notice the crumpled piece of paper in my hand. I forgot where it came from. I’m tired of waiting. I unfold it to see what it says.

“Huh.”

I was supposed to pick up eggs and milk. She must think the time I invest into this life—our life—is worth eggs and milk. What does she know? I don’t want her to see the car anymore. She doesn’t care about my investments. Why should I show them to her?

I crumple the piece of paper smaller and tighter than I did before. It makes a crunching sound as the paper starts to dig into my palm. I can feel it fold in on itself as it gets smaller in my hands. My fingers grab the sharp edges sticking out and squish it into the ball, rolling and rolling. The rough scratching sound of skin against paper stops when I open up my hands and decide it’s crumpled enough. I look for the garbage bin beside me. One overhand throw and it hits the plastic covering the bin, bouncing off the edges and tumbling down onto the other garbage. Hell, garbage bins are good investments too.

What are the bad investments, then? Binding commitments. Daily obligations. Crappy cars. They’re all gone though, so I should have only good investments left. Why do I still feel like something’s wrong? Come to think of it, there is one investment I was never happy with. It’s probably the worst thing to invest a lot in. You have so much to lose.

I guess I wasn’t watching this one. That’s too bad; it started pretty good.

I open the closet door and find the shoebox on the top shelf. I open it up. There it is. It has a cold and metallic feel in my palm. I lift it up and down in my hand; a hefty weight to it. It still has its shine too. I run my fingers down the barrel. Roll open the chamber. The click of it going back in place is a nice sound.

The cold is the same against my temple. It feels nice.

“Damn good investment.”