Nothing to lose, p.1
Nothing to Lose, page 1
Nothing to Lose
by
Phil M. Williams
© 2021 by Phil M. Williams
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America.
First Printing, 2021.
Phil W Books.
www.PhilWBooks.com
ISBN: 978-1-943894-79-6
A Note from Phil
Dear Reader,
If you’re interested in receiving my novel Against the Grain for free and/or reading many of my other titles for free or discounted, go to the following link: http://www.PhilWBooks.com.
You’re probably thinking, What’s the catch? There is no catch.
Sincerely,
Phil M. Williams
For Madison. The world was a better place with you in it. I miss you to pieces. (6-29-1996 – 5-22-2021)
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: Twenty-Eight Days Left
Chapter 2: Good Morning
Chapter 3: The Grim Reaper
Chapter 4: Less Than Six Inches
Chapter 5: The Untended Garden
Chapter 6: The Eye of the Beholder
Chapter 7: Love Thy Neighbor
Chapter 8: Fierce
Chapter 9: I’m Not a Good Person
Chapter 10: Pratt Party
Chapter 11: Go
Chapter 12: She’s Back
Chapter 13: The Secret Spot
Chapter 14: Nothin’ to Lose
Chapter 15: Patches
Chapter 16: BK
Chapter 17: A Piece of Her
Chapter 18: Connecting Dots
Chapter 19: Searching for the Author
Chapter 20: Moving
Chapter 21: Twelve Days Later …
Chapter 22: The Auction
Chapter 23: Three Months Later …
Chapter 24: Reconnaissance
Chapter 25: It’s Always the Husband
Chapter 26: Max Flow
Chapter 27: Nice Ride
Chapter 28: I’m Right Here
Chapter 29: Revelation
Chapter 30: The Mistress
Chapter 31: Dirt
Chapter 32: Kept Man
Chapter 33: Inferno
Chapter 34: Double Back
Chapter 35: Reality
Chapter 36: The Hostage Negotiator
Chapter 37: Emily
Chapter 38: The Ultimatum
Chapter 39: A Clean Conscience
Epilogue: Two Years Later …
If you enjoyed this novel, … you’ll love Cesspool.
For the Reader
Gratitude
Chapter 1: Twenty-Eight Days Left
Joe Wolfe hit the button on the interior wall, and the garage door opened, letting in the afternoon sun. The garage held his tool bench, tools hanging from pegboards, and a riding mower—its engine cover lifted. He stepped past his mower and down the gravel driveway. In the front yard, cardinals fluttered about the apple trees, chirping and hopping from branch to branch. As he walked, he surveyed his overgrown grass. A feral cat stalked him from a safe distance. It was a calico, with patches of gray, brown, and white.
Traffic was sparse along Big Oak Lane. Joe opened his mailbox and grabbed the stack of mail. He listened to the throaty exhaust of a boxer engine, coming around the bend. The black Porsche 911 Carrera zipped past him, turning left onto Wilshire Lane.
Joe’s property bordered Virginia state game lands to the north and east, and Big Oak Lane to the west. To the south was Wilshire Lane, a dead-end street accessing four McMansions, and Joe’s nearest neighbors. The lead-footed Porsche enthusiast was Dr. Lucas Sellers, one of the aforementioned neighbors.
Joe returned to his house, a two-story saltbox colonial, with stone facing. He entered the mudroom through the garage. When he opened the door to the mudroom, a beep came from the alarm keypad. He had an ADT alarm system, but it was useless. Joe no longer paid for it to be monitored. He removed his boots before venturing farther. He didn’t care about dirt in the house, but it was an old habit that had made Colleen happy.
His phone buzzed with a text. He went into the small kitchen, set the mail on the counter, and removed his phone from the front pocket of his jeans.
DH Lawn Equipment: A new engine for that mower will be $799.99 plus tax. Let me know if you want me to order it for you. I can have it to you next week.
Joe let out a heavy breath and tossed his phone on the counter. He opened the drawer under the counter, revealing the hidden trash can. Then he flipped through his mail, tossing the junk as he went. Grocery store coupons, an offer for homeowner’s insurance, an offer to extend the warranty for his truck that had already been repossessed, and a letter from Virginia Estate Liquidations all went into the trash. He kept the bills for his Visa, Mastercard, and Discover Card. He had been paying the minimums on his cards, so he could continue to use them, but that was unsustainable. His shoulders slumped, when he came to the letter from West Clarke County.
Joe opened the letter.
NOTICE OF ASSESSMENT LIEN SALE
STATE OF VIRGINIA
COUNTY OF WEST CLARKE
WHEREAS, on or about January 7, 2017, a Notice of Lien was filed in the Deed of Record of West Clarke County, Virginia, covering the real property herein described, concerning default in the payment of the indebtedness, owing by Joe Wolfe, the present owner of said real property, to West Clarke County.
WHEREAS, the said Joe Wolfe has continued to default in the indebtedness to West Clarke County, and the same is now wholly due, and West Clarke County intends to sell the herein-described property to satisfy the present indebtedness of said owner to West Clarke County.
NOW, THEREFORE, notice is hereby given that on July 25, 2017, between 10:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m., West Clarke County will sell said real estate located at 6200 Big Oak Lane, West Clarke, VA 22666, to the highest bidder for cash, subject to all superior liens and encumbrances of record. Auction will take place on the steps of the West Clarke County Courthouse.
Joe shoved the letter back into the envelope and placed it in the stack with his credit card bills. He had twenty-eight days to find someplace else to live. He took a deep breath and picked up his phone. He went to his recent outgoing calls and tapped the only name on the list—Emily. The phone rang twice, then went to voice mail. Joe listened to the message he’d heard hundreds of times.
“You’ve reached Emily Jensen. I’m sorry I missed your call. Please leave your name and number, and I’ll call you back.”
Joe disconnected the call. He climbed the steps to the second floor. The hardwood under his feet creaked as he walked. He went to the master bedroom. A Berretta 92 handgun sat on the bedside table, along with a framed photo. The photo portrayed Joe and his wife, Colleen, standing on a nearby hiking trail, the Blue Ridge Mountains in the background.
It was ten years ago. Joe’s scruffy beard didn’t have any gray then. Neither did his wavy brown hair. His body was still wiry, but he no longer recovered from those long hikes like he used to. He would be fifty in a few months, and he was graying from the inside out. His focus wasn’t on himself though. Colleen’s red hair shimmered in the sun. She held her wide-brimmed hat in her hand. She had been careful to protect her pale skin from the sun. Her mother had skin cancer but had ultimately died of ovarian cancer. In the photo, Colleen beamed, her dimples and straight white teeth exposed.
Joe sat on the edge of the bed, his head hanging. Tears welled in his eyes and slipped down his cheeks. He grabbed the Berretta from his bedside table and placed the barrel to his temple. He closed his eyes and placed his finger on the trigger.
Colleen appeared in his mind. She said, “Do it. It’s what you deserve.”
Joe set down the handgun and sobbed.
Chapter 2: Good Morning
Pounding on the front door woke Joe from his slumber. Morning sunlight streamed through his bedroom windows. Joe rolled out of bed, wearing boxer briefs and a T-shirt. He grabbed his jeans from the floor, dressed, and walked down the stairs. The front door shook from the pounding.
Joe opened the door to find Lieutenant Harold Flynn of the West Clarke County Police Department. Harold was short and stocky, with thin lips and ice-blue eyes. His bald head resembled a cue ball.
“You’ve had a week to mow the grass,” Harold said, his hand on his holstered Glock, and his lips curled into a sneer. “For the time being, this property is still your responsibility.”
Joe stared blank-faced at the code enforcement officer.
“I know what you’re thinking. Why bother? You’re losing this place in less than thirty days anyway. Right?” Harold raised his eyebrows, waiting for a reply that never came. “I’ll tell you why. Fines may not matter anymore, but I can arrest you and put you in jail for up to thirty days.”
Joe shut the door in Harold’s face.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Harold said through the door. “If it’s not mowed, I’m gonna arrest you. This is your own damn fault.”
Harold was right. It was Joe’s fault. The property complaints had started after the second trial. Joe had done nothing to address them, and the daily fines had grown into the stratosphere. Joe had thought they were bullshit. He’d been fined for parking his big rig in his driveway, something he’d done for decades without complaint. His wife’s front-yard vegetable garden was another fine. Her
Chapter 3: The Grim Reaper
Joe removed the scythe hanging from a pegboard in the garage. He’d only used it a few times. Colleen had purchased the tool, after watching a video of a man claiming that it was a great workout and also an environmentally friendly replacement for the gas-powered mower. It had never replaced Joe’s mower though. Not until now. Joe checked the sharpness of the blade with his thumb. He used a whetstone to give the blade a razor-sharp edge. He stored the oblong Crystolon stone in his pocket for ready use.
Joe walked out of the garage, the scythe on his shoulder. He started at the bottom right corner of his property, near his neighbors to the south. His property was six acres, but thankfully most of it was wooded. His lawn was about two acres in size, roughly 87,000 square feet.
He grabbed the bottom grip with his right hand and the top grip with his left. Joe twisted to the right, then to the left, slicing the blade across the grass, cutting a half-moon–shaped swath in front of him. The blade produced a satisfying schwing sound.
As he twisted to the right again, he took two small steps forward, so he would cut a new swath of grass when he twisted left. This time the blade didn’t cut well, as the angle was off. Joe tried again, getting it right this time, the blade producing the satisfying schwing. Each cut was about eighteen inches wide and five feet across. Joe wondered how many cuts it would take to mow 87,000 square feet.
Ten minutes later he was sweating, and the blade no longer cut with the same precision. He stopped and ran the whetstone over the blade a few times, reestablishing the razor-sharp edge.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing? Keep your clippings off my lawn.”
Joe turned to his right to see his neighbor, Fred Nielsen, standing thirty feet away on his lush green lawn, complete with perfect diagonal mowing stripes. Joe turned around and checked the trail of clippings behind him. Most of the clippings were on Joe’s property, given that he was swiping from right to left, but a few errant clippings had invaded Fred’s lawn. Joe put the whetstone back in his pocket and continued to swing the scythe.
Fred marched over to the property line, wearing shorts that only covered half of his pale thighs. His T-shirt did cover his gut, and his white socks were pulled to his knees, like a Catholic schoolgirl. With his block head and stocky build, he reminded Joe of an old Barney Rubble.
Fred frowned and pointed at the ground. “See what you’re doing?”
Joe continued to swing the scythe, hoping that Fred might get too close.
“You really are a crazy son of a bitch. Can’t wait till you’re gone.” Fred marched back to his house.
Joe took his swipes, stepping forward eighteen inches at a time. As he moved beyond the property line he shared with Fred, Tera Hensley-Jones appeared, pointing her phone at Joe.
Tera narrated the video. “This is the infamous Joe Wolfe, swinging a sickle like the grim reaper. It’s fitting, don’t you think?”
Tera’s McMansion stood next to Fred’s and also adjoined Joe’s property to the south. She was middle-aged and average height, with straight gray hair and oval-shaped glasses, but her body resembled a younger woman—or even a younger man. She wore a tank top and short spandex shorts, displaying her muscular thighs, arms, and unusually large hands. According to Colleen, Tera was a CrossFit fanatic.
Joe focused on the task at hand, ignoring Tera and her video.
Tera followed him for several minutes, still videoing. The lack of engagement seemed to bore her though. She said, “Fucking piece of shit.” Then, she went back to her house.
Joe stopped and sharpened the blade with the whetstone. He turned around to see his progress. The same feral cat from the day before pounced on a mouse that had been exposed by Joe’s mowing. The cat eyed Joe, the mouse dangling from his or her mouth. The cat’s belly looked large, like it was well-fed. Joe wondered if it was someone’s cat.
***
Hours after sunset Joe now swung the scythe with a head lamp on his head. Each twist of his body sent daggers into his back and abdominals. The pain felt deserved, almost cleansing. His T-shirt, hat, and canvas pants were stained with salt from his sweat. After the last swipe, he tossed aside the scythe and collapsed to the ground. He rolled onto his back, gazing up at the stars, wondering if Colleen was watching.
Chapter 4: Less Than Six Inches
For the second day in a row, Joe was awakened by a pounding on his front door. He rolled out of bed and staggered to his feet, his entire body sore. He slipped on a pair of sweatpants and gingerly descended the stairs. The front door shook from the knocking. Joe opened the door to find Lieutenant Harold Flynn, his fist in midair.
“I see you mowed,” Harold said, one hand on his holstered handgun.
Joe stared back, silent.
“You missed a spot.”
Joe scowled at the code enforcement officer.
Harold beckoned Joe with his index finger. “Come out here. I’ll show you.”
Harold led Joe to the back of the house. Joe followed in his bare feet. Harold pointed to the tall grass up against the house. Joe had been unable to mow that close with his scythe, not wanting to damage the blade or the house.
“All grass and weeds must be shorter than six inches in height,” Harold said. “You got two choices. I can arrest you, or you can cut this right now.”
Joe went to the garage. Harold followed, watching Joe’s every move. Joe typed the code on the outdoor panel, and the garage door opened. Joe went into the mudroom and slipped on his muck boots. Then, from the pegboard, he grabbed a corn knife, which was a curved blade about twelve inches long. Joe walked to the back of the house again. He groaned as he kneeled on the ground. He pulled the grass and weeds away from the house and chopped them with the corn knife. Harold stood over him, his arms crossed over his chest, and a smirk on his face.
Ten minutes later, the job was finished. Joe struggled to his feet and glared at the code enforcement officer.
Harold spat on the ground in front of Joe. “You need to clean up all that rotten fruit on the ground in the front yard too. It’s not sanitary. I’ll be back to check.” Harold pivoted and returned to his cruiser.
Chapter 5: The Untended Garden
After the visit from Lieutenant Harold Flynn, Joe went back inside and changed into his canvas pants and put on some socks. His stiff lower back and sore muscles made this an adventure. He returned to the mudroom, laced up his work boots, put on his floppy hat, and stepped into the garage. Joe grabbed a shovel and a metal rake from the wall, then placed them into Colleen’s old garden cart. He pulled the cart outside to the front-yard garden. The bright sun warmed his bare arms.
A dilapidated split-rail fence surrounded the garden. Various fruit trees grew along the north side of the garden. The south side was filled with grass and weeds where annual vegetables were once cultivated. Raspberry and blackberry canes, goji berries, and maypop vines grew along the crumbling fence. Overgrown asparagus spears, sorrel, and perennial herbs—such as rosemary, oregano, sage, and thyme—grew on the western edge of the garden. Raspberry canes encroached on the herb garden.
Joe pulled his garden cart to the apricot trees. Fruit flies buzzed about the rotting fruit on the ground. Joe raked the rotten fruit into piles, grunting, a dull pain coming from his abdominal muscles with each swipe. The rake caught on the grass and weeds, making the chore tedious. The same fat cat from the day before stood thirty feet away, watching Joe.
After filling the cart to the brim, Joe pulled it to the woods to his north, his battered body struggling with the weight. He dumped the rotten fruit far enough from the edge that Harold wouldn’t likely find it. Joe pulled the empty garden cart back to the orchard. He inspected the ripening peaches and cherries, noting pest and disease damage, but also plenty of good fruit. He filled the cart with enough fruit for a week. Then he went to the herb garden for some veggies, but the sorrel was withering in the summer heat, and the asparagus was large and tough. He found some purslane, oxalis, and lamb’s quarters to make a salad out of the edible weeds. Colleen had loved to collect wild edibles. She had allowed many edible weeds to grow in the garden.
