Lit eZine Vol 8 | p-18 | FICTION | Vern

SHORT STORY

VERN
by Gary Wosk

A middle-aged married couple was taking a leisurely midday walk with their pet, Lab, when they stopped at the sight of an angry man gazing out of his bedroom window.

They weren’t surprised because every time they passed his house, he was always peering out at something, often through binoculars. He also snapped photos and recorded videos on his iPhone that he downloaded onto his computer to help law enforcement officials prosecute scoundrels.

“There’s that weirdo again,” huffed the flabbergasted Whitney to her husband, Roger. “An old man with nothing better to do.”

He agreed. “The grumpster needs to find a job or become a volunteer.”

“Why is he spying on us?”

“I don’t think it’s us. He’s looking at something else.”

After staring back at the man in the widow for a moment, the couple shook their heads and moved on. Their dog even barked at the malcontent.

***

Roger was right. Vern Atwell was fixated on the dusty, dented Corolla across the street from his house. He picked up his binoculars to zoom in on the homeless man in the car. 

“That damn deviant has returned,” he muttered to himself, feeling his blood pressure rise. “What’s that cretin up to now? The bastard is going to give me a stroke.”

This scene had played over and over again for the past six months. Vern would feel a sense of optimism when the car disappeared late in the morning, but his elation would be gone by evening when the Corolla returned. He was certain the house across the street was a drug house where all sorts of unsavory addicts lounged about and left their trashy vehicles parked along his street all night. 

Vern was the only member and self-anointed commander-in-chief of the block’s Neighborhood Watch. He was a retired warehouse manager who constantly had his antennas up for undesirables he believed were no goodniks, such as drug dealers, homeless people, those who left their junk out near the curb for months without calling the city for a pickup, door-to-door scammers, Jehovah’s Witnesses and Russian spies.

As he continued to focus on the Corolla, his face became flush and his hands balled up into fists. Drawing Vern’s ire mostly were the homeless or as politicians referred to them, the “unhoused,” who lived in dilapidated stationary recreational vehicles and dumped trash onto the street. These RVs had tires without tread and windows covered by filthy drapes and taped down cardboard. Despite the occasional parking tickets left on cars by city enforcement officers on his street, they remained indifferent. 

Although he was angry, Vern didn’t want to get involved in any physical altercations. Mano-a-mano verbal encounters were as far as he went, except for the one time he was pepper-sprayed. 

“Get away from that window,” his wife Cheryl demanded. “You’re becoming just like your father. A chip off the old block.” 

“My father was a good man. What are you talking about?”

“He was a redneck,” she reminded him. “Pushy. Belligerent. No compassion for the down and out whatsoever.” 

Vern became more defensive. 

“Not putting up with riffraff is to be applauded,” Vern insisted. “You and this community should be thanking me for the surveillance services I provide free of charge. I’m unappreciated. Maybe one day the Los Angeles City Council or police commission will recognize my contributions. Instead, I am being mocked.” 

“Vigilante. That’s what you are. Enough is enough, Vern. Stop being so righteous and narrow-minded, then eventually people might warm up to you.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

“I need to do some shopping at Target. Do you want to come along and maybe calm down? We can then get something to eat afterwards.” 

“I’m busy right now.” 

“Suit yourself, be miserable.” 

Vern wasn’t finished justifying his defiant stance. 

“If it wasn’t for me, this cesspool we are living in would be even worse. Is it so bad that I want to clean things up? Make my community great again?” he asked, echoing the President of the United States. 

“We happen to live in a pleasant community compared to other places in the Valley. What do you want, Utopia? You’re not going to get it here or anywhere else. Intolerant is your middle name. That’s why the people in the community call you LaVerne and Surly.”

“Huh?” 

“The television show. LaVerne and Shirley.” 

“Oh, yeah. I get it. Ha. Ha. They wouldn’t dare say that to my face.”

“Yeah, they’d be trembling,” she said, which was followed by a quick burst of laughter.

The back and forth between the couple was a daily ritual. Cheryl vented, and Vern ignored her. A stalemate if ever there was one. 

“They better be scared,” said Vern, flexing his biceps. “That’s why I work out at LA Fitness. No one’s going to mess with me.” 

“Arnold Schwarzenegger, you’re not. More like Elmer Fudd.” 

Vern made believe he didn’t hear the putdown, looked away from the window, turned around, offered his wife a faux smile and left the bedroom. 

“Where are you going, Vern?” 

“Going to pay that bum across the street a friendly visit.” 

As much as Vern caused her distress, she didn’t want him to get hurt or worse. She’d delay her trip to the store until the dust settled.  

“Please don’t. One of these days, someone is going to pull out a knife or gun.”

Ignoring her pleadings, the scowling, looky-loo Vern, wearing his usual gray sweatpants, a worn-out Major League Baseball All-Star T-shirt and lace-free Sketchers, picked up his pace and headed out the front door with his iPhone. He hurriedly marched across the street toward the Corolla, where he planned to read the riot act to whoever was inside.

***

With a menacing look on his face firmly in place, Vern knocked on the window. The frail, salt and pepper bearded occupant with mangy, matted brown hair and a chalky substance on the corners of mouth, was sleeping. 

“Hey, you in there,” said Vern. “Wake up.” 

The bedraggled man slowly opened his eyes. Tiny sticky morsels of food clung to his shirt that was missing buttons. His clothes appeared to be hand-me-downs.  

He asked in a surprisingly sober voice, “What can I do for you?” 

Before responding, Vern gazed at the front and back of the car and began taking photos of the filthy piles of discarded fast-food wrappers and soda cups and pills scattered on the front passenger seat. He expected to find beer cans or bottles or needles, but there were none.

A foul odor pervaded the air. Vern backed away from the car to take a deep breath.

“Whew! Jeez, man. How can you stand that smell?” 

“I’m used to it. Hey, you’re the guy who’s always watching me through the window, right?”

“So what? I can look out my window if I want to. Are you paranoid or something?”

“Not me. Anyway, now that we’re finally talking, can I come into your house just for a few minutes to look around and wash up a bit?” 

“You have some nerve. Over my dead body.” 

“What can I do for you, then? Why’d you come knocking on my door?”

“Simple. Get lost. Move you and your car someplace else and don’t come back. I don’t care for people like you.”  

“No one’s complaining except you. Hey, tell you what. I’ll move my ass if you take that bug that’s up yours.”

“How dare you speak to me that way? I’m irate, you’ll have to vacate.” Vern was pleased that he had rhymed. “Do as I say or face the consequences. How does some prison time sound?”

“Might be an improvement over my present lifestyle. Three square meals per day.”

“How’d you become homeless?” 

“I don’t think you really want to hear about it.”  

“Let me guess. Drug abuse, lost your job, became homeless, yada, yada, yada. I’m giving you twelve hours for you and your hunk of junk car to move outta here or face the consequences,” said Vern, now in full bully mode. “This is your final warning.”

“I have a feeling your bark is bigger than your bite. By the way, my name is Hebner Darby.

What’s yours?” 

“None of your business.” 

***

Back inside his house, Vern sat down in his recliner and turned on the sixty-five-inch television to catch up on a police drama series on Netflix. After the show was over, he warmed up leftovers for lunch and when he was finished, reported back to his window outpost only to become aggravated again at what he saw coming his way.  

The guy in the beat-up Corolla was walking over his nicely manicured lawn. Vern scampered to the front door with a baseball bat in his hand and looked through a clear spot in the stained glass front door and then opened it to where it was slowly ajar. 

“Before I leave, I wanted to say goodbye,” said Hebner, standing a few feet away from the front porch steps. 

“I thought I told you to get lost. Just scram. You won’t find any handouts or free meals here.”

“Can I just come inside for a few minutes? Take a quick tour and wash up. I won’t hurt you or steal anything.”  

“I already gave you my answer. Never in a million years.”

“Who is it, Vern?” asked his wife, who was in the kitchen brewing coffee on the Keurig and waiting for the toaster to pop up an English muffin. 

Vern didn’t want to scare her. “Someone is trying to sell us solar panels, the usual BS sales pitch.” 

“All you have to do is tell him no. Shut that door. You’re letting in a draft.”

“I want to show you something,” said Hebner, who stepped up onto the porch holding a large square-shaped object wrapped in brown Kraft paper. 

“That’s close enough,” warned Vern. 

“Oh, it’s harmless, it’s just a picture,” said Hebner. “I’ll show you.” He began to remove the paper, revealing a twenty-four by thirty-six-inch picture. 

“I’m not buying any picture of yours. It’s probably stolen.” 

“You don’t have to buy anything,” reassured Hebner. “Just take a closer look.”

“Very nice. People standing in front of a house,” Vern said dismissively.

Hebner handed him the picture. “Take an even closer look, my friend. Don’t you recognize it?”

“I recognize you’re a real pain in the ass. Let’s see.”  

Vern was dumbfounded. “That’s…that’s my house.”

“That’s right. The picture was taken forty years ago. That’s me, the kid in the short pants and T-shirt. See?” 

“Are you kidding me?”

“Your house is where I used to live. This is a family portrait that was taken at one of our family reunions. Those are my parents, uncles, aunts and cousins during happier times.”

The scowl on Vern’s face vanished, replaced by astonishment. The tone in his voice changed from intolerant to compassionate. He uncharacteristically became weepy.

“You don’t seem like your everyday homeless person. What happened?”

“I lost my job at the L.A. Times selling advertising. I looked for another job, but couldn’t find anything, couldn’t pay the rent and much of anything. A small severance didn’t cut it. Unemployment insurance only goes so far. And to make matters worse, I was diagnosed with a terminal disease a few months ago. So, that’s my story. I just wanted to be near the house I lived in as a child and where I was the happiest.” 

Vern’s eyes became moist. He removed Kleenex tissues from his sweatpants so he could dab away tears that were forming and about to spill over and roll down his cheeks.

“Cheryl,” Vern called out, ”we have a guest.”

“Who’s the guest? Not the solar panels guy, I hope. We can’t afford that.”

“No, not solar paneling. Someone very special. A person who used to live here. His name is Hebner Darby. Really nice guy.” 

“Come on inside, Hebner,” said Vern. “Let’s talk so more. I’ll fix you something to eat. You can take a shower, too.” 

***

A few hours later, refreshed with a full stomach, standing near the front door, Hebner said, “Everything pretty much looks the same. I love the den and bedroom you and your wife added.”

“Thank you,” said Vern. “Took forever to build and get permits.” 

Before making his exit, Heber looked around one last time and reminisced.

“Oh, and that’s where the portrait I showed you used to hang. I can still remember my mom, dad and kids sitting around a long table in the living room celebrating my birthday, Thanksgiving and Christmas. The backyard is fabulous. We had so many barbecues out there.”

“Beautiful memories,” Cheryl said.

“Oh, and the laundry room, that’s where we used to feed the dogs,” Hebner sighed. “Thank you so much for letting me in. Well, I’ll be on my way now.”  

“You’re not going anywhere,” Vern cut in, his wife nodding her head in agreement.

“I’ve been in your cross-hairs long enough.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You’re staying right here with us for as long as you want. You can come and go as you please, but just know this can be your home again.”

“I’ll just get in your way. You don’t want that.”

“Don’t make me mad.”

“That’s right, Hebner,” said Cheryl. “Don’t get him all stirred up.”

“Well, okay. I’ll give living here a try.” 

“Perfect. And that picture you brought in, it’s going back on the wall, if you agree.”

“Agree? That would be unbelievable. Thank you so much.”

***

The shutters on the bedroom window stayed closed now most of the time. Vern took his buddy Hebner to his many doctors’ appointments, began volunteering at a local food bank and hospital oncology department, which continued even after his new friend had left this Earth.

And at last, he stopped judging the down and out.