This Never Happened (Olympus Drive Chronicles)

Part 2 - Flooding things is not (usually) a solution to your problems

So. Imagine you were a football star in high school. And you had the prettiest girl in school as your prom date.

Suppose you knew this vaguely functioning human disaster, who came in second to you at absolutely everything since the fourth grade spelling bee. Supposing he had a psychotic break and pulled the fire alarm at your prom, and soaked your prom date.

What would you think? You'd probably think "Wow I'm so glad I'm not that dude. I'm happy to have a nice wife, and house, and successful used car lot. I don't think about that idiot at all. In fact I think about him so little, I only vaguely remember him when two weirdos who are day drinking and being driven around by one of their kids, come up to me and ask me if I remember him."

What would you say, huh? If somebody came up to you, and asked what sort of weird pointless task should be assigned to this barely functioning human who you know for a fact had cognitive issues operating a vacuum cleaner?

If someone asked you what you thought would be a nice little activity for this obviously bisexual nervous twitch of a human being who you once witnessed punch open his locker because he couldn't remember the code he himself set because he was too busy being unable to function due to his closeted sexuality?

You would probably say: "Ha! What a truly hilarious conjecture. I for one am shocked that poor shmuck is still alive! Considering the number of times he walked out into oncoming traffic because he was too busy talking, I thought he would be dead by now. I certainly didn't think anyone would want to be around him. Aren't there special homes for people like that, where they get them help? That pathetic bastard? Surely being him is punishment enough. I reveled in my glory not only on the high school football field, but later when I go into a better college than he did.

"And even later, when I read in the paper his entire family was murdered and the police were putting out a special requests for psychologists to figure out how to get a man to stop clutching human corpses. I even felt bad when I read that they had to use a cattle prod to get him to let go of his son's body, as I drove my healthy living children to their Mensa meeting. How depressing for him he's still alive!

"I always assumed that being him was punishment enough, evidenced by the time he stood on the roof of school screaming at the sky to strike him dead. I thought he had a lot going on. Well since you insist I come up with an activity for the illiterate mongrel, why doesn't he volunteer in a soup kitchen? Or possibly pick up trash along the side of a highway in a yellow jumpsuit? That wouldn't be demeaning at all for him. He could even go to a nursing home and visit old people. He probably can't read by now, but maybe there are picture books he could show them?"

Yeah, Derek didn't say that.

"You want me to what?" I'm staring at a used car lot on the edge of a river, at the end of winter, in the Ozarks. Every single car must have an inch of pollon baked on it as well as wet mucky leaves, and there are well over a thousand cars.

"Clean it," very primly, in a starched suit, still surprisingly sexy.

"Okay fine---can we help?" Juno asks, very nicely.

"You're not helping, you're a girl you're probably allergic to pollen," I reason.

"What?" she laughs.

"No. He has to do it. Himself. In one day," Derek says, smarmily.

"He's never going to be able to in one day---even if he worked for twenty four hours straight that's 41 cars an hour----41 seconds per car," Dara does math in her head.

"I know, guess you failed whatever it is these people want you to do and why?" he says, shrugging.

"This is so I can take revenge you dipshit---" I growl, "It's not some stupid game. I'll wash your damn cars, but the point is I complete it so I get another chance at murdering her mother---no offense---?"