Bernie stood by the back of the U-Haul trailer, sweat stinging his eyes. He thought he’d be finished in two hours. The contract was only for a half a day.
“Dammit, what do we do now?” he said.
“Don’t know, Mr. save-a-little-money. You tell me?”
They looked behind the trailer to a busy Delaware Avenue. Cars swerved around the stuff that had fallen out the back doors. Clothes and a few crappy pieces of furniture scattered both lanes. A bullet-head in a Hummer sped by giving them the finger with a pair of Bernie’s briefs sucked into the front grill. A white sock clung to the rear tire, spinning round and round. Betty chuckled.
“Looks like that asshole’s got a piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe.”
“We’ve gotta get this stuff. Those are all the clothes I have,” he said.
The light a block away turned red—enough time to scurry around to snatch up the litter of his wardrobe and broken furniture. A piece of wood lay near the intersection.
“Leave it, I’ll use a metal crate. Let’s get this over with before I get charged double.”
“Yes ‘um,” She sneered, “ I’s doos what ya say masa.”
She flipped the arm of a rocking chair into the disheveled trailer, dusted her hands off in front of his face, and went back to the car. Bernie made sure the latch was closed this time. Being in a hurry had always caused him trouble. ‘Do it right Bernard. Do it right or don’t do it!’ his dead mama’s voice wailed in his head. He choked back a sudden rush of the milkshake he’d had for breakfast; the hot roiling milk bubbled in his throat. He pushed his fingers through his remaining hair, closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he were anywhere but here.
Betty had kicked him out and as a last parting gesture; she personally escorted him and his stuff to the shitty apartment he rented on the West side.
“Can’t be late for work right? Gotta wipe the ass of that old bastard; the old fart who’s own family won’t visit him!” Bernie’s shoulders slumped lower. Betty is on this last trip to make sure he hadn’t squirreled any of her things in the boxes he’d hastily packed.
His 1990 rust bucket Ford lurched forward, tugging at the trailer hitch rather than pulling it—a loser in a one-man tug-of-war. In spastic fits and starts, momentum took over and they were on their way. He had an hour and thirty-seven minutes before the rental contract expired.

***

Brad was having a great morning. The stock he’d gambled on was a winner. The money he’d made would pay for the construction on his summer home in Canada and leave a wad to blow on women up at the casinos. He had it all: the looks, the clothes, the career, the money and the golden horseshoe of luck buried deep up his ass.
“Call you later Frank, gotta run,” Brad said as he licked his pinky finger and wiped his eyebrow in the hallway mirror. He dipped down to get a better look. A slight scar above his eye glowed. He remembered the welts and bruises that bloomed after his father would leave his room. Years of hiding, waiting.
“OK…OK, yeah…sure,” he said half-listening and hung up. Brad hadn’t been to the nursing home and death would decide any reconciliation. He snapped back from the brutal left hook delivered by his past.
Brad drove out of the garage into the spectacular light of a spring day. He’d put the top down on his red Porsche and headed downtown, tufts of his blond hair, tussled by the wind. He leaned over and checked his teeth in the rearview—they sparkled and all was good.
The traffic was heavy as he neared Delaware. He glanced at his watch. His red devil Porsche slalomed in and out between cars, Brad running the S-curves, heading south at sixty. He made the light at Delaware and Delevan, scaring the bejesus out of a kid on a skateboard, tore around Gates Circle, running the yellow in front of the hospital, careening in and out of traffic. He saw an opening and did a quick right to the outside lane. But there he was—another road devil. The BMW sped up, while Brad downshifted into second. He inched the pedal to the floor, but a car in his lane crawled along at forty. He knew he could blow the doors off the Beamer if he could just get a clear shot. Brad pulled to the left anxiously looking for room to move. The light at Bryant had just turned green and the Beamer was only half a car’s length ahead.
In the instant he had left to live, Brad saw it. The front tire of the BMW hit a piece of wood. The forensic report would reveal that the BMW tire struck a bedpost, sending it tumbling like a majorette’s baton, impaling Brad.
In the obituary, Frank Bellamy, a business associate said, “Brad’s place in the world can’t be put into words. His life, cut short by a freak accident, can not diminish his successes, the love of family and his infectious gift of joy.”