The Case of Arnold Palmer

(TRIGGER WARNING: Physical violence, gore, or abuse. Mild substance abuse.)

I had been attending law school for a few years now and was excited to finally be able to watch a trial in person. This wasn’t just any trial, either – this was the trial of Arnold Palmer. Before I tell you about Arnold Palmer, I should tell you about the town in which I grew up, and the town Arnold had virtually destroyed.

Though we are technically considered a “company town,” which is to say all housing – and stores, if we had any outside the general store - are owned by the one company, this town never really had much going for it. It’s far from any tourist attraction, and we don’t have any import or export of value – save for the steel mill in the center of town. If not for that steel mill and the family who owned it then any semblance of civilization in this area would’ve disappeared decades ago (though some would still say it has, as you probably won’t find us on any map). Almost everyone here spent some fraction of their adult life working at the mill, including myself. It’s an ugly hateful place, and it’s one of the reasons why I was so eager to leave this place and go to school.

Now, about Arnold Palmer. Somewhere in the ballpark of six months ago, my dad told me over the phone during our weekly call that the steel mill had shut down. When I asked him why, there was an uncomfortable pause. I thought the line had disconnected and I asked if he was still there. Finally, my dad responded by croaking out one word – burned. I was shocked, to say the least, and I started to worry about all my family and friends back home. When I asked him how it happened, he said no one is certain, though everyone has relatively the same suspicions – the day prior to the fire one of the workers, Arnold Palmer, had shown up in a rage and smelling heavily of booze. Apparently, Arnold had stormed up to the foreman’s office and was yelling about being laid off. When I heard this, I honestly couldn’t blame the guy as it was the only way in that town to make a living wage. Sure, Arnold could work at the general store, but that was mostly manned by teenagers looking to make extra money for summer break and was definitely no source of income for a man and his wife and three daughters.

I told my dad my thoughts on that and maybe it was simply a poorly timed coincidence. My dad said he wasn’t too sure about that, saying I didn’t see Arnold that day, the hate in his eyes and the sense of finality in his conviction, and the fact that no one has seen Arnold since the fire. Needless to say, my dad had already made up his mind and I’d be willing to put money down that he wasn’t alone in this.

I had missed our next weekly call, but when the following week came around and I phoned my dad he picked up after the second ring. I asked him what was new, and he sounded so excited and vindictive when he told me Arnold was found and arrested for the suspicions against him. Arnold had an impending arraignment that the townsfolk were so eager for, and though Arnold swears up and down it wasn’t him, my dad is certain it will go through to trial.

 That last suspicion of my dads was correct. I came back to this town and saw just how badly the mill burning down had left this place, as it looked like an image of The Great Depression frozen in time while the rest of the world moved on. It was heartbreaking to see it this way, as this town is still my home, but I know I had to see it just as I had to witness this trial and to see proper justice met out for my friends and family.  

My father and I sat in a courtroom that was about as packed with people; it was as a can of sardines with one too many oiled fish inside. The courtroom was so full of people that I could hear excited murmuring coming from outside the doors. After the arduous trial, I was sure that the evidence was too strong for Arnold Palmer to be acquitted. Yet to my surprise, the judge returned a not guilty verdict, stating there was not sufficient evidence indicating Arnold as the culprit to the mill’s fire.

To say I was stunned would be the understatement of the year. The crowded people yelled in furious uproar as the judge hammered his gavel shouting for order and the bailiff raised his hands out, urging people to stand back. My father and I quickly left the courtroom as we were wary of the crowd that had started to form both within and outside the courthouse. But just before we made it out of that room, I turned my head to get a look at Arnold Palmer. I don’t know why I looked, either out of curiosity or some unknown desire for the dramatic, but I won’t forget what I saw – it was faint, but noticeable enough to see that Arnold Palmer was smirking.

Later that night I ran into an old friend of mine from high school. He, like my father, spent his days after high school working at the mill. He said he didn’t mind it much, and it was pretty good money for a single man.

I could tell my friend was happy to see me as I was him, but he quickly grew somber. I knew why, of course – Arnold Palmer was declared Not Guilty, and after all the evidence and arguments presented during the trial even I couldn’t help but be upset about it. We walked the town’s nightly streets in silence, quietly contemplating to ourselves what the future might hold now.  

As we walked, my friend suddenly shot his arm up in front of me and pulled me back to hide beside a building. When I opened my mouth to ask what he was doing, he immediately raised a finger to his lips and narrowed his eyes at me, then nodded his head towards the corner of the building, motioning for me to look.

I slowly peered my head around the corner and saw what it was that got my friend so riled. On the other end of the street just below a light post, there was Arnold Palmer Standing among two of his friends as smoked cigarettes and laughed as they passed a bottle of whiskey between one another for a swig.

I found myself frozen in place watching this scene as anger rose in my body as if I was standing in the middle of that destroyed steel mill while wearing a winter coat. Heck, I may as well have been the thing that Arnold set ablaze. How many lives had he destroyed with one fit of childish anger? He couldn’t take his licks like a man and find a way to move on and instead, he destroyed an entire town, and now here he was celebrating that he got away with it.

Eventually, I found my bearings again and turned to face my friend. His face was expressionlessly stoic as he raised his hand, signifying I should wait. He raised two fingers to his eyes and then pointed those fingers back in the direction of Arnold Palmer. We both stood there silently in the dark as we watched him carouse with his friends for what felt like an hour when I finally realized why my friend wanted to wait and watch him – we were seeing where he’d be going next, and if he would be alone.

I can’t say how much time had passed, but we did finally see Arnold and his friends exchange high fives and handshakes and pats on the back as they went their separate ways. Arnold’s two friends stumbled away back towards the center of town, while Arnold hugged building walls and lurched away, mumbling some tune under his breath.

My friend motioned with a flick of his head that we followed him, and I agreed without a word. We jogged across the street making sure to avoid the incriminating glow of the light post. I didn’t know what we were going to do once we caught up to this pompous prick, but I figured that would be something to deal with once we got around to it. First, we had to actually catch him.

As Arnold floundered along the concrete walkway, I was able to make out what he was mumbling, it was America, My Country 'Tis of Thee. He was slurring over or completely missing most of the words, but he made sure to sing out any verse that centered on freedom. I scoffed at what an ass he was and caught my breath at the sound and froze.

My friend glared his eyes at me as we stood like two statues to see if Arnold had noticed. Ten heartbeats passed and Arnold was still singing in his sloshing way, seemingly oblivious to the entire world around him. We started towards him again.

We stalked Arnold Palmer for half a block when we both saw what we were looking for – an alleyway on Arnold’s left which was exceptionally dark, with not a lit window in sight. We looked into each other’s eyes and silently communicated what we do next. We picked up our pace in a brisk walk, which turned into a jog, then into a sprint. Now was the time to confront Arnold Palmer.

Arnold’s eyes widened into two bloodshot orbs and his song cut short into a startled gurgle as my friend and I seemed to materialize from thin air as we looped our arms under his armpits and picked him up off his feet to drag him into the dark alleyway.

Angry curses followed by pleading sobs bounced off the walls of the alleyway as Arnold was dragged through. I took Arnold by the shoulders and slammed him into the brick wall. Arnold screamed for help and my friend kicked his kneecap to get him to shut up. Its purpose was founded as Arnold stopped his screaming and instead turned to deplorable whimpering as he stood sluggishly against my push. One of the windows behind us on the second floor lit up as someone turned on their light to see what all the noise was outside. I turned around and looked at the silhouette of a person and stood perplexed like a deer in headlights. I only now noticed the heavy beads of sweat dripping down my face as I looked at the shadowy figure in the window.

Whoever was shadowed in the light seemed to notice who it was that was being attacked in the alleyway because they turned their light back off. There were no police sirens, no one shouting to stop this violence. I turned back to Arnold.

His head lolled from shoulder to shoulder as his face contorted in a mournful kind of fear, and he was mumbling pleas and bargains through spittle that webbed across his lips.

I consider myself a calm man, not one for confrontation and slow to anger. But seeing this man like this after what he had done and how he seemed to lionize himself after the fact had awakened some long-slumbering DNA within me, one of a primal desire for bloodshed. I pushed Arnold over to my friend as I yelled questions at him that to this day, I cannot recall exactly what, not that they matter anymore. My friend did the same as he pushed Arnold back to me, back and forth, and back Arnold went, Around and around again between us as we yelled rhetorics and accusations at him. We would occasionally strike him as he came back our way, nothing major – a slap on the ear, a jab in the rubs, a stomp on his foot.

My friend and I did not notice it at first, but we were laughing as it happened, like two kids on a tetherball court as we watched Arnold stumble and cry between us. As Arnold came back in my direction, I made to catch him and call it quits on this, maybe to give Arnold some words of vindication of how he will for now and always be alone. Maybe those were things I wanted to say, but by God, I truly did mean to let it stop there.

But I was not given the chance.

Arnold Palmer stumbled too hard on that last push, and he fell some feet to the right of me. I grimaced as I heard a wet crunching sound as Arnold’s head landed on the pavement. I fell to my knees to roll Arnold over and saw a large rock jutting halfway into his skull as blood poured down his face in dark crimson silver, illuminated by moonlight. He was no longer sobbing, or pleading, and didn’t convulse once. Arnold Palmer was dead.

My friend and I stood in shocked horror as we looked down at Arnold’s motionless body, we looked at each other with matching expressions of mouths in perfect circles and eyes wide open. It was my friend who snapped out of it first and told me we have to take him to the burned-down mill.

Yes, it made sense. Everyone would think Arnold just left town, either out of shame for himself or in the name of saving his wife and daughters from the animosity that would come from his presence. Besides, it will be sometime before that heap of scorched mess is cleaned up, by the time Arnold’s body would be found any trace of evidence of them would be too contaminated to tell for certain – and even if Arnold’s body is ever found, would anyone ever care?

We picked up Arnold – I at the shoulders, my friend at the legs – and carried him through the dark, seemingly lifeless town. We took breaks in the darkest corners we could find and searched around to make sure no one else was out this late at night. Millions of thoughts ran through my mind as we carried on this ghoulish task in fear of being caught, but by some divine intelligence, we were never seen. When we made it to the ruined mill at the center of town, we cleared away a hole of sorts in the middle of the debris. When we felt this would be enough to hide him in, we held onto Arnold’s ankles and wrists as we swung him back and forth to build up enough momentum to throw him into our makeshift pit, then we covered it back up with the scorched sheet metal and other various bits of rubble.

We stood there looking at this site which is the final resting place of both this town and the man who caused its death, where my friend told me how no one can ever know this was us – no therapists, no close friends, no bragging in a bar in some foreign country. No one can know.

“My lips are sealed,” I told him solemnly.

I knew then that we would be haunted by our actions that night for the rest of our lives. Though we never did speak of what had happened, and the secret was buried with Arnold Palmer.