A Deep, Darkish Secret

A Deep Darkish Secret

           Burt was more drunk than any of his best bar buddies had ever seen him before. But he appeared to be a happy drunk. And they were more than a little startled when he said that he was celebrating on this night something he had committed (the actual word that he had used) that was rather nasty, something decidedly awful, something he had done just the previous night. He was generally fairly close-mouthed, not usually sharing the thoughts that would reveal the dark side of his nature to his friends, that at times he had a truly dangerous mind. They had no idea that there was that side to him.

           But tonight at the bar, his friends had a definite sense that Burt was going to tell them a story that would create a rare viewing of the hidden depths of his mind. So his nearest and most insightful friend, Bill, asked him whether Burt had something deep and dark that he was itching to tell them. His squirming on the bar stool was suggesting that he craved to communicate..

           “Well boys. I’ll bet that you usually think of me as a happy-go-lucky, live-and-let-live sort of guy. I am most of the time, but this situation took me to a very different place. You’ll get to know sides to me that you never have before this night. You have to promise not to spread this story. People might not understand what I did last night, and maybe think me strange..”

           They did not know what he meant by the last part. But the boys in the bar swore to secrecy, although that could be rightfully considered a rarely reliable promise amongst a pack of men in their mid-twenties to early thirties, such as Burt and his bar buddies..

           “Well, you may know about my new boss, and how he makes my working life a stressful one, pushing me a number of times in the direction of physical confrontations, at least in my mind. One night I decided that I was so negatively affected by this situation that I would have to do something pretty drastic to change my feelings about it. I needed some form of revenge to get rid of my tension, to have my revenge on my oppressor.”

           “First, I found out where the man lived. He was organizing a party for the other top executives on Saturday, and had put fancy invitation cards on the desks of the chosen ones.  I was both surprised and pleased to find out that he lived alone. I found that out by asking one of his secretaries whether he had any children. I told her that my daughter was in a girls’ hockey league (which is true), and that they needed more players to have the league able to have six full teams (which is not true, there were eight teams, all with a full complement of capable players). His being alone would make my diabolic plan easier to execute (I like using that word in thinking about the boss).  I wouldn’t have to worry about any innocent victims of anything that I could imagine doing to his place. There would be none, only a guilty victim.

           On Monday, I snuck into his neighbourhood, late, late at night, when there were no lights on in his house or those of his immediate neighbours. I climbed up over the tall fence in his front yard. That he had fences all around his house showed to me that he had as little regard for his neighbours as he did the people that he bossed around at work. I crept around his entire rather large property, checking out all of his territory, looking for the parts most vulnerable to whatever I would think of doing. There were bushes and trees at the end of the backyard, which could readily hide me, as well as anything that I might wish to plant there, not necessarily in the gardening sense of that word, maybe more in the explosive kaboom sense. There was also sufficient open space between the back of the yard and the large and doubtless quite expensive back window. By sufficient open space, I immediately thought of having enough room for the wind-up and throwing of several fist-size rocks. My years of teenage experience as a pitcher in a town-rep baseball team meant that I could do some considerable damage if I decided to go that way. I could picture it immediately – leaning forward and staring down the target, shaking off the signals from the imagined catcher to throw a slow curve, then drawing back as far as possible with my pitching arm, followed by my throwing each rock with all the speed that I could muster. Then hearing a big crashing sound, maybe even with a groan to follow.

           I imagined a different potential fate for the equally large window at the front of the house – paint. I tried to think of what could be the most obnoxious colour – tar-pit black? pallor pink? blood red? poo-coloured brown? and what to add to the paint so that it would be impossible for the boss to clean off, ever. 

           On Thursday, you might have noticed that I drank a lot of coffee. I wanted to have full force consciousness on my big night of revenge on the bad boss. I was wide awake at 12:00 and raring to go. So I went and covered the boss’s property with my presence.”

           This last remark was followed by a silence. Then Bill spoke, asking the questions to which all the bar buddies wanted very much to hear the answer.

           “So what did you do there? How did your boss act the next day at work? Was he even more difficult to deal with? Do he suspect you as the perpetrator of all of the damage? Come on, fess up. You owe us that after hearing of all your sordid plans.”

           The silence returned but was broken in seconds.

           “Here is what happened.” Words followed by a pause for effect.

“I went to his place alright. I circled the house, and posed as a pitcher. But as to what I did to his place…..I did nothing. You see for me the matter is simple. “It’s the thought that counts.”