23. Moral Dilemmas
Bert’s feverish mind churned and throbbed with a force equaling the engine of the tractor mower he was riding along the vast Armstrong estate lawns. Words fluttered in and out of his consciousness: rich ... Cayman Islands ... damned ... free ... guilty. He’d been wrestling with his moral dilemma for two days now and had not come to a decision.
Images blurred through his mind in bewildering succession. They formed a sort of combination tropical paradise and the burning hell he’d learned about in the Catholic catechism sessions he’d been forced to attend as a boy. In quick succession he saw long-legged beauties and devils with pitch forks; luxurious houses and deep, mysterious caverns.
A worried, conflicted expression distorted his face. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and took a long swig from a water bottle. A harsh voice shocked him out of his ruminations:
“Hey, Cream Puff!”
Bert flinched and looked off toward his left. To his utter amazement, he saw an image of himself riding another lawnmower. But this Bert Nagy was quite different. He wore a dark cape and a black Lone Ranger type mask. The cape flowed behind him as if in a strong breeze, even though there wasn’t any wind today.
“Me?” Bert asked meekly.
“Yeah, you!”
This evil Bert’s lawnmower was jet black with a garish flame motif painted along its sides. It rumbled ominously, smoke belching from the exhaust. Bert gulped and tried to keep his eyes fixed straight ahead. The manifestation on his left was too compelling to ignore, however.
“Don’t tell me you can’t think of anything to do with a half million bucks,” Evil Bert said. “625,000 bucks if you do things right – for the first time in your sorry life.”
“W-well, I ...” Bert stammered.
Another voice intruded, this one pleasant and mellow:
“But it’s wrong, Bert, however you might try to justify it.”
Bert jerked his head to the right where he saw a good version of himself riding another lawnmower. Good Bert wore a white cape and mask. A halo-like glow attended him, and his cape billowed around gracefully. His lawnmower was painted gleaming white, and it produced a melodious hum.
“Bullshit!” Evil Bert shouted. “You’d be doing everyone a favor.”
“You’re contemplating murder here,” Good Bert countered. “Nothing is worse than that.”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” Evil Bert said.
“It is always best to turn the other cheek,” Good Bert said. “Do unto others ...”
While the good and evil versions of himself debated, Bert turned his head back and forth, as if watching a tennis match. He was paying scant attention to his driving, and the neat swath he’d been cutting through the grass began to waver.
“You’ve seen how that s.o.b. treats Mrs. Armstrong,” Evil Bert said. “And the way he treats you, too. Total disrespect.”
“You’ve got that right,” Bert said.
“Then man up and do the right thing!” Evil Bert cried.
“Remember,” Good Bert said, “two wrongs cannot make a right.”
This last remark bore the compelling mark of truth; Bert was almost won over to its viewpoint. But then Evil Bert said something that chilled him to the marrow:
“You don’t want to be stuck with Sally the rest of your life, do you, Cream Puff?”
Bert shuddered; his throat constricted so much that he couldn’t make a sound.
“No!” he finally managed to gag out.
“Then get with the program!” Evil Bert yelled. “You’re only 33, shape up while you still can.”
The two phantom machines shot ahead and closed with each other like a pair of angry stallions. Bert could hear the drivers shouting at each other but could no longer make out their words. They disappeared over the rise by the flower garden.
Bert continued riding his own mower, stunned and disoriented. The vision he’d witnessed was so incredibly vivid! Even more so than his Cayman Island scenario.
He’d forgotten what a handsome guy he really was, lurking under the layers of flab. Both fantasy versions of himself were nicely slimmed down and looked very dramatic in their superhero type outfits. There was little to choose between them, though Bert rather favored the dark version. It had more flair, and he liked the way the cape flowed in the wind.
He looked down with disgust at his belly jiggling under the engine’s vibration. Okay, he tended toward obesity – he knew that – but things had really gotten bad in recent years. Whatever calories he burned at work were quickly surpassed by the mountains of comfort foods he consumed afterwards. The bratwurst, pizza, cheeseburgers, and pitchers of beer soothed his frustrations but added alarming inches to his waistline.
Not to mention the artery clogging meals Sally prepared when she wasn’t out gambling or drinking. He cringed at the recollection of the four of them enjoying their only ‘quality time’ together, wolfing the food down as if there were no tomorrow.
What the hell had happened to his wife, anyway? She was such a piece when he’d married her. But that was before the kids came along, and before he quit his secure factory job to make a go at a landscaping business that never quite took off. And the second mortgage ...
$$$
Frank Armstrong wandered the acres of his estate, hands thrust into his pockets and deep in thought. It was a gorgeous day outside, but inside he was in turmoil. He scarcely noticed the sound of the lawnmower in the distance.
Since coming home from the hospital earlier that morning, Frank had wanted to speak with his wife. She looked terribly worn, was smoking and drinking on the sly. He wanted to find out the reasons for this. He wanted to comfort Laila and tell her that he appreciated her staying with him all these years. But he didn’t know how to do those things; it simply wasn’t his style.
Until the last few days, he’d never considered acting differently than in his customary manner. But his accident, the battery of medical tests, and the abrupt collapse of Ed Stoverman had rattled Frank to the core – not to mention that horrific dream! The appointment with Dr. Keating to discuss the test results was coming soon, and he wasn’t looking forward to that with much enthusiasm.
For the first time in his life, Frank Armstrong felt the bony hand of mortality resting on his shoulder, and it was changing his outlook on everything.
All right, so he was a domineering s.o.b. on the outside. How could he have made it in the world otherwise? He’d come up the hard way and possessed the scars to prove it. He’d had to battle some very tough characters over the years. But there was more to him than that on the inside, he knew there was. It was high time to let it emerge ... if he could just figure out how.
The Stove had suffered an embolism / stroke, or whatever the hell, and his prognosis couldn’t be good. He was still in the intensive care unit when Frank left the hospital and was not taking visitors. Damn, they’d been having a great time together only yesterday afternoon! But mortality got everybody sooner or later, even if you’d reserved a fancy hospital suite.
He needed to get back to the office right away. That was the ticket! Get out of this melancholy rut, clear his head with some real work. Then he’d be able to straighten out what needed straightening in his personal life.
He was so absorbed in these thoughts, that he didn’t notice the roar of the lawnmower getting closer until it was almost to late –
Bert suddenly spotted Frank Armstrong. Lost in his various broodings, Bert had veered off the mowing pattern and was heading right for the man! Armstrong became aware of the danger at the same moment. He stood, shifting his weight from foot to foot, uncertain which way to dodge.
Bert yanked the wheel hard to the left, missing Armstrong and nearly falling off the machine in the process.
“Watch out, you damn fool!” Frank shouted.
“Uh, sorry, Mr. Armstrong,” Bert said.
He ratcheted the speed down and drove off, looking back apologetically.
Frank scowle
d after him, raising his hand in a gun gesture, dropping the hammer. Bert turned his head forward again, gulped.
“Ha haaa!” Evil Bert’s voice sounded from somewhere inside his skull. “You missed a golden opportunity there, Cream Puff.”
Bert’s meek expression turned hard and cruel. Evil Bert had a good point.