Coming to Terms  by Brad Bisio                                                            

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            Thirteen-year-old Suzie lives across the street in a two-bedroom, pale-yellow house with her father and older brother Tommy. She shares a bedroom with Tommy. Stephen can hear their two parrots squawk while he scrapes and primes the side of the house from an extension ladder. He was painting the house for his landlord in exchange for rent.

            
            Suzie runs across the street, hair swinging from side to side. She talks with a slight lisp. “My dad says you’re doing a good job painting the house. He used to be a painter, you know. Now he’s gonna get his truck driving license. He’s gonna drive semis. After a pause, “Are Sarah and Elizabeth home?”

            
            “They’re at the park. They should be back soon. Could you throw me that rag?” Suzie tossed the rag three times before it reached high enough. “What are you making for dinner tonight, Suzie?”

            
            “Tonight we’re having hamburgers and green beans. We’ve got lots of green beans. The French-cut kind. They’re my dad’s favorite. My dad says you can never have too many cans of green beans. We have over twenty in the cupboard. My dad makes sure we eat good, and he knows how because he was in the Army. They give you all the best food, like steak, in the Army. My dad says they take good care of you.” She kicked the grass then asked, “What color’s the house gonna be?” 

            
            Wiping the sweat running into his eyes, Stephen said, “The house’ll be sage green and the trim Dover White.”

            
            Suzie pointed out, “Your ladder doesn’t look very sturdy.”

            
            “The landlord’s supposed to bring me a safer one tonight,” Stephen said.

            
            “Well, I better take the ground beef out of the freezer.” Running across the street, Suzie looked back and yelled, “Tell Sarah and Elizabeth I’ll come over later.”

            
            The phone rang and Stephen climbed down the ladder and ran inside.          

            
            “Hello, Campbell residence.”

            
            “This is Subaru National Credit. Is Mr. Campbell there?”

            
            “Speaking.”

            
            “Mr. Campbell, I’m calling regarding your delinquent account. We’ve been trying to reach you for several weeks. Could you recommend a convenient time to reach you?”

            
            Stephen knew why they were calling, and he lay groundwork, “I’m out of work right now. So anytime is good, I guess.”

            
            “Sir, I’ve been asked to procure payment from you. You can pay with a credit card or a check over the phone. Will you be able to make a payment at this time?”

            
            Stephen said, “Unfortunately, I don’t have the money right now.”

            
            “You’re over ninety days late, sir. Including late fees, you owe us one-thousand two-hundred and thirty-eight dollars. I need to inform you that your car is in danger of being repossessed.”

            
            “Oh man. This is our only car. I know I’m late, but I haven’t had much work the past few months. I paint houses, mostly exterior. The rainy season is ending, and I expect some work soon. If you could give me just a little more time, I know I can catch up with my payments.”

            
            “Mr. Campbell, you need to take care of this matter now. You’re in danger of losing your car. You have a history of late payments with us, and we’ve been more than patient.”

            
            With a worrisome tone Stephen said, “Ma’am, I explained my situation. Can’t we work something out?”

            
            “The only thing we can work out is you paying us.”

            
            “I already explained that I won’t have the money for a few more weeks.”

            
            “Then we’ll be calling each day, and your car will be recommended for repossession.”

            
            Shocked, Stephen tried to think what to say. “Can you tell me when you’ll repossess it?”

            
            “If you can’t make a payment, Mr. Campbell, I’ve been advised to terminate this conversation. Good day.”

            
            Stephen slammed the receiver into the palm of his hand. Before heading outside, he grabbed the mail from the drop box. “Bills, bills, junk, junk, bills,” he said aloud, and a letter from the landlord. He was raising their rent seventy-five dollars a month. “Shit,” Stephen said. “Why didn’t he mention it last week when he was here?”

*

            
            Stalked by thought, Stephen had come to terms. The next day he placed his collection of one hundred and fifty CDs into a large duffle bag and carried them to his car where he’d already loaded a seven-hundred and fifty dollar guitar amplifier, his two electric guitars (he left the acoustic in his bedroom), three microphones and stands, and his sixteen track recorder and mixer. His days in a band were over. He’d been playing out as a solo artist every other weekend at the Alibi–a hundred dollars a show. Not enough to make a dent in his accruing debt. The equipment was worth more than his talent.

            
            Stephen stopped at the record store first. His collection, purchased for about two-thousand dollars over the past ten years, netted a mere two-hundred and twenty-five dollars. Only those in excellent condition were accepted; a single scratch and it was pushed to the side. He took what he could get.

            
            Stephen didn’t have time to advertise the sale of his music equipment in the paper or with flyers, so he took the loss and sold it to the local pawn shop for seven-hundred and fifty bucks. His vintage electric guitar alone was worth twelve-hundred dollars. When Stephen left the shop, he felt nauseous. Disconsolate, he puked in the parking lot next to his car.

*

            
            Stephen had finished painting for the day and went inside. After he’d showered, his four-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, walked through the front door. He said, “How was the store, sweetie?”

            
            Chewing a piece of sugarless gum, she held up the pack. “Look what mommy bought me.”

            
            “Oh boy. Is it good?”

            
            She nodded her head.

            
            Stephen grabbed two bags of groceries from his wife’s arms. She walked to the car for more. He brought the bags to the kitchen, then met her again at the front door. “You guys took longer than I thought. I still need to return the pet divider for the car before they close,” he said. (Wisely or not, they’d bought it last week, on sale, to keep their chocolate lab in the back of the wagon. She was tearing up the seats and stepping on Elizabeth when she was in her car seat.)

            
            Suzie saw their car parked in front of the house and walked over with a basket of wet laundry. “Sarah, can I dry these clothes in your dryer? My dad says that gas is too expensive, and I can’t find enough

quarters for the Laundromat.”

            
            “Gas is just as expensive at our house, Suzie. It’s a nice day. Maybe you should hang them on your clothes line.”

            
            “Okay. I didn’t think of that.”           

            
            Stephen called from the front porch, “I’m leaving for the store. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

*

            
            An eager, slender, young man behind the counter said, “Can I help you sir?”

            
            Stephen said, “I’d like to return this pet divider for my car that I bought from you last week.”

            
            The counter clerk pointed to his left. “Returns are handled at the far register.”

            
            Stephen moved on. Another employee wearing the same black three-button shirt and khaki pants asked, “What can I do for you today?”

            
            Stephen placed the divider on the counter and lied, “This doesn’t fit our car. I’d like to return it.”

            
            “Alright sir. Do you have your receipt?”

            
            “Actually, I don’t have it. But I definitely bought it here.”

            
            “Without a receipt, we can only give you store credit, sir.”

            
            “But I was just here less than a week ago. I really need the cash.”

            
            “I’m sorry, sir. Store policy dictates that we must have a receipt.”

            
            “Is there a manager I can speak with?” Stephen asked.

            
            “I’m the weekend manager, sir.”

            
            “If you’re in charge, then can’t you make an exception? Normally I’d understand, but I’m in a bad situation, and I need the money.”

            
            “Sir, I’d be more than willing to make an exchange for you, but that’s all I’m permitted to do.”

            
            “You don’t think I’m trying to pull one over on you, do you?  I bought this from the guy at the first register. Go ask him. I was in here with my daughter.”

            
            “Even if he did remember you sir, we’d still need a receipt.”

            
            Losing his pleading tone, Stephen said, “All I’m asking for is a little flexibility. Maybe some of your shoppers would be interested in your lack of customer service.” Talking to the six people browsing, “Be careful what you buy folks. There’s no customer service at this store.”

            
            Feeling uneasy, the manager said, “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

            
            “I’m not leaving until I get my money. I don’t care what your policy says. I bought this product at this store, and I want my money back!”

            
            Frustrated, the manager cleared his throat but stuck to his guns, “If you don’t leave sir, I’ll be forced to call the police.”

            
            “Go ahead! Call the police! I’m not leaving!”

*

            
            Standing with his arms crossed, Stephen faced the door when the police arrived. The weekend manager greeted them first and explained the situation. The two officers approached Stephen. “Good afternoon sir,” the taller one said. “What seems to be the problem today?”

            
            “The problem, officer, is that I bought this pet divider from this store, but it doesn’t fit my car, and I want my seventy-five dollars back.”

            
            “The manger says you don’t have your receipt,” the officer said with a calm tone to balance out Stephen’s aggression.

              
           “And I explained to him that I misplaced it. All I’m asking for is some flexibility.”

            
            “It doesn’t look like that’s going to happen, sir. You can either leave with us or on your own. It’s up to you.”

            
            Leering at the police and the store manager Stephen said, “Why don’t you all go fuck yourselves,” and then he walked toward the front of the store. With his left foot, soccer style, he kicked the five-foot high, stacked motor oil display by the exit. He landed a strike, and the tower collapsed. An officer grabbed his shirt collar from behind, pressed his face against the glass door and cuffed him.

            
            Now there were fines and bail. Now there were court fees and shame. Now there was the question: What about the car?