Bill pulls the front door open and leans into the frosty New England air. There's a newspaper on his top step, and there's still one on the Wilsons' stoop next door, its plastic wrapper glistening in the low sun.
Bill curls his toes to hold his slippers on and pads across the lawn. He sidesteps between the hedges, reaches up the steps to snatch the paper, then hurries back to his own home, shaking shrub needles from his hoodie.
Now he has two newspapers.
★★★
Bill climbs into his weathered Subaru hatchback. He turns the key in the ignition and watches the hand of the gas gauge pivot, stopping just short of the FULL line. Bill looks up through the windshield and spies a small face peering back at him alongside a curtain in the Wilson's window. He motions toward the face in the window and waits.
Timmy Wilson is wearing Batman pajamas and sneakers. His arms are full of objects. He approaches the car while Bill opens the driver's door ajar.
"Hi Mr. B. I did it just like you showed me with the tubes and the rag, but my daddy's truck didn't have that much gas. I hope that's okay."
Bill huffs.
"Do you want your stuff back?"
Bill grunts and pokes one arm through the open car door, the baggy sleeve of his hoodie bunching at the elbow. He collects the gas can, tubes, and rag, and drops them on the passenger seat. Acrid fumes fill the car.
"Mr. B., my mouth tastes kinda funny."
Bill roots inside his hoodie pouch and produces a wadded five-dollar bill. Timmy accepts it through the crack of the open door, which then slams as the car rolls backward out of the driveway.
★★★
Bill turns the Subaru onto the county road without looking. A passing horn blares, then fades. The car trundles across the road then along the left lane, others passing it on the right. Pinning the steering wheel with both knees, Bill strains to roll down the passenger's side window, then grabs the grimy rag off the seat. He pulls a lighter from his pouch. He ties the rag in a knot, ignites it in two places with the lighter, and chucks it backhanded through the open passenger window.
The Subaru crawls through an intersection. Cars on either side halt and honk as it passes between them.
Bill sees red and blue lights in his rearview mirror. He steers the car to a stop on the side of the road, gravel crunching below. The lights draw near, and soon a police officer is stepping out of his cruiser and striding toward the Subaru. Bill rolls down his window.
"Mr. Belichick, you just ran a -- Bill, first of all, please put your car in park."
Bill moans.
"Bill, you just drove clear through a red light at four miles per hour. You could have been killed. Did you not see all those cars? And can you please shift your car into park an -- Mr. Belichick, are you okay?"
Bill is gazing into his rearview mirror. A strand of spittle forms and snaps between his open lips as he moans.
The officer looks into the mirror, then turns to face back up the road. Smoke billows in the distance. Red flames dance among the trees that flank the road.
"Oh for Christ's sake, not again."
The officer's walkie talkie crackles as he rushes back to his cruiser.
Bill lifts a slippered foot off the brake and rolls forth.
★★★
The supermarket lot is mostly empty, but the row of parking spaces in front are all occupied. A woman approaches one of the parked cars with a bag of groceries tucked in the crook of her arm.
The Subaru races diagonally through the lot toward the woman, who turns to glance at another car, already idling in wait. As his car comes to a stop, Bill faces the driver of the third car, who grins back at him beneath a swinging handicap tag. The parked car is sputtering to a start, its brake lights aglow. Bill grabs the gas can from the passenger seat and bends to place it on the brake pedal. He steps out of the Subaru.
Bill stands aside so the woman can back her car out, then walks into the opening parking space. He lowers his weight to the ground, steadying himself with one hand. He kneels, then flops onto his stomach, stretching his limbs against the cold pavement.
"Sir, what are you doing? I was here first."
Bill, spread eagle across the parking spot's width, does not flinch.
"This is a handicap spot, sir. Get up. There are plenty more spots. And I was here first."
...
"SIR! I swear I'll drive right over you."
...
"Are you fucking kidding me? Is this a joke?"
...
"Oh look, another handicap spot is opening up. I'm going to go take that because it's my right. Have a nice day, you psycho asshole."
Bill lifts himself off the ground, the texture of asphalt imprinted on his cheek. He climbs back into the Subaru and parks it.
★★★
Bill selects a gallon jug of milk from the refrigerator. Its price, $2.90, is printed on the top. Bill produces a razor blade from his pouch and hunches over the jug, pressing its bottom against his thigh. He scratches precisely, deleting the central curve of the "9" bit by bit. With a ballpoint pen, Bill draws a new curve, completing the 9's transformation into a 0.
Bill stalks to the cash register. He snatches two packs of Good & Plenty from a low shelf and slaps one down on the counter with his milk while sliding the other pack up his hoodie sleeve with a finger's flick. The cashier wordlessly punches keys on the register while Bill glares at the glowing green display. 1X CANDY 1.00. Bill emits a low groan. 1X MILK G 2.90. Bill groans lower and louder.
"Sir?"
Bill's eyes do not waver from the price display. He continues to groan.
"Sir, are you okay?"
The cashier cranes to look at the price display himself, then looks back at Bill, who won't return his gaze. He inspects the milk cap.
"Sir, a gallon of milk is two dollars and ninety cents. I don't know why this one says two dollars. It actually looks ... did ... did you ... ?"
Bill is now groaning so loudly that other customers have stopped to stare.
"Sir, I'm going to get the manager. I think she can help you with whatever issue you're having."
The cashier hurries away. Bill grabs the milk, leaves that Good & Plenty on the counter, and heads for the door, commotion forming in his wake.
"SIR! YOU DIDN--"
★★★
The automatic door closes behind Bill, and he pauses just past its threshold. The air is brisk but still, and the sun feels warm when Bill lifts his face to collect its rays. Bill tears the top off the milk jug and drops it on the sidewalk. He hoists the jug with both hands and tips it into his mouth for a drink, gently at first, then at such a cant that milk glugs out in torrents, spilling down the front of Bill's hoodie.
Bodies strain to force the door open behind Bill, but they cannot displace his heft.
He holds the jug higher and empties it onto his head. His hair bunches in wisps under the pearly cascade.
Supermarket employees stumble outside through the entrance door.
"He already drank all the fucking milk."
Bill raises both palms toward the sky, the crumpled milk jug dangling from one bent finger. The sun illuminates droplets of milk still clinging to his face and hair. Bill leans back and hoots. The pack of Good & Plenty tumbles out of his hoodie and onto the sidewalk.
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