The Health Nut

Harry thought he heard breaking glass a little after 2:00 a.m.

His general rule of thumb regarding bumps in the night: If they don’t repeat, write them off. File under somebody else’s problem. He turned up the TV a little and pushed his pillow further into a futon cranny.

The sleep aids he pocketed from The Health Nut, the vitamin shop downstairs and his place of employment, never seemed to do anything except give him a little heartburn. He tried other stuff, too. Herbal teas, jogging—which fucked up a knee and exacerbated his smoker’s cough—and sleep tapes. There was no soothing voice-over artist or mellow synthesizer tone that could switch off his brain and stop the ping-ponging thoughts tied to his unpaid bills and personal failures. How did he wind up here? The whole place was lit by a few strings of Christmas lights running into a single outlet. The kitchen consisted of a hot plate, and cold stuff was stored in The Health Nut’s mini fridge. His access to a telephone was down there, too. He showered at the local Y. So much for mod cons.

And now Harry was up, participating in a late-night ritual of smoking grass and watching a taped Dodgers game. Thanks to his VCR, a Vin Scully broadcast occasionally helped him pass out, but it was 1–1 in the seventh. Fernando was on the mound and locked in.

Crash! There it was again. From The Health Nut. Definitely. This was going to keep his brain racing until he had to clock in. For a moment, he considered letting whoever or whatever do what they needed to do down there. But he had to admit Otto was a solid guy. The old German had given Harry a steady job behind the register, without any experience, and a place to stay for peanuts. Harry threw a blue-and-white-striped robe over his boxer briefs. He took a slow drag off his joint and stubbed it out on a National Geographic magazine with a mother and baby koala on the cover. He tucked the little roach into his robe pocket. Pride percolated with this sudden stand-up-guy nobility. Heroism might be a path to earning a good night’s sleep.

He crept barefoot down the stairwell, pocket flashlight in hand, and he could taste the giant Bavarian pretzel dunked in spicy mustard shimmying up his esophagus. The half dozen Rauchbiers he guzzled a few hours earlier weren’t helping either. He had enjoyed the drinks alone. Most of Harry’s friends were now in relationships, some married with kids. Cracking a beer with somebody once in a while and shooting the breeze could go a long way. And when was the last time he had a lady over? Was it Cynthia? Jesus. Stop reviewing this depressing stat sheet, he thought. Focus. What the fuck was he gonna find down there?

The bottom stair creaked as he stepped onto the concrete flooring. He heard a loud thud on the other side of the door. A few more thuds followed. He stood in the cramped stockroom working out his next move, wondering if there was an option that avoided confrontation. Was it worth getting knifed for a minimum-wage gig and a shitty attic apartment? The Health Nut was probably part of some tax scheme anyways. And what was so special about Otto anyway? The guy was off in Santa Barbara for the weekend with a woman one-third his age. Solid? No, that was not the right word to describe his boss.

Harry thought about the many times he had yelled at the TV during action-adventure shows where a character—a civilian—would make up some lame excuse why they couldn’t call the police to intercede during a life-threatening situation. Great for reaching the next commercial break, but Harry understood that calling the cops wasn’t happening. Too many questions he wouldn’t want to answer. His upstairs domicile, an office space with nearly everything rigged in such a way that would give an honest building inspector carpal tunnel, wasn’t necessarily “aboveboard.” Besides, he’d have to hike back up there, dig up a dime, grab some shoes, tiptoe back down the stairs, and hit the payphone on the corner. Or were 911 calls free of charge? Didn’t matter. Like everything else, he was going it alone.

Harry put his ear to the adjoining wall and listened for any sounds that registered above the pounding of his own heartbeat. He deduced that the shuffling footsteps and now steady banging likely belonged to a lone invader. One-on-one with the element of surprise on his side? Not bad odds. But could this maniac have a gun?

Dammit, he had nothing to protect himself with, and there could be a legitimate murderer on the other side of the wall. He should’ve spent a couple minutes planning upstairs, but he tended to learn from hindsight.

Otto knew the curbside trash schedule for all the wealthy neighborhoods, and he used the stockroom as a quick receptacle for the upscale junk he picked up in his Chrysler LeBaron. 

Harry dug around, trying to keep quiet, and quickly decided on a weapon.

After silently counting to forty—originally thinking three would be all he needed to muster up courage—he slowly twisted the knob, took a half step back, and kung-fu kicked open the door that led into the shop. He shined the flashlight onto a figure, head-to-toe in black, who was trying to pry open the wooden cash register.

 “Get lost, bandit!” Harry shouted.

He then lifted the orange traffic cone he was holding in his right hand and whipped it at the figure in black. The rubber pyramid bounced off the masked person’s shoulder and flopped sadly onto the linoleum. Harry wished he had said something cooler.

“This isn’t what it looks like!” The bandit backed away from the register. He then let a large mallet drop to the floor and held up a screwdriver in lieu of waving a white flag. 

“Looks like you’re robbing the place, fuckhead!” Harry said, surprised his voice could reach such a high octave.

“Okay, it’s exactly what it looks like, but I’ll get out of here and…and pay for the window.” The bandit stumbled further backward. “I can put it in writing.”

Despite the anonymity the ski mask offered, this looked like an amateur punk probably fresh out of high school. Tops. The kid’s wavering voice was on the verge of breaking. He was somewhat tall, pencil-thin, and he stooped forward. Through the ski mask eye holes, Harry could make out a hint of eyeliner. There might’ve been a goth behind the mask.

“You’re really bad at this, man,” Harry said. He switched on a couple of lights off the panel by the stockroom door. “Never offer to leave an IOU at a crime scene.”

“Well, this is my first robbery.”

“I bet there’s thirty bucks in this place. Nobody buys vitamins,” Harry said.

“Listen, could you just look the other way? I’m in a tough situation. I didn’t come here to hurt anyone.”

The bandit stood frozen, hands still up, giving Harry the confidence to move freely. It was foolish to leave his shoes behind. The barefoot Bruce Lee kick caused a sharp sting. He tried to obscure a limp by favoring his left foot.

He scanned the displays on the pine shelving and the handwritten recommendations lining the cramped aisles. He never bothered to study the products sold at The Health Nut because Otto suggested nothing in the place could kill anybody. He went with a small purple capped bottle and shook out a couple pills. “Supposed to help with anxiety I guess.” 

Harry hobbled back over toward the cash register and reached around to the mini fridge behind the small glass counter. He grabbed a pair of Carta Blancas and offered one to the shaking thief. “Wash them down with this.”

The bandit traded Harry the screwdriver for a beer and appeared to relax to a degree.

Harry then sat on the floor, establishing a nonthreatening distance and giving a clear path to the exit. He lit a jasmine incense stick to mellow the vibe and managed to keep the match going long enough to spark his robe joint again. The bandit stayed on his feet and tried drinking through the ski mask mouth hole, but the beer soaked into the fabric. He plucked small black fibers off his tongue.

“You can take it off,” Harry said. “I’m not calling the cops.”

“If it’s all the same, I’ll leave it on,” the bandit said. “This is pretty humiliating.”

Harry turned to the smashed window above the front door handle. The fluorescent lights created prisms on the jagged outline of glass.

“What’s going on? How did we get here?” Harry asked.

The bandit cleared his throat. “I’ve been seeing this girl for a little while. And we’ve been really careful. Like extremely careful, but—”

“—Okay, okay,” Harry cut in. He could hear the violins. “Is she keeping it?”

“How’s that your business?” the bandit asked. His voice was less reedy when it was backed with irritation.

“Understood, tough guy,” Harry said.

The seventh beer of the night was doing the trick. His pulse was returning to a normal tempo. Harry had never resorted to burglary per se, but he could easily conjure up moments from his timeline that matched the bandit’s desperation and stupidity. He figured he’d wait for the kid to calm down some more and let him loose after he put back another Carta Blanca. Maybe he could leave the kid with some wisdom. Maybe he could get some shut-eye.

But how would he explain the situation when Otto got back? For a moment, Harry thought about pinning the vandalism on the bastards from Saturn’s Gardens on Rodeo. They had more foot traffic and cool t-shirts. Easy villains. The problem was that they didn’t seem like the type to punch down. No, Otto wouldn’t buy that theory.

The Dodgers could wait.

“I got an idea,” Harry said. “The register doesn’t look all that bad. Thing’s a beast.” He got up and slid the key out from underneath, jabbed it in, turned, and punched a button so that the drawer flew open. “Let’s repair the window ourselves. That way, no harm, no foul.”

“You know how to fix broken glass?”

“I noticed an old door with large raised panels in the supply room. We’ll break off the shards out front, measure the pane, and cut a piece of glass off the door. I’ve got a saw, a tape measure, and some caulk upstairs.”

The bandit tilted his head back and let out a long sigh.

“Look, I watch This Old House,” Harry said. “This shouldn’t be all that complicated.”

“Can’t you just do it yourself and let me go home?”

“Then how will you learn?”

When Harry returned with the supplies and wearing laced-up high tops, he was relieved to find the bandit where he left him. He hadn’t run off. A display of trust. But unfortunately, after they had carried the discarded door in and laid it onto the shop floor, they had quickly broken three panes of glass. With just one remaining, Harry realized he may not have the required finesse, nor the proper tools.

“Better make this one count,” Harry said, mustering optimism and holding up the wobbly saw.

“I need to call my girlfriend,” the bandit said.

“What good will that do?”

“She’s studying sculpture at Cal State, Fullerton in the fall. Good with her hands.”

“Problem is most windows aren’t made of clay.”

“Her father’s a carpenter.”

“You should’ve led with that. Forty minutes ago. See if she can borrow a glass cutter thingy.”

“No shit.”

“The phone’s over there.”

The bandit dialed. Harry hovered to listen, until the bandit covered the receiver and asked, “A little privacy?”

The bandit’s girlfriend poked her head through the broken window at 3:51 a.m.  At about an even five feet, she had on a Cramps t-shirt, mesh Nike running shorts, and Docs. Straight black hair spilled out from the bottom of her ski mask.

“Really fucking stupid, Antonio.” Carrying a rusty red toolbox, she charged toward her boyfriend. “And your phone call could’ve woken up my parents.”

“Babe, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”

“A recurring theme.”

It was as if Harry wasn’t even there.

“Antonio? Now we’re getting somewhere. I’m Harry. And what’s your name, madame?”

The bandita’s head whipped to Harry, her green eyes narrowing, “I used an alias.”

“Well, maybe my name isn’t Harry,” Harry said. 

“Whatever,” she said.

“You want a beer?” Harry asked. “Fuck, wait no. You can’t be drinking. Congratulations?”

“Windex?” the bandita asked. Though her face was obscured, her impatience was readily perceived.

“Yeah, got you. I do the windows on Mondays.”

“Get me a paper towel or a clean rag too,” she said. “Dirty glass won’t score properly.”

It was like having a front-row seat to watch Bob Vila go to work. Harry and the bandit looked on as the bandita stood on top of the mini fridge, making careful incisions on the repurposed glass. She wore safety goggles over her ski mask and insisted on leaning the door against the wall. She had used painter’s tape to precisely mark where to cut, something Harry thought he could eyeball.

The bandita didn’t want the radio on and didn’t want any of their help—beyond handing her tools—but said she was starting to get hungry. It was a hint for them to leave her alone. Harry took two tens out of the register, and the feckless men, one at the beginning of adulthood and the other a potential version of disappointment from the future, walked a few blocks to a twenty-four hour Tut’s Tacos. The SoCal fast food chain discouraged walking through the drive-through, but it wasn’t officially against the rules.

As they sat on the curb waiting for their order, Harry took a big swig of his Carta Blanca blanketed in a paper sandwich bag. A gentle breeze blew through the lower half of his robe, below the tied cotton belt. The sun’s orange-red glow was peeking over the strip mall across the intersection.

“You guys are about a quarter mile from the Free Clinic,” Harry said. 

A white Chevy Cavalier containing four longhaired teenage boys pulled up to the order window. The pair on the passenger side looked at Harry and the bandit with a stoner gaze that didn’t require an answer. Harry raised his beer.

“Man, I don’t know what to do,” the bandit said after the car pulled forward. “I think she might want it. Either way, I gotta figure out how to come up with some money.”

The bandit’s predicament seemed pretty funny all of a sudden, this runt having to put on big boy pants. But Harry worked up an earnest expression. He looked into the ski mask’s cavernous eye holes and said, “You gotta understand, things have a way of working out. You know what I mean?”

The bandit took a petite sip of his beer and said, “With all due respect, that’s really terrible advice.”

“I know,” Harry said. “I just felt like I had to say something.”

About the Author

Jason Mazzotta is a writer and filmmaker who lives in Ridgewood, NY. He studied video technology at Southern Connecticut State University and went on to direct the short films Father Willie, Art For All, and Get Me Lionel. He's currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Warren Wilson College. His short stories have appeared in Catamaran Literary Reader and Chicago Quarterly Review.