When You Wish Upon a Star
This week’s new flash fiction is theme park noir.
When You Wish Upon a Star
Ned was summing up his life and the answer screamed off the page to him in red ink. He was below water, in many aspects, including financial. He didn’t mind it so much for himself. But it chapped him he’d never provided better for his boy. Lowell was a good kid and never would get the boost so many of his age needed to prosper. Even to stay afloat.
It was late. Ned sat in his cramped breakfast nook berating himself. Soon his body joined in the attack.
Cold sweats. Shooting arm pain. Elephant sitting on his chest. He was no doctor. But he watched The Pitt. He knew the signs. He was smack dab in the middle of a no doubt, honest to God, good old fashioned, All American myocardial infarction. A heart attack. A doozy by all indications. All he could think was he’d be leaving Lowell with nothing. And as he drifted away, he vowed to do something about that. If he survived.
Ned awoke, breathless and alone in the kitchen chair where he’d been stricken. He was dazed but alive.
Turns out Ned had what the fight pros would call a good chin. He could take a punch. He had taken a barrage. A licking. He’d lost the decision. But it wasn’t a knockout.
He would tell nobody. No ER. No follow-up cardio care. Couldn’t afford it. And why worry the boy?
Lowell came downstairs well after sunup. Didn’t notice anything amiss with his old man snoozing at the table. To be fair, Ned’s baseline was pretty subpar to begin with. Once Ned stirred, they sat without conversation watching Good Day Orlando. The perky bottle blonde was good at her job, projected well, so her breathless story was perfectly audible over the otherwise deafening crunch of the men’s synchronized demolition of their morning cereal.
“Happiest Place on Earth? Not today! Terms of a settlement have been announced. $3 million to the family of a 70-year-old St. Cloud woman who passed away recently on the Guardians of the Galaxy ride at Epcot. For attorney Jonny Jones it is just another in a series of recent big judgments. Jim.”
“Thanks, Lenore.”
Father and son finished their breakfasts in silence. Ned was weak. Still a bit dizzy. But he’d hatched a plan.
It would cost $149. Money he really couldn’t spare, but he saw it as an investment.
First, he went online for a quick search. Printed out the name and contact info for the business, once he found it. Left it on the printer for Lowell. He grabbed the car keys and headed out.
Hours later the attendants at Space Mountain scrambled to the side of a lonely, single rider. Still snugly strapped in his mini starship after all other passengers disembarked.
It was Ned, of course. Dead as disco. A little bruised from the jostling as his limp body whipsawed around the capsule after his ticker gave out mid-ride.
Plastered across his face was what could only be called a million-dollar smile.
Lowell never saw the number left on the printer. But it didn’t matter. They found him on their own and called him before the sun went down.
Interesting plan. The autopsy would have shown his preexisting condition, and the heart attack he couldn't have ignored, combined with the coincidental announcement of the settlement, raising the specter of fraud, the search of his home would have discovered the note on the printer, and it all would have been for nothing.
Still, since he was soon to die, it was worth a try. Disney might have paid out just to keep the story from going viral.
The walk from the parking lot would have been the real killer!