a tale of revenge
/We had simultaneously read the best revenge story of all time, The Count of Monte Cristo, so I feared Ray would plot his own kind of revenge when he learned I hit his newish car in the driveway. Immediately, I ran to the seafood market and grabbed an Alaskan king crab leg, nearly sixty bucks a pound. Crab legs totally disturb me and make me sad, but not Ray. And since I was about to reveal that while he was out pedaling his two-wheeler in his short bike pants, I hit his fancy four-wheeled Volvo because—well—I forgot to look behind me, I thought I’d better be ready with a coveted offering when I got on my knees and begged for mercy.
The dent was only minor, the scratch superficial, but I knew he’d slap one hand on his forehead, his eyes would bulge, and his breath would get loud and short. Then he’d walk with giant, aching, theatrical strides to the scene of the event.
I shuddered and pondered. Should I grab the smelling salts?
The Count of Monte Cristo is one of a handful of long books that made a pandemic appearance at our house after I announced it was time we tackle some of the great literature we always said we would read. We’re not getting any younger, I moaned. It’s now or never. Yet I’m aware golden oldies like this can have a downside. They can inspire us to plot destruction on others, like me, who plain screw up.
In the classic story, slow, methodical, and sweet revenge is taken on those who sent the Count to prison on false charges. We learned about endless ways a victim can make his culprits desperately miserable if they have years of patience and an amount of cash that would make Jeff Bezos and Bill Gates look poor.
Ray certainly didn’t fall into that category, but I thought the book may have given him ideas I couldn’t predict, like pouring water on my car seat or changing the preset radio stations.
The Count of Monte Cristo wasn’t the only vintage choice during that first long pandemic winter. We also read War and Peace and learned that even at the worst of times, like bashing into your mate’s car, peace can eventually reign again. I could only hope.
And we both finally read Crime and Punishment, again revealing a timeless message that swiftly struck me to the core: somehow, in some way, you will pay.
After asking Ray to close his eyes because I had two surprises, one a treat and one a confession, and after watching him stride slow motion to the car, I had to endure all sorts of head shaking, mainly because the dent was minor. If it wasn’t—like the dent I suddenly recalled he planted on my car several years back—the response would have unleashed far more venom.
And just like that, that earlier event in reverse flashed before my eyes. Maybe this was, after all, my own long-awaited revenge. Aha!
In that past affair, Ray had rushed off to work after crushing my side door, never confessing until I called him to report an unidentified hit-and-run at our house. No offering on bended knees did I receive. No flowers, nothing.
Sweet revenge, I thought, smiling at his scowl. Gotcha! The Count would be proud.
Except, the Count would have been disappointed to learn that after a wash and wax, the Volvo didn’t look half bad, while my own car, the poor Honda that did the dirty work, looked worse.
Got me! Again!
Disasters, certainly, are aplenty, and of course none of this adds up to the calamitous crises in these iconic books. Still, next time we want to cozy up together and read a tale, just in case, I think I’ll suggest something light, humorous, loving, and refreshingly forgiving.
Moby Dick?