Chapter 3: Trash, Tricks, and Allies

He froze for a second, then realized I was insulting him, and raised his hand to hit me.

I grinned and stuck my face forward.

The old man coughed from holding it in.

He pointed at me and snapped: “My morning exercise, how does it bother you?”

I pointed right back: “My morning exercise, how does it bother you?”

“You do your exercise, why follow me?”

“You do your exercise, why block my way?”

His face turned beet red. He turned and kept exercising, picking up the pace.

But he couldn’t shake me. We stayed a step apart, and whatever he shouted, I echoed.

That morning, the complex was especially lively. What used to be his solo became a duet.

Mrs. Peterson said the old man usually did five laps around the community every morning, taking over an hour and waking everyone up before he went to get breakfast.

Today, he only did one lap before storming off to the breakfast cart.

I followed him: “Old man, why only one lap today? Getting old?”

He was sipping his coffee and spat it all over the table.

He pointed at me, speechless with rage.

He tossed his half-eaten bagel and stomped home.

“Just you wait!”

I just grinned and followed him to his building before heading home.

On my way back up, I ran into Mrs. Peterson again. She grabbed my arm, worried: “You clashed with Old Marvin today, didn’t you? I was wondering why it got quiet after just ten minutes this morning. You’d better be careful—his family’s no joke!”

I gave her a reassuring look. “Don’t worry. Bullies fear the wild ones, and the wild ones fear those with nothing to lose!”

She shook her head, muttering something about stubborn kids and the Lord testing her patience. I just shrugged. I’d been up against worse.

The next day, the old man actually came down at 4:30.

Trying to outdo me?

He didn’t know I was at my sharpest at that hour.

When the old man saw me trailing him again, he turned and sneered: “Kid, old folks can’t sleep like you young people.”

His eyes clearly said, You really gonna go toe-to-toe with me?

“No problem, old man. Early bird gets the worm, right?”

He grunted and started his “hey hey ha ha,” and I followed right behind.

“Old man, why does your shouting sound so weak today?”

“Is it the usual? Trouble peeing, urgency, not emptying all the way, up all night?” I teased, maybe pushing it a little.

He stiffened, but kept up his “hey hey ha ha,” even raising his voice on purpose.

I kept at it, needling him: “Old man, that last shout was a little weak. According to WebMD, you might need to see a doctor.”

“Hey, that shout was okay, but it sounds like your lungs are wheezing. Maybe you need to get your tonsils checked?”

“Keep shouting! If you don’t, how can I diagnose you?”

This time, he didn’t even finish a lap before heading to the breakfast stand, but the owner wasn’t there yet, so he waited in the cold.

I stood next to him: “Old man, this stuff isn’t good for you. The barbecue place across the street is still open. Want me to get you some ribs to go?”

He clutched his chest and collapsed. “You! Don’t run, my heart...”

I immediately called 911, then knelt over him to give first aid.

I raised my fist and pounded his chest, shouting as I did: “Old man, you can’t die yet, I’m not done playing!”

He couldn’t take it, coughed from my pounding, and nearly rolled his eyes until the ambulance arrived and saved him.

As soon as he got in the ambulance, he called the police.

In the ER, he told the officers: “This punk made my heart act up—I want him to pay!”

The cops saw it was him and gave a wry smile.

They checked the security footage and saw I was always a step away, never touched him, and even gave him first aid when he collapsed.

When the police said I was acting bravely to help, the old man threw a fit on the hospital bed: “You’re all in cahoots! I’ll go down to the station tomorrow and raise hell!”

An older officer said sternly: “Old man, if you keep this up, you’ll spend a few nights in county lockup. Food’s nothing but white bread.”

Hearing that, the old man stopped making trouble and just glared at me hatefully.

Seeing him so frustrated, I happily went home to catch up on sleep.

Good thing I acted fast, and the old man recovered in less than a day.

Because on the third morning, he was out at four o’clock.

I followed him down, grinning.

He yawned, saw me, and asked with a sour face: “Don’t you sleep?”

I looked surprised: “How’d you know?”

He coughed in anger.

He didn’t do his morning stretches today. Instead, he grabbed a stick and started banging on the outdoor gym equipment in the park.

The noise was ear-splitting, echoing through the whole complex.

“Kid, nobody in this place dares go up against me!”

He was full of energy, nothing wrong with him at all.

I pulled out a metal rod from behind me, five or six feet long. “Old man, be careful—if this thing hits you, I’m not responsible!”

With that, I swung it, making loud cracking sounds.

The rod sliced through the air with a sharp snap, a few times coming close to his face, scaring him into backing away again and again.

“If you hit me, you’ll have to pay!”

Seeing I ignored him and just kept swinging, he tried a few times to rush me, but the whistling rod always scared him off.

He had no choice but to curse and move to another spot to bang. I followed, always a few feet away—just out of reach but still menacing.

After only a few minutes, he gave up, glared at me, and left.

I laughed and went back to bed.

Unexpectedly, the next morning, just as he started exercising downstairs, I opened my door to a wave of stench.

Two bags of garbage had been dumped at my door.

Good, I’d been waiting for this move!

I grabbed the trash, grinning, and went downstairs. The old man sneered at me, as if to say:

You think you can beat me at this game?

I hoisted the garbage and dumped it right on his head.

The foul juice, mixed with rotten apples and chicken bones, dripped down his head.

He froze for a second, then shrieked: “You jerk, are you crazy? I didn’t throw that at your door!”

I grinned: “When did I say it was you who threw it?”

“Then why did you dump it on my head?”

“Then why won’t you let people sleep?”

He was speechless.

“I’m calling the cops! I’ll have you arrested!”

Soon, two officers showed up, trying not to laugh at the old man covered in garbage.

With the officers there, I sincerely apologized: “I’m really sorry, old man. I always thought trash and cranky old men went together like peanut butter and jelly. Didn’t expect you to mind! Then I wish you a long life—make sure to stick around a few more years!”

The police just gave us both a warning and left.

The old man howled in anger for a long time, but no one paid him any mind, so he went home in defeat.

That same day, I got added to a Facebook Messenger group, full of residents who’d suffered at his hands—there were actually hundreds of us.

As soon as I joined, the group went wild.

[Young man, you really helped us all vent our anger!]

[Yeah, do you have a girlfriend? Auntie can introduce you!]

[That old creep harassed my daughter several times. Beating him up didn’t work, but your way is genius!]

[I recorded everything. Every day I edit a video and post it on Instagram so everyone can see a real-life hero!]

A girl with a cute profile pic added me on Facebook: [Handsome, you’re my hero. Are you free? Want to grab coffee?]

Letting an insomniac drink coffee? Isn’t that asking for trouble?

Blocked immediately.

Then someone in the group said: [Careful, young man. That old guy’s got a son who does business out of state—he’s even worse than his dad.]

Seeing all the messages, I felt a surge of something—pride, maybe, or just adrenaline.

[Don’t worry, everyone. I have no girlfriend, no job, no house. I’m not afraid of anyone!]

Since the old man had already come to my door, I decided to take the initiative too.

I stood at my window, looking out over the quiet, battered playground, and felt a little thrill run through me. Maybe I couldn’t sleep, but I sure as hell could make some noise.