Scope

A reluctant seller lists his old tripod online, stumbling into a deal with a dangerous stranger.

I originally intended to give it away. Too lazy to list it and go through the effort. Far better to drop it off at a community bin.

“We could get something for it!” Elle complained.

We had just moved and we were in the process of decluttering. In recent days she had sold a lampshade, an old coffee table, a bedstand and a mug. Ten bucks each… even the mug! It was inspiring, but still the effort was off-putting.

“You list it on Facebook Marketplace, say you want fifty bucks for it and wait for the magic to happen!” she pleaded.

“Fifty bucks! I paid two twenty for it!” I whined.

“That was ten years ago!” she reminded.

It was a Manfrotto PLTX550 professional tripod used for heavy camera equipment. Back in the day I was a budding videographer. I tried my hardest but the industry outpaced me. Anyway that is a story for another day. I woke up the next day to a smirk on her face as she faced me at the breakfast bar.

“I sold it last night, while you were asleep,” she said.

“How much?!”

“Fifty,”

“I paid two twenty!”

“Look, I originally listed it for three hundred but after thirty minutes and no bites, I knew I had to drop the price. Eventually someone snapped it up for fifty so I went with it.”

I poured my coffee in silence. After a drink I broke it.

“Okay so when are they coming?” I asked.

“I dunno, check your phone. It’s your listing.”

I walked over to where I stored my phone overnight, near the microwave and next to the kettle and looked at the unread messages. Someone named Cameron was grateful at the purchase and, much to my annoyance, the ‘decent’ price.

“I can be there at midday,” he said in his reply to the successful listing.

“Great,” I said to Elle. “He wants to pick it up today and I’ll be at work, so will you. No one will be home. Brilliant.” I complained.

“Just tell him you will leave it on the balcony and he can leave the money when he gets it,” she said nonchalantly. She always had a comeback.

I did what I was told, punched my thumbs on the screen and closed the phone off to get ready for work. The shower was cold, thanks to the hot water being drained. I guess it woke me up, but it added to my annoyance.

“See you tonight!” she yelled out while the water poured down my neck as I grimaced.

“Love you!” I yelled back to the slamming of the front door.

After I dressed I grabbed the tripod from my old utility drawer and walked it outside to the barbecue on our front balcony. I took a photo with my phone and sent it over to him with a message.

“Here it is, next to the BBQ at the front. Leave money when you grab it,”

I placed the phone back in my pocket just as the chime rang out. I retrieved and read what he had to say.

“Great mate, is it good for a scope?”

I frowned.

A scope?

I brought up Google and typed in ‘scope’.

The definition pointed me to the obvious: the measurement of a circumstance or scenario. No, what would a scope mean in the context of what he’s talking about.

I brought up the messages.

“Scope?” I asked.

The three dots foretold their masters’ wishes to communicate. I waited patiently. The chime arrived.

“Yeah, scope, you know for hunting,” he explained as if it were obvious.

“You want to put a scope on the sticks for hunting?” I asked.

“Yeah”

I brought up Google once more. I searched for hunting scopes and was met with a cavalcade of examples of where animals, (or humans) could be tracked down within an inch of their surroundings from a menace kilometres away and shot to death from the relative safety of another world.

“You want to hunt with this thing?” I asked on the messenger, as if I needed to, just to be absolutely sure.

“Yeah,” he replied.

I scanned his profile.

His ink, travelling up his neckline. His broken smile. The toothless cavities where enamel should be present but wasn’t.

This was my profession, used to tell stories. Now it was an aid in murder.

The chime rang out.

“I’ll be there in about thirty minutes,” he said.

I stood on my porch, holding the tripod and wondering what excuse I could give my work to not have this psycho be alone on my property without my supervision.

“You can’t have it,” I messaged.

The three dots thought about my words. They jumped up and down. Then his words arrived.

“Why not?”

“I’ve changed my mind,”

“You can’t do that,”

“I just did.”

“But I have the money,”

“I don’t want the money,”

“I’ll pay twenty bucks extra,”

“It’s not about the money, I just don’t want to sell it anymore.”

The three dots went silent.

I went back inside. I was worried. Worried he had committed to making the journey. A known hunter and now I had enraged him with inconvenience and rejection.

I faked a stomach cramp to justify the performance I gave my immediate manager to call in sick and I sat on the couch, waiting. I wanted the thirty-minute mark to come and go. Then I would know I was free of him.

The time came and passed.

I stood from the couch and made myself another cup of coffee. I turned on the radio and faced the front porch as I sipped from the mug. Every car that passed unnerved my senses. I was tense. My neck was in a locked position. I could barely tilt my head to sip my drink.

When the coffee was finished, I felt my underarms wet and wanted to shower them off. I walked upstairs and passed the open window that looked out on to the street below.

A ute I did not recognise was parked across the road.

I recognised all the cars in our street. This was because no one ever moved them. We all relished the long-term parks and knew our spots would be taken by outsiders, eager to use our facilities as a quick fix due to our proximity to the metro station.

No, this was an outsider.

I slowly backed away from the window.

I closed the bathroom door and showered once more. This time, I welcomed the cold water. I let it pour over me and calm my nerves that I knew, deep down, were unjustified.

Wearing only a towel, I stepped out of the upstairs bathroom and saw a ten cent piece sized hole appear in a flux on the street-facing window. A pop and it was over.

It didn’t register at first. I thought a bird had flown through. An invisible bird, perhaps. Certainly not a bullet.

But it was a bullet.

I didn’t notice the impact zone near the spare bedroom until I walked in and saw the smoke still wafting from the hole it had caused.

Tyres screeched outside and the van that had been there skidded away, leaving a trail of marks in its wake.

My sweat returned.

I lowered my whole body to hide it from the window, inadvertently placing myself in the fetal position. There I stayed for hours, unable to move. Waiting for Elle to return. Every car that passed prickled up my ears, causing my nerves to jolt.

My phone chimed.

An hour passed and my courage returned.

I walked over to the phone to see who had messaged.

It was him.

“Should have just let me have it.”