“Mr. Right”

Mr. Right hated the Smith’s gaudy British flag. 

Ever since they had moved into the apartments across from him, and put up that damn flag, he couldn’t get a moment of rest. Every morning when he woke up, and each evening when he came home from work, there it was. Directly across from his balcony window. He tried shutting the curtains, but even with them closed, he could sense the bright, fluttering flag. Didn’t these people realize it was wrong to fly a flag here? No one else hung anything from their balconies. The only thing to see in their apartment block was red brick and black, iron fences–this stupid flag stood out like a sore thumb. 

Mr. Right had already filed a complaint with the landlord, but received nothing more than a shrug and “it’s not illegal” as a response. This was an outrage! He filed another complaint, this time with the landlord herself, telling her what awful service he’d received–anonymously. 

All of these people needed to be helped. To be shown how to act and live right. And Mr. Right was the only person who could do so! He had already shown the young woman a few doors down how her opinions on gay marriage were wrong; he had also discussed the benefits of having no pets with the man who used to own yapping little demon of a yorkshire. Both of those people had come around to the right side, though his texts about other minor wrongdoings had gone unanswered thus far. But no matter–he’d visit them eventually and make sure they knew what they were doing wrong. 

But this flag! At the very start, he’d tried to send a cordial but stern letter to the new residents, explaining why the flag should be taken down. They had only replied with a plain greeting and snottily told him no! In the same letter, they also invited him to dinner. Well, Mr. Right wasn’t going to pass that chance up. If all else failed, he could go out on the balcony, pretend to smoke, and light the damn thing on fire, “on accident.” Being an older man, he felt confident in his ability to create empathy, especially after a minor stroke several years before–he had recovered in almost perfect health, but every now and then he found the skill of acting weak and disoriented incredibly effective. 

So, on the night he had been invited to dinner, Mr. Right arrived twenty minutes early. The Smith’s had the audacity to make him wait several minutes before opening the door, but open it they did! A young, blonde woman in her mid-twenties opened it with a look first of surprise, then of feigned delight. Mr. Right noticed her smile, while vaguely attractive, showed just a little too much teeth. He was about to comment, when she extended a hand. 

“Hello! I take it you’re Mr. Right, from 115b?” 

Mr. Right sniffed, and shook her hand. Her marriage ring looked on the lower end of middle-class. “Yes. I am Mr. Right. I take it I’m not too early, especially since in fine society gentlemen always arrive at least fifteen minutes before the requested time?”

Mrs. Smith laughed. Mr. Right bristled inwardly, thinking she better not be laughing at him. “Of course, it’s not too early–and I’m certainly not going to make you stand outside until 6 pm.” She laughed again. God, this woman had no respect! “The food is a little behind, but I can entertain you until Charles is through cooking.” 

She stepped inward, allowing Mr. Right entrance. He glanced around at the polished hardwood floors, the concave lights on the ceiling, pastel blue and white walls, and various memorabilia of a past life, before meeting Mrs. Smith’s eyes again. “Your husband does the cooking?” 

Sounds of pots and pans being moved around and utensils scraping metal greeted his ears. What a noisy cook. If this man were the main cook, he would never get a job as a private chef. 

Mrs. Smith led him through the foyer to the dining room, talking all the way about her husband’s accomplishments as a cook, then she took a seat at one end of the table, before motioning for him to sit down across from her. Mr. Right pretended not to noticed her gesture, and went to sit on the other end of the table, the spot where elder men are supposed to sit, when: 

“Oh, Mr. Right, if you don’t mind, that’s where my husband sits, and he’s such a creature of habit. Could you please sit on one of these sides?” 

He paused. Had she actually said what he thought she just said. Mr. Right clarified, “You refuse to let me sit in the elder seat, as guest in your home?” 

He saw her smile falter and she furrowed her unplucked eyebrows. “No, no, Mr. Right. I didn’t mean that as an insult. That’s just where Charles prefers to sit–and, you know, better to have a happy husband. I’m sure you’ve been married before, and would understand.” 

Mr. Right grudgingly moved to another seat, examining the padded, white fabric and polished cherry before grimacing and sitting down. “Actually, I have never been married. I could never find a woman who lived up to my standards.” 

Mrs. Smith made a little noise of embarrassment. They lapsed into a brief silence, then she stood and went into the kitchen, under the pretenses of “checking the food.” While he waited, Mr. Right analyzed the table and decor for anything that was out of place or incorrect. There was some other British memorabilia and tacky family photos on stands and over the fireplace mantle, which weren’t too egregious considering they were inside and therefore out of sight, but he made a mental note to work on all these things eventually. He looked down at his wristwatch after about thirty seconds of alone time, and mumbled to himself, “How rude and inconsiderate.” He continued his analysis, noting gray cat hairs on the seat next to him. He nearly gagged. This visit must be short.

When Mrs. Smith came back, she held in her arms a plate of hot dinner rolls, with a room temperature stick of butter. As she set it down with a tinkle, Mr. Right found it necessary to address the elephant in the room. 

“Mrs. Smith, if I may, I recall sending you a letter several weeks ago, regarding the flag hanging from your balcony?” 

She glanced up from buttering a roll, as if in surprise. But they both knew why Mr. Right was here, and it wasn’t for rolls and room temperature butter. “Oh, yes, I remember  your letter. Charles and I got quite the laugh out of it–you’re a very funny man, Mr. Right.” 

“I should not think this is a laughing matter,” he said, tone stern. 

Before Mrs. Smith could answer, Charles, a short man with a little more belly than was fitting for someone of his age, entered. He held in front of him a platter with all sorts of vegetables, with the main centerpiece being a roasted chicken. As he sat the platter down, he, too, shook Mr. Right’s hand, as polite society dictated–if only the rotund fellow could have done that sooner, and not left Mr. Right with the chattering female. 

“Mr. Smith,” Mr. Right began, inhaling deeply, in the manner of getting down to business, “I am sure you’re aware of my feelings towards the flag, which hangs off the balcony over there?”

Charles’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, then raised in surprise. He struggled to find words for a moment, likely because he was ashamed of being called out in front of his wife. “Why, Mr. Right, it’s hardly polite of you to come into our home and make demands like taking down our country’s flag. We didn’t think your letter was serious.” 

So they were resisting. Well, that called for drastic action. 

Mr. Right stood up, with all the saintliness of a man of his age. He pursed his lips, and said, “I was incredibly serious.” 

Then, before the Smith’s could react, he made a beeline towards the balcony, moving at a pace of someone half his age. He wrenched open the glass, sliding door to the balcony ignoring their cries of complaint. 

“Mr. Right, wait! The railing is unst–”

In his vivacity, Mr. Right hit the railing with force, reaching for the clips that held the cursed flag to it. As he did, he felt the metal bars wiggle. An inkling of fear struck through him, which then turned to rage–ah! What a lawsuit this would be indeed! They’d tried to kill him with this rusty rail. As his mind began formulating the fight, he fumbled more with the flag, leaning over more and more until the rail gave a death screech and Mr. Right went tumbling over, flag and all. Before he hit the pavement, all Mr. Right saw were bright red and white colors.