It would take all of three seconds to destroy this world. Just a simple push of a button and whoosh… the entire planet reduced to so much space dust. I usually lightly kiss the tips of my fingers right before I do it as if saying good riddance to the unfortunate souls on the unfortunate world.  Or perhaps it’s to demonstrate the precarious nature of it all one minute the Earth is there and the next it’s gone like a splash of water in the desert.

People mill about me in this pathetic excuse for a park, White Deer Park in Walkinville, a nondescript town in a nondescript part of Earth. A park named after a deer killed by an errant truck and found on the side of the road. Normally, such a creature would be disposed of like the rest of the roadkill found every day, but this particular deer was albino, making it unusual. So the good citizens of Walkinville decided to stuff it, mount it on a hillside, and create a small, useless, park around it. The park is just a grassy hill with a haphazardly placed sidewalk scratched into the side and a few benches scattered around seemingly at random. Hardly any trees can be seen anywhere and the only consolation for this municipal nightmare is what can only be described as the murkiest bog of a lake ever discovered by man at the far end, still and stagnant and the color of phlegm coughed up in the midst of a bad cold. These people had killed what little nature existed here and stuffed and mounted it like that poor deer. It didn’t help that the place was also situated near the largest sewer line in the town and so the whole area smelled like a bad fart.

I guess I should have picked a better place to evaluate whether or not the Earth should be spared its fate. But really, who am I kidding?  One place is as good as the next. The Earth isn’t set for destruction for its beautiful vistas or elaborate cities. It’s the people’s fault, and the best place to evaluate people, I’ve found, is in small communities like this.

I look around and see a fat couple walking their dog and glistening with sweat. It’s an unusually hot day, and they are pretty fat, even by small town standards. Their dog is an unfortunate combination of poodle and pug and seems to be enjoying the heat of the afternoon even less than me. The woman is wearing  a pair of pajama shorts at least two sizes too small and her significant other can’t seem to breath through his nose. Even just watching him walk makes me weary with the effort.

Of course, they aren’t the only ones with pets. To the left I see an overly athletic, overly tanned, overly blonde middle-aged lady jogging next to her faithful great dane whose black coat would be slick with sweat if he had sweat glands. The poor thing keeps pace with her despite the fact that he’s obviously about to collapse from heat stroke and, in all likelihood, die right there on the sidewalk. Another person looks painfully bored as he throws a ball to his dog who dutifully brings it back looking like this is the best thing that has ever happened to it. The bored owner then decides to pretend to throw the ball and just sits down, ball in hand, as he watches his dog go scrambling to look for it. Another lady, inexplicably dressed in a sweater and sweat pants, walks her cat on a leash. And a couple of kids are gathered around one of the few trees attempting to coax down a squirrel with some chewing gum on a stick. One of them holds a pocket knife behind his back.

I sigh. Nothing about this park gives me any hope for humanity or the world it lives on. Maybe the town proper can give me a better perspective. So, getting up, I decide to walk to the downtown area of town or, as the locals call it “Old Towne,” complete with an extra “e.” On the way, the sky is clear and blue and the sun blazes from up high making the heat palpable, almost visible down below. My gathering depression, however, numbs my senses to the summer weather despite being dressed in a grey suit, the inner shirt plastered to me by the sweat running freely down my back, neck, and arm pits and my hair drenched as if I had just taken a shower. I walk down a sunny sidewalk lined with old homes, their sputtering a/c units sheltering most of the people from the intense heat outside.

“Hey Preacher Man!”  I hear from my right. An old lady sits on her porch fanning herself with an old magazine. She’s smiling and waving at me while gently swaying back and forth on a creaky rocking chair. She’s small and wire thin and her hair is a crispy gray. Her skin is the color of coffee and cracked and wrinkled like a well-used leather chair.

I smile at her. I’m not a preacher, but considering my attire I imagine it’s an easy mistake to make. She waves me over and smiles back at me. Despite her age, she has the most perfect set of teeth I have ever seen, ivory jewels, made more stark by her coffee complexion. He smile is so bright as to be contagious and I find myself grinning even wider without even thinking about it as I step up to her porch.

As soon I as I get there she hands me a small, cool rag which I gratefully use to wipe down my head and neck.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” I say.

“No problem, Preacher,” She replies. She looks out onto the sunny street.” Sure is a hot one today.”

“That it is,” I say. “That it is.”

“Would you like some tea?” she asks, waving her hand towards a small table by her chair. On it sits a pitcher glistening with condensation and filled almost to the brim with golden liquid, slices of lemon, and, most heavenly of all, crackling pieces of ice. Simply put, it’s one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

I look at the lady intently, and she’s still smiling with her perfect teeth, then I nod and say, “Yes ma’am. I would. Thank you. Thank you very much. “

“It’s the least I can do, mister, on a hot day like this.” She says and reaches down and grabs a brown glass from underneath her table. I notice she has more than a handful down there as if she’s ready to hand out tea to everybody who happens to walk by that day. She picks up the pitcher with shaky hands, and I make as if to help her, but she shakes her head and I stop. She carefully pours tea, lemons, and ice into the glass without spilling a drop and then sets down the pitcher just as deliberately.

“Here you go,” she says, handing me the glass and then picks up her own, half full, from behind where she set the pitcher. She takes a sip and then settles down in her chair with a contented sigh.

I raise my own glass and take a smooth draught. The tea is crisp, sweet, and blessedly cold. I close my eyes and breath in deeply. I have lived for many long years and I’ve experienced in my lifetime highs and lows that are higher and lower than most beings from most planets can even imagine. And I can honestly say that that swallow of tea will forever be with me among the best of my memories.

I finish my tea with my own sigh of contentment and open my eyes to the realization that I had kept them closed for the entire time I was drinking. I look down at the old woman who immediately barks out a cackling laugh at the look on my face. Setting down the glass on her table I smile and nod at her.

“Thank you again, Ma’am.” She just nods back at me, closes her eyes again, and continues to fan herself with her old magazine.

I walk back out to the sidewalk only pausing once to look back at the old lady on the porch whose iced tea had just saved her planet from annihilation.

Augie Williams sat in a rumbling van with a blindfold over his eyes thinking of how he’d always aspired to be an astronaut. It’s a stupid ambition that every kid seems to go through, but, for Augie, he never really grew out of it. Sure he didn’t become an astronaut, far from it, but the dream had never actually died. Even now, in his small and run-down apartment in the middle of the city, sat dozens of models of space shuttles and Apollo rockets. He even had a waist-high, completely accurate, insanely expensive, scale model of the Apollo 13 LEM sitting in what was supposed to be a very lovely sun drenched breakfast nook but instead was actually a small recreation of the moon (complete with actual moon dust). He loved the irony that the Apollo 13 LEM had never actually landed on the moon, and anybody who made a mention of that fact became an instant best-friend for life.

But alas, Augie was far from ever becoming an astronaut. In his mind, he was the complete opposite, although it’s hard to see how private investigator is the opposite of astronaut. Augie’d tried to get into the Air Force, but his eye sight was too bad to be a pilot. Instead, he settled for the police academy. Sadly, though, despite having a knack for investigation, he didn’t have the heart for actual police work. This was later confirmed when he missed an opportunity to gun down a drug dealer and got a bullet in the arm and a frivolous lawsuit for it. So he retired early and partnered with an old friend to form a private investigation firm. Eventually the partner quit for bigger and better things and Augie stayed where he was. To Augie, he became the poster boy for the term “settling for second best.” To the rest of the world, Augie was a pretty good PI.

All this to say that when an actual space shuttle pilot walked into his office one dreary Thursday, Augie could hardly contain his excitement. He knew the guy was an actual space shuttle pilot for two reasons. One: he had the very distinct military look about him, especially the haircut. And two: he had a special pin on his jacket awarded specifically to pilots who had been in space (Augie himself had two replications of the very same pin in the second drawer of his nightstand).

The pilot had sat down in front of his rather shabby desk and looked him in the eye, “My lesbo-sister has gone missing.”

“Okay, sir…” Augie said, trying to hide the excited squeak in his voice as he reached for his notebook. “Have you contacted the police? Filed a missing persons?”

The pilot snorted. “I tried. They gave me some bullshit about having to wait a week or something. I know when my sister is missing and she’s missing. She hasn’t called me and she’s not answering her phone. The girl has no life. She always answers her phone.”

“Okay… So you want me to find her.”

“Damn right. And don’t call me sir. I was just a pilot; I call people sir, not the other way around.”

“Absolutely…. Captain… mister…?” The pilot gave Augie an impatient look. He cleared his throat and barreled on. “So what’s the story with your sister? You say she’s a lesbian?”

“Yes indeedy. Well, not really. I actually have no idea if she’s really lesbo or not. But she hasn’t had a date. Ever. And she’s thirty. And the way I take that is that she’s either ugly or lesbo. And she ain’t ugly.”

“Perhaps she’s just shy…”

“Shy? If you’re a woman and you’re in your late twenties and you haven’t had a date then it doesn’t matter how shy you are. You get a date. That’s the way it is. Unless, of course, you’re dating other women. Those don’t count. It doesn’t matter. Look, detective, what does matter is that she’s missing and I want to find her. And I’m willing to pay.”

“Okay, well… I’ll need some pictures and all the info you have on her. Specifically her last known whereabouts.”

“Well, that’d be Walkinville.”

“Walkinville?”

“Yes. Walkinville. Why? Is there a problem?”

“Damn.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, I’ve heard about Walkinville before. It’s supposed to be a pretty strange town with some pretty strange occurances.”

“Strange how?”

“Let’s just say that it makes David Lynch seem normal.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. My fee is three hundred up front, a hundred per day, plus expenses.”

“So can you find her?”

“I don’t make promises.”

“Good. I don’t pay for promises. I pay for results.”

And with that he started discussing all the details he knew of her and her disappearance. She was an out of luck english major who jumped from job to job. She’d do some temp work here and some retail work there and then she’d move on. Her brother helped her out occasionally with the bills and health insurance and such, but she was a pretty typical loner type. She moved from town to town with each new job and she had just recently moved to Walkinville with a new one, but that’s all he knew about the move. She had no friends, no acquaintances, and, really, nobody else who would ever be interested in her whereabouts. After a while of this and acquiring a picture and his up front costs, the man who represented all of Augie’s dreams shook his hand and said, “Just find her,” before walking out the door. And by the end of the day he headed to Walkinville looking for the girl with essentially only her picture and her name, Charlotte.

Walkinville may be a smaller town, but it’s still big enough to get lost in. And, unfortunately, Augie didn’t have any contacts in Walkinville since he usually made sure to steer away from it. So Augie had to do some old fashioned police work, which meant that, armed with a photograph, he was in for some serious pavement pounding and door banging going to any public place a girl like Charlotte could be seen. Libraries, grocery stores, diners, and even bars. And, of course, he got the usual answers:

“You seen this girl?”

“Nope.”

“Nu-uh.”

“Maybe, but I’m not sure. It coulda been someone else.”

And, it being Walkinville, he got more than a fair share the unusual ones too:

“Yes, of course, in a past life.”

“Why yes, that’s my estranged daughter Mary.”

“Nope, but I know she’s dead… my psychic told me all about it.”

“Yup. Right there in that picture.”

“You know what? I think I’m her.” This last one would’ve been great if the speaker had actually been female.

All in all, the biggest conclusion Augie’d come up with was that Walkinville’s a tough town to do actual police work in. He wondered how the cops handled it. Or if there were even any cops at all. He hadn’t seen any so far. Well, he’d have to find out sooner or later. Consulting the local police is SOP for every Private Investigator, but he was avoiding it for as long as possible. He’d been in the force long enough to not like cops very much. Luckily though (or unluckily, depending on how you looked at it), he got his break before then.

He’d been in Walkinville two days and visited about fifty different businesses when he got half a lead that Charlotte had been living in a typical suburban neighborhood called “Leafy Pines.” So he drove there and decided he’d go house to house to find out where she might’ve lived in the neighborhood. The first one he came to was assuredly the biggest house in the whole Pines. It was a monster Tudor with a sign out front reading, “Home Owners Association and Druids of the Order of The Magic Fridge.” Typical Walkinville flair. He knocked on the door and there was a long pause before he heard a shuffle behind it. It opened revealing a short, bespectacled fellow who had hurriedly put on a purple, hooded robe.

“How may the Order of The Magic Fridge help you, sir?”

“Firstly, don’t call me sir. I’m just a PI; I call people sir, not the other way around. And secondly, I was wondering if you had seen this girl.” Augie held up his picture of the thirty-year-old. “She goes by the name Charlotte and might be living in the area.”

The bespectacled man snatched the photo and studied it for a bit. “Hmm… yes, yes. I do believe that this woman was living here in this very house as a tenant.”

“Really? Is she here?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“Do you know where she went?”

The robed, little man gave Augie a look that made him feel uneasy. His old cop senses were going off like fire alarms. “Unfortunately no.”

“Well, thank you very much, sir, for your time.” Augie said and he was prepared to go but the little man still held his photograph. “I’m going to be needing that back,” he said. holding out his hand.

“I can show you her old room if you’d like?” Said the little man. Augie paused. His instincts were telling him to get away from that place, but his instincts had been wrong before and his shoulder reminded him every time it rained. This was his first real lead in two days and he really wanted to finish this case up quickly to impress his astronaut client.

“Okay.” He said, making up his mind. “Show me where to go.” And he followed the man further into the house.

And just then a blindfold went around his eyes and a blackjack went to his head. Which, for Augie, meant space women were now serving him drinks on the moon. He liked the moon.

###

Augie awoke to the sound of a rumbling van. He still had the blindfold on and he was apparently tied up because he was having a hard time moving his arms or legs. So he just sat there and thought of how he always wanted to be an astronaut.

After a while, he heard the sound of the van door sliding open and then hands roughly untied him. Then they pulled him out to an open spot, and the blindfold was jerked off revealing brightness which slowly faded to an open, sunny field in the middle of nowhere with a rusty walk-in fridge propped up in the middle of it. The whole field was surrounded by middle aged people in purple robes. All of them humming a single note, filling the air with a kind of hypnotic buzz.

Four druids were holding him, while another stepping toward him. This one dressed in purple and gold as well as a bow tie. “Greetings fellow members of the Leafy Pines Home Owners Association and Order of the Magic Fridge. I have gathered us here to announce that this great man…”

“Me? A great man? Shucks you guys…” Augie’s usual defense mechanism is sarcasm laced with panic.

The druid with a bow tie frowned at him. “This great man… has come to us wishing, like the great woman before him, to traverse through the portal within the magic fridge to the world beyond! This is as payment to the Magic Fridge as dues in advance for next year in accordance to the Accords of our Order and the HOA agreement we’ve all signed.”

Augie looked doubtfully at the dilapidated fridge standing slightly askew in the middle of the grassy field. The grass was growing high around it and flies buzzed around it. It looked like discarded junk. A remnant of the sixties that probably smelled. “Portal?”

The bow-tied druid ignored him and turned towards his fellow HOA members. “This magic fridge, which can only be opened and entered from this world, is one which we all are familiar with, having lost so many brothers to it before. It is with great humility that we accept this great man’s offer to willingly sacrifice himself for our very survival and the continuance of the services which are required to maintain the community of Leafy Pines.”

“Wait a sec!” Augie shouted. “I said no such thing!”

“There was no need. Your heart said all your mind and mouth couldn’t. And now you shall enter the fridge. And we shall consume the holy lemonade and cookies so graciously provided by Ms. Hammond of 208 Shady Lane!”

And with that the humming increased and the buzz in the air got louder. Augie shrugged. You couldn’t really argue with a man in a purple and gold bathrobe. He figured he would just open the fridge and walk away after they drove off. And at least he found out why Charlotte left Leafy Pines. Then the four druids holding Augie tightened their grip and started chanting what sounded like “All cars shall be parked in driveways and not on the road. All members must seek prior approval from the order before erecting any accessory buildings. All garbage bins must not be visible from the road…” as they started to manhandle him towards the fridge. Augie struggled a little bit, but gave up as they shoved him in and closed the door.

It was dark, of course, and it, as predicted, reeked. Augie breathed a sigh and felt around for a handle or something, a lot of these old fridges had handles on the inside to prevent people from being locked in. But he couldn’t feel anything, and even stranger was that the walls felt oddly wooden. Augie was sure he hadn’t seen any wood when he saw the fridge on the field. So, not finding a handle, he started pushing on the walls around him to see if any would open. He felt one budge a little, but it felt slightly stuck. So he gathered his strength, took a deep breath, and slammed into it with all his weight. And, WHOOMPF, he fell out.

Augie blinked and found himself not in the field, but in an old cellar dimly lit by sunlight peaking in from a door in the back. Augie looked around trying to logically explain away in his mind the incomprehensible fact that he had just transported from an open field into a rather dank and dark little room with what seemed to be a wooden replica of the very fridge he was just thrown into, as well as some wine and what looked like barrels of apples.

A scuffle at the cellar door shook Augie out of his little stupor. But he descended right back into another one when he saw what came through the door.

He would later think on how amazing it was how quickly all the mysteries he’d just experienced in Walkinville melted away the minute he laid eyes on the woman who calmly stepped into the cellar he was lying in. She was wearing an old fashioned dress, carrying a basket of apples, and she had her dark brown hair tied up in such a way as to perfectly frame her captivating face. She stepped down into the cellar, saw Augie, and immediately dropped her basket, apples spilling everywhere. She looked down at Augie, then over to the fridge, then back at Augie, then over to the fridge, and then back at Augie again.”

“My…” she said, “You startled me.”

“Sorry about that.” It was all Augie could think to say as he stood up and brushed himself off.

“You must be from Walkinville.”

“What?” Now it was Augie who was stunned. “What makes you say that?”

“You had to have come through that stupid fridge those morons like to push people through. Because I haven’t seen you before and the way you’re dressed doesn’t exactly fit in around here.”

Augie nodded, then shrugged, then looked around. “And… where is here exactly?”

“Well… you’re far away from Walkinville, that’s for sure.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Augie looked back at the fridge with a growing knot in his stomach.

“There’s no other way to say this. So I’m just going to say it. You’re in the magical land of Reeseroper.”

“The what?” Augie asked in a dead voice.

“The magical land of Reeseroper. It’s a land, and it’s magical. Meaning it’s got magic. Pretty far-fetched I know, but you’ll just have to get used to it. Why do you think I store apples in a cellar?”

“For cidar?”

“Hardly. They’re-“

“Magic?”

She nodded.

“You’ll have to excuse me. It’s going to take me a while to absorb all this.”

“You have all the time in the world. That fridge was a one way trip.”

Augie sighed and rubbed his eyes. “And I’ve got a client waiting for me. A client with money. An astronaut client with money.”

“Well, it’s not so bad here. I’ve been here for a year ever since that stupid HOA threw me in that fridge.”

“Wait…” He suddenly recognized her. She looked different from her picture, which, frankly, didn’t do her justice.

But he was sure it was her. “You’re Charlotte, aren’t you?”

“Yes! How did you know?”

“Well, my name is Augie Williams. I’m a PI, and your brother hired me to find you.”

“Really? How sweet of him. He’s a pilot you know?”

“I know. He flies the space shuttle.”

“Space shuttle? No, he’s just an airline pilot. No military training whatsoever.”

“What?” Augie furrowed his brow. “What about the astronaut pin he wears?”

“Oh that’s just some silly replica I gave him years ago. He used to be really into that NASA stuff.”

Augie slumped down onto a nearby barrel, his heart filling with despair and failure. “Some investigator I am.”

“Don’t be silly. You aren’t the first to think it.”

“I’m sure I’m the first one to get thrown into the magical land of Reeseroper.”

She put down her basket and put her hand on his shoulder. He closed his eyes and turned his head but she gently pushed it back with her other hand on her cheek. He opened his eyes to see hers looking into them.
“I told you. It’s not that bad.”

The little bit of sunlight framed her face. And Augie couldn’t help but notice that her eyes were the most captivating shade of blue he’d ever seen. And he smiled.

“I guess it isn’t.” Augie said with a smile. And then a thought occurred to him. “Uh…You aren’t a lesbian are you?”
# # #

Larry the Baghead thought about Mary the Doglady every day. Lately she’d filled his head as much as his head filled the burlap sack resting on his shoulders. And as he stood beside his grill sizzling the hell out of some cheeseburgers for a couple of teenagers skipping school, he quietly wished to hear her girlish laugh ring throughout his restaurant. She usually came in on Tuesdays chatting incessantly with some friends or co-workers. He knew everything about her by just listening to her stories from the comfort of his grill as the burgers crackled and popped before him. He would close his eyes behind the burlap and slow down his breathing and simply concentrate on her musical voice as it recounted story after story of her previous life.

Larry had always been the quiet type. He’d existed in his own little world ever since he was ten-years-old. For Larry, everything before that was a just hazy blur. He remembered looking up at his mom laid out in a hospital bed, cancer eating away at her brain having freshly arrived there from the lungs. The only way she could talk to him was by burping words at him through a hole in her throat. And he remembered her last words she ever said to him, “Larry, I always thought you were an ugly baby.”

He never really liked his mom too much.

His dad, on the other hand, was a much better person. His dad owned the best burger shop in two counties. Melvin’s Burgers made one type of food, and only one, but it excelled at it. During the lunch hour the line was known to go out onto the street and around the corner. Larry was fascinated by his father’s business. While it was busy he watched his father work from a distance feverishly piling burger after burger on the grill and making every order fresh and customized. During the off hours he would follow his dad around learning everything he could straight from the source. His father called Larry his own little sizzle monkey. And soon enough, the sizzle monkey was as good at making burgers as his predecessor.

Larry’s last memory of his father was seeing him lying on the couch with a beer in one hand and a half eaten burger in the other. The doctors said he had a genetic predisposition to heart disease, and that would go a long way to explain it, that and the diet consisting exclusively of burgers, french fries, and, for some reason, cantaloupe. He was sixteen when his father died and at seventeen he had dropped out of school emancipated himself from his foster parents and taken over  as owner and operator of his father’s business, the newly named Monkey Burgers. He perfected his skills and had a dream of seeing that line reach around the corner once again. And it was at about this time that he developed the Way of the Bag.

One day, Larry had been peeling potatoes to make more fries when he noticed an empty burlap potato bag on the floor. He picked it up, grabbed some scissors, and went into the bathroom. He looked into the mirror at his eighteen-year-old, ugly mug and started snipping eye holes into the bag. And, as he slipped it on for the very first time, he mumbled to himself, “I always thought you were an ugly baby.”

That night, he stayed up and wrote in his notebook about The Way of the Bag. He he wrote about how everyone existed in their own unique world and nobody really liked to think about it. People looked at each other through giant windows and pretended the glass wasn’t there. The Way of the Bag was an active way of acknowledging this separation. With a bag over your head you can, in effect, live a completely separate life from everyone and still interact with people. Your life becomes consumed by an uncomfortable itch on your face, the smell of dirty potatoes, and the sound of your own hot breathing. For you, the whole world becomes a muffled, far way place. And you become an enigmatic stranger to them. Without the benefit of seeing your face they have no idea what you are truly feeling. Your emotions and facial expressions become pure because you have no fear of people ever seeing them. The Way of the Bag, at its heart, is a way of getting to know yourself, being yourself… and keeping it secret.

At first people didn’t understand. Monkey Burgers became a freak show where people showed up just to see the guy who always wore a bag over his head. Soon that faded into kids ridiculing him for being different as they are always wont do. Eventually, even that went away, and everybody recognized Larry as just another weird little part of their weird little town. You go to Monkey Burgers; you get served by a Baghead. No big deal.
And so went Larry’s life for another ten years. And he was completely satisfied with it. He lived on his own, he cut his own hair, and nobody who had seen his face could remember who he was. Larry had achieved perfect solitude, and he was happy. Happy, that is, until Mary showed up.

Mary caught his eye because, at first, she always ate alone. Not only that, she ate alone happily. Most people who ate alone in Larry’s shop always looked to be on the brink of breaking down and weeping, but not Mary. Mary seemed to be totally absorbed in enjoying her Monkey Burger. She ate with a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye. She even laughed to herself occasionally. It was all Larry could do to keep on working when she was in the restaurant; he just wanted to watch her eat all day. Then she began appearing with co-workers, and that upset him, until he heard her angelic voice and listened to her fascinating stories.

Larry listened and learned that Mary suffered from a rare disease, Congenital hypertrichosis universalis, which means that she grows excessive, thick, wiry hair all over her body. Her horrified parents didn’t know what to do so they had her carted off by local carnies so that they could make money off of her being a weirdo. When she was old enough, she quit and went to college. She learned how to shave and use removal products so that she could keep her hair growth under control. And she came to work in Larry’s town, because she remembered that Larry’s town was the only town that never really regarded her as a freak. It was as if they were used to weird people living there.
Larry felt she was the perfect woman. He could listen to her and get to know her and she never had to know he even existed. She’d never be disappointed in him, she’d never get tired of him, and she’d never judge him. It should have been the perfect relationship. But he wanted more. For the first time in his life, Larry actually wanted to interact with another human being.

When he discovered this, he stared, bagless, into the mirror for an entire day. He didn’t really know why. He guessed he was just practicing. After that, whenever Mary was in his store he would fight a grueling and intense internal battle trying to convince himself to go over there and talk to her. And every day the battle was won by the bagged side of him. He would remain, forever, behind the counter.

Then one Tuesday he found himself half heartedly sizzling burgers on his grill and half heartedly listening to yet another carnie story being told by Mary. She was with some random bald guy with glasses who seemed to be immensely bored with her story. He kept yawning and checking his watch and annoying the crap out of Larry. Larry gritted his teeth under his bag and gripped the spatula tighter than usual. Every yawn, every sigh, every lackadaisical look issued by Baldy with Glasses caused an uncontrollable grunt to flow out of Larry’s bagged throat.

“So you’re a Lycanthrope, right?” Baldy blurted out, right in the middle of Mary’s story. Larry noticed that she was even in mid-sentence, talking about eating Funnel Cakes.

She looked confused. “A what?”

“You know, a Lycanthrope. A werewolf. Somebody who grows hair all over their body and prances around like an animal at night.”

“No…” She narrowed her eyes. “No, I don’t believe I’m one of those. All I do is grow a little extra hair. And it doesn’t matter whether it’s night or day; full moon or new moon.” Larry’s burger-laden spatula hovered in the air. Her nerves had been struck.

“Well, me myself… I’m an Ergot.” Baldy, nonplussed, continued on. “We’re a lot like Lycanthropes, but we grow our hair on the inside. So you can’t see it. But when that full moon comes we lose all our inhibitions and roam the night, stark naked and animal-like. The world doesn’t understand you. They called you Doglady. Well, the world doesn’t understand me either. I’m a ferocious animal. I’m dangerous, just like you. We’re two of a kind.”

Mary twisted her face. Larry couldn’t tell if it was a look of disgust or pity. She patted Baldy’s hand. “Marty,” she said, “I really doubt it. I don’t think you’re a werewolf, and I know for sure I’m not. In fact, I’m pretty sure they don’t exist.”

“Oh come on, Mary! You shave every day! I can see the stubble even now!” Mary touched her face an expression Larry had never seen before cast over it. “You’re a wolf and you know it. You aren’t like normal people. You belong with someone like me. I understand you.”

“Marty…” Mary closed her eyes. “I really don’t think you do.”

“Geez Mary, can’t you see that you’re different? Everybody thinks you’re ugly. You can’t hide your hair. You’re a weirdo carnie freak. Why can’t you just admit it. I can pass as normal. I’m giving you the chance of a lifetime here!”

“Stop it, Marty.” Mary said quietly.

“Stop what?! Mary, you can’t reject me. I’m all you’ve got! Nobody’s ever going to love a Doglady! I mean, look at y—” Marty’s eyes bulged out as Larry grabbed him and dragged him toward the door.

“I don’t like that kind of disrespect in my store.” Larry’s voice was gruff; he hadn’t used it in years, but he tried to sound as clear and menacing as he could. Marty made gargling sounds as Larry pulled him along by the collar of his shirt. He struggled violently, but Larry was just too strong. He walked steadily to the door and threw him bodily outside. Larry let Marty catch his breath and yell some obscenity at him before slamming the door in his face and locking it. The Way of the Bag always let the loser of a fight get the last word in if not the last action.  Adjusting himself, he turned to a stunned Mary.

“You really didn’t have to do that.” Mary said. “He was harmless, he really was.”

“I…I didn’t like the way he was talking to you.” Suddenly, Larry’s gruff voice gave out even easier than before. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“Well, none the less, you got rid of a perfectly good lunch date. Now I’ll have nobody to talk to.”

Larry swallowed, desperately wanting to say something, but the internal battle was waging again so all he could muster was some wheezy sounds.

“You okay, Mr… uhh…” She looked at his name tag. “Baghead? Is that really what your name is?”

“Larry.” It took every ounce of strength for him to say that. “You can call me Larry.”

“Larry, huh? Hm… You never really struck me as a Larry. Would you like to sit down with me? I’ve gotten too used to eating with people to stop now.”

Larry held up one finger to try and signify to her that he’d like her to wait just one second. He walked over to the door and flipped the open sign to “closed.” And then he walked over to her table. Mustering up as much will power he could, he sat down.

Mary smiled and took a bite out of her burger. “This is very good,” she said. “Are you the only one who works here? You’re the only one I see.”

Larry took a deep breath and mumbled out “Yeah…”

“Not very talkitive, are you Larry?”

“No…”

“I am. I talk a lot, and loudly. I would guess you know all about me.” said Mary.

“Uhhh…” Larry knew it wasn’t exactly kosher to admit he really did know all about her when she didn’t even know his name until just now.

“I can imagine sitting behind that counter everyday, you’ve learned a lot about me. I can talk and talk and talk. I think it’s because I was the quiet type for most of my life. Ashamed of who I was. I guess I’m trying to make up for it.”

“Being quiet’s not all that bad.”

“Yeah, you’re right. People like to talk themselves and they don’t usually like someone who never shuts up. I just love talking, but I know I really need to learn how to be quieter.”

“No!” She jumped at his sudden change in tone.  “I mean… I mean that I’m quiet. And that I don’t really mind it too much.”

“Oh. Well, can I ask you a question that’s been burning my mind ever since I started eating here?”

“I think I know what you’re going to ask.”

“Probably. I was just going to ask—”

“How I make my burgers so good?” She paused and Larry continued “It’s sort of a secret recipe. My dad came up with it in the sixties and he taught it to me. He used to say, ‘Son, most people fry burgers or grill burgers or even flame broil burgers. We sizzle burgers and that’s important. Also, fresh ingredients. Nobody likes soggy lettuce or a squishy tomato.’”

Mary looked at him oddly and then chuckled to herself.  “No. Actually, I was going to ask why you wear a bag over your head.”

“Oh…That… Well, it’s kinda complicated.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have thought so. Is it because you think you’re ugly or something?”

“Uhh…” Larry wanted to get out his notebook. He kept it in the back. He could describe The Way of the Bag to her. He could show her his burlap sacks and maybe even philosophize with her about better ways of exploring his inner self.

“Just as I thought. I don’t think you have to wear a bag over your head if you think you’re ugly. Trust me, I know a thing or two about ugly. I see it in the mirror ever day” She laughed a little to herself.

Larry mumbled something unintelligible even to himself. He knew what he wanted to say, but it was just so hard to say it.

“What was that Larry?” She looked at him with her brown eyes and he swallowed. He had to say it. He couldn’t live with himself without saying it.

“I said… I said that I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I think you’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman who’s ever walked into my store.”

She looked at him closely, closer than anybody’s looked at him in years. To Larry, her eyes seemed to get a little extra watery. “You don’t really mean that. I mean, I’m the only girl I know who can grow sideburns.”

“Of course I mean it! There’s more to beauty than sideburns or what you think you look like. That’s why I wear the bag. The Way of the Bag teaches that true beauty is different from all that.”

“That’s a pretty worn saying, Larry.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

She sat there quietly some more. Larry had never seen her so quiet.  “What do you look like under there Larry?”

“Under my Bag? I… I’m sorry Mary I can’t show you what’s under my bag.”

“Why not? Are you ashamed?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just… complicated.”

“I don’t understand how you can tell me all that stuff about how beauty is more than just what you look like when you’re too afraid to show the world your own face.”

“It’s not fear it’s… it’s…” He trailed off. He wished he had his notebook so that he could show her. He just found it too hard to explain The Way of the Bag vocally. It always sounded a little funny when you said it out loud.

“Look Larry, I can’t talk to a potato sack. And I certainly can’t have a … a Baghead tell me I’m beautiful without me seeing his face. How do I know you aren’t laughing at me from behind there?”

“I’m not!”

“Then why can’t you show me? You’ve got to let somebody in Larry. We can’t be friends if there’s always going to be a bag in the way. We just can’t.”

Larry sat there for a while, his fingers twitching and his mind in turmoil. Then he felt her hand touching his and her soft voice cut through the battle raging within him.

“Larry? Please…”

“…okay.” He said it so softly even he could barely hear it.

“Okay?”

“Yes. Okay.” And with that he closed his eyes and slowly took off his bag.

In the year 1972 there lived a woman named Georgia and Georgia was gorgeous. She was the type of girl who caused car crashes and received free drinks just for walking into a place. She was the prettiest girl in a weird small town in the middle of nowhere and you just knew that she didn’t really belong in a weird small town in the middle of nowhere and you knew that soon she would leave that weird small town in the middle of nowhere. But, unfortunately, Georgia was also stupid. Which is why she had a somewhat passionate affair with a man named Norton Cronisson. Norton, who had slithered his way to being Lieutenant Mayor of the town of Walkinville, had a soft spot for the most beautiful women in Walkinville and chased after them despite not feeling much of anything for them. Georgia was no different but she did stand out in one small way. Her beauty was so inviting and so captivating that he couldn’t help but stare at her as much as he could whenever he was around her. Whenever she ate, whenever she slept, and even whenever she sneezed. He always gazed at her beauty in captivated silence. He loved looking at her so much he decided he should commission a statue in her honor to put in his office so that he could stare at her even when she wasn’t around. So he called the best sculptor in the area, Minnie Parthenos, to make a bust. This, however, was profoundly stupid of him. Minnie Parthenos among her other attributes was set to become Minnie Cronisson in a couple of months blissfully unaware of her fiance’s penchant for having passionate love affairs with the most beautiful women in town. Unaware, that is, until a week and a half into making the statue of Georgia.

Minnie was a good sculptor and a good artist. When she started out, she had decided to do something original for the statue and so she formed it from two mediums: bronze and clay. She figured that this would create a swirly effect and give it an aesthetic appeal suitable for an office.But when she discovered Norton’s infidelity and that that infidelity also included the subject of her art she responded in a way only an artist could: by channeling all her anguish and anger into the bust. She worked feverishly, twisting and curving the two materials into something downright demonic in her studio. She worked for hours at a time and, when she would go home, she felt dizzy with a slight migraine and a quivering knot in her stomach. This effect got worse as time went on and, of course, she decided to channel that into her work as well. Finally, as she was putting the finishing touches to the finish, she sat back, looked at her handiwork, and immediately vomited. She found it impossible to look at. Every glance caused her entire body to lurch as if she were on a spinning yacht in a stormy ocean. Something in the very nature of the bust gave off an aura which caused a deep abiding illness in its observer. It was both unbearable and absolutely perfect. She covered it with a blanket and presented it to her ex-fiance in his office. He mounted it in a corner of his office easily viewable from every angle as Minnie sat on the desk, a feeling of relish and fury churning underneath her cool exterior.”It’s called ‘The Georgian’”

“‘The Georgian?’” he replied.

“Yes.” she said. “In honor of the subject.”

“Oh….” he said and cleared his throat. “I thought you’d be a bit bitter about that.”

“I try not to let my personal feelings get in the way.” She lied. “Especially when a hefty paycheck is involved.”

“Yes… of course” He said as he uncomfortably rummaged through his desk until he producing a crisp piece of paper with a tidy sum printed on it. “I hope this is suitable.”

She grabbed it and looked. “It’ll do.”

“Shall we take a look?” He  went to remove the blanket.

“No!” She shouted. Norton stopped, hand dangling in mid-air. “I think it’s best if we left it on until you reveal it to everyone.”

He considered this and then lowered his hand. “Good thinking. Georgia should be here for it.”

“Of course.” she said. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The next day, Norton made a few calls and gathered everybody who could care about such a thing into his office to reveal his ex’s masterpiece. Georgia stood in front, nearest to the thing, while Norton stood to the side of the bust hands grasping the blanket. Even the mayor showed up and sat patiently on the desk. Before things settled down, Minnie made sure to quietly creep out of  the room.

“Everyone!” Norton announced. “May I present: The Georgian!” And, with a flourish, he snapped the blanket off and it, as they say,  was pandemonium.

Georgia reacted first. She gazed long and hard at her own face. A smile blossoming on her lips and the words “It’s so lovely” were about to blossom out of them as well when she suddenly leaned over and puked her lunch straight onto the carpet. An office assistant standing next to her backed away in horror only to get a better look at the statue which sent him to the floor shivering with nausea. Norton himself, after gazing on the thing, ran to the nearest window and splashed half digested jambalaya on the bushes and a very unlucky secretary a floor below. And the mayor, oddly immune to it’s effects due to severe colorblindness merely walked out and into his own office shaking his head and even smirking a little.

A few days later a boxed and covered Georgian left the mayor’s office and then promptly disappeared into the annals of history and legend becoming important only to a select group of people obsessed with the history of Walkinville one of whom was a very cranky landlord who moved to Walkinville years and years later. This was the landlord for the mother of Percy Micheal. And Percy is, of course, who this story is really about.

Percy lived alone but he visited his mother every weekend. He was young with a mop of curly black hair and he possessed facial hair which can only be described as scruff with aspirations. He consistently wore the same thing everyday: a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and a red head band. He didn’t really fit in with any sort of fashion that made it past 1988, but he didn’t care. Percy always did exactly what he felt like, which was probably why his employment experience only consists of various retail establishments and fast food restaurants. And his employment history was why he was walking to his mother’s apartment instead of driving a car.

As he arrived at his mother’s apartment he noticed a sign bolted to her door which, upon closer inspection, read “Eviction Notice” and a lot of words no one without an advanced degree in law or dead languages could ever hope to understand. It was clear, however, that times were about to be rather more dire than before.

“Mom?” he called out as he opened the door.

“Hang on!” Came a call from the depths of the apartment. “I’ll be out in a minute!”

Percy sat down on the couch and pet the cat which he remembered lived under a derelict truck only a week ago. “Did you adopt a stray?” He called back.
“Yeah!” Came the reply. “I don’t have a name for him yet. I think  I’m going to just stick with Cat!”
He shrugged to no one in particular and continued to pet the cat hoping his mother had thought to wash any fleas off it. The cat purred and stuck its butt high in the air.
“Do you want any lunch?” His mother appeared in the living room with a pot of pasta in hand.
“Sure.” he said and followed her to the dining room which was already set for two. She served the two of them and proceeded to slurp her pasta with delight. Percy twirled his pasta absentmindedly.
“Mom?” He asked as she looked up from her slurping. “What’s up with that sign on the door?”
“Oh… that’s old Seriphovski trying to scare me away.”She said the a grimace.
“Why would he do that?”
“Well, I’ve had to hold off on paying the rent for a while.”
“What? Why?”
“Because Phineus absolutely refuses to fix my washer. I’ve wasted hundreds of quarters waiting for him. And I’m tired of that cheap bastard screwing me over. So until he gets it fixed he’s not getting one cent from me.”
“You realize,” Percy said worriedly, “that he really can evict you for that!”
“Fixing the washer is his responsibility!”
“I know! But you can’t just not pay the rent!”
“Of course I can.” She said smugly and continued to slurp up her dinner.
“But mom…” Percy pleaded.
“Don’t you worry. It’s all under control.” She said as she patted his hand. “He’ll break soon enough.”
Percy sighed and cupped his face in his hands. He knew Phineus Seriphovski and he knew that Phineus would sooner set the building on fire before he ever did any duty that befitted a landlord. “Can you at least let me talk to him? Maybe I can get him to be lenient or something.”
“Sure.” She said. “Go right ahead. If you can get him to fix my washer. I’ll gladly give him the rent.”
“Okay.” He said and got up to leave.
“But first you finish your dinner.” She said without even looking up.
“Mom….”
“Finish. Your. Dinner.”
He stood there for a second and then grumpily sat down and finished his dinner.

Phineus Seriphovski lived a few blocks away. He was not what most would call a pretty man. His wardrobe consisted of  v-necks and sweatpants, usually with some stains of unknown origin; his hair was thin on top, not bald, just disturbingly thin; and on the right side of his face where his cheek met his neck stood a large brown mole which developed it’s own, unique beard of hair which, to probably make up for the hair on his head, was unusually thick and wiry. Percy had been to his house exactly two times before, both times to drop off his mother’s rent when she was unable, His house smelled strangely of yogurt and olives and he knew this not from entering into his house but because the smell wafted out of it and could be detected from half a block away. And to add to all this he was eating a Hot Pocket when he answered the door to Percy’s knocking.
“Percy Micheal.” He said, his face full of ham and cheese. “How can I help you?”
“Hi Mr. Seriphovski,” Percy said. “I was wondering when you might get around to fixing my mom’s washer. It’s been broken for a few weeks and–”
“After rent is paid,” said Phineus. “Then we can talk about washer.”
“Yes, but…”
“Your mother has two” he held up two of his fingers for emphasis and stuck them in Percy’s face. “Two, weeks to pay rent. Or authorities get involved.”
“Yeah… about that.” Percy said, trying to ignore the fingers in his face. “My mom says she’ll pay the rent as soon as the washer gets fixed.”
“Can’t fix washer without rent.”
“I know,” Percy said. “It’s just that the washer went for a long time without being fixed long before she stopped paying for rent. I mean, before she stopped paying for the rent.”
“Yes.” Phineus swallowed and cleared his throat. “Well, washers are expensive. And your mother, she’s the one who broke it.”
“Sometimes washers just break, you know. And she moved in because it was included. And she never–”
“All of this is pointless without rent.”
“Yes, but–”
“Tell your mother to pay rent, then we talk about washer.” Phineus said with finality and raised his form a few inches to drive the point home. To Percy it was about as intimidating as weak gravy. However, Percy was getting desperate.
“Isn’t there anything I can do to get you to fix that washer?” He said, trying not to sound too pathetic.
Phineus chewed his Hot Pocket slowly. “Get me rent.”
“I mean, other than that. I know my mom and I know she’s very set on this washer thing.”
“Then authorities will be called.” And Phineus went to shut the door.
“So there’s nothing I can do?”
Phineus paused and then smiled a little. “The Georgian.”
“What?”
“The Georgian.” he said again. “It’s a statue. Walkinville legend. You get me The Georgian and I’ll fix all washers you want.”
“The Georgian?” Percy asked no one in particular. “What kind of statue is that?”
“It’s a bust.” He tried framing his face with one dirty hand. “Shoulders up.”
“Okay.” Percy said. “I’ll get you your statue. It’s a deal.”
Phineus then just laughed, spritzing cheese and meat into the air. “Yes.” He said between breaths. “It’s a deal. It’s a deal!” And then slammed the door in his face laughing even harder behind the door. He could hear him, slightly muffled, say to himself “‘I’ll get your statue…’ Hahahaha…”
Feeling less than confident but filled with an almost supernatural determination, Percy racked his brain trying to think of how he could ever track down this statue. He thought of all the people he knew and all the people he worked for. Larry’s life was consumed by his burger joint. Star was artistic enough, but she probably wouldn’t know since she’s as dumb as a brick. Then he remembered that he worked at a lamp store which was owned by a woman who made her own lamps. She specialized in owls. It wasn’t exactly a successful business, but it payed well enough. And if anybody knew the art scene in Walkinville it’d be her, Minerva Perthenos.

And yes, that’s right, Percy had no idea how lucky he’d just gotten.

“The Georgian? Of course I know about The Georgian!” said Minnie as she packed up her things to leave the store.
“Really?” Percy couldn’t believe his luck.
“Yes really. I made the thing after all.” She said as she dumped her cash into a bank bag and then dumped that into a safe while Percy leaned against the door to her office in stunned silence. “Yeah, I made it for that bastard Norton years ago. Of course after the disaster he gave it back even though I didn’t really want it. I did end up selling it to Dr. Mapp for his church. God knows what they need it for, no pun intended.”
“Disaster? What kind of disaster can a statue pull?” Percy asked.
“Well as it turns out, that statue makes anybody who looks on it lose his lunch like he was on a tilt-a-whirl.”
“Really?” he said again in almost the same tone of voice as before.
“You got a hearing problem, Percy?” She said as she locked the front door. “I don’t remember you being so stupid when I hired you.”
“Well, it just sounds so… unbelievable.” Percy said as he walked her to her car.
“Well, it is Walkinville after all.”
“That’s true.”
“Listen,” she said. “Just go talk to Dr. Mapp. I’m sure he knows where it is.” She paused, thinking for a while. “But he is on the other side of town.” She fished out another pair of keys from her purse and pressed them into Percy’s hand.
“What’s this?” He asked looking at them.
“You’re going to need some wheels to get there from here at night. Just borrow my Mercury dear.” She nodded at a dusty yellow car down the street. “I don’t use it hardly and it needs to be run once a month anyways.”
“Really?” Percy asked once more and Minnie just sighed.
“I feel sorry for your mother, dear.” She said while getting in her car. “Just bring it back here after you’re done. If I’m not around you can slip the keys in the mail slot.”
“Well… thanks Ms. Parthenos.” Percy said, staring at the keys again.
“No problem, dear. Good luck!” And she drove away.
Percy, still a bit amazed, got in the Mercury and started it up. It choked a bit, like an old man just getting up, but it ran. And so he drove towards Walkinville Baptist. He knew that Dr. Mapp lived right next to it. He just hoped the preacher  didn’t mind getting interrupted at home this late.

Dr. Mapp answered his door rather quickly. The light from inside was warm and inviting and Dr. Mapp was all smiles. “Well, if it isn’t young Mr. Michael. How can I help you this evening?”
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Mapp.” Percy started to say.
“Nonsense. Me and the girls were just having a family game night. You can join us if you want.” Percy looked past the preacher towards the three teenagers giggling at a dinner table in the living room. They were all sneaking looks at his direction.
“Uhhh…”
“Come on in, Percy.” Dr. Mapp gestured him in towards the table. A board game of world domination was laid out on the table. The triplets, Nikki, Naomi, and Nanci, were playing with the dice. Percy always felt a little uncomfortable around them. They were more than a little forthright in their flirtatiousness and they were young enough to make any guy older than eighteen seem suspicious if he flirted back.
“So how can we help you?” Mapp asked.
“Well, Dr. Mapp, I’m… uhhh…” Percy scratched his head trying not to look in the direction of the girls as one of them winked at him. “I’m looking for this statue. The Georgian. Do you happen to have it?”
“The Georgian?” Mapp sat back and scratched his chin. “Hmm…” Percy was certain Mapp couldn’t be ignorant enough not to notice his girls tugging at their clothing behind his back. “I think I know what you’re talking about, and I’m sure I have some info about it upstairs. Why don’t you sit down while I go get it.” He gestured for Percy to take his seat and then went up the stairs as soon as Percy took it.
“Hi Percy.” Nikki said with a smile.
“Hi Naomi.” Percy said back.
“I’m Naomi, you dummy.” said Naomi.
“Did you know we’re on the dance team!” exclaimed Nanci suddenly. “You want me to show you some of our moves?”
“No!” Percy said sterner than he wanted to. “No… that’s fine.”
“Come on, Percy. We’re really good dancers.” Nikki said with yet another wink.
“It’s perfectly okay.” Percy said. “I’m sure you are. I just… I’m just not in a dancing kind of mood.”
“What if we told you where to get your statue?” Naomi said.
“Really, I’m fine. I don’t think I should be danc– wait, what?” Percy stuttered. “You know where the statue is?”
“Of course!” Nanci said. “We’re the ones that got rid of it for him.”
“You did?”
“Yeah.” said Naomi. “It was making everybody sick and Daddy didn’t know what was going on…”
“But we did!” said Nanci.
“Yup.” said Nikki. “So we sold it to the Grey Sisters.”
“The who?”
  “The Grey Sisters.” Nikki repeated. “Some old ladies with a Shakespeare troop downtown.”
“Old?” Percy asked.
“Yeah.” Nikki responded. “They’re ancient.” Percy shuddered. He didn’t like old people. “Anyways,” she continued. “We took the statue without Daddy’s permission and sold it to them for some shopping around money. I don’t know what he’s up there looking for, but it’s certainly not anything about The Georgian.”
“So where are these Grey Sisters?” Percy asked.
“We’ll tell you if you dance with us.” Nikki said.
“Yeah! Dance with us!” said Nanci.
“Uhh….” Percy swallowed. He had no idea what these girls had in mind, but he knew he probably shouldn’t do whatever they were asking him to do. “How about if I promise to come back later and dance with you.”
“Not good enough.” Nikki said.
“And,” said Percy. “I’ll promise not to tell your dad how you asked me to buy you cigarettes.”
“We didn’t ask you to buy us cigarettes!” Naomi said. Percy just smiled back at her.
“Fine.” said Nikki. “They live in that old, creepy motel outside of town.”
“I found it!” Dr. Mapp’s voice trailed down the stairs as he came rushing down shortly after it.
“You found it?” Percy asked.
“Well, ” Dr. Mapp said. “Not the statue or anything, but I did find this.” He handed him a baseball hat emblazoned with the title, “United State’s Marines.”
“What’s this?” Percy asked as he took it.
“It’s your Invincibility Cap.”
“Invincibility Cap?”
“Back in your youth group days you used to wear it all the time.” Mapp explained. “You left it  one day and I never had the chance to return it. So here it  is!”
Percy turned it around in his hands trying to remember any time he ever wore a hat, and his memory shrugged its shoulders. But he felt arguing with the ignorance of Dr. Mapp was akin to arguing with a cliff face so he just said “Thank you” and tucked it in his pocket.
“Sorry I couldn’t find anything about this Georgian thing you were looking for.”
“That’s alright Dr. Mapp.”
“Did you want to stay for another game?” He gestured back at the table. All three girls waved at him.
“Uhh… no thanks, Dr. Mapp.” said Percy. “I really should be going.”
“Okay Percy,” he said. “see you on Sunday.”
“Sure thing, Dr. Mapp. And thanks for the hat!” And Percy left as quickly as his feet could take him.

The Grey Sisters were, of course, asleep three hours before Percy would’ve arrived that evening so Percy found himself driving up to a dusty parking lot and then standing in front of an orange motel room door at brunchtime the next day. He knocked hesitantly because for reasons beyond common sense Percy was more than a little frightened of the elderly. The older the worse. For Percy the scariest part of Halloween as a child wasn’t the movies or the costumes or even candy corn. It was the octogenarian neighbors who answered the door and handed him butterscotch. And, to his horror, he found himself in a similar situation suddenly staring at a toothless grin.
“Why hello, young man, how can we help you?” Said a dentally challenged old lady between smacks and slobber.
“Uhhh….” Percy said.
“Who is it?!?” yelled a voice from the darkness within the motel room.
“Shome young man!” The lady in front of Percy screamed back with more than a little spittle escaping her lips.
“Whasshisname?” Another voice yelled back.
“Uhhh….” Percy said.
“You have a name young man?” Said the lady at the door with another terrifying smile.
“Ummmm..” Percy said.
“I think he’sh a mute!” She yelled to the room.
“A mute?!” the room yelled back. “Whass he want?”
“He hashn’t said!”
“Of course he hashn’t said, you dummy!” yelled the room again “He’sh mute!”
“Hmm…” pondered the lady in front of him. “She’sh right, dammit.” She turned back to Percy who was still too frightenedto move. “Do you have a pad of paper or shomething?”
“I..I..I..” Percy absent mindedly rummaged through his pockets. He swallowed and tried to tell her that he wasn’t mute and could speak very well and fluently, but all that came out was “No” and a squeak.
“Well, thish ish gonna be very difficult then caushe I don’t shpeak no hand language.”
“Hash he shaid what he wantsh!?” Came yet another scream from the room.
“No!” The lady at the door yelled back. “He don’t have any paper!” She turned back to Percy and flashed her gums again. “Why don’t you come back inshide and we can find you some paper.”
Percy was too scared to not comply so he was led, against every instinct in his body, into the old ladies’ motel room. The room was less a room and more a suite. It was the size of about three hotel rooms. The old lady at Percy’s arm sat him down at a chair across from a couch with a coffee table in between. On the table sat a basket of apples and on the couch sat two ladies nearly identiticle to the one who invited him in except the one in the middle of the couch was busy devouring an apple with the fervour of a starving horse. Apple mush slid down her chin like soup down the sides of an overboiling pot. The woman who led him in sat in the empty seat left on the couch after finding a piece of paper and pen from near the beds behind him. She slid them in front of him and nodded.
“I’m, um, I’m not really mute.” Percy said with a swallow. “I’m just not very good at talking sometimes.” And, of course, by “sometimes” he meant any time he sat in front of three representations of his irrational phobia.
The lady on the right was gazing at the apple eater with envious eyes. “Quit hogging, Marie! It’sh my turn now.”
Marie finished her swallow of apple and turned to her grinning with a mouthfull of false teeth. “You just wait until I finish this. Patience is a virtue, you know, Maryanne.”
“Oh come on!” Maryanne said with indignity. “Whenever it’sh my turn your whining’sh sho bad the grapesh ferment.”
Marie put down her apple, now just a core, with a sigh and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “Fine.” She said and then in a move so disturbing to Percy it would come to haunt his nightmares forever she plucked out her dentures and handed then to Maryanne who accepted them with glee. “Take ‘em.” And then Maryanne proceeded to pop the dentures in her mouth and feverishly consume an apple herself.
“Now” said Marie “Who ish thish, Mae?”
“He never shaid, Marie.” Mae, the one who brought Percy in, said.
“My name is Percy.” said Percy desperately trying not to look at Maryanne and her soon to be gone apple. “And I was wondering if you had any info about The Georgian.”
“The Georgian?” said Marie “What’sh that?”
“It’s a statue.” Percy said. “The Mapp girls said you guys bought it off of their father.”
“Ohh… yeah.” Said Mae. “We bought that yearsh a–”
“We’ve never heard of it.” siad Marie sternly.
“Yepf we hapf!” Said Maryannein between bites of apple.
“No.” Said Marie. “We haven’t. At least not without some sort of pay, we haven’t.”
“Pay?” Percy asked.
“Yes.” she replied. “Pay.”
“Like what?” Percy asked.
“Peachesh!” said Mae, suddenly.
“Peachesh?” both Percy and Marie replied in unison (while Maryanne replied at the same time “Pfeeshsh?”)
“Oh how I love peachesh!” She answered. “Not as good as apples, mind you, but still so delightful.”
“Hmm…” said Marie. “Yes, Peaches and some amount of money will do. Oh, and another statue.”
“Uhh…” said Percy. “Okay. But I only have a few hundred dollars.”
“A few hundred?” said Marie.”That won’t do.”
“It’s all I got!” Percy protested.
“It’ll be a few thoushand at least.” Marie said. “Then we can tell you where it ish.”
“Oh come now, Marie.” Said Mae. “We don’t even own it anymore. It’s worthlessh. It was sho troubleshome. It’s just gathering dusht in an old–”
“We need the money, Mae.” Marie interrupted. “Think of all the applesh we could buy. And peachesh, even!”
“I do love peachesh.” Mae said whimsically.
“Look.” Percy said. “I don’t have thousands of dollars. But I did bring two hundred dollars to buy it with.” He dug the money out of his wallet. It was all the extra cash he had for the next few months.
Marie gave it a pondering look for a while. Then she grabbed the bills. “Okay.” She said. “Thish will buy you the shtatue.”
Percy sighed with relief. “Oh good,” he said. “Do you have it here? I really need it as soon as possible.”
“Oh no.” She said. “It’s not here. That information will cost you extra.”
“Extra?” He asked. “That was all the money I brought.”
“Then you’ll just have to get some more.” She answered. “Apples don’t grow on trees you know.”
“Yes they do!” Percy cried. This was getting ridiculous.
“Regardless. We don’t have an apple tree.” Said Marie. “And shpeaking of,” she gestured toward Maryanne who was finishing her apple. “It’sh my turn now, Maryanne.”
Maryanne, looking a bit dejected, put down her apple core and took out the dentures which gave Percy a mean and rather rash idea. And so, while she was passing them to Mae, Percy quickly grabbed the teeth and backed up against the far wall in a rush. All three ladies stood up in a fury.
“Hey” Marie said. “Thatsh oursh!” And the ladies all started towards him.
Percy lifted his arm as if to throw it into the kitchen. “If you don’t stop now,”he said. “I’m going to throw this as hard as I can against that wall over there.” And he pointed tothe wall beside the kitchen door. They stopped.
“That’ll break them!” cried Maryanne.
“And we can’t eat any fruit without them!” cried Mae.
“Tell me where the Georgian is,” Percy said. “And I’ll give them back.”
Marie edged forward and Percy raised his arm a little higher and he gripped the dentures a little tighter trying not to think about the slobber between his fingers. He gave Marie a meaningful look. She backed down. “Okay okay.” She said. “It’sh at thish old shtorage placshe beshide Larrysh burger shop.”
“Is it locked up?” Percy asked.
“No,”said Maryanne. “We jusht ushe it to shtore our old junk. It’sh pretty much public domain.”
Percy thought on this while the sisters all stared at their precious teeth in anxious anticipation.
“Okay then.” He said. “Thank you for your time. Enjoy the two hundred dollars. Here’s your teeth” And he tossed the dentures on a nearby bed and ran off while the ladies dashed to pick them up. Percy got in his car and drove away as fast as he could.

“Beware of Dogs.” Percy read the  sign to himself and then peered at the picture of the two snarling animals underneath it. They looked like a cross between a doberman, a pit bull, and a hellhound. The photographer seemed to have taken the pictures just before his demise because he managed to capture the deadly jaws of… Percy checked the labels underneath the pictures… Stheno and Euryale in perfect pre-devour position.
There was another sign lower down with a grubby bag settled beside it. The sign read, “Gone for the week. Feel free to enter, give dogs treats to calm them down.” Or at least that’s what Percy deciphered it said. The author seemed to think crayon an acceptable medium for  important signs and grammar, of course, was entirely optional. Percy reached into the bag and pulled out the only thing left in it which was a quarter of a milk bone covered in red dirt. He stood thinking for a moment then took a deep breath, hiked up is backpack, adjusted his invincibility cap, and walked through the gate.
The Grey Sisters’ storage bin wasn’t too hard to find as it was clearly marked “Property of the Sisters Grey” in large painted letters above the door. Inside there were hundreds of curtains, props, costumes, and discarded backdrops. The place smelled of old paint and dust. And on a dinged up table, right in the center, was a cloth bag covering what was obviously a bust.
Percy was shaking violently because the dogs hadn’t made an appearance and nearly all of his energy was being expended towards listening to any sound that sounded anything like a soft paw hitting the ground. So Percy had trouble reaching for the bag because he found it impossible to keep his hand still, but, despite the difficulty, he managed to snatch it off and gaze hard at the nearly pristine likeness of beautiful Georgia. And, as if on cue, the mediums began to swirl together and the eyes of the bust bore into his skull, grinding his sense of stability into powder. His stomach decided that now was a good time to turn itself inside out and his vision came to the conclusion that blurry was probably the best way to go. With the last movements he could muster before giving in to the constant waves of nausea, Percy quickly threw the bag back over the statue and shakily sat down on the cold concrete floor of the bin. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to will his body into serenity.
Percy had no idea how much time passed like that, but his eyes suddenly popped open at the sound of a distant crash. Somebody or, worse, some dog had run into the door of another storage bin. The sound was a bit distant, but way too close for comfort.Percy quickly gathered the statue into his backpack and ran off towards his car. Unfortunately, when you have a bronze statue on your back, running isn’t really an option. So Percy staggered unevenly to his car only to see two black shapes appear before his eyes. Two, black, growling shapes. Percy desperately dug into his pocket and found the remnants of the milkbone, which was at this point mostly dust, and tossed it in the general direction of the dogs. It clonked on the head of the one he believed to be Stheno only serving to make her growl even more. Percy backed away cautiously, but with the statue, backing away cautiously meant falling hard on the ground. Percy sat up just in time to see the dogs take advantage and charge towards him. Not knowing what else to do, Percy covered his face with his arms and prepared for the worse. A cacophony of angry barks surrounded him and got closer and closer and closer as Percy prepared for the worse. But, right when he felt the dogs should finally be clamping down on his neck, the barking stopped. Instead he felt both dogs sniffing hard at his hat, nuzzling his head around like a bobblehead doll. When they stopped, Percy opened his eyesto see both dogs sitting calmly, wagging their tails, flapping their toungs with smiles on their faces. Then Percy’s surprised silence was slightly interrupted when Euryale got up and licked his face. Instinctively, Percy smiled and scratched her behind the ears saying, “You’re a good dog.”

A man with a bag on his head served Percy a burger. Larry, although very shy, made the best burgers in town. And, after the storage lot ordeal, Percy felt that fearing for his life earned him a burger break. The back shatteringly heavy statue sat in his pack next to his feet and his hat, which he’ll never leave home without again, sat on his knee. And, much to his delight, the cheeseburgers were extra sloppy today. So he ate happily, looking out the window and watching the girl handcuffed to a tree in the next lot over. The whole lot had been cleared by a huge bulldozer except for that one tree which it was now parked in front of. The driver had obviously gotten confused, or lazy, and simply left for the day. This was all fascinating to Percy, particularly because he found the girl just too pretty not to watch. The girl didn’t look too happy. She wasn’t angry or upset, just sad. She sat in front of her tree with a morose look only punctuated by the rolling clouds, growing ever darker above her. Plink! Percy jumped back as a raindrop hit the window right in front of his face. Plink plink! It looked like it was going to be pretty bad. Plink plink plink plinkplinkplplplpplpppllpl… And, right on cue, the sky opened up. It was raining buckets outside, and Percy couldn’t help but notice that it seemed like the girl outside was crying. She looked up at the sky, exacerbated, and wept great heaving sobs as the rain poured over her like a mean person with a hose.
Percy’s latent sense of chivalry couldn’t take it any longer. The girl was just too pretty and the scene was just too bleak. He got up and asked Larry politely if he had an umbrella.
“Sure thing, but I’m going to need it back,”he said. Percy assured him that he would be back before he knew it, and that he was merely going to the next lot over. And soon Percy was slogging his way over to the lone tree, trying to avoid getting too much red mud on his shoes.
“Hello.” he said to the crying girl as he positioned the umbrella over her while trying not to get too wet himself.
The girl looked up with a start. She seemed surprised to suddenly not be rained on. “Oh” she said, struggling with her handcuffs and finally pulling up her legs to wipe her face off on her knees. Percy kindly knelt down and grabbed some napkins he’d swiped out from his pocket and helped her wipe her face clean and dry. “Thanks.” She said, a little embarrassed.
“No problem.” Percy replied with a smile. “This is quite a pickle you’ve gotten yourself into.” He couldn’t help but grimace at his own words. “Pickle”? Really?
“I didn’t really ask to be here” she said with a whimper. “It’s my father. He handcuffed me here to stop them from clearing out this lot. He considers himself some sort of environmentalist, I guess.”
“But…” asked Percy. “Why didn’t he come out here instead of you? I mean, you obviously don’t want to be here.”
“He said he was too busy doing a direct mail campaign. He said it’s important for some people to sacrifice their time to get the word out about Lot 14 and that, for me, it was my time to sacrifice for the good of lot 14 in a more direct way. He said it would build character, and earn points for him with his environmentalist fan club. They like it when their members’ kids get involved, I think.”
“Wow” said Percy. “That’s… that’s kinda messed up.”
“He’s not all that bad.” she said. “At least he left me the key.”
“So why haven’t you unlocked yourself and left?”
“It’s in my front pocket.”
“Oh.” Percy said as he swallowed nervously.
“Yeah, you wouldn’t mind grabbing it for me, would you?” She hiked up her left hip. “What was your name again?”
“Percy.” Percy replied. “I don’t think we ever introduced ourselves. I’m Percy.”
“Hi Percy.” She said with an amazing smile. “I’m Dre.”
“Dre? Like the doctor?”
“Ha!” She laughed a little. “No! Dre as in Andromeda. Like the space cloud.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you Dre.” He said. They stood looking at each other for one awkward moment before Percy realized he was supposed to be helping her with her handcuffs. “Oh yeah” They said in unison. And Percy carefully fished a small key from her front left pocket. And then he gently unlocked the cuffs behind the tree trunk.
“Thanks.” said Dre as she rubbed her wrists.
“No Problem.” He said. Then he glanced back at Larry’s. “You hungry?”
“Yeah.” She smiled at him again. “Yeah I am.”

“So he just gave it back to you?” Minnie was sizing up the bagged Georgian as she moved it from table to table trying to find the perfect place for it in her lamp shop.
“Yeah,” Percy replied. “Mr. Seriphovski took it happily at first. And he called up the best repairman he knew right away. But two days later he called me desperate to get rid of it. He even payed me my two hundred bucks back just to get rid of it. I guess it took him a while to figure out it was the statue making him sick.”
“Well, I appreciate you giving it back to me.” Minnie said. She finally settled on a covered spot highlighted by a mirror. You couldn’t see it head on, but you could clearly see it in the mirror. Minnie smiled as she removed the bag. “Ahh…the mirror buffers the effect.”
“I figured you were the rightful owner. You made it after all.”
“Well, it reminds me of a bastard, but it also reminds me of his horrified face  on one fateful morning.” She sat down on a wooden chair behind her counter. “So thank you for that.”
“Well it was certainly worth the adventure trying to get it.” He turned around and looked through the window at Dre who was sitting outside staring at the clouds in the sky. “So thank you for that. Oh and here’s your keys.”
He handed her the keys and they said goodbye. He walked out and he and Dre got some ice cream. And while eating and talking with her he felt that something about the day seemed almost mythical.

“What the heck is Sassafras?” Cory’s head became a regular ocean of wrinkles.

“Y’know… sassafras.” Roger desperately tried to defend himself.

“Sassafras?”

“Yeah”

“Okay, let me get this straight: you wanna make the chorus ‘I wanna go fast/ like Jackie Chan and all that sassafras’? What the hell is that supposed to even mean?”

“Shut up.”

“It makes no sense.” Cory couldn’t contain it any longer, he let lose a laugh which only infuriated Roger even further. Cory had always been a real pain. He started this lousy band a while ago, and considered himself a reincarnated John Lennon. He was always the one who wrote the song lyrics and left the rest up to the others in the band. Roger never really liked that, he felt that Cory was getting credit for what the whole band did. Cory even named the band “Cory and The Band.”

Cory’s laughter faded as Roger scowled and looked down at his bass trying to find some sort of hidden chords or something to help his song that didn’t make any sense. His hands hurt from playing all day. He really wanted to stop, and he hated being in this band. He blew some air straight up his face in a futile attempt to blow the hair off his forehead and release his stress at the same time. For some time now, life in this small town had been bugging him. He felt trapped as if he were trudging through life with weights on his legs. If life were a road trip then time in Walkinville was Texas or South Carolina, the state you had to pass through to get to your destination but seemed to go on forever, stretching through an eternity filled with vast fields of boredom and tobacco.

“How about ‘let’s take it slow/ like Eeyore/ slow as the grass grows.’” Cory tried desperately to break the awkward silence that was filling his living room.

“Dude, that sucks just as bad. The song’s about a guy who wants to date a girl who wants to take it slow.”

“Oh yeah… Well how about…”

Roger tuned out Cory as he let loose another string of bad ideas. And instead of listening, he just lowered his head and strummed his bass pretending to pay attention. He looked around Cory’s house in between his “uh huh”s and “Sure that sounds great”s. As usual Roger’s gaze fell on the most outstanding feature, the mountain of mostly empty, slightly crushed, and definitely leaking beer cans near the kitchen. Cory was never one for cleanliness; his living room was filled with his dirty laundry and his dirty dishes. Roger noticed an old Foghat T-shirt sitting on top of an old plate of half eaten spaghetti which was now green, slightly fuzzy, and smelled sickeningly sweetish. Roger averted his gaze quickly and noticed the clock on the wall.

“And Axl Rose doesn’t know how to spell ’cause Slash and his hair switched his guitar for a friggin’ cow bell…” Cory was still going through his song ideas out loud.

“Yo Cory, I’ve gotta go. The game’s going to start here in a little bit.”

“Oh” Cory was too dumb to sound offended. “Okay Rog, well… good luck and knock ‘em dead.” As annoying and disgusting as he was, Cory really was actually a really nice guy.

“Thanks, I’ll catch ya later.”

Roger walked everywhere he went on account that his old Gremlin was at the bottom of the Duck’s Grove Lake due to an unfortunate incident involving a rabbit, a fire cracker, and a ham sandwich with too much mayonnaise on it. Luckily Walkinville was a fairly small town so almost everything was within walking distance, if you didn’t mind walking for a while. But today seemed even gloomier than usual and Roger couldn’t help feeling a little bit resentful towards rabbits and ham sandwiches as the wind bit into his ears.

He was heading towards the baseball field as he was set to pitch for the evening’s came against Defosboro. He was a pretty mediocre player on the team, even if it was just district baseball (a.k.a. minor minor minor league). In truth he hated baseball almost as much as he hated playing in his band. However he wanted escape from the world of Walkinville. The whole town was like a leech slowly sucking the life out of you. So he tried everything to make life interesting by doing activities, from playing music to playing baseball.

The field was filling up when he arrived at the locker room. The coach was chewing on some Red Man and rubbing his five o’clock shadow as Roger passed by.

“Wiggins!” Roger hated the sound of his last name, especially when it echoed through the locker room wearing his coach’s chain-smoker voice. “Change quick, you’re the co-star for today’s pregame show.”

“Pregame show?”

“Yeah, it’s the anniversary thing we do every year. Just get out there. Oh and Wiggins… arrive late again and I’ll rip your throat out.” At that Roger’s coach spat a long stream of brown slime and grumbled out of locker room to yell at a ball boy picking his nose. Roger desperately tried not to look at the puddle of goo or any other stain on the floor as he changed.

When he finally made it out onto the field he was greeted by the familiar smell of dust, popcorn, and sweat. He stepped up onto the pitchers mound and noticed a small bucket of balls out there waiting for him. He was the only one out on the field and he felt a little strange about that. He looked back down at the bucket of balls and wondered what kind of show he was about to participate in, but then he winced as he realized what was coming. The announcer’s voice crackled across the rickety stadium.

“Today, boys and girls we have a special treat for you. As a special treat in honor of the anniversary of our great town’s first ever farmer’s market, Eric the Red, Walkinville’s prized mascot is going to hit the first ball.” Roger saw Eric step out of the bullpen. He was being led by Mary, the town vet, a humble, red-headed ex-hippie. Eric had himself a bat and a baseball cap and a set of diapers with a colorful W on the back. He was the ugliest mongrel of a monkey anybody has ever seen. He was half black and half orange; many thought he might be a cross species breed of chimpanzatang or something. Whatever he was, he was hideous. His fur blended and twirled and he looked like a coffee cake from Hell’s other diner, the one nobody went to.

Eric stepped up to plate and held his bat up high; he had done this many times before, apparently. Roger gripped his ball tightly with his bruised fingers and his vision blurred slightly. Roger’s mind had started to drift. He was thinking about his dad and how he always told Roger that he’d never get anywhere in life. His dad would probably laugh out loud if he saw him pitching to a monkey. He thought about the town and how much he hated his job and his band and this stupid game. Why was he here? What kind of purpose did his life serve?

The monkey in front of him was a black and orange blur. Roger tried not to focus on anything. He stood straight up and got into the pitching position as he thought about how he was supposed to lightly toss the ball to the catcher. A monkey’s reflexes were not up to par and Eric’s doped up attention span was probably worse than ever. The image of his dad came back to him, and Roger, suddenly washed with pessimism, imagined Eric the Red hitting a home run off of one of his pitches and an entire town of Rednecks laughing like the pigs in Animal Farm. A horrible feeling twisted in Roger’s insides and his throat suddenly felt like it was coated with motor oil. Then he smiled slightly, a thought trickled in his brain. What if he struck out the monkey? Or at least he could make him miss a few balls. That might save him some dignity. His dad wouldn’t be laughing then. And, before he could stop himself, he let loose a curve ball, wild and fast, much wilder and faster than Roger had intended. His eyes widened as time slowed and Roger’s focus followed that ball, which was supposed to be headed to the catcher’s mitt. Unfortunately, Eric had become fascinated with the score board to his right at the same time Roger had let his ball go. And, in place of a catcher’s mitt, the ball sailed right into Eric’s swirly orange temple, the entire stadium wincing as the ball bounced toward the sky with a disturbing “Clock!”

The crowd stood up and stared long and hard at the monkey lying lifelessly on the ground. Roger stared too. The stadium was silent except for a dull “thump” as the ball finally hit the ground. Then, as if on cue, every eye in the stadium turned towards Roger. Some filled with confusion, some with genuine pain, and most with a look of utter hatred. Roger looked at his hand as if he could pass the blame there, then, throwing down the mitt, he looked up at the crowd trying his best at an “I’m sorry” face. All it took was one. A plastic cup filled with soda splashed to the ground on his right. Boos echoed through the air as bottles, empty cups, popcorn buckets, and various other pieces of garbage rained down on him. He quickly ran as fast as he could through the garbage hailstorm to the dugout and into the locker room. The coach, who was walking out to witness the show, nearly swallowed his dip when he ran past.

“Where the hell are you going Wiggins!? We’ve got a game to play!”

“Sorry coach…. Gotta go.”

Roger grabbed his stuff as quick as he could then sprinted out of there. He ran until he couldn’t breath any longer, hoping there weren’t any angry mobs behind him. Then he slumped down behind a bush under a bridge near his house. His uniform was covered in mud and beer and sweat and he smelled like a tractor pull. He settled back, still trying to catch his breath, and stared at the cloudy sky. Little rain drops sprinkled onto his face, and he thought about what had just happened. He closed his eyes, and over and over again, as if it were some sort of a joke clip, the image of Eric the Red collapsing to the ground replayed in his head.

It was steadily raining by the time Roger had managed to finally drag himself home, and Roger went to bed; shivering in the dark.

The next day, Roger cautiously got up, showered, and quietly made his way to his girlfriend’s house. He had work that day at the bookstore he part-timed at, but he felt so horrible he wanted to see his girlfriend first. As he walked down the street, he looked behind himself every now and then. He passed by the town’s Newspaper machine to see a hurried headline printed on the front, Eric the Red, Dead by a Baseball to the Head. Roger swallowed hard when he saw his name mentioned several times in bold, angry lettering in the middle of the article. By now, the whole town knew.

His girlfriend’s place was a small brick house covered in Kudzu. He knocked on the screen door, and she answered wearing her PJs.

“Hey Roger, I was just reading the paper.” Roger’s face turned pale.

“You were?”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know…. It’s like a blur. One minute I’m playing bass at Cory’s and the next I’m running for my life…. Can I come in?” She nodded her head and Roger stepped through.

The air smelled of coffee and the kitchen was the most inviting place Roger had ever seen. He sat down at the table in the corner, which was spotlighted by the faint sunlight beaming in from the window beside it. She sat across him; he could see the paper at the end of the table. She was absolutely beautiful at this time in the morning. Her hair was crinkled slightly and she wasn’t wearing any make up, but she didn’t need it.

“This is like a nightmare, Allison.” Roger slipped his hand through his hair and stared down at the table. It was an old and plastic table and was cracking from age. They sat there in silence for a while as Roger pretended to be interested in the table. Allison looked very uncomfortable.

“Listen Roger… I know this is tough, but I have something I have to tell you.” Roger looked up at her and furrowed his face in confusion. She almost looked more upset than he was. “I… I know this is probably the wrong time to say this, but I think we should start seeing other people.” Tears were forming in her eyes.

“You what?”

“I just don’t think this is working out.”

“What? You’re breaking up with me?”

“I understand you’re going through a hard time, but… I… I…I really don’t think we’re working out.”

“This isn’t about that stupid monkey is it?”

“Eric was never stupid” She looked away, “people really loved him.” Roger’s jaw dropped.

“I can’t believe this… a monkey, you’re dumping me over a monkey.”

She turned back at him, suddenly angry. “See, that’s exactly why we can’t date anymore. When will you realize that there’s more to this world than you?”

“When will I…” Roger stammered, his voice filled with unbelief. “When will you realize that your boyfriend is more important than a friggin’ chimpanzee or whatever it is?”

“That ‘whatever it is’ just so happens to be a beloved and sacred part of this community. Something a slacker, big-headed jerk like you would never understand!”

“Oh. Well, somebody should tell this community that its beloved and sacred monkey was an ugly, wiry, confused retard that drooled on itself and crapped itself every day. It had no idea where it was on that field! Hell, it probably put its head out in front of that ball on purpose just to end the misery of its pathetic life!” Roger’s words echoed through the kitchen. At this point both he and Allison were standing and she was still fighting back tears, but now it was going very badly. Slowly, one by one, they escaped from her eyes as the silence took over the room. The tears cooled Roger’s anger and replaced it with a welling guilt. “Geez… I’m sorry Allison; I just don’t understand why this, this animal means so much to everyone.”

“That animal saved my life once!”

“It what?” Confusion’s one of those strange emotions that can drown out everything else.

“I was… I was thinking about killing myself when I was fifteen and I had the bottle of pills in my hands. And I was walking down the street thinking about where to do it, when I saw him staring at me through the window of the vet’s house. He just gave me this look, and I knew that I didn’t want to do it.”

“Wow…. That’s… well, that’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I mean, he was probably crapping in his diapers when you happened to look at him.” Sometimes Roger can actually stun himself with the things he says and as soon as the words left his mouth he knew he shouldn’t have thought them,let alone utter them aloud. He looked up at Allison’s eyes with a faint hope that he had just imagined himself saying it. But her face was turned away again. “I…I…I didn’t mean that. I’m a horrible person… I’m so sorry Allison. I…”

“I think you should go.”

“Allison. Please…”

“I really think you should just go.”

“Allison…” She was silent. He sighed, “It’s just a monkey.” Exasperated, he got up and headed toward the door. But in the doorway he changed his mind and turned towards Allison again. She was looking at him with even more anger than before. He tried say something, but she suddenly rushed toward him and pushed him out onto the street. Then slammed the door. He thought about lying there for a bit, but then remembered he had a job to go to so he staggered to his feet and walked away, looking back behind him to see her peeking out the window at him. As soon as she spotted him looking she hurriedly closed the drapes. He then headed back into town towards the bookstore.

He arrived late. He had taken the scenic route and he had had a lot of thinking to do. He was trying to figure out Allison, and, since she was female and he male, that wasn’t the easiest of tasks. This wasn’t the first time they’d broken up, and she seemed to always be the one who did the breaking. He sighed, and rubbed his forehead as he stared at the dusty old sign that displayed the name, “Martha’s Used Books” in peeling paint. He had no idea why it was called that. His boss, the owner, was named Star. She was a moody brunette who didn’t really believe in showers, decaf coffee, goodness, or hope. Roger was the gopher boy at the bookstore and made meager amounts of money that was just enough to stay alive and perhaps save up for college or maybe a toaster, which is all he could afford with the savings. Star hated his guts, at least Roger thought so, and she always gave him the mind-numbingly tedious jobs. He was always stacking and stacking and stacking paperbacks. Then he was ordering them and restacking them again until Star came by and told him all what he did wrong in the vaguest of ways and made him do it over again with only a few mumbled and amorphous, yet strict, guidelines to go by. And he was almost always working in the Romance section. Roger had fantasies about one day walking up to Fabio, hitting him the face with a shovel, and stealing the gorgeous girl he always seemed to be holding in some place that always seemed to be windy. His feet dragged like lead. The last steps to the store always felt like miles, and roger always thought it was his feet telling him how much he hated this place. He figured it was probably best if he didn’t mention “the incident” at all while at work. He stepped into the store to the familiar sound of a bell ringing.

“Can I help you?” Roger’s boss had her back turned; she was never the best at customer service.

“Hey Star.”

“Oh… it’s you.” She said that last word as if she were trying to lick out a bad taste from the roof of her mouth. Star’s face, which had once sported a fake smile, immediately faded into a more comfortable sneer.

“Sorry, I’m late.” Star’s sneer suddenly twitched into a temporary smile before fading back into a sneer again.

“Yeah…” She said, “About that: Well, I don’t think this can work. You see, you’ve been late before and I can’t have all my workers being late all the time.”

“What do you mean? You don’t have any other workers?”

“Regardless, this just isn’t working. You’re fired, Roger.” The words stabbed him in the chest. He hated this job, but, for some reason, it had always been faithful. It was an unpleasantness that stayed in one’s life like a bad odor in the attic that was disgusting at first but soon enough expected and eventually it became a reminder that told you that this was your attic in your home.

“I can’t believe this!” Roger really couldn’t. This had to be more than mere tardiness. He was late all the time.

“Believe it, buster.” Roger stared at her as if she were the stupidest person in the world. The look on her face gave it away.

“He’s only a monkey!”

“You better get out before I call Pete over here.” This wasn’t a real threat to Roger who was friends with Pete, the town sheriff, but under the present circumstances he’d hate to see how any Walkinville police officer would treat him.

“Okay! Fine!” Roger slammed the door as he stormed out, and the bell gave off a loud, unnatural clang.

Roger fumed as he stomped around town with no destination in mind. He wondered from building to building without realizing where he was going. When he finally looked up, he realized he was in the old neighborhood towards the center of town. With a sigh of relief he finally knew he had someplace to go. He needed a friend, even if that friend was a little bit of an idiot.

There was only one word, really, to describe the exterior of Cory’s house and that was old. It was supposed to be white, but the paint was peeling so much and the house was covered in so much dirt, it ended up looking more brown than anything. And today tt had never looked more inviting. Roger knocked on the door, hoping that Cory would answer. Time always goes slowest and ambient noises are always loudest when you’re waiting for someone at the door.

“Oh. Roger… Hey.”

“Yo Cory.”

“Hey Rog… ummm… I don’t know how to say this, but…”

Roger let out a big sigh. “Let me guess: I’m outta the band.”

“No offense man, but we’ll never get a gig in this county if you play bass for us.”

“It’s okay, I understand.” Roger lied.

“Sorry, man. I hope things work out.” Cory shut the door before Roger could say anything. Roger stood there for a minute, he couldn’t think of anything else to do but blink. After what seemed like a long while, Roger turned and walked slowly away. He could hear someone playing bass very badly inside as he walked away. It was only the afternoon and Cory had already found a replacement.

Roger walked all day long, avoiding people whenever he could. Everywhere he went he got a look of contempt. By evening the entire town became deserted. Roger figured there must be a high school football game or something similar happening.

He strolled into a diner, the only place he could find that was open. The place had the diner smell which was a combination of apple pie, fried eggs, and cigarettes. The owner sat behind the counter counting money out of the register. He was the only person there. His name was Bill and he had always been decent to Roger, even if Roger had been dating his daughter. Bill looked up and gave Roger an alarmingly wicked smile.

“So I hear you talked to my daughter this morning.” Oh.

“Yeah. We’re no more.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Bill said with an almost negative amount of sincerity. “Can I get you anything?” Roger strangely felt like Bill was almost thanking him.

Roger was actually quite hungry, but hated eating Bill’s food. “Just something to drink.”

“Coming right up.” Bill left and went into the kitchen. Roger looked over to the soda fountain on his right and wondered why Bill was in the kitchen. A little while later he heard the faint sound of phlegm being cleared from a throat. Roger’s stomach turned, he decided he wasn’t thirsty after all. And he left just as Bill arrived with a cup full of soda.

“Where’re you going?” Bill asked, as innocent as a deer

“I just remembered I needed to go home.”

“Okay. Don’t forgot your…”

Bill’s voice faded away as Roger exited the diner onto the street. A little light headed from hunger he wondered around again looking for any other place which might be open. Before he knew it, he was walking out of town. Then he saw cars start to drive by. First one, then another, then another. All with blinking lights; Roger figured the game must be over, but he couldn’t figure out the blinking lights. He tried to stay away from the street so nobody would notice who he was. He kept walking and cars kept passing until he finally came up to the town cemetery. Apparently it was a funeral, not a football game everybody had gone to. Roger didn’t have to guess who was buried that day. But he rolled his eyes imagining the pomp and circumstance put on for that little creature.

Roger walked up to the freshly laid grave and read the headstone, “Here lies Eric the Red: Playing baseball in heaven and forever living with us in spirit.” Looking at the grave all his disdain faded away. He was mad at the people, not poor Eric. He knelt down next to the headstone, a regular cornucopia of emotions. He felt absolutely lousy. He could see that same haunting image again, Eric slowly slamming onto the dirt, lifeless and alone. Roger closed his eyes. “Why’d you have to go and lean forward? I didn’t mean to hit you…” He sighed. “How could one little animal ruin my life?” Roger then sat down, right beside the headstone. He looked up at the sky again, it was dark and swirly. It strangely reminded him of Eric, and anger suddenly shot through him again like a bolt of lightning. He knew he was actually angry at the townspeople, but Eric was closest to him. “Dang it, you stupid monkey! You died on purpose didn’t you? Just to ruin me. What did I ever do to you?”

“I don’t think I ruined your life.” A soft voice rang out like the smell of flowers on the breeze. Roger looked around and, with a shock, he saw Eric the Red staring down at him from a tree beside his own grave. He was glowing faintly and a pair of wings appeared to be strapped to his back, not attached, but held onto his back by bright red straps.

“Did… you just say something?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure I did.”

“You can’t have. You’re a monkey and you’re dead. If you just said something that would make you a…” Roger looked at the ground and tried shaking his head back to normality.

“A talking dead monkey.”

“I was going to say a ghost.”

“I prefer to think of myself as an angel now. Do you like my wings?” Roger looked at the “wings.” They didn’t seem to be made out of feathers, but some sort of brown fur and they wobbled around as Eric moved.

“Well…. They do seem kind of…”

“Fake? Yeah, monkeys don’t make the best angels, but He said I could have these. I like ‘em.”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but could I ask you what you’re doing here?”

“Well… I don’t know really. I was asked to come so I came. I’d actually rather be up there.” He looked upward smiling a toothy monkey smile, “but nobody argues with the Big Guy.”

“Oh….”

“Sorry, that’s not much of an answer.”

“No. It’s not that. I’m just pretty sure you’ve got to be a figment of my imagination. Something brought on by hunger and despair.”

“Well, I’m not that.”

“Unfortunately, Eric. There’s not much you can do to prove otherwise, I think.”

The monkey tried to respond but then stopped and nodded and thought for a bit and a moment of awkward silence fell on the two of them. Roger smiled to himself. It seems that awkward moments of silences can happen when you talk to anyone. 1

That’s when Eric brightened up suddenly, “I know how I can prove myself to you!”

“How?”

“I can answer your first question!”

“My first question?”

“Yeah… about whether or not I did it on purpose.”

“Oh…. Well, I don’t know how that’s going to—”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“What?”

“It was just my time to go. I didn’t really do it on purpose. But even if it was an accident, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Oh. Well, thanks. But don’t worry. I know all that.”

“You say that, but I know deep down you really blame yourself.”

“No actually, I’m okay with it. But this still doesn’t prove that you’re real”

“Oh”

“If it’s any consolation you did brighten my day. It’s not everyday one gets to talk to a talking dead monkey, and it sort of makes me feel special even if it does mean I’m really crazy.” At this Eric smiled that big toothy grin again.

“I guess I could do something for you.”

“Like what?”

“A miracle. Not a big one, of course (I’m just a monkey after all). But a little one will still be amazing enough.”

“Okay. What do you have in mind? Turn water into wine?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. Is there anything you want?”

“Well, it’d take a miracle for me to get back with Allison.”

“Not really. She’s already forgiven you. So it’d be easier than you think. I could bring her here if you’d like.”

“Okay.”

“All right then. She’s on her way. I guess I’ll go now.”

“You’re leaving?” Roger said this with a surprising amount of remorse.

“Oh yeah. I hate this place. This town can be so… stifiling sometimes.” And with that he gave Roger a sort of half wave and flew off into nothingness.

Roger felt a little dumbstruck. He didn’t know if he was crazy or so hungry he was hallucinating. Regardless he got up to sit on the slightly more comfortable stone bench a little farther away to think things out.

Then Roger heard a familiar voice say, “Oh good.” behind him. He turned to see Allison walking up. “I’d hoped to see you here.”

She looked as beautiful as ever, highlighted by the soft moonlight and pink glow from the town behind them. She smiled and Roger swore that her smile made the breeze blow. He hesitated before saying anything. “So… are we still broken up this time?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. You really were rather insensitive.”

“I guess I was.” He paused, then he finally let go. “Allison, I’m a huge jerk. I shouldn’t have said those things. Even if everybody overreacted to Eric’s death”

“Hey! We really loved that little guy! And you… well… not everybody likes you.”

“No kidding. Your dad really brightened up when I told him the news.” Allison, thankfully, laughed a little at that. “On the bright side, I did get to make my peace with him. Eric, that is. He was a rather nice monkey, if a bit on the ugly side.”

“I always thought he was cute.”

“He looked better with wings.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Sorry…I mean… umm… Well, I guess he could be considered cute, in a sort of ugly way.”

Allison closed her eyes. “It’s not something worth fighting over.”

“Or breaking up over.”

She smiled and the breeze blew again, and she ran her fingers through her hair. She looked into his eyes. Her eyes were such a startling blue. Roger was always surprised by them, as if he should’ve noticed them before, even though he’s noticed them thousands of times before. “We’re not broken up. You know I can never stay split up with you. Even when you act like an insensitive prick.”

This time he smiled, right at her. He felt like kissing her, but didn’t because a graveyard is a very weird place to make out in. So all he did was look back into her eyes for a while until she turned and blushed and made the wind blow again.

“You wanna go somewhere? You know, just to hang out.” It was the best thing Roger’d heard all day.

“Yeah, lets.”

“Do you mind if it’s somewhere out of town? This town can be really stifling sometimes.” He laughed out loud at that. She looked a little puzzled but took it as a yes and they both got up and left.

Anything can happen in Walkinville. It’s the kind of place that invents its own reality.