All Jokes Aside

Image by Traci Hall via Wikimedia Commons

Dan hadn’t been listening much to Sara and Teri’s discussion, but he took an interest when Teri blurted, “I’m so horny.”

“Oh, you can have Dan.” Sara replied. “I’m done with him for now.”

Both girls began laughing. Dan raised his eyebrows and looked up over his textbook. They stopped laughing for a split second, and then began laughing even harder. He looked from one girl to the next, then his eyebrows shot back down. Dan gently put down his textbook and mid-term notes, then got up from the ratty couch he had been studying on. He held out his hand to Teri. “Well, you heard her, let’s go.”

The girls launched into a new round of laughs, and tears formed at the corners of Teri’s eyes. “Sure thing,” Teri said as she grabbed his hand. She looked back over her shoulder, at Sara. “Don’t worry, I’ll have him back by dinner time.”

Sara rocked with soundless laughter, wrapping both arms around her and nodding. Finally, she managed “Teri, as long as he’s coming back from your room anyway, could you have him bring the sweater you borrowed last week?”

Teri shrieked, and stomped her feet as Dan led her from his girlfirend’s dorm room. He closed the door and jerked the hysterical Teri by the arm through the hall to the stairs. Her laughter echoed sharply in the stairwell as they made their way down.

“We’re joking, you know.” Teri said. Her voice dropped to husky whisper. “Besides, my room is three floors up.” Whatever effect she was going for was ruined by half-laugh, half-snort a moment later.

“I know,” Dan said. “We’re going to Pop’s.”

Pop’s Cafeteria was the University’s attempt at serving industrial-scale meals in a small diner environment. The prints on the wall depicted greasy-spoon diners in their heyday:  black and white photos where all the men wore hats, and all the women wore dresses. Dan and Teri plopped down into a booth that featured a picture of a 50’s-era waitress who was giving the camera a sassy wink as she poured coffee.

“So what are we doing here?” Teri asked.

Dan shrugged as he stirred his soda with a straw. “Just needed a break.”

“It’s more than that. You haven’t said a word since we left the dorm.”

Dan removed the straw from his glass and took a drink. He ground the ice cubes individually with his teeth, the muscles in his jaw straining until the cubes shattered. His eyes looked everywhere except at Teri. She sighed, and leaned back against the wall, propping her feet up on the bench.

“You’re not disappointed about not going to my room, are you?” She asked.

Dan’s eyes met hers as he ground the last of the cubes in his mouth. “No, nothing like that.”

“Well, you should be,” she said, smiling.

Dan frowned. Was she serious? Was he? Yes! No. Maybe in some alternate universe, he would grab Teri by the hand and they’d run to her room to fumble in the dark and knock furniture around, but then what? A huge freaking mess, that’s what.  

“You know, I really don’t know how she can be like that,” he said.

“Sara? She’s always been like that.”

“Yeah, as long as I’ve known her,” he said. “It’s what made her stand out from other girls, you know? It just gets old being the butt of the joke every single time.”

Teri rolled her eyes. “Oh you’re such a baby! You know she loves you.”

Dan rapped his glass against the table. “That’s what makes it worse! It’s the easiest thing for her to make jokes at my expense because we’re dating and I’m the safest target.” He started waving his hands around and put a sarcastic edge in his voice “But can I complain? Oh no, that would be over-reacting! ‘Man up, Dan, she’s just kidding!’”

Teri shook her head and looked at Dan with an arched eyebrow. “And you’re not overreacting now? Dra-ma!”

Dan slapped the table. “No.” He pointed at Teri. “No, because you know what lies at the kernel of every joke she tells? Truth. Just enough reality to make it believable. When she says that she doesn’t mind loaning me out to her friends, and ‘oh by the way,’ have me carry her crap back to her when you’ve finished with me – on some level, there’s something that rings true, or else it’s not funny. On some level, I’m just some possession of hers.”

Teri folded her arms and shook her head. “You’re delusional. You know that? It’s just a freaking joke, Dan! Nobody would think of this stuff except you.”

Dan looked away and took another swig of his drink. Just then, pulsing buzzing sounds started coming from under the table. He stopped chewing the ice as he dug into his pocket, and brought out his phone. He pursed his lips as he read the faceplate, and put the phone back, still buzzing for attention.

“That Sara?” Teri asked. “You gonna answer her?”

Dan shook his head. “Let her stew. I hope she thinks we’re researching the next chapter of the Kama Sutra.”

“Well, real mature, Dan,” Teri said. “You’re a paragon of the ideal man.”

“Screw you.”

“Yeah, you had your chance, but you brought me here instead.” Teri pushed herself out of the booth and walked out, not looking back. The phone in Dan’s pocket began buzzing again.

“Hell with it,” he said, and eased further back into the booth

***

Dan knocked on the door and steeled himself. A bushy-bearded man with golden dreadlocks, beach muscles, and eye-watering body odor answered. It was said that everyone came to see Junky Jafar at least once in their college career, from the lowliest undergrad to the dean herself. Jafar was somewhere in his thirties, and had majored in every degree program at one semester or another. Rumor had it that he lived off of a trust fund, and that the university only tolerated him because he could legitimately claim to be Innuit, African-American, Latino, and a member of the Mayflower Society.

“Dan, right? Dan the Man, come on in,” Junky Jafar said. He gestured to a sagging hammock chair surrounded by stacks of textbooks and piles of empty salad containers from Pop’s. Dan eased himself into the hammock’s netting while Jafar sat on a floor cushion that looked suspiciously like one that had gone missing from the floor’s den at the beginning of the year.

“So,” Jafar said, turning down music that sounded like Middle-Eastern hip-hop.

Dan swung his chair in little circles, mindful of the books and trash. He told Junky Jafar about the night’s events, slowly at first, then all out in a tumble of thoughts that didn’t even make sense to him as he said them out loud. Jafar nodded along until Dan was finished. They sat without talking for minutes, Dan swinging and Jafar nodding to the beat of the music.

“Junky?” Dan said when he could take it no longer.

“Hm. You blew a chance with that Teri girl, but that’s okay.”

“What? That’s all?”

“You don’t really want to be a teacher either. Education is just not your thing. You should be Life Sciences, Agriculture research maybe.” He nodded and smiled. “Yeah, you’re a farmer at heart.”

Dan wondered how many of Junky Jafar’s brain cells had gone up in smoke over the years. “But am I right?” he asked, “About Sara I mean.”

Junky Jafar squinted. “You don’t think she owes you anything, do you? You’re not going to be like that kid in California that went psycho because he thought he was entitled to a date?”

“What? No.”

“Good, Dan, that’s good. I’d hate to roll you to the campus jack-boots. Smoothie?” Junky Jafar shook a tumbler filled with a green puree that smelled like garlic. Dan shook his head.

“This is one of those take it or leave it kind of situations, man.,” Jafar said. “You aren’t going to win this fight, because it’s how the girl just is. Can’t change that. So either you put up with it, or walk. Is she worth it?”

“I don’t know! This sucks.”

“Yeah, sucks to have a woman love you and feel comfortable enough around you to make jokes, and trust you enough to not actually go screw her best friend. Sucks that you care enough about her to give a damn what she thinks about you, enough that you’re thinking about her when you should be thinking about becoming an art historian.”

Dan kicked at the floor, sending him swinging into a pile of astronomy books.

“So you going to walk?” Jafar asked.

“No.”

“Then a word of advice:  when you go back, make it all a joke. Then come back and see me about changing your major. I can put in a good word with the Latin department head.”

Dan shook his head. “I got a mid-term in Grunwald’s Chem 204 tomorrow.”

“Grunwald? He’s a lazy bastard. All his exam questions are taken from the textbook problems he didn’t assign. Work those problems tonight and you’ll be fine.”

***

“You’re finally back,” Sara said. “How was Teri?”

Dan shrugged. “Fine, I guess. She recorded the whole thing and put it online under ‘phone hacked’ for extra publicity.”

Sara grinned. “Good. Now go get yourself cleaned up. I promised my friend Shorna you’d be up in a half hour.”

Dan snorted and picked up his class notes. “She’ll have to wait her turn with the rest of the fifth floor, I’m busy.”

“Well forget the whole thing then; all I really wanted was my sweater back.”

President of the Board

Image via Wikimedia Commons

Miles got the call at 6:25 in the morning, five minutes before his alarm was set to go off. He checked the number, and considered tossing his phone across the room, except that would just bring the caller to his front door. His wife, Katlin, stirred beside him but did not wake. A buzzing phone she could sleep through, but a doorbell? Miles chose the lesser of two evils and answered.

“Hello, Jack,” Miles said, rolling out of bed and stabbing blindly with a foot for his slippers.

“I prefer Jackson, Mister Riverside.”

“Of course, of course. What can I do for you?” Miles bit back a grunt as his bare foot crushed a piece of kibble the cat had carried into the bedroom as a midnight snack. He decided to forego the slippers.

“He’s doing it again,” said Jack in a distinctive nasally tone Miles had grown to loathe.

“Mister Breen?”

“No, George Washington. Of course Derward Breen!”

Miles shook some coffee into a filter and started the pot. He turned and stared in the direction of Jack’s house, clear across the neighborhood.

“I’m not certain what you want me to do.”

“You’re the president of the homeowner’s association, which bleeds me each January for over four hundred dollars. I don’t use the pool, I don’t care about the hedges and marigolds around the clubhouse, but I do expect something in return. Like maybe being able to enjoy an unobstructed sunrise in my back yard.”

Miles frowned at some stray coffee grounds that were working their way between his toes. Should he clean them here, or could he tiptoe his way to the shower without grinding coffee and cat food into the carpeting?

“Has Derward added any height to his outbuilding?” Miles asked.

“You mean his monstrous eyesore? No, but –“

“Then like we’ve discussed before, there’s nothing I can do. It meets the covenances.”

“But he’s standing on it! Chanting gobbley-gook and gyrating.”

“Did you ask him to stop?” Miles asked. He opened the fridge to get the creamer and found it nearly empty.

“Yes, but he just nods and says it’s a religious thing, which it is certainly not. He was Presbyterian up until he stopped coming to my church a year ago.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Miles said and hung up. He’d go see Derward after a trip to the grocery for creamer. There’d be no peace in the house if the morning coffee started without creamer.

*

Derward Breen’s gap-toothed smile greeted Miles later that morning.

“Hey, Milo, how’s it hanging?” Derward said.

“I got a call this morning from your neighbor.”

“Old Jackass? We should call immigration on him. I’m sure there’s a banana republic somewhere in the world missing its tin-plated dictator.”

Miles limited himself to a wan smile. Jack was known to record these confrontations, though Miles could never see where the cameras were hidden.

“Derward, you need to bury the hatchet with this guy. I’m getting ulcers.”

Derward began walking to a gate leading to the back yard and motioned for Miles to follow.

“You know, before he moved in, I used to have a dog run here beside the house. He complained because the dogs barked every time he took out the garbage. The man empties his garbage five times a day. A reasonable man might move the garbage cans, but the board sided with him, and I had to move my dog run. The grass never has grown back.”

Miles looked at the balding lawn strip, and sighed. “It’s in the rules, Derward.”

Derward pointed at a hose snaking its way from an air conditioner to a faded blue kiddie pool. “He complained that the water from my AC was soaking under the fence line and rotting out the boards, though we both know it wasn’t hurting anything. The board sided with him.”

“Fences are the responsibility of both neighbors, Derward. I get calls on them –“

“But the kicker was my hummingbird feeder. Unsightly, he called it. ‘Cheap plastic crap filled with noxious Kool-Aid.’ Move it. I didn’t. He took pictures and sent them to me, asking why I hadn’t taken it down ‘like we had talked about,’ even though I didn’t agree to a damned thing. Guess what happened.”

Miles pointed to the hummingbird feeder. “It’s still there, Derward. They just made you lower it to an allowable height.”

Derward spat. “And how did they know it was too high? Because Jackson sneaked over here in the middle of the night with a tape measure and camera to show it was six inches too high.”

Miles gestured to what up until now his gaze had purposely avoided. In the middle of the back yard, a scale replica of an Incan pyramid. Ten feet wide at its base, its five stone tiers rose up eight feet to a miniature temple just large enough to allow a man to stand on its roof. Miles peered inside the temple.

“Is that a Barbie doll inside there?”

“Human sacrifice. Come the solstice, I’ll squirt ketchup down the steps. See how Old Jackass likes that. “

Miles shook his head. “You can’t do this, Derward.”

Derward scowled. “Hell if I can’t. Last time I checked, this was America, and we have freedom of religion.”

“You’re a Presbyterian. What if an actual Incan moved into the neighborhood and saw this?”

“I’d let him use it, no charge.”

As Miles stared at the pyramid, he felt as if a camera had zoomed in on the back of his neck. His skin burned, and the vertebrae tightened. He tilted his head to one side, then the other in a futile effort to relieve the pressure.

“Derward, I just can’t do this anymore.”

“Aw, come on, Milo. You don’t have to come personally every time the neighbor calls. Just text me or something.”

Miles shook his head. “No, I mean I can’t be the Homeowners’ Association president for you anymore. I’m stepping down next month.”

Derward grabbed Miles by the shoulder. “I need you on that board to keep guys like Old Jackass off my back. They’ll concoct something to force me out of my own house.”

“Do you know that you’re not even the problem child in this neighborhood? I get chewed out five times a week by people who expect me to solve their problems because they can’t figure out how to get along with the strangers that live right beside them.”

Miles spread his hands. “I’m just done with it all.”

Derward pursed his lips for a minute, then chuckled. “I was about to say, ‘what am I supposed to do now?’ but I guess that would just prove your point.”

Miles inclined his head. “Just so. But I do have one last solution for you.”

Derward’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s that?”

“I’ll endorse you for my seat.” He held up his hands as Derward scowled and raised a finger. “Just hold on for a second. Now, it’s likely that Jackson will blow a gasket and run against you. He’s certainly threatened that with me enough times. So either you win, and gain some control over how the neighborhood is run, or he wins and gets to field irate neighbors’ phone calls for the next year. What do you think?”

Deward gnawed at his cheek, then gave a slow nod. “Okay, I’m game.” He scrambled up his pyramid and struck a regal pose on the temple’s roof. “I shall make Jackson call me ‘El Presidente.’ But there’s one thing I need to know: if I’m not the problem child in the neighborhood, who is?”

“There’s a feud between the Shaws and the Epsteins that was started over ten years ago with a rogue hamster, a field mouse, and a dryer vent. I can get you their file.”

Miles made to leave, but stopped at the gate. “Where did you get that thing anyway?” he asked, nodding at the pyramid.

Deward gave his gap-tooth grin. “I bought it when the Happy Frog putt-putt golf course shut down. It was hole seventeen.”

“Ah,” Miles said, remembering the place. “Hole seventeen. I always hated that one.”

Jason Wants to Go Fast

Image by SORG Rollstuhltechnik GmbH+Co.KG via Wikimedia Commons

The thing my mom doesn’t understand is that Jason wants to go fast. She’s always yelling at me to slow down because I’ll tip Jason over or get in an accident or something. She always pushes him slow, like they’re at the museum. She says he likes it, but she can’t tell, not really. She’s like forty years older than Jason, but I’m his sister and only two years older, so I should know what a kid wants. A kid wants to go fast.

It’s not like Mom doesn’t like going fast either. In the car, she’s always speeding and slows down only if her radar detector buzzes or if she wants to yell at a really slow car as she passes it. When we go to the amusement parks, I’m always the one that has to wait with Jason while she rides the Crazy Ivan (which isn’t even the fastest rollercoaster in the state anymore). She won’t let me ride on the Crazy Ivan, even though I’m tall enough. She thinks I’ll hurl, but I know I won’t because one time Grandma Prohofsky took me by myself and we rode it together seven times.

Jason would like it too, but Mom doesn’t believe me, which is funny because she knows when Jason is hungry, when he has to use the bathroom, and what his favorite TV show is. That’s pretty good, since Jason can’t talk, or use sign language, or use facial expressions much. See, my brother has this thing wrong with him that keeps him in a wheelchair when we go out. It’s got some name that I can’t ever pronounce right, so I’m not even going to try. But I’m not the only one, because it’s also named after some other guy who got it a long time ago. I can’t remember his name either. It would have been a lot easier if Jason had something like George Washington’s Disease, because everyone could remember that. Plus, they would think that he could be president someday, and they wouldn’t treat him like a retard.

Mom says I’m not supposed to say retard, like me not saying retard will make everyone else stop using it too. I’m also not supposed to tell everyone that Jason will be dead in five years, but that’s not going to stop it from happening either.

Jason gets his picture taken with the quarterback every year at this dinner at the college. He has, like, seven signed footballs sitting in his closet. We have coffee mugs from all the TV news stations in town from when Mom and Jason did their morning shows. Next year, Make-A-Wish is getting him a trip to Disneyworld and we all get to tag along. I’m sure he’ll get a picture with Mickey, though I think he really wants to be one of the pirates.

If it were me, I’d go to Italy and drive a purple Ferrari, but no one asked me. But they wouldn’t let me drive one anyway, because who would let a dying kid drive a Ferrari? What if she died and her whole body fell on the accelerator? Then she’d slump to the side, and the purple Ferrari would turn with her at 200 miles an hour, right into the Vatican. The Pope would not be happy, and he’d make sure you didn’t get into Heaven until your mom and dad fixed everything.

Today, we’re going to a waterpark with a bunch of other families who have kids like Jason. I think Jason would want to go on the waterslides, but Mom says I have to stay with her in the lazy river. The last time we went, my armpits got sore from the inner tubes, and my toes got all scraped up from dragging them on the bottom. Jason gets bored too, because his eyes just stop looking around after a while and he goes all zombie-mode until we get out.

I don’t want to go with the other families because it makes Mom feel bad. She gets nervous around the other parents, and gushes over their kids while getting crabby at me when I tell everyone how much worse Jason has gotten since last year, even though it’s true. She thinks people will get mad, but Jason has, like, permanent invincibility mode. Who gets mad at a kid in a wheelchair? Besides, you’re not allowed to be sad or angry until the drive home, or in your house if you’re carpooling. It’s a dumb rule.

The only good thing about going to the waterpark is that Gabrielle Hofstadter and her sister Lala will be there. Her mom and dad are friends with my mom, so we’ll meet up in the parking lot. Lala is about Jason’s age, and even has the same wheelchair, though it’s red and not blue. Gabrielle and I aren’t best friends, but we get along and like the same kind of pizza. We also know what her sister and my brother need: a race. Last year, we started on three-two-one, except Gabrielle went on two, and I had to dodge a family reunion taking pictures on the sidewalk. We lost by two seconds, and I was grounded for a month, mostly because Jason was giving me that goofy grin of his, and I cracked up while Mom was yelling.

The punishment was worth it then and it will be today, because Jason and I have been training all year and today, we’re gonna win.

A Campfire Song

Image by Lukas Riebling via Wikimedia Commons

Walt fed the campfire with twigs and dead pine needles, though it had taken a can of Sterno to get it started. Earlier in the hike, Marlin had pointed out a small hawk on the other side of a clearing that Walt couldn’t identify. The brochure’s rustic lunch tuned out to be PB&J. Whatever inherent mystique a Yukon trail guide might have, Walt was destroying it.

Marlin hummed a tune, watching for Walt’s reaction. The guide had to recognize the song. He had to.

“Cut that racket out,” Walt said.

Ah success. “Don’t you like the song?” Marlin asked.

“You’ve been carryin’ on with that nonsense since the trailhead. Christ himself would have told you to knock it off by now.” He tossed more needles in the fire and searched around his feet for more.

“I heard that singing or talking in the woods will keep bears away,” Marlin said.

“They’ll stay away just fine with or without you making jibber-jabber.”

“But, don’t we need to worry about bears?” Marlin asked. They both had guns strapped to their hips, though Marlin doubted his would do anything more than annoy any wild animal.

Walt adjusted a camouflage baseball hat while he looked around. “Dunno. We’ll put the food up in a tree and keep the fire going. If a bear comes, he’ll probably be too busy trying to get the peanut butter jar open to pay us any mind.”

“So then what?”

“We let him eat it, and run like hell back to the truck.”

“Won’t the bear chase us?”

“Never saw a bear more interested in people than peanut butter, unless they smell like bacon.” He fished around for another stick and poked it at the flames. “You got any bacon?”

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“Oh, right.” Walt paused. “Then why’d you hire out a fishing guide?”

“I eat fish, just not meat.”

“Fish is meat. Don’t see fish in the produce section,” Walt said.

“It’s complicated,” Marlin said.

“Must be. Never seen a fisherman with only one rod and two flies on a backcountry trip before.”

“I like to travel light.”

“Yeah? Then what’s weighing down your pack?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s the heaviest nothing I ever saw.”

Just notebooks, a camera, a digital recorder, and a tablet. But if Walt knew that, he might get spooked. He could decide to go underground again, and Marlin would lose his trail forever.

They sat by the fire, neither saying a word for what seemed like hours. Marlin began humming.

“You make that racket on purpose, or do you even know you’re doing it?” Walt asked.

“Don’t you recognize the tune?” Marlin found himself leaning in for the answer.

“Not hardly. Sounds like a drunk bee in a tin can.”

“Really? Nothing?”

Walt shook his head and went rummaging through his pack. He tossed Marlin a plastic-wrapped sandwich oozing peanut butter and then held up a Slim Jim.

“You want your jerky?”

“No, you go ahead.”

*

After dinner, Marlin tried drawing Walt into conversation, but the man would only reply with grunts and monosyllables. He gave up and stared up into the sky, watching the night’s first stars emerge as Walt’s knife rasped over a branch, peeling strips of bark into a little pile at his feet. More stars came into view as the sky darkened, and Walt’s whittling took on a steady cadence. Marlin followed a winking light through the sky, and was trying to decide if it was a jet or a satellite when he realized Walt was absently humming a tune in time to his knife strokes. The notes repeated every few seconds into a series, the series changing keys every third round, the song Marlin had heard hundreds of times, with words etched so deeply in his mind that he could remember them when his boyhood telephone number, his career record as a high school wrestler, and his second girlfriend’s first name had long faded from recall.

Marlin sat up and turned to Walt.

“You do know that song.”

Walt looked confused for a second, then scowled at the whittled stick. He tossed it into the fire.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Walt said.

“That was Baby, Can You Dig Your Man? by Rico Hayfield.”

“Hell if it was,” Walt said.

Marlin grinned.

“Probably just stuck in my head because you’ve been humming it all day long,” Walt said.

“No, you hummed it like you used to sing it, Walt. Or can I call you Rico?”

Walt’s shoulders slumped. “You with the IRS?”

“No, I’m just a fan.”

Walt gave a short, mirthless chuckle. “I’ll bet. You from some network wanting to do a ‘where are they now’ story? ‘Cause I’m not interested.”

“No. Just me.”

Walt nodded. “How’d you find me, anyway?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Marlin said. “A group of us met up on the Internet and pooled our clues together. Sightings, rumors, family history, that kind of thing. Then we divvied up the globe and started searching. I got Canada.

“Nothing happened for years, then I came across some guy’s pictures from a fishing trip, and he joked that their guide looked like Rico-what’s-his-name’s old man. When I looked, I knew it was you. The rest was simple.”

“What did your online buddies say?”

Marlin felt his face warm. “I held out on them. I wanted to be the first one to find you, and make sure it actually was you, and not some mistake.”

Walt dug at the bottom of his pack and pulled out a chrome flask. He smelled at the contents then held it out to Marlin.

“Well, you found me, congratulations. Share some Scotch with me?”

Marlin tipped the flask back, and erupted into a coughing fit.

“Yeah, it ain’t for everyone,” Walt said, taking the flask back. He took a swig and held it before him, sloshing liquor back and forth.

“Why’d you stop putting out songs?” Marlin asked. “It’s like you disappeared when your song dropped off the radio.”

Walt poked at the fire. “I had a song, and people liked it. The record company gave me a ton of cash as a signing bonus and promised a big check once the receipts came in. Figured I had it made, and plowed though money like every day was my last.”

“What did you spend it on?”

“Trips, feasts, friends, women, even a castle in the middle of a Scottish swamp. It cost, but why worry about bills when I could always write another song, right? Except when I sat down to write, nothing came out.”

“Writer’s block?”

Walt shook his head. “Nah. I think I just had that one song in me and didn’t know it. Took me a while to realize that, but by then I had lost everything but a bunch of creditors and tax men.”

“And you ended up here.”

Walt gave a little shrug. “The Yukon has always been a place to run away. Living is cheap, if you know how to go about it and, for the most part, no one asks questions. So while I may not be the world’s greatest trail guide, I get by.”

The Scotch started going to his head, so Marlin sat down. “You could go back, you know,” Marlin said. “There’s a small group of fans that’d be willing to help you get your problems sorted out. Maybe get you back touring again, even if is for that one song.”

Walt stared at him over the fire, then up at the stars. He took in a deep breath, and shook his head.

“No, too late for all that.”

“Everyone declares bankruptcy now, it’s like ordering a burger.” Marlin leaned in. “Your song is the thread that runs through my life. I can’t explain it, but through high school, college, and out in the world, something in your music helps me make sense of it all. I know others feel that way too.”

Marlin walked around the fire and put a hand on Walt’s shoulder. “You owe it to us to come back and sing again. Maybe you’ll find another song in you too.”

“I doubt it.” Walt put the flask away and hefted the food sack. “Let’s turn in for the night.”

“Will you let me help you get back to the real world?”

Walt looked at him and sighed. “I’ll tell you in the morning.”

“Okay.” Marlin stood and steadied himself against the liquor. “Need any help with the camp?”

Walt gave him a tight smile. “No, I got it. You just go and rest now.”

He was the first to find Rico Hayfield. Marlin watched the stars with the song echoing in his head before sleep took him.

*

The next day, Walt rolled a bundle into the ventilation shaft of a collapsed copper mine. The body would join that of a tax agent, a bounty hunter, and one other resourceful fan. Walt’s tongue burned where it had plugged the poisoned flask in a feigned a sip. That was okay; it would stop hurting in a week or two.

“You weren’t the first to find me, Marlin, sorry.”

He took off his cap and sang Baby, Can You Dig Your Man? before replacing the rusted metal grate over the shaft’s entrance. The fundamental truth of it all was that he had only one song in him, and too many bodies in the ground to risk leaving the Yukon and finding another. Walt didn’t feel sorry for himself; most people went their whole lives without finding a song of their own.

Neutral Ground

Image via Wikimedia Commons

Author's note: this story features characters introduced in Carne Fresco.

I stare at my number. It is printed on a thumb-sized slip of paper in the kind of ink that gets all over your fingers but never wants to wash off. My number today is G106. Yesterday it was H55. I wonder if the guy who replaces the roll of tickets in the take-a-number machine each night is trying to be funny, going backwards through the alphabet while time moves forward. Maybe he just grabs a roll at random. But then I think that can’t be right because the red LED display behind the counters has to read the same thing as the tickets or the system all falls apart. If there’s one thing the DMV values, it’s a system.

A man in a ripped-sleeve denim jacket stares at the ceiling. He’s mouthing words silently, tilting his head this way and that as if weighing them in his head. The words are short, single syllables all, but his head sloshes from side to side as if they weigh tons. The reason the DMV needs its systems are for people like him.

“The word of the day is …” he says out loud.

The younger woman sitting next to him taps at her phone’s screen. That’s what most people do while waiting for their number to be called. It used to be magazines or books, but now it’s all hand-held idiot boxes. Stimulus, response. She pops the gum in her mouth and sighs when she realizes the guy is waiting for a response.

“Is what?” she asks.

The man holds up a finger. “Boobs.”

“Boobs?”

He nods with a smile. “Ding.”

The woman shakes her head and turns back to her phone.
I’m sitting in a state-approved plastic chair three rows back. The two came in together, but took separate numbers from the ticket machine. I’m betting that they’re either father-daughter, or will be meeting at a motel after they renew their tags.

My knife rattles under my armpit.

“What?” I mutter. In this place, I don’t worry about looking like I’m talking to myself.

“At your 10:30, Angus,” my knife whispers. Balance is what’s known as a sentient magical construct, which is a mouthful way of saying it’s a talking knife. Very few are known to exist, and I believe it’s not only because they are difficult to forge, but also because they never shut up. I look ahead and to the left.

“The guy who’s creasing the spine on his paperback?” I say. Balance knows I hate people who mistreat books, and it never misses a chance to yank my chain.

“No, the guy next row up.”

I look past the abuser to a slight man in cargo shorts and a tank top. He’s got one leg crossed over a knee and an arm draped over the empty chair next to him. He’s smiling, and looks to be nodding to a tune only he can hear.

“So what?” I say.

“Well, doesn’t he seem a bit too happy to be here? You should go check it out.”

“Maybe he’s just on drugs.”

Behind the counters, the sign chimes and a woman calls out G19. Around the room, people check their slips of paper, and either sigh or resettle themselves in uncomfortable chairs.

“G19,” the woman says again, calling out loud enough to make me wince. No one moves.

“G19.” She looks from side to side, then presses a button under the counter. “G20.” A woman in a suit pops up as if prodded and rushes to the open window.

The man in the cargo shorts leans over to the book-abuser and shows him a slip of paper. They huddle in conversation, and a fiver is exchanged for the slip. Cargo shorts goes back to his internal music, and the book-abuser puts his paperback away, but not before turning down a page corner. If there is a tenth circle of hell, it is for people like him, along with people who talk at the movies.

“You see?” says my knife. “You gotta go check that guy out.”

“So he’s scalping numbers at the DMV. It’s not like it’s illegal. Even if it were, I’m not a cop,” I say.

Balance rumbles in its sheath, the knife equivalent of pouting.

The sign chimes.

“G20,” a man calls out.

Book-abuser and some kid in a burger uniform go to the window at the same time. There’s a pause, then both start arguing and shoving their numbers at the DMV guy, who squints at each slip through the thickest set of glasses I’ve ever seen. He looks over his shoulder at the display, and then waves book-abuser forward. Burger kid says something about civil rights and his congressman, looking around for support but no one meets his gaze. I feel sorry for his loss of innocence, but you gotta learn someday that life just ain’t fair.

Cargo shorts guy is still smiling, and starts whistling. There is a touch of fey in the air, and that should not be. There are rules about that kind of thing.

“Angus, come on,” says Balance, sensing it too.

“Fine you inanimate psychopath. I’m moving,” I say. It would be just my luck for my wise-ass piece of metal to complain to my boss and have me put on report.

Cargo shorts sees me coming down the aisle, but stays relaxed. I sit down next to him and stare at the arm he still has draped across my chair. His smile freezes for a moment and he stretches both arms above him, trying to make it look like a natural reaction.

“What can I do for you, officer?” he says, settling back in his chair. He wants to seem cool and collected, but he’s leaning away from me.

“I’m not a cop,” I say.

“You work for the Judicar’s Office.”

“But not a cop,” I say, “there’s a difference.”

Cargo shorts shrugs.

“What’d you give that guy just now?” I ask.

“I sold him G19.”

My stomach starts burning, and I wish I hadn’t run out of antacids earlier this morning. My annoyance from the book-abuser is starting to flow and imprint onto this guy. If anything, his smile grows as if he just took a hit of some really high-grade marijuana.

“He gave you five bucks. You need the money that badly?” I ask.

Cargo shorts smiles. “I felt the sudden need for a latte, and I forgot my wallet.”

“What brings you to the DMV?”

“I’m renewing my driver’s license.”

“I thought you forgot your wallet.”

“I’m in no hurry,” he says, and gives me that blissed-out smile.

“Lemme deflate one of his lungs,” Balance says. “Or better yet, even out the length of his fingers.” For the first time, cargo shorts looks a little uneasy. As his smile fades, my stomach settles, and I recognize what cargo shorts actually is.

“What was that?” he says.

“My conscience. Let’s cut the cute act, okay?”

He holds out his hands. “Hey, you can’t do anything to me here. This is neutral territory.”

When light and dark called a truce and decided to co-exist rather than burn Creation, they retreated into strongholds and established territories. There’s a reason vampires can’t go into churches and angels can’t walk down Wall Street. However, there are certain functions of life that transcend philosophies and ideologies, like the IRS, Mc Donald’s, and the DMV. Denizens from either side can walk in to the DMV and enjoy immunity from violence and even name-calling while getting their tags renewed or CDLs stamped. In fact, the building we’re in employs a Seraphim and at least one Death Eater, though on separate shifts. My boss, the Judicar, is responsible for maintaining that neutrality, which is why he sends me here when he’s pissed at me. Sending me to mind the DMV is like sending a SWAT team to read parking meters. So while cargo shorts is right, he is also wrong.

“You know,” I say, “last year an eefreet filed a complaint with the Judicar because it was denied a neutral job. It argued that it was the most qualified applicant, and was discriminated against because it served the dark. Wanna know what the job was?”

He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “Fire marshal. Wanna know why he was denied?”

“Because –“

“Because even though the Judicar makes sure neutrality is enforced, it’s not an idiot. Eefreets can’t be firemen, vampires can’t work blood drives, Seraphim can’t be marriage counselors, and ,” I say, lowering my head, “a vexing demon can’t loiter around the DMV.”

“But where else can I get my fix?” cargo shorts whines. I lock down my emotions. Vexing demons are little parasites that live on anxiety and annoyance. Related to gremlins, they feed on life’s little frustrations.

“Go sit in front of Walmart and harass people into signing some bullshit petition, or have a loud phone conversation in the park. I don’t care as long as you’re not doing it in neutral territory, or in a movie theater,” I say.

“The movie theater isn’t neutral territory.”

I crack my neck before responding. “Let me put it this way: if I catch you here again, I’ll haul you in to the Judicar and let you plead your case. You’ll lose. If I find you in the theater, I’ll give you to him.”

I pull back my jacket and let him get a look at Balance’s hilt. It starts rattling in its sheath.

“Strip the flesh, salt the wounds!” it says.

The demon swallows and leaves through the front door. I return to my seat behind the guy in the jean jacket and his younger companion.

“Takes all kinds, doesn’t it, Angus?” says Balance.

“And they all come to the DMV,” I say. “This place attracts nothing but boobs.”



“Ding!” says jean jacket.

Corncob and Michael Visit the Old Folk's Home - Part 4

Photo by Thomas Wolf via Wikimedia Commons

Corncob stood in Archie’s doorway with his arms folded, doing his very best imitation of a CIA heavy. It would have helped if he was wearing a suit with shiny leather shoes rather than torn work pants, muddy steel-toes, and a t-shirt with the Abbey Road album cover on it. He thought even a pair of sunglasses would have helped if only to armor himself against Archie’s narrowed eyes as Michael poked about. If the geriatric actually had the morphine stashed away, it was nowhere to be found in his room. Thankfully, Archie didn’t seem to have any weapons either because Corncob was pretty sure the old codger wouldn’t hesitate to use one right now.

“You ain’t never going to find it, so just piss off,” Archie said.

Michael went to the closet for the fourth time, listening with one ear cocked as he rapped on the walls.

“If you come clean now,” Michael said, “Special Agent X and I can make sure you won’t get sent to Guantanamo.”

Archie made a rattling noise with his mouth that sounded like a set of dentures getting in the way of a raspberry. “Now I know you two Nimrods aren’t with the government. Gitmo? The spooks only put towel-heads there. Citizens get put under Yucca Mountain with the Nazi rocket scientists.”


Michael paused and looked back at Archie. “What in the world makes you think there are even any Nazi rocket scientists still alive?”

“Not the originals, you idiot, their kids. There’s a whole colony of ‘em there under the mountain, except they’re not as bright as their parents, cause they’re all inbred. That’s why all them space shuttles blew up. They’re on the third generation now, and the government’s lucky if it can even launch a bottle rocket. So now they ship political prisoners there as breeding stock.”

Michael turned to Corncob and gave a hidden wink. “He’s remarkably well informed.”

“I don’t know, Agent Y,” Michael said. Impersonating a government agent was one thing, but besmirching the space program was quite another.

“Special Agent Y, you mean,” said Michael

“Bologna! You two rubes are as dumb as a box of rocks,” Archie said. “I made that all up.”

“Archie, just tell us where the drugs are, and we’ll leave,” Michael said.

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

Michael stood over Archie in his chair. “Try us”

Archie just smiled. “Nuts to you, Special Agent Goober.”

Michael’s shoulders bunched and for a moment, Corncob thought his partner might hit the old man. Then Michael straightened and held out his hand. He spread his ring and little finger, and peered through the gap like he was about to do a mind read. Not that Archie would know that, thought Corncob. Michael then let out a breath that might have been a laugh, and reached for his flask.

“Drinking on duty, Goober?” Archie sneered. “Or are we playing peek-a-boo?”

“You’re right, Archie, we’re not from the government,” Michael said. “We’re mages.”

Corncob checked the hallway to make sure it was still empty. “Michael,” he whispered.

“You going to pull a rabbit out of your whiskey?” Archie said.

“No. You see, I’m what you might call a kind of mind reader. My colleague over there does somewhat the same thing except with machines.”

“Mind reader? Fine. I’m thinking of a number between one and ten.”

“Thirteen,” Michael said, taking a swig. “You old liar.”

Archie’s eyes widened for a moment, then he shook his head. “Bull hockey! Lucky guess.” Archie folded his arms and glared back at Michael. Corncob didn’t believe it either. Michael’s magic was sedated, as was his own. At least he thought so. He tried to remember how long the pills were supposed to last, when he realized the doorjamb he was leaning against was whispering to him.

I was installed by a left-handed man. My middle hinge is loose. The outlet’s wire skin was nicked by a careless knife and now cries blue arcing tears -- I fear it will burn us all down soon. I wish I weren’t painted …

Corncob’s stomach lurched, and he glanced over his shoulder at Erasmus. Did the old mage feel that whisper of power? He seemed agitated. Was his face always that pinched?

“No sir, I don’t lie about my gift,” said Michael. “So I’m going to give you a chance to tell me where all the morphine is, or I’m going to go through your memory and find all your secrets.”

“Michael, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Corncob said. “Erasmus –“

“Is under sedation. He won’t feel us stretching our legs a little.”

“I don’t like it Michael. What if he wakes up and goes nuclear? He could fry our brains without even realizing it.”

“Duly noted.” Michael turned back to Archie. “So are you going to tell me, or do I have to expose all the skeletons rattling around in that skull of yours?”

Archie laughed. “There ain’t no such thing as magic.”

Michael sighed and shook his head. “Corncob, what do you call it when a guy believes there’s a Nazi space program under Yucca Mountain but says there’s no such thing as magic?”

Corncob thought for a moment. “I believe they call that irony, Michael.”

Michael nodded. “So they do, Corncob, so they do.” He raised his hand to his eyes, and peered between his ring and pinky finger at Archie. Moments later, the air whooshed from Michael’s chest and he bent at the waist with hands on his knees. Corncob ran to his partner and helped him steady the flask at his lips. Michael’s throat bobbed until the contents were gone, then he slowly stood and waved off Corncob’s support.

“There’s an AA chapter that meets on Thursdays in the ballroom,” Archie said. His arms were still folded, but in a way that seemed more nervous to Corncob than defiant.

Michael nodded. “Someday, maybe. But you know Archie? You weren’t kidding. I wouldn’t have believed you.”

“Believed what?” Corncob asked.

“It’s the dog. The dog’s running the whole show.”

“Wilhelm?” Corncob said.

“Appears so.” Michael said.

Archie’s jaw hung open. “You saw that in my head? The mutant dog and the lady from the Illuminati?”

Michael nodded. “Yes, and I know all about the fake fire extinguisher with all the jewelry you’ve filched over the years. You’d better hope a fire doesn’t break out on the second floor.”

“Wilhelm’s not a werewolf, is he Michael?” said Corncob.

“No. There’s no such thing as werewolves. At least not in any form you’d recognize.”

“Maybe he didn’t remember it right. Could it have been Nurse Thora?” Corncob said.

“Nope.”

“In my brain,” Archie said. His eyes worked from side to side and a look of horror came over his face.

“How do you know?” Corncob said.

“Because it’s a yeth hound, and it’s definitely not a creature that takes orders.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” said Corncob, “What’s a yeth hound?”

“But there’s no such thing as magic,” Archie said.

Michael turned to Archie and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay. If it makes you feel any better, focus on the moon landings. Those were faked.”

“Michael!” Corncob snapped. Michael just winked and gave him a wave.

“Sure, a soundstage in Hollywood. The moon rocks are just CIA-doctored meteorites. Anyway, a yeth hound is thought to be the damned soul of an unbaptized child, a kind of grave spirit. Their baying chills the soul, and the ancient Scots were said to run for safety before the hound bayed three times. And the yeth hound gets quieter the closer he is to his victims.”

“But how does it get into a locked med chest, and what does it need the morphine for?” Corncob asked.

Michael wiped at his brow. “From what Archie saw, it just noses at the lock, and it pops open. Nurse Thora takes the meds out and tosses it down Wilhelm’s gullet.”

“The moon?” Archie said absently. Then his expression hardened. “You don’t scare me, David Copperfield. You’re not getting my stash.”

“Archie, you have bigger problems than someone snatching your cubic zirconia. Yeth hounds are bad news.”

“Bad how?” Corncob said.

“Soul eaters.”

“Bull!” Archie said, and leapt from his chair. He dodged Corncob and shot into the hallway.

“Wait –“ Corncob said, but Michael pulled him back.

“Let him go; we have to get Erasmus out of here.”

“Okay, Michael.” Corncob wondered if he could take a car using his magic before Erasmus’ morphine wore off. If not, he’d just have to hotwire something.

“Strange thing is,” Michael said, “I thought yeth hounds took the forms of headless dogs.”

A scraping of nails on wood made them turn around. A glassy-eyed Thora stood in the doorway, resting her hand between Wilhelm’s ears. The dog shook his head, and Thora fell to the floor. He shook out his coat and regarded Michael and Corncob.

“You know how peasants embellish, mage,” Wilhelm said.

Corncob glanced around the room for a weapon, wishing the retirement home had been constructed with a hunting lodge theme; a boar spear would have been the very thing to have close at hand. Michael seemed unruffled, but Corncob thought he saw his partner’s lips tighten as he regarded Wilhelm.

“Is she dead?” Michael said.

“I must say it is so good to be talking to people on my side of the fence,” Wilhelm said. “With mundanes, they’re always carrying on, ‘oh no, a talking dog’ and all that rubbish. I don’t suppose you two follow the Premier League standings by chance?”

“We’re football fans,” Michael said, “not soccer.”

Wilhelm sighed. “Mages, but still American. Thora was never alive, just a construct I could manipulate. A flesh puppet, I believe you Yanks call them. Mundanes are so reluctant to give keycard access to those of us without thumbs. I’m glad to be rid of it. Splitting one’s consciousness between two bodies is so very distracting.”

“So why just the morphine, and not any of the other drugs?” Michael asked.

“Because morphine is a pure extract, and not a synthesized product. The additives and binders in those other drugs make me sick,” Wilhelm said.

“You eat it?” Corncob said.

Wilhelm panted in what must have been a canine equivalent of a laugh. “No, not directly. I use it for finishing off the livestock before harvest.”

“The patients, or at least their souls.” Michael said.

Wilhelm cocked his head and panted. “I doubt the farmer sees ducks as patients when he makes foie gras, though the principle is the same.”

“What’s foie gras?” Corncob asked.

“Gourmet food, Cornelius. They force-feed ducks until their livers swell, then make pate out of it.”

Corncob scowled at Wilhelm. “That’s sick.”

Wilhelm panted some more. “Really, mage, their inner lives are so much better: pleasantly euphoric, never bored, happy until the very end. And when their souls release, as they were going to anyway, they taste so much sweeter. Surely this is the most humane way to treat your unwanted elders.”

Wilhelm looked to each of them and sighed. “I can see you don’t agree, but it’s academic anyway. Time for me to move on.”

“The Brotherhood isn’t going to like you messing about with Erasmus,” Corncob said. “Your activity had to have caused him great pain.”

“The battle mage?” Wilhelm glanced over his shoulder. “I was fattening him up for a truly celestial meal, one that would have required me to cover my head with a napkin to hide my face from the Almighty. But I suppose this will be one of my many regrets.”

“To say the least,” Michael said.

“Let me tell you a secret,” Wilhelm said. “Now listen closely.”

Corncob inadvertently leaned in and stared in dawning horror as Wilhelm’s jaw unhinged, revealing a throat that could swallow bowling balls. The maw grew wider and the jaws split to the left and the right, filling the doorway. A sound no louder than a whisper but with the pressure of an ocean wave bowled him over. His limbs went numb and overhead lights faded. A hand grabbed at his shoulder, and Michael was there, pulling him to his feet.

“Find something to stop him!” Michael called, “I’ll keep him busy!”

Corncob searched around the room as Michael twisted at an oxygen knob built into the wall behind the hospital-style bed. Corncob grabbed at an armchair and hurled it at Wilhelm, who was drawing in another breath. The chair briefly lodged in its throat, then collapsed into splinters and was swallowed.

A tongue of fire shot from the wall where Michael held a conjured flame in his palm in front of the gas jet. Helldog spittle crackled and gums turned black, but Wilhelm’s jaws still blocked the doorway. Corncob put his hands on the bed, and reached out with his mind to release the brakes. He swung the bed around and launched it at Wilhelm.

Wilhelm bayed a second time. The flame died, and Corncob found himself sandwiched between the bed and the wall. His muscles went rubbery and the room seemed to fade into monochrome. Michael lay face-down on the bed, struggling to push himself up. Corncob stood and rolled Michael to the floor. He heaved the bed toward Wilhelm, but it slewed as it reached the doorway, jamming itself. Wilhelm’s long red tongue snaked out and curled itself around the footboard. Corncob pulled, but the bed didn’t move.

Corncob’s gift whispered in his head, and his eyes came to rest on a plain white box with molded handles slung between the bed’s wheels. His hands reached for the box as Wilhelm’s maw gathered the room’s air. Corncob’s hands slapped the box and came away with the handles, now two saucer-sized, shiny metal ovals with wires leading back to the box. A high-pitched whine cut through the dog’s growl.

“Clear!” he shouted, placed his hands on either side of Wilhelm’s wet nose, and depressed the button under his thumb. The button closed a switch, releasing a capacitor’s stored electricity. Blue plasma arced from the defibulator’s paddles through the yeth hound’s nose, transforming Wilhelm’s third bay into an ear-splitting yelp. The hound’s jaw closed and it took a step back into the hallway.

Corncob ran for the door, but Wilhelm lowered his head and knocked him off his feet.

“You’ll pay for that one, mage,” Wilhelm said. Yellow ichor flowed from its eyes. “Your pain will take you to madness as I pull your soul out like taffy.”

Michael heaved himself up. “You know what, Wilhelm? You remind me of a four-legged Jordan Montigane. Tossing magic around a place like this is like playing with matches at a bomb factory.”

Wilhelm growled and shook out his coat. His jaws distended, and the air rushed from the room. A wheezing shout sounded behind him, and the air around the dog seemed to shudder. Corncob felt a pressure in his head and he fell to the floor.

When his eyes opened a moment later, the room’s color had returned. A glittering white stone statue of Wilhelm stood in the doorway. The statue held together for a few seconds, then collapsed into a pile of salt. Across the hall, Erasmus’ open eyes regarded Corncob for a moment, then rolled back as his mouth opened in a wordless scream.

Corncob half-crawled, half-ran to Erasmus’ room and fumbled at the man’s IV pole. His fingers found the morphine drip’s control and his magic instantly told him everything about the unit. Erasmus gasped even as Corncob tapped in a code that shot more painkiller into the old man’s system.

Erasmus’s body relaxed, and the pain reflected in his face melted. Erasmus’ chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm.

“Damn,” Michael said behind him.

Corncob nodded. “Can you imagine how much power Wilhelm threw out to wake Erasmus from coma plus the morphine?”

“No, I mean he’s under for another three months now at least.”

“You wanted to leave him not too long ago.”

“Sure,” Michael said. “That was before I went through all this trouble. It would have been nice to know if the Packers were going to cover the spread this Sunday.”

“Can Erasmus predict stuff like that?”

Michael shrugged. “I don’t know, but it never hurts to ask.”

Corncob looked at the pile of salt across the hall and shook his head. “Michael, I beg to differ.”

Corncob and Michael Visit the Old Folk's Home - Part 3

Photo by Thomas Wolf via Wikimedia Commons

The linen room’s lighting was more yellow-gray than white, and the same could be said for the linens. Carts of sheets, pillow cases, and towels lined one side of the room next to a bank of washing machines built into the walls. Dryers on the adjacent wall leaked enough waste heat and humidity to make the room a bleach-scented sauna. The room’s only recommendation was its lack of staff and its location across the hallway from the medical supply room. Corncob wiped his forehead and tried to focus on the problem at hand.

“It’s one of those card reader locks, the easiest ones to fool,” he said.

“Yeah, if we weren’t trying to fight with both arms tied behind us,” Michael said. “I’m never agreeing to dampen my magic for even five minutes if we get out of this.”

“Big if. Tommy’s probably calling the cops right now.”

“Maybe he’ll figure we left on our own.” Michael tugged at the front of his t-shirt a few times, trying to coax in some cooler air.

“When did you become the optimist?” Corncob asked. Michael glared, but didn’t have any other response.

“It’s a steel door, hinges on the inside, with a reinforced latch cover. Can’t pry it open, can’t break it down.”

“What if we started a fire? Doesn’t fire code require the doors to unlock?”

“I think the door always opens if you’re on the other side. Sprinklers might turn on, but nothing otherwise. Besides, then what would we do with everyone evacuating and the fire department coming?”

“Improvise,” Michael said. “Same as we always do. What if we cut the power?”

“Nope. Those locks are probably fail-safe. They need electricity if you want them unlocked.”

“Well, hell.” Michael pulled his flask and unscrewed the top. Corncob put his hand on Michael’s wrist.

“Not now, Michael.”

Michael wrenched himself free and gave a little grin. “If not now, when?”

Corncob may have been able to stare Michael down, but their battle of wills was interrupted by a clomp-clomp and click-click-click coming down the hallway. Michael closed the flask and put it away. They peeked around their linen cart blind just in time to see Thora wave her ID at the scanner by the door. The lock buzzed, and Thora entered, leaving the dog outside.

“Back off,” Michael whispered. “The dog might smell you and start barking.”

“Through all this dirty laundry and bleach?”

“Maybe see you, then.”

“It can probably hear you, so shut up and get ready, I have an idea.”

“I’m going to request separate cells at the hearing,” Michael said.

Corncob groped in the linen cart and withdrew a towel. He coiled it around his hands and gave it a snap. Wilhelm’s ears perked up, and the dog took a step towards the linen room’s open door. He stutter-stepped and looked behind him, seemingly reluctant to leave the storeroom door. Wilhelm sniffed the air and took another step forward. Corncob’s thighs strained from the squatting, a slow fatigue that began burning. He focused on Wilhelm’s jowls, masking teeth that had been bred to take down wild animals, animals larger and fiercer than any human. He wondered if he could somehow jam the towel in Wilhelm’s mouth if it came to it, or wrap it around the dog’s head. He tried visualizing how he could do such a thing, but stopped every time he pictured the dog’s teeth sinking into his arm. Blood would coat the walls, the floor, the lights. His legs, now cramping, would collapse as he slipped in the stuff.

Wilhelm took another halting step, and Corncob knew his muscles had frozen. Michael said something, but the words made no sense to him; it might as well have been in another language. The dog took another step, its nose now sniffing along the doorjamb. Any minute now, it would bound in, snarling, probably lunge for his throat and –

The door across the hall opened, and Thora clomp-clomped out.

“Wilhelm,” she said, and snapped her fingers. The dog wheeled about and came to her side. She set off down the hall, and Corncob came to his senses. The door to the supply room was closing, and he whipped the towel across the hall. It sailed with a slow tumble and hit the door jamb, sliding to the floor. One corner wedged itself between the door and the frame, leaving a finger’s width gap.

“Hurry,” Corncob said, “there may be an alarm if the door doesn’t close in time.”

Michael rushed over and held the door while Corncob hobbled behind, promising his legs they could stretch and relax in just a few more seconds. Michael yanked him through the door and pulled it shut.

“You nearly missed,” Michael said.

“Been a long time since high school ‘ball.”

“Track and field too.”

“Let’s just get on with it.”

Numbered and lettered shelves ran through the room filled with alien-like plastic-wrapped objects, syringes, and little white boxes with no-nonsense black lettering. They ignored the first few shelves and moved to those with the boxes, staring at labels and trying to decipher their meaning.

“Why does everything end with ‘HCl?’ “ Corncob said.

“I don’t know, I only made it through high school chemistry by blackmailing the teacher.” Michael said, he reached out for a box, but Corncob slapped his hand.

“You don’t need oxycodone, Michael.”

“I was just reading the warning label.”

They made their way to the end of the aisle, and Michael clucked his tongue. “Here we are.”

He reached down and grabbed a box. He frowned, and picked up another. Then another.

“What?” Corncob asked.

Michael tossed a box over his shoulder, and Corncob struggled to catch it.

“You idiot! I could have – oh.” Corncob hefted the box in his hand.

“Empty. Every single one.” Michael said.

“Yeah, but they just replaced everyone’s dose on the floor,” Corncob said. “That would account for most of this stock.”

“So they take the meds out and leave pristine boxes behind? Do you leave empty boxes in the pantry when you’ve finished your crackers?”

“Okay, so what does it mean?”

Michael looked away, chewing on his upper lip. “I don’t know. It can’t have been like this for long. The first legit staffer coming for morphine will notice it’s all missing”

“Maybe the thief panicked and they’re clearing the stock before they make a run for it.”

Michael turned back and raised an eyebrow. “And leave the other stuff like oxycodone behind? If you were robbing a bank, would you only take the tens and not the twenties sitting right alongside?”

“If you’re going to call me an idiot, just say it. Don’t put it in the form of a question.”

“Just humor me. If you were robbing a bank … leaving a fat stack of twenties on the table …”

“If I were in a hurry, maybe.”

Michael grinned. “Then you’d be a terrible bank robber, Corncob. At least on your own.”

“Thank goodness I have you then, right?” Corncob said, deadpan.

“Absolutely. In fact, we should be leaving the scene of the crime, so to speak.” Michael got up and headed for the door.

“And then where?”

“Archie’s room. Let’s see if we can’t find his stash.” He pushed on the door latch and turned right into Tommy, holding a card up to the lock reader. The other man startled, then reached for his pocket and pulled out a phone.

Corncob shouldered Michael aside and slammed into Tommy. He bull rushed the larger man into the linen room as Tommy tried to get his feet under him. They crashed into a folding table, and his grip loosened for a moment. Tommy recovered first and grabbed Corncob in a headlock. The man’s grip was like steel, and he felt himself being maneuvered around the table. Tommy jerked and heaved Corncob toward the wall, and Corncob realized that Tommy was going to run him head-first into the concrete.

Corncob’s hands flailed for something to brace against, but every time his fingertips brushed something, Tommy jerked him away. He pummeled at the man’s ribs and back, but it was like hitting bread dough. Fighting every step, they were getting closer to the wall of dryers. He reached up and tried poking Tommy’s eye, but the other man leaned away, and he only grazed an ear.

“Corncob!” yelled Michael, who pushed an empty linen cart in their path.

Corncob grunted and put his shoulder into Tommy’s stomach. He surged forward and Tommy called out as they toppled into the cart. Corncob braced his hands on the cart’s opening and wrenched himself free. Tommy scrambled to get up, but was buried under a sudden avalanche of grey towels, sheets, and blankets.

“Quick, in there!” said Michael. He ran to a storage closet and opened the door. As the mountain of laundry churned, they pushed the cart into the closet and slammed the door just as Tommy’s arm found its way free. A folding table’s legs squealed and stuttered across the floor as Michael and Corncob maneuvered it in place, jamming the door shut.

“Thanks,” Corncob said, and took a swig from Michael’s offered flask. Whatever the contents were, it burned all the way down.

“De nada.” Michael took a swig of his own before screwing the flask’s top back on. The closet door boomed as Tommy slammed against it, but the table held.

Michael picked up Tommy’s phone. “Well that’s interesting.”

“What?”

“No recent calls out. It doesn’t look like Tommy called the cops.”

“Maybe he used the phone at the front desk.”

“If you had the sheriff on speed dial, would you haul yourself even across the room to use a land line?”

Corncob looked around for a handy towel to throw at Michael. “You’re doing it again, Mike.”

“Michael, you mean. Sorry, fella. Come on, let’s go see Archie.”

The pounding and muffled cursing continued behind them as they closed the door. Michael shook his head.

“What now?” Corncob said.

“Tommy. He’s shouting lines from the movies. If a man’s going to use death threats, he should at least make them original.”

The door to the linen room closed, and the two headed for the stairwell.

Corncob and Michael Visit the Old Folk's Home - Part 2

Photo by Thomas Wolf via Wikimedia Commons

“Get away from there. That’s very expensive stuff. Expensive,” Tommy said.

“What’s he on morphine for?” Michael asked.

“Can’t tell you.”

Michael raised a hand to his eyes, getting as far as looking between the middle and ring finger before he remembered that he couldn’t scan Tommy’s thoughts.

Tommy scowled. “That some kind of fancy way of flipping me the bird? You flipping me the bird?”

“It’s a nervous tic he has,” Corncob said. “We’re Erasmus’ nephews. Can’t you tell the family why he’s on this stuff?”

“You got a POA?”

Corncob looked at Michael, who seemed as perplexed as Corncob felt.

“No you don’t,” Tommy said. “If you did, you’d know.”

“What’s a POA?” Corncob said.


“It’s a medical power of attorney,” Thora’s voice said as she entered the room. “It’s a document that lets you make medical decisions for another person.” She smiled at them. “Without one, I’m afraid we can’t discuss your uncle’s medical treatment for confidentiality reasons.” Wilhelm padded in behind her, and wedged himself between Corncob and the IV stand, forcing Corncob to take a step back. Wilhelm sat on his haunches and looked to Thora.

“They were messing with the drip,” Tommy said. “Maybe they’re the ones.”

Thora peered at the machine on the IV pole. “Looks fine to me. And I doubt they’re who you’re looking for, Tommy. They just got here.”

“Could be part of a gang. Would explain a lot, if they were a gang.”

“Well it looks fine to me, Tommy. Don’t worry, Wilhelm will help me keep an eye on them.” She winked at Corncob as she said it, but that didn’t make him feel any better.

Tommy grunted and walked to the doorway, stopping as he looked at the clock. “Visiting hours are over in twenty minutes, got it? Twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes, Corncob.” Michael said and wiggled his phone. Corncob understood Twenty minutes until we miss Erasmus’ window for who knows how long?

“I’m sorry about all that,” Thora said. Michael arched an eyebrow at her. “Tommy’s a little on edge lately.”

“Seems like he was accusing us of something,” Michael said.

“I really can’t go into it,” she said. “Confidentiality and all that. Just take it from me that Tommy’s not a bad a guy, really.”

“I can understand that,” Michael said. He leaned back in a chair and spread his hands. “Normally, Corncob and I are quite confident that Uncle Erasmus is in great hands. However, I’m quite sure no one in the family was consulted on the morphine drip. Did you ever hear anything about morphine, Corncob?”

“No, Michael.”

Michael’s voice went quiet. “Now I can’t go into specifics about the family, I can say that if any member authorized this treatment, they would have informed us. Likewise, I cannot specifically talk about what the family has or has not done in situations such as this. In general, I can imagine an investigation and quite possibly a lawsuit developing.”

Thora’s lips tightened. Wilhelm stood with ears pricked forward. “I see,” she said.

“Now, without getting into specifics,” Michael said, “I can talk about the situation in general, if you take my meaning, Thora.”

Thora’s shoulders relaxed. “I think I do.”

“Good!” Michael said as if they were best friends, “Now in general, if Tommy were to get overzealous and we found ourselves in the custody of the police, what do you think we would be charged with?”

“I think you would be charged with trespassing, theft, and possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute.”

Michael sucked in air through his teeth. “Well then, I’m grateful that you came to our rescue. So how long would this have been going on?” Thora tilted her head and smirked. “Theoretically, of course,” he added.

“I only know what I’ve seen on TV,” Thora said, “But on those shows, I get the idea that people start noticing after about three months.”

“Any clues?” Corncob asked.

Thora shook her head. “Whoever they are, they know how to get around all the security checks.”

“Would that also have to do with why our Uncle is on medicine he doesn’t need?” Michael said.

Thora reached out, and patted Erasmus’ hand. “I don’t think so. A few weeks ago, he was in such pain, the doctor prescribed the drip. I don’t know how any thief could manage that.”

Corncob opened his mouth to say something but Michael caught his attention and gave the barest head shake.

*

The vending machine was one of those old-fashioned jobs that didn’t take bills. Corncob recognized that it used purely mechanical means to count his coins rather than sensors and a miniature computer. It was a machine that he could understand intuitively, even without his magician’s gifts. It also meant that even if his gifts weren’t dampened by the red pill Michael had given him, he still wouldn’t have been able to convince the machine to give him back his money.

“No chips for you,” Michael said, taking another swig from his flask.

“Gimme a quarter,” Corncob said.

“Do I look like a bank? He-ell no.”

Corncob slapped the machine and collapsed into a padded vinyl chair. “Mister Mortimer is not going to be pleased.”

“Mortimer can kiss my ass. Someone somewhere screwed the pooch, and it sure as hell ain’t my fault that Erasmus is hooked up to opiates. At the very least Mortimer should have given us one of those POS things.”

“POA,” Corncob said.

“Whatever. I say we leave. Tell Mortimer what happened here and let him send someone to deal with the morphine in time for the next window.”

“We need to figure out what’s going on. What if Erasmus has a warning?”

Michael leaned forward with a scowl. “In his state? He’d probably tell us to be on the lookout for jazz-crazed narwals coming to take our gummy bears. His predictions are useless until he’s detoxed.”

“And yet, I still listen to you,” Corncob said, eying Michael’s flask.

“Damn straight. Take it from me, I’m an expert.” He took another drink.

Again with the bottle, Corncob thought. Michael didn’t even need the alcohol to quiet the voices, since he had taken his pill too. Just a drunken, stubborn man now that couldn’t think straight. The thought led to an idea.

“I don’t think we have that kind of time,” Corncob said. “Erasmus is one of us. If we were him, we’d want us saving us.”

“Huh?”

“We’re supposed to be the Brotherhood, not the punt-it-to-leadership association.”

“Would you feel any better if we changed our name to that?”

“Are we supposed to look out for each other or not?”

“We … dammit, Corncob, it’s not that simple.”

“Well explain it to me while we’re on our way.”

“Our way where?”

“Checking out a hunch.” Corncob hauled Michael up from his chair and pushed him into the hallway. “I’ll look left, you look right. Count how many patients are hooked up to morphine drips. If it’s under a dozen by the time we reach the stairs, we can go home.”

Corncob’s heart sank while they walked down the hall. It was so easy to lead a drunk, just get them off balance and give them a push. Michael hadn’t even realized they were heading away from the stairs.

*

“I still say you cheated,” Michael said. “How do I know you weren’t padding your tally?”

“You don’t, but you still counted fifteen yourself, so shut it.”

“I still don’t see how this is our problem.”

“It’s like an opium den around here, and you’re not worried about what it could do to a battlemage?”

“Ex-battlemage.”

“Sedated battlemage in a lot of pain and unpredictably disoriented should he ever awake.”

Michael opened his mouth, and then closed it. “Point.”

Corncob allowed himself a small smile. “Thank you.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“Normally, I’d ask the morphine drips to tell me what they knew, but that’s out, as is you rifling through the memories of the staff.” Corncob pounded the back of his head against the stairwell. “I don’t know.”

Michael looked to his left, and stuck his head into the hallway. “What if I told you I just saw someone sneaking out of a room that was definitely not its drugged resident?”

“Who?”

“Our pal Archie.”

Corncob smiled. “You mean the one resident currently not drugged or playing Pai-Gow?”

“The very one.”

*

They hid around the corner as they watched Archie dart from room to room, spending no more than a minute in each. The old man moved with a speed and agility of a man twenty years younger, though his eyes didn’t seem capable of seeing Corncob peeking through the holes in a nearby sculpture.

“What I don’t get is what the guy’s taking,” Corncob said. “He’s not carrying anything in his hands, and his pockets aren’t bulging as far as I can tell.”

“Maybe he’s just an old perv,” Michael said.

“He’s going into both male and female rooms.”

“Maybe he’s a very liberal old perv, or at least not very picky.”

“He could be stuffing it down his pants.”

“That’s what I was saying,” Michael said.

Corncob looked back at Michael and narrowed his eyes. “Not that, you fencepost. Maybe that’s where he’s hiding the morphine.”

“Ew.”

Archie disappeared around the far end of the hallway. Corncob waited a moment, and then motioned Michael to follow. As they peered inside the rooms, the lid to each resident’s morphine drip stood open, the display scrolling SUPPLY EMPTY … ALARM MUTED.

“It doesn’t add up,” said Michael. They stood near the stairwell, speaking with low voices. “I don’t care how sneaky the old bugger is, he can’t have gone this long without getting caught.”

“Well, let’s go upstairs and ask him about it,” Corncob said.

“And why would he tell us anything?”

“He already thinks we’re spooks of some kind. Think you can convince him that we’re the kind he wants to cooperate with?”

Michael smiled. “The easiest thing in the world is to confirm a paranoid’s delusion that everyone really is out to get them. You just stand behind me and look large while I do the talking.”

But as they reached the top of the stairs, Tommy stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

“Have a good visit gentlemen? Good visit?” he said.

Michael put on a smile. “We just stopped for a quick snack. I’m hypoglycemic, you see, and if I don’t eat I get a little uh,”

“Unstable? Annoying?” Corncob murmured.

“Excitable,” Michael said.

“Yeah, I’m on low carbs myself.” Tommy patted his ample stomach. “That caveman thing with lotsa meat. What do they call it?”

“Neanderthal?” Michael said.

Tommy’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Paleo. That’s what it’s called, Paleo.”

“Well it sure looks like it’s working,” Michael said. “Anyway, we’re going to pop back into our uncle’s room, if that’s all right.” He took a step toward the door, but Tommy didn’t budge.

“Visiting hours are over,” Tommy said. “Ended at 4:00.”

“My phone’s in his room. We’ll only be a minute.”

“Visiting hours are over, that means no visitors.”



Tommy took out a phone and held it out. “This is my phone. It has the sheriff on speed dial. While I’m getting your phone from your uncle’s room, you two are going to wait in reception. When I give you your phone back, you are going to leave, right? You’re not going to make me use speed dial?”

Michael sighed and turned to head downstairs. Tommy stayed in the doorway until Corncob followed suit. At the next floor, Michael looked back, and ducked into the hallway.

“Mike! He’s going to be looking for us if we aren’t in the reception area when he can’t find your phone.”

“Michael,” Michael said absently. “We’ll say we got lost on the stairs.”

“We’ll be arrested.”

“For what? Getting lost on the stairs?” Michael waved him off. “I thought I heard something.” He did a double-take as he passed a resident’s room, and then turned in.

“We were just in there,” Corncob said. “Archie’s already hit it.”

“Lookie here, Cornelius.”

Corncob followed Michael into the resident’s room. The woman hadn’t moved as far as Corncob could tell. She lay under a thin sheet, mouth slightly open, chest barely rising as she took in slow breaths. Pictures of grandkids in stilted elementary school portraits, a crucifix s over the bed, and a TV tuned to a reality show – sound muted. Nothing seemed disturbed, even the morphine drip was happy.

“Ah,” Corncob said.

“We were gone, what, two minutes? Who replaced the meds?”

They walked down the hallway, glancing in each room, finding full and happy morphine drips.

“I wonder where the supply room is for this stuff,” Corncob said.

“Just look for a solid door with a reinforced lock. It usually says AUTHORIZED PERSONEL ONLY.”

“Know a lot about drug supply rooms?” Corncob asked.

Michael gave a little shrug.

Heavy footsteps came crashing down the stairwell.

“Well, we better find it fast,” Corncob said. “That’s Tommy.”

to be continued ...