Chapter Nine

It was four o’clock in the morning (or as I like to call it, lunch time) when I received an unexpected visitor at work.

This was normally the loneliest part of my day, but with the carnival season nearly upon us, an occasional late-night drunk, early-morning carnie, or any combination thereof was no cause for surprise. I didn’t even notice when the door opened. I was at the drink machine, filling up a diabetes-flavored frozen concoction while the microwave loudly hummed its way through defrosting my burrito.

As soon as I took my first sip of concentrated sugar and purple, something caught my ear—the repetitive grunt grunt grunt from the front of the store like someone pumping iron. I turned around but couldn’t see anybody from this side of the grocery shelves. Either this customer is terribly short, I thought, or the racoons have figured out how to get inside the store again. I put down my drink, crutched up, and made my way to the entrance to see what kind of trouble had found me.

The man at the front of the store was hunched over a burlap sack, with long and skinny arms extended and hands clutching the fabric on either side. With each full-bodied heave, the massive bag slid slightly further across the tile floor. He grunted forcefully with each exertion until he’d reached the center of the room. With a triumphant sigh, he released the bag and stood erect, his bones cracking like bubble wrap beneath a heavy boot. He had his back to me, and for a moment I considered sneaking away before being noticed. 

He was tall and thin, dressed in all black, including skinny dress pants, an overcoat, and an old-fashioned top hat which somehow never fell off, even when he cocked his neck and started shaking his head like he was trying to get the water out of his ears.

“Can I help you, sir?”

The man spun around to face me before I’d gotten the entire question out. He was pale, with wild eyebrows and unkempt mutton chops. His left eye was fully covered by a solid black eye patch on brand with the rest of his funereal wardrobe. When he saw me there, he made a toothless smile from ear to ear and sang, “Jack! My old friend! How have the years been treating you?”

He tiptoed over to me, extended a long, bony arm, and grabbed my free hand, shaking it so hard I nearly lost balance. I had no idea who this guy was, but I was willing to gamble that it would be a short interaction, so rather than risk the embarrassment of asking how we knew one another, I made vague pleasantries.

“I’m good. As you can see, I’m still here. Just waiting for my lunch to heat up.” He smiled and nodded along with my words. I tried fishing for clues to his identity. “What about yourself? What have you been up to since...? How long has it been?”

“Oh! I’m so glad you asked! Ever since our last encounter, I’ve been a busy beaver, that’s for sure! I just cannot shake the entrepreneurial spirit. Invention runs through my blood! Opportunity knocks at my soul! Now, I know you weren’t terribly impressed with my last creation, so I went back to the drawing board, and I think you’re going to be wowed by what I came up with this time!”

This overly-animated man in front of me was far too old to sound so chipper. But I remembered being here before. I remembered feeling this same sense of pity and concern and wondering how long I needed to put up with a sales pitch before the man would leave me alone. Then it hit me.

“You’re the guy who brought in the baby elephant a couple months ago!”

He flinched. “It wasn’t a baby elephant. Why do people— You know what? Never mind. Please, take a seat and prepare to have your mind blown!”

I worked my way behind the counter as the old man rubbed his hands together like he was trying to keep warm. As soon as I’d fallen into the chair, he began his pitch. “For eons, mankind has sought to discover the answer to the universe’s greatest mysteries. Where do we come from? Where are we going? What is our purpose on this planet? For too long—”

“What’s in that bag?” I asked.

He froze up. “What?”

“That duffle bag on the ground? It looks like it’s moving.”

“We’ll get to that part later. For now, I’m… uh... What was I saying?”

“‘What is our purpose on this planet.’”

“Right. Well, I… You know what? You’ve thrown off my groove.”

“Do you want to start over from the beginning? I promise I won’t interrupt this time.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” (He didn’t sound like he believed that.) “Why don’t I just jump to the end?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Allow me to present to you, my newest creation! I call it, the miniman!” He reached into his inside coat pocket with all the dramatic flair possible for such an act, and pulled out a mason jar. “Voila!” he exclaimed, setting it on the counter between us.

When I finally got over how spacious his inner coat pocket must have been, I took a close look at the glass jar. The metal top was riddled with small holes, as if he’d gone at it with an icepick. Inside, a tiny pink humanoid creature, no more than four inches tall, sat cross legged between a small rock and a leafy twig. The naked creature looked up at me with bulbous eyes positioned on either side of his head. His nose was a couple of tiny slits over a wide mouth filled with jagged hook teeth. A thin line of black fur ran from his forehead all the way down his back. His hands and feet looked unsettlingly human.

It stood, pointed at me, and started making mewling noises.

“What the hell is he saying?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not a linguist, but I think he likes you.”

The tiny human-thing picked up the rock, held it over his head with both arms, and started bashing it against the side of the jar. The man in the top hat chuckled nervously, grabbed the jar, and shook it until the creature had dropped his rock and fallen down.

“Hey, don’t do that,” I said. “You’ll hurt him.”

He dismissed my concern with a handwave. “It’s okay, I’ve got others.”

“Where did you even find a homunculus?”

His pale face went even paler. “A what?”

“A homunculus. That’s what this is, right?”

The man balled up a fist, shoved it into his mouth, bit down, and muffle-screamed as the homunculus pointed at him and laughed viciously. Once done, he turned his attention to me and asked calmly, “You mean that these are already a thing in this world? What did you call them? Homunculuses?”

“Homunculi. And no, not exactly. They’re considered mythical creatures.”

“Oh!” he threw his head back and laughed. “So you haven’t domesticated them yet? I’m still ahead of the curve on that, right?”

Plonk!

The jar fell onto its side. Before either of us could stop it, the homunculus had run up the curved edge and begun rolling its habitat down the counter like a hamster ball, squealing with delight the whole time.

“STOP HIM!” shouted the man in the top hat.

I made a small effort, but by the time I’d leaned forward and stretched my arm, the thing had already reached the edge and rolled off. 

As soon as I heard the glass shatter, my body went into super defense mode. I grabbed my crutch, found the closest corner, and prepared for a fight. The man in the top hat fell to the ground on the other side of the counter, shouting, “We can’t let it escape! If this thing gets out, it could wreck an entire planet’s ecosystem!”

I couldn’t help but clock the word choice. Not “the” entire planet’s ecosystem, but “an” entire planet’s ecosystem. I didn’t have any time to dwell on that though, because an instant later, the creature came sprinting around the counter, coming straight for me. I almost feel bad about what happened next.

Without thinking, I smacked him with my crutch like I were pitching a golf ball. He squeaked and bounced off the safe, then the wall, then skidded to a stop by the drawers below the counter. He rolled onto his feet, shook his head, then looked up just in time to see me slam the empty coffee cup over him (upside down, of course—I’m not a monster).

“Got him!” I called out.

The man in the top hat came over to where I was guarding the coffee cup. “Under there?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“Good.”

He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a second mason jar. Seriously, how much room is in that pocket? He unscrewed the lid and gave me a nod. As soon as I’d pulled up the cup, the creature made a frog-jump for my face, but the man in the top hat scooped him into the jar mid-leap. After a few shakes, the creature finally calmed down. At long last, it sat in the cross-legged position facing me and giving the double middle finger salute.

“How strange,” remarked the man. “I’ve never seen it do that before.”

“Yeah, for some reason most things around here end up flipping me off at some point. I’m almost used to it now.”

He placed the jar back into his jacket pocket and said, “There’s still so much to learn.”

“It sounds to me like you haven’t gotten all the kinks worked out yet. Probably not a good idea to bring something to market if it’s so good at escaping and ruining ecosystems.”

“Oh!” he laughed. “You misunderstand. The minimen aren’t for sale yet. We’re still years away from that stage. I’m just looking for investors. That’s where you come in.”

I laughed. Or rather, I yelled out the word “Ha!” in such a way that he couldn’t have mistaken the undertone. “Look man, I don’t know why you keep coming to me, but you’re searching for water in a desert. If I had money to invest, I wouldn’t be eating a microwave burrito for the fifth time this week. Why don’t you try out Kickstarter? I’m sure the internet is full of people willing to buy tiny monster people.”

“I can’t,” he said solemnly. “I’m banned for life.”

“They banned you from Kickstarter?”

“From the internet.”

“That makes a lot of sense.”

“Indeed. Okay, on to the next order of business. The sack!” He stuffed the jar into his pocket, danced over to the burlap sack by the door, grabbed it with both hands, and laboriously dragged it up to the counter. Once he’d caught his breath, the man continued, “Last time I was here, I purchased a number of your ‘lawn gnomes.’ Alas, it was wrong for me to ever assume I could control their power. I would like to return them now for a full refund. Plus interest, if possible, but I’ll understand if you can only give me the cash. I can’t remember how many I purchased, but if there are any extras you can keep them.”

I looked at the overstuffed bag squirming on the ground.

“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t do refunds on gnomes. I can maybe give you a store credit or trade-in for more gnomes if there was something defective about them.”

“More gnomes? You have more of them?” His single eye opened wide, horror evident on his pale face. I pointed at the gnome display towering behind him. He looked for only a split second, then turned back to me.

“Jack, your building is teeming with these things! Do you have any idea what this means?!”

“None whatsoever.”

He shook his head sadly, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a long black walking cane. He leaned onto it long enough to say, “I suppose this will probably be the last time I see you. It’s been fun. Have a great rest of your life.” With that ominous message, he turned and walked out the door.

I took my time eating my lunch before starting on the mess he left behind. After sweeping up the broken glass, I turned my attention to the duffle bag, only mildly surprised to find that it was completely empty.

 

***

 

“You want whipped cream?” Rosa asked, shaking the can in anticipation of my answer. Her long hair was tied into a French braid, spilling out the back of her black beret—a nice touch and sharp reminder that I forgot to dress up for the occasion.

“Sure.” She started blasting the instant I gave her the go-ahead, drawing neat little concentric circles of foam on top of my ice cream sandwich. She handed me the plate then got to work making one for herself. This wasn’t what I had initially expected our book club meetings to look like, but I’d be lying if I said I was disappointed.

Our current book under review was a French sci-fi political thriller about a scientist who clones Napoleon Bonaparte ninety-six times and raises the army of French commanders on an isolated island so he can take over the world—or something. We’d only made it to chapter four by this point and the author still hadn’t fleshed out the “why” of the story. All we knew for sure was that he really liked Napoleon Bonaparte (and this was before we even got to the Napoleon-on-Napoleon “romance” scenes).

Brother Riley was excited to let us use New Pages for our venue, and Rosa really played to the theme. She made paper Eiffel-tower decorations and “Napoleon Bon-appétit sandwiches,” consisting of chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry ice cream crammed between two cookies and topped with whipped cream. She also brought her Frenchiest French music, a YouTube playlist of accordion instrumentals. All in all, it would have been a pretty enjoyable event, if not for the fact that one of the part-timers had suffered a minor dismemberment, forcing me to cover all of his shifts for the rest of the week.

Rather than cancel our plans, Rosa came up with the idea to host the inaugural book club gathering at the gas station before we traded off shifts.

She showed up shortly after the morning rush, and we dived right into a deep discussion about the finer nuances of political symbolism. (Ha. Just kidding. We spent about half an hour trying to decide whether it should be “Na-clone-eon Bonaparte” or “Napoleon Clone-apart.”) I had just finished my sandwich when Rosa dropped a complete non sequitur.

“You know,” she said, “the carnival starts this week.”

“I heard.”

“Well, I’m not doing anything on Wednesday.”

What a weirdly specific thing for her to brag about, I thought.

“Okay.”

She smiled and raised her eyes as if to insinuate something. “Well?”

I was utterly lost. “Well what?”

“Do you maybe want to go to the carnival with me on Wednesday?”

I weighed the question over in my mind. The last time I went, I barfed on a carnie and got separated from my foster family. I vaguely remembered getting lost after trying to take a shortcut through the woods and finally hitchhiking back into town a few hours later. I was eight or nine at the time.

Rosa was patiently waiting for an answer, but for some reason I couldn’t think of one.

“The carnival? This Wednesday? Um—”

She looked away and said, “Unless you have other plans. That’s cool.”

“I think I’ll probably be working all day. You know, because Leroy’s in the hospital and I have to cover his shifts until we get another batch of part-timers.”

“Oh, right,” she said. “Of course.”

“But... maybe? I’ll ask the owners and see if I can get some time off.”

“No, don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal.”

“Heya Jack!”

We both looked up to see the man grinning at us from the other side of the counter, camo paint streaked across his face and a rifle tucked under one arm.

I narrowed my eyes and said, “Travis.” It wasn’t a greeting. It was a statement.

He pointed with his chin at the pints of ice cream behind the counter and asked, “What’s that for? Y’all doin’ a fundraiser or something?”

I answered quickly, hoping to intercept the conversation before Rosa shifted back into friendly mode and gave Travis an opening to exploit.

“They’re for a private event.”

“Ah, sweet. How much for a scoop?”

“They aren’t for sale. They’re for a private event. As in, not public.”

Rosa chimed in (I couldn’t stop her), “They’re for the book club!”

I could see the gears turning in Travis’s head and knew what he was going to say before he even got there. “Book club? Well shit, I’d love to join y’all’s book club.”

“Really?” Rosa asked skeptically.

I gave up on subtlety.

“Banned. Travis. You’re banned.”

He seemed genuinely surprised. “What? Again? What’d I do this time?”

“No, not ‘again.’ Still!”

“Well what do you want me to do, Jack?! What do you expect from me?! How am I supposed to stop being banned when you won’t even let me back in the building?”

“You’re not ‘supposed’ to stop being—”

“What’s your sign, Jack?”

“What?”

“Because me? I’m an Aquarius. That means I’m a water sign. What about you?”

Oh my God. He’s serious.

“I’m a Leo. I guess.”

“No you’re not, Jack. Be serious; you’re clearly a Pisces or a Cancer. That’s the thing about us water signs. You can’t tame water. We’re full of passion, ya see? But you know what? Water only ever comes with a storm.”

“That is objectively untrue.”

“Dammit, Jack! You’re really starting to piss me off! Here I am out here on my day off, doing a public service for the community. The least you can do is show some appreciation!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you didn't hear? There’s been another sighting of the bat dog.”

Hang on a second… An eerie sense of déjà vu washed over me.

“Bat… dog?” asked Rosa.

“Well, it might be a dog bat. Jury’s still out. Either way, someone saw it again a couple nights ago. Big creature with the wings of a bat and the face of a dog. They say it glows green like a mutant ninja turtle. Spotted it last night over by the GCTP.” He pulled out his phone and started flicking through pictures.

He handed the phone to Rosa and said, “You can zoom in if you like, but don’t go swiping unless you wanna see a picture of my love muscle.”

“Your what?” Rosa asked innocently.

“You know, my cream machine? My womb broom? My fun trunk? My meat mace? My gut-harpoon?”

Hang on a second… An eerie sense of déjà vu washed over me again. Travis was still going, “My man missile? My kickstand? My Dale and his Earnhardts? My wobble knob?”

“Travis,” I said. “We’ve done this before.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But you didn’t really give me a chance to do right last time.”

“No, I don’t think you understand. We’ve done exactly this before. Haven’t we?”

Rosa placed the phone on the table and made a sour face. “Oh my God. Do you guys smell that?”

Travis shook his head.

“Guys, I’m serious. This all happened about a week ago. You don’t remember? It’s the doe urine. Travis soaks himself before he goes hunting and it gets all over his phone case.”

Rosa stared at her hand. “Doe urine? Why?”

Travis looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“Would you like me to get you some wet wipes?”

He looked even more confused. “Naw. Why?”

She turned and walked away, just like I expected. As she left, Travis stared hard and muttered, “I’ll bet my left nut she’s a Libra.”

“Hey!” I snapped my fingers at him.

He looked back at me, held out his free hand, and formed a fist. “Niiice, Jack.”

I stared at it. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to compliment you. Give me some dabs, dawg.”

“Compliment me for what?”

He let his fist retreat to his side. “Are you serious? Hold up, are you two not—” He made the junior high gesture for copulation, poking the finger of one hand into the hole of the other repeatedly.

“No,” I said, emphatically. “We’re just friends.”
“Jesus, Jack. You’re hopeless. You know what your problem is? Your problem is that you can’t see what’s right in front of you. Typical Sagittarius.”

Your problem is that you can’t see what’s right in front of you.

A chill ran up my neck. “What did you just say?”

“I said: typical Sagittarius. But don’t worry. I got this whole thing figured out. This is how I’m gonna earn your forgiveness. You need a wingman. Just listen to me and you’ll be tongue-punching the o-boxes left and right in no time! Sound good?”

I reached the end of my line. Again, the words spewed out of me without consulting my brain first. “No, Travis. I don’t need a wingman. I don’t want to ‘tongue-punch the o-boxes.’ I don’t want your help. I want you to respect the boundaries I put in place and stop trying to mine forgiveness out of me! Your presence isn’t a favor; it’s a burden! You are not entitled to exoneration, and you have no right to dictate the terms upon which you may earn it. Should I ever feel gracious enough to change my mind, I will seek you out. Until then, stop bothering me!”

I knew I’d finally gotten through to him. I could see it in his eyes. I could feel it. And when he spoke again, he sounded sincere.

“Shoot, man. I’m sorry. Look, forget about the ice cream, okay? I really just came in here because I wanted to ask you something.”

“Next time, call.”

“I will. But, ya see, it’s about Clyde.”

“You mean the sheriff?” 

“Yeah, we’re all getting a little concerned on account of how nobody’s seen him in a couple days. He ain’t been right ever since that day on the Robertson farm.”

“Ain’t been right” was a strange way to say that the sheriff was finally behaving like a decent human being. I heard all about his sudden and unexpected peripeteia. He loosened up with all the stupid power moves, started splitting the workload more fairly amongst his deputies, and even purchased the plumpest goose in all of London for the Cratchit family’s dinner. (Okay, that last one wasn’t real, but he did drive all the way out to see me at work the next day just to offer a backhanded apology: “Sorry if you got upset by the way I talked to you last night. It was stupid of me to treat you like one of my own men.”)

The sheriff, it seemed, was trying to be better. That, or he was afraid of something. Either way, I didn’t really care. I was just happy to have O’Brien back on her regularly scheduled gas station duty. 

“So?” I asked.

“So. Rumor says you were there that night. Maybe you saw something? Maybe you know what happened to him?”

Rosa returned to my side with the box of cleaning supplies. Travis didn’t dare look at her.

“Yeah,” I said. “I was there.”

“Yeah? And?”

“I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”