SHORT STORIES
My jowls are saggy today. Look at them. Droopy, fleshy, wrinkly things that used to be cheeks. Disgusting.
I remember a fews years ago, when I wasn’t sure whether to do Botox or Xeomin. But I decided every once in a while, you want the comfort of a brand name.
So, it’s time for a Botox appointment. I want it today, right now. But I heard from Mary Shingles that costs are running as high as 4 days, 25 minutes per injection, per person. Expensive.
It was decisions like these that I hated. How many days will they charge? How many hours? How many minutes? Is it worth it? I wonder if there was ever a time when people didn’t have to pay for things with days of their life. I guess there was. We learned about it in school, right?
It was something about resource control, and population control. Something about balancing the scales. Solving both problems at once. The more resources you take up, the less time you get to live. I think people got scared when Mumbai ran out of food. Or was it Shanghai? Anyway. It was a long time ago, and now I have to decide whether to exchange 4 days, 25 minutes of my life for a Botox injection.
These decisions were easier when I was a kid. Give up a day of your life in exchange for a banana-seat bike? With a basket? That’s worth a full week, easy. Back then, you just don’t think about it. Pay a day if you need to, it’s future you’s problem. Not that I ever really bought anything big back then. I was happy with my bike. Well, my bike and food. But meals are minutes; they’re nobody’s concern. Those minutes add up, of course, but you’re going to be dead a lot sooner without food.
Now that I’m not a kid anymore, things are different. If you want to flatter me, try calling me “middle-aged.” I’d look it, too, if I went to my appointment today. But sagging jowls aren’t the only thing that’s different. What they don’t tell you about being my age is that you want more things. A house, a couch. A car. Botox. All cost weeks, if not years, to purchase. The older you get, the more you buy, and it makes the little time you already have even shorter. But what am I supposed to do about it? I can’t have nothing.
Well, I guess I could, if I were one of those essentialists, whatever they call themselves. They sometimes live to be 90, sure, but what fun is that if you sleep in a tent or one of those pathetic micro-homes? I bet they don’t even give themselves spa days. Or exfoliate.
At the same time, you don’t want to be like the McAllisters. They used to live on Sycamore, you know, in that beautiful home on the corner with the grand colonnades and the resurfaced pool. They died two days ago. Mr. McAllister lived to be 39. Mrs. McAllister might’ve gone at 36. All from buying that house.
And where did they go? That’s the big question, really. If you’ve got an answer, tell me. Did they die on the spot, “poof,” leaving their cold bodies on their clean marble floor? Did some secret agents shoot them with lethal injections in the middle of the night? Some people think when they get your vitals for your countdown bracelet, they implant a little chip without you knowing, and it kills you when you spend all your days. But I don’t really like to think about that. All everyone knows is that once the bracelet says 00:00, you’re gone.
Speaking of which, where was my bracelet? I always kept it in my purse, the seafoam green one. Yep, still here. I could wear it, I guess, but it says something about you if you do. Shows you’re stingy. Or life-conscious. Obsessed with your mortality, that sort of thing. It’s not cute.
Plus, I knew I had lots of days to spare. I kept a mental note; I was pretty good about it. Other people aren’t so good—like the McAllisters.
“Danica?” a voice called from downstairs.
It’s Rafa. Guess he was out again. He’s out a lot, which I like. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a sweet man. And he has the most gorgeous taste. He can turn a college dorm into a 5-star room in 20 minutes. And he knows it. Which is good. I don’t have to pretend to be a good wife by reminding him.
He does the same line, over and over again—“I just love taking care of beautiful things.” That’s why he said he fell in love with me. Corny, sure, but I fell for it. I’ve always been drawn to men who can take care of their own things. If you want to find a good husband, find someone who makes their bed every morning. I think my spiritual advisor told me that. Or Adrienne from yoga.
To take care of beautiful things, Rafa had to buy them, too. He walked through the entryway, carrying a brand new ceramic blue bowl. Sunlight glinted off the rim and cascaded around the hollow surface as he walked, revealing what looked like tiny aqua jewels embedded in the smooth ceramic.
He placed the bowl on the living room table, perfectly. Not a flinch of hesitation, nor a second thought of rearranging. It matched perfectly with the throw pillows and the window panes.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, taking a step back and crossing my arms. “Now what are we gonna do about the wall?”
It’s fun to encourage him—he likes the challenge. And I like his beautiful things. Rafa smiled, and glanced up at the blank wall above the mantle.
“I drove down Sycamore today, through Canyon Estates,” he said, approaching the bare wall. “Everyone’s doing a yard sale. I think the neighborhood's trying to buy some time back. They’re spooked by the McAllisters.”
“Are you saying we should go?” I asked.
“You asked what to do about the wall, so…”
“How much was the bowl?”
Rafa’s smile thinned. He hated when I asked about price.
“I don’t know, maybe five and a half.”
“Hours?”
“Weeks.”
I knew the answer to the next question before I asked.
“Do you have your bracelet?”
“Nope.”
“Rafa, honey, I told you it might be a good idea to bring it when you go out, at leas—”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. So are we going to this yard sale or what?”
...
It was beautiful in Canyon Estates. Not that our neighborhood wasn’t, but wow. This place was special. I bet nobody here got to over 65, just to pay for the land.
We turned onto Sycamore, and parked beneath a canopy of golden trees. Rafa was right: all the garages were open, people bartering luxury goods like they were raw meat at a flea market.
Only one garage wasn’t open. The McAllister's. Well, if you could say the house was really theirs still—a large “For Sale” sign swung silently on the grass. There was the grand mansion, all alone on the corner of Sycamore, its winding driveway leading up to an elegant glass doorway that sparkled with the reflection of golden trees.
“What a house. Sort of...Renaissance, don’t you think?” Rafa asked as he strutted by. He stopped in front of one of the grand colonnades, stretching two stories high.
I didn’t say anything. I was peering into the front window, that looked in on their exposed kitchen. Smooth marble, and even smoother granite, crystal blue. Pots and pans hanging from a ceiling mount, swaying slightly in the breeze lilting through the window.
Mr. and Mrs. McAllister would’ve been cooking in that kitchen two days ago. Singing, maybe. I can see him put his arm around her back as she makes him fried eggs. The perfect house, the perfect life—if you want to pay for it. I bet they died on that cold, crystal blue granite. And then where did they go?
“Honey, look at that,” Rafa said, pointing to another house.
Someone was selling their Aston Martin, parked proudly atop a sloped driveway flanked with gravel. The car was a sleek blue-grey, with sharp, pointed headlights.
“Wonder how much that’s going for,” Rafa said quietly, but loud enough that I could hear him.
“Aren’t we here for wall decorations?” I asked politely.
“Yes, yes.”
A man holding up an array of gold-cased shower curtain rings caught Rafa’s attention. As he wandered over to him, I felt my eyes shift back to the McAllister’s. It was such a beautiful home, even more idyllic from a distance. Imagine if I were in that kitchen…
Right then, I noticed there WAS somebody in the kitchen. I took a closer look, and squinted my eyes through the bright sunlight. Yes, there was someone there. A woman, wearing a blazer. She was wiping down the blue granite. Is someone living there? Already? I started to walk toward the house, when—
“Danica! Danica! Come look at this.”
I knew what it meant when Rafa’s voice got like that. He’d found another beautiful thing he wanted to take care of. We walked two houses down from the McAllister’s, where a young man with a blond ponytail, no more than 35 years old, was still setting up his little yard display.
“Do you see what I see?” Rafa asked, nodding his head toward the garage.
Leaning up against the garage door was a huge rectangular painting. The first thing I noticed was the blue. It was our blue. Blue ocean waves crashing against a soft beach, and a hard horizon line splitting the painting in two. All the blues—the sky, the crystalline water—converged in the middle, to make a color exactly like our interior accent color at home. Exactly like the ceramic pot Rafa bought today. Exactly like the blue granite at the McAllister’s.
“I like it,” I said, trying to hold back my voice. I glanced at the man with the blond ponytail. With these sorts of things, you don’t want to show them how much you want something. Rafa didn’t get that.
“It’s perfect,” said Rafa, marching over to pick up the painting. He turned to the ponytail. “How much?”
“For that? One year, three months,” the ponytail man said. He had a trace of an accent. Swedish? Swiss? I don’t know.
Rafa’s hands were already pulling the painting toward him. “I’ll take it—”
“That seems steep,” I jumped in. Rafa hates when I do this. But someone has to.
The ponytail man folded his arms. “I paid two years for it. This artist is a big deal, you should see what he’s selling for in Malibu.”
“Honey, it’s fine. I’m paying for it,” Rafa said with a little nod.
“Do you have your bracelet with you?” I asked, knowing the answer again.
“No…”
“Then how do you know it’s fine?”
“Well...do you want to pay for it?” he asked.
That was new. I mean, I always paid for my own things. But not house stuff, you know, beautiful stuff…that was Rafa’s realm...
Rafa glanced at me, then back at the painting. “We need this. Look at it. But you’re making me nervous. And I guess I haven’t checked in a while...have you?”
I rummaged around in my seafoam green purse for my bracelet. I pulled it out, and checked the number. 7,891 days left. I could buy it, if I wanted. But is it worth 400 days? Just for a painting? I looked up to see Rafa staring at me.
“I can tell you don’t want to. I’m getting it. Put it on my tab,” Rafa said, turning to the ponytail man.
He held out his thumb to the seller, as was custom. The ponytail man brought out a small scanning device, and Rafa held his thumb down on it. Almost instantaneously, the ponytail man’s bracelet clicked, and a small light flashed on it. The man smiled. He just got another year and 3 months to live.
“Thank you, sir.” The ponytail man grinned and handed Rafa his next beautiful thing.
The painting looked as perfect on the wall as I imagined it. I mean, it was Rafa’s vision, but if you live with someone long enough, you start to think their style is your own. He had it perfectly framed so that a soft blanket of light kissed one of the edges. I wasn’t as sure about his ceramic bowl before, but now it all made sense. It all worked perfectly.
I sat on the couch, staring at the painting. The more I looked at it, the more my mind started to swirl into that crystal blue water. My eyes pierced the firm horizon line, where the water touched the sky. As I stared at the horizon, I saw something there that I didn’t notice before. A small island, so small you could barely see it. A little speck, a pebble-sized interruption of an otherwise perfectly straight horizon line.
I wonder why I didn’t see it before? I kept staring at that little dot, so far away, yet so obvious now I knew it was there. I wonder if that’s a real island? Has anybody been there? Could anybody go, if they wanted? My thoughts melted deeper into the water. I drifted asleep wondering if Mr. and Mrs. McAllister were on that island.
...
When I woke up, Rafa was gone. He usually is, like I said, and I could always tell. But this time, I wanted to see if he took my advice.
I wandered up the stairs, rubbing sleep from my eyes. It was almost sunset already—I had napped longer than I thought. I walked into our room, and into his closet. I reached above the shelf with the collared shirts and brought down a shoebox: the box for his favorite white shoes, with the blue suede accents. He wore them on our first date.
Yep. There it is, inside the shoebox. His bracelet. I knew he didn’t take my advice. He never does. I checked the number on the bracelet. It was lower than I thought it was. Which means it’s definitely lower than he thinks it is. And much lower than my own.
As I walked back down the stairs, two feet per step as it’s been the last few years, I heard the sound of Rafa’s car pulling into the garage. I tucked his bracelet into my pocket.
I sat back down on the couch, and stared up at my—our—perfect painting. My eyes couldn’t look at anything but the little island on the horizon. I think I met the McAllisters there in my dream, but if anyone says they “think” they remember a dream, they’re lying.
Rafa walked through the entryway with a little grin on his face. That grin could only mean one thing, that he’d bought something. But this time, I didn’t know what it was.
He walked up to the painting without saying anything. It looked like he was about to readjust it on the wall, but he restrained himself. His first instincts are always perfect with those things, and he knew it.
Then he turned around, and tossed a pair of silver keys at me. The grin on his face grew wider.
“What are these?” I asked, rubbing my drowsy eyes.
“Guess,” Rafa said.
I wish he’d just tell me. Nobody wants to play a guessing game after a nap.
“Oh...you bought that car, didn’t you. The one at the yard sale. The Aston Martin.”
“Guess again.”
I was too sleepy for this. Rafa could barely contain his excitement. He sat down in the plush white chair directly underneath the mantle and the perfect painting.
“I bought the McAllister house,” he said, breaking into a full smile.
Any drowsiness I had left was slapped out of me.
“You did what!?”
“I bought that house. I was looking at it today, and realized their color scheme is perfect. It’s what I’ve been wanting all along. Did you see the blue granite? In the kitchen? It would match perfectly with our furniture, and—”
“How much was it?” I asked.
“Think of what we could do with all that space. I toured today, and—”
“You toured today? That’s where you went when I was asleep?”
“Well yeah, they had a realtor there. You saw the for-sale sign, right on the lawn…”
So that’s who I saw in the house today. A realtor, wiping down the countertops. Rafa was still talking, his eyes glowing.
“...I was looking around, on the tour, and they had a wall that was just perfect for this painting. For this painting! That we got today! It seemed like it was meant to be.”
“How much was it?”
“...We can move these sofas into the open floor plan, you know, next to the kitchen, and—”
“Rafa. How much was it?” I asked, firmly.
Rafa stopped talking. His eyes were still darting around, looking at all the beautiful things in our house, our perfectly good house, that he couldn’t wait to take care of in an even better house.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” he said, barely looking at me.
“It’s not fine. I need to know. How much was it?”
Rafa looked at the floor.
“10,000 days.”
I gasped. Rafa jumped -- he wasn’t expecting this reaction. I never overreact.
“What? I know it’s a lot…” he said.
I fumbled my words around in my brain as I fumbled for his bracelet in my pocket. “But, but...you don’t have that many days. You should be…”
Before I could grab the bracelet, Rafa stood up, and put his hand on mine. I looked up at him.
“You should be dead,” I said.
“I know,” Rafa muttered, eyes shifting, “but you’ve been making me paranoid about it lately, so I did something else instead.”
His eyes moved around, looking at everything except me.
“I split it between us. 5,000 days each.”
My stomach dropped to the floor. I pulled Rafa’s hand off my arm.
“You did what?!”
“I’m sorry! But I figured I wouldn’t have enough days, and I didn’t have my bracelet on me. But I didn’t really need to, I knew I wouldn’t have enough. So I thought, you know what, this actually seems right. We’re married, we should pay for this house like a married couple. 50/50 split.”
“But I didn’t even say I wanted the house!”
“I saw you looking at it today. Every part of you wanted it. I know the look you have when you really want something.”
“How did you even spend my days? I wasn’t with you!”
“Well, I came back home before signing the deal. I wanted to ask you first. But you were asleep, and you looked so peaceful, and...I know you keep your bracelet in your seafoam green purse. The one I got for you three years ago to match with your Guccis, remember?”
“So you used my bracelet without me knowing? You gave up 5,000 days of my life, while I was asleep?”
“You still had plenty. A lot more than me, anyway.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t check your bracelet.”
I fished in my pocket, and pulled out Rafa’s bracelet. I held it up to him.
“I don’t care about that. We just bought something beautiful. Together.” Rafa said, gesturing for me to put his bracelet away.
“Check the number,” I said.
“I’ll take care of the house. I’ll take care of you. You never have to worry.” Rafa’s eyes weren’t darting around anymore. They were locked on mine.
“Check the number,” I said again.
Rafa took the bracelet from me. He turned it over in his hand once.
“I wish these came in blue,” he said.
He finally looked down at the number on the bracelet screen. When he did, his eyes went somewhere. Somewhere far away. Maybe all the way to that island on the horizon in the painting. They were there for a second, but then they came back. He glanced at the bracelet again.
“Well, it’s not zero,” he said, with a chuckle.
His eyes moved away from the bracelet slowly. He looked up at me, the beautiful thing he said he would take care of.
“Think of how perfect our life will be in that house,” Rafa said. “Wouldn’t you want a few minutes of perfect, instead of a lifetime of mediocre?”
He gestured around our house. Our mediocre house. With the ceramic bowl glinting with jewels, the plush white couches, and the pristine new painting with the island on the horizon.
I thought of the McAllisters, out on that little island. The more I looked at it, the more I realized the island wasn’t as little as I thought—in fact, I could see the whole thing clearly now. I could see the rocky crags crashing against the foaming water. I could see the McAllisters standing there, waving at me. They were beautiful, just like the painting. Their lives were beautiful. They made sure of it.
Rafa was staring at me, waiting for me to answer him. Waiting for me to tell him how much I wanted that perfect house. That perfect life. And what was I supposed to say? I can’t have nothing. So I might as well have beautiful things.
That’s when I decided to get my Botox appointment. If I was going to die soon, I didn’t want it to be with saggy jowls.
Garrison Grey rolled his cloth out on the table. There’s the extractor, retractor, and the trocar. The gooseneck and calvarium clamp. The aneurysm hooks and, of course, the brushes. Down at the very end. His brushes. Every size for every occasion. He flicked the tip of one, checking its firmness. He watched the fleshy flakes fall off the sides.
You can get some decent money with a degree in mortuary science. Garrison Grey certainly did. And the best part was, he got to make something. Impressions, he called them. He rather liked that word, impressions. Reminded him of The Dutchman.
Garrison Grey knew his impressions were art. Look at his tools—thick brushes, nice round palette, and the canvas—right there, under the chartreuse blanket. It was really somewhere between chartreuse and olive, but not quite fern. Exotic.
Nobody came down where Garrison Grey worked. Too cold, they thought. Smelled like something. This was his place. His studio.
But even with his studio and his brushes, Garrison Grey knew there was a problem. A problem with the impressions themselves. They didn’t last.
The impressions were gone when they went away in the boxes. Yes, he knew they got some exhibition time. A museum of black and tears; he’d never been, only heard. His work went on display upstairs, the centerpiece of the gallery among the vases and veils. But exhibition was over in a few hours, and the impressions went away, into more boxes, and deep, deep down where no more eyes could see.
But Garrison Grey didn’t let this bother him. He had another occupation. On the side, of course. It paid well too, if he were to brag. But the best part was he got to make impressions of a different kind—ones that were meant to last, with paint and palette knife.
He kept these other impressions in their frames, inside one of the large capsules in the wall. Kept them cold, preserved. Nobody checked, really—this was his studio, after all. He took them out when it got late, and spent all night working on them.
His latest was The Potato Eaters. A perfect replica of The Dutchman’s fine original. How striking. Pensive. The Dutchman was Garrison Grey’s favorite artist. Look at the impasto, the perspective. Can have nothing but respect for The Dutchman.
Garrison Grey had other names for him too, of course. The Vincent Van, or sometimes just The Van. But The Dutchman was his favorite. Lots of money in his name, and easy enough to make the impressions look like the originals. Impressions of post-impressionism, Garrison Grey liked to call them. Made him chuckle.
But enough about The Dutchman. Garrison Grey should be thinking about his main occupation. The one he got a degree for. He re-checked the brush, no fleshy flakes anymore. He attached the trocar to the pump-tube, and waited for the crimson and scarlet to ooze out.
He glanced at his canvas, still under the chartreuse-olive blanket. The Dutchman made such excellent use of chartreuse and olive. So mature in his strokes—and Garrison Grey knew just how he did it…No. Forget The Dutchman until tonight, get to work on this impression.
Garrison Grey started with the wrists, his usual routine. Some shading, fleshy pink. Well, isn’t this a clean one. The blanket fluttered over his hand as he worked. He continued up the arm—a little indigo and azure here—oh, that’s no good. Bruises and boils, the B’s they shouldn't see. Fleshy pink to balance it out.
Now on to the hands. Most important part of the body, according to Garrison Grey. So much to work with. Crinkles and creases and cracks. These were tired hands, though. And fingernails that long? Must’ve been an inch, flaxen-mustard yellow. That won’t work with the palette. Need to cut them off. But that’s not a job for here, have to take it upstairs. Work around it.
Garrison Grey carefully lifted the chartreuse-olive blanket back over the arm. He left half the hand out, a reminder to cut the flaxen-mustard fingernails. He removed the blanket slowly, carefully off the face. Always careful when dealing with the original. Slowly, carefully…
Garrison Grey took a step back. He almost dropped his thick brush. Several fleshy flakes fell to the ground.
Orange hair, slicked back. Not even marmalade, this was orange. Sunken cheeks, more than usual—it’s only been two days. Orange beard, too, flecks of gray.
It looked like The Dutchman himself.
No, no, this can’t be. What’s The Dutchman doing here? He died on July 29, 1890. No, this isn’t possible. He’s gone. He’s been gone. He can’t—does he know? Garrison Grey looked at the glassy emerald eyes. He knew.
Garrison Grey shuffled over to the large capsule in the wall. Punch in the code, open the door. Good. Still there. The Potato Eaters right at the top, where it should be. Striking. Pensive.
He walked back to The Dutchman on the table—no, it’s not him, stop that. Stay focused. It’s just like any other canvas. Right there under the chartreuse-olive blanket. Garrison Grey leaned down over the orange beard with gray flecks. Pale face, sunken cheeks. Same orange hair, slicked back. For the first time since he got his degree in mortuary science, Garrison Grey didn’t know how to start the impression.
He decided he had to see something. Just for good measure. He walked back over to the large capsule on the wall. Three letter code, open the door. He shuffled through the other impressions in their frames. Starry Night, The Potato Eaters. No, no, not those. Where are they? Self-Portrait with Straw Hat. Self-Portrait with Pipe and Glass. Ah, yes, here they are. All here. All sold.
Wait, here’s one more. Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear…yes. This is the one. The best seller.
Garrison Grey left the large capsule door open and walked back to his canvas, the best seller in hand. He grabbed an aneurysm hook and two positioning devices, and hung the painting on the white wall, right above his canvas. He examined the old impression for a moment. One of his finest to date. Look at the strokes, perfect form. Graceful. Poignant. The Dutchman couldn’t have done better himself.
Garrison Grey looked back at his canvas on the table. He stared at the face – the sunken cheeks, the orange-not-marmalade hair. The orange beard with gray flecks. Remember, don’t stare at the original too long, it will bias the impression.
Too late.
Garrison Grey began with a spruce shade, carefully at the tip of his detail brush. Just a little, to accent the sunken cheeks. Tiny strokes. Soft. Graceful. Look at this! He was making an impression of his own impression. Made him chuckle.
He applied some sand tones to round out the features, to complement the orange hair and beard. Now, if only he had the hat. The indigo and black hunting hat. Someone upstairs might have one. No, stay focused.
Garrison Grey kept working into the night, until he had just one thing left—arguably, the most important part. This was where the money was. The reason behind the best seller. He grabbed his cloth, letting the extractor and gooseneck clatter on the table. He wrapped the cloth over the ears of his canvas, tucking it under the chin and tying it with a knot.
No. Inauthentic. Look at that bulge underneath the ear-cloth, left side. It couldn’t be there.
Garrison Grey removed the cloth, and observed the left ear of his canvas. Fully there, fully attached. But then he noticed something that must have been invisible to him before. A great boil, right where the left ear should be. In fact, it replaced the left ear entirely. Bruises and boils, the B’s they shouldn’t see.
Garrison Grey went over to his tools on the table. Skip past the calvarium clamp and the trocar. Yes, here it is. The scalpel. A traditional tool, helpful in times such as these. He leaned down over his canvas with the scalpel in hand. Time to remove the boil, and make it look authentic. That’s the trick, really. Authenticity sells.
Yes, keep going, just like that. Adding new colors to the palette. Crimson and scarlet. Looks like some infused indigo as well; it has been two days, after all. Keep going, remove the boil. Take it all the way off. Nothing left. Then the cloth will fit, no inauthentic bulge.
The crimson and scarlet was getting on Garrison Grey’s smock, and the floor. But he was almost done. Thirty-nine…and forty.
It’s off. Pull it away slowly. Quite a bit more crimson and scarlet now, not to worry. Now it’s authentic. And what a nice palette, too. Grab the cloth from the table, and wipe off the unnecessary crimson and scarlet. Play with it a little on the face, though, adds some nice hue.
Now it’s time to put the cloth around the head, tucked right under the chin. Looks just like the impression on the wall. Two fine impressions, in one room. The Dutchman as the inspiration. How striking, pensive.
Garrison Grey stood hunched over the canvas, crimson and scarlet dripping from one side. The chartreuse-olive blanket had completely fallen off, revealing the flaxen-mustard fingernails and the fleshy pink fingers. Slowly, carefully, Garrison Grey tied the cloth around the chin.
There. Garrison Grey took a step back, and looked at his masterpiece. This was, indeed, his best impression to date. Better than his best seller on the wall. Better than the twenty-seven frames inside the capsule. Better than the other canvases, buried below the ground. He smiled. The Dutchman himself would approve. This one was going to last.
…
To watch the short film adaptation of “The Dutchman,” click here.
Lila opened her eyes up extra early today and saw plastic eyes staring at her. She whispered “Good morning Beebee” and Beebee said it back with her eyes. Lila was seven now, and as long as she could remember, Beebee’s eyes had been open. She thought that was sad.
Lila pet Beebee’s hair one, two, three times, put her on the bed, and sat up. Now what? Get off the bed, put on dress number two because today is extra sunny. Say bye to dress one and dress three, don’t be sad, there are more days. Put on tip-toe socks.
Now close the door—shhh, slow over the noisy part. Now pass the big bedroom, really slow. Step one fine, step two good. Step three squeaky, hop over. Love tip-toe socks. Wait for loud snore—ew—now tippy-toe into the kitchen.
First, grab Captain Crunch. Find special pink bowl, not the blue one, yes that one. Find milk, sniff first. Yuck! Sour patch kids snuck in again. It’s okay, Captain Crunch is just as good without milk.
Can’t forget morning jobs. Go into the big room, pick up pillow and put it over couch-rip. Throw empty cans in big trash. Brush chips under couch—shhh, nobody knows. Back into the kitchen, check ceiling rain cup. More full than yesterday. Hm.
Pick up Smuckers sandwich—only two left in the box already?—throw in backpack. Anything else? She hadn’t checked drippy sink yet, but old Hello Kitty watch said it’s time to go! Extra careful with squeakies on the front door, worse than the room door. Remember not to use bad arm.
Lila skipped through the yard. The ground made extra-loud crunchies when she skipped. She stopped at the pottyhouse with its broken door. Three knocks on the door for good luck. Just like when Mommy was here, three knocks to make Lila come out when she was hiding. When she was hiding in the pottyhouse with eyes closed.
Lila walked past the big trees, so tall and lonely. This was where she was supposed to turn right, but she didn’t. She knew the special way. She kept going through the big trees and found the shiny fence. Nobody knew this, but there was a tiny little hole at the bottom of the shiny fence. Lila could always find it because the big red stop sign was right above it. Too perfect!
She snuck under the hole. It always made her dress look dirty, especially dress number two. Bad arm hurt a little bit, but she made it! She skipped onto the other side. Not as many crunchies over here, though. It was different on this side.
She called this side the Greens. Everything was just so green over here. Clean, too. Lila loved walking through the Greens. Every street had a name, and they were all bird names! There was Pigeon Lane, and Bluebird Lane, and Owl Lane.
Things were just different in the Greens, and she liked the different. Just weird things like how they didn’t have pottyhouses! She could spend a whole day walking through the Greens. But usually it was just mornings before school.
…
Today was a special school day for Lila. She went over to her class line-up on the blacktop, second from the four-square court. That’s it! Mrs. Travis’s 3rd grade class. They lined up here every morning with the whole school. So cold out sometimes! But not today. She was wearing dress number two today.
“Good morning, Lila,” whispered Mrs. Travis, smiling as Lila walked past.
“Good morning, Mrs. Travis!”
Mrs. Travis always smelled like lemon - her favorite. Remember, arms behind back, walk in straight line. Sit criss-cross-applesauce in line, hands in lap. Wave good morning at Jimmy, he’s looking at you.
It was a special school day for Lila because today was Student of the Week! The best thing every Friday on the blacktop, even if it was cold.
Lila wanted to be Student of the Week so bad. She had the whole pledge of allegiance memorized, and wanted to say it in front of the whole school. She knew it was important to say the first part Ready, begin before you start. A lot of kids forget that and everyone starts too soon. She could do it better, if only it was her class’s turn!
Oh look, Mr. Cunningham is going to talk. Okay, okay, say Happy Friday, Mr. Cunningham really slow like everyone else. Why do people talk so slow in big groups? Look, he’s talking about Student of the Week now. Yes, we know we do it every Friday. Whose turn is it?
Mrs. Travis!
Finally! Everyone is sitting straighter all of a sudden. Mrs. Travis is walking up to the front now in her nice flowery skirt. She always wore nice flowery skirts.
Lila loved Mrs. Travis. Her voice was so high and nice and she would whisper when she got close so she wouldn’t scare you. She always said nice things about Lila’s dresses one, two, and three. Mrs. Travis made Lila want to be so good. Made her want to sit up straight and put hands in lap and sit criss-cross-applesauce. Made her want to write and spell and do all her pluses and minuses. She was extra good at spelling, too.
Lila knew so much about Mrs. Travis. Knew she was 35 years old, and her favorite color was yellow. Knew she liked planting flowers and wearing flower skirts. Even knew her house number! 12 Bluebird Lane. Lila learned this when they were all writing their house numbers to put on fancy envelopes. Hers was tricky though, no number on her house. Mrs. Travis had to show her what to do.
Lila knew Mrs. Travis had a husband and his name was Jeff. He would come into class sometimes all quiet and sneaky and surprise Mrs. Travis. He drove a bright blue car and parked it right in front of school, every time. His voice was really nice too, just like Mrs. Travis’s. You could tell she really liked when Jeff came to visit.
Mrs. Travis was almost at the front now! Lila wondered who she was going to pick. It had to be her. She always walked the straightest and did good at spelling and raised her hand before talking. She loved to talk to Mrs. Travis before school too about her flowers. It had to be her…but what if she picked Jimmy? He always had his hands in his lap and always tried to get in line in front of her so Mrs. Travis could see him best. No, don’t let it be Jimmy.
Mrs. Travis got to the front and took the microphone. Her skirt moved a little in the wind. She said some things about how her class was best and we should all get the award (not Jimmy, he shouldn’t) and how she loves us all. But still she had to pick one and that person was…
Lila got out of criss-cross-applesauce and walked super quick (don’t skip, don’t skip) to the front. She knew it! She loved Mrs. Travis and Mrs. Travis loved her. She got up there and saw the big flag and Mr. Cunningham next to it, smiling and clapping. Other people were clapping too, so nice! Mrs. Travis leaned down and whispered “Congratulations, sweetie,” and handed her a big paper. It said Student of the Week in huge letters and her name was right under it! And there was Mrs. Travis’s name at the bottom in her perfect printing. Lila wanted to write just like her.
Lila knew everybody was looking but she gave Mrs. Travis a big hug. She felt Mrs. Travis’s skirt and smelled lemon, her favorite. She took the microphone, remembered not to use bad arm, and said put your right hand over your heart, face the flag, now Ready, begin.
…
Lila skipped all the way back through the Greens to the big red stop sign where she got dress number two a little more dirty. She popped up on the other side, and walked through the big trees. So quiet now. No clapping over here. She was holding her Student of the Week paper with her name and Mrs. Travis’s perfect printing.
She felt the crunchies under her feet. Three knocks on the pottyhouse door for good luck, just like Mommy used to do. She walked all the way up to the front door. She slowly squeaked it open with one arm, holding her paper with bad arm. Please don’t be there, she thought.
But he was there. He was sleeping on the couch, right on top of couch-rip. Lila looked at the table. Six empty cans sitting there. But she cleaned those this morning! He was snoring again—ew—she slowly closed the front door so it wouldn’t squeak.
But it did.
He jumped up and looked at her. Eyes redder today. They moved slowly down to the paper in Lila’s hand. She didn’t want to say anything, but she had to.
“Look what I—”
“What did I tell you about morning jobs?” he growled.
“Do them every morning, or—”
“See the sink? Look at it.”
She looked over at drippy sink. Two dishes in there.
“Daddy, I’m sorry, I forgot, but—”
He stood up. “And what happens when you don’t do morning jobs?”
“Daddy, don’t, I—”
She took a step back. He stumbled, knocked over empty cans. He hit his hand on the table. “What happens when you don’t do morning jobs?”
He started walking toward her.
“Daddy—”
She closed her eyes.
…
Lila didn’t open her eyes up again until very late that night. When she did, Beebee was staring at her again with plastic eyes.
She got up, felt her face was sticky and her eyes puffy. One of them more puffy, though. Feels like a bad eye. Just when bad arm was getting better, too.
She looked around. It was dark out. And she was still wearing dress number two. Oh look at this, one of her hands was holding something. Bad arm didn’t want to let go. She opened her fingers slowly, and pulled out her paper from today. Student of the Week. She saw her name written right there, and right under it was Mrs. Travis’s printing.
Mrs. Travis’s perfect printing.
Lila knew today was a special day. She looked at Beebee, those plastic eyes that never closed. She used to think that was sad. But tonight, she wanted to keep her eyes open just like Beebee’s. She whispered “Good night, Beebee,” and pet her hair one, two, three times. She left Beebee on the bed.
She took her backpack, one Smuckers still inside, and put the paper in with it. Her special paper. Say bye to dress one and dress three. Now put on tip-toe socks. Now close the door—shhh, slow over the noisy part.
Now out into the hallway. Big bedroom is right there. Have to be extra quiet this time. Super slow, now listen for snore—ew—keep going. Step one fine, step two good. Step three squeaky, hop over.
Listen for snore. Nothing. Don’t move.
Wait three seconds, now the snore. Step four, great. Love tip-toe socks. Go into kitchen. Say bye to couch-rip, ceiling rain cup. Almost all the way full now. Ten empty cans on the table, don’t have to clean up. Open front door, very slow. No squeak at all. Good, good, remember not to use bad arm, good. Don’t put on shoes.
Tip-toe socks on crunchies is different, but so quiet. Remember not to skip. Don’t look back. The light won’t turn on, everything will stay dark. Don’t look back.
Walk past pottyhouse with broken door. Keep going, no time to stop. Everything is so dark. Pass big trees, so tall and lonely. Don’t go that way, you know the special way. Is that a light? No. Keep walking. Love tip-toe socks.
Get to shiny fence—harder to see in the dark, not shiny anymore. Big stop sign is still there. Are those red eyes in the trees? No they’re not, keep walking. Stop sign is right there.
Squeeze under the fence, dress number two is so dirty by now. No more crunchies, now you can walk fast, the Greens aren’t as green in the dark. Keep going, is the light on? Is someone coming? Don’t look back, he’s there. Don’t look back.
Look at the street signs. Keep eyes open now. Can’t close them in the dark, or he’ll come. Remember the bird names? Go right at Pigeon Lane. Keep going. No pottyhouses over here.
Feet are hurting now. Scratches beneath tip-toe socks. Can’t stop and look. There’s Owl Lane, turn left here. Can’t stop now. Keep eyes open.
Someone’s coming. Crunchies everywhere. Don’t look, no lights here. Only street lights. Is that him beneath one? Red eyes? No, keep walking. Almost there.
Turn left on Bluebird Lane. He’s walking faster now. He’s right behind you. Don’t look back. Scratching at your feet. Five…eight…ten…don’t close your eyes. It’s too dark. Keep eyes open. Twelve.
12 Bluebird Lane.
Pass Jeff’s blue car out front. So quiet. Look at the flowers. No crunchies here. Walk up the steps. There’s the door. Everything smells like lemon.
Don’t look back now, never look back. Keep eyes open. That’s the door right there.
Three knocks for good luck.
When Juniper Flume eats Lucky Charms, she saves the marshmallows for last. She suffers through the beige blandness of the cereal bits – if you can call them that – for what’s coming next. The glittering, glistening goodness of pink hearts, blue moons, shooting stars, and green leprechaun hats all swirling in rainbow-colored milk. They tasted better, for some reason, knowing the crusted cereal was behind her.
Juniper saved the marshmallows for last in other things, too. She did her times tables and fractions before she watched TV. The shows were always funnier after homework was done. So funny that sometimes, Juniper would even let out a little laugh watching them. Juniper made her bed before breakfast, and cleaned her dishes before dessert. She got older, and she only texted after her tests. She didn’t check her phone until she checked her grades. Life was better this way, and Juniper Flume knew it.
Saving the marshmallows got Juniper through medical school; got her straight A’s; got her a research grant for her cutting-edge work on toxins in human blood. She’d always wanted her work published, and this project was her chance. Her chance to prove why she worked so hard; why she saved her marshmallows to begin with. To do her research, Juniper got to be an at-home phlebotomist, which meant she could take people’s blood anywhere, at any time. She had a home kit for this very purpose, complete with needles and intravenous tubes. In front of this phlebotomy kit is where Juniper sat late one Friday night, snapping it shut as she finished up another sample.
Juniper watched the swirling red contents of the test tube patiently. The swirls reminded her of Lucky Charms rainbow milk, though Lucky Charms didn’t have the color red. She opened a small medical refrigerator she kept in her living room. Cold, crystallized air smoked out of it, revealing two racks of blood-filled tubes with tiny white labels. All had names on them, categorized alphabetically.
Juniper labeled her latest sample, and carefully placed the test tube in a slot on the top rack. That’s when she noticed something—one slot was still left open. That’s strange. She thought she counted them appropriately. A small twitch wriggled its way into Juniper’s left eyebrow. She knew better than this. The toxicity report was due on Monday. The last one to complete her research. Was the sample size large enough, with one tube missing? She checked her watch—getting late, for a Friday—and closed the door of her mini-fridge, trapping the wafting smoke inside before it invaded her living room.
It was a Friday, and Juniper decided she could let this last sample wait. She’ll do it on Monday, before the report is due. Her work was done for the week. More than most, Juniper knew what it meant when work was done. Marshmallows. What form they would take tonight was Juniper’s to decide—she had earned it.
She unlocked a small tin box, and pulled out her phone. A dopamine-inducing distraction, normally, but not when work was done. The panels of a dating app illuminated Juniper’s eyes. Her bio: I love Lucky Charms *shamrock emoji*. She thought it was cute, and so did 47 other matches that had shown up since she last visited.
Juniper picked one: Johnathan, 32, rugged. A beard to cover his flaccid chin. Juniper didn’t like the first H in his name. Pick one – John or Jonathan, but let’s be honest, boring either way. He’ll do just fine. A few playful messages later, they were at a seafood restaurant.
“Could we get some bread?” Johnathan asked the waiter.
“Sorry, sir, we don’t have bread.”
“No bread?”
“We could bring you something else to start – calamari, maybe?”
“Sure.”
Juniper knew where this was headed. Can’t enjoy a meal post-appetizer.
“Are you sure you want that?” Juniper asked, sweetly.
“I’m hungry now. Aren’t you?”
“No. I’ll wait.”
“Ok – sorry, I’m just hungry all the time.”
Juniper was sure he was. She looked at the dark hair spidering out on his thick hands as he drummed the table. The fingers kept drumming until the calamari arrived: a tidy basket filled with little breaded rings and full-bodied baby squid. Johnathan carefully picked apart the basket. He only ate the little rings.
“Saving the other ones for last?” Juniper asked, actually curious this time.
“No,” he said, a dribble of batter on his lips, “those ones look gross. They’re like little octopuses –”
“Octopi—”
“Or squids or something. I don’t know. Hey, do you watch Shark Week?”
The main course finally came. The conversation reminded Juniper of the bland Lucky Charms cereal bits. The guy, Johnathan, really liked YouTube videos. He told her how this one guy filled up a truck bed with water and called it a mobile swimming pool. He wanted to try it, too.
“That’s great,” she said, looking down at her plate. The percentage of risotto to salmon was adequate, though after her first bite of each she decided the risotto was better. That meant she needed to eat all the salmon first so she could enjoy the risotto. She made this decision as Johnathan told her about a new kind of flyswatter that electrocutes on contact.
Once Juniper had finished the last bit of risotto on her plate, Johnathan asked for a dessert menu.
“No,” Juniper said. “We’ll have that at home.”
That caught Johnathan by surprise. “Home?”
Juniper stared – intensely, in a way that made Johnathan forget how his name was spelled – until she abruptly said “Let’s go.”
Back at Juniper’s apartment, the floor was clean. Juniper knew that you could only clean the counters if the floor was clean first. Johnathan didn’t take his shoes off when he entered.
“Shoes off,” Juniper said directly.
“Oh yeah, sorry,” Johnathan said, throwing his shoes against the shoe rack, flattening Juniper’s medical scrubs.
“Guess I should take this off too,” Johnathan said, removing his jacket.
He smiled at her, whiskers curling around his mouth. Then, he took off his shirt. Juniper stared blankly. She didn’t move.
“Well?” said Johnathan.
His stomach was hairy, his chest was not. The hair seemed to ripple around his belly button like a toilet bowl.
He sat down next to Juniper, and put his hand on her leg. It was still greasy with calamari. He reached across her body and started kissing her, hands groping aimlessly. Juniper didn’t move toward him, she simply sat. She rolled her eyes as he made another lunge.
Johnathan stopped suddenly, and looked at her. His eyes were hungry, bugging, begging her to look back. Juniper did, and next thing he was clutching at her back, pulling little handfuls of her clothes, trying to take them off.
“That’s enough,” thought Juniper.
She sat back quickly, and pushed Johnathan off her. Johnathan sat up, blinking. His mouth twitched under his patchy beard.
“I told you I wanted dessert,” Juniper said.
“Well…yeah. Look.” Johnathan gestured at his undulating stomach, the hair ripples squirming.
Juniper looked blankly at him.
“No,” she said. “Sit over there.”
Johnathan, still shirtless, sat down at Juniper’s kitchen table. He couldn’t see where she went behind the kitchen counter – he could only hear a soft clanking, and liquid pouring. She returned, holding two bowls. Both were filled with Lucky Charms. Johnathan laughed.
“This is dessert?” he asked.
“They’re my favorite,” Juniper replied simply.
Johnathan chuckled. “I loved these as a kid.”
Juniper waited for Johnathan. Shrugging, Johnathan dug into the Lucky Charms. He took huge gulps, marshmallows and cereal all in one bite. Juniper noticed this. She wasn’t surprised. She watched him a few moments longer, then began eating from her own bowl. She picked out just the cereal bits, her spoon fishing methodically through the colorful milk.
With each one of her bites, Johnathan had slurped up another four. He had pieces of blue marshmallow between his teeth. Juniper eyed him carefully, observing his eating method. Finally, Johnathan gulped down the last of the milk. He sat back, and sighed.
“Alright,” he said. “Now can we…”
He trailed off suddenly. He gave a little burp and patted his chest. Then he started coughing uncontrollably, spluttering all over the table and lurching forward. He gripped the edge of his chair.
Juniper sat silently. She took another small bite of cereal. Johnathan writhed on the table, clutching, gasping for air. Then he passed out with a thud on the floor.
Juniper took one last bite of her crunchy, bland cereal. She checked her watch.
“42 seconds,” she whispered to herself.
She looked down at her bowl: only the marshmallows remained, swimming quietly through the blue-green milk. She walked over Johnathan’s limp body on the floor, and opened her medicine cabinet. She slapped on a pair of latex gloves and clicked open her at-home phlebotomy kit.
She dragged Johnathan’s body across the clean floor to the phlebotomy station. She tried to not get any of his stomach hairs on her as she propped him up in a seat. She inserted a needle into his right wrist – it always reminded her of skewering a marshmallow – and she let the blood siphon out of him and into a small sealed bag. Once she had enough, Juniper detached the bag and emptied the contents into a small test tube.
Juniper examined the tube, now a deep crimson. The blood and plasma swirled peacefully inside. She tipped the tube to watch the blood dance off the edge. She nodded.
“42 seconds,” she said to herself. “You moved fast, didn’t you.”
They always moved fast. The toxins, and the men. She’d confirmed this hypothesis over time, with enough samples. The men were no surprise, obviously. She picked suitable samples; the dating app was a perfect incubator. And while she scoffed at the idea of science having a responsibility to society, she figured the app could benefit from a few less men who don’t save their marshmallows for last.
Juniper wasn’t interested in the men, though. What really interested her was how their aroused heart rates pump poison through the blood. Some combinations were simply a perfect match, like Johnathan and diphtheria. They both had a useless H in their names. Juniper smiled at this fact, like when she used to watch her TV shows after her homework was done. And her homework really was done, now. Juniper thought she could wait until Monday to finish the toxicity report, but sometimes, she thought, it was best not to kid herself. The last ounce of work before a weekend, like the last crunchy cereal bite of Lucky Charms, is always the sweetest.
She made a note on a pocket-sized chart. Gently, she placed a slick white label on the test tube, and wrote Johnathan’s name on it – careful not to forget the extra H. She looked at Johnathan, slumped in the chair, hairy belly hanging out.
Cold smoke curled around Johnathan’s feet when Juniper opened her mini refrigerator. She put the test tube inside, in the last open slot on the top rack. Every tube was alphabetically labeled, each with a different man’s name. Johnathan’s tube fit perfectly between John’s, and Jonathan’s. All boring names, but all together, a good sample size. Enough for Juniper’s toxicity report due on Monday: the last step to publish her research. The last step to prove her work was worth it.
With a click, she packed away her phlebotomy kit, and left Johnathan in the chair as she walked back to the kitchen. There, she put a small clear vile back under the sink. The counters were once again perfectly clean, and so were the floors.
Juniper Flume sat down at the kitchen table. Her bowl was right in front of her. She peered into it, and a little smile crept across her face. Blue moons, shooting stars, pink hearts, and green leprechaun hats stared up at her. She dipped her spoon in the bowl, and ate her marshmallows.