An Embarrassment of Id’imps
While the rights have reverted for this story, I’ve yet to pass it on to Elsewhere Publishing so they can give it a blurb and work their magic. In the meantime, here a bit of personal insight: For some reason, I tend not to write too many holiday stories. So, when this lighthearted fantasy began to take shape, I quickly realized it was my own love letter to fandom. I leaned in hard and had a great time.
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An Embarrassment of Id’imps
Copyright © 2020 by Ezekiel James BostonFirst published in WMG Winter Spectacular 2020, edited by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, WMG Publishing, 2020
Published by Elsewhere Publishing
Cover and layout copyright © 2020 by Elsewhere Publishing
Cover design by Ezekiel James Boston/Elsewhere Publishing
Cover art copyright © artisticco | Depositphotos
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An Embarrassment of Id’imps
by Ezekiel James Boston
It’s not a competition, but at least the store-roaming sales associates and cashiers get some mild-mannered customers and the occasional jovial gem. All we typically get are people so pissed off that they’ve dug deeply into their opinion and are demanding to speak with the owner, or with corporate, or with whoever can right the grievous injustice of them not being able to ride roughshod over the staff.
My name’s Gavel Chavez. Yes, Gavel is an odd name for a woman, but—if you couldn’t tell—my parents wanted me to be a judge. And, in the most pedestrian and underpaid way possible, I sort of am.
A radio call for an entrance violation at the new Games! Games!! G-G-Gamez!!! store—or Six-G as we called it—on the second floor had rumbled my radio. Because it was only one footprint unit wide, I had walked right past the cluttered, overstocked niche gaming shop with tall narrow rows twice before dispatch finally said it was between Hot Topic and Foot Locker.
I had heard security departments in Las Vegas were better, but so far they had the same barely competent people as Dallas, as Albuquerque, as Flagstaff….
Playing “Last Christmas” by Wham!, Six-G smelled like cardboard, paper, and packing peanuts. A few weeks ago, they had rushed to open for Black Friday, and it still showed in the never dwindling stack of collapsed boxes they were trying to move as Build Your Own Games on one side of the sale sign and Disposable Game Boards on the other.
The keep-us-from-going-under desperation was strong in here.
Six-G uniforms were baby-blue smocks over blue jeans, which made the employees look like they should be working in a fabric store. Then again, I shouldn’t jab. Modeled after Las Vegas Metro Police Department, the mall’s security uniforms were tan polyester and equally unflattering.
Even if all the employees weren’t pointing to the tall, broad-shouldered, bald black man facing the corner reading a book and wearing a worn-in, brown leather mid-calf trench coat, black jeans, and black sneakers, I knew—from the id’imp standing on his left shoulder—that he was the problem.
Being a manifestation of the person who crafted them, id’imps had a bad rep because—as the name of their kind implies—they are mostly id. Yes, as in Freud’s theoretical constructs. Which, on the imps’ behalf, usually meant barely controlled impulses, embarrassing displays of how the person felt, and Freudian slips.
Because of the normal lack of control, there were some stores that didn’t want id’imps inside. Usually they were highbrow places like art galleries or fancy-dress shops. Other stores, like Octavia’s Secret and Cosmos Candy encourage shoppers to bring in their id’imps. Six-G probably didn’t want them to knock over any of the high stacks of dust-gathering merchandise.
Mine had humiliated me so often that I regretted making her and always left her in her sanctum—mystical word for cage—at home. Of course, I could always call her to me, but why would I ever do that?
Without talking to someone, a lot could be understood about them by paying close attention to the id’imp’s appearance.
This guy’s, for example, stood the average eight inches tall and, oddly, was dressed identically to the man, signaling that the man was in tune or in touch with his wants. Collapsed angel wings protruded from beneath the id’imps leather trench coat, which meant the crafter was a nice guy. It—I couldn’t tell the gender yet—held onto the owner’s ear, which meant the owner was attentive.
If the store employees would’ve taken the time to look, they’d see that this little guy and his crafter weren’t an issue. But a store’s policy of no id’imps meant no id’imps.
Bored, the id’imp glanced around.
It was a male, with three horizontally inline flaming white lidless eyes: the man was true to himself and spiritual. The id’imp had a long chin (lucky), no nose (keeps to himself), and a mouth that took up half his face (talkative). He also had horns that went up from his temples to just shy of the halo. The man had quite the devilish side to him. The topper, for me, was that the id’imp had a tiny pink bandana with a tiny Powerpuff Girls logo at the center.
From the id’imp alone, I liked this guy. A lot.
It focused on me and leaned to whisper into the man’s ear. “Yo, five-oh.” Despite the constant contrary proof, id’imps always think they can whisper when—in fact—their little robust otherworldly voices always carried. “Let’s bounce.”
The man glanced to his id’imp before turning around the other way to face me. Clean shaven with dimples. His sparkling brown eyes met mine and latched on.
Was there anyone else in the world?
Smiling a slightly crooked, engine-revving broad smile, he had turned with the book—hardcover rules for the new Star Trek: Discovery game—in hand over his buttoned-up coat. “Yes?”
His voice wasn’t crazy deep, but, goodness, I felt it.
Sounding like Jayne Cobb from Firefly, his id’imp whispered, “Gee, sure would be nice if we had some roses right now.”
Face starting to flush, I glanced to the id’imp to glean more information about the man.
The id’imp’s coat wasn’t buttoned and the flair and cut screamed a diehard Browncoat. He wore an SG-1 team T-shirt with a Ravenclaw patch over his heart. The man was deeply into Firefly, Stargate, AND Harry Potter. Talk about hitting a trifecta!
Which deities had I pleased to be presented with a man like this? “Sir.” I rocked a thumb over my shoulder. “Can we talk outside the store?”
His lopsided smile became a grin. “Sure.” He slid the book back in place. “But, just so you know, there’s not a No Id’imps sign posted.”
When he passed, I caught an accidental whiff of the id’imp. The warm, marshmallow-choked hot chocolate smell felt like snuggling up with a good book next to a crackling fire.
I had to get to know this man.
And had to keep myself from walking right behind him to not revel in the id’imp’s scent as he went to the railing overlooking the hustle and bustle of the mall Santa posing for pictures down on the first floor. As I left the store, I glanced at the door: the No Amex and No Smoking signs were clear, but the No Id’imps sign was—from the outside—completely obstructed by a kickstanded 20% Off All Games sign.
Letting a chatting group of teens pass, I called in to dispatch that the situation was resolved. I then went over to the railing. “About the No Id’imps sign.” I faced the store. Many of the workers inside who’d been watching from the virtually customer-less store quickly busied themselves with minor tasks.
He asked, “Yeah?”
I pointed to the discount sign. “No knock against you, but they have it posted. They just didn’t think when they put out their lure.”
He glanced to the sign. “Is that what they’re called? Lures?”
I shrugged. “That’s what they called them in St. Paul and it sounded about right.”
Facing me, he gave a slight nod. “Well, it worked on me.”
The id’imp whispered, “Dude, ask her for her number.”
With a slightly embarrassed look that all id’imp creators know well, the man pressed his tongue into his cheek and glanced to the id’imp.
“Right.” The id’imp scratched his chin before snapping his fingers to conjure little tri-lensed sunglasses. He put them on and leaned nonchalantly against the side of the man’s head. “Play it cool.”
The man said, “It’s not that I’m playing it cool, but—” He glanced to my shoulders before continuing. “It’s just that I’ve found that I’m a little…unusual and like to at least see a woman’s id’imp before, you know, trying to get to know them.”
Oh, no.
Goddess no!
He asked, “Do you have one? If so, I’d like to meet her. Or him.” He added, not quickly enough. “Or it.”
Being a caster at their purest, id’imps weren’t always created with strictly human-like genders. Part of what drew my parents together was that both of their id’imps—yes, they both had crafted them prior to meeting—were blood-engorged hermaphrodites who had a fondness for skyclad rituals.
I asked, “Can you and I maybe talk over coffee first?”
From his expression, it was clearly not what he wanted. However, he said, “Sure.”
His id’imp pulled at his ear while pointing to my Gavel C. name tag. “Check her name, man.”
The man nodded. “I see.”
The id’imp said, “Now read it backwor—”
The man cut a look at his id’imp that could kill.
The id’imp kicked his head back and dropped to his knees before flopping over.
While I’m used to people and id’imps making light of my name, reading it backwards was new. Levag? Oh, C.Levag. What a clever, horny little bugger.
To me, the man said, “I’m sorry.” He looked to his id’imp. “Sanctum. One minute.”
Still laid out, the id’imp said, “I hate time outs. Can’t I just keep playing dead?”
Insisting, the man said, “Sanctum, please.”
“Okay.” The id’imp got to his feet and disappeared as it jumped a back flip. Its sunglasses hung in the air. “But, lovely Gavel, don’t go nowhere. Be here when I get back.” The sunglasses disappeared.
I said, “Since you know my name, can I get yours and your id’imp’s?”
He bowed his head slightly as he touched his chest. “I’m Darrius.”
Oh, nice.
He pointed to the shoulder where the id’imp had been. “And his name is Pickle, because he usually puts me in one.”
I laughed. It might have not been that funny, but I had to laugh because I empathized. “Mine’s name is Vergüenza and she’s an…acquired taste.”
Darrius’s eyebrows raised with intrigue. “So, when do you want to do this coffee thing? And, will Ms. V be there?”
I liked that he said Ms. V instead of possibly butchering her name. “Hold on.” He was scoring points and probably didn’t even know. I turned my chin to my shoulder to call her. “Vergüenza, could you come to me, please?”
“NO!” The pouty petulance in her tone was out of control and I was so glad that non-manifested id’imps voices were only audible to their crafter. “You leave me home all. The. TIME! And now, you want me to poof to you so you can showcase me like a just-turned-eighteen stripper?” She gave me a raspberry. “Fat chance!”
This was one of the many times that I wished I wasn’t so willful and resentful, because she wouldn’t be either. But I was, and so was she.
I lied, “She’s bathing.” Not a good start. I’ll have to admit to it later.
“Oh.” Darrius gave an understanding nod. “Okay. So, coffee?”
Thinking of the coffee joint across the street, and giving myself enough time to get home, change, and come back, I pointed southeast. “How about at eight at Café Cocoa Java?”
Smiling, he said, “Sounds good. See you two there.”
“Yes.” I smiled, too, and watched him walk away. He was going down the escalator when Pickle appeared on his shoulder looking around.
I gave a big wave to be seen.
While Darrius was overly focused on his phone, obviously playing it cool, Pickle spotted me. He made a heart as burning white as his eyes—Darrius really liked me—with his fingers and tossed it my way. Of course, because the mall is a public place, it only went a foot from Darrius before dissipating, but I wish it would’ve traveled.
Perturbed with Vergüenza, but knowing I had to make peace with her, I requested an early out and went home to have a little heart to heart with her.
Home is a crappy one-bedroom pre-furnished apartment. The kind where the living room, dining room, and kitchen were a large, unapologetic area only differentiated by the slated wood design to the kitchen linoleum. It’s one of the many alternating L-shaped Lego block floor plans in the maze of five-story apartment buildings a ways behind Casino Windsor out on the busy northwest corner of Flamingo and Valley View.
Between my part-time security jobs at the mall and Casino Windsor—hopefully full-time soon—I can barely afford it, but am on the waitlist to downgrade to a studio so I can save.
One of the worst things about the neighborhood is that someone is always bumping rap or blaring rock and on Saturdays, it’s a battle of who can be the most inconsiderate by blasting their music with their windows open until ten p.m. Today, well, this evening, my neighbor’s rock—the fast-angry growling kind—was winning.
Because the place was pre-furnished, I had bought those plastic furniture wraps for the sleeper sofa, cushions, and my queen-sized mattress. I then covered them with floral comforters so the place reflects me, not the landlord. The TV built into the entertainment center in the living room only picks up local channels, but I had hooked up my laptop to the small TV in my bedroom so that I can stream and download shows.
The main upside to Vergüenza was that my apartment always smells like my abuelita’s menudo and tortillas made from scratch. Which is why, no matter where I live, I always feel at home.
“Vergüenza?” She wasn’t in the main room. I glance to the top of the kitchen cabinets and fridge because she sometimes hides up there.
And she would be hiding because she knows I’m upset with her.
Expecting to have to check under the bed, in the closet, and under the narrow bathroom sink, I turned the corner to my bedroom to see all chunky fourteen inches of her lounging—on her angel wing nubbles—on my main pillow on my side of the bed.
She lifted her oversized head, and the main large, flaming white eye in her bull-thick, protruding forehead led a lazy blink that cascaded through tiny acne-like eyes on her cheeks. Because I’m so observant, each of her cheeks used to also be a large eye; however, I had betrayed myself twice in the past and each betrayal had busted open one of the large eyes into the smatterings that peppered the sides of her stubby little nose. Her large, thick-at-the-base, pointy-at-the-top devil horns kept her halo at an angle that looked like it was going to slide off at any moment.
Ready to co-author some fanfic about the Powerpuff Girls teaching at Hogwarts, she had on her comfy Blossom-themed sweats with the House Pukwudgie crest over her leftmost breast. The other three inline breasts—because I was, supposedly, nurturing—had the home symbol from SG-1, the Blue Sun logo from Firefly, and a Starfleet Command pin. Her sweat top covered the series of mouths down the center of her torso for each time I had been so embarrassed that I had moved and the tiny speck-mouths around them for each time I had told a grandiose lie about that particular move.
She said, “When we left off, Blossom was backing into the Room of Requirement and pulling Professor—”
“Why?” I interrupted. “Why, why, why didn’t you come when I asked?”
“Hmm.” Faking deep thought, Vergüenza put her finger on her nearly non-existent chin. “If I recall, one of us—I’m not going to point fingers—told the other to stay in their sanctum.”
“Well.” I put my fists on my hips as I glanced to the double-stuffed Buttercup plushie I had bought as the bedding of her sanctum on her side of the bed. “You’re not there now.”
Trying to change the mood, she put her arms out for a hug while still arguing. “Well, you’re home now. I can go where I please, no?”
Rolling my eyes, I said, “Yes.” I put my arms out, too, and walked toward the bed.
She popped up, bounded across the bed, and leapt into my arms. She buried her face into my neck, the tears from her dozens of eyes wetting me. “I’m mad at you!”
The plastic casing crinkled as I sat on my bed and hugged her until her arms relaxed. Before Abuelita had passed, I had asked her for a lock of her hair to craft Vergüenza and, because of that, these hugs held all her—their—love.
I set her next to me. “Well, I’m not happy with you, either.”
“No.” Vergüenza shook her head like I just didn’t get it. “I’m, like, really-really mad at you.” She did her best to cross her arms over her breast. “I never get to go anywhere anymore. Every single day it’s stay in your sanctum, stay in your sanctum, and stay in your sanctum.” She looked away toward the wall. “You don’t even let me go to movies with you anymore.”
I wanted to point out that her unbridled laughter at inopportune times isn’t appreciated by most and had gotten us—well, me—kicked out of several movies. But we could have that particular talk some other time.
Since even gently turning her head to face me would be an unwelcomed touch, I got up, walked to the other side of her, and sat down.
Her bottom lip was jutted out slightly and trembling.
I waited for the tremble to stop. “Vergüenza, you may think I’m going to movies, but I’m not. I work two jobs now. So, sometimes, I have to leave the house twice in a day.”
She opened her hands to inspect her palms.
If I were lying, the lifeline on her right hand—my dominant hand—would’ve quivered and turned like a weathervane to show her how bad the lie was. Because I was telling a long-honest truth about me not going to a movie since we moved to Las Vegas last year, all the lines on her left hand went horizontal.
While she was looking at her hands, I added, “And, because I often leave jobs because of you showcasing how I really feel, I’ve felt that I needed to leave you sanctum-bound so I can establish a life for us here.”
The long-standing truth of that made the horizontal lines connect into a deep groove.
To not see it, she turned her face away from her palms, but way too late. I knew she saw them and, in turn, she knew that I knew.
A rap song that was all bass behind a rapper rhyming expensive brands vibrated through the bathroom wall. The neighbor behind me was getting into the loud music brawl.
Speaking what I felt, she sneered. “I don’t like it here.”
I agreed. “Me either, but, it’s what I can afford right now.”
Turning her face to me and locking all her eyes on mine, she asked, “Can’t we just go back to the compound?”
My neck rocked back on my shoulders as I stood up to get some space between us.
Was I really considering that?
She popped up to her feet and walked across the bed to keep close, and stopped at the corner. “Life was better there. You only had to study and cook and teach, and we had lotsss of fantastic sex.” Stoking a base want that’d been building in me, her horns grew higher and—if physics affected halos—it would’ve fallen.
I bumped into the window blinds and almost knocked them down trying to get further away from my base wants.
“No.” My head was shaking hard against returning to Juárez. “That simpler life is behind us.” Vergüenza asking about seeing America had been what prompted me into breaking ties and getting my Permanent Resident Card. “I’d rather struggle here than carelessly float there.”
She pointed at my heart. “You just don’t want to go back a failure.”
Needled, I snapped, “That too!”
She hopped back from my wrath. Then reached back to touch her tailbone. “Careful. I don’t want that kind of tail.”
Now I pointed at her. “And I don’t want you to have one, either! But you poke there like that and I react.” Trying to switch to a happier topic—what I really wanted to talk to her about—I took a sharp breath and let it out as slowly as I could. “I met a man today.”
Just thinking about Darrius and Pickle helped me rapidly find my center. “And I’m willing to bet anything that you and his id’imp, Pickle, would align. Fulfilling why you both were created and giving you both a partner worth sharing sanctums with.”
I thought that would get her on my side, but the widening and thickening of her forehead—increased stubbornness—spoke otherwise.
“I!” she said, “Don’t wanna! Share you!” She pointed to her pillow. “I don’t wanna share Buttercup! If we can’t make it on our own, we need to go back to the compound.”
The truth between the two offers she presented showed in her shoulders and torso widening in independence to support a heavier load. I hadn’t noticed how her shoulders had been widening through the years. When I crafted her, they were barely wider than her neck, but they were now twice the width of her hips. There would’ve been enough room for her breasts, but, apparently, my increased independence also made me a better nurturer.
“That!” I tried to take the heat out of my words, but couldn’t. A part of me was thrilled about the loud music because I could yell without sounding crazy. “Will. Never! HAPPEN!”
Her mouth popped open as both of her hands went behind her. Tears streamed as she spun to show the long, pointed leathery tail that had sprouted and hung just past the back of her knees.
She sneered at me over her shoulder. “See what you did!” She dashed up the bed to flop on her pillow and immaterialized. “I hate you!”
I could still hear her as she cried into Buttercup.
My fists had balled with rage and my stubby nails dug into my palms. It took me a minute to unclench them. I still wanted to reason with her, but would have to wait for her to cry herself out.
Noticing the time, I jumped in the shower to get ready to meet up with Darrius for coffee. If she wasn’t going to go with me, I’d order her favorite and call her. That’d be the sure way to coax her into making an appearance.
Plan and trickery in mind, I went about getting ready for the date of my life.
Because Pickle kept sneaking me hearts when Darrius wasn’t looking, coffee couldn’t have gone better.
Well, honestly, it could’ve.
Vergüenza could’ve made an appearance when I called her after our order had arrived and, again, after our third order when he and Pickle had gone to use the restroom.
Because Vergüenza hadn’t shown, Darrius was ready to cut me loose, but I wasn’t going to let him let me go that easily. I rattled off an impressive string of tasks; mostly moving heavy stuff and rearranging my furniture, and not being able to ask anyone else.
While I was embarrassed about the noise and storehouse-like tenement apartments where I lived, and about the smallness of my apartment, and now—awkwardly—about my decision to use plastic and my choice of floral comforters, I had to stomach that to try and show him Vergüenza.
Pickle had come in first and the combo of his emotion-provoking scent mixed with Vergüenza’s made me long for a family. To make a family. To turn this crummy apartment into a loving home with Darrius.
Darrius, on the other hand, had come in closed off.
But, when he crossed the threshold, Vergüenza called from the bedroom, “Why’d it suddenly get hot in here, Gavel?”
Darrius didn’t react. She must’ve still been immaterialized.
Since I didn’t respond, she added, “My nethers are sweating.” She gasped. “Why do I now have two vaginas!”
Utter embarrassment lit my face on fire. Hoping he hadn’t heard that, I glanced to Pickle.
Gratefully oblivious to what Vergüenza had said, the little guy was snapping his fingers, creating Superman work gloves, a He-Man styled weight belt and back support, and a Wonder Woman hand truck.
Purposefully keeping his eyes off of me, Darrius pointed to the sleeper sofa and the entertainment center. “So, you want to swap their locations?”
Nodding, I motioned my head toward my bedroom. “And a couple of things in there.”
Shaking his head, he said, “I’ll help you out here, but you’ll just have to save for day laborers or live with what you got in there.”
Having been denied his ultra-minimal request to meet Vergüenza, I couldn’t fault him for making sure his lust—which showed on Pickle—didn’t get the best of him. His iron-clad self-control deepened my admiration of him and, somehow, made him even hotter.
Vergüenza yelled, “You’re trying to kill me!”
I had hoped she’d come running out to climb the fridge to get into the freezer, and see Darrius. But under the bang of bass competing with jagged guitar riffs, I noticed that my shower had turned on.
Working a different angle, I asked, “Can I show Pickle what’s needed to get his opinion?”
“No.” Darrius had started shaking his head halfway through my question. “I think you’d be better off hiring day laborers to get that stuff done for you.”
Pickle leaned close to Darrius’s ear. He whispered, “Come on, hoss. This lady’s in need.”
Darrius narrowed his eyes at Pickle’s double entendre. He brokered a deal with his id’imp. “If I say yes, you have to swear to only assess the need of moving furniture and nothing else.”
“Deal.” Pickle spat in his hand and presented it to Darrius.
Darrius licked his index finger and raised it for Pickle to shake.
Pickle snapped his fingers. His little trench coat vanished as he flapped his angel wings to lift from Darrius’s shoulders and fly into my room.
Leaving Darrius in the main room, I entered my bedroom, too.
Directly in the center of the room, over my bed, Pickle was flapping and assessing the location of my bed, nightstand, and dresser supporting my small TV and laptop.
“Okay.” Pretending to have to think it over, I put my hand on my chin. I then motioned to Buttercup. “Why don’t you have a seat while I tell you what I want?”
Nodding, he bent his legs into a sitting position as he flapped a turning circle toward the pillow. He tucked his wings in and plopped down on the edge.
Innately sensing the sanctum violation, Pickle was already standing.
Ready to fight and steaming moisture, Vergüenza appeared at the center of Buttercup in her Pukwudgie wizarding robes under her flared-open brown trench coat. The Kurt Russell Stargate beret on her head and large WWE-styled Buttercup championship belt showed that she meant business.
Still, she yelled, “Off of my sanctum!”
Standing on the bed, Pickle stepped in place to demonstrate that he wasn’t on anything that Vergüenza truly considered part of her personal property.
Sternly, she said, “Out of my room.”
Pickle glanced to me.
To let him know he didn’t have to go, I shook my head.
Vergüenza snapped her fingers and was dressed like Jayne Cobb. “Do you know what the chain of do what I say is?” She snapped her fingers again and a length of spiked chain appeared in her hands. “It’s the chain I beat you with until you do what you’re ruttin’ told.”
Not intimidated, and looking up at Vergüenza, Pickle snapped his fingers and was dressed like demonic Superman. “Darrius,” he said, “it’s about to go down.”
Vergüenza snapped her fingers and the chain turned into kryptonite.
Pickle snapped his fingers and transformed into a gamma radiated version of himself.
“What—” Darrius had rushed to the doorway. “—is going on in here?”
Vergüenza glanced to him and snapped her fingers. The chain was gone. The beret was gone. The house robes were gone. In a parted, long brown trench coat of her own design, the series of mouths down Vergüenza’s chest to navel were visible and her thick Buttercup championship buckle slimmed to a loose sexy waistband that dangled a floor plan of the small apartment as a buckle over her privates.
She batted all her eyes at Darrius. “Hello, sailor.”
I buried my burning face in my hands.
“Hi,” Darrius said. “I like your waistband.”
Vergüenza said, “What? This old thing?”
I dared to peek through my fingers.
He had entered my bedroom and was at the foot of the bed.
Swiveling her hips to—goodness, Vergüenza—give him glimpses of what was beneath, she walked down the bed toward him.
Not mentioning any of her physical attributes, Darrius said, “Cool coat.”
She grabbed the lapels and pulled them closed to model it for him. “While we can’t all be winners, we can honor the struggle.”
Smiling, Darrius said, “You’re gorram right.”
Vergüenza glanced over her shoulder at Pickle. “You may sit.”
Pickle glanced to me.
To not subvert Vergüenza’s permission, I shrugged and raised my eyebrows at him.
“Hmm.” Pickle snapped his fingers. He had a pipe that blew soap bubbles and was in an old-fashioned smoking jacket. “I’ve got a load I’ve been meaning to get off.” He sat down like a civilized fellow. Totally playing it cool.
Vergüenza appeared next to him. Plopping down, she snapped her fingers. A large bucket of popcorn appeared, covering their laps.
Pickle snapped his fingers and a cup rack with a large soda—with two straws—appeared between them. In perfect unison, they ate popcorn as they looked back and forth to me and Darrius as we drew closer.
He and I pulled each other closer and started a kiss that ignited the night.
Like always, my phone alarm that started off quiet, roused me as it eased up to volume two. Turning it off, I noted that it was five a.m. and the neighborhood was blessedly quiet. Next to me, Darrius’s soft, slumbering breaths continued undisturbed. A jovial modified line from Die Hard came to me. Now I have a boyfriend. Ho-ho-ho.
Across the room, on the dresser where we had moved the Buttercup pillow, Vergüenza lifted her head to check in with me. A few of the tiny eyes on her cheeks had joined. There still were a crazy smattering of eyes there, but the inner peace I felt from traveling the rocky road I had to get here ebbed a bit of the hurt away.
When I started texting my boss at Windsor that I was in need of a sick day, Vergüenza laid her head back down and cuddled Pickle—who was as out as Darrius—into her.
Pressing send and setting my phone back on the nightstand, I followed her lead. Curling up with Darrius, I blissfully went back to sleep.
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Sixty-year veteran superhero Tamiko Miller—known worldwide for her elasticity—never thought she’d be suspended from hero work. All because of the recent militarized uniform policies.
On administrative leave, Tamiko treats it as a vacation. Relaxing with a strawberry margarita in Miami, a speeding, physics-defying van screeches plumes of smoke as it drifts onto Flagler Street. Heading her way.
Tamiko knows intervening in her old uniform will likely get her fired forfeiting her pension. Memos never explained why the new uniforms were so important and the true reason lies deeper than she dares snoop with her telepathy.
Preventing harm must be more important than outfits.
The van speeds toward her.
She must act.
When integrity becomes old-fashioned, only true heroes spring into action. Join Tamiko as she proves principles and values are needed in these dark times now more than ever.
—–
Enjoy,
EJ
Short Story | Reaping a Hateful Harvest
Thrilled to renovate the classic Monroe house, Gene Gibbs responded to Brenda Patton’s personal job offer with great gusto.
Gene pours tender love and care into the terribly neglected house. But the house had no interest in those emotions. Not from him.
Now Gene must find a way out before the horrors behind the walls claim him. Forever.
Reaping a Hateful Harvest
by Ezekiel James Boston
Gene Gibbs
“You’re not going to beat me!” Gene Gibbs couldn’t help but feel crazy yelling at the front door because that’s the kind of shit only crazy people do. But he wasn’t crazy, and if he couldn’t get out of this fucking house, he was going to burn the bitch down.
Shadows played at the corner of his eyes.
Since they’d been doing that for the past three days, he wanted to ignore them, but unlike the other times, this one was large enough to be a person. Or something else.
He spun.
Having difficulty between knowing if he was awake or in his nightmares, Gene expected the walls and ceiling of the entry hall of the early 1900’s house to be covered in the swirling black tendrilly morass that reeked of death and exuded derision, and to feel That Presence— That Someone. That Something; full of hate and hunger waited in the kitchen. In the walls. In the ceiling. Everywhere.
The walls and ceiling were bare dirty-white plaster. The corkboard flooring in the hallway gave way to tiny white and Gainesboro gray tile flooring; halfway completed in the empty kitchen. The stairs on his left that led up to the landing were upholstered in hunter green, 1970’s shag carpet until they turned right to go to the second floor. Yet another partially completed renovation. Right now, the stairs were just stairs. They didn’t feel like they lead up to death.
In case whatever that was at the corner of his eye had hopped into the living room, Gene took a quick step and peeked in.
Nothing there either. Just more corkboard floor, the lawnmower he had brought in to fix on its side next to his tools, and the wide brick fireplace.
So, it was just him in his navy-blue coveralls. In the hallway. Holding a cool mason jar of gasoline.
He had punctured the lid first to stuff a ripped portion of his flannel pajama bottoms through. The cloth had absorbed some of the gasoline inside and the fumes reminded him of what he had planned on doing.
Gene turned back to the door and narrowed his eyes. “Open up or I’ll burn you down.”
Besides a plane flying overhead, the house was quiet. Listening.
“I mean it.” Gene pulled his Zippo lighter from his pocket. “I’m not fucking around.”
Though he had quit smoking years ago, Gene still carried the plain silver lighter. Most days it was just something to fiddle with. Occasionally, he’d get a chance to show off his ability to pull, open, and strike it in one fluid motion to help a smoker light up.
Today, his Zippo was going to be a force for destroying a house that he thought had so much charm and promise.
Gene shook his head and shrugged. “All right. I warned you.” With a snap, he opened the Zippo and struck it.
A door slammed upstairs.
Gene flinched. He had been alone in the house.
The shower turned on.
Though he had started off casually talking to the house like a friend while doing the landscaping and quick repairs, he had ended up yelling at the house when the doors and windows—which were unlocked—wouldn’t open to let him out. Nothing had happened those other times. Even when he tried to shatter the unbreakable windows.
This time, with gas and fire in hand, the house reacted.
The small comfort he found in knowing that he hadn’t lost his mind was swallowed by the unnerving certainty that either something was in the house with him or the house was sentient and set against him.
Ready to put the flame to the gas-soaked flannel and huck the jar at anything moving, Gene started up the upholstered stairs. As he went, a tingling lit in the back of his head. Instinctually, he felt like he was prey drawing closer to a predator. Consciously, he was armed and prepared to face it.
Set to light and throw, Gene hopped up onto the landing expecting the worst of his tendrilly nightmares.
But only found the last six stairs and the empty hall that turned right to the spacious loft.
The lighter started to heat in his hand.
Knowing that he could have it opened and lit in an instant, he flicked it closed.
Through both doors that flanked the top of the stairs were closed, he eyed the one on the left. That was the one he had left open after his shower this morning and that was the one muffling the sound of the shower running now.
A bitter taste—fear—lit at the back of his throat. The tingling in the back of his head filled his brain and expanded down his neck.
He swallowed, took a deep breath, and took five of the stairs.
Gene leapt past the sixth stair, dashed past the doors, and turned to surprise anything that waited to ambush him from the loft.
But the loft was empty.
The setting sun shone through the bayside windows and colored the plaster walls a ruddy orange. Hoping to see someone, Gene rushed to the windows he had admired for giving a commanding view of the extremely long, private front drive.
Tall, ivy veined fichus hedges, hedges he had to use a twenty-foot ladder to trim the top of, lined the property. The wrought iron gate that had been overgrown with ivy that he had cleared, was the only opening at which anyone on foot or in a car could see the house.
No one was out there, and he could barely see the tops of the other two-story houses a city block away.
Hemmed by freshly mowed grass, his van sat near the house with his riding mower still caged in the trailer. The weed whacker he had set against the side of his van three days ago, before taking his small mower in replace the blade, was still there.
His van was hope. He just had to get to it.
Determination rebuilding to get out. Gene went back to the doors.
Instead of going into the bathroom, he opened the door to his bedroom to makes sure nothing would take him from behind.
As it should be, the only things in there were his inflated air mattress, spare clothes, water, and food. When he couldn’t get out, he had moved all of the essentials here.
Gene closed the door and faced the bathroom.
He reached out for the handle.
The tingling crept down his back.
Gene shuddered. He turned the handle, threw open the door, and flicked his Zippo.
Hot steam hung in the air and was the only thing in the otherwise empty bathroom. Standing so that the door could not close him in, Gene leaned over the toilet to see the other side. Nothing.
Dreading having to venture further to face whatever it was, Gene looked at the closed door that led to the small nursery off of the 1900’s version of a master bedroom. Something about both those rooms beyond that door—particularly the master—had made him decide to set up camp in the other room. He didn’t know what it was then, but he felt it now. The menace. The loathing.
The old-fashioned handles in the shower squeaked as they spun off. By themselves.
He jumped.
The shower curtain he had brought lay open and the shower head faced the wall.
Fearful that it would pivot and blast him with scolding hot water, Gene withdrew into the hallway to go back down the stairs.
The handles squeaked and the water turned back on.
When Gene turned back, he caught a message on the mirror.
This morning, resolute to get out of the house, he had used his finger to write his threatening affirmation on the fogged-up mirror. He had written perfect block letters and read it to the house. “If I die, you die.”
Fully fogged up, the mirror didn’t reveal the message that he had written early. In sloppy scrawl, there was only, You die.
Gene had almost not come to work on the house at the end of Monroe Lane. When Brenda Patton, the geekiest freak in high school—shit, since elementary—had sent him a message on Facebook with the job of clearing out the overgrown vegetation and to do minor handyman work, Gene figured it was the weirdo’s way of bringing attention to how well she’d done in the twenty plus years since graduation. Sort of a, you ruined me in high school, but whose laughing now kind of thing. He should’ve unfriended her years ago, but enjoyed the lack of response when he’d make an off comment.
However, after looking at Brenda’s profile again and seeing that she was mid-level management at a rink-a-dink travel agency, Gene decided to show up and show off. He was doing well. Better than her actually. He was his own boss, was about to expand, and didn’t have to kowtow to anyone.
Now that he had seen the message, the water turned off.
He felt like he’d been dismissed.
“Yeah?” Gene yelled, “Well, fuck you!”
He tromped down the stairs to the landing, flicked his Zippo, lit the flannel and hucked the jar at the door.
The door flung open.
The jar sailed out and cracked open on the brick porch. If he’d had oil and powdered detergent to make a proper sticky Molotov cocktail, the fire may have burned long enough or high enough to do damage and call attention. Just gasoline, the fire would spread and burn out.
Ready to go through the fire and leap out of the porch, Gene powered down the stairs.
One stair from freedom, Gene leapt.
The door slammed shut.
Gene crashed into it and whacked his head—
Head throbbing, Gene roused.
A gibbering echoey voice rattled nonsense and vibrated on his skin. He didn’t understand what was being said, but felt the mocking disdain as it pressed on his body. That revolting smell like burnt hair and rotten meat filled the air. And the slick, slimy sound of tendrils writhing on the black walls and ceiling filled his ears.
Nightmareland.
Gene tried to open his eyes, but dread kept them sealed shut.
If he saw it—the walls, the ceiling, the madness—it’d be real. And he’d be totally fucked. With his eyes closed, there was still hope. Hope of waking up on his air mattress. Or in the back of his van. Or in his own bed.
Anywhere but in Brenda’s house.
Something wrapped around his ankle.
Gene’s eyes flew open.
The walls were the wriggling black vines of his deepest fears. A long spindly bastard from up the stairs had ahold of him and tugged.
Gene pulled against it. He was stronger than it.
But another had slithered into view on the landing and turned to start down the stairs.
“Oh fuck.” Gene jumped up to his feet and pulled against the tendril into the living room.
Almost to the mower, the second tendril grabbed onto the same ankle. Together, they yanked.
Gene swiveled to put his weight on his other leg, and to keep from pitching face first to the corkboard flooring that had turned bone white.
Almost evenly matched, they pulled on him.
Using his body weight, Gene struggled against them. Inching closer to the old mower blade.
He glanced back and flopped to the ground to kick at them with his free leg.
The second tendril let loose to grab his other ankle.
Gene scrambled. He seized the blade, sat up, and whacked the tendril still holding him. He gashed it good.
It let go. Dark, purplish-blue ooze seeped out of the wound.
The gibbering voice turned into an angry squeal.
“Fuck you, too!” Leg free, Gene pulled it in and stood. He faced down the two tendrils.
“Come on.” Jaw set, Gene bounced in place.
“Come on!”
They came.
Enraged, Gene whacked.
Thwacked.
And fought.
He not only kept them at bay, but—little by little—he beat them back to the hallway.
Gouged and oozing, the tendrils managed to level attack after attack, but were losing strength as rapidly as they were losing ground to the stairs.
Gene grunted, “Get some.”
He whacked one, the first one, and it withdrew up three steps.
Gene smacked the other and it did the same.
Before the either could get back on the attack, he tried the front door. It didn’t open.
Adrenaline fueled, Gene grinned. He was glad it didn’t. Now he had reason to stalk these little shits back into the master bedroom and kill the thing with his own hands instead of burning the fucking place down.
If it wasn’t in there, he’d kill it wherever it was.
Gene gnashed his teeth. “Should’ve let me out, fucker.” Giving no other warning, he pressed the attack. He beat them to the landing and could see that they came from the bathroom.
Confidence at full-peak, he was ready to face and murder whatever this thing was.
Oozing, the tendrils tried to fend him off, but their high offense had turned more into low defensive strokes as Gene forced them all the way up the stairs and made them retreat into the bathroom.
Giving both tendrils a quick one-two hit, Gene glanced beyond them. Sure as shit, they curled from the nursery doorjamb back to the master bedroom.
“Daddy’s coming.” He crossed onto the tile and pressed a savage attack to get to the nursery.
The shower handles squeaked on.
Scorching water soaked his back.
Gene bellowed and redoubled his attack to get beyond the water’s arc.
About to press into the nursery proper, six more tendrils snaked up to meet him. The two he’d been beating back reared up to waver in the air with the others.
About to retreat, strong tendrils—from behind—slithered around his ankles and seized him.
Gene spun to give them the business and gaped.
Dozens of long tendrils and perhaps hundreds of smaller ones extended from the black morass of the walls and waited for him to try and get back out.
From behind, tendrils wrapped his waist and whacking arm.
Gene took hold of the mower blade with this other hand.
Before he could swing once, a tendril, one of the ones he had beat up the stairs, arrested his other wrist. Alone there, it had more than enough strength to keep him from moving an inch.
“They lured me.” Stupefied, Gene whimpered, “They were just fucking with me.”
Directed by tendrils, the shower head angled to the tub. Steam emanated from the blistering stream, as it came out of the old spout and began to fill the tub.
More tendrils enwrapped his torso and legs. Together they lifted him from the ground and eased him toward the tub.
“No.” Gene shook his head and shouted, “No!”
They held him aloft as he pleaded for his life and the tub filled.
The water cut off.
They turned him to face the mirror.
The black things wrapped several times around his waist, his ankles, and his wrists to have him spread-eagled and arms raised in a vee.
The top of the mirror had fogged up and there was one word. Apologize.
“I’m sorry.” Gene gave it up without a moment’s hesitation. His chest filled with life-fearing sorrow and he tried to express it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
They reeled him back over the water.
“No! I’m sorry!” Frantic, he tried to fight them and apologized like mad.
Neither worked.
His babbling apologies turned into wails as the heat emanating from the water warmed his back. Heated his back. Burned his back.
They plunged him in.
Brenda Patton
The air in the basement of the Monroe house was pregnant with the putrid stench of burning incense made from blood-soaked black roses. Though the smell was prominent, there was an undertone stink of human waste.
As wide as the manse above, a third of the room was filled with the tendrils of Uog-Toth, a lesser servant known to relay power to Yog-Sothoth. With vacant stares, at least fifty people were held fast by the tendrils with a domed tentacle wrapped over their crown. Their moans of discomfort were a constant drone with an occasional shriek breaking through. Held in the air by tendrils, each person had an IV rig in their arm that allowed for three tubes to feed the body. The tubes went to massive bags that hung from an administration pole that was held close to the body.
The only person without an IV was Gene Gibbs who had gone from babbling apologies to a heart-wrenching screaming jag. The rig and pole were next to him, but he wasn’t hooked up.
Initiate Brenda Patton’s breath hitched. Though she thought she hated this man for constantly embarrassing her in school, most notably holding her down in seventh grade to spit a loogie in her mouth; which got all the popular girls to constantly snipe at her through high school, Brenda couldn’t help but feel empathetic horror at seeing him actually in the physical and psychic grip of Uog-Toth.
Compared to some of the truly revolting stories she’d heard Elder Initiates tell of the targets of their hate-sacrifice, Brenda’s felt petty. But once she had joined the cult, she didn’t know how to get out.
A rather pleased exhalation came from directly behind Brenda. Mistress Fa’Orasla’s light voice held a delighted heft. “You’ve done well in choosing, Initiate.” The cult leader’s long fingers squeezed Brenda’s shoulders through her heavy cotton robes and rubbed the back of her head through her hood. “Go. Insert the needle and utter aloud the name Uog-Toth grants you for this grand hate-sacrifice.”
Swallowing quietly, Brenda eyed the various tendrils as she walked into the mass to get to Gene and the IV rig.
A tendril that felt like a slimy garden hose took gentle hold of her right hand to guide her in. When she was next to Gene, it slithered up her arm inside her sleeve, across her shoulder blades, and up behind her ear.
Trembling inside, Brenda fought the urge to twist away from it. She took hold of Gene’s arm. His skin was cool to the touch. She turned his arms so that she could see the roadmap of bulging veins in his muscled arm.
She took hold of the needle.
Something warm and slick slid from the tip of the tendril behind her ear. Though she had witnessed four Elder Initiates perform this ritual, and twitch, their hoods obscured this particular part of the ceremony.
That warm slick rounded her ear, snaked down past her forward helix piercing, past her daith piercing, and slithered into her ear canal. Physically, it stopped. But something ephemeral—and slimy—pressed through her eardrum into her tympanic cavity and pressed on to explore further.
Reluctantly, her mouth gapped as she shudder-filched away from it.
Brenda had the wherewithal not to pull.
Her pulse raced, her breathing quickened, and she felt every ounce of fluid in her bladder beg for release.
She focused to steel her nerves.
Brenda laid the needle on one of Gene’s veins and pushed it in.
A word played on her lips as that ephemeral feeling crowded in on her soul. Uog-Toth had joined her in her body. Next to Its power, next to Its true loathing, she was nothing.
Her life was nothing.
All life was nothing.
But some of Its power could become hers. She just had to let go to utter the word.
Ready to hear her new name, her cosmic name, Brenda relinquished control. Her vocal cords and lips moved.
With her mouth, Uog-Toth said, “Unworthy.”
Fear seized her heart.
Brenda wanted to protest, but her body wasn’t hers anymore. She had handed control over to a being of much greater power and It wasn’t giving up anything.
Mistress Fa’Orasla walked into the tendrils.
They slid along her robes. Held her hands. Stroked her face. She didn’t even blink when one tendril slid along her lower eyelid and a bright purple tongue came from the tip to lick her eyeball.
The tendrils pulled Brenda’s sleeve up.
“Welcome.” Mistress Fa’Orasla took the needle from Gene’s arm and stuck it into Brenda’s. “To the Monroe House.”
Brenda winced. Her vision began to blur.
Mistress Fa’Orasla called for another IV rig.
Brenda faded…
Brenda found herself on the landing looking down at Gene holding a mason jar that he’d made into a Molotov cocktail.
He yelled at the door, “You’re not going to beat me!”
She said, “Gene?”
Gene turned. There was a wild look in his eyes. “Brenda! I can’t get out of this house. We gotta get out of this house!”
Crushing fear overwhelmed Brenda.
Pleased, Uog-Toth fed.
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Novel | Stuck in Mother Faboinging Flower Land
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—–
If you can read this, HELP! I’m stuck in this mother f’n children’s game and I can’t find a way out.
Every time I die, I restart in the f’n towns quare with only vague chopped up memories of my past runs. The game keeps track, but clues are few and far between. If you—
**Thinking hard, Tyrone stood at Blue Town’s fountain.**
Oh no…not again! Please, for all that’s holy, unplug this game. I can’t escape. I can’t die. I can’t cuss. This is Hel—
—–
While this latest novel is slated to be my July 5th release, I figured I’d better get it up so July 4th can be worry free.
Please note, this book will only be available through August 4th when it goes exclusive to Amazon. It will return to this site on December 5th.
Enjoy,
EJ
Short Story | The Weird Shit That Happened Because of Tricia Fisher
The latest in a long line of service industry jobs, Tricia Fisher washes hair at the Nails N’ Thangs beauty salon.
A typical day gets derailed. Her abusive ex shows up and makes her late for work. Again. If Tricia gets fired, her father marches her down to the military recruitment office.
With her job already on the chopping block, Tricia needs to think fast to remain employed and keep her son. She must defy fate.
Absolutely must!
The Weird Shit That Happened Because of Tricia Fisher
by Ezekiel James Boston
In her teens, Tricia had indirectly learned that fidgeting and looking unsure usually made her various managers’ hearts melt, granting extended probation or a series of one more chances. Somewhere in her early twenties, the fidgeting seemed to trigger a rapid rules-are-rules response.
Holding her left hand in her right, Tricia made a concerted effort not to fidget.
The air conditioning hummed on. A vent blew right down on her. She never understood why they had the A/C on back here during winter. It’d make more sense for it to be kept warm like the rest of the salon.
Tricia hunched her shoulders and pulled her arms tighter to herself.
The salon was at the rear corner of a drab beige strip mall. Tricia often looked on the entire area as she walked from the bus stop. The same beige paint was used on the inside of the windowless office. While the room was just a little larger than the room she and her little Matthew shared at her parents’ house, it felt smaller. And had fewer decorations than any other office that she’d been in.
Black four-drawer filing cabinets lined the back wall, shortening the room a bit. Freshly slicked Mop & Glo wooden flooring created an L-shape that marked two-thirds of the room’s space as off limits. Bosses only. There were two big, comfy-looking black chairs at the desk—one for Mrs. Edsen and one off to the right on the short side of the desk. Invite only.
When Tricia recently turned thirty, her dad had teased her in his non-teasing way—in front of her son—that she was now older than the numbers of jobs that she had had since she was sixteen. Her mom tried to hush him, but Dad had then started to list them all. Every. Single. One.
Sharp laughter came from just outside the oak-framed glass door.
Ivy, the manager, was also the chief nail tech, and had the station closest to the office. The super busybody, and ultimate gossip, laughed her I’m-only-laughing-to-make-sure-everyone-knows-I’m-here laugh. The customers thought it was genuine, but everyone who worked at Nails N’ Thangs got to know Ivy’s laughs.
The client being treated must’ve said something close to funny and Ivy capitalized on it.
Tricia scanned the office again.
Besides three small picture frames on the desk facing where Mrs. Edsen would sit, there was nothing to use.
Through her various jobs, Tricia had learned a few tricks to not get fired. One was never snoop in the bosses’ office because some had cameras. The second was never lie or create a spectacle. Neither tended to work, and both had a way of coming back at you.
While she preferred to strike up a kinship through pictures and decorations, there was nothing here to clue her in. Sometimes she’d try to help the boss relate to her and the troubles of her age, but that—like the fidgeting—was becoming more of a sure way out the door. As a last ditch effort, she’d mention her son or that she had to move back home with her parents to get out of her abusive relationship with Burt. If that didn’t get the boss, nothing would.
The air kept blowing and Ivy found a couple of other things to laugh about. It sure was taking Mrs. Edsen a long time to deal with the guest. Was being confined to the frigid Mop & Glo scented office a standard part of being fired from Nails N’ Thangs?
The best way Tricia found to not getting fired, of course, was to show up and work.
That one wasn’t a trick: it was what you were supposed to do. But weird shit kept happening in her life.
Stuff that no one would believe. Like getting stuck for hours in a revolving door, trapped for hours in elevators, the subway just skipping her stop and the stop after it.
Once, when she had a car, a cute little old Fierro, she got trapped inside. She had driven the car onto the ferry, and napped during the crossing like always. That time, when she woke from her nap, the damn doors wouldn’t open; neither of them. Even though she had proof that the fire department had to come onto the ferry and use the jaws of life to get her out, her hard-nose boss still fired her. Worse, her Fierro was ruined.
Weird Shit That Happens to Tricia Fisher. Tricia smiled. Now, that’s a list her father should recite.
Funny at first, she grimaced and regretted just the thought of it. He’d probably preface the list with here are the excuses Trish has used to try and keep jobs. Then, he’d inject his yeah rights or reallys throughout the list.
Her mom had said that military men showed their love in different ways. Tricia knew her father loved her. There were just times when he could be a real ass.
Nothing uncanny had happened to Tricia today. Today was caused by good old asshole Burt. He discovered the new way she went to work and refused to let her get on the bus until she heard him out. Then she had to get a ride from him to not be late.
Of course, he was sorry. Of course, he was changed. And of course, in thinking over his latest line of bullshit, she wasn’t focused on the customer and ended up brushing the lady’s hair before starting the shampoo.
No big deal really, but the customer was there for a perm and Meg and Karen wouldn’t do the treatment because Tricia had lost track of time while brushing the lady’s lovely long hair. As the shampoo girl, she’d was told not to prebrush anyone in for a color or perm, but that forced time with Burt had knocked Tricia’s habits out of whack. And there was a comfort in brushing the lady’s hair.
The latch clicked.
Tricia jumped.
The door opened. Toasty air and chitchat from the salon pushed into the cold office. Instead of Mrs. Edsen, Mr. Edsen came in. His bright red parka still had a bit of snow in the creases.
Mr. Edsen had one of those voices that was great for stories with eggnog around the fireplace. He said, “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“I was just lost in thought.” Tricia laughed. Nerves. She hated being a nervous laugher.
“Well, the missus had to go.” He shuffled by and clicked off the A/C thermostat as he made his way around the short end of the desk. “Our daughter’s in labor.”
“Oh.” Tricia felt a thrill of possible continued employment. “Well, shouldn’t you be there too?”
“Nah.” Mr. Edsen shrugged off the parka and draped it over the back of the chair. “She’s from a previous marriage and hates me for pressing charges against her birth-father when the asshole had the balls to break into our place.”
“Oh…” Tricia nodded. The new child/grandchild angle moved a bit further from easy use. Having only had the job since late fall, Tricia had never seen Mr. Edsen without a coat of some sort. The ladies often talked about how amazingly fit he was for his early fifties and Tricia made an effort not to notice how his arms, shoulders, and neck pressed against his white dress shirt as he smoothed down his red tie and sat.
He pointed to the other chair.
She sort of jumped again, but kept her nervous laughter in check.
He motioned to the opened door. “Since it’s just you and me in here, I have to have the door open.”
“Okay.”
He continued. “If you’d like to have it closed, I can have Ivy step in—”
“No,” Tricia interrupted. “This is fine.”
It was bad enough that Ivy was going to hear everything. Tricia didn’t want the gossip to give the blow-by-blow of how they were sitting or to make snarky comments about her facial expressions.
“So,” Mr. Edsen leaned back in his chair. “My wife tells me this is your third time in the office…”
Tricia’s mouth dried. There was no wiggle room. Hell, that wasn’t even a question. Just a statement of fact. A statement that—no matter how she responded—had all the momentum of I’m going to have to let you go right behind it. She was already so far behind on rent to her dad that he had her paying daily. Even as a grown woman, if she didn’t have twenty dollars on the mantle every night until caught up, he was going to march her down to a recruiting office first thing the next morning.
During their deal—her father’s deal, really—he had made it clear. She was too old to be a Marine, but other branches would still gladly take her. It was either that or take Burt’s offer until she could get on her feet. And, with Burt, she never would.
“Please don’t fire me, Mr. Edsen.” Tricia had never begged before. None of the jobs were worth it and her back wasn’t as tightly against the wall as it was now. If she didn’t take either man’s offer, she’d be homeless and there was no way she was going to put Matty through that.
Tricia wanted to say more, but nothing new would come. “Please don’t fire me.”
Mr. Edsen didn’t turn, but he looked to the open door. “So, this isn’t your third trip to the office?”
Apparently, that was the only way out, but she wasn’t going to lie even if it felt like he was trying to lead her that way.
“No. This is my third time in here.” Tricia’s eyes were growing wet. Don’t fucking do it! She steeled herself against crying. Don’t. “But, please don’t fire me.”
He continued to not look at her, but out the door. It was a distancing technique. When he looked at her, he’d deliver the news. Either way, it’d at least be quick.
And quick was her enemy. Long talks were the stuff extended opportunities were made of. Short talks lead to long walks.
Giving him all the time he needed. Tricia shifted her eyes to glance out the door.
She caught Ivy’s blue eyes locked on her through a reflection on the glass door.
Tricia returned her attention to Mr. Edsen.
Also on the list of Weird Shit That Happens to Tricia Fisher were other things. Good things. Like when she finally built up the nerve to run away from Burt. She had no idea where she would go, but, pregnant with Matty, she knew she had to get away from him.
Burt had gone off on one of his drunken even though we live in an apartment, I’m the man of the house, Goddamn it rants as he drove her home from work and he’d been nudging her shoulder in that way he did before balling his fist. The next traffic signal that didn’t go his way was going to be taken out on her. A green light went right to red. No yellow. Just red. She’d been paying close attention.
Seconds later, police sirens.
Minutes later, a sobriety test.
Minutes after that, her driving home alone as the cops took him to jail for driving under the influence. He’d get out. He’d be mad, but he’d be sober. And a sober Burt was manageable. However, by then, she’d be home with her parents and Burt would have to work to get her back. And he would, but things were better. For a while.
Mr. Edsen hadn’t looked back. His eyes shifted up.
Ivy leaned into the office. “Mr. Edsen.” A couple of the top buttons on her flowered blouse were now undone to showcase a scant bit of her ample breasts. “Donna just called and said she can’t make it in at all today.”
Tricia’s insides tingled. Donna, the shampoo girl who usually came in when Tricia’s shift was over, had probably been called so Tricia could be let go.
Mr. Edsen frowned at the name. “Donna?”
Ivy motioned with her head slightly toward Tricia.
“Oh, right. Donna.” Mr. Edsen sat up and fully faced Ivy. “What happened?”
Ivy gave an over exaggerated, upward-back shrug. “Apparently, a garbage truck lost its brakes and smashed her car into her house.”
“Wow.” Mr. Edsen’s head rocked back on his massive neck. “Is she all right?” He added, “I mean, is she and her family all right?”
Tricia felt touched. From what she knew of Mrs. and Mr. Edsen, neither of them supposedly cared about the employees. Yet, here was this moment—this shining example—that showed the opposite. She needed to work, but when bosses actually cared, that made her want to keep the job.
“Yes, they’re all fine.” Ivy nodded in a bimbotastic way. “But…” She glanced at Tricia.
Tricia met Ivy’s gaze. Though she shouldn’t have, since Ivy was the manager, Tricia looked at the woman’s cleavage briefly before regaining eye contact.
Ivy narrowed her eyes.
Tricia smiled and returned her attention to Mr. Edsen. “I can work clear through to closing Mr. Edsen. I can work through the weekend.” Tricia put the fact that Ivy was right there out of her mind. To hell with the woman talking about her as soon as she turned her back. “I can do that and more. Just, don’t fire me. And give me the schedule.”
He finally made eye contact again.
She hadn’t said please. Shit. “Please don’t,” Tricia added. “Not today.”
One of Mr. Edsen’s eyebrows, the one away from Ivy rose high onto his forehead like Zachary Quinto did while playing Spock in those new Star Trek movies.
Only seeing him in passing before, Tricia hadn’t noticed the color of his eyes and, as long as he was staring at her, it felt like she should’ve. But he was old. Not charming-old, but that sort of sexy-old. She only noticed eyes on guys she was—on one level or another—attracted to.
Instead of noting the color, she dropped her gaze. The part of her that wouldn’t mind a little company in the night whispered that his eyes were hazel.
She chastised that part of her. He was married. And old.
Sexy-old.
Shut up.
Experience.
That’s enough! She put her mental foot down. And was glad not to hear another peep.
Mr. Edsen said, “Not today, then.”
Ivy gasped.
Gratitude bubbling over, Tricia looked up and it all went flat.
Mr. Edsen still had that eyebrow raised high. The corner of his mouth, the corner that Ivy couldn’t see was curled back. Half of his face was strictly professional. The other half was nothing short of lecherous.
Tricia tried to find words to say, but the leer stole them and sent the part of her that would welcome company screaming for the hills.
Lightening her tone to a sugary sweet reminding tone, Ivy said, “But this is her third trip to the office.”
“So it is.” His face evened out to a pleasant strictly business expression. “However.” He faced Ivy. “We are going to be short staffed, right?” He didn’t give her time to answer. “Are you going to work the shampoo station? Can you spare anyone?”
Ivy’s mouth worked for a moment.
Tricia knew Ivy was searching for a solution, but there was no way one of the licensed beauticians in there would want to give up their spot in the salon to wash hair or do the various menial tasks around the salon. In a way, having the worst, least-qualified position in the shop just kept her employed.
Mr. Edsen nodded at Ivy in a way that was more than a nod. Tricia didn’t know the code, but a coded message had just been exchanged.
Ivy kept the same syrupy tone. “Okaaay.” And bopped once in place before spinning away. Closing the door behind her.
Mr. Edsen said, “Well?”
Ignoring the color, Tricia looked into his eyes. “I’m not fired?”
“No.” He stood and spread his arms in a way that could’ve been just stretching, but also could be reaching out for a hug.
“Then I better get to work.” Tricia fled to the shop. She didn’t look back. “Thank you Mr. Edsen.”
Focused on doing everything right, Tricia went back to her training and performed every step. It started with her greeting the customer as she had learned during her short time at Sunnah Executive Suites. After getting the customer’s name, she remembered it and used it as she inquired about their day, and what treatment they were there for.
And she went further. From putting a towel around their neck first, then the tarp, and then another towel to make sure no part of the tarp touched the guest, to emulsify the shampoo between her hands, to only using the balls of her fingers to massage the scalp as she washed the hair. Lastly, when she walked the guest to their next station, she made sure to make an introduction.
Tricia had just welcomed Wanda to her chair, prepped her, and washed her hands when Brenda came back with her strawberry blonde hair in a beautiful spiral perm.
Brenda said, “Thank you, Tricia.” And slipped folded up bills—a five on the outside—into her smock pocket as she gave her a small hug. “Everything was fantastic because of you.”
Tricia’s mouth broke open in a smile that she didn’t know she had. Pride. She was honored to have been a pivotal point in what was probably just another session for both Brenda and Karen.
Even better, when she glanced at Karen, Karen gave her a sly thumbs up.
“My pleasure, Brenda.” Tricia couldn’t get the smile to go away. “Hope to see you back soon.”
Brenda returned a smile as she walked away. “I think I just found my new place.”
Smiling after Brenda, Tricia spoke to Wanda as she ran her hands under the water to make sure it was on the lower side of warm. “And you wanted Shu Uemra’s Moisture Velvet, right Wand—”
Eyes closed and serene, the woman in the chair was not the same one that she had just greeted.
Where Wanda had healthy rosy cheeks, this Asian woman had a lean face with virtually nothing over her wide cheekbones. The combination of no eyebrows, no eye lashes, and extremely pale skin made her entire face look off. Wanda’s full head of shoulder length brown hair was gone. This woman’s hair was pale blonde and in a style that Tricia’s father called a high-and-tight. While bald on the sides, this woman had just a little more on top than Demi did when she cut her hair for G.I. Jane.
Tricia wanted to write it off to weird shit, but where was Wanda?
There, in the waiting area, reading Vogue—as she had been before—was the woman she had walked to her chair before Brenda had interrupted.
As before, Wanda was perfectly content thumbing through the magazine.
Knowing the woman hadn’t just disappeared into thin air gave Tricia mental well-being, but having that kind of lapse made her wonder if she was supposed to be on any medications.
“You’re fine. Trisha.” The woman opened her pinkish eyes. “Now that you have enough for the day, would it not end better by going home early?”
Tricia’s mouth gaped open.
“No. You need to earn enough for the weekend, too.” The woman blinked and an annoyed look stole over her features. “And you gave your word.”
Tricia began to fumble away, but the woman grabbed her. Her grip was cold and strong. She said, “Perhaps another day.”
And was gone.
Wanda was there, all prepped and ready to go. Wanda nodded. “Yes, there’s just something intoxicating to the camellia scent it leaves in the hair.”
Tricia looked around for the blonde Asian with pink eyes.
While they had blondes in Nails N’ Thangs, none were as stark-blonde as the woman, none had short hair, and—most telling—none were Asian.
Tricia’s mouth still hung open.
Wanda asked, “Are you okay, Tricia?”
Tricia jumped at her name and stopped her search. Trying to catch traction again with reality, Tricia closed her mouth and replied in more of a sound than a word. “Huh?”
Wanda sat up, “You were asking if I wanted Moisture Velvet, but now I’m wondering if you’re okay.”
“Yeah.” Tricia lied. A nervous titter escaped her lips.
She failed at dismissing what had just happened to weird shit. Somehow thinking about one guest as she walked another to her chair worked at the far end of plausible and she could’ve rolled with that. But to have the original customer back…That was just too much.
This bumped against the top of her weird scale. When she scanned around this time, she didn’t look for the woman. No, she looked for the tall slim man that always accompanied these moments. She was never close to him. Never within talking distance, but he was always near-ish.
Except this time.
It was just her and the other ladies in the salon.
Tricia wanted to take a break. She should’ve taken a break, but she was on the verge of being fired.
Tricia wiped her forehead and caught herself in mid-motion. She started to wash her hands again, “Moisture Velvet.” She laughed one more time before getting herself under control enough to force a smile. “You got it, Wanda.”
Tricia kept on her toes for anything else, but the rest of the winter day went by without incident.
Mr. Edsen had turned off the open sign two hours ago, but they serviced everyone who was in the door by their seven o’clock closing time.
The bottles tinkled as Tricia organized the nail polishes. Karen had gone on a short break after finishing with Lisa, their very last customer for the day, and setting her under the dryer for her Ombre dye-timer to ding.
Getting the shades of oranges to fade into red had Tricia’s complete focus.
She heard someone approach, but didn’t know it was Karen until her apple pie breath was upon her. Karen must’ve just taken a quick vape break.
Karen said, “Good job today, Tricia.”
“Thanks.” Tricia still worked on the polishes. Instead of looking up to the mirror to acknowledge Karen’s reflection, Tricia stole a glance for real eye contact.
Karen had a ten-dollar bill extended to her. “Your introducing the guests really made a difference in the amount of tips I got; probably in the tips everyone got today. But, unlike them, I’m saying thank you to your face and giving tangible gratitude.”
“Thank you.” Tricia stopped and sprung a hug, a restrained hug, on Karen. She thought everyone in there hated her. “This means more than you know.”
Karen patted her back. Without a doubt, it was a get-off-me pat.
Tricia held the hug just a little longer. She needed the contact. And then released Karen to go back to the polishes.
“Um.” Karen cleared her throat. “The tenner?”
Tricia turned and took it with a smile. “Sorry. Thank you.”
The timer dinged; saving them both from awkward conversation.
Karen walked away.
Almost having it perfect, a second person walked up on her. This one was significantly wider.
“It’s snowing out.” Mr. Edsen asked, “Do you need a ride home?”
Tricia stiffened slightly. “No, I got a ride.” It was a lie. When she had called her Dad to let him know she was working late, he had said that they were still taking Matty to the movies and that she would have to take the bus home. It hadn’t been snowing then, but she’d taken public transport in all kinds of weather. This light stuff outside was nothing, really.
Mr. Edsen lingered. “Well, okay then. But if you change your mind, I’ll be doing a little business in my car out back before heading home.”
Tricia didn’t look at him through the mirror. She simply nodded as she continued fiddling with the reds. They were more than good enough, but he wasn’t walking away, so she wasn’t done.
Eventually he said, “Good job.” And tapped her shoulder as he walked away.
Lisa came over with a five-dollar bill. She looked super regretful. “I’m sorry, but I only have a five.”
Tricia said, “It’s more than enough.” Besides the rare outlier, five dollars was usually the best tip Tricia ever received, and the bumper crop today hadn’t changed her appreciation. Instead of taking the money, Tricia was careful of the hair as she took a hug instead. “Hope you had a wonderful experience.”
“I did.” Lisa hugged her back with her arms. “If you’re always on duty Fridays, I’ll make that my day.”
“Deal.” Tricia didn’t want to muddy the feeling with her fairly inconsistent schedule. She released Lisa, and she and Karen walked Lisa to the door, and waved until the customer was safely driving away.
Mr. Edsen locked the door and went about securing the shop.
As she and Karen walked to the break room, Karen asked, “Do you need a ride?”
Still well within earshot, Tricia kept to the same lie she had told Mr. Edsen. “No, I have a ride.”
Karen said, “Okay. See you tomorrow.”
Though Tricia was going to ask Karen for a ride in the breakroom, Karen already had her coat and went right out the back door.
Not wanting to be alone with Mr. Edsen, Tricia rushed on her coat and made it back out of the breakroom before he had made it halfway across the salon.
She waved. “Good night.” And put on her first fingertip-less mitten that her mother had knitted her. Tricia pushed out the back door into the cold night full of fresh car exhaust.
Karen’s taillights passing in the light snow was a sudden reminder that Tricia really needed to get a car again.
Hoping to wave Karen down, Tricia hurried around the corner of the building to the main street.
Karen was gone.
Tricia finished putting her mittens on before sinking them into her gloves. She pulled her hood up and cinched it tight.
Across the street, right in front of Sammy’s Deli, a streetlight shone down on the sheltered bus stop she’d use. When Tricia didn’t want it to be known that she was taking the bus, she’d slide into Sammy’s after work for a sandwich and coffee. She’d strike up conversation with the guys and keep it going until everyone was gone.
But Sammy’s had closed an hour ago.
Crap.
If Tricia sat at the bus stop, Mr. Edsen was sure to see her on his way out of the parking lot. She nodded to the last lie she’d have to tell that night. That’s where her ride was going to pick her up.
Before stepping out, she checked both ways.
Nearly all the shops had closed for the night, Thompson Avenue looked like a scene out of post-apolitical movie…And she was the woman alone in the world.
Tricia knocked the snow off the metal bench, but decided to stay standing. It’d make short work of her jeans long johns. Surreptitiously, she moved her mace from her purse to her pocket. Unfortunately, she had to peak at it to thumb the tip from the safe area so—if needed—she’d only have to press down.
When she looked up from her pocket, the snow moved sideways from over Sammy’s behind her toward the darkened Nails N’ Thangs.
Not feeling wind remotely strong enough to make that happen, Tricia pulled her hood back. The cold still clung to the air, but it felt just like a still night. Nothing like the wind-chill she should be feeling.
A muffled yelp came from the back of the store.
Tricia dashed around the back of the bus stop to hide and pull her phone. She bit a fingertip of her right glove. Pulled her hand out. Swiped the phone to dial 9-1-1, but it didn’t light, no less unlock.
She swiped again.
Nothing.
She dried her fingers inside her sleeve. Swiped again.
Nothing.
An unmistakable bellow—Mr. Edsen—filled the air.
The streets were empty. The shops were closed. And Mr. Edsen was being hurt.
Tricia rushed back across the street the way the snow was going. Her heart pounded in her chest as she moved along the wall closer to the sounds of a fight.
Instead of blowing away, the snow from the far side of the parking lot was being drawn to this area. The snow that came from behind her turned the corner.
Her breath came out in frozen puffs as she peeked around the corner.
There, standing over the facedown cowering bulk of Mr. Edsen, was a tall, thin man who wore a black beanie and was dressed in black from head to toe. The emergency light was out, so it was dark, but the shape of the man sort of looked like Burt.
Before she could call his name, the man pulled a gun and said, “I said keep quiet, fucker. I know what you were going to do!”
He didn’t sound like Burt. Not at all. Too young. Too confident.
Face in the snow, Mr. Edsen was groveling.
“Not on my watch, asshole.” The man pulled the slide back on the gun.
Fear wetted her eyes. Her guts quivered. Tricia stepped from the corner and yelled. “Go!”
The thin man looked at her.
Her legs locked up, but her mouth kept going. “Just take the money and go!”
He kept the gun pointed at Mr. Edsen, but stared hard at Tricia. “This is none of your business, lady. Go catch your bus.”
“We don’t know who you are.” Tricia pointed to the puffy blue zipper case that held the daily deposit. “Just take the money and go. You don’t want his death on your conscious.”
“Oh, I do.” The man kicked the deposit away. “I really do.”
This wasn’t a mugging? Did she just walk up on a mob shakedown? Not knowing what else to say, Tricia fell back on the words her mother would often say to her. “It won’t solve anything.”
“That’s just it. It will. It’ll solve so fu—” The thin man stalked a quick circle in the snow. He looked so pained and his voice took on a watery tone like he was angry enough to cry. He pointed the gun at Mr. Edsen again. “It’ll solve everything. Just go away.”
Tricia’s mouth went dry. She croaked. “No.”
The thin man ripped his beanie from his head and belted out a primal scream. His haircut was like the woman that Tricia had almost convinced herself that she hadn’t seen.
Tricia’s voice came back to her. “You don’t want the money, fine.” Tricia felt like she could move, but the impulse to approach the thin man was gone. She said, “Just go away.”
The thin man leaned over Mr. Edsen and pressed the gun barrel against the back of his head.
“No!” Tricia’s breath hitched.
She covered her face.
Silence filled the air.
She exhaled and breathed again.
The thin man was whispering.
Tricia lowered her hands and listened.
“…and you tell your wife about Donna and Ivy, effer. You don’t and—” The thin man looked at her. “No matter who’s around, I will be back to kill you.” He pushed off of Mr. Edsen and stalked away.
Tricia rushed over to help Mr. Edsen.
“Don’t.” He scrambled away from her touch. “I’m all right.”
Tricia asked, “Want me to drive you to a hospital?”
“I said I’m fine.” Mr. Edsen curled into a ball against his car and wept. “I’m fine.”
Speechless, Tricia backed away from him. When she turned, the pale Asian—also in all black—was right there.
Tricia jumped.
The woman asked, “Which way did he go?”
Tricia wanted to ask who, but she knew who. She didn’t want to point, but did. “He went that way.”
The lady tore off.
The distant thrum of the bus drawing close lit the air. At a loss as to what else to do, Tricia hurried, caught the bus, and got on.
Weird shit kept happening through Tricia’s life, but nothing else ever came close to that night at the salon. When Mrs. Edsen had called that night, Tricia had thought she was going to be fired over the phone, but Mrs. Edsen needed her to come in because she had fired Donna. In the next day, even without Ivy there, Tricia found out that Mrs. Edsen had also fired Ivy and filed for a divorce from her husband.
Though Tricia never became a licensed beautician, Mrs. Edsen eventually noticed her growing popularity with both the employees and the clients and she eventually offered Tricia an assistant manager position, and trained her to be the manager.
Still, on cold nights like this one, after Matty had his wife and kids bundled up in the minivan from their monthly visit, Tricia couldn’t help but see her own son as the tall, thin man as he walked around the minivan to get into the driver’s seat.
His life had only been slightly easier than her own, but during the super rough patches he knew he could come back home. During those times, he’d be sure to tuck her in and kiss her forehead as she had to him so many times in his life. The last thing he’d say before closing the door was. “Mom, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Tricia never told him she knew what he might’ve done until the day she received a letter that signaled the end of the weird stuff.
Dear Tricia Fisher,
I’m sorry that I was unable to deliver this information in person.
If you’re reading this, it means that I will no longer be at the fringe of your existence or in the corner of your eyes.
We met only once, years ago. You may not remember, but I do.
My life up to that point, had been focused on making sure The Reaper never took you from your son like He took my mother from me. I was there for you. Every time.
I know this probably doesn’t make much sense.
I’ve never been good at expressing myself.
But I was there on the days when The Reaper was after you and always made sure you were late for your appointments. I know this made your life harder than it needed to be, but, believe me, it’s better than the alternative; if you catch my drift.
There’s nothing I can really say to close this letter out properly. Just know that your son already has a life different than mine and he’s well past the age where his feet could ever touch the path I walked that led us to meet.
Up until we met, I only had a vague memory of you. But that one moment brought it all back and I’m sorry that I can no longer watch over you.
Love you always and forever,
Matthew.
Tricia held the letter to her chest and wept for her guardian angel—the son she never knew.
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