eBook ISBN: 978-1-61914-168-1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Missing Harry
Getting around with Wolf
Meeting the Girls
Jogging in the Park
Humanizing Wolf
Renting Out Wolf
The Manny Ranch
Welcoming Harry Home
Publicity
Reminiscing about the Sea
Taking Over Harry
The Gigolo
Retrofitting Wolf
Attacking Wolf
The Rink
Thwarting a Holdup
A Hero
The Cat’s Paw
Dealing with a Phobic Neighbor
Wolf’s Marketable Functions
Clubbing Wolf on the Way In
An Identity Theft
Wolf Poolside
Wolf’s Nude Shots
Willy
A Hit Man
Manny Manufacturing
Mind over Matter
The Merits of Virtual Reality
Planning a Party
Morphing from Harry to Wolf
Considering Wolf as Harry’s Son
Manipulating Harry
Visiting a Shrink
Getting a Splinter
Bumping in Late at Night
A Broken Pinkie
Ruthie’s Vibrator
Day after Halloween
New Friends
Shifting Around
Unleashing Evil
Steps to end the Takeover
Upsetting the Séance
Speaking a Foreign Language
Tying Them Up
Scrapping Wolf
A Phone Call
Interring Wolf
Crawling from the Crypt
Spilling the Beans
An Exorcism
Tempting a Demon
Averting Disaster
Snatching Wolf
An Investigation
An Exhibit
Returning to Sender
Missing Harry
Every time Harry, a naval enlistee, set out on a tour of duty aboard ship, I missed him with loneliness that all but consumed me. Each day, I wrote him long affectionate letters; each night, I spoke to his photograph propped on his pillow. In the picture, Harry looked spiffy in his dark sailor suit with the colorful bars on his chest and his white hat cocked just so. The hat, along with his pencil-line mustache, gave him a roguish air, a perfect expression that matched his playful personality.
And Harry was nothing if not playful. With that in mind, I assumed he’d understand my reasoning when he discovered that I’d commissioned a maker of manikins to construct a scaled-down replica of him. Not a plastic retailer’s manikin, but a flexible, large-sized imitation meant to capture handsome Harry’s essence.
Wrapped in my Windbreaker, I had been sitting on a bench across from Pike Place Market on the Seattle waterfront. Lonely hours had passed since Harry left the Everett Naval Station here in Washington on a guided missile destroyer to engage in military exercises scheduled from March through June.
The late afternoon sun sank into the haze above the ocean, and I had to get moving. Yet I couldn’t stop crying long enough to see the roadways that led back to our apartment in Redmond. As I rose to finally head for my car, I noticed a dim light in a small shop farther down the street. Through a blur of tears, I read the old-fashioned sign outside the shop: Gippo. Master Wood Carver. Unique Manikins Made to Order.
On a whim, I went in, smiling as the tiny bell above the door tinkled. The old white-haired man behind the workbench dipped his head and peered over his square-shaped eyeglasses. But of course he could duplicate the image of the sailor boy in the picture I handed him. It wouldn’t be quick; he’d have to order some materials from overseas. But a manikin sent to Judy Mason should arrive at Whitehall Apartments in about four weeks, shipping included in the affordable price of six hundred dollars to be collected COD.
I was elated the day the deliveryman accepted my payment in exchange for a five-foot long wooden crate covered with shipping labels from the world over. That made sense since, according to Mr. Gippo, some of the manikin’s parts came from overseas.
The crate was too heavy for me to haul up to my fourth-floor apartment. Rather than attempt to hoist it into the elevator, I dragged it around to the back alley where I pried it open with a claw hammer. The manikin was not at all what I’d expected—a close reproduction of the handsome Harry. It was instead a delightful caricature that, however much of a surprise, lifted my spirits and made me laugh.
From the moment I removed my manny from the cushy excelsior that lined his wooden crate, we hit it off. At first, I referred to the quaint little manikin as Harry. But, after dwelling on his peculiar distinctions, I thought it best to give him his own sobriquet. Having gone over a variety of possible forenames, I settled on Wolfgang, to which I added the surname Kin. Mr. Wolfgang Kin. Esquire. To me his new name sounded rather masculine, and Wolfgang needed a hefty dash of machismo. He was the economy model, constructed without certain apparent appendages. From head to toe, his body was carved out of the same type of smooth solid wood. His limbs were equipped with hinged joints and two larger pieces of wood, hollowed out and glued together from his shoulders to his hips, made up his torso.
Like a mother with a new baby, I examined every inch of him, thrilled that he had come through the delivery in good order. Though cartoonish, Wolfgang was quite good-looking. His face was painted a light shade of tan, and his slicked-back hair was done in a glossy black. Beneath his tiny turned-up nose, a thin mustache curled at the ends, and between his rosebud lips, a vacant circle made him appear to be blowing air-kisses. I was excited to discover that his head turned from side to side and that his big brown eyes opened and closed like a doll’s. I did, however, have a slight problem with the dopey way his large ears stuck out—too much artistic license on Mr. Gippo’s part.
According to the bathroom scale, Wolf weighed about sixty pounds, though the distribution of his weight made him feel much lighter; and, needing the exercise, I didn’t mind hefting him around the apartment.
“Well, Wolfgang, this is it,” I said, holding him by the waist, at times more dragging than carrying him. “What do you think?” I asked, knowing full well he’d voice no opinion.
The tour being over, we sat on the sofa, I sipping a light beer and Wolfgang, just staring off into space. I wasn’t in the least disappointed by Wolfgang’s lack of response; I expected he’d be taciturn. He was, after all, a dummy.
In time, I began to work out the details. Wolf made no conversation, but I assumed he enjoyed watching TV. Nightly, while I prepared my dinner, he’d take in the local news. As I ate, he’d view a national broadcast on a major network; and as I cleaned up, he’d watch a sitcom. Though hardly more than a humorous caricature, Wolf was in many ways a passable copy of Harry.
Our weekends were similar. Wolf and I maintained the same inequitable division of labor as I had with Harry: I did all the chores. My newfound friend simply sat with that silly expression fixed on his painted face. I felt contented with having him made; he was so like Harry.
In fairness to Wolfgang, as distinct from a real person, he had no obligation to pick up after himself. He never made a mess, though once out of sheer devilment, I tied him to the self-propelled vacuum cleaner to suck up the excelsior that flaked off his sailor suit.
All told, I never mistreated my manny. He was so pleasant, always willing to lend an ear. And I was always willing to bend it, all the more so these days since I lost my job earlier that spring. I had been a junior accountant for a Redmond-based financial firm, a boring occupation that I endured by watching episodes of SpongeBob
SquarePants on my computer. Supervision prohibited online viewing, I found out later, when during a cutback brought on by corporate downsizing, I was summarily given the ax.
Through it all, the stalwart Wolfgang had proved himself a tireless sounding board. User friendly and low-maintenance, he provided much more gratification than a pet. He asked for nothing and in return offered unconditional love—no strings attached. Wolfgang’s selflessness made me feel downright exploitive. I had found a wonderful companion and all I did was complain. At that point in our relationship, I realized I had to be kinder and more considerate of my manny. For starters, I decided to take Wolfgang out, show him the city, and introduce him around.
Being a fairly intelligent person, I knew I couldn’t just haul my manny about for a night on the town. An almost life-sized, realistic-looking dummy, Wolfgang could easily be mistaken for a corpse. He was bound to attract attention, and I was bound to find myself under arrest for disrupting the peace or creating a public nuisance or some such thing. Aware that our forays into the real world had to be both inconspicuous and brief, I began by driving around in the dark of night…with Wolfgang in the passenger seat, of course.
So there we were, cruising up to a local fast-food joint where an artificial waiter with a speaker in its plastic gut took our order. “One Bulky Burger and a Raspberry Slushy to go,” I said, reading the menu aloud.
“How about your malnourished friend?” the waiter squawked over his microphone. “What would he like?”
I figured that if Wolf could have talked to anything, it would have been a fake waiter; but since he couldn’t, I answered for him. “Nothing, thanks. He’s on a hunger strike.”
Having gotten away with a few short expeditions, I became encouraged. Had we found a drive-in theater, taking in a movie would have been easy; but a walk-in presented more of a challenge. Still, I went for it. I lugged Wolfgang up to the ticket window behind another couple, and on my turn, requested a “single adult, please.”
The female ticket-seller asked for the price of two tickets. I explained that Wolfgang was not really a human being, just a replica. And she explained that the replica would occupy a seat whether he enjoyed the movie or not.
I paid the price of the tickets, hefted Wolfgang into his seat, and sat beside him, thinking about how my plan to ease loneliness was about to unfold. Wolfgang would draw some attention. But he’d cause little disruption, much less than a barking, urinating, potentially biting dog. He would, however, cost more than I had anticipated. Anywhere he took up space, be it a form of public transportation or a place of entertainment, Wolfgang would be charged the price of admission.
Since he was expected to shell out like a person, he should be treated like a person. Wolfgang was mute, but his money talked; it bought him rights and privileges. As the only one in Wolfie’s corner, I had to fend for him. That being the case, I could not continue the physical strain involved in either dragging him around like a drunk held by the waist or carrying him like a bride over the threshold.
So one day back at my apartment, I went down to the first floor and, from the widow Crumble, borrowed the old cane-backed wheelchair that had belonged to her late husband. In the wheelchair, Wolf either slipped down the front or fell over sideways; postures that made passers-by jokingly threaten to report me for the mistreatment of a helpless invalid.
Disliking the flack, I traded the wheelchair for a shopping cart with a child’s seat, though I would have preferred the red and yellow race car. And I would have gotten it, if a little girl hadn’t grabbed it first.
The regular pushcart worked out nicely inside a supermarket. Few people paid any mind to Wolf, unobtrusive as he was sitting in the basket with leafy vegetables and plump fruits on his lap. Nevertheless, a better form of conveyance seemed in order.
Getting around with Wolf
As it turned out, Wolf’s immobility proved but a minor hurdle. In a world where the dominant species had pretty much given up walking for wheels, all kinds of conveyances were available. Dissatisfied with the shopping cart, I considered the handlebars of a bicycle. Of specific interest was a motorized battery-powered scooter in the form of a sit-down chair, popular among the elderly. I also looked into the Puma, a mini-electric two-seater that purportedly could drive itself, drop its passengers off at their destination, find a place to park then return for a pick up at a designated time. The perfect manny mobile. Loving the concept, but lacking disposable income, I scratched both kinds of locomotion for me and my manny.
One day, while bargain hunting at a fire sale, I noticed a female-shaped manikin on a square metal platform with four swivel-type wheels under its base. At the back of the platform, a rod went up to the manikin’s waist where it then looped around both sides of her hips. At long last, Wolfgang would be ambulatory.
Filled with a sense of freedom for Wolfgang, I took the ticket off the manikin’s dress, fastened it to the stand, and marked it down twice before buying it on the spot.
Shortly after setting him up on his new conveyance, I pushed him out of my apartment, across the short hallway, and into the elevator downward bound for the first floor. Once outside, I took his arm and rolled him over the concrete ramp that paralleled the front steps of my building.
“Wheee, this is such fun,” I said, feeling free as the breeze as we barreled along the sidewalk toward the park.
“Judy,” someone called. “Judy Mason, is that you?”
Stopping in my tracks, I jerked Wolfgang to a halt and stared at the tiny oval inside his rigid rosebud lips.
“It’s me, Lisa Smith. Your favorite landlady,” the woman said as I turned to face the voice’s owner.
To be precise, Lisa, a willowy blonde with a penchant for glitzy jewelry, was my only landlady. She and her husband owned and managed Whitehall, the funky old mouse-infested tenement I called home.
“Whew, you and Harry were really traveling,” she said, jogging up to me.
I bit my tongue and smiled. Wolfgang hadn’t in the least favored Harry.
“So when did you two take up running?” Lisa drew her long red fingernails through her damp hair and the jeweled bracelets around her wrist tinkled.
“We were rolling, not running. Or at least, Wolfgang was.”
“Wolf—” She broke off and squinted at the manikin. “Is he a…is that a…”
I just kept nodding.
“How cute! I love those protruding ears. And that foreign-looking sailor suit.” She touched the red-and-green ribbons around Wolf’s beanie.
“He’s staying with me, a live-in.” I wondered how long Lisa would go along with this charade. But proud of my new wooden roommate, I chose not to hurry things along.
“How utterly charming. I always knew you were clever, but this time you’ve outdone yourself. Where did you find him?”
“I had him made. Made to order, to my specifications.”
“You can do that? I didn’t know you could do that.” Wide-eyed, she sized up Wolf. “I’m having a few of the girls over tomorrow night. Ruthie will be there. Kadee Harper too. She recently dropped by Whitehall looking for an apartment.”
“That’s nice. I haven’t seen her since I was laid off.” Until a month ago, Kadee was my boss at the financial firm in downtown Redmond. Lisa met her last Halloween at a party for Lisa’s two teenage boys, a felonious pair disposed to stealing and selling expensive car radios. The boys had just been released from Monroe’s detention center and, at the urging of a juvenile court judge, were slated to move to their paternal grandparents’ home in Oregon. Lisa had wanted to give them a cheery send-off.
“Why not come over?” Lisa’s bulging blue eyes fixed on Wolfgang’s comical face. “And bring your friend.”
“Thanks for the invite, but he doesn’t go out much. He’s kind of shy.”
“Oh, I could tell that right away. You and your bashful beau.” Lisa flagged her hand and the cubic zirconia rings studding her fingers glittered.
The response Wolfgang eli
cited caught me off guard. Something seemed not quite right, and I couldn’t tell if it was Lisa, Wolfgang, or me. My curiosity aroused, I decided it was time Wolf made an official debut. I therefore agreed that both of us would show up tomorrow evening around eight.
That night, lying between the cold sheets in my darkened bedroom, I gazed at the vacant pillow next to me. It neared midnight and alone again, I felt restless and vulnerable. A lunatic could break into my apartment, creep into the bedroom, and jump me while I slept—that’s if I slept. With another figure under the blanket, the lunatic would likely just steal something and clear out, happy he hadn’t disturbed the dozing pair.
Oh, why not? I flung back the blankets and padded into the living room.
“Upsidaisy,” I said, lifting my manny to drag him back to the bedroom.
“There you are, all nice and comfy,” I said, tucking him in on Harry’s side of the mattress.
In wordless accord, Wolf closed his big brown eyes and sank into the pillow, a hint of contentment on his humorous face. I went around to my side and settled under the covers again. Relaxing, I sighed, pleased that the bed had felt more balanced and more secure.
Meeting the Girls
The attention Wolf received at the Saturday night get-together astounded me. My gal pals not only accepted him; they also admired him. They flexed his hinged joints, touched his painted face, and stroked his Italian-style sailor suit. He was the hit, if not the very life of the party. Because of the way they took to him, I filled them in on how easily they could acquire mannys of their own. Mr. Gippo, the old woodcarver in this charming little shop near Pike Place in Seattle, could not have been more helpful. Other than a snapshot of Harry and a brief description of him, all the woodcarver required was a surname for his creation.
“In Wolf’s case, it’s Mr. Kin, as in short for manikin,” I said, stressing the last syllable. “For me the term kin was an appropriate choice. My manny’s far from a common department-store dummy.”
“I bet he’ll keep the creeps away,” Lisa said. “A woman with a companion is less likely to be bothered.”
Me and My Manny Page 1
