by Nina Post
Eric pulled up a stool and ordered a plain vanilla shake from a man in a cow costume. He needed the calories. The guy’s nametag read ‘Patrick.’ He had watery blue eyes and pale, freckled skin.
“Hey, are you Eric Snackerge?” Patrick said, taking a tin container off a stack.
Eric shook his head. Those damn videos. “Look, Patrick, I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve had a crappy day and an even crappier week, so I really don’t feel like talking about –”
“You’re like, my hero.” Patrick inserted the cup, turned on the mixer, then raised his voice as he spoke over his shoulder. “You’re an inspiration. I read the piece in the paper about how you had all this hope for the future and then the universe just barfed in your hair, like my roommate’s dog did to me yesterday. In bed.”
Eric felt a warmth in his chest. He wasn’t sure what it was. The effect of empathy? Heartburn?
Patrick was about to pour the shake from the tin into a glass when Eric put up a hand. “Just the tin. And a straw.”
Patrick arched a brow but handed him a gaily striped straw. Eric relaxed as he drank the sweet and thick vanilla shake, steadily and without stopping. “I … well, you and I,” Patrick said, “we’ve got something in common.”
Eric paused to speak and watched the level creep down in the inside of the tin. “Yeah, what’s that?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Patrick said, cleaning the machine. “The point is, I had a similar situation. My parents thought I would accomplish –” he took in a breath, “more. And now I’m serving you a milkshake. Don’t get me wrong, it’s an honor, but I’m working in the Moo-ateria in the middle of nowhere. But you took on this big project, and you’re still at it, aren’t you?”
Eric drank the rest of the shake through the yellow-striped straw. “Yep. Still at it.”
“That’s great.”
Eric paid for his milkshake and got all of the Quantal Organic Yogurt they had. He thanked Patrick, wished him good luck, then went back outside. It was a crisp October day. The leaves were still a brilliant red and orange, though he knew an upcoming cold snap would strip them down. An Amish buggy with two glossy brown horses clipped down the road past fat orange pumpkins and twined bales of hay. Eric stopped to enjoy it. And since he hadn’t had a proper lunch, just a milkshake, he took a yogurt out of the bag and peeled off the lid, though he was getting tired of dairy and would kill for a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich, or a steak.
On the underside of the yogurt lid, there was a phone number. That was new. He took out his phone and called it, in case it had to do with the Amass-and-Win contest. It rang once. A hearty AI voice boomed, “Congratulations, you’re an instant winner! Don’t bother coming to us – we’ll come to you!”
The other side disconnected. Eric paused, then put the phone away. He took out the titanium spork he kept in his pocket and ate the yogurt while appreciating the bucolic setting and his new-found feeling of contentment.
A low whirring noise off behind the tree line on his left, across the road, snagged his attention. He took another sporkful of yogurt and enjoyed the slight breeze on his face. The noise was probably a tractor or maybe one of those larger farm machines. It was a gorgeous day, the kind that made you really appreciate your senses and just being alive and –
A glossy black helicopter surfaced over the treeline, hovered for a second as though to get Eric in its sights, then headed straight for him, as fast as a car passing on the road, and much, much faster than the horse-drawn Amish buggy.
Eric dropped the yogurt and sprinted back to the Moo-ateria. He had lost weight since he started pursuing the contest win, what with the all the running and the bike-riding and the yogurt. His pants wouldn’t stay on anymore; he had to go make a new notch on his belt. At this rate, he’d have to start getting his clothes from the Junior’s department.
The helicopter roared toward him, propeller blades chopping the air. Eric fell on his butt and scraped the palms of his hands, then scrambled over to the side, adrenaline pumping through him. He tried to get up and run, but fear kept him planted to the ground. It reminded him of those dreams he had when he was trying to run but felt like he was running through water. When the helicopter got so close he felt it vibrate through his body, Eric pulled open the heavy Moo-ateria door, grabbed Patrick, then pulled him to the back of the store.
The helicopter roared over them. He heard it circling back around. They could be trapped here all day, or people could come in after them –
Eric went blank. He hated that he was never any good in the moment. He never said the right thing, he never did the right thing.
But he thought of the ice cream cakes and latched on to that.
“Patrick, where do you keep the dry ice?”
“Uh … uh …”
Eric slapped him. “Where do you keep it?”
“You want a cake to go?” Patrick said in a high-pitched voice. “Wait, you’re not just going to leave me here, are you? That helicopter is trying to kill us!”
“You sell ice cream cakes, so you must have dry ice. Where is it, in the back room?” Eric shook Patrick by the shoulders. “It’s our only chance of getting out of here.”
“In there!” Patrick pointed a shaking finger at a door in the back.
“Is there a key?”
“It’s open,” Patrick said in a near-sob.
Eric rushed into the pantry, sneakers squeaking on the waxed floor, and found the dry ice supply. Months ago, Taffy told him how you could make a smoke effect, and reassured Willa that her interest was purely academic.
He got out the ice and put it in a Styrofoam cooler.
“Where’s the door to the dumpster?”
“Right there.” Patrick nodded at the door.
“Is it locked?” Eric asked.
“Nuh-n-not going out. Just from th-the outside.”
“Okay, I’m going to make a run for it,” Eric told him. “I want you to follow me, understand?”
Patrick breathed through his mouth and gazed at him blankly.
“Patrick, c’mon. Do you understand?”
“Yeah, I – think so.”
“You’re going to hold open the door for me so I can take out the water. Then you go out with the cooler and drop it off just outside the door. Then I want you to run as fast as you can to the right. Out the door and to the right. They want me, not you.”
“Are you sure, ‘cause the other day, I ran a red light. They have cameras now, you know.”
“Yeah. I know,” Eric said. “But I promise, the Jamesville police don’t have a helicopter and besides, it’s going to go after me. You’ll be fine. You can probably get some paid time off out of it, too.”
This cheered up the Moo-ateria soda jerk. “Tell me what you’re going to do,” Eric said.
Patrick took a breath. “Go out the back door with you and the cooler, drop the cooler by the dumpster, then run to the right. Where do I go?”
“Anywhere. The next building,” Eric said, and watched Patrick closely. “Now get me a jug of hot water.”
“A jug – what?”
“Just get it, will you?” On one hand, Eric was relieved to find someone even worse in the moment than he was. On the other hand, it was kind of frustrating.
Patrick got a heat-resistant jug and ran out to the counter. Eric held up his fingers and counted them down. When the helicopter was circling back on the closest side, on its way around again, Eric held up one finger.
Patrick picked up the cooler and turned the doorknob, pushing open the door with his butt. Eric took the water jug out the door and set it down. He nodded at Patrick, who put the cooler by the jug, then turned and ran like hell to the right, heading north.
Eric waved his arms at the helicopter, which hurtled toward him. He opened the dry ice packets, then, while the water was still hot, poured it over the packets, creating an encompassing plume of smoke that obscured the entire back of the store. The helicopter hovered. Eric darted back inside the M
oo-ateria and could have sworn he heard three shots. He bursted out the front door and sprinted toward the Princess. He couldn’t die, not now – not without seeing Taffy and Willa, not before he told Taffy what he needed to tell her: that he loved her, that he was proud of her, that she was so smart but shouldn’t forget to be kind, that she could do anything she set her mind to –
The pilot spotted him and swooped in low behind him. When it got too close Eric hit the pavement, trying not to scrape his already-scraped palms. As it passed over him he spotted something on the tail, or whatever the part was called. It looked like a bumper sticker, and read ‘My Aston Martin Is In The Shop.’
Eric fumbled for his keys then jumped behind the wheel of the Princess. “That’s it. That is IT.”
He pulled onto the road in between a logging truck, a big tri-axle, and a commercial semi.
The helicopter lingered for a minute, then left in the direction it arrived.
Eric wiped the sweat off his forehead. His hands shook on the wheel and his breath shuddered out of him. “It’s okay,” he whispered to himself. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
Eric wrapped the blankets around himself to open the Princess’s door for Rex. “Why do you bother with knocking?” He held the blankets at his chest with the arm that wasn’t sprained.
“Uh, I have manners?” Rex stepped into the bus.
“Since when?”
“Since I went to finishing school for household management and diplomatic relations.” Rex surveyed Eric’s appearance. “You look like a cross between Howard Hughes in the late sixties and the Count.”
“Which Count?”
“Any of them.” Rex took up the chair across from the sofa. “What are you doing in the Argosy lot?”
“How did you even know I was here?” Eric cocooned himself in the blanket.
Rex laughed. “I can find you anywhere. I implanted a radio beacon in your molar while you were sleeping.”
Eric rolled his eyes. “Don’t even joke about that. I was almost mowed down by a contest helicopter at the Moo-ateria.” He raised his elbow, which was in a sling, out of the blanket. “Even stopped by a clinic.”
“That sounds very similar to my day.” Rex sat on the sofa and tapped the printed-out rules that Eric had on a small table. “The game period’s almost over. Are you going to win this contest, or are you going to let a little thing like a killer helicopter get the best of you?”
Eric leaned over, pulled out a bin, then took out a pair of wool gloves. “Your questions exhaust me.”
“Uh-huh,” Rex said. “Willa’s going to be thrilled to see you practically emaciated, probably afflicted with pneumonia, in a sling, and bandaged like King Tut. Taffy wouldn’t notice.”
“Emaciated, pneumatic, insane – but the winner of the Amass-and-Win contest!” Eric said.
“You keep ignoring one thing,” Rex said. “Aside from your hygiene, your health, and your sanity.”
“Pfft. What?”
Rex took a foil lid from his pocket and waved it around. Then he slapped it onto the table and circled a finger around it. “The glyphs. The glyphs!”
Eric made a face that indicated ‘And?’
“You can’t read them!”
“Excuse me for being illiterate in, what, the language the Fates made up as children, or the Chthonic deities used for rituals?” Eric said.
“I doubt the Fates were ever children,” Rex said.
Eric turned on the TV without sound to an animal show and watched a cheetah attack a zebra in a watering hole. Rex shifted in his pull-down chair and rested his laced fingers on his thigh.
“I know what they are,” Rex said.
“What’s that?” Eric had zoned out, weighed down by the reality that he didn’t know what the glyphs were, and probably couldn’t win the Amass-and-Win. He could only amass, and despite his efforts over the past few days, he felt very far from winning. His humiliating failure would permanently alienate Willa and Taffy, leaving him a crazy, lonely man in a bus with an embarrassing name he felt beholden to keep. Eric sighed and pulled the blankets over his head. Maybe he would make a fort.
“The glyphs, you moron. I can read the glyphs,” Rex said with some reluctance.
Eric considered this. Then he flung off the blankets and scrambled off the sofa, grabbing Rex’s neck.
“Tell me how to kill you,” Eric said.
“Ah, but then you won’t be able to read the lids! Besides, I’m not sure I can be killed. I’m that old.”
Eric made a dismissive gesture and sat back down. “So I’d go to the library.” He stood back up and paced up and down the bus. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
Rex shrugged.
“You’re damn lucky you’re incorporeal,” Eric said. He stopped and ran his hands through his hair. “All this time. I saw you react to the very first one at The Buckhead, before I even knew about the contest, but of course I didn’t think anything of it? Why would I?” He turned away. “Idiot!” he said to himself, then collapsed on the sofa by the window and didn’t say anything for almost a minute. The morning sun eased through the dark. Eric thought that maybe a cosmic monster was moving the thick gray clouds apart with his claws to get a better look at the pathetic human hiding in the bus.
“How do you know how to read them?” Eric eventually said.
Rex looked around the bus. “I’m not as young as I appear to be.”
“Are we talking Coolidge administration?” Eric said, joking.
Rex shook his head.
“Truman.”
Rex made a counter-clockwise motion.
“Uh, Grant.”
Rex shook his head.
“John Quincy.”
Rex shook his head.
“Holy crap, really? Washington.”
Rex shook his head. He looked bored, as though this line of questioning would take much longer than he had patience for.
“Allow me to shift gears,” Eric said. “James the sixth.”
Rex made another counter-clockwise motion. “Look, this is an academic exercise. Who cares how old I really am? I watched Miami Vice just like you. Can we move past this? It’s not like you’re getting any younger.”
Rex sat back and crossed his arms.
“Stop pouting and read these glyphs for me,” Eric said.
“What’s the magic word,” Rex said.
“Sponsor meeting.”
“That’s two words,” Rex said.
“Then I’ll translate it into German and make it one long word,” Eric said.
“But I see your point.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me this earlier?” Eric rubbed his gloved hands together.
Rex gave him a weak smile. “Well, I tried to, but it just never came up.”
“Of course it came up.” Eric wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and flicked out the edges so they fell over his knees. “It came up as many times as someone with Salmonella poisoning would puke up bad clams. It came up as many times as I hear ‘when are you going to have a proper wedding?’ or ‘When are you going to get a real job?’ It came up –”
“All right, I get it, it came up a few times,” Rex said. “I don’t know why I didn’t just blurt it all out. Maybe it was a shameful touch of schadenfreude, speaking of German?”
Eric nodded. “That’s nice. I agree to be your sponsor so you can stop possessing people. I go to your meetings and I get hop-ons like the talon, who tore up my sofa, by the way. I field your late-night phone calls, I put up with your insults and your guilt trips. And you can’t be bothered to tell me you can read the symbols on the lids? Don’t you want me to win the contest? Don’t you want me to be with Willa and Taffy?”
Rex put out his palms. “Sure, absolutely.”
“Or would you rather see me fail? Again?” Eric pointed a finger at him. “That’s it. You ruined my life once. Why not obliterate it a second time?”
“But you started this without knowing I could read the
glyphs,” Rex pointed out. “You believed that you could win the contest despite not having any idea what the symbols even meant. Right?”
Eric leaned back. “I guess.”
“It wasn’t a requirement of pursuing the contest,” Rex said. “You went for it anyway, like the stubborn doofus you are. You knew in your gut that you should go after this contest for Taffy, even though the very means of winning were unavailable to you.” Rex grinned. “You didn’t need anyone’s advice or permission.”
Eric looked at the ceiling. Then he went to his safe and got his foil lid collection.
“Argosy doesn’t open for another half hour, at least,” he said. “Start spelling.”
Rex raised a brow at the vast number of lids.
“What are these glyphs from, anyway?” Eric asked.
Rex chuckled once, softly. “They’re from an ancient – really quite extremely ancient – language that only the, um, that only the very oldest spirits would know.”
Eric smirked.
“Shut up,” Rex said.
“Seriously, how old are you?” Eric said.
Rex crossed his arms and frowned. “The ancient Egyptians created the first commerce spirit.”
Eric waited. Rex raised a brow.
“You?” Eric said.
Rex grinned and spread his arms. Then he hummed The Bangles’ Walk Like an Egyptian and pointed one hand up and the other behind him like a drawing on an Egyptian sarcophagus.
“Stop messing around. Can we spell PUDDING or not?” Eric jiggled his leg and drummed his fingers on his knee. His anxiety felt like too much caffeine coursing through his bloodstream.
Rex rolled his eyes and held up a hand. He rifled through the lids and started arranging them into a line. “Ta. Da. Bitch.” Rex jabbed a finger at the line of lids then leaned back and put his hands behind his head.
“I’ll photocopy them in case they get lost in the mail, then send them in,” Eric said. “And you’re the bitch.” Eric waved his hand through Rex’s chest.
Chapter Sixteen
