Badgers
Across town earlier that same morning, Joy Daley, yawning, wandered into her living room. It was seven o’clock and so she had yet to change out of her favorite jammies: pink flannel pajamas with colorful pictures of four leaf clovers, horseshoes, wishbones, pennies, and ladybugs.
Her yawn was cut short by the sight of Murphy standing glumly by the window. He was fully dressed, and Joy noticed that he had on a pair of tennis shoes, as if he was planning on doing some walking. His suitcase was at his side and he was observing the pouring rain. Could he seriously be considering going out in such awful weather? An immense web of lighting engulfed the sky, followed by a cannonade of thunder. No, she decided, he couldn’t possibly be that daft.
Joy strolled up beside Murphy. “I haven’t seen weather like this for a long time. How did you sleep?”
Murphy turned to face Joy. “That’s a very comfortable sofa.”
“I’m glad. How about some breakfast?”
“I really should be going.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, it’s not the best day to travel. You can stay here until the storm passes. I don’t mind.”
“How long do you think that will be?”
“Let’s find out.” Joy crossed the room and picked up the TV remote. She turned on the TV, but there was only white noise. She tried a number of channels, but all to the same effect.
“Strange,” she said. “It’s a new TV. It must be the storm. Maybe it’s too cloudy for the satellite, or perhaps some poles are down somewhere or something.”
“Or something,” Murphy said.
Joy turned off the TV and tossed the remote onto a chair. She retrieved her cell phone and pulled up a weather app.
“Hmm. No luck here, either.” She shrugged, unconcerned. “We’ll try again in an hour. I’m going to take a quick shower and change. What do you like in your omelet?”
···
Later, the storm still raging outside, Murphy and Joy were playing Scrabble at the coffee table to pass the time. They had already played Monopoly, Risk, and a couple of card games, all of which Joy lost badly, to her increasing frustration. Joy considered herself an excellent game player, but she just wasn’t getting good rolls of the dice or pulls of a card. Her TV and phone were still not working, and the driving rain had not let up a bit. It could still be seen thrashing at her large living room window.
Nevertheless, Joy felt snug and contented; she was dry and safe, warm and comfortable. She sipped at her coffee and smiled; happy in the cozy atmosphere of her apartment, and with Murphy’s always amusing company.
One by one, Murphy placed his tiles into the Scrabble squares and spelled the word: brock.
“Hey,” Joy said, both miffed and a little surprised. “You can’t use that. It’s a name!”
“Maybe,” Murphy said, “but brock also happens to be a British word for a badger. You can check if you don’t believe me.”
She didn’t believe him, and so marched over to the bookcase and retrieved her Oxford Dictionary. She sat back down, flipped through the pages, and there it was. Joy scrunched her brow, set aside the thick book, and added up the numbers without a word. She wrote down the total, and frowned some more. Murphy was winning by 117 points. “This is humiliating. I never lose. You’re some kind of Scrabble prodigy or something.”
“It’s just a hobby,” Murphy said.
“A hobby, huh?” Joy studied and rearranged her letters. She smirked. “Okay smarty-pants, check this out.” She began putting down her letters, spelling her word as she went. “K … N … O … C … K … E …” Joy held up a blank tile, grinned, and put it in place. “…R. Knocker! Seven letters, triple letter K, and double word!”
Just then came three knocks at the door—a pause—then a second set of three knocks.
Joy looked at Murphy in incredulity.
Murphy shrugged, as if such things were commonplace, merely the sea he swam in. “Would you give that two stars or three?” he said, referring to her coincidence rating system.
Outside a voice called, “Joy, I know you’re in there. I saw your car in the garage. Joy!”
Joy put her finger to her lips, signaling to Murphy to keep quiet.
Brock Parker knocked again and tried the doorknob. “Come on, Joy. We’ve got to talk. Just say something, anything. I’m worried about you. Let me know you’re okay!”
Joy turned to a new page on the note pad she had been using to keep score of their Scrabble game. She scribbled down something in a hasty script, ripped off the page, and slipped it under the door.
In the hallway, Brock spotted the note and picked it up. He read: I’m fine. Go away. I don’t want to talk to you.
Brock crumbled up the note and knocked again, harder this time. “Please, Joy,” he said. “We can work this out. Just a few words, okay?”
Silence.
“Joy!”
A door opened behind Brock. Out stepped an old woman with her hair in curlers and her face covered in some sort of green mud. “Hey, mister,” she bleated, her voice high-pitched and nasal, “Quit your badgering. Either she’s not home or she doesn’t want to talk to you, so go away already.”
Brock turned and was about to lay into the ugly crone, but the tarot lady’s hex coming quickly to mind, he caught himself. He noticed the name just above the woman’s doorbell. It read in large cursive script: The Major Residence.
Brock turned back to Joy’s door and knocked again with renewed urgency. “Joy,” he pleaded, “please?”
Another neighbor opened her door and peered out. This one wasn’t old, but she was about eight months pregnant.
“Are we going to have to call the police?” she asked.
Brock spun around, opened his mouth, but said nothing. Just because she was pregnant didn’t mean she wasn’t single. Did he dare glance at the name above the doorbell? He didn’t want to, but he had to. In the same script was written: The Minor Residence.
Brock looked wide-eyed at the two glaring faces. Both ladies were haranguing him, but he was not listening. All he could think of was the hex—the one that said the next single woman he spoke to he would marry. No matter how absurd, no matter how insane, he simply could not take the chance. It was nuts, he knew. Bat-shit crazy, he thought; but so was the continuous stream of bizarre coincidences that seemed to be following him wherever he went.
He turned back to Joy’s door, leaned on the buzzer and banged in desperation. “Joy!”
All at once more doors on the floor flew open, and a half-dozen women emerged. The women made their way menacingly down the hall, shaking their fingers at the trouble-making badger, berating and lecturing him. Brock covered his ears, and making loud gibberish noises to smother the sound of their voices, he backed towards the elevator.
He smacked at the elevator button and a moment later the door opened. Brock was now standing face to face with a tall, stylishly dressed woman wearing a hat with a red feather in it.
She smiled at Brock, liking what she saw. “Well, hello there,” she purred.
To Brock’s further dismay, he was almost certain that her voice was that of a man.
The woman took Brock’s shocked expression for mutual attraction. She plucked the red feather from her hat, twirled it between her fingers, and said breezily, “Tickle-your-ass-with-a-feather?”
Brock gawped.
The woman smiled mischievously. “I said, typically-nasty-weather.”
She let loose a hoarse laugh, and then suddenly was yanked forward out of the elevator by a little white dog at the end of a leash that she was holding. The dog growled and attacked Brock’s shoelaces.
“No, Cliffy,” the woman scolded. “Bad Cliffy.”
The lady picked up the dog and held him to Brock’s face. “I think he likes you. Say hello to the handsome man, Cliffy.”
Brock shoved the woman aside and ducked into the elevator. He pounded frantically at the down button. The door slid closed. Biting his knuckles, Brock paced back and forth inside th
e small elevator. “I’m in the freaking Twilight Zone!”
The elevator door slid open and Brock rocketed out of the building. He dashed towards Johnson’s car, parked along the curb waiting for him. Inside, Johnson was studying a horseracing app on his cell phone that updated the latest info on the local track for the coming weekend.
Brock jerked open the passenger’s door. Wet and huffing, he tumbled in.
Johnson held up his phone and tapped at the screen. Pictures of two handsome-looking racehorses appeared.
“Flying Feather and Jutting Cliff in the third,” he declared. “That’s the ticket. You in with me?”
Parker gagged on his incredulity. “Dude,” he croaked. “We gotta talk.”
Fatal Attraction
Joy stepped back from the door’s peephole. The coast clear, she opened the door and saw the other women still congregated in the hallway.
The elderly woman in green mud and curlers said, “Don’t worry, honey. He won’t be badgering anyone here again.”
“Badger?”
Mudface raised her fist. “Girl power!” she proclaimed.
Another woman cried, “Take back the night, baby!”
A third neighbor exclaimed, “Thelma and Louise live!”
The women began to high-five each other.
Joy smiled, waved, mumbled a thank you, turned and went back inside.
She faced Murphy. “Umm…that was Brock.”
“Brock the badger?”
“Brock the fiancé.” Then she quickly added, “Ex-fiancé.”
“Why don’t you want to talk to him?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Was he the fellow you were hiding from yesterday?”
Joy nodded. “We had just had a big fight.”
“Well, I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
Murphy looked out the window. “It looks like the storm is letting up. I really ought to be going now.”
“Don’t go, Murphy. Stay another day.”
“I can’t.”
“What’s the hurry? Where are you going anyway? You never said.”
“Somewhere quiet, that’s all.”
“Murphy Drummer, man of mystery. What are you running away from? You’re obviously running from something. Or someone…”
Murphy looked away, reluctant to elaborate.
“But why?” Joy said. “Not all people are bad.”
“I didn’t say that,” Murphy said, horrified that he had given Joy such an impression. “It’s not them, it’s me. I-I make people very uncomfortable.”
Joy cocked her head, not understanding. “But that’s ridiculous. I’m people, and I don’t feel the least bit uncomfortable around you.”
“Sometimes they end up…hurt,” he tried explaining.
“Nonsense,” Joy said, having none of it. “You don’t have a cruel bone in your body. I can tell.”
“It’s not on purpose, of course.”
“But I’ve only seen you help people. How do you hurt them?”
“By accident,” he muttered.
“That’s silly,” Joy said. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know how I do it. I just do. That’s why I have to go. Maybe this place I’m going to can help me. At least I’ll be far away from people and can’t hurt them anymore.”
“You’re talking in riddles. How do you hurt people?”
“I told you—by accident. If I knew how to stop it I would. I mean, I try and sometimes I succeed, but…”
“You haven’t hurt me,” Joy challenged.
Murphy turned to the window. The sun was breaking through the clouds. “It’s only a matter of time,” he said.
Joy strutted to the door, locked it, and faced Murphy arms crossed. “You’re not leaving until I get a better explanation.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asked.
“Because I care. Because you made me care about you, you lamebrain.”
“And I care about you, Joy. That’s why I have to go. Believe me, it’s for your own good.”
“Is that what you told that girlfriend of yours too?” Joy retorted. “Are you running away from her too?”
“It’s not what you think. We-we never…had a chance.”
“You’re just a big coward, aren’t you?”
“It takes more courage to leave than you can possibly know.”
“Stop it, okay?” Joy snapped. “Either you tell me what’s going on or…or…”
Murphy picked up his suitcase and walked towards the door. He stopped in front of Joy and smiled feebly. “Goodbye, Joy. Thanks for being so nice to me.”
Joy relented and unlatched the door and stepped aside. Each looked searchingly into the other’s eyes; she for answers, and he for understanding. Murphy reached for the doorknob.
“Murphy?”
Murphy wavered, and then turned to face Joy. She met him with her lips and a big long kiss. Murphy’s eyes flew open in astonishment. He had no idea what to do. His arms stuck out to the sides like a scarecrow holding a suitcase.
Finally, Joy pulled back. Hands on her hips, she took in the results. Murphy looked woozy, and his eyes fluttered.
Joy smiled and said, “Your first kiss too, no doubt.”
Murphy nodded, his fingers tracing his lips. Mystified, he said, “Soft…”
Joy kissed him again. As she kissed him she peeled his fingers from his suitcase. It dropped to the floor with a thud. Then, one by one, she placed Murphy’s arms around her. Eyes wide open, Murphy’s pupils ricocheted in their sockets like pinballs.
Joy pulled away, opened the door, and shoved Murphy into the hallway. She grabbed her purse off the stand and closed and locked the door behind them. She dragged Murphy by the hand to the elevator and pushed the down button.
“Joy…?” Murphy said, concerned, if not a little afraid.
The elevator arrived and the door slid open. Joy drove Murphy inside and the door closed.
“Prove it,” she said.
“P-prove what?”
“Murphy’s luck.”
Cups Runneth Over
“Prove it,” Johnson said, his eyes on the road, the windshield wipers swiping madly. In the distance he saw blue sky and was relieved that the storm was passing. He had been worried that if the rain continued much longer there might not be any horse racing that evening.
“How can I prove it if I can’t even explain it?” Parker said, frustrated.
“So I’m supposed to believe that some tarot-reading chick gave you the whammy?”
“I don’t believe she gave me any whammy.”
“Oh, but you believe she predicted your future? That’s just as ridiculous.”
“I don’t know that either,” Parker said. “I told you, there have been coincidences…lots of them.”
“Coincidences don’t mean shit, Parker. Let me tell you a story I overheard at the track last week. This guy wakes up on July 7th at exactly seven o’clock. All day long he notices the number seven pop up. He goes to the track and sees that a horse named Seventh Heaven is running in the seventh race. He bets seven hundred dollars on it to win. Does it win? No, it comes in seventh! So you see, coincidences are stupid and don’t mean a damn thing. I don’t want to hear another word about your idiotic superstitions. There’s nothing more to say, you got me?”
“But—”
“Nothin’ more to say, Parker!”
Johnson flicked on the radio, demonstrating he had had enough, case closed, and that he wasn’t going to stand for any more of Parker’s lunacy. Stevie Wonder’s classic song, Superstition, came in over the oldie station. Stevie sang:
“Very superstitious, nothin’ more to say…”
Johnson switched off the radio and turned to Parker. “Where do we find this lady?”
···
It was one in the afternoon when Johnson and Parker paused at the entrance to the patio of The Parcae Cafe. The rain had ceased, and the restaurant’s
crack staff had already wiped down the tables and chairs. Parker pointed to the back corner of the restaurant where Freya was sitting, hands folded, patiently awaiting her first customer of the day.
Johnson cast a look at the Scandinavian beauty, squinted, rubbed at his eyes, and squinted again. A large, iridescent rainbow in the distance arched over her head in a perfect frame. To Johnson’s enraptured eyes, the woman was bathed in celestial splendor. Her snowy-white hair radiated an ethereal light, and her blue eyes sparkled like opals. The woman was a goddess.
“Whoa,” Johnson said. “You didn’t tell me she was a babe.”
Johnson squirted some breath spray into his mouth, and they started across the patio.
Freya looked up from her meditations and noted the two men. Johnson and Parker walked over to her, and she greeted them with a smile.
“Hello, Mr. Parker,” she said. “Have you come to get your penny back?”
Parker slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the table.
Freya ignored the money. “Who’s your friend?” she asked.
“This is my partner, Johnson.”
Freya smiled at the enchanted Johnson, who gaped at her, speechless. To Johnson’s spellbound mind, a luminous aura emanated from her sensual body, and she appeared to him as some sort of shimmering angel.
Johnson blinked his eyes and turned to check out the female customers on the patio to see if what he was experiencing was a phenomenon that applied only to the beauty before him. None of the other women, not even the more attractive ones among them, emitted anything supernal. If they possessed an aura, it was nowhere to be seen.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Johnson,” the stunner said. “My name is Freya.” She extended her hand, but the mesmerized Johnson ignored it, and instead reached his hand out to trace her aura.
Parker slapped Johnson’s hand away. “Hey,” he scolded. Parker shoved Johnson into a chair and took a seat.
Johnson shook his head and rubbed again at his eyes. Freya’s glow dissipated, but she was still devastatingly beautiful.
Parker grabbed the tarot deck and started a determined shuffle.
Freya said, “You can’t buy the future, Mr. Parker.”
Murphy’s Luck Page 9
