by Dani J Caile
"Oh yeah."
"Go and fertilize them, go on! Dare ya!"
"Me? Me? I've seen ya! Getting a hard one for her!"
"Well, you would, I'm a glass fish."
"Oh, right. Did you fart?"
"No."
"Well, what's that in your guts, then?"
"It certainly isn't a three course meal. That human never feeds us."
"I'm glad of that. I wouldn't wanna see the pounds in you."
"That reminds me. Hang on."
"What are you doing? Where are you going?"
"Over here. Can you see me?"
"Yes, I can."
"How about now?"
"Yes, I can."
"..."
"What?"
"...!"
"What?"
"I said, 'How about now?'"
"Of course, you're a glass fish, I can always see you."
"Right yeah. Ready?"
"Ready? Ready as ever."
"3,2,1,go!"
"So?"
"So what?"
"Who won?"
"Won what?"
"The race?"
"What race?"
"We just had a race! I went this way and you went that way!"
"Really? I thought it was strange you were going so fast. We've got all day you know, and all night, and...all day....and all night...and...what kind of existence is this, eh?"
"I don't know. Look! The human is coming! Stop moving and open and close your mouth like a goldfish!"
"Did it work? Did he go away?"
"Yeah. But he didn't look pleased, he had a camera and everything."
"Wanted to put another video of us on youtube, I guess."
"Hey, why not let him, we'd be famous, just like that exploding Guppy."
"Talking of exploding, you're like a balloon. What did you eat?"
"Can't remember. Have a look."
"Yuk. Not those dried up larvae again. I told you not to eat them."
"Well, they're coming out now..."
"Oh, please! I'm off!"
"Don't leave me! Not in my hour of glory!"
"Get off me! What are ya?"
"Ah, that's better."
11 - Dung
(manhole cover, clogging shoes, The Edward Smith Papyrus, water buffalo)
Flinging his wife's gift on the desk, Detective Brad Shaw noticed the same old folder back on the top of his mountain of paperwork.
"What's this?" Brad caught his subordinate's attention with a crumpled up pizza receipt across the face.
"We've got another spate of manhole cover thefts on the riverside, Guv."
"Anything new?" He knew this one, a complete waste of time and manpower. What was it about that case? Something strange…that was it, cowshit.
"The same as before. Forensics say the only thing they found was some water buffalo dung."
"Water buffalo? How..?" Not cow, water buffalo. Same difference. "Who has a water buffalo in Downtown Pittsburgh?"
"You tell me, you're the boss."
This was all Brad needed now, another miserable, crummy case to solve. He thought he'd shelved this one months ago, and now it was back. Great timing, what with his marriage on the rocks. More overtime.
"What's this, boss? You getting into ancient history?" Brad's subordinate had come over and was handling the new book.
"This?" His wife's gift. Brad took it back.
"Yeah, didn't know you were into Egyptian stuff."
"I'm not. She is." Brad turned over the book and read from the spiel on the back. "Written by James P. Allen. Among other things it's got 'the first color reproduction of the Edward Smith Papyrus in its entirety, accompanied by a full translation.'"
"Sounds like a winner." His subordinate went back to his own desk.
"She loves this stuff. It might also get me out of the doghouse. Too many late nights." Brad looked at the clock on the wall, realising the time. "Oh shit, I'm meant to be meeting her! She forgot her dance shoes this morning and her group's doing a performance at the Irish Center at 8!"
"You better hurry. It's getting on to half-past."
Brad grabbed the bag with his wife's clogging shoes, pocketed the Egyptian book and ran out of the door. Taxi or run? Run, you can't trust the traffic at this time. Two hundred yards down the almost empty street and he stepped in something large and wet. Either this stinking mound was made by the largest dog in Pittsburgh or there was a cow lose in the streets. A cow? There was movement in the shadows two corners away, large and slow, accompanied by a slight metallic scrapping noise on the road. No, it couldn't be. Not now. His watch said 20 minutes to the hour. Should he? He wouldn't make it to the performance…but if he was quick…surely she could wear someone else's shoes, and when he'd give the book, all would be forgiven. He gave chase and the noise of his running along the sidewalk alerted whoever it was as the scrapping noise became more frantic. Brad turned the corner to see what looked like a man with a large horned cow pulling a manhole cover on a rope.
"You! Stop! Poli…!" His last words were lost as he fell into the hole.
12 - I left
(rotary dial phone, pole vaulting pole, black lipstick, Roman galea)
I hated her so much, from her stinking mushroomy poncho right down to her Gothic black lipstick. She was a victim and I was stuck with her. But not for long. At first, she was quaint, different, a mixture of roles, styles and fashions, her manner switched from cutesy kitten to city bitch. I needed that then, I guess, someone out of step, who thought they were apart from the rest, rebelling. Someone interesting or seemed to be. It only took a little time to see through her camouflage, she was as lost as the rest of them but delusional, in denial. Selfish, shallow, expected people around her to appreciate her without any reciprocation. If I saw her in the street now I wouldn't even touch her with a pole vaulting pole, let alone a barge.
"So, what's up with you now?"
It was already afternoon, she'd just got up and was asking me whether something was wrong. The 'poor me' act wasn't wearing so well anymore, I'd seen through it.
"I'm leaving."
"Where ya going? Can you buy me something from the bakers? I'm starving."
"No, I'm leaving, I'm..."
The phone rang, one of those old rotary dial phones but in a new retro shiny plastic cover. That was another thing about her I used to think was cute but now made me sick. She was so into retro, but it was only face. For example, the phone. She always had her new iPhone handy while out shopping for all those wonderfully colourful retro stuff, nick-nacks so in fashion nowadays. Our...her flat was full of it.
"Hello? Oh, hi Mum." She looked at me with raised eyebrows, thinking I gave a shit. It hadn't registered that I was leaving and I guessed that it would take her a while to realise I didn't live there anymore. This phonecall, by the way, was the daily crutch of her existence, the reason she was able to live such a free, easy and self-absorbed lifestyle. If she needed anything, she mentioned it to 'Mum'.
I'd packed my essentials: toothbrush, a framed picture of me in some roman gear with my old idol, JJ Burnel, who was wearing a roman galea at the time, and some vinyls she'd made me buy.
"Sorry, Mum, can you hold on for a mo? Where are you going with those records?"
"Taking them back to sell." I didn't know anyone else who had a record player other than her. She had one of those old solid Sony separates from the early 70s, something from her dad, sitting next to her laptop. I had no use for them anymore.
"You can't."
"Why not? They're mine."
"They're ours. Put them back. And buy me a couple of Chelsea buns at the bakers." She wouldn't let me take another step towards the door, so I put them back on the kitchen table and she went back to her mum on the phone. "Yeah, Mum, back. Then what happened?"
I left.
13 - Yes, dear
(bugle, Derby hat, live goat, trampoline)
Children? They sound such a good idea
but they can completely turn your life around, unless you have a few sweet Grandmas at hand. Then all is the same. Except for your figure, it'll never be the same again no matter how many wellness weekends you take. But once you've got a nice little schedule going, those little blighters become just a trophy on your mantelpiece, and you can go off spending that lovely money your hubby makes.
"Mummy?"
Unfortunately today one of those old sweeties was 'unavailable', something about the hospital, I wasn't really listening.
"Yes, dear?"
One child is enough at the moment, too, but the hubby wants more. His office is keeping him busy, especially as I put in a 'good word' with his boss. Nice chap, was quick enough, too.
"There's a goat in Mrs. Wibbleton's garden."
"Yes, dear."
I'm glad I bought this trampoline now. Just a passing fad for me but good for the child.
"It's quite a big goat, Mummy."
"Yes, dear."
"It's eating her washing, Mummy."
"Yes, dear. Could you please not interrupt my reading, dear? I do so want to finish this one today."
"Sorry, Mummy."
Really, these children think they are the centre of the world, the most important creatures on the face of the Earth! They are so selfish.
"Mummy?"
"Yes, dear?"
"The goat's eating Mrs. Wibbleton's hat."
"The one she wears in the garden or the one she wears for the Derby?"
"Both."
"Yes, dear." Wonderful, it was a ghastly thing, that Derby hat of hers, so far out of fashion it was always embarassing to accompany her.
"Mr. Wibbleton has seen the goat now, Mummy."
"Yes, dear."
My word, it's all happening over there. I'm glad we had that 8 foot fence put up last summer. Mr. Wibbleton has his moments, what with the Crimean War and all. Or was it World War Two? Does it matter? He's as ancient and batty as they come.
"He's got out his bugle again, Mummy."
"Yes, dear."
Now where did I put my earmuffs? He has been getting worse recently, deciding to blow that damn thing whenever he can, even at the drop of a hat. Quite literally now, then.
"Can you hear it, Mummy?"
"Yes, dear."
Found the earmuffs!
"Why does he do that, Mummy?"
"Yes, dear?"
"The goat's got hold of the bugle, Mummy. They're having a tug-o-war, Mummy."
Everyone's a critic.
"Who's winning, dear?"
Does it really matter? Give him some attention, maybe he'll leave me in peace.
"The goat, Mummy. It's run off with the bugle."
"Yes, dear."
Oh, silence. Finally.
He hasn't said anything for a few minutes now. Bliss. But it's not like him, perhaps I should ask.
"Dear?"
"Yes, Mummy?"
"What's happening now, dear?"
"Nothing, Mummy. The goat's gone."
"And Mr. Wibbleton?"
"He's just lying down on the grass, Mummy."
"Yes, dear."
Where's my mobile phone? He was playing with it earlier. Why can you never find a phone when you need one?
14 - Sergei's Chaika
(dead gypsy, swordfish, jug of monshine, 159 Zil III)
Sergei entered first and switched on a light, flickering as it did. The first thing that caught my eye in the large storeroom was a large swordfish displayed on the wall.
"What the...?"
"Old trophy. Big, yes?"
The old Ukrainian was always full of surprises. That's why I liked him so much. Every day there was something new about Sergei.
"Come."
He went straight over to dirty shelves filled with rusted metal and castoff pieces of wood and dragged out a large bottle of clear liquid.
"What's that, Sergei?"
"Pálinka, as say in Hungary."
"Pal what?" A little was leaking from the top and a strong smell of alcohol hit my nostrils. "Is that a jug of moonshine?"
"Yes, can say that. It is brandy. Very very strong."
"Is it homemade?"
"Shhh! Walls have ears around here." Sergei wiped away the leaking alcohol and replaced the top, more secure now. "Someone had a little. No problem, I will deal with him later."
"What, is it illegal?"
"Shhh!"
"Sorry. So, Sergei, what did you want me to do? Why am I here?"
"I no have license."
Sergei's English sometimes showed him up, plus that deep Eastern European accent didn't help.
"Ah, right. So I'm driving you somewhere?"
"Yes, please, Freddie. And this, too."
Sergei rolled the bottle further into the storeroom.
"Sure."
I owed him one or two favours, it was about time I started giving back.
"But Sergei, you don't have a car."
"Yes, you are right. I no have car. I have THE car."
Sergei walked over to a large mess and flung off a sheet to reveal the meanest and oldest looking car I'd seen in a while.
"What is that, Sergei? I've seen Trabants and Ladas but that?"
"This is 159 Zil III, my very own Chaika."
Sergei took hold of a rag and started polishing the front wing.
"Chaika?"
"Yes, from old Communist system. Only available to Politburo and KGB. They had special lane in traffic, the 'nineth lane'. You use that lane, you get shot."
Even with the strong alcoholic odour from the homemade brandy, both myself and Sergei could still smell it.
"Did something die in here, Sergei?"
"I don't know. Something not correct."
We followed our noses and they led us to the back of the car, the large boot. Looking at each other, Sergei grabbed the lock and clicked it open. We stepped back as the smell hit us.
"Jesus, Sergei! What have you got in there? A dead person?"
"No, just dead gyspy. Gypsy is not person."
"What?"
I dragged my head back into the boot to see the decaying corpse.
"You've got a dead body in the boot of your car, Sergei!"
"Forgot. I no have license. Hit this gypsy on way back from last dropoff last year. Put him in back."
"How can you forget you ran someone over?"
Sergei slammed the boot shut and smiled.
"You ready for brandy dropoff?"
Did I really have a choice?
"Yes, Sergei."
15 - "Whoops"
(single super power, elegy, wooden water tower, theremin)
That damn theremin of his, why does he always have to bring it out every time we have guests? I'd like to shove that little talent cup trophy right down the throat of those judges who voted him 'best act' at the local community centre all those years ago when we first came to the area. Just like his father before him, always getting it out and doing the wavy muso bit looking so pompous and self-important! And why does he have to play those pieces which are so bleak and mournful? Always so depressing like some turgid elegy. Oh, thank God, he's finished! Now's my chance.
"Darling, don't you think it's time our guests moved onto the terrace now, have a few drinks in the cool evening air?"
"Oh but Daphne, I haven't played my masterpiece yet, my pièce de résistance."
No, please, not that one, I've heard it almost every night for the past forty-seven years! Why did I marry this man?
"Oh, Daphne, yes. Please let us listen, we're dying to hear George's masterpiece."
I'll die if I have to hear that dross one more time!
"Yes, please, Daphne. And can I have another cucumber sandwich? They're rather delicious, I think."
If only I had a super power or something to stop this scourge! Turn invisible and disappear, able to run away from the role of devoted and loving wife. Be able to turn back time and stop his father from buying the damn RCA in the first place. O
r have super human strength and bring down that old wooden water tower at the end of the block, causing a massive deluge which would flow down the street and everyone'll need to evacuate! Perhaps the water would even damage the thing and he wouldn't be able to play it ever again! But no, I am the loyal and good-natured housewife, I have superhuman endurance to suffer the blows and misfortunes a husband can give, I am his most endured host and trusted love. I have the power to withstand all he can deliver. What? Is he finished? Is it finally over?
"Bravo, dear boy, that was excellent, bravissimo!"
"Excellente!"
Polite applause this time. Better get some drinks ready for the terrace.
"And now, for my finale, I will play a brand new piece, never played before!"
What! Now hang on a minute!
"Darling, don't you think it's time for drinks? On the terrace?"
"No, no, I must show our guests my new jewel, my new..."
"But darling..." Damn wires! They're all over the place...whoops.
"Oh!"
"Oh dear me!"
"I...I...darling...!"
The ambulance came as quick as it could, considering the congestion on the main highway. One of our guests tried resuscitation after clearing his body from the equipment with a broom, but there wasn't any real chance of saving him. I guess you shouldn't mix semi-sparkling rosé wine with electricity. It'll be quiet without him, though of course, the theremin will hold a central place on the mantelpiece.
16 - No surfing on this beach
(radiator, clothes line, monastery, surf board)
I would’ve got away with it too, but for this robe! I guess it was my fault thinking these monks wouldn’t confiscate my board. I should’ve stayed off their beach, the guys told me they were tough. "Don’t go surfing near the monastery, they’ll take your board.” And now look at me, riding in the back of an ambulance, with a bandage on my head and a monk sitting next to me.
"How are you, Brother?”
"Fine, I’m absolutely fine, really. No need to bother. Can’t we just get back to the monastery?” The guys wouldn’t let it up if I returned back without my surfboard.
"No, no, straight to hospital for you. Concussion is a serious business.” The medic checked my figures on his screen, all okay.
"Yes, you even chipped a bit of paint off an old radiator, gave it one hell of a bang.” The monk was trying to make me feel better. Getting back my board would do that. "But what were you doing with that board Brother John took from that young lad this morning?”
