“Your little brother just got a full scholarship!” Dad’s voice fuzzed out at the end, his excitement causing him to speak much louder than necessary. “Isn’t that fantastic?”
His mother, apparently on the upstairs extension, said, “We’re so proud, and I know you are too, Peter. Isn’t that just wonderful?”
“Hey, that’s great,” Peter said. And it was great news, certainly…
“We always knew that boy was gonna be a great one,” Dad said. “He studied so hard, and with so much dedication. You know what it is, Peter? The complete refusal to be anything less than the best. That’s what marked Jeff, right from the start. Wasn’t I just saying that, Maggie? Wasn’t I just saying that about our Jeff?”
“You sure were,” Mom said.
Peter’s little brother Jeff had been an exceptional student from his first day in pre-school. His high school years were cluttered with trophies and awards and certificates, all testifying to his absolute superiority over everyone else—including Peter. And now, a full scholarship to the prestigious university he’d always dreamed of attending, followed no doubt, by a brilliant career in engineering.
Jeff would invent things. He would become, perhaps, one of the most famous and successful engineers in the world, forever changing the way the world lived and worked.
And Peter couldn’t help himself. He said, “That’s really terrific, you guys, man, I’m so proud of my baby bro, you wouldn’t believe it. But…” He cleared his throat. “You know, they’re saying, with this economy, things are gonna get worse, you know? I mean, my generation is the first in the history of this country—except maybe for the Great Depression—that’s actually poorer than their parents. You know that, right? Little Jeff is brilliant, yeah, but what good will that do him if—“
“Damn right he’s brilliant,” Dad said. “And that brilliance will see him through, none of these ‘bad economy’ excuses for him. He’s gonna be something, you mark my words. The boy’s got ambition.”
Mom seemed to pick up on Peter’s bout of insecurity. She said, “Yes, we’re proud of Jeff. We’re proud of both our boys, aren’t we, Art?”
“Hmph,” Dad said. “Sure we are.”
“Both our boys are very… special, yes they are. You’ve done quite well for yourself, Peter, I don’t care what anyone says. And it doesn’t matter, your father and I love you no matter what. Don’t we, Art?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Peter swallowed hard and said, “Sure, sure. Well, tell Jeff I said way to go, okay? I’ve really gotta get going. Long day tomorrow, should get to bed.”
“We’ll tell him, Peter,” Mom said. “We love you both, don’t you—“
“Great, that’s great, Mom. Goodnight.”
Peter hung up, head pounding.
Not surprisingly, dinner again awaited him when he got home from work the next day. But The Shape was nowhere to be seen.
Peter was feeling more than a little low. He tossed his briefcase on the sofa—the same ratty sofa he’d had back in his old apartment—and sat down to eat. Linguini today, with a nice tangy pesto sauce, fresh garlic bread and glazed carrots. Delicious. But he found himself picking at it, and pushed it away half finished. His head ached and he felt dizzy and weak.
In the living room, he noticed that the ratty sofa wasn’t quite the same. Someone, The Shape no doubt, had covered it with a nice new forest green spread that actually made the whole room look a million times better. Peter didn’t know where the spread had come from, but he shrugged and plopped down on it.
He grabbed the latest Entertainment Weekly off the coffee table, stretched out and started to read.
The Shape materialized near the front door and Peter barely glanced up from his magazine. He said, “Hello,” and went back to the article on Lindsay Lohan’s latest emotional disaster. The Shape glided toward him, grumbling low.
…Petey…
“It’s Peter, remember? I’m pretty sure I mentioned that to you. I don’t like being called Petey, okay?”
…Petey…
The Shape loomed over him, and, before he knew what was happening it had enveloped him in blackness and lifted him off the sofa.
n’ “Hey!” he said, feeling himself being carried effortlessly across the living room. “Hey, what are you doing? Put me down!”
The Shape did put him down, in the cushioned armchair by the window. It set him down gently and moved away.
Peter sat in amazement for a long minute, staring as The Shape hovered in the middle of the living room. The Shape only grumbled and vibrated and Peter couldn’t determine its mood.
He stood up, glaring, strolled across the living room and sat back down on the sofa where he’d been.
The Shape again swooped down on him, lifted him off the sofa and carried him back to the chair.
…Petey…, it rumbled.
Peter set his jaw angrily. He said, “This is my house, and that is my sofa. I’ll sit on it if I damn well please.” He stood up again and started back toward the sofa.
As he was about to sit down, The Shape lunged at him and a long black appendage shot out and batted him roughly on the side of the head.
Peter stumbled against the sofa, almost fell. The blow hadn’t hurt, really, but it shocked the hell out of him and he stared in disbelief as The Shape pulsed and grumbled before him, as if daring him to try it again. The arm-like appendage was poised to slap him, maybe harder this time.
“Okay,” Peter said. “Okay.” He backed away until the chair was behind him, and then sat down in it very gently. “The chair it is.”
The Shape, apparently gratified, glided over and petted him on the head.
“Peter,” Mr. Evans said. “I’m going to get right to this, since I’m sure you wouldn’t appreciate me beating around the bush.”
Evans had called him in to his office only a few minutes before five o’clock and it didn’t take a genius to figure out where it was going. Damn, Peter thought. I’ll be damned. And today of all days, when I’m feeling like absolute crap.
“We’ve been doing some downsizing, as you know, and some of our more long-term positions have been outsourced to India and China. You know how that goes—“
Outsourced, Peter thought. Outsourced, just like Jenna had said. His head hurt horribly.
“It makes more economic sense for our accounting positions to go to the… well, the lowest bidder, if you will. It’s work that doesn’t really require good English skills, if you know what I’m saying.” Evans laughed shortly before catching himself and getting back to the gravitas the situation required. “In short, Peter, I’m afraid we have to let you go.”
Peter coughed and saw black spots dancing. He said, “But I’m… I’ve been with the company for twelve years.”
Evans looked at him, as if wondering what that statement had to do with anything. He said again, “Outsourcing, you know. Effective immediately. Downturn in the economy, you understand, it’s unavoidable.”
Peter heard the whine in his voice when he said, “So… so the whole accounting department is being… let go?”
Evans hurrumphed uncomfortably and said, “Well, not exactly, Peter. Some of the more… industrious employees, if you will, will be staying on. Our ‘forward thinkers’. Our ‘take charge’ types. But cuts have to happen, it’s nothing personal, I’m sure you know that.”
Peter said, “Who… who else is being fired?”
“Being fired, Peter, that’s such a negative spin to put on it. No one’s being fired. It’s just downsizing, that’s all.”
“Okay. Who’s being downsized?”
Evans looked resentful, as if Peter was ruining his entire day. Grimacing, he said, “Just you, Peter. Just you.”
Peter arrived home to find that his dinner was nowhere to be seen.
The kitchen table was bare. He stared at it for a long minute, feeling his irritation rise. He threw his briefcase on the floor, tore off his tie and whipped it across the room. Typical,
he thought. Typical.
He said, “Hello? Hey, where are you?”
No answer.
He stomped across the kitchen and stood in front of the refrigerator—the refrigerator he hadn’t actually opened himself in several days—and said, “Hey! Where the hell are you? Where’s my damn dinner, huh?”
His temples pounded so hard he felt he might vomit, and that only made him angrier. “Hey!” he screamed. “I’m calling you! Where the hell are you, and where’s my goddamn dinner?”
He slammed his fists against the refrigerator, pounded his feet on the floor. “Yoo-hoo! Goddamnit, I’m home and I want my goddamn dinner now!”
Out of nowhere The Shape appeared and black anger rolled off it in waves and Peter had just enough time to think oh crap before it was on him.
It whacked him hard on the side of the head, knocking him against the refrigerator. He put up his hands to ward off the next blow, but it got him in the side, knocking out his breath, and he fell to the floor and started to scramble away. The Shape kicked at him, glancing painfully off his thigh as he scurried out of the kitchen and down the hall.
The Shape gave chase, growling and grumbling angrily. Peter half-ran, half- stumbled down the hall to the bedroom with The Shape right at his heels. It swiped at him again, stinging his buttocks, before he made it into the bedroom and dove headfirst under the bed.
The Shape lingered for a moment, its anger palpable and frightening. Peter cowered under the bed, breathing hard, so overcome with terror he could hardly think. The Shape had never shown that sort of behavior before, that sort of violent wrath.
But then again, he realized, I’d never shown that sort of behavior before.
The Shape moved away, slowly, and Peter watched it go, and his fear gave way quite suddenly to shame.
He finally got up the courage, about an hour later, to come out from under the bed. He found The Shape in the living room, near the spread-covered sofa. Meekly, Peter approached it.
The Shape’s mood seemed neutral.
Peter came to it, head-down, and settled himself in at its feet. After a moment, The Shape began stroking his head, very gently, and Peter was so grateful he nearly cried.
After a few minutes, The Shape moved into the kitchen and made his dinner.
Peter spent most of his time sitting in the chair that had been designated as his, staring out the window and enjoying the warmth of the sun as it streamed through the glass. Sometimes he would get up, stretch, and wander aimlessly around the house. The Shape was often absent, but Peter didn’t wonder much about where it went—as long as it returned eventually.
A few times, early on, the doorbell would ring and Peter would run away from the window and hide in the bedroom, but it didn’t take long for the visitors to stop coming.
And that was good. He wasn’t the most sociable of guys to begin with, and now the very thought of having to deal with other people was practically intolerable.
He took long naps and bathed often and ate the snacks The Shape left out for him and sat in the sun by the window and everything was good. At night, The Shape would come back from wherever it had been and make him a wonderful dinner and stroke his head.
Peter loved The Shape very much. The highlight of his day was invariably when The Shape returned.
But he wasn’t feeling well and hadn’t felt well in some time now. The headaches would come and go and sometimes they were so bad he couldn’t help himself, he would vomit all over the floor. The first time The Shape had come home to this it had gone nearly insane, smacking him mercilessly and chasing him into the closet. But the second time, and the third time, The Shape’s reaction changed and it seemed to be concerned. It began treating him with a bit more tenderness, altering his diet and crunching pills up into his dinner.
It didn’t help. Peter was getting worse.
One afternoon, he woke up in the hallway and didn’t remember how he’d gotten there. His head felt raw and he saw that he’d vomited all over himself, and the vomit was tinged red with blood.
Oh man, he thought. The Shape’s gonna kill me when it sees this. But he only lay there in the hallway, too weak to move.
Sometime later The Shape arrived and Peter sensed its horror. Not anger, not in the least, but dread and worry.
Well, he thought. That’s okay, I guess.
He was drifting in and out of consciousness and the world tasted like blood. He felt himself being lifted up, off the floor, saw the ceiling moving past, and pressed his head into The Shape’s breast. It felt good and soft and safe.
He drifted out for a long time.
When he came to, the world was spotted with black and red and the pain in his head was unbearable. He was crying. The Shape still held him, tenderly, and its warmth was nice but did nothing to help the horrible agony in his skull.
And then another Shape reared up in his peripheral vision, another Shape just like his Shape, another formless mass of disconnected black.
He was between the two of them, and their sadness threatened to overcome him. He felt horrible that it was he, apparently, causing this heartache, and he wanted to apologize. But he couldn’t form the words.
They were speaking to each other, the weird low grumbling and vibrating sounds, and Peter found, through his pain, he could understand bits and pieces.
He heard sick, and prolonged agony.
He felt The Shape’s tears, splashing against his upturned face. Don’t cry, he thought. No, now, don’t do that…
He heard let him go now and it’s time.
He felt the needle, hot like a thin sliver of fire, slide into his neck.
His thoughts turned, very briefly, to Mom and Dad. To Jenna and Mr. Evans, brother Jeff, even Chuck and Rich, and he felt only a vague connection to them now. No, the only one who mattered was The Shape and he was sorry to leave but it was okay. He was a good boy.
Petey closed his eyes, smiling, and drifted off to that place where, in the end, all good pets go.
Bonus time.
My very first professional sale (and by professional, I mean I got a few bucks for it) was Battle of the Carson Hotel, about four years ago or so. It was turned into a podcast, read by a brilliant voice actor named Andy Hoff, at a site called Well-Told Tales.
It’s nothing like the other stories in this book. But as my very first sale, it holds a special place for me.
And I still think it’s a pretty fun story. Hope you enjoy it, and thanks for reading.
H.L.
Battle of the Carson Hotel
My younger brother Earle joined up to fight when the States got involved in the war, back in ’41, but I couldn’t go. Too old, and I have a sort of gimpy leg. But I keep up with what’s going on over there. I try to “do my part on the home front”, just like all the social club ladies hawking War Bonds and little kids collecting cans. I read the papers every day and hope my brother Earle and all the other boys come home safe and sound.
But what I do, mostly, is keep the Carson Hotel respectable and free of riff-raff.
That night I was at work at the hotel, and Graham and me were perusing the local paper and reading about the First Infantry moving in on some German town called Aachen. This was the fall of ‘44, and the headline read Huns On The Run Before American Troops!
Graham leaned across the reception desk and said, “First Infantry… that’s your little brother’s outfit, yeah?”
I nodded, knowing I should be proud but only feeling anxious and nervous.
“You hear from him at all?” Graham said.
“Nope. Censors won’t let them send mail right now.”
“That’s too bad. I’m sure little Earle is doing great, though, Len.”
It sort of bugged me, Graham’s tone, as if I was a punk kid like him who couldn’t stand the truth and needed to be coddled. There was a good chance Earle was among the many dead over there. Germany wasn’t going down without a fight, as last-ditch and desperate as it was.
So I said, “
Shut up, Graham, and gimme that bottle.”
Graham looked wide-eyed. “Bottle? What bottle?”
“The bottle I know you brought with you tonight and which is now directly under the counter.”
He laughed good-naturedly and produced the bottle of whiskey. He’d already taken a few nips but handed it across the desk like it was a Christmas gift. “I didn’t think it would do any harm to have a little taste, Len. It’s been a quiet night.”
I took a healthy slug and slid the bottle back to him. We played this same scene out a couple times a week, sometimes him bringing the bottle and sometimes me. Not much else we could do. The Carson Hotel was always dead this time of year and this time of night, but Graham couldn’t leave the reception desk. As for me, I’d already done two rounds that night and wasn’t due for another until four, about two hours from then.
Both of us were pretty surprised when, just as he was tilting the bottle back, the lobby doors flew open and a woman came in on a current of ice-cold Detroit air.
Graham nearly choked on the whiskey, hurried to stash it away under the desk and managed to spill half the damn bottle on his uniform tunic. The woman didn’t seem to notice, or if she did she said nothing. She came right up to the desk, the way you’d come up to someone you were about to slug, and even though Graham was standing right there she rang the bell on the desk impatiently—ping ping ping ping ping—and said, “I’m here to visit Mr. Allen Vox, please.”
Her tone made the ‘please’ part sound inconsequential. She had hair as black as a nightmare, cascading around a pale face so delicate it was almost doll-like. She wore an expensive fur and carried a black purse that matched her black shoes. I won’t lie to you, she was an eyeful.
Graham was in the midst of a coughing fit, the whiskey having gone down wrong. He hacked and wheezed, turning away politely and holding up one hand in a ‘gimme a second’ gesture. The second was more like a minute.
The woman folded her arms, scowling. I leaned against the counter and tried to not look obvious, which is difficult for a guy my size. She glanced over at me and I put on my best friendly-but-serious, and she turned away, clearly unimpressed.
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