by Nathan Roden
Three
Wylie Westerhouse
Branson, Missouri
I sat my large Styrofoam coffee cup on the sidewalk and fished out the key to unlock the doors to Branson Music.
At the same time, two young couples were trying to enter the store next door.
“Sorry you guys,” I said. “Elvis doesn’t open until noon. Go get some coffee and waffles and stop back by. Elvis doesn’t do mornings,” I winked in the direction of one of the girls, who was smiling at me.
“He may even be a vaaampire.”
The guys paid me no attention, and one of them pulled at the handle of my neighbor’s door like it was just a question of effort. He was probably too hungover or still drunk to notice the sign with a clock on it that was right in front of him. The sign clearly listed the operating hours for the Black Velvet Elvis Tattoo Parlor and the Black Velvet Elvis Haunted Midnight Tours.
The guy kept tugging until he triggered the door alarm. The two couples ran to their car and made a fast getaway. I dropped my chin to my chest and glanced at my rapidly cooling cup of expensive coffee. It would have to wait until I got inside of Branson Music, took the key to Elvis’s place out of our safe, and deactivated his alarm. That’s just one more service that I provide for my neighbor.
Elvis Rushmore is a genius and a wizard with the ink. He’s also an awesome neighbor and friend. He sure hasn’t hurt business at Branson Music. We get tons of drop-in customers from the people that stop to gawk at his two tour buses, the ones that spend their days parked at the end of our shared parking lot. They are heavily modified old school buses that look a lot like Grandpa Munster’s “coffin-car”, but with wickedly awesome and scary paint jobs.
I’m the manager of Branson Music, for what that’s worth. The store only has five employees so the title doesn’t mean a lot.
Thank God that we’re located in the Bible belt and Mr. Plimpton, the owner of Branson Music, would never dream of opening on Sundays. I hope that he has no idea how many frustrated tugs are made on our front door every Sunday. Sometimes I feel that disturbance in the force, causing me to roll over in my bed during my Sunday sleep marathon.
Even Elvis closes on Sundays, but his Saturdays end at three o’clock on Sunday morning. Do you think God cares if we use his day as an excuse to sleep off the effects of Saturday nights? Never mind. That’s a rhetorical question.
I had four boxes of CD’s and cassettes to stock, a job which is surprisingly therapeutic. And yes, you heard that right. Cassettes. Remember what those are? I’m not sure if they are still being manufactured somewhere, or if they just get passed around the country between truck stops before we get them. But we do sell some, and I assure you that there are a number of older motorhomes and RVs that still have cassette players. A large percentage of those RVs make their way to Branson, Missouri, along with most of the Buicks, Oldsmobiles, Mercuries, and Ford Tauruses ever built. And a lot of those have—that’s right.
Cassette players.
Mr. Plimpton is seventy-nine years old and plays golf four days a week. His son, Porter, manages a big box store on the other side of town. Porter used to run Branson Music, (or more accurately, he used to run it into the ground) until he was “allegedly” held up at gunpoint a few years ago. No one was ever arrested. Mr. Plimpton put in security cameras after that incident. Porter quit soon after that, and went to work on the newer, “safer” side of town. Now, Porter shows up at least twice a week with his wife to troll up and down the aisles. They squint and wrinkle their noses, and run their fingers along the shelves; looking for dust. I sense that they grow impatient with Mr. Plimpton’s good health. I bet they’re making their plans to liquidate everything here; down to the walls. And I’m sure they have plans for the walls, too.
Porter’s wife, Tammy Fay, is a tall, hard looking skinny woman with jet-black dyed hair, which is split by a white skunk stripe. Is it possible that, in America, a woman in her fifties is completely unaware of 101 Dalmatians and Cruella De Vil? I don’t think so, either. If that’s the look she’s going for, she has it nailed. I’ll tell you one thing, for sure. She’s not getting anywhere near Toby.
I don’t even know if Mr. Plimpton needs the store to make money. He’s never really seemed to care about it that much. Maybe you just don’t care about stuff like that when you’re seventy-nine.
I would like for Mr. Plimpton to continue his golfing as long as he’s able, and I need this job. I don’t want his son to take over the place. I’ve done what I can to bring paying customers into the store.
When Mr. Plimpton hired me, the store only catered to an older, country music loving crowd. I’ve stretched the inventory to appeal to the same customer base. We carry NASCAR and Monster Truck merchandise, bumper stickers, and every kind of beer can camouflage that you can imagine.
I’ve filtered in inventory to appeal to younger people, as well. Along with Black Velvet Elvis, we’ve helped to funnel a younger crowd into the old neighborhood. Our neighbors now include five fast-food restaurants, an arcade, and a Chili’s restaurant. There’s a rumor about the groundbreaking for a Hooters franchise after the first of the year.
Blessed be the Name of The Lord.
One corner of the store is stocked and maintained by Buddy Rushmore, Elvis’s cousin. I’m Buddy’s only client in town, and I make sure he keeps the stock on the “conservative” side. Buddy’s other clients are tobacco stores and Head Shops.
We ask our younger customer not to talk about Buddy’s Corner, especially inside the store. It’s not like we display High-Times magazine or t-shirts that scream “Legalize Weed!” For the most part, the stock looks like things you might find in an import store. Well, maybe an import store with a naive manager. I keep a few “specialty” items behind the counter.
The front of the store remains very conservative. I try to specialize in items not stocked by the other gift shops or big box stores. We have some good connections with the merchandise departments of several of the touring country acts, so Ma and Pa can buy their Mickey Gilley or Alabama tour shirts here. Still, the store brings in a lot more cash from the Pearl Jam and Alice in Chains shirts that are located next to Buddy’s Corner.
I stock a number of life-size cardboard figures because I’ve always liked them. They keep me company after closing time when I’m stocking, sweeping or mopping. John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and Marilyn Monroe are some of the most popular ones. I even have a very rare Hank Williams Sr. model. I bought it from a traveling salesman who stopped in right after I took over the manager job. He was a fat guy with a toupee who reminded me of Matt Foley, the ”van down by the river” guy. He even wore a plaid sports coat. He had all of his stock stuffed into an ancient, wood-paneled station wagon with one hubcap left, along with a filthy little trailer with bald tires.
The salesman only had the one Hank Sr. figure, and he couldn’t remember where it came from. It was open against the wall of the trailer and showed signs of wear and tear and some water damage. I made him an offer for it, and he jumped on it. He left a business card, but I can’t find it and he hasn’t been back. I guess he’s down by the river.
I put a “Not for Sale” sign on the Hank Williams figure, which turned out to be a bad idea. Less than two weeks after I stood Hank up a man wandered into the store on a slow afternoon. I had to tell him that he was not allowed to come into the store with an open beer can. That was my first warning.
I don’t know if he was really a big Hank Williams fan, or whether he just didn’t like the “Not for Sale” sign, but he saw it as a challenge. He pulled two wadded twenties from his pocket, smoothed them out, and slapped them on the counter.
“I’m takin’ old Hank home today, Sonny-Boy.”
“I’m sorry, Sir, but old Hank is not for sale.”
“This is a store ain’t it? Why you put stuff in a store that ain’t for sale? What kinda game are you tryin’ to pull here?”
The door opened, and two older ladies walked in. They stared ner
vously at the loud-mouthed man.
“It’s no game, Sir. You can’t buy this counter, or this cash register, or even the toilet paper in the restroom. I’m going to ask you to leave, Sir. You’re scaring my customers.”
“You can’t tell me to leave. I ain’t done nothin’.”
I pointed at the security cameras.
“It gives me no pleasure, Sir, but yes I can. My reasons have been captured on three separate cameras. Please.”
The man cracked one of the panes of glass in the front door when he slammed it. Hank went home with me a few hours later, where he took up residence next to the patio doors in my dining room.
I know it was goofy of me, but I felt guilty leaving Hank there by himself.
Hank Williams died at twenty-nine and I hated the feeling that I was reinforcing his lonesomeness. So, he stands with his guitar in my dining room. He stands between a bare-chested Bruce Lee and another one of my all-time favorites—Christopher Lee as Dracula.
Christopher Lee is an incredibly powerful presence and the single creepiest person I have ever laid eyes on. I wouldn’t be comfortable in a room with him if he was elected Pope. Having him in my living room at his most ominous helps me to confront my fears, but Bruce Lee is there in case I need him for backup.
I don’t sell many of the cardboard figures at the store, but plenty of people want to have pictures taken with them. I get a kick out of the way some of the old guys behave around the Marilyn Monroe model. It’s the one where she’s trying to hold down her white dress while she’s standing over the subway grate. You wouldn’t believe the number of men that will ignore joint pain and arthritis to get down on one knee; to have their picture taken while pretending to look up Marilyn’s skirt.
I occasionally run into misunderstandings— like when a couple of elderly ladies stray to the back of the store and find a vase like no other they have ever seen. I’ve watched them fall in love with that long, green glass vase with the pewter dragon wrapped around it. His mouth is open wide and shows his rows of razor teeth and his serpent’s tongue while his red-jeweled eyes twinkle under the black-light.
I don’t attempt to explain bong design to senior citizens. I just play dumb, wrap their treasures in pages of newspaper, and take their money. Sometimes I catch myself smiling at the thought that someday they may use them as they were intended.
Four
Holly McFadden
McIntyre Village, Scotland
Holly sped down the street, which was just beginning to become familiar to her. She cursed under her breath when she bounced into and out of a pothole. The worn-out muffler of her old moped barked its own version of obscenity.
Today was Seth’s first day at his new job as maintenance and general handyman for a local Inn and Tavern. It was also the day that Holly received her first paycheck from her new job as a tour guide at Castle Wellmore.
Castle Wellmore was no more successful as a tourist attraction than Castle McIntyre had been, but it was fortunate enough to have been constructed on the opposite side of the river. The small bridge that escaped destruction was accessible by nothing larger than compact passenger cars. This was all that Holly needed to reach Wellmore Castle on her moped.
Seth met Holly at the gate of their new home. It was a small, comfortable cottage close to the main village and the bridge. Seth smiled as Holly gunned the little engine, slid to a stop, and turned the engine off. The little motorbike died with a cough and a sputter.
Holly pulled off her helmet, ran to her uncle, and bear-hugged him.
“How was yer first day, Mr. Fix-it?” she asked.
“Fine as fine could be, lassie. I’ll be needing to adjust a couple of bad attitudes around the place, but we knew that would be comin’, didn’t we?”
Seth bellowed a laugh.
“Come on inside and rest your weary bones, girl.”
Holly followed Seth through the front door.
“Uncle, have you hurt yourself? You’re walking kind of funny, there.”
Seth turned.
“No, no, no. Just me first day on the job. I was trying to impress the boss man and boss lady, don’t you know. Prolly lifted too many heavy things with one hand, such as it is.”
“What kind of things, Uncle Seth? Brooms and dustbins, and light bulbs, such as that?” Holly asked with a grin.
Seth belly-laughed again.
“Saints, be! No, child! I was needin’ to move an old refrigerator out to the back, and someone parked a two horse buggy right in front of the gate. So, I just took one horse under each arm—”
“Uncle Seth! You know you’ll be going straight to the devil if you keep telling these stories, you old goat!”
Seth bellowed even louder, and threw his arms around his niece, and they squeezed each other hard.
“You must be famished after a long day on the job. I’ll whip us up whatever you like,” Seth said.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind, Sir,” Holly said, pulling the paycheck from her pocket.
“With this payday—the first of its kind not generated by the Castle McIntyre—I’ll be treating us to all-you-can-eat fish and chips down on the boardwalk. I might even be matching you pint for pint.”
“Aw, yer talkin’ out yer haid now, Girlie. Just because I can carry a horse under one arm don’t mean I can haul yer big blootered backside back up the hill by myself, now,” Seth said. He was already cracking himself up when Holly jumped on him. She punched at his shoulders and tickled him before they fell to the floor, exhausted.
They lay side-by-side, catching their breath.
“So, Holly. The Castle Wellmore. Does it have…ya know—some of them?” Seth asked, breathing heavily and still staring at the ceiling.
Holly elbowed her uncle in the side.
“Are you never gonna get comfortable calling them what they are, Uncle?” Holly asked. “They’re ghosts. Ignoring the word isn’t gonna change that.”
“All right, then, Miss Sassy,” Seth chuckled. “Are there any ghosts in the Castle Wellmore?”
“The place is creepy enough to be full of ‘em, but there are only four that I know of. Two of the angry sort, and two Myrtles,” Holly said.
“Aye,” Seth said, “The weeping whiners.”
“Yeah. They don’t speak to me though they know I can see them, and they don’t show themselves during the tours. The owners have put in rigs, ya know.”
“Rigs? What is that, now?” Seth asked.
“Trick setups, with wires and such. They make things move around. They’re trying to spook the tourists into thinking the place is haunted, so they build up their reputations.”
“Can’t blame ‘em much, I guess,” Seth sighed, “Look at all I’ve done. I’ve been no better myself, fer sure.”
“What about the Inn, Uncle? I bet you have some there,” Holly said.
“Well, ya know, lassie,” Seth said, taking Holly’s hand. “You’ve been at your new job, and I’ve been working at the McIntyre, trying to get her sold, and all. When I’m not around you, the sight doesn’t stay with me for long. The gift has always come from you.”
Holly gave a little snort.
“A ‘gift’, you say. I don’t know what kind of gift comes without a manual, or any instructions about what to do with it, or a clue about why it’s happened to me. I would surely trade this gift for—”
“Holly…” Seth said softly.
Holly stood up and went to her desk. She pulled a worn newspaper from the drawer.
The headline read—
“Local Couple Missing—Presumed Lost at Sea.”
“Tomorrow will be six months that they’ve been gone,” Holly said, “I should have been with them. I was nothing but a selfish brat.”
Seth walked behind Holly. He patted her on the shoulder.
“That’s just silly talk, Holly. Your parents had always loved the water, and that boat. Just because you didn’t share that feeling—that’s no sin on your part. If there’s anybody to assi
gn fault to it belongs to me.”
“Now who’s being silly? Holly asked. “I had been bothering you to take me on a red stag hunt ever since I could shoulder a rifle. And I’ve been afraid of the water ever since—”
Seth patted Holly’s hand.
“Aye, I know, lassie,” he said.
“If only we knew what happened, for sure,” Holly said. “It’s the worst part. Just not knowing.”
“Have you spoken with the McIntyres?” Holly asked.
“I did the first couple of days,” Seth said. “The Baron and his family are sad and quiet, but the other two were about to drive me mental. But now they’re fading away from me, and I’m having trouble understandin’ the lot of them. Their voices—they come and go.”
“I’m going to see the girls in the morning. I’m missing them terribly,” Holly said. She took her uncle’s hand again and rubbed her hand back and forth over his arm. She grinned at Seth as he looked at her with a raised brow.
“We’ve got to recharge your magical batteries, Uncle. I can’t be left alone with all of these crazy ghosts.”
Nora and Charlotte ran to the road squealing when they heard Holly’s moped. Neither could resist trying to hug her. They had known the futility of these efforts for years, but they never quit trying.
“We’ve never gone so long without seeing you, Holly,” Charlotte said. “Are you…are you going away?”
“No, no, no, girls. I’ve had to take on a job with Castle Wellmore, across the river. The Agency told Uncle Seth that we should move into town to help them with their job—to make the castle easier to sell. They say that we will have a better chance with a buyer without the two of us and our things in the way.”
