But the pencil remained motionless over the paper. He noticed, for the first time, the details around the woman. She stood in the center of a display of fluffy clouds. In her hand, she held a small ivory bottle of spray cologne. With a low, wispy voice, she would ask each passerby if they would like to sample the new cologne. While Albert watched, he didn't see anyone refuse her. How could they? It would be like turning your own mother in for murder. It would be like spitting on the American flag. Iit would be . . . it would be impossible to refuse her anything, Albert thought.
Albert continued his vigil, concentrating on the small figure, his pencil poised over the notepad. After thirty minutes, he still had not taken a note, but he had begun to notice the people around the display. Many of the men and women passed the display, too busy to pay any attention to the lone figure, only to return in a few moments, a curious expression on their faces. Others would begin to shake their head negatively at her simple question, but would stop in mid-shake, their glare of annoyance changing to a simple, contented smile as they nodded their consent. Even the most obnoxious shoppers would pause for a few moments after the small bottle would pass a few inches from their face, leaving behind the most subtle fragrance. Then they would pass on, the lines of stress and discomfort melting away as they walked.
Amazing, Albert thought. What could possibly smell so nice that it could have such an effect on so many people? After a few more minutes, he decided there was only one way to find out. He slid back into the crowd and pushed his way towards the young woman.
She smiled pleasantly at him as he drew near and Albert felt his heart slip on its back like an anxious puppy. "May I offer you a small gift of a most refreshing fragrance?" she asked him, in the most melodious voice he had ever heard.
He could not answer at once, frozen like an idiot carved in ice, glazed eyes and all, smiling back at her. "Sir, may I offer you . . ."
Albert shook himself back to the present. "No...thanks, but I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may. Do you have a time you take a break or . . ."
"Oh no, I don't take breaks. My work is never done, but I'd be happy to take a few moments for a reporter. Publicity is always welcome by . . . by my boss."
"How did you know . . . ?"
"Let's just say you get pretty perceptive at this job," she replied, her voice a blend of sleigh bells and wind chimes. "What may I help you with?"
"Tell me about your company and this new fragrance."
"Oh, it's not a new fragrance, not really. We've just found a new way to market it, that's all. Salvation has been around since the first Christmas."
"Catchy slogan you have there. Where did it come from?"
Her small lips parted slightly in a smile that sent a warm caress to Albert's heart. "Why, surely you know. The source of salvation is no secret. As the sign says,'from Christian Deus.' Or to put it more simply, from Our Lord, Jesus Christ."
Albert started to laugh, but stifled it with a cough when he noticed the young woman apparently wasn't joking. "They certainly have you well programmed, but do you really think this promotion is in good taste, considering the time of year and all?"
The young lady replied without hesitation. "Why, of course it's in good taste. What better time of the year to introduce a new way to Salvation than on Christ's birthday. Lord knows it's long overdue. If you don’t believe me, just look around at all the sin and suffering in the world. So unnecessary. I'm sorry," she continued as she glanced at the throng of people passing by. "I'm afraid I must get back to work. Many souls will be lost if I don't concentrate on my task. Could I offer you a small gift...?"
"Uh, no, I don't think so. Could I have your name, you know, for the article? I like to be able to quote my sources."
"Oh, sure, it's Angela."
"Cute, Angela," Albert said. He pretended to jot it down in his notebook, although he knew he would take it with him to his grave, securely locked in his memory along with a full-colored picture of her face. "They certainly have picked you well for the part."
"Why, thank you. I've worked hard to deserve this opportunity to serve the Lord. Please reconsider my offer. I'm sure you will be quite pleased."
"Maybe after lunch, Angela. After I check out the bargain basement. Hate to waste such a wonderful fragrance on those ruffians that congregate down in the pit."
Angela smiled once more at him. "Very well, sir. You know where Salvation is. Just be sure not to wait too long."
ALBERT FOUND HIMSELF distracted during his lunch, barely tasting the corned beef on rye that he usually relished. His mind kept returning to the mysterious Angela and the kind, loving smile that seemed to have taken seed in his heart and was now spreading its roots throughout his body. Where does Madison Avenue come up with these ideas?, he wondered. Who would have thought to name a new cologne Salvation? Most of them were just the opposite—Obsession, Mystique, Erotic Night.
Albert decided to check out the basement area, as was his regular routine, but then he'd return to ask Angela a few more questions. He paid his tab and started towards the escalator. It seemed easier to make his way through the crowd than usual, despite the fact that there were more people than he could remember ever seeing.
Everyone seems more cooperative this year, he thought, but then, it is the first day. They don't start getting really nasty until the week before Christmas. He wound his way down the escalator, stopping for a few moments at each floor to get a sense of the atmosphere. It was on the first floor that he began to sense a change in spirit.
He stood outside the traffic area near the escalator and tried to identify the change. It took him a few moments before he could put his finger on it. The first thing he noticed was the increased volume of noise. There was the same amount of background Christmas music and the bong, bong one always heard in a department store, but here on the first floor, there was something more. Finally, it came to him. Anger. The crowd felt discontented and unhappy; much more so then they had been on the fourth floor. There was more shoving and pushing and even some angry words being exchanged among strangers.
Guess more people in a rush to get home down here, he thought, but couldn't recall ever detecting such a difference in the various floors before, and the difference became more pronounced as he rode the escalator down to the basement.
Albert loved the bargain basement for several reasons. First, it was where a some of his best stories originated and from where much of his annual income was derived. Also, he experienced a sense of belonging when he visited the lower level of Stacey's. The common folk shopped in the bottom basement. In fact, that was the third reason Albert enjoyed visiting the basement. He could always make his few gift purchases without taking time out from his people watching, while rubbing elbows with his kind of people.
But this year Albert sensed a definite, though inexplicable difference in the mood of the basement. It could only be described as ugly. Everywhere he turned, crowds of people pushed and shoved, maliciously gouging at each other, fighting for the most horrible-looking pieces of merchandise. Faces of men and women contorted into angry scowls as they threw themselves at each other over the last pea green sweater or hot pink scarf.
My God, what's going on here? Albert wondered, as he stepped off the escalator. But before he could get his bearings, a large woman, resembling a defensive lineman, with multiple plastic bags clutched in her massive arms, barreled into him, knocking his breath away.
"Get outta my way," she shouted, shooting him an obscene gesture with her free hand. "Try for that coat, and I'll flatten you."
An already flattened Albert replied, “What coat?"
Without answering him, the woman gave him another vicious poke in the ribs, forcing him back several feet, where he cracked his head against one of the black enameled columns. Through the haze of stars, he could just make out the woman's plump arm as she reached out and yanked a khaki-colored army jacket off the rack near where Albert had been standing. As she passed by, she threw him a look
that suggested she was about to finish him off with a swift karate chop to the neck, but just as suddenly, her attention shifted to another treasure at the far end of the store.
Grabbing reassuringly to the round column, Albert waited for his head to clear and to regain his composure. He circled around the column as though patrolling his own castle's defenses. No one else seemed to be paying him any attention at the moment, which gave him time to get his bearings.
As he studied the spectacle before him, his gaze fell on a display that took his breath away again. It was a remarkable replica of Dante's Inferno, or at least what Albert imagined Dante had envisioned. The mock flames flickered wildly at the lone figure who stood in the middle of them. The man was the typical tall, dark and handsome type one expected in department store displays, except for one minor point. As Albert stared at the dark features of the man, he detected the most malicious, evil countenance he had ever felt emanating from the stranger's eyes. Albert's breath caught in his throat as he spied the small object the stranger held in his hand—a cologne bottle with the word "SIN" boldly etched in the glass.
"Angela's competition seems to be alive and well in Stacey's bargain basement,” Albert muttered to himself. He felt the tiny hairs along the back of his neck prickle when, with the uttering of the words he had barely spoken, the tall stranger looked in his direction, peered deeply into Albert's eyes and nodded, as a sardonic grin sliced across his handsome features.
The stranger raised his other hand, and with one long finger motioned Albert to come to him. Much to Albert's surprise, he found himself gliding towards the flames.
"Would you care to try a small sample?" the husky voice asked, as he continued waving Albert towards him.
“Who the hell are you?" Albert asked.
The man burst out with a roar of laughter that made Albert's skin crawl, as though the long nails of the man's hand had just scraped across a chalkboard.
"Who in the hell is right!" he cackled between peals of laughter. "Why, I'm Devlin, of course. So nice for the Sentinel to send its most distinguished reporter down to check out the common folk. Now, won't you try a sample of what everyone is dying to have under their tree this year? Yours, free of charge with no obligation. I know you're going to love it."
The finger continued to draw Albert nearer to the flames. Only in the last instant did Albert suddenly realize what was happening, as Devlin pointed the spray bottle at his face. The well-manicured finger depressed the small pump, the fine cloud of mist escaping from the tiny orifice, traveling straight for Albert.
At the final instant, Albert held his breath and ducked away from the approaching fumes. "Nooooo!" he screamed, falling to his knees. As he did so, he felt the heat of the flames and realized they weren't a clever trick of some slick Madison Avenue ad agent. They were real—the hottest flames straight from the bowels of the earth. Albert clawed his way between the forest of legs, fighting at the same time to regain his footing, desperately trying to find his way to the escalator.
But the angry crowd seemed to have other plans for Albert, as dozens of feet stomped his fingers, and knee after knee banged his head and crushed his ribs. "Albert, please," he heard Devlin's voice call from behind him. "Don't be so silly. Just give it a try—one little whiff. After all, you are one of the common people, aren't you?"
Albert heard the maniacal laughter again and felt he would scream and never stop if he did not escape at once. He stopped trying to regain his footing, instead crawling on all fours in the direction where he hoped to find the escalator. The thick crowd continued to inflict damage on his tired body. Within minutes, his hands were bloody, his nails cracked and broken, his ribs bruised and his head pounding from the vicious assault. Still, he continued crawling towards the escalator, praying he was headed in the right direction. His strength was almost completely drained before he caught a glimpse of the corrugated steps moving upward like a line of toy soldiers.
He grasped once, twice, a third time at the black rubber banister, then clung to it with his last ounce of strength as it pulled him up the stairway. He thought he felt a pair of hands with strong fingers and sharp nails clutch at his legs. He kicked out in a motion more like the throes of a dying fish than a kick and was relieved to feel the hold upon his legs release. The crowd on the escalator was still thick and mean, but as he neared the top on the first floor, he managed to pull himself to his feet.
He pushed through the bodies in front of him, not stopping at the first floor, nor at the second or third. He continued on past the neon sign of the fourth floor, ignoring the mounting shadows along the periphery of his vision, which threatened to blind him. He did not stop until he fell onto the soft clouds at Angela's feet and stared up into her crystal blue eyes.
"May I offer you a small gift of a most refreshing fragrance?" he heard her ask, in the same melodious voice. He nodded weakly, tears flowing down his cheeks. As the fine mist descended upon him, Albert collapsed, his head resting on one of Angela's small feet. The mist of Salvation floated gently down upon his hot brow. She was right. It was most refreshing.
DIVINE DISORDER
The shockwave sweeps through the seed packet without warning, throwing the world into a topsy-turvy chaos and my carefully laid life plans into the compost bin. One minute, we’re in the master gardener’s son’s pudgy hand. The next moment, one of his mobile roots trips over a crack in the cement walkway leading to the garden where Sela and I were to spend our life intertwining our roots together. As the packet slips from his hand, I’m suspended in free fall. Time slows. I see my beloved soulmate, Sela, floating above me along with dozens of other seeds, just before we crash into the sidewalk... hard.
Time accelerates as though trying to catch up with itself. I remember the deafening wail of the boy, but mostly I remember hearing my own shout, “This isn’t going well,” as a bunch of us are catapulted out of the packet, including my best friend, SK. “Not going well at all,” I scream as I fly through the air, bouncing along the cement and into a crack in the sidewalk. I lie there dazed, a bit bruised, but mostly uninjured. Then, I notice the gardener has arrived on the scene. He picks up his son, brushes off the little boy’s pants, and dries the tears running down his son’s face. He starts to walk off, then stops to pick up the seed packet and continues to the garden...without me!
This can’t be happening. I yell, scream, cry, and plead—all to no avail. This is not how my life is supposed to play out. I was at the top of the pack. It was my turn. I’d just missed out the season before. I’d even been in the gardener’s palm about to be planted into the fertile ground, but, at the last moment, he had poured my comrades and me back into the pack, where we sat for an interminable time.
And now, here I am missing all the action again. I look around, but all I can see is dirt and debris that has accumulated in the crack. Great, I think. It’s not bad enough to fall into a crack in the sidewalk. I’ve rolled into a thin crevice within the crack surrounded by some of the worst excuses for dirt I’ve ever seen. “Not fair, not fair, not bloody fair,” I scream. “Get me out of this damn crack!” I keep shouting until, finally, I hear a familiar voice from above.
“Is that you, Seedmore? Are you okay?”
“That you, SK? I’m down here in this hellhole of a crack. Where are you? Do you see Sela?”
“I’m just above you, Seedmore. I saw you fall. There are quite a few others up here, but no Sela.”
Great, my soulmate and I have been thrown apart by fate. This has got to be the worst day of my life.
Days pass without any change, except in my mood, which grows darker as I face the brutal reality that I may die in this God-forsaken crevice. SK tries to cheer me up, but I’ll have none of it. By the third day, I’m ready to feed him to a bird, anything to get him to stop his New Age aphorisms.
“All is not in Divine Order,” I shout at him, venting my anger and frustration the only way I know. “If it were, I’d be lying snuggly under a half-inch of quality topsoi
l with Sela nearby, not in this hellhole of malnourished dust. I had my life with Sela all planned out, so kindly shut up about this being in Divine Order!”
SK mumbles a few inarticulate words, then, when I don’t respond, he grows quiet. I drift off into my own world, dreaming about growing up in the garden next to Sela, eventually sharing our pollen and creating the next generation of seeds. When I finally emerge from my melancholy, I’m surprised how dark it has become. Surely it’s not nighttime already. I gaze up to the small slit of sky I can see, and notice storm clouds building. Oh, great. Now what? But before my newest pity party gets into full swing, it’s interrupted by a flash of lightning, followed a split second later with a loud clap of thunder. “Super, now I’m going to get rained on. What’s next, God—mildew?” The Foster Flat area is known for its storms that suddenly appear in the late afternoon. It looks like I’m about to experience one.
Sure enough, within minutes I hear the first patter of raindrops and then the bottom falls out. It’s what the gardener would call a gully washer, and unfortunately, it does just that, sweeping SK and the other seeds away. I hold my breath in anticipation of joining them. After all, anywhere has to be better than where I am, but once again my life is a product of “Divine Disorder.” As the rain continues to fall, I feel a tremor around me as the sides of the crevice collapse, throwing me into darkness.
Crud.
Days pass. I lose count of the number of times the ground warms, then cools, and then warms again—certainly more than a week, more likely two or even three. I notice the ground has grown warmer. With the warmth, and moisture from the rain, and the darkness, I feel...different.
My coarse outer protective shell has softened, and I feel myself begin to swell. Then, one morning I awaken to feel my own vestigial appendages digging into the poor excuse for soil that has become my prison.
Fantastic Fables of Foster Flat Volume Two Page 11
