On The 7th Day

by Zack Murphy

  He had been to the country many years before, but had found that Puritans were not much into getting snookered and regaling each other with rousing stories of the night they found old Mrs. Levy in the washroom with Michael Merryweather’s son Todd and the town pig. This was not the America he was in now.

  Jeremiah yawned and decided that he had had enough adventure for one day. And this was probably the easiest day he was going to have in quite some time.

  *****

  Retirees Miriam and Chuck Friedlander of Eau Claire, Wisconsin were currently on their tenth day of a three week sightseeing tour of America. They had set out on a course for adventure in their new Winnebago that Chuck had bought with his severance pay after retiring from Wisconsin’s largest producer of canned cheese.

  Miriam and Chuck stood outside of Mann’s Chinese Theatre at eleven p m. They were normally in bed at this time of night, but this trip was a once in a lifetime experience. They had mapped out their itinerary and needed to cram everything in three weeks. They had given themselves this timeframe because after this they were never stepping foot out of Wisconsin again.

  The flashes from their cameras lit up the street. They wanted to capture everything for prosperity and to fill up the two dozen photo albums they had purchased at a wholesale outlet store, which Miriam had insisted would come in handy one day [This included 20 boxes of chocolate flavored cereal, a 10 pound drum of sliced peaches and a pair of his and hers matching tombstones for a reasonable price.]. As they perused the sidewalk for stars of past entertainment shows they noticed a young, somewhat handsome man appear, seemingly out of thin air.

  The man wore a pair of ill-fitting jeans, a tee-shirt exclaiming his love for beer drinking and farting and an over-sized Kiss Me I’m Irish button.

  He staggered over to the couple wildly searching the area around him. This was probably one of the many meth-addicted, failed Hollywood hopefuls that wizened the boulevard at night like amped-up vampires seeking out-of-towners to rob, rape and pillage. Miriam and Chuck had heard about these people from their neighbor Mrs. Pennymore, who had been to California years before with her church choir and had come back with many stories to tell, although it was common knowledge she had a vivid imagination and was prone to believing anything she saw on the Late Late Show.

  “Where am I?” The man said as he lurched toward the elderly couple.

  “Well, young man,” said Chuck who was never going to let raping, drug-crazed vampires ruin his penchant for talking to anyone who would listen, “You’re in front of Mann’s Famous Chinese Restaurant.”

  “What? Mann’s? I’m in Hollywood!?”

  “Well yes sir,” exclaimed Chuck.

  The man looked around him then turned his sights upward to the sky and yelled, “Argggh! I can’t believe you did this! Can’t you bastards do anything right!”

  “Well, I know it can be disappointing,” said Miriam trying to help, “but a lot of famous landmarks seem smaller in person.”

  “What?” snapped the man.

  “We’ve been all over the country and I can tell you first hand that a lot of things you read about in the travel books are much smaller in person than you actually think they will be.”

  The man looked her with a potent combination of confusion and contempt, so she decided to help out a little more. ”Like the St. Louis Arch; it looked like it would engulf the night sky in all the photos, but it’s really not that big once you get up close to it.”

  “You can take an elevator straight to the top,” said Chuck.

  “Well not straight up,” corrected Miriam.

  “Well, no. It’s an arch; you go sorta in a curvy up,” said Chuck, adding to his previous statement.

  “Huh?” moaned the man.

  “Oh the Grand Canyon was magnificent though,” remembered Miriam.

  “Well yeah,” said Chuck, “It’s a big hole in the ground.”

  “But it was a great big hole nevertheless.”

  “I admit the Grand Canyon was special, but we were trying to tell this guy about places that seemed bigger in pictures, the Grand Canyon didn’t seem bigger in pictures, it was pretty big in real life too.”

  The man stared at the couple with disbelief that any two people who had lived for as long they had could be kept amused by arguing over the size of historic landmarks.

  “The first Continental Congress in Philadelphia was a lot smaller than I thought it was,” beamed Miriam.

  “And the Statue of Liberty was tiny!” said Chuck trying to one-up his wife.

  “Oh you know what I liked?” questioned Miriam not wasting a moment to wait for a response, “Mount Rushmore.”

  “Mount Rushmore was pretty big, Miriam.”

  “Yes, but it still could have been bigger.”

  “That’s true. Amazing though. How they got all of them faces into that rock I’ll never know.”

  “It’s a wonder of natural science,” thought Miriam aloud, “Have you ever been to Mount Rushmore young man?”

  The man was suddenly jolted back into reality by the query that was presented to him. He had been dazed by the uninteresting game of verbal ping-pong being played by the retirees. “Uh, what state is that in?”

  “South Dakota,” offered Chuck.

  “I think it was North Dakota,” corrected Miriam.

  “Well it was one of the Dakota’s anyway.”

  “Yes, I think that’s true. Have you ever been?”

  Uh, no, “said the man, “I don’t get that far east.”

  “It’s a shame!” declared Miriam, “Really a wonderful piece of art, they’ve also got the largest ball of twine about 10 miles away too; you should really see that if you want to be impressed.”

  “I can’t!” yelled the man trying to stop the conversation before it want any further. “I have things to do! Important things! I’ve got to get out of here!”

  “Where do you need to go that’s so important at 11 o’clock at night?” questioned Miriam who had raised four children and knew that nothing but trouble happened after 10 PM. 9 PM was cutting it close.

  “I’ve got to save the world!” said the man

  “Oh well, that’s a big job,” said Miriam who had also been a third grade teacher for 35 years.

  “Which way is downtown?”

  “I think it’s that way,” said Chuck pointing in a helpful but non-distinct direction.

  “Give him the map Chuck.” Miriam pried it out of husband’s grip, “Here, take this.”

  “But I need the map to-” Chuck looked at his wife and saw the face that had made him cave a thousand times before. A face that Miriam would swear saved their marriage by keeping him in his place. “Here.” He reluctantly handed over the map.

  “Thank you,” said the man as he took the map and walked off down the street. Miriam and Chuck watched him until he was out of view and went back to the Winnebago to try to find a grocery store parking lot to park and sleep for the night. Preferably somewhere in the suburbs.

  The map was dropped in the nearest trashcan when it was safe to say that Miriam and Chuck could longer see the gift they had bestowed. “All right,” said Barnaby, “If this is Hollywood, downtown L.A. must be this way.”

  He started down the road and began to whistle. He looked around him and could for the first time feel the gentle Santa Anna winds blowing through his hair and the smell of urine that lined the streets. He noticed how unattractive hookers were and wondered why anyone would pay money to get some from that.

  He mused to himself as he headed over the horizon toward the City of Angels “I think if it all works out, I’m going to have a pretty good day,” with that, he walked back over to the trashcan and collected the map.

  *****

  5 DAYS BEFORE THE BIRTH

  Dana Plough groggily made her way down to the kitchen to fix herself a cup of coffee. She found that 4:30 am comes around a lot earlier when you’re abruptly kicked in the gut every twenty-five minutes. 4:30 am on five hours of oft-
interrupted sleep and all you get as a pick-me-up is decaffeinated coffee and a shot of vodka is not at all a pleasant way to greet the day.

  She made her way past the 13 Insurance Agents who were exactly where she left them when she went to be bed last night. They were still standing at attention and were perhaps a tad bit uglier than they had been five hours ago. If such a thing was at all possible.

  Dana Plough walked into the kitchen and was startled at the sight of a twelve-course breakfast laid out in fine china and bake ware on the table. There were eggs, in poached, fried and scrambled varieties, French toast, pancakes, freshly-squeezed orange juice and at least seven different assortments of fried meats. She carefully scanned the items, scratched her head and headed back into the living room.

  She went up to the first Insurance Agent in line and assumed he was their leader and would speak for them since he had the #1 emblazoned on his tee shirt. She poked him in the chest with her finger almost breaking it on his freakishly hard muscles. “Ow!” she tried to muffle her scream of pain as best she could. When you’re trying to lay down the law, getting an owie doesn’t help one’s tough gal image. “Who did this?” she barked with a stare that would cause small woodland creatures to burst into flames.

  “Who did what, Ma’am?” questioned Insurance Agent #1.

  “Who cooked in my kitchen?”

  “Is that a bad thing, Ma’am?” asked Insurance Agent #1.

  “Yes it is. It is a very bad thing.”

  “May I ask why?” said #1, reluctantly taking on the spokesman role for the group since Dana Plough was directing all her rage at him.

  “Because I’ve lived here for four years and have never used the stove for anything other than as a shelf to hold the Chinese take-out I eat once a week. I want to sell this place one day at a profit and you’re ruining it with the use of major appliances”

  “Ma’am, if I may?” Insurance Agent #11 raised his hand, cautiously trying to shield as much of his 350 pound frame as he could away from the raging woman.

  “WHAT IS IT?!” Words really can’t kill, but a slightly hung-over nine-month pregnant woman with no sleep and a serious caffeine jonesing certainly could.

  “Well,” stammered #11, “a home does not depreciate in value because of how often an appliance is used.”

  “But it was never used; I could sell it off as brand new.”

  “No, you couldn’t,” #11 was, for all of his furiousness, really a rather mild-mannered and thoughtful sort who had often thought if he hadn’t been a Minion of Satan he probably would have been quite happy as a Realtor. “An appliance, even if never used, is only new for two years or until the warranty expires; your stove’s warranty expired after three years, so therefore-”

  “Shut up! If I wanted a lesson in home décor from the Martha Stewart of the Freaking Underworld I would have written you a very nice fan letter and shoved it straight up your ass!”

  “I was merely stating-”

  “I don’t care what you were merely stating, you sniveling pile of- oh never mind! Who did this?”

  #8 tentatively raised his hand, though he sure as hell didn’t want to be yelled at. “I did.”

  She paced in front of him, stopped abruptly and spun around on a dime coming face to stomach with her secret chef. “All I want in the morning is a cup of coffee; can you make me a cup of coffee?” she spoke silently and clearly, her words cutting the air like a knife.

  “I did.”

  “Decaf?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “That’s all I can drink.”

  “No Ma’am. I have found a special bean from the highest hills of the Perija mountains in Venezuela that is as strong as the coffee you crave but acts like a decaffeinate, causing no harm to the child.”

  “You mean?-”

  “I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  Dana Plough ran into the kitchen and poured herself a steaming cup of piping hot coffee. As she sipped on the heavenly brew and looked at her large protectors, the ones with magical beans, Dana Plough’s small heart grew three sizes that day. “I think we’re all going to get along marvelously!” she exclaimed as they all smiled at the sight of her beaming face.

  *****

  It had been a long night for Barnaby and an even longer 6 mile walk to downtown Los Angeles. He journeyed amidst the catcalls and various objects, including, beer cans, rocks and red sequined panties that were hurled in his direction. It occurred to him somewhere along mile three that someone should have done a little more research on the latest fashion trends of the time and region. And maybe not so tight fighting.

  Capri pants and “humorous” novelty tee were causing quite a stir amongst the gawking locals. Whatever neighborhood he was in, he seemed to be either the most popular [West Hollywood seemed to particularly enjoy the tight pants.] or the most ostracized [Outside The Pain Stick pool house and biker bar.] person on the street.

  It was six in the morning and L.A. was starting to bustle with activity. Soon the shops would open and Barnaby could finally buy himself something a little less ostentatious. Barnaby was beginning to almost like Los Angeles. He eventually had the sidewalks all to himself, as everyone in the town drove everywhere, and not well. This was probably why he was always ushering so many heart-attack victims in L.A. to the other side.

  He walked along Melrose Avenue, perusing the different men’s clothing shops until he found one that would give him an acceptable look for both the everyday wear and tear of the city and for battling in a pre-Apocalyptic war between Good and Evil.

  Le Chic Monsieur catered to all types of men in all different lifestyles, or so the sign said, and Barnaby was definitely a different man in a different lifestyle. He opened the doors and felt the cool recycled air smack his face, which was nice since he had just come from the hot recycled air of man-made pollutants outside.

  He walked through the maze of suits for business and those items intended to give the flavor of a person who spent his entire life in a gym, but were mostly a fashion statement for overweight B-movie producers and rap stars, both with an unquenchable taste for gold chains.

  A petite young woman dressed in a black miniskirt, black lace top and three long red scarves tied in her hair, on her arm and draped across her neck sashayed over to Barnaby and scanned him from head to foot. She turned her face into something like that someone whose job it was to inspect meat that been left out in the sun for a week.

  “Hi, my name is Candy. May I help you?” she said with a combination of over-zealous bubbliness and a malicious hint of ‘please get out of here before I call the cops, you're probably homeless, penniless and/or most unimportantly, just utterly unfashionable’.

  “Yes,” said Barnaby ignoring her snideness because he knew what he looked like and he knew if had seen him he would have acted the same way. “I want to buy some new clothes.”

  “I should say so.”

  “I know, I know, I look ridiculous.”

  ”Not if you’re a thirteen girl living in a trailer park.” Cady had graduated with honors in Sarcastic Belittlement.

  Barnaby let out a chuckle that defined the self-knowledge of what he looked like with a twinge of shut the hell up. The salesgirl had obviously spent her entire twenty-two years on the planet reading a wide-range of glamour magazines and not much else. She was a person who could tell you what brand of moisturizer Donatella Versace used, but had no clue who the current President of the United States was.

  Barnaby needed the former rather than the latter, so he allowed her to dress him in whatever fashion she found was appropriate for his skin tone and body shape. Deep down inside Barnaby found this a bit arousing, which he couldn’t understand, but he felt he now knew the meaning of ‘a girl good for a night not for a lifetime.’

  He had spent nearly two hours trying on clothing from all over the world by all the top designers of the day with price tags that would make even the most ardently spendthrift trophy wife choke. He purchased shoes from Spain,
suits from Italy, belts made of alligators and hats of wombat fur.

  Money was of no object, since the only thing Death had gotten right when sending him to Earth as a human was giving him an unlimited cash supply. Every time he would open his wallet a lush green forest of newly minted bills filled the leather case. They may have put him in the clothes of a bad seventies sitcom’s wacky neighbor cast-off, but they put him in the Bill Gates fiscal percentile.

  Barnaby would attentively stand when prompted to examine the new him in the mirror, while a crowd of salesgirls gathered around to examine Candy’s charity case turned Fashionista. They beamed from ear to ear and none of them seemed to possess the strength to hold still as they jumped and flailed and waved their arms frantically in the air as if they were on a never-ending roller coaster. Every so often they would huddle up and whisper and giggle while peeking up to see if Barnaby was listening, then plunged back down to their knot to plan their next strategy.

  Finally when Barnaby’s fast-track-to-a-new-look express had exhausted the interest of the salesgirls he stood for once last look-over by his Dr. Frankensteins’ of Fashion. Their knowing nods and smiles told him that he would be taken seriously in the world and would avoid being thwacked by beer cans, at least in most neighborhoods.

  “I think he looks great!’ exclaimed Babs L.

  “Fabulous!” declared Ramona.

  “I just adore what you’ve done with layering!” squealed Babs M.

  “I call it; ‘From Drabulous-to-Fabulous!’” said Candy. She lacked any original thought of her own, having heard the statement on a popular television program a few weeks back and had incorporated the phrase into her own vocabulary.

  “Well,” said Barnaby, watching his admiration for what Candy could do with colors and stripes grow as he spun around flashing his best runway look. “I can’t thank you enough for this.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Candy blushed. “Okay! Do thank me!” squealed an extremely proud Candy, throwing her arms emphatically in the air and twirling with glee.

  Barnaby waved good-bye to the young ladies who stood giggling as their vogue-lacking patient-turned-walking style icon exited through Le Chic Monsieur doors carrying ten shopping bags full of the days most fashionable and expensive clothing items, as the girls dreamed of all the things they would buy with their commission.