All of this brings me to my point, which is, of course, fairy tales.
By fairy tales, I refer specifically to that wonderful tradition (and I say that without the slightest sarcasm) of telling Owen a tale at bedtime, either reading from a book or reciting from my head. I’m discovering it’s one of the greatest joys of fatherhood, next to the morning bathroom intrusion, variations of which are Yank Daddy’s Shower Curtain Aside and Inventory Our Special Attributes.
Owen cycles through different favorite movies (currently Thomas the Tank Engine and the Wobbly Whatzits, or what the fuck, I can’t remember now) and favorite books (currently a book with awesome illustrations of tornadoes). Past movie favorites have included the Rugrats’ retelling of Jack & the Beanstalk and before that Toy Story 2 (which I can thoroughly appreciate after the 30th viewing, again said without a trace of irony). Past book favorites have included the Berenstain Bears B Book. Recite it with me: big brown bear, blue bull, beautiful baboon biking backwards blowing bubbles bump black bug’s banana boxes and Billy Bunny’s bread basket and bonk Brother Bob’s baseball bus and Buster Beagle’s banjo bagpipe bugle band, and that’s what broke Baby Bird’s balloon.
What was I talking about again?
Yes. Fairy tales.
So, a few weeks ago, as Owen is in the throes of processing the Rugrats and Jack & the Beanstalk, every night he’s naturally asking me or Deena to tell him the story of Jack & the Beanstalk at bedtime. The traditional version includes a goose who lays golden eggs and a golden harp that sings. Anyway, so I’m sitting there on his bed, having just put him into his Buzz Lightyear green underwear and tucked him under his Elmo blanket, and arranged his four stuffed animals (Tiger, Curious George, the brown dog, and Winnie the Pooh) along the side of his bed to keep vigil. I ask Owen what story he wants to hear, and he says, “The Three Golden Eggs.”
What the hell. I decide to improvise something. I decide that it’s a prequel to Jack & the Beanstalk. Over the past few weeks, the rough edges have smoothed out, and now he asks for it nearly as much as the one about young Jack.
In my drunken blogging stupor, I offer it to you, in slightly longer form:
✽ ✽ ✽
The Three Golden Eggs
Once upon a time, a runt of a goose named Geesy lived with his brothers and sisters, who made fun of him. “You’re such a runt, and you don’t fit in here,” they said. “Why don’t you leave?”
So that’s exactly what Geesy did. On a cold morning, he flapped away from the other geese, out into the world.
Soon he flew up into the highest mountain range, above the clouds where they were never obscured by storm or wind. Atop one mountain, Geesy came across a bird’s nest of darkest wood, its twigs harvested from the farthest corners of the land. Inside were three golden eggs, and upon them sat a great, golden bird.
“Ho there, traveler,” the golden bird said. “You look like an honest bird, and I have need of one.”
Although Geesy felt worthless and despondent, he nodded respectfully to the great golden bird. “How may I be of service?”
“My three golden eggs are about to hatch, and I need to go out and forage for food. I need you to sit on them and hatch them in my stead. If you do, I’ll give you a great reward.”
Geesy felt he had nothing better to do, so he accepted the job. As soon as he sat down on the three golden eggs, the great golden bird flew away.
After a while, the first egg hatched. Out crawled a tiny golden bird, just like its parent. It immediately flew off.
The second egg hatched. Inside was a tiny golden harp with the head of woman. “Good morning!” it cried to Geesy. “May I sing you a song?”
“Sure. It’s lonely here. What can you sing?”
“Anything your heart desires.”
So Geesy asked her to sing an old ballad, The Honking of the Skies, which reminded him of home. And the harp sang it perfectly.
Soon, the last egg hatched. But inside was nothing. It was just an empty shell.
After a while, the great golden bird returned. “Ah, I see you have hatched my three eggs. Very well done.”
Geesy bowed his head. “I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I failed you.” He went on to tell the great golden bird what happened.
The great golden bird threw back its head and laughed. “You have done exactly as I asked of you. From the first egg hatched my son. When he flew away from you, he came and found me, and I fed him the food I had foraged.
“The second and third eggs contained gifts for you.
“The golden harp that sings any song you request will keep you company for the remainder of your days. You will never be lonely again.
“The third egg appeared to be empty, but when it hatched, it changed you. It gave you the ability to lay golden eggs of your own. They will not hatch but will be solid gold ingots that you can melt down or sell, and they will give you wealth for the remainder of your days. Now go forth with my thanks.”
So Geesy—now the goose who laid golden eggs—set off again. Under his wing, he carried the golden harp that could sing anything asked of it, even The Honking of the Skies. And they were very happy together—until one day, when Geesy came upon a castle in the clouds. In the castle lived an evil giant, who enticed Geesy to come inside.
But that is another story.
Intermission
And That’s When the Bathroom Exploded
I’m telling ya, officers, I didn’t blow up that bathroom. You think I’d be so stupid as to set off a bomb in an airport? I’ve sat across from that turd hole for four years, selling sunglasses from my kiosk—and yeah, sometimes it smells—but I’ve been thankful ’cause it’s prime real estate. There’s always high traffic at turd holes, and that means lots of sales. Why would I piss in my own well, so to speak?
Yeah, I know; the janitor saw me run out just before it went kablooey. I know that already, so shut up.
Those pills? Ghosters? Yeah they’re mine, I admit it. Go ahead, lock me up for possession. At least it won’t be a trumped-up charge like planting a bomb.
All right, fine, I’ll tell you again how it happened. But don’t interrupt this time.
It started two nights ago, actually, not last night. It was after the flights stopped for the day—about ten p.m.—and I was closing up: locking up inventory, turning off the computer, throwing away Coke cans, you know. Kanaye—he’s my Japanese buddy, owns the newsstand—he was doing the same. I went down to bum my nightly cigarette.
Kan is the most superstitious man I know. He’s not much older than me, but he’s married with children and I’m not. I guess it does something when you have kids—makes you more fearful of things. At New Year’s, he wouldn’t allow a woman to be the first person of the day into his store. I saw him actually block off one from coming in—telling her to go away—saying a man had to be the first person in. Bad luck otherwise. And that night, he wouldn’t give me a smoke. Said it’s bad luck to give anything out of your house on New Year’s. Then he proceeded to cram forty-three beans down my throat—one for each year.
So two nights ago, February third, I wasn’t surprised to see him scattering beans around his shop and yelling, “Oniwa-sato! Fukuwa-uchi!”
When Kan saw me, he came after me to eat more beans. Bribed me—said if I ate them, he’d give me my cigarette. “Oh, donna bitching, you. Look at my age—hifty. Hifty beans. You donna see me bitching.”
“Okay, sure. Hand ’em over,” I said. “Eh, what was with all that yelling?”
“It’s Setsubun. Change of seasons. I saying, ‘Devils outside, good luck inside.’ You never heard?”
“Nope,” I said and ate roasted beans as fast as I could. My mouth was watering for that cigarette and the ghoster I planned to pop later.
“Well you keepa eating,” he said and reached for the cigarette pack under his counter. “You be more better for it. You’ll see.”
We hung out for a half hour until he went home, me humoring Kan’s superstitions, and him obl
iging me with nicotine. I don’t think they’re superstitions now, though. If you send me to prison, I’ll eat pork ’n beans every day and be thankful. But when I go shit, I won’t use a bathroom that doesn’t feel right. I might see the Dark Man there. Then I’ll rave and scream, and you’ll have to put me in solitary.
The Dark Man came a few minutes after I returned to my kiosk and popped my ghoster. I’m not sure I would’ve seen him if not for the pill. I know they’re hallucinogens, but this time I think all it did was allow me to see things I wouldn’t’ve otherwise. Maybe into a parallel dimension.
I said he was dark, but he wasn’t black. Wasn’t white either. And he wasn’t Hispanic or Asian. Like a blend of everything with creamy bronze skin and black hair and eyes. He wore a black suit, black tie and black fedora hat—looking like he came out of an old Bogart film—and stood a good six-feet-tall.
I hid my baggie of ghosters under the counter. “Can I help you?”
He looked me up and down. I’m sure now he was gauging me—measuring my essence, tasting my soul. His voice was as silky as he was strange looking: “How about… some sunglasses, no? I would like to purchase. Black. No—” a bony finger hovered over the display case, “yes. This. This one, yes?”
I tore my eyes off him. I brought out the pair he indicated and said, “Four—I mean, fourteen forty-nine.” I was having trouble concentrating through the ghoster.
The Dark Man reached into his inside breast pocket and brought out fourteen mint-condition dollar bills. He set them down without checking the amount—then he reached back in and brought out a handful of pennies. Again he put them down without counting. But he didn’t need to; I counted exactly forty-nine pennies. I still got ’em if you want to see.
“Wow, how did you do that?”
But he didn’t answer; just put on his black sunglasses, which completed his outfit. “Thank,” he said—not thanks or thank-you, just “thank.”
Then he went to the restroom—y’know, it’s those deals where the entrance and exit are just open hallways that make “L”s so you can’t see in.
Before the Dark Man disappeared through the one marked ENTER, he looked at the ceiling and said, “Good here. Good, good here. Yes. Come.”
I looked dumbly at the stack of uncreased bills and shiny-clean pennies, wondering what country he’d just flown in from.
And that’s when the bathroom exploded.
Yeah, I know. I know! It blew up last night, February fourth, but I’m telling you it also blew up February third! Kablooey! The reason no one saw it was that it was on that parallel plane I mentioned.
I covered my head as plaster and ceramic tile flew everywhere. Gray dust poured into the terminal. But somehow nothing touched me or my glass display tables. I opened my eyes as the smoke cleared. I was amazed at what I saw.
The explosion had blown away the wall between the doors marked ENTER and EXIT, exposing the shattered remains of the restroom. Broken pipes gushed where toilets and sinks had been. The force of the explosion had smashed the toilet stalls’ privacy screens against the walls and floor. No sign of the Dark Man, but after an explosion like that, there’d be nothing but pink mist. But none of this was what I found amazing.
What was amazing was that a construction crew was already at work, clearing the rubble. Clean-scrubbed white men in spotless white overalls and baseball caps and with identical red bandannas in their back pockets were hauling away the rubble in wheelbarrows. They nodded at me as they passed, and smiled with pearly teeth straight out of a toothpaste commercial. A crew of baseball cap-wearing plumbers converged and opened their toolboxes. I knew they were plumbers because they wore identical jumpsuits with cartoon monkey wrenches stitched on their backs. None of them said a word to each other or to me.
Everything blurred, and I felt dizzy. I shook my head to clear it. When I looked back, the rubble was gone. They’d stacked fresh building materials against the walls: new toilets, bags of concrete, tiling, pipes. The gushing water had been stopped, and masons were inside laying new floors and walls.
“Hey…” I said.
Again everything blurred; again I shook my head. This time when I looked back the wall had been rebuilt. Workmen were sweeping construction debris out the ENTER and EXIT hallways.
I blinked, and then those people were gone too. Silent.
I looked left and right and saw a janitor down past the camping store. He was mopping the floor and didn’t seem too concerned with what was happening at my end of the terminal.
The restroom sat there exactly as it had before the explosion. No workmen, construction materials, nothin’. But the black sunglasses were still gone from my display case, and I still had the Dark Man’s cash. Still, I knew I had to have dreamed it all. Ghosters, y’know.
Ghosters also make you want to shit, badly, and this time was no exception. Kan’s forty-three beans surely didn’t help. But for a minute, my ass and my fear of the restroom played tug-of-war. Finally I ran for the toilets. Once inside, I saw that nothing had changed, not even the yellow stain in the first sink.
No more, I thought. That’s the last time I pop those things.
As usual, I left through the door marked EXIT. And here’s where, officers—I swear to Christ—things started unraveling. This wasn’t caused by ghosters, and I know that if you track down everyone who’s used that bathroom in the last twenty-four hours and ask them—if they’re still alive—they’ll tell you the same thing:
It was like walking out of a bubble. Like I’d entered that bubble the moment I stepped into the bathroom, and when I left, I came back out. But not all of me came out—no, not all. Maybe—maybe a colander would be a better metaphor; I drained out of that bathroom just as pretty as you please, but left something behind. Something vital—and I’m not referring to my shit, neither.
All right, I know I’m not making sense. Just stay with me on this.
Right away I felt exhausted. The day hit me all at once. But I didn’t put two and two together. I wasn’t thinking about bubbles or colanders at that point.
Went home. Didn’t sleep well. Kept having nightmares of coming home and finding my apartment empty. In my dreams, I went to the police station to make a report, but the cops just ignored me. Finally I figured out they couldn’t see me.
The next morning, I woke up with a fever and dry mouth. But sometimes I’ll feel like that and not be sick—the fever will go away after I get out of bed (I always sleep under too many blankets)—so I ignored it. And when I couldn’t smell my coffee and it tasted like shit, I blamed Maxwell House.
But when I looked in the mirror, I could see the change: pasty skin. It seemed to hang off my face. Bags under bloodshot eyes. And here’s the kicker: I couldn’t brush my teeth. They were too loose.
“Holy Christ.”
I prepared to shave. I usually don’t use cream—hot water is good enough—but that morning I knew I’d better lather up. Something told me—intuition, maybe—that if I didn’t, my cheeks would flay right off.
But after I’d put on a good beard of cream, I still stopped with my safety razor hovering by my chin. My eyes didn’t look right—like a dead man’s. A frightened dead man. I washed the cream off without shaving.
The fever hadn’t gone away. But I dressed anyway—I still work when I’m sick—and went to comb my hair.
I know, I know! I don’t have any hair. But that’s today, not two days ago. Ask Kanaye; he’ll tell you I had hair. Here, look at my driver’s license.
See? My hair started falling out that morning—some of it ripped right up in a clump when I ran my comb through it. Needless to say I stopped combing. But it didn’t matter. Twelve hours later, I’d be as bald as I am now, and I’d have a lot of shedded hair in my bed and car. Look in my car if you don’t believe me.
So of course I thought it was a reaction to the ghosters. It had never happened before—I’ve been popping them things for years—but it could’ve been building up, you know? You ever heard of th
is happening to a ghoster addict?
Well? You’re awfully quiet.
Anyway, I called the doctor, but they couldn’t see me till three o’clock. Told me to stay home and rest. So that’s what I did. Took a nap.
When I woke up and looked at my pillow, I screamed.
Hair was all over the place. I ran to the mirror. I’d gone beyond pasty to gray pale, and my skin looked like Play-Doh. My teeth moved even more when I pushed them with my tongue.
And worse: it was dark out. I looked at the clock. Seven p.m. I’d slept for nearly ten hours and missed my doctor’s appointment.
The hospital, then. I drove off in my station wagon. But on the way to Johnston General, it added up in my brain: the explosion, the Dark Man—who couldn’t have been a hallucination since I still had those fourteen fresh dollar bills—and the way I felt after coming out of the bathroom. Maybe I should go there and poke around, I thought. But no; it was ridiculous. I was sick and needed help.
However, I did need to pick up my baggie of ghosters, which I’d left under the counter. No one had sat at my kiosk all day, and it wouldn’t do to leave it laying around.
At least that was the excuse I gave myself to go back. I really wanted to explore that restroom again.
But once there, I stayed out. Those ENTER and EXIT hallways scared me just looking at them. They weren’t the same anymore. Seemed too fresh and artificial. Stage scenery.
Feeling like I’d rather take a nap on the floor, I opened up shop. Told myself I’d leave soon for the hospital. Then I watched airport passengers go and in out of the men’s room for the next couple hours till the planes stopped for the day.
I remember one businessman in particular because he was a black guy with platinum-blond hair. He wore an impeccable, doublebreasted gray suit. Big guy, like over six-feet. Might’ve been a pro athlete, but I didn’t recognize him since I’m not into sports. He went in through the ENTER hallway same as everyone, looking like he could rip the tin out of tin foil. And like everyone else—did I imagine it?—he came out the EXIT hallway grimacing like someone had goosed him. He hesitated, blinking at the florescent lights, before going on his way.
Dominoes in Time Page 13
