by Dawn Brazil
It’s clear now, I’ve fallen head-first over the edge of a building. I glance down at the sock in front of me. It must have been a skyscraper.
“Socks… umm, can't talk,” I say to the woman in the booth. I avoid looking at the sock again. I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry. Any amount of crazy I thought I was is replaced by this new development. I’m bat-San Diego out of my mind, apparently.
“Hey, curtain rod, I’m a sock and I’m talking to you. Get over it.”
“I guess, socks can talk in my dreams.” Amusement might be more appropriate for this situation, so I laugh. I stop because laughter from my lips sounds erroneous. “Who names their socks?” I shake my head. “I don’t, didn’t.”
“This isn’t a dream. I’m real. I’m really real, and you and I were friends when you were younger. You gotta remember me. You just gotta,” the single colorful sock raises its voice.
“Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” I rub my hand over the scar on my face. What the Florida am I saying?
The woman at the counter clears her throat loud. “Thanks, sweetheart, that was so nice to see. Yous and ya sock reunited. How sweet. But that there sock ain’t ya lost thing.” She cocks her head to the side to peer at me and the sock. Apparently, she’s ready for a dispute, either on my part or on the sock’s.
“How do you know?” I question. I like the sock and don’t mind if it’s my lost thing.
“Because you’re still here, in front o’ me, and that sock ain’t on your list.”
She motions with her long red fingernails to something above her head. I follow the direction she points and discover a billboard. A billboard that wasn’t there before.
It reads—VOLT—in large red letters against a colossal white board.
“What is VOLT?”
“VOLT,” she starts, “is the Village of Lost Things… so, if ya ain’t lost nothin’ yous can’t be here.”
“I don’t want to be here anyway,” I mumble. She smacks her gum loudly and rolls her eyes. Unsure what to do next, I stare at her for a few more seconds. “Well, you said you had a list. Whose name is on the list for me?”
“Ya don’t know who or what ya lost? You need me to tell ya?”
A guy, a couple places behind me in line, steps out and says in an exhausted tone, “My mom. She’s waiting for me here. She died. So hurry the hell up already.” He motions with his hands. “What or who have you lost?”
“Oh. Uh… thanks.” I swallow hard, unsure what to do for a second. I have a chance here. Whether real or dreaming. I have to make this count. Right? Would it be appropriate to explain about Ryan? Isn’t this unbelievable… a place for lost things, talking socks and all. What the Houston was in those drugs they gave me in the hospital? I scratch the scar on the side of my face.
Still, if there’s a chance, I should take it. Not should, must. I have to do this.
“I—I lost my boyfriend in a—”
“How they get here’s your business,” she cuts me off. “What’s his name?”
“Ryan Woods.” Can this be true? Of course not, but dream or not, I need to see him. I need him. He’s the only one who can help me dig my way out of this hole I created.
The woman in the booth searches through a stack of papers in front of her. Her fingers make quick work of a list I can’t see. Finally, she stops scrolling. “Ya sure?”
I swallow hard and nod. “Okay, Dud, you’re gonna need an identification badge. So, hold still so I can take ya picture.”
I step to the side where a large black polaroid camera flips out. Before I can position myself, she announces, “All done here. Make sure ya have your ID card with yous at all times. Pin it to the front of yous gown. Follow them to enter the city.”
She motions toward two guys. They’re both dressed in orange muscle tees with long blue and green pajama bottoms, and are identical in appearance. I pause and stare after them.
Is that intentional? Is the universe making a joke?
I’m not laughing.
I can’t help but speculate about what they might have lost—a third brother, perhaps. I shake the thought loose. I don’t care what they lost. They’re only chaperones. And this isn’t real.
She hands me my ID card, still warm from processing. I glance down at it. The card she hands me does not have my picture on it. It’s a picture of a pink-fleshed baby pig with a curly tail. How the Florida does she know? What the Houston?
I spin around, intent on bringing the error to her attention. She’s already looking up information for another person.
“Excuse me, but this ID…” I start. She cocks her head to the side and pops her gum loud.
Pick your battles, Sam.
I shake my head and race after the twins.
“I’m Pete,” one of the guys say, extending a hand. I glance at his hand but don’t shake it. He shrugs. “My brother’s Paul.” I nod. Proper etiquette dictates I shake their hands and introduce myself. Except, I don’t touch people I don’t know. So I don’t. Having friends is overrated. I’d rather not make any here. It’ll keep this dream on task and away from the nightmare category.
They lead me into thick foliage I assume will get us into VOLT. I take a deep breath and prepare myself for a reunion I never asked for but cannot un-imagine. If he’s even here beyond these trees, waiting for me.
Common sense dictates he won’t be. But common sense doesn’t appear to abound in VOLT. In light of my current situation, anything is possible, even a sweet reunion beyond the grave.
Chapter 7
The twins escort me through the copious undergrowth. In our current house, I’m surrounded by nature, but this tangled web of trees, toppled logs, and heavy bushes is ridiculous. The thickness of it does keep the city hidden—if that’s the intended purpose.
I try to keep pace with Pete. Both brothers take giant steps, while I barely crawl through the dense bushes and fallen trees.
A long, skinny branch from a low-hanging tree reaches out and smacks me in the mouth as I waddle my way through. San Francisco! I keep moving because a busted lip isn’t going to deter me from seeing him. Plus, this is a Florida dream.
Pete or Paul haven’t uttered a single word to me. I’m grateful.
I taste blood on my tongue, so I stop moving as I examine my lip. Pressing a finger to my mouth, I gather a drop. I lick the coppery plasma from my cracked lips and frown at the beet-red dot on my finger. This is a dream.
Why do I feel this? Pete stops, too.
“Are you okay? Do you need help?” he asks. Paul stops as well, but is further ahead. His dark, curly hair blends with the russet tree branches that hang around him.
Do I need help? Why am I putting myself through this? I don’t understand why I won’t wake. Pete waits on my response. I shake my head.
“You’re doing great. Walk in front of me.” I scoot around him. As I make my way, he reaches his long arms out and pulls back the low-hanging branches threatening my lip.
I don’t say thank you, but I want to. It’s the right thing to do. But I don’t. Pete can’t get all the low-hanging branches, and a few tousle my hair as we trek through.
“Almost there,” Pete announces.
A clear path opens in front of us to a red-brick-paved walkway. The trees aren’t as menacing in this area. Up ahead, Paul pauses at the entrance of a cobblestone street. I turn to find Pete staring at me, smiling. I frown at him and take back to the path. When we emerge from the forest, I’m certain it appears as if I’ve had a fight.
I lost.
I run my tongue across my busted lips again and pat my long curls back into submission. After all, I’m in VOLT, wherever VOLT is, to find my deceased boyfriend. I shouldn’t look like I went a round in the ring with Mother Nature when that reunion takes place.
Pete and I exit onto the street, with Paul a few feet away. “Made it,” Pete says, smiling. “You have options about where you go first. VOLT can be confusing. Paul and I can take you—”
; “Don’t worry about it,” I say. Pete’s brows crease and he frowns over at his brother.
“I don’t think you should go it alone.”
“I’m a big girl. Almost 18. I’ll be okay.” He doesn’t move. “No offense. I work better by myself.” He stares at me with a blank expression like he doesn’t understand the words coming out of my mouth. “Your brother’s waiting for you.”
“Come on, Pete. Leave her.” Paul says his first words. I note the pitch of his voice is high… like a girl. No wonder he’s a guy of few words.
Pete hesitates for a few seconds more. He sighs. “Start at the coffee shop; the Mayor runs the place. Find her or him and they’ll let you know if your lost one is still in VOLT. Watch out for reapers, your lost one will have Zygos for your stay, don’t assume what you eat is meat, and cats hate girls.” He starts to walk off, but turns back with a look of pity in his eyes. “And good luck.”
I scratch the scar on the side of my face and nod like I understand his confusing advice. I watch until they’re down the road before I take another step.
As I turn toward VOLT, I’m surprised to find a thriving metropolis. Why do they keep this hidden? I was certain I’d find a circus rather than anything remotely resembling a city.
The first detail that sets it apart from any place I’ve ever been is the sun. Two of them, to be exact. Weird, I couldn’t see the suns buried behind the thick forest. They hang in the sky side-by-side, like two giant grapefruits.
Two suns means intense heat. I abhor heat. My favorite season is fall. I’m wearing J’s with long socks, which means I’ll be dripping wet and sluggish. I pull on the top of my gown, as sweat has already accumulated. By the time I see Ryan, I’ll smell like my lucky socks I wore for two weeks straight, for good karma for our first play-off game.
I loathe this place already.
A familiar scent wrestles for my attention. I sniff around me as the smell of lavender permeates the air.
She always smelled of lavender. The sting of this scent is a bolt of electricity to my heart.
Like most things in my life, VOLT is a conundrum. I take a step into this confusing, scorching, beautiful city.
It’s like pushing through marshmallows to take one step, the air is so thick. My hair shrivels from the humidity right away. I pat at it to lay it flat, but it refuses to cooperate. My thick curls fold one over the other. What do I care? Ryan’s seen me look worse.
Yellow taxis zoom by, towering skyscrapers loom in the distance, and people walk about, even a police officer. Perfect. Maybe she can help me locate Ryan.
I speed my steps up until I’m in front of her. She’s standing beside a red Ford Explorer and appears to be writing a ticket for the vehicle’s owner. “Excuse me, ma’am. Can you help me locate someone?”
“Just a sec,” she says, in the same accent as gum-smacker Booth Lady. She has long polished nails like Booth Lady, too. “I don’t get it. I told this chimpanzee yesterday he couldn’t park his vehicle here anymore, and wouldn’t you know it, here it is today.”
I scoff at her calling the driver a chimpanzee. Maybe that’s a proper insult here in VOLT. She stops writing on her pad to glare at me.
“What?” she asks. A puzzled expression clouds her face.
“Um. You called the driver a chimpanzee.” She tilts her head to the side, places her pen between her lips and looks me up and down for a moment.
“Oh, I get it. It’s your first day here in VOLT. See, Milk Dud, the driver of this here vehicle is a chimpanzee, or monkey or whatever the correct word is. Here in VOLT, only humanimals are allowed to drive.”
I’m ready to laugh, but something in the way her eyes travel across my face lets me know she’s not joking. “Uh…okay.” I’m not even going to comment on that. “Why do people keep calling me Dud or Milk Dud?”
“You got two legs, right?” She reaches for my shoulder, but I take a step back. “Milk Dud is anyone that looks like us with two legs.”
“So, a human.”
“Uh…no. Milk Dud.”
“Right. Same thing as human.”
“No. Is there something wrong with you?”
“Okay. Whatever. Can you help me?”
“Sorry, can’t. Unless you want a ticket for being tacky.” She motions to my attire. I glance at my gown and shrug. “Your wears.” She shakes her head. “The look don’t suit you. Honestly, I’m telling the truth here.”
“Um, right …okay.” I turn and march in the opposite direction. VOLT is the weirdest place I’ve ever been. It’s also possible that cop escaped from a straitjacket recently. I take a fleeting glance over my shoulder. The cop is writing a ticket for another vehicle. Who drives that car—the king of the jungle?
A black truck inches by on the road beside me. A man whistles and shouts, “Hey, pretty young thang. You need some help?” A quick glance behind me confirms the cop is paying me no mind. I scurry over to the truck with window tint so dark I can’t make out who spoke.
When I reach the vehicle, a round pink pig greets me. I open my mouth to speak, then close it. “What’s wrong, baby? You lost?” The pig sitting in the passenger side asks. He’s fully clothed in dark pajama bottoms, and a white tee stretches across its pink, round flesh. He even wears aviator sunglasses.
I’ve never had a conversation with a pig, or any other animal for that matter. I’m dumbfounded about what to say. I stand on the sidewalk contemplating my own existence as the pig pulls its shades down to glare at me. Its beady eyes stare and I correct my expression to conceal my amusement. Its snoot extends inward, then outward, like it’s breathing hard. I assume it draws the conclusion I’m not going to speak, so they drive off.
I pop a squat on the sidewalk where I stand. A startled sound bursts from my lips. It takes me a few seconds to realize I’ve laughed. My head falls back as amusement wracks through me even more. I need to compose myself because people turn and stare. What the Houston kind of place is this?
How out of my mind do I have to be to dream this up?
Unable to laugh any longer, I straighten my gown and get serious about finding Ryan—if he’s here.
People enter the city and start their respective destinations without hesitation. Groups of individuals stream in and out of a small shop directly across the street from me. The name on the awning reads The Slumbering Bean. Pete said something about a coffee shop. Maybe Ryan’s there.
I shake my head again at the driving pigs and the colorful cop.
Finding Ryan is definitely worth a walk on the wild side. And VOLT seems like it’s going to offer me some legit crazy adventure.
If it’s real. But I don’t care if this is a dream if it means I can find him. Finding him is all I care about. I’ll deal with the fact that this isn’t real later.
Chapter 8
I cross the four-lane highway separating me from the shop. It’s a pint-sized red-brick building with a red and black awning. Two considerably large windows overlook the sidewalk and stretch across the entire front of the store. I peer inside. The tiny space is crammed with customers.
I’m not going in there. I abhor crowds. I swallow hard and rub the scar on the side of my face.
“San Diego.” I can be stubborn and hold to my disdain of people, or I can walk in here and see if Ryan is waiting for me.
I push the hatch open, careful not to make eye contact with anyone inside.
The décor is modern, all clean lines and uncluttered space. The atmosphere is peaceful, like the Starbucks up the road from my house. Cinnamon and dark roasted coffee waft to my nostrils. Ryan and I spent many lazy Sunday afternoons curled around each other at our Starbucks.
No one inside looks my way as I enter, but someone is staring. Or maybe I’m paranoid. Or schizophrenic. Or both.
People cling to one another as if they’ll float away like helium balloons. I shuffle past person after person, all of them in tears. I struggle not to meet anyone’s eyes. People in tears bother me. I don’t know if it�
�s because so many of my tears are forced away, or because so many of mine are hidden behind a smile or a lie.
My hope of finding Ryan in the shop diminishes the more I look around.
I scramble over to the counter to find the Mayor, like Pete instructed. A tall man with dark curls stands at the register with his hands in his pockets. “Howdy, friend. What can I help you with today?” he asks.
“I’m looking for the Mayor. Can you point me in that person’s direction?”
“I’m the one and only,” he says.
“Uh…” The mayor works at a coffee shop.
“Yes, I work at a frothy shop. The name’s Vic. Is that all you want to know?”
“Um, no. I uh… Did you just read my mind?” He smiles but doesn’t say anything.
“What can I help you with, Samantha?”
“You know my name?” He points to my hospital gown. I glance at it and see my ID badge. I shrug. He still read my mind before. “I’m looking for my—”
“Whoa. Hold up there. Not my bizwax who or what you’re looking for, little Dud.” I nod once. “So, you didn’t find your lost thing here, I assume?” I shake my head. “Well, if Carla told you it was here, then it’s got to be. You’ve got to do a little traveling.”
“Who’s Carla and where am I supposed to travel to?”
“Well, hot damn. If I told everybody what to do when they arrived, VOLT’d be a very boring place.” I stare at him, unsure what to say or do. “I can’t tell you where to go. You’re going to have to find your lost thing somewhere out there.” He points to the exit. “Good luck, little Dud. My one piece of advice is to enjoy the journey.”
I roll my eyes at him before I spin around. Heat scorches me. That entire encounter was a colossal waste of my time.
I know now.
This is a nightmare.
Apparently, a nightmare I can’t wake from. With my emotions strangling me, I turn to exit the teary, over-crowded shop. What the Houston is frothy anyway?
