by Lizz Lund
Apt. #1B is at the end of the hallway, and is a large efficiency with a normalish sized kitchen, and is the home to a retired shoe salesman, Harry, who’s mostly out of town between rotating visits to his two daughters in Indiana and California. Which means it’s usually empty. Which is good for Bauser when he wants to blast his retro-punk records, since his apartment is directly overhead.
The next first floor apartment is to the right of the entrance. It’s another studio, and houses a male nursing student no one’s ever seen because he works nights as a bartender in-between days studying physiology and medicine. But he’s definitely real, Bauser says, because his mail and newspapers get picked up.
Bauser’s apartment #2B is on the second floor, up a once grand mahogany staircase, and occupies most of the second floor. It even boasts a ‘deck’ on top of the kitchen to Apt. #1B. Bauser’s ‘deck’ is adorned with a portable screened in gazebo that you enter and exit via a zippered flap.
I knocked on Bauser’s door, and Jim answered.
“A-WHOOO-WOO-WOOO-WO-WUUU,” Jim bellowed neighborly. I winced and hoped the folks on the other side of town didn’t mind the racket. Then I heard scuffling, some admonishments from Bauser, and tumblers opening. Bauser opened the door with one hand, holding Jim back with the other.
“Hey, come in,” he gasped. He let go of the door and wrapped both his arms around Jim’s neck. It looked like he was trying to saddle a small long-haired pony. Which was not a bad feat for a large dog with only three legs.
I let myself in and closed the door behind me, and Bauser let loose of Jim. Jim jumped up on his leg and put both paws on my shoulders in greeting. He tried to hop back down but his foot skidded on the wood floor and he slid sideways. His shoulder hit the floor, he shook his head, scrambled up, and grinned up at me sheepishly while wagging a slightly embarrassed tail. I patted him on the head and he trotted off to his spot on his recliner. It was the ‘His’ match to the ‘His’ and ‘His’ recliners Bauser had bought for them from the White Elephant thrift shop. Which was just as well, since they both were a little worse for the his ‘n’ his wear.
I looked past the shredded recliners, the huge flat plasma screen TV on the facing brick wall, and into the ‘porch’ tent at Norman, who lay sprawled out on a plaid, folding pool-side chaise lounge circa 1955, with ‘Nerd World’ magazine spread across his chest and his eyes closed. I looked at Bauser. “He’s actually been up since about 4:00,” he explained. “He got on the phone to coach the girls through feeding the horses and mucking the stalls.”
“Haven’t they ever done that before?” I asked.
“Yeah, but I got the impression mostly as observers. I think they mostly participate by IMing.”
“Huh?” I asked.
“Text messaging,” Bauser spelled out while rolling his eyes at me. Bauser might live in the past as far as music is concerned. But he’s on the bleeding edge with the rest of technology. And he loves to needle me about my vinyl.
Bauser looked at me funny and sniffed. “Is that you?” he asked.
“I got splashed by a Pumpkin Head,” I said.
“Pew.”
I sighed, went into the kitchen and mopped myself off with some paper towels. Bauser handed me a clean Steelers T-shirt and I went into the bathroom and washed up and got out of my stinky puddle top. “You want a beer?” Bauser asked when I was out.
“It’s ten a.m.,” I said.
“It’s Saturday,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Getting an extra, unexpected paid day off is like getting an extra Saturday. So, it’s Saturday-II,” Bauser said.
“It’s still ten a.m.”
“It’s five o’clock somewhere.”
I thought about it. It had been a pretty eventful morning so far. “What kind of beer?” I asked.
“Krumpthf’s” he said.
I winced. Krumpthf’s is a local beer, bought only by locals. That is, really cheap locals. Or ‘frugal’, as Bauser continually tries to correct me. Legend has it that Krumpthf’s was created by a farmer during prohibition after the birth of his 13th child. After trying it once, I figured it was created as Amish birth control. It tastes like dirt even after you strain out the leaves and twigs and stuff. I shook my head and opted for an A-Treat birch beer instead.
I popped the lid open and woke up Norman. Norman yawned, sat up, and looked at his wrist watch and shrugged. He reached over and drank from a tumbler of tomato juice. “Cheers,” he said and toasted. I sipped my soda and frowned.
“Hey, Bauser didn’t offer me a Bloody,” I said to Norman. “That would have been acceptable at ten a.m. Even on a Saturday-II.”
Norman sipped. “It’s not,” he said. “I mixed my Krumpthf’s with some leftover V-8 he had in the back of the fridge.” I shuddered. “No, really. It’s not so bad. I mean, after you strain the leaves and twigs and stuff.”
I walked out to the ‘porch’ and sat down on the floor in a beach chair, and stretched out my legs. Jim came bounding in and leapt onto my lap. I felt the circulation in my thighs shut down. Bauser came in with a fresh Krumpthf’s, booted Jim off my legs and reclined in an inflatable club chair. The clubhouse was complete.
“Nice to see you,” Norman said thoughtfully. “How was EEJIT?”
I filled them both in about the status of the non-secure lobby, and the functioning non-functioning elevators. And the near miss phone booth. And Pumpkin Head. Bauser and Norman exchanged glances. Jim put his head on the floor and covered his eyes with one paw.
“We’ve got something to tell you,” Bauser said.
Apparently, what with the package sniffer thingy, Bauser and Norman had finally deduced that whoever was sniffing Norman’s runs was not sniffing within EEJIT. And not even within any kind of Effhue corporate network identification. This pointed to a bonafide, complete outside source hacker.
“But why would a hacker be interested in Norman’s runs?” I asked.
Norman shrugged. “Money,” he said. “Buy-A-Lots is pretty huge. Taking a piece of their action would be pretty significant.”
“Yeah, but would it be worth the risk?” I asked. “It seems pretty high school.”
“It could be. And it could be high school kids. That’s one scenario,” Bauser said.
“Or it could be just plain dumb,” Norman said.
“Huh?” I asked.
“Consider the obvious. Myron, Lee, How-weird, Ken…” Bauser mused.
“The usual suspects,” Norman finished. “They all have motives. Even if they’re lame ones.”
I sighed and sipped my lukewarm A-Treat and wished Bauser kept his soda in the fridge. If only. His sacred frosty space was reserved for Krumpthf’s and Jim’s Whoof-O wet food.
“So now what?” I asked
Bauser shrugged. “Nothing. We wait.”
“For what? Another package sniffer readout?” I asked.
“For someone to konk you on the noggin again,” Norman said happily.
“Or another fire. Or, maybe another drive-by fecal flinging!” Bauser added enthusiastically.
“Huh?”
“There probably isn’t a person alive who doesn’t think it’s not some kind of retributional karma if Buy-A-Lots gets ripped off.”
Norman nodded. “Karma,” he repeated sagely. I winced. “But the thing is,” Norman continued, “is that you can’t keep getting konked on the noggin. Or your office smoked out.”
“It’s not my office,” I said defensively. “It’s EEJIT’s.”
“Yes,” Norman continued, for the very slow to follow. “But you’re the common denominator where the most damage has occurred.”
“And don’t forget Vladimir’s – I mean Vito’s – house getting set on fire the exact same way,” Bauser said.
“You mean the flaming bag of feces flinger?” I asked.
“Exactly,” Bauser said, like this explained everything.
“Huh?”
Bauser and Norman looked at each other and grimaced. Norman drank more of his curdled V-8. “What if last night was a mistake?” Bauser asked.
“Huh?”
“What if last night the perp really meant to fling the flaming feces at your house?” Bauser asked, all CSI style.
“How’d you mean?”
“The common factor between all the fires, including Vito’s, is you,” Bauser said matter-of-factly.
Oh. Great. So Bauser and Norman got it. I was hoping it was mostly the Krumpthf’s that was talking. But the nagging feeling pounding the lining of my tummy thought otherwise.
“So what do I do?” I asked.
“Like I said, nothing,” Bauser answered. “You just go on business as usual. But using the buddy system.”
“Huh?”
Bauser sipped. “Norman and I have it all worked out. Then we called Trixie. We called Vito, too, but he was out driving you to work,” he said. “We’re going to buddy you up until the flaming feces finishes,” he said.
“And your mom and sister visiting is really great,” Norman said, smiling. “This way we can make sure you’re okay at home, and that your home is okay while you’re not at home.”
I pursed my lips and frowned. “Look, this is really, uh, a high tech philosophy you’ve got going here,” I started.
“Not just high tech, but accurate,” Bauser boasted. “After we called Trixie, she emailed Officer Appletree. He said he was forbidden to respond to evidence regarding an official investigation, especially one he wasn’t assigned to, but he also told her she wasn’t barking up the wrong tree.”
No, just the wrong Appletree, as well as barking mad, I thought.
“Okay, well, look, that’s great. It’ll be a lot of fun having all your company all of the time,” I said, trying to edge out of the mesh tent. “But I need to run some errands now.” I started to the door, but Jim was splayed out across the threshold, blocking my escape route.
“Great!” Bauser said. “We’ll go with you!”
“We?” I replied weakly.
“Sure! Jim needs some air. And so does Norman,” he said, looking at Norman, who was starting to suffer another bout of lounger lag judging by his blinking eyes.
I sighed, accepted my fate, and helped rouse Norman back from the visions of Krumpthf’s in his head.
We pounded down the stairs from Bauser’s and paraded out onto Mulberry, Jim wagging ecstatic. Which is a little embarrassing because every time Jim wags ecstatic he wags himself over where his other leg isn’t. So we picked him up a lot. We piled into Bauser’s Aspire, cheek to fuzzy jowl, including Jim’s.
“Okay, so where’s the first stop?” Bauser asked.
“Umm… you can just drop me off here,” I pointed to the corner of Lemon and Prince.
“In front of the drugstore? No way. We’re supposed to stay with you, right? We’ll go in with you.”
“Umm… you know, this is kind of personal…do you all have to come in with me?”
“No. Sure. We don’t all have to go. I’ll go in with you,” Bauser said.
“Well, I don’t want to sit out here with your dog in my lap,” Norman complained. Jim groaned a ‘Same to you, buddy,’ and shifted around to put his butt in Norman’s face. I sighed.
“Okay, okay, we’ll all go in. But I’m not sure Jim can go into a drugstore,” I said. They looked at me. “Only dogs for the handicapped can go in.”
“Well, Jim’s handicapped. And he’s a dog. That counts,” Bauser said.
I sighed again and counted to ten. Bauser parked on the street between a Humvee and a taxi. Who lives in Lancaster and can afford a Humvee? As it was, there seemed to be a literal epidemic of them lately. And if you could afford a Humvee, why would you park on Prince Street? I hoped we wouldn’t come back to an Aspire accordion.
We got out. “C’mon, Jim. Drugstore, Jim,” Bauser said. Jim looked at him blankly. “Limp,” Bauser instructed. Jim wagged understandingly and smiled. Then he started down Prince Street, his right paw upheld and limp-hopping on his only hind leg. After a few practice steps, he turned, looked back at us, and coughed for the nice audience. Jimmy Camille O’Bauseman. Great. Nice Irish Setter.
Off to the drugstore we trooped, Jim practicing various fake infirmities, including his canine impersonation of hacking up fur balls as we went. At the entrance, I stopped. The parade stopped next to me.
“Uh, thanks, guys. This is great. But really, err… I think I really need to do this solo,” I tried.
“Negatory. You are part of Buddy Buds. You have been assimilated. We do not disengage,” Bauser replied. I glared at him and cursed his Star Trekiness. Jim whoofed. I glared at Jim. He smiled some more while slobbering on my toes through my sandals. Norman stared up at the sky.
“Look – I have to get girl stuff, okay!?” I cried.
Norman‘s gaze came back. “Oh, you mean Tampax. And pads. I’ve bought those before. Which do you prefer? Regular or Pearl? Mini or maxi?” he asked.
I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. Norman’s females had him completely trained.
I looked at Bauser but couldn’t read him through his wrap-around vintage punk rock sunglasses. Then I looked back at Norman, who actually didn’t look unhappy. I guess feminine hygiene was a comfort zone for him. Which was TMI. So I looked down at Jim. He was smiling and wagging his tail at someone’s grandpa coming out of the drugstore. Jim leaned over on his only hind leg, giving full display of his amputee-ness, coughed, and then pretended to struggle to get up. The someone’s grandpa handed Bauser a dollar and patted Jim on the head. “Get your dog to a vet soon, son. That’s no way to treat a crippled guide dog.” Bauser nodded and folded the dollar into the pocket of his shirt.
“Okay. You can accompany me. That means no talking. And especially no helping.” This last remark I said pointedly to Norman. He and Bauser exchanged looks. They shrugged.
“No biggie,” Norman said, and held the door open for me. And Bauser. And Jim.
I slunk into the drugstore amidst the pitter-pats of various male feet. Aggravation got the better of me and I turned around mid-scowl to find Jim peering at something near someone else’s gramma. The gramma was opening a bag of doggie treats off the shelf and feeding them to Jim. I looked for Bauser and Norman to catch their attention to Jim’s telepathic shoplifting. Norman was comparison shopping men’s athletic protection, while Bauser appeared to be engrossed in a ‘Smut and Smuggin’s’ girly/PC magazine. I blinked. Then I blinked again. But they were all still there. In living color.
While they remained oblivious, I hustled toward the pharmacy at the rear of the store and the pregnancy kits kept by the counter. There was a large selection. But apparently there was a pregnancy epidemic in Lancaster, because all the stock – except for the Instant Speedo Econo Pregometer (‘Like 2 kits in 1!’) – were all sold out. And there were only two of those left. Which I guessed meant that they could count as four kits. But that still didn’t exactly come close to Ethel’s requirements for a dozen or so. I wondered if not getting the wished for kits, during high anxiety level, would upset her stomach enough to kick in her preggo puke reactors again. I sighed and picked up the last two Instant Speedo Econo Pregometer kits and plunked them down on the counter for the pharmacist to ring up.
Except the pharmacist was busy being a pharmacist. And an upbeat, college-age clerk was busy training their newest cashier, Evelyn. Evelyn of Breakfast Wars fame. Yikes.
“Hello, did you find everything you needed today?” the part-time manager sang out too brightly in his attempt to be a stellar employee example for Evelyn, even though she was about a thousand years older than him. But then I figured it was probably for the store manager, who kept grunting and glaring at him from behind the glass window in the office above the pharmacy.
Nonchalantly as I could, I examined the ingredients on the back of a pack of gum to avoid Evelyn, and willed her to not recognize me. I finally looked up.
She blushed.
“Well hello, Mina! Well, you know, a girl does need something to do. And this does give me some pocket money,” she added, all smiles, while both her painted eyebrows waved in opposite directions in agreement. I nodded. I completely understood. After all, when it comes time for me to collect Social Security, there won’t be any. So Evelyn had it lucky. And at least her boss didn’t holler at her.
I plunked the two Instant Speedo Econo Pregometer (‘Like 2 kits in 1!’) kits down on the counter. Evelyn picked one up and scanned it according to the part-time manager’s smiling encouragement. No beep. She scanned it again. It didn’t scan. Then, our boy, Hal, instructed Evelyn about key entering the barcode numbers manually, yada, yada, yada. Which of course came up boopkas. That was when the overly helpful trainer instructed Evelyn to request a price check using the loudspeaker system.
It was when Evelyn’s clear, Breakfast Wars announcer voice rang out, “Price check in Pharmaceuticals for the Instant Speedo Econo Pregometer pregnancy test kit,” that she registered that I was trying to purchase not one but two pregnancy test kits (or four, depending if the marketing statements of the Instant Speedo Econo Pregometer were truthful.)
Evelyn looked at me and gaped open-mouthed. Then Hal looked behind me and asked, “Can I help you gentlemen?” Which was when I looked behind me and saw my motley crew.
“We’re with her,” Norman said.
Bauser nodded. Jim wagged.
Evelyn’s eyebrows flew upside her forehead so high they pushed her wig back. I did the only thing I could do in a situation like this: I stared back blankly. Norman coughed. I shot him the Look. He looked down at his shoes.
Bauser cut the silence by interjecting, “We’re not sure,” and indicating the pregnancy test kits. I mentally slapped him in the forehead. Too late. Evelyn looked from me to Bauser then Norman and landed her gaze on Jim. Jim jumped up, put both paws up on the counter, schlurped Evelyn and fell backward.