by Jeff South
I pick up the business card and see it is the same as the one on my car. Kilroy was here.
My stomach knots. Is someone messing with me or is Jeff back? If someone is messing with me, how do they know the Kilroy reference? If Jeff is back, how did he come through the portal? Why didn’t he contact me in person?
I walk back to the front of the store and set the book on the counter.
“Ah, yes,” Kevin says, “Ray Bradbury’s coming-of-age horror yarn, weaved against the backdrop of a menacing traveling circus. Great choice. You’ll love the way he blends together themes of fear, loss of innocence and friendship, and the supernatural.”
“Oh, you’ve read it?”
“No. Just heard a lot about it.” Kevin hands me my change. “When do you leave for school?”
“August. If I go.”
“Why wouldn’t you go? For God’s sake, man, get out of this town! You can’t replicate this dream life I’ve built for myself. I know the notion of living in a private room at the back of a used bookstore is intriguing, but I assure you, my life is the exception. Not the rule.”
“I don’t know what I want to do.” I eye the area on his town map where the portal is. “Why go to college if I don’t know what I want to do?”
“So they can tell you. That’s what college is for. You’ll love it.” He points at the red circles on the map still resting on his counter. “Plus, you can find the Herpezoids that have infiltrated academia.”
“I’m not very good with big decisions,” I say. “They stress me out. I overthink things and I end up making the wrong choice.”
The front door bell chimes and we turn to see who has walked in. My throat tightens and my heart thumps so wildly I fear it might explode out of my chest and hop away. Standing before me is the wholesome fresh beauty of my dreams, Marlene Hunter. Our eyes meet and I try to move but it feels like someone has nailed my feet to the floor with railroad spikes. My stomach falls into my legs, likely taking my liver and pancreas with it.
“Hi, Tony,” Marlene says. Her smile is wide as always. Her teeth are white and perfect, as if they’d been meticulously set in place by some master tooth-setting person. “How are you?”
My mouth opens and a whimper escapes. I swallow hard and try again. “Good. Fine. Good.” I think that sends a very clear message that I’m winning in life. “You?”
“I’m ok.” She cocks her head and tucks her hair behind her ear. “You look good.”
“I’ve been working out,” I tell her, which is a fat lie. The only exercise I get is seeing how many slices of pizza I can stuff in my mouth. I also burn calories by meditating on the futility of existence and harboring deep self-loathing. Sometimes I do squats.
Our conversation is interrupted by a hulking figure in a short sleeve plaid shirt and blue jeans bursting into Someone Else’s Books.
“Jesus, Marlene,” he snorts. “Hurry up, will ya? I got stuff to do before we go to the party tonight.” I recognize him as Clint Hudson. He graduated last year and was the one who saved the day for Marlene when I backed out of prom. Clint became Marlene’s date and they’ve been together ever since. Or, at least, that’s what I hear. It’s not like I follow them around all over town or whatever because that is creepy. Clint looks at me with a gaze suggesting he could kill me 136 ways with a melon baller and gives me a vague nod.
“I just got here, Clint. Relax.” She rolls her eyes in frustration. “Kevin, did that order come in for me?”
“Yep. Got it right here.” Kevin produces a large manila envelope that appears to strain against whatever heavy object it contains. She takes it and pulls it to her chest, hugging it.
“Are you going to the River Luau, Tony?” Her eyes seem hopeful somehow, but I’m probably reading way too much into the situation. I look over at Clint who is gnawing on his fingernails the way a beaver might attack a tree. I should tell her I’ve been miserable without her and that I would do anything to get her back.
“Yeah,” is all I say because I’m thinking of Clint and his melon baller.
She doesn’t speak, only nods.
“Got your shit now, Marlene? Can we go?” Clint huffs.
“Clint you don’t have to be so rude.” She slaps Clint’s arm and rolls her eyes. Her face flushes. “Thank you for taking care of this for me, Kevin.”
“Just doing my job, ma’am.” Kevin salutes her. “I also included some of my business cards. Tell your friends about me.”
She waves bye to me and then heads to the door. She turns back to me before leaving. “You take care of yourself, Tony Pershing.”
“I will, Marlene.” I almost called her ‘babe’ out of habit. I stand at the glass door and watch Clint walk about five paces ahead of her. I tell myself I should run after her, take her in my arms, and tell her she is the Mr. Roboto to my Jonathan Chance, but I don’t think she would know what I was talking about. They climb into his oversized truck with wheels the size of Venus and drive away. I bang my head on the door with a gentle thud.
“I gotta say,” Kevin blurts out. “That was really brutal to watch.”
*
A plate of Mom’s famous pork chops lies before me, but eating is not a high priority. I make fork tracks in my mashed potatoes and push the peas around, hoping to give the illusion I’m enjoying the meal. My efforts fail, though, because Mom is already giving The Look.
“Not hungry, sweetie?”
“I had a big lunch.” I’m lying, of course, because I’ve not consumed a bite except for half a banana this morning for breakfast while staring out the kitchen window and contemplating the futility of my existence. In that way, it was no different than any other banana I’ve eaten. I have no appetite after the Jeff Left a Clue About Still Being Alive Revelation and the Marlene/Clint Book Shop Encounter. Mom picks up my plate and sets it on the counter next to a bowl of apricots.
“You can heat it up later, if you like,” she says as The Reassurance radiates from her.
“Plans tonight?” Dad asks.
“Nothing, really. Thought I might go driving around for a little while.”
“Alone?” Mom asks, shifting easily back to The Look.
“Yeah, Mom,” I say. “Alone. It’s not a bad thing to want to be alone sometimes.”
“I know, honey. I worry.” She leans down, wraps her arms around my neck, and kisses the top of my head. “You’re going to be fine. We love you.”
“We’ll be late tonight.” Dad stands and takes his plate to the kitchen sink. “We have book club.”
“Didn’t you have that last night?” I ask. I normally don’t concern myself with their comings and goings, but this struck me as odd. Mom and Dad usually adhere to routine.
“We’re deep into Game of Thrones,” he replies. “That’s a lot of ground to cover.”
“Dad? You guys have your book club with Kevin Raulston, right? The guy who owns Someone Else’s Books?”
“Yeah,” he replies. “Why?”
“Does he go on and on about his alien theory? Does he talk about Herpezoids or whatever he calls them?”
Dad shoots a glance at Mom before answering.
“He’s said a few things, but he’s harmless. I thought you liked Kevin.”
“I do,” I say. “He’s really convinced of their existence. Do you believe in aliens? How do you feel about passageways to other parts of space?”
“You mean, like, wormholes?” Dad asks as he sticks a final piece of pork chop into his mouth and sets his plate in the sink.
His utterance of the word wormhole jolts my brain and I’m aware of my subconscious floating away from me and toward some ethereal place where I know everything about wormholes. The science of them lies before me and I know it as intimately as Jeff knows the lyrics to every Styx song.
“Wormholes are also known as Einstein-Rosen bridges because they were first theorized by Albert Einstein and his fellow physicist, Nathan Rosen. They believed through the Theory of Relativity, that they were tunnels of s
ort that connect different points in the universe, or, even possibly, one point in our universe with one in another separate universe.”
“I’ve heard of wormholes,” Dad says. “You can’t watch a sci-fi movie or read a sci-fi novel without some mention of them.”
“Do you think they’re real?” I ask. “Do you think they could exist?”
“Never really thought about it.” He picks up his plate from the table and takes it to the sink. “I’m too busy trying to figure out why Kwench-Aid is getting stolen under the noses of my staff.”
“But, if they did exist,” Mom says. “Think of the possibilities.”
We don’t say anything. We stare off and think of those possibilities before Mom breaks the silence.
“You have a good time tonight, honey.”
“No gin and Fresca, please.” Dad’s voice suggests he’s tired of having to say it. I know he’s teasing me.
“That was my gateway drink, Dad. Now, I’m into tequila and green Kwench-Aid.”
“I guess you’re the one who’s been stealing it, then?”
*
I drive through the streets of my town late at night, listening to my Soul Torture Playlist. My route takes me through the high school parking lot before heading straight to Marlene’s street. I park about three houses down from hers, shut off the engine and turn on “I Need You Now,” by Lady Antebellum. I don’t even like country music, yet, here I am using it as the soundtrack to an activity that is not stalking at all because, again, that would be creepy. Self-pity washes over me. From this vantage point, I can see her front door illuminated by the glow of a porch light. Clint’s black Ford pickup, complete with grotesquely large tires, is parked at the curb in front of her house. I hate that truck and all it stands for. A pair of metallic testicles hangs from the trailer hitch. I don’t care who you are. If you own a truck with a scrotum, I’m going to judge you. I want to throw up in my mouth knowing Clint is on the couch with his arm around my estranged goddess. I imagine he’s donning a sleeveless shirt and flatbill cap turned a bit to the side, as he forces her to watch NASCAR or a reality show about pawn shops. At the opportune time, he’ll hack out his smokeless tobacco and put on some Nickelback before making his move. What a douchebag.
This ritualistic emotional sadism hampers my ability to move on. Life Coach Gilbert tells me I need to be honest with Marlene about why I broke up. Of course, he adds, I can’t really do that until I’m honest with myself and talk about what happened. Everyone seems so obsessed with finding out what I know about The Prom Night of Which We Shall Not Speak. Just open up, they say. Be truthful about it, they say.
I want to get all Jack Nicholson on their asses and yell, “you can’t handle the truth!”
Hell, I can’t handle the truth either and I was there.
“This is stupid,” I mumble to myself. “I’m stupid. I should go up there and knock on the door. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll knock on the door, ask to see her, and explain everything.”
I turn off the Soul Torture Playlist, which has now transitioned to “God Only Knows,” by the Beach Boys. I take a deep breath, get out of my Corolla, and start walking toward Marlene’s door, rehearsing the whole speech out loud.
“It’s like this, Marlene. I worked for a private security company called Corporate. I don’t know much about them. Everything associated with my job was on a need-to-know basis. I was an intern. Jeff was, too. I broke up with you because I got assigned to protect a portal over the river outside of town. An alien was preparing to come through and I had to be there to help stop him. My job was very dangerous. I feared getting you involved would put you in harm’s way. Also, Jeff and Leigh Ann got sucked through the portal and I don’t know where they are. But, I quit my job and I think Jeff is actually alive and back. I’d like to see if you would take me back because I love you so very much.”
Realizing that explaining everything might cause Marlene to cock her head to the side like an adorably confused puppy, roundhouse-kick me in the throat, and call the cops, I stop in the middle of the street and quickly inventory some of the more alarming details I could easily omit.
“It’s like this, Marlene,” I improvise. “I broke up with you because…I feared…you would be in harm’s way. But, now I’d like to see if you would take me back because I love you so very much.”
Close enough.
I get halfway to her house when I hear the door open and see Marlene and Clint walk out. I don’t know if they were kissing or watching television in there, but I was dead right about the idiotic flatbill cap.
“Shit!” I whisper and rush back to my car, hopefully undetected. I dive into the open driver’s side window and slide down in the driver’s seat to hide. It would be remarkably stupid to drive off right now. I peer over the dashboard and watch as they stand facing one another at his truck. Marlene stands with her arms crossed. She wears her hair in a ponytail and I’m reminded again how much I love her hair like that. Based on her body language and Clint’s pacing back and forth, I deduce they are arguing.
Since I’m forced to witness this interaction, I entertain myself by performing my own dialogue. Clint is shrugging his shoulders, so I start with him.
“Shucks, Marlene,” I mimic in an overdone hick accent. “I know I’m a big dumbass that can’t wear a ball cap. You’re right. You shouldn’t be with me.”
“Clint,” I say in a higher octave. “You’re stupid. Your breath stinks of smokeless tobacco. And your truck is an obvious attempt to mask your latent homoerotic tendencies and laughably small penis. I can’t be with you.”
Through my windshield I see Marlene throw her hands up in frustration and turn to walk away, as if that was what she had really said. Clint reaches out and spins her around. I don’t know what he says to her, but she must like it because they start kissing and I gag.
I watch Clint climb into his Truck of Overcompensation and speed off because that’s what douches like him do. Marlene stands and watches him drive away and then looks to her house. A wave of panic hits me and I think she sees me. I slide down in my seat allowing enough room to peer over the steering wheel. I’m thankful I’m not wearing a glow-in-the-dark night vision helmet like the one developed by Corporate for dark spaces. Jeff stole the prototype and shoved it in my trunk.
Marlene gets in her car and backs out of her driveway. Where is she going? Did she indeed see me and is now sending telepathic messages imploring me to follow her? I slide nearly into the floorboard as her headlights land on my vehicle. I hear her car pass and contemplate whether or not to follow. Surely, it’s not as creepy as it seems. This should be an easy decision.
I see it all perfectly; there are two possible situations – one can either do this or that. My honest opinion and my friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it. You will regret both.
I fire up my car and head in the direction of Marlene. Contrary to what movies and television would have you believe, tailing someone without detection is very difficult. Marlene leads me down Main Street to the outskirts of downtown Poplar Bluff. She pulls over and parks across the street from a very familiar building. I swerve into the parking lot of an abandoned convenience store and park. I hop out and creep to the sidewalk in time to see Marlene crossing the street to the front door of Someone Else’s Books. Panic grips my entire being and I look around for a place to hide. I see nothing so, as a last resort, I crouch because I somehow think making myself shorter will solve the problem. She knocks and a couple of seconds later, Kevin Raulston lets her in. He looks around before closing the door.
What now? Do I try to spy in the windows? Do I wait here? How long will she be in there? Why is she even there? Kevin closes the store at 7:00 on Tuesdays and it’s well after 10:00. Is she there for book club, too? What should I do?
While I stand and convince myself Marlene is not at Someone Else’s Books because she is also dating Kevin, she emerges from the store and heads to her car. She carries a long box. I freeze where I stand, un
able to determine my next move. I can only watch Marlene drive away and think about how much I hate Kierkegaard.
I get in my car, press play on the stereo for my Soul Torture Playlist and switch it to “Bubbly” and bang my head on the steering wheel. My passenger side door opens and someone gets in.
“We need to talk,” says the figure. She is the woman I recognize as Randi Williams. Sweat covers her face and her cheek bears a minor cut. her black t-shirt and vest are stained with mud, blood, and a couple of patches of a green slime.
“What the hell?”
“We need you to come back to work,” she tells me. “We don’t have time to bring any new interns onboard. We need experience. You have experience.”
“Experience with what?” I ask. “Why do you look like you just came from a cage match?”
“I can’t tell you that right now.” She brandishes a chrome-plated laser pistol and pulls a cartridge from the handle.
“That’s a P-47 Electro-Photon Multiblaster,” I announce. “Developed in 1997 for use in intergalactic security. It operates off quintonium batteries and is especially useful in altercations with Herpezoids.”
“Yes.” Randi tosses the empty cartridge into the floorboard and inserts another retrieved from her belt.
“Why do I know that?” I ask her. “I don’t know why I know that.”
“I can’t tell you that right now.” She pulls a candy bar from her vest pocket, opens it, and chomps on it. “Come to Corporate tomorrow. Follow the Rube Goldberg Protocols. You’ll get the information you need then.”
I point to the green slime on her vest. “What is that?”
“Herpezoid blood.” She inspects it and shakes her head. “That’s gonna be a bitch to get out.”
“Herpezoids.” I look toward Someone Else’s Books and think of Kevin Raulston’s rants. “They’re real?”