The Lost Days
Page 8
Day 21
EXCELLENT RESEARCH TODAY.
OK. I FINALLY went upstairs to visit Schneider’s grandma, the town vet. More on her later, but let me just say that she is INSANE!!! And get this, the entire attic of the El Dungeon is packed with Emma LeStrande’s belongings, which used to be all set up in the Old Museum before the Mayor started holding slide shows and personal parties in there. And Mrs. Schneider, I mean Hilda, got all agitated when she saw me at her door, and even though I really couldn’t understand a word she was saying, it was pretty obvious she wanted me to follow her up to the attic right away, which was pretty exciting in a kind of scarytale theater sort of way, like she was going to trap me in a giant birdcage, fatten me, and then eat me. So I followed her up there, and got to check out all that crazy lady’s crazy stuff—crazy Emma, not crazy Hilda—but more on that later too. Right now I gotta tell you about this book. It was lying out on display on Emma’s coffee table. It was a scrapbook of photos and news clippings going back decades. I sat down and started flipping through it and here is a list of the amazing things I have learned:
I look like Emma LeStrande!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I look a LOT like Emma LeStrande!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It is very unnerving, when you have amnesia and don’t even know your own name, to keep encountering people who look just like you. Wonder if I could get a little break from the constant doppelgänger action?
Emma founded this town about seventy years ago with the idea that it would be a getaway spot for oddball world travelers like herself. Her friends, in other words.
Back then, there were just two buildings in Blackrock: the El Dungeon and the bus depot.
About twenty years ago, this dude showed up, bought a plot of land from Emma, and built the junk-mail plant and City Hall, and called himself mayor. As they say, the rest is history.
As years went by and the mayor’s friends moved in, Emma sold everything except this building and the plot of land the minipark is on.
About 13 years ago, this building was actually wrapped in burlap, then drowned in plaster, and then painted beige. Thus its horrid shapelessness. No info on who did it, though evidence is pointing toward the mayor.
Found a photo of the El Dungeon before it was beige, and I REALLY think the beigeifying was a mistake. I mean, the building actually looked kind of good before that.
Geologists believe that biiiiiiillions of eons ago (give or take a year or so), there was an underground volcano here, and when it erupted, it made a huge crater, which over the ages developed into the bland dust bowl/dust serving tray we have here today. It also left behind some underground deposits of volcanic rock, and I’m guessing that’s where Emma got the name for her town.
No relatives are mentioned in any of the clippings.
I may or may not be related to Emma LeStrande, but either way I’m one of her people.
Emma LeStrande HAS to be a reason I’m here in Blackrock.
Emma’s place, pre—beige.
I WANT ACCESS TO MY MEMORIES. RIGHT NOW.
Well, my service request to the universe has been denied. Access to memories is being withheld. And yelling at the universe probably isn’t going to get me what I want. And what I want is for a solution to rise up in front of me. Like the way I look at the espresso machine and just KNOW what it needs to hum along instead of croaking and wheezing.
You know what’s crazy is that I looked at Raven last night and thought the exact same thing.
But that makes no sense at all and is probably evidence that I am losing my mind! So I’ll just shut up about that now.
Anyway, back to Mrs. Schneider. I mean Hilda. She is elderly and foreign. Also, possibly loony. From what I could understand through her very brutal accent: No glue stuck like old Emma, the fleas are very ripe today, and hogs don’t bark for nothing. I asked her if she’d stitched up any black cats’ ears lately, and found out that the spiders of dawn are gumming up the turnstiles. (Which I took for a yes.)
So, no leads on the cats’ owner, but I’m OK with that, because Emma’s stuff in the attic was…it was SO GOOD. Granted, Emma died 13 years ago, so it was probably Hilda who arranged everything. But the STUFF itself was so random and peculiar and exotic and singular and wondrous and…
—OK. Enough with the adjectives, and on to My Top Favorite Things in Crazy Emma’s Crazy Stuff:
Snow globe from Transylvania, with little vampire children making a snowman out of black snow.
Taxidermied vulture “eating” taxidermied bat.
Evil-looking Tiki god about the size of a hippopotamus.
Evil-looking doll with three-inch red fingernails—safely locked in glass case (whew!).
Really old bronze shield with an engraving of the town’s imaginary black rock on it.
Decorative rack of really sharp, suspicious-looking souvenir grapefruit spoons.
Full set of knight’s armor including battleaxe.
Ye Olde Mystery Object which is either a meteorite, the world’s largest raisin, or a shrunken human head.
Box full of glass eyes, some human and some feline.
Pool table with fifteen 8-balls and nothing else.
A lifesize matchstick model of a DeLorean DMC-12.
Cyclopean fetal pig half-eaten by mites.
Antique crash-test dummy, made of…I don’t know, porcelain? Yep, they don’t make ’em like they used to!
Later
Curls is back at the café today. He was clearly surprised to see me. Turns out he has been spending less time milling about at the El Dungeon and more time milling about at the medicine show, trying to appear useful and get hired. He is refusing to accept the facts that A) I am not Molly, and B) I am not qualified to give him advice on becoming more popular with Ümlaut’s crew, no matter how much he begs. He was getting to be such a pest that I was forced to threaten him with slingshotting in sensitive areas of his anatomy. He retreated to a far table and has been sitting there glowering for the past two hours.
After getting him out of my hair, I was in a take-charge mood, and determined to get a straight story out of Raven for once, so I went and sat at the counter for about an hour asking her questions. GAHHHH BIRDBRAIN!! She would drive the Spanish Inquisition batty. Here is a tiny sample just to show the general flavor of my pain:
ME:
So, where IS Rachel?
RAVEN:
Uhhh, she’s away.
ME:
Where?
R:
Iono.
ME:
When is she coming back?
R:
Iono.
ME:
So who hired you?
R:
Uhhh, the owner.
ME:
So you’ve met Emma LeStrande?
R:
Iono.
ME:
Well, who pays you?
R:
Huuuhhhhh?
ME:
WHO SIGNS YOUR PAYCHECK? YOU GET PAID TO WORK HERE, RIGHT?
R:
…. Iono?
So, yeah. After that, I kind of stopped wondering what crimes Raven had committed and started wondering who is taking care of Raven, instead.
Later
I walked around town with the cats for a while. I guess they’d rather stick to the dark back alleys on our explorations, but I really wanted to see what kind of progress Attikol had made on his challenge. Counted eleven buildings with full construction crews working before I ran into Jakey—first time I’ve seen him outside the psychic show or his own trailer. Makes sense. I can’t stand people, either, and I don’t have to hear their stupid thoughts. But a kid has to buy parrot food sometimes.
I was kind of surprised that he had nothing to say about my discoveries about Emma LeStrande. But I guess when you’re a nine-year-old boy, there are only a few things less boring than the dead founders of towns. No matter how cool their collections were.
He asked me if I knew any Egyptian jok
es.
ME:
No.
JAKEY:
Oh yeah? Well, what did the one Egyptian say to the other Egyptian when somebody farted?
ME:
Don’t know.
J:
Ewwww, what sphinx? AHA HA HA HAHHAHA HAH AHHA!
ME:
Yep.
J:
What did the one Egyptian conjoined twin say to the other Egyptian conjoined twin?
ME:
[Groaning in pain.][Long pause.] Well, go on.
J:
We’ve got a lot of gut in common. AHA HA HA HA HA H HA HAH H AHHA H HA H H AH H HAH H AHHA!….. Get it?
ME:
Yes. Yes, I get it.
J:
Man, you should lose your memory more often.
ME:
Oh. I see. I guess you’ve told me these before, huh?
J:
[Laughing like maniac.] Hey, why did the Sphinx have to run to the bathroom?
After at least ten more jokes in that vein, I decided I would make the kid do me a favor in return for letting him torture me with terrible puns on “pyramid,” “Cairo,” and “sarcophagus.” So I took him back to the El Dungeon to have him get a scope on Raven. Pointless—he couldn’t read her at all! The only thing he could tell me was “She’s not like other people.” Duh+Duh=DUH.
Had him do a quick walk-through of the other customers’ minds just in case. Here are the pathetic results:
Curls thinks Ümlaut and his crew have really improved the El Dungeon by breaking and replacing all its old furniture.
Curls still doesn’t believe I’m not Molly. Delusional!
Curls DOES (finally) believe I have amnesia. Since it explains why I don’t hang out with him.
Curls is peeved that I have been ignoring him and hanging out with Jakey. (!!!)
Curls has a crush on Raven.
HamHawk has a crush on Raven.
Ditto Hurk, Steve, and Grapey.
Hurk thinks Ümlaut’s Pätented Pötion of Pöwer is going to cure his male-pattern baldness.
Steve thinks Ümlaut’s Pätented Pötion of Pöwer is going to help him win the lottery.
Grapey thinks the Pätented Pötion is a bunch of hööëy, but bought a crate of bottles for ironic presents to hipster friends in big cities.
HamHawk really misses Sizzle and Petal, who sold their house to Attikol and bailed town two days ago.
Every customer including HamHawk has plans to sell Attikol their homes at inflated prices and leave Blackrock in the next few days.
Every customer has a triumphant, rebellious, embarrassing Goodbye and Eat My Dust speech prepared for their manager at the junk-mail factory.
Gahh! I feel sorrier than ever for Jakey!! Also, a little creeped out. I mean, I don’t have anything to hide, but if/when I get rid of the amnesia, I don’t want him reading MY mind.
Later
Since I got back I’ve been noticing that Raven has been having trouble talking. I mean, even for her. She has a bad case of the hiccups, which has gone on for the past day or so. Today she made me a sandwich, but it was inside-out. And she’s been doing a lot of chewing stare, without the chewing. I keep thinking I see spiders crawling out of her neck, but it’s only her hair. All around I would say she’s looking pretty poorly. If she were an espresso machine I’d say she’s in dire need of a tune-up.
Day 22
What a depressing day.
First, I decided it was time to see if my dress is really as special as Sharon thought. Turns out it is. It doesn’t seem there are any limits to what it can hold. I put all of the following in the pockets and there’s not even a bulge:
16 Blackrock newspapers
13 soda cans with spiders in them
3 French toast
1 Polaroid camera
37 slingshotting rocks
1 slingshot
7 pieces of scrap lumber from the Dumpster
11 (empty) espresso cups
HamHawk’s chessboard
Raven’s cape
2 shoes
1 metric grip of junk mail
4 black cats
I should be excited about this, but knowing what I know about Attikol, I find it very worrisome. I mean, the dress is obviously more than just special. In fact, I’ll go ahead and say I think it’s downright unusual.
It was all starting to make me feel more and more uncomfortable about seeing Jakey again, because it was looking more and more like something he really should tell Attikol about, if he ever wants to see his home and family again. And really, why should I expect him not to tell? I have nothing to offer him. I don’t mind hanging out with him for now; it’s been fun playing video games and gossiping with him—but once the amnesia’s gone, I’ll be like everyone else: avoiding him to protect my privacy.
And it doesn’t matter how rotten I feel about that. I’m not Molly Merriweather. I can only stand so much human contact.
On the other hand, I am reeeeeeeally nervous about what Attikol might do if he finds out my dress is so…unusual.
Later
Just my luck—while I was thinking over all of this, Jakey showed up at the El D. Talk about awkward.
I kind of wish he wouldn’t leave his trailer. I guess he’s lonely, but hearing all those random people’s thoughts makes him awfully testy. And more selfishly, I would rather be the one to decide when I’m gonna share the contents of my brain with the Moon Child. You know?
Anyway. What made it all even more than awkward was what Jakey had to say, and this is pretty embarrassing to write: He asked me if I would want to join the medicine show. Said they were looking for a crystal-ball reader. Said he had some ideas on how to turn my “special” dress into some kind of magic act, and how we wouldn’t even need to explain it to Attikol. Said I could bring the cats, as long as they didn’t bug his parrot. Said he could really handle having a friend, especially one with a bad case of amnesia.
Unfortunately for Jakey, he knew my answer as soon as I did.
Later
As if the day wasn’t bad enough already!
Raven made the same cappuccino order over 100 times while HamHawk and I tried to figure out how to stop her. She is extremely strong. I would even say she has the strength of five men. I say this because HamHawk, who has the weight of five men, had to sit on her to finally get her to stop.
I told all the customers we were closed and now I’m sitting here wondering what in fog’s name I’m going to do. Maybe Raven needs a doctor? A vet? Some quality secret closet time??
Man, this blows.
Later
GOOD STUFF!!!!
I was sitting at the counter staring at Raven, trying to get her to talk and pondering what I would even tell a doctor if I took her to one. “Uh, the problem is, she was making all this espresso…and wouldn’t stop…making espresso. Do you have a pill for that?” Right. But the more I stared at her, the more I was convinced she didn’t need a doctor any more than a broken cash register would need a doctor. I stared and stared and stared at her and then I saw the clasp behind her ear. Reached over and released it, swung her ear right off her head like a little door. And then her controls were there under it and I could check the calibrations and such.
Crazy, huh?
Raven circuits.
She’s well-made, that Raven. Great craftsmanship. But definitely the type of machine (android? robot? golem?) that needs regular maintenance. Otherwise, inside-out sandwiches and endless espresso, apparently. While I was in there tuning things up, I noticed that she’d been dialed way down—no wonder I thought she was such a birdbrain! She was so grateful when I got her back up to some smarter operating. Sandwiches are back to normal, no more hiccups, AND she can speak in complete sentences. Still not much of a conversationalist, though. And still short on useful information.
ME:
So, Raven, who hired you to work here?
RAVEN:
The owner.
ME:
/> Do you know who the owner is?
R:
I’m programmed not to answer that question.
ME:
Wow. Well, do you know who I am?
R:
You’re my assistant. Earwig.
ME:
Do you know who made you?
R:
I’m programmed not to answer that question.
ME:
Of course you are. Do you know where Rachel is?
R:
She went away.
ME:
But you didn’t hurt her?
R:
No.
Would LOVE to find out who made her. (Emma LeStrande???) And what she’s programmed to do, besides make coffee and sandwiches and give evasive answers to crucial questions.
And why she showed up here the same time I did.
Later
I just realized that, of course, Raven is…unusual, meaning Attikol might be interested in her for more than just loooove.
I guess I can add that to the growing list of things I don’t want Jakey to know about.
Really late the same day (I think)
Higgined! I should have checked out Raven’s secret closet a loooooooong time ago.
The first part you see when you go in is no big deal. A tiny little room with a mirror on the wall, a little shelf, a bag of cosmetics with RACHEL written on it. Emergency rations of water and astronaut food. Some coat hooks on the wall. Your basic extremely tiny, suspiciously secret employee break room, I guess.
BUT.
As soon as I went in I felt different. Recharged or espressofied. And like my eyes were sharper, or something. All the little fibers in the shag carpeting stood out so clearly. So right away I noticed the small ridges in the carpet that outlined the trapdoor underneath.