Tuesday, October 30, 2018

The Island Birds

"Hello friend or Savior!”

Wallace was in no shape to be anyone's savior; he could barely stand upright on the mysterious beach which he had only arrived at an hour earlier. The words of the message appeared blurry from underneath a cracked pane of glass, presumably to guard the yellowed sheet of paper from rain. All of this was affixed to the side of a beached motorized yacht, now coastal wreckage-as-monument to the frail man standing before it. “The Golden Corona” was painted on the jutted remnants hunkering over the dark sand. Still, the badly-damaged vessel was in better condition than the battered raft that had barely carried Wallace to the island. He had struggled against an unforgiving current for hours before arriving at the Corona, and he was weaker and hungrier than he'd ever been in his life.

“Please help yourself to one of the bottles of freshwater I’ve left for you.”

Wallace was already on his third bottle, having thrown up a good bit of the water from the first. All of them, around thirty in number, had been placed in a neat row at the base of the yacht. Had Wallace been the sort of person that paid attention to world events, he would have recognized the boat and known its owner. In some circles, The Golden Corona was as famous as the Argo.

“There’s a building on the northwest corner of this island. It’s a real building made of concrete and steel. The biologists that used to live here have vacated this tropical prison, but I’m here now. My name is Rylan McCay. I have one warning for you: don’t eat any of the birds. They carry a very rare disease. I have plenty of information and research here that will explain everything. Get here as soon as you can.”

That was the end of the note. The words were as much of a premature admonishment as they were a promise. The caws and cackles from inside the forest of the island, which otherwise appeared bereft of fruit and other such nourishment, had given Wallace hope for a meal after days without. After the initial scout which led him to the Corona, he was going to set out for a hunt, hopefully build a fire close to a source of clean water - if there was any to be found.

The letter quelled his imagined feast, but this information was like rising up for oxygen. If Rylan had survived on the island more than a week or two, then perhaps there was a life to be had here. At the very least, there was someone with whom to await rescue.

Wallace judged the sun and headed northwest.

He couldn’t have known it, but Wallace’s trek mimicked, almost step-for-step, the exact course Rylan had taken the previous summer. The surrounding currents had put Rylan on the same basic path. Only in his case, the Corona was heavier than the life raft, and had found purchase on the beach quicker.

An explosion at sea had killed everyone but Rylan, transforming the Corona into a powerless scrap adrift on the Pacific Ocean. After two days, he had to ditch the remains of the crew to suppress temptation to feast upon their spoiled meat. But fate brought Rylan to the very island he’d been seeking, though its secrets were still a mystery to him then.

It took Wallace about an hour to reach the northwest corner. Wallace’s legs were still cramped from dehydration, and the sun grew brighter and more intense as it began to set. Once he was within range, he cut into the island through a thicket of trees. The bird noise was much louder once he was under the forest canopy. The discord was jarring after so many days of silence, but Wallace had a mission and a destination.

For his part, Rylan had reached his grim destination months earlier. Before he had even spotted the island, a seagull landed on the edge of the Corona, signaling that land would be nearby. Rylan devoured the diseased bird immediately, all but its beak and toes, and thus became an unwitting host to an angry mob of viral parasites.

A quarter mile into the island forest, Wallace met up with a trail which led him to a small, one-story building. It was grey and cylindrical, perhaps decades old. Moss and vines covered the lower part of one side, but it appeared that Rylan had cleared the growth away for visitors, revealing a large metallic door which he’d propped open a few inches. Wallace grabbed the edge and began to pull it toward him.

Wallace never got a good look at the thing that Rylan had become since he’d started down the path to decay. He'd barely had time to set the trap: water to keep his prey alive, a siren song disguised as a welcome letter. Rylan's face and body had been remarkably changed by the poison inside him, poison which both killed him and kept him alive.

Wallace had obeyed the letter’s instructions, he'd ignored the island birds. Rylan-as-creature would have sensed it if he had, and then it would have had nothing to eat. It grabbed Wallace’s hand from inside the building, ripped his whole arm off with a torturous snap. The malformed and insane birds cried out from above, alarmed by the screams that followed.

Friday, August 17, 2018

Just Like the Candy

There used to be a place in Putnam, West Virginia called Howdy's. It was kind of a bar, kind of a music hall, and definitely a club - at least for the locals that ended up there most every night. It was a perpetually dim, borderline dank, concrete-floor-covered-in-sawdust kind of place. Bluegrass music reigned supreme at Howdy's, but they also were known to host local rock bands from time to time, so long as the group knew how to play at least two Allman Brothers songs.

One listless Tuesday night, a man walked in the front entrance. The door was propped open as it usually was during the summer, inviting a Teays Valley breeze, if any were to be found. The man looked over the room a bit. He'd seen plenty of dark dives like Howdy's, but he never got tired of the musty smell of stale beer and old chewing tobacco.

The man spotted a young woman in a yellow sundress standing alone by the bar, tapping her brown boots in time with the jukebox. He walked straight up to the woman. Something about the way she was made up told him that she was waiting on somebody special. But the way she stood taller when she noticed him approaching her indicated that she wouldn't mind his company in the meantime.

He introduced himself.

"You mean like the candy?" she asked. There was a Jimmie Rodgers tune blaring out of the speaker above them, which was a disorienting factor in the man's game. He shook his head, not understanding what she meant by the candy remark. She then held up a finger like "hold on" and began digging through her purse. Finally, she pulled out a small piece of candy wrapped in gold cellophane with the words "Werther's Original" written across the front.

He smiled, and she smiled back. The woman seemed to believe he was smiling because of the odd coincidence, her having that exact brand of candy in her purse. He didn't mind that she thought that. But the truth was that he didn't know where he'd come up with the name. It wasn't meant to be cute or anything. He just thought that "David Werther" sounded boring enough to not sound made up.

She leaned in and told the man that her name was Amber, but he didn't care about that. They all had names.

Monday, August 6, 2018


Most actors, even ones that you might recognize from TV shows or movies, aren't able to earn livable wages as actors. In fact, less than 10% of actors belonging to the Screen Actors Guild are able to meet the requirements to qualify for health insurance. It's a cutthroat industry, one with too many performers scrambling for too few roles. Because of this, nearly all actors are forced to supplement their income by stealing lunch money from children after their parents drop them off at school.

There are several approaches that actors take to rob these tiny targets of their lunch money. Some work in groups, locking a kid into a "shove circle" or corralling them into an inescapable trap. Others prefer to work alone, utilizing so-called "diva methods". Solo approaches range from forceful begging to outright brute force. However, many actors prefer to craft clever grifting schemes, ones where they con children out of money by way of some sob story, or promises of vast returns on shady investments. This approach, not only less aggressive, has the added benefit of sharpening theatrical skills.

The wide-scale theft of lunch money has gotten so problematic in Los Angeles that tax programs have been created specifically to fund meal vouchers for thousands of schoolchildren. The actors, as brazenly shameless as you'd imagine, show zero remorse in public. City plumbers and tax accountants alike have grown to distrust all entertainers in equal measure.

Greta Peeler was one such actor trying to make a name for herself in L.A. You may have seen her guest starring on your favorite murder mystery, or perhaps praising a certain brand of soft drink during a commercial break. She'd certainly paid her dues, logging many hours in acting workshops...and even more hours skulking behind brambles near elementary school playgrounds. However, thus far the only name she'd managed to make for herself was "Dragon Lady", a name designed to strike fear into the hearts and minds of children everywhere.

Greta longed to join the lucky-though-small group of performers that earned their entire salaries from acting gigs, those who could afford to brutalize children just for the fun of it. But as time passed and circumstances mounted, she began to give up on her dream. A twisted ankle caught from a botched mugging forced her out of the lunch money game. In order to pay her rent, she finally acquiesced to a receptionist job for one of the more famous plumbing firms.

As time passed, she even stopped taking the classes that had guided her for so many years, halting her study of Stanislavski's method of emotional recall, as well as her Brazilian jujitsu training.

Things settled into normalcy until one day Greta's boss, Angela Fulccilio, exited the elevator in front of Greta's reception area with a small child following behind her. The little girl was sniffling, obviously carrying the sort of virus that constantly plagued children her age. She locked eyes with Greta and immediately recognized her school playground's most infamous assailant.

"Good morning, Greta," Angela said. "This is my daughter, Kalissa. She's out sick from school for the day. I hope she won't be much of a distraction."

She said this last part more to Kalissa than to Greta.

The kid was still staring at Greta, eyebrows low. Kalissa was smart for her age and calculated the situation quickly, that the mean woman who was now apparently going by "Greta" had switched over to spending the daytime hours at her mom's office, rather than terrorizing Kalissa and her friends for lunch money. But what was this new game?

"Draaagon Lady," Kalissa called out to her former bully, taunting. She was smart, but she was also 7 years old.

Greta's eyes widened. Looking to the child, she said in a voice a bit too loud, "Oh, that's a funny name, sweetie!" Then to her boss, "I think your lovely daughter has me confused with somebody else."

"No, I don't." Kalissa stuck her tongue out at Greta.

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't." Still 7.

"Yes, you--!" Greta slammed her hands on her desk and jumped up from her seat. Angela recoiled, throwing a protective arm across her child.

Sensing a bad scene, Greta smiled brightly. "I'm terribly sorry," she said. Her eyes darted around the office lobby for an exit path. "I have to check on something in...the. I have to ask somebody about...the-"

Greta scurried away from them, off toward the break room as Kalissa forcefully coughed in her direction. Angela gave her daughter a scolding look before ushering the sick child into an empty office that had a couch and a TV.

In the 2nd floor break room, Greta tried to compose herself over a cup of green tea and a few breathing exercises she'd learned from a vocal coach. One of the firm's hotshot plumbers walked in for coffee and made a couple of jokes about her looking "flushed". Ever the actress, Greta gamely smiled and laughed.

"You just never see these punchlines coming, do you?" the hotshot plumber asked.

"I never do!" Greta enthused, dying a little more on the inside.

After a while, she returned to her desk and tried her best to concentrate on calls and schedules. Kalissa found several opportunities throughout the day to peer out of quarantine to stick her tongue out at Greta. It was easy enough to ignore at first, but then the taunts turned into paper airplane assaults. Greta retaliated by miming throat slashes and quietly mouthing death threats at the girl.

At lunch time, Angela had Greta go out to fetch Kalissa a Happy Meal, which Greta had to convince herself to not sprinkle hot sauce over. She regretted her diplomacy when she returned to her desk and sat directly onto a wet stack of used coffee filters. Psychological needling had given way to biological warfare; death and destruction would certainly follow. Greta washed the grounds off her skirt in the ladies room, dried it as best she could, and wrapped the hoodie she kept around for too-cold A/C days around her waist.

Five o'clock eventually neared, though the tension in Greta's shoulders stayed rigid. Days at the office were always long, but this one had been a marathon on a burning tightrope.

And then on her way out, Angela marched the brat back up to Greta's station and announced that Kalissa would also be out of class the following day. The kid had somehow allowed herself to get sicker so as to push this little ballgame into extra innings.

"Cancel my 9am with the faucet people. I've got to take her to the doctor, but we'll be in by 11."

"Sure thing, Angela," Greta said. Nonchalantly, she turned her head to mask a twitching eye.

Kalissa stuck her tongue out again. As she and her mom walked to the elevators, she leaned her head back and cooed behind her, "Draaaagon Laaaaady."

Greta had trouble sleeping that night. She watched several old Law & Order episodes, noting each and every hapless bystander or junkie informant. Day player roles Greta was apparently all wrong for.

She dreaded the notion of returning to the office the next day, stepping back into Kalissa's line of torment. She considered calling in sick herself. A part of her hoped that Kalissa would simply feel better in the morning, at least enough to return to school. But a darker, more urgent place behind Greta's blank stare hoped that the child would take a dire turn for the worse, and spend a few days in the emergency room. Nothing too terribly serious. Maybe a burst appendix or something that would leave the brat with a permanent limp.

The next day started off quietly, though Greta could feel sour vibes in the air. She'd been bracing herself for more immature affliction. Her neck was sore again. But then Angela entered through the elevator carrying a sleeping Kalissa. She made a shushing face toward Greta, as though that was even necessary. Unconscious kid was the way to go.

After shutting Kalissa in the spare office again, Angela explained to Greta that her daughter's illness wasn't life-threatening, but the doctor recommended that she stay out of school for the rest of the week.

"She was up all last night, the poor thing," Angela said.

"Yeah. Awful, terrible thing." Off her boss's look, Greta quickly added, "Being sick, I mean. It's really terrible."

"Well, the worst part of this is that she's missing play practice all week. They might have to recast her."

"She's in a play?"

"Yeah, The Wizard of Oz."


Greta envisioned Kalissa as the perfect embodiment of the Wicked Witch of the West. Cold, calculating, and willing to foster the worst fears of her victims to unrestricted panic. Or perhaps she would better serve the school's production as the evil witch's hapless sister that was introduced as a clump of viscera crushed underneath a fallen farm house, and had no lines.

Angela sighed. "I guess they can find another Scarecrow. Ah, well. It'll save me the trouble of sewing straw onto a blouse." With that, Angela walked off to her office. Greta figured that she would have gotten somebody else, Greta probably, to make that costume anyway.

Scarecrow...the heart of the play.

Greta sat back down at her desk and looked down the hall to Kalissa's quarters.

They must really be desperate.

She kept looking down the hall, thinking of the sick, little beast that would soon begin to feel better and resume her personal torture for what would feel like eternity. Maybe the kid would tire of the stupid pranks her limited imagination could conjure, and simply tell Angela about the trail of extortion in Greta's past. God knows there were plenty of witnesses she could call forth. If she got fired, Greta would be forced to pick on younger and weaker kids for lunch money. She wasn't in her twenties anymore.

Greta shook her head and tried to find something productive to do with her hands.

You know, besides wrapping them around a little girl's throat.

An angry, hoarse laugh escaped her. Shaking her head, she retrieved a stack of files from a drawer and whisked them off to the archives room.

Greta didn't realize it then, but Kalissa was driven by the same passion for acting that Greta had felt at that age. Her behavior was the direct product of immense creativity and an unflappable focus. The girl didn't just idly watch TV shows and movies; she studied the myriad of expressions and eye movements on the actors' faces. She continued this research in the real world, mimicking gestures and voices to her friends and teachers. Kalissa was a natural extrovert, and her mind found hope in appreciation.

Greta did find these things out about Kalissa eventually though, after she was coerced to coach the girl for the Scarecrow part. Kalissa couldn't help herself and exposed Greta's past to her mother - not as a criminal, but as an actress.

Begrudgingly, Greta volunteered line readings and explained motivation to Kalissa until the little devil was well enough to return to regular rehearsals. After the performance, everyone agreed that the Scarecrow was the standout of the show. Some of the other parents took notice of the improvements, and asked the former Dragon Lady to coach their kids too.

When did all of that happen? After Kalissa put a handful of bugs in Greta's egg salad, but not too long before Greta Peeler was energized to start auditioning again.

The lunch money muggings in Los Angeles eventually faded to nothing more than an occasional, brief warning to the kids during morning announcements. Then one day they just stopped altogether.

Some say it was because of all the streaming services that produced more original programming for actors to go after. Some say it was because of the billy clubs and jackknives the kids started carrying for protection. You can count both things as contributing factors, but it's clear that the current truce is likely only a temporary one. Any great actor will tell you, after all, you must maintain your craft.

Thursday, January 11, 2018

Lesser Known Examples of the Mandela Effect

The Mandela Effect is a phenomenon wherein a large group of people remember an event or detail from the past very differently than how (or sometimes even IF) it actually happened. The effect is named after Nelson Mandela, a political activist who many people falsely believed died in prison during the 1980's, when in fact he survived to become president of South Africa, and lived on until 2013.

Some famous examples of the Mandela Effect include the memory that the hoity-toity Monopoly mascot, Rich Uncle Moneybags, had at one time sported a fancy monocle (he never has), or that the popular children's book characters the Berenstain Bears were originally named the Berenstein Bears (they were always referred to as "Berenstain"). Many popular films have famous lines that are actually quite different than how they are routinely (mis)quoted, such as "Play it again, Sam," from Casablanca, and "Luke, I am your father," from The Empire Strikes Back (revisit these films if you believe these examples to be correct).

This effect can be disorienting to a person, sometimes leading an individual to believe that the past has somehow been altered, or that they have somehow crossed over into a parallel universe with subtle changes (such as in the Ray Bradbury story "A Sound of Thunder", where time travelers return from the past to find a disturbingly different world than the one they originally left). To some folks, their memories are indisputable facts, and the only explanation to combat contradictory evidence is to refute reality. This of course is a ridiculous over-reaction to new information, but the internet has provided the perfect forum for such behavior.

When I became aware of the Mandela Effect, I was instantly fascinated by the phenomenon, seeking out as many occurrences of it that I could. Some were surprising: I actually DO remember Curious George, another famous kid's book character, having a long monkey's tail that would aid him in his misadventures. But he never had a tail! Other cases proved surprising only in the sense that I didn't know so many memories could be so wrong. Many people apparently believed that the comedian Sinbad had once played a magical genie in a 1990's feature film called Shazaam (Sinbad himself publicly responded to these claims, confirming that he hadn't). But every instance of the effect, whether surprising or far-fetched, tells a story about the group of people stuck with the erroneous memory, and provides a unique look into our society's evergreen fascination with nostalgia.

Along my journey, I was astonished to see that many examples of the Mandela Effect, truly remarkable ones, had yet to be reported. Some of these lesser known inconsistencies were notions that I myself had foolishly held since childhood, others were false memories (easily disputed) that I would often overhear in conversation. I have compiled them here for your inspection, and perhaps as future evidence for myself that I have not slipped into another dimension. Enjoy!

1. Many people would be surprised to learn that Gallagher, the surrealistic 1980's stand-up comic, was never featured in a Saturday morning cartoon called The Sledge-o-matic Factory. Former CBS executives should perhaps accept some of the blame for this one, having the bone-headed idea to air a series of short animated films about sledgehammer safety...featuring a wacky Gallagher-like character named McGallagher.

2. The title "The Wizard of Oz" refers to the wizard that Dorothy is seeking in the magical land of Oz. The abomination that she creates along the way is always only referred to as "the monster" (as it is in the terrifying book from the mind of L. Frank Baum). It's a common mistake, but worth noting!

3. What most children of the 1990's might remember about Striped Fruitania candies were the psychedelic colors that they would see after eating them. In fact, "Fruit Stripe" (where on earth are they coming up with "Striped Fruitania"??) was a brand of chewing gum that featured five delicious flavors and caused only mild auditory hallucinations.

4. Several folks have a distinct memory of watching a disgruntled child who had failed to get a ball into the 1st bucket during the Grand Prize Game plunge a switchblade deep into Bozo the Clown's abdomen sometime in December of 1984. Upon reviewing the archival footage from that entire month's episodes for myself, I can confirm that the girl made it to the 3rd bucket. Also, it was just a regular kitchen knife.

5. If you happen to remember a certain lively teddy bear that regaled you and your friends with adventurous stories and jaunty tunes, then you should probably go ahead and stop looking for it in that old box you keep in your attic. It turns out that "teddy bear" was actually a traveling scamp that your parents paid to watch you on weekends, eventually ending his own life in the backyard while you watched from the window of your father's study. You can still taste the chocolate from the stolen candy bar that you were eating at the time.

6. Even that old box in your attic makes for a perfect example of the Mandela Effect. Go on up and check it out for yourself - it's just a dirty ottoman from some poor schmuck's living room that serves your twisted mind as a trophy of your first victim. Pretty neat trick, huh?

7. Despite steel insistence from many ardent fans, Universal Studios never produced a prequel film in the Jurassic Park series, rumored to have been released during the long lull between the 3rd and 4th films. Furthermore, large beasts known as "dino-saurs" never ruled the earth. The fossils we sometimes find today were hidden deep in the ground around six thousand years ago by the one true God in a brilliant test of faith for His creations. Repent your sins and join the Everlasting Glory!

I expect to see a few of these lesser-known examples of the Mandela Effect pop up on the internet any day now, perhaps as part of a Buzzfeed list or some other form of "click-bait". However, I can't help but enjoy the fact that at least some of them, and I think you know which ones, will forever remain our little secret!

Tuesday, February 7, 2017

Waiting Room

Twelve of us, to start: seven women, five men. I don't introduce myself to the others, nor they to me. There is a powerful "eye on the prize" mentality cocooning me from them, a refusal to acknowledge that we are in this situation together. Maybe all of us understand this more than we are willing to admit. Avoiding eye contact, we uncomfortably shift our bodies on the prefabricated, sterile furniture, all gathered here in a waiting room that is too cold.

I try to imagine Alexandra here with me, wondering where she is right now. Instinctively, I reach for my phone, but it is gone. Electronic devices are not allowed in this room; they were all taken from us before we were allowed inside. There isn't a TV or even any magazines around to take our minds off of the wait. I wonder if this is the test.

We endure over an hour of nonchalant shivering before a door - one I hadn't noticed the entire time I'd been sitting here - slides open and sullen young man walks in. The man is accompanied by two armed guards. The mood shifts when we see handguns are now a part of the equation. I am here for the money they advertised, nothing more. I hope that this is also the case with my fellow test subjects. The man says his name is Dr. Cole, but nobody seems interested in what he calls himself. He removes a torn piece of paper from his pocket and reads three names. Two women and a man stand up.

Dr. Cole, his first group of volunteers, and the two guards exit through the hidden door.

More time passes, but now I have a blossoming imagination to keep me company. I wonder where the first group has gone, what they are doing. The post on the website said that we'd be paid at least once for the day, but possibly twice. It said the first part would be a "determining evaluation", which, at the time, sounded like a mental or physical test. But now I feel less certain. Some of these people have guns. I close my eyes, remembering my sweet Alexandra's parting words. Like nothing else, I wish that I had understood the meaning behind them at the time, that the true message would have found me then.

"If Burger King is willing to pay you that much to try a new chicken sandwich, you know it's probably not real chicken in it, right?"

The hidden door slides open again and Dr. Cole returns with one of the guards. The other guard and the first group of test subjects are nowhere to be seen. Someone has given the remaining guard a bloody nose; the front of his shirt is now ripped. He looks nervous, as does Dr. Cole, who shakily retrieves the torn paper from his pocket. The paper is spotted with a scarlet substance that I try my best to ignore. Dr. Cole clears his throat and calls out only one name this time. Mine.

Thursday, December 15, 2016

Christmas at Kendig's

I'm not going to completely blame the holiday season for everything that happened on Gilda Road during Christmas Eve this year, but I can't stress enough how absolutely none of the stuff that went down would have happened if the calendar had read "March 24th" instead of "December 24th", I can tell you that. I don't even really celebrate Christmas, not in the way people do on TV anyway. I'm not talking about religious affiliation so much as I mean opening presents under a big, decorated tree with the family at 7am, right before heading to grandma's house to carve up a plump goose, everyone sweating profusely under thick wool sweaters as Bing Crosby goes on and on about how cold it is.

No, I don't have a family - well, other than the gigantic one back home in Colorado. But that meant that there were a thousand miles between the Miggins clan and my life in Peoria - not that the months leading up to Christmas this year could have been called much of a life. I moved to Illinois for engineering work at a very well-known machinery company that's named after a butterfly larva, I think you know which one. I had three years there of not knowing how good I had it before I got laid off and had to re-figure things out. I held out hope for another engineering spot to open up. No such luck. And nothing comparable to my old job even existed back in my hometown, so I was pretty much stuck. Nothing came along except a few odd jobs here and there, along with a half-decent gig tending the bar down at Kendig's.

I'll get back to Kendig's in a minute, but here's where I have to say that I get the whole Spirit of Christmas thing, my whole circle of friends did too (yes, I have friends). We weren't into buying each other big, expensive gifts or traveling to Jamaica to do the coconut rum, anti-Bing Crosby thing. And the Miggins family wasn't checking their mailboxes for so much as a postcard of a reindeer from me; they already knew I cared. All of this is to say that money was as close to not being a concern as it could be, but I was still concerned about it all the same. You see, Christmastime is a time to be to be with friends, and that takes money: money for food and events if the group goes out, money for a decent bottle of wine (or three) if the group stays in. It's hard to see a friend without dropping thirty bucks in some way or another.

Okay, mention of money brings me back to Kendig's. I had spent a good amount of time there when I still had my cushy engineering gig. It was one of those dive places that charged too much for cheap beer, but less than half of what every other bar charged for good whiskey. I had gotten to know the owner, Sammy Kendig, pretty well back in those days. I'd play around and show him and his staff how to make High Plains drinks from my college days, crazy cocktails like Red Hot Jolly Green Giants or Catsup Bombs (never "Ketchup"). When Sammy heard I was out of work, he let me tend the bar or work the door so that I could make rent during especially dry months.

His generosity should be evidence plenty, but I can't stress enough that Sammy really was just a cool guy and the greatest boss a person could want. He was a big, funny dude that all of Peoria seemed to know and love. He had a way of settling disputes and calming down drunks before they got out of hand - and you'd better believe that takes serious skill when the customer in question is a blitzed-out debutante who suddenly decides she's Muhammad Ali for the night. We all loved Sammy. We'd ask him "how high" before he'd even have to tell us to jump. Hell, I would have asked the same question if he'd told me to grow taller.

Well, Christmas was getting closer and Sammy had spread Kendig's staff schedule a little thin when it came to doling out the good weekend night shifts. It had been a hard year for many people in the Kendig's circle of friends, and Sammy's big heart had overcrowded his proverbial coattails. He was nice enough to have me on as a backup bartender one Saturday evening early in the month, but a flash flood kept the place cleared out. I was cut by nine o'clock on my only weekend shift for the entire month of December. Just as I had started to contemplate how long I could live out of my car without freezing to death, Sammy offered me another opportunity.

"Hey, Miggins." It was morning on the day before Christmas Eve and Sammy had called me at home. I was still in bed, "bed" being a terrible futon in my circumstance.

"What's going on, Sammy?" I prayed that he needed a bartender that night, or any night that week. Christmas was a busy time for bars, and people out reveling tended to be extra generous during the holidays, especially to those on the service side of merriment.

"I know you're looking for some extra cash this month."


"Well, I've got kind of an odd job for you, if you think you're up for it." He kind of cleared his throat as though he had more to add. A few seconds went by. "So what do you think?" he asked me.

"What do I..." I laughed a little. "Look, I'm not in any position to say no, but you do have to actually tell me what it is before I say 'yes', you know?"

"Oh, right. Sorry." Sammy obviously hadn't had his morning carafe of coffee yet. "Do you know Lucas Wellesbourne?"

The name sent a shiver down my back. I knew who Wellesbourne was, everybody did. But I couldn't imagine Sammy having anything to do with that old crankwad. If Sammy Kendig had a polar opposite, it would have to be Lucas Wellesbourne, Peoria's greatest villain. I hated him before I met him, just from the stories that people would tell me about him. He was the disgusting, rich, old miser that ruined communities as he told the people that lived there how lucky they were to have him. There was one night a couple of summers prior that one of Wellesbourne's goons had pushed me up against a storefront window for accidentally sitting on the old jerk's car. The confrontation was all I needed to confirm the rumors about old man Wellesbourne. I assumed that the next words out of Sammy's mouth would be that somebody wanted him assassinated, which was a line I couldn't imagine crossing...except maybe for nasty, old Lucas Wellesbourne.

"Sure, I know him. I met one of his thugs one night after I leaned on his car."

"That sounds about right. Well, Mr. Wellesbourne has a job for you."

"Oh, Mr. Wellesbourne has a job? For meeee?" My mocking tone was not lost on Sammy.

"Look, I know he's a pretty lousy individual, but me and him go back a long time. Pretty much my whole life. My dad used to be partners with him, back before Wellesbourne Properties bought up half of downtown."

"I never knew about that," I said. It was true, though I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. That brand of boozy confessional was more expected in a place like The Last Hurrah over in Northpoint Plaza, but not at Kendig's. And certainly not courtesy of Sammy Kendig himself.

"Yeah, I don't like to talk about it much. Dad died around the time that Wellesbourne started his reign of terror on the poorer neighborhoods. Look, I don't have time to get into this."

I could tell that Sammy was frustrated to have to do anything on the old bastard's behalf. That let me know that Sammy wasn't being coerced; he was probably just trying to help me out.

"Okay, so what's the job?" I asked.

Sammy explained to me that the job was just for Christmas Eve. It was more or less a security detail, but it had to be super secret for some reason. I guess that's why Wellesbourne couldn't just get a rent-a-cop or something. It went against every fiber of my being, but I needed the money, I really needed the money. I said yes.

"I'll do it. I don't know how I'm going to restrain myself from spitting in his face when I see the old jerk again though."

"Oh, that reminds me," Sammy said. "You're gonna need to shave, comb your hair, and wear a suit. And, before you ask, I'm not joking."

"C'mon, man."

"Hey, money's money, right?" And with that, the call was over.

"Thanks, Sammy," I said to my mostly empty studio apartment.

The next day, I borrowed a suit from a friend in exchange for three piano lessons in January. I'd only had three lessons myself back in middle school, but I figured I could use YouTube to refresh me a bit and wing it from there.

At 5:45 that night, I hopped in my car and headed to Wellesbourne Estate.

Before I could get to the house, I had to get into the neighborhood, a row of especially giant mansions on Gilda Road. There was a guard posted in a small booth next to the main gate, a stern-looking woman with a pony tail and a forced cheery smile. She was wearing a shiny elf hat with little ornaments lining the brim, but she quickly removed the festive hat once I pulled up, and her face instantly dropped the holly jolly routine. I suppose my sun-faded, 10 year old Honda wasn't very "Gilda Road" and therefore not deserving of any additional holiday cheer.

The guard stepped out of the booth and peered into my car like somebody had handed her a carton of eggs and asked her to guess which one was rotten.

After a moment, "Name, please."

"Yeah, sure. I'm Stan Miggins."

"Name of the resident, please."

"Oh, right. Um, Lucas Wellesbourne?"

The guard looked at me as if I'd asked her for a lift to the airport. I swished my mouth from side to side, as though that were a normal thing that people did. After a tense moment, she went back into the gate booth and made a call. She didn't come back out again after she apparently got the confirmation that she needed. The gate opened and the stony woman waved me inside.

The houses along Gilda Road would have been impressive any time of year, but the holiday season had obviously spurred the owners into some weird kind of decoration competition. There were lights everywhere, along with blankets of fake snow, a forest of Christmas trees, and two separate Santa villages. A gingerbread house stood prominent, as big as a tool shed, though probably not edible. This was all very nice, though the lack of people wandering around made it clear that nobody could get past security into the neighborhood to enjoy it.

I slowly continued driving down the block. I drove past a man dressed like Santa that was walking from one yard to the another, probably bored out of his mind without anybody around to sit on his lap or tug at his beard. I honked my horn to try to wish him a Merry Christmas, but he took one look at my sad car and kept walking. Apparently even lonely Santas on Gilda Road were stuck-up snobs.

I continued down the block to the Wellesbourne house, which was unsurprisingly at the very end of the street. In stark contrast to the rest of the neighborhood, Wellesbourne's house didn't have a lick of decorations on it, not so much as a wreath on the door. The effect was more than a little creepy, since it made his house look like this strange, dark corner on the edge of a galaxy of lights.

I pulled up to the curb and, buttoning up my snug, secondhand jacket, quickly made my way to the colossal front door of the devil's lair.

None other than Sammy Kendig himself swung the door open to greet me. My reaction lacked nonchalance.

"What the freakin' hell, dude?"

"Shut up, pay attention, and be cool," Sammy hissed at me, the words of warning lingering harsh under his breath. Then loudly he exclaimed, "Good evening, Mr. Miggins. I trust you found the estate without issue."

It's here that I have to say that I thought Sammy was a great guy and all, but he was far from my closest friend. But this act? He was surely playing a part, but I couldn't figure out why. And that scared me. Every fiber in my being told me that things were about to get weird - and no doubt illegal. I really didn't want to end up in jail, especially on Christmas Eve. But Sammy's eyes begged me to play this part opposite him, and I could only secretly wonder why it was laid on me without rehearsal.

"Sure. Yeah, without issue," I exclaimed loud enough to reach any eavesdropping ears. Sammy then ushered me into the dark recesses of the Wellesbourne estate.

I expected that Sammy would take me to some cavernous room with a roaring fireplace, sparse decorations, with wicked, old Lucas Wellesbourne sitting in the room's lone decoration, a sinister arm chair with a too-tall back. He would be cradling a glass of sherry in one of his hands, plotting his next move against James Bond.

But instead of all that, Sammy took me to a cozy kitchen where a man who looked like a 1950's grandpa from a Norman Rockwell painting, complete with sweater vest and bow-tie. It was Lucas Wellesbourne, but not as I had imagined him. This version of Peoria's resident Citizen Kane was happily stirring a pot of hearty soup over a gas stove top.

"Ah, you must be My Man Miggins!" he exclaimed upon seeing me enter the room. "Care for some tomato soup?" He pronounced 'tomato' in the faux-classy way, but it was clear that he was doing it in the dad joke kind of way.

"Oh, no thanks," I said, suddenly feeling like a bit player in a Hallmark movie. Wellesbourne then went on to tell me the soup recipe's backstory, how it was passed down from his great grandmother, Claire, whom (he explained proudly to me and Sammy) had served as inspiration for the character of "Clara Dawes" in D.H. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers before moving to Illinois to start a family. Two minutes later, the three of us stood around Wellesbourne's kitchen island bar, each of us enjoying a bowl of hearty tomato soup.

After washing the dishes and placing the leftover soup in a reused plastic container that had once housed sandwich meat, Wellesbourne excused himself to finish readying himself for some kind of party, leaving me and Sammy alone.

"Okay, this is really weird, Sammy." I was sure to keep my voice low, though loud enough for Sammy to gauge my indignation. "Are you like an undercover butler or something?"

"No, I'm here for just tonight, same as you. Wellesbourne gives all of his normal guys the week of Christmas off and hires temps at double the wages."

"Huh. You'd think that the regular staff would jump at that and stay on for the extra cash."

"No need, not with the Christmas bonuses he gives them each year." Sammy suddenly seemed impatient. "We're getting off track here."

"Right, right. So, what's the deal for tonight?" I asked.

"Well, I'm kind of like an assistant, so I'm going with Mr. W to some party downtown. You've got another job."

Rather than tell me, Sammy beckoned me into a hallway and down to a closed door that had a numerical security pad next to it. He slowly tapped his nose twice - some sort of signal that I swear I had never seen him do before - then led me back to the kitchen.

"Okay, what was that?" I asked once we had returned.

Sammy rolled his eyes like I was the stupidest man alive. He began to explain, "Okay-"

Just then Wellesbourne returned. Sammy took his hand off of my shoulder and straightened his posture. The old man was now wearing an expensive suit and a tie with little candy canes on it. This was the Lucas Wellesbourne that I had seen in the papers and 10 o'clock news - minus the candy cane tie. Sammy shot me a 'keep quiet' look.

"Okay, I guess we're just about ready. All set, Samuel?"

'Samuel' and 'Mr. W' were two forms of two names I never wanted to hear again after that night. Sammy nodded to Wellesbourne who looked at me and said, "Have you met Juniper yet?"

That's how I found out I wasn't hired for the night to look after Wellesbourne estate or some secret thing locked behind a locked door. Wellesbourne took me into a small screening room that housed a library of old movies on DVD to go with the big screen on the wall. In the corner, a big wolfish-looking creature lazed on a giant pillow that was probably softer than my bed.

"Now, Juniper is part Husky, part Border Collie," Wellesbourne explained to me. "Some would call her a Bordsky, but I just call her the Big Boss. She loves this room, so you can usually find her in here watching old war films. I don't know why, but Juniper adores the sound of artillery fire for some reason."

I turned to Sammy, but got nothing in return. Wellesbourne didn't seem to notice and continued with Juniper's odd introduction.

"She's a friendly dog for the most part, but she suffers from a bit of separation anxiety when she's alone, so I need someone to hang back when I'm away. Someone that understands her mentality. Samuel says you are among the best in Peoria."

He looked at me as though this information should have triggered a response.

"Oh, yeah. Totally," I said. "So, is there an emergency numbers that I can call if there's a...well, emergency?"

Wellesbourne looked displeased by my question. He then turned to Sammy and nodded.

Sammy cleared his throat and began. "Mr. Wellesbourne asks that you do not try to contact him this evening, not under any circumstances. If you do try to contact him, consider your employment terminated immediately and, should Juniper come to any harm as a result of your actions, you will be investigated for purposeful harm to Mr. Wellesbourne."

Wellesbourne tried to shake off the seriousness of Sammy's warning with a bashful smile, casting it away with his hand still at his side. "Sorry that sounds so executive. It's just that I'm a very busy person, even at social functions. I'd hate to miss an important call and leave Juniper in peril. Please continue, Samuel."

"If you are in need of advisement," Sammy said, handing me a card with nine numbers on it. "Please call this number and ask for Mr. Trundle. He is Juniper's regular handler and can be summoned for emergency purposes."

"I'd rather you didn't, though," Wellesbourne interjected. "Dan Trundle will be with his family this evening and it'll cost a small fortune in overtime pay to summon him during his vacation. Plus, Juniper has been fine all week, so there are absolutely no concerns on my part."

As Sammy gave me more instructions by rote about the dog's diet and playtime regime, Wellesbourne said his goodbyes to his prized pet. Juniper responded by flopping her tail against the big pillow, though her head remained on its fluffy perch. The old man and Sammy began to walk toward the front door, but I managed to grab Sammy by the arm as Wellesbourne left to retrieve his overcoat from another room.


He gritted his teeth and very lowly said to me, "You would have said 'no' if you knew everything. Trust me. You'll figure out what's going on soon enough."

Wellesbourne returned, ready for his party, and Sammy got the door for him. With a cheery wave and a jarringly loud "Merry Christmas!" the old man took his exit with Sammy, leaving me and Juniper to the great, dark house on Gilda Road.

I stepped back into the movie room where Juniper still lay upon her pillow.

"I think that 'Merry Christmas' was more for you than me," I told her. She looked at me without moving her head. I figured that if she liked war movies, then I'd be doing a good thing to turn one on for her. I found the cache of remotes by the large leather couch, but I couldn't figure out the controls. I was just about to use my phone to find a video of somebody playing Call of Duty or something when I heard a loud crash come from the kitchen.

"Did you hear that," I asked the dog. She gave no response, not even a raised ear. "Not much of a guard dog, are you, girl?" Not being a character in a horror movie, I went to go investigate the loud noise.

No, I wouldn't call that night a horror movie, but I hadn't realized it at that point that I was definitely in a supernatural tale.

I walked into the kitchen and found the empty pot that Wellesbourne had used to cook the tomato soup laying on the ground between the kitchen island and the oven. I picked it up and said "tomato" to the empty room for no reason at all, pronouncing it like Wellesbourne had earlier. I laughed a bit and put the pot back on the drying rack.

Behind me, I heard the sound of chains being rattled. I froze in terror.

"Wellesbourne..." The voice sounded dusty and cracked, like weathered tree bark. "Wellesbourne, you must change your ways."

I couldn't speak. I slowly turned around and saw a what looked like a person standing behind the kitchen island, hovering and emitting a blue-green glow. The vision was definitely in the form of a man, probably in his mid-fifties, dressed in a suit not unlike the one Wellesbourne had worn earlier - again, minus the candy cane tie. Though the thing appeared to be a real person, the hovering and glowing tipped its hand as actually being a ghost. Chains were wrapped all around it, which also seemed weird.

It continued in its low, crumbling timbre. "You must learn the true meaning of Compassion and of Empathy. You must learn before it is too late, Wellesbourne."

I found my voice. "I...I'm not Wellesbourne," I told the ghost.

"What!" it exclaimed, glowering at me with all its might.

"I'm not Lucas Wellesbourne. I promise."

It glowered at me for a moment longer, then relaxed its gaze.

"No, you're not, are you?" it said.

"Sorry." I couldn't think of anything else to add, so I said it again. "I'm sorry."

"Well..." The ghost looked around, then disappeared. I relaxed a bit, but then it returned seconds later. "Well, where is he? Where is Lucas Wellesbourne?"

"Out at a party."

"Out at a party!" The ghost seemed mad. "That's not where he's supposed to be!"

"Again, I'm sorry."

Sounds of gunfire erupted from elsewhere in the house. Both the ghost and I peered into the hallway to locate the source.

I turned to the ghost and said, "Sorry, I have to check on that."

I soon found that the noise was coming from the screening room. I ran in and saw that a war movie, there in all of its black and white glory, was indeed playing on the big movie screen. Juniper laid as she had before, though her eyes were cast toward the film and her tail thumped happily.

"How did you do that?" I asked her. The ghost appeared behind me.

"What's going on in here?" it asked.

"Well, the dog likes war movies and I guess she knows how to turn them on herself. Smart dog."

The ghost floated closer to the dog, inspecting her.

"She doesn't seem to be bothered by the noise."

"Her name is Juniper," I said, trying to sound like we were all just having a casual evening. "No, Wellesbourne said she likes it."

"Wellesbourne!" It suddenly remembered the mission. The ghostly blue-green color glowed warmer with the memory of its target. "Where do I find Wellesbourne?"

I waved my hands a bit to try and calm the ghost down. "Believe me, I wish I could tell you. I don't even really work here. My friend Sammy Kendig set this up, but it's been weird since..."

The ghost held up a single finger and floated toward me, stopping inches away from my face. "Did you say Sammy Kendig?"

"Yeah, Sammy Kendig. Owns Kendig's Bar down on Niagara Street?"

The ghost looked mournful. "That is my son."

"Your...?" I sat on the leather couch. "Whoa."

The ghost hovered at the edge of the couch, fiddled with the dangling chains around its midsection a bit.

"Yeah." The ghost watched the screen as a few bombs drop onto running soldiers for a bit, then continued. "I used to work with Lucas Wellesbourne, bore witness as greed began to transform him into a monster, but I did nothing to stop the process. The promise of a substantial future and pervasive legacy had gripped me, consumed my every thought. My own greed laid out the plans that ultimately created Wellesbourne's vast fortune, but I didn't live to share in the bounty. That simple irony, however, was lost on my otherworldly handlers. The price of my deeds had sealed my fate all the same; my actions had damned me to an afterlife of regret. On this eve, I am sent to perhaps save Wellesbourne from his avaricious ways and maybe spare a part of my soul that wears these chains as a constant reminder to the burden on my everlasting soul."

The ghost looked to me, just as a tank exploded in the movie.

"But this stuff with my son is heavy."

I nodded my head and tried to be respectful, even though I was still very shaken up by being haunted for the first time in my life. Plus the loud movie wasn't helping.

"I'm Jason Kendig, by the way," the ghost told me. The cloudy nature of its physical form couldn't mask its miserable expression. Being a ghost must be kind of a sad life, especially during the holiday season.

"Stan Miggins. Nice to meet you."


With that, the ghost rose to the top of the screening room and disappeared through the ceiling.

I caught my breath a bit after it was gone, though my head felt hot and sweaty. I retreated to another room of the house, leaving Juniper to her war movies. Finding some sort of study, I collapsed into the most comfortable random chair I'd ever sat in outside of a furniture store. Rich people sure could afford nice stuff. I contemplated calling Sammy to tell him about his dad, even though I took the warning about getting automatically fired to extend to Sammy's phone as well. It might sound crazy now, but I knew I still wanted the money after that night was all over.

Then it hit me. Sammy knew that this would happen! And the next step would likely include that locked room that he'd shown me while Wellesbourne was getting dressed.

I ran down the hall to the security door. Once I got there, I waited for some sort of sign that I was in the right spot. I thought maybe a mystical light would shine or the door would turn a different color and open, but nothing happened. I looked at the keypad and thought maybe something had given me clues earlier to figure out the code, but nothing occurred to me. I tried out a few series of numbers but got a red light as a response from each of them.

The only solution I could come up with at that point twisted up my guts to even think about, but I had to give it a try.

"Um, Mr. Kendig?" Nothing. "I could use your help here, I think! Mr. K.?"

Silence, then suddenly:

"What do you want, Miggins?" The blue-green glow flickered behind me, causing my toes to curl.

"Um, okay," I sputtered. "So, your son was here earlier and he showed me this door."

Mr. Kendig's ghost blankly stared at me. "And...?" he finally asked.

"Well, that's it. He just showed me the door. I assumed I was supposed to get inside of it, but I can't."

"Okay. Great story." The ghost began to leave.

"Wait! I think Sammy knew that you would come here tonight and maybe help me get into this room."

"What makes you think that?"

I thought for a moment. "I guess I don't have a reason, but it makes sense, right? The door, the dog, the ghost...I mean, you?"

"You're not very smart, are you?"

I shrugged. "Jury's out. Can you help me?"

The spirit sighed and gathered its spectral chains off of the floor. It then began to spin around, and continued spinning until somehow its form began to elongate and narrow, becoming as thin as a piano wire. The spirit then launched itself into the keypad, which soon began to glow the same bright blue-green hue of the ghost. Sparks flew, some mechanism inside the lock exploded, and the closed door creaked open.

"Thank you, spirit," I told Kendig as I walked into the windowless room. It was some sort of office. Kendig hovered near me as I turned on a light and began to look around. There were a few file cabinets and a desk littered with documents that I could really understand.

Then I saw it, there in the center of the room. It was a scale model of downtown Peoria, pretty hard to miss.

"Oh, neat," I exclaimed as I went for a closer look.

"What is that?" the ghost asked, now hovering above the model.

"It's Peoria," I said. "Well, the downtown area anyway."

"I don't recognize it."

"Oh, yeah. Well, it's probably a little different than when you were...you know."

"Yes, when I was alive."

"Yeah. Let me show you." I pointed out a few additions that had been made to the city since his time, things like the Riverfront Market and the Civic Center.

"Well, I recognize those. Those were both there when I was alive."

"Ah. Okay." I felt like an idiot for not knowing the dates for things. Then I noticed something. "Hey, everything between Niagara and Main is different. I don't see even Kendig's on here."

Seeing it clearly, the ghost and I looked to each other, like detectives finding a crucial clue. The ah-ha moment was cut short, however, as elsewhere in the house, something heavy crashed through something else that sounded even heavier. Yelling and the clangs of stuff being smashed started very soon after.

"Security breach! Freeze!" I didn't recognize the voices, but they sounded authoritative. I dove underneath the scale model's table. Kendig disappeared through the wall to inspect the commotion. He soon reported back to me.

"It looks like the police were summoned when you incorrectly entered the code for this room. The sounds of the war movie and fact that no lights were on outside gave them cause to break down the front door."

"Oh, freakin' hell," I said, the hope of any pay for the night detonating in my mind.

Then fits of barking erupted from near the screening room. The ghost vanished again. I slowly crawled out from underneath the table. I figured that if the dog was now involved, then there would be no escaping some form of punishment.

Kendig returned.

"It appears that a massive bout of separation anxiety has caused dear Juniper to lash out at several officers, which caused them to retaliate with tear gas. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, the dog has escaped through the crashed front door into the neighborhood."

"Okay, I don't need any more details, Mr. Kendig," I said, suddenly feeling quite dispirited. "I think I'd rather just be surprised from here on out."

I walked out of the room and through a cloud of smoke that had consumed the entire floor. My eyes watered as I passed a policeman that had lost consciousness during all the commotion. I grabbed him by the arm and tried to drag him out, but the tear gas and a general lack of muscles soon caused me to leave him only a couple of feet from where I'd found him. Making my way past several broken pieces of furniture and the demolished front door, I walked into the yard and was immediately tackled by the security guard I'd met earlier. She had obviously been in a rush to help out since she was still wearing her shiny elf hat, the little ornaments jingling festively along the brim.

The guard soon had my neck in a unyielding hold that soon caused spots to dance before my eyes, like sugarplums falling onto freshly-driven snow.

As I began to pass out, I looked out into the neighborhood and saw that the world's loneliest Santa Claus was scared out of his mind, trying to climb up onto the roof of that tool shed gingerbread house. I swore that the King of the Elves was screaming for Rudolph to save him, but he might have just been shouting "roof" and "dog" to the police that were running to and fro in all the chaos. Juniper was there, snarling and snapping at poor Santa's heels all the while. As the oxygen was cut off from my brain and darkness clouded the world, I concluded that Juniper was more of a guard dog than I have given her credit for. Or perhaps all those war movies had instilled something in her that a lifetime of luxury couldn't suppress.

During the minute or so that I was knocked out, I had a weird, short dream set to that Nutcracker music. But this story is long enough without a Russian ballet break, so I'll get on with it. Regardless, I was wide awake and firmly back in the Land of the Conscious throughout my subsequent arrest and booking.

In a weird bit of holiday irony, I ended up sharing a jail cell with old Saint Nick himself. It turned out that our lonely Santa from Gilda Road was actually a dangerous criminal that had been going house-to-house robbing the people inside. While I was dog-sitting and entertaining a ghost, most of the neighbors were gagged and tied to chairs, trying their best to call for help. Juniper was a hero dog after all!

"I had cased that block for months," Santa confided to me and a few other Christmas Eve undesirables. Luckily, he didn't seem to recognize me as the guy that had honked at him, or accidentally let the dog loose to corner him. "I scaled the gate, took those snoots down one-by-one, all by myself. But I knew not to go after Wellesbourne's place, and all because of that freakin' mutt."

"I hear she was raised on nothing but war movies," I opined. The other Christmas Eve jailbirds lifted their eyebrows in appreciation.

"That doesn't surprise me," Santa said, pulling off his red hat and scratching his head. "I was raised on biker movies myself."

I think that Juniper's opportunity for heroism may have been why Lucas Wellesbourne himself showed up to the police station and dropped all the charges against me. He waited for me at one of the officer's desks in the bullpen area. Sammy was nowhere to be seen, but I wasn't sure yet if that meant he'd gone undetected.

I apologized to Wellesbourne for all the destruction and chaos that I'd caused. He accepted, and we walked out of the station together. It was now Christmas morning. The festive lights and ornaments that lined the street along the front of the police station actually made me feel cheerier, despite my present circumstances and company.

"The extraordinary thing, Mr. Miggins, is that you chose to not use this to enter my private office." With that, he removed from his jacket pocket the card that Sammy had given me for the dog expert. "This isn't Mr. Trundle's phone number. It appears as though Samuel tried to slip you my security code undetected."

I felt like an idiot, but I was pretty used to the sensation by then. I had ransacked my brain for something that was sitting in my pocket the whole time. The card had been just given to me by the person I was abetting seconds before he left the soon-to-be crime scene. Unlike Santa, I did not see a future in crime for myself.

"How did you get that?" I asked, wondering how Wellesbourne could have removed it from the personal possessions I'd had to turn over to the police. In response to my question, he only lifted an eyebrow to tell me what I already knew, that the cops here would have given Lucas Wellesbourne anything he asked. He ran Peoria, and not secretly.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm not angry with you and certainly not with Samuel. It's no secret that I've wanted to develop the land surrounding his bar. I'm sure hard evidence would have caused some stir of public outcry, perhaps blocking my legal advances."

"Damn straight," I said.

"But what you probably didn't surmise from the model in my office is that I plan to include all of the businesses in the new development, and pay them handsomely in the process."

"I guess I did not surmise that, no."

"No, it's something that I've been meaning to bring up with Samuel for a few months, but when he approached me for work as my temporary assistant this year, I thought perhaps he would have jumped at the opportunity. I was just about to tell him about his good fortune when the party's host alerted me that the police were storming my house, breaking my property, setting off artillery, and let out poor, sweet Juniper."

"Sorry," I said, apologizing once again to a man I thought I hated.

"I trust that you met Samuel's father this evening?"

The shock of that question hit my face quick. "How did you know?" I asked.

"Because Jason Kendig has appeared to me on Christmas Eve every year for the past twelve years."

At that moment, a long, black car pulled up in front of us. Wellesbourne offered me a ride to my car. I accepted and, along the way, he told me about the first Christmas Eve that the elder Kendig had visited him, the state of his life at that time, the unending greed that had consumed him before he was beset to change his ways.

"And I listened to his warning. Or, I guess I tried to listen. It was very easy to be a perfectly good person that first week, just after having those damned chains rattled in my face. But then it was the new year and business continued. Hard choices had to be made. Then Kendig appeared to me again that next Christmas, a real stickler for perfection. And so I tried my best again to do better, but then somebody was caught stealing from the company in March and the board forced me to fire him."

Wellesbourne shrugged and continued. "I don't know, maybe he had a sick kid or something that I didn't know about? It counted against me though, I know that much." He sighed.

"I guess it gets tricky," I offered him, deciding to not bring up the hired goons, the indulgent mansion without any Christmas decorations, and the poorer neighborhoods of Peoria that Wellesbourne had legitimately played a part in destroying.

"You're damn right it gets tricky," he said. "And then the spirit appeared again that next Christmas, and again and again, each time forgetting the previous year's progress. It was like I was as bad as I always was, which created a small case of contempt on my part, I'll admit it."

I noticed that we weren't heading back to Gilda Road, and my sudden nervousness must have been apparent.

"Relax, I'm not taking you somewhere to be 'taken care of' or anything like that. I may be visited by a ghost every Christmas Eve, but I'm not a madman."

The car pulled up to Kendig's Bar. Wellesbourne smiled at me and said he could use a drink. He held the door open for me and I walked into my home away from home. The place was as festive as I'd ever seen it, which meant there were a few more lights than usual and some mistletoe dangling above the liquor bottles behind the bar. It was still before noon (and Christmas morning), so only a couple of hardcore regulars were there. Sammy was the only one working, washing glasses left over from the previous night.

Wellesbourne leaned in and said to me low enough for Sammy not to hear, "Now, let's find something besides ghosts to talk about, Mr. Miggins. The first round is on me."

Sammy was beyond concerned at first, seeing me and Wellesbourne there, but the old man soon let him know that all was forgiven. Most importantly, Juniper was safe and sound, resting at home to the sounds of Casualties of War. The three of us drank ale. Sammy brought out a cheese plate as Wellesbourne went over his design to incorporate Kendig's into a new plan he had for the neighborhood. Sammy fought hard against it, but he was listening and they were discussing it like real people, so that's something.

For my part, I was starving after a long night in jail, so my concentration was mainly on the cheese tray. After stuffing my face for a few minutes, I wandered over to the jukebox and found a Bing Crosby song on the menu. It wasn't one of his Christmas tunes, but it didn't matter. I was with an old friend and maybe (but not probably) a new one, each of them reaching out and trying to do better. I thought about how I wanted to do better too. After all, the afterlife was apparently real, and holy heck did I need to get my act together.

Okay, that's pretty much the end, but here's one last thing. Then maybe you can tell me what you did over the holidays.

After we left Kendig's, Wellesbourne delivered on his promise to bring me back to my car. After a too loud "Merry Christmas", he handed me a generous check for that previous night's work (especially generous considering the circumstances). With the payment, Wellesbourne included a small gift that I immediately unwrapped as soon as I was back behind the wheel of my old, collapsing Honda.

The present was a used copy of D.H. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers, the book that Wellesbourne's grandmother was supposedly in. Thumbing through it, the story really didn't look like my kind of thing. I'm not much of a reader, to tell you the truth, but I decided I'd give it a try - you know, in the spirit of trying to do better.

As I began to drive away from Wellesbourne's home, I could hear another big, loud war movie playing inside the screening room for Juniper. The gunfire and falling bombs were clear as a bell, even over the loud rattle of my car's engine. I couldn't stop smiling during the whole drive home, because I could feel something, or maybe someone from far away, telling me that it was going to be a very good Christmas.

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

Surprisingly Felt

Having espied it a hundred times that morning, Amelia didn’t need to look at the clock on the wall in front of her desk again. She did it again out of spite though. It was almost noon and Morris still hadn’t arrived at work. Amelia wasn’t angry, livid, furious, or mad; she was holding back those emotions for when Morris could witness each of them in person.

They had worked together as account managers at Voguish for several years, repping local businesses for the small Rapid City marketing company and coordinating with South Dakotan vendors for quick and dirty advertising, mainly online. However Amelia couldn’t help but notice that Morris had been showing less and less interest in his job since Stanley got promoted to Senior Manager, a position warranting capitalization only by the most strident of corporate mentation.

It was to Stanley that Amelia had been reporting on Morris’s whereabouts all morning, and to Stanley that she had just about run out of fake reasons for why Morris wasn't at his desk.

“Oh, is he gone again? I hadn’t noticed.” Amelia said, pretending to file something in an overstuffed cabinet. She stood up and gazed over the partition that separated her work space from Morris's, pretending to be surprised that he was not at his desk.

“Looks like,” Stanley said. He measured his wristwatch’s time against the clock on the wall in an open act of pointed criticism.

"I think he had to run out again to...get something printed?" Stanley turned to Amelia and her eyes went wide. If he were a card player, Stanley would have simply pushed in all of his chips and called her bluff. Instead, he calmly asked her, "And are we having printer issues today?"

Amelia’s eyes stayed saucer-shaped. "We may very well might…be."

Stanley rubbed his temple, made a high-pitched ah-huh noise, and walked back to his office. Hurriedly, Amelia called Morris's cellphone for a second time, matching the two texts she'd already sent him.

The call went to voicemail and "The Rainbow Connection" began playing. It sounded as though Morris had recorded the song by holding his phone up to a TV speaker. It annoyed her to no end. Morris had replaced his usual outgoing message with the mournful ballad from The Muppet Movie about a month prior, and Amelia was determined to get him to change it back. True, she had a well-documented aversion to all things Muppet. But that aside, she reasoned that a client could try to reach him after work hours and undoubtedly perceive the tune childlike or, much worse, something a college student would use.

Yet even in the throes of protestation, the tune's introspective vibe caused Amelia to think back to before Stanley was promoted to management, back to when she, Morris, and Stanley were all close friends – well, “close” for office friendships anyway. In those days, they often gathered on the fifth floor alcove to eat lunch together and, every other Friday or so, they’d just the three of them go out for drinks at Hotchsky’s. But Fun Stanley had been set out to sea by a wave of corporate promise, eventually catching Reliable Morris in its riptide. If a promotion had turned Stanley into King Schmuck of Wristwatch Valley, professional jealousy had turned Morris into Prince Whatever of Blasé Mountain. He had been habitually tardy for weeks upon weeks, and today's disappearance was likely a sign of worse things to come.

A beep finally ended the song about the sweet sound that calls the young sailors. Amelia took a deep breath and found her inside voice, a measured terseness. "Hey, you really need to call or text me if you're gonna be this late. Stanley's looking for you and I'm fresh out of possible errands you could be running. And, you do realize, I can't do your work and mine too, okay?"

She ended the call and started on an email to one of her clients, Aberdeen Underground, which she'd been putting off all morning in favor of keeping Morris's hounds at bay. No sooner than she began typing she heard Morris's chair creak in the cubicle next to hers. Amelia hadn’t heard him enter the office, but his door was closest to the elevator so he didn’t have to walk by other Voguish employees to get to his desk. She wondered if maybe moving him to a place where he’d have to walk the Gauntlet every day would straighten him out before deciding that it would, at best, serve as nothing more than a temporary fix.

"I just left you a voicemail,” she called over the partition. “You need to get your act together and be here on time, dude. I'm not your big sister."

He didn't respond. She heard some typing coming from his side of the wall and hoped that he was addressing a billing inconsistency that had been flagged around ten that morning. She had no idea what had caused it, and was glad that he was here to take care of it now…if that’s what he was doing. She had no way of telling.

"Oh, and if I ever need to leave early, guess who’ll be handling each and every one of my clients’ requests? His name is Morris and he’s kind of a jerk."

Still no response. Amelia huffed (cringing to hear herself actually huff like a cartoon character), then turned her attention back to the Aberdeen Underground email she couldn't seem to start on. She thought it was just because she was too busy to concentrate, but she was starting to see that it was something bigger. Her thoughts were stuck on a loop about what a self-centered jerk Morris had become, and how it was affecting her entire outlook on her job. She used to like coming into work, but his apathy mocked her dedication. She didn't like how his attitude affected hers. It put her in a mood that made the room feel stuffy to the point where it was hard to breathe.

That’s when she heard “The Rainbow Connection” coming from Morris’s cubicle. Before she could stand up to shout at Morris that she wasn’t in the mood for games, Stanley's office door swung open and he darted toward Amelia's desk. "Is he in yet?" Stanley lobbed the question in her direction, though he didn't stop for an answer. He then spoke in a voice that sounded like he was talking to a house pet.

"Aww...where's Morris? Where's my good boy?" Stanley strode passed Amelia's desk to stand directly in front of Morris's. There was a short gasp and the pet owner voice was gone. It was replaced by a funhouse mirror version of Stanley’s normal voice. "Okay...what am I looking at here, Morris?"

"I'm Morris the Person, here and ready to get the job done!" Amelia suddenly felt as though she were the one in the funhouse. She still couldn't see him, but the voice was Morris's, that much was unmistakable. However, it was more animated and silly-sounding, like he was reading Green Eggs and Ham to an elementary class.

Stanley then backed away from Morris's cubicle, returning to Amelia's field of vision. His face was a maze of confusion and terror.

Rather than standing up to peer over the partition, Amelia decided that whatever was going on deserved the quick Band-aid removal method. She got up and walked out of her cubicle, quickly circling around to stand in front of Morris. That's when she saw the new thing that Morris had turned himself into.

It was quite surprising. Morris had covered his head and arms in a bright blue material, the type of slightly furry cloth used to make puppets. It clung as close to him as skin. Fluffy yellow hair spiked outward from the top of his head. He had also affixed ping pong balls over his eyes, had placed in them small holes allowing for a what had to be limited visibility. The new eyes had blue eyelids which were positioned in such a way as to give him a relaxed, somewhat lazy appearance. Altogether, the work was very professional-grade. Morris had somehow skillfully turned himself into a big puppet, albeit one in normal street clothes.

"Hiya, Amelia!" it said to her. The song was still playing; the lonely, dreaming frog wrestled with ever-approaching destiny. Morris's fascination with it may have been a clue of things to come, though who could predict a puppet man showing up to work one day?

"Hello, Morris the Person," Amelia heard herself say. "Is this...is this like, for a birthday party thing or something?"

"Nope! This is me now. Till the end of time!" Morris the Person's mouth opened slightly, looking amazingly like a genuine smile to the bewildered woman it was directed toward. His big puppet head swayed side-to-side in soft euphoria as the song played. Somewhere behind her, Stanley's office door slammed. Amelia tried to say something, anything that might reach deep into the puppet thing to find Morris, but then her desk phone rang and, after a brief weigh-in of her options, she decided that answering the call would be the best thing to do in that moment.

It was Dasha from Aberdeen Underground, calling to find out if Amelia had sent a delivery through the night before. She hadn't, and there was a looming deadline. Amelia asked Dasha to hold one minute and then just sat at her desk, doing nothing but staring at the blinking light of the held phone call. She listened as "The Rainbow Connection" ended and then immediately started playing again.

Other coworkers started gathering near Morris's desk, some to pay him compliments on his craftsmanship, others to snidely mock him. Morris spoke to them all in the whimsical voice he had chosen for his new persona, never breaking character in the face of snark or logistical questions about life as a puppet. Soon after, a security guard came up to their floor and asked Morris the Person if he - if everything in fact - was alright. Once the guard was satisfied that the costume wasn't meant for dangerous motivations, he went to calm down Stanley.

Amelia listened to this all as she watched the blinking hold light eventually extinguish, followed by Dasha trying to call again. Amelia didn't pick up. She could fix the delivery mistake, but she wasn't in the mood for worrying about it now. It sounded like many of the coworkers had dispersed from Morris's desk, so she went back over to see him again. "The Rainbow Connection" was still playing, though it was either now at a lower volume, or Amelia was less bothered by it.

"Hiya, Amelia!" Morris the Person said in the same tone as before.

"Listen, Morris the Person," she said. "I want you to know this: I can work with a puppet. That's fine. But I'm not going to be friends with one. It's nothing personal, but I don't want to be the girl hanging out with the big puppet man at Hotchsky's or the taco place on Second Street."

"It sounds like you could use a lesson in tolerance!"

"No, I don't need that. I'm not talking about hanging out with someone in a wheelchair or a man that decides to live his life as a woman." She pointed at him. "I'm talking about you. You're dressed like a clown and acting like a child."

"An open mind is a window to friendship!"

"Probably is, but I don't want to be friends with Big Bird's news reporter. If you can't do this job as a real person, that's fine. Be Morris the Person all you want. But you better be here on time and ready to work when you do it."

"I'm here and ready to get the job done!" he replied. He made a I'm-on-it arm gesture to signal his resolve and Amelia noticed that Morris only had four fingers on each hand. She hoped his method for achieving the effect wasn't surgical.

"Well then, Morris the Person. Welcome to Voguish. I look forward to working with you." With that she left him and went back to her desk.

By the time Amelia left the office that night, she didn't even notice that "The Rainbow Connection" had been playing on a loop the entire rest of the day.

A week later, Amelia did end up going to Hotchsky's with Morris the Person. She had been busy as hell the previous few days and figured going to a bar with a giant puppet would at least make for a good story after she quit working at Voguish, any day now she figured. But you know what? The puppet thing turned out to be a fun time (and a surprisingly effective wing man). The following week, Stanley and a few other coworkers joined them and had a great time too. By the end of the following year, Morris the Person had been named CEO of Voguish and Amelia couldn't tell you what they'd all do without him.

Time is funny that way, just like television often tells us it is.