The Wish Belly: Part XI
A fiction serial by Shane Kimberlin
In earlier installments of The Wish Belly, our nameless protagonist journeys through a world beneath the surface of our own, searching for his missing wife. He is accompanied by a strangely powerful cat.
Far from being in the depths of the earth, Highway Blues was a hundred feet from a stairwell and exit into the outside world. When we walked outside, the sun’s thumbs rubbed my eyes. I was surrounded by the quiet bustle of students headed to classes, heads down on phones or in conversation, as oblivious to anything out of the ordinary as I was to their day. In a gazebo a few hundred feet away sat a cross-legged man, clad in a Hawaiian shirt and hypothetical beard, strumming a guitar and singing to the occasional passerby. Professors walked as if they were restrained from running only by university decorum and their dress shoes.
“Look different?” said Melinda.
“Yes. Some things are the same. Same types of people, like that guy playing guitar. But it’s a new school now. Even the professors have changed faces. I don’t recognize anyone”
A truck was parked on the street right near the sidewalk to the door. It was a box truck and old, painted a decaying orange that mingled with rust like garish wallpaper. A rotund, slumping man stood by its back doors. He wore a grey jumpsuit and sipped on a can of Red Bull. “Hey, Miss,” he said, “Yous the one with the dishwasher. Highway Blues?”
“Yep,” Melinda said, “That’s me. Do I gotta sign anything?”
“Always,” he said, “Here.” He handed her the clipboard. She scribbled a signature that was unreadable but to her and handed it back.
“This came all the way from the East Coast,” he said.
“It’s a high-quality item.”
“I’ll say.” He slid open the truck’s back door and climbed up. Inside was a box, wrapped in layers of plastic. “Yo,” said the driver, “You gonna help?,” he said at me. I climbed up and we pushed the box, lighter than expected.
“Lady,” said the driver, “This thing ain’t heavy like a dishwasher should be. You sure it’s in there?” “Oh yeah,” she said, “It’s European. One of those new eco-friendly dishwashers. Boss is making me get it.”
“Eco-friendy, huh? Whatever floats yer boat. I miss the old ones, where you heard the stuff getting cleaned. You knew it was working.”
“Got that right. Thanks again,” she said.
We moved the box into the café without much problem. It was nice to do something mundane again. A bad dream is often leavened by an intrusion of the ordinary, and I wondered if many a nightmare’s monster could be defeated by a moment of coffee and solving a crossword puzzle.
Melinda took a small cutting knife and sliced open the plastic wrap, cut open the box.
“Do you need to save the box in case you want to return it?”
She looked at me and smiled. “You really aren’t keeping up, are you?”
She ripped open the box to reveal a square box. It was electric blue and very plain in design, save for the bright yellow keyboard on front with a small slot above it. “Surprise,” she said, “it’s not a dishwasher at all.”
“I can see that.” She tapped a button. The box began to whir.
“Okay,” she said, “I am going to get your ticket now. I’m gonna ask you a series of questions.”
“A serious question?” I said.
“What? No. A series OF questions. They’ll be serious too. You’re complicating things.”
“What is this?”
“What is what?” she asked, “They ask this to people who travel overseas all the time, which you’ll be doing. It’s good.”
“No, I mean, what is the box? It looks like a kid’s toy.”
“Huh? It’s a printer. Of sorts. I can’t just write your name on a post-it note. We gotta do this professionally. It’s definitely not a toy.”
“What does it do? Does it run on batteries?”
She sighed. “I don’t really know,” she said, “do you know how a computer works?”
“Fairly well. I’m a software engineer. I’ve built a few.”
“Okay, wrong question, but you get what I’m sayin’, right? It works, the company uses it for travel purposes, and I don’t really care beyond those two things. People go to their destinations, my job’s done and I’m paid, and all’s good.”
“You get paid for this?”
“Yeah man, not everybody is a mystical face thingy in a tree. Sorry, yeah, they pay me. Straight to the account with each new customer.”
“Okay. Sorry. I’m curious. This is all new to me. What kind of questions are there?”
“That’s a question right there. You know, typical stuff. Name, date of birth, hair color, height, ethnicity, nationality, reasons for travel, accent, list of basic fears-“
“-List of basic fears?” “Yeah, he’s thorough.” “What does he do, work for the NSA?”
“The what? Did you say NASA?”
“You know, like, the CIA.”
“I’m kidding. He’s just thorough. Look man, we don’t have to do this.” I stared at the front of my feet. They looked like little sharks stuck in a sea of stone. “No, look, it’s fine. I have to.”
“Do you want some coffee? You seem nervous.”
“I probably am, yeah. I just hate tests. I’m bad at them.” Melinda paused a moment. “Oh, I know, let’s make this fun,” she said.
She ran over to the light switches and dimmed all but one that hung over me.
“Now it looks like an interrogation. Ha.”
“This brings back memories,” said the cat, “he look like suspect in cop show.”
“Perp’s got five arrests under his belt,” said Miranda, “wanted again for grand theft bicycle.”
“He stole bike like big shot” said the cat, “now he must plead for his life.”
“That’s dark, cat,” said Melinda, “I like it.”
“He can’t HANDLES the truth,” said the cat.
“He’ll be TIRES after this questioning,” said Melinda.
“We’ll know if he’s back PEDALING on any answers,” said the cat.
“Okay,” I said, “I’m ready to be interrogated.”
“Guy might end up in CHAINS,” said Melinda.
“He might be WHEELED into the prison,” said the cat. “Guys,” I said, “seriously.”
The Wish Belly series by Shane Kimberlin:
