The Wish Belly: Part XIII
Photo by Manja Vitolic on Unsplash
A Fiction Serial by Shane Kimberlin
If you missed past installments of The Wish Belly you can find them at the links below.
The bald man stood with his briefcase and stared at me. His skin was sallow, his expression, bored, and his face completely forgettable.
“What did you say?” I asked him.
“I said, ‘we need to talk.’ And we do need to talk.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“Right question but the wrong person’s asking. Because I should ask-”
“-Who you think you’re talking to?”
“Precisely.”
I began walking off.
“I don’t have time for this,” I said to my back.
“But you do have time for this,” said the bald man, “Lots of time. Hours. But it’s all of ten minutes that I’m asking for.”
I kept walking, not even looking at him.
“For what?” I said.
“To make you an offer. We can get you out of this.”
His voice was smaller.
“Out of what?”
“Out of this bad, bad dream you’re having.”
I slowed down.
“A bad dream you keep hoping you’ll wake up from.”
I stopped.
“Cat got your tongue?”
I turned around. He walked up to me.
“My name,” he shook my hand, “is John. I represent some neutral third parties that are concerned about you and would like to make an offer, but we cannot discuss it here. Have you been to Gammy Jammy? Local coffee shop nearby on campus. We can talk there. A friendly chat. Nothing more.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Ten minutes of your time. That’s all.”
“Is this,” I said, “is this a joke?”
“No. What?”
“Like one of those shows where they film people’s funny reactions?”
“Kid. Are you serious? Look at me. I’m very serious. No jokes here. I am not wearing clown shoes. This briefcase,” he pointed to his briefcase, “contains zero pies. Just ten minutes. That’s all.”
I didn’t respond.
“Ten minutes that could change your life. I’ll pay for lunch. It’s a good, good place, great subs, tasty. If you refuse, hey, you got a decent meal out of the thing. No water off your back, ducks all in a row.”
I could have said no. But the last few days reminded me that life was like a computer program, and glitches weren’t meant to be seen as rare and ugly exceptions, but a sign of evolving essential features. Or maybe I had entered a new program. So why not play by its code? Only a bridge stood clear over a chaotic sea that I had to cross. Why not walk instead of swim?
“Alright.”
We headed to Gammy Jammy. The man’s right leg limped just. We didn’t talk.
We entered the cafe. Gammy Jammy used to be called Grounds Up, a standard hipster coffee shop that, from the looks of it, had decided to go under the knife and get a whole new face. The walls were painted hot pinks and blues. There were posters of movies and shows I’d forgotten about, new old relics of a different age. A poster from the movie Pulp Fiction. TVs playing sitcoms. One played Seinfeld. Another played Friends. Yet another played Mad About You. The song “She Don’t Use Jelly” by The Flaming Lips emanated over the speakers. A hostess sat on a high chair by the entrance on her phone.
“Hullo,” she said, “welcome to Gammy Jammy. How many?”
“Just two,” said John, “me and this guy.”
John pointed his thumbs at me, this guy, and asked for a booth.
“Okay,” she said, “follow me.” We followed. In the background an ad for an old video game played. We came to the booth.
“Your server should be here shortly,” said the hostess with a forced smile and left.
We both sat down at the booth and said nothing for a good ten seconds. This is a very long time when you are with a stranger and even longer when the stranger is strange. I felt very tired. John smiled.
“This is a good booth,”
“So,” I said, “who are these neutral third parties’?” They’re people interested in your situation.” “My situation?”
A young man of barely twenty ran over, clad in flannel and with a beanpole stature. He wore a nervous expression, like he wasn’t sure he should be working today.
“Hi guys,” he said, “sorry for keeping you waiting. My name is Tustin and I’ll be your server.”
“Excuse me,” John said, “did you say Dustin or Justin?”
“Oh,” laughed the waiter, “No, Tustin. It’s fine, people mistake it all the time. My parents were really big into Norse mythology. Too much. Lots of horns. Anyway, ya’ll hungry? Can I get you some menus? I forgot them.”
“That’d be swell,” said John, “but, hey, say, Tustin, what are the specials?”
“Let’s see...we got, right now, the Kurt Romaine Salad, the Mad About Au Jus, and a boss pasta called, um, the Chicken Alfredo. Hits different. I’ve had it twice. Today. I was really hungry.”
“I’ll just have a water,” I said.
“We’re still thinking. Give us five.”
“Sure thing,” said Tustin, who walked off with both hands on his belly.
“You really should try looking through the menu,” said John, “this place knocks the Korn with a K Bread out of the park.”
“What is going on?”
“One second. Tustin is not a real name. We need to calm down with these names. Look at me. I’m a John. It’s a very common name. And it gives me opportunities in this line of work. I get to be mysterious. You can’t be mysterious being called Tustin. You just work here and ride a one-wheel.”
“Uh huh.”
“I mean, let’s say my name was Tustin. Like, ‘hello there, I’m Tustin with a briefcase and black suit. Care to talk?’ You’d think I was trying to get you to come with me to church. It wouldn’t be full of menace, I’ll tell you that much.”
“It’s not a bad name,” I said.
“That’s not what I’m saying, what I’m saying is that certain names have certain connotations.”
“I am going to leave now.”
“Names like Leo Ivan.” Meat sizzled through the kitchen doors.
“Hey Speedy Gonzales, I’m getting to it. I know your kitty cat assaulted some rednecks at a roadstop. One guy even showed me his injuries. Brutal. I watched you fall down the hole on the hill with the cherry tree. I know your wife is missing. I know people aren’t worried yet because it’s the weekend but she’s supposed to be at work soon, no? Like, the day after tomorrow? So then they will be. And who to blame? You think they’re gonna believe she got kidnapped? Maybe. But then they hear your story. ‘Ha, ha, ha.’ You’re gonna be in jail because they don’t make nuthouses for people like you anymore.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“It’s scary, I bet. It’s scary to be looking at your situation And, you, I mean, look at you. You’re in deep.”
I drank my water.
“The cat is special,” said John.
I laughed. I was surprised at my own reaction.
“Oh? How so?” I said. “Please,” he said, “let’s move past the ambiguity. I am not the police. I am not part of any government. You are not in trouble. This is a friendly chat. This is, if anything, looking at the possible doors that can open for opportunity.”
“Sure, ‘John.’”
“You say the name ‘John’ like you’re making quotation marks outta thin air.”
“I don’t believe that’s your name.”
“Even if it wasn’t my name, it doesn’t matter. My real name is useless. Rose by any other. I am Their mouth, Their words. I don’t matter. We can use John if you want, or Tustin, or, hey, Henry Ford. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“‘Their?’” Who are you talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter. This is why I’m here.”
“I want to know who you represent.”
“You don’t. Because we want to get you out of all this. And we will.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“Simple,” John said, “we want the cat.”
“No.”
“See,” said the man, furrowing his brow, “you say that. You say that. But here’s the thing.”
“I don’t care.”
“You haven’t even heard the offer.”
“You gonna get me a new cat?”
“Ten million dollars.”
The man took the briefcase and opened it. Green stacks all in a row.
All real.
“Ten million dollars,” John repeated.
“Fake money,” I said, “you’re just going to make a scene.”
He grabbed a rubbed-banded stack of cash and tossed it to me. I felt it through my hands. He shut the briefcase and put it to his side as the waiter came back with paper menus and water.
“Okay, dudes, here you go. I’ll be back in five if that works.”
The waiter walked off.
John grabbed his menu and put on his reading glasses.
“You should look at his menu,” he said, “they got a Nirvana burger. And Joey’s Meatball Subs from Friends.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Sure you are. Oh, look, the ‘Macarena and Cheese with (Kevin) Bacon.’”
“Why do they want to give me ten million dollars for my cat? That’s insane.”
Your wife is gone. You got nowhere to turn. You’d go to the cops but what can they do? You’re in la la land. Another world. You are beyond the lines of conventional understanding, my friend, and so you are up the creek. My bosses want to give you a paddle. They see past the theatre of all... this-“ he waved his right hand in the air, representing all this “-They can help you find her.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What, freaky deaky stuff? Sure we do. I saw that cat go kamikaze on those hicks. Big whoop. But you need to think rationally. Money is what is going to get your wife back. That hole you dug up at the cherry tree? We got guys that can rope down. Need to hack a phone? Those freaks calling you with the vocal filter? We can track em-“
Was my line tapped at home?
“-We can hire gunboats. Helicopters? All at your fingertips. The best mercenaries and trackers and, uh, whatever you can imagine to help find her. Whatever. Hire a thousand guys more competent than you. That is what they, we, are offering.”
“For the cat.”
“Yes, for the cat.”
Tustin returned.
“Okay dudes, what’ll it be?”
“I’ll have,” John said, “the Full House Nachos.”
“I’m good,” I said, “the water’s fine.”
“Right on,” said Tustin, and he floated away from our booth.
“Who do you work for?”
“I don’t work for a group,” said John, “but a constellation of concerned parties. Good people. Good folk. They recycle. Board members of big boards. Rich. Very, very rich. They don’t want to hurt your cat. If I’m gonna be honest, this is so little for them, this ten million dollars. But they know it’s a lot for you. And in return they want to help you find your wife.”
“What is so special about this cat?”
“They didn’t tell me.”
I didn’t say anything. “Listen,” John said, “think it over. We want to do right by you. Here’s my card.”
John handed me his card. It said, simply:
JOHN
555-JOHN
“Think about it.”
“I have a question,” I said. “What’s that?”
“If my cat is so special, why didn’t you just try to take it from me when you had the chance?”
John smiled.
“I would have. But they told me not to.”
“Yeah?”
“They said, and I quote,” John said, “‘he has to willfully give the cat over. There is no other way.’ If you refuse the money, I’m supposed to let you go.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll take my chances.”
“What?”
“I’m good. I don’t need your help.”
John looked at me and smiled an awful smile.
“So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t find her.” “John,” I said,” that’s where you’re wrong. I’ll just look somewhere you haven’t”
John’s face began to redden. His bland features turned sharper and sharper, as if he was plastic, slowly melting in the sun.
“That’s where you’re wrong. You’re going farther down this bad dream. Down down down you go. And the monster is behind the closet door.”
And with that, John disappeared.
The Wish Belly installments by Shane Kimberlin:
