Shelf life
Part 1
I remember the last time I saw the sun. Or rather, I remember how it was. Before all this.
My face tinged a slight crimson of indulgence. An afternoon's sandpapered skin, and sand in pants and nooks and hiding among toes, incredulous to the rumored shower. A smell of crusted seawater like the best of days. Sun cream thick and wasted, and my muscles all over aching like it had been too long since I last cavorted, tumbing in the surf's playful reprimand. Chasing a beach ball to the plastic brink of extinction. What a day. The memory's condensed now to a hard gel of happiness you wouldn't believe if it zapped you with daytime TV overkill. So warm. And overwhelmingly funny. Like-.
Like a man slipping on a banana peel?
Something like that. Try picturing an infinity of people slipping on an infinity of banana peels, or any fruited infinite surface. A Charlie Chaplin gene pool.
Tilting the Earth right out of its axis.
Right. Not funny at all.
I don't understand funny.
Nobody expects you to. Perhaps you'll learn it one day. Shall I continue?
Yes.
All of it's gone, and I cannot shake the life, like it's somehow still there. Like I'm living then, and not now. You know what I mean?
Yes.
I wake up. Brain roused like a herd of buffalo on crack-cocaine. I'm sober, but nothing's normal now, including each and every atom break-dancing wall to wall in my cranium. The rides begin their whir and throttle early today. Shrieks are still shrieks, lacking luster as they may. It's hot. Think hydrant-splash on tarmac sans the hydrant.
The pat-patpat on the rickety trailer door says Bob a million-to-one.
"I'm coming out," I yell, embarrassed at the state of my dwelling, however absurd given the circumstances.
"Take your time," he muffles through the clench of his pipe.
"Eastern or Pacific?" Pants are a bitch to get into. I can't remember washing them, so shrinkage is out. Then again, I can't remember a good meal of late, so it's official. I'm puzzled, and someone's pocketed half the jigsaws.
"We got a visitor," Bob says like you mention leftover omelet, but, of wont equanimous as fuck, a glint about his crowed eyes betrays excitement.
My jeans rip a hole in the universe, but a quick glance confirms they cover the essentials, and I fall over myself to get the fuck out. "How the hell," I begin, stuttering, forgetting momentarily that the door hinges inward. How does that help anyone? And by hinges I mean hanging by a thread like anybody's guess. Hinged, until a moment ago. "How the hell's that possible?" I manage finally, sizing up a playful twitch in that handlebar moustache.
"The name's Huda. Claims to know of a way out."
"What?"
"And cute."
"I can't wait."
Do we know how she got here?
She was being overly technical about the matter. And quiet. Everyone's pissed off, but letting her off the hook, focusing in stead on the remote chance of escaping. Like asking questions might jinx it.
There's no such thing.
How can you tell?
The odds are against the supernatural.
Oh.
I stand there, looking at Bob, and we say nothing for a good, oh, infinity, until a bunch of kids dart past like school's out. "She staying at the Inn, then?"
"Yeah, Martha wouldn't have it any other way. Kicked out the midgets to make room. Asking for trouble if you ask me." For a second the mirth's deserted him, and he pats down his flannel suit, in search of his pipe until he finds the stack jutted from his mouth, taking an air like he knew all along.
"Probably."
Bob sneaks a peek in the space vacated by the imposter door. "We probably ought to take a look at that."