Somebody Call the Cops [Aaron]
Posted: 03 Mar 2018, 11:51
Time moved slowly in Harper Rock. Even on days when Carmen tried to keep busy, when she pushed past the sometimes overwhelming impulse to do nothing but sleep, hours dripped by like tar pitch. When, or if, she finally managed to drive out of this nowhere city, Carmen wouldn’t be surprised if it were hundreds of years later, and the minute she stepped over the border she would turn into ash.
When she was younger, she read a story about a man who had trespassed into a fairy court—or maybe had been invited in; Carmen wasn’t clear. Either way, the fairies must not have minded at all. The man drank and danced and ate with them, and at the end of the night, full, drunk and merry, he stumbled back to his house. But there was nothing left of that house, and an altogether different house stood where his house had. An old man, who was understandably suspicious of visitors at this time of night, answered the door. “Who is it?” he asked. The man said his name, and at this the old geezer paled and said, “You’re shitting me! That’s my great-great grandfather’s name!”
Something like that, anyway.
And the man turned into a pile of ash and blew away, presumably dead.
You aren’t supposed to eat anything in fairyland. Not pomegranate seeds or turkish delight. Nor tea cakes, nor taffy, nor baba ganoush. What about the drugs, Carmen wondered. The LSD was good, the Ecstasy not bad, the changa divine. If seven pomegranate seeds cost Persephone seven months a year, how many months for a tab of acid?
She waded through the tinkling canisters of nitrous oxide that littered the camper van and drew back the curtains. Grandpa was on the floor, snoring, his black-grey muzzle perched on his front paws. “Come on, Rip Van Winkle.” She woke him gently, scratching behind his floppy ears. He stirred and blinked up at Carmen, then yawned. “Come on,” she said again. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
#
She rolled up a cigarette on the steps of the campervan while Grandpa ate on the grass, then wandered around to piddle all over the place, agonizingly slow. Peeing took it out of Grandpa, now; he had to squeeze every drop straight out of his kidneys. He was still squatting when Carmen spotted the fat tick right at the corner of his muzzle, shining like a big, black bead. She got up, picked it off, and then ground the tick into the earth, saliva gathering at the corners of her mouth.
Grandpa and Carmen looked at each other, Grandpa’s eyes bleary, the strain of all his years on his face. “Good boy,” she said, patting his head. “You show ‘em.”
#
Carmen set up her kit just outside River Rock Station. She leashed Grandpa to a bike rack, set up her amp, mic, and pedals, and opened her guitar case to catch the pennies and dimes that people threw in every now and then.
Alone, Carmen could only draw audiences of five or six people at a time. But when Grandpa was around and howling along to his favorite Lila Downs song, they could draw in crowds of almost ten or fifteen people at a time, because who doesn’t like a big old dog with hip dysplasia?
Carmen really liked this song, too. It was one of those songs, one of those really good boogies that you sing in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep, so you and your husband sing and dance under the stars, and your big stupid dog howls along and the night is deep and the fire is bright and there’s nothing wrong in the world, nothing at all—
A high-pitched wail startled Carmen right out of her flashback. She waded up as if out of a pleasant dream and realized Grandpa wasn't howling anymore, and instead a woman was screaming over the wailing of a startled little girl—“That vicious thing bit my baby!” Grandpa sat there, growling low, still but tense, and the woman held her child to her chest.
Carmen stopped singing and put her guitar down, quieted the effects pedal. “Is she all right?” Carmen asked.
“All right? That monster nearly bit her hand off!"
“Let me see—”
“Don't touch her!"
There was no blood, and the child was obviously all right, but now that her mother had kicked up a fuss, it wouldn't stop wailing. A man piped up, “She was pulling on the dog’s tail and poking him or something.” And yet another person, “You should muzzle that thing!” "Hey, **** off, lady, it's just a dog." And soon the small crowd of eight turned ugly, shouting about what to do with the dog and who should sue.
The woman with the child had her cellphone out. “I’m calling the cops,” she snapped. “I’m going to tell them there’s a vicious dog on the loose.”
“Can you please just—”
But again people started talking over each other, and time slowed down, and sounds became incomprehesible. Carmen could do nothing but keep her hand tight around Grandpa’s leash and in the soft, warm space between his ears. “It’s all right." He was whining now. Shaking. “It’s going to be all right.”
When she was younger, she read a story about a man who had trespassed into a fairy court—or maybe had been invited in; Carmen wasn’t clear. Either way, the fairies must not have minded at all. The man drank and danced and ate with them, and at the end of the night, full, drunk and merry, he stumbled back to his house. But there was nothing left of that house, and an altogether different house stood where his house had. An old man, who was understandably suspicious of visitors at this time of night, answered the door. “Who is it?” he asked. The man said his name, and at this the old geezer paled and said, “You’re shitting me! That’s my great-great grandfather’s name!”
Something like that, anyway.
And the man turned into a pile of ash and blew away, presumably dead.
You aren’t supposed to eat anything in fairyland. Not pomegranate seeds or turkish delight. Nor tea cakes, nor taffy, nor baba ganoush. What about the drugs, Carmen wondered. The LSD was good, the Ecstasy not bad, the changa divine. If seven pomegranate seeds cost Persephone seven months a year, how many months for a tab of acid?
She waded through the tinkling canisters of nitrous oxide that littered the camper van and drew back the curtains. Grandpa was on the floor, snoring, his black-grey muzzle perched on his front paws. “Come on, Rip Van Winkle.” She woke him gently, scratching behind his floppy ears. He stirred and blinked up at Carmen, then yawned. “Come on,” she said again. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
#
She rolled up a cigarette on the steps of the campervan while Grandpa ate on the grass, then wandered around to piddle all over the place, agonizingly slow. Peeing took it out of Grandpa, now; he had to squeeze every drop straight out of his kidneys. He was still squatting when Carmen spotted the fat tick right at the corner of his muzzle, shining like a big, black bead. She got up, picked it off, and then ground the tick into the earth, saliva gathering at the corners of her mouth.
Grandpa and Carmen looked at each other, Grandpa’s eyes bleary, the strain of all his years on his face. “Good boy,” she said, patting his head. “You show ‘em.”
#
Carmen set up her kit just outside River Rock Station. She leashed Grandpa to a bike rack, set up her amp, mic, and pedals, and opened her guitar case to catch the pennies and dimes that people threw in every now and then.
Alone, Carmen could only draw audiences of five or six people at a time. But when Grandpa was around and howling along to his favorite Lila Downs song, they could draw in crowds of almost ten or fifteen people at a time, because who doesn’t like a big old dog with hip dysplasia?
Carmen really liked this song, too. It was one of those songs, one of those really good boogies that you sing in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep, so you and your husband sing and dance under the stars, and your big stupid dog howls along and the night is deep and the fire is bright and there’s nothing wrong in the world, nothing at all—
A high-pitched wail startled Carmen right out of her flashback. She waded up as if out of a pleasant dream and realized Grandpa wasn't howling anymore, and instead a woman was screaming over the wailing of a startled little girl—“That vicious thing bit my baby!” Grandpa sat there, growling low, still but tense, and the woman held her child to her chest.
Carmen stopped singing and put her guitar down, quieted the effects pedal. “Is she all right?” Carmen asked.
“All right? That monster nearly bit her hand off!"
“Let me see—”
“Don't touch her!"
There was no blood, and the child was obviously all right, but now that her mother had kicked up a fuss, it wouldn't stop wailing. A man piped up, “She was pulling on the dog’s tail and poking him or something.” And yet another person, “You should muzzle that thing!” "Hey, **** off, lady, it's just a dog." And soon the small crowd of eight turned ugly, shouting about what to do with the dog and who should sue.
The woman with the child had her cellphone out. “I’m calling the cops,” she snapped. “I’m going to tell them there’s a vicious dog on the loose.”
“Can you please just—”
But again people started talking over each other, and time slowed down, and sounds became incomprehesible. Carmen could do nothing but keep her hand tight around Grandpa’s leash and in the soft, warm space between his ears. “It’s all right." He was whining now. Shaking. “It’s going to be all right.”