Picking Stones Chapter 5
"Pumpkins and Ghouls"
Table of Contents
Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3 & 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6 & 7; Chapter 8; Chapter 9; Chapter 10; Chapter 11; Chapter 12 & 13; Chapter 14, 15, & 16; Chapter 17 & 18; Chapter 19; Chapter 20; Chapter 21; Chapter 22; Chapter 23 & 24; Chapter 25 & 26; Chapter 27; Chapter 28; Chapter 29; Chapter 30; Chapter 31 (Final Chapter)
Pumpkins and Ghouls
Sunlight was poking through the blinds. The rain had stopped earlier that afternoon. I was on the couch, trying to rest. Instead, I mindlessly scrolled through thousands of channels with nothing worth watching. Click after click. Nothing. I could feel my thumb growing numb. Sweat coated the microscopic space between the plastic remote and the inside of my hand. Click. I realized my mouth had been hanging open; how long had that gone unrealized? My brain shot a signal to close it before any drool leaked.
The screen emitted harsh, short waves of blue light to my unfortunate eyeballs. They were dry and strained. Talk show after talk show. College football to women’s softball to someone eating a stuffed barracuda in Ecuador. There were thousands of channels with millions of people watching them. Yet nothing was on and no one was paying any attention.
In a past life, at a time like this I’d pick up a book and get lost for hours, never bothering to turn the TV on in the first place. Was there even a book in this apartment? I wondered. The screen flashed a huge chest of a woman. I followed the neckline up to see the pretty face of a blond sideline reporter for the Mets. She was going on about an issue that had occurred in the locker room before the game started. The volume was on, but I couldn’t hear. Everyone seemed to be concerned up in the analyst booth. They needed to be concerned. It was their job to keep eyeballs on the screen and to stop someone from changing the—click. I couldn’t take it.
Click. Flurries of channels flashed before me. A game show, news, war across the sea in a country that almost seemed made-for-TV. Breasts, washboard abs, more breasts. It’s the only thing we have to care about. A commercial for a multi-million dollar lottery, almost forgot about money. Distraction after distraction. Plastic smile after plastic smile. It was time to get ready for dinner. Shut off TV, fade to black.
Dark clouds glided past the moon. The night fell darker. A harsh glow from the streetlights cast an eerie mood over the hard sidewalk that led to the restaurant. Cold wind nipped at me; I stuffed my hands into my jeans for protection.
The restaurant was on the other side of Forest Hills. I chose the scenic route through the Gardens, but I was alone. Purple and orange lights shone on me from every third house. Halloween decorations up already. Pumpkins and ghouls stared at me as I passed them on the empty sidewalk.
I came to a crosswalk. The stop sign mounted into the concrete shook on its green post. Two bolts barely threaded into it were the only force keeping the sign from falling off. Imagine a strong wind. The sign would shake harder. Another fierce gust, strong enough to tear the sign from the post. It would fly at me like a frisbee, straight at my neck. My head would be severed from its body. Maybe my body would stand there for a few extra seconds out of shock. Blood gushing out from the open neck hole as my head rolled under the Subaru parked on the street. Would I catch a glimpse of the body falling before the brain shut off?
It was a plausible scenario. A woman would find me after a while when she slipped on the blood. As she sat in the blood with a freshly broken hip, she would call the cops, who’d be hard-pressed to find someone to claim the body. Maybe I’d end up in the potter’s field on Hart’s Island. I know a guy there now; maybe his corpse would recognize mine. I tried to shake away the feeling of death. It seemed to follow me wherever I went.
No dice. I jumped.
The Grim Reaper pointed its finger straight at me. Well, sort of. While my imagination ran rampant, I found myself in front of a large home with an eight-foot tall plastic grim reaper gracing its front yard. Its red eyes locked with mine. I was reminded of the black shape that crossed my path on the hike. Another chill. The Reaper’s yellowed skull loomed over me, its bony hand jutting out from its black cloak, beckoning me with its pointer finger. One touch and I’d join him in the After Life. I moved on.
My strides became longer. That feeling of panic was percolating. I took a deep breath. Metro was in sight. Just two blocks further. I didn’t allow my mind to succumb to whatever sickness was slowly taking my sanity away. I rounded the corner and arrived back to civilization at last. Imperial Szechuan was in sight.
A dragon with red and green scales snarled at me from the awning. My friends Brendan and Kyle were waiting outside for me. Kyle’s cigarette flipped out of his hands and onto the street as he came in for a hug. We grasped hands and patted each other on the back.
“Will! What’s up, man,” Brendan said happily. There were heavy bags under his eyes, but I registered actual happiness beaming from them. Not like mine.
“I’m great!” I lied. “Let’s take this party inside, I’m sure Phil is going to be late.”
Odors of hot chili oil and searing dumplings greeted us inside the warm restaurant. The place was packed. To the left were red leather booths with red silk fabric draping the sides. Gold accents fit the tables set around a bubbling fountain in the heart of the restaurant. The makeshift pond had lily pads floating and a colorful array of fish jiggling underneath the water. Past the fountain was a long bar with an impressive display of liquor lining the shelves behind it. The fluorescent lighting radiating from above proved questionable.
We waited for a hostess. There was a low gentle hum of live music, just loud enough to be heard over the diners’ chatter. Scanning for the source, I spotted an older woman sitting on a pillow off to the side of the bar. The instrument she held was called an erhu—yes, I had to ask. Go ahead, Google it. I’ll be here waiting for you to come back.
Anyway. The hostess walked us over to a booth. Somehow I managed to out-wrestle Kyle for the outside portion of the bench we shared. Brandon slid into the bench across from us. Four teacups appeared and green tea soon filled them. The hostess gave us a slight bow and told us our server, Peter, would be right with us.
“So, Will,” Brendan started, “How are things?” Him and Kyle saw each other regularly, so I figured I’d be put on the spot in the absence of Phil.
“You know,” I said. “Work.” I let out a laugh and they both followed. Could always count on that one as a safe bet.
“Any progress on the novel?” he asked. Ugh. I was praying it wouldn’t have come to that point of the night, especially not before I could’ve masked my lie with alcohol. I cursed myself for having told him I was going to start writing it at our last get-together at a bar called Mooney’s. It wasn’t my fault entirely. Lounge Act had been blasting and along with the courage of six draft beers, I had told him about my entire outline—one that I couldn’t for the life of me remember the next morning after my horrific hangover.
“Oh yeah, it’s coming.” I shot him a warm smile. Before Brendan had a second to react, Phil pushed himself into the booth and shoved Brendan against the wall.
“My favorite subject! The novel Will never started.” He laughed.
“No, not that one,” I said. “The other one.” I laughed. He laughed. We all laughed.
How soon before I could go home?
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I’m loving the creepyness and you’re very good at telling a story! Thank you.