A Google in Time Saves Nine

Whenever she came through the drive-thru, whoever was at the first window would sing through the speakers, “Will, your monkey girl’s here!” and then everybody wired in would howl, whistle, and generally make themselves completely obnoxious while I would try to act cool and indifferent that the current object of my obsession was heading toward my window.
“Big surprise,” I’d mutter into my headset. “It’s nearly closing time. She always comes through before we shut down.” Then, I’d focus on quick-bagging the few orders that had come in before hers.
“Keeping track, aren’t ya, Tarzan?” they’d say then.
Or it might be George of the Jungle, Curious George, or even Speedracer after that movie came out. Once, one of the old guys called me Jane something, and when nobody laughed, he changed it to Cornelius. That guy was creepy. He used to volunteer to clean out the Playplace tubes – finally, the manager let him go. It didn’t stop the monkey jokes, but they weren’t such a big deal anyway.
Except for the banana ones. They made me mad. I almost got fired for shoving Lonnie one night for shooting his mouth off about whether or not I’d given a banana to the monkey girl. He didn’t really fall into the fryer like he tried to claim. His arm got a little scorched from the heat, but it didn’t even blister. Not much anyway. And at least the manager put an end to the banana comments. And the ones about monkeys jumping on the bed. With those out of the way, then like I said, the others weren’t much of a problem anyway.
Especially not when she got to my window to pay for her order, always a grilled chicken wrap – no sauce, no tomatoes – and a diet lemonade. She always paid with a five dollar bill, and I always had her change ready before hand. I knew that she liked a lot of napkins and not a lot of ice. And I always made sure that she had her spoon and an extra mint at the bottom of her bag. I tried not to make a big deal about it, but I know that she noticed I was giving her a little extra attention. At least, I guessed that she did. She kept coming back, didn’t she? And she always smiled so prettily at me and I liked to think that the hand contact we made when we exchanged money was made a little longer than necessary on her side of the deal.
But after she pulled away with her order, I was back at everyone’s mercy until we got too busy with closing duties to say much of anything.
Up until then, though, they always piled joke after joke on me.
“Will, wave bye-bye at the little monkeys!” someone would always yell. I’d snort in disgust, but I’d always try to sneak a quick glance out across the front counter through the side windows to see her Volvo pull away. The whole back window was filled with sock monkeys of every size and color.
“Did you see her plates, Will?” people would laugh and start chanting, “MUNKY4U! MUNKY4U!” I’d just turn down the volume on my headset as low as I dared and just focus on getting the final orders out of my window. A lot of people personalize their plates, so I didn’t see the big deal. I do wish I had some police friends, though. I’m not a stalker, but you can’t really find anything out from googling a license plate number.
“As far as you leaned out there to give her that order, I’m surprised you didn’t get your headset caught on all that crap hanging from her mirror. How many monkey keychains does she have anyway?” someone asked once.
“How should I know? Do you think I counted them?” I’d grumble. But I knew she had nine counting the ones on the mirror and the one on her key in the ignition, but not counting another I’d spotted one night poking out of her open purse.
“Bet you liked her shirt, didn’t ya, Will?” or “What monkey stuff she have on tonight, Will?” were part of the usual routine after she left. I never answered them, just shrugged and kept working. They were right though. She always had on something with a monkey print or sock monkey pattern – dress, t-shirt, halter top, whatever. One hot night last week, she even had on a swimsuit with sweet little monkey faces on her… anyway, that night was the one I shoved Lonnie for saying stuff about the girl and my banana. That night was a bad one.
Thankfully, I knew that when the monkey songs started it was almost over. “Brass Monkey” – “Shake that Monkey” – “Hey Hey We’re the Monkees” – I thank God that there aren’t too many monkey songs out there, at least not many that the crew I work with know about.
So after the jokes, the songs, then we’d get so busy closing up and shutting down and chasing off the last customers, that they’d all forget about it.
Until the next night.
Then it would happen all over again.
But…
tonight…
…was different.
She’d pressed the five into my hand a little harder than normal. She’d held eye contact a little longer than normal. She’d smiled a little brighter and a little wider than normal.
I didn’t figure it out until I counted my register at the very end of the night.
Then, there it was. Right there in front of my face. I couldn’t believe I’d missed it, and I was so glad that nobody after her paid with a big bill. I was so glad that I was going home then, because I don’t think I could’ve waited once I saw it.
Of course, I had to borrow a five from my boss, which meant agreeing to work doubles next weekend, but it was worth it to get that five from the till.
I know I could’ve just entered it into my phone or written it down on a napkin or even on my hand like I’d seen some of the guys and girls I worked with do.
But I had to have it. The actual five dollar bill that she’d handed me and that she’d written on in her own handwriting before she’d even gotten to my window.
The five dollar bill that said on its margins on both sides: Hi Will!! AIM!! --> munkygirl99 <-- Let’s chat!!
And best of all, in my opinion, she’d drawn all the exclamation points to look like bananas.

Burnt to a Google

You ever gone through a drive-thru to order a burger?

Not a cheap value-menu burger or a kid’s burger, but a nice, big adult-sized burger. Maybe one with everything. Or one with double-meat or even triple-meat. This is America after all, and we Americans like our burgers. Especially when we’re super-hungry.

And super-hungry means that you’re starving so much that you’re not going to wait to get home or to get back to wherever you’re going. You’re going to eat that burger just as soon as possible. You’re even going to skip the fries and go right for the heavy stuff (except for the one or two fries that somehow leap from the bag right into your mouth) before you’ve barely gotten your change and receipt.

You’re pulling away from the window and pulling out that wrapped burger at almost exactly the same time. And by the way it feels in your hand, you know that it’s going to taste so good. You know it’s just the way you wanted. That it’s perfect before you even peel back the paper. You know because it’s all hot and fresh and heavy in your hand. Your fingers squish and crinkle against the wrapper that can barely contain the steaming, juicy double-handful of delicious goodness that’s hidden underneath.

Just like a loaded baby diaper that’s been left lying in the sun for a few days.

You ever picked up a dirty diaper that’s been lying in a roadside ditch after a hot week in mid-June? No? Well, have you ever pulled a fresh, hot burger out of a drive-thru bag? Yes? Then, you know what they both feel like. If you’re picking up roadside litter or if you’re pulling out a tasty burger, it’s virtually the same weight and sensation in your hand.

And if the diaper’s folded up the right way, it’s even about the same size, depending on the age and the franchise. Newborn doody diapers are about the size of Krystal or White Castle, toddlers make one that’s roughly a McDonald’s quarter-pounder or Wendy’s single (with cheese), and God help you if you come across something that looks and feels like a Whopper or a Thickburger.

God help you.

You’ll likely never pick up litter or order fast food again.

Dust

...has...not...settled...choking me...

Hiatus, Sabbatical, Vacation,or Whatever

The new school year is here. I shall honor/mourn its arrival by abstaining from bloggery until the metaphorical dust has settled.

Sticks and Stones May Break My Googles

“Trust me. I’ve handled a dozen situations like this in the past two years. I know what these people are like. They’re only interested in the money.”

Lt. Jeffrey McKay leaned forward as he spoke and pressed both palms flat against the glass top wrought-iron coffee table separating him from the Shapiros. He sat opposite the young couple in the exquisitely decorated sun room of their home. Only in their late twenties, Bill and Leda Shapiro had already made a fortune through their exceedingly lucrative chain of skate park-cybercafé-pet salon-tea rooms. In fewer than five years, Fancy Flip’s Hotspot o’Tea Rooms had spread rapidly across the midwestern states and also overseas into Scotland and Italy. The Shapiros’ success easily paid for their $5.5 million home in Jolie Vachon, the most prestigious gated community in Charleston.

Their money had also made them a target. Earlier today, the Shapiro family had attended a birthday party at the neighboring estate belonging to Senator Jackson Colby. The party had been for his granddaughter, and the senator had hired extra security beyond that provided at the community gates. In spite of these measures, the Shapiro’s five-year-old daughter Margie had vanished during the party. An extensive search by police and federal agents had revealed two missing entertainers but nothing else. The investigation had expanded outside Jolie Vachon and was still in progress. McKay had been waiting with the parents for the assumed kidnappers’ initial demands. Two long hours had passed so far without any word of Margie.

McKay purposefully made eye contact now with both Shapiros. He continued his reassurance in as sincere and as confident a tone as he could, “Mr. and Mrs. Shapiro, these people are not stupid. Trust me. The absolute last thing they want to do is to hurt your daughter.”

“We do trust you, Lieutenant. And we are extremely grateful,” the missing girl’s mother said quietly.

Like her house’s décor, Leda Shapiro’s voice sounded elegant and feminine to McKay’s ears. Even in the face of her daughter’s abduction, she was fashionably dressed and coiffed. That same sense of style and taste had ensured the success of the pet grooming salon and tea room aspects of her and her husband’s business. However, to an untrained eye, she might have appeared cold and unshaken by Margie’s disappearance. A veteran detective, McKay wasn’t fooled. He saw clear signs of her anguish. The carefully-applied makeup didn’t completely hide the woman’s pallor. Her hands moved constantly also, belying her apparent composure. During their two-hour vigil, she had alternated between applying balm to her lips, smoothing the folds of her designer dress suit, and straightening the silk tassels on the sofa’s embroidered cushions.

Bill Shapiro had kept himself very still and thus far had let his wife do almost all of the talking. Nonetheless, the detective had found the father’s mood easier to read. The former pro-circuit skateboarder and nationally ranked cyberathlete was enraged over his daughter’s plight but was keeping that anger carefully in check. McKay had noted that Mr. Shapiro had kept his scarred hands balled into fists at his sides for the past two hours. The man’s jaw, too, had been tensing continually as he kept grinding his teeth together. A muscle repeatedly ticked on Mr. Shapiro’s neck as well, just above the portion of a red and black tribal tattoo visible over the collar of an expensive black silk buttondown shirt. He had only nodded grimly at McKay’s recent words of reassurance. All of this pointed in the detective’s mind to a father’s helpless rage at the unknown abductors.

McKay looked down at the notepad he held. Neat rows and columns of information filled eight pages but could do little to ease the couple’s current distress. He flipped back to the first page and looked at a photo taped there of a smiling, darkhaired little girl in a party dress. The picture was of Margie Shapiro, taken that very morning at the birthday party. She was obviously happy, having the time of her young life, totally unaware that she would be snatched away from the world that she knew. Even though the seasoned investigator’s experience made him believe the words he had just spoken to the Shapiros, his heart still ached for their daughter. Even if the abductors didn’t want to jeopardize any ransom by hurting Margie, they could still cause her a lot of mental trauma. McKay hoped that little Margie wasn’t too distressed by being forceably taken by the kidnappers.

He stared at the two figures standing behind Margie in the photograph and wondered if that could even be possible. A costumed man and woman knelt on either side of the little girl, hugging her gently with white-gloved hands. They were smiling broadly beneath their colorful wigs and gaudy makeup. McKay shuddered. These two were the missing party entertainers. Probably just minutes after the party photographer snapped this photo, the kidnappers had made their move and lured the little girl outside. They had left no signs of a struggle. Their gloves prevented them from leaving fingerprints. The makeup hid their real appearance. Their costumes let them pass through security at the estate and at the gates without any trouble whatsoever. It had been the perfect crime.

McKay studied the white faces of the two kidnappers, trying to imagine what each person looked like underneath. A cold feeling traced his spine like someone ran an icecube up his back. He shuddered. Clowns had always scared him a little, but this photo of two of them grinning and crouching on either side of their innocent victim nearly unnerved him.

One of the agents monitoring the Shapiros’ computers and phone lines suddenly hissed, “It’s them! Putting them on speaker!” Other agents bustled about their stations, clicking buttons and turning dials, tracing and recording everything that was happening.

McKay tensed. Across from him, Leda Shapiro tried to rub balm on her lips with hands that now visibly shook. At her side on the sofa, Bill Shapiro sat up straight and actually bared his tightly clenched teeth.

A jolly-sounding voice suddenly filled the sunroom. “Hiya, Shapiros! It’s me, Dr. Funny Bones! Don’t worry about Little Margie! She’s havin’ a blast right here with Mr. Chippy! At least, for now anyway! But if you grown-ups don’t play by the rules, then who knows what might happen!”
A horn honked. Something squeaked. There was a crash and a hiss. Then, the incredible sound of a little girl laughing and shouting.

Leda Shapiro started quietly crying into one of the delicate embroidered pillows. Bill Shapiro slammed both balled fists down onto the coffee table, shattering the glass and badly lacerating his hands. Agents rushed over to minister to his cuts. McKay sat quietly and unmoving, his skin crawling as he listened to the sounds coming through the speaker phone.

On the other end, somewhere, five-year-old Margie Shapiro was yelling between fits of giggles, “Do it again, Mr. Chippy! Please do it again! Please! Tell him to do it again, Dr. Funny Bones! Please tell him! Again! Again!”

Then, a horn honked, two clowns laughed loudly, and then there was a dial tone.

Dr. Funny Bones had hung up.

In-A-Gadda-Da-Google

My package arrived at my apartment last night.

I’m pretty sure that someone delivered it between 9:15 and 10:00. That’s the time that I took a shower and checked the latest news on the web. I went through some emails, too. Several of my contacts had notified about their packages having arrived, so I had to delete them from my address book.

All that took about 45 minutes. I’d checked my security cams before that, and the only thing out in the hallway was my parents’ welcome mat. It was my good luck charm. Their porch had pretty much been the only part of their house left standing, so seeing it outside my door always calmed me a little, not much, but I think maybe it’s keeping me sane.

So at about 9:15 or so, the hall was empty. I wrote the time down in my security log, so I know that’s right. Then, at 10:00, right after I’d checked my email, I checked my cameras again, and there it sat. A rectangular package put square in the center of that old mat.

It looked just like the ones I’d seen on the news feeds. Not much bigger than a tissue box. No labels, addresses, or postmarks of any kind – no surprise there, the government had shut down the post office and all delivery services months ago. No visible tape, twine, or wires but still somehow wrapped neatly in newspaper. I zoomed in on the package with the security camera to identify the newspaper. It looked crisp and current, but I already knew what it would be. The Hatton Courier. March 12, 1975. My hometown paper. Issued on my birthday. My spine itched all the way up to the base of my neck.

I knew the box was my package. I’d finally gotten mine. I’d known that eventually I would, but I still felt my heart pound up into my neck. I felt nauseous staring at it through the vidcams installed on the outside of my door. I flicked the monitor off and closed my eyes. Even with them shut, afterimages of the box floated across my vision. Vertigo gripped me, making me latch onto the arms of my desk chair so that I’d feel anchored to something and not be sucked away.

Breathe! A tiny part of my brain reminded me. The rational part. I was surprised it had survived. You’re having an anxiety attack. Remember the government videos! Focus on breathing!

I know! But I can’t stop holding myself down! I’ll fly apart! I’ll get sucked away! I tried to listen to the voice but it spiraled away. I was spiraling, too. Not down, but out – out from my desk, out toward the hall.

Where the package waited.

Some twist of gravity twisted my stomach and lungs like I’d wring out a washrag. The face on my skin felt like it was pulling it away from my skull. Bile rose up into my throat, threatening to choke me. My fingers dug into the clothbound arms of my metal chair so hard that I felt two fingernails rip completely off. Blinding, white pain flashed through me and I opened my mouth to scream. When no sound came out, I realized I’d stopped breathing entirely.

I gaped like a fish ripped from the water. No air came in, no sound came out. I thrashed in my chair. Nothing. From somewhere, I got the strength to thrust my body backwards hard against the chair back. My head ground painfully into the headrest. Another fingernail splintered. I felt blood spray onto my arm. My legs spasmed as I struggled to get oxygen to my dying lungs. My body jerked uncontrollably like I was seizing. My right foot lashed out and struck something. I heard a loud crack. I felt pain and wetness. My foot was bleeding.

My eyes snapped open. I’d hit the security monitor with my bare heel, fracturing the screen and leaving a bloody smudge. The monitor had powered back on, though, and still worked. There sat the box, but for some reason, my eyes focused on the mat this time. I put all the energy I had left into forcing the shattered image of that mat on the screen into my fading brain. The package was there still, but so was the mat. The old worn mat my mom had put on the porch for my dad to wipe his work shoes on. The raised ivy border, most of it flecked away over the years but enduring as discolored, ivy-shaped blotches against the background. The wide, overflowing flower basket that had barely kept any color at all after cleaning so many dirty soles. The faded remnants of a fancy script that like so much else in the world had fragmented and lost pieces of itself. In a happier time the mat had announced Welcome to our Friends. Now it greeted my frantic, bulging eyes with this message: We_come to ___end_.

A racking gasp of air invaded my body. I shuddered. My back arched. I gasped again. Air filled my deflated lungs. My good luck charm had worked. Concentrating on the mat had saved me. The tiny voice came back. It whispered, Breathe! I breathed. I hurt all over. I bled. My head and heart pounded. But I breathed.

I lived.

I’d survived the delivery.

But I still have to open the package…

Sleep Tight -- Don't Let the Bedbugs Google!

Three small black puppy noses popped up over the side of their broad yellow wicker basket.

Sniff!
Sugar smelled something good.

Snuff!
Snips smelled something delicious.

Snort!

Snails smelled something scrumptious!

Three tiny pink tongues slipped out of puppy mouths above the brim of their wide yellow wicker basket.

Lick!
Sugar was hungry.

Lap!
Snips was starving.

Slurp!
Snails was voracious!

Three little, sharp sets of white puppy teeth munched at the rim of their ample yellow wicker basket.

Nibble!
Sugar wanted a tasty tidbit.

Gnaw!
Snips wanted a mouthwatering morsel.

Chomp!
Snails wanted a delectable delicacy!

Three miniature, furry pairs of puppy paws appeared on the top edge of their extensive yellow basket.

Bounce!
Sugar hopped out the basket!

Spring!
Snips jumped out of the basket!

Leap!
Snails bounded out of the basket!


Three pint-sized, energetic puppy bodies raced away from the yellow wicker basket toward the wonderful smell.

Zip!
Sugar dashed into the kitchen!

Zoom!
Snips sprinted into the kitchen!

Whoosh!
Snails scurried into the kitchen!

Three diminutive, grinning puppy faces barked at the yelling woman burning food in the kitchen.

Yip!
Sugar asked the woman for some goodies!

Yap!
Snips begged the woman for some munchies!

Yelp!
Snails implored with the woman for a nosh!

Three miniscule, drooling puppy mouths swallowed hot chunks of scorched ham sandwiches.

Gulp!
Sugar bolted down up her sandwich!

Gobble!
Snips wolfed down his sandwich!

Glutch!
Snails scarfed down his sandwich!


Three teensy-weensy puppy tails shook happily at the smiling woman who loved her puppies.

Wag! Wiggle! Waggle!
Sugar, Snips, and Snails thanked the woman for sharing!