Ren Faire

The dog sniffed at the base of a flowering jacaranda, violet petals falling softly from the branches and coating the grassy lawn. Across the street, people began streaming out of an apartment building. The women wore dresses or tunics with flower crowns. The men were dressed as knights and jesters. There were kings and queens, plastic, bejeweled crowns atop their heads. They carried flagons and steins, plastic swords and rapiers, bows and quivers. Passing cars honked. Neighbors stared, took photos, commented on the number of friends. The group posed in front of white flowering bushes along the fenceline, then piled into a black van, rented out for the occasion. In true fashion, a lone friar exited the building late and was the last to board the vessel.

No. 52

Invoice

Upon receiving the invoice for the repair, Spencer nearly lost his appetite. It arrived on time in a damaged box, a rip running the length of the cardboard. The total cost came out to a quarter of his monthly income. Credit cards already maxed, there was little he could do.

On Fridays, different departments in the office catered meetings. When these finished, messages went out to the rest of the building, so that no scraps of food went to waste. It became a ritual for Spencer to wait for these messages, and to take the free food as a reward for his patience and frugality. When he most needed financial reprieve, no such messages came. The office, in fact, was sparsely populated. Stomach rumbling, he arrived at a last resort.

Outside the office stood a sandwich and salad spot, a common choice for his coworkers. He knew they placed their online and mobile orders on a double-shelf, letters affixed to aid in finding your name. He knew, too, that no employee of the restaurant checked for a receipt. Do anything confidently and you can get away with it.

His watch flagged an elevated heart rate as he exited the restaurant. Tearing open the brown paper bag, a leafy green salad greeted him. The disappointment wasn’t strong enough to mask the emptiness in his stomach.

No. 51

A.A.A. - Epilogue

Under his bed, W. kept four shotguns. “Get rid of them,” his wife said upon finding them. “I don’t want them in here.” 

That was all he left—not money, nor land, artwork, and bonds. Four shotguns, one for each grandson. They sent around the photo: the Winchester 190 .22 in its original box; the Remington .35; the 1960’s Mossberg 12-gauge; and the one from his father, the 1940’s Mossberg .22. 

The grandsons divvied them up, planning the shipments to Illinois and California. In the back closet were two BB guns that nobody wanted and were dumped in the trash with his files, clothes, pills, and shoes. 

___

The wind came through the swamp and shifted the metal cans perched along the back fence. He held the gun against his shoulder. His cousin cocked it for him; at five his grip was not strong. Looking down the barrel, his hands shook as he maneuvered the sight to the can. “Aim above it,” the cousin said. “It shoots low.” Pull the trigger, the can went flying into the swamp. They cheered, then broke glass bottles with more shots, even taking aim at squirrels clambering up trees to safety. Inside, his great-grandmother poured whole milk into coffee mugs for them. The summer sun felt faded coming through the thick curtains and the air was heavy with cigarette smoke. That was what he remembered: the thickness of the air and milk, and the heaviness of the gun.

No. 050