Chapter 33: Location, Location, and…Places

The distorted brown glass bottle took pride of place over the mantle of our apartment. There wasn’t a true fireplace, with a chimney, flu, and grate for burning wood. Under the long, wood beam of the mantle was a small cutout midway down and above where the flagstones jutted out into the room. A holdover of days past and a nod to history, if no longer necessary. It looked cool. Half the cutout was filled with cubbies designed to keep the [heat] scrolls, and the rest was home to a pair of clips that hold open the in-use scroll from top to bottom. They looked surprisingly like potato bag clips. What I wouldn’t give to hang a bag of flaming hot cheese curls from them like a mounted deer head. Or one of those singing bass fish, ha! Dad had one of those hanging on the wall in my childhood home, a souvenir from a declining beer company. Which was ironic, since he never went fishing and I inherited my distaste of beer from him.

“Here is a little song I wrote…something something something…don’t worry, be happy…” That was the song, the one that the fish sang when you walked past it.

My Dad loved collecting old kitsch. Maybe I should start my own collection, here? Find the most tasteless, obnoxious fashions from Elven history. Seriously, it could be a taste of home. I’m sure there are second-hand stores around here. I’ll ask Master Alric where he found my mannequin-legged work desk.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever open the ugly bottle again—unless I need to start a fire or strip paint from the walls—but it will make a great start to my collecting. Besides, the pseudo-vodka gave me hope for a tequila or rum out there, waiting to be found. I needed to visit a seaport, sailors know their hard liquor.

I snagged a pair of kitchen shears and headed to the mirror in the bathroom. I glanced at my pipe/scroll setup, making a mental note,--again--to follow up on it. I faced my reflection and steeled myself. Once collected, I sucked in a deep breath and took the plunge. One chunk at a time, I revealed the landscape of my skull. Hmm, it had a nice shape. Next, I picked up the straight razor I’d bought and went to work. Wow, head cuts bleed copiously, don’t they? Done, I rather liked it, aside from the lacerations and sun-deprived paleness.

Today was Eight-day, the only free day Paytin had, so the plan was to look for a workplace for our endeavor. The three of us met at Karlinne’s, our new hangout, where the waitress seemed to be getting over her disdain for my sweet iced tea. Of course, Magali had given me shit over my head when he saw me.

“Whoa, Book. Whoever is cutting your hair should be fired!

“Ha-ha!” I bent over and pawed at my stomach. “You’re so funny, man,” I deadpanned, severing my laughter and trying to glare. It lasted all of ten seconds before I relented and broke up. We ordered our usuals and waited for Paytin to join us. It wasn’t long before she was pulling out a chair and joining the table.

“Can I try that?”

Happily surprised, I handed the cold, condensation-sweating glass to Paytin.

“That is…actually pretty good, Book,” Paytin said with an approving nod. She took another sip, appreciating the coolness. Not that it was hot, or even close to balmy, as the winter season had officially started in Oakheart. My next investment from any profits would be a heavier set of robes. Enchanted with [clean]—self-charging, of course. Tak wouldn’t even have to push for the upgrade this time, as I would never go back after having it. Still, the novelty of the cold brew had to be invigorating after a lifetime of hot tea. A reverse British invasion, if you will.

“Keep it,” I told her, then made an attention-grabbing wave to the serving girl. “Another, please.”

“OK, guys,” Magali said, recapturing our engrossment. His drink looked to be on the edge of boiling, with steam rising off it that enveloped his mouth and nose. He inhaled it pointedly. “We have three potentials for a workplace of our own.”

“Cheap,” I felt the need to remind him. Paytin nodded along, the sweet tea rapidly lowering in the glass I’d given her. Ah, the warm glow of converting a non-believer (corrupter! Hisssss…), pure bliss!

“Yes, Book. Cheap.” Magali understood it in an abstract, pure numbers fashion, but I felt he needed a nudge in the practical direction. Both Paytin and I knew the true, bone-weary heaviness of being broke. Magali’s father, Mr. W., was a thrifty man by nature and had tried to pass some of it along to his children, but they had grown up as legacies to a successful business, “Wordsworth’s”. The family was strongly upper-middle class—not thinking of themselves as having money—but not completely in touch with the reality some of us lived in daily. Paytin and her mother were new to the Lane, struggling to make their place.

“We have three possibles,” Magali went on, oblivious to our inner thoughts. “Two in the industrial sector, one just outside the gates to the city.”

“Oh, probably a pass on that one, right? I mean, we don’t want to spend half our time commuting.” OK, I didn’t want to spend the time walking. Sue me (Tess would).

“Agree.”

Magali accepted our reluctance readily, most likely of the same mind.

“That leaves the two in town. Are you two ready to go see them?”

Paytin and I guzzled the remainder of our iced tea. Mine went down smooth with practice, while I watched her face. Three…two…one…brain freeze!

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Mother of Trees! Oh, my aching head,” Paytin clutched her head in both hands as the ice pick of doom pierced her skull.

I couldn’t help it, I laughed. Yes, the elves had cold drinks, and sure, this couldn’t have been the first brain freeze in their history. I think it was the association of their beloved hot teas diverging from the norm that got her. Whatever, it was funny, like a man getting hit in the nuts with a ball.

“Hold your tongue to the roof of your mouth, Paytin.” She looked dubious, not trusting my idea. “Really, it works! Don’t know why, don’t really care, but it does.”

Magali left some coins for the server, then headed to the door, shaking his head the whole time. “Serves you right, drinking tea with ice,” he muttered, loud enough to be sure we heard.

We followed our friend, the scribe, Paytin with her mouth half open and head tilted back as she tried to warm up her palate.

After an hour of walking—and it was still closer than the front gates!—the quaint cobbles turned to rough, gravel-packed roads with permanent ruts. Instead of having to repeatedly keep filling these ruts, they were hardened by magic and used like train tracks. The heavy carts and wagons constantly coming and going were fitted with special wheels to take advantage. Getting run over by one of them would crush/slice/cut/mush the same as a steam locomotive. Ginsu style, baby!

As we walked, Magali took out a handkerchief and wrapped it around his nose and neck.

“Damn, man,” I cried in exaggeration. Ack! So, not in exaggeration! The smells hit me harder than the imagined train. “You could’a warned me! Where’s my mask?” The words came out tonal, as I pinched my nose closed in self-defense. Chemicals, sulfur, rotting meat, cow methane; the amalgamation didn’t settle on any one of them, it was a truly medieval smell (DUH!). This was way worse than the stench put out by a sugar beet factory, something I remembered from visiting relatives in Fort Morgan, Colorado. Hell, I’d take the reek of Paytin’s parcheminier over this any day! Speaking of, I shot her a look only to see her grinning back at me. Revenge for the brain freeze, I suppose.

“You should have known, Book,” Magali reproached me gently. “Where did you grow up…oh, right. Boulder.”

Every time, I mean every time, he talked about Boulder like a backwoods village, I wanted to bark a laugh in his face ‘Yip-yip; bow-wow!’ I howled in my head. ‘Hey, yeah, bark at the moon…’ I suddenly had the urge to bite the head off a live bat (are you losing it, dude?). Yup, and I’m taking you with me Marky-mar…(NO!). Guess I needed to come up with a new nickname for the voice in my head. Is this how all schizophrenics feel?

I should sit down and write out all the song lyrics I could remember, sell ‘em to a Bard. I think I’ve thought this…thought, before, haven’t I? Just like the notes app and a list maker—'why don’t you work on those, oh great and wise voice in my head?' No answer. ‘So now, when I need you, you shut up?’ I wish I had a light socket to stick my tongue in, that’d serve my brain right! Turn the tables, and…yeah, bad idea.

I held one voluminous sleeve of my robes to my nose, beyond caring that I looked like a fool. “How much farther?”

“Not much,” Magali answered. “And they are close together, both on…let’s see,” he pulled out a crude map. “Tanner’s Row.”

“Nice. It’ll feel like home.” Paytin was enjoying my discomfort way too much.

A whole ‘row’ of those particularly horrendous vapors? Nope, can’t do it. Unless I could reverse engineer, then literally reverse, the [barrier] scroll Paytin’s Mom got from my Master, Alric. He might actually help me with it, so I could hope. The thought was the only way I could cope.

It turned out that not only were the two places close, but they leaned up against each other. Not figuratively. The ancient, brick walls bowed out, slouching together like a pair of drunks leaving the after-after-party. How the swirling vapors didn’t tumble them was beyond me.

“Maybe they are better on the inside,” Paytin said, trying to cheer me up.

I couldn’t hold it, no matter how hard I tried. Sometimes a guy just has to nerd out. “And I thought they smelled bad on the outside!” *Sigh*, song lyrics and movie quotes keep spewing out, with me powerless to stop it. Forgive me, universe.

“I imagine it’ll be better inside, Book.” Good ol’ Magali, taking my peculiarities in stride.

“I’m sure it will, buddy.”

“If we even want to go inside,” Paytin said doubtfully. She balanced her way up the rickety steps, making sure to put her weight down where the risers were placed. Even so, the second to the top step snapped with a crack! and a pack of mangy somethings ran out from under her.

"Nope, no, un-un,” said the one with the strongest constitution. She spun quickly, stepped between Magali and me, and grabbed us by the elbows. Then she quick-marched us away, brooking no argument from Magali as he carried on about price points.

“But you said you wanted cheap! These are cheap, our profit margins will take flight like gryphons fleeing from bone hunters.”

“Dude, no friggin’ way. I’d rather lose coins than step one foot inside those places.” It was telling that the two who knew poverty close-up were the ones running, huh? But that was it, we knew we’d never thrive in such a place because we’d already tasted it in our pasts. What was the saying, ‘dress for the part you want?’ Aspirations over depreciations.

“We will find someplace else, Magali. A place that isn’t soul-crushing. Trust us, these aren't for us."

“Book is right,” Paytin supported me. “This is a place to die, not grow.”

A midday drunk with a brown bottle cackled as we passed, his teeth cracked and blackened from booze, baring them at us as he overheard us talking.

“Die, die, die…no grow, grow grow…” the drunk slurred. It settled things for Magali.

“I guess, we can keep looking, but it will take time. These were the best I could find on short notice.”

“Why don’t you ask Tak if she knows of any place?” It put the smile on his face as I’d hoped.

Returning to our beloved Parchment Lane, where the buildings stood proud on their foundations, we split up. Magali mumbled something about catching up on work, and Paytin lived above her storefront/workplace, so I figured I’d check my own place for any inspiration.

Before she headed off, Paytin ran her warm hand over my newly slick scalp. It was her first time to mention it. “Looks good, Book. It suits you. See ya.”

I felt an involuntary shiver at the head rub. Was I really so desperate that any female touch put thoughts in my brain that weren’t there before? Let me see: Male? Check; Lonely? Oh, so very.

I tried banishing the feeling (friend zone, ha!) and mulled over how I might turn the ruined parchment—the one I’d spilled the exclamation mark blot on in ink and for some reason kept around—into something new and unique. I always came circling back to it. Laying on the scarred surface of my worktable was another note from Master Alric. Surely not another portent, right? (Good luck with that.)

Gritting my teeth, I unfolded the paper. It was short, written in Alric’s hand.

“305 Mueller St., industrial sector. Knock on the back door.”