John Locke - Box

“I’m ready,” I say. “I think.”

She smiles, takes my hand, helps me to my feet, leads me to her bedroom. When we get close, she says, “Put you ear to the door and listen.”

I do, and she says, “You hear it?”

I do hear it. But have no idea what I’m hearing. Some sort of humming or buzzing sound. Like the sound a giant neon sign makes when you’re standing beneath it. I’m also detecting an occasional gurgling, bubbling sound. The kind half a dozen stoners might make while smoking water pipes at the same time.

I briefly wonder if she could possibly be running an opium den in her bedroom.

She puts her palm on my cheek and says, “Once you enter this portal, your life will never be the same.”

“That sounds rather hyperbolic,” I say.

“Just you wait,” she says.

Then she opens the door.

And my jaw drops.

It’s not what you think.

Meaning, it’s not what I thought.

Nor what anyone would think.

Faith Hemphill has seahorses.

Hundreds of them.

In tanks, covering every square inch of wall space in the room.

The tanks are different shapes, sizes and colors, but all contain seahorses.

“Pick a favorite,” she says.

“There are hundreds. It would take me all day.”

“Welcome to my world!” she says.

Then-I shit you not-she starts introducing them to me, one-at-a-time.

“This one’s George,” she says. “And this here’s Lucas. That’s Gracie. And this little guy’s Jimmy. Hi, Jimmie!” she says. “There’s Lucy, and…and…there’s Desi, and Fred.”

She focuses harder. “Where’s Ethel?”

She searches the tank. “Ethel?”

She looks at me. “Where’s Ethel?”

“I don’t know. She was here a minute ago,” I say, trying to be funny.

“You think that’s funny?” she snaps.

I shrug.

“Oh!” she says. “Thank God! There she is, behind the seaweed. See her?”

“Uh huh.”

“Ain’t she glorious?”

“Stunning!” I say, though I can’t tell one from another.

“This one’s Betty, this one’s…oh, my goodness!”

“What now?”

“Elizabeth.”

She turns to me again.

“Elizabeth hardly ever comes to this neighborhood!”

“Fascinating,” I say.

“You know what I think?” she says.

“What’s that?”

“I think she likes you.”

“How can you tell?”

She smiles, then changes the subject. “Guess how much these tanks and seahorses are worth?”

“I have no idea.”

“Guess.”

“Five thousand dollars.”

She laughs. “I didn’t ask you what you think I invested. I asked what you think they’re worth. These are all mine. I started with a hundred. Each individual horse was hand-picked from a reputable breeder.”

“Hand picked?”

“Yes, of course. They’re registered.”

“You’re joking.”

“Not at all. The cheapest horse in these tanks would sell for eighty dollars. And the tanks run a thousand dollars each.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.”

“In that case they must be worth-” I try to do the math. “Seventy-five thousand dollars?”

“Closer to eighty-five.”

“So, you raise them and sell them for a profit?”

“I never sell my babies till they die.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll tell you more about that in a minute.”

“Are they hard to keep alive? Hard to care for?”

She gives me a look. “Are babies hard to keep alive? Are babies hard to care for?”

“Human babies?”

“Yes, I’m asking you about human babies.”

“I’ll go out on a limb and say yes, human babies are hard to care for.”

“You’re damn right they are!” she says. “And seahorses are far more fragile than human babies.”

“How so?”

“They’re susceptible to disease and bacteria. And they can’t be left alone, even for a day.”

“That sort of describes human babies too, doesn’t it?”

“Are you serious? Human babies can be left alone for days in a temperature-controlled environment.”

“You know this from personal experience?”

“I do. I used to run a daycare. But that was in a different life. These days I never leave my horses for more than four hours at a time. If you want to take me out, give me notice, and have me back in four hours.”

“Glad you told me.”

“If I’m gone they won’t eat. If they go twenty-four hours without eating, they die.”

“Ever thought about getting an automatic feeder?”

She snorts. “You don’t know shit about seahorses, do you?”

“Not really.”

“Would you use an automatic feeder for a baby?”

“A human baby? My gut reaction is no.”

“Damn right. And automatic feeders don’t work for seahorses, either.”

“Because?”

She frowns. “Are you for real? Automatic feeders? For seahorses?”

“I feel stupid for suggesting it.”

“Well, don’t beat yourself up about it. You’ll learn. Wait till you start scrapin’ ’em!”

I look at my watch. “Oh, shit!” I say.

“What’s wrong?”

“I had no idea it was almost noon! Darn!”

“Don’t even think about leavin’,” she says.

Faith Hemphill says I can’t leave? That’s a bad sign, don’t you think?

“Why can’t I think about leaving?” I say.

“I haven’t finished introducin’ you to my horses yet! And you sure as hell don’t want to miss what happens after the introductions!”

“What’s that?”

“Are you familiar with Chinese herbology?”

“Shockingly, no.”

“What sort of doctor are you?”

“A real one.”

“Well, for your information, Doctor Smart Ass, dried seahorses are one of the most potent aphrodisiacs in the world.”

“Do tell.”

“When my horses die, I hold formal funerals. After the ceremonies I dry them and grind them into powder and sell the powder for a hundred dollars an ounce. Plus postage.”

“To whom?”

“People on the internet.”

“You’re telling me there are people who actually pay money for dried seahorse powder?”

“I make nearly fifty grand a year from the powder alone.”

“I thought you were a saddle-maker.”

“I am. I make saddles for seahorses.”

“Shut…up!”

“It’s true! Afterward, if you want, I can show you my workshop.”

“Afterward? After what, exactly?”

She winks. “Let’s just say my gentlemen friends come from miles around just to drink my home-made lemonade.”

“What? Why?”

“It’ll take forty-five minutes to introduce you to my horses. By then you’ll have the most ragin’ hard-on you ever experienced in your natural-born life!”

“You drugged my lemonade?”

She looks shocked.

“Drugged? No, of course not! I enhanced it. Think of Viagra…on steroids!”

“You put a dead, ground-up, dried seahorse in my lemonade?”

“I sure did!” she says proudly. “And not just any seahorse, mind you. That was Wilbur, one of my all-time favorites.”

“Wilbur?”

“That’s right. And see these?” She grins and points at her smile.

“What, your teeth?”

“Yep.”

“What about them?”

“They come out.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh no? Well, you will!” she says, looking at my crotch, licking her lips.

“I don’t think so!” I shout.

I turn and bolt out the door, run to my car, dig the ipecac syrup from my medical bag.

I know what you’re thinking.

Most doctors frown on using ipecac to induce vomiting these days.