David Bischoff: The Blob

Suddenly the doorbell rang.

“Oh, my God, that’s Paul!” she said.

“Now, you’re sure he’s okay, dear?”

“Paul is the kind of guy Daddy wants me to be going out with, I’m telling you. But can you deal with the door? I’m going to be very late getting ready!”

“A woman’s prerogative, Meg. I’m sure your father is dealing with the door. I’ll just go down and check.”

Mr. Penny, however, had just settled down into his La-Z-Boy with his paper and was not about to get up and answer any door.

So the task was left to Kevin. He swung it open to find a teenage boy, looking very nervous and smiling too broadly.

“What is it?” Kevin asked.

“Hi,” said Paul Tyler. “I’m here to see Meg.”

“What for?” asked Kevin, not really interested, still grumpy because his mother wouldn’t let him go with Eddie to see the movie.

“Well, uh… just to see her. Is she home?”

“Just a minute.”

The door slammed shut in Paul’s face. He took a deep breath, let it out, telling himself to stay calm. He didn’t want to blow this date. Surely it was his most important so far.

When the door opened, an older version of Meg looked out, smiling, which made Paul feel loads better.

“I’m terribly sorry. You must be Paul. I’m Meg’s mother,” the woman said.

Turning on the politeness to full power, Paul said, “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Mrs. Penny beckoned him to enter. “Come on in. Meg will be right down.”

As Paul entered the nicely kept home, Kevin Penny tried to squeeze out the open door along with Eddie.

Mrs. Penny caught Kevin by the back of his collar, spinning him around in a challenging manner.

“And where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.

“To Eddie’s! I’m sleeping over, remember?”

“Okay, but you’re not going anywhere without your jacket,” she insisted.

“Aww, Mom, it’s boiling out!”

“It’s September and it’s nighttime. You’re wearing your jacket.”

Kevin stomped to the nearby closet and pulled out a light-gray nylon jacket, which he tossed over his shoulder.

“Put it on!” his mother demanded.

Kevin put it on and tried to zipper it up. But the zipper jammed halfway. “Stupid coat!”

Paul watched, feeling like a third wheel, as Mrs. Penny descended upon her son in a mother-hennish manner, giving the zipper a few hard tugs until it surrendered to determined motherhood and shut all the way. She bent over and kissed Kevin on the cheek. “Bye, honey. Enjoy yourself.”

The moment Kevin and Eddie escaped through the door, a crash sounded from the kitchen, followed a second later by the wailing of a child. “Oh, Lord! Christine!” said Mrs. Penny. “Excuse me, Paul.” She hurried back to deal with the accident, leaving Paul to his own devices.

He looked around.

Nice house. Typical suburban; a lot like his own, but with a touch of individuality, plus some class and style. The same classiness showed also in the oldest product of the Penny union, Meg. The traits that Paul liked most about her were her poise, her sense of style, plus the obvious intelligence and wit she showed in conversations.

Suddenly there she was—bouncing down the stairs in a pretty beige ruffled blouse that suited her perfectly. She wore a bright, welcoming smile, and—most exciting of all, Paul thought—she looked extremely pleased to be going out with him.

“Hi, Paul!”

“Hi,” Paul said. “You look great!”

“Thanks.”

“Ready to go?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve been looking forward to it. But I want you to meet my dad first. It’ll just take a second.”

Paul shrugged. No problem. Dads were one of his specialties. Somehow he found that he knew how to handle fathers—just talk about football and compliment them on their home and family, and they’d love him.

Paul anticipated no trouble here… no trouble at all.

Meg took him into the den, where a man lounged in a reclining chair, immersed in the newspaper.

“Daddy,” said Meg, “I’d like you to meet Paul.”

The newspaper lowered.

Paul recognized the man in his horn-rimmed glasses and neatly clipped mustache immediately. It was the pharmacist from the Rexall drugstore!

“Hello!” said Paul, extending a hand.

The man did a double take and then looked as though he were about to bite off Paul’s hand. “You!”

“Me? What—” Paul took a defensive step backward.

Mr. Penny stood up and started waving his paper at Paul. “You! You’re taking my daughter out? No! Not after what that Jesky boy had to say about you! No way!”

Meg looked totally baffled, but Paul immediately guessed what had happened. “Sir, I can explain!”

His precious date with Meg Penny at stake, Paul Tyler explained, for all he was worth.

On the way into town he’d been lucky and snagged a ride in Clint Ziglar’s pickup truck. But despite a great deal of thumb wagging, no one had stopped to pick up Brian Flagg on his way back to Elkins Grove. Finally he had to walk the whole way along Route 9, and then another mile until he reached the dry riverbed, lugging ole Moss’s ratchet set in his pocket. He should have brought a flashlight, too, he thought, as he approached the familiar skeletal stump of the bridge he’d tried to use as a ramp. The sun was long gone, and night had clamped down tight on the countryside.

There was a full moon, however, and from it enough light to see what he was doing. There were just a few adjustments that he had to make on the bike, and he’d worked on that machine so much, he could probably fix it in the dark, just by touch!

In the distance a dog howled. From closer came the hoot of an owl. A cool, dry breeze was blowing down from the mountains, swaying and rattling tree branches in the forest nearby and pushing the smell of pine and dead leaves into Flagg’s face.

And the smell of something else.

Brian Flagg paused by the ruined bridge and took another sniff of that air. Yes, there was something else… a burning smell. He surveyed the tops of the trees and, yes, there was a trace of smoke, coming up from just about the area where the Can Man lived. The old man must be having a barbecue, thought Flagg, or burning refuse or something.

Nonetheless the smell made him feel slightly uneasy. As he looked at the wavering smoke against the night sky, the hairs at the nape of his neck lifted a bit and he shivered. The mountain countryside could spook a guy once in a while. Injun ghost dances, some people called the sensation. Flagg just shrugged it off and went down into the gully to deal with his bike.

It was still there, of course. There was no danger of anyone wanting the thing. Brian had paid a whole twenty-five dollars for it, almost as soon as it got dumped in the city junkyard. Back then it looked hopeless, rusty and delapidated, but the frame had been good still, and the tires were almost new. Otherwise it was a mess, but Brian Flagg had a talent for spotting potential in old stuff. Now the bike meant a lot to him because he’d saved it; it was almost like he’d made the whole thing.

He hauled the bike up, pushing it up the gully slope at any angle, so the wheels could get some purchase. It was a struggle, and when he finally pushed it up over the rim, he was puffing heavily. When he had his breath back, he wheeled the thing to some flat ground near a stand of trees. Here, he not only had optimum use of the moonlight—he also knew the damned bike wouldn’t roll away from him. He put the kickstand down, crouched, and opened up Moss’s ratchet set. Straining to see in the dim light, he began to work.

Suddenly he heard a soft rustling sound. Flagg tensed, looking around. It had been an odd noise. He listened a moment longer. Hearing nothing more, he went back to work, ignoring how greasy his hands were getting.