Pasha Malla - People Park

Sam listened: birds chirruped and the leafless branches of the poplars creaked in a tired wind and on Parkside West cars went by with an airy, breathy sound — but there was no grinding of gears, no clank of levers, no steady drone of engines or tick of meters or hiss of valves from underground. The earth didn’t vibrate and hum. The towerclock was still. Sam touched his scab and felt pain. This was real. He looked out over the common and said, Hello? But to whom. The park was empty. There was nobody there.

STREET’S MILK & THINGS hadn’t changed since Sam was a kid: the sad clinking of the bells over the door as you entered, its owner the Polyp affixed to his stool behind the counter, everything furred with dust, you came out feeling grimy and damp. Near the door was a rack that held one yellowing dirty magazine and a poorly folded map, the scantily stocked shelves were organized by container type: boxes of cereal and detergent and nails, canned goods huddled together below — corn-in-a-can, catfood, motor oil, a labelless can, in black marker it asked: BEANS?

In the back of the store was a sign that heralded: MR. ADEMUS’S THINGS. Upon these shelves Sam filed the parts to be collected by another worker who passed them along to another worker to maintain time’s machine. Now though the shelves were empty. Everything was in place. The work was done. There was nothing to do now but wait for Monday, the end. But what about the towerclock, locked, and the silence —

Mr. Street the Polyp came waddling out from behind the counter. Hello, Mr. Ademus, once again. Old friend! As you can envisage for yourself, you’re a sellout. Success!

A hand came at him: a bulge of meat that slumped into a wrist, an arm, up to a humped shoulder, a neck lost under a sludge of chins. Grinning lips, yellow teeth, from the mouth a bad smell. But first the hand.

Grudgingly Sam took it: now Street had him, he squeezed. The fat man started ranting, nothing Sam wanted to hear — restribution this and historiographically that — all the while pumping Sam’s hand with his fat, hot hand. At last he pulled away grinning. Mr. Ademus!

Hi, said Sam, Mr. Street, but what about time’s machine? It’s stopped or I can’t hear it okay. And it’s supposed to be Monday that the machine reverses and time turns back, the third hands I mean. And do you think it’s Raven Mr. Street? Who might stop the work?

Pop shook his head sadly. Almost without refutation, he sighed. This charlating they’ve plotted upon our fair island, how could he not be balsamic of all your whoas?

And so? Should we do something Mr. Street?

Mr. Ademus, prehaps more work? More things , prehaps?

But should we try to stop him Mr. Street?

Unrefutably! He must — Pop looped an arm over Sam’s shoulders, placed his mouth to Sam’s ear, dropped his voice to a whisper — be stopped .

Okay.

Now, said Pop, clapping, Mr. Ademus, about you endowning me with new works.

Sam told him no.

Ah. So today you endown me only with shopping?

Sam told him yes.

Then beplease yourself and shop till you’ve dropped!

From the freezer Sam took a stack of nuclear meals, put them on the counter, and waited for Pop to ring them in.

Once again, Mr. Ademus, please consider these on my house. As grace for your things.

Sam took his groceries, turned to leave.

Until tomorrow, Mr. Ademus?

If there even is a tomorrow okay, said Sam, and headed out the jingling door, home.

HE GRAND SALOON’S penthouse was in the cathedral’s former belfry. On either side of the suite’s door stood the watchmen of B-Squad: the Summoner — Starx — and Olpert Bailie.

Inside the room napped Raven, he needed his sleep, though who knew what he got up to in private, thought Olpert. There was something strange in his eyes — or, more, it seemed they weren’t there at all. The illustrationist had requested the A/C cranked, so the air was icy and brittle. While Starx fiddled with the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt, Olpert shivered, blew into his hands, hugged himself.

Starx looked him over from head to toe and said, You haven’t thanked me yet, Belly.

Bailie, said Olpert. My name is Olpert Bailie.

Sure, sure.

You want me to thank you.

I knocked that kid the fug out !

A kid. You punched a kid.

He spat on you. And you were just standing there. What’s wrong with you?

Olpert had no idea what to do with this question.

You got a lady, Bailie?

A girlfriend.

Starx nodded.

Not currently.

You go out a lot?

Out?

To meet ladies.

Olpert thought about the last date he’d been on, nearly a year ago. His colleague Betty had set him up with her sister, Barbara, of the recent divorce and red leather pants. Things had been going fine, considering, until the nosebleed.

He shrugged. Sometimes, I guess.

Starx’s walkie-talkie crackled — Griggs, with instructions: at six p.m. they were to escort the illustrationist to the hotel’s banquet hall. The NFLM had taken the liberty of booking Olpert off work until Tuesday. So he’s all ours, said Griggs, all weekend. Then he recited the four pillars, traded Good lookin outs with Starx, and the radio went dead.

Listen, let me buy you a cider, said Starx, turning to Olpert, when we’re done tonight.

A cider.

Or two. Or nine. You ever been to the Golden Barrel?

In Upper Olde Towne?

You sound nervous.

Nervous?

You’ll be fine with me. That’s my hood, been out there since — a while. Tell you what, we’ll do our business, bust outta here say eightish, and be over there to make wing night. The Barrel’s got a killer wing special till nine.

Wings.

Holy shet, yes.

Somewhere, the A/C came on with a whoosh. Olpert closed his eyes, shivered. Opened them.

And standing there was the illustrationist.

Olpert’s bowels slackened, but didn’t release.

Gentlemen, said Raven.

Starx took an elongated stride backward and stooped — more of a lunge than a bow.

Raven said, You are my escorts to this dinner, I understand. This celebratory homage .

We are, said Starx.

Good. Your names?

Starx.

Olpert. I mean, Bailie.

You attended my arrival this morning.

We sure did, said Starx. Really amazing stuff, sir —

Fine, yes. But may I ask how the morning’s events made you feel.

Sorry, said Starx. Made us feel ?

Yes. What emotions did you experience. When I touched down, or made the illustration involving the birds, or when I trunked away. How you — Raven’s hand twirled in an evocative gesture — felt. Please explain.

His accent could be described only as foreign, something bad actors might adopt to suggest somewhere else , all rolling r’s and hacking k’s, but even then nothing was consistent — a sentence later the vowels might drawl and twang.

Olpert said, I felt a bit nervous.

I don’t think that’s what he was after, said Starx. He’s always a bit nervous, this guy.

No, no, said the illustrationist. Nervous is good. What else.

Um, scared.

Scared, good.

I was sort of hungry, said Starx.

Raven’s eyes flicked briefly to Starx, back to Olpert. His gaze was vertiginous — like an undertow, that helpless sensation of being tugged under.

Mr. Bailie, how else did you feel.

Anxious. And frightened. And worried, uneasy.

Starx elbowed him. Those are the same as nervous and scared.

Perhaps they are, said Raven. But continue. Why, what made you feel this way.

Something felt. . wrong.