“Just slipped… I’ll get the dustpan. Don’t step on the lightbulb pieces.”
Back into the phone: “No, I’m still here… As a matter of fact I do remember some elves… Yeah, and I was remarking to my husband that they seemed to be following him… A tall one and a chubby one
… What do you mean your mall doesn’t employ elves? I wasn’t seeing things… Could you repeat that last part?… The guard claims the elves mentioned our name? That’s weird…”
Jim returned with the dustpan. Martha covered the phone. “Jim, they say the elves mentioned our name.” Then into the phone: “I’ll have to call you back. There’s something wrong with my husband. But I demand that man be fired for his earlier behavior, regardless of your investigation.”
She hung up and set the phone down. “Jim, you look like you’re having a stroke. What’s going on?”
Jim let go of the wall. “Just some saliva went down my windpipe.”
Martha headed back to the kitchen, eyeing Jim as she went. “You’ve been acting awfully strange lately.”
Jim craned his neck and watched until she’d disappeared around the corner. Then he ran both hands through his hair. “Whew. That was close.” He picked up his tools to screw in the anchor bolt for the painting.
The doorbell rang.
“I got it.” He set down a screwdriver and answered the door.
“Jim!”
“Ahhhh!”
Jim jumped out onto the porch and slammed the door behind him. Frantic whispering: “Serge, what are you doing here? You can’t let Martha see you!”
“I brought a welcome basket!” Serge raised it by the wicker handle. “It’s got cellophane and fake grass and everything. There’s the cheese wheel-”
“Serge! I’ve got to get you off the porch before Martha comes out here!”
“Why?” asked Serge. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
The door opened. “Jim, who rang the-”
Serge smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Surprise! And, Martha, may I say you’re radiant?… You remember Coleman…”
A slight wave from Serge’s pal. Burp.
“Jim!” snapped Martha. “What are they doing here?”
Serge smiled and held up the basket again. “Cellophane and fake grass…”
“Jim! Get them the hell off our property this minute!”
“Look,” said Serge. “If Jim did something to get in the shithouse with you, I’m sure there’s a perfect explanation.”
“Jim!”
A deep, pounding sound came up the street. The bass line from “Bad Romance.”
A low-riding GTX with gold rims pulled up to the curb. Nicole necked briefly with the driver, then got out. The sports car screeched away.
Martha marched halfway down the porch steps. “Nicole! Is that the same boy I told you-”
The teen brushed past her. “I’m getting a tattoo.”
Martha’s eyes darted between Serge and her daughter disappearing into the house. Twin crises. She made the call and ran inside “Nicole! Come back here!..”
“Whoa!” said Coleman.
“Holy fuck,” Serge told Jim. “I didn’t know what you were up against. Each month when their periods get in sync, you must be juggling chain saws.”
“You talking about my wife and daughter…?”
“Just sayin’.”
“Please don’t.”
Serge bowed his head once in respect. “Fair enough. I haven’t been there myself, so the period thing could be touchy-”
“Serge!” Jim stepped close and whispered: “What on earth did you do to that mall cop?”
Serge took a step back, mouth agape, and placed a hand over his heart. “Jim, I’m shocked. I show up with a welcome basket, and we’re chatting all friendly about periods and shit, and then suddenly accusations.”
Jim idly rubbed his left shoe on the welcome mat. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Serge threw an arm around Jim’s shoulders. “Meanwhile, it looks like Martha’s having some trouble with your daughter. Let’s see if I can help. I’m great with kids.”
“I think it’s a bad idea.”
“Don’t be silly.” He led Jim inside and called down the hall. “Martha! Nicole! It’s Serge to the rescue…”
Serge and Coleman dashed down the porch steps at 888 Triggerfish Lane. A frying pan flew after them and took a divot out of the lawn. “Don’t ever come back!”
They jumped into the Chevelle. “Hurry up and start the car,” said Coleman. “She’s looking for something else to throw.”
Feet ran down the front steps.
“Hurry!” yelled Coleman.
“That’s not Martha.”
Nicole sprinted down to the car.
“What are you doing?” yelled Serge.
“Coming with you. I’m getting the fuck out of this hell house!”
“Your mouth!” said Serge.
She grabbed the passenger-door handle before Serge could hit the lock button, and dove in the backseat.
“Get out of the car,” said Serge.
She pointed up the street. “Just hit the gas.”
“Out of the car-”
Martha came running down the steps.
A cast-iron pressure cooker crashed and creased the Chevelle’s hood. “My car! It’s vintage!”
“Told you to hit the gas.”
Serge peeled out.
Martha ended up in the middle of the street behind the car, throwing her shoes.
Nicole was twisted around in her seat, looking out the rear window and giggling. She turned back around. “That was cool.”
“That was not… What do you think you’re doing?”
Nicole lit a Marlboro Light. “What?”
Serge snatched it away and threw it out the window.
“Hey!”
“Jesus, you’re just a kid!” said Serge. “What, sixteen?”
“Fifteen.”
Coleman fired a new doobie and passed it back over the front seat. “Wanna hit?”
“Sure.” Nicole reached.
Serge slapped his hand. “Coleman! That’s illegal!”
“Sorry. How ’bout a beer?”
“No!” yelled Serge. “She’s just a kid!”
Nicole pointed. “Is that a real gun?”
“What?” said Serge. “Oh, this? Didn’t realize I’d gotten it out again. Something to keep my hands busy.”
“Can I hold it?”
“No!” He stowed it under the seat.
Nicole slumped in disappointment. “You guys looked like you were going to be fun.”
“We are fun,” said Serge. “Ask anyone. Well, not anyone. You know how some people automatically don’t like
