reasonably sure they won’t. This is a done deal. I have the letter in my bag to prove it. I’ve got the inn. It’s for sure.
See the lawyer. Sign the papers. Get the inn. Sell the inn. Easy peasy.
With my wish made, I pick up my bag and walk the rest of the way to the attorney’s office on the other side of the plaza.
I think I’ve got the right address, but this can’t be the place. The lawyer for my aunt’s estate is supposed to be at number two Plaza Circle, but the sign over the door says this is Apple Love, which turns out to be a store for apple-headed dolls and not some weird juicing place for alternative sexual persuasions.
Inside, the store is terrifying. It’s like a horror movie on acid. Like a nightmare after eating Chinese food at midnight. Like Saw but with an abundance of lace doilies and American flag curtains. There are shrunken apple heads with beady eyes staring at me from every surface. And there’s a lot of surfaces. Multiple, multiple surfaces. There are shrunken apple heads on tables, shrunken apple heads on shelves, shrunken apple heads behind glass, shrunken apple heads piled on the floor.
It’s a massacre. I shudder and swallow down bile, which is rising in my throat. Apple head bile… the worst kind.
I close my eyes and breathe through my nose, trying to calm myself. After a few seconds, I take a peek, and they’re still staring at me. Apple heads. My heart races. Who would have thought that I would be so scared of an old apple dressed in a pinafore dress?
“May I help you?” an old woman asks, making me yelp in surprise. She’s around eighty years old, and she’s wearing a pinafore dress just like seventy-percent of the dolls. In fact, she’s a dead ringer for half of the dolls in the store. Her face and head look wrinkled and shrunken, just like a desiccated apple. Yikes.
“Miss? You okay?” she asks. “You’re awful green. You want some taffy? I’ve got some banana taffy that will knock your socks off.”
Suddenly, I’m not creeped out anymore. Anyone who offers me candy is good with me. Besides, I’m very hungry.
“I would love some banana taffy.” It’s not quite as good as ice cream, but I have a killer sweet tooth. I would happily live off of Skittles and Tootsie Pops. Putting my duffel bag on the floor, the apple-head old lady gives me a fistful of taffy. I unwrap one and put it in my mouth. It’s delicious. Sweet and it makes my teeth stick together.
“That’s better,” she says. “You look almost human.” That’s funny coming from a woman who looks like a desiccated fruit, but she’s right. The taffy is making me feel much better. I didn’t know how worn out I was getting released from prison and traveling all day. I pop another taffy into my mouth.
“Yum,” I say with my mouth full of the sticky candy. “I think I’m lost. I’m looking for a lawyer named Robinson.”
She points upward. “Second floor. The stairs are in the corner past the Fourth of July dolls and the I Like Ike dolls.”
I thank her and grab my duffel. With a mouth full of taffy, I climb the stairs. The lawyer’s offices take up the entire second floor, which isn’t that big. There’s a waiting room with a receptionist, and behind her is a door to what I suppose is the attorney’s personal office. There’s wood paneling on the walls, and the floor is covered with avocado green carpeting. The office looks like a scene from That 70s Show.
“Beryl Meyer to see Mr. Robinson,” I tell the receptionist. She looks like the prison warden of the prison I just left, and I break out into a panic sweat, thinking for a minute that this is all a practical joke, and I’m going back to the slammer.
“Please have a seat. He’s running a little late.” Her voice comes out like Glinda the Good Witch of the North, which is the polar opposite of the warden’s jackhammer gravelly voice. The difference between them breaks me out of my panic. Relieved, I take a seat in the
See the lawyer. Sign the papers. Get the inn. Sell the inn. Easy peasy.
With my wish made, I pick up my bag and walk the rest of the way to the attorney’s office on the other side of the plaza.
I think I’ve got the right address, but this can’t be the place. The lawyer for my aunt’s estate is supposed to be at number two Plaza Circle, but the sign over the door says this is Apple Love, which turns out to be a store for apple-headed dolls and not some weird juicing place for alternative sexual persuasions.
Inside, the store is terrifying. It’s like a horror movie on acid. Like a nightmare after eating Chinese food at midnight. Like Saw but with an abundance of lace doilies and American flag curtains. There are shrunken apple heads with beady eyes staring at me from every surface. And there’s a lot of surfaces. Multiple, multiple surfaces. There are shrunken apple heads on tables, shrunken apple heads on shelves, shrunken apple heads behind glass, shrunken apple heads piled on the floor.
It’s a massacre. I shudder and swallow down bile, which is rising in my throat. Apple head bile… the worst kind.
I close my eyes and breathe through my nose, trying to calm myself. After a few seconds, I take a peek, and they’re still staring at me. Apple heads. My heart races. Who would have thought that I would be so scared of an old apple dressed in a pinafore dress?
“May I help you?” an old woman asks, making me yelp in surprise. She’s around eighty years old, and she’s wearing a pinafore dress just like seventy-percent of the dolls. In fact, she’s a dead ringer for half of the dolls in the store. Her face and head look wrinkled and shrunken, just like a desiccated apple. Yikes.
“Miss? You okay?” she asks. “You’re awful green. You want some taffy? I’ve got some banana taffy that will knock your socks off.”
Suddenly, I’m not creeped out anymore. Anyone who offers me candy is good with me. Besides, I’m very hungry.
“I would love some banana taffy.” It’s not quite as good as ice cream, but I have a killer sweet tooth. I would happily live off of Skittles and Tootsie Pops. Putting my duffel bag on the floor, the apple-head old lady gives me a fistful of taffy. I unwrap one and put it in my mouth. It’s delicious. Sweet and it makes my teeth stick together.
“That’s better,” she says. “You look almost human.” That’s funny coming from a woman who looks like a desiccated fruit, but she’s right. The taffy is making me feel much better. I didn’t know how worn out I was getting released from prison and traveling all day. I pop another taffy into my mouth.
“Yum,” I say with my mouth full of the sticky candy. “I think I’m lost. I’m looking for a lawyer named Robinson.”
She points upward. “Second floor. The stairs are in the corner past the Fourth of July dolls and the I Like Ike dolls.”
I thank her and grab my duffel. With a mouth full of taffy, I climb the stairs. The lawyer’s offices take up the entire second floor, which isn’t that big. There’s a waiting room with a receptionist, and behind her is a door to what I suppose is the attorney’s personal office. There’s wood paneling on the walls, and the floor is covered with avocado green carpeting. The office looks like a scene from That 70s Show.
“Beryl Meyer to see Mr. Robinson,” I tell the receptionist. She looks like the prison warden of the prison I just left, and I break out into a panic sweat, thinking for a minute that this is all a practical joke, and I’m going back to the slammer.
“Please have a seat. He’s running a little late.” Her voice comes out like Glinda the Good Witch of the North, which is the polar opposite of the warden’s jackhammer gravelly voice. The difference between them breaks me out of my panic. Relieved, I take a seat in the
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