and bowel-loosening, all at the same time.
And I don’t want
to believe it.
Because what’s
next? Will I get an email from Bigfoot?
Ford! Dude!
Let’s grab beers this weekend. This amigo of mine, he lives up the hill and has
some wicked cavebrew going on. You need to try it, yo!
Except that I
might actually enjoy having a couple of pints with Bigfoot, rather than some
cross-dimensional demonic entities out there trying to throw down.
What I prefer to
believe is that Lauren Coeburn is lying out of that succulent mouth of hers,
right between those pristinely bleached teeth. What I would also prefer to
believe is that she did some research—probably remembering some interview I did
five or six years ago where I mentioned how spooky the black-eyed children
are—and now she’s here to play against my fears, sidle up next to me, and
pickpocket whatever info I have on Carla Hancock and Spirit World Productions.
If that’s the
case, I’m might go caveman on her, grab a handful of hair, and drag this
screaming blonde pixie out of my condo where I’d deposit her in the deepest
puddle in the parking lot.
Ellen might get shown
the door, too. I’d be gentler, though—like maybe an angry piggyback ride.
That would be so
much easier than the difficult decision I’m about to make.
I’m going to trust
that Lauren is telling the truth for the time being.
The black-eyed
children have tossed out a vaguely concealed threat, and I’m not one to back
down from paranormal fisticuffs.
Lauren says,
“Ford?” which shreds apart my mental seesaw and yanks me back into the kitchen.
The beer bottle is
cold in my hand. The tiles are cool under my feet. And when it comes to the woman
occupying the stool across from me, it seems like my heart isn’t as frozen as I
thought it was.
Open yourself to
forgiveness, Ford. People make mistakes. The world isn’t made up entirely of
demons and belly-crawlers.
Lauren asks, “You
heard what I said, right? He mentioned you . By name .”
“Wouldn’t be the
first time.”
She flattens her
lips together and considers my statement, then spins around on the stool to
check on Grandma Ellen, who has dozed off with one of Ulie’s floppy ears gently
curled up in a bony hand. He appears to be enjoying the affection and unwilling
to move and disturb her at the same time. Lauren hooks a thumb over her
shoulder. “I can’t take her back there. Not until it’s safe.”
“Definitely not.”
“Then what do we
do?”
“We?”
“I can’t call the
police, especially not me. They’d think I’m crazy. Next thing you know, I’m on
the news. All those L.A. frenemies of mine would see it; goddamn story goes
viral in a heartbeat, and boom, they yank me off Weekend Report .”
“Imagine the
horror.”
She’s quick, this
one, picking up on my sarcasm right away. She reaches across the counter and
touches my arm with a clammy palm. “Sorry. You know what I mean.”
“Yup.”
“Everybody in the
business, we all have to tiptoe around everything we do now, and it just
completely sucks.”
“Yup.” Preaching
to the choir, sister.
“Did you read
about Kaylynn Simms last week?”
“I have no idea
who that is.”
“The cute redhead
on Smile High Club .”
“That’s a TV show?”
“Where have you
been? It’s that Thursday night dramedy about the promiscuous flight attendants?
Really? You haven’t seen it? You are so missing out. It’s—”
I hold up a hand
to interrupt. “What about her?”
Lauren wiggles her
bottom on the stool and claps her hands in glee. “It’s so good. You have to
watch it. Anyway, my point is, some ‘razzi took a picture of her last week
wearing this t-shirt. Only thing it said was, ‘I drink orange Jews’ underneath
a cartoon orange wearing a yarmulke.”
“So?”
“So? Ford, it’s a
fucking t-shirt that’s actually kinda funny, and it only took about six hours
for people online to go ballistic. The Internet blew up about how Jewish
And I don’t want
to believe it.
Because what’s
next? Will I get an email from Bigfoot?
Ford! Dude!
Let’s grab beers this weekend. This amigo of mine, he lives up the hill and has
some wicked cavebrew going on. You need to try it, yo!
Except that I
might actually enjoy having a couple of pints with Bigfoot, rather than some
cross-dimensional demonic entities out there trying to throw down.
What I prefer to
believe is that Lauren Coeburn is lying out of that succulent mouth of hers,
right between those pristinely bleached teeth. What I would also prefer to
believe is that she did some research—probably remembering some interview I did
five or six years ago where I mentioned how spooky the black-eyed children
are—and now she’s here to play against my fears, sidle up next to me, and
pickpocket whatever info I have on Carla Hancock and Spirit World Productions.
If that’s the
case, I’m might go caveman on her, grab a handful of hair, and drag this
screaming blonde pixie out of my condo where I’d deposit her in the deepest
puddle in the parking lot.
Ellen might get shown
the door, too. I’d be gentler, though—like maybe an angry piggyback ride.
That would be so
much easier than the difficult decision I’m about to make.
I’m going to trust
that Lauren is telling the truth for the time being.
The black-eyed
children have tossed out a vaguely concealed threat, and I’m not one to back
down from paranormal fisticuffs.
Lauren says,
“Ford?” which shreds apart my mental seesaw and yanks me back into the kitchen.
The beer bottle is
cold in my hand. The tiles are cool under my feet. And when it comes to the woman
occupying the stool across from me, it seems like my heart isn’t as frozen as I
thought it was.
Open yourself to
forgiveness, Ford. People make mistakes. The world isn’t made up entirely of
demons and belly-crawlers.
Lauren asks, “You
heard what I said, right? He mentioned you . By name .”
“Wouldn’t be the
first time.”
She flattens her
lips together and considers my statement, then spins around on the stool to
check on Grandma Ellen, who has dozed off with one of Ulie’s floppy ears gently
curled up in a bony hand. He appears to be enjoying the affection and unwilling
to move and disturb her at the same time. Lauren hooks a thumb over her
shoulder. “I can’t take her back there. Not until it’s safe.”
“Definitely not.”
“Then what do we
do?”
“We?”
“I can’t call the
police, especially not me. They’d think I’m crazy. Next thing you know, I’m on
the news. All those L.A. frenemies of mine would see it; goddamn story goes
viral in a heartbeat, and boom, they yank me off Weekend Report .”
“Imagine the
horror.”
She’s quick, this
one, picking up on my sarcasm right away. She reaches across the counter and
touches my arm with a clammy palm. “Sorry. You know what I mean.”
“Yup.”
“Everybody in the
business, we all have to tiptoe around everything we do now, and it just
completely sucks.”
“Yup.” Preaching
to the choir, sister.
“Did you read
about Kaylynn Simms last week?”
“I have no idea
who that is.”
“The cute redhead
on Smile High Club .”
“That’s a TV show?”
“Where have you
been? It’s that Thursday night dramedy about the promiscuous flight attendants?
Really? You haven’t seen it? You are so missing out. It’s—”
I hold up a hand
to interrupt. “What about her?”
Lauren wiggles her
bottom on the stool and claps her hands in glee. “It’s so good. You have to
watch it. Anyway, my point is, some ‘razzi took a picture of her last week
wearing this t-shirt. Only thing it said was, ‘I drink orange Jews’ underneath
a cartoon orange wearing a yarmulke.”
“So?”
“So? Ford, it’s a
fucking t-shirt that’s actually kinda funny, and it only took about six hours
for people online to go ballistic. The Internet blew up about how Jewish
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