Day 86: Another one

            Hey, I missed yesterday too.  I think it's important to take some time out and reflect on what fiction is actually worth.  First thing, fiction has to be short and focused or it loses some of its storytelling elements.  I'm a lot more into nonfiction than fiction lately, and this makes me think I should invent new ways of fiction that are unique to me, because fiction as a whole is sort of either "movie adaptation material" or not.  So, cut the middle man out and make movies?


            Jim and Roger climbed back into his jeep, Otto’s disfigured corpse laying like a ragdoll at the bottom of the stairs.  Jim looked at Roger and shrugged;  Roger had not witnessed anything negative happening to Otto.  The moose head floated freely, braying like it was still out on the frontier.  Jim gathered up a handful of metallic objects and threw them in his bag.

            The building was practically disappearing, its gaunt walls caving in on themselves.

            “Turn here.”  Jim said repeatedly, Roger making the turns.  “Here, here.”  He shouted in eager anticipation.  They passed the café that they had eaten at on the way.

             They reached  the city that day at noon.  “Population 24,552”, the sign read as they passed it.  Jim was Rip Van Winkle, and Roger himself hadn’t been into the city too recently. 

            The first city street they drove into was blocked off wit police barricades and a loan officer blowing on a whistle with a hand extended straight in front of him.  The icecream shop across the street was filled with fathers, its windows see-through other than sundae decals.

            Roger insisted they stop at the gunstore, but the man behind the counter was insistent on forms of identification.  Roger had his wallet, but this consisted of a few credit cards and a drivers license picture.  They both looked like mountaindwelling hobos who were looking for someone to kill.

            The police finally got around to putting “missing” signs up.  The best picture Roger could produce for them was one of his daughters on two swings, looking antsy that he was keeping them from swining for the picture to be taken.  He sat in between them on the dirt pit underneath, his neck protruding forward like a turtles.  The picture was now on every electrical pole in the area, on the walls between small businesses, on billboards, on the news.

            Jim was out in the shack again like usual.  He rebuilt it quickly with the pieces he had rescued from Otto’s house, now it looked patchwork and lustrous, like a beacon for moonlight.  He promised he would work on something that would help Roger, although as much as Roger insisted the incident had been his fault he refused to capitulate blame completely. The night they returned from their useless drive to Otto’s, he let Jim know that his time was limited and that by virtue of the earlier incident he was a poor influece on the girls.

            The stretchy chord on the phone in Roger’s office made talking on itself uncomfortable.  It wouldn’t wind in a way that didn’t bother him, and it curved up against his face as he tried to talk.  He sighed and started dialing.  The phone clicked twice and started ringing, then an operator at the school connected him to his wifes extension.

            “Miranda.” Roger said, the syllables hanging heavily as he said them.

            “Roger!  Sorry I haven’t got ahold of you sooner, it’s been extremely busy here.”

            She sounded foreign to Roger, completely removed.  It was like she was on mars.

            “How are the girls doing?”  She asked, a tangible guilt in her voice.

            “That’s what I was meaning to tell you…”

            “One minute Roger!”  He heard some scurrying in the background.  “Sorry about that.  We made a very major discovery and they’ve entrusted me with the documentation.  I told them normally it was you who took care of that kind of thing, but…”

            “The girls are gone, Miranda.  They’re gone.”  He started to bawl uncontrollably.  Miranda kept her composure and waited for him to get it all out.  He wailed continuously for minutes before stopping, Jim watching the house from the tiny vertical slit in his new amalgamation.

            “Well what do you mean gone, Roger?  And why aren’t you out there trying to find them?”

            “It was Jim’s fault.  Jim and his crazy inventions.  I… don’t know how it even happened.  He conjured up miniature people from thin air, he made this big mess in the forest.  Some guy he used to know ran in and snatched them away, he thought they were Jim’s.  It was all too hectic and chaotic, there was nothing I could do.”

            She cut him off.  “Roger, you’ll find them, I know you will.  This sounds like a callous thing for a mother to say about her own daughters, but I know you’ll find them.”  She picked up a picture of herself and the girls sitting on the desk.  “You’ll be stronger for doing this, you’re going to be a much stronger person when I get back.”

            Roger closed his eyes and leaned against the bureau, holding the phone to his chest.  He put it back to his ear and there was silence, but he knew she was still there.

            “What’s the discovery?”  He asked, avoiding the somber details.  He was usually completely left in the dark about his wife’s work, and he didn’t think this time would be an exception.

            “All I can tell you, Roger, is, it’s something big.  I have to travel to Angola next week to meet a special, we’re bringing him back with us.”

            “A… specialist?”  Roger asked, perplexed.  He ran his hands through his disgusting greasy hair, thumbing the pockmarks that were popping up on his face.  He thought of his wife escorting a witch doctor of sorts back at some third world airport. 

            “I have to get going Roger, I’m so sorry.  Use the money in savings, hire a private investigator.  I’ll call you from Angola.”

            A few days passed before Roger could himself together enough to make the call.  He stayed confined to his room, noticing the dust swirling in the air in the afternoon sun.  He had a beer during the day and watched Jerry Springer, which validated his revulsion for himself.  There were a lot more private eyes in the yellow pages when he expected, opening the plump book with a feeling of dread.

            The TV blared on and on about personal injury attorneys.  Each commercial was either louder or quieter than the one before it.