Ten Cent Pistol

Corviss thoughts and firmate ideas

I spent all of yesterday burying forks underneath snowmen. I had no help. I open my fridge and grab my leftover Chinese takeout. Buy rice for the right price. The doorbell rings and I answer the door. A lady in a lavender dress holds out her hand. A fork. Smiling, she asks if I would like her help burying it. I set my food on the ground. We walk a few blocks and make it to where the snowmen are. She tosses the fork on the snowy grass. I start to dig and the snow stings my fingers. She does the same. The snowman is fresh and plump. I look at her again. Snowflakes hit her hair and melt. The hole is deep enough now and we both hold onto a side of the chilled fork. We let go. It falls in without making a sound and I start to bury it. We share a brief moment of silence and then she laughs. I make eye contact with the snowman once more and it’s almost as if his eyes are saying “Thank you.” My stomach grumbles and I ask her if she wants to get something to eat.

We sit at our table, overlooking a river, and share an artichoke. I peel a leaf off and dip it in vinegar. She does the same. Simultaneous chews echo through the river and I throw an eaten leaf into it. It lands on a branch and we watch it swim downstream. She throws a leaf too, so the other one won’t be lonely. A bird perches on the vinegar cup and pecks at it. I motion for it to leave and it does, spilling the content of the cup in the aftermath. She doesn’t look alarmed. She gets up from the table and takes the artichoke with her; her feet tip-toe towards the edge of the river. I follow. She rips a leaf and dips it into the river. I try it myself after she eats it. Leaf by leaf, we take turns dipping it into the river and eating. We use a fork to carve “Ten Cent Pistol” on its retired surface and roll it into the river. I never did get her name.

A middle-aged woman wearing earmuffs struggles to carry a box and I offer to help her. With frail arms she hands it to me. The box is brown and plain and “Telescope” is written in red Sharpie on the side of it. We’re taking it to the Post Office. She tells me that it’s for her eight year old grandson who is afraid of stars. In efforts to help him get over his fear, she dug up this box out from her attic. She asks me what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid of… She chuckles and says that’s silly. She offers to buy me lunch to show her appreciation once we get to the Post Office. I walk through the metal detector and it goes off. I take a dime out of my back pocket. Her friend owns a Chinese takeout place and we go our separate ways after that.

She and I heave a blanket over a tree branch and set up a light a few meters back. She twists her fingers and makes them look like odd shadow puppets. I turn my right hand into a rabbit. A bird, an alligator, an elephant, a pistol, a bear. The blanket sways back and forth as the wind ludicrously watches the show. The flashlight begins to flicker and we hum to its rhythm. She says her hands hurt and the battery dies moments later. A plane passes over and I look up at it. The lights flash as if they were consoling us. The wind waves goodbye and takes our blanket with it. She finds a dime on the ground and puts it in my back pocket.

My shoe has a vinegar stain on it now and I accidentally run into a gentleman while looking down. I apologize and he says he’s all good. He tells me he went to a concert. Well, he was outside the stadium but he could hear it all so it was kind of like he was there. The concert was sold out and it was for the one and only singer known as… He rummages through his backpack, the kind the hikers use, and pulls out a flimsy kite. Nothing caught my eye about it. It was just a plain, red kite and I watch as it rises more and more into the sky. The gentleman, his face deep in concentration, choreographs the objects movements. An illusion of dance encompasses the sky and he calmly ties a fork to the end of the string. He sets the fork on the ground and leaves me. The kite looks disappointed that he left and patiently trickles down to the earth.

I pick up my Chinese takeout off my floor and escort it to my microwave. I watch as my food spins in circles like a primitive Mary-Go-Round. The timer goes off and I grab it by the handle. I let go because it’s hot, much like sitting on a horse right after someone was riding on it. I open a drawer in hopes of finding a fork but there are none to be found.

Author's Note

A tribute to Quentin Tarantino

Reviews

[Rana]

Ingenious and Wowww; I was totally blind to the nonlinearity until the last line of the fourth paragraph and then it took me a while to see it was way more shuffled up than it appeared. My guess is e-b-d-a-c-f. Very deceptively-done. And beautiful, so beautiful. I enjoyed admiring the world you created here. The aura and characters and everything. The narration, in the signature style, is at its best and the work is intricate as it goes on skilfully feeding both halves of the brain with details of contrasting natures alternating.
" The wind waves goodbye and takes our blanket with it." -i was engrossed chuckling at this when right after, the dime line made me pause and go 'oh', like a trigger for the left hemisphere. I wondered why the snowmen wanted forks to be buried underneath them. My right hemisphere picks:
" She throws a leaf too, so the other one won’t be lonely."
"Leaf by leaf, we take turns dipping it into the river and eating."
"She tells me that it’s for her eight year old grandson who is afraid of stars."
"The lights flash as if they were consoling us."
"The kite looks disappointed that he left and patiently trickles down to the earth." -i love how the feelings are noted, so considerately. It's a super-clever piece, a really great tribute. I couldn't get enough of it. Your mind is a beautiful place of places, Gaston.