Mysfits Page 5
Pinckney dropped it and watched, wide-eyed, as the tiny bumps smoothed themselves. Still reluctant to pick it up, he probed the odd, gold-lettered word on the cover with a tentative finger. Quite silently, the letters reformed themselves to read: Catalog, and J. Darwin Pinckney wet his pants.
~*~
"Where'd ya go Saturday night?" Charlie Stimson, Lemhoffer's stockroom manager and Pinckney's primary tormentor, sat in a folding chair tilted backwards against an unpainted wall. "We turned around, and you were gone."
"Yeah, sure," Pinckney mumbled, still feeling his hangover. Long Island Iced Tea certainly didn't sound potent, so he hadn't objected when Charlie kept ordering refills.
"You shoulda hung around," Stimson said. "You missed Mary Ann. What a babe! She was wearin' one of them see-through babydoll things, and the skimpiest little panties... You shoulda seen her shimmy outta them!"
"Bull," Pinckney said.
Stimson slammed forward in his chair. "You callin' me a liar? She's a stripper. She talks about it all the time."
Pinckney flushed. "She's not like that."
"How'd you know? You were so bombed you couldn't move." He stepped close enough for Pinckney to smell his cigarette breath. He tapped the bandage. "What's this?"
"Nothin'."
A grin split Stimson's face. "You hidin' something? Let's have a look."
"It's nothing!" Pinckney said. As if you didn't know anything about it. He grabbed the handle of a large rolling bin used to distribute merchandise, and attempted to flee. Bob Nevins, another stockman, stepped in the way.
"Look who's here," Nevins said, his voice a sneer. "Too good to share yer whole birthday with us?"
"He won't say why he left," Stimson said. "I think he went to watch the boys dance."
"You like them faggy boys, Pinko?" Nevins asked.
"I don't care about strippers--male or female." Pinckney pushed hard against the heavy bin to start it rolling. Hope I get the bastard's foot.
Stimson stopped the cart with one hand. "Where you goin'?"
"Hardware," Pinckney said.
Stimson wagged his thumb at a smaller cart. "Take that one. It's more yer style."
Pinckney lifted the canvas flap covering the open side of the bin. Lingerie spilled out.
"Don't be wastin' Mary Ann's time if she's in today. She's prob'ly still tired from Saturday night." Stimson and Nevins broke into laughter.
Pinckney pushed the cart into the freight elevator. He was so busy fantasizing about different ways to kill Stimson and Nevins he almost forgot to exit when he reached his floor.
He rolled the cart through unpopulated aisles until he reached Lady's Foundations. Mary Ann Winston, the shapely redhead he'd been in love with for two years, wasn't in sight. Instead, he came nose to knockers with Bitsy Eshenbach, the Department Manager. A stern, heavy woman, Bitsy towered over most men and managed her crew like a Prussian General.
"Where've you been?"
"Nowhere," Pinckney said, instantly cowed. "This is my first delivery."
"We're having a sale today. I've been looking for this shipment since last week!" Bitsy's frown rippled across her chins. "Why wasn't it delivered before now?"
"Beats me. I don't do the scheduling." He squelched the temptation to volunteer Stimson's name. Just then, Mary Ann peeked out from behind her boss.
"Need any help?" she asked.
"You bet," Pinckney said. The redhead's smile banished his earlier homicidal mood. She squeezed by the cart and eased in next to him. His pulse quickened as he smelled her perfume.
Bitsy bumped his shoulder as she slipped a fleshy arm around the girl and pulled her away. "He can handle it. You can help me rearrange the clearance table. I expect a crowd today."
Pinckney dug into the mound of polyester, searching for hangers. There weren't any. Bitsy called out, "I want 'em sorted by style, size, and color."
As he stood, clutching an armload of Valentine's Day undies and watching the love of his life being taken away, he added Bitsy's name to his list of people to be eaten alive by spiders.
~*~
The catalog lay on the table where he'd run from it the night before, but his mood was so foul he forgot his fear and picked it up. There was only one page between the covers.
How chintzy!
On the inside front cover, opposite an ad for "Mage Wear," the words "Free Gift" caught his eye. Beneath a photo of a shallow, kidney-shaped basin, he read:
Yours FREE! The latest in LIVE communication,
and the ONLY way to talk to us! No wires,
no pesky dial tones, no clunky buttons. Chat
whenever you like! Just put your name, birth sign
and a drop of blood on the enclosed, postage-paid
card, and mail it today. DON'T delay!
When he turned the page the postcard fell out. He supplied everything but the drop of blood.
He examined the catalog. The back page and inside back cover featured an array of items under the heading: "Alchemy." In addition to bottles, vials, cauldrons and other containers, the catalog included two long lists, one labeled "Ready-Mixed," the other "For the Purist."
He glanced at the Purist's list but quickly moved on. He never cared for reptiles, amphibians or parts thereof. The Ready-Mix list, however, contained a number of items of interest. Among the many potions, unguents, poultices and balms were cures for love sickness, palsy, cowardice, stupidity, and bad breath.
The alphabetical list seemed endless, possibly because the lettering was so small he often lost his place. Looking back at the top of the list, he expected to re-read the first entry, about something to mollify an ague--whatever that was--but instead found a listing for an herb to deracinate a tree spirit.
Hoping he'd never need to do that, he returned to the front page to look over the clothing no well-connected mage could do without, and found offerings from a medieval, magical library instead. In lieu of hats, cloaks, robes, and sandals, Pinckney found books and scrolls. It even had a section devoted to "graven tablets" of stone, clay, wood, or bone, and "absolutely nothing artificial"--guaranteed!
He turned to the back, but instead of the alchemic offerings, he discovered a menagerie of "familiars." As usual, a variety of photos accompanied the lists and descriptions. This time the list included cats, monkeys, minor demons, common reptiles, wolves, dragons, and insects.
He presumed the bugs were for those on a budget and looked for a price. There wasn't one. He looked to see if the books and scrolls were done the same way but found them replaced by a page of ads for real estate.
He decided un-real estate would be more descriptive. The choices included castles, towers, cottages, huts, hollow trees, natural caves, coffins, and an assortment of small, dark places.
He'd seen enough. The catalog would be his salvation. After pricking his finger with a pin and touching a drop of blood to the postcard, he went to bed. For the first time in years, when he thought of Stimson and Nevins, he smiled.
~*~
When the package finally arrived, Pinckney shredded the plain, brown wrapper and uncovered a box made of thin wood. He opened it and found a shallow, kidney-shaped bowl like the one he'd seen in the catalog. The sides of the ceramic vessel were uneven in height and thickness, the glaze irregular in color and texture. It went from a smooth shiny green at the outer ends to a dull rough umber near the middle.
He searched the packing material for instructions and found a velvet bag containing a tiny, glass vial. The stopper was wired in place with a little tag attached which read:
Fill bowl to rim with water pure.
Add but a drop to speak.
Pinckney rushed to the sink, filled the basin, and put it on the table. He opened the vial and held the dropper with an unsteady hand. A single drop instantly calmed the water. In moments, it became cloudy and continued to get darker. Within a minute, it turned flat black.
Pinckney waited a while longer, hoping something would happen.
Nothing did.
"Big deal," he said, turning away.
"What's a big deal?" asked a voice from the basin.
Sphincter tightened, Pinckney continued his turn until he'd gone full circle and stared into the bowl. A face stared back.
It appeared friendly, if slightly bored, and pleasantly feminine with large eyes and dimples.
"You startled me," he said.
"Sorry," said the face.
Fascinated, he touched the water.
"Hey, watch it! What d'ya think you're doing?"
"Oops--sorry. You felt that? Neat! This is better than interactive TV, except there's no color. How come?"
"Didn't you read the instructions?"
"Sure. And I used one drop, just like it said."
"You filled the bowl with tap water, right?"
Pinckney frowned. "Is that bad?"
"Not if you like black and white. Either the chlorine or the fluoride screws things up. Next time, follow instructions. If you don't understand something, ask me--that's terribly important. With magic, you don't want to make mistakes."
"Gotcha. Are you, like, an operator, or what?"
"More like tech support."
"And I can place orders with you? 24-hours a day?"
She closed her eyes and exhaled. "Yeah."
"What's your name?"
"Cleopatra."
He looked at her from the corners of his eyes.
"Some things you just don't ask," she said. "I can see you've got a lot to learn about The Art."
"Cleopatra?"
"Okay, that name sucks. How 'bout 'Belle'? Will that do?"
"Sure," Pinckney said. He stood quietly, smiling and savoring the moment, then clapped his hands. "Okay, let's start with some people at Lemhoffer's--two guys especially. I don't want 'em dead, exactly, but I'd like to be able to hurt 'em if--no, when--they give me a hard time. Then there's Bitsy. Let's turn her into a toad or-- Hey! I'll bet you could suggest something really disgusting! And Mary Ann, of course--I'll need a love potion or two. And books! Cripes, I almost forgot--"
"Enough already!" Belle shook her head. "Who do you think you are, Merlin? We're talking magic here--you can't just jump in at the top. You've got to work your way up."
"The brochure said I could have any of this stuff!"
"You can, but 'having' it and 'using' it are two very different things."
Pinckney jammed his hands in his pockets and humped his shoulders up around his ears.
"What's the matter?" she asked. "Look, have you ever bought a pair of really good running shoes?"
He looked down at his WalMart sneakers. "Sure."
"Well, when you first put them on, were you able to run the hundred in ten flat?"
"No." He'd never run a hundred yards in his life.
"So what makes you think you can do magic the first time you try?"
"I see your point."
"Okay," Belle said. "Now, what'll we start with?"
He grinned. "Maybe turn Charlie Stimson into a frog?"
Belle looked at him, then smiled. "Why bother? I get the impression he's already an asshole."
~*~
Pinckney worked at his magic fanatically. He learned that for every spell he cast, he needed a focus--something closely related, if not previously attached, to the person or thing the spell was meant to effect.
For instance, the focus for a spell to quiet the mutt next door was a bit of the animal's fur. Pinckney obtained it from the beast's tail about an hour after it consumed a Quarter Pounder with cheese and a side order of Nembutal. Fur in hand, Pinckney followed Belle's instructions with exquisite care for three days, eager to see the results.
Having scribed the last rune and burnt the last bit of fur, Pinckney walked out to the neighbor's fence. The dog attacked. Closing to about twenty yards, it opened its toothy maw and let out a throaty chirp, then lurched to a stop, a look of pained confusion on its face. Pinckney went back inside.
"It worked!"
"Of course it worked," Belle said.
Pinckney tucked in a loose shirt-tail; his slacks felt a size too large. "Do all spells take so long?"
"You'll learn short cuts. The dog spell didn't have to take three days."
"I did everything you told me."
"And some things I didn't," she added.
"Like what?"
"Like, which end of the dog did you get the fur from?"
"The tail."
"And which end makes the noise?"
Pinckney blinked. "You mean, if I had clipped its ear instead of its tail, the spell would've worked faster?"
"By a couple days."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
She looked at him intensely. "You must learn to ask questions. I can't say it any more plainly than that."
~*~
It had been a week since he cast a spell on the dog, and he enjoyed more uninterrupted sleep than he'd had all year, but though his nights improved, his days were as lousy as ever.
"Aw, c'mon, Pinko," Nevins said, "lemme see yer tattoo. It's a pansy, right? How sweet."
Pinckney tried to ignore him.
"Been back to see your girl friend at the strip joint?" Stimson gave Nevins a comradely poke. "Or does she give you a private show?"
"You're disgusting," Pinckney said. "Why don't you leave her alone? She's never done anything wrong."
Nevins grinned. "Everything about her is right."
"I dunno," Stimson said, "her left's pretty nice too!"
Feigning indifference, Pinckney aimed a freight hamper at the elevator. It was his first delivery of the day. The cargo featured pool toys.
"Reach!" Stimson cried when the elevator arrived.
Pinckney turned and Stimson soaked the front of his slacks with a high-pressure water gun.
Soundlessly, Pinckney closed the doors and hit the 'down' button. Their laughter followed him to the basement.
~*~
Pinckney paced in front of the kidney-shaped bowl. "Damn it, Belle, I've had it!"
"Then do something about it," she said. "You've got thousands of spells to choose from."
Pinckney hitched up his slacks: a new pair--the only ones that still fit. "Can't you suggest something? Any spell I come up with will probably take a year."
"You know I can't. All choices must be yours. However...."
Pinckney stopped pacing. "What?"
"It might not hurt to give you some hints. A subject's vanity is often a good place to start. Think about his personal habits--grooming, the way he dresses, his physical conditioning."
"Stimson's in pretty good shape." Pinckney stood with his hands on his hips. "Maybe I can find out where he goes."
"You'll need more than that."
"A focus?
"Exactly."
~*~
The heavy door swung open on silent hinges as Pinckney administered the obligatory grunt he knew would bring him to the attention of the mob inside. He had entered Stimson's temple, where one's body was more than merely a vessel for the soul. It was the object of the worship.
The sanctuary was resplendent in brass, oak, and leather, with carpeting deep-hued and luxurious. A well-populated juice bar stretched the length of one wall. Rock music gushed from hidden speakers and pumped out a base so profound that Pinckney's sternum bounced to the beat. The textures, colors, and sounds oozed testosterone, jet fuel, and sweat.
Loungers had two means of viewing the action: a glass wall, perpendicular to the juice bar, overlooked a dozen racquetball courts, and a bank of television sets monitored proceedings in the weight rooms, aerobic hall, and pool.
Pinckney stared at the monitors, then at the courts, hoping to spot Stimson before someone asked for his own credentials.
He exhaled as Stimson and a Hercules clone arrived, drenched with perspiration, and proud of it. Wearing only shoes, shorts, and sweat bands, they approached the bar and placed an order.
"We need a minute to get cleaned up," Stimson said.
Pinckney followed them to the locker room. He waited until they were in the showers, then approached the pile of sweaty clothing they'd left on a bench. Smiling at his own foresight, Pinckney slipped Stimson's sweaty head band into a sandwich bag and stuffed it in his pocket.
He retraced his steps to the entrance. No one stopped him, or even looked his way, proving that in some circumstances he needed no spell to be invisible.
~*~
With the catalog open in his lap, Pinckney listed maladies suitable for Stimson.
"Forget the complicated ones," Belle said from the bowl, "if you want to finish any time soon."
"I do, but I want it to last, whatever it is. Any ideas?"
Belle cut her eyes at him.
"I know, I know--I've gotta make the choices." He examined his list. "How 'bout a wart? A great, big, ugly one."
"That'd work," Belle said, "and they're hard to cure."
"Nah. He'd have it removed right away." Pinckney absently scribbled on his pad, drawing circles of various sizes. He drew one inside another and colored the smaller one, like a target.
"What about a third eye?"
"It's time-consuming, but you could handle it. Although in some places, a third eye isn't terribly unusual."
Pinckney laughed. "It would be at Lemhoffer's! How long would it take?"
"A month, maybe. Does he wear glasses? That'd be a better focus than the headband."
"I want something faster." He scrolled through the catalog, squinting at the tiny letters, until he found a promising header: Lesions. "Yum! We've got 'Abscesses, boils, furnuncles, pimples, pustules, sores, and ulcers.'"
He read through the descriptions. "Carbuncles! A couple of those ought to do the trick."
"They can be serious y'know," Belle said.
"Oh? Well, so can I."
"You're sure you want a spell for carbuncles?"
"Absolutely."
"Done. Give me a moment." Her image disappeared briefly. The color of the water shifted from flat black to cloudy gray, and a woman's hand appeared. Clutching a rolled parchment, it rose clear of the water, yet not a drop clung to it or the paper.
Pinckney shuddered, though he'd seen it before. The hand surrendered the document, then slipped back out of sight. Seconds later, Belle's face reappeared.