Mon., Sept. 23, 2:26 p.m., 343 Octavia
Sunshine said she has no problems figuring out what to do with the countertops, the walls, the cabinets or even the blenders themselves, but when it came to the floor, she just stood there in utter stupidity.
“What do you mean you’ve forgotten how to use the mop?” Art asked earlier.
To his query, she replied, sobbing, “That’s just it, Artie. I don’t know. I know what a mop is and what it is supposed to do, but when my brain tried to put the two together, I just go blank.”
“It’s very simple,” Art said.
“I know it is,” Sunshine barked back. “I just…” she stopped.
It had pained Art to see Sunshine in this state, so he took the mop from her and mopped the floor himself, at which time Sunshine took care of the rest of the kitchen.
Now that the kitchen is nearly as clean as usual and Sunshine is no longer in a state of despair, Art wants to know just how somebody would lose the ability to use a mop.
“I think you might have had a stroke,” he says.
“Shut up.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Artie, I did not have a stroke.”
“Well, in my estimation, it’s the only thing that can explain why you suddenly can’t remember how to operate a simple mop.”
Sunshine puts on her pouting face, a mug like a four year old being told that she can’t have the candy in the check out aisle. “No. I think it’s the ostrich.”
Arthur Cole believes that Sunshine has entered one of Rod Serling’s least remarkable episodes. “Do you think someone dosed you again?”
“I’ve been trying to tell you, for weeks now, that there is no drug involved here. Only an ostrich, and his name is Archibald.”
“Again with the freaking ostrich.”
“I don’t care if you believe me. For what it’s worth, Archibald thinks you should look into buying more hats.”
“Do you need me to call for some medical help?”
“Fuck off, Artie.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You’re just saying what?”
“That you’ve lost your mind.”
“Think what you want.”
“I just think you should reflect upon what you’re telling me and then address the issue that you’ve gone off the deep end.”
“But you see, there is no deep end, Artie. There’s reality, and then there’s everything else. It’s all relative. Yes, it’s a fact. You think I’m crazy because I have a friend…”
“An imaginary friend”
“…a real friend who also happens to be a talking ostrich. But what you don’t understand is that Archibald wouldn’t ever consider consorting with the likes of you because you’re just so damn boring.”
“I’m not boring,” Art bristles.
“On a global scale, you’re average. Face it. There’s nothing about you that sets you apart from the rest of humanity.”
“Oh, so what’s so special about you that this ostrich you claim to have befriended wants to hang out with you?”
A suddenly coy Sunshine considers Art’s question. “Well…”
“Yes?”
“I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”
“So there’s that.”
“So there’s that.”
Mon., Sept. 23, 2:35 p.m., The Old Absinthe House
When Maggie Flick stepped off of the Bourbon street sidewalk and into the Absinthe House, she hoped she would find a Brazilian Formula One race car driver named Ayrton Senna and the chicken-mascot-disguised Ingrid Bergman, but instead, the first and only person she sees at the bar is the man she believes to be the late Peter Tomarken. He immediately looks up from his beer.
Maggie is frozen momentarily. She can tell by the look on his face he has recognized her and she doesn’t know what to do. He smiles for a second and then stares back down at his beer, the smile erased completely.
Slowly, Maggie walks toward the man, knowing that, with every step, the smart thing would be to run out of the bar as fast as her legs can carry her, but there’s also the curiosity, needling at her brain, gnawing for what’s behind door number three.
Taking the seat next to the man, she motions for the bartender. “Abita Amber.”
The bartender nods, retreats and returns with her beer.
She begins talking without really thinking about the implications. “So, when I was in college,” Maggie says, “I had this addiction to the USA Network.”
The man just nods and continues staring at his beer.
“Well, it just so happened that, during the afternoon, they played a lot of game shows.”
The nodding stops.
“So I’m just checking, but are you who I think you are?”
The man continues staring at his beer for what feels to Maggie like an eternity, when, in fact, it is probably more like ten seconds. Without looking up, he says, “I’m supposed to say ‘If I had a dime for every time I heard that,’ but I think you know better.”
“So, on the record, so to speak, no, you are not.”
“Correct.”
“Your secret is safe with me. And, off the record, I know a couple of the people you live with.”
“Really?”
“Can’t say who, of course, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon enough.”
“Who are you?”
“Nobody special, really. My name’s Maggie and I happen to live across the street from you.”
“I saw you earlier.”
“I thought so.”
“My name’s Peter, um, I mean, Paul.”
“Nice to meet you, Paul.”
“So what’s this beer you’re drinking.”
“It’s local. Abita Amber. Really good stuff.”
“I think I’ll try some. Bartender?”
Sun., Sept. 22, 5:26 p.m., Somewhere over Ohio
Didier had a decent flight over the Atlantic, first class on Virgin Airways. Flying first class is something he would have never understood before he became a world class footballer. In his home country, the Ivory Coast, first class meant you didn’t have to kill your dinner yourself. Since he has become what he has become, however, Didier Drogba has begun to enjoy the perks of being a wealthy member of Western culture. For him, these days, first class traveling is something of an inalienable right. This is why his current situation, in the middle seat of a Boeing 737 leaves him feeling like he’s back home, young and poor, traveling in a bus to the schoolyard. Southwest Airlines sucks.
A few of his fellow travelers, after realizing he wasn’t from the states, warned him about what they referred to as the “cattle call.”
“What is this?” he asked.
“What letter does your boarding pass say?”
“C.”
“Back of the plane for you.”
It had been bad enough in New York. After getting through customs, he had to take a cab to Long Island where he would board his flight to Birmingham, Alabama, via Chicago. He found it ironic that his journey to what he originally thought was going to be England’s second city would take him through America’s second city.
When his agent told him he was going to Birmingham to get his knee fixed, Didier assumed he would be travelling Birmingham, England.
“This Birmingham is in Alabama, in the United States,” his agent said.
“I’ve never been to the states before.”
“This guy, Dr. James Andrews, is the best in the world. They have a lot of similar injuries to yours in American football, and all the best players go to this guy.”
“Are you sure?”
“In America, if an American footballer injures his ACL, the first thing they say is they’ll need to get an opinion from Dr. Andrews before having surgery.”
“Well, that’s America.”
“Unfortunately, your injury doesn’t occur nearly as often over here. They have a lot of artificial surfaces that cause the same problem you are experiencing.”
“Just tell me this is the best thing to do.”
“Yes, Didier. Plus, it might be nice to have some anonymity for a while. Very few people in the U.S. will have any idea who you are.”
The woman to his right, the one with the window seat, asks him what he does for a living.
“I’m a footballer,” he says.
“Do you play for the Cowboys?”
“No, I play for Chelsea, in London.”
“I didn’t know they played football in England.”
“Oh, yes. It’s tremendously popular.”
“Heh,” she says, eating one of her bite sized pretzels from the single serving pretzel wrapper distributed to the passengers shortly after takeoff. “You learn something new every day.”
Although cleaner than an African airliner and probably safer, the amount of legroom is uncomfortable for Didier, so much so, that he feels his bad knee throbbing under the brace. The stewardess rolls by with a cart. She asks the row what they want.
“I’d like a Coke,” the lady to his left says.
Didier realizes a little alcohol might make this trip a little more tolerable. “How about a gin and tonic?”
The man to his right waves the stewardess away, meaning his thirst has already been quenched.
“Five dollars,” she says.
This surprises him, as he cannot remember the last time he flew coach. “Oh, yes,” he says struggling to get to his wallet and then taking a moment to find the few American dollars he has stashed for his journey to the states. “Sorry.”
The stewardess doesn’t say anything, but instead just continues with her cart toward the front of the plane.
Normally not much of a drinker, Didier suddenly realizes that the painkillers he’s taking might have an exaggerated effect if he adds the alcohol. Fuck it. It’s been a hell of a few days.
