Fri., Jun 22, 5:36 p.m., East Jefferson Hospital, Psychiatric Ward
“Good luck on the outside, Ms. Flick.”
“Thank you for all you’ve done, doctor.”
“Don’t mention it. Just part of my job.”
“So these release papers, these mean that somebody can’t come and throw me back in here?”
“As long as you don’t again act insane or become a threat to yourself or others, then, no, you’re free to do as you please.”
“I am so very glad to hear that.”
In the past few weeks, if Maggie Flick has learned anything, she has learned that honesty is not always the best policy.
Fri., Jun 22, 5:41 p.m.. 3931 ½ Prytania
“Lush Muffin?”
“Yes, Art. Hey, what time is it?”
“Sometime after five.”
“Oh, well, I better get out of bed.”
“Might be a good idea, you know, before sunset.”
“I think I am allergic to the sun.”
“Speaking of the sun, I hear Sunshine tromping around on her side of the house. Are you maybe interested in going and having some early evening cocktails with us?”
“Perhaps, but I’m broke.”
“Yeah, I know the drill.”
“Let me go take a bubble bath and I’ll call you when I’m out.”
“For you, a bubble bath could take all evening.”
“I’ll make it quick.”
Fri., Jun 22, 5:45 p.m., 343 Octavia
Sunshine, being Sunshine, is a bit of a clothes horse. In fact, she requires a two bedroom apartment, one bedroom for her bed and sleeping (and the occasional happy romp with a member of the opposite), the other to contain the clothing. Hanging on large, mobile, department store-style racks are literally thousands of different dresses, sun dresses, a-line dresses, floor length dresses, fishtail dresses, blouses, tunics, jumpsuits, knickers, pedal pushers, gauchos, Capri pants, slacks, tube tops, tank tops, spaghetti straps, sweaters, morning jackets, daytime jackets, evening jackets. Material-wise, the range is nearly unending, her clothes running the gamut from simple cotton, wool, linen, flax, silk, leather, fur and denim, to more exotic materials like rubber, Tyvek, hemp, bamboo, soy, paper and even PVC.
The lingerie corner is kept segregated from the other clothing items as to keep the sanctity of the delicates pure. Stuffed into a large dresser, there is every type of t-shirt imaginable. The only clothing items that do not live in the second bedroom are the shoes. They inhabit the entirety of the first bedroom’s closet. That, and the costumes. Costumes are given their own closet to themselves in the second bedroom, right there hovering above the aforementioned shoes.
Sunshine is looking for something to wear, never a simple task. She has shed the pink Capri pants and yellow tank top she had been wearing earlier and has now stepped into a cornflower blue, light cotton sundress with little white flowers, the flower prints about the size of a dime, their floral distinction distributed as a constant motif throughout. Her shoes aren’t going to change. She’s wearing white Keds and she doesn’t believe they need to be altered, this dress being very a very casual summer frock.
The mirror doesn’t lie. Sunshine looks beautiful, cool, relaxed and casual. But when she turns from the mirror to leave the room, that’s when the freaky bird appears.
Sunshine screams.
Fri., Jun 22, 5:48:00 p.m., 341 Octavia
When Arthur Cole hears the scream, and unnaturally loud and hideous scream, followed by a thump, he immediately bolts up from his computer and races to the front door of his apartment.
Fri., Jun 22, 5:47:30 p.m., 343 Octavia
“Hello, Sunshine,” Archibald says, straightening his bowtie with one claw and tipping his top had with the other. “My name is Archibald, and I am an ostrich.”
After a throat-reddening scream, Sunshine faints, for the second time in one day, collapsing to the floor in a floral cornflower blue and white heap.
Fri., Jun 22, 5:48:30 p.m., 341 Octavia
Art and Sunshine each keep a key to the other’s side of the house, and it is with Sunshine’s key which Art struggles in the lock. Having finally attained entry, he shuttles through the house looking for Sunshine.
“Sunshine?” he yells. No replies.
Arthur Cole feels the electric cold fear of the unknown. He walks through the front two rooms of the house, both silent, the only noise being made coming from the creak of the old wood floors and Art’s voice as he, no longer yelling, mumbles, “Sunshine?”
He moves through Sunshine’s bedroom, her house immaculate as always, the bed’s corners sharp edges of linen confidence. That’s when he sees her, lying in a heap between her bedroom and her, um, closet, the second bedroom.
“Holy crap! What happened?” he says, kneeling down over her. “Sunshine, wake up. Can you hear me?”
Sunshine begins to stir. “Artie, what are you doing here?”
“I heard you scream.”
Sunshine squints her eyes, trying to remember why she is where she is, and then it dawns on her. She squints harder and angrier this time and says, “Is he still here?”
“Who?”
“The ostrich.”
“What?”
“Arthur Kenneth Cole, there is an ostrich in my house.”
“A what?”
“An ostrich. Did you come in through the front?”
“Wait, what?”
“Did you come in through the front?”
“Uh, yes, I did.”
“The he must be in the kitchen!”
Arthur Cole is in some kind of surreal autopilot. He arches up and sprints back to the kitchen. The kitchen, as usual, is a very clean, avian-free zone.
He returns to Sunshine, who is picking herself up off the floor. “No ostrich in your kitchen.”
“Artie, I want you to listen to me and hear the words as they come out of my mouth.”
“Sure, Sunshine.”
“When I passed out, it was because I saw an ostrich with a top hat and a bowtie, and he was standing right here,” she says, pointing at a spot on the floor just to the right of Art. “And he said… what did he say…” she mumbles, still coming to.
“He was speaking.”
“Yes, Artie, he was speaking,” Sunshine bristles.
“And what did this, ahem, ostrich have to say?”
“I think he said his name was Archibald.”
“Is that right?” a now sarcastic Arthur Cole replies.
“Fuck off.”
“I’m sorry, but you just informed me that you were accosted…”
“Not accosted, more just spoken to.”
“Okay, you just told me that you were spoken to by an ostrich, one dressed in a tie and a hat, and you expect me to just nod and agree with you.”
“It was a bowtie and a top hat and I know it sounds crazy, but, well, Karl told me that I’d see him…” she struggles for the words and then say, “Oh, never mind. Somebody must of slipped something in one of my cosmos. I’m hallucinating.”
“That’s better.” Art exhales.
Sunshine points her finger and stabs it at her forehead. “The power of suggestion is something, though. Boy, was that a realistic hallucination. All the way down to his gestures. The ostrich was like some kind of goofy kid trying to be, I don’t know, like a goofball kid trying to be a gentleman. It was all sort of charming, now that I think about it.”
“I’m glad your hallucinations are charming, Sunshine. Are you all right now?”
“I’m fine,” she huffs, now a little annoyed with all the attention.
“Good. I’m going to go home and take a shower. Are you interested in hooking up with Lush Muffin a little later?”
Sunshine gathers herself as if to get into character. “That sounds romantic,” she says reflexively putting her game face on as best she can, even though, deep down, she still feels a little bit woozy.
Fri., Jun 22, 6:01 p.m., 303 Exposition Blvd.
The past thirty-six or so hours have tired even the normally tireless Earl Patton, so much so that he has even lost the burning desire to get Sunshine on the phone and chew her psychotic, insincere, nymphomaniac ass out. No, tonight, he has decided will be a night of quiet contemplation over a very full bottle of Jack Daniels. With Jedi skills he will dispatch the bourbon. Not a drop will remain.
Tonight, Earl Patton will put aside his fear of the unknown, of the unspoken favor for God knows who, of the people with whom he has found himself associating, those who work behind the damp, moldy wall of secrecy.
In the center of his coffee table sits the bottle of Jack, right next to a small, empty, soon to be not so empty cocktail glass he stole from some bar on some more eventful night. Earl notices that the dishwasher has left a small amount of soap scum on the glass and that, perhaps, next time he runs it, he will use a longer cycle. Such is the patience the normally impatient Earl Patton is developing. Prison, it seems, leaves a mark.
