Fiction

Craig woke up with his head on a rock in the middle of the woods. It was getting dark, and there was a small fire in front of him. His head was foggy—he couldn’t hold on to a memory for longer than a few moments before it blurred into obscurity. The name “Macy” kept echoing in his brain, along with an unknown symphonic that he could only half-hear, like the remnants of a dream. Each time the name reverberated against the walls of his skull, his chest tightened and his eyes moistened. There was a strange taste in his mouth and an afterimage of crimson.

He looked down to check for injuries. He stretched his legs and flexed his arms and scratched his behind. His hands were dirty. A rusty brown substance stained the wrinkles of his hands and lined his nails. He hated dirty hands. Everything else seemed to be in order. He looked around for a water source so he might freshen up.

He was wearing his favorite suit, the one with large shoulder pads and the sleeves permanently rolled up to his elbows. It was wrinkled. He hated wrinkly clothes. The ash grey of the suit and salmon pink of his shirt betrayed his sense of fashion. Despite this small flaw, he was attractive by anyone’s standards.

He reached up to wipe the sweat from his forehead and found he was wearing a helmet. He took it off. It was a football helmet wrapped in aluminum foil. “Why the hell am I wearing this?” he thought. As he looked at it, something inside his chest started punching at his ribcage; something else was pushing the boundaries of his skull. Panicking, he shoved the helmet back on his head, and the stress subsided.

Craig gazed at the dancing flames and tried to remember. Several minutes passed. He decided to wait here—wherever “here” was—feeding the fire with his thoughts, and possibly some wood, until morning. He was so busy thinking about his situation that he didn’t notice the Administrator had shown up.

The Administrator was a short man, gnome-short to be precise, and round like a plum with beanpole thin limbs. He emerged from the bushes dragging a small soapbox behind him. He swore mightily as his conical red hat became tangled in the shrubbery. The little gnome stopped across the fire from Craig, stood on his little soapbox, took out a little pipe, took a few little puffs, and cleared his little throat.

“Ah-hem!”

Craig’s shrill scream took all of the birds and squirrels in the trees above him so completely by surprise that they simultaneously loosened their bowels upon the quaint campfire and its immediate area. Craig didn’t want to think about the cost of dry cleaning.

“Hmmmm, yes. Thank you, Craig. I have had better introductions, but that will have to do,” said the Administrator, wiping some berry- and nut-scented goo off his shoulder. “You don’t exactly have all the time in the world.”

Craig’s nice suit now looked like a baby-sealskin dyed orange from the firelight. “Who are you? What am I doing here? Where am I? Who’s going to pay for my suit to get cleaned?”

The gnome, irritated by all of the questions, exhaled a small cloud of smoke. “I am the Administrator. I greet new travelers in this land. My name is Seamus O’McMally. Everybody who comes to this land stops here at my campfire first. I help them figure out how they got here and which way they need to go to get home.”

Craig wrinkled his brow, and tugged thoughtfully at his ear. “What are you? Some kind of elf or fairy or something?”

“No!” the Administrator replied hastily and rather defensively. “The elves are a bunch of stuck-up pricks who think just because there were a couple famous plays written about them that they are hot shit. We prefer to be called Supernaturally Endowed Vertically Impaired Mineral Workers. Jerk-offs, like you, would call us gnomes. To be precise I am a Rather Plump Rolling Hill Gnome, of the Hill Rolling clan.”

“What does that mean?” asked Craig.

“It means that me and my kin are rather plump,” he gestured to his midsection, “and in our spare time we take great pleasure in rolling down hills. Try it sometime if your anus ever unclenches.” He paused. “The name really says it all; most things here are named literally by what they do and what they are. Honestly, why do you mortals insist on complicating everything with meanings? May I continue?”

Craig nodded, taken aback by the gnome’s annoyance.

“Good. Now according to protocol we need to find out what it was that led you here before we can send you back to whatever world it is that you came from.”

A sudden thought struck Craig: So far none of this had seemed too far out of the ordinary, which was odd because by any rational reckoning it should seem very strange indeed. Craig decided to just roll with it.

“What do you mean whatever world I come from?”

Seamus stuck the pipe back in his mouth sharply. Craig could almost see the numbers going backwards from ten inside the gnome’s little head. After what seemed like hours, Seamus exhaled a billowing cloud of smoke. “Anyone ever tell you that you ask too many questions?”

“I am a lawyer,” Craig said sheepishly.

“That explains it, then. Look, we don’t really have time to get into the whole Multi-Dimensional Entity Existence thing. Right now my job is to find out how you got here. Tell me everything that you remember.”

Craig felt nervous. For the first time in his life he was unsure of what to say. He decided it was best to start at the beginning and see where that led.

“Well, uhh. . . . My name’s Craig, as you know. Um, how did you know that, by the way?”

“That’s not important right now. Get on with it,” snapped Seamus.

“For being a cute, plump gnome you’re kind of nasty.”

“Fucking get on with it!”

Craig cleared his throat. “I’m 28, and I graduated from Princeton Law in ‘83. I recently made partner at a very prestigious law firm in New York City and work closely with the investment banking firm Pierce & Pierce. One of my primary clients at the firm is a man named Bateman. He’s an odd guy, but I’m paid well for my services. I’m on my way to becoming a wealthy man.”

He paused to take a breath and scratch an itch under his helmet. Seamus puffed on his pipe and nodded for Craig to continue.

“I’ve been working for the firm for just over a year, and my girlfriend and I recently moved into a nice penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side. Her family is from the Garment District just off Fifth Ave. I was at the office late last night, trying to talk Mr. Bateman out of hysterics. He thought he was a serial killer or something. I told him to lay off the cocaine and get some sleep. I packed up my briefcase and went home. Macy was going to be leaving the studio around nine—she’s a fashion designer. I was going to propose to her that night. Everything was ready when she got home: the china, the candles, the red-checkered tablecloth. I even had time to slip into something more comfortable, if you know what I mean.”

The gnome rolled his eyes.

Craig could feel a veil lifting from his memory as he talked. It was almost as if someone—some omniscient being of incredible power and authority—was putting the words directly into his head, and all he had to do was open his mouth.

“I love her more than anything.” He was speaking faster now. “She’s kind, funny, and smart.” He paused. “I was positive that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. There were still questions. You know, cold feet kind of questions. As I sat there waiting for her, I went over them again. What if she says no? What if she loves someone else? What if she is secretly psychotic? What if she has a hot sister? Would they be into that sort of thing? Am I doing the right thing? Does she torture small animals? Will she eat olive loaf?” Craig loved olive loaf.

“She walked through the door at 9:30 and was completely surprised by the romantic dinner I had prepared. She sat down, and her face—her face was absolutely radiant. I stared deep into her eyes.” Craig smiled and corrected himself. “Her one eye actually, she lost the other one playing lawn darts.” He sighed. “The candlelight shone off her freshly waxed scalp. God, she was so beautiful. I reached over and took her prosthetic hand.”

Seamus looked a little pale.

“‘Macy, I love you….’ I said. ‘Will you...’ and then I had to stop. There was a strange music coming from somewhere. Violins or something. I hadn’t turned the tape player on. I tried to ignore it. Said, ‘Macy, sweetheart…will you be my…’ then I had to stop again. I couldn’t concentrate; all I could hear was the music. It was building. Getting louder, straining to reach the crescendo. ‘Do you hear that?’ I asked her. She shook her head and smiled, and her dentures fell out onto the table. I carefully—lovingly—put the teeth back in her mouth. The music was getting louder. Something weird was happening. Something was moving inside me. It was pushing at my ribcage, trying desperately to get out. I thought it was my heart, so full of love.”

He paused to wipe away a tear.

“I said, ‘Macy, I love you….the music, I love the music!’ The beautiful song had changed me in a way I didn’t understand. When I looked at her now, I didn’t see my beautiful angel.” Craig readied himself for the confession. “Instead I saw a giant turkey leg with an eye patch. And it looked delicious. I started to feel kind of hot. Hot, and itchy. The music was still playing. I looked at my hands to regain my composure, and I saw claws—savage claws—the claws of an animal. My arms were covered with thick orange hair. I felt my mouth begin to lengthen into a muzzle. The music was changing me into some sort of beast. I looked up at my beloved and thought, ‘Damn, I want you, Macy…with a side of chipotle ranch sauce.’

“Through the fangs I tried again to say what I wanted to say. Said, ‘Macy, I love…will you… I want…ah fuck it.’ I gave in to the music, the beautiful violins, cellos, violas. I lunged across the table and—devoured the one woman I loved more than anything in the world.” Craig was crying now, unashamed to let the tears flow for his beloved.

“I came to several hours later in the dining room. Guts, blood, and bodily fluids decorated the room. I remembered what happened. I was still a beast of a man, or maybe a man of a beast. I howled at the moon. I cried a little. I knelt down and ate her leftovers.” Craig wiped the tears from his cheeks, and Seamus tapped out his pipe.

“After that I loped out of the house and off into the darkness. I passed out sometime after—I dunno—three in the morning. When I woke up, I was here.”

It was silent around the campfire. The ruddy orange glow played with the two men’s features, making them into gargoyles or demons. Seamus refilled his pipe and lit it with a twig from the fire.

“This fire is getting low. Grab a few of those logs behind you, Craig, and toss them on. We have to be on the lookout for the Vicious Black Tree Cows and their masters, the Rare and Timid Tree People. A nice campfire usually keeps them at bay until morning.” Seamus noticed Craig tense up. “Hey, relax, buddy. We’ll be fine. Now why don’t you tell me about your nifty little helmet there?” He didn’t try to mask his condescending tone.

“Well,” began Craig, “when I woke here there was this strange man sitting on that log. His face was shadowed by a deep cowl, and his body engulfed in a long black cloak. He was wearing black nylon socks with flip-flop sandals, which was a little strange. My bestial instincts were still raging, and I wanted blood. I lunged at him. With one fluid movement the man produced a silver aerosol can. I was stopped in midair by a cloud of sticky, amber liquid, then I landed in a heap at the man’s feet. Whatever he sprayed me with was starting to sting.

“The man said he knew what had happened to me. He said he had temporarily immobilized me with a special potion. I was still a beast-man-thing, and my tiny brain could barely make out the meaning of the words. The man stood up, and his cloak fell open to reveal his complete and utter nakedness. It was disgusting. His man-boobs sagged, and the paunch of a belly hung low and pale like…like a gibbous moon kissing the horizon.” He paused. “Unfortunately it did not cover his manhood, which was shriveled and small. His white legs were scrawny and hairless. I threw up in my mouth a little; it leaked through my fangs and dribbled onto the ground. It was embarrassing. I tried to ask him what he knew, but it sounded like I was speaking through a blender.

“The hooded nudist said, ‘You, my friend, have fallen victim to something very foul and insidious. A force has been loosed upon the worlds that drives individuals completely mad.’” Craig’s voice had taken on an elevated tone. “‘I am talking, of course, about the theme music, the music that plays when the mood is just right. It makes scary moments truly terrifying, causes tension to become anxiety, turns happy moments into pure bliss. In your case, it made romance blossom into unconditional love. However, you are not supposed to hear it. To hear the theme music is to enjoy an opera performed by the sirens of myth. It drives one completely mad.’

“I looked at him, dumbfounded. That was the stupidest thing I had ever heard. But why, I asked, why had I turned into a beast? Was I some kind of werewolf now? My animal noises were silenced by a dismissive wave.

“The man went on. ‘There is a man in this world who has found a way to control the theme music and bend it to his will. He wants to take over all the worlds. He has issues, deep psychological and emotional issues. In fact he is quite insane. I’m not sure how this man is able to control the theme music, but I assure you I will know soon. Until then, you must wear this special insulating helmet.’

“I have absolutely no idea where he was hiding it,” Craig explained, “but he placed the helmet on my head. He told me it would keep me from turning into the beast. I was starting to feel tired. The repellent combined with the helmet was sapping my energy. Through a haze I heard the man say, ‘I have to leave you now. When you wake up, you will see a campfire. Wait for the Administrator. He will make all of this clear.’ The naked man then gathered the cloak around him and melted back into the forest.”

Seamus looked irritated, as if he were engulfed in a cloud of gnats buzzing the tune to “The Song That Never Ends.” “I thought that jackass had been kicked out of this place.”

“Seamus, who was that guy? And what about the music he was talking about?”

Seamus paced in front of the fire, jabbing at shadows with his pipe. “That guy is a menace. He’s part of the reason people end up here. He makes my job difficult. Nobody knows his name. Most of us just call him ‘Wee Willie.’ He has been roaming the worlds spouting this half-cocked notion that someone is controlling the theme music in order to conquer countries. It is true that there is theme music, and that you mortals do go a bit coo-coo when you hear it, but it is rarely as severe as what happened to you.”

“Well, is there a guy who controls the theme music?” Craig asked.

“Of course there is, dummy. Everything has some sort of moderator or administrator or distributor; an avatar if you will. Juan is a director, but not a very good one, and he was feeling depressed about it, so we gave him the theme music. But we keep tabs on him. He shouldn’t be able to manipulate it, merely guide its flow like a small stream.” Seamus was visibly worried.

“Juan…?” Craig struggled to keep up.

“Juan Sanchez. He is the dictator of a land whose people won’t take him seriously. It’s south of this one.” Agitated, Seamus pulled his hat off. The firelight reflected off his balding head. He looked to the west and saw that the sun was coming up.

“Okay, chief: Here’s what we’re gonna do. I have some things to check out. Don’t move from this campsite. Keep your helmet on and try to get some sleep. Once I come back, I’ll have a plan, and we can work on sending you home.” Seamus grabbed his soapbox and started dragging it back into the bushes, muttering about menaces and depressed dictators and how the whole lot of creations was going right down the drain.

Craig listened until the voice trailed off into nothingness.

He decided to heed the little guy’s advice. He added a log to the fire to coax the flames from their hiding places. Curling up next to the glowing coals, he was soon fast asleep, dreaming about Macy.

The park police were aware that the homeless and deranged regularly camped in Central Park. As long as they didn’t start any fires and kept to themselves, the police were content to leave them be. Officer Sanchez was on the Sheep Meadow to East Green circuit when he smelled the smoke. He followed it to its source: a thicket walled by large shrubs and sheltered by low-hanging elms. He wasn’t surprised to find a homeless man. He was a little curious about the battered lawn gnome perched on a wooden crate surrounded by candles, and the broken mannequin wearing an eye patch. The man was wearing a badly chipped Raiders helmet and using a large stone as a pillow. The area was littered with empty Coors Light cans. A dog-eared copy of Bret Easton Ellis’s American Psycho lay next to the sleeping hobo.

Officer Sanchez didn’t want to, but he had to give the guy a citation for an open fire. It was unfortunate—these guys never paid their tickets and sometimes got violent. He sighed as he bent over to shake the sleeping man awake.

“Seamus? Is that you? Have you figured out what Sanchez is up to?” said the homeless man, who was covered in pigeon shit and dirt and fleas.

“Sorry, buddy. I’m not Seamus; I’m Officer Sanchez, and I need you to put that fire out.”

“I can’t let the fire go out—it isn’t safe yet,” cried the confused man. “I have to wait for Seamus to get back, so we can stop Juan Sanchez from taking over the worlds with theme music!”

Officer Sanchez wondered how the man knew his name. The poor guy couldn’t possibly know that he moonlighted as a composer. “Look, buddy, I just had an unpleasant conversation with your naked friend in the hoodie and sent him downtown. If you don’t want to join him, you’d better put that fire out. Now.” Sanchez felt bad. The bewildered look in the man’s eyes appeared genuine. Sanchez often pondered whether these people, the homeless and seemingly crazy, actually inhabited a world of their own design—one that just happened to intersect with his own from time to time.

The two stared at each other for a few moments, Sanchez sizing up the man in case he got violent, the other clearly trying to decide if Sanchez were trustworthy. “Alright, pal,” conceded Sanchez, “why don’t you take off the helmet and tell me your story. Then put the fire out.” That seemed to placate him.

The man removed the helmet. “I can’t be held responsible for any harm that comes from taking this off,” he said nervously, eyes darting around the clearing.

The man talked, and Sanchez listened until the sun had risen above the eastern horizon. From a distance, Sanchez thought he could hear a string quartet playing a glorious ode to the rising sun. Suddenly the man doubled over and howled in agony. Sanchez rushed to his side. The man convulsed and kicked the helmet over by the gnome. The man was trying to say something, but what came out were grunts and growls.

“You’d better get that helmet back on his melon, Chief.” The voice came from behind Office Sanchez. He whirled around…and nearly soiled himself when the ceramic gnome stepped off the crate, retrieved the helmet, and waddled over to him. “Go on, put it on him, and I’ll bring you up to speed.”