I look up at him.
“The point is that our business
relationship goes back many years. And
something like that deserves to be
celebrated.”
He puts his fuzzy arm around me.
“I give you my word as the greatest
detective in town—well, former detective,”
I correct myself. “I will find your brother.”
When we get home that Friday night,
Total and I hunker down in WHATT and
pursue the promising lead we have on his
brother.
And slowly the layers of his brother’s life
are revealed.
Each of them dripping with tartar sauce.
“He keeps trying to rob the same Seafood
Sammy’s in Churchill, Manitoba,” I explain.
“All to get fish sticks.”
Total shakes his head, then drools,
caught halfway between disappointment and
envy.
“And when the people in the restau-
rant see him coming, they lock the doors,”
I tell my polar bear. “Then he just stands
there knocking and looking pathetic until the
police arrive.”
Total and I peruse the bear’s rap sheet.
“He’s been arrested thirty-one times,” I
say as we look through the photos taken by
the restaurant’s security camera.
Photos of the time he tried to act fierce.
Of the time he disguised himself as a
unicorn.
Of the time he ran into a pole.
Total covers his eyes in shame.
“It is ironic that your brother has chosen
a life of crime and you have chosen a life of
law enforcement. You are like the yin and
yang of polar bears. Forever balancing the
universe.”
But my profundity is lost on him.
And I can see that the story of his
brother has made him sad.
So I watch as he exits WHATT.
And follow him through the townhouse.
Where I see the story has not made him
sad.
But hungry.
But the search for Total’s brother is only one
of many tasks filling my leisure years.
So on Saturday morning, I awake before
everyone else to address another.
“I didn’t even know this time of day
existed,” I say to my father, who is surprised
to see me.
“Tim, it’s six in the morning. We’re not
even open yet. What in the world are you
doing here?”
“You said we could do something this
weekend. So we’re doing something.”
My father unlocks the door.
“I meant father-and-son things, Tim.”
“I see,” I answer. “So what exactly are
those?”
“Come inside,” he says, shaking his head.
“It’s too chilly out here.”
I follow him inside.
“Did you mention to your mother that
you wanted to do something with me?” he
asks.
“I believe so.”
“And she was okay with that?”
“Almost certainly.”
He glances back.
“Listen,” he says. “When you go back
home today, you tell her. I don’t want her
coming down on me for this.”
“Yes, sir.”
He walks around the bar, turning on one
item after another: lights, neon signs, a slot
machine, a jukebox. Slowly, the sleepy bar
awakens.
“And do me a favor,” he adds. “Don’t
mention you came to a bar. Tell her we met at
a park or something.”
“Yes, sir.”
He begins removing clean glasses from a
small dishwasher and placing them in a rack
overhead.
“And, hey, not for nothing,” he says,
“but one of the regulars mentioned to Ms.
Dundledorf that I let a kid in here. So we
need to be a little more careful.”
“Who’s this Dundledorf?”
“She owns the place. Not a friendly
person.”
“Well, no need to worry. It’s six in the
morning. I doubt you’ll have any customers.”
But when my father opens the back door,
there are customers. And like ghosts, they
float wordlessly to their seats.
One of which I’m sitting in.
“Hey, what’s this kid doing on my stool?”
a man in a fedora asks.
“Tim, go sit in one of the booths,” says my
dad.
I watch as the man in the fedora
rearranges everything on the bar in front of
him. Taking a saltshaker and moving it to a
table. Grabbing a table placard and moving
it to the bar. Picking up a discarded
newspaper and handing it to my dad to throw
out.
“Fred’s a little obsessive,” says my dad as
he walks past me to throw the newspaper in
a recycle bin in the back. “Everything in its
right place.”
“And I thought school was filled with riff-
raff,” I comment. “This place is a zoo.”
“Tim, I’ll tell you what,” my dad says.
“Why don’t I meet you somewhere tonight?
After my shift.”
“I can’t. Mom says we have to do some
family thing. It’s quite frivolous. But I’ll be
here tomorrow morning at the same time.”
“Well—”
“And take this,” I tell him, handing him
the large stack of paper in my hand, “so we
can talk about it tomorrow.”
“What is it?”
“The film I wrote for school,” I answer.
“You’d be well advised to pay particular
attention to the bar scene. It will take place
here.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I told you about it last week.”
“Are you crazy? I can’t have a bunch of
kids in here. It’s bad enough I let you in.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll do it when the place is
closed. And my school will repay you for the
broken windows.”
“What broken windows?” asks my dad.
“The ones caused by the defenestration.”
“The what?”
“Defenestration. The act of throwing some-
one out a window. It’s the best word in the
dictionary.”
“All right, enough,” he says. “No one’s
getting thrown out of windows.”
“Yes, they are. Customers,” I tell him.
“Not yours, though. Stuntmen. Unless
you want us to throw a customer out the
window.”
An older customer calls out for my dad.
“Hey, you talking or bartending?”
“Coming,” my dad tells him.
“Okay,” my dad says to me, “you gotta
go.”
“Right. Be back tomorrow. Same time.”
“No.”
“Yes. It’s the best time. More covert.”
“No, Tim.”
“Coffee!” interrupts the old man. “Black!”
“Here I come, here I come,” my dad calls
out to him.
“Tim,” my dad says, leaning down to
talk to
me, “talk to your mother. Make sure
seeing me is okay. And I’ll call her later and
work something out. But you’re not filming
anything in this bar.”
The old man hops off his barstool and
lands on his spindly legs.
“Okay,” he says, marching toward us.
“You want me to get the coffee myself? I’ll
get it myself.”
And I catch his eye.
And he freezes like a toad before a Timmy
train.
“Oh, good God,” he says.
“Old Man Crocus,” I mutter.
“Is there no place in this world that’s safe
from you?” he cries.
“You two know each other?” asks my dad.
“He was my teacher,” I explain.
“He drove me out of the profession,”
replies Crocus.
“He was the best teacher I ever had,” I
explain.
“He caused me a nervous breakdown,”
replies Crocus.
“The profession wore him out,” I explain.
“He crashed a car through my wall,”
replies Crocus.
“He took a well-earned retirement,” I
explain.
“I fled to Key West to escape him,” replies
Crocus.
I stop and stare at Crocus. “Wait. You
were in Key West?”
My dad leaves to get Crocus his coffee.
“Yes, I was in Key West!” he barks. “And I
was happy!”
“Until,” he adds, raising a fist, “it all
ended!”
His fist falls like a coconut upon the bar.
The man in the fedora looks our way.
“Goodness,” I say to Crocus. “What
happened?”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” he says,
removing his wire-rimmed glasses and
rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I was taking
a stroll along the beach when I heard a shrill
voice echoing out from on high.”
“Oh, I know the feeling,” I answer. “The
gods spoke to me just recently.”
“No, no, no,” he says, his voice rising in
tone. “This was no god. It was you, Timmy
Failure, standing atop a lighthouse.”
“Ah, yes,” I reply. “I was surveying my
domain.”
“No,” he says. “You were tracking me
across the globe, like a demon on horseback.”
“Oh my,” I respond. “I like that image.
Perhaps I can use it in my movie.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t like it at all,” answers
Crocus. “So I fled Key West. Moved back
here to live with my brother. Figured I could
at least hide from you in a bar. But no.
Look. You.”
“Yes,” I answer. “It feels like the gods have
thrown us together for a reason. Perhaps you
can play yourself in the film.”
My dad hands Crocus his coffee. Crocus
stares into the blackness.
“What’s the matter?” asks my dad. “Not
how you like it?”
And leaving his coffee on the bar, Crocus
drifts off toward the double doors.
And stops.
“No,” he grumbles through gritted teeth.
“Nothing is how I like it.”
And as he says it, the doors swing open.
And we see an elf.
“Hey,” says the elf. “Try getting kicked
in the head by a reindeer.”
But the elf is not the only unhappy person
this holiday season.
“Your father’s in town and you went and
saw him without even telling me?” asks my
mother as she drives the car.
“I thought I told you,” I answer from the
backseat.
“I didn’t hear you tell her,” says Husband
Dave, sitting in the passenger seat beside
her.
“Please, Husband Dave,” I reply. “No
teaming up. It’s bad enough with just one of
you.”
“And how exactly did you even know he
was in town?” continues my mother.
“Because he certainly didn’t tell me.”
“What do you mean how’d I know? I just
found him.”
“Where?” asks my mother, turning to
look back at me.
“Driver’s handbook says to keep your
eyes on the road at all times,” I remind her.
“Timmy, where did you find him?” she
snaps.
“In a park!” I shout.
“Which park?!” she shouts back.
“The Park Park!” I yell, as though it’s a
proper name. “You know, the one with the
grass.”
My mother says nothing.
The mood grows tense.
And it is a mood at odds with the antlers
on our heads.
“And if you don’t mind,” I say, breaking
the silence, “how about someone telling me
why we’re all dressed like reindeer?”
Husband Dave turns toward the back-
seat.
“We’re caning the Moskins family.”
Molly Moskins smiles too much and smells
like a tangerine. Plus she has mismatched
pupils.
She and I have had what I can only refer
to as an off-again, on-again relationship.
For I have partnered with her.
And arrested her.
As such, one can never be quite sure
what side of the law she is on. For she is a kid-
size chameleon, steeped in treachery.
But for all her faults and felonies, I
find the notion of caning her excessive.
“We’re gonna hit Molly with a cane?” I
ask Husband Dave.
“Timmy, I told you all of this when we
were at home,” says my mother as she stops
the car in front of Molly’s house. “It’s called
candy caning.”
“How is it any better if we hit her with a
candy cane?” I ask. “Is it that she’ll smell
minty afterward?”
“Nobody’s hitting anybody,” says my
mother, turning off the engine. “When you
candy cane a house, you sneak up to it at
night with a bunch of candy canes and hang
them everywhere.”
“Oh, good God,” I utter. “This sounds
like a tragedy in the making.”
“Shhh, Timmy,” says Husband Dave. “It’s
supposed to be a secret. You don’t want her
to hear us.”
The two of them get out of the car.
Guarding my bean, I follow.
“Mother, you do not sneak up on a sacred
abode at night,” I whisper as we jog up the
Moskinses’ front lawn. “As a former detective,
I can tell you that this whole neighborhood is
heavily armed.”
“Here, take these,” she says, handing me
a fistful of candy canes.
“And let me tell you something,” I add.
“When Mr. Moskins shoots us, he will be
fully within his rights. Because we are now
common trespassers.”
As I issue cautionary proclamations, I
spot Husband Dave foolishly approaching the
front door and hanging a candy cane on the
Moskinses’ doorknob.
“Oh, gre
at,” I add. “Your husband
has a death wish. And to think, he’ll die in
reindeer antlers.”
But neither of them is heeding my
warnings.
So I throw my candy canes and antlers to
the ground and hide behind the large unlit
Christmas tree in the center of the front
yard.
Low to the ground.
Hands over head.
Prepared for urban violence.
But hoping to not be seen.
And then the Christmas tree lights up
like a Christmas tree.
“Nobody shoot!” I yell. “Mistakes were
made!”
“Hey, put these back on,” says Molly
Moskins, towering over me. “They’re
adorable!”
I survey the scene. Assess the threat
level.
“Tell me plainly,” I say to Molly Moskins
as I rise to my feet, “have my mother and
Dave been taken hostage?”
“I don’t think so,” she says.
“Well, if they have, I’d like to negotiate
for the release of my mother. You can
probably keep Dave.”
“I think your mom and dad are just
inside having eggnog with my parents,” she
says, smiling broadly.
“Dave is not my dad, Molly Moskins. I
have a dad. A very prominent dad with a
background I don’t wish to share. And he has
generously volunteered his bar for a pivotal
scene in our film.”
“Oooh. Your dad owns a bar?”
“I’ve said too much already,” I answer.
“Suffice it to say that the scene will be
made particularly engaging by the real-life
grittiness of the setting.”
“I see,” says Molly, biting her lip. “I
wonder if that’s the place we kiss.”
Sickened, I hold on to the Christmas tree
for support.
“Molly, I assure you there are no kissing
scenes in my script. None. Zero. Nada.”