Author
Jon Henn

CHAPTER 3

SETTING THE STAGE

 SOUTH DAKOTA – 1988 – a toasty late summer day

 A shabby, blue Ford pickup bounced along the twisting highway through the crowded pine tree forest. As the pickup rounded curve after curve, paint cans and other objects in the bed of the truck slid back and forth from one side to the other. One of those objects, a Mysterious Man, his thin, wiry body disguised by loose dark clothing, sat uncomfortably in a corner. A backpack lay on his lap. He used it as a pillow to catch some much-needed sleep. Behind his gaunt face, a well-trimmed ponytail hung down his back.
     The pickup sputtered past a small feed store on the outskirts of a town. With red-rimmed eyes, the Mysterious Man saw a road sign welcoming him to Hot Tub, South Dakota. The town was just a few blocks long; if you blinked you missed it.
     Twisting his body, he rapped on the rear window. The blue Ford pulled into a dirt parking lot, stopping in front of a butcher shop. With an agility that belied his worn down appearance, the Mysterious Man vaulted out of the truck. He hit the dirt with a dust-raising thud, but whether the dust came from the ground or the top of his boots was anyone’s guess.
     Spewing puffs of smoke out of its tailpipe, the truck pulled away. The Man ignored the foul-smelling fumes. He had an urgent task to do.
     It was time to take the test.
     He slung his backpack over his shoulders, closed his eyes, and calmed himself. He envisioned the beauty of the trees; the smell of the forest; the grandeur of God’s great creation.
     His mind relaxed.
     He was ready.
     He entered into a trance.
     Pulling up the left sleeve of his grungy shirt, he exposed a silver bracelet with three shiny black stones. He lightly touched them with his fingertips; the polished minerals felt warm.
     His head began to swim.
     He imagined himself shrinking, getting smaller and smaller until he was a speck of dust on the centermost stone. It was no longer a rock, lifeless and unyielding, but hummed with a curious vigor as though it were alive.
     A dark hole swirled open beneath him. He sank into the strange pool of power.
     Down the rabbit hole, he thought, and into Wonderland.
     At once his mind exploded; it was wildly euphoric. He wanted it to last forever, but he knew that it would not. Past experience had taught him the hard way that the elation would soon be replaced by pain.
     The Mysterious Man got down to business. He asked the fateful question.
     Are they here?
     The bracelet took him soaring over the earth, showing him people, foxes, rabbits, a bear, birds, and fish in a stream. The sensation of flying was so powerful, he felt like he was God.
     His disembodied mind swooped over a mountain and into the valley below, when a large geometric pattern, pressed into the ground, suddenly loomed before him. The shock of discovery was like plunging naked into a pool of freezing water.
     It’s Them. I found Them. The murderers are here.
     His eyes suddenly popped open, his heart pounded in his chest. Gasping for air, he tore his fingers away from the bracelet. The buzzing current vanished; his knees buckled; he dropped to the ground, shaking uncontrollably.
     Wrapping his arms around his shivering body, he prayed to God for relief.
     His prayer was answered in the form of music … opera … Wagner … The Ride of the Valkyries. The melody enveloped his person like the embrace of a soothing angel.
     The Mysterious Man clung to it like a lifeline.  

Inside the Butcher Shop, the Valkyries rode their fiery steeds to Wagner’s grand bombastic score. In time to the rousing music, a brawny hand hoisted a large meat cleaver high into the air and, swinging it down with great force, skillfully chopped up a chicken.
     The butcher, Gunter Barulich, 60 years old, robustly sang in a deep baritone.
     “Bom-bom, da-da bom-bom.
     Bom, da-da bom-bom.
     Power and glory.
     Bom, da-da bom.”
     Three elderly ladies watched in silent amazement as the Wagnerian enthusiast completed his heroic display of poultry preparation.
     Gunter held the blade across his chest, closed his eyes, and let the music fill his soul.
     “Dad?” Andy said from behind the deli section, wiping a hand on his butcher’s apron.
     Caught up in the melodic glory, Gunter stood as still as a statue.
     “Dad!” Andy shouted, surprising everyone including himself.
     Gunter turned towards his lanky, 19-year-old son, as Andy nodded towards the elderly women. Gunter smiled at the ladies and solemnly bowed his head.
     The three old women burst into applause.
     Andy rolled his eyes upward. He acts weird and gets applause. I act weird and get yelled at. Sighing, he turned towards the slicing wheel. Life is so unfair.
     “Oh, my, that was wonderful, Mr. Barulich,” Mrs. Thompson said. “Such … um …” She looked imploringly at Mrs. Atkins.
     “Bravado,” said Mrs. Atkins, glancing over the rim of her glasses.
     “Bravado,” said Mrs. Thompson, clapping her hands in delight.
     “Bra what?” rasped Mrs. Wilson, tapping on her hearing aid.
     “Bra-va-do!” her two friends shouted.
     “Stop yelling,” Mrs. Wilson said, covering her hearing aids with both of her hands. She glared at her two friends, then turned to Gunter. “Bra-va-do,” she said distinctly, her jaw thrust forward, her mouth set firm.
     Gunter smiled. “Thank you, gracious ladies. I am but a humble lover of great music.”
     The ladies exposed dentured grins, then turned their attention to Andy, who, preoccupied with the injustices in his life, rubbed his forehead with his fingers.
     “Andy,” his father gently spoke.
     Andy turned around, his eyes wide open, fingers splayed. He appeared to be giving his dad a goofy salute.
     Gunter tried to be patient. “Customers are waiting, son.”
     His forehead massage complete and with another deep sigh, Andy approached the three ladies, assuming his best be-friendly-to-the-customer manner.
     “Good morning, ladies. What’ll it be today?” Andy asked politely. “Same as usual?”
     The three old ladies smiled. It was their turn to perform like Andy’s father and they were rising to the occasion.
     “Half a pound of roast beef sliced real thin,” said Mrs. Atkins in a melodic voice.
     “A dollar of provolone cheese as quick as you please,” joked Mrs. Thompson, making a funny rhyme.
     “Two dollars of cole slaw, not a penny more, not a penny less,” rasped Mrs. Wilson without any comedic talent whatsoever.
     The three women cackled together, feeling clever.
     Smiling and nodding, Gunter left the room, heading towards the freezer.
     Andy mustered a plastic smile. Same as usual, he sighed. Nothing ever changes in this town. Grabbing the roast beef, he walked over to the meat slicer. On the highway of life, why am I always in the slow lane? Why is my life so dull? Does God hate me or what?
     Setting the cutting wheel to thin, Andy played the rhyme game, something he always did when he felt his life was boring. He imagined ten tiny men, speaking in an irreverent, sing-song kind of speech. They were Munchkins from his favorite movie The Wizard of Oz. They were strangely dressed, two inches tall and spoke like they had just inhaled helium from a balloon.
     Andy peeled the plastic off the roast beef while the Munchkins sang his thoughts to the tune If I Only Had a Brain.
     “Andy tries to be creative,
     But the response is negative,
     Cause people think he’s nuts.
     Don’t be different, just be boring,
     Can’t you hear their brains are snoring,
     Life in Hot Tub really sucks.”
     While the Munchkins crooned, Andy thumped the roast beef onto the cutter and turned on the motor. Several Munchkins caught the slice and carried it over to the butcher paper, while others rode on top of the big lump of meat.
     Gnarled knuckles rapped the deli’s glass counter. “Young man?” a wobbly voice said.
     Andy turned. The elderly ladies’ faces were lined up along the counter looking as though they had no bodies. Andy imagined them as decapitated heads, floating in the air like weird balloons.
     “Geriatric shooting gallery!” the Munchkins cried.
     Dressed in a bright green Wizard of Oz army uniform with four-leaf clovers on his shoulders, a Munchkin soldier trumpeted a battle charge. Stumbling over each other, Munchkin soldiers grabbed paper-covered straws. They ripped off the paper and chewed it, while others broke off the ends of toothpicks, took the wet paper and made spitball darts.
     The air borne granny heads floated above the tiny militia. Watching them intently, their elderly eyelids twitched with concern.
     “Young man?” said Mrs. Thompson, waiving her hand at Andy’s vacant face.
     The Munchkin Army raided the deli section. Some grabbed round cucumber slices, while others munched kidney beans from the 3-bean salad. They made cannons out of straws, cucumber wheels and plastic forks, then loaded the cannons with the spitball darts.
     The hovering granny heads scowled. Sweat beaded on their leathery brows.
     “Young man,” Mrs. Thompson said to Andy. “Is something wrong with you?”
     “Death to Grandma!” the Munchkins cried, aiming the cannon barrels at the floating heads.
     The kidney bean eating Munchkins pushed their rear ends up to the straw cannons and farted. Munchkins with matches lit the fuse. The cannon boomed. Spitball darts blasted forth.
     The grannies screamed as their heads exploded and sparkling fireworks burst in the air.
     The Munchkin Military band played a jazzy victory song.
     “Young man, I want my cole slaw.”
     Andy stared at Mrs. Thompson, a silly grin spread on his face.
     Mrs. Thompson balled her frail hands into tiny frustrated fists while the other two old ladies held their purses tight and frowned.
     I just love my imagination, thought Andy. It’s the best thing in my life.
     The front door opened, ringing an old-fashioned cowbell hanging above it.
     “Mrs. Senicki,” Gunter said, returning from the freezer. “How wonderful to see you again.”
     Hearing the word “Senicki,” Andy turned towards the door.
     At the entrance stood Mrs. Alexandra Senicki. She was his former history teacher in high school, 47 years old, with dark brown hair and an angelic face. Her deeply caring nature made her so popular with her students that they called her Momma Love.
     Gunter stood at the sink, drying his hands on a towel. “Come in, Mrs. Senicki. I made something special for you today.”
     As she stepped towards his father, Andy uttered a silent prayer. His wish was immediately granted, for entering the shop was Rebecca, Momma Love’s teenage daughter. They had taken one class together when he was in high school --drama.
     And I didn’t even have the courage to sit next to her, Andy thought. Why am I such a coward?
     The Munchkins noticed Rebecca. Several of them wolf whistled in awe.
     “Who’s the babe?” sighed a Munchkin.
     “Fu-fu-fellahs. Mind your ma-manners,” a stuttering Munchkin scolded.
     “Be-a-uti-ful,” a third one spoke in admiration.
     “Excuse me, Miss,” a fourth Munchkin blushed. “Would you go steady with a bashful dwarf?”
     “Andy!” a gruff voice barked.
     Andy turned, still smiling. His father clutched a dead goose by its scrawny neck. It appeared to have died from strangulation. Standing beside his dad, three ignored and indignant old ladies cast dark looks upon him.
     Andy’s smile withered; his stomach tightened into a knot.
     Gunter scowled. He snapped at his son in German to “pay attention.”
     Andy cringed.
     Gunter took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Customers are waiting, son.”
     Andy’s ears turned red. “Yes, sir. Right away.”
     Getting busy, Andy glanced at Rebecca wishing he could disappear. He reached for the provolone cheese, setting it next to the finished roast beef order. Grabbing a takeout box, he stuck his head inside the glass case where the cole slaw was kept. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible so he could talk to Rebecca. Stuffing cole slaw into the bucket, he noticed a dress with two beautiful knees in front of him. Gazing up between the marinated mushrooms and the fruit-filled ambrosia, he saw Rebecca looking down at him.
     She was smiling; she looked so pretty it nearly took his breath away.
     Andy jerked his head, hitting the glass shelf above him. Several marinated mushrooms bounced out of their bowl. One rolled over the ledge, falling downward.
     Dressed in a baseball uniform, a Munchkin ran towards the plunging mushroom. Sliding along the rim of a bowl of potato salad, he raised a gloved hand to catch it. The mushroom struck the glove hard, knocking him so deeply into the potato salad that he disappeared from sight.
     The other baseball playing Munchkins ran to the bowl, worried about whether or not the plummeting fungi had been caught.
     Covered in potato goop, a tiny arm shot upward, the mushroom trapped inside the glove’s webbing.
     “We win!” the other Munchkins cheered. “Free tacos for everyone 2 inches tall.”
     Raising his head up over the glass counter, Andy smiled at Rebecca. When she smiled back, he became tongue-tied. He tried to speak, but his lips failed to form words. His brain froze; he just stood there like a brainless wide-eyed statue.
     “Uh-oh,” the Munchkins mumbled.
     “No fresh Mex tonight,” a Munchkin pouted.
     “Girls ruin every thing,” a second one cried.
     “I need guacamole or I’m going to die,” declared a third.
     “Girls ruin guacamole?” said a fourth, nervously. “Merciful heavens, fellahs. Do you know what that means?”
     “What?” the others said in unison.
     The fourth Munchkin fell to his knees. “Guacamole is life! Girls are death!”
     “Hello, Andy,” Rebecca said sweetly.
     “Hi,” Andy replied in voice that was barely a squeak.
     What is wrong with me? Andy thought. Am I a loser?
     Rebecca, too, had trouble speaking. But as their eyes met, words were no longer necessary. Their pupils dilated, the room disappeared, and reality diminished to the size of each other’s face.
     “Rebecca,” a soft voice called. Mrs. Senicki stood at the butcher shop entrance holding a brown bag with the stuffed goose inside. “Come along dear, it’s time to go.”
     Rebecca glanced at Andy and bowed her head. “Bye Andy,” she quietly said as she shuffled away to join her mother.
     Andy’s chest clenched tightly. He wanted to ask Rebecca out. Get her phone number. Anything, just to see her again. It was now or never. “Reb ‑‑.”
     “Andy!” his father snapped, tapping his clenched fist on the palm of his other hand. “Act like a man,” he growled in German. “Customers are waiting, son.”
     Andy winced from his father’s stern gaze. The Munchkins huddled together. Putting their hands beside their faces, they imitated the Edvard Munch painting The Scream. “Deadly dad has spoken. Andy’s body will be broken.”
     The three old women stood near Gunter, staring at Andy with reproachful eyes.
     Andy imagined them as horrible zombies. Their eyeballs sprang out of their sockets; their tongues slithered from out of their mouths, hissing like grumpy snakes.
     Andy told his imagination to shut up.
     He hurried to give the old women their orders. He took their money and made their change, all the while wanting to run outside before Rebecca and her mother left.
     Putting the last penny into Mrs. Wilson’s wobbly hand, Andy tugged his apron-string and pulled his smock over his head.
     The sound of an engine accelerating made him look out the window. Mrs. Senicki’s station wagon disappeared down the street.
     Andy’s heart sank like a capsized boat. His one chance with Rebecca was gone.
     The three old ladies left the shop. The cow bell rang. To Andy it felt as if the door was closing on his pathetic life.
     A beefy hand jarred Andy’s shoulder. Turning, Andy saw his father’s grinning face. He wondered what he was so happy about. The day had been a total disaster.
     “Guess whose coming to dinner tonight?” his father said.
     Gunter’s head bobbed up and down, as though he were sharing a grand secret. At first Andy couldn’t figure it out, but then the meaning became plain. The Senickis were visiting his parents. Rebecca would be at his house tonight.
     Andy’s sunken heart righted itself with hope.
     Through the stenciled butcher shop window, the Mysterious Man stared at Andy. His fingers touched the black stones; his eyes were glazed; he was in a trance. The stones informed their human bearer with a surety that brooked no doubt.
     He is their next victim.
     The stones were never wrong.