In a Bind

I hate the city.

No, let me elaborate: I hate going into the city.

Once more: I really hate going into the city.

I have really come to prefer the smaller Midwest towns. You know, the ones with a population cap of 25,000? Anything bigger than that and things get complicated. People have a higher chance of recognizing you when you don't want to be recognized. In my world, that can be dangerous.

Of course, I don't mean I live in a different world. I live in the same grungy America as everyone else. I roll my eyes at politics, I love a good pizza, and I pretend to know the words to the National Anthem.

And again, I hate the city.

I'll give you an example of why.

A while back I had to take a break from my business in small town Iowa to head south into St. Louis. A lot of people wonder why I don't go north to Chicago for my shopping trips, but that always felt cliché to me. Besides, my town has enough hoodlums from Chicago running around trying to avoid warrants by crossing state lines that it might as well just be a part of the Windy City. Which puts a cramp in my whole plan to not be recognized.

So yeah, I went to St. Louis.

I drove down in Bertie, my 1994 Pontiac Sunbird; color: we'll call it mosaic. Most repairs to Bertie have been done by a guy I know who has to scrounge parts from his brother's junkyard. Color matching is costly, so all parts and panels are in their original color. So, you know, mosaic.

Anyway, I drove down because I am not a fan of planes or trains. Plus, it means I can put gas and maintenance for Bertie down on my itemized taxes for my business.

Right, I didn't explain that.

My business is what some would classify as a tourist trap. I think of it as providing entertainment to people with a few extra bucks. Read a few palms, quote the weekly astrology out of the newspaper, and keep people coming back to spend money at that psychic guy downtown. That's me, “the psychic guy.” Just call me JP. Most people do because the full name is a nightmare. Don't ask.

Anyway, the psychic gig is the front. It pays for poker night. Keeping that flashy neon sign out front burning requires the real business. Those that know who to ask and where to look, know that I have a few tricks up my sleeve that can help people improve their lives in little ways. Big ways, too, if you really have the cash and really want to take some risks. The point is, I do a little real magic in a world that pretends like it doesn't exist.

So when I need special supplies for the voodoo that I do, I have to hit the city. Little things I can get from this crazy old Baba Yaga type I know out in the sticks. Nice lady, by the way, just don't drink the tea. This particular trip was bigger; like magical appliance type of bigger.

The place I went was new to me. I used to have a place closer, up in the Quad Cities, but there were complications with a magical camp stove that mistook some lady's Yorkiepoo for the daily catch. I can't imagine the smell.

Just off Kingshighway, I pulled up to the little place with a sign dangling out front that read “The Queen's Pawn.” I locked up Bertie and gave her a farewell pat, just in case the shady neighborhood I was in decided to take her for spare parts (of which she had plenty.)

It was a hot and sunny summer day, the kind where I wore a baggy t-shirt and wished I could get away with wearing something more revealing. Most guys would strut around shirtless and pretend they had six pack abs. I had no such delusions and that wasn't my style. Clothes on in public for me.

Inside was like every pawn shop from every movie I have ever seen. A random assortment of junk stood on shelves that looked like they were built out of the first failed attempt at plywood. I couldn't imagine anyone wanting to actually buy a dented tuba, or a classic Nintendo missing the cartridge cover, but that is the sort of inventory I saw.

Of course, the inventory I was interested in wasn't going to be on the shelves. You can't leave magic doodads lying about where the average non-believer can stumble on it.

That's how you get roast Yorkiepoo.

Behind the counter was a guy in an old Cardinals shirt. I think most of it used to be white once upon a time. The guy was half-asleep and absently picking at his ear when I came in. The chime from the door barely got his attention. I was fairly certain that creaky floor boards did more to alert him to my presence.

He jerked to full consciousness and put on the worst fake smile I have ever seen. I say this as someone that works as a fake psychic.

“Welcome, welcome! Feel free to look around, man. I got a little bit of everything. You looking for anything in particular? Maybe Skylar can help you out.”

Of course this guy spoke in third person. I swear, the people I have to deal with…

“Hey, Skylar. I hope you can help. I drove a long way on a recommendation. My Aunt Neptune said you would have what I'm looking for.”

“Neptune!”

His smile went from fake to genuine.

“Oh! You the palm reader from Iowa! Yeah, yeah, man, I got the kind of merch you looking for. Neptune is an old friend.”

I smiled. This guy, who was younger than I expected, but still no spring chicken, probably had no idea how old his “old friend” was. Aunt Neptune was the kind of woman with enough magical power and just enough of a mischievous streak to be the reason people policed exposure between magical folk and non-believers. There have been… issues.

I approached the counter and offered Skylar my hand. He shook it enthusiastically.

So a little parlor trick of mine is to get a sense of people's fortune. Not the money kind, though that sometimes comes into play. I mean the proper kind; fortune and luck and good old fate. Despite the ramshackle surroundings, Skylar was on a good trajectory. He had some things to overcome, but he was going to come through just fine. I wasn't doing anything with that information, at least not right now. For now, it just helped me get a feel for who I was dealing with.

“So, Mr. Palm Reader–”

“Please, call me JP. Mr. Palm Reader was my great uncle once removed and I hate to be confused with him.”

I threw in a wink for good measure.

Skylar laughed. The look in his eyes says he did not get the joke. It hurts to be this funny and under-appreciated. Skylar went right back on with the sales pitch.

“So, JP, Skylar got just what you need.”

From under the counter, he produced a metal butter dish. It was shaped like an ear of corn. Skylar's grin said he thought he was funnier than me. Mention Iowa one time and everyone wants to make corny jokes.

See that? Told you I was funny.

“Keeps the butter chill while you buttering up all that corn. Skylar got this just last week. Do you believe in destiny?”

He had no idea how much I believe in destiny. Or that he wasn't remotely funny.

“Actually, I’m looking for something to buffer my shop.”

“Skylar doesn't deal in computers, man.”

“No, not that buffer…”

I knew no one was in the shop. I still felt the need to look around, just in case. I saw someone walking down the sidewalk outside, but the shop remained empty. All that, and I still lowered my voice.

“...I need something that can buffer time in my shop. You know, keep people hanging out longer than they realize?”

“Oh! The palm reader is looking for the Slughorn Special!”

A pet peeve of mine that I should mention is this right here. Just once, I would like to deal with people in the magical community that didn't find the need to make references to fictional wizard universes when referring to real, everyday magic. Do I have a lightning bolt scar? No. Grow up people.

What I said, however, was, “Oh, for f–, no I don't need a fancy hourglass. I need something enchanted as a Temporal Perception Buffer. I know they are considered somewhat less than legal, but I also know from the number of teeth you're showing me that you have one. Skylar. Please?”

“Oh that,” he said too matter-of-factly, “Skylar probably can manage–”

The door chime went off.

Time for the real conflict in our plot.

We both looked. In walked this younger guy, dressed in a leather jacket way too warm looking to be wearing on a summer day. He didn't let the door close behind him.

He made sure he pulled it closed.

For me, that would have been warning bells enough. Except for the part where whatever this guy's fortune was, it was twisted and rotten enough I didn't need to touch him to get a sense of it. The same went for the guy's ruthless determination to overcome that rotten fortune. I was guessing with violence.

“Welcome, man, Skylar be right with you. Just finishing up with this guy, yeah?”

The new guy, let's call him Rotten, takes a few quick strides into the shop and pulls a gun out of his pocket. He points it at Skylar, then at me, then back at Skylar.

“Whatever money and jewelry you've got back there, put it in a bag now!”

See? Violence. Maybe I am a real psychic.

Skylar raised his hands and took a step back away from the counter toward the door leading into the back.

“Hey, man, put that down. No need for someone to get hurt.”

Rotten was too jumpy for whatever escape plan Skylar thought he had. The gun went off just as Skylar turned like he was going to bolt. I saw the splash of blood hit the wall as Skylar screamed, grabbed his arm, and spun to the ground.

Now we get to my least favorite part. I like to think of myself as a side character. In video game terms, I am an NPC. An essential NPC, maybe, but definitely not the main character. I exist to further the plot. What I don't do is make acts of heroism and save the day. Not my schtick.

That being said, I tend to think of myself as a good guy. I am also not stupid. I could see the panic on Rotten's face telegraph “no witnesses” to his growing list of crimes. I saw the shaky gun start to move my way.

I hate playing hero. It does not look good on me. I also didn't want to die. So, before Rotten could finish his Joe Chill impression, I grabbed the butter dish off the counter and swung it at his face.

Of course, he was turning toward me at the same time, so what happened was me somehow catching his gun arm with my elbow and then awkwardly kind of chucking him on the shoulder with the butter dish like an inglorious attaboy.

The gun went off again.

Thankfully, my elbow had knocked his aim way off and the bullet zinged across the shop to bounce around inside the dented tuba. Now my ear was ringing, we were both off balance, and no one had any kind of clue which way was up. Instead, the two of us crumbled to the ground like the worst figure skating duo.

The gun spun across the floor out of his hand. The butter dish went the other way. Both of us were unarmed, so began the frantic wrestling and grappling. I had no idea what I would do with him once I caught him, but I couldn't let him get a hold of me.

I'm what you might call small built, especially compared to inner city thugs in leather jackets. Rotten was nearly two of me, so logically, there was only one way for this to go. It wasn't long before he wrenched one of my arms back and grabbed me around the chest. When I tried to wiggle free, he squeezed. My mistake.

His grip on my chest was exactly the sort of thing I wanted to avoid. The moment he squeezed a realization hit Rotten so hard he had to voice his discovery aloud.

“Hey, what the hell? You ain't no ma–”

His mistake.

I don't like being recognized. With my free hand, I grabbed the hand crushing my chest. I couldn't move him, and I didn't have to. His fortune was so messy, the moment I touched his hand it unraveled without much thought on my part. His luck just ran out.

My touch probably would have startled him, but what really stopped him mid-word was the orange sticky dart that hit him in the forehead. It stuck and he collapsed to the floor, cross-eyed and drooling.

Skylar was standing, holding a toy gun in his hand.

“Scrambler,” Skylar said as he tossed the gun to the floor and sat down.

I unraveled myself from Rotten. While Skylar started pouring Elmer's Glue that I hoped was magical on his bullet wound, I fixed my binder under my shirt. I resisted the urge to kick Rotten for almost spilling my secret and guaranteeing my drive home would be very uncomfortable. I walked back over to the counter.

Skylar just shook his head.

“Third time this week he been scrambled. The gun's new though. Been using a switchblade.”

“Not to rush the fun, Skylar, but can I just get that buffer now?”

His showmanship diminished by the ordeal, Skylar just nodded and went into the back. I picked up the butter dish and set it on the counter while I waited, watching Rotten carefully. Skylar emerged and set a Glade plug-in on the counter. I smelled lavender.

I just gave him a look.

“Guaranteed, man. I wouldn't cheat you after all that.”

We worked out the reasonable price. I wouldn't let him give me a discount. Buffers are expensive and moving them isn't easy. He insisted, however, in giving me the butter dish as a thank you.

Why not? I do live in Iowa, after all. And I wouldn't be going back to the city anytime soon after that, I promise you.

I hate the city. I really do.