The Frog on the Unicycle

"That section's off-limits," says a snide voice. "Don't touch that."

Mrs. Sue's tone is distinctive; it drips with disappointment and tuna-smelling breath. The beaded glasses that sit atop her hooked nose gleam in the lamplight. She hates me - it's clear from her constant scowl every time I walk into her trinket shop.

"What is it? How does it work?" I ask, not moving my hand from the antique. It was mesmerizing. It sat on one of the many dark wooden shelves, but it caught my eye with its old, clanking movement and jolly nature.

"What one're you lookin' at?"

"The frog." I say, wiping my nose on my sleeve. And I am looking at a frog - a frog with a large grin and a toadstool hat. He's on a unicycle, with a fishing rod in his hand. His little legs work away at the single wheel. He's in a constant, even motion, but getting absolutely nowhere.

"It's an automaton. An antique," says the old lady as if I'm stupid for not knowing. "It's powered by a little handle - can't remember where I got him. He doesn't need a battery or a charger like all of your toys. But he isn't for sale." She somehow finds a way to frown harder as she checks her watch impatiently. "And we're closing in ten minutes. Are you gonna buy something, or not?"

"Er-" I start, but the tiny bell above the door dings. For a second, all you can hear is the thick rain pelting down outside. My father walks in, taking down his umbrella. It spits rainwater all over the floor, but Mrs. Sue doesn't seem to mind, which makes my stomach lurch with disgust.

"Hello, Mr. Thompson," she says, switching her demeanor from cold to sweet. "How can I help you today?"

"Why, I was just looking for my son," he says, glancing pointedly at me, "And I thought I saw the rascal in your quaint little shop."

"Hey, pa," I say, walking over to stand beside him.

"Did you find anything you like?" he says. A smirk escapes my lips as I look up at Mrs. Sue. She's glaring daggers, but I straighten.

"Actually, pa, I did find something I'd love." After a while, I've noticed how fond of my father Mrs. Sue is, so she practically can't say no to him.

"I'll get it for you, kid," says my father, opening his coat and taking out his phone. "How much, Mrs. Sue?"

"It's not for sa-" she starts, clenching her jaw as I pick up the frog and glancing back at my father, "Fine. Fifteen bucks."

My eyes widen. Cheap.

"Please, pa?" I say hopefully, but my father has already paid. I cradle the frog in my hands like the happy little child I'm pretending to be.

"Thank you, Ursula," my father says, using Mrs. Sue's elusive first name.

"Yes, thank you, Ursula," I sneer under my breath. My father lets out a sharp "Shh," before smiling at Mrs. Sue apologetically.

"The pleasure's mine," she says. Her tone is sickly sweet. She follows us to the door, flipping the sign from Open! to Closed, come back soon! as light goes out in the shop.

My father holds his hand over my shoulder, steering me away. We walk down the street, passing a man yelling on speakerphone, until we're out of Mrs. Sue's poor eyesight. Then, my father grins and turns to me, patting my shoulder with pride.

"Good one, kiddo," he says. He takes the frog out my hands. I'm laughing as the rain pours down around us. "This'll sell fine."

"Thought so," I say, breathing into my cupped hands and rubbing them together. "It looks alright, doesn't it?"

"He's perfect." My father spins it around his hand. The jolly frog grins right back.

We make our way down the street, walking fast to make it out of the rain and into our apartment. My father holds the door for me and I shuffle inside. I don't bother to wipe my polished shoes on the front doormat. Father hangs his hat and coat, swapping it for a bulkier overcoat, and opens the box that sits on the table next to the door. He hastily picks out one of the mustaches and a lighter wig.

I rush into my room, changing into a vibrant red coat. I take off my hat, letting my hair flow down my shoulders. It matches my father's, but he says that's not the furthest the resemblance goes. The only part of me that resembles my mother is my nose, apparently.

I put on some more feminine boots than my prior, polished shoes. The most fun part of this gig is being able to change from a relatively rich man's son to the daughter of a good-natured shopkeeper.

My father comes into my room, ushering me to hurry up. He also gives me a plate with a soggy ham sandwich on it as a quick meal for the road. I use my mother's lipstick to make my cheeks rosier. My father still thinks I'm too young at age twelve to wear makeup, but I usually convince him that it makes the hustle more believable.

There's a cat outside my window, the scrawny brownish-grey one that constantly paces the roof. Sometimes I wonder whether it can get down. I open my window and quickly chuck half of my sandwich to it. It jumps back, but the sandwich will be gone before long.

"C'mon, we have to get there early!" My father's voice echoes through the little apartment. I run down the stairs after tapping the lights off, careful not to trip, with the sandwich held in my teeth. We both walk out the door as we now head toward the fancier end of town. A bus sighs to a stop as we cross the street, which reflects muddy headlights. Father is carrying a bag full of chunky items. He looks like a tall St. Nicholas.

I've started fixing my walk to be more little-ladylike. Behind me, Father's stature also changes with his character. Mr. Thompson walks tall, like he's above all of the nonsense - but his other character, Mr. Williams, is a bit heavier in his walk with a constant grin on his face. Something about Mr. Williams looks different today, but I dismiss the observation.

It was my idea for my father to wear a bulkier coat to seem larger as Mr. Williams, but he just laughed and said, "Aren't I fat enough already?"

We've almost made it to the shop. Cars whiz past us as we cross the street, and I try not to get run over. Our shop is twice the size of Mrs. Sue's, with a second story on top. Through the window, you can see large shelves stacked with mismatched, overpriced items.

We make it eventually, the rain growing colder and colder. I'm shivering, rubbing my hands against my arms to keep warm. There's a cold light on inside, and sitting behind it is a scrawny boy, about twice my age. He has brown hair and tired eyes.

"Hello, Mr. Williams," he mutters, taking his book off the desk.

"Evening, Evans," my father says in a more jolly voice. "Thanks for looking after the shop."

Evans nods, looking at my father expectantly. Father sighs, handing him a few dollar notes. Evans grins in satisfaction.

"Thanks, sir." He hesitates. "Also, did you trim your mustache?"

"Er-" Father says as he scratches his chin, "Yes, I did."

Evans flips through the money once more before running out of the shop and nearly slamming me with the door. I jump out of the way just in time.

"Shit, did I wear the wrong-" my father starts, running his fingers through his false mustache. His usual is lighter in colour and far larger.

"Yup," I say, hiding my giggles behind my mittened hands.

He scoffs, before laughing along with me. "Now help me set up."

The bag beside the desk is filled with assorted, fancy-looking items. Of course, we'll make them look fancier.

I methodically sit each object on the shelves, filling in spaces where objects had sold yesterday.

Once, I asked why my father insisted we make two different people to be when we're working. He tensed up and said, "Well, kiddo... this isn't exactly honest work. We aren't meant to be selling other people's things and claiming they're something else." He had tilted his chin up, scratching it like he usually does when he's trying to form a thought. "But in this world, you need to make money, sometimes."

My mind often nagged at his words about "honest work". It had me questioning what honest work was. It was being a police officer, abiding the law but also putting people in bad places, even if they deserve them. But it was considered not honest work being a beggar and asking for food and money when you really need it. I question what "honest" truly means, and who gets to choose what is and isn't.

I place the last item on the shelf, then look back as my father positions the frog on the middle table. He has a black pen between his teeth, which he takes the lid off of. He gestures to me, and I place a sticker on the side of the frog's leg. He scribbles down a six followed by a zero.

"Where'd it come from?" he says, and I try to remember what Mrs. Sue had said.

"Sue doesn't remember" I say, squinting to recall.

"Right. Well, that just won't do." He readjusts his cap. "What if it was hand-made in Hamburg, by an old lady who specialized in-" He paused. "What did she call it?"

"It's an automaton," I answer. My eyes are on the grinning frog.

"-Right. Hand-made in Hamburg by an old lady who specialized in automatons, and this is one of the very few left?"

I shrug. "Sounds convincing enough."

He places it back down. "I think we'll make a good sale today."

The doors open as soon as we are completely set up. I sit by the table, while my father looks busy with the counter. He jots down numbers that I still don't understand, no matter how many times he tries explaining to me.

Our first few customers cleaned out the oldest trinkets on the shelves, including a necklace rack coated with "silver", and a pair of "ruby" earrings in our accessory section. That section was my idea, and it was surprisingly popular.

The fifth customer that came in was a lovely young woman. She had loose curls of blonde hair under her hat and coat.

"Well. Isn't this adorable." Her accent was unplaceable.

"Welcome," my father says. "If you see anything you'd like, then let us know. We only have the finest things here. And don't mind my daughter. She's mischief." It was a routine motto, one I could repeat off by heart. With that, I stood up, walking alongside the woman as she paced the shelves.

"Why, this is wonderful," she mutters when she sees the frog, placed in the center.

"Oh yes," I say. My father glances at me, and I get the message. "It was hand-made. In Hamburg, by an old woman who specializes in automatons."

The woman claps her hands in intrigue. "Interesting! How much?"

"Only sixty," says my father. "But take into consideration, it was made with love. Truly, one-of-a-kind. Limited edition."

"I'll take it! My nephew would love it. Y'know, she's from Hamburg." She pulls out her card from her purse, scanning it over my father's device, whose eyes light up at the same time the scanner does. She picks the frog up, holding it gently and spinning the handle around.

"Pleasure doing business with you," says my father. I smile at him.

Just as she's about to walk out of the door with the grinning frog, who's sitting on a unicycle and holding a fishing rod, she lifts something off the bottom of the automaton. There's now a clear sticker in her hand. She turns back to us, frowning in disbelief.

"This says, 'Made in China'."