The Short Story blog series is an experiment where I write short stories one week at a time before they’re actually published. Get the whole archive here: charleskunken.com/season6
The Half-Buttered Croissant - Part III - The Rose Garden
A day of hooky in search of purpose. Part 3 of a short story.
Part 1: charleskunken.com/blog/the-half-buttered-croissant-part-one
Part 2: charleskunken.com/blog/the-half-buttered-croissant-part-two-the-diner
Part 3: charleskunken.com/blog/the-half-buttered-croissant-part-three-the-rose-garden
Part 4: charleskunken.com/blog/the-half-buttered-croissant-part-four-the-finale-the-avant-garde
Full PDF: charleskunken.com/s/The-Half-Buttered-Croissant-by-Charles-Kunken-June-2020.pdf
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Part 2 Ending: …Ten minutes later, he was speeding north at sixty-five miles an hour. The goggles helped, but his cheeks were flapping against his mouth.
The golden retriever shifted on his lap, so he wrapped his left arm around her tighter while gripping the handrail of the sidecar with his right. Maybe that obituary was prophetic after all.
John looked up at the dude and wondered why he couldn’t have just followed in the Buick. Who was this dude guy anyway?
But he pushed all that aside. He wasn’t going to miss this chance, even if it meant riding shotgun with Hulk Hogan meets the Ghost of Christmas Past—and heading towards the seedy part of town.
Part 3 continues below…
Part III - The Rose Garden
John and the dude took a long curvy road flanking the main entrance to the park and came up a wooded hill leading to the service lot in the back. The live music grew louder as they approached.
Once they parked, the sound of the dude’s engine was replaced by the jazz band coming from the other side of the hedge rows. The hum of the crowd filled the spaces between notes.
“A music festival?” John asked.
“A food festival,” dude corrected.
“Now, head in over that way.” He pointed towards the line of temporary police gates at the end of the lot, like the ones they used in parades.
“Once you get in, head up to the Sheep’s Meadow and find the tent with the old mystic.”
John nodded.
“I’ll meet you back here when you’re done.”
* * *
Guarding the rear entrance (which was simply a three-foot opening in the gates) was a ten-year-old girl wearing an orange reflective vest.
“Can I help you?” she asked as John approached.
“I’m, uhh . . .,” he said, “I’m trying to get into the park.”
“What’s your name?” she said looking down at her clipboard.
“John Eldridge.”
She flipped a couple of pages. “I’m afraid you’re not on the list.”
“Look, I’m having a pretty rough day.” He placed his hand over his bag.
“Sorry, mister. This entrance is for performers and staff only. If you’re not with any of the bands or vendors, you’ll have to go in the front.”
John looked back over his shoulder.
The girl peered around him to see what he was looking at. “You come with him?” she asked, gesturing over to the far side of the lot where the dude was parked, stretching his arms. The dog was lying on a small patch of grass.
“Uhh,” John stalled. “No?”
The dude, from the other side of the lot, saw them both looking his way.
The girl, looking across at the dude, stretched her arms out wide, palms up. What the heck?
The dude waved. Sorry.
She let out a groan, shaking her head. “Ron,” she muttered and wrote something down on her clipboard.
John looked confused.
“All right,” she said pulling a purple wristband from her back pocket. “Here’s the deal. Head in over here through the rear of the Rose Garden where the jazz band is playing.” She nodded behind her towards the hedges. “By the way, they’ve got beer and wine all day in there, two for one. If you make your way to the far end, you’ll find the exit to the rest of the park.”
John made a move to enter.
“Mhmmph,” she cleared her throat and, looking away, rubbed her right thumb against her fingers.
John stretched his neck, not sure if he believed what he was seeing.
She didn’t flinch. He reached slowly for his wallet, looking sideways, and fished out a bill. The girl raised her eyebrows and looked up.
John extended his hand towards her with the change. She took it, examined the five in the corner, and pushed it into the back pocket of her jeans. She peeled the adhesive off the wristband and gestured for John to hold out his wrist. “Chop-chop.”
John obeyed.
“To get to the Sheep’s Meadow, you’ll want to head towards the main stage at the softball fields by the front of the park,” she continued. “If you can’t find it, just follow the crowds.”
John nodded as she stepped aside, not recalling that he had ever asked for directions.
“That’s where you’ll find the tents.”
“Umm, thank you,” he said and hesitantly stepped through the opening of the gates.
“And remember,” she called out as John made his way around the hedges to the Rose Garden, “if you go out the front, you can’t get back in.”
* * *
John found himself wandering the rows of tent stalls until he saw the sign for the mystic at the far end.
She sat on one of the two red metallic folding chairs, a crystal ball on a small table between them.
“Please state your name,” she said.
“John Eldridge.”
The mystic sat upright. “John Eldridge from the paper?”
“You read that?”
“I am so sorry to hear about your passing.” She nodded. “Please sit down.”
Lines formed between John’s his eyebrows.
“You’ve come for answers,” the woman said and gestured towards the chair. “What would you like to know?”
John looked around cautiously at the tapestries covering the sides of the tent and slowly took his seat. “Well, quite frankly, I wasn’t so happy with the write-up today.”
The mystic nodded as she looked into the crystal ball on her table. “A reasonable conclusion. I can see.”
John shot her a sideways glance as she began to run her hands around it.
“Tell me more,” she said.
“Well,” he said, “I want to know how to make my mark.”
“What does that mean?” she asked, continuing to rub the ball.
“It means . . .” John froze and looked at her for a moment. “It means, I guess I want to become known for something. I want do something that people will remember me by when I’m gone.”
“I see,” she said. “So you want to get your work more widely known.”
“Well,” he said and then stopped. He opened his mouth to begin again but closed it. Then finally, he stated, “I actually don’t have any work. Not of my own.”
The mystic stopped running her hands and looked up. “So what do you want from me?” she asked. “You want me to just make you famous?”
“Can you do that?”
“Of course not,” she said. “I work carnivals with a transparent bowling ball from a garage sale.”
John looked at her confused.
“If you want to be remembered for something,” she said, “you’re going to have to do something worth remembering.”
John’s mouth was slightly agape.
“It’s not rocket surgery,” said the mystic.
John closed his mouth and then opened it again. “Yeah,” he said. “I just thought maybe there would be—”
“You thought there would be some magic?”
John looked down at his lap and then back to her. “Perhaps.”
She shook her head.
John sat for a moment and thought. He blew a puff of air out his nostrils and laughed. “Well then,” he said, slapping his hands on his knees to stand, “I guess I should get going.”
“Mhmmph,” she said glancing at the bucket on the stand beside her.
“Oh, right,” John said, going for his wallet. “How much for the reading?”
“Ninety dollars,” said the mystic.
“Ninety!”
She pointed to the sign out front of the tent. John took a step backwards and craned his neck. Frustrated, he stepped forward again.
“It’s not what I tell you that’s important,” she said. “It’s what you do with it.”
John found himself slowly fishing out his wallet again.
“It’ll mean more having made the investment,” she assured him.
John threw five bills down on the table.
“Need change?” she asked.
John scowled, collected his ten and walked away.
* * *
As he paced towards the front gate, John stopped and ordered himself a cotton candy.
“How are you today sir?” the vendor asked as he twirled a little paper baton around the inside of his large metallic bowl.
“Well,” said John, “let’s see. At breakfast I read that I was pronounced dead, then I nearly lost my life riding shotgun in a circus mobile with some guy whom I’d never met before while his fifty-pound dog shed and drooled all over me, I got shaken down by a ten-year-old girl, and most recently I was the mark in an elaborate fortune-telling scam.”
The vendor glanced up at him and then went back to twirling.
“And my life has no significance.”
The vendor handed him his cotton candy and nodded. “That’ll be eleven bucks.”
“Eleven!”
The vendor didn’t respond.
“You know at least where I can catch a cab?”
The vendor nodded in the direction of the front entrance. “I wouldn’t get one today, though,” he said. “Surge pricing. They’ll gouge you.”
* * *
John speed-walked back towards the Rose Garden.
When he got to the rear entrance, the little girl had apparently packed it in for the day, but there sat the dude waiting for him at the other end of the lot, lounging, petting his dog, waiting without a care.
John marched over ready to give him a piece of his mind.
To be continued…
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Part 1: charleskunken.com/blog/the-half-buttered-croissant-part-one
Part 2: charleskunken.com/blog/the-half-buttered-croissant-part-two-the-diner
Part 3: charleskunken.com/blog/the-half-buttered-croissant-part-three-the-rose-garden
Part 4: charleskunken.com/blog/the-half-buttered-croissant-part-four-the-finale-the-avant-garde
Full PDF: charleskunken.com/s/The-Half-Buttered-Croissant-by-Charles-Kunken-June-2020.pdf
Have some thoughts? Feel free to drop a comment or hit me up: charlie@charleskunken.com
Other Posts In The Short Story Series
What would you do if you read your own obituary? Part 4 (the finale) of a short story.