Undone: A GameLit Novel: Head Hoppers, #2

By MK Eidson and Emila H Thicke

Maybe an axe blade between the eyes is responsible for driving Nick McKenzie mad.

Or maybe it's just his wild imagination.

63-year-old Nick McKenzie doesn't love his wife. She doesn't love him either, but they've stayed together for their child, who is now an adult. When Nick begins seeing a barely legal young woman named Erica and stays the night with her, his whole life goes off the rails.

His wife loses her mind. Erica nearly loses her life. And Nick loses his grip on reality. Or does he?

Strange things are happening to the old man. He wakes up in a young body. In another timeline. With a ghost lover. And nanobots in his brain. Either Nick is descending into madness, or he's a time traveler. And the more he discovers, the more convinced he becomes that both might just be true…

Although the second book in a GameLit series, Undone is light on GameLit elements and can be read without having read book one. A time travel metafiction tale inspired by true events, Undone is an electric alternate reality origin story unlike any ever told.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eposic
• Release date: Mar 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201595036

MK Eidson

Owner and operator of the Eposic publishing imprint, MK (Mike) Eidson wrote his first speculative fiction tale in fourth grade. He has served as game master for countless RPG sessions, running games in dozens of rules systems, often converting scenarios written for one system to run in another. He's now happily combining his passions for speculative fiction and role-playing in the creation of GameLit / LitRPG novels, hoping to find readers who can appreciate his unfettered and unhinged style. Mike lives in Central Florida with his wife and their pet Jack Russell Terrier, where they enjoy casual strolls around the neighborhood and nearby parks. Mike also enjoys creating games, number & letter puzzles, digital art, and videos. He creates electronic music as a member of the electronic music act, Max Gumdrop.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The Critic

Ihave agreed to telepathically transmit my surface thought stream, without apology for its content, to those authorized under terms specified elsewhere to transcribe it. I do not assert any degree of veracity to the statements I project, but quite the opposite, for it is my intent not to recite pure memoir. Though no delay is implemented to allow manual edits, I have been guaranteed certain automatic edits and mappings, such as the substitution of fake names for the real names of certain people, places, and things, to protect the guilty, especially myself.

My name is Nick McKenzie. The Nick is short for Nickel, not Nicholas. I’m a man of many fates, not unstuck in time like Billy Pilgrim but not completely stuck, either. I am the Eternal Champion of my era, traveling between alternate worlds as though a Prince of Amber, cheating Death like Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser, going back one or more paragraphs when needed to try and beat the solo adventure that is my life. Or so The Critic has told me.

This is my story, but if it is any good, it will become larger than me. Thank you, dear reader and potential critic, for your part in that. If you aren’t The Critic, then your opinion matters.

I despise The Critic, the one always interrupting conversations and situations so he can deride all my choices he deems as bad ones. He began accosting me during the pandemic. His timing makes me think of him as a symptom of a disease I’ve contracted, but I have no symptoms of COVID, so it’s not that. Besides, I’m fully vaccinated with both shots and a booster.

I don’t know another name for The Critic. He manifests as a voice in my ear or my head. Often a visual accompanies the voice, overlaying the real world or even supplanting it. He wears a long-sleeved white shirt, a dark blue tie, matching dark blue business slacks, a black leather belt, and polished black shoes. No jacket. His face is blurred, but his dark brown hair is neatly trimmed above the ears. He wears a hoop earring in his left ear, with a mass of tiny metal orbs hanging from the bottom of the hoop, collectively forming a teardrop. I don’t believe he wears glasses or has a mustache, but I can’t be sure because of the blur smearing his face. He carries nothing in his hands and has no visible pockets.

I’ve discovered no way to avoid him when he has something to say. He will no doubt have much to say as this story unfolds, the bastard. If I find a way to be rid of him, I will do so, for he is distracting in the extreme.

CHAPTER TWO

Perfume

The bottle whirls past my ear and shatters on impact with the wall, spraying my backside and the couch with its odorous contents. Three feet in front of me and aiming to miss, Jean tenses, her face red and contorted.

The fucking Critic whispers in my ear, I despise first-person present-tense narratives. It destroys my suspension of disbelief. Even though the story happens in real time, you should transmit it in third-person past-tense like all the great stories.

"Shut the fuck up, I don’t say, but say instead, Who’s telling this story? Not you."

He shrugs. He doesn’t give a damn. Why is he even on the ride?

As I mentioned, he’s super distracting. Instead of being in my living room where I want this story to start, I’m on the bus with him. Shit. One paragraph into my story, and The Critic is already replacing my view of reality with a mirage.

The bus stops. The door opens. I shove the bastard through. He shouts in defiance and scrambles to gain his footing on the rain-slick concrete sidewalk. He’s not quick enough. The door closes and the transport departs without him. Good riddance.

Now where was I? Oh, yeah, odorous contents. They no longer qualify as contents.

Perfume. The really cheap kind, it seems, according to my fuming wife. Embrace by Vintage Works reads the label in a black font designed for elegance, but unappreciated in the moment. I’ve never been good at selecting gifts, and this time that particular fault of mine has sent her over the edge. There’s no possibility of a return or exchange. The stench, worse than the results of an overzealous schoolgirl’s efforts to smell good for her prom date, attests to Jean’s degree of anger.

She clenches her fingers without making fists. "You might as well have pissed in the bottle, Nick. She emphasizes my name in a derogatory fashion. Someone did."

I had rather enjoyed the scent when sampling it in the department store with the help of a young saleslady, as I recall....

In addition to announcing her role in the company, her name tag reads Erica. Her smile is radiant. The term bright doesn’t do it justice. Her teeth aren’t pearls, but it’s not her teeth that give her a glow. I love red lips, not cherry red and not hot pink, but the color you get when there’s no blue or green mixed in and the red component is ramped to full. That lipstick and the blush on her cheeks says she’s ready for a night on the town, even though she’s attired in the conservative fashion I’d expect of a salesperson still low in the ranks. But, my God, she fills that outfit like Goldilocks, nothing too big and nothing too small. Her dress is buttoned in the front. She has no one to button her up in the back. A single woman, living without even a roommate. I have no delusions about ever being a professional detective, but some things are common sense or outright obvious.

Erica sprays her wrist and offers it to me. I place my fingers under her down-turned palm, giving a light pressure as though she’ll falter without the aid. My spine shivers and nostrils quiver. I purse my lips and apply more pressure with my fingers, raising her pale limb.

The sound in her throat isn’t a giggle or laugh. More of a purr. She’s getting off on this. Why wouldn’t she?

No. It’s a sales tactic.

Of course, it is.

Even if it isn’t, she wouldn’t go for an old guy like me, twice her age. Maybe three times. Hell, I don’t even know if she’s eighteen.

Whatever. I’m buying what Erica is selling. She gift-wraps it while I watch. The word pert comes to mind, not only to describe her nose, but other parts of her body commanding my attention. They aren’t bouncy, by any means, but they aren’t saggy either, like those I’ve had any opportunity to touch in recent years. How would Erica’s breasts feel in my grip? Soft, yet firm, I’m guessing, like Jean’s were back in the day.

Placing the gift-wrapped box in a paper shopping bag, Erica hands my purchase to me, one hand gripping the handles and the other supporting the bottom of the bag. I slide a hand under hers. Her eyes twinkle as she locks her gaze on mine, flirting with me.

No. She’s just being nice, hoping I’ll talk her up to the manager. Give the store a good review on their web site, maybe mention her by name. Erica. Such a lovely name.

And yet... What if I’m wrong about her motives? Maybe she’d love to have a sugar daddy. She doesn’t know how well off I am. I didn’t ask the price of the perfume, but that’s not because I’m filthy rich. Filthy, perhaps. Rich, reasonably so. But I wouldn’t go so far as to use the combined terms as a phrase to describe my resources. Two million dollars in a 401K isn’t shabby, but it’s a sneeze on the sleeve to one who’s truly filthy rich. That person could buy a dozen bottles of the most expensive perfume and not bat an eyelash. That’s not me. I occasionally splurge, but in general I’m frugal.

On the other hand, two million dollars stashed in a 401K might have a certain appeal to a young person selling perfume in a department store, where even the cheapest fragrances are more than she’s willing to afford. Not that she knows what I’m worth, but maybe her imagination is as active as mine. What would she be willing to do for some significant fraction of my wealth? She’s clearly not repulsed by me. I slide my hand from beneath hers, relishing the smoothness of her skin. The paper bag handle is rough in comparison.

If anyone you know ever has a need for a graphics artist, I say, placing my business card on the counter. I point at it. That’s my personal number. Goes straight to my flip phone.

Her lips twitch in amusement. You have a flip phone?

Oh, it’s not that I can’t afford a smart phone. I’m old school.

She giggles as she picks up my card, throwing me a glance as she bites her lip. I like old school. What kind of graphics art do you do?

I’m into print design. Brochures. Flyers. Stationary. T-shirts. Business cards.

Mugs?

Sure.

Could you design one for me? I mean, I’d love one for my mother. If it doesn’t cost too much.

I nod at my business card in her hand. Give me a call. We’ll arrange a design meeting. The consult is free. We’ll talk price then, but I’m sure we can strike a deal satisfactory to the both of us. My mouth is dry, and I swallow hard. Mugs don’t cost that much, not even a custom designed one. Anyone with a half-decent job can afford to buy one for their mother.

I’m off at seven. There’s a coffee shop next door. She waves my card at me. Is that too soon?

Hell, no, I don’t say. Seven is fine. I’ll see you then.

The place isn’t crowded. I feel conspicuous. It’s a quarter past seven. The bell jingles as someone enters the shop. It’s not her. I’m such a chump. Gray-haired and gullible. Daring to dream of a life I never had and never will. I’m an animated corpse, and not even that animated.

I didn’t try to hide my wedding ring from Erica. She must have seen it. The past four hours have given her more than ample time to rethink her decision to meet me. She’s an intelligent young woman, knows what I want from her, and has decided it’s more than she wants to give. Can’t say that I blame her, but.... Shit.

My coffee’s grown cold. I don’t care for coffee anyway. The cup is still full. I leave it on the table and walk out.

I’m nearly to my car when someone runs up behind me. Hey, Mr. Graphics Designer. Sorry I’m late. A hand grasps my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. My boss called an impromptu staff meeting right at the end of my shift. Can we still talk about that mug design?

I turn to face Erica and slip my empty hand behind her head. We stare into each other’s eyes as I massage the base of her scalp. I’m parched. Why didn’t I drink some of that coffee? I’ve still got time.

She pulls away, her eyes brimming with mischief. Is that your car?

My first car was a Ford, and my last car will be too. I love my cars, past and present, as much as I love anything or anyone, even if I have problems remembering the model names of the last few, including this one. It is.

Want to go for a ride while we talk mug designs? Her lips don’t close all the way on that last word. She licks them.

Get in. I press the button on the key and the door locks click.

Can I drive? She holds out her hand.

I’m afraid not, I don’t say, and drop the keys on her palm.

She clutches them like she’s got me by the balls. With a laugh and a toss of her head, she jumps into the driver’s seat.

It’s been forever since I sat on the passenger’s side, and never in my current vehicle while it was moving. We hit the freeway. Doing eighty miles an hour. Eighty-five. Ninety. I can’t remember the last time I had this car even up to sixty. It hums a song of freedom, racing through Ford nirvana. Ninety-five. One hundred.

Banging the steering wheel with both hands, Erica lets loose a whooping cry, her face alight with glee. She doesn’t look my way. This isn’t a shared experience at the moment, not for her. A minute ago, she was a hundred-mile-an-hour virgin.

My first time reaching one-zero-zero mph was forty-plus years ago, in my second car, a Ford Fairlane. Macy sat beside me, her arm around my shoulders. She hadn’t noticed the speedometer edging closer to that magical number. Speed wasn’t a thrill for her, but something she tolerated to be with me. Sensation swelled in my chest and faded as Macy shifted her position, ambivalent to my excitement.

Erica is different. She’s what I wish Macy had been and Jean was now. An unfamiliar feeling rises in my chest and I laugh. Erica looks at me, laughing too. I don’t even try to whoop. My vocal cords can’t manage it. She does it for both of us, repeatedly.

I’m smitten. My heart is already breaking at the fragility of this new relationship. It can’t last long enough.

She slows and heads onto an exit ramp. A long mile or two later, she parks the Ford on the side of a lonely stretch of back road. Her eyes glisten as she leans towards me. I love you, she doesn’t say. I don’t repeat it back to her. Her lips brush mine. There is no touching of tongues. We breathe in each other, the ephemeral scent of Embrace by Vintage Works lingering but faintly in the air.

Her glance at the back seat convinces me to relocate with her.

She takes my hand in hers and places it on her breast. I squeeze hard enough to confirm my suspicions of how soft yet firm it is. Oh, God, this is not happening. She slides my forefinger onto one of her buttons. It is happening. One button undone and then another. My fingers work their way down past her crotch, until all the buttons are freed. Parting the two sides of her dress, she guides my right hand to her bra clips. I’ve not unfastened a bra in decades. I don’t fumble like it’s my first time, but slide my left hand behind her to help the cause. The dainty piece of her wardrobe falls away, revealing stiff nipples on a slight frame.

You can kiss them. She leans back, her head resting against the door.

My flip phone vibrates in my pocket. I have the ring turned off, and the vibration isn’t loud. Erica doesn’t realize I’m getting a call. I let it vibrate until it stops. Where are you? Jean doesn’t get to ask me. She’s leaving a message. I’m usually home by now. My dinner is getting cold. I lean forward and place my lips on a hard nipple, drawing it between my teeth. I don’t bite hard. Erica giggles.

How old are you? I don’t ask. She’s got to be eighteen, at least. God help me if she’s not, because I’m hers to command. She places my hands where she wants them. Hooks my fingers inside the tops of her panties. I slide them down and stare at the prize they concealed. I can’t believe what I’m looking at. Young, shaved pussy. How long has it been since I’ve had occasion to even think that word?

She pulls me down to the seat to lie behind her, so I’m spooning her, and she grabs my hand, pressing it against her pubic area. Her middle finger pushes my middle finger into her. You can go in further, if you want.

I want. She’s tight, but also wetter than any pussy I’ve entered in ages. My finger slides right in. Then two fingers. Her giggles turn to whispered oohs.

The phone vibrates in my pocket again. Erica moans. The vibrating stops, but she doesn’t. It starts again, and she’s panting. The next time it starts, she’s calling on God.

She rolls over to face me, her fingers working my belt buckle. Your turn. Go bareback if you’re safe to, because I am.

I think I understand, and yeah, I’m definitely safe. I don’t have a condom anyway.

With Jean in recent years, I’ve always needed assistance. Little blue pills.

I don’t know if I’ve been so erect in all my life as I am with Erica. But I know better than to climb on top. I don’t have the strength in my arms to hold myself up long enough to have a pleasing experience. I want it to last for more than a couple minutes. Erica understands my unspoken desire and turns her back to me again, raising a leg. She pushes the tip of my erect penis into her. That’s all the help I need to take her from behind.

I draw out the experience as long as I can, hooking her thigh in my right hand, cupping her breast in my left. The phone isn’t vibrating anymore, or maybe I can’t feel it, my pants pocket being down by my knees. Erica is cooing.

I’ve got a rhythm going. She’s rubbing herself. Now she’s calling on God again, and her arousal is more than I can stand. We’re both naming the Almighty, giving him permission to witness our ecstasy. I’m not a sinner but pure as innocence. Guiltless. Both Erica and God are okay with what I’m doing, what I’ve done. The two of them have led me to this place. Satan gave up on me long ago.

I’m still fucking stiff and leave it in. Erica doesn’t mind. She’s giggling again. I’ve long ago lost the ability to giggle, but the sound of hers smacks life into my cholesterol-clogged heart.

World’s best mom, she says.

What’s that?

On the mug. That’s what it should say.

Ah. I grin. Do you want to talk font?

You’re the graphics artist. I’ll leave it to your expert opinion. Something exquisite.

Finally limp, I slip out. I’ll work up a design and bring it by the store for your approval.

She lowers her leg, trapping my hand between it and the one below. Sounds good. But I must warn you I can be very picky. I might need several redesigns.

As many as you want.

I’m glad to hear it. Erica discovers the box of tissues Jean keeps in stock under the driver’s seat and pulls out a few, one after the other. Releasing my hand, the young woman sits up and wipes herself. Do you need to call your wife back? She tosses the tissues into a waste bin and pulls up her panties.

Not with you around.

Why not? She pulls on her bra, hooking the clasps in the back with no assistance from me.

I don’t want you giggling into the phone and getting me in trouble.

With a turn of her head and an appraising glance, she chuckles. You’re smarter than a warthog.

I’ve never heard that expression.

I made it up just now. Do you want to button me?

CHAPTER THREE

Woodpecker

The bus stops. No passengers disembark, which is good for them, because The Critic lunges through the open door. He jabs a finger into my chest. You’re pathetic. That chapter was practically all flashback. No good novel starts like that.

I return the jab. What’s it to you? You’re clearly on the wrong bus. You’re not in my target audience.

It’s my duty to warn others against crap like yours. I give your story one star out of five.

You’ve not even heard the whole thing.

I don’t need to. It’s garbage.

The door hasn’t closed yet. I plant a foot in the middle of his chest and send him flying. Bones crack as he lands hard on the pavement, square on his back. The bus pulls away without closing the door, which grants me the privilege of watching him squirm as we leave.

The driver slams the brakes. Framed by the open doorway stands Jean. She hauls me off the bus. I’ve been worried sick about you. You didn’t answer my calls.

Damn. I’m sorry. I fish around in my pocket. Phone must need charging. Sorry I’m late. Couldn’t be helped.

What was wrong with your desk phone? I called it too. Left you messages. Did you hear any of them?

I said I’m sorry. I was super focused on what I was doing and the time got away from me. What’s for dinner?

Time has often gotten away from me when I’m super focused on a task, long before Erica entered the picture, so the excuse satisfies Jean this time. How many more times will it satisfy her?

Are you forgetting something? Her gaze rivals that of a hawk’s.

Oh. Right. Sorry. I go to the garage to fetch the paper bag from the Ford. I extract the wrapped gift. Happy birthday, honey. I didn’t have time to get you a card. Or flowers. Forgive me?

Jean tears off the wrapping paper so carefully put in place by Erica just hours ago. She turns the box in her hand and reads aloud the name. Embrace by Vintage Works. Never heard of it. Was it expensive?

Nothing is too expensive for my darling, darling.

She sprays some on a wrist and sniffs it. I’m dying to hear how much you spent on me. I want to know my worth.

If I told you it was more than a couple hundred dollars, would that satisfy you?

I suppose. She tilts her head and bats her eyelashes, a look not becoming for a hag. So, was it? More than a couple hundred?

I head for the dinner table. I shouldn’t say. Let it remain a surprise. Perhaps I’ll ask Erica the price next time I see her. That’s something to look forward to. There’s no food on the table.

Didn’t think you were coming home, Jean says. Your dinner is in the trash.

My marriage will be following it soon, no doubt. Won’t be a big deal, if I can stop Jean from taking half of the two million from my 401K when she goes. If I’m to give away half my money, I’d just as soon it went to Erica. She’d appreciate it more and do more to warrant it.

The woodpecker cocks its red-tufted head and chirps, blissfully ignorant of the newbie hunter treading lightly along the forest path. I’m anxious for a first kill, curious how it will feel to have such power as to take a life. The bird pecks at the wrong tree trunk at the wrong time, unfortunately for it. I aim the .22 caliber rifle and pull the trigger. The echo of the bullet’s whine bounces from tree to tree as the bird’s drumming goes abruptly silent. Falling black, white, and red feathers taint both the sky and my conscience in the wake of the plummeting corpse.

What have I done? I don’t want this kind of power.

No. I won’t take another life, even if I could make it look like an accident. There has to be another way to prevent Jean from taking a million of my dollars. I wish she loved me. Did she ever? I know the answer, and it’s not yes.

A chicken leg and wing lie on top of the trash. I lift them out and heat them in the microwave. Jean heads for the bedroom. She’s a year younger than me and will easily outlive me, since women live longer than men in general, and she exercises more than I do. Shit, we’re out of almond milk. I do try to eat healthy. I peel a banana and devour it as the microwave timer counts down.

The timer dings and I take my plate of chicken to the table. I can’t eat. The woodpecker flies in a circle around me, the wind ripping its feathers from its body. The chicken wing flies off my plate to chase the shedding red-headed bird. The heated leg jumps upright and dances on my plate. My vision blurs and I drop my head. I can’t watch the charade.

I’m so damned thirsty. Guess it will have to be water. At least it’s filtered. I grab a mug from the cabinet and fill it with ice before filling the space between the cubes with liquid. World’s Best Dad stares at me from the side of the mug, a Father’s Day present from Karen. She’s grown now—a good deal older than Erica. How is my young one doing? I pull out my flip phone and call her. It’s late but not too late for family.

Dad? Is everything okay?

Hey, baby girl. She’s not a baby or a girl. I should stop calling her that. But adult woman doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. I would call her by her name, except I keep getting it wrong, ever since she changed it from the one her mother and I gave her at birth. What’s wrong with the name Karen? And what kind of name is Mel? It would be one thing if it were short for Melanie, but it’s not. It’s officially, legally, just Mel. And, shit, she’s not even female. I need to remember to use male pronouns with her, and call her Mel. It’s what she wants. Everything’s fine. I just needed to hear your voice. How are you?

The drawn-out silence means I’ve triggered a nerve. But she doesn’t lay into me about my referring to her as a girl. I’m great, Dad. Work is good. The kids aren’t misbehaving too terribly. Nothing I can’t handle.

Forgive an old man, but I’m trying to remember your birthday.

"It’s next month. I’ll be thirty-five on the twenty-fifth. Don’t get me anything special, Dad. I’m serious. Save your money for retirement. How much longer do you have to go?"

I laugh. I could stop working anytime and start drawing on my 401K. Social security won’t be for another couple years, but I’ve never counted on it even being there. You can’t trust the government. They use the Social Security money for other things, and then complain there’s not enough funds in Social Security to keep it going another year.

As long as you love what you do, Mel says, I guess there’s no reason to quit just because you can.

I return to the table. The woodpecker is gone, and the microwaved fried chicken pieces have settled onto the plate. I love you, baby.... I stop myself from saying girl. I’m gonna go now. It’s your mother’s birthday. Did you send her an e-card?

Oh, God, I forgot all about it. Thanks for the reminder, Dad. Is she there now? Can I talk to her?

She’s gone to the bedroom. I doubt she’s in bed yet. Her nightly routine takes an hour.

I’ll call her phone right now. Love you, Dad.

The chicken is warm, not hot. Not juicy, but tender enough and savory. As my teeth sink into the cooked flesh, salty tears run over my lip, entering my mouth, enhancing the flavor.

The chicken and banana aren’t enough. I’m still hungry. Jean keeps snacks in the freezer. Sweet potato chips. Brazil nuts. Cashews. I’m still fucking hungry, but snacks can’t fill me. I guzzle another mug of filtered water. This time there’s more liquid because some of the ice has melted.

I don’t dash the mug against the far wall, even though I want to, but take it and my plate to the kitchen sink, where I wash them by hand. We have a dishwasher, but avoid using it to save on electricity. I also wash the dirty dishes Jean left in the sink—the plate she ate from, her fork and knife, and the pans she used to cook the meal.

God, I’m so hungry, but I’m not digging the peas and broccoli from the trash.

Jean ends her phone call. She’s reclining on the bed, her zombie body comically swathed in black lingerie.  She beckons for me to join her, puckering her wrinkled lips.

I didn’t take any of my blue pills today.

It’s my birthday. Least you can do is pleasure me, old man.

Okay, so I try.

The hint of Embrace by Vintage Works she’s wearing energizes me. It takes maybe fifteen minutes of lubricated finger action, but finally she’s gasping for breath. She pushes my arm away.

Despite the absence of blue pills in my system, I’m erect. I climb on top, needing the practice, and she lets me in. The foreplay has made her wet, but additional lubricant is in order. I keep my eyes closed and imagine Erica beneath me. It works, and my arms hold me up for longer than I’d expected, long enough for it to count.

CHAPTER FOUR

Thousands

The damned Critic is back on the bus. You used adjectives and adverbs—hallmarks of bad writing. You don’t even deserve one star.

I don’t wait for the bus to come to a stop or the door to open. I told you to get off the fucking bus. Holding the .22 caliber rifle with one hand as though it were a pistol, I aim at his belly and pull the trigger.

A cloud of red feathers spews from his mouth. His body folds over and his hands clutch at his wounded gut. At the next stop, he exits by toppling with no assistance from me.

Stashing the rifle on the luggage rack, I grab my scroll and disembark, stepping on The Critic’s fingers. I laugh at the crunching sound. Make way for the wizard.

I’ll ruin you if it’s the last thing I do, shouts The Critic. He doesn’t shake a fist with broken digits.

The bus lets me out next to my Ford in the mall parking lot. How convenient. I head inside the mall.

I unroll my scroll for Erica to see the design it bears. At first, she says nothing. Just grimaces and nods her head. I thought you’d want to talk about this later. At seven? Take a little drive somewhere we can discuss things in private?

Oh, I do. I undress her, except she’s still clothed.

Maybe you shouldn’t come in here every day. She taps the end of my nose with her forefinger. People might talk. Someone might talk to your wife. Do you want that?

I suppose it’s not wise.

Okay, then. Run along. I’ll find you in the parking lot. A little after seven. Hopefully I won’t have any impromptu meetings at the end of my shift.

Where’s your purse? I glance around, as though it might be lying amongst the merchandise.

My purse? At the moment, it’s in a locker. Why do you ask? Do you need to borrow some money?

"Oh, no. No. Can’t have her thinking I’m hurting for funds. It’s just, I’d like to see your ID. Your driver’s license. See what kind of picture you take."

You’re wondering if I’m eighteen. Little too late for that, don’t you think? With a wink, she spins on a high heel, shaking her slight hips, and strolls to a customer’s side. May I help you, miss?

She’s teasing me, and I don’t know whether that’s a good sign or bad.

Working short days doing part-time work has granted me a certain freedom I hadn’t known I was missing, but waiting four hours for Erica might easily be an excruciating bore. Jean doesn’t know I’m only working part time. I didn’t tell her, because if I did, she’d throw a ton of chores at me. But right now, I need something to do. A woman about Mel’s age walks by, smart phone in hand, eyes glued to the screen. Maybe I should get a smart phone. The devices seem capable of fully occupying the attention of all those who own one.

There’s a mobile phone store in the mall. I walk in.

Fuck. Every part of my being rejects the notion of owning one of those damned things. I walk out.

Are you okay, mister? A teen boy thrusts his concerned face into my line of sight.

When was the last time some random stranger, especially a teenage boy, showed any concern for my well-being? I’m fine, thank you.

You sure?

My cheeks and chin are wet. I wipe my face with the back of my hand. Yes, quite all right. Thank you for your concern. You’re a good lad.

Leave the nice man alone, son. His father is waving the kid away from me.

There’s a gun shop down the way.