The Otherwise Normal Life of Charlton Smith

By J.R. Bennett

A single spontaneous purchase from the Queen's Pawn Shop and a little vomit was all it took to ruin Charlon Smith's life, potentially tearing Dalesbury apart. It was something he should have seen coming too because he knew no good came from being spontaneous or doing unreasonable things. It was a lesson he learned from a violent goose mob when he was a child.

And now, Charlton, desperate to solve everything, is forced to contend with socially awkward hugs, overbearing front desk staff, citywide riots, exploding ketchup bottles, mind-manipulating bears, a mild (and irrationally stubborn) case of schizophrenia, and, worst of all, grass stains on his fourth-favorite pair of pants.

Can Charlton fix things before the world as he knows it is no longer acceptable?

The Otherwise Normal Life of Charlton Smith is the first novel in Josh Bennett's contemporary fantasy Otherwise series highly reminiscent of John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces and Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. If you enjoy contemporary fantasy comedies featuring larger-than-life characters, quick-witted humor, and a healthy dose of reasonableness, you'll love The Otherwise Normal Life of Charlton Smith.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paper Sun Publishing
• Release date: Apr 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985826708

J.R. Bennett

J. R. Bennett was born November 17, 1991 in the city of Barrie, Ontario, where he currently resides. He has a B. A. with honours in history from Laurentian University and a certificate in office administration from Sir Sanford Fleming College. When he isn't writing stories, he can be found reading from his hoard of books on history and fantasy or writing reviews for his blog "Stuff By Joey" . If he is ever not reading or writing, he likes working with his model trains or wandering about out doors listening to music.

Book preview

The Otherwise Normal Life of Charlton Smith

J.R. Bennett

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Paper Sun Publishing

Copyright © 2022

Story and Concept by Joshua Bennett

Edited by Dr. Alexandra Long & T.J. Vandervoort

Cover by Ashley Bennett

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Dedicated to my family and fiancée, who believed in me through it all.

Contents

1. Once Upon a Charlton

2. The Spontaneous Event

3. The Shop of Almost Memorable Memories

4. Dreams of Electric Overlords

5. A Wild Yadi Appears!

6. A Rebel Without a Need

7. He Who Deals with Devils

8. The Man Who Buys the World

9. Behind the Times

10. Rules and Regulations

11. Enter The Machine

12. Gift Cards and Keychains

13. Stampede!

14. Tough Guys and Time Off

15. The Denny's

16. Much Ado About Ketchup

17. Finally Quacked

18. What's in the Basket

19. Deathbots and Conveyances

20. Ballroom Blitz

21. A Wild Becky Appears!

22. In the Hallways of Artists

23. No Laughing Matter

24. Dr. Quack's Flights of Fancy

25. A Drink at the End of the World

26. The Morning After

27. Rise Against The Machine

28. Tea Kettle Whiskey

29. For All Mankind

30. How Things Should Be

About Author

Chapter one

Once Upon a Charlton

This is the beginning of a rather unusual and, more importantly, pointless story involving a man unlike any other person on this planet, past or present. The distinct nature of his uniqueness is ironically tied to a mild, desperate desire to appear average in nearly every regard. In essence, Charlton was neither quick, clever, slow-thinking, charming, dull, adept, nor incompetent. Many of his beliefs and behaviors remained carefully within the boundaries of simplicity and were never to become too imaginative. At least, no more than he deemed reasonable. His job as a pre-executive administrative accounting desk analyst, the Quinnex Inc. title for spreadsheet error-checker, was both risk- and excitement-free. Despite this, he found the lack of variance and security it offered to be quite comforting. Even Charlton’s tastes in select entertainment were fairly mundane, which was guaranteed by the fact he usually found them at the bottom of most supermarket discount bins. His current favorite movie, for instance, was the film You’ve Got Mail , which he had seen nineteen times this month alone. In fact, everything about Charlton’s life was just fine and middle of the road and as he preferred with one exception: his name.

The mysterious forces behind the creation of Charlton’s name were, well, a mystery to him. His strong distaste for its unorthodox and perplexing nature was one he maintained since his youth. He found it so horrendously, disgustingly atrocious that only the most devious Saturday morning cartoon villains could have devised its creation if it were not for its inventors being, in fact, his parents. And this specific detail puzzled him. His father was the minister of a local church, and his mother had been under the employ of department stores ever since the good old days, which was her loving reference to the 1960s. Being such ordinary and, in Charlton’s opinion, horribly unimaginative people, it made little sense they concocted such a strange name. Why not something pleasant, like Charlie, or dependable, like Carlton, or one that would make him sound smart, like Alan?

Throughout his life, his distaste for this name and the inability for anyone to produce any answers to these questions caused him to react by boiling over into a mild emotional stew, prompting innumerable queries of their reasoning and underlying motivation. Unfortunately for Charlton, his parents responded with A) a careless roll of their eyes at his persistence or B) they gave an apathetic shrug, chuckle to themselves, and explain it just fit. Of course, these answers were unacceptable, but he also understood he would likely never receive a better one.

With few other alternatives, his eight-year-old self arrived at the conclusion he would have to take matters into his own hands. If no one would change his name, he would need to resort to using any tactics available to force people to know him as anything else. This included using nicknames, wrong names, screen names, middle names, last names, pet names, and (for a brief period during his adolescence) no name at all. Unfortunately, his plans and hopes were thwarted and dashed with heartbreaking frequency. Everyone he encountered somehow discovered his name and wasted no time in brandishing it with reckless abandon. The inability to disguise his real name was so complete that Charlton had difficulty deciding which he loathed more: his name or the constant feeling of frustration brought about by his failures. Though it took some time, the sting of failure faded as he grew older and more mature. He learned to accept being known as Charlton in all its nightmarish ugliness, even if its every mention made him grimace.

After a considerable amount of necessary and youthful contemplation, Charlton determined why he couldn’t rid himself of his accursed name. It was a consequence of where he lived. The entirety of his uneventful existence was spent in the same uneventful, suburban wasteland of Dalesbury. Sitting idly in the plains of Utah, Dalesbury is a small town with an even smaller reputation. Nothing of any widespread importance exists within its borders, historically or presently, and there is nothing worth visiting for miles around. In fact, the only forms of amusement are (in order of descending popularity): the somehow off-brand Cineplex, the Denny’s (as if it were the only one in existence), two 7-Eleven gas stations where the teenagers go to smoke their cigarettes or drink odd flavors of vodka, the Wal-Mart (once again, claimed as a Dalesbury exclusive), the dilapidated Fair-Ground Mall with its few remaining shops, and one well-used community swimming hole. Despite this, the one thousand nine hundred sixty-eight people who occupy the various and dated houses littered throughout town remained a perpetually small yet relatively happy community.

Because of the limited options of select entertainment, the town’s political leaders remained in perpetual fear the town’s anonymity would eventually drive Dalesbury into non-existence. Over the years, this has resulted in multiple campaigns to bolster their constituent’s numbers, such as erecting billboards to advertise the sparkling clean restrooms of local stores (instead of the actual quality of the stores themselves). In the end, they were all unsuccessful and went largely unnoticed.

Instead, the remarkable stability of Dalesbury’s population was twofold. First, the small influx of city dwellers, who stumbled upon Dalesbury by complete accident, made up for the insufficient birthrate of the locals. They usually stopped at the local gas station or grab a bite to eat at one of the restaurants. Before they realized, they would become enchanted with the peace existing in Dalesbury’s every facet. Its small-town mannerisms, limited philosophies, and general insignificance were anachronistic and charming. They chose to leave their fast-paced, apathetic metropolises to settle in town, which offered the quaint allure of a slower, simpler lifestyle. All who settled in Dalesbury spent the rest of their meager lives there with little desire to leave.

The only person ever to leave Dalesbury and never return was Bobby McFlay, the local teenage troublemaker. Before his departure, he enjoyed causing general mayhem around town, such as super gluing toilet seats up and indulging in his love of arson. In his last act of defiance, he stole the mayor’s son’s new Ford Mustang and used it to escape town. Some say he left for Mexico, where he became a bartender under the name Señor Johnny Longing. Others believed he only made it to Ohio before disappearing under some bizarre and mysterious circumstance. Of course, Charlton personally assumed the truth was something more straightforward, like McFlay was arrested.

The second, and perhaps subtler reason, for the town’s continued existence was its unique culture of rampant rumormongering. While many saw deviants like McFlay and other similar oddballs to be a nuisance, these individuals helped fuel a sort of perpetual entertainment. Among the residents, the infectious spread of gossip, factoids, tidbits, and secrets pervaded the social landscape. It gave everyone the impression they knew everyone else on a personal level, even when rumors were blatantly exaggerated or untrue. One person would start gossip only to be countered by another person, resulting in a never-ending, but amusing contest for the truth about one’s neighbors. The endless flurry of news kept the story of everyone’s lives in constant changing flux that continuously produced endless questions and mysteries to discover. Anyone who may have once entertained any thought of leaving Dalesbury would quickly change their minds because of the insidious need to know where the evolving story was going.

The constant gossip of others held little sway or interest for Charlton unless it pertained to himself, of course. Though he was not overly prideful, he always maintained a fervent desire to be seen by others as reliably responsible. It was his fear that the slightest slip-up would revoke his ability to call on others in times of crisis and he would be alone. Ironically, he equally disliked the idea of someone being reliant on others when caught up in the consequences of their own irresponsibility.

In his own words, Being reckless, fiscally or socially, and further expressing incapability at handling one’s own problems only makes that person unreliable and unfit to be of use to anyone.

Therefore, Charlton always did his best to act according to his interpretation of the unspoken and usually hypocritical rules of normality. No vacations, planned or spontaneous (except to Salt Lake City for a bit of more refined dining, usually at The Cheesecake Factory). No gambling. No excessive drinking. No parties, except the annual Christmas gala at his workplace. No violations of traffic laws, such as speeding (to the great ire of every human alive). No one-night stands or even occasional romantic encounters. And almost no exotic, strange, or unnecessary purchases, which is where this story begins…

Charlton arrived at The Queen’s Pawn Shop, pulling his fuel-efficient Brown 2004 Toyota Camry into the tight parking space between two poorly cared-for pickup trucks. Squeezing out of the narrow crevice afforded to him, he was careful to keep a firm grip on his car door. He mentally feared the slightest contact between his vehicle or body with the adjacent dirt-covered truck would magically summon its angry owner. Seeing someone ding their baby would likely send them into a reasonable frenzy, and they would respond by fighting him. To prevent this potential reality from occurring, Charlton kept his body pressed against his car for extra measure as he inched toward the cracked sidewalk.

Upon reaching the sidewalk, he sighed with relief, and considered the peculiar circumstances that prompted him to The Queen’s Pawn Shop. Just before he left, he had been busy watching daytime court television on his couch while dining on a pleasant, if unhealthy, afternoon snack of potato chips and water. It was a place he would have remained if not for a sudden wave of uneasiness and anxiety that washed over him, instilling in him an urge to leave. Sadly, this came during the commercial break right before the exciting verdict of whether the landlord could seize ownership of a tenant’s dog as payment for overdue rent. Normally, he would have discounted such an uncharacteristic and spontaneous impulse, but the overpowering emotional storm would not be ignored or denied.

Despite his general reluctance to explore the often-nostalgic world of antiquity, Charlton conceded this was not a particularly bad destination. In fact, he loved pawnshops for all their superficial charms. There was something about the trinkets and baubles of bygone eras that provided him some strange form of comfort. Every item served as distinct, individual highlights of better times or particularly unique instances of creativity, happiness, or goodness. Even though these goods were the product of a commercially driven agenda, pawnshops still stood apart from customary museum exhibits and other reminders of war or historical drama. The products in pawnshops represented a pedestrian perspective on what was important.

As Charlton’s mind sank further into itself and its own reverie, he wondered how many spontaneous impulses like this one had overcome him throughout his lifetime. He sifted through his memories and counted each one on his fingers. They were so few he could count them on the one hand. In totality, there were only three other instances of spontaneity.

Charlton stretched the three fingers before his eyes. A soft smile pierced through his stoic face at them. To him, they symbolized a somewhat pleasing defiance of his self-enforced, rule-restricted existence. These did not represent moments of particular pride for him, but neither were they painful memories.

Gazing too long at his waggling fingers caused Charlton to lose himself in his thoughts again. The edges of his vision blurred. Soon, the outside world faded completely, conceding to the incoming memories that sought attention. His mind wandered back to the first spontaneous impulse, which occurred one summer during his childhood.

Chapter two

The Spontaneous Event

When Charlton was five years old, his father began recruiting him for strolls through the center of town during the summers and on the weekends. They spent entire days walking in a circuit past the run-down shops and meandering pedestrians. During this time, Charlton’s father went out of his way to greet everyone and solicit his unwanted platitudes to the disinterested masses, hoping to bolster his church’s attendance. It was not until years later Charlton discovered the reason behind his forced participation was his father’s disconcerting belief that having a child nearby would improve his approachability. With Charlton’s father, using his son was little more than a method to improve his chances at reaching the stubbornly unrighteous and recruiting more followers. This tiny bit of manipulation and his father’s nauseating yet strangely confident groveling transformed Charlton’s initial excitement at watching his father work into a deep-seated feeling of disgust and embarrassment.

By the age of nine, Charlton grew heavily resistant to accompanying his father. He would use any excuse he could think of to get out of it. His favorite argument was to declare he was young, had better things to do (which, of course, was untrue), and should enjoy his youth before it slipped away into degenerative old age. In response, his father dismissed Charlton’s protests with a hand wave and countered that no work was better or more important than God’s work, something they were exclusively mandated by the heavens to do. Despite knowing his efforts would fail, Charlton persisted in the hopes his father might see reason or, at the very least, grow tired of fighting and give in. It was not until one early muggy evening in late August he got his wish.

Charlton and his father had just returned from their stroll. The humid, unyielding summer day came and went like many others before them. His father paraded himself around town with an unnatural shamelessness, while an embarrassed Charlton was left to burn in the scorching heat. As Charlton followed, his drenched shoes squelched with every step, his skin itched with the accumulation of pollen and sweat, and his clothing clung to him in uncomfortable ways like a starfish slapped onto a rock. It was a perfect environment for misery. The way Charlton’s father managed to perfectly humiliate, exhaust, and emotionally numb Charlton was nothing short of masterful.

When he and his father returned, Charlton ran into his room and stripped down to his underwear, which peeled off with a loud slurping sound. Rather than immediately change into fresh clothes, he decided the most reasonable course of action would be to lie on his unmade bed and dry out. Above him, the ceiling fan spiraled slowly like a hypnotic top. It was not long before he lost himself in childish fantasies and musings about the upcoming Halloween.

Sometime later, his father entered the room and called his name, startling Charlton and tearing him from his thoughts. Charlton did not bother to sit up. Instead, he peered at his father upside down with mild indifference. Charlton’s father crossed his arms and produced a look of mild annoyance.

We need to talk, Charlton’s father said.

The wave of apprehension that washed over Charlton forced him to sit up and wait in silence. From this simple sentence, Charlton knew something terrible was about to happen. These words were ones no child ever wanted to hear from a parent.

Now, don’t think I haven’t noticed your blatant and increasing disinterest in the work of the Lord, my son. As your father, I feel it is my duty to address this issue, Charlton’s father bellowed with the dramatic, booming voice of a pastor admonishing his congregation for their sinful ways.

And? Charlton asked, not seeing a problem.

And… Charlton’s father said pointedly, Your mother and I both are concerned over the state of your immortal soul, son. We feel you need to be saved.

The mention of the soul was a rare peculiarity for his father, one that caused additional concern. He could not think of any reason his father would bring up the soul during the walk or even now. His father spent most of his time bending over backward to demonstrate the necessity of his services. When he lectured, there was very little of value to be found in it as he would use abstract correlatives to show man’s failing ethics or pummel listeners with unrelated stories from his own life. He rarely ever mentioned anything remotely religious or relevant. At least, not that Charlton could remember. That being said, there were so many variations of his father’s speeches, stories, and monologues they ran together and blurred into meaningless drivel.

Rather than guess wrong, Charlton said nothing, pondering what his soul needed to be saved from and why it was mentioned.

Charlton’s father paced back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back like a dictator giving an address to his men.

I can usually handle your attempts at neglecting your duties, such as the recent rodent infestation you caused with that yard waste mannequin or when you ‘accidentally’ put chocolate laxatives into my daily glass of milk instead of cocoa. Lord knows how patient I try to be. I would blame myself for failing you, but I don’t make mistakes. That means you’ve always been the one to blame, son. Though, I couldn’t ever understand the source of the problem. Until now. Now, I can see everything quite clearly.

Dad, what are you talking about? I haven’t tried to do anything today, Charlton stated, his confusion plain.

Today’s stroll had been incident-free and contained minimal scheming. While Charlton was no more willing to spend this already waste of time with his father, he figured he would be obedient. They both needed a break from the stress, and Charlton needed a break from being grounded. In addition, it was guaranteed an hour-long, meandering reprimand would follow any event that upset his father, which was a dastardly punishment in itself. Simply put, Charlton had better things to do than waste more of his own time when he had so much on his mind.

Charlton’s father wrinkled his brow in irritation.

I am ashamed of how you acted in front of Mr. Johnson, Charlton. The sharp tone used to mention Charlton’s name made him wince as if he were in great pain. It was another unexpected punishment. His father did not seem to notice and continued, He is a critical member of the community with a lot of money and would have made a wonderful addition to my congregation. Instead, you acted with incredible disrespect, not as the virtuous person I tried to raise you to be. Now, he may never find the path of the Lord. He will suffer eternal damnation because of your recklessness.

Charlton let out a sigh louder than he meant to.

Dad, I am going to level with you. I have absolutely no idea who Mr. Johnson is. I am very tired and have a lot of important matters on my mind right now, like Halloween and how to best use my child-like spirit to engage in healthy, appropriate, imaginative play. So, help me out here.

Mr. Johnson was the man who sneezed during our discussion about the town’s pothole issue. Rather than tell him ‘bless you’ or even acknowledge his sneezing, you just stood there and treated him like he was a leper. It was incredibly thoughtless and something I would have never believed a child of mine was capable of. So now, I have to apologize on your behalf for your behavior and pray he will still consider joining my church.

Charlton shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. He could recall nothing of a sneezing, diseased man. During the walk, Charlton kept his gaze on the ground and ignored everyone. Because of a recent addiction to daytime court television programming, he was busy internally debating the merits and drawbacks of being a judge, lawyer, or bailiff for Halloween. By the conclusion of the walk, he settled on being a family court judge. It would give him an excuse to hand out notarized marriage annulments and subpoenas to whoever asked about his costume. As the endless and confusing forms distracted the distraught people, Charlton would laugh in a soul-sucking businessman way as he stole all the candy for himself.

Determining conventional methods of appeasement would likely not work with his father, Charlton tried a new tactic.

Dad, I do not know what you are talking about. I didn’t see anyone sneeze or develop leprosy. I would have said something if I had noticed, but I was not paying attention. Will an apology help?

Charlton attempted to put on the best look of sincere shame he could. Of course, he didn’t mean it. He just wanted this conversation to be over.

Charlton’s father looked at him for a moment.

This is what I feared. You are nine years old and have already bankrupted your moral integrity. You just exhibited the same skillful ability to tell a lie like a politician. Somehow, the television or door-to-door insurance salesmen have gotten to you and corrupted you. And now, you are attempting to corrupt me with your lies. Charlton’s father pressed a palm flat against his chest as if he were wounded and continued, Lord knows I have tried to shield you from the world, but it is obvious you have wasted my time and efforts. How could you have gone so wrong? Until your mother and I figure out how to fix your rebellious and sinful ways, you are grounded. No television, chess, radio, friends, or any books except the Bible until further notice, my son. Also, I refuse to take you on any more walks. Those need to be a pure and good thing, which obviously you are not.

Charlton’s father looked as though he were about to cry. He turned away and scurried through open doorway. Charlton tried to yell how this was unfair and requested an appeal for this verdict, but his father already closed the door. Charlton’s fate was sealed.

With that, Charlton’s parents set to work on what to do. They exhausted a substantial volume of pamphlets acquired from the local library. The educational material ranged from Boy Scout Survival Summer Camp to seminars with disturbing titles, like Social Darwinism: Be the Best and Beat the Rest and DIY Lobotomies: The No Brainer Behavioral Solution. Eventually, they settled on the cheaper and deceptively benign option of sending him to his grandfather’s farm.

When his parents finally broke the news of his future destination, Charlton looked them in the eyes. He stated their decision was unwise and violated the sanctity of the ‘keeping children from harm’ clause of the parent-child social contract. This quotation was one he felt was particularly brilliant and would force them to reconsider their decision. He had learned from the best television could offer. Unfortunately, in an equally cunning and unexpected retort, his mother gave him her did-you-really-think-that-would-work look before firing back with some comment about how the keeping children from harm clause was overridden under instances where it would contradict the ‘do as I say’ provision. His father, unable to resist chuckling at his wife’s wit, gave her an enthusiastic high five before packing Charlton’s bags for the trip. From this, Charlton learned two things: avoid lawyer talk in the future, and he was doomed to a terrible death sentence. In Charlton’s mind, this solution was equivalent to murder.

Charlton’s grandfather, Hubert Bartholomew Smith, was not a man to mince words with anyone and refused to repeat himself. Coming from an era where everyone walked for miles up mountains without shoes in perpetually inclement weather to fulfill daily chores, he was a no-nonsense type of person. Those who knew him described him as being filled with piss and vinegar. Whenever he spoke, everyone would listen, even if it were against their will.

The origin of Grandpa Smith’s power was his voice. It had all the characteristics one would expect from other elderly individuals. Its texture was rough and grainy texture with a sort of lived-in quality only gained from years of use. Unlike other elderly individuals, Grandpa Smith’s voice was also loud, perpetually mired in smoldering anger, and innately demanded unquestioning obedience. In all honesty, Charlton had a hard time distinguishing his grandfather’s inside voice from his outside voice or his cheerful voice from his angry voice. They all sounded the same. And maybe they were.

To make matters worse, Charlton could not remember a happy memory involving his grandfather. For a reason beyond his understanding, the two could not seem to connect on any meaningful level. Every interaction between them involved Charlton and him staring at one another without saying a word. Grandpa Smith’s steel eyes would bore into Charlton with menacing hatred. The cynical, critical heat from this intense gaze felt like a raging inferno that cooked Charlton’s skin. Whenever Charlton attempted to share something to relieve the tension, Grandpa Smith responded by shaking his head, and the murderous expression would intensify until Charlton left the room. It seemed like there was no way to improve things between them.

The day Charlton left for his grandfather’s farm was one he would never forget. Grandpa Smith lived on a several hundred-acre farm just outside of town. Though the drive there was a short one, the mental anguish underlying the trip made it one of the longest experiences of his life. His mind flew into an uncontrollable frenzy, attempting to fill the unanswered question of what would happen to him with gruesome scenarios. After his grandfather murdered him for displeasing his son-in-law, Charlton would be turned into cow manure, made into a scarecrow, or something even more twisted and terrifying. Despite his pleas, apologies, and bargaining, Charlton’s parents would not turn around.

The family van arrived at the edge of Grandpa Smith’s property. Green pastures rolled beyond the horizon and never seemed to end. A large metal archway sat above a long gravel road, marking the entrance of the farm. Swinging from the archway was a rotten wood that hung by a single nail. The sign simply read Farm. On either side of the driveway was a rusted barbed wire fence that ran along the perimeter of the farmland. On the other side of the fence were multiple PVC pipe crosses stuck into freshly dug earth. There was no order to the crosses, which was perplexing. Charlton figured they were the graves of trespassers who never made it out alive. Soon, he would be among them.

A crumbling and crunching sound filled the van as it rolled down the road and along the cow-and-horse pastures. The nearby livestock took notice of the car and stopped their activities to gather in observation of the newcomers. Charlton exchanged a long glance with the animals. They called to him with deep bays and whinnies, which he returned with a frown. Try as they might to pretend otherwise, he saw through their innocent guise to the malevolent scheming underneath. Breaking eye contact first, Charlton made a mental note to not trust the horses. He didn’t like them. They were up to something.

Eventually, Grandpa Smith’s farmhouse rose above the horizon, coming into view. It was a two-story home in the shape of a cube with white painted horizontal wood panels decorating its sides and a black tin roof. Windows spotted the walls, covered by the dark brown shutters. A lazy stream of white smoke puffed from the chimney. For lack of a better description, it was the simple house of a simple farmer.

Drawing closer to the home and Charlton’s inevitable doom, Charlton was the first to spot Grandpa Smith. He sat on a worn metal bucket on his front porch and busied himself by polishing the barrel of a pump shotgun with an oil-stained dish towel. Judging from his expression, he was unhappy. Charlton figured it was likely because his grandfather was mentally preparing himself for the execution.

Grandpa Smith suddenly looked up like a wild animal that knew it was being watched. His eyes locked on Charlton, who stared back with wide-eyed fear. As they watched each other watching each other, Charlton swore he could feel his grandfather’s overwhelming murderous intent. No one could ever forget or misunderstand that look.

Charlton was so fixated on his grandfather and the inevitability of his own death he barely noticed the car had stopped. The jerking motion forward reanimated him and provided a sense of realism to the events unfolding. No longer was his death something existing solely in his mind. It was here.

This realization caused Charlton to react with a panicked scream to turn the car around. When the pleas and promises failed, he resorted to threatening them with a lawsuit for violation of international child labor laws. He needed to get out of there by any means necessary. Unfortunately, the idea of jumping out of the car dawned on him too late.

The car door opened with a soft click, and Charlton turned slowly to meet his gargantuan executioner. He saw the tall figure block out the sun as it loomed over the terrified boy. The figure’s eyes were the only feature that pierced from underneath the shadowy silhouette. They shined brighter than the sky behind them and burned with a flaming desire to murder children. This was not his grandfather. This was the face of the grim reaper.

The overwhelming and painful brightness of the eyes forced Charlton to look away. It was then he spotted the shotgun from before. It was his manner of execution.

Oh. You have a gun, Charlton blurted out with a tone of matter-of-fact numbness, despite feeling an overwhelming sense of fear.

Grandpa Smith appeared to be caught somewhat off-guard at the unusual greeting and gave Charlton a curious grunt. He lifted his shotgun-wielding hand to steal a quick glance at it before returning his attention to his grandson. Without further hesitation, Grandpa Smith flicked a thumb back at the house.

Don’t you be minding what I’m doing or what I got. Your bed’s upstairs. Get your things and put ’em away. Then, you return downstairs and stand on that porch, there. You have ten minutes, and we’ll get to work. I’ll fix you right, grandboy.

Thus, Charlton’s apprenticeship began. He spent six days a week learning to bale hay, milk the sad excuse for dairy cows, machete the devilish, impossibly hardy briar weeds, care for the mischievous horses (they were always up to something sinister), and every other general aspect of farming. His initial emotion-stifling fears soon abated, quickly being replaced by a sense of pride. He fantasized how he could, one day, put his newly developed skills on a resume and apply for a non-fast food, non-retail job. He could explain how hard farming work was, which taught him grit and reliability. The power of farming gave him calloused hands, which could now grip or fix anything. The managers, being overly impressed, would immediately hire him, and he would be a success.

Sadly, Charlton’s positivity and hopes for the future were quickly dashed because he was a terrible farmer. It was as though Charlton’s very presence caused decay. Everything he touched became inedible. Every plant Charlton cultivated died long before it was ready for harvesting, regardless of the soil, watering, weather, sunshine, or anything else. The milk somehow always spoiled and became a thick, gelatinous yogurt -slash- cottage cheese -slash- unknown substance, despite proper refrigeration conditions. All the hay he distributed for the livestock became moldy overnight. Even the farm animals kept their distance. The only certainty was that things would go wrong.

Despite this series of mishaps, Grandpa Smith insisted they take the pathetic gathering of vegetables, milk, and other farm goods to the local farmer’s market, which they attended bi-weekly. There, he was instructed to sell his entire stock to the people in town. Charlton argued it was embarrassing, and no one would buy anything from him. However, his grandfather would not listen.

Grandpa Smith told Charlton, If them fools in town want to spend money on awful food, let ’em. It’s only your fault if they don’t or, God forbid, they die, which will come with its own set of problems. So, either you learn to sell inferior goods now, or you’ll go hungry later. That’s how business is done. Selling ten cents of crap for more than it’s worth. Remember, grandboy, it’s the tough and the clever that eat while the well-meaning sheeple starve or finally die from the same poisonous BS they try to feed you. You hear me?

On the days they traveled to the Farmer’s Market, Charlton and his grandfather arrived early in the morning to get their stall assignment, where they set up their vegetables and other goods. Their booth comprised a worn plywood folding table with a single stool and several plastic milk crates. Charlton’s grandfather usually took a majority of the table for himself, giving his grandson only a small corner. Charlton would tape a barely legible sign to the edge of his corner and, to attract more people, experimented with making his section more appealing by placing his goods in various patterns or shapes.

Before the first Farmer’s Market began, Charlton’s grandfather told him they would not leave until they had sold everything (to keep from carrying anything home). If they had to wait all night for the rotted goods to be sold, too bad. With this in mind, Charlton put everything he had into sales, which meant resorting to any action, method, and tactic to attract people’s attention. His most successful tactic was to climb onto a stack of milk crates. From that pedestal, he danced, shouted like a carnival game booth attendant, performed one-man skits, singled people out, and flung catchy slogans, such as my edibles are indelible and there is only one word to describe the produce that I produce, and that is ‘quality.’ When these failed, he (in times of absolute desperation and self-loathing) discarded his pride and begged. Of course, he knew he was being ridiculous, but he had no choice.

Many of the potential customers tried their best to avoid Charlton’s gaze while they quickly passed by. To them, he disrupted the otherwise peaceful farmer’s market. Yet, as his grandfather predicted, Charlton always managed to sell his meager gathering to the same two people, who looked upon him with pity. With faces of pure disgust, they disingenuously complimented Charlton’s farming abilities while they picked up the lime yellow tomatoes and orange mystery milk. They handed him money and begged him to please consider other lines of work. The fact he could convince people to pity buy his food allowed Charlton to grow more confident in his abilities as a salesman, if not in his farming. If nothing else, it removed the sting of shame from his salesman-like behavior.

Despite finding happy success, the fear of his grandfather remained constant. He was not immediately disposed of and buried six feet under the ground, but there was also never a time when his grandfather was without his weapon or closely eyeing his grandson. Charlton rationalized the shotgun was a warning of the consequences for disobedience. Typically, such a notion would be ridiculous. However, the shotgun was strapped to Grandpa Smith’s back as they plowed the fields. It was under an armpit as they milked the cows. During breakfast, the shotgun stayed in his grandfather’s lap (and somehow remained impeccably clean). It even had a designated spot in Grandpa Smith’s bed, complete with a sign and its own pillow.

Early in Charlton’s rural internment, he took the opportunity and courage to ask about the need to carry a weapon at all times, which presented itself one morning when his grandfather was eating oatmeal in the kitchen. His grandfather stared out of the window and slowly shoveled his food into his mouth with one hand. The other hand rested on the shotgun in his lap.

From the doorway, Charlton asked, Why do you always carry that shotgun?

His grandfather, noticing Charlton’s presence for the first time, froze before taking a long, deadpan look at his grandson.

Never know when it needs using, grandboy, he explained, before scooting his chair to face Charlton and resume eating in silence.

The honest tone of his grandfather shocked Charlton, who responded by backing out of the doorway. He took his grandfather’s words to imply the subtle threat that insubordination and noise would be met with violence. Therefore, he did his utmost to be as obedient, quiet, and well-mannered as possible. To prevent himself from acting in any excitable manner, he spent most evenings at the kitchen table, staring out of the window at the horses in the nearby pasture, trying to figure them out. He did not talk, walk around, or do anything without a command except for what the Farmer’s Market required.

The day Charlton’s mother arrived to rescue him from the farm was one of the most formative and peculiar moments in Charlton’s life. His mother pulled up in the driveway, and Charlton snuck to his room to pack and clean his temporary room. His muscles ached and burned from the previous week’s work, but everything needed to be put back as they were found. Or else Grandpa Smith might hunt him down for the smallest infraction. He was almost free.

When he finished packing all his worldly belongings into his slightly past-usable mint green Jansport backpack, he descended the stairs, sat on the bottom step, and stared into space while his mother and grandfather talked. Unfortunately for Charlton, he had overheard their conversation, primarily because of Grandpa Smith’s refusal to whisper.

There’s something wrong with that boy. He either just sits there, watching and staring, or he is creeping out the community with his nut job gallivanting at the Farmer’s Market. It’s like he’s got the bipolarity or something, Charlton’s grandfather said with a tinge of disgust.

Well, it sounds like he didn’t cause you any real trouble, and he had fun. And, you got that boy to listen to boot, which he rarely ever does at home. So, what’s the problem? Charlton’s mother’s words had a mild slur to them. Her tone was of distinct disinterest.

The problem with it, Janet, is he acts like some weird, malfunctioning robo-auto-maton-o-tron. He doesn’t run, shout, play, or even talk back. When you speak, that boy just fixates on you with those dead, soulless basset hound eyes. Then, he just follows orders, and follows them too closely, mind you, before going back to that dang chair to shut back off. It’s creepy. Hell, your mother-in-law has more life and personality in her, and she’s been dead for years! You better watch out. Something’s ain’t right in him.

Charlton’s mother laughed in response.

Dad, there’s nothing wrong with him. Don’t you think that you’re over-exaggerating a bit? she asked.

Grandpa Smith argued, Now, you listen here. That boy’s got the killin’ in him. You should have seen what he did to half my crops. Even the animals won’t go near him. I saw enough of that during the war. I had to keep the shotgun near in case he decided to give me a second smile. You get that boy some help ’fore you end up with one yourselves, you hear?

Dad, you are so over-dramatic and thank you for not shooting my son, by the way. Charlton is not going to hurt anyone. Between school and Jim’s church work, he doesn’t have a lot of time to play. Fact is, he is just not a very spontaneous or excitable boy. That’s all. I think you are just looking for something to complain about.

His mother attempted to disarm the situation by giving a slight chuckle.

At hearing this, Charlton stood up in a fit. The argument continued between his mother and grandfather, but Charlton couldn’t hear them over the ringing in his ears. His face smoldered and his jaw hurt from how hard he ground his teeth. Anger bubbled up in Charlton’s mind, causing thoughts to fly at him with explosive pops and fizzes. Mentally, he screamed at the notion that his grandfather believed he was a killing machine for following orders too closely. He questioned the illogicality of how anyone can follow the rules and still be abnormal. To counter this, he argued to himself that he was not prone to drastic action because he saw what happened to others when it went horribly wrong. They sent him to a farm, told him to behave, and he did.

Suddenly, an idea came forth. Before it fully formed, Charlton put it into action. He started yelling in sustained notes of exaggerated anger and frustration as he took off his clothing. Moving toward the front door, he took long, hurried steps. He threw the removed articles of clothing with wild abandon, not caring where they landed. Before he knew it, he was completely naked and running. His feet took him to the far side of the house toward a nearby pond.

After jumping the fence, he turned toward the house and glared in silent defiance at his grandfather and mother, who stood near the living room’s big bay window. When he was certain they saw him, he raised his arms into the air in a come at me, bro fashion. His mother appeared shocked, and his grandfather hugged his shotgun tighter to his chest. He held his caretakers’ stares and continued walking backward. Despite his external appearance of confidence and aptitude, he had absolutely no idea what he was thinking or what was happening.

Suddenly, Charlton felt the cold water of the pond lap against his feet. When he reached shin-deep water, the hissing and flapping of a small herd of geese began. Charlton turned around just in time to witness their charge. They violently pecked and bit to drive the naked interloper from their resting place. Though Charlton did his best to fend off the attackers, it was futile. He tried to retreat by rushing past the geese, but he was too slow to outrun them. If a miracle did not happen soon, he would succumb to a death most fowl.

The geese swarmed Charlton at the edge of the lake to further punish him. Fortunately, his grandfather’s approach and the explosion of two shotgun rounds in the air drove them off. Shortly after, they took Charlton to the hospital, where he was treated for multiple mild-to-moderate geese bites covering his body. The hospital also ordered a mental health screening with the local social worker. Despite intense probing by all interested parties, he could not explain what happened. He stated he only wanted to do something spontaneous and nothing more. In the report, the social worker officially wrote this event off as a stupid kid doing stupid things, and the case was closed.

Chapter three

The Shop of Almost Memorable Memories

Charlton blinked several times, forcing the memories back into the deep recesses of his mind. Reality returned with increasingly sharper focus from out of the lifting mental fog. The old geese bites pulsed slightly, causing Charlton to give them a mindless scratch. In his other hand, he wiggled three outstretched fingers, each symbolizing previous spontaneous experiences. He looked up at the pawnshop and uncurled his pinky finger to join the others. This was enough to make him smile.

That’ll show you normal and spontaneous, grandpa, Charlton said to himself.

He finished the statement with a rapidly broadening smile that radiated his overwhelming sense of self-satisfaction. He was at a pawnshop for no reason, a random experience that couldn’t possibly end in turmoil. While it may be insignificant in a universal sense, this was a victory in Charlton’s mind against the naysayers. He believed these instances were worth celebrating regardless of their insignificance.

Charlton proceeded up to the glass door and reached for the handle to pull it open, taking special care to avoid the film of grime covering the lower half. As he walked inside the shop, a small bell signaled his arrival with a quick, cheerful tune. It was a moment before the wave of strangely warm and musty air hit him. The odor it carried was a peculiar mixture of sweat, old age, warped wood, and damp carpet. Not disgusting, but noticeable. On either side of Charlton, sitting in the front window displays, were beautifully cleaned drum sets and guitars that bore large tags with reasonable prices. In front of Charlton was an oval island counter a short distance away. The wood, linoleum, and glass storage counter were a space for the employees to work and where customers could checkout. The most noticeable thing about the counter was the stain of the wood, which was a deep cheery finish that tried to make the counter appear far fancier than it had any right to be.

Affixed to the counter via scotch tape on the side facing the door was a yellowing paper sign. In bold, handwritten permanent marker, it declared:

NO OUTSIDE BAGS, DRINKS, FOOD, CIGARETTES, OR FOREIGN CURRENCY. VIOLATORS WILL BE PUNISHED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF MY FIST (just kidding, but really no foreign currency).

The sign’s unusual and dry humor drew a small chuckle out of Charlton. He imagined a teenager walking in from the 7-Eleven across the street, Big-Gulp in one hand, hotdog in another, and a cigarette dangling tenuously from his mouth. The adolescent figment yelled for assistance in purchasing a silver pocket watch, locked in the glass case alongside several off-brand