Yet another story in the ongoing saga of life in Acme, North Carolina, a fictional place that is based on real events. Yes, somebody did shoot his ex-girlfriend in the Superbullseye, and we still don't know why. There really are people named Thigpen. And North Carolinians really do drive like this in the heat. The stuff in this story all happened – to somebody.


And y'all think Yorkshire's a funny place...

"Gosh DARN it!"

Robert Thigpen looked up from his desk, startled at the mild epithet – and even more startled at the accompanying sob of bafflement. Roused from his nap, Obadiah gave a sharp bark at the near-profanity. Robert reached down and patted the Cairn terrier's head, so that he lay back down with a mild grunt, while Robert went out into the corridor.

The corridor in front of his office was a gallery that overlooked the print-shop floor. As usual, the floor itself was pervaded by the quiet hum of well-run machinery, quite different from the clatter of the industry's stop-the-presses past. The corridor itself, however, was loud. The copier leased from the Xanthrax Company(TM) was once again emitting beeps indicative of indigestion, while Calomina, the summer intern, was ineffectually snatching at a bit of crooked paper that protruded forlornly from one corner of the document feeder like a victim in the maws of an electronic shark. The pretty young African American woman blinked away tears as she saw Robert, and shrugged in frustration.

"I'm sorry, Mr Thigpen. This ol' machine's got stuck again, and it's eaten the only copy of the review schedule." Calomina was a go-getter, and like so many of Robert's acquaintances, had a mild case of OCD, so an accident of this nature embarrassed her in front of her boss. Heedless of possible harassment lawsuits, Robert reached up and patted his (taller) employee gently on the shoulder, much as he had previously done with Obadiah.

"Don't worry about it, Calomina," he said. "That schedule's in the computer somewhere. You can ask Towanda to find it for you." He poked at the offending copy monster, and seeing that it would not give up its prey willingly, made an executive decision to which he, as print-shop owner, was fully entitled: he pulled the plug from the wall socket. He and Calomina observed a moment of silence as the faulty appliance shut itself down with a musically resigned sigh, and Robert – though not Calomina, who was too young – thought of renaming the device HAL.

"I'll call the copier people this afternoon," Robert said, and glanced at the clock. "Why don't you go to lunch?" Calomina was only too glad to do this, and Robert, after consulting his inner clock, decided to do the same.

As he and Obadiah exited the air-conditioned building, the wave of heat hit them both like a muffled blow. I do think it's this weather making us all slow and clumsy, Robert thought, wiping instant sweat (just add humidity) from his forehead with his forearm, as his hands were busy with a cardboard carton. He and Obadiah went to the nearby space marked with the sign:

Buckling Obadiah into the passenger seat and setting the carton on the floor, Robert climbed into his Kia and tooled off in the direction of the nearest strip mall. "We'll take Mr Kumar his flyers and get us some tandoori chicken," he told Obadiah, who wagged his tail in agreement. "I have a hankering for some poppadoms."

When he pulled into the parking lot and saw the rear end of a large, black SUV sticking out from what used to be the front window of the Star of India, Robert's first thought was

Oh, no, not again.

Parking his own, smaller SUV a safe distance away from the gawkers and emergency crew, and promising Obadiah he'd "only be a minute", Robert took his carton and picked his way carefully around broken glass and displaced brick. As he passed the policeman and the tearful young Indian woman in the spike-heeled sandals, he overheard:

"I don't know how it happened, my foot must have slipped off the brake pedal..."

Robert sighed, and entered the restaurant, not through the gaping hole – since the emergency people were trying to attach a tow-rope to the mechanical intruder, which stood curry-covered in the dining room, surrounded by overturned tables and dirty tablecloths – but through the open (and now otiose) front door. He left the carton of flyers at the reception desk and found Mr Kumar standing disconsolately in the middle of a culinary war zone. The customers had fled.

"I'm sorry for your trouble," Robert offered. "That's the second time this year, isn't it?"

Mr Kumar, a normally dapper man about Robert's size, now rumpled (the invading car had crashed into the table where he was eating), nodded sadly. "It is the first time for Mrs Gandhi, however. The insurance company is not going to believe this."

Robert could well imagine this, although he couldn't imagine this much damage being caused by someone named Gandhi. "I don't suppose I could get a to-go order under the circumstances?" Kumar shook his head.

"The health board forbids this. If a piece of glass got into the food..." They both glanced at the sturdy kitchen door, 20 feet away, wondering how even the health board could think broken glass would penetrate that. Robert shrugged, expressed further condolences, and gingerly made his way back to his car.

"Oh, well, Obadiah," he said as they headed up Cripple Creek to the next strip mall, "At least no people were injured in the making of that little news flash. I'll bet somebody had the phone pictures to WRAL before that hubcap hit the back wall."

As Robert pulled into the Forlorn Hope Plaza – he'd decided on Tennessee Fried Chicken – he almost had an accident himself, so startled was he. Instead, he pulled the car over to a space under a shade tree so that he could leave Obadiah for a minute and walk over to the ruins of Lightly Row, the place that sold home lighting fixtures. Or usually did. Instead of being open for business, the business appeared to be....well, just open.

Since Robert knew the owner from Rotary, he went over to pay his respects.

Jim Claiborne scratched his head. "Yep, it was yestiddy," he said. "Some kid with a rare – (ironically) though not life-threatenin' – faintin' disorder. Ploughed raht into the show winder."

As the two men surveyed the monstrous damage, Jim added drily, "There was fallin' glass for about three ahrs." Robert chewed the fat with Jim for a minute, then had to get back to Obadiah, who might not be getting enough breeze even with all the windows open.

A tub of Davy Crockett Extra Crispy now on the floor in place of the flyers, Robert and Obadiah pulled back into the Chief Devil's parking space, and Obadiah hopped out happily. His smeller smelled chicken, and he didn't have any insurance bills to pay. Robert locked up and followed his dog, chicken in hand and lost in his own thoughts.

The two passed from baking heat into sudden, soothing coolness. As he walked by the front desk, Robert had an idea, and stopped to act on it. He grabbed an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet and scrawled something across the page.

"Hey, Charlie," he called to his print foreman. "Make me up a sign, laminate it on a board, and put it by the front door, will you, please?"

Charlie studied it and scratched his head. "Okay, sure, Robert." Robert and Obadiah went into the office and chowed down on some chicken.

Come five-thirty, when Robert and Obadiah were ready to lock up and go home, the sign was in place:

Robert nodded. "Let's hope that works, Obadiah." Obadiah looked at the sign and barked in approval.

Fact and Fiction by Dmitri Gheorgheni Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

26.07.10 Front Page

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