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It took slamming the door three times before the El Diablo’s driver’s side would stay shut. She always got a little bent out of shape in the cold. Stan couldn’t blame her. He did too. And to think, he traded the balmy desert of New Mexico for this winter nightmareland in nowhere Oregon. As his boots slipped on the icy curb in front of the mom-and-pop store, Stan cursed the weather, cursed the lack of sidewalk salt in this tiny backwoods town, and cursed his brother for bringing him here. If it wasn’t for Ford and his mysterious postcard, Stan wouldn’t be in this mess.
Oh and would it have killed Ford to include some directions? For being a genius, Ford sure could be dumb sometimes. Gravity Falls wasn’t listed on any of the road atlases Stan perused in gas stations and visitor’s centers between New Mexico and here. And of course once he finally did manage to find this place, he had no idea where Gopher Road was. When driving up and down the quaint little neighborhoods yielded no results, Stan was driven to the mortifying desperation of asking for directions. Which was ridiculous and more than a little embarrassing. Not to mention a major inconvenience.
“Stanferd?”
Going through the door and giving the place a quick once-over, Stan decided it wouldn’t be too hard to pinch a couple items for lunch. Dinner? What time was it anyway?
“I know you can hear me, Stanferd.”
A reedy blond man stepped in front of Stan, blocking his way to the candy rack. Stan was about to move around him when he processed what the man had called him. It froze him in place and he blinked stupidly at the other for a moment. The other man took advantage of his pause to cross his arms and give him a disapproving scowl.
“I can see you musta chickened out. You gave me quite the scare last night, calling me up in the wee hours o’ the morning and talkin’ about jumpin’ in the lake. Had me worried so bad I drove straight up to your house, no mean feat in this type o’ weather. ‘Acourse you didn’t answer, even though I knew you was home on account of you ringing me not a half hour beforehand.” The man’s eyes narrowed further. “So what was it? A prank? Lake too frozen for swimming? Or is the great Stanferd Pines too yeller to see it through?”
Stan’s mouth went dry and his head went spinning and this was not at all what he had been expecting to encounter in this sleepy little town. “Where?” he croaked.
“What?”
“The lake! Where is it?”
The man frowned. “Why’re you-”
Stan snatched the front of the guy’s coat, dragging him a few inches closer, his loafers squeaking on the vinyl tiles. “Tell me now, damn it!”
In spite of the fear in his wide eyes, the man still managed to have a bite in his tone when he replied. “Keep headin’ west ‘til the road becomes pier. Ya can’t miss it.”
It wasn't so much out of irritation but distraction that Stan dropped the blond with just enough momentum to make him stumble into the Betwixt display, scattering chocolate bars across the counter. Before the man even had the chance to adjust his askew glasses, the Stanleymobile roared out of the parking lot.
Stan didn't remember the drive. He didn't remember whipping his car into an illegal left hand turn across the town’s main intersection. He didn't remember the elderly woman that shook her fist as his tires sprayed clouds of slush across the sidewalks. He didn't remember screeching past an empty church or the library or a newly opened mattress store.
His brain clicked back on once he reached the pier, slamming on the brake with both feet. The El Diablo fishtailed for a nail-biting eight seconds before coming to an abrupt halt mere inches from the frozen water. Stan exited the car without bothering to close the damn door. Lifting a hand to shade his eyes from the glare of the reflected sunset, he surveyed the lakefront. A large hole a dozen yards out caught his attention. Either it was a recent ice fishing spot or someone had fallen in.
That didn’t mean Ford was down there in the icy depths somewhere. Stan had no reason to even consider that a possibility, aside from the word of some random hick who couldn’t even tell the two of them apart. Well that, and a gut feeling that probably had more to do with indigestion than intuition. As he stumbled and skid his way across the ice, he ran a quick internal debate as to whether he should jump in or not.
Pros: he might save his allegedly suicidal twin.
Cons: he might die.
Eh, who was he kidding? It wasn’t even a contest. When it came to Ford, it never was.
Stan jumped in.
No plan, no thinking, no hesitation.
He couldn’t swim.
Growing up on a boardwalk didn’t make a man a fish. There was a big difference between splashing around in the shallows and knowing how to propel yourself through water when your feet couldn’t touch the bottom.
A lot of flailing around later, and letting gravity do the rest of the work, Stan touched something that wasn’t ice, fish, or seaweed. His surrounding were too murky to identify it. With his lungs nearly empty and his limbs quickly becoming numb, he decided to go all in on the object. But whatever else it might be, it was heavy. It was heavy and Stan was getting cold and tired and it looked like this might be how he died.
Something metal circled around Stan’s middle and he felt himself get lifted upwards. As he rose, he clung to the mystery thing with whatever strength he had left. Breaking the surface allowed him just enough fading sunlight to see the six-fingered hand in his grip.