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This is ridiculous. Here I am wasting time and energy on nonsense! I am built to work! Endless fill for an endless need! That is what Mr. The Antre does best, but occasionally there are… distractions; idiotic ventures drafted onto paper, thoughts I have no idea what to do with.
Junk, I mentally stamp the label over the carefully written words beneath my shaking pen; I cannot do anything with this.
Spare time is so rarely allotted on the schedule for myself these days and this ridiculous production I am beholden to is exactly why.
How luxurious it would be to be able to simply delete bad ideas. Perhaps this was the closest thing to it: get it out of my head, throw it away.
I crumpled up the paper with another heavy sigh, the tick-tocking clock on my office wall reminding of the press meeting in five minutes. I’m supposed to be reviewing the topic notes. At least Mr. J would be leading it this time, that little rambunctious inkaholic really knew how to bounce off of my less pleasant moods.
With a groan I hauled myself from the office chair, ignoring its creaky pleas for me to stay and sulk for a quick trip to the washroom, leaving the letter crumpled in a small wire trash bin.
A couple of hectic weeks later, time was once again being put to dubious use, though for an arguably good cause. It was important to show support to rising talent, after all, even if that talent was already a chief reporter living it up in the Capitol. Still, I know well enough how much difference presence or absence could make, regardless of anything else going right or wrong.
The air of the creatively named Café was casual, relaxed despite the many empty seats and rather inexperienced clutch on the stage. The performance hadn’t yet begun when Queryel and I arrived at our sectioned booth off to the side.
The archivist’s attire was a bit on the eccentric side, flared fins of white and bright, iridescent blue resembling some sort of abstract graphic design. I had fretted so thoroughly over my own outfit, not wanting to be too flashy with the usual tailcoats, silk sashes and glinting metal tassels, but ensuring still an impression that I found this night special– no, just important; significant.
Dress casual, Junkton had insisted, Something to relax and get a little sweaty in. This is meant to be fun! You know what fun is Mr. Classic Television?
Please, I invented fun. What does he know? I do not ‘get a little sweaty’.
I huffed already-building tension through my vents, smoothed down my mid-toned, cross hatched blazer, and checked that my bowtie was still squared away before retrieving a handkerchief. It had taken hours to decide on this outfit, whether to dress to impress, blend in, or if my usual was considered “casual” already just by how often I wore it. It must not distract from the stage, as for once this wasn’t my show (despite my investments); but if anyone did look my way, a positive impression was a required minimum to add pleasantry to the scene, to make the audience and performers feel good about their company. It had been a cumbersome balance of charm and subtlety, minimal yet effective accessories, such as this boutonniere featuring a fresh minty emerald flower from Wood Land. Of course, once adorned it lost all mintiness to a tinted greyscale equivalent, but it still popped against the darker accents of my suit, with pants and box-toed dress shoes to match and complimentary cuff links.
Now that I am here, I cannot help but second guess every decision yet again; at the very least, I rest assured that Queryel looked ridiculous enough for the both of us.
“Bumpkin lumps! Do sit, you aaare the guest, remember~?” Queryel's chitters instantly sent my nerves scuttling like her minions as a mellow-mannered bovine slid us menus, but it still took a glittery tug at my blazer sleeve to unstick my gears. I should relax. It's a show afterall! I know this game better than anyone!
“Right, right! Of course,” I wiped down my casing one more time and snuck a quick glance around the humble establishment’s dimly lit patrons. Each occupied table twinkled with a small candle; The low murmurings of those enjoying their own time fluttered through the air. There were a few excited looks in our direction: monsters pointing, shaking their flippers excitedly, hushed squealing, awkward glancing. Queryel somehow caught each one and gave a simple grabby wave and short-lived smile to satisfy their curiosity before returning to paying no mind to anyone.
I cut my screen to be more discreet in the low lighting and adjusted a little to fit into the rounded booth seating. The cushions creaked as I relaxed and splayed my upper arms along the back, clasped my other hands in my lap and propped a foot onto a knee. Looking across the darkened silhouettes of heads, I spotted the band idling on the stage, checking their instruments and chatting until the time to start playing struck. Junkton was poised on a stool, an unlit cigarette crinkling in his teeth as he fumbled with a guitar. An occasional unintelligible conversation bounced between him and his bandmates: a shadow Ghoul Cat at the drums, a couple of Amoebob monsters with tambourines, and a squat Hotland Dog with an electric keyboard.
In the soft glow of the overhead lights, Junkton’s usual crow-footed, pinched smirk took on a magical quality. It was strange seeing such brightness on him, though not unpleasant. It suited him well.
In the moment, I wasn’t sure whether or not to wave down their attention. Perhaps it’d be best to simply wait, and raise a glass once the avian inevitably spotted us in the crowd. Unfortunately, as soon as I resolved to do just that, Junkton’s flank-heavy gaze zeroed in on us from across the room. An unmarked brow popped up and his one visible eye widened with feigned shock. The journalist proceeded to whip a notepad and gel pen out of nowhere to scrawl down vigorous, imaginary drama, making a point to point at the two hot shots occupying the section as if cleverly deducing the situation from afar.
A humored smile stretched through the black of my screen. Caught off-guard and glassless yet, I merely offered a short, flickery wave and all it took was a returning smirk to get my heart spun up in my chest.
Stupid thing.
“Thisss is going to be deeelightful” Queryel chittered in amusement, not entirely sarcastic, but knowing her it wasn’t a compliment either.
I turned my attention to the rather limited drink menu to occupy my thoughts, but it didn’t work.
Does he like my outfit? One pestered, did he notice the flower, is it too much? It’s probably hard to even tell what kind it is from this far away.
I eventually ordered a mimosa. Queryel pulled out her own bottle of potent glowing concoction, and poured it into her own glass when no one was looking. The radiant bright red liquid practically hummed as it filled the glass. Learned experience shied me away from it, but thankfully, the spider took no offense.
“I’ll save some for you! You’ll need it laaaterrrr.”
Finally, the band of newbies straightened themselves up. Junkton tapped a few times at the mic and started with a quick mic check, stepping casually into greeting the audience, and cracking a few jokes (including a few pointed ones that I refused to acknowledge), before finally starting with a gentle number.
The first song had no lyrics to it, just a cheerful, yet lackadaisical melody, the second had simple lyrics that acted more as a complimenting sound. By then a few customers were starting to finish up their meals; by their faces and tones they had a delightful time, some wished they’d planned to stay for the peak of it, but alas, a schedule was a schedule. Others remained put for the show, settling into prolonged conversations or simply enjoying the performance. A few more tables filled up as the music pulled curious ears off the street outside or other reservations came into play. All-in-all it was looking to be a success, and I couldn’t help but flutter a bit with pride at the payoff of many late nights of guided practice, but occasionally a monster or two shuffled by my section to whisper their admiration and request an autograph. Ordinarily it would be my pleasure– anything for a fan!-- but after the third interruption where spry, lively music abruptly became background noise to a nervous squeaker with a pen, an inkling of frustration ticked through my receiver. Queryel and I resolved to switch seats so she was on the outside, gladly intercepting requests for signatures as if I weren’t even there. It was bliss.
Junkton was quite the songbird, truly. They’d taken a few pointers, exercises, and fundamentals, but the avian was keen on doing things their own way, leaning into their role as guitarist and vocalist. That usually harsh bark of a voice was practically weaponized as the tempo picked up into a more rambunctious folk-style song popular with the locals. Whistles and hoots started to fly from the crowd, floorboards shook with stomping feet. The air crackled with excitement. I remained composed, though my tapping feet and ticking receivers defied me.
Meanwhile, Junkton was clearly enjoying himself up there, singing a more rustic array of songs than expected. Eventually, with the help of a few more sweet elixirs, I was happily entranced, one stiff receiver twitching and adjusting to the auditory bliss. Once the band had built up a sweat, the avian leaned forward to pop a comment on their upcoming number.
“I KINDA STOLE THIS ONE, BUT YOU CAN’T SUE ME SO IT’S OKAY.” A collage of chuckles responded but I was none the wiser on who was being addressed until after they established the eased beat and somewhat sleepy melody of the next song. The first lyrics were generic enough that it could have been from anything.
Whenever I’m alone with you…
It was the next line that held an uncomfortable, vague familiarity to them.
You make me feel like I am home again…
Initially I believed I had misheard it.
Whenever I’m alone with you…
You make me feel like I am whole again…
I sprung alert in my seat as that accursed avian swiveled their gaze every other direction, before shooting a taunt my way as he delivered the next line softly.
Whenever I’m alone with you,
You make me feel like I am young again…
I should have been furious, but instead I nearly squeaked, my bearings liquified, my heart was doing all sorts of funny little flips and tricks and I did not approve one bit of any of it!
Some things certainly were cropped and rearranged to suffice as song lyrics, but a small number of panic started to set in as I suddenly felt my heart– no, simply my worst ideas– were being broadcast to the public. I could not look away from the avian across the room as they sang words of such longing under that warm spotlight. Time felt like it slowed down just to savor this awful, horrible, no-good moment.
The lines repeated again, and as if a tomato had sprouted wings, I ducked and clutched my casing as my prediction for the next came true.
You make me feel like I am fun again…
Were they mocking me?? Did Junkton really think this was funny??
My screen burned a deep, low red; I would have been furious if the words weren’t sung so sweetly. That normally harsh, jabbing voice breathed life into each one as if he’d written them himself. Like he… knew the feeling…
Instead of rage, something warm, fuzzy, and spineless rendered me helplessly, anonymously, embarrassed. That was until the next lines struck my receivers; a new addition to that discarded, unfinished letter.
Despite the day-by-day
Can’t say I’ve ever told you
How I wish I could stay,
N’Dance n’kiss n’hold you…
Those were new, but somehow they felt just as true and exposing as the verses before them. My chest was aching.
Under the liiight ooof day ~
The audience swooned aloud at the high curl: a praise for a thing of mythical status, and the melody continued on, becoming just another song on the roster. I relaxed in my seat suddenly feeling silly; it wasn’t even a letter. It wasn't going to be sent to anyone.
Nothing special; Junkton must have figured as much.
The music slowed, taking on an almost tired, sleepy tone.
Whenever I’m alone with you…
Two receivers swayed longingly at the thought, crinkling in their best attempt to curl around their favorite voice. I really needed to get them fixed.
Junkton’s demeanor shifted ever so slightly on stage, rather than baiting me from across the room, they closed their eyes as discomfort pinched their brow and colored their cheeks a warm hue. His smile was still sincere but took on a shy, uncomfortable quality.
You make me feel like I am Free again…
Whenever I’m alone with you…
You make me feel like I am Clean again…
These lines were, strangely, also familiar, but not from myself. A collection of semi-private, unscheduled conversations reeled across my conscience: surface dreams and odd encounters. These words were Junkton’s words, but if that were true, who was this ‘you’?
It couldn’t be me. Ignoring that the Underground’s Morale Officer and honorary Dreemurr was unquestionably out of the avian’s league, I am also right here. I’m right here and that filterless gossip junkie had never shone an inkling of genuine interest in me beyond practical jokes, as if he found the idea outright silly.
It must be about someone else…
Which was fine. That was fine. Why wouldn’t that be just nice to know?
“A sip, Your Shortstackiness?” A sparkly gloved claw the size of my forearm nudged my shoulder. The stage and audience were no longer in sight. Just the underside of our booth table.
“Come now, it isn’t so bad~”
I tried to sound indifferent, but my words came out flat and withered, “I’m alright, just….M-maybe just one glass wouldn’t hurt?”
Despite the day-by-day
Can’t say I’ve ever told you
How I wish I could stay,
N’Dance n’kiss n’hold you…
“Maybe two…”
Once the performance finally concluded, the remaining audience hooted and barked their praise. Like a cue, the sound of applause struck me upright. I straightened my crumpled posture and attempted to put on my best face in anticipation for the credits.
“In case ANY of you have COMPLAINTS, this performance was BROUGHT TO YOU BY: THE ESTEEMED–”
Junkton raised a hand as a warm spotlight beamed down to illuminate the wide and picture-ready smile of–
“ROYAL ARCHIVIST, MADAM QUERYEL!!!” Queryel practically- no, literally climbed over me to blow kisses and send them off with a flutter of her claws before her pedestal promptly and politely returned her to her seat.
“...AND OUR BELOVED ROYAL MORALE CHIEF, THE ANTRE !!! He helped a little too~”
My grin almost faltered with a twitch, the introduction jabbing right through my thoroughly tenderized ego, but I still met the cheering and aweing crowd with a congratulatory wave. Once the spotlight left us I waited just a few more seconds, flickered off my screen, and once everyone's attention had followed the spotlight back to the front stage, deflated right back down to where I was before: a curious sight to the tipsy spider beside me.
It was around closing time. The remaining guests gave their kudos. The band, understandably winded, nodded their appreciation as they packed up their things.
Junkton’s… colleague? Apprentice? The squat, brown, giant mouse that was more ears than mouse leaned against the stage lip to make some comment too faint to make out. Whatever it was, Junkton reacted in such a way so painfully like himself that it was hard to believe those same pipes had just spun a series of melodies.
“ABSOLUTELY NOT! THIS IS A ONE-TIME GIG, GOT IT?” the avian’s plastered crown managed to bristle up as they objected, “I SWEAR, FLAPJACKS, IF I Ca-h–! AHEM! IF I CATCH RUhmors, You’RE SUSpect numero uno! Fuhck-!”
It finally happened, the loud-mouth’s voice gave out mid-sentence. If I weren’t sulking over nothing, I might’ve joined in on the subsequent teasing, but the opportunity passed as the mouse gave a final wave good-bye, donned their hat and headed out.
Queryel was next to harass the little, sweaty guitarist, dragging a now much taller bot along by their secondaries.
“Well if it isn’t MILADY and their pet SKYSCRAPER! You two get your CUT for your COIN?”
Queryel swished her glass of potent but effective liquid, “T’was a bore halfwaaay~ but, plenty of picturesss for my collection, ooohohomhmhn~!”
I stiffened, still in the spider’s grasp at this revelation.
“Ahahaha! Yes! Wonderful performance little newshawk ! You and your crew take to the stage astoundingly well! I ought to feature you in a picture show sometime!” I freed myself from Queryel’s grasp with a congratulatory flare of twenty fingers– each of which were prickling involuntarily.
“Shame this is the last danccce~! A goddaughter's to miss a new rock band.”
“I only learned from the best of the best, nothing less~” The avian looked down to loosen the strings on their guitar and place it back into its casing. The smile on his face was far too innocent and chippy to not be mockery. A twitching grin was the only betrayal of my own restraint against biting the hook, but a welcome distraction came from the fact that Junkton was simply a mess: sweat-dampened skin, crinkled clothes, a collar that didn’t know if it wanted to look cool or classy.
Instead of starting trouble just yet, I had to offer a fresh handkerchief, “May I?”
Junkton blinked a few times, their grin flattening into surprise before a more genuine smile replaced it. They hopped off the stool, holding out their arms expectantly, waiting for me to deliver the usual. It was almost enough for me to forgive their sins.
“Go for it, big guy-! I’d never turn down a free touch up!”
“J.J loves a good scritch in the back~” Queryel tossed the probably-made-up fact between sips of her drink, just as I dabbed the sweat off the other’s head and face and started to smooth down their papery, detail-less ‘hair’. It took some effort not to test the claim until the previously erect mailbox flag flattened so aggressively it clacked against its catch, nearly nicking the tip of one of my digits.
“Milady, I’ll give up a month’s paycheck if you stop saying things for five minutes,”
“Wooould, but can’t have rumors of resumed bribery.”
“I’m the epitome of ‘mum’s the word’!”
“The antithesis actually~”
Their bickering quickly devolved into background noise as I moved to straighten Junkton’s collar and suspenders. There was a loose button near the neck, but my hands stalled just short of touching it.
Not that I was thinking of anything of course; it was perfectly normal and professional to rebutton a grown man’s shirt when he could rebutton it himself… but… but that didn’t mean Junkton would think so little of it, especially if there was too much brushing.
I decided to leave it open– not because I wanted to, of course; I’m not interested in seeing anything. It must have been left open on purpose anyway… for air.
Was that a bit of fluff?
I moved on, leaving the open window to the avian’s subtly bobbing chest untouched and unobscured. I properly rolled the blouse sleeves and gave Junkton a tap on his shoulder. Still bickering, the avian turned, holding their plane-shaped tail flat so I could tug out the crinkles, then lifted it so I could tug the wrinkles out of bright navy-blue slacks and fix up the cuffs nice and neat.
“YOU’re awfully quiet, Antre,” Junkton turned back around with another innocent smile, flag raising again as that oversized plane-shaped tail flickered side to side. So smug, this one.
So smug, for someone ripping inspiration from office bins.
I kept myself together long enough to scan for any witnesses. The Café was now empty except for the three of us and a lone custodian sweeping on the other end of the room. I turned back to admire the work I was about to ruin, before plucking the avian up by the back of their collar.
“You went through my trash?” I hissed.
Junkton’s limbs flared out reflexively, eyes going wide, but he was still smiling shamelessly, “woAH It WAS FREE GAME! I NEEDED MATERIAL!”
“From my trashbin!?”
“YOU KNOW HOW THE SAYING GOES! TRash is TREasure! HAEHahahaeaha–! ” That damned tail was practically shivering as more hoarse cackles tumbled out. They really think this is funny, like it’s some game.
“Y-You…! YOOOUU…!!” Two more hands grabbed the smaller monster around their torso, a silent threat to thrash them there and then, reduce them to a mere crumpled ball, but as soon as I squeezed in the slightest I felt his sides expand as he laughed and I myself shied back to an awkward hover.
Suddenly, contact felt hot– too hot to touch. Suddenly, every texture and shape was so noticeable, so vivid. I quickly placed the tiny, pointy creature back onto the stage before such observations and sensations could develop into… well, anything.
Meanwhile, Queryel just watched us over her drink, no doubt more entertained by this than anything else going on that night. Junkton straightened his shirt back out with a victorious chuckle and slung the guitar case over his shoulder before hopping off of the stage toward the Café exit. I followed without even thinking, and of course, Queryel linked our arms so she could text away.
“Whose the lucky loser anywho?” Junkton asked as we made it outside to the relatively empty cobblestone streets of New Home, adding, “Full non-disclosure agreement.”
“Wh- l-lucky–?” an offended frown attempted to hide my pinkening screen somehow. There was no answer to that question. Nope, no-one. Definitely not anyone walking in front of me, that’s for sure; not this, this obnoxious, audacious, unchecked creature.
‘It’s for you!’ I rehearsed in my head, then how would it go? He’d curl, he’d laugh, he’d fly away and never request another interview again. Queryel would never let me hear the end of it.
After everything I did for you; training, funding, taking time out of my day to see you perform and you go and taunt me like this?
Junkton didn’t deserve to know a lick more, and definitely not for free. Instead I played a wide stage voice and curled my captive arm to bring Queryel closer, “Whoever else than the Love Of My Life, Squoogly Oogly Poo~?”
the smaller woman took the cue perfectly and clung more intentionally to me, “Headliner: Smartest Spider and her spiciest boyfriend defy elite breakup statistics, ohonhmhm~!”
Spicy-est?
I cupped the spider’s armored mandibles and cued a dramatic gust of wind to sprinkle unseasonal petals over us, specifically, “Yes, Darling, we’re going so strong~!”
“Alright alright! I’m s-hrkk!” Junkton doubled over into a hacking fit when a petal went down the wrong pipe. Queryel gave the journalist a rough pat between his shoulder blades, and after way too many pats a single petal finally fluttered out and blew off with the rest of them.
“You two ar- going to be m- ahurhm! My end one day.”
“Chin up, old sport!” I passed the two with a taunting smile, “A charming fellow such as yourself’ll find love in no time! No need to sprinkle on our parade~”
That had the little newshawk red in the face with outrage and something else, clenching his teeth, fraying the crown I just fixed up.
A buzz in my pocket made me jump out of my smug mask. I quickly snatched the offending phone from my interior pocket to find a new message with a string of photos… of me:
Clutching my head, melting over the table, tiny and sulking, then a few shots of the band making faces or blurred poses mid-performance. A few of them nearly got a chuckle out of me. The last was of Queryel herself sipping from a curly straw while nestled up to my side. It was a low, unflattering angle right under the spider’s chin, and I looked even more monstrously oversized by comparison. Four peace signs in white, glittery gloves framed the photo.
I didn’t remember that last one at all, even in the photo, my attention is locked forward.
Preoccupied with holding in another chuckle, I couldn’t commit to tossing the spider’s phone in the nearest river.
‘Exclusive access,’ Queryel added under the collection, ‘A couple, however, shall be framed for the office,’
The archivist herself pulled away from us as we passed the road toward the ferry, “Anyway, I shall slumber. Lovebirds, only enjoy yourselves moderately until my return. Farewell~,” she said.
“W-what?”
“WHAT??”
“Repeating only oncce: Farewell~” She was already strutting away despite my silent curses and simultaneous pleas for her to come back.
And then, we were alone, with each other. Junkton’s still-hoarse voice spooked me from below.
“Hey, thanks for popping in by the way,” a casual pat on my leg marked the resumption of our journey toward the music store, “I meant it when I said it was– a one-time gig. I lost a bet to some old coot during a card game.”
“O-oh… well-! It was a good time regardless, haha…!” My receivers wilted. He just lost a bet. My heart was rapidly sinking like a brick in a river.
A bell’s jingle announced our entrance to a small, cluttered shop filled with various instruments. I, oversized, contracted down and still ducked below the frame. The dusty, yet somehow fresh scent that hit me hearkened back to auditoriums used for everything under the light; places whose age couldn’t be helped yet still attempted to be pleasant.
“You sound disappointed-!” Junkton strained a chirp, making a bee-line for the counter where a large bat hung over the GOLD register and adjusted their shiny green visor in greeting.
I responded cheerfully, “W-well of course! A lot of work went into that you know! Y-you were-! Aheh-” my words trailed to a loss for the rollercoaster of emotions the performance sent me through; the lovely sight of it, Junkton’s teasing comments and looks, his rising and falling chest and… how it made me so… curious.
“Any SELF-RESP–ecting businessman turns their losses into WINS, Antsy, and boring my boss with good taste in music is absolutely a WIN!”
“Right, right…”
The one-time guitarist had been warm and buzzing in my hands with a smile to match. It was contagious despite the context, and the urge to simply hold them and caress their form was near-instant. Would Junkton actually let me do that? Maybe just once? Would that be weird?
“You getting any reception up there? Ant?!”
I jumped again, reflexively straightening my posture and preening in case I let something slip out of place. The avian was now by the shop’s door, rid of their guitar and on their way out. I cleared my throat and followed suit as an irritated self-awareness lectured me.
Why am I following this guy around? He should be following me around!
I checked my watch. The time had gone by so quickly.
“I should be getting back to Hotland, actually! B-busy schedule you know, haheh!”
“I’m surprised you didn’t go with Madam to the ferry,” Junkton responded.
As I stepped outside the street seemed darker than usual, but the air had gotten warm. “Yes, well…” one hand tugged at my collar to vent, while another two twiddled thumbs as I searched for my script. “I did have one q-question? Heh..”
Junkton didn’t immediately answer. His flag tapped softly again at its forward catch. A sore hand briefly combed through a twitching crown. He kept his gaze forward. I couldn’t see his face, but the flickering of that large, plane-shaped tail was hard to miss.
“Shoot for it!” they finally said.
I swallowed down a knot of mixed and undefined emotions before finally daring to utter:
“W-what…. Where did you… g-get those other lyrics from? For that… the junk song?”
An angry hiss internally kicked me: Probably from someone else’s trashcan, you wit!.
“Oh, I made those up,” Junkton answered with their usual blunt cheeriness, tail waggling smugly.
So smug, this one.
…
“...Really-?” -Did you mean any of it? I edited that last part out last minute, not knowing if I'd want to hear a yes or a no.
The avian didn’t pause their walking to catch me with another teasing grin. A faint pink blush adorned their cheek.
“Why? You jelly?”
A short bark of laughter leapt from my chest to defend me, “J-jelly!?” I straightened up at the accusation. “Of wh-!? Hah! AHAHAH! Who would get jealous over you?"
Stop talking! Just say no! Run away!
“I mean, psh certainly plenty of fireflies for me! I’m happy for you, really!”
The journalist's tail started to wag at that before giving a prideful flare.
“I was referring to my SUPERIOR WRIting skill, but I’ll take that too!”
“Wh-! N-no I-! You–!” I flailed, vocals jumping ahead before I could actually think of what to say. The final straw of my pent up frustrations was a simple perky smile tossed my way.
“Absolutely insufferable!” I declared with a blitzing expression. With a flutter of his tail and the slightest pink across his cheeks, there was something contagious and knowing in Junkton’s smile. Like they were looking right through every drama mask I threw on to see my gooey, soft insides spilling all over the place.
He looked… happy almost.
He’s making a fool out of me is why!
Despite that second thought, a twinge of warmth shot up my back and filled my chest, rendering me speechless; captive, frozen on the cobblestone street, screen suddenly running hot.
Why do they look so happy?
The far less likely answers, I kept locked back away; more junk thoughts to process through daydreams and unfinished letters.
After excusing myself, I left back to Hotland to oversee a logistics meeting, then afterward, previewed a few performances to sign off on their readiness. I managed the rosters, combed through oceans of feedback, reviewed ratings, costs, met and rescheduled meetings and conferences– anything but think of what that night– that look– could have meant.
Years went by, battles waged, trends came and went, overlords rose and fell, journalists vanished only to spring up from the dead…in name, anyway.
I rarely thought of such times intentionally. A sound, a taste, or a smell was usually the culprit trigger. This time it had been the collective laughter, chatting, and crude singing from down the hill.
I looked up from where my cables were steadily working a discarded figurine from its wedge and shuffled over on padded knees to investigate the gradually rising commotion of what sounded like a debate. It was a group of monsters around a small firepit, singing folk songs and chatting. That mailman was among them, just telling by the way the light bounced off his glasses and that large, dark red flag mounted to the left side of his head. He was sitting on what must be his crinkly, dark blue paper coat, writing down what another, green, glistening monster was blubbering to him as a few others argued about… something. Dumplings? Though it was hard to make out from this distance, this Junkton’s face made a lot of the same movements despite the chunkier structure, gradually etching in familiar crinkles around his eyes and brow. Every time I saw them, they looked more and more like the avian journalist I once swatted at and sulked against, but a strong doubt sucked any excitement there would have been in our overdue reunion. Not being able to remember most of his life didn’t help this Junkton’s claims- but I didn’t have the energy nor certainty to argue or explicitly deny them. It has been over ten years, that flickery, loudmouthed newshawk has been dead or free for over a decade.
It was… old news… tears long gone.
This creature was just a Junkton. A monster with a name and similar attributes. Hell, who’s to say there were no Junkton-wannabes running around? Maybe inspired by his bold and self-congratulatory autobiographies? I’ll just think of this crumply, long-footed, mailman as Mr. J.
One of their few shared attributes, apparently, was a keen intuition. After a mere moment of watching the small party, those uneven shoulders stiffened where they perched, colorful lenses flickered in the fire’s light as they scanned around between signed responses to his chatting mate, and as soon as they could have, locked onto me with an iron grip from across the way.
I didn’t move at first, there was no danger afterall, and in my unsightly state of disrepair, had gotten used to being ignored. We watched each other in mutual silence, him bathed in warm, flickering light, myself merely brushed by distant, twinkling crystals.
Mr. J’s expression shifted into something like a smile with a twinkle of recognition. A scoop of their hand invited me over, but I only ducked away unhurriedly to resume collecting. That should have been the end of it, a silent no thank you, but in retrospect, expecting that particular monster to keep their distance was nonsensical.
It was just as I managed to free the figurine that a tap atop my head interrupted this broken T.V’s pastime. Collecting the future prop into my inventory, I looked up to find a curious mailman squatting atop a fallen fridge.
“H-ello the-re…” I greeted politely despite the awkward situation, “S-s-s-sorry abo-ut earlier…” I dropped my gaze before properly reading his face or hands. I’ve spoken with this one plenty of times through a speaker, over a wall, I’ve even let them help me fix some snapped ropes before a show, but being caught out here, like this, was far too casual a setting. Another tap requested my attention again. This time, Mr. J tossed the stick away and brandished a card with a shiny silver leaf stamp on it. It was cumbersome to grab with my cables, but soon after the attempts began, Mr. J adjusted it to be easily read.
-Dear Mr. T.V.
It’s good to see you away from the puppet stand for once! We’re just goofin’ around off the clock and would love to have you.
I’ll make it official:
You are invited to our exclusive shenanigans outing.
Please bring only your best puns.
Dress: As is
Time: If you want
Location: Sit next to me! Pretty please?
Love to see you there!
Sincerely,
Junkton G. Junkton
The handwriting was still chicken scratch, but legible this time around. The signature below was only comprehensible because I recognized its proud swirls, jabs and slashes. If I had received it in the mail I would have assumed that newshawk was on an all-nighter streak again… not that this crumply, completely nonverbal mailman could be him. That was impossible, and anyone could forge a signature, but it didn’t stop my receiver from ticking fondly.
“Oh-!” I quickly looked away, genuinely taken aback, but my posture didn’t straighten with any pride nor did my screen shimmer at the opportunity.
“I am… not ex-ex-ac-tly… pre-sen-ta-ble at the mome-nt.” And probably never will be. My rare appearances outside of the stage were not without reason.
Mr. J, as per usual, decided he’d be the judge of that. The mailman hopped down onto a half-drowned couch to survey the hopeless situation. The way they rested their palms on their lower back instead of their hips was familiar. It pulled the neck of his buttoned shirt open a bit more, tensing the suspenders that held up washed-blue, dirty work pants.
My chest fluttered weakly. Despite his pestilence, there were quite a few things about this limp-nosed mail carrier I was fond of. His focused scan flickered into a lightbulb grin and he held up a single digit in a stern motion.
‘Wait.’
The tiny, birdish monster then peppered across the couch and up the surrounding discarded furniture before throwing himself atop my head without warning. I’ve expressed before an indifference to contact when we’d meet at the puppet stand, and the other, despite their size, treated it as a greenlight to act as my crutch as we toured backstage, but such interactions were few and far between, so contact was still a bit jarring.
The resulting weight atop my head wasn’t much more than a roll of newspaper. Mr. J could easily kneel over the flat surface, but that didn’t make it any less strange. As one does when a tiny, quick creature suddenly lands on them, I jolted, then froze. Narrow, booted feet, padded knees and gloved hands shuffled around the top of my head to some unknown end. Then began the swabbing of what felt like a dampened piece of chamois. The sudden flush contact swip-swapping against my casing elicited an occasional involuntary twitch and I instinctively ducked away, but after just a second or two, it was tolerable.
He continued to wipe down the sides of my casing, careful not to press any literal buttons or cause a sneezing fit with my vents. For that I was surprised, and very grateful. Once he was done, he folded the cloth and carefully swabbed at my dim, web-cracked screen. There was an immediate urge to shrink away, but once again, after a moment or two, I stilled against it. Layers of dust and dirt were carefully swiped from my ledges and corners. Debris held to the glass by static was picked and flung away. I would call it meticulous, but Mr. J flung and flicked the bits as if by muscle memory– almost careless but efficient and somehow knowing and soon I was realizing just how blurry my vision had become until the film obscuring it was cleared away with delightful, not-so-gentle swabs.
If I still had them, my receiver might've fluttered with relief, but I kept that much to myself.
Mr. J continued downward to slouched shoulders to fix a loose and wayward collar before dropping into my lap. Thin hands gave my worn, withered tie a few tugs and I bent down, bent down again, and bent down further to finally be within arm’s reach of the smaller monster. I idled patiently, a bit too comfortable and almost sleepy as small, yet knowing hands undid and redid the not-so-decorative-anymore sash, punctuating the procedure with a tuck and the slip of a button. My striped scarf was fixed more snuggly too, nice and neat over each shoulder.
Being this close, with a freshly wiped screen, the details of Mr. J’s likeness was all the clearer. Before I could have sworn he dripped and oozed uncontrollably, fighting his body to keep any form. Now he certainly looked like a solid object. Lines etched at the corners of his eyes and forehead to record every smile, frown, and pinch of his brow. Black eyes squinted to focus on the task at hand. Even his teeth, once bare, were now housed behind a door-shaped mouth.
Mr. J hopped back onto the sunken couch to look their work over. That old and fading flutter in my chest revived into bubbles of gratitude, but I remained hunched, unseeable. Something deep in my circuits was a little more at ease, but the improvement to my complexion wasn't much, and overall I was still nowhere near the plumage of my golden years. It was a hopeless endeavor to even try.
“Th-...thank yo-u…” I offered softly, as if it might be offensive. I cleared my throat to try again, but then decided against it.
Mr. J beamed, in response, flailing his arms in another insistent invitation.
‘Order now. Free ride and premium seating!’
Such excitement and insistence from the tiny postman was a new and charming sight, almost effective were it not for one massive fault.
“No I… I do-ooon’t have a-n act ready,” bubbles turned a panicking fizzle as I realized what was being asked: to go out in front of a whole group of monsters. I didn’t have anything to entertain them with! No tricks, no jokes, no props, no set, no outfit besides these rags.
My vents cycled heavily from a hanging head, “I-I-I-I caaan’t.”
‘No puppets’ Mr. J quickly signed, hopping off of the couch again to approach as I became smaller and smaller. As small as I ought to be. Out of the way, out of sight.
Mr. J, however, was stubborn and undeterred. His brow pinched with worry, and rather than moving on to something more interesting than a busted, useless TV, his attention only weighed more heavily.
The mute monster signed his next words gently, ‘Not for a show. Not unless you want to. Just hang out with us. If anyone messes with you, I’ll shag them seven ways to a fudge sunday. Deal?’
I had to refresh my optics several times but still couldn’t help but stumble over the whiplash of what I’d just interpreted.
“Wh-What?”
‘Just hang out with us!’
A wide, guilty smile spread from cheek to crumply cheek on the postman’s face.
“N-no the– nevvvermind… pffthahaha, o-ka-y.”
It was a risk, that much was undebatable, but I decided I’d trust this creature, just this once, and receded down to a size easy for small, spindly hands to lift into the carrier’s satchel. Mr. J, of course, did things his own way, and held me close to his chest instead. I didn’t mind this as much as I thought I would.
It was only instinctual to curl in on myself as I was lifted up, and to exercise some vigilance through the first hops and scuttles of the short journey. Thanks to my solid materials, even a smashed up TV was still rather durable compared to the average monster, but care was still taken not to jostle or squeeze too much. It was surprisingly easy to relax like this. The birdish carrier walked a little slower, and paused before each jump as if he had to rethink the trajectory, but eventually they touched down onto steadfast planks. Despite what he’d assured, it was difficult not to feel the same tension that came as one waited for their cue to strut onto a stage. My vents roared in my audios, my heart pounded in its crevasse, yet everything else was deathly silent– drowned out by thoughts too numerous to describe.
Mr. J brought us back to his spot atop his coat. At first the small group of ragtag malingerers just welcomed him back, but one by one, their attention turned to his cargo. I avoided eye contact at first and as Mr. J explained nonchalantly to the others, I squirmed and scooted my way under his arm toward the satchel. It only took a brief pause before Mr. J helped me inside.
“Tha-a-ank you,” I paid briefly.
The satchel was completely empty, the day’s work long done, so there was plenty of room for the new cargo. Once settled, I idled awkwardly, keeping my gaze lowered hoping no one recognized me. When a floating, sheepish angler inquired about the quiet, miniature bot Mr. J brought out of nowhere, there was a long, awkward silence as everyone waited for a gesticulated response. I curled further into the bag, hesitating on a knot in my throat, but as another, shaky breath left my vents a long, crinkly arm draped around my tense shoulders, giving a little jostle the way pals do to say ‘this one’s with me. This is my pal!’
Ha… pals.
Despite that I still sulked in shame and fretted quietly about the gossip, wondering if they already wanted me to leave. That train of thought was interrupted only by an absentminded stroke across the top of my casing.
Just as before, I tensed, but before I could feel too cute, the touch moved on, reappearing as a pat on my shoulder and resting there. As the others got used to my presence, and I to theirs, the fire felt less hot and more warm. The light weight around my shoulders became a blanket. Circuits ebbed against the brink of sleep, nodding in and out of their standby state, but it would be rude to sleep in the middle of a ghost’s story, so I opted for the easier option to lean against my chaperone instead, who gave no sign of minding. The avian’s heart beat gently within, crackling or popping occasionally like something thrown on a hot, oiled pan. It seemed to have sped up a little when I first heard it, but was gradually easing back down. How strange.
Eventually I decided that resting my screen couldn’t hurt. With a soft click, it cut off and as I slowly melted, lazy and lax, hearing voices, but not quite listening, I found myself slipping into old, thoroughly ingrained ventures.
Maybe I should offer snacks? A bit of background music? Was everyone comfortable? Did they need refreshments? This dirty, unkept mess of hardware wasn’t making anyone uncomfortable was he? Just sitting here, listening? Doing nothing, how boring, how rude!
Junkton’s arm never left my shoulders, a quiet assurance that softened the picking and jabbing of my thoughts and almost felt like belonging. Even when the other's sides shook with a wheezy laugh, I found no reason to get up. Instead I indulged in the heartiness of that painfully familiar sound, settling further into the warmth and semi-softness of an ebbing flank, pressing flush as the arm around me responded with a gentle, encouraging squeeze. The beating of the mailcarrier’s peculiar heart sped up again, though this time the cause wasn’t so mysterious. If I could, I’d be smirking.
I want you here, with me, like this.
It was so easy to melt into the familiarity of this touch. Clouds of old memories drifted to the forefront of blackened ray tubes. Like the many private sessions of driveling and sobbing against a confused journalist’s side, withered with embarrassment; or that night at the Cafe watching sirens on the stage, a bustling crowd enjoying their time. I could swoon all over again just thinking about it, even after all this time.
Especially here, like this, with him.
This Junkton felt a little different, not as flat or smooth, more like crumbled, arid layers of an old newspaper or a ball of packaging. They kinda smelled like one too. No… more like a book, like a library. There were hints of snow and pine, grass and fish, ash and scorched metal, baked, dusty brick, and ink. So much ink.
I must have fallen asleep to the roundabout chatter, flickering light, and absentminded strokes. Next thing I knew the air was a little cooler, and the gentle rub of a thumb over my corroded crest requested my attention. I booted up my screen slowly with a dim flicker, sitting up with a grunt as the surroundings rendered. The fire magic at the group’s centre was shrinking away and the surrounding monsters bid their adieus to lazily disband. Despite lacking any desire to part from my cozy perch, I too resolved to take leave… that was, until a light tap drew my attention upward.
‘Where are you going? Tube booby. I’ll return to sender,’ Junkton– Mr. J waved.
Tube booby.
This… guy.
“N-no need for that, but-t, th-an-k you,”
I started to crawl out of the satchel again, throwing what stubs remained of my arms over the farther edge to get some kind of leverage. No move was made to stop me, but I found myself stalling regardless.
We were on a small collection of planks mounted against a narrow path to the rest of the caves. Furniture, bikes, appliances and all sorts of things formed paths back to the heap I had been scavenging from earlier. It all sat there still, quiet and dark. Lonely.
How quickly a TV spoils! it was dry, warm, and comfortable here; I didn’t want to go back..
Not that I deserved comfort. I should be working, preparing for the next show, getting everything ready. That’s what I’m good at, everything else was a pretty stack of flimsy cards waiting to collapse.
But… I didn’t want to go back- god why did I agree to this, after finally getting used to it all.
“M-m-m-ailman?” I practically whispered, resting against the satchel’s edge.
“Why… do-do you co-me h-e-re… to the dump…?” I sat back with a sigh of resignation “It’s da-rk, and… di-rrrtty; there’s n-o-thi-ng spe-ccccial here.”
Junkton had always liked being clean, even if he was often dirty. This “Junkton” before him lived a rather dirtying job, traveling all around the underground, snow, ash, withered stone, murky water. His undershirt looked like it had once been white, but was now stained and blotched all over.
“You ev-en b-ro-rough-t me all the w-a-y over here, just for me to… s-ssssssssss””slept through the whole thing, ya dingus!”
Mr. J didn’t reply immediately. His eyes, obscured by mismatched lenses, affixed to the dark, flowing water surrounding us. They almost looked like they were daydreaming when a soft curl pulled Mr. J’s drooping expression into a fond, warm smile.
They lifted their hands to reply, ‘I recognize that crest atop your head,’ he started hesitantly, ‘but when we were sitting together, there was something about it. A memory… many memories…’ gloved hands paused abruptly mid-gesture. Mr. J consulted the flowing waters for a moment more as he absentmindedly brushed back the swoop of his crown– itself a messy mane of partially inky, overgrown feathers.
He continued with even less certainty in his movements, ‘There are cool things here, interesting monsters like little Woshua and Aaron, we have fun… there’s also you… You live here. Only here… but when I’m with you… I get this sense… we were once very close… friends, partners in [unknown]... You don’t believe that I am who I say I am… who I think I am… but I don’t know why I’d feel that way if it weren’t true….’ Mr. J paused again to comb through already-combed feathers, frustration and discontent etched a wrinkle into his forehead. In that moment, I could empathize with their confusion, and for a moment there was a small twinkle of hope sprouting deep within my chambers that maybe, somehow, I was wrong; but then, Mr. J’s troubled expression softened into an almost humored smile as he continued, ‘Part One: hopes you can help find the answer. Part Two: Looks forward to bothering a miserable old man.’
“Ex-ex-ex-ex-!””Pardon my french,””How dare you!” Two clips spliced over my stuttering audio as my screen blitzed at such an offensive and inaccurate description, but as soon as I saw the grin on Junkton’s face I knew what was coming next.
‘I never said it was y–’
I snatched the him with my cables on my way up, up and up to my full height– or as full as it could be while on my knee struts.
“Yo-yo-you think you are rre-eal c-u-te, huh?” my voice lacked the intimidating edge I was trying to give it, but it wouldn’t have made a difference. Mr. J hung from my grasp, cackling without a care in the world. His tail, a skirt-like fan that drooped around his waist, flickered smugly at my ire.
I was frozen before that laugh, it always gripped me more than anything else the peculiar mailman did. So rarely did I hear their voice at all, so strange that they clearly had vocals but couldn’t speak words, but it was utterly unreal just how exact that cackle was to the real deal. The real Junkton's laugh.
My newshawk’s laugh.
…
This wasn’t him…
…
It couldn’t be…
But it was so hard not to wish he was.
I’m hopeless, I’m so hopeless.
The click of snapping fingers brought me back to the present. Whatever jestfulness Mr. J had before was now replaced with a worried wilt.
‘Are you okay?’ the mail carrier signed.
I didn’t even bother trying to hide the tears leaking from my cracks. It happens sometimes. It’s happened so many times since everyone I’ve ever loved disappeared. I gave up trying to hide it when I accepted my place down here amongst the defunct.
I lifted Mr. J up by their leg to observe them properly. Another cable slithered around their squat form, squeezing just enough to feel a heartbeat; their crackling soul. The mailman tensed under my touch and staticky melancholic glare, his heart beating faster as his face pinkened. He was warm and buzzing, and his expression, while now dimmed by concern, was laced with a familiar passion. He wanted something so terribly in this moment that I could not fathom, but for whatever reason, he remained still in my grasp, lost for words.
“III’m fine,” I lied, “Just… ti-irred, p-roba-ably,”
‘Even after that five-star stay at the Junkton Inn? Not possible!’
“It i-i-is q-uiite possible. I’m going home.” I returned my energetic captive to the ground, but like clockwork he was instantly making a proposal.
‘Let me take you up to one of the fields, get you out of this dump for a little bit. The night's still young.’
“Hmph…” I would be offended if this place wasn’t literally a dump, The Dump, but I wasn’t in such an agreeable mood anymore. Mr. J would have to work for my concurrence.
“I-I-I can take m-yseeelf just f-i-ne, you know.”
The other didn’t miss a beat, ‘I don’t believe you.’
“You do-n’t believve me?”
‘Pictures, or it didn’t happen.’ He grabbed his coat satchel and cap off the ground.
“... Aaand wha-t would we d-d-do once we are there hm?”
‘Whatever we want! Frolic!...’ Mr. J scratched the back of his head, a quiet “uuuh” escaping such sparsely used vocals.
‘You can tell me more about this Junkton guy that I can’t possibly be, and maybe we’ll find a glizzy stand somewhere.’
“A glizzy stand? Is this your way of asking me out to dinner?” I flicked the brim of the mailman’s cap, sending it askew. To that, Mr. J took much longer than needed to fix his cap, lingering once it was in place and then unnecessarily adjusting it back and forth. Crumply cheeks only pinkened at first, but as the silence drew on, they reddened and those once talkative hands stalled on their response.
I too suddenly became shy at the lack of denial, shuffling away to investigate a cooler floating down the channel. My cables barely caught it, and I struggled for a proper grip of its smooth surface, but the lid was already loose. It was easy enough to retrieve what appeared to be the chain and gears for a bike, but the rest of the bits and bobs were left inside as the cooler floated away.
As I inspected the parts, I also wondered if maybe I should be the one asking Mr. J to dinner after all the attention they’ve freely given me, but I hardly had any money or anything decent to wear. It would be audacious to expect them to say yes.
If there was some ulterior motive, I lifted my head to ponder, but couldn’t think of anything ulterior that didn’t leave me pink in the face.
It definitely wasn’t something a sweet little Junkmail Monster would plot. He was too honest for his own good, and more interested in nerdy trivia things like archives and old interviews.
“Frolicking will need to be scheduled ahead of time, Mr. J. Unfo-for-forrunately I am currerently preeeeee-””OCCUPIED! PRE. OC. CU. PIED!!”
I didn’t look to see how they’d somehow turn this in their favor. Surely they would. Somehow.
A few moments later, my view of the various trash islands was interrupted by a glowing piece of paper, curling loops through the air despite there being no wind. I didn’t catch onto what it was until it just kept looping and twirling toward no apparent end. I snatched it out of the air to read it:
Dear Mr. TV Guy,
You are cordially invited to an exclusive outing to the echo fields south of the Whispering Temple. There will be frolicking, gift(s), and hot singles. I will be dressed casual but come as you will. Fill in your preferred time and date to accept this offer.
Fill in an “ X” to decline.
P.S. I really meant everything I said, but even if I'm wrong, I enjoy our talks. I’ll understand if you don’t feel the same way, but still crossing my fingers that I see you again soon.
Sincerely,
Junkton G. Junkton
Empty lines indicated where to place my answer. When I turned back, the mailman was gone, leaving me alone with this decision. At first, I just declared the whole thing overly formal and a bit silly, but the longer I pondered whether to respond at all, the more I thought of what my response would be, the more I imagined myself out in the fields with Mr. J, ‘frolicking’ as they put it, the more I thought of what they might wear, what they might want to talk about, what they might ask, how I might respond.
My chest pounded, my receiver mounts sparked, and my screen became warm with the implications, the anticipation.
I was tempted to squeeze the paper and swoon, I was tempted to answer right then and there. I felt drunk and silly , and so excited! But I had to keep my bearings, this needed to be properly planned!
One Standby signal later I was backstage to my puppetry stand. Reviewing the calendar, checking my notes, my assets and to-do’s. That much I could easily figure out, it was the mirror I dreaded. I’d keep the letter blank until I felt I had a proper presentation.
The mirror itself was cracked through with a few pieces missing, laying on its side. I lifted in and shrank down to fit into its borders.
At first I curled in disgust, snapping my gaze to the ground .
This was what they all saw when they looked at me; what Mr. J was so interested in. My cables ghosted where those gloved hands wiped my casing down and fixed up my tie, caressed my shoulder, and pondered my crest. I think I had forgotten my crest was still there until I felt his thumb catch on its edges.
It felt ridiculous to think, but it had become such a loving touch. The memory of Mr. J’s scent then filled my mind, and the beating of their heart and warmth of their embrace made me shiver from my worn out knees to the brim of my cracked and splintered screen. I melted from the inside out just thinking of what I’d let him do…
…
… What am I thinking?...
…
I’m getting too excited over this. Typical sillysome me, haha!
I flipped the switch on a nearby generator and plugged in to charge.
It was just an outing between acquaintances; a simple task, really: Appear to care, smell delightful, smile!
I can do that much, surely?
…
Yes, yes of course, I ought to try at least.
It was difficult not to compare to the glory days, but I managed to conjure a vision within my means. My coat wasn’t so raggard, and just needed a quick wash and a few spot-mops. The suit underneath, however, was worthy of a horror film: withered to shreds, faded and thoroughly stained, cables spilling from various, undesigned holes.
Despite this, taking it off was its own fit of nerves. After wrestling and fumbling each button I knelt before the mirror again, shivering from the cold, from the slightest brush of air, from the sight of disrepair and what I could only describe as over growth: tufts of hair, vines, and petal-like bits peeking out from cracks and corners with a dim, colorless glow. There were more flowers than usual, but I brushed them all away just the same. My soul, or what I could best identify as a soul, was still largely exposed, a gross, pulsing star-shaped thing wedged between my machinery. It always looked swollen and irritated when I saw it, but I certainly didn’t make it grow there of all places.
I didn’t stare, no I had an outfit to prepare. The suit wasn’t so-much washed as it was soaked and pressed. I kept myself wrapped up in a blanket while they dried, browsing my collections for anything that would work as an accessory. A bowtie would be obscured by my scarf; a hat would slip right off unless it was comically large to fit around my head. I found a small, yellow, fabric flower to slip into the coat’s handkerchief pocket and moved on.
All the strings and scraps hanging off my suit and undershirt wouldn’t do, so I found something sharp and cut them down the best I could with wobbly cables.
Shrinking down to don a toy’s clothes did cross my mind, but, Mr. J would surely laugh and rename me Mr. Ant Kenna. The thought nearly elicited a chuckle out of me.
I spent the rest of the night wrapped in a blanket, leaning against the generator, contemplating my answer as my clothes dried. I would use short notice to excuse showing up in such a state, but the ball was entirely in my court. This invitation would flutter off as soon as I filled in the lines, and we could have our outing tomorrow, in a few months, or not at all. I’d rather get it over and done with, but it couldn’t interfere with my shows, and… well, I could do better than these rags, surely.
Really, I could save my energy altogether and decline. That would send a message for sure!... The wrong message, maybe.
My heart started to thrum again, aching with a longing that felt so wrong, so dangerous. A long, heavy sigh buffeted the generator, and it rumbled steadily in response. I hugged the invitation close, and let my mind wander the catwalks of my stage as if they held all the answers.
‘You’re thinkin’ TOO MUCH about this BOOBTUBE, it’s FOR FUN! You know? F is for FRIENDS who-!’
The memory was interrupted by my own chuckle. The number of times that bold-faced journalist lectured me about fun never did get through to me for more than a day. Yet somehow their voice was like a sickly sweet residue burnt to my circuits. That jarring voice, even imagined, was enough to get me writing.
I filled in a day and a time, the letters were wobbly and large leaving little space for anything else. Still I pinched the invitation in my cables to keep it from fluttering away impatiently, squeezing in a little note along the bottom:
‘Just this once.’
The pen trailed off to note the little swirly designs accenting the corners, and before I really registered what I was doing, several more were layered on top in ink. I corrected a few heart shapes into flowers and finally let the letter slip from my cables. It chittered excitedly, fluttered about and zipped through an opening in my tent.
With the decision now made, I curled with dread. I felt a little sick. I felt that this would ruin me somehow, but crossed my wires that it would turn out okay.
When the evening came for us to meet, we both arrived early. I nearly missed Mr. J at the crest of a hill, his size competing with the grasses and flowers. His back was to me where he crouched. It appeared that he was merely wearing a different set of work clothes, minus the coat. The shirt wasn’t as stained, the pants not as crinkled or worn, but he was still wearing his toed boots and gloves. That large mailbox flag of his sat flattened down, his feathers shimmering between looking prickled and looking fluffled with excitement.
Strange that the mailman didn’t sense my presence by now, but as I got closer I could hear a low, broken hum. A song that had only been sung once in a small cafe. As he hummed, he poked absently at an echoflower, as if trying to coax an answer to a question.
Eventually, Mr. J’s flag flew up, shoulders tensed. The rickety wing-like protrusions from his back continued to hang limply as he stood, and after a few seconds of swiveling, our gazes met with prolonged silence. It wasn’t long before we were both scanning each other’s modest outfits.
Mr. J’s worried stare curled with realization before a bark of laughter leapt from his chest.
“Guess we bo-th had the same i-ide-a,” I chuckled back.
It turned out that I wasn’t very good at small talk, and couldn’t make myself pretend to be interested in exploring the feilds– though they were lovely-- so I did all the talking about work, Spamton did all the walking, plucking up wildflowers and making me hold them, one way or another.
After we fell into a strangely comfortable silence, and I started to rest my screen, that familiar song ebbed against my audios again and every instinct to shut the source up coursed through me before I could register why.
“M-m-mr. J?”
“Hm?” the mailman continued to thread his flowers on our way back to the dump.
“Where do-do-do you know th-a-t sooong from?”
He finished threading and tucked the bundle alongside my fabric flower to free up his hands.
‘From: Unknown Sender. It’s only come to mind recently, but I really like it. I think it’s a love song?’
To that I said nothing, and could think of no possible explanation that I hadn’t already rejected several times over, but Mr. J continued.
‘Do you recognize it?’
I started to say no, that it’d merely piqued my interest, but I couldn’t bring myself to say anything at all.
‘Maybe I’ll make up some lyrics for it later, and you can sing it for me.’
“Aha-ahaha! I-I-I-I-””can’t sing for shit.”
‘I don’t believe that!’
“aheheh…” I went quiet instead of arguing, my screen suddenly feeling warm, “W…W-will yo-u keep h-u-m-ming it? I mig-ht re-m-e-mber what it’s-t’s called eventually.”
To that, Mr. J obliged, but not before I sank further against his chest nor before he held me a little closer. I didn’t analyze the melody too much, or scrutinize the way Mr. J sung it. It was a miracle I was hearing it at all after all these years. This time, I just enjoyed every second of it, pointlessly, for as long as I could.