MOONLIGHTER

Being stared at is never pleasant. Worse is being stared at by someone over whom one is supposed to be in charge. And I, the floor supervisor, was being stared at by one of the cashiers. This was all wrong. All I’d said was, “Good grief!” Nothing insulting, nothing off-color or rude. Just a simple “good grief” followed by a slight frown.

“You know,” said Tessa, the aforementioned cashier, “you just don’t have any real imagination, Miss Corts. I mean, come on! I think it’s clever and funny, and…and I like it!”

“Why?”

“I don’t know – it makes me think.”

I was relieved to learn something did. “Uh-huh. Okay.” I looked again at the picture someone had tacked onto the bulletin board, shaking my head.

A drawing on a sheet of lined notebook paper depicted what was obviously a secretary, a file drawer open in front of her. The hanging folders all had those little clear plastic tabs on them with the typed-on insert to describe the contents of the folder. One of these tabs, however, was in the process of flying past her shoulder as she watched in shock, the tiny head of some kind of alien just visible inside the plastic. This was the picture that had elicited my almost involuntary “good grief” moments before.

“There could be aliens like that, hiding in odd places, you know?” Tessa pointed out; she sounded like someone trying to sound knowledgeable.

“Like in your brain?” I didn’t like sarcasm, but in this instance, it was unavoidable.

“Oh, very funny, Miss C.”

“Not nearly as funny as you might think.” I smirked and started to walk away.

“You really should try being more imaginative,” Tessa called after me.

Right. I had enough of a grasp on the weirdness of reality, thank you very much. “Nope,” I called back over my shoulder. “Don’t need to.”

As I entered my office, I glanced up at the clock. Four-thirty-two. I had twenty-eight minutes before I could take off my nametag, hang up my supervisor jacket, grab my purse, and head out to my second job.

Oh, joy.

I took those minutes to use the bathroom, adjust my makeup – such as it was – and call a taxi. No point in trying to get uptown by flagging one of the yellow buggers down. Some horrid human being would inevitably rush over and jump in just as I was heading for the cab’s door, and I’d be left on the sidewalk, grinding my teeth and praying the creep got smothered by several copies of the New York Times in an unexpected wind storm. Yeah. What was Tessa saying about my imagination?

As I exited the grocery store at five o’clock, my taxi eased up to the curb. And sure enough, some chubby dude in an ill-fitting business suit tried to get in, but the moment he opened the door, the driver glared at him and told him it was reserved. The man used several words that would have gotten him smacked by a passing nun, but backed off. I gave him a not very apologetic smile as I got in.

Twenty minutes later I was paying the cabbie, giving him a very generous tip for having fended off the would-be ride-thief. He had dropped me off in front of an older building in a rather questionable part of town – I often questioned myself as to why I’d rented the office here instead of further downtown. A quick glance up and down the street showed no muggers lurking in the shadows, so I went inside and headed up the stairs. The elevator was working, but my office was only two floors up, and I figured the exercise was better than risking death in a rickety machine that might or might not make it to the second level.

I had barely removed my coat when the phone started ringing. I considered letting the answering machine do its job, but something told me I needed to get this.

One knee on my chair, I leaned over and snatched the cordless phone from its holder, pushing the Talk button with my thumb.

“IE, Limited. Miss Corts speaking.”

“Is this Crystal Lynne Corts?”

“The same. What may I do for you?”

“I, uh, I need an exterminator,” said the man’s voice, sounding typically shaky. He must have quite an infestation, I thought.

“What are the indications?”

“What do you mean? They’re everywhere! Two fell out of the closet over my stove, they’re turning my trash can into a social event, and I even found several in the refrigerator!”

I tapped my foot, getting my patience under control. “They? Can you be a little more specific? I mean, do you know what kind of exterminator I am?”

Silence. For a moment I thought we’d been disconnected, but then the man continued, whispering this time. “I know exactly what you do! But my wife will think I’m out of my mind, so I told her it was. . .cockroaches.”

Good grief – again. “When will it be convenient for me to come over?”

“She has some kind of night-out-with-the-girls thing at seven, and should be getting back around eleven. How long do you think it will take?”

“Depends on the severity of the problem, the cause, the type of infestation – I can’t really say, but on a sliding scale, the easy cases take about fifteen minutes, the harder ones several hours.” I paused, heard him about to speak, and answered before he asked. “And no, I can’t tell how severe your problem is by what you described, nor can I tell what’s there.”

“Fine. Please come over at seven-thirty.” He gave me the address and disconnected, sounding discouraged.

Trash can? That part was odd. I shrugged and started putting together what I’d need, and at seven-thirty found myself being dropped off in front of an elegant-looking brownstone on one of the uptown cross-streets.

When I pressed the bell, the door buzzer went off so quickly, I had to believe the poor man had probably been standing there with his finger on the button, waiting for me. I hefted my box, went inside, and found myself in a bright, well-appointed foyer with cheerful yellow moiré wallpaper, a mahogany curio cabinet filled with colorful figurines, lovely wall-sconces, and a steep staircase carpeted in soft gray.

“Please come up,” said the man’s now-familiar voice from somewhere above me, so I re-hefted the box to get a firmer grip – the darned thing is ridiculously heavy – and headed up the stairs.

The individual standing there had to be in his late twenties, far younger than I had pictured. Where does one so young get enough money to afford a place like this? I wondered in passing. In any event, he was tall, very slender, with light brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a face that would have been pleasant, were it not clenched in a worried scowl.

“I’m Jackie Treford – Miss Corts, I presume?” He gave a nervous, rather silly laugh and put out a hand.

I took it. I shook it. I let it go. “Indeed.”

“Ah. Well, this way, please.”

He led me into the kitchen, a veritable cavern of a room with white tile on every wall, built-in white cabinets, an island with a sink in it in the middle of the room – you know, your basic to-die-for kitchen. I put my box on this island, gingerly, and stepped back.

“IE, Ltd.,” Jackie said, reading the letters on top of the box.

Very good, I thought. Next week we learn two more vowels and what they might possibly mean. . .”What cabinets in particular?”

“Huh? Oh! Here.” He pointed at the wall on which the huge stove was situated. On either side and above it were tall cabinets, the one directly over the stove of plain white, the larger two containing glass panels.

I considered them for a few minutes, then opened the box to reveal my tools-of-the-trade resting safely in thick black velvet-lined compartments. The first thing I removed was a pendant, a four-inch-long natural crystal that came to a point at one end and was suspended by a black velvet rope, secured by silver wires. I held it up by the ends of the rope, steadied it, and walked slowly toward the stove.

A moment later, the crystal began to describe a small circle that gradually got larger and larger, until at last I had to grab it before it jumped completely out of my hand.

“What is it?” cried Jackie, equal parts excited and terrified. “My guru told me such a thing could be done with those.” He pointed at my crystal.

“Really. Huh.” I shook my head and muttered, “Guru is a state of mind, not a person,” and returned the pendant to the box.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Look – you have a vortex here. That’s where these things are coming in from, and unless I close it right now, you’ll really have a problem. But first I have to make sure none of them are still in the room.”

“What if they are?”

“I get them to go back through the vortex to where they belong.”

“This is like Ghost Busters!” He was almost gushing now, and it took everything I had not to smack him.

“No,” I said as politely as I could. “It’s not.”

He looked disappointed, but stopped talking – yay!

I took several other items from my box, including an amber-colored crystal ball, several different kinds of precious and semi-precious stones, a bundle of sage, and a glass vial of salt – just in case. Then I turned to Jackie and gave him a kind smile. “Get out.”

He goggled. “What?”

“Out. Go. I can’t do this if you’re breathing down my neck. You may watch from the door if you wish, but do not enter the room until I’m done.”

I was done an hour and a half later. I’d only caught one of the little beasties – it had been hiding behind a large bowl of blue jell-o in the refrigerator and squeaked in horror when it realized I could see it – and had no real problem sending it back through the vortex before sealing the opening. I invited Jackie back into the room, told him to check periodically, and if anything came back, to call me. Return visits were free.

Initial visits, however, were not, and I could see him cringing when I handed him my list of charges. But hey – how many Interdimensional Exterminators did he think there were? It was grueling, sometimes dangerous work that took years and years of study and practice.

He asked me if I would take a check.

“Not on your life. I have a credit card machine.” This I took from another compartment in the box.

“Oh. Okay. But if you have to come back, there’s no charge, right?”

“I believe I told you that already, yes.”

“Okay.”

What did that mean? That if I charged for subsequent visits, he wasn’t going to pay me this time? He plainly didn’t realize how easy it was to reopen a vortex.

After the credit card machine was back in the box and I was all packed up, I wished him a good night and took out my cell phone to call a taxi. I still wasn’t sure what the trash thing was all about – interdimensional beings generally didn’t eat garbage, or particularly enjoy being around it. I had a feeling I might be hearing from Mr. Treford again.

The taxi showed up relatively soon, and as I leaned back in the seat, stifling a yawn, I thought about Tessa. Imagination. . . .I laughed.

In my line of work, who needed an imagination?

Imprint

Publication Date: 05-06-2010

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