Love, Love, Love

On the front of a rather plain looking blue house, there were three card tables set up on the lawn, various boxes and jars scattered on them. In front of them was a rather plain looking sign, a piece of cardboard attached to a stake in the ground. Scrawled on it in marker was the message: YARD SALE. PRICES NEGOTIABLE. Next to the sign was an older man, sitting in a folding chair, a cigarette dangling off his lip. He had on a denim jacket, a baseball cap, some dark black slacks, and the expression of someone who seemed to walk around perpetually pissed off.
Nevertheless, Ali was intrigued.
He pulled his car into the driveway of the nondescript house and made his way over to the man.
“Hi,” Ali said with a wave of his hand.
The man didn’t acknowledge him.
“Um, you’re still having a yard sale today, right?”
Again, the man didn’t respond.
“Uh, sir? Sir?” He tapped the man on his shoulder. The man gave Ali’s hand a rather violent shove off his shoulder.
He snapped at Ali, “Don’t touch me!”
“Sorry, I just-”
“The hell is wrong with you? Do you just always go rubbing your hands all over strangers, or am I the lucky one?”
“I-uh- I’’ve been trying to talk to you-”
“No you haven’t! I would have heard you! You’re trying to rob me, aren’t you, you son of a bitch? Or are you one of those perverts who gets off on fondling people? That’s it, isn’t it?”
“No sir, I’m-”
“What? You’re what? Unless you explain yourself quick, the end of that sentence is going to be ‘about to get your ass kicked.’ Because I have no problem going back to prison motherf-”
Ali blurted “Sir, I’m here about the yard sale.”
The hostile man relaxed a little at that.
“You are?”
“Well, yeah, I mean- you got the sign there and everything.”
The man was quiet and stared at Ali with a look of confusion on his face for a minute or so, then proceeded to bust out laughing. Ali smiled, a bit off put by the man’s laugh, which reminded him of the always leaky faucet in his mom’s old house. All through his childhood, every time he went to sleep, that’s all he ever heard.
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drip
No plumber or handyman, no matter how many years of experience they declared to have on the side of their van, could figure the damn thing out.
Drip
Drip
Drip
The man, his laughing fit over, said “Wasn’t laughing at you, I hope you understand. It’s just… it’s funny. See- hold on a second.”
He walked closer to Ali, removing his hat as he walked. He stopped just a few inches away and flipped back the hair over his right ear. Underneath was a mangled hunk of flesh, gnarled like the branch of an old pine tree, which was at one point long ago an ear.
An uncontrollable gasp slipped out of Ali’s mouth.
“Sorry.”
The older man grinned.
“Nah, it’s fine. Believe me, one of the nicer responses I’ve gotten.”
“H-how’d that happen?”
“Oh, bar fight in Haight-Asbury back in the 70’s.” He let out a little snort. “Peace and love my ass.”
“Good Lord.”
“Yeah. And, as you could probably guess, it’s not just bad on the outside; I’m pretty much deaf in it. Which, when you came up on me, I didn’t answer. And when you grabbed me-”
Ali finished: “You thought I was trying to attack you.”
“Exactly.”
“Doesn’t really explain why you came at me like a geeked-up howler monkey.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Uh huh. Well, at any rate- oh, hold on.”
The man took a step back, put his hat back on, and extended his hand.
“The name is Art, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister...?”
“Ali,” came the reply as Ali shook Art’s hand.
“Ah, Ali. Nice to meet you. You’re folks aren’t from around here, are they?”
“What?”
“I mean, not trying to be rude, but it’s not too often you hear a name like ‘Alley’ around here.”
“Well, yeah, my mom’s from Ontario- and it’s actually ‘Ali,’ by the way. Not like an alley, but like the way the boxer spells it.”
“Oh. Well, why the different pronunciation? It’s kind of confusing.”
“My full name is ‘Alistair’, I just don’t think I look like an English duke, so I go by ‘Ali.’
“Ah, that makes sense I guess.”
“Can I please look at what you have for sale now?”
“Oh! Right, right… sorry,” Art said with a sheepish grin. He gave the side of his head a little tap as he said “Little trouble keeping the train on its track sometimes. One of the perks of getting old, I suppose.”
Ali grinned, nodded, wondering when the older man would stop rambling on and just let him look at whatever crap it was he had for sale. Just as he was beginning to question Art’s sanity (as well as his own for having stopped at what was looking to be a literal tourist trap) when Art said “Have a look at whatever you like, Let me know if you see something you like.”
“All righty,” Ali said, “will do.”
With that, Ali began to trek around the various tables, sorting through the goods and bobbles scattered on the tables. The majority of the items were the standard sort of yard sale fare: appliances given by some distant relative still in the box, shirts faded so bad it was only a guess as to what was originally screen-printed on them, the toys of children now so old they had children of their own, and so on. None of that really caught Ali’s eye (save for a couple of cassettes and a sandwich press).
That changed at the last box on the most dilapidated looking table of the three.
Nothing about the box or the table it was stationed on was too appealing. The table looked as though it was the family heirloom of a family of tyrannical misers, so dented and cracked, no telling how many card games and holiday dinners it had been through over the years. The box was no better: it was an off-white shipping carton from something called the “Sunny Ridge Orange Grove,” the cardboard on it so old it felt more like cotton, the orange lettering barely legible. Inside were assorted mason jars, bottles, and plastic containers; some looked to be empty, some had some sort of powder or dust in them, and some had brightly colored liquids in them.
Curiosity peaked, Ali leaned in for a closer look; he saw that all the vessels had labels on them, in the same handwriting as the sign. One of the bowls had the label X-RAY VISION. One, another bowl with some green, lumpy powder in it was labeled “MIND CONTROL.
Is this guy serious?
Yes, I’m sure the half-deaf weirdo with the mangled ear really believes that he has x-ray vision here.
One of the bottles, filled with a light purple liquid had IRRESISTIBLE CHARM scrawled on it.
Ali chuckled as he examined the mysterious liquid.
This is ridiculous.
In the corner of the box was a small mason jar with a dark green liquid in it. On top of the silver lid, were the words TRUE LOVE
He can’t be serious.
“I am serious.”
Ali jumped, nearly dropping the bottle. He fumbled it around in his hands, and then set it back down in the box. He turned around to see Art standing far too close for his liking. Art took a puff on the new cigarette hanging out of his mouth, no expression on his face. Ali asked “What did you say?”
“I said, it’s not ridiculous.”
“But… but I thought that; how did you hear that?”
“Because you’ve been mumbling to yourself like one of those guys you see on the street wearing a tinfoil hat.”
“I have?”
“Uh huh. You got louder when you started looking through that box there. Which, that’s pretty normal actually. I mean, they wouldn’t call it the ‘box of wonder’ if it didn’t make weird stuff happen, right?”
“I guess not… it’s really called the box of wonder?”
“Uh huh. Well, mostly by me. Ok, only by me. but, you gotta admit: the name fits.”
“I guess it is.”
“You guess? What do you mean you guess? Don’t you see what I’ve got for sale here?”
“I do, but… what is it?”
“You can’t read?”
“No, I can read just fine, but, you- I mean, come on, that’s just kind of silly.”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
Ali gave him a doubtful look.
Art sighed.
“Look, I know you’re from the ironic and cynical generation, but you have to learn to take some things at face value sometimes.”
Ali pulled out one of the containers from the box, turning back toward Art as he said “So, what you want me to believe is that this is-” he paused to look down at the label “unshakeable courage in here?”
“That’s what it says on the label.”
“Oh, and what, you’ve got ‘invincibility’ and, I don’t know, ‘flight; somewhere in here too, right?”
“I did until this morning; some kids came by and bought the majority of them. Oh, I had some doozies in there too. ‘Super strength,’ flight and invincibility, like you said… oh, what else was there? Oh! ‘Invisibility.’ Don’t know how I forgot that. This girl bought it, she was one of those ‘gothic’ types. Real polite, not like the rest of them.”
“”Uh sir? Not to interrupt your fucking delusional ranting, but, uh… I’m sorry, there’s just no way this is for real.”
“And why is that?”
Ali was stunned, amazed at the fact that the man had the gall to ask why it was that it was so hard to believe a strange man had bottled courage and charm.
He struggled to find a delicate way to put it. “Because… I mean, it’s… you do realize that… uh, it’s just…”
“I’m waiting.”
Ali ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, forcing up a grin as he spoke slowly and softly.
“It’s the fact that you are claiming here that, not only have you somehow managed to do the impossible task of capturing concepts and emotions in physical form, but are willing to sell them for what I can only assume since you sold them to some teenagers, dirt cheap prices.”
“Ok. Sound argument; there’s some flaws in it.”
“Such as?”
“Well, off the top of my head… I’m not selling them for dirt cheap. If you noticed, there’s no price tag on any of them. As I said on the sign: prices are negotiable.”
Ali let out a little groan at that.
“Ok, what else?”
Art thought about it for a few moments, and then shrugged.
“Honestly? Nothing else I can think of at the moment; outside of the fact that  I didn’t make any wild claims.”
“Yes you did,” Ali said with an incredulous laugh, “You’re doing it right now. You’re claiming you have shit like ‘true love’ in a bottle here.”
“I never claimed to have that; I told you I have it.”
Ali threw his hands up in defeat.
“Ok, ok, you win. You have these amazing wonderful things for sale here. How much for a bottle of courage?”
Art didn’t get angry or insult Ali, as Ali had been expecting; instead, Art was laughing.
Ali asked “What?”
“Nothing, nothing. You just remind me somebody.”
“Who’s that, a sane person?”
“No, actually, he was the first person I sold any of these to. You probably know him, or heard of him, or whatever.”
“No, I’m not too familiar with the criminally insane.”
Art smirked.
“You ever hear the name ‘Paul Brickston’?”
“… as in, the guy who owns Lillehammer Software? The guy worth half a billion dollars?”
“Yup, that’s the one.”
Ali squinted his eyes a bit as he asked “What did you sell him?”
Art let out a puff of smoke and grinned.
“Genius.”
“Genius?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“Bullshit.”
“I kid you not. The man was a janitor at some kind of factory or something when I met him. Nice enough fellow, but dumb as a stump; I’m talking, a struggle for him to write his name dumb. Not to mention, he was so poor, he lived in the maintenance room of the factory, and from what he told me, all he really had to wear was his jumpsuit.”
“If that’s the truth, how did he buy a cup of genius, or whatever you supposedly sold him?”
“Like the sign says: prices are negotiable. Very negotiable.”
Art smiled again, but this time it was far more unsettling, the type you would find more often on a man who has you trapped on a Buffalo Bob or Ted Bundy type.
“Do you have any proof of that?”
“You mean, outside of just taking my word for it?”
“Well, if we were talking about how long you had a car or something like that, sure. But, saying you’re responsible for one of the greatest fortunes on earth right now… yeah, I’m afraid I’ll need a bit more substance than your word, as sterling as it may be.”
“Fair enough.”
Art turned and walked back into his house, leaving Ali out on his lawn. After a few minutes passed with no return, Ali began to wonder if he had offended the strange man.
Well, I mean, if I had someone just walk up on me and start calling me a liar, I’d probably have a tough time of- what am I doing? I mean, he’s got no right to be offended. Crazy old man claiming Paul Brickston was an idiot janitor…lying son of a bitch is probably in there, laughing his ass off that he’s got me going like this. Probably called up one of his drinking buddies or something. “Oh, Maury, you’re not gonna believe this shit. You know those bottles of Kool-Aid I’ve had sitting around forever? Yeah, yeah, the ones I wrote all that shit on. Well, you’re never going to believe this, but somebody’s going to buy them. Hand to God, Maury. Some little punk, probably works in the city or something. Anyway, he reeks of money, and I’m about to milk him for all he’s worth!”
Jesus Christ, I am a moron.
Oh, why am I still standing here?
He’s not coming back.
If he does, it’ll be with some little piece of paper he scribbled on to make it look like a retard- no, mentally challenged. Remember, you said you were going to work on not talking like your family?
“Honestly, I’ve never seen the problem with ‘retard.’”
Ali let out a yelp, whipping his head around to see Art, still grinning, standing right behind him.
“GOD DAMMIT! What are you, the fucking Batman or something?”
“Whoa, whoa, calm down man. You’re way too wound up.”
“Wonder why that is? Maybe because you keep sneaking up on me?”
“I’m not sneaking up on you. I’m walking, same as I always do; I can’t help it if you get lost in deep thought, or whatever it is you’re doing.”
“Well, why don’t you say something before you walk up on me like that?”
“Because I don’t want to be rude.”
“Oh… that makes sense. Wait, how’d you know what I was thinking again?”
Art gave him an apprehensive look as he replied “Because, like I said last time: you were talking to yourself.”
“I was?”
Art nodded. Slowly.
“Are you- are you sure?”
“Clear as a bell.”
“Wow… I didn’t know I did that. This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Really? Because you’ve been doing it non-stop more or less since you got here. You might want to get that checked out. You know, they say the first sign of mental illness is doing something without recognizing that you’re doing it.”
“I’d never heard that before. Yeah, I’ll definitely go look into that when I- wait, what? No, no, that’s not- quit trying to screw with my mind!”
“The hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about being led to believe that I’m a blabbering idiot by some strange man who’s telling me a bunch of wild stories, trying to sell me a pocket full of miracles.”
“Oh, wild stories, huh? Why don’t you stop trying to church it up and just say what you mean?”
“Fine: lies. You’re sitting here, lying your ass off, trying to pass off some food coloring and water as some kind of snake oil miracle to make a quick buck off me.”
“Is that so?”
“Uh huh.”
“So… I’m just a snake-oil salesman, is that it?”
Art got a little closer to Ali, his grin reverting to the creepier version as he inched closer.
“I’m just some little two-bit huckster out in the boonies, trying to make some fast cash off some yuppie scum, huh?”
He was less than a few inches away from Ali now, who had begun a slow retreat as Art drew closer.
“W-well, I mean, I… I wasn’t meaning any offense or anything,” Ali stammered, eyeing the table behind him in search of some sort of weapon in case Art decided to get crazy on him. As it was, he doubted highly that the antique velveteen dolls on the table would do anything, outside of piss Art off even further.
“Now,” Art continued, “would a lying sack of crap, as I am currently seen in your eyes.”
“Hey, I never said tha-”
“Don’t interrupt me.”
“Sorry.”
“What I was going to say, rude, is that: if I’m such a liar, would I have THIS?”
With a flourish, he revealed a framed… something. After opening his eyes (squinted shut out of fear of “this” being a gun), he saw it was two pieces of paper. The top portion of the case was devoted to a check, printed in the formal style of a payroll or business check. Ali read that it was made out from Lillehammer Software to the order of one Arthur Stinson, to the tune of a tidy sum of $25,000. Ali let out a low whistle as he looked to the bottom section of the case, which was a letter, banged out on what looked to be a rather rickety typewriter.
Art-
Thank you again oh so much for what you did for me. It worked wonders, as you probably read about already. Not bragging, mind you; just stating a fact. Anyway, thank you again. Enclosed, you’ll find the first portion of my payment, as we discussed.
Sincerely,
Paul Brickston
P.S. I still have the bottle (for good luck, naturally.)
P.P.S. Also, thanks again for the advice about going into technology. I would have gone into finance or something mundane like that.
Ali looked up at Art, who was looking over the frame, smirking.
“So, that ample enough evidence for you, detective?”
“I, uh… I guess so.”
“Oh good; it just breaks my heart when I have to go even a day without shutting up some little know-it-all such as yourself. No offense, of course.”
“What? Of course that was offens- you know what? Never mind. Not important right now.”
“Good call.”
“Yeah, what I want to know is: even if this stuff is real, which I’m still on the fence about, where exactly did it come from?”
“Oh… here, there, everywhere…”
“George Harrison, that’s not answering my question. Where’d you get all this from?”
“Oh, getting a little feisty after getting knocked down a peg, huh? I like it. Well, I’m not going to go into specifics, mainly because I don’t have the time and I don’t really owe you any kind of explanation. What I will say is that I did a lot of travelling when I was your age, and I managed to find all of this stuff when I was out seeing the world.”
“…again, that really doesn’t-”
“Look, that’s all you’re going to get out of me, so I suggest you just decide if you want to buy something or get gone.”
“Is that a threat?”
“What? No. That’s just… stating your options here.”
“Oh. Sorry. That was kind of defensive.”
“Just a touch.”
“Well, um…”
Ali gave Art, and then the box of possible wonder, a once over. He weighed his options internally before asking his next question:
“What is it you mean by, ‘prices negotiable’?”
“How it sounds: I don’t have any set prices on them, and I’m willing to work on it with you. And I’m very flexible with payment options.”
“All right. Now, what do you mean by ‘flexible payment options’?”
“I mean… well, let’s not get into that right now. Go ahead and pick out one that you like.”
“Ok then.”
Ali edged over to the box, unsettled by Art’s unnatural cheeriness, as well as his curiosity being peaked, began to sort through the box again. He looked at the different labels, deciding what it was that he’d be willing to spend his money (or whatever the hell it was Art was after) on. Art called out, still in the same spot he was when Ali walked away “Trouble deciding?”
“A little.”
“Could I make a suggestion?”
“Uh… don’t see why not.”
There was a pause. Art then continued, now standing almost shoulder to shoulder with Ali while looking in the box.
“Well,” he said, ignoring Ali jumping in fright, “it’s not so much a suggestion as it is advice. It’s the same thing I’ve told everyone who’s bought something from me.”
“Ok. Which is?”
“That, if I was you, I wouldn’t buy something I could obtain, with a little bit of elbow grease, for free out of life.”
Ali responded with a bewildered expression.
“What I’m getting at is: don’t waste your money on anything like ‘True Love’ or ‘Great Sense of Humor.’” 
“You have ‘Great Sense of Humor’ in here?”
“Not the point.”
“Right.”
“Also, I would suggest that you don’t get anything that you would find in a comic book.”
“Like ‘X-Ray Vision’ or ‘Flight’.”
“Exactly.”
“And why wouldn’t I want to get something like that? It sounds pretty cool.”
“Yeah, yeah, it is pretty cool… and from what I can imagine, the knives that they use to perform an autopsy on you in some secret government facility somewhere are pretty cool as well.”
“You really think they would do that?”
“I’ve seen the footage.”
“What? You’re shitting me,”
“Honest as a clam.”
“That’s not a saying.”
“Says who?”
“I… wait, where did you see this footage?”
“Internet.”
“Ah.”
“Uh huh.”
“How’d you know that’s what was going on?”
“Because, I sold the bottle of “Super Jump” to the poor bastard who decided to get cocky at the Olympic high jump trials.”
“Oh dear God, I think I heard about that. Wasn’t he the one that they said had some kind of springs in his shoes?”
“Well, that’s what the Olympic committee was presuming, considering he shattered the old record by a good two feet. However, when they did a ‘thorough investigation,’ they ‘determined’ that he had been injecting some sort of Russian growth hormones into his calf muscles.”
“Judging from the heavy use of over-emphasis in what you just said, I’m going to take a stab and say that it isn’t the truth.”
“Right on the money; from what I pieced together, they euthanized the guy, sliced him up like a tuna, and couldn’t make heads or tails of it. So, they just came up with some bullshit story that would be pleasing to the masses.”
“…wow.”
“So, like I said: I wouldn’t recommend anything that’s run of the mill in an X-Man comic book. But, whatever it is you want, I can’t stop you from getting it. Just thought I’d throw a little nugget of wisdom in there.”
“Great; hear you loud and clear.”
“Glad to hear it. Well, I’ll be around; just let me know when you decide on something.”
“Ok.”
Art smiled and gave him a pat on the back, before lighting up yet another cigarette and walking away. Ali watched him for a moment, and then went back to scouring through the box.
******************************************************************************************************************************************************

“Hey, Ali? You still there?”
Art put a hand on Ali’s shoulder and gave him a shake. Ali blinked a few times, turned to Art and said “Yeah, yeah, I was just… thinking.”
“Ah. Well, not that I would normally care, but, I’m about to close up shop. See, it’s league night down at the bowling alley, and, not to brag, but Plumber’s Local 437 doesn’t stand a chance if me and my hook isn’t there. So, if-”
“Wait, you can’t be closing. It’s, what, four in the afternoon?”
“… try almost eight.”
“What? I’ve been standing here for four hours?”
“Eh… in between rifling through the box and muttering to yourself, yeah, pretty much.”
“Oh God… why didn’t you say anything?”
“I don’t know; you jumped like I was gonna shoot you or something every time I tried to talk to you before, so I figured I’d just leave you to your own devices. Actually, I should thank you; you standing out here and muttering to yourself drew in a lot of business. I made damn near $200.”
Ali let out a groan.
“What’s the matter?”
“Oh, you mean outside of the fact that I missed work, didn’t go help my mom out like I promised I would,  stood a girl up that I really wanted to date,  and wasted the better part of the day out on some stranger’s lawn? It’s all aces.”
Art lit another cigarette.
“Would you be offended if I’ve made an observation?”
Ali had an exasperated look on his face at Art’s question, but after a pause, he shrugged.
“Sure, go for it. What do I care?”
“Thanks. Now, and no offense intended with this, but: you are way too fucking stressed.”
“Wow, what a brilliant observation. Tell me, what gave that away? The bags under my eyes? The trail of sweat running down my back? My dried out complexion that makes me look ten years older than I really am?”
Art didn’t respond at first, preferring to let out a little puff of smoke.
“See,” he said, “that’s what I mean. Most anybody else, they would have just said something like ‘Well, how so?’ or ‘No, I’m not stressed.’ Hell, a few folks might even give a ‘Yeah, I know.’ Not you; you got defensive. Defensive as hell, I might add. Which gives me the impression that you deal with, and are used to, people hassling you and giving you grief on a daily, if not constant basis. And, as long as we’re on the subject, let’s break down all those problems you were pissing and moaning about just now.”
“Hey, I-”
“Again, I say that with all due respect. So, you missed a day of work; I’m going to guess that this is where most of your stress comes in from, right?”
Ali nodded, wondering to himself where this grimy man’s sudden seemingly psychic capabilities were coming from.
Art went on: “You strike me as the type who works in one of those high rise office complexes. Probably in the city, so in a skyscraper sort of building, right? One of those menial cubical jobs, have to wear a tie and slacks every day, inputting some sort of menial code or crunching inconsequential numbers, commiserating and bonding with your coworkers over Dilbert cartoons, doughnuts, and sitcom reruns, taking a grim, practical acceptance to your just-enough-to-get-you-by paycheck and minimal success in life. All the while, striving and working for and towards some promotion that will go to one of your less skilled coworkers or the distant nephew or cousin of one of the people whose name is on the building in forty foot high letters. In doing so, you sacrifice any semblance of a social life outside of your field of offices and cubicles, while ignoring the fact that your sedentary life style is expanding your ass cheeks and waste line until you have a massive coronary and die at one of those horrible “team building exercises” out in some remote resort, in a fresh grave at the ripe old age of 52.”
Ali was dumbstruck, so wowed by Art’s dead-on insight that he felt no embarrassment at his own cartoonish, open-mouthed, jaw-dropped expression.
Art took another puff on his cigarette.
“Now, onto this lady friend you left waiting-”
“No, no that’s all right. Heh, any more talk like that and I might have to go home and drink a bottle of drain cleaner.”
“Hey, no need to get all dramatic on me; just telling you what I think.”
“I know, and I appreciate it, but I think I’m just going to go and be depressed about my miserable life somewhere else. Thank you very much for letting me loiter out here, and glad I could help net you some money.”
Ali went to walk away, but Art threw a hand up in his face.
“Hold on just a second there, pal.”
Ali’s nose withered a bit at the smell Art gave off, a mix of cigarettes, cheap cologne, and sadness.
“Now, I can’t let you leave without at least getting something.”
Ali sighed.
“No thank you.”
“No, I insist, it’s on me.”
Ali tried to walk by him again, saying “I’m good.”
There was a hand on his shoulder.
“Look,” Art said, “I hate to try and force somebody to do something, but you have to understand my position here. I’ve made all of this money off you and now you’re trying to leave without letting me give you something in return.”
“Yeah, most people would consider that a plus.”
“Not me. I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy; somebody does something good for you, you pay him back, and that’s that.”
“…you’re not going to let me leave until I pick something, are you?”
“Afraid not.”
Ali sighed.
“Fine. I guess I’ll take… I don’t know… that cigar box, I guess.”
“Oh no, no that won’t do at all. I can’t let you go off with any of this. It’s all crap reproductions and cheap knock offs.”
“And yet you sold it to those other people.”
“I said I was an old fashioned guy, not a bad businessman.”
“Uh huh.”
“Look, what I was getting is: go pick something out of the box. No charge.”
“Really?”
“Uh huh.”
“Anything I want?”
“You got it.”
“Ok.”
Ali walked over and began to look through the box once again. A few minutes passed and Ali soon saw a hand latched onto the other side of the box. He looked up to see Art, the dying end of his cigarette hanging out of his mouth.
“Um, I just remembered what happened the last time you went looking through this by yourself, so, I hope this doesn’t seem rude, but I’m going to try to speed this little expedition up. And, if my memory serves me correctly, and I haven’t sold the damn thing already, I think I have something that would be perfect for you.”
“Ok.”
Ali took a step back and watched as Art sorted through the bottles and boxes with the ease of a comic book nerd flipping through the bins at his local shop. After a few final puffs, Art flicked the remnants of the cigarette away, still looking through the box with his free hand. In the left corner closest to Ali, Art hit pay dirt. He removed the bottle with a flourish, saying “Ha! Found you, you little fucker.”
Clutched in Art’s hand was a bottle, one that was strikingly different from the others. Whereas the other bottles seemed to be housed in more modern looking, machine-made glass, this one looked to be hand crafted, with the sort of etchings and markings that come from years of skill and hours of meticulous, tedious work.
Also, it was pink.
And glowing.
After Art blew the dust off the glass (and the mothball-smelling cloud drifted away,) Ali saw that the glowing had been a trick of the light, the last bits of sunlight all collecting where the glass was at before. Art handed the glass over to Ali.
“Here you go.”
“What is it?”
“Read the label.”
Sure enough, on the bottom was a label, just like the others. However, the handwriting was different: more elegant compared to Art’s tapered scrawl. The label had one word on it:
Happiness
Ali looked up at Art.
“You know, I’d ask if you were kidding... but I know you’re not.”
“See, you are a sharp one.”
Ali looked back down at the bottle as he asked: “So, what, I just drink this and I’m happy?”
“Yup.”
“That’s it.”
“Uh huh. Happiness, any time, all the time.”
“…you know, that sounds completely insane, right?”
Art nodded.
“And you still want me to take it.”
Art nodded again.
“And it’s free.”
“Uh huh.”
“No paying you later, or showing up at my house trying to kill me, or rip out my organs, or any of that creepy, Outer Limits type of shit, right?”
“Nope. No catch at all. Just: remember what it is, Happiness.”
“Yeah, I understand the concept of happiness.”
“No, I mean, it’s like… you remember that first time you drank espresso after drinking coffee?”
“Uh, sure, I guess.”
“Well, it’s the emotional equivalent of that. So… just, be careful with it, huh? Don’t want you to get overloaded or anything?”
Ali chuckled at that.
“Oh, what, am I gonna O.D. on happiness? The cops gonna find me dead with a big smile on my face?”
“You’d be surprised,” Art said with a raise of his eyebrows.
Ali let the bottle roll around his hand a little, feeling the grooves on the glass, studying the bright pink liquid inside. Art asked “Well? What do you say?”
“I say… you have a deal.”
“Great!”
The two shook hands.
“I promise you, Ali, you won’t be sorry; that bottle works, 100%, money back guaranteed.”
“But, I didn’t pay anything for it.”
“Exactly.”
“…that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Look, I would love to sit here and chat about what does and doesn’t make sense, but, wow, it is getting late and I really have to get going.”
Art shook Ali’s hand again.
“Again, Ali, it has been a real pleasure to make your acquaintance and having you hang around today. If you get a chance, swing back by here sometime and let me know how it works out for you. I’ll be out here most weekends. And, uh… I’ve gotta get to moseying along, as it were. Have a nice day- er, night.”
With that, Art headed back into his house, leaving Ali standing on his lawn, clutching his bottle of happiness.
The TV was on in Ali’s apartment, some news show that was talking about what actresses might and might not be pregnant. Ali had cut it on in hopes of having something to focus his attention on, but it was pointless. He knew he was fighting a losing battle. Despite having the TV, radio, and washer and dryer going full tilt, he was staring down that little bottle, sitting on the coffee table in front of his couch.
He paced around the room, he made himself a cup of tea, he went through all the messages on his phone (mostly annoyed calls from his boss and angry texts from his ex-date), did about five loads of laundry, all the while debating whether he should drink the mystery liquid in the bottle or not.
I mean, it’s stupid. There’s no way that this is “happiness.” It’s just some water and some food coloring, simple as that.
But I’ve never seen any food coloring that looks like that before.
Oh, he probably went to one of those special effects stores they have in the valley. They sell all that crap, the fake blood, smoke machines; I’m sure they have “powdered mystery potion” in there.
So, I’ll just drink it and-
What if it’s poison?
Oh, hell, there’s no way the old man could sell poison. They’d throw him in jail in a heartbeat.
Well, maybe not. After all, anybody who’s willing to buy a bottle full of strange mystery goop off some old man selling it out in front of his house probably isn’t the sort of person that would be missed if they were dead.
God, that’s a morbid thought.
Pragmatic though.
But still.
Ok, let’s think this out: Art said that other people have bought this stuff before, right? It didn’t kill them, so what’s the harm?
But I’ve never seen these people; I don’t know if they’re all right. I don’t even know if they exist.
Oh, but I do know one: Paul Bankston.
That’s true, very true.
Well, I mean, I don’t “know him.” But I know of him. And that check
Oh, those kinds of checks can be faked.
But that letter-
How do I even know if that’s his handwriting, though?
After a bit of research on the internet, Ali discovered that it was indeed Mr. Bankston’s handwriting.
Ok… that didn’t help at all.
All right, that’s it: enough with all of this beating around the bush crap. I’m being scared of a bottle of Kool-Aid, for God’s sake. Enough is enough. It’s time for me to take charge! I’m gonna… flip a coin to decide!
Ali pulled a quarter out of his wallet.
Ok, heads I drink it, tails I pour it down the drain.
He flipped it, caught it with his right hand, and flipped it over onto the back of his left hand.
Heads.
All right. Problem… solved…
Ali bent down, picked up the bottle, and gave it one last look. It seemed harmless enough…
But the bad stuff always does.
Oh well
He popped the cork out the top of it. Ali gave it a smell, noticing that it smelled oddly like freshly cut flowers of some kind… posies, maybe?
He gave his head a quick shake and said “Here goes nothing! No, that’s no good… Bottom’s up! No, no that’s terrible. If I die, these have got to be good last words…”
Ali stopped, ignoring how the bottle was shaking in his hand, and then through a childhood memory that suddenly took out, he sang:

As Iron Man, all jets ablaze,
He’s fighting and smiting with repulsor rays!
Amazing armor! That’s Iron Man!
A blazing power! That’s Iron Man!

“… eh, better than nothing.”
He kicked back the bottle like it was a shot, eyes snapped shut in fear of whatever ghastly burn or taste was waiting on him. As he drank though, he noticed that it wasn’t that bad at all. It actually tasted very familiar to him; it tasted just like the root-beer floats he used to get when he would spend the weekend with his older sister. She would take her with him to her job in the city at a pizza parlor, and the owner, Mr. Tony, would give him all the cheese slices and root beer floats his nine year old self could stomach (not to mention the fact that his sister would cut on the “Free Play” mode on the Mrs. Pac-Man game.) And as he was focusing in on how great that vanilla tasted with the root-beer, and what a paradise it really was in the grungy little pizza parlor, he paid no mind to how his legs were buckling out from under him. By the time he hit the couch, his eyes were closed, a smile on his face.

He was truly happy again.