Phineas Floo

Sometimes, when I’m alone in the apartment, I like to try and sing like Johnny Cash.  I once took a girl out who made me a whole mix CD of murder ballads, which I guess is a well-known genre of bluegrass.  Or something.  I didn’t want to admit how little I knew about bluegrass, which is probably good, because she was trying to send me a message, and if I’d made her really explain about how she wanted me dead, it would have been fairly uncomfortable. As it was, I saw her occasionally and said hello and moved on, in artificial, ignorance.

So it was that on this Saturday afternoon I was alone in the apartment, singing like Johnny Cash, when a knock came at the door.  It was like one of those drug dealer knocks from TV, kind of a knock-shuffle-knock-shuffle-knock, to let you know exactly who it was, only I wasn’t in on the code. 

I opened the door to a man with a six-month beard, scraggly teeth and a T-shirt advertising my high school track team.  He complimented my singing.  I thanked him politely, actually rather pleased with myself, and asked him what he wanted.  He introduced himself.  His name was Phineas Floo, and he was on a trans-dimensional journey.  It turned out that his last jump had misfired, and somehow placed him in this backwater and he required my assistance, as one citizen of this galaxy to another.

Now, Rule Number One of my life has long been never turn down adventure. And Rule Number Seven is to cultivate all interactions with strange people.  Thus, with two rules in his favor, and Rule Eleven closing in (always go out on Saturdays), I locked the door behind me and we set out.

Phineas was certain he needed help, but uncertain what he needed help with.  We went to the park and strung tin foil from the monkey bars, but apparently the frequencies were wrong.  Or maybe it was the wind.  We then drove to the radio towers on the hill across the lake and tried the same thing, but there was some kind of cosmic interference.  By this time it was getting dark, and Phineas Floo was hungry, tired and discouraged.  We stopped for chili dogs at Tommy’s drive in.  Though he complained several times about “meat foods” and “recycled ingredients,” Phineas seemed relatively pleased with his meal.

After dinner, I pushed back my chair, dropped a tip on the table, and started preparing my excuses. Rule Number Five (all strangers sleeping over must be female) required that I let Phineas go.  But he had other plans.

Out of his pocket he pulled a curious little brass ring.  He told me to sit back down and order another chili dog.  I started to make excuses, but he grabbed my shoulder and squeezed the sides of the ring.  Out popped little wings, and the ring started to buzz on the vinyl table top.  I order another chili dog and some onion rings.

While we were waiting, Phineas started to sing at his little device.  The words were a mash up of Top 40 hits and nursery rhymes.  We were back to nonsense.  I picked at the onion rings. On my first bite, the whole onion slice came out, leaving me holding a deep fried shell.  I know it’s not exactly vegetable wonders, but when the onion is gone, I feel bad eating the empty shell.  By the time I looked back over, the ring-on-wings was floating four inches off the table.

Phineas was looking at me now, chili dog cold and forgotten on the table.  I rubbed my eyes, but the brass contraption was still floating there. 

“Give me your hand,” Phineas rasped.  I wanted to say no, but before I knew it, I he had placed my hand under the whirring wings.  All of a sudden, they shuddered, clipped and fell into my hand.  The wings popped back in and were still.  The whole ring was warm.

“Well, that’s it.  God bless.”  And Phineas stood up and walked out into the night. 

I still have the ring.  It’s on my bookshelf, next to a little jade elephant I got in Chinatown and the clay jaguar I made in Ms. White’s second grade class.  Every once in a while I pick it up and shake it, or squeeze the sides like Phineas did, but nothing ever happens.  I’ve mostly convinced myself that it was just a long day with a guy who smelt like weed and a lot of sun that got me seeing things.  But sometimes I hear a buzz from the other room.  And on those days, the ring still feels warm.

-David Cramer