"The border between dreams and reality
Has gotten blurrier.
But, in that dream I once told you about
There was not a single lie."
—Ayumi Hamasaki, "Seasons"
The Story
Valentine's Day had come and gone, and now the stores were trying to unload all of their unsold candy, flowers, pepper spray, and other V.D. junk. Desperate souls hovered around these sales like ghosts around a site of some tragedy, mourning the utter mediocrity that was their Valentine's Day. One such soul was drawn to a Tuesday Morning, where people over forty-five got a complementary box of sugar-, fat-, and flavor-free heart-shaped candies with purchase of the Revenge of the Incontinent Peruvian Vampire Wombats VIII Blu-ray DVD.
With characteristic limp, Mr. Gold brought his merchandise to the front.
"Good mawning, sweethaht," chirped the cashier as she scanned the goods. "Revenge of the Incontinent Peruvian Vampire Baboons VIII? I heard it was a rip-off of the third Pokemon movie. Bad Romance Sweets. How lovely. Did you know they print fortunes on 'em? Just like those cookies from the Chinese restaurant."
Mr. Gold grunted some inaudible response.
"It's so much fun to read 'em," she continued. "Why don't you open yours up right now and see what it says?"
"Maybe some other time," said Mr. Gold quietly as he reached for his wallet.
"Oh, come on," said the cashier. "It's practically a day-after-Valentine's tradition. Go on!"
Mr. Gold sighed and opened the box and shook out a piece.
"Well? What's it say?"
"I can't read it. The print is too small."
"Here, let me see."
The cashier lifted the candy from Mr. Gold's hand.
"Hmm, no wonder, there's a lot written on it. Let me see … ah, I think it says … no … ah! 'You just don't think I can love you. Now you've made your choice. And you're going to regret it. Forever. And all you'll have … is an empty heart … and a chipped cup.' … Boy, mine said, 'Roses are red, violets are blue, you look and you smell just like number two.'"
"Mine said, 'Rah-rah, ah-ah-ah, roma, roma-ma, Gaga ooh-la-la'," piped an elderly lady who was purchasing machine gun cartridges.
"It wasn't love," said Dr. Hopper to the patient reclined on his couch. "It was a (long, complicated psychobabble term) brought on due to blah blah blah of the Stockholm Syndrome blah blah blah."
"That's nice, but how does that help me?"
"Well, it doesn't. I just like to show off the knowledge I acquired while doing my doctorate."
Mr. Gold furrowed his eyebrows.
"But you know, the solution is quite simple: get on the dating circuit again. It's the perfect way to get over her. Dear Abby could have told you that. … If there were ever any possibility of someone leaving this town and delivering your letter to her."
"But—but—I haven't … er, dated in—in years!"
"Well, I was going to suggest charity work, but most people in this town spit at the mention of your name and a few have even tried sending away for those do-it-yourself voodoo-doll kits you can order from the back of Better Homes and Gardens. Of course, no mail ever leaves this town, so that was a no-go."
"But I've never dated before!"
"Well, there's a first time for everything," said Dr. Hopper, wiping his glasses.
"I'll make a fool of myself!"
"You bought leftover Valentine's Day candy from Tuesday Morning so you could drown your sorrows of lost love in its sugar-free goodness while you watched New Girl. I'd say you're past that point already."
"Who told you that?" cried Mr. Gold.
Dr. Hopper coughed.
"Anyways, if you're so afraid to do it, I know someone who can help you."
"Who?" Mr. Gold squinted.
"Henry."
"Henry, the mayor's son? What?"
"He took a correspondence course on relationship coaching. He's now a Certified Relationship Advisory Personnel™. In other words, a … they really should have a Department of Acronym Checking."
"When did he do that?"
"He's been doing that in the evenings after school. His mother didn't want him reading his book of fairytales all the time; she said he would be better off doing something productive so that he would be able to compete in an international market against kids from Singapore, Hong Kong, and Finland."
"The first step," said Henry, "is to transform yourself into a non-loser. Women don't date losers. Those clothes. You dress like an old man."
"I am an old man."
"See, now that's the wrong attitude. You're only as young as you feel."
"I feel eighty-five when my lumbago acts up."
"Then maybe new clothes will put you in the right mood," said Henry.
"NO!"
"Okay, okay. No need to get so touchy." Henry turned the page of his legal pad. "You know what, let's just jump right into it. That's the best way to learn anything."
"Remember, think smooth," said Henry.
Mr. Gold sidled up to the bar where a gorgeous blonde was sipping a drink with a little umbrella in it.
"Um … ah … I bet you didn't know I can do barnyard animal imitations," said Mr. Gold, tugging at his collar.
"Textbook definition of smooth," sighed Henry.
"Well, that's a new record," said Henry. "You not only managed to scare away every single female in the bar, but two of them forswore all their material possessions and modern ways of living and moved to Borneo."
"So I have that effect on women," Mr. Gold muttered.
"Well, I managed to set up a date for you," said Henry. "Please don't screw this up; you're making me look bad!"
Mr. Gold cast a sideways glance at Henry.
"What's her name?"
"I think it's Verna. Or Margie. Or Bob. Or something like that. … Just ask to see her wallet, and her name should be on her credit cards or driver's license. Anyways, I'll be going along with you to help guide you along."
"Henry, I appreciate your concern, but … I don't need to appear any more of a loser than I already do."
"You don't need to worry about anything. I'm going to be inside your trunk, and when you're both in the restaurant, I'll get out and inconspicuously get a table close to yours. I'll advise you over these walkie-talkies. … No, wait those are the 'Operation Cobra' ones. Here. 'Operation I'm a Lonely, Desperate Loser' walkie-talkies."
"Henry, you do realize that I'm paying you eighty dollars an hour for this, right?" said Mr. Gold, fingering his walkie-talkie.
"Plus a one-hundred-fifty-dollar base fee," said Henry.
"Let's get going. I can't afford to be sitting around when I'm paying that kind of money."
"Everything has its price," said Henry.
Mr. Gold's car pulled up to the house. With slight hesitation, he made his way up the walk. He rang the doorbell.
A gorgeous blonde with heavy makeup opened the door.
"Why, hello, darling! You must be Mr. Gold, am I right?" Grabbing Mr. Gold's arm, she pulled him into her foyer.
"Er … yes," said Mr. Gold, slightly stunned. "Ah … I didn't quite catch your name," he muttered.
"I think it's Margie. Or Verna. Or Bob. Or something like that," she said breezily, fiddling with her earring.
"Do you have a credit card—or a driver's license?" said Mr. Gold.
Margie or Verna or Bob or Something Like That looked slightly confused for a second, then perked back up. "Ooh, I'm hungry! Where are we going?"
"Granny's," said Mr. Gold.
"Granny's? Isn't that a diner?"
"It's a fusion-cuisine eatery on weekends every other week in months with an even number of days," said Mr. Gold. "Granny is experimenting."
"Sounds lovely," said Margie or Verna or Bob or Something Like That. (We shall just refer to her as Margie from here on out.) "Let's go!" Grabbing Mr. Gold by the arm, she yanked him out the door, slammed the door behind her, and with Mr. Gold's arm still in tow, locked it before flying down the path.
"Ooh, your car!" she squealed. "You have money. I like that in a man. You know, when I was a little girl, my great-grandma Josephine used to tell me, 'If a man ain't rich, don't be goin' nowhere near his wiener.'"
Mr. Gold, who had not sprinted in quite some time, was too winded to reply.
Granny's was not exactly hopping.
"This place is not exactly hopping," said Margie.
"It's a Tuesday," said Mr. Gold.
"At least there's a lot of parking," said Margie.
"You go on ahead," said Mr. Gold after parking. "I have to unlock the trunk."
"Ooh!" said Margie. "Are you planning something … naughty?"
"Look, isn't that Kim Kardashian?" said Mr. Gold.
"WHERE?" screamed Margie.
"Good evening, my name is Ruby and I'll be your usher, busboy and trained emergency medical technician for the evening," said Ruby, handing Mr. Gold and Margie their menus. "This way, please."
"We're eating at the counter?" said Margie.
"The waitress is also the cook," said Ruby. She then turned to show another customer to his seat. The new arrival was a short man with a big bushy mustache, thick glasses, a fake-looking nose, a dark trench coat, and a walkie-talkie.
"I'm going to the little girls' room," said Margie.
"To powder your nose?" said Mr. Gold.
"No. I have diarrhea," said Margie. She grabbed a handful of comic books from her purse and sashayed off.
Mr. Gold's walkie-talkie crackled to life.
"Boy Wonder to Rumpie. Come in Rumpie, do you read me?" said a static-y voice.
Mr. Gold glanced furtively around the room before picking up his walkie-talkie.
"Where on earth did you get those names?"
"Pokemon?" said Henry. "Anyways, you're so not doing anything! This date is headed for disaster. You know why? Because you haven't made a single effort to engage yourself. Your body language is hostile. You're not striking up conversations, you're—"
"She's coming."
"Who are you talking to?" said Margie, taking a seat.
"Nobody—I mean, my stockbroker. Told him to buy pork bellies."
"Rumpie! Turn your body so you're facing her completely!" hissed a voice from Mr. Gold's pocket.
"'Rumpie'?" said Margie.
"My stockbroker's nickname for me. … Er, dates back to college days."
"Rumpie? I hope that's an apt nickname. You know, I like men with booty," she said, batting her eyelashes.
Granny sidled up to the bar.
"Can I take your orders, hon?"
"I'll take an order of scampi and fettuccine and half a carafe of your best soave … and a plate of spring rolls," said Margie.
"I'll have the Tuna Surprise," said Mr. Gold.
Granny began to sniff. She grabbed her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.
"I'm sorry … did I say something wrong?" asked Mr. Gold.
"No," said Granny. "I just get a little emotional. My first husband passed away eating the Tuna Surprise."
"On second thought, I think I'll have the chicken parmigiana," said Mr. Gold.
Halfway through the meal, Margie excused herself, taking another handful of comic books.
"I'll bet it was the scampi," said Henry, taking the seat next to Mr. Gold. "Grandpa—I mean, Mr. Nolan—had it here last time and he—"
"Don't really want to hear about it," Mr. Gold quickly interrupted, motioning to his food with his fork. "Don't you think you had better go back to your table? She'll be out any minute now."
"No, that's just the thing I was trying to tell you," said Henry. "After eating the scampi, he was in the bathroom so long—"
"Henrrryyy …" began Mr. Gold through gritted teeth.
"Hey," said Henry suddenly. "You know, her drink smells funky. It smells like—like … sorbitol! That explains it!"
"What? Explains what?"
"Sorbitol. It has laxative properties. I'm going to run some spectroscopy tests on this drink sample."
"How do you know all this?"
"My mom also made me take evening courses on organic chemistry," said Henry. He extracted a GC syringe from his messenger bag and began taking a sample of the soave. And then Margie appeared.
"Hey! Who are you, and what are you doing to my drink … OH MY GOODNESS, YOU'RE PUTTING DATE-RAPE DRUG IN IT, AREN'T YOU? So that was your plan all along! You two are in on this together! HELP! HELP! THESE MEN ARE TRYING TO HAVE NON-CONSENSUAL SEXUAL RELATIONS WITH ME! POLICE! POLICE! HELP HELP!"
"No, wait—" began Mr. Gold.
"POLICE! POLICE! WHERE'S MY PEPPER SPRAY?" Margie yanked a canister of Tuesday Morning pepper spray out of her purse and began spraying with abandon.
"ACH, MY EYES!" screamed Mr. Gold.
"SHADES OF UC DAVIS!" screamed Henry.
As it just so happened, Emma and Mary Margaret were just outside the diner, returning home from Mary Margaret's Japanese flower-arranging class. Ever alert, Emma rushed into the diner.
"POLICE! POLICE! THIS MAN TRIED TO RAPE ME! OH, IT WAS SO HORRIBLE! And his tie clashes with his shoes!" Then Margie began to weep on Emma's shoulder.
"You again?" said Emma, frowning at Mr. Gold.
One hour later, Mr. Gold found himself on the wrong side of the jail bars again.
"But I'm telling you, I didn't do it!" he protested.
"Sheriff, if this man goes free, I will bring the weight of the National Organization of Women's legal team against you!" huffed Margie.
Emma opened her mouth to say something when the door creaked open and David walked in.
"Hey, all," said David.
"David! What brings you here?" said Emma.
"I smelled scampi and Mary Margaret … my two favorite things in the whole world," said David.
Mary Margaret rolled her eyes. "You should write greeting cards."
"Okay, now look here," said Emma. "I can't hold this man here, he hasn't done anything. His, er, accomplice was just—as ridiculous as this sounds—taking a sample of your drink to run GC analysis on. So I'm going to have to let him … uh oh."
"'Uh oh'?" said Henry.
"My keys! Where are my keys?" gasped Emma.
"I think he ate them," said Mary Margaret, pointing at David.
"What?" said Emma.
"I think they somehow fell in the scampi and I accidentally ate it," said David.
"You ate my scampi?" cried Margie.
"That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard!" cried Emma. "Except for the fact that my biological son was taking a sample from a drink loaded with laxative while wearing that getup because his step-mom made him take evening classes."
"This town is so weird," said Mary Margaret.
"Sorry, Mr. Gold," said Emma. "You're going to have to stay there until we, um, get the keys back."
The door was suddenly flung open and in strode Regina.
"Where is my son?" she demanded, striding to the middle of the room. "Henry! What on earth …"
"Madame Mayor! … What brings you here?" said Emma.
Regina ignored her, turning to Henry.
"Henry, now what did I say about going out with strangers … or Emma … or people who like scampi?"
"But I was just helping Mr. Gold out using those courses that you made me take."
"What? What courses?"
"The ones on relationship coaching!"
"I never told you to take any such courses!"
"I thought you said …"
"I said multivariable calculus! Did you think that kids in South Korea are getting ahead by learning to be yentas?"
"In his defense, the two do sound kind of alike," said David.
Regina glared at him.
"Or not," said David. He surreptitiously helped himself to another piece of scampi.
"Sheriff Swan, I'm giving you thirty minutes with Henry. Go buy him ice cream."
"You want me to leave you alone with the prisoner? And the schoolteacher? And that woman? And that scampi-lover?"
"Twenty-nine-and-a-half minutes."
"Let me get my coat," said Emma.
"Wait … take your parents—I mean, those two people who are completely unrelated to you—too," said Regina.
"You guys want ice cream?" said Emma.
"Sure," said Margie. "I need something to de-traumatize me."
"Sure," said Mary Margaret.
"Sure," said David. "I need something to make those keys pass easier."
"Bring me back a cone?" said Mr. Gold.
"Don't you need to cut back on lactose at your age?" said Regina.
After la casa Charming and Margie had left, Regina turned to face Mr. Gold.
"Please, sit," said Mr. Gold. Regina rolled her eyes as she took a seat on the couch.
"What now?"
"I have a favor I want to ask of you."
Regina bit her lip. "What?"
"Bring me my teacup."
"What?"
"You heard me. My teacup. It's back at my house, but you have the keys to everyone's houses anyways."
Regina glared at him.
"If you please," said Mr. Gold. "Oh, and it's in my bedroom … in the dresser next to the window … in the top drawer … tucked behind my undershorts and stool softener."
Regina made a face. "FORGET IT! How about this half of a pastrami sandwich instead?" she said, taking out a leftover sandwich from Emma's desk.
Suddenly, la casa Charming burst in through the door.
"Why are you back so soon? Weren't you getting ice cream?" said Regina.
"We were, but it turns out David is allergic to scampi ice cream. And what's more, one of the additives in it was a highly unstable tri-substituted toluene compound, and when he sneezed, it caught on fire."
"So why are you here?"
"To get a pair of pants. His burned up."
"Does this mean I don't get my cone?" said Mr. Gold.
The End