BK14 - Separation and Slime at the Honey Hills Fall Fair
In which a man turns to unusual means in the search for his lost daughter.
His hands slick with sweat, Walter made another 360 degree turn for one final, desperate look. She’d been at his side just a moment before, how could she have gotten so far? His dad’s words from when Polly had been born echoed in his mind. “Now you keep an eye on her,” he’d said. “Once they get walkin’ kids are awful slippery. Once lost you at the supermarket, damn near dressed a ham up in overalls to bring home to your mother.” The town’s fall fair was a little more crowded than a supermarket, though, and there wasn’t a ham in sight.
Walter had thought the Honey Hills Fall Fair would be good harmless fun for him and Polly while his wife was away for the weekend. At first, it had been. He had in fact removed his hand from Polly’s for just a moment to text Pamela and tell her how well it was going when Polly toddled off somewhere into the crowd, covering ground at a remarkable place for her little legs.
Now he was making his way through the dense stretch of crowd in front of him, pausing to ask any random passerby whose attention he could catch whether they’d seen a little girl with blond pigtails wander by. None of them had, he supposed no one was really looking down. In a state of panic he pushed his way out of the crowd, hoping to get a better vantage point from clear ground.
Upon freeing himself from the crowd, Walter found himself in a conspicuously empty stretch of fairground, with only one stand nearby. It was a rickety wooden stand sporting the words “Pickled Slime” hand-scrawled in black paint. A strange man stood behind the counter, tall and lithe, with round and almost swollen-looking features. His skin was pale, with what appeared to Walter as a slight blue tint. He was bald, and in fact completely smooth, sporting no hair at all which Walter could see. Behind the man were shelves, lined with jars full of dim green fluid.
“Hey you,” said the strange man in a limp, high-pitched whine. “Try my pickled slime.”
Walter gave the man a sideways look, then began to turn away. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m in a hurry.”
“What seems to be troubling you, traveler?” asked the man.
“Well,” said Walter, figuring there was no harm in asking this man if he’d seen Polly, strange as he seemed. “I lost my daughter a few minutes ago. Have you seen her?”
“A lost daughter, you say?” said the man.
“Yes,” said Walter.
“My pickled slime confers many benefits,” said the man. “Calms the mind. Heightens the senses. Enhances charm. In rare cases it’s even granted near-superhuman agility.”
“Have you seen my daughter?”
“Many men who have been searching for things lost have come to me for help,” said the man. “I know not where your daughter wanders, but I know how you may come to find her.” He turned and took a jar off of the shelf behind him.
“What do you mean?” asked Walter, growing curious.
“Try my pickled slime,” said the man, setting the jar down on the counter and opening the lid.
Walter approached the stand and looked more closely at the now open jar. Inside was a viscous green gelatin-like substance, suspended in a thin and revolting brine. The smell was unholy.
Noticing Walter’s unease, the man stuck one of his fingers knuckle-deep into the jar, retracted it, and popped it in his mouth. “Mm,” said the man. “Pickled slime.”
“You really think this will help me find my daughter?” Walter said.
“Try my pickled slime,” said the man.
Walter hesitated for a moment, then stuck his finger into the jar, just as the man had. The sensation was so foul that it felt illegal. He pulled the finger out then, gulped audibly, and popped it into his mouth.
The taste was shockingly anodyne, maybe even bordering on pleasant. It was cold, and had a bit of a salty, briney flavour. It resembled almost a sort of dill pickle jell-o. Immediately he felt extremely at ease. Suddenly, the path ahead of him was clear. Looking back at the crowd, it was almost as if a sea had parted. On the other end, he saw a cotton candy stand.
“Of course,” he said aloud, not to anyone in particular. “She loves cotton candy.” He turned to the slime-seller. “I have to go.”
“No problem,” said the man. “Thank you for trying my pickled slime.”
Walter turned and walked back towards the crowd.
The walk through the crowd was like a waking dream. Walter knew there were people in his way, knew the crowd was dense, moving in all directions, but he did not find himself at all slowed, or even having to break stride. He was able to move as if in open space, as if the people he knew should be in front of him were no thicker than air.
When he reached the cotton candy stand, he did not see Polly. He didn’t panic as before, though. He was confident the situation would resolve itself if he only acted with calm reason.
The stand was sleek and modern, sporting a stainless steel counter top and a cotton candy machine in great working condition. Aesthetically, it was a stark upgrade from the pickled slime stand. Its sign advertised it as “The Honey Hills Cotton Candy Company.” The attendant at the stand was a short woman in an apron, hair pulled back in a tight bun, with a hair net. Her nametag said “Louanne.”
“Hi Louanne,” said Walter. “Can I call you Louanne?”
“Call me whatever you want,” said Louanne. “Just don’t call me late to dinner.”
“Have you seen my daughter? I think she might have come by here. She’s four years old, has blond pigtails. She’s wearing overalls and a yellow t-shirt.”
“Yeah she came by. Didn’t have any money.”
“Well,” said Walter, “she’s four.”
“Four and poor,” said Louanne.
“Okay, okay,” said Walter, focused on keeping his cool. “Did you happen to see where she went?”
“I sure did,” said Louanne. “I told her if she wanted to be a lousy freeloader she should head across the way there to the Cotton Candy Company of Honey Hills. Those damn losers are all about that philanthropist bullshit. Pardon my language.”
“Pardoned!” said Walter. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go check over there.”
“Not gonna buy nothing?” said Louanne as Walter turned to go.
“Sorry,” said Walter, hurrying off. “No time!”
The Cotton Candy Company of Honey Hills had their stand just across the fairground from that of the Honey Hills Cotton Candy Company, and they seemed to be attracting far more business. There was a line nearly ten people long to reach the lone stand attendant, a very overwhelmed looking young lad. Walter went to the back of the line and pondered his options. He didn’t want to be rude, but surely he couldn’t wait for this line to pass while Polly was still wandering around somewhere.
“Excuse me,” he said to the man in front of him. The man turned around. He was of average height and build, wearing a pinstripe suit, and sporting horn rimmed glasses, a bushy moustache, and a combover.
“Ah, a pleasure to meet you!” exclaimed the man, jovially. “My name is Mr. Candy.”
“Likewise,” said Walter. “My name is Mr. Pancakes.”
“Either a coincidence, or I should think you’re playing a fetching joke, my friend! Candy and Pancakes, who’d’ve thought?”
“A coincidence,” said Walter with a smile. “My dad was a Pancakes, and his dad before him. Now listen, my daughter has wandered off, and I think she came by this stand. Any chance I might cut the line to speak with the attendant?”
“I like your attitude,” said Mr. Candy. “I’ve always thought a vigilant father to be a respected father. Now I’ll let you in on a little something.”
“Please,” said Walter, “do tell.”
“This operation here, I’m actually the man at the top. Sometimes I like to come by and see how the boys on the ground floor are representing the family business, you see.”
“You’re the owner of the Cotton Candy Company of Honey Hills?”
“Owner, founder, and namesake,” said Mr. Candy. “As a matter of fact, they named the confection after me in the first place. My given name was Mr. Cotton Candy, Esquire.”
“You were born a lawyer?” asked Walter.
“No, I was born a fraud. My father was a liar and a conman, and I dropped the ‘esquire’ when I first turned 18. My original birthday was also fraudulent, so I later turned 18 a second time. I then had to drop the ‘esquire’ once again, since it turned out I’d been a minor on the first attempt.”
“Wow,” said Walter. “Your father sounds like a real bad guy.”
“Well,” said Mr. Candy, “It was a complicated relationship. You know how fathers are. I’ll tell you one thing: he wasn’t vigilant, and wasn’t respected. Now that’s something I respect about you: you’ve lost your daughter, and you’ll stop at nothing.”
“Thank you,” said Walter. “I feel pretty bad about losing her in the first place, but I like to think we’re defined by how we respond to trouble, not how we come into it.” He broke eye contact for the first time since him and Mr. Candy had started talking, then, and realized they’d come to the front of the line.
“Wise words indeed!” said Mr. Candy. “Now look, here we are. I apologize, my company has perhaps kept you longer than you intended! An advantage presents itself amid this potential inconvenience, however: we find ourselves now in front of the very attendant who may have seen your daughter.” He turned to the attendant. “Hello lad, I am your boss, and I have a very important question for you, should you be so benevolent as to lend me an answer.”
“Um,” said the attendant. “Shoot.”
“This fine gentleman has lost a daughter, and believes she may have come by here. Please, Walter, what does she look like, exactly?”
Walter stepped forward. “She’s four, has blond pigtails. She’s wearing overalls and a yellow t-shirt. I like to think she has my eyes.”
“Um, yeah. Yeah she came by. She didn’t have any money, but…” the attendant looked sheepishly at Mr. Candy. “Kids under six eat free? If I’m not mistaken.”
“Surely they do!” said Mr. Candy.
“Uh-huh. She looked um, pleased as a peach. She went off in that direction,” said the attendant, pointing off to his left. Walter looked that way, then squinting his eyes saw something on the ground. Little bits of cotton candy pressed into the grass. He rushed over, crouched down next to some.
“Mr. Candy, look!” exclaimed Walter. “A trail!”
“Delightful! Your keen eye astounds near as much as your fatherly vigilance,” said Mr. Candy, then to the attendant: “Fine work, lad.”
“Thank you both. I’m sorry to rush off, but duty calls,” said Walter, turning to follow the cotton candy trail.
“I understand,” said Mr. Candy. “Stay vigilant!”
Walter gave a nod, then hurried away, following the path.
The cotton candy trail led away from the fair, back down to Queen Street, then down the sidewalk. Eventually it came to a section of road which was under construction, going right under the wooden blockade. A construction worker stood in front of the cordoned off area, smoking a cigarette. As he approached the man, Walter caught a glimpse of a blond pigtail disappearing behind a mound of dirt in the construction zone. His heart began to beat a little faster in his chest.
“Hi,” said Walter to the construction worker. “Now I know you have this area blocked off right now, but I think my daughter wandered in here. Would it be possible for me to give a quick look for her?”
The construction worker looked him up and down. “Hrmph,” he began. “No goin’ in a construction zone without a hard hat.”
“Oh come on,” Walter said. “It’s an emergency.”
“What, you lookin’ to get your head knocked in by a stray cinder block? How’s that gonna help your daughter? I’ll tell you how. It won’t. It’ll just kill you, or maybe concuss you real bad. No hard hat, no entry.”
Walter thought for a moment then, and remembered the benefits the merchant had said the pickled slime would bestow upon him. He’d been calm of mind in the crowd, and when dealing with surly Louanne. And he definitely felt like he had heightened perception when he spotted the cotton candy trail. Maybe now was when the enhanced charm would come in?
“You know,” he said to the worker. “You have real lovely eyes.”
“Really?” said the worker. “You think so? I’ve always thought I got my dad’s eyes.”
“Wow,” said Walter. “You know what? I say the same thing about my daughter.”
“Well I’d say she’s a lucky girl. That’s a nice pair of eyes you got there yourself.”
“Thank you. I’m sure you would’ve noticed eyes like these if she had passed by here, right?”
“Well, how old is she?”
“She’s only four.”
“Hm. I don’t make a habit of looking down. That’s where bugs live. So I might’ve missed her.”
“And you don’t suppose I could pop in just for a quick minute to look for her myself?”
“Well,” said the worker, pausing for a long time. “Okay. Just for a minute. If anyone asks, you tell em’ you’re on your way to grab your hard hat from the shed, okay?”
“Perfect,” said Walter. The worker stepped aside, and Walter hopped over the barricade, giving the worker a thumbs-up as he walked onto the site.
Walter then made a beeline for the pile of dirt he’d spotted before. Overhead, he saw a crane lifting a palette of cinder blocks. Well I’ll be damned, he thought to himself. There I was thinking that was a weird example. He rounded the dirt pile and there was Polly, a good fifty feet ahead of him, still toddling along.
“Polly!” he called out. She turned to look at him. Just then, he heard a snap. He looked up, saw that one of the crane’s cables had broken. The palette was hanging on an angle now, directly above Polly’s head, ready to spill a cinder block at any moment. She was standing still, totally hapless.
“Polly!” he shouted again, breaking into a sprint. He flashed back once again to the pickled slime merchant.
“In rare cases,” he remembered the merchant saying, “it’s even granted near-superhuman agility.” He crossed his fingers, and ran as hard and fast as he could.
Then, just as he saw a cinder block begin to fall, he felt a sudden rush forward. He could feel the wind in his thinning hair, the slime coursing through his body. He was moving faster than he ever had in his life. In the last moments of the dash he dove, grabbing Polly off of the ground and pushing them both to safety, a split second before the cinder block came crashing into the ground. Polly began to cry.
“It’s okay,” Walter said, holding her tight. “You’re okay. I’m so sorry I lost you.”
“Hey!” shouted a construction worker from inside the crane. “Where’s your damn hard hat?”
Walter looked up at him. “I was just on my way to get it from the shed,” he called back. Then he picked Polly up and walked off the construction site.
On his and Polly’s way home, Walter reflected on the pickled slime. It had been unpleasant, and its vendor strange, but he was glad he took the time to try it. At the following year’s fall fair he spent a considerable amount of time trying to find the odd little stand again, but had no luck. He didn’t see the pickled slime vendor again for many, many years.
In his twilight years, Walter wound up in a nursing home. He’d outlived Pamela by a few months now, and felt he only had a few months left himself. He was sitting in the home’s lounge one morning, watching the world out the window, when a nurse poked her head in the door.
“Mr. Pancakes,” she said. “You have a visitor.”
“Wonderful,” he said. He figured it must be Polly. She came nearly every day. He wondered if she would be bringing the grandchildren today.
When the nurse came back, though, she was accompanied by a different figure entirely. He recognized the man, in a way which felt like remembering a dream. He was shocked to see that the man did not appear to have aged at all. The man came in and took the seat next to him.
“So,” the man began. “What did you think of my pickled slime?” He still spoke in the same weak, shrill whine.
“Without it, I fear my Polly might not have lived,” said Walter, without missing a beat. “I’ve wanted to thank you all these long years.”
“No need,” said the man.
“I never paid you,” said Walter. “For the slime, I mean.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said the man. He stood up then, looked out the window. “I go only where I am needed, do only what needs be done. If I have any wants at all in this world, it is only that people try my pickled slime, and that those who try it are pleased by it. I’ve thought often that virtue is its own reward. After all, isn’t the capacity to do a good deed all which separates man from beast? When I see trouble rearing its ugly head, I think of something I heard a friend say once.” He looked then directly into Walter’s eyes. “‘I like to think we’re defined by how we respond to trouble, not how we come into it.’ They’re wise words, and true. I often think that friend was wiser than he believed himself to be.” He turned back to the window, then. “I’m glad to have been able to come here today. The twilight years are bittersweet, aren’t they?” He made for the exit then, stopping there and turning back to Walter a final time. “Don’t go gently into that cold night, my friend. Thank you for trying my pickled slime.” And with that, he was gone.