Gizmo

The garage sale was winding down. A woman slid unsold children’s clothing from the top of a card table into a black, plastic garbage bag. An old couple, dressed in matching dilapidated tennis whites, loitered at the edge of the drive-way, hoping to score some last minute bargains. Benson, strolling on his doctor’s recommendations, happened by the sale and paused for a moment. A few disheveled and scuffed chairs formed a half-circle on the lawn and there was a stack of paperback books and magazines, some of the reading material withered as if it had retrieved from flood waters. Two forlorn-looking dehumidifiers trailing black power cords stood like plastic tombstones next to the sidewalk.

Benson rummaged among the paperbacks and magazines. He didn’t see anything that interested him. A cardboard box, set apart under the eaves of the house, contained a couple of glass paperweights and the plastic corpse of a pink flamingo. Benson gingerly lifted the flamingo and held it upright. The bird leered at him, the color of Pepto-Bismol. A turquoise fish, flat as a flounder, was caught in the bird’s scimitar-shaped beak. Benson had never seen a pink flamingo lawn ornament equipped with a fish. He beckoned to a man standing nearby. The man was furtively smoking a cigarette that he held in cupped hands over his mouth.

“Is this complete?” Benson asked the man.

“I think so,” he said, exhaling a stream of smoke. He leaned forward and groped in the box, lifting a dusty armature of metal wire. “Here’s the support.”

“I’ve never seen one with a fish in its mouth,” Benson said.

“They’re pretty rare, I guess,” the man replied.

“Where did you get it?” Benson asked.

“Don’t know,” the man said. “There was a young couple related to one of the families running this sale. I don’t know how they were related. But I think they were killed in a crash.”

“A crash?”

“Plane or car, don’t know which,” he said.

Benson bought the flamingo with the fish in its beak for two dollars. He carried his trophy a few blocks to his home. It only took him a few seconds to suspend the bird on its steel-rod frame. Then, Benson stabbed the fork-like end of the frame into the mulch between two beds of blue flowering hydrangeas. The color of the fish trapped in the flamingo’s beak contrasted with the tint of the big, globe-shaped flowers and Benson was pleased by the appearance of the lawn ornament among the blossoms under the white-washed pier of his porch. He moved back to the curb-line and stood there at the edge of the street admiring the flamingo and his flowers. Even his wife, who was usually critical of everything that he did, thought the flamingo was a nice addition to the front yard.

About a week after acquiring the flamingo, Benson was sitting on his porch, reading the newspaper, when he heard a low, breathy whistle. A man wearing a patched leather jacket stood on the sidewalk. A tiny white dog tugged at a leash that the man held from a hand clenched in his pocket. The man blushed and shuffled back and forth where he stood.

“I’m admiring your flamingo,” the man said.

“Thank you.”

“It’s admirable, right?”

“I suppose,” Benson replied. The man looked at him and, then, winked. The wink contorted his other eye into a squint.

“I suppose your wife knows – “ the man said. “Mine does and participates.”

“Oh, yes, she approves,” Benson said.

Benson stood up and folded his newspaper. He stepped down from the porch so that he could inspect the man and his little dog more closely. In turn, the man seemed to cast an appraising eye on Benson. After looking at Benson from head to toe, he stepped forward to shake his hand. The little dog cupped itself around Benson’s shoe and ankle, humping his leg.

“Friendly dog,” Benson said.

“We’re friendly people,” the man said.

The man made some comments about Benson’s shrubbery and praised his lawn care. He said that his name was Anthony. He did not tell Benson the name of his dog.

“So what are you into?” the man asked Benson.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Benson said. It seemed a strange question to him.

“Well, we’re pretty regular people – my wife and I. Kids in High School, you know, so we have to be discrete. We sing in our church choir too. Just like everyone else.”

Benson nodded. Anthony told him that he lived four or five blocks away.

“I haven’t seen you walking your dog,” Benson said.

“I don’t typically come this way,” the man replied. “But I saw your lawn ornament and I thought I had to investigate.”

That evening, Benson mentioned his encounter with Anthony and his little white dog. Benson said that he thought the man was a Mormon or some kind of evangelical Christian. Benson’s wife was skeptical. “It doesn’t sound like that to me,” she said.

Benson asked: “Isn’t the fish, the shape of a fish, a sign for Jesus or something?”

“I guess,” his wife said.

Anthony stopped by several times and hinted that the two couples should get together. He was very friendly and asked Benson what he did to keep in shape. “Tennis,” Benson said. “I suppose you play doubles with your wife,” Anthony said. Benson’s wife came outside and offered Anthony a glass of lemonade. They sat on the porch in the shade. Anthony looked at Benson’s wife approvingly. “Very hot,” he sighed. “It’s humid,” Benson said. “Humid and sticky.”

Three weeks later, after several more meetings, Benson and his wife agreed to have dinner at Anthony’s house. Anthony’s wife was small and dark and she spoke with an accent. “She is a gypsy,” Anthony said. The small woman giggled and went back into the kitchen where she was pan-searing tuna steaks in a garlic-ginger sauce. She wore very tight jeans that seemed to constrict her gait and a blouse with a zipper running down its center, between her breasts.

After eating, Anthony invited them to sit on his redwood deck. Beneath the platform of pinkish cedar, the vat of a hot tub bubbled and a greenish steam stinking of chlorine hovered in the air. Anthony made them strong drinks with vodka and tequila served in tall glasses. After an hour or so, Anthony went inside to go to the bathroom and returned wearing a cashmere bathrobe. He said that they should relax in the hot tub. “We don’t have bathing suits,” Benson said. “We’ll figure something out,” Anthony replied. He reached into his pocket and displayed a fat, neatly rolled joint. “Smoke?” he asked. “I haven’t done that for years,” Benson said. Anthony lit the marijuana and took a hit. Benson followed his example. Benson’s wife shook her head and declined. Anthony’s wife also passed the joint back to Anthony without taking a hit. “It makes me crazy,” she said. “I’m already pretty crazy, but this makes me even crazier.” Her blouse was half-way unzipped.

They talked about sports: professional football and, also, the fortunes of the local high school team. The little dog stood behind the sliding screen door in the kitchen looking at the two couples inquisitively. Benson’s wife said she was tired and that it was time to go home. “Oh...not so soon,” Anthony’s wife said. Anthony asked Benson: “Do you play chess?” “Sometimes, but not too well,” Benson told him.

Anthony’s wife lit some aromatic candles and a small magnetic chessboard materialized. Anthony challenged Benson to a game. His bathrobe had fallen open. Some light bulbs hidden under the roiling waters of the hot tub cast writhing reflections upward onto the deck and white aluminum awning overhead. Anthony’s wife went into the house and the little dog escaped, dancing across the lawn and yapping at them.

Benson was drunk and found it hard to concentrate on the chess game. Anthony moved the pieces quickly, scarcely glancing at the board. The chlorine fog seemed to have entered his eyes and Benson rubbed at them but this didn’t help him to see more clearly. Anthony’s wife hovered nearby, wearing a bathrobe herself that periodically slipped from her slender, moist-looking shoulders. Benson’s wife said that she had a headache and that it was late and that they had to leave.

Benson blundered. It didn’t matter to him; he was anxious for the game to end. Anthony reached down and lifted his Queen. He turned it sideways and tapped the crown of his Queen against the crown of Benson’s Queen. “My Queen takes your Queen,” Anthony said. His wife reached across the table and touched Benson’s wife on the side of her throat.

“We have to go,” Benson’s wife said. She stood up and shook her head vigorously, as if to cast off the other woman’s touch. Then, she bustled toward the door.

“Someone’s not entirely on board,” Anthony said. Mrs. Anthony looked indignant. She clutched her robe tightly across her sternum.

Benson’s wife went outside toward their car. Benson stood at the front door with Anthony and his wife. The little dog pranced in circles and growled at Benson’s ankle.

“That wasn’t cool, dude,” Anthony said in a low whisper.

“What do you mean?”

“You shouldn’t advertise if you’re not willing to do business,” Anthony said.

“Advertise?”

“You know what I mean. You’re making us feel downright unattractive. And that’s not fair, dude. We’re very attractive. Exceedingly attractive.” – he illustrated the point by tapping his wife’s breast. “You shouldn’t make us feel undesirable. That’s not fair at all.”

“I’m tired,” Mrs. Anthony said. She turned on her heel and vanished into the house.

In the car, Benson’s wife said: “What the hell was that all about?”

“I don’t know,” Benson said. “I don’t know. A misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding my ass,” Benson’s wife said.


A week later, a man stopped Benson as he was walking from the gas pumps into the C-Store a block from his house. The man was small and wiry. He had a scarf looped around his throat.

“Are you the guy with the watchamacallit?” the small man asked. He looked strong, as if he lifted weights to build his endurance. “I don’t know what you mean?” Benson said. “I’ve got some photos I can send you,” the small man said. “If you like what you see, you should give us a call.” The small man took out checkbook and said he would write a note as to Benson’s email. Benson shrugged.

“It’s a misunderstanding,” Benson said.

“I don’t think so,” the small man said. “But I can take a hint. I’m adult. I can take a hint.”

The short man returned to the side of his car and kicked the tires. Benson went into the gas station and paid for his fuel and, when he walked back to his vehicle, the small man was driving away from the store.

At home, Benson walked around the side of his house, scrutinizing the structure. He examined the siding on his home and the pitch of the roof and, above the gutters, the shingles marching in orderly ranks up to the ridgeline. The storm windows seemed sound. He looked at the lawn ornament of the pink flamingo with the fish in its beak. Fallen leaves cluttered the lawn beneath the ornament. Benson approached the flamingo and gently tugged on the bird’s sinuous plastic neck. The lawn ornament was well-anchored in the turf. As he stepped away from it, the flamingo holding the fish in its mouth bobbed slightly, beckoning to him.

During the next month, there were a few mysterious phone calls, late, after midnight. Mostly, when Benson picked up the phone, the line was silent. Once, he thought he heard someone breathing, but, perhaps, that was the wind soughing in the trees outside his bedroom window. A voice muttered something to him on the last call. The person speaking sounded very drunk and Benson couldn’t understand what was said. The next day, Benson told his wife that the phone was too expensive, a luxury, and that he was going to have it disconnected: “After all, we both have cell-phones,” he said. “What prompts this decision?” she asked. “Economy,” Benson said. “Thrift.”

After the first snow, Benson found footprints leading up to several of his windows – at least, that’s how he interpreted the scuffle of marks in the fresh-fallen snow. Someone left a torn valentine threaded onto the thorns of a bush next to the pink fish-eating flamingo. Benson clawed the valentine off the branch, read it to himself, and, then, went down the alley throw it in the garbage. On the way, the two photographs slipped into the card fluttered out and fell onto the ice and slush in the alleyway. The pictures showed genitals, brownish and shaggy as a landscape in an old Chinese painting. After shredding the snapshots, Benson went to his front lawn and tried to uproot the pink flamingo. It seemed to be embedded in ice. At least that was Benson’s impression, but he didn’t try very hard to pull the steel stake supporting the flamingo from the snowy frozen earth.

That night, a young woman knocked on Benson’s door. At first, he thought that she was trying to sell him something. The girl was plain, a shriveled-looking face with straight stringy hair. She was wearing a tattered leather coat and had been crying – her mascara was smeared and bruise-colored streaks of make-up colored her high, bony cheeks. The girl’s breath smelled of alcohol and she was unsteady on her high heels.

“We have car trouble,” the girl said. “Trouble and we saw that...that thing...so we...”

“Car trouble?” Benson asked.

Benson’s wife came from the kitchen and stood watching in the entryway. She was cooking something in the crock pot and the air in the house smelled of garlic and rendering fat.

“What is it?” Benson’s wife asked.

“She says she has car trouble,” Benson said.

“Does she need to use a phone?”

Benson repeated those words to the young woman. Her eyes narrowed to slits and she shook her head. “Can you come out to the car?” the young woman asked.

“For heaven’s sake,” Benson’s wife said. She went back into the kitchen.

Benson went outside, not bothering to put on a coat. It was dark and windy and the streets were empty. A big car was parked crookedly along the curb, leaking white steam from its tailpipe. Benson saw a bulbous shadow hunched over the steering wheel. The window on the passenger side made a noise like someone clearing his throat and, then, descended six inches. Benson could smell cigarette smoke.

“She wants to play,” someone said inside the car. The girl stood on the cold sidewalk wobbling back and forth. She seemed to have something wrong with one of her shoulders and held an arm tucked tight against her body.

“This is a misunderstanding,” Benson said.

“Isn’t your wife in a playful mood?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Benson said. “This is a misunderstanding of some kind.”

“You’ve got that gewgaw, that thing...I saw it driving by.”

“It’s nothing. It’s no message of any kind.”

“It’s not nothing,” the voice said from inside the car.

The girl whined: “It’s cold out here.”

“Shut your mouth,” the voice said from the car.

“But it’s cold,” the girl said.

The voice in the car was insistent: “We don’t need your wife. Why don’t you just come with us? We can make do.”

“I’m going inside now,” Benson said.

“You don’t like her?”

“She’s fine I guess,” Benson said.

The girl began to cry. She moved to block his passage back to the house, standing astride the sidewalk. But Benson pushed past her.

A blizzard came from Montana and the schools were closed. The wind howled in the eaves of the house. Benson felt the impact of the wind on his walls and sensed the ceilings flexing as the storm pounded against his home. Whenever, he looked out the window, Benson saw white avalanches falling from above, sheets of snow that swooped downward but never reached the ground because the wind caught the flakes and blasted them upward into the dark, roaring sky. His wife had gone to bed and Benson sat at the table, peering into his laptop. In the morning, he had an appointment eighty miles away and he wondered whether the highways would be open for travel. The doors and windows rattled in the walls. It seemed as if the blizzard were trying the locks, attempting entry into the warm, well-lit rooms within the house.

A bell sounded in his computer. An email was lodged in the machine. Benson opened his electronic mail site. Someone named Sharpey5 had sent him a message. The text read: “It’s 2 cold 2 be alone. We need 2 make some friction 2 warm us up. My missus is playful 2nite is yers?” Benson sent a message asking where Sharpey5 was located: “I think you have misunderstood something,” Benson typed. Sharpey5 said that he was staying at the Holiday Inn two miles away, stranded because of the storm. Benson replied: “My wife doesn’t play. Sorry.” Sharpey5 replied: “Okay. Neither does my missus. How about you and me get 2gether?” Benson wrote back: “Maybe, I suppose.”

The air was turbulent and howled between the houses and garages entrapping the narrow alleyway. Benson found that the streets were mostly barren, fields of greyish ice, all the snow scooped away by the wind and hurled into the trees and hedges in the lawns. He stopped at the C-store and bought a pack of cigarettes and, then, sitting in his car tried to call his wife on his cell-phone. She didn’t answer. Benson drove to the Holiday Inn. The parking lot was empty except for a couple of pick-up trucks and an SUV with Idaho license plates. The impact of the wind made the parked vehicles rock a little on their axles. Through the glass door into the lobby, Benson could see the desk clerk, a blonde girl, vacantly watching a TV located in the bar across the foyer.

Benson hadn’t smoked a cigarette for ten years. He lit one, puffed on it for awhile and, then, drove back to his house and parked his car in his garage. He walked to the garbage can and put the pack of cigarettes in the trash. The roof of the house was like a wet dog that shakes its shoulders and haunches to dry itself: snow shuddered down from above. Inside, Benson went to his email account to delete the correspondence with Sharpey5 but couldn’t find any messages. Puzzled, he went to bed. “I tried to call you,” Benson said to his sleeping wife. “Why?” she said. “I don’t know,” Benson replied. “When?” she asked. “I don’t know,” Benson said again.

After a few days, the roads cleared enough for travel. Benson went into his front lawn to uproot the fish-eating flamingo. He seized the steel stake between his gloved hands and, taking a deep breath, pull upward as hard as he could. To his surprise, the stake was not as firmly fixed in the frozen soil as he had expected and Benson’s deperate yank propelled him backward so that he landed in the bush nearby, among the stabbing thorns where the obscene valentine had been pinned. Benson stood up with the flamingo in his hands, snow covering his backside and thorns clutching and clawing at this thighs and ankles. He threw the lawn ornament in the backseat of his car and drove out on the freeway, away from the town to a place of immense cold skies and cold winds rasping across the barren fields.

At the first rest stop, Benson stopped. He took the lawn ornament from his backseat, looked around furtively, and, then, shoved the thing into a wastebasket next to the sidewalk leading into the toilets. He felt light-headed, dizzy as if he had narrowly evaded a bad fall on the ice or a head-on collision and so he went into the rest room and sat in a stall for few moments, head down and eyes closed. Then, he walked back to his car.

A trucker wearing a hooded sweatshirt over his baseball cap stood next to the wastebasket, scrutinizing the pink flamingo with the brightly colored fish in its beak. The attendant had shoveled the sidewalk and so the walkway was a shallow trench in which the men were standing.

“What is this gizmo?” the trucker said, nodding to Benson. “I wonder why someone would throw it away,” the trucker said. Benson looked away to the palisade of grey, bare trees sheltering the rest stop from the icy wind. He shrugged.

The trucker pulled the lawn ornament from the barrel and inspected it. “It’s a weird-looking gizmo,” the trucker said. “It sure is,” Benson said. Cradling the flamingo with the fish in its beak in his arms, the trucker hustled back to his semi. The trucks were idling and white puffy clouds of exhaust rose between the vehicles.