The cigarettes In Lahore felt like they were gonna take out a chunk of lung, but Frank LaPiccolo found it kind of exhilarating. Better strong than weak, he supposed.
Frank chewed a pinkie nail.
He never chewed his nails when he sold furniture at Art Van in America, never would have dreamed of doing it.
But he wasn’t selling furniture in LaHore, he was standing alone amongst chrome coffee tables and cyan blue ottomans that nobody here wanted or could afford if they did want it.
Frank said yes to the gig his cousin Stan offered when he was still neck deep in a preach schnapps addiction he developed freshman year at Michigan State and could never let go of.
He tried to tequila his way out of it, went back to schnapps, found himself unemployed when Stan said he was opening Yankee Furnishings in Lahore.
Frank was locked in to the gig when he got out of thirty days at Maplegrove and, far more clearheaded, realized that the furniture store was a 42000 square foot money launder for Stan’s offshore illegal gambling operation in St. Kitt’s.
The neighbors were personally kind to him, but he could tell that they weren’t thrilled with the presence of the garish store, far removed from the glitzier parts of the beautiful city.
Frank stubbed out a two drag cigarette, and decided it couldn’t hurt to take a nap. He hoped this wasn’t the day that one of the neighbors decided to throw a torch in the place and rid themselves of the hi viz sectionals and sleep number mattresses draped in American Flag comforters.
As his eyes closed, the bell on the door jingled for the first time in weeks and he heard squeals that might have been ecstasy or terror.
Google translate didn’t do a very good job with squeals.
He heard a noise that wasn’t a bell nor a suburban woman with a credit card loving the feel of memory foam.
It was the splattiest splat he had ever heard, like if someone vomited a jello mold that hadn’t been chewed.
He saw a pack of young Indian kids–of course they’re Indian, Frank, you’re not in Toledo anymore-running away, squealing louder and jumping in the air as though they had won a cricket tournament.
And next to a 7 piece, black leather Harley Davidson branded sectional set, was what could only be a jellyfish.
Frank was no marine biologist, but the thing writhed in a manner to suggest it was alive.
Other than strong cigarettes and good masala, the one other thing Frank had was a generous petty cash fund. Stan, after all, was trying to get rid of money.
And, technically, Frank told himself, a large aquarium was a home furnishing.
Frank might not sell one damn love seat endorsed by Blake Shelton to any of his Muslim friends in LaHore, but if he could, he was gonna save this jellyfish like Jackie Verdman saved him when she dropped him off at rehab, and he was gonna have a pet.
He spoke “Aquarium shop” into Google Urdu, knelt down, and told the jellyfish, not really knowing if he was telling the truth, that everything was gonna be okay.
***
Author’s Note: I wrote this using parameters from my first session of Keyboard Catharsis at Passenger Recovery. More on that later.
Brilliant. Not sure if it’s the absurdity of/or reverence for life this espouses that I love more.
Again, you put us in that space, wandering if an aquarium will or will not be too late.
Wow, that one was like a quick ride on the Wild Mouse