The Toilet Paper Caper: Chapter 2
A Stark Mystery
Time spent not drinking is time wasted. The best way to start a case is by finding the bottom of a glass. I caught the tail end of a marble race in a dirt track on the TV above the bar while I sipped my gin and told a cigar every dirty secret I’ve kept pent up for the past few decades — the cigar sizzled as it listened, but the memories I spewed into it turned it sour, wet with despair. A good cigar is cheaper than a shrink, a great cigar is twice as much.
“Finish it up, Stark,” chimed the barkeep turned cook. The door swung shut behind him as he returned to his work in the kitchen. He had a pot of chili simmering in the back before I walked in. He was polishing a glass behind the counter when he rolled his eyes and told me to take a seat. He poured me my gin and snagged me my go-to stogie from the glass showcase beside the red topped liquor bottles then returned to his duty in back.
I swirled the drink around in my hand for a bit before placing it back down on the coaster. The coaster had rings from a few rounds before me soaked into the cardboard. They were reusing them. Even the coasters weren’t safe from this pandemic, was nothing sacred?
When he emerged from the kitchen he had my order in a bag. I wasn’t in the mood for chili, but it was the only way to score a drink. The place was shut down aside from to-go orders. It wasn’t even noon yet and I was already breaking the rules.
“Next time call ahead,” said the drink slinging chef.
“I don’t know the number,” I replied.
“It’s on the door right outside.”
“If I’m right outside I may as well come in.”
He turned his back to me and printed off my bill. Before he could place it on the counter the phone rang, he walked over to answer it and crumpled the check up into a ball and tossed it over to me. I unfolded it and scoffed. Six bucks for a glass of gin, eight for the cigar, and five for the chili.
“This chili better not have a kick to it,” I said as I sank my hand into my coat’s inner pocket. “Ever been to Coney Island?” He put his finger to his lips in an effort to shut me up. “Well, if you do ever go take it easy on the foot-longs. If the whole world found out about them then their really would be a need for this toilet paper crisis. Mind if I use the restroom?”
He put his hand over the phone’s receiver. “It’s to your left, but there’s no toilet paper.”
“Of course there isn’t. Hope you don’t get hungry and decide to sample the chili. I’ll pay and head out.”
The laundromat down the street was closed, but I was prepared nonetheless. I pulled three roles of quarters out of my coat’s inner pocket and peeled them open, then splayed the contents onto the smeared ink of the check. The barkeep was good, but my tab was nowhere near a Ben Frank and that’s all the paper I had. With some luck he’d walk out with a jingling pocket at the end of the night and discover something new about lightning, end up with a crinkled green face himself.
The toilet paper was running off the shelves. Literally? Wouldn’t doubt it. Kansas sent me through the ringer, the world was busted wide open. I pulled a granny smith from my coat’s inner pocket and sank my teeth into it as I power walked back to my office. The tart apple slushed around in my mouth as I picked at a piece of green skin stuck between my front teeth with my tongue.
Walking and talking toilet paper wouldn’t surprise me in the least. The rolls would come to life and sneak by the paper towels and baby wipes when the customers had their backs turned. Where would they go? Was there a safe haven for soft tissue? Was Whipple really more than just a happy face on the side of a two-ply?
The gold carrying mystery man that’d visited my office told me I’d have to go back to the beginning. Back to where it all started. I was given a bottomless pocket to find my way, but I already had one of those inside my coat. How was I going to travel back in time? Was someone just going to show up out of the blue and send me on my way? I yanked my key out of my coat’s inner pocket and sank it into the hole. I stepped into my office, placed the chili on the futon, and hung my coat up on the doorknob.
Something didn’t smell right. My place wasn’t the Ritz but I knew how to work a can of deodorant. I pulled my tie off my neck as I investigated the claustrophobic office space. The smell wasn’t coming from my desk, or the microwave kitchen — it was coming from the bathroom.
Continues in Chapter 3:
Previous Chapters:
Looking forward to where P.G. Barnett takes this next!
Thanks to Terrye Turpin for starting this caper!
