Ewie: Chapter 4

Ewie trudged through the neighborhood of minivans and one or two old rusting tan station wagons, thinking about the explosion, wondering about the Charlitan trivets that were once in abundance there. They were all over the floor, in mirrored glass cases, and on shelving built for trinkets, but not trivets. Oh what a place to pass a couple of blasè hours on a Tuesday afternoon. He smiled to himself remembering the old times.

Crossing the parking lot and the lawn, he picked up the evening newspaper which was soaked by the maintenance man's hose, and tossed it in the trash as he walked by the side of the building. Stucco pink walls - a great combination for the grass geckos at night. They would hang on the walls with their long toenails by the area lights, hoping to catch insects. You could see them from a mile away but they thought they were invisible so they were happy. Ignorance is bliss in a reptile's world.

He climbed up the black iron stairs to the third floor and walked down the passageway to his apartment. He knew as soon as he opened the door that something was wrong. Amiss. Home was home, but it didn't feel like it. There was a tinny, hot smell in the day-long stale air, not unlike an overheated pair of cheap oily denims, but not like a burning pile of cat hair either.

He turned around and saw one of the many framed pictures on the wall of the entryway was slightly turned.

He though, "That's odd."

Wiping the dust off the top edge he corrected the angle, and then dropped low, digging the hunting knife out of his left sock sheath. Sliding on the rug across the reflective pinewood floor he rolled back to his feet, catching his balance as he jumped into the kitchen. The tile stopped his slide and he stopped next to the pantry.

"Hah!" he shouted, and with one finger he flipped on the light.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a mouse, an elderly rabbi, or even a milky red-breasted eggwarbler was to be found (he had once seen an eggwarbler on a sojourn to the south of Greece, in a tree by the white sand beach near his holiday bungalow).

"Where's that smell coming from," he asked himself with a furrowed brow.

"Maybe the fridge is on the fritz again. Yah that's gotta be it. Call the office, that's all I ever do. They must have a hundred work orders from me so far."

Walking into the living room he fell into his recliner. Grabbed the remote he clicked towards the tv.

"Two unidentified individuals died today in a late afternoon explosion off 11th and Hornwall," the six o'clock news reporter said, as the screen faded into a blurry image. "The explosion is still under investigation and we will bring you more as we get more information."

"Wow," Ewie said. "I wonder if it was anyone I know."

A muffled shrill version of "Bolero" made him jump, and he had to dig the phone out of the chair cushions to answer it.

"Yah, hello?" he yelled into the receiver.

"Ewie Dowel, it's Sharon Tweed. I'm taking your account from Cassandra. I need you to update your information for when we need to contact you for clown jobs. Do you have time now?" said the voice on the phone.

"Uh, no, uh, this ain't a great time. I mean, I can do it tomorrow or something. That's better. Is that ok with you?" Ewie said.

"Ok, but you have to understand that until you do I can't book you for international conferences and diplomatic events. Those have to be cleared through the government and it takes weeks to get approval from the Feds. You know. Red tape. All that."

"Tomorrow I'll call you. First thing. After I brush my teeth. I will call. What's the number there?" Ewie asked, grabbing an old receipt and an ink pen.

"555-2019, extension 456. Call before 10:00am or we won't be able to get your information into the system before the end of the business day," the voice said.

"Ok I will. First thing. I will have my paperwork with me so I can get it all squared away."

"Thank you Ewie. Goodbye." The voice hung up.

"One more thing to hassle with tomorrow. God," he said as he closed his eyes and put his hands over them. His stomach started to grumble and he started thinking about a rye maple turkey sandwich with mustard and pickles.

"Maybe some horseradish on the side too," he though with a smile.

"Cho won't want anything to do with me after that sandwich!" he laughed.

"Gothic breath totally. Medieval even!"

That made him smile even more broadly, but then thinking back about the explosion erased his smile and dug sweaty wrinkles into his forehead. He remembered who he had known from those trivet days years ago.

"Oh freakin' no! I hope she wasn't one of the ones killed!" he thought.

He wanted to bust into tears, but he fought them back forcing himself to think that they were probably some vagrants or other wastes of humanity camped out in the buildings.

"Shit I hope so," he said shaking his head.