Dangling Feet at the Big un-Bang: Volume 1, Chapter 9

12 hours ago

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In the groggy morning breath and air, the strangeness of yesterday dissolved into the lingering impression of a vaguely recalled dream—it merged with such a nighttime vision, in fact—so that upon waking, the only concrete thing Desiree remembered was fending off a man who was begging to clip her toenails (while bizarrely, for her part, asking the man if he’d received the proper nursing training in nail care to do so). This jumbled reality only became more confusing as she went downstairs. In the living room, on the gold plate on the coffee table, were three trinkets she’d never seen before: a small jar, a pen, and a harmonica. Three new things that meshed with the illogic of the dream so that waking and sleeping seemed one and the same and nothing made sense in either.

Her attention, however, became caught by a more confounded piece of illogic: it looked like a coiled red rope, under the fake potted plant with bluish-green leaves, against the far mustard-colored wall.

A red dog collar, with no identifiable tags.

The connections became clearer. The hunt for lost Daisy. The lemonade shoebox below the coffee table. The spiral ring from the woman in the broadtail coat. All of it giving Desiree the uneasiness of the man in her dreams begging to clip her toenails. How did it get here? How did the pumpkin-haired man get inside? Or the cosmopolitan lady in pearls? The police said they would look into a man with “hair like a volcano” but were otherwise unhelpful. Desiree did not disclose to them her theory that he may have been a client. She didn’t want the police to know the reason for her having stalkers. And now her mother was going with her friend Barbara after work to buy an “equalizer,” which could mean anything from pepper spray to a gun. Her mother—buying a gun—because apparently someone had discovered Desiree’s identity despite all her anti-black-hat precautions. Now stalkers and their wives and general weirdos were coming to the house. Yesterday became more concrete, and her concerns took on a moral color.

She could tell her mother about her secret side business; that it was the reason Leighann was buying a weapon; and that it may or may not be a real reason for concern.

Or, she could delete everything and stop selling feet pics.

Maybe.

She left the jar, the pen, and the harmonica where she found them on the gold plate. As for the collar, she rolled it tight and dropped it in a little-used drawer of birthday candles and packing tape, along with those dreamlike questions it raised of how exactly did it get here?

At stoplights on the way to work, she scrolled through the price tags of outdoor cameras and home security systems while sipping coffee.

Then she spent most of her break on a heated phone call with a chiropractor’s office over an outstanding bill that Desiree was absolutely certain she paid—she was looking at the bank statement—and which was now going to collections and threatening her still-in-recovery credit score. While she was on hold, a hospital social worker, Sydney, crashed Desiree’s cafeteria table and began working up to her purpose of inviting Desiree on a double date. Despite having different roles in the hospital, they’d been hired around the same time, and bonded over the mutual realization that both their jobs weren’t what they’d imagined. For Sydney, the social worker, the hope had been simple: help people. In reality, she was the hospital’s insurance liaison. For Desiree, the imaginings of being a nurse had involved closer relationships with the patients she cared for. She’d been prepared to clean shit, piss, vomit, blood, wounds, but the reality she underestimated was checking boxes, making phone calls, waiting for phone calls, and needing authorization for something from a doctor she could never find. Shifts were short-staffed with many patients, which required that conversation deviate as little as possible from the questions on the chart, with the primary directive of the hospital being to get a patient out by their departure date, like preparing an order for shipment.

“I found a guy you’ll like,” said Sydney.

Sydney hunted within a niche dating pool (typically sparked by referral calls for hospital patients) comprised of hospice and memory care workers; she’d gone out twice now with the director of a nursing home (Dan), and he had a friend—a blond-haired man in his early thirties, heir to a funeral home—perfect for Desiree.

“He’s an heir,” said Sydney.

“I could never date an heir. Too pampered. There’s documented overlap between heirs and men with diaper fetishes.”

“Dan’s taking me out Friday to see that new war movie and you two should definitely come with.”

“I heard that’s a snuff film.”

“Dan says it’s not. I think the people who died in it were terrorists.”

“I can’t believe they’re showing that in regular theaters.”

“He’s taking me shoe shopping first. If you come, the four of us can go together.”

“Shoe shopping and a snuff movie.”

“And we’ll get food after. He’ll buy you some new shoes.”

“I have too many pairs already and just got another yesterday.” Desiree’s call was still on hold; there was time for digression, and she went into yesterday’s bizarre events, including that which she’d so far kept to herself, saying, “I found the dog collar in my living room.”

“I saw that guy! On the way back from the gym, he looked like he was from a horror movie. He was walking on the highway with like ten cats. It was weird.”

“Hopefully the police pick him up.”

“Do you think the dog is like—somewhere in your house?”

Under a wrinkled forehead, Desiree weighed the possibility—the house hadn’t smelled different that morning; there were no unusual sounds.

“No chance. I would know. Right?”

“Maybe he actually did bury her in your backyard.”

Desiree picked at a fingernail; admittedly, it was a smart idea to check around and under the house after work.

“I would buy a doorbell camera,” said Sydney.

“My mom is buying a weapon.” A woman answered on the other end of Desiree’s call. “Yes, I’m still here. I’m looking at my bank statement now . . .”

As the strangeness of the night and morning further receded from her immediate train of thought, she was back to thinking about the material problem of her finances, compounded by the anxiety of the near-miss credit score crash. Plus the cost of a goddamn doorbell camera. And a burglar alarm. To be paid for by the ongoing rumor of another pay cut . . . to be honest, her new heels in the lemonade shoebox would draw many admirers. She might start with a video of herself from the chest down, never her face, opening the box. A sash from a bathrobe might work for a bow. The last vibrant image from her dream flashed in distorted memory, and she saw the pumpkin-haired man groping to cut her toenails.

Having successfully purchased a weapon, Leighann and Barbara were going out for margaritas. A celebration that Desiree could easily imagine becoming a mishandled fiasco, in which her tipsy mother either blinded herself and Barbara and/or shot the bartender.

She sighed at the decisions life forced her to make and turned into her neighborhood, onto her street. Oddly, five neighbors stood in her yard. Fred and Margaret, the retired married couple. Keith, a lifetime bachelor/worker at the cereal factory. Audrey, the divorced public-school teacher. And Gayle, who had kids in high school and a husband on second shift. As Desiree crept into the driveway, they surrounded her car, practically mugging it and trying to open the locked driver’s door.

“What have you done with our dogs!”

“Margaret, get your hands off my car.”

“Keith saw people walking them into your house. Through the front door!”

“Weird-looking people. Crazy hair. Big coats, dresses, ties.”

“Who are these friends of yours?”

They gave a little space as Desiree opened the door.

“I don’t have anyone’s dog.”

“Three are missing! My beautiful Mousetrap. Keith saw them go into your house! Give them back!”

“I already called my husband. He can come home early any minute, and you don’t want him here.”

“Desiree, if you return Minnow we’ll act like this never happened. We can forget it.”

It was that conflict again between dream and reality.

“I’ve been at work all day,” said Desiree. “I don’t know what any of you are talking about.”

Before a neighbor could respond, there came a bark from inside. Many barks coming together in a harmonic sequence, almost as if the dogs were learning the music scale.

Five neighborly death stares collapsed on Desiree. She returned none and strode straight for the door, for answers, unlocking the door to find two women and a man decked in feathers, leathers, and gems. A missing dog—Mousetrap, Minnow, Luffles—sat before each. Effusive joy seemed to crack smiles and grins across all six of their faces. The flamboyant three in feathers and leathers looked at Desiree with the antsy eagerness of dogs waiting for a treat held high.

“May we see your feet?”

Great.

Next week on Dangling Feet at the Big un-Bang, Desiree faces the tribunal of angry neighbors. Why are their pets inside her house? And who are these dognappers? Find out October 5^th.