Going Bovine

Going Bovine Page 84

“Here,” I say, blotting him dry. I can’t believe I’m toweling off a yard gnome. He’s still damp but better than he was.

“Thank you,” he says. “You’re most kind.”

No one has ever called me kind. Selfish. Weird. Unreliable. Frustrating. But not kind. I’m not sure what to say.

“You’re welcome.”

A handful of guys push through the screen door and congregate by the window air conditioner unit, where I know they can’t hear us.

“How have you come to be here in this place? What trick of fate has allowed our meeting?” Balder asks.

I shrug. “Somebody invited me to a party. Now I don’t know how to get back to the motel.”

“You have money?”

“Not much,” I say.

“Hmmm. Well, I wouldn’t ordinarily advocate stealing,” he muses. “But the idiot who lives here keeps his drug money in a jar under his bed.”

“I don’t know. Carbine looks like he could kill me without even breathing heavy. I don’t think I want to tangle with him.”

“I’ll do it,” the gnome says.

“I’m not trying to insult you, but how exactly can you do that?”

“I am bound to the one who owns me, taking whatever form they deem necessary. If you take ownership, I am pledged to you. You can grant me the use of all my faculties.”

“Okay,” I say. “What do I do?”

“Place your hand over my heart, and say what words form in your own.”

I put my hand on his chest. It’s cold, wet, and ceramic, and I feel like an A-1 ass**le. “I, Cameron Smith, do grant this yard gnome slash possible misplaced Viking god, Balder, use of all his faculties to use as he sees fit. And stuff.”

Immediately, there’s a thump against my hand, followed by another, a clear heartbeat growing stronger, and Balder’s chest warms. The painted coating bubbles up, dissolves, and is sucked into his pores. Sun-bronzed flesh emerges in its place. His beard softens; tendrils of it touch the collar of his chain mail, making him look like an eccentric guitarist for some Texas blues band. His cheeks blaze red, and his painted-on smile morphs into a very real, very wide smile. Those gray-blue eyes twinkle with wonder, and two thin streams of tears trickle down his red cheeks and disappear into his thick beard. The yard gnome is as alive as I am.

“Holy freakin’ Ragnarok!” I gasp.

“Noble Cameron, I am forever indebted to you,” he says with a little stiff bow. He wipes his face dry. Mischief glints in his eyes. “Now, to help you. Carbine’s bedroom window is around the side of the house to my right. If you will give me what you call a boost, I shall crawl in, plunder, and return with the money. It would be best if you were to carry me past the others, allowing me to ‘play dead,’ so as not to arouse their suspicions. Let us make haste.”

As a kid, I imagined lots of different scenarios for my life. I would be an astronaut. Maybe a cartoonist. A famous explorer or rock star. Never once did I see myself standing under the window of a house belonging to some druggie named Carbine, waiting for his yard gnome to steal his stash so I could get a cab back to a cheap motel where my friend, a neurotic, death-obsessed dwarf, was waiting for me so we could get on the road to an undefined place and a mysterious Dr. X, who would cure me of mad cow disease and stop a band of dark energy from destroying the universe.

Five minutes after I’ve helped him in, the gnome appears at the window again, a big wad of crumpled bills in his hand. “I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty yet. Grab my legs!” he whisper-shouts. I pull him to safety and he presses the bills into my hand. “I took the whole of it, three thousand dollars, just to be sure.”

“Whoa.” I can’t stop staring at all that green.

“Quickly,” Balder admonishes.

I shove the bills deep into my pockets. “I feel kind of bad taking this.”

“Don’t,” the gnome says. He wobbles on shaky legs toward the yard. “His wealth is ill-gotten. And once he dressed me as a ‘Hootchie Mama’ and posted Internet pictures on a fetish site called Naughty Gnomes. I cannot adequately convey the trauma of it. Now. The telephone is in the living room by the TV. I’ve seen cabs here before—County Cab, 1-800-333-1111. When you’ve been taken hostage as much as I have, it helps to pay attention.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome.”

After I make the call, I come out to find the guys who were smoking the J now crowded around Balder. “Hey, man, I’ll bet this little guy would make a good football or target practice.”