and so the prompt piece grew...and grew...and may still grow a tiny bit more...
“I made a wish on a star. That is pretty much how it started I guess.” The group stared, eyes glazed. They’d heard it all before. Pinocchio wasn’t sure exactly how many times he’d have to tell his story; how many times he’d have to justify the fact of his failures. But apparently the therapist felt this form of torture - repeated self revelation - was helpful.
“So tell us, Pinocchio…what happened the first time you got drunk?”
“Well, I was about fourteen. I screwed up the assignment in woodshop - I am sorry, but it felt like murder or cannibalism, ya’ know, my whole wooden boy past and all - and I’d…”
“Oh please. Enough. Can’t we talk about me for a change?” Cinderella fussed with her skirt, a pricey number just recently featured on some red carpet special. She tried to smile, but after so many Botox injections, her face was frozen in something that more resembled shock and awe than happy.
Doc pushed his glasses down his nose, looking over the gold rims toward the Princess. He tapped his pen against a pad of paper, on which he took copious notes throughout the session. For what, Pinocchio had no idea. “Cindy, keep in mind, this is a group session, not a me-session.”
Cinderella huffed, and tugged at her waistline. After Prince Charming demanded an heir, she could bleat for the whole hour about her once tiny midsection that had ballooned out to a giant size 1. “Fine, whatever. But I’m next.”
Doc coughed, a deep gravelly sound that seemed too low for his tiny body. Pinocchio knew he was the only dwarf to resurface after Snow White abandoned their cottage in the woods. All seven enjoyed the glitz and glamour provided by the paparazzi after the Prince woke Snow. But as the lights faded, so did the possibilities. One by one the dwarves fell into obscurity. According to a recent news report, Grumpy was on trial for a rather messy road rage incident involving a mine cart and a ripe honeydew melon. And with the added exception of Bashful, who now regularly hawked self help books on late night info-mercials, they’d been all but forgotten.
Pinocchio sighed. “I don’t really feel like talking. Can’t we move onto someone else?” Seeing Cinderella’s sharp movement, he added, “I mean, someone other than her royal-narcissist.”
“Name calling isn’t necessary. We do have someone who is fairly new here,” she paused turning to the tin man, “Rusty? Would you like a chance to talk to the group.”
Pinocchio let his mind wander as the metal man droned on about his self image issues and oil dependence. He was sure the tale would eventually get around to Dorothy or the fact that she seemed love the others best. Rusty may be new, but his story certainly wasn’t anything out of the group-session ordinary.
His thoughts pressed on to Gertrude, who was probably wondering where Pinocchio was about now. She didn’t agree with the group therapist’s demand for more than one session a week, especially since it meant less time to work and bring in more money. And Gertrude’s only talents seemed to be spending money and complaining about the lack of money.
Group finally adjourned, the finale of the session being a near catfight between Cinderella and her crack-addicted wicked step sister over a pair of Prada sling back sandals.
He started his usual stroll toward the docks…half hoping for a glimpse of the whale, and envisioning the leap into his mouth. Suicide by mammal. At least he’d pull in a little cash on the talk show circuit if the creature managed to cough him up yet again. But at the thought of the endless queries and sad eyes while embellishing for the Montells and Oprahs of the world, the idea of bathing himself in chum before leaping into the water crossed his mind. Make sure the fish got the job done this time.
His brain worked the possibilities, overlaying death across the life ahead. Weighing the pros and cons, he walked the path toward home.
“Where have you been?” Gertrude’s voice was raspy, the product of a few too many cigarettes.
Pinocchio shuffled over the threshold, chin tucked toward his chest. With one hand, he scratched the back of his neck. Thinking. Knowing the answer was key. To set her off would mean a rant that lasted the evening, and he was too tired and too depressed to pay attention. And not to pay attention resulted in Gertrude’s wrath part 2 - the occasional flying object.
He chose to ignore the question, and act concerned. “Are you okay, dear? You sound tired?”
It was the wrong choice. Gertrude came around the counter faster than anyone her size should move. Pinocchio remembered the high school science projects about mass and inertia.
“Am I okay? Am I Okay?” She halted just inches in front of him, poking a sausage sized finger toward his chest. “Gee. Why wouldn’t I be okay?” She turned toward the stove, her massive backside bouncing under a floral housedress. Apron strings tied too tightly provided the only discernable waistline. “I work, cook, clean, and for what? So you can moan and whine with that group of tales you call group therapy?”
He relaxed somewhat when he heard the world “tales,” the shortened version of fairy tales. If she was really angry, the group was referred to as f-ing tales, or simply, f-ing fairies.
He watched as she moved from stove to counter, ladling her version of dinner into a chipped ceramic bowl. Her ankles had somehow disappeared over the years, and now it looked as if her legs continued to pour large mounds of flesh directly into her shoes.
Seeing her turn, he tucked his chin once more. “We have to talk.”
“Oh? Mister sensitive has to talk now? Sit for an hour with that clan and now you have to talk? Where was all the talk before? When things were good? Oh…I remember your talk then. Talk of love and forever.” The bowl slid into his view, a broth soup with unidentifiable contents that shrank toward the darkness at the bottom of the dish. He didn’t blame them.
“Gertrude…” he tried to interrupt.
She slammed a spoon onto the table. “Yes. Love and forever. But how was I to know that love and forever were former-wooden-boy words for heartache, mess, and a never-ending stream of woes. Not to mention limited finances, and off brand everything. Oh what I wouldn’t give for…oh…never mind. I forget. You just don’t care. You just sit and eat and pretend the world is pretty.”
“I want to sell the shop.”
She stopped. Frozen for just a moment. Pinocchio steeled himself for the next attack. But, when no movement occurred, and no words followed, he dared look up. Gertrude stood, her mouth crooked, eyes wide. Her hand still gripped the ladle, and he knew it would probably meet the side of his head, swiftly and painfully, and soon.
He stammered. “I mean, Gertrude, its just that I know I am meant for more. I know there must be something out there for me. The therapist said that it was…” he paused, shifting his eyes sideways.
For a moment, he wondered if he had really said a word. Maybe he was mouthing it and words just hadn’t really formed or crossed his vocal chords.
Then, she fell. Like some giant heap of flesh colored gelatin, she wobbled then collapsed. Again, the science mass and inertia crossed his mind, but this time with more urgency; a definite warning synapse from the every part of his brain. Pinocchio tried to move, not so much to catch her as to avoid the impact. But he wasn’t quick enough. The chair leg rocked against a crack in the tile floor, anchoring him in place. Pinocchio prayed, and then held his breath as the ladle skittered across the floor.
The force with which Gertrude’s body met Pinocchio’s caused the chair to break apart and the couple met the ground with no small amount of energy. In fact, Pinocchio wondered for a moment if they’d continue through the floor, through the earth, through to whatever was on the other side of the earth. Of course, if they resurfaced, he’d be on top and, perhaps, alive.
They remained in the house, though, and as the fat of her body melted around him he turned again to thoughts of suicide. Spit up by a whale would be less embarrassing than being smothered to death by a large wife. He tried to wriggle from underneath, pushing his face between her shoulder and neck, gulping air. He wondered if this was what a baby felt at the moment of birth.
Pinocchio tried to cry out. But the word “help” started with a definitive puff of breath…breath he simply could not draw into his lungs. Panic set in.
His right arm, the only limb completely free of Gertrude, stretched outward. He rocked his wrist from side to side, in an effort to find anything helpful. His fingertips touched the ladle, which skipped away and rocked, its metallic sing-song noise chirped faster, then slower, then silent. To the left, more carefully now, his fingers landed on something that felt like wood. He shivered, realizing that only personal knowledge could allow him to identify the leg of the chair more quickly. His oxygen deprived brain allowed Pinocchio to believe that this object could be of help somehow. He grabbed it and wrapped his hand tightly around the thicker part; his thumb met his middle finger and pressed down. He imagined his hand curled around the leg, imagined that it would somehow turn and poke at Gertrude, wake her or maybe work as a jack, heaving her upward enough for him to slide out from underneath.
But his hopes diminished, as his vision faded and his breathing became more shallow. He could not push his chest upward against her ampleness. He resigned himself to death. To the end. Only slightly less embarrassing than being coughed up by a whale. Slightly.
Somewhere in the distance, or maybe inches away - he could no longer tell, he heard a noise. The ear that was pressed into Gertrude’s armpit caught some muffled sound. Motion, shifting, grunting, and then sweet, sweet air. It came in such a rush, his body re-inflated by much needed oxygen.
“Thank you. Thank you.” He tried to raise himself up, only a little confused as to why helpful hands did not meet his own outstretched members. One eye squinted open, and he noticed the horrified look on the face of the man who saved his life. “I’m okay. Its okay.” Pinocchio held his hand to his chest, trying to assure him. But his face remained aghast…and focused only on the hand…the hand clutching the leg of a chair.
Awareness crashed through Pinocchio’s newly oxygenated brain. “Oh! No. Its not what you think!” He uncurled his fist, and the leg clattered to the ground. The noise brought to mind a moment as a child, still in wooden boy stage. Pinocchio had a bad fall down the stairs, the sound more like a strike against bowling pins than a small child tumbling to the floor. Pinocchio’s leg was nicked; a huge gash splintered outward, looking as though someone hacked the wood with a tiny axe. Gepetto lovingly sanded the wound, rubbing it to a shiny, smooth texture, blowing the dust into the bin with all the other wood shavings. Pinocchio hadn’t felt a thing, and at that young age wondered why other little boys cried when their own legs were scraped or scuffed.
His vision was still a little bit hazy, things swimming in and out of view, but with increasingly stronger color.
The man was his neighbor Jack Sprat, the owner and operator of “Chez Sprat,” a vegetarian café and cappuccino shop. Jack knelt next to Gertrude, a woman whose idea of a vegetable was bacon wrapped in more bacon. Pinocchio couldn’t help smile weakly at the thought of the two of them together.
In the doorway stood a second man. Pinocchio recognized him as Hugo Spaghettio, a shady underworld character known to most as “The Muffin Man.” He’d heard the rumors of Jack Sprat’s association with the mob, but no one really had proof. The Muffin Man was a pretty low character, but always managed to elude prosecution and those who might know something generally vanished. Pinocchio avoided direct eye contact.
Jack patted Gertrude’s face and checked her pulse. Pinocchio struggled to raise himself to a seated position. “She’s alive!” Jack leaned in to listen for breath, while shaking her arm; the fat wobbled and slapped against the floor.
Pinocchio pressed his feet against the ground in an attempt to stand, but Jack reached over and pushed him backward. As if on some strangely unbalanced teeter-totter, the minute Pinocchio hit the floor Gertrude popped up and coughed. What appeared to be an entire sausage link whizzed past Pinocchio’s head at an alarming speed.
“Oh. Oh my.” She coughed; her voice was hoarse. “What happened?”
With a suspicious glance toward Pinocchio, Jack rested on his knees. “It seems you were choking.”
“And you saved me? Oh, gracious. Dear Lord. Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would have done without you.” Her voice grew more clear, its sharp edge returned. She reached over to shove Pinocchio’s leg. “A lot good you were.”
Pinocchio dropped his chin. No need to fan the flame.
Jack rose and tried to assist Gertrude to her feet. With each pull, however, gravity fought harder. Gertrude struggled, snorted, and fussed while Jack tugged and groaned. Persistence eventually paid off, and Gertrude managed to stand for just a moment before crashing down once more. Jack tut-tutted, and promised to return shortly with more help, and maybe a nice buttery croissant. The latter seemed to perk up Gertrude’s attitude immensely.
When the door clicked solidly shut, Gertrude turned toward her husband, squinting, pushing her face out of its round, fatty frame. “I’m sick of this nonsense.” She leaned against the table, looming large over Pinocchio. “You nearly killed me here, you know. Giving me such a shock. You listen to me, Pinocchio. You’ll, you’ll….”
Pinocchio rose to his feet. “I’ll what? Be miserable? Be depressed? Wake up wanting to die? You’ve already fed me that stew, thank you very much.”
He reached for the door, still unsteady on his feet. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“Later?” The shriek ended in another cough. “Get back here you lousy, no good…”
The door slammed behind him as he moved down the street toward the wharf. Pinocchio walked the streets, unaware of time or distance.
Night fell. The little town threw its light down to the narrow stone walkway that girded the pier. The water that splashed upward glazed the path making the trek somewhat treacherous to those who were not familiar.
“Hey…boy.” Pinocchio turned to see her, huddled against the wall. “Gotta light?”
“Oh…Geez. Rapunzel.” He sighed. “And you know I don’t smoke and definitely don’t carry matches. Habit from childhood. What are you doin’ out here so late?”
She pushed her bangs away from her forehead. “Whaddya think big guy? You know the tales. Cut your hair, sell your soul.” Her speech slurred. Pinocchio noticed the bottle, tipped sideways near her feet. “All the Lords and Ladies, rescues and happy endings.” Louder, she swung her arm outward, nearly losing her balance. “Happily ever after. Happy, happy, happy…” She pressed her lips tightly with each “p,” sending a tiny spray of spit from chapped lips.
Contrary to the watercolor portrayals, Rapunzel’s hair was not shiny and full post lock-partum. In fact, it never grew after the witch hacked it off. The shears used were apparently magic, a spell applied to keep the brambles from growing across the path the witch used to access Rapunzel’s tower. And so, once run across her beautiful long blonde strands, Rapunzel’s hair shriveled and shrank against her scalp, never growing beyond the three or four inches that remained after the incident.
“Dumped again, huh?”
She rolled her head against the wall, rocking back and forth on her skull. “Yeah. I never was very good at holding onto a man.” She stood taller, pressing her hand flat against the wall for support. “Back then, I used to dream of Prince Charming. Next thing you know, the guy is climbing my hair, sneaking in for a quickie now and then. Rode a white horse, wrote ballads.” She sighed, “I should have seen it coming you know. I mean…how gay IS gay supposed to be?”
Pinocchio patted her shoulder. “Its okay. Not your fault.”
“Yeah yeah yeah. They’re all Prince Charming, aren’t they? And we are just their theme.” She poked her finger toward his chest, and giggled. “You know…just the strings they pull.”
“Wow. You are really out there tonight. Come on. Lets get some coffee.” He pressed against her side, shifting her body so that he could hold her weight. “Lets walk.”
“I don’t wanna walk. I don’t wanna…um…”
“Coffee? Come on. Maybe we’ll find a frog to kiss or something.”
“No way. Not kissing anythin’… Kissing only leads to problems…to…”
Pinocchio heard the gurgling too late to dodge the vomit that fell onto his right shoe. “Awww…no. No. What else?”
Rapunzel passed out, slumped down. Unable to carry her much further, Pinocchio managed to drag her body to a nearby bench. With the help of a large trash can and a discarded crate he managed to support her body, leaving her in a sort of seated position. Her head lolled forward, and the snoring echoed off the nearby wall.
“Goodnight Princess,” he whispered. Then, Pinocchio turned toward home.
A tiny light flickered somewhere inside the house. His stomach sank. Gertrude was awake. Waiting. Festering. Angry. Pinocchio paced, walking with measured steps up and down the street. He thought of calling his therapist, maybe getting the ‘scrip in advance, but realized that with the late hour Doc would probably yell at him as well. It was better to leave it with just one angry sermon. Fists clenched, he drew a deep breath and charged the door.
It hit the wall and bounced back. Gertrude gasped…
“And there they were.” Pinocchio recalled the next day at “group.” He settled back into his chair. “Gertrude and, um, Jack.” He pushed his hand through his hair. “Yeah. Of course, I wasn’t entirely sure at first. He’s really skinny, and next to Gertrude he, well, looked like a stick next to a beach ball.”
Rusty leaned forward. “Were they, um…you know…”
Pinocchio chuckled. “Um…no. Thank goodness for that.”
The whole group breathed a sigh of what Pinocchio believed was relief. Not so much for him, but more in thanks that they’d be spared the horrific details.
Cinderella huffed. “And you did nothing?” She shrugged her shoulders and stared out the window. “That is why you’ll never get anywhere.”
Doc turned toward Cinderella. “That kind of talk isn’t very positive.”
“Wow, is she always so mouthy?” Rapunzel muttered. She sat with her head down, her hands pressed against her temple. Pinocchio found her that morning, still slouched on the bench at the pier, and carried her with him. “Why is it so bright in here?” She fumbled for her sunglasses.
“Anyway, that’s that. Story over.” Pinocchio clapped his hands together once. He stood, palms open. “With that, dear friends, I say goodbye.”
Doc set his pen and pad on the table next to his seat. “Pinocchio, you aren’t finished here. We are your support. We are your connection. You don’t really think you are ready to just let go, do you?”
“Yes. Yes I do. You see, doctor, maybe its not a happily ever after. But,” Pinocchio smiled, opened his arms wider. “As the story goes, I have no strings.”
“So tell us, Pinocchio…what happened the first time you got drunk?”
“Well, I was about fourteen. I screwed up the assignment in woodshop - I am sorry, but it felt like murder or cannibalism, ya’ know, my whole wooden boy past and all - and I’d…”
“Oh please. Enough. Can’t we talk about me for a change?” Cinderella fussed with her skirt, a pricey number just recently featured on some red carpet special. She tried to smile, but after so many Botox injections, her face was frozen in something that more resembled shock and awe than happy.
Doc pushed his glasses down his nose, looking over the gold rims toward the Princess. He tapped his pen against a pad of paper, on which he took copious notes throughout the session. For what, Pinocchio had no idea. “Cindy, keep in mind, this is a group session, not a me-session.”
Cinderella huffed, and tugged at her waistline. After Prince Charming demanded an heir, she could bleat for the whole hour about her once tiny midsection that had ballooned out to a giant size 1. “Fine, whatever. But I’m next.”
Doc coughed, a deep gravelly sound that seemed too low for his tiny body. Pinocchio knew he was the only dwarf to resurface after Snow White abandoned their cottage in the woods. All seven enjoyed the glitz and glamour provided by the paparazzi after the Prince woke Snow. But as the lights faded, so did the possibilities. One by one the dwarves fell into obscurity. According to a recent news report, Grumpy was on trial for a rather messy road rage incident involving a mine cart and a ripe honeydew melon. And with the added exception of Bashful, who now regularly hawked self help books on late night info-mercials, they’d been all but forgotten.
Pinocchio sighed. “I don’t really feel like talking. Can’t we move onto someone else?” Seeing Cinderella’s sharp movement, he added, “I mean, someone other than her royal-narcissist.”
“Name calling isn’t necessary. We do have someone who is fairly new here,” she paused turning to the tin man, “Rusty? Would you like a chance to talk to the group.”
Pinocchio let his mind wander as the metal man droned on about his self image issues and oil dependence. He was sure the tale would eventually get around to Dorothy or the fact that she seemed love the others best. Rusty may be new, but his story certainly wasn’t anything out of the group-session ordinary.
His thoughts pressed on to Gertrude, who was probably wondering where Pinocchio was about now. She didn’t agree with the group therapist’s demand for more than one session a week, especially since it meant less time to work and bring in more money. And Gertrude’s only talents seemed to be spending money and complaining about the lack of money.
Group finally adjourned, the finale of the session being a near catfight between Cinderella and her crack-addicted wicked step sister over a pair of Prada sling back sandals.
He started his usual stroll toward the docks…half hoping for a glimpse of the whale, and envisioning the leap into his mouth. Suicide by mammal. At least he’d pull in a little cash on the talk show circuit if the creature managed to cough him up yet again. But at the thought of the endless queries and sad eyes while embellishing for the Montells and Oprahs of the world, the idea of bathing himself in chum before leaping into the water crossed his mind. Make sure the fish got the job done this time.
His brain worked the possibilities, overlaying death across the life ahead. Weighing the pros and cons, he walked the path toward home.
“Where have you been?” Gertrude’s voice was raspy, the product of a few too many cigarettes.
Pinocchio shuffled over the threshold, chin tucked toward his chest. With one hand, he scratched the back of his neck. Thinking. Knowing the answer was key. To set her off would mean a rant that lasted the evening, and he was too tired and too depressed to pay attention. And not to pay attention resulted in Gertrude’s wrath part 2 - the occasional flying object.
He chose to ignore the question, and act concerned. “Are you okay, dear? You sound tired?”
It was the wrong choice. Gertrude came around the counter faster than anyone her size should move. Pinocchio remembered the high school science projects about mass and inertia.
“Am I okay? Am I Okay?” She halted just inches in front of him, poking a sausage sized finger toward his chest. “Gee. Why wouldn’t I be okay?” She turned toward the stove, her massive backside bouncing under a floral housedress. Apron strings tied too tightly provided the only discernable waistline. “I work, cook, clean, and for what? So you can moan and whine with that group of tales you call group therapy?”
He relaxed somewhat when he heard the world “tales,” the shortened version of fairy tales. If she was really angry, the group was referred to as f-ing tales, or simply, f-ing fairies.
He watched as she moved from stove to counter, ladling her version of dinner into a chipped ceramic bowl. Her ankles had somehow disappeared over the years, and now it looked as if her legs continued to pour large mounds of flesh directly into her shoes.
Seeing her turn, he tucked his chin once more. “We have to talk.”
“Oh? Mister sensitive has to talk now? Sit for an hour with that clan and now you have to talk? Where was all the talk before? When things were good? Oh…I remember your talk then. Talk of love and forever.” The bowl slid into his view, a broth soup with unidentifiable contents that shrank toward the darkness at the bottom of the dish. He didn’t blame them.
“Gertrude…” he tried to interrupt.
She slammed a spoon onto the table. “Yes. Love and forever. But how was I to know that love and forever were former-wooden-boy words for heartache, mess, and a never-ending stream of woes. Not to mention limited finances, and off brand everything. Oh what I wouldn’t give for…oh…never mind. I forget. You just don’t care. You just sit and eat and pretend the world is pretty.”
“I want to sell the shop.”
She stopped. Frozen for just a moment. Pinocchio steeled himself for the next attack. But, when no movement occurred, and no words followed, he dared look up. Gertrude stood, her mouth crooked, eyes wide. Her hand still gripped the ladle, and he knew it would probably meet the side of his head, swiftly and painfully, and soon.
He stammered. “I mean, Gertrude, its just that I know I am meant for more. I know there must be something out there for me. The therapist said that it was…” he paused, shifting his eyes sideways.
For a moment, he wondered if he had really said a word. Maybe he was mouthing it and words just hadn’t really formed or crossed his vocal chords.
Then, she fell. Like some giant heap of flesh colored gelatin, she wobbled then collapsed. Again, the science mass and inertia crossed his mind, but this time with more urgency; a definite warning synapse from the every part of his brain. Pinocchio tried to move, not so much to catch her as to avoid the impact. But he wasn’t quick enough. The chair leg rocked against a crack in the tile floor, anchoring him in place. Pinocchio prayed, and then held his breath as the ladle skittered across the floor.
The force with which Gertrude’s body met Pinocchio’s caused the chair to break apart and the couple met the ground with no small amount of energy. In fact, Pinocchio wondered for a moment if they’d continue through the floor, through the earth, through to whatever was on the other side of the earth. Of course, if they resurfaced, he’d be on top and, perhaps, alive.
They remained in the house, though, and as the fat of her body melted around him he turned again to thoughts of suicide. Spit up by a whale would be less embarrassing than being smothered to death by a large wife. He tried to wriggle from underneath, pushing his face between her shoulder and neck, gulping air. He wondered if this was what a baby felt at the moment of birth.
Pinocchio tried to cry out. But the word “help” started with a definitive puff of breath…breath he simply could not draw into his lungs. Panic set in.
His right arm, the only limb completely free of Gertrude, stretched outward. He rocked his wrist from side to side, in an effort to find anything helpful. His fingertips touched the ladle, which skipped away and rocked, its metallic sing-song noise chirped faster, then slower, then silent. To the left, more carefully now, his fingers landed on something that felt like wood. He shivered, realizing that only personal knowledge could allow him to identify the leg of the chair more quickly. His oxygen deprived brain allowed Pinocchio to believe that this object could be of help somehow. He grabbed it and wrapped his hand tightly around the thicker part; his thumb met his middle finger and pressed down. He imagined his hand curled around the leg, imagined that it would somehow turn and poke at Gertrude, wake her or maybe work as a jack, heaving her upward enough for him to slide out from underneath.
But his hopes diminished, as his vision faded and his breathing became more shallow. He could not push his chest upward against her ampleness. He resigned himself to death. To the end. Only slightly less embarrassing than being coughed up by a whale. Slightly.
Somewhere in the distance, or maybe inches away - he could no longer tell, he heard a noise. The ear that was pressed into Gertrude’s armpit caught some muffled sound. Motion, shifting, grunting, and then sweet, sweet air. It came in such a rush, his body re-inflated by much needed oxygen.
“Thank you. Thank you.” He tried to raise himself up, only a little confused as to why helpful hands did not meet his own outstretched members. One eye squinted open, and he noticed the horrified look on the face of the man who saved his life. “I’m okay. Its okay.” Pinocchio held his hand to his chest, trying to assure him. But his face remained aghast…and focused only on the hand…the hand clutching the leg of a chair.
Awareness crashed through Pinocchio’s newly oxygenated brain. “Oh! No. Its not what you think!” He uncurled his fist, and the leg clattered to the ground. The noise brought to mind a moment as a child, still in wooden boy stage. Pinocchio had a bad fall down the stairs, the sound more like a strike against bowling pins than a small child tumbling to the floor. Pinocchio’s leg was nicked; a huge gash splintered outward, looking as though someone hacked the wood with a tiny axe. Gepetto lovingly sanded the wound, rubbing it to a shiny, smooth texture, blowing the dust into the bin with all the other wood shavings. Pinocchio hadn’t felt a thing, and at that young age wondered why other little boys cried when their own legs were scraped or scuffed.
His vision was still a little bit hazy, things swimming in and out of view, but with increasingly stronger color.
The man was his neighbor Jack Sprat, the owner and operator of “Chez Sprat,” a vegetarian café and cappuccino shop. Jack knelt next to Gertrude, a woman whose idea of a vegetable was bacon wrapped in more bacon. Pinocchio couldn’t help smile weakly at the thought of the two of them together.
In the doorway stood a second man. Pinocchio recognized him as Hugo Spaghettio, a shady underworld character known to most as “The Muffin Man.” He’d heard the rumors of Jack Sprat’s association with the mob, but no one really had proof. The Muffin Man was a pretty low character, but always managed to elude prosecution and those who might know something generally vanished. Pinocchio avoided direct eye contact.
Jack patted Gertrude’s face and checked her pulse. Pinocchio struggled to raise himself to a seated position. “She’s alive!” Jack leaned in to listen for breath, while shaking her arm; the fat wobbled and slapped against the floor.
Pinocchio pressed his feet against the ground in an attempt to stand, but Jack reached over and pushed him backward. As if on some strangely unbalanced teeter-totter, the minute Pinocchio hit the floor Gertrude popped up and coughed. What appeared to be an entire sausage link whizzed past Pinocchio’s head at an alarming speed.
“Oh. Oh my.” She coughed; her voice was hoarse. “What happened?”
With a suspicious glance toward Pinocchio, Jack rested on his knees. “It seems you were choking.”
“And you saved me? Oh, gracious. Dear Lord. Thank you so much. I don’t know what I would have done without you.” Her voice grew more clear, its sharp edge returned. She reached over to shove Pinocchio’s leg. “A lot good you were.”
Pinocchio dropped his chin. No need to fan the flame.
Jack rose and tried to assist Gertrude to her feet. With each pull, however, gravity fought harder. Gertrude struggled, snorted, and fussed while Jack tugged and groaned. Persistence eventually paid off, and Gertrude managed to stand for just a moment before crashing down once more. Jack tut-tutted, and promised to return shortly with more help, and maybe a nice buttery croissant. The latter seemed to perk up Gertrude’s attitude immensely.
When the door clicked solidly shut, Gertrude turned toward her husband, squinting, pushing her face out of its round, fatty frame. “I’m sick of this nonsense.” She leaned against the table, looming large over Pinocchio. “You nearly killed me here, you know. Giving me such a shock. You listen to me, Pinocchio. You’ll, you’ll….”
Pinocchio rose to his feet. “I’ll what? Be miserable? Be depressed? Wake up wanting to die? You’ve already fed me that stew, thank you very much.”
He reached for the door, still unsteady on his feet. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“Later?” The shriek ended in another cough. “Get back here you lousy, no good…”
The door slammed behind him as he moved down the street toward the wharf. Pinocchio walked the streets, unaware of time or distance.
Night fell. The little town threw its light down to the narrow stone walkway that girded the pier. The water that splashed upward glazed the path making the trek somewhat treacherous to those who were not familiar.
“Hey…boy.” Pinocchio turned to see her, huddled against the wall. “Gotta light?”
“Oh…Geez. Rapunzel.” He sighed. “And you know I don’t smoke and definitely don’t carry matches. Habit from childhood. What are you doin’ out here so late?”
She pushed her bangs away from her forehead. “Whaddya think big guy? You know the tales. Cut your hair, sell your soul.” Her speech slurred. Pinocchio noticed the bottle, tipped sideways near her feet. “All the Lords and Ladies, rescues and happy endings.” Louder, she swung her arm outward, nearly losing her balance. “Happily ever after. Happy, happy, happy…” She pressed her lips tightly with each “p,” sending a tiny spray of spit from chapped lips.
Contrary to the watercolor portrayals, Rapunzel’s hair was not shiny and full post lock-partum. In fact, it never grew after the witch hacked it off. The shears used were apparently magic, a spell applied to keep the brambles from growing across the path the witch used to access Rapunzel’s tower. And so, once run across her beautiful long blonde strands, Rapunzel’s hair shriveled and shrank against her scalp, never growing beyond the three or four inches that remained after the incident.
“Dumped again, huh?”
She rolled her head against the wall, rocking back and forth on her skull. “Yeah. I never was very good at holding onto a man.” She stood taller, pressing her hand flat against the wall for support. “Back then, I used to dream of Prince Charming. Next thing you know, the guy is climbing my hair, sneaking in for a quickie now and then. Rode a white horse, wrote ballads.” She sighed, “I should have seen it coming you know. I mean…how gay IS gay supposed to be?”
Pinocchio patted her shoulder. “Its okay. Not your fault.”
“Yeah yeah yeah. They’re all Prince Charming, aren’t they? And we are just their theme.” She poked her finger toward his chest, and giggled. “You know…just the strings they pull.”
“Wow. You are really out there tonight. Come on. Lets get some coffee.” He pressed against her side, shifting her body so that he could hold her weight. “Lets walk.”
“I don’t wanna walk. I don’t wanna…um…”
“Coffee? Come on. Maybe we’ll find a frog to kiss or something.”
“No way. Not kissing anythin’… Kissing only leads to problems…to…”
Pinocchio heard the gurgling too late to dodge the vomit that fell onto his right shoe. “Awww…no. No. What else?”
Rapunzel passed out, slumped down. Unable to carry her much further, Pinocchio managed to drag her body to a nearby bench. With the help of a large trash can and a discarded crate he managed to support her body, leaving her in a sort of seated position. Her head lolled forward, and the snoring echoed off the nearby wall.
“Goodnight Princess,” he whispered. Then, Pinocchio turned toward home.
A tiny light flickered somewhere inside the house. His stomach sank. Gertrude was awake. Waiting. Festering. Angry. Pinocchio paced, walking with measured steps up and down the street. He thought of calling his therapist, maybe getting the ‘scrip in advance, but realized that with the late hour Doc would probably yell at him as well. It was better to leave it with just one angry sermon. Fists clenched, he drew a deep breath and charged the door.
It hit the wall and bounced back. Gertrude gasped…
“And there they were.” Pinocchio recalled the next day at “group.” He settled back into his chair. “Gertrude and, um, Jack.” He pushed his hand through his hair. “Yeah. Of course, I wasn’t entirely sure at first. He’s really skinny, and next to Gertrude he, well, looked like a stick next to a beach ball.”
Rusty leaned forward. “Were they, um…you know…”
Pinocchio chuckled. “Um…no. Thank goodness for that.”
The whole group breathed a sigh of what Pinocchio believed was relief. Not so much for him, but more in thanks that they’d be spared the horrific details.
Cinderella huffed. “And you did nothing?” She shrugged her shoulders and stared out the window. “That is why you’ll never get anywhere.”
Doc turned toward Cinderella. “That kind of talk isn’t very positive.”
“Wow, is she always so mouthy?” Rapunzel muttered. She sat with her head down, her hands pressed against her temple. Pinocchio found her that morning, still slouched on the bench at the pier, and carried her with him. “Why is it so bright in here?” She fumbled for her sunglasses.
“Anyway, that’s that. Story over.” Pinocchio clapped his hands together once. He stood, palms open. “With that, dear friends, I say goodbye.”
Doc set his pen and pad on the table next to his seat. “Pinocchio, you aren’t finished here. We are your support. We are your connection. You don’t really think you are ready to just let go, do you?”
“Yes. Yes I do. You see, doctor, maybe its not a happily ever after. But,” Pinocchio smiled, opened his arms wider. “As the story goes, I have no strings.”