Pears and Perils Read online

  The other woman in the room was much older; Clint would wager a guess she was late sixties at the youngest. She wore a denim vest over a tan dress and her grey-black hair wafted free of any ties, barrettes, or chemical sculpting agents. Unlike the younger girl, she wore a contented grin, merely moving her eyes about the room as if she was constantly amazed by the world surrounding her. Clint had seen that behavior before, and in Golden Acres it signaled that someone needed their medication reduced. She seemed pleasant enough, though, which was more than he could say for the rest of the room.

  There was a pair of men wearing turtlenecks and scarves along with their jeans, wrapped in a whispered conversation with one another that it was clear no one else was invited to join. Another man, closer to the age of the older woman, sat placidly in his tailored suit and watched the room carefully. It was likely an overseeing meant to instill confidence, to make them feel as though they were being looked after. It felt more like a hawk staring a mouse, just daring it run. Clint briefly contemplated what would happen if he made a sudden movement when the old man’s eyes were on him. He suspected it would not end well.

  Before temptation and curiosity could get the better of him, the doors swung open and two men walked into the room.

  “So sorry I’m late, everyone. I was held up, um, ironing out some last minute videography details. My name is Edward Dillon, but you all may feel free to call me Mr. Dillon. I trust you have all introduced yourselves in the downtime?”

  Edward was greeted by a brief silence after which the old man in the room, Lawrence, gave a reply.

  “I thought it would only be polite to wait for you, sir. That way we only have to do these once.”

  “Oh, right, right. Well, how about we go around the room and say who we are and where we’re from? Since you already know my name, I’ll tell you that I’m a Dallas native who is still happy to live here. How about you, young lady?”

  The girl in the glasses stood up halfway, like she was getting in starting position for the moment she was allowed to race back to her seat. “My name is April Parrish. I’m from Madison, Wisconsin, and I’m currently in my junior year, majoring in biology.”

  She dropped herself back down like the chair had done some ancient wrong to her, then sat quietly while her ears turned red as she realized she’d added a category that wasn’t required in the introduction. Fortunately, before anyone could point it out, the old woman lifted from her chair and addressed the room.

  “I go by Falcon Rainwater, but you all may call me whatever name you wish. I have come here from Phoenix, Arizona, but I am from the Earth itself, as are we all.”

  No one quite knew what to say to that, so Clint seized the silence to get his introduction over with. “My name is Clint Tucker. I’m from Pensacola, Florida. That’s all.” Clint was barely back in his seat when the next speaker came forward, though this one was far less shy about his introduction than any of the others had been.

  “Sup, bros and girlos? Since we’re all gonna be tight, I’ll skip the full name and tell y’all to call me Thunder for short.”

  This came from the young man who had walked in with Edward Dillon. He looked about the same age as Clint, but that and his gender were the only discernible similarities between the two. Thunder had dark, spiked hair with the tips frosted a bleach blonde, his pink polo shirt had the collar starched into a permanent popped position, his plaid shorts were lined with all manner of cargo pockets, and the truly observant people in the room (Lawrence and April) noticed when he walked that there was a beer opener built into the bottom of both of his flip flops. “To sum it up, I’m from the Dee Eff Dub like my pops, I love to party, I’m going to be rocking out on the video camera all trip long, I-”

  “I beg your pardon,” one of the men in jeans interrupted. “You most certainly will not. My brother Justin and I have been contracted to handle all filming of this promotional video.”

  “Now, Dustin,” the other man said, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I’m certain Mr. Dillon would never think of breaching our contract. You should let him explain.”

  “Could he also explain why we need camera people to pick up checks? I’m a little confused here,” April tossed in.

  “Oh goodness, did Lawrence tell you nothing? Fine, we’re about done with introductions anyway. First off, there’s nothing to worry about, Dustin and Justin; we fully intend to utilize Goodwin Cinema in all the capacities agreed upon and at the already-stipulated rate. My son has graciously volunteered to film using some less-capable equipment to provide a perspective more akin to a point of view. As for why the Goodwins and Thunder are here in the first place, may I assume none of you lucky winners actually read the fine print in depth?”

  April and Clint shook their heads. Falcon merely smiled at Mr. Dillon placidly.

  “Right. Well, the fifty thousand dollars you’ll each receive isn’t just a cash prize. It’s a payment you’ll receive for starring in our latest commercial!” He ended with emphasis, hoping it came off as enthusiasm.

  “So, we have to act?” Clint asked.

  “Very minimally. Most of what you’ll be doing is quite real. You see, to celebrate Camelot Burgers’ one-hundred-year anniversary, we’re sending you on a real live quest! You’ll get an all-expenses-paid trip to the tropical paradise of Kenowai, where you’ll take part in an ancient tradition of trying to free the island’s imprisoned god. We’ll be shooting the whole thing, and once it’s put together, we’re going to use it as the launching commercial for our newest product: The Island Burger.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say we’re trying to free an imprisoned god?” Clint was reasonably sure his ears had betrayed him.

  “It’s a local ceremony, no different than hanging stockings under the chimney for Santa,” Mr. Dillon assured him.

  “It seems disrespectful to exploit a sacred rite just for a commercial,” Falcon pointed out.

  Mr. Dillon began to look out of his depth, so Lawrence stepped in smoothly.

  “No one is required to participate in the commercial if they don’t want to. However, since the fifty thousand dollars is payment for services rendered, not an unconditional prize, anyone who elects not to do it will forfeit their money.”

  “No worries, dudes, it will be awesome. There are waves, sunshine, and tasty grubbins. It is totes worth it,” Thunder contributed helpfully.

  “Yes, totes,” Mr. Dillon agreed.

  “Count me in,” April said quickly. “I’ve got grad school coming up after all. That doesn’t come cheap.”

  “I’ll do it.” Clint was less enthusiastic, but it wasn’t as though the new development really changed anything for him. This was the path to the money, pure and simple.

  “I will join the expedition as well, if only to make sure the indigenous people and their customs are treated with the proper reverence,” Falcon said.

  “Wonderful! Lawrence will provide you with the paperwork. Once that’s all done, your plane leaves this afternoon.”

  April was, predictably, unsettled by the sudden news. “So soon?”

  “We did tell you to pack enough clothing for four days when you were instructed to come here,” Mr. Dillon reminded her. “We can’t roll out the burger until the commercial is produced, and we can’t produce it until you lucky folks take your trip and do the shoot. So tonight you’ll be in the air and tomorrow morning we can get that ball rolling!” Mr. Dillon tried the emphasis again, finding it refused to metamorphose into excitement for the room. “Now, I hate to talk and run, but I do have another pressing meeting to attend to.”

  Mr. Dillon’s meeting was going to be his bloodstream meeting some whiskey. Spending the whole morning with Thunder had sapped him of his considerable patience. He’d originally intended to come along on the trip for a little relaxation, but he was beginning to think that might be a job best left to Lawrence. Edward would find his vacation in having the two of them in another country, and it would be a glorious vacation indeed.


  5.

  Experience is more than just the summation of events catalogued into our life; it is the seasoning that flavors personalities, giving them depth and complexity where otherwise absent. The big events we experience can define how we see ourselves. There are also ones outside the concept of what people think of as big, though, genuine blockbusters, and these rare confluences of circumstances can do something widely considered impossible. They can redefine who we truly are.

  Mano’s Big Event had come three years prior when surfing out in the waves. He’d gone out farther than he meant to, but caught himself before he drifted far enough that return could prove fatal. As he began paddling back, he became aware of another presence with him in the waves, a presence that cut through the water rather than merely slapping across it like a clumsy human. A presence with a dark fin that crested the top of the sea as it circled Mano and his surfboard.

  Mano knew about sharks, of course; he knew that a surfer paddling on their board resembled a tasty seal, and that though humans were not exactly a shark delicacy, they sometimes would, much like a college student buying ten cases of Ramen to have more money for beer, cowboy up and deal with the subpar flavor. Mano knew all of these things in a rational way, but like every other ocean goer, he’d ignored the slim chance of encounter as something that would happen to other people. Now he was coming to very quick realization of the fact that sometimes ‘other people’ really means ‘you’.

  He’d faced danger before; this was different. This wasn’t danger: it was Death. The only difference is he wore a sandpapery skin instead of a hooded robe and claimed his victim using three rows of tooth-shaped scythes. Mano had always expected that should he ever be faced with certain demise, he would panic, his life would flash before his eyes, his adrenaline would surge, or he would lose control and evacuate his bowels. None of those things happened, though. Mano didn’t even feel fear as the killer tightened the circles, drawing closer for the grand finale.

  All he felt was peace.

  Mano reached into the small backpack that clung tightly to his waterlogged shoulders and pulled out his last beer. He had drunk the others after particularly impressive swells throughout the day and now this lonely can was all that remained. It would be wasteful not to let it join its companions in his stomach. Mano opened it with a loud pop and fizz then took a long draw. It was warm and cheap and had all the stoutness of a five-year old invalid. It tasted perfect.

  Mano lifted his drink to the sky, toasting to Iohalo, the god of the ocean, Kodiwandae, the god who watched over Kenowai, and even Felbren, the trickster god who Mano credited with helping on more than a few of his late-night adventures. The shark drew closer, breaking the surface of the water and opening its impressive jaws. This was no great white: it was a hammerhead, which meant the mouth wasn’t big enough to take Mano in one go. It would be a piece-by-piece meal. Mano remembered a cartoon he’d watched as a child where a sheepdog and wolf would battle all day, then go out for drinks when the end of work whistle blew. He felt that this was probably the same situation now; the shark bore him no ill will in particular, he was merely a surfer who went too far and the shark was, well, a shark. They were both just doing their jobs. Mano decided to show the shark he understood the only way he could, by sharing his last beer.

  Mano lobbed the half-full can into the shark’s mouth, never even considering the possibility that he could miss. It landed dead-center, the hammerhead immediately bringing down its bone-crushing jaws and sending the brewski off on the long trek toward its stomach. Mano nodded with approval; he was comfortable with his last minutes. He sat up on his board, closed his eyes, and waited.

  After about a minute he tentatively opened one of them and found himself alone. He swung his head in all directions but there were no dark surfaces in the water or fins carving up the waves. Slowly, very slowly, Mano resumed his trip back to shore, doing his absolute best not to look like a seal. He made it to the sand safely, swearing to never tempt fate again, and knowing he now had the internal resolve to make that last about a week. Mano was changed by his experience, though, because he now believed two things he hadn’t before. The first was that he was mortal - he could die at any moment – and that is a truth that most people work exceptionally hard never to come face to face with.

  The second was one he’d already suspected, it was just now he had proof: sharing a beer can turn anyone into a friend.

  * * *

  Three years later, Mano couldn’t stop thinking about that shark as he showed his latest crop of guests to their top floor suites. It wasn’t the brothers who put him on edge, or either of the women, or the bored-looking guy with the brown hair, or the one in pink shirt who kept asking where the party was at (though Mano did, in fact, know where the party was at, he didn’t feel like he’d ever know again if he shared the location with someone like that). No, those were all one variation or another of tourist Mano had already seen in his time here at the Blessed Pear Tropical Sands Resort and Spa. It was the quiet one who brought back that memory, something in the way he scanned the people and the world around him. Mano had learned his lesson well that day; he would make sure to stock some extra beers in the quiet man’s room. Free of charge.

  Mano opened the first suite, a two-bedroom one for the women, and set down a pair of suitcases.

  “Here you are, ladies; you be sure to let Mano know if there is anything you need.” Mano flashed his best helper grin. He didn’t usually refer to himself in the third person, but for some reason people thought it sounded more authentic for a foreigner to have such a poor concept of pronouns. Mano personally held that sellout son of a bitch Tonto responsible for such an erroneous idea, hamming it up for the Lone Ranger and the millions watching at home. The seed was planted long ago, though, and Mano saw no reason why he couldn’t rake in some higher tips from the tree of ignorance that had grown out of it.

  “What are these?” April had taken in the whole room in a glance and made a beeline for the welcoming bowl of fruit on the coffee table. She’d picked one of the lumpy, hard-skinned fruits that were featured more prominently among the selection.

  “That is a Kenowai Pear,” Mano told her.

  “You think that’s a pear? Dude, we’ve gots to get you folks a legit farmer’s market here, and I mean stat,” Thunder declared.

  “Different regions have different variations of vegetation,” April informed him. “They evolve alternately based on the climate or competing flora, and over time can have features and flavors independent of others in their same classification. Like all the different varieties of tomato.”

  “The lady has much wisdom,” Mano agreed. “Kenowai Pears only grow on the island; they are a blessing from Kodiwandae himself. The skin is tough to resist the animals and block some of our abundant sunshine. You have to cut them open with a knife, but the flavor inside is something I promise you’ll never forget.” Mano contemplated punctuating his statement with a flirtatious wink, but it seemed like wasted effort on the younger girl. He’d seen her type before: out here to connect with some sentiment of relaxation she’d never really understand. This girl was the kind of person who, if she tried to stop and smell the roses, would end up cutting them, dissecting them, and sorting them into various classifications based on color, scent, and petal composition.

  “Pears must be very important to your people, and to share a god’s blessing shows such grace and kindness,” Falcon complimented.

  “Well, the truth is we’ve just got a whole lot of them, so they get put in nearly everything. The stories say Kodiwandae made the first tree that bore the pears on Kenowai to be very abundant so that others would quickly spring up across the island. He meant to slow them down once enough had taken root, but he was sealed away before he had a chance.”

  “I’m sure we’d love to hear more of the stories of the island… after the rest of us have been taken to our rooms.”

  The tone was polite and nearly bordered on friendly, yet the voice lef
t no doubt that this was not a request. Lawrence gave a tight-lipped half-smile when the island boy looked at him, trying to see if it worked better when he didn’t show teeth. From the look on the tanned, square face, Lawrence suspected that this too would be a failed strategy.

  “Of course, yours is right across the hall, sir.”

  “Thank you. Ladies, shower up and get on some clothes appropriate for the heat. We meet in the lobby at eight and it is my understanding that this island barely cools, even at night.”

  April and Falcon nodded then shut the door. Mano dropped off the brothers next, who walked right in and slammed the door without so much as a goodbye, then the two younger men. The quiet one shook his hand and thanked him for his help, while the loud one ran around the room looking out all the windows, despite the fact that the view was largely the same from each, just with a slight shift in perspective.

  Last was the older man, a single bedroom that still managed to be the largest suite of the four. It had, initially, been reserved for Mr. Dillon and he’d forgotten that peons don’t require such lush accommodations when he’d forced Lawrence to take over.

  “You’ve been very helpful,” the man said, slipping a thick wad of bills into Mano’s hand. He didn’t bother to count them; Mano had been at this long enough to know it was far too much for chatter and bag carrying. “I trust if we need anything else you’ll continue being helpful.” There it was: the man wanted a local as a runner, a guide, and possibly a procurer of wares not normally available in the legal spectrum of shops.