Gumball: A Short Story

7/27/2019 Gumball: A Short Story

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CJ JOHNSON OCTOBER 2013


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GUMBALLis a work of fiction owned by CJ Johnson.Any violators who re-use, redistribute, or fail to give proper citation of this

content, will be prosecuted under the fullest extent of the law.

Poetically Haunted Press

This Story Is Dedicated To:Mar C.


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GUMBALL

A bit humpy, it has settled and only slightly protrudes out of her key pocket.

Walking along the painted yellow line of the parking space in order to notflatten the already dead in his tracks cricket, she opens the door to her Kia Souland watches herself as she gets in, just to be safe.

It rides along with her and stays in place. Not being able to believe her luck shethinks of what next to do.

This is something so rare. Maybe a Google search would turn up otherincidents where the same has happened. But then again, how many people

would actually make something like this a public record. Unless your one ofthose people who is always aiming to make it into some sort of almanac.

Yet, was this that bizarre? Maybe shes reading way more into this than shethought as she pulled into Chesters Burgers to order a Melty Mac with Bacon,waffle fries, and a vanilla shake.

Should she marvel at this find in her pocket just one more day, record it in herMoleskin and then toss it or add it to her collection?

She parks on the side of the house because Uncle Jett left his Tundra right inthe first parking spot. After next week shes just going to have to call a towtruck. Shell blame it on the neighbors when asked.

No one is home. But mostly its only two of them anyways.


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She smells the pork chops in the doorway. Opening the oven where he alwaysleaves them she helps herself to the smallest one but passes on grabbing one ofthe biscuits in foil next to them.

She slides off her shitty work shoes and fires up her Mac. Its the last thing herMother gave her.

No likes on Facebook on the album of pictures she uploaded last night ofher at the Shabazz Palaces concert from Thursday. She went with Carson, buthe texted his married girlfriend all night. She might as well had went on herown.

Accordingto the American Dental Associations anatomy chart, its a molar,possibly a Wisdom tooth. Its got some heft to it.

This amuses Shellie.

Of course it does. She collects the most vile and insensitive of things. Dog tagsfrom two mutts, one ran over by a Chevy that kept trailing on. Found the deadpuppy during one of her late-night walks. Figured that at that point, who would

want to know that theyre dog is a goner, so she threaded his tag through hisfluffy coat and unlatched it from his neck. The other might have still beenbreathing, she wasnt going to check. Tag said, Mad Dog and shes proofpositive he was over his name by now. Deer or coyotes probably got the rest of

him.

The jar holds far more too. Skeletal bones of a saltwater fish she had four yearsago. Keys that she hopes belongs to a bedroom at the Roseland plantationseven miles down, a red rubber clown nose, a set of eyeballs each from god-sister Sabrinas American Girl duo, Marie-Grace and Cecile, and a 4x6photograph of a dead body in all of just a skirt and stockings, time stamped1943. Every item is in a clear plastic baggie with date found written in blackwith a Sharpie.

Her jar is safe. Held in a three-gallon tin that her dad got popcorn in threeChristmass back from the folks at the VA hospital. Once the popcorn wasgone, he never wondered about the tin.

After bagging and labeling she drops the tooth in with the rest.


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~~~

The Galleria mall is a funny place. Its nowhere most people would want to be,but busloads of kids from the state get their field visits in there. Almost as if

whoever controls their whereabouts wouldnt trust them anywhere else. Ofcourse lonely retirees and little kids that are not quite in school for a full daytake up space along walkways and by the droopy water fountain.

Its past its prime in every facet with that Panchos Mexican Buffet, 5-7-9,Willards Hat World, Batteries Plus, SAS Shoes, and Rainbow.

The kicker though, is the Macys department store. Its one ofthe last originallystanding locations like a relic. Everybody else in the country got a new one. The

carpet between the aisles is dried up racing green, the cushioned chairs have nomore piping that are in theWOMENS restroom where the N is almost faded,and a hint of Shalimar feels lodged in the air.

All the things that old folks and deprived foster kids could want, is right here inthis mall. The Galleria.

Allure pulls Shellie and she makes her way to The Galleria again. There was noway she could match up the times as last week. Not that synchronization wouldmatter and it would be corny for anyone to think that it would.

The machine looks so beat. It shouldnt come as a surprise that a tooth thatsomeone is walking around missing landed its way into its glass ball of a head.

All three quarters are polished with coconut oil. Aunt Norlinda says it works oneverything. Makes shit slide like butter. The first two empty down into theirslot with quick wrist action. The third balances on the tip of her index finger.Unlike the other two, this one felt weightless. It was a serious noticeabledifference. She bounced it like her finger was a scale a few times, and then shedropped it in.

She could hear that one traveling for the eternity of moments. This is a simpletask for this machine, it just needs to catch and release.

While a tooth would be a stunning win, a fossilized arachnid would do too.

A tug on Shellies Bob Marley backpack belonged to a pair of little hands.


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Shed been so caught up in the pursuit, that a line six deep had formed behindher.

The tugger was one of those honey children with olive skin and hazel eyes.

Her sandy hair reminded Shellie of pictures of Adobe houses in New Mexicothat she saw in one of her Dads old as fuckLifemagazines.

Can I have yours?The little one asks.

Shellie missed the roll out while peering at the child to hear out her request.

The moment ended up a loss. She allowed herself to be distracted by a gradeschool girl.

Shellie winced a weak smile at her, and said nothing.

I caught it. Here.With surprise said the little one, like snatching it up wasnt her end game.

With not as much as a Thanks the little girl turns around and offers it to herpartner in crime standing right behind her, a little black boy with a baldhead

and thick tortoise glasses. Theyre probably boyfriend and girlfriend.

Right before those two walked off with such haste, Shellie saw the Robins EggBlue gumball with cruddy brown spots in the girls fleshy but small goldenhand, palm up.

A disposition of hollowness and underwhelm began to reap up and claimShellie all over. However, not quite sold on wanting to shake the feeling off,she lets it stir within her. Only during the times when she gets jacked up likethis is when she begins to see herself so clearly.

Mirrors have always been her x-ray, and when paired with the type of feelingsthat are mounting in her soul now, she appreciates her dark beauty.

Its when all the names shouted out at her stop.

Whacko Freak Tar Baby


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Shes heard them for so long. From day to day. From family to school.

She cuts into the 3rdfloor of the WOMENS bathroom at Macys behind thefurniture department. It is filled with sad looking chests and armoires that onlyold women buy for guest bedrooms.

She sweetly closes the door behind her like its her bedroom.

Her mood has remained un-flinched.

She drops her Marley bag by the soap dispenser on the counter. As smallpusses of bubbles hit the front zipper of her bag she whips out her purple gelpen.

Squeezing out the last few drops of ink with a few hand shakes Shellie beginsto journal what makes her feel empty and beautiful at this moment. Looking upinto the mirror every few lines as she notates.

Bop.Bop.Bop.

Shellie stares at the door to see if someone slipped in, despite the lunacy ofthat, even with the high that she is on, shed notice something like that.

Never saying anything, she lunges a step and a half ahead towards the first stallin front of her and draws her body down to see if anyone is in fact there.

Nothing and no one is there. Not even loose change that may have fallen whenthe bathroom wall reverberated.

Buildings this aged and worn have cracks. All sorts of sounds are liable tofunnel through every decent sized crevice.

Thats what she heard, pennies in the wall, she rationalizes.

Rising, she returns to writing. She reserves her moleskin journal to recordfeelings like this. Its the one that her father gave her before that second tour ofduty. That was the one that left him with PTSD. His mind is mangled now.


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Thankfully, this journal is imprinted with his fertile livelihood, his charm, hisambition, and his regal demeanor, that is so typical of soldiers in their prime.When she writes in it, shes also writing to him. Its about preservation.

To write faster she takes the cap off her gel pen. But it pushes threw her thumband index finger so quick that it lands down the sink drain.

She may not like writing with caps but having them snapped back on after useis a must so the ink doesnt leak everywhere.

Using her two slender middle fingers on her left hand she forages down thedrain.

Where in the hell is the cap she muddles out loud.

Swirling around with just one finger now, to go a little deeper, she feelssomething that cant possibly be a pen cap.

Might as well snatch it up she figures.

Its a tooth.

Yellowed but still fibrous.

She holds it up. The vanity light cast a shadow around it.

Shellie finds it to be an utter marvel. A spec of blood at the indention of itscrowning reminds her of monkeys blood.

Who or what did this poor tooth chomp is all she could wonder at first look.

As she shoots it to each hand, like catch, a rumbling roll against the floorgrows. Its an obvious build up.

Must be those pennies falling in the wall she tells her mind.

A bad catch lands the tooth on the tile floor. Thats when she notices a redgumball making its roll down in her direction. She watches it for a good secondbefore it taps her Vans. It wobbles a few shakes and then freezes.


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She leans down and picks it up and puts it and the tooth in the back pocket ofher jeans.

Before she could even stand all the way back up, another one, yellow, rolls itsway down her direction.

She misses any and every way that they may have come from.

Unnerved she grabs that one too, and throws her moleskin and pen in her bagand walks to the door.

Its locked.

Like its frozen there.

Her stomach jumps. She pulls on the door with the one, two, three ofbamming. Nothing changes.

Sirens blare-

as water from the hydrant above soaks her body.

Shellies fingers slip away from the door handle. She takes a foot backwards.

Her bag weighs down with water at the quickest of speed imaginable as it fallsoff her left shoulder.

Her gel pen slips out from her bag onto the floor with a bouncy soft thud.

Purple ink empties onto the tile grooves like its in a labyrinth.

She tilts her eyes to the ceiling while whispering, this bitch, is readyand thengrits her teeth.

Taking a few steps her hip graces the sink

This is her time. To relish, in a long look in the mirror.


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CJ Johnson is a fiction writer that usually lets young heroines serve as the pulseof the story.

She writes noir, horror, paranormal, magical realism, and psycho thriller stories.

Her MFA in screenwriting and playwriting is currently underway.

She wishes Zora Neale Hurston was alive and kicking to write books withSteven King.

Her stories always have a poetic voice.

Connect with her here:

The Poetic Pulse on Facebook(The exclusive content is nuts there)

@cjjohnsonwrites(For Twitter addicts)

[email protected](For that old school kind of Hello)

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Gumball: A Short Story

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