Plink

Clink—click

Tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick…
Shink!
“How much is that?”
The old lady manning the counter peers up from her book as if I’ve interrupted. Lady, if you want a job with no distractions, don’t work in retail. But she dredges up a smile from somewhere, gets up and comes around the counter, her coke—bottle glasses catching the light. 

“How much is what now honey?”
“This. The old carnival thing.”
“Oh, you mean Madame Tarot?”

The front of the wood—and—glass box simply says ‘Fortune Teller’ in swooping red letters on a darker red background, the type set around somebody’s idea of a mystic mandala framed in cherubs and the sort of curlicue decoration the Victorians liked so much. One Cent, reads the smaller type above a little coin slot below that. But it’s what’s inside the box that’s really catching my eye. The figure inside the glass box is a seated woman, her head slightly bowed; a candle sits on her right hand, a teacup on her left, a sheaf of tarot cards fanned out under her quiet hands. And she’s gorgeous. I’ve seen these things before running up and down Antique Row; usually the fortune telling dummy is made to look grotesque, or comical, or just a little bit sinister. These wax windup dolls in their glass boxes survive from the days when little carnivals still traveled the country every summer. Back then people across America really did get a wicked thrill when they spent a penny and a wax ‘gypsy fortune teller’ dropped a card in the slot. Pretty tasteless to people today. But hey, they had culturally insensitive carnival toys, we get into fights with strangers on Facebook. Every generation does one dumbass thing, at least.

Besides, this dummy is different. She looks like a Moroccan Madonna dressed for a dance. On her head is a sheer veil with a border of silver coins. Beneath it her hair is a lustrous black, catching dusty light in soft blue shimmerings. Damn, I wish I’d brought my sketchbook. I want to capture that hair in the light.
Her wax face is beautifully defined, tinted so perfectly that you expect her to take a breath, raise her head and look at you any second now. If somebody told Michelangelo ‘hey man, ever done a carnival attraction before? Give you fifty bucks if you can do it by next week.’, this is what they’d get.
“How much is she?”
The shop lady consults a tag behind one of the long, fluted legs that support the Fortune Teller’s box. “Hundred and fifty honey.”
I bite my lip. A hundred and fifty is the proceeds of the last painting I sold. It’s supposed to go on the credit card…but I could make it up by doing some extra hours at the tea house, right? It’ll even out.
And I really, really want to draw this lady. Hell, I’d love to do a full painting based on her, and if that sells then she’s a business expense right?
Oh screw it, I’ll be honest. I want her because she’s that toy you never got as a kid. She’s old and new and shiny and fascinating, and I know right where she’d go in my studio.

“Does she work?” I ask tentatively, pointing at the jotted note tacked below the penny slot that reads ‘do not touch!’ 

The shop owner’s iron curls bob as she tips her head. “Oh that was just to keep kids from messing with her. I can’t really tell you to be honest; I never tried her.”
I nod, still chewing my lip. Hundred and fifty…hundred and fifty… A glint catches my eye, and I stoop to pick a penny off the floor while my brain does the math. The shop owner looks up at me from her nest of cardigan like a friendly tortoise peering out of its shell, studying my face.
“I’d sell her for a hundred,” she announces after a long moment. “She hasn’t gotten any attention, and she’s taking up space. Can you do a hundred?”
I try not to wince. Man, I must look broke.  Clothes were never my thing; if it’s comfortable, I wear it, end of story . Today, it’s brown cargo pants and a ‘Science Is Not A Liberal Conspiracy’ t—shirt under a big blue duffle coat. The caked paint around my cuticles probably doesn’t help either. My only vanities are the line of silver earrings along the ridges of my ears and the streak of blue in my cropped black hair. Getting that dyed and getting a haircut regularly is a bitch to remember, but it makes a great contrast with the black of my hair and the brown of my skin. I look more artsy, less street that way. At least, that’s what my landlady says. She’s all tact, that one.
A hundred. I can do a hundred easy. Yeah. My fingers reach for my wallet, but what they really itch to do is take this penny in my hand and see if the fortune teller will move.
It’s a pain in the ass lugging the Fortune Teller out of the shop and down to where I parked as the sky spits snow. I guess I should have realized that a box full of glass, wood, cogs and whatever runs the Fortune Teller would be heavy, but hey, spatial reasoning was never my thing.

  It costs me a bashed knee, a couple scraped knuckles and a lot of sweat to get her into the car. Costs me a banged shin to get her out of the car and up three flights of stairs to my studio, but when I finally get her into the spot against the far wall I’m grinning. She looks great right there, between a print of Brian Froud’s Sir Didymus and my dracena plant. When the light catches her face, she looks as if she’s smiling.
I dig around inside my cargo pants to find a coin. I’ve always got a couple pennies on me; never could resist the twinkle on the street. Reaching out, I drop it in.
“Welcome to the building,” I murmur under my breath. Plink. The penny goes in. Clink—click. Somewhere deep inside, I can hear it fall into the works, and something inside the box begins. Tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick…
I feel like a kid when the Fortune Teller’s hands wave and the head begins to rise. It’s like I’m a character in a Ray Bradbury story, about to experience wonders. And then the fortune teller’s eyes open. I’ve never seen such beautiful eyes on a doll. Dark. Alive. Looking right at me.
The tarot reader’s eyes drop to her cards.
Tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick…
Her hand jerks back and forth, back and forth over the little pasteboard paintings.

 A card is selected. Considered. 

The eyes meet mine again, and I’m captured. Whoever sculpted this attraction was a genius.
Shink!
A slip of a card peeps out from a slot just under the one you slide your coins into, but I’m still studying the Fortune Teller’s face, her eyes. And, it’s almost as if, with her head canted to the side and her liquid eyes looking so alive, she’s studying me too.
Then whatever clockwork the penny triggers runs down, the Fortune Teller folds her hands, drops her head, and is still.
A weird little shiver trickles down my spine, and I give a little shudder. Then I have to laugh.
“Jeez Liz. Get a grip.”
Reaching for the card, I walk over to turn up the heat a little, studying it as I go. It’s amazing that she still has cards to dispense after god—knows—how—long; that she works at all is probably what has me giddy. Man, did I get lucky… well, until the credit card’s due anyway. 

Eh. Credit shmedit.
The card in my hand is a smudgy print of a woman with a crescent moon crown holding a scroll. “High Priestess.” I read. “Hunh.”
I flip the card over. In delicate, flowing letters surrounded by more Victorian scrollwork are the words: ‘A kind word said, a good deed made, will always see you three times repaid.’
This may be the most awesome thing I ever scrounged on Antique Row.
Outside, the snow’s getting down to business, big fluffy flakes falling and hiding the building across the way. About time I got down to business too; I’ve got a submission for a show and two commissions to finish. Digging around, I set myself up: paints, easel, tools in their toolbox on a bar stool beside me. Time to get some serious work in.
I work in oils. My favorite pieces are the ones you want to reach out and stroke. Those are the paintings that live.

Right now I’m on a jazz series; a fox piano player done in rich reds, oranges and browns, a lounge—singing camel in a little black dress done in smokey blue tones. Today I’m working on a rabbit in a fedora, contrasting hot blues and browns making up his body as he leans into his gold saxophone. He’s the last in the series, and being so close to finishing has me pumped. Underpainting turned out pretty well, so let’s see how this goes.
Squeezing paint out onto my palette, I lift my painting knife and dive in. It’s a good hour before I look up again, and only then because of the noise.
Tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick…
And find the Fortune Teller staring at me with those eyes.
I blink.
It’s time for a stretch anyway. Stepping away from my easel, I walk to the box. The dark eyes watch me, impassive. That shouldn’t really happen without a penny, should it?
Of course, her mechanisms are probably older than my grandma. It’s like those cheap windup toys that’ll wind down, then give a few last hops when you poke them and jar some lazy spring inside to give up its last bit of juice.
Tik—tik—tik—tik—tik—tik—tick…
The head is lowered. The eyelashes hide the eyes again.

……………
“Liz? Liz Sharp?”
Fingers splay in front of my face.
“Earth to Liz? Have we got Lapsang Souchong or not?”
“Hunh?”
Callie smirks at me when I look up.
“Girl or painting?”
I roll my eyes. “We got it. Give me two seconds and I’ll get the canister filled.”
“Yeah well, don’t float off again.” Callie’s got a gorgeous Asian face, but she’s also got sass and at times like this she looks like a little Rackham fairy who just pulled a trick. And I fell for it. Sighing, I lift down the industrial size tea canister and lug it out front.
Working in a loose-leaf tea place like Camellia is fun about ninety percent of the time. The people are cool, the place smells nice and, hey, discounts on tea.
Ten percent of the time, the staff gets bored and goes looking for drama. Joel specializes in making his own. Callie specializes in finding out everybody else’s.
“So why are you so spazzy?” she asks the minute I’ve finished filling the customer bin of Lapsang out front and put the big canister away in the back, the smell of smoke still in my nose.
“Is it a girl or a painting? That’s what does this to you.”
“Just a project.” I reply casually, grabbing a broom. “Found a subject I really want to get started on painting.”
“Yeah? Is she cute?”
I roll my eyes. Ever since I broke up with Tina, Callie’s been all over me to date again.
“A subject,” I repeat in exaggerated syllables. “To paint. It’s an old carnival dummy. Looks cool though, and I got her for a steal.” I said, preening just a little.
Shit, I just said her and Callie’s smirking indulgently. Glancing down, I pick a penny out of the dustpan crud and stick it in a pocket.
“Just tell me you aren’t sleeping in your studio when you’re painting again, that’s all I ask,” she replies in what I call her ‘mother knows best’ voice. Privately, I mean, because if I told her that she’d smack me.
I haven’t told Callie that I gave up my apartment and live in the studio now. No point in having two rents to pay without Tina there to give me a reason to go home. Technically, the studio isn’t supposed to be for living in, but my landlady’s a sweetheart under her old dragon attitude. Long as I don’t cook something that stinks on my hotplate and I don’t tell anybody I live there, we’re cool.  Clothes go in a cupboard on one side, the futon folds out into a bed, and my storage table has a clear spot to eat meals on. Laundromat’s only half a block away. All the comforts of home.

When I get off—shift, it’s right back to the studio and the paint. Sonny Rollins Rabbit is done by dinnertime.
I eat a sandwich sitting at the table, studying Fortune Teller Lady. Maybe I can start with her and do a carnival sideshow series: her, clowns, a bear in a tutu, a ringmaster. It’d be something new, that’s for sure. I think over the idea as I brush my teeth, as I unfold my bed and fold my clothes up, turn out the light, close my eyes.
Around me, the building settles and creaks. Traffic shushes by. Lonely wail of a siren a long way off.
And just on the edge of sleep…
Tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick…

“Lapsang souchong. A good choice.”
Tea pours into a china cup. The smell of smoke rises in the steam.
Delicate hands flutter, flipping the cards. These aren’t the glossy tarot cards you get at the bookstore either. These are old, old, old. They look more like Medieval tapestries than cards; black and gold backgrounds, intense cherub faces.
Where’s my brain getting stuff to put a dream like this together? Some old history of art class I slept through in college?
If it is an old memory, I must’ve retained a lot more than I thought. This room is gorgeous. Everything’s plush reds, purples, and golds, peacock carpet on the floor. Even the walls are patterned in geometric starbursts, gold on black like the cards. Makes me think of a page out of the Arabian Nights book in the school library when I was a kid.  But this is a night painting, lit by lamplight.
Or…no, not Arabian Nights. This’s Poirot and the Orient Express; not as old as the Nights, but still old.
Yeah, I know, I frame my understanding of world history in fiction. It works for me. Deal.
Here everything’s warm and soft. The only sound is the shuffling of the cards, the chink of my teacup as I lift it. The tea’s still swimming with leaves; I kind of strain them between my teeth as I drink. She’d get fired at my job for failing to strain all these out. In this dream, the Fortune Teller isn’t a clockwork dummy. She’s alive, studying me with a smile. Alive, she’s even prettier than she is in wax, her dress not stiff silk but something soft — velvet maybe? — with a short jacket over it, and a scarf that doesn’t hide her black hair as much as accentuate it. At her throat is a silver medallion; the mandala painted on the front of the box is repeated here. Man, my brain’s working overtime on this one.
The Fortune Teller’s head cants to the side as she watches me, her fingers shuffling cards.
“I wanted to say thank you.” Her voice is soft.
“Thank you for what?” I ask, and it isn’t a deck of cards she’s playing with anymore. It’s a penny, flashing between the knuckles of her hand.
“It’s been a long time since someone welcomed me.”

I wake with the taste of smoky Lapsang in my mouth and Saturday morning sunlight in my eyes. Across the room, the Fortune Teller’s head has turned to face me.
Sliding out of bed, I pad naked to stand beside the box, looking the Fortune Teller in the glass eye. She doesn’t look away.
After listening to my heartbeat for a few minutes, I grab my pants and dig out a penny.
“Hey lady. How’d you like me to paint your picture?”
Plink

clink—click

Tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick…
Her hands move back and forth, back and forth.
Shink!
This time, the card is the Ace of Cups. The inscription is simple: ‘The Answer Is Yes’
I start painting without bothering with breakfast.

By dinner time I’ve got the underpainting of the Fortune Teller done. I’ve painted her as she is right now, her head tilted to one side, her eyes just visible under her lashes, though I’ve got her shuffling the cards like she was in the dream. I’ve painted her with just a bit of a smile, a hint that she knows a secret she might just tell if you ask nice.
In my dream, I’m still painting, set up for portrait work on the peacock rug as she sits demurely on her red and gold plush couch.
“May I move to pour the tea?” Her voice is pure, higher than I had expected.
“Yeah, sure.” I agree, glancing from her to my painting hand. “I’ve got the basic shapes down.”
The tea gurgles into the cups. My mouth fills with the taste of cardamom and thyme.
The Fortune Teller stands at my elbow, studying my work. I hate it when people look at works in progress; paintings go through a sort of inverse bell curve of beauty as they’re made: great—good—crap—really crap—garbage—hey that turned out great is the usual sequence. Right now this one’s at the ‘crap’ stage; the paint’s messy, the outline is a little smudged and the underpainting still shows.

“Do I still look like that outside?” she asks, and the tone of her voice makes me glance up. There’s a strange look on her face: distant, wistful, somehow bitter.
My voice sounds odd when I speak. “Outside what?”
She glances down at me, and her face is human again. Smiling, she extends her hand. “Zabela Dolabdjian. A pleasure.”
I give the world’s most awkward smile. “Liz Sharp, but you probably don’t want to shake hands, I’ve got paint all over me and—”
But she reaches down and takes my hand all the same, studying it. Her skin is warm against mine.
“I see.” she murmurs. Glancing up at me from under her lashes, she gives a bashful little smile.
“Forgive me, I’m afraid it’s been some time since I had cause to show good manners. May I?”
“May you what?” It sounds stupid, but what else am I supposed to say?
The Fortune Teller — Zabela — gestures at my hand with her free one. “My grandmother taught me the reading of hands. My grandfather hated it; he said we should focus on the high magics and not the common tricks.” the corner of her mouth twitches in an irritable frown. “Of course, look where that has led him. And me.”
“Sorry?” I ask, totally at a loss. Smooth Liz, real smooth. Even in dreams you’re a dork around pretty girls. Then I get it. 

“Oh, palm reading. Yeah, yeah sure. Go ahead.”

She bends her head to study my hand. The fingers of her free hand trace the lines of my palm. A little tingle runs along my skin.
“Liz Sharp. Sharp indeed.” she murmurs eventually. Smiling, she lets my hand go.
“And can you tell me what year it is, miss Sharp?” she asks, rearranging her skirts as she takes her pose again. Automatically, I lift my brush. Boy, some part of my brain’s having fun with this dream. Mixing up the Fortune Teller, me being on the rebound and too many old movies to get this craziness I guess. 

“Last I checked it was 2020.”
When I look up, Zabela’s eyes are squeezed closed. Her voice has dropped to a strained whisper.
“He said when the trouble was past…”
“Who?”
“My grandfather…”
Then she gives herself a little shake, gives me a little smile. “I am sorry. Let’s talk of happier things, yes? More tea?”
Her arm moves to pour.
Tik—tik—tik—tik—tik—tik—tik…

…………………

“Jeez Liz, you look wrecked.”
“Yeah, I know. Didn’t sleep all that great.” I acknowledge, using a box cutter to slice the lid of a shipping box open. The smell that wafts out makes me grin. “Milk oolong, finally. I’ve been waiting for this!”
“Yeah, well, you don’t get to take it all home, you know.” Joel puts in, pointedly sliding the box away from me and starting to unpack. “Besides, isn’t your shift almost over?”
“Hey man, I was doing you a favor unpacking.”
“Bull. You just wanted dibs on the new tea.”

Joel’s a little bit right. I take eight ounces of milk oolong home with me after my shift. Four cups and a lot of turpentine later, falling asleep isn’t easy.

Tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick…

………………….
The smell of milk oolong tea fills the space between Zaebela and me. But Zaebela’s eyes are down this time, and her pure voice sounds choked.
“My grandfather is dead.”
“Huh?”
This time I’m not at my easel, but on the couch — I dunno, maybe it’s a divan — beside the other woman, watching her move with brittle poise.
“I’ve been thinking of any other reason I’d still be here… but there is none.” Zabela sips at her tea. “He swore he’d break the seal when the soldiers had gone. And now… decades… a century… I never would have let him… but the screaming outside… if the soldiers found a girl they’d…” her delicate teacup rattles in its saucer as she sets it down.
“My grandfather is dead. My family is dead.” she repeats blankly, staring at her hands.
I have absolutely no idea what to do by this point. Setting aside my own cup, I very carefully set my hand on her velvet clad shoulder.
“Zabela? You okay, hon?”
The touch seems to shatter the poise she’d been holding; Zabela curls over on herself, sobbing. Instinctively, I reach out to soothe her, softly rubbing her back. Before I know it she’s turned and is practically in my lap, sobs racking her little body. I hold her with as little awkwardness as possible. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay…”
“No,” the words are gasped sobs. “No… it’s not…” And those gorgeous eyes are on me again, wide, terrified.
“I can break the inner charm, but I’ll never break the outer seal. I’ll never be free.”

And then I’m lying alone in bed.
“Fuck!” I hiss at the ceiling. Flipping on the light, I scrabble in my pockets for a penny. Finding one, I stalk over to the Fortune Teller.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask, dropping in the coin. Yeah yeah, call me crazy, but damn it this is getting weird and it’s 3am. I’m allowed.

Plink

clink—click

Tik—tik—tik—tik—tik—tik—tick…

Her hands move back and forth, back and forth.

Shink!

Four of swords this time, and the message isn’t all that helpful.

‘Stone Walls Do Not A Prison Make, Nor Iron Bars A Cage.’

Plink!

I look up at the sound, and blink. Water. Actual water is falling from the Fortune Teller’s eyes into the teacup glued to her table. 

Light—headed with lack of sleep, I think through my options. Either the roof is leaking and I need to hide the evidence of living here so I can tell my landlady to get a repair guy in…or the wax effigy in front of me is crying, and I am in so far over my head.

……………

There’s a penny under the break room table. Good; I need some decent luck right now. Slide it into my pocket. Now if I can just catch a snooze before the end of lunch…

“Liz? Honey? You okay?”
“Huh?”
Mike’s big face frowns down at me where I sit dozing at the break table. Great job, Liz, now you’re falling asleep in front of your manager.
Mike, aka the Human Hedgehog, wrinkles his brow, which pulls his stubbly hairline down. If I weren’t so tired I’d smile.
“Liz, hon, go home.” he mutters. That wakes me up.
“Wha? No, ‘m fine, I just gotta—”
“Go home, take a sick day. You need it.”

And once Mike decides something, that’s what happens. I drag myself home. Mike’s right. I only manage to down one slice of pizza before I pass out.

………………

“I’ve never tasted anything like this before.”
“It’s called pizza.”
Zabela takes another bite, cutting a piece off her slice delicately with her fork. It’s weird seeing slices of pizza sitting on her fine china plates with delicate forks to cut it. I feel like some kind of peasant when I just pick mine up and eat, but I’m American and this is a dream. Screw it.
An awkward silence stretches out between us. Zabela keeps her eyes on her plate.
I clear my throat.
“Um…you doing okay? That stuff about your family—”
“They’ve been dead for a century.” Zabela’s voice is quiet. “It was long ago. I know that.”

Silence.
“Yeah…but it’s new for you.” 

Zabela raises her eyes. We’re sitting close enough on the divan that we’re nearly nose to nose. And those eyes. A girl could get lost in those eyes.
“Everyone I know is dead,” she whispers, “and I’ll never leave this place. So I might as well do as I like.”
And then she’s kissing me.
She’s… is she… she is! She’s kissing me!
When the kiss breaks, I gasp for air. “How the… why’d you—”
“I saw it in your hand. I read it in your cards,” she whispers. “You could love something like me. You have it in you.”

I gulp.  Those eyes. “Zabela…”
“Please?” Zabela whispers.
And then I can’t help it. I’m kissing her, and her dress is crazy complicated but finally it’s off, and her skin is creamy soft and her body makes mine feel alive. Even after we’re both exhausted, I can’t stop kissing her.
“Promise you’ll come back.” she whispers, her head pillowed between my bare breasts. “Promise you won’t leave me here.”
“I promise.” I whisper, breathing in the scent of her hair.
I wake up in my empty bed, wetness between my legs and tears on my cheeks. Lying there alone, I curse at the ceiling.
…………….
I call in sick to work in the morning. I paint instead. I lay down varnishes on Zabela’s hair, giving it a raven-wing luster. I tint the skin with carefully thinned paint. Her skin should look translucent, the way it did last night. I want to catch the way she really looks.

Tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick—tick…

Zabela watches me paint. Or the Fortune Teller does. Or… I don’t know. Part of my brain is screaming for me to check myself into the psych ward. But there’s a girl inside that wax dummy in glass. If I could just figure out the way, I could reach in and pull her out.
I paint until I can’t see straight. I really need some sleep.

Walking down to the drug store, I pick up a bottle of sleeping pills. Two of them and I’ll be out like a light. Two’s not a lot. Right?

I almost miss the penny outside my door.

……………

Zabela’s hair glistens in the sunlight, dark rainbows against the white sheet and my dark skin.
“How do I get you out?”
“You don’t.”
She shakes her head, her eyes closed. “You can’t. You are no sorcerer.”
“Okay, so how would a sorcerer do it?”
Zabela sighs, rolling over and tracing my breast with a finger. “A sorcerer would break the outer seal that binds me, I would break the inner seal and the spell would be undone.” She holds up the silver mandala around her neck, the same as the mandala on the side of her box in the real world.
“How about I break it?” I ask, reaching up to touch the medallion.
Zabela shakes her head, pulling the little amulet out of my grasp. “I’ve tried. Don’t you think I’ve tried? It will not break. And you have no training. You could kill us both.”
“Yeah, but I could get you loose.”
She sighs, and presses her lips against mine. “Please… just be here with me.”

I run my fingers through her hair.
“That’s what I want.” 

……………………

The last highlights are drying on Zabela’s painting. It hurts to look at her. She’s right there. But the layer of wax and magic between us might as well be a hundred miles thick.

I want to sleep. Directions on the pill bottle say I can’t take another dose for two hours.

 My chest aches. My eyes burn.

The painting’s done. I stare at my dirtied tools.

 I need to clean my paint brushes and palette knife.
I need to sleep.
I pick up my palette knife, but my fingers are clumsy and I drop the damn thing. Pick it up. Turn. Bump the easel with my shoulder. And the easel and everything on it comes crashing down.

For a heartbeat, all I can do is stare at the mess. There’s paint everywhere. Paint spattering Zabela’s portrait. Paint all over the floor.

 Paint and blood. I’ve cut my hand.

Paint and blood. All that work. All these dreams. Nothing to show for it.
All I’ve got is delusions.

A raw yell of frustration burns my throat as it tears loose. Grabbing up a palette knife, I stomp across the room and slash it across the wood of the Fortune Teller’s box, slice across the mandala pattern in one vicious, stupid move. 

I know it’s stupid.
I do it anyway.
The blast of light that bursts out just about sauders my eyeballs to the back of my head. There’s a silent bang that makes my heart feel like it stopped. The air smells like pennies and rain. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. 

A soft hand touches my cheek. “Oh Liz….so sharp you cut yourself…”

It hurts, but I open my eyes. My voice is an odd croak in my ears.
“Hey… Zabela…”

……………….

It was the blood that did it, Zabela says. Blood and intent. I found out later that whatever I did blew out the building generator. The power went out for three blocks around. My landlady bitched about it for days. Zabela says I’m lucky I survived. I say I’m flat out lucky.

 Must be all the pennies.