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Pete is 26 and in betweens: in between jobs and in between relationships, metaphorically in between a moveable bridge and the Chicago River, and physically on the ramp in between Lower Wacker Drive and Lower Lower Wacker Drive.
The Craigslist ad had said Short term job opportunity available. Location: next to the impound lot in the belly of the city. Time: Monday. Be first. Pay negotiable up to 7/hr, and at the bright, sparkling hour of 3:26 AM, Pete had thought that sounded perfectly fine. Maybe a little bit shady sure, but everything on Craigslist is inherently a little bit shady. He'd hastily sent an email double checking that the job wasn’t filled and by 4:14 AM had gotten an email back confirming it wasn’t, and Pete was too busy thinking about maybe being able to make rent on time for once to think about any sketchiness embedded in the whole venture.
As the Audi gifted to him by his father eight years ago coughs along the labyrinthine streets under the city at a slightly more reasonable 7 AM however, he's growing less and less confident by the minute that this endeavor will end in a paycheck and not murder. (His murder, to be specific. At least, he hopes he’s not being hired to be a hitman for a meager $7 an hour. That kind of work should be at least $15 an hour, he thinks.)
Pete pulls up to the tow yard and looks around. The auto lot looks the way one might expect an impound lot owned by the city to look: cheerless and unwelcoming, in desperate need of a facelift, with a dingy, hand-painted sign denoting the entrance. It is, notably, not situated next to any other businesses, let alone one that might be looking to take on provisional contractors.
Sipping extremely burnt Keurig coffee out of the dirty thermos that up until thirty five minutes ago was sitting unwashed on his bedside table for days on end, he scans the painted fence encircling the yard twice before finally spotting a second door off to the side and the tiny shopfront it's set in. If he didn't know any better, Pete would say the shop materialized out of thin air.
He gets out of his car, leaving his coffee behind in the cup holder. A bell tinkles merrily as he pushes the door open to find an overstuffed little shop full of knick-knacks of all sorts of manner: there's a low table full of various rocks and crystals just next to the door, a few rows of shelves in the middle of the floor overflowing with books and figurines, several spinning racks lined with touristy postcards boasting the one-of-a-kindness of the city of Chicago to anyone not here. Behind a glass display counter full of tacky jewelry is a shockingly small man with a long white beard and a scowl between his eyebrows. His skin is a deep, rich brown the color of a flower’s center, he’s wearing a leather vest and a tall, pointed red hat and he is a gnome.
It's 7:15 AM on a Monday and there's a gnome behind the counter of a shop that magically appeared in the wall next to a lot for vehicles impounded by Chicago PD. Pete shakes his head like maybe that will make this scene suddenly make sense but when the world is still again, the frowning gnome is still there, frowning at Pete.
"Um, hi?" Pete ventures. The gnome doesn't say hi back. "I think you put up a job posting on Craigslist?"
"I did," the gnome says. "Are you interested in the job?"
"I might be. What is it?"
"I need to know if you're interested first." For only coming up to Pete's hip, the gnome's glower is extremely intimidating.
"I don't know if I'm interested yet, I don't know what I'm supposed to be interested in."
The gnome eyes Pete like he's a bug crawling across the wall. "A job," he says, the idiot at the end left unsaid but Pete hears it anyway.
Pete very quickly begins to lose his patience with this dude, gnome or not. "I figured out that much, thanks. Your cryptic post didn't tell me jackshit, the least you could do is tell me what I'm agreeing to do for you before I do it."
The gnome sighs long-sufferingly and asks, "What do you need to know?"
"Uh, everything? What am I doing, who are you, where the fuck even is this place?" Pete is a split second away from saying fuck it and just leaving.
"The staffing agency," says the gnome shortly.
"Okay first of all, clearly no it's not. If there even was a staffing agency here, it'd be in the Loop where there's like, people and shit. The sun. We're halfway to the core of the planet right now."
"We're on the bottom floor, you can see the river when you go outside."
Pete throws up his hands in frustration. "Fine! I was being hyperbolic! Just tell me what I'm supposed to do!"
The gnome very testily says, "Deliver this package to Patrick. Bring the signed confirmation of drop-off back here and you can collect your pay and we'll never have to see each other again."
"A delivery? I'm supposed to be a delivery man? Why can't this guy use FedEx? Will I get arrested if I get caught with this?"
"You ask too many questions," the gnome says, scowling. "You won't get arrested if you do your job properly."
Pete is going to rip his fucking hair out. "That's not very fucking reassuring! That's the opposite of assuring! What the f—"
"Do you want to take the job or not?" the gnome cuts him off. "You're more than welcome to leave."
Pete glares at him. The gnome glares back. Pete narrows his eyes. So does the gnome. It's a paycheck. It's a paycheck and the day rent is due looms ominously close. His landlord has been itching for a reason to kick him out since that series of noise complaints a few months back.
Pete concedes. "Where am I taking this to?"
"To Patrick."
"Yes, I heard that part. Where the hell is Patrick?"
The gnome walks around the counter, places a small yellow envelope into Pete's hands and begins ushering him out the door with a hand to the back of Pete’s thigh. "Patrick is wherever he's standing, unless of course, he's sitting, then he's wherever he's sitting."
"Fuck you, can I get a fucking address?"
"Yeah, to Patrick," the gnome snaps and shuts the door on Pete.
Pete curses at the glass then tries the handle but it's locked. Fuck that guy.
When Pete turns around, he's no longer on Lower Lower Wacker, or Lower Wacker, or Upper Wacker, or any iteration of Wacker Drive, up or down. In fact, he doesn't appear to be in Chicago at all, or any city for that matter. All around him are preternaturally tall trees, each of them suspiciously green for what was just a few moments ago late November in the Midwest. From far off, there's the sound of rushing water and a quiet tangle of indistinct nature noises. The ground beneath his feet is soft and loamy and the air thick, damp and warm—like a womb.
The door stands alone, a flat, industrial slab of steel and glass incongruous to its new landscape, the walls around it apparently having dissolved to nothing.
Pete kicks it as hard as he can.
"Fuck you!"
⁂
Pete is stranded in the middle of a magical forest with no map, delivering a package with no address to a guy with no last name for a dour little gnome who is—and let this be clear—a gnome.
Delightful.
Sparing a wistful thought for the coffee he left in his car, Pete sighs, tucks the little parcel under his arm, and picks a direction at random to start walking. He's on the clock now he supposes.
After a few minutes of ambling along with no change of scenery, no identifiable landmarks, and absolutely nothing to help him make either heads or tails of his bewildering new situation, Pete hears a rustling in one of the trees above him. When he looks up, a massive snowy white owl is peering down at him.
As the owl is an owl, it has no capacity for human facial expressions, yet for some reason Pete feels distinctly like it's judging him.
"Hello," he offers.
The owl continues to stare at him. When Pete turns his head slightly, the owl looks less like an owl and more like something resembling a huge Fabergé egg with eyes and a beak. It is an exceptionally creepy sight so Pete makes sure to look at the owl head-on.
"Can you help me figure out where I'm going?" Pete asks. Owls are supposed to be wise after all, although he suspects this owl might not really be an owl, at least not within the confines of the definition he's used to. "I'm supposed to be delivering this to someone and I don't know who he is and I don't know where I am or where I'm going, or why I even agreed to do this at all actually. The guy who hired me isn’t even paying me a full dollar over minimum wage and was like, super rude too. Oh god, I fucked up, didn't I?"
The owl tilts its large head slightly but otherwise gives no response indicating it understands him. Pete exhales slowly.
"Never mind."
He keeps walking. He feels like he's been walking for hours but the light in the sky gets neither darker nor brighter. The scenery around him does not change. His legs get tired but his feet don't and he doesn't get thirsty. The Fabergé owl is somehow always sitting just above him in whatever tree he's standing underneath, watching the whole time.
For variation's sake, Pete stops after what he assumes is a few hours, even though there's no external signs that any time has passed at all. He plops down under one of the unreasonably large trees and leans back, idly hoping no interdimensional arboreal insects are about to skitter their way into his hair. He tips his head back against the trunk and looks up at the owl.
He begins talking to it. "This is bizarre. Not to, y'know, state the fucking obvious. I can't tell if it's been a few hours or a few minutes or a few days and I should probably be tired but I'm not. Is this purgatory? I feel like I just described purgatory. Am I being punished for something?"
Predictably, his companion remains mum.
"Hey, how do you think I'm getting paid by the hour if there are no hours? I'll be super pissed if I don't get paid for this. I didn't volunteer for this, I'm doing it so I don't have to move back in with my parents again. I really, really don't want to get evicted. My credit score is bad enough as is."
Pete rests against the tree for a while longer while as he ponders what to do next—if he goes back, he might be able to find the gnome’s shop again and just go the hell home; if he keeps plowing on, he’ll get paid. He wonders if sitting here like this technically counts as time theft.
Some indeterminate amount of time later, Pete hears voices up ahead. He clambers hastily to his feet to follow the sound and finds two men walking perpendicular to his path, each of them with a small box clutched in their hands.
"Hey!" calls Pete. Both men look over to him. The taller one waves.
"Hey!" he calls back. Pete jogs over to where they are, eager to actually talk to another person and maybe to get an idea of what the fuck he's gotten himself into, but before he has the chance to open his mouth, the other man, the one who didn't wave, points above Pete's head and exclaims, "Lonnie!"
Pete looks at where he's pointing. It's the Fabergé owl.
"Pardon?" he asks.
The man who pointed says, "We've been looking for a Lonnie! She needs to collect our delivery confirmations so we can go home."
"The owl's name is… Lonnie?" Pete asks, perplexed.
The taller man shakes his head and says, "No, Lonnie is her title. Her name is Lori."
"What the fuck kind of title is Lonnie?"
The two men look at each other. Every exposed inch of the shorter man's skin is covered in colorful tattoos except for his face. He says gravely, "Lonnie is a title that takes a very long time to earn."
Pete is very tired. "What does that— You know what, never mind. Who are you? Do you know your way around here? I'm super lost. More than super lost actually."
"I'm Joe," says the taller man. "I was supposed to deliver a package to Andy."
"I'm Andy," says the tattooed man. "I was supposed to deliver a package to Joe."
They both blink at him like this explains everything. Pete waits an awkward moment for either one of them to expound a little more but neither continues.
"O…kay…" Pete says, uncomfortable. "Sorry but— what? I think I need a little more than that."
Joe says, "I ordered something from Luci and Andy needed a part-time job. Andy ordered something from Laci and I needed a part-time job. Here we are." Joe does a singular jazz hand with the hand not holding his box.
Pete is, impossibly, more confused than he was before. "Wait, who the fuck are Laci and Luci? Why are you delivering to each other all the way out here? Do you know where here even is?"
Andy answers, "Luci has the shop by the impound lot and Laci is—"
He pulls two of his fingers down his face, one on either side of his nose over his cheeks.
"That asshole gnome's name is Luci? And, what the hell does this mean?" Pete imitates Andy's gesture.
"You haven't met Laci yet?" Joe asks, surprised.
Pete shakes his head.
"Laci is great!" Andy says brightly.
Joe turns to him and says, "You only think that because you think she's hot."
"That's not only why I think that," argues Andy.
"That's the main reason you think that."
"It's only like half the reason I think that."
"Mmm, I'd say it's like 65% of the reason you think that."
Watching them bicker makes Pete think sharply of his siblings and he suddenly has to get out of here right now before he starts sobbing about how he might never see them again and will instead spend the rest of his life in this purgatory-forest with only an owl that’s not an owl but is a Lonnie for company.
"Just to clarify: you don't know anymore about this forest or where we are than I do, or you do know more and are being obtuse on purpose?"
"Well, I don't know what you know, now do I? How can I say if I know more than you?" Joe tuts, patronizing.
"Great. Awesome, okay, thank you, it was great talking to you, but I think I have to go now." Pete trips and stumbles backwards in his haste to get away.
"Goodbye, Pete!" they call in unison from behind him. Pete stops dead in his tracks and whirls around to gape at them because how do they know his name? Neither of them are looking at him though, are strolling towards the trunk of the tree that Lori is perched in. Pete watches Andy thread his fingers together for Joe to step into and Joe hoists himself up to the lowest branch.
Pete powerwalks away as quickly as he dares without outright running.
⁂
Pete isn't sure how, but eventually he ends up back in front of the door to the shop. He hasn't circled back at all, nor has he turned at any point. Fuck this place and it’s impossible physics, fuck the gnome-named-Luci, fuck those two creepy dudes from earlier, fuck this delivery, fuck this whole stupid day, fuck his wee small hours of the morning decision to answer the sketchiest Craigslist ad possible, and fuck Luci-the-gnome one more time for sending him out here in the first place with no warning. He'll go home without the paycheck and just take an interim job at Jiffy Lube or something, this is bullshit.
Bolstered by his internal bitchfit, Pete grabs the handle and yanks it open.
He marches in guns blazing. "Fuck you, you motherfucking asshole, you can't just—"
When the door opens however, he's not inside Luci's shop at all. This place is decorated like a kitschy 1950s soda shop, all the way down to the black and white tiled floor, the neon clock bolted to the wall over a jukebox, and the red-seated sweetheart chairs against the wall.
"Oh, uh, sorry, I must have the wrong place. Sorry for cussing you out, that wasn't for you," Pete apologizes. He turns to leave but a woman comes bustling out of the back before he can.
"Awesome, are you the new hire?" she asks. "I'm Laci. First things first: I have a package for you to deliver."
She's dressed like Pete's high school girlfriend who was really into psychobilly used to dress: victory rolls in her dark hair, bright red lipstick, full-bodied skirt. She also has six eyes, two extra ones on each side underneath the regular spot on a face that eyes are normally supposed to be.
All six of her eyes are kind enough, but the way she blinks expectedly at him three times too many bright blue blinks gives Pete the heebie jeebies.
"Oh, no I'm not—" he starts but she cuts him off, all six of her eyes snapping to the envelope tucked into his armpit.
"Did you already pick it up? That's great! I need you to get that to Patrick."
"No, wait— wait, what?" Pete asks. "I was already delivering a package to Patrick for the gnome guy. Luci, I think?"
She rolls her six eyes. "Yes, because Patrick ordered something and needs it delivered. If you'll bring the signed delivery confirmation back here in the next two hours, I can give you a time bonus."
If his experiences today have taught him anything, it's that Pete by now knows it's not going to be worth it to argue with her and that his choice currently is to either stay in here with this woman with four eyes too many, or go back outside and find this fucking Patrick guy, or, at the very least, the right shop door so he can get back to his car where is coffee is.
He really wishes he had brought his coffee inside with him. He wishes he had put Baileys in his coffee this morning, hold the coffee.
Without another word, he turns on his heel and leaves through the door again. He's back in the uncomfortably green, unnaturally tall forest. Lori the Lonnie isn't bothering to look like a bird anymore, is just a glittering purple and gold web of gems and intricate filigree perched on the thick branch with two, huge sparkling diamonds for eyes.
Pete stares at it. The diamonds twinkle back.
Pete turns back around and pulls the door open. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have a map would—"
The shop is, yet again, different.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters under his breath in furious disbelief.
This time, the walls are lined floor to ceiling with shelves, each shelf crammed full of plants—plants in pots, plants in jars, plants suspended in resin. The glass counter at the front is full of packets of seeds and behind the counter is a… human-sized creature of some sort. They look like something between a flower and a fungi, white and tan and red-tipped flesh like a mushroom's stalk, with no discernible head or body or limbs. From within the vicinity of the middle of the mass, a thin, ancient voice calls, "Is that the new delivery boy?"
Pete allows himself five whole seconds of glaring angrily at the ceiling before gritting his teeth and answering. "Yes. And I already have the package. How do I find Patrick?"
The creature makes an aborted movement that recalls human confusion. "Patrick?" they ask. "I don't know who that is. I need you to take these seeds to Willa. She's an old friend, but I can't go outside to go upstairs anymore; the sun is too bright for my tired eyes."
Pete can't see any eyes on them but he'll take their word for it.
"And where is upstairs? I've been wandering these stupid woods all day with no direction and no map and my employers keep disappearing. If you’re going to be all mysterious and give me no directions, don’t just— Please just tell me who Willa is and where the hell I'm going, like with a map or some cross-streets preferably."
The creature tsks. "So ornery. And to think, I was going to offer you a time bonus if you made this delivery quickly."
Pete doesn't scream, but only just.
"Willa is the florist directly at the top of the stairs. If you can't find the stairs then I'm afraid I can't help you." The creature procures a small wooden crate full of jars and seed packets from somewhere, seemingly without actually moving. Pete doesn't exactly want to get near them but doesn't really think he has a choice.
He approaches the counter apprehensively, gets only as close as is absolutely necessary, no closer than the very edge of his arm's reach, and scoops up the crate, then quickly scurries backwards. He drops the crumpled package he's been carrying around all day on top of the jars.
At least now while he's wandering aimlessly around the forest that he'll inevitably perish in, he'll have a makeshift headstone for his sad, sad grave.
"Thank you. Willa will be pleased for such a handsome delivery boy too," the creature says. It's only the sudden knowledge that the creature can somehow see him that keeps Pete from physically shuddering.
"Uh, thanks I think. Okay, I'm just going to— go. I'll get this to Willa. Okay, bye!"
He practically sprints to the door. This time, when Pete leaves, there is indeed an incredibly long flight of stairs directly in front of him. He glances over his shoulder in surprise at the door swinging shut. Maybe he'll actually get to go home. Maybe he'll get paid this time.
The stairs are longer than they look, Pete discovers as he hikes up and up and up and up. The only reason he knows this staircase isn't like the interminable forest from earlier, that endless, otherworldly,—and now that he's out of there he can admit—frankly terrifying forest, is that when he looks over his shoulder, the bottom of the staircase is indeed proportionally far away to the burn in his thighs. Pete knows himself to be a fairly athletic guy but these stairs are easily equal to at least fifteen stories, maybe more and whatever spell the forest was working on him to keep him from feeling his exhaustion left when he did.
He pushes ahead.
As he gets nearer to the top, the sounds of a city grow louder, traffic and children shouting, the occasional honk or piercing burst of an emergency vehicle siren. Whatever city is up there, he hopes it has a goddamn florist in it and that he's not being sent on another wild goose chase after something that is not a wild goose in a place that might not even exist in the first place.
He's winded by the time he reaches the top but when he looks around he's—
What the fuck, he's on Lake Shore Drive.
Pete spins around to look back down the stairs, but there's nothing there, just the rough, grey, gum-mottled sidewalk. Directly across the street from him is a florist proclaiming itself to be Willa's, twin cutesy arrangements of white roses in the shape of a heart in either window.
There's no way. It can't be that easy.
Gleefully, Pete hurries across the street, intent on dropping this crate off and going the fuck home, fuck the paycheck and especially fuck this Patrick guy. Once Pete gets back to his car that is, which is probably at least six miles away.
Jesus Christ.
Pete doesn't know why he doesn't expect what comes next.
He opens the door to Willa's and it's not a florist. It's not a shop at all. It's a huge, dark cave, a massive lake in the center. In the middle of the lake is a large rock, and on that rock rests a gigantic, green dragon.
Par for the goddamn course.
⁂
"Are you Willa?" Pete asks.
"I am," the dragon apparently called Willa says. It seems a very modern name for such a very ancient being. "Who are you?"
"I have a delivery for you from…" Pete trails off because, he realizes, he doesn't actually know the name of the creature he's delivering for.
"Oh, my seeds!" she exclaims, delighted. "Are you the new temp as well?"
"No, I'm—"
“Excellent! You’re here sooner than I expected. Oh, and you're so pretty too—“
“—really just dropping this off—“
"I need you to—"
"—please don't say deliver anything to—"
"Have you been made aware of the consequences of insubordination yet? Do not interrupt me, temp."
Willa stares Pete down menacingly. Pete glares petulantly back.
Willa holds her glower for a moment longer then continues pointedly, "As I was saying: I need you to fill in for Maureen while she's on vacation."
Pete rolls his eyes. "Sounds like Maureen shouldn't be allowed to go on vacation if her job can't wait until she gets back."
"Of course it can't wait! Her job is very important and now it is your job, so now your job is very important too. Come, sit, sit."
She gestures with a flick of a claw at a rock formation in the side of the cave that looks vaguely like a desk. With nothing else to do, Pete sits and places the crate full of seeds and jars next to his feet, sets the package for Patrick on his new desk. A framed photo of a beaming woman Pete can only assume is Maureen stands in the other corner, each of her hands on the shoulder of a child bearing a familial resemblance to her, and a parrot on each child's free shoulder, also somehow bearing a familial resemblance to her and to the children. Maureen and both of her children appear to be covered in scales.
"So what exactly does Maureen do around here?"
"She remembers for me."
"What does that mean? Like a secretary or something?" questions Pete.
"It means I'm three thousand years old; I can't be expected to remember every thing I've ever known! I am very important and have known lots of very important people and things. It's your job to make sure I don't un-remember them. Keeping my memories safe is an honor."
Pete gawps at her. "Are you serious? I don't even know you! How the hell am I supposed to remember your life?"
Willa laughs. It sounds like a spoon caught in the garbage disposal. "Well, because that's your job, isn't it?"
Pete bites his tongue hard enough he tastes blood.
Willa hums tunelessly for a while and Pete watches her, unsure what else he's supposed to be doing, or what remembering things for a dragon he's never met even means. After a few minutes, she points a claw at the crate by Pete's feet and asks, "Can you put those away for me? Maureen keeps them in the overhead hutch, maybe you can figure out her organizational system. I've never been able to fathom it."
He stoops to pick up the crate, the jars contained within clinking gently as they knock together. When he stands to look, there's a small alcove above the rock-desk where he can see rows and rows of glass jars lined up along the back, all equally sized to the ones he's carrying. "What are these seeds of?" Pete asks as he begins shelving them. "Seems kind of dark in here to be growing stuff."
"Those are seeds of thoughts, ideas to be planted. My work, and by extension, Maureen's-and-now-your work, is in knowledge. Do be careful with those," Willa admonishes as one of the jars wobbles precariously on the ledge of the shelf. Pete catches it before it can commit to its ruminations on freedom, pushing it back in line with the others.
"Oh. I don't think I know what that means," admits Pete.
"It's okay, that knowledge is above your paygrade anyway. Temp," she says then stops.
Pete puts the last of the jars on the shelf and turns around to look at her. She's watching him expectedly and waits until he looks her in the eye before continuing, "Can you remember what childhood felt like?"
Pete feels his eyes widen in confusion. "My childhood? It was okay I guess. My teenage years were rough but— wait, is this your memory I'm supposed to be remembering?"
Willa makes a go on motion with her enormous, clawed foot which doesn't answer Pete's question in the slightest. He takes a wild swing in the dark and continues, "Um, I think it was… not better because I— You. We?" Pete looks at Willa who nods. "—were little and vulnerable, but we were like, freer? Being a kid was like, you know how to step inside things that aren't real because everything is real to you. Like, you know Star Wars isn't real, but it could be, to you at least. The world fits to you, you don't fit to the world. Or, y'know, something like that. Yeah."
Pete watches apprehensively while Willa mulls this over for a bit, hoping his jumbled, off-the-cuff answer was decent enough, then she says, "Alright. Can you make sure Laci gets that before Wednesday?"
"Six eyes Laci, right?" he confirms, relieved.
"Her vision is very, very sharp yes," Willa says.
"Sure thing," he says, thankful she’s satisfied with his bullshit answer even though he has zero clue how he's supposed to get it to Laci or what "getting it to her" actually means.
The day continues in much the same fashion, occasionally Willa asks Pete a nebulous, open-ended question and Pete makes up increasingly more esoteric answers before she tells him to send the answer off to someone. It feels a lot like what writing papers in college felt like before he dropped out. Also, he's still not entirely sure what sending an idea to someone means so he hasn't done that yet. He wonders how long it will take Willa to notice.
"Willa," Pete asks, a question that's been nagging him since he first saw her. "Is your actually name Willa? Does that mean something special in…" He gestures vaguely. "I assume you speak more languages than just English."
"No, no Willa is a nickname. My name is," and she makes a sound that Pete assumes he must have to have reptilian throat anatomy to recreate. "I just absolutely adore My Ántonia, such a divine novel. Do you remember the story of how I once met Willa Cather and her darling ladyfriend while on my way to upstate New York once?"
"I believe I do," Pete lies because remembering is his job, "but feel free to regale me again."
"Alright then," Willa says what Pete can only assume is a few hours later. There aren't any clocks in here. "Maureen should be back any minute now. If you could just do me one small favor before you leave, I can sign your timecard."
"Sure, what is it?" he asks gamely. This has overall been the most pleasant encounter he's had all day.
"I need you to deliver a package to—"
Pete's short-temper flares up out of nowhere. No fucking way is he doing this shit again. "Are you about to say fucking Patrick again?! Who the fuck is this guy?!"
"You've been such a joy to work with, I'd hate to have to write you up but this is the second time you've directly disrespected a superior." Willa says tightly. "Yes, to Patrick, it's very urgent. I see you already have the item, just bring me back the signed drop-off confirmation and you'll be free to leave."
Pete is having none of it. "I'm not fucking doing that! Fuck every single one of you! Is this guy even fucking real?!"
Willa roars and lunges at him, teeth first. "You were made aware of the consequences of insubordination! You are fired!"
Pete dives out of the way of her massive snapping jaws. She lunges again, shrieking, "You may not use me as a reference!"
He scrambles to his feet and flees, swiping the package from the desk as he goes. From behind him, Willa calls, "Your final paycheck will be mailed to you within 72 hours!"
Outside of the mouth of the cave, he blinks at the suddenly bright sunlight. He's back in the Gold Coast. His car is at least an hour away walking. He sighs a sigh so deep it feels sourced from his ancestors in Jamaica and begins fishing around in his pocket to count how much loose cash he has, if it's enough to cover a cab back to his car.
⁂
After Pete hails a cab and climbs inside, he asks, "Do you know the impound lot on Lower Lower Wacker?"
The cabbie grunts a vague affirmation.
"Cool. Take me there."
Pete rests his forehead against the cool glass and closes his eyes for the duration of the ride.
⁂
Once back under the city, Pete paces up and down the fence to the impound lot once, twice, before the shop he's looking for finally appears out of thin air a few feet ahead, just as before. Grabbing the handle, he yanks the door open and Luci the gnome is standing behind the counter with a persistent frown between his eyebrows, exactly the same as he was this morning, like nothing at all has even happened, like no time has passed.
"Well, did you deliver it?" Luci asks, looking disgruntled.
Pete snaps. "No, I did not fucking deliver your stupid fucking package! What the fuck even was today?! Is it even still today?! Take your goddamn package and keep your goddamn paycheck, I'm going home! I almost got eaten by a fucking dragon just now!" He strides across the store and slams the envelope onto the counter, the jewelry on the shelves inside jumping as if startled.
"Oh no, I can't take that back, it's for a customer. Legally, the liability is yours now until it's in his hands."
Pete screams behind his teeth and storms out, package jammed under his arm.
Pete doesn't know why he's surprised to discover the world outside is a different one than the one he entered from but he is. The sky is navy-purple and dark this time and it looks like he's still somewhere in the city—flashes of Lake Michigan gleam black and shiny from between dimly familiar buildings and the El rumbles from somewhere overhead—but he's sure as hell not underground in the middle of the afternoon like he was ten minutes ago.
"What the fucking fuck!" he explodes. He yells, an indistinct howl, hurls the stupid fucking package onto the ground and stomps on it, furious and confused and so, so unbelievably over every single thing about today.
As he throws his terrifically well-earned tantrum, a bespectacled guy exits the little music store across the street to watch him. He's small and stocky, broad, the feathery copper hair just brushing the tops of his shoulders jammed under a flat cap the same muted green as his jacket. Somehow, and Pete doesn't know how, but he knows this is Patrick.
Patrick—it has to be Patrick, this is Patrick, and he's real, Jesus Christ—crosses the street to stop in front of Pete. He asks, "Is that mine?"
They both look down at the crumpled, grimy little envelope covered in the dirty imprint of Pete's Bapes. It's noticeably flatter than it was thirty seconds ago.
"Are you Patrick?" Pete asks even though he already knows the answer.
"I am."
Patrick's voice is smooth and warm, like the thick layer of honey settled at the bottom of a mug of tea, his mouth a marvelous strawberry, full and red.
"Then, uh… Maybe?"
"Did it do something to you?"
Pete immediately rescinds any and all concupiscent thoughts he may have just been having about the guy's mouth. He wants to strangle this motherfucker and his flippant questions, his minimizing of the extreme emotional distress Pete has born today. Fuck this guy and fuck his goddamn flat package; Pete is glad he trampled all over it.
"What the fuck is wrong with FedEx, you fucking asshole? Do you know what I've been through today because of you? What the hell did you even order?"
"Guitar strings. They're hand-wound."
Pete stares at Patrick in disbelief. Patrick blinks back.
"Guitar strings? Fucking guitar strings?! I almost got eaten by a fucking dragon for fucking guitar strings?!"
Pete snatches the bedraggled package off the ground and stomps over to Patrick, shoves the thing into his chest. "Fuck you and fuck your fucking mail service! Use USPS next time, you fucking dick! I hope your strings snap and hit you in the eye!"
Patrick's hand closes around his fucking hand-wound guitar strings and from as close as they are, Pete can see that he has flecks of gold sprinkled throughout the blue of his irises. Patrick regards Pete coolly as Pete stares him down when suddenly, from deep within, a laugh bubbles up from Pete's chest and bursts through. He's abruptly overtaken by a paroxysm of hysterical giggles and he slumps to the ground.
"I almost got eaten by a dragon today," Pete chokes out, eyes watering. "Did I mention that? A dragon, with like. Teeth." Pete gnashes his own teeth for emphasis, like maybe Patrick doesn't know what teeth are.
Patrick stares down at him placidly, concern tinging his expression.
Eventually, Pete's giggles taper off into nothing. He hiccups and flops onto his back on the disgusting city sidewalk, staring up at the night sky. From this angle, the buildings look endless, their glowing windows thousands of eyes watching him unravel, thousands of spectators hoping that whatever happens next, that it's interesting. From this angle he can see straight up Patrick's nostrils.
"Alright, where am I? Like, where are we right now?" Pete asks.
Patrick answers, "Lakeview."
Pete sits up, rubbing his forehead. "Jesus fucking Christ. Okay. Whatever. I have to figure out how I'm going to afford getting back the South Loop again, so thank you for that."
"I can take you there if you hang on for another twenty minutes once my shift ends," offers Patrick.
Pete squints suspiciously at him. "Why would you do that? Are you also a dragon that's going to eat me?"
"Not a dragon." The corner of Patrick's mouth quirks up. "You just seem like you're having a rough day."
"What a fucking understatement," Pete says grandly, smiling back.
Patrick, it turns out, is super cool when he's not placing ridiculous orders for ridiculous guitar strings.
Pete sits on the counter, a bunch of guitar pedals on display under his ass and his heels bouncing gently against the glass as he kicks his feet. "So you're from the city, you go to shows, you know a lot of the same people I do, and I've never seen you before? How is that?"
Patrick, who is buzzing around locking up, laughs, a melodic sound that pairs perfectly with his caramel and lavender speaking voice. Pete wants to wrap himself up in this guy's voice on Sunday mornings, on weekday nights, wants to sprawl out leisurely and indulgent in it until the warmth from Patrick's voice is indistinguishable from the warmth of Pete's body. The fact that with Patrick's voice comes Patrick certainly doesn't hurt.
"You probably have seen me, I'm just not very memorable," Patrick says.
"That can't be true, I'd definitely remember you." Pete immediately starts chewing his thumbnail anxiously because whoops, that wasn't how he meant to phrase that even if he does mean it, but Patrick just laughs his sweet laugh again.
"You flatter me. You know I've already said I'll give you a ride to your car right? I'm not going to kick you out after I close."
Pete blows out a breath. He says, "I'm not flattering you, I just have a crazy good memory for faces." He hopes the especially ones that look like yours, comes across in how he raises his eyebrows.
From the way Patrick turns delightfully pink before turning away to make himself look busy, it does.
The lazy cat that lives in Pete's chest stretches contentedly.
Once they hit the road, Pete realizes he forgot to tell Patrick where to go after Patrick viciously cuts off the only other car on the road as he turns onto Lower Wacker.
"Wait, how do you know where my car is?" Pete asks over the sound of the other driver honking furiously at them.
"Yeah, well fuck you too, asshole," Patrick grumbles under his breath at the other driver, as though the other driver is the one in the wrong. To Pete he says, "You told me."
"No I didn't." Pete is very, very certain he did no such thing.
"Well, I didn't intuit it from the vibrations in the air did I?"
"How should I know how you know? I didn't tell you!"
"Yes you did."
Pete figures questioning anything at all about this day is useless at this point. He shakes his head and breathes deeply through his nose for several seconds before letting it roll off him. He says, "Okay. Okay, best and then favorite Joel Schumacher movies with details and reasoning as to why, go."
"Thanks for the ride," Pete says once they reach his car. "Don't be a stranger if you see me around, yeah?"
Patrick nods tightly and Pete wonders if he should shake Patrick's hand or offer him a fist bump or something. It feels weird to leave without touching him but it might be weirder if he did. Instead he nods once back, then makes to get out of the car.
"Forgive me for being presumptuous," Patrick begins right as Pete places a hand on the door handle. "But would you like to get dinner with me this week sometime?"
"What, like on a date?"
"Like on a date," Patrick confirms.
Pete looks at him. Patrick is chewing on his lush lower lip and has gone pink around the ears, his gaze keeps flitting nervously between Pete's face and out the windshield at the dismal impound lot. Pete says, “This is one hell of a Hollywood meet cute.”
”You don’t have to make fun of me, you know. I can take it if you say no,” Patrick says.
"I’m not saying no, I’m saying yes."
"Oh. Oh!" Patrick beams at him wide and genuine. His smile is infectious, closes his eyes into a happy squint and takes up his whole face, injecting mid-morning sun into the car, even this far below the city this late at night.
Pete grins back.
"Cool. Are you free on Thursday night? Also, can you give me a ride home? I probably should have asked earlier."
"Yeah Thursday works— wait, what? Why can't you drive yourself home?" Pete asks, baffled.
"I don't own a car; I live next to the CTA in Pilsner." He says this like it should be obvious to Pete.
"What do you mean you don't own a car? Who's fucking car is this then?!"
Patrick looks around the vehicle they're sitting in, surprised, like he's just seeing it for the first time. "Huh. That's odd," he says then throws open his door and starts off in the direction of Pete's neat little Audi.
What the fuck.
"What the fuck," Pete whispers to himself out loud for emphasis.