Once more into the breach, Crick thought, dialing his mother’s number and sitting down with his coffee that Saturday morning, lighting a cigarette as he put his phone on speaker. He carried his little glass ashtray over to the garbage can, emptied it, and returned to the table, sipping at his coffee. On the fifth ring, his mother finally picked up, sounding a little out of breath as she said, “Hey, honey. Sorry about, not picking up right away.” Crick thought he heard someone talking in the background, followed by a plastic clatter and silence.
“What the hell was that?”
“Sorry, had to mute the Pelaton lady,” his mother replied.
“I didn’t know you were into that stuff.”
“Just started earlier this week. Trying to get back into condition, doctor suggested some light cardio,” she panted in response.
“Doesn’t sound ‘light’ to me, Ma. Sounds like you’re about to blow a gasket.” He took a drag of his cigarette, looked at the tube of tobacco and paper for a moment thoughtfully, and exhaled. You only live once, he mused. “So, what’s new?”
“Well, your brother showed up here a couple of days ago. No call ahead, no explanation, just turns up out of the blue. Won’t tell me what brought him to town, but he’s got a backpack, not a suitcase, so I don’t think he’s planning on sticking around for very long.”
“Dojin doesn’t just do stuff like that randomly,” Crick said, sitting up a little straighter, his sense of brewing trouble ticking up. “Is he awake?”
“I think he is, I heard the toilet a couple of minutes ago, but he hasn’t come out of the guest room yet. Let me check the kitchen.” There was some scratching noises as his mother clearly picked up her own speaker-activated phone and moved through her apartment, followed by a clatter and his mother quietly speaking to someone else. “It’s your brother,” he heard her say.
“Hey there, big guy,” Dojin said clearly over the line, perhaps too clearly.
“It’s on speaker, Doje, just set it down right there,” their mother added in the background.
“Oh, right.” Clatter, thump. “Sorry about that, Crick.”
“No worries. What the hell are you doing in Brooklyn, Doje? I thought you and your buddies had a good thing going up there in Maine with the campgrounds.”
“Oh, yeah, we’re doing great with it! That’s actually why I’m kind of floating around right now, it’s been pretty successful. I’ve got some free time to step back, let part of the business sort of run itself on autopilot, you know? But just for a couple of weeks, then I gotta head back, we got some snowbirds heading south for the cold months, and we’re gonna take the chance to do some repairs on their parcels, you know? Make it real nice for when they come back.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Crick replied, relaxing a little and lighting up another smoke, sipping at his coffee.
“Hey, you two boys catch up, I’m gonna run down to the corner to pick up a couple of things. You need anything, Dojin,” their mother asked.
“Don’t you want your phone, Ma,” the younger Solomon brother asked. She made a kind of raspberry sound in response, and in his head, Crick could see her flapping one hand in the ‘get out of here with that’ motion. “Okay, see you in a few,” Dojin said, going silent for about half a minute before speaking again. “Okay, between you and me, Crick, I’ve got some problems here,” his brother said, once more bringing Crick to high alert.
“I fuckin’ knew it. What’d you do?”
“Nothing! Okay? I didn’t do anything, brother! It’s, it’s Tom Hennig. Do you remember me mentioning him?” Crick searched his memory, but he only vaguely recalled something about Hennig being involved with his brother’s business venture.
“Only a little. He’s one of your investors, right?”
“Yeah, a big one. He laid out about a third of the money up front we needed to get this thing started. Well, he pulled his funding about a month ago. Don’t worry, we’re still solvent, but things are not great, and they’ve taken a bit of a turn I wasn’t expecting.”
“What do you mean, Doje?”
“Well, one of our long-term residents, this elf guy, Shevish Torensa, he was found dead in his cabin last week,” Dojin said quietly. “At first, nobody was really giving the public any details, we didn’t have a great idea of what could have happened, but then a couple of days later, another one of long-term folks, a lizardwoman, Chi’kara Offara, she turns up dead, too. Only difference is, it was one of our maintenance guys who found her; brother, they’d strung her up from a tree in her front yard here.”
Crick felt his stomach turn a few flops, unable to properly form a response. “Do you think someone’s going after Outworlders up there,” he finally asked.
“I think it’s a possibility, yeah. That’s why I’m taking this little sabbatical, getting away from things for a bit. It could just be coincidence, you know? Then again, if it is just a coincidence, it could still mean we’ve got a friggin’ serial killer up in my slice of Maine, you know? Best just to take some precautions. Maybe we’ll get lucky, the freak’ll go after a minotaur and end up a grease stain on some bull’s living room floor,” Dojin said with a nervous chuckle.
“Hell’s bells.”
“Yeah, so, don’t let Ma hear about this, okay? Anyway, what’ve you been up to, Crick?” The older of the Solomon brothers began talking a little bit about his newfound relationship with Velis, sparing him the explicit details, and the support group meetings and its recent decision to go more underground. “Probably a wise idea, brother,” Dojin said when Crick mentioned the removal of signage and ads for the group in local papers.
“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t just ask for some security volunteers,” their mother said, having returned to the apartment as Crick was talking about Velis. “I’m sure there’s at least a few folks who would be more than happy to stand guard outside of the meetings, maybe the folks who don’t like talking so much about themselves, but want to feel like part of the community.”
“Hmm. That’s, actually not a bad idea, Ma. Anyway, I gotta get my day started, hit the shower and whatnot. I’ll call you again next week,” Crick said, hanging up. He finished his coffee and headed for the bathroom, letting the water in the shower get almost scalding hot before stepping in. He didn’t wonder for a moment if his brother had made the right decision in bugging out for a little bit; it just seemed sensible. When there’s trouble, you either get out ahead of it turning its sights on you, or you grab a weapon and charge headlong into it to put it to rest. That was how their father had approached life as a skirmisher back in his homeworld.
Then again, the troubles he had faced had been quite a bit different from the challenges of life on Earth, in America. Here, troubles tended not to have easy solutions like rounding up a few fellow adventurers or warriors and going to slay the proverbial beast that was rampaging across the countryside. No, here, the weapons of choice were not the blade and shield, or the spell tome; here, the weapons were Twitter and lawsuits, and maybe campaigns to get people you didn’t like or agree with ‘cancelled’ from the rest of society. It was often ugly and underhanded, and at the end of the day, not much if anything got solved in a quick and efficient manner.
Maybe they had it better over there, Crick thought, scrubbing his arms with a rough loofa. Then again, we don’t have to worry about dragons melting our cities. Trade-offs.
**
“I appreciate you squeezing me in like this,” Crick said, watching as Libras held up his little car overhead, Sam draining the old oil into a long, wide pan underneath it. “I know I should’ve made a regular appointment, but it was starting to smell pretty bad.”
“That’s because you let it go too long,” the lizardman mechanic said, shaking his head as he stepped out from under the vehicle and the rather tall, pyramid-headed golem in his dark blue coveralls. “By the way,” the lizardman said quietly, leaning down to half-whisper to the goblin cook. “You know what he looks like under the clothes?”
“Do I want to know?”
“A very primitive doll. No muscle definition, just some weird roller balls for joints and cylinders for movement and manipulation. His torso’s like one big baked clay tube; it’s a little strange to behold.”
“I can imagine. That reminds me, did Eddie get back to you yet? About Libras’s situation?”
“Yeah, actually, he did. Follow me,” Sam said, guiding Crick into the garage and over toward an old metal desk he had set up in one corner, littered with order forms for various auto parts. He reached into one of his squeaking drawers and pulled out a beige messenger envelope, which had the name ‘Solomon’ written on it in black marker. It didn’t look particularly thick. “Have a seat and take a read through, I haven’t opened it yet since it was marked for you. I’m gonna go ahead get started putting some new oil in your car.”
Crick sat down in the lopsided rolling desk chair Sam used, opened the top of the envelope, and pulled out the papers within, three sets of stapled sheets. The top-most sheet bore the letterhead of the law firm Eddie worked for, and appeared to be a typed out letter. He set this aside at first, looking at the next set of sheets, which appeared to be some sort of study guide for the federal emigration exam. The last set of sheets, from a quick once-over, were the application forms for citizenship to the United States.
The goblin cook went back to the first pages, and read through the letter:
-Mr. Solomon,
We here at the firm were recently approached by one of our paralegals, a Mr. Eddie Rygar, who has been asking some intriguing questions regarding the legal standing of a creature apparently known as a ‘golem’, hailing from the world of Caldea. When initially questioned regarding his interest, he would not elaborate, but with time, he finally informed us that the two of you are both members of a group of individuals who are descendants of that other world’s inhabitants, who were displaced here in our world, and that this third party, whom he informs us is named ‘Libras’, is the cause of his inquiries. Specifically, he noted that you are concerned about the future rights and privileges of this individual.
I must confess, this is a unique case. Trust me when I tell you, Mr. Solomon, that I have looked far and wide for any similar such situation in recent U.S. legal history, and none exists. You may well have stumbled upon a precedent-setting event!
While I do not personally feel specialized enough in immigration law to look further into the matter, I have spoken with Ms. Tanya Lynch, one of the other attorneys who works here at the firm. She has agreed to give the matter her own review, and will attach a letter to you as well. Thank you for your time and attention.
-Signed,
Jacob Tellert
Crick grinned, then moved along to the second letter in the first stapled set of pages, another missive printed up on the firm’s letterhead.
-Mr. Solomon,
After reviewing the facts concerning this ‘Libras’, as he is referred to by our employee, Eddie Rygar, and the pertinent records of his former master and likely creator, Averneth Kento, I find myself in the unusual position of having to consider potential approaches to take with a situation like his. With regards to Kento, an elven refugee from Caldea brought here along with so many hundreds of thousands of other Outworlders, it would appear that he was a fairly model citizen. To establish his citizenship, he agreed to serve in the United States Army in the last days of the Vietnam Conflict, and he remained with the service until 1986, working as a corpsman. His use of healing magic and knowledge of chemistry proved quite invaluable to his fellow servicemen, and when he ultimately left the service, he received an Honorable Discharge and several commendations for his service.
It was noted in his service records that prior to his enlistment, he rented a storage locker in the area, and that part of his contract with the DoD included a request that the Army continue to pay for the storage of his personal effects within. We suspect that your golem acquaintance was among the many things stored therein. Upon his Honorable Discharge, with several commendationsfrom the Army, he returned to said storage facility and retrieved his goods, prior to hauling stakes and moving to Prior Lake, Minnesota.
That your friend, Mr. Libras, is a golem is something that raises a curious question for us in law; given that he demonstrates a degree of sentience, is he a living and sovereign individual? This much seems unclear, as he apparently does not require sustenance of the sort we recognize, and was not a naturally born person, but a constructed tool, built for various manual labor tasks.
Rather grotesquely, whilst considering this perspective, I came to realize that this was likely how early Americans possibly viewed the slaves they held ownership over. The only difference in treatment seems to be that we knew full well that those individuals required the same basic elements of living in order to survive as their owners; not so, Mr. Libras.
I have determined that the best course of action, for now, is to proceed as if Mr. Libras was an individual needing to apply for United States citizenship like any other foreign-born person. I have, as such, requested an application and a study guide for Mr. Libras to review and to ultimately fill out and send in, so that he might gain a firmer sense of his rights and responsibilities as a citizen of this country. Most such applicants require legal representation, and I will be more than happy to provide that for him, pro bono.
Please assist Mr. Libras as best you can with this application, should he require it. In the meantime, I can be reached at the number written on the back of this letter. Thank you.
-Tanya Lynch
Crick hopped up from the chair with the packet of application papers and the study guide, sauntering over toward the towering golem, who stood perfectly still beside his vehicle as Sam poured new synthetic oil into it. “Mr. Solomon, I give you greetings,” Libras said, his glass-fronted pyramid head flickering a pinkish hue. Crick handed the papers up toward him. “What’s this?”
“This, my friend, is what you need to spend your time with for the next couple of weeks,” Crick replied. “This, and little else.”
**
There are whole facets of living in the American Midwest that take some time getting accustomed to if you’re a transplant from someplace like New York. The very person sitting here typing out this manuscript for your entertainment and/or thoughtful consideration is exactly such a person, and there’s an admittedly self-conscious and almost grotesque kind of autobiographical insertion within this tale in the person of Crick Solomon, insofar as he is, like Crick, a native of New York who now resides in the state of Minnesota. As such, he knows a little about the lingering culture shock that can still cause momentary pause even a decade into residing in the home of the NFL’s ‘Purple People Eaters’.
One of these facets, Crick had discovered early on and still struggled with, was a phenomenon known as ‘The Minnesota Good-Bye’, a practice wherein two speaking parties, both understanding that they need to part ways and go about their own separate business, will nevertheless spend an extra ten minutes on trivial small talk after what should have been the natural conclusion to their conversation. Sometimes, there’s nothing to be done about it, and one simply indulges in the ritual without complaint. The result, in Crick’s case herein, was his application of rather too much speed when heading toward his place of employment.
When the bubble-bar lights on the Prior Lake Police cruiser lit up behind him, the goblin cook cursed and grumbled in his parents’ native tongue for several seconds before signaling that he was pulling over, getting as far over on the shoulder on Route 13 as he could without putting his vehicle in the ditch. He killed the engine, tossed his keys up on the dash, and rolled his window down, pressing his palms to his steering wheel, fingers splayed wide and empty. Taking a peek in his rearview mirror, he saw a tall, middle-aged hume officer approaching in a thick black uniform coat, a ticket pad in hand, but no pen yet in the other. As the officer came up beside and just behind his driver’s side window, he said, “License and insurance, sir.”
Crick cleared his throat. “Just gotta grab my wallet, it’s in my back pocket,” he replied.
“Go ahead.” Crick slowly, but with exaggerated movements, retrieved his wallet from his back left pocket, pulled out his license and his insurance card, and offered them out to the officer. When the lawman had them in hand, there was a brief silence. “Mr. Solomon, where are you headed to in such a hurry?”
“Work, sir. I’m a line cook over at Loon’s Café.”
“Ah. My wife and I’ve been there a few times; good eats. Now Mr. Solomon, you sit tight right here, I’ll be right back.” Crick nodded, his fingers curling slowly around the wheel, his teeth clamping against one another almost painfully. The officer was gone only about two minutes, returning and pressing the license and insurance card toward Crick between pointer and middle fingers. “You were going about eight miles an hour over the limit, but I’m gonna just give you a warning, Mr. Solomon, since you don’t appear to have any prior infractions. I imagine you don’t make a habit of this sort of thing.”
“Generally speaking, I try not to do anything that might be detrimental to my day,” Crick replied, tucking his cards away once more. “Especially given certain societal expectations of, well, my kind, as it were.” The officer chuckled quietly.
“Mr. Solomon, in my experience out here, there is no kind that is more or less likely to break vehicle and traffic laws when they’re running late to something, especially to work. You have a good day now, sir.” The officer sauntered away back to his patrol car, leaving Crick to head along on his way to work. Chef Taylor grumbled only a little at him when he hung up his coat and explained why he was almost half an hour late, having been caught up by a local patrolman and nearly being ticketed. Though a small stretch of the truth, it got him out of too much of a chewing-out from the man he called ‘boss’.
Soon enough, he would have concerns far more pressing than being late to work.