5
The Old Curiosity Shop
Mr. Horum makes a bad first impression. Bronson stops a thief. Uncle Randolph counts his money. Dogboy practices on the roof until the sun comes up.
That afternoon Bronson took a bus to South 4th Street. He got off then looked around for #523. He’d spent his lunch period in the library looking for interesting places to go after school. When he found the listing for The Old Curiosity Shop he knew he had to stop. The listing he’d found promised MAGIC TRICKS, BAUBLES, AND DO-DADS FROM THE FAR EAST. Sounded right up his alley.
He made it to #523. The shop stood between two much larger buildings. It had a small window display with cards and trick handkerchiefs. He couldn’t see inside so he wasn’t even sure they were open. He heard a clap of thunder in the distance. A few drops of rain hit his head so he decided to try the door anyway.
The Old Curiosity Shop had existed in Colta City for over forty years. Its proprietor was an elderly widower of Indian descent named Mr. Horum. The shop was crowded and dusty. It smelled like the pages of an old book you’d find in the back stacks of the library. The walls were lined with shelves that themselves were packed with gags, gadgets, and gizmos (as promised). Some of the products had been there since he opened, but some had been delivered last week.
Posters, paintings, and fliers lined the walls. They showed great magicians performing their signature feats. Alexander Herrmann with his goatee and tailcoat. Across from the register Harry Kellar levitated Princess Karnak. A painting of Okito The Mystic hung in the back. He suspended a small orange ball between his hands while clad in red oriental robes.
Mr. Horum himself stood behind the counter. He was short, chubby, and dressed like an Omani sultan. A man stood across the counter from him watching him prepare a trick. Mr. Horum placed his thumb into a miniature guillotine then slammed the blade down quick. His thumb rolled across the counter then onto the floor.
Mr. Horum chuckled as the customer jumped back to avoid the severed digit. “Is simple, hmmb?” Mr. Horum said with a smidge of pride. He held up his clenched fist, winked, then opened it to reveal that his thumb was still where it should be.
“I’ll take it. How sharp is that blade?” the customer asked.
“Oh, is a bit sharp,” Mr. Horum said. He took an unopened version of the trick from the shelf behind him then placed it next to the register. “…But not so very sharp. Would take off little finger at most.” Mr. Horum waved his pinky at the customer. The customer chuckled then set the fake thumb up on the counter. A bell above the door sounded. Bronson walked in just in time to catch a glimpse of the thumb.
“Neat,” he said.
Mr. Horum handed the trick to the customer, who tipped his hat to Bronson as he left. Bronson poked a realistic looking brain that was sitting on a table in the middle of the shop.
“And what are you needing?” Mr. Horum asked.
Bronson turned his attention to a basket with an ornate handpainted sign that said DISCOUNT GAGS—CHEAP! There were some pieces of rope, a set of trick handcuffs, and other assorted gimmicks.
“I’m looking for some good tricks,” Bronson said.
Mr. Horum ducked behind the counter. “What you need?” he asked. “Card trick? Rope trick? Flash papers? We got anything you want.” Mr. Horum took out several items then laid them on the counter.
“What kind of tricks can you do with rope?”
“Oh, many kinds. All sorts. Here, you like this one I betcha.” Mr. Horum took a six-foot length of rope. He squinted one eye, stuck out his tongue, and took aim. He threw the rope. It spiraled through the air across the room and wrapped around a vase. It hugged the vase tighter and tighter until a small crack shot up the side of the vase, then it shattered.
“Wow,” Bronson said, “but couldn’t that hurt somebody?”
“It not so bad,” Mr. Horum said, “I use trick vase.”
The trick reminded Bronson of when his dad taught him how to make sugar glass. It looks like real glass, but it breaks apart easily. They’d made a piece big enough to fit in the coffee table. When his mom came home Bronson pretended to trip and fall through the “glass.” He and his dad found it hilarious, but his mom didn’t find it funny at all.
“Something the matter? Trick no good for you?” Mr. Horum asked.
“It’s a great trick, sir,” Bronson said. “Sorry. It just reminded me of a trick my dad taught me awhile ago.
“Oh, your pop do magic, hmmb?”
“He was a real magician. Traveled the country and everything.”
“Well you be careful, boy-o. Your pop a magician you must have got some crazy somewhere along the way.”
Mr. Horum chuckled at his joke then snatched another trick off the shelf.
“Well we need super-duper fancy trick for magician’s son then.” As Mr. Horum turned around he heard the bell ring above the door. Bronson was gone. He sighed, put the trick back on the shelf then went back to unpacking some marked decks.
The sun went down in Colta City. Raindrops pit-pattered on the ground like the sound of batter frying at a country fair. Water flooded into the gutters. People ran into shops or under awnings or found other places to protect them from the weather. Bronson didn’t much feel like seeking shelter so he sat on the curb. The cold dirty water washed over his bare feet. He tied his shoes together then huddled around them as he let the rain wash over him.
A man barreled down the sidewalk toward him, an umbrella in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Beads of water bounced off his alligator skin shoes. He stopped next to Bronson and waited to cross the street. He looked down at Bronson, who smiled back at him. The man muttered into the phone.
“I swear, it’s like Mayor Lane doesn’t even care about cleaning up this city. Hand to God there’s a filthy little homeless sitting in the gutter right next to me.” The man bumped into Bronson as he took a couple steps past him to find a better spot to cross. An orange flash–
The man stepped off the sidewalk. Started across the road. Another man followed. Tapped him on the shoulder.
“Them’s some nice shoes,” he said. “Shoes like them I’d look right proper. You look like a generous sort. Care to donate to a fellow in need?”
He pulled out a small dagger. The business man backed away.
“Gladys, call 911. I’m at—”
“For Andrus,” said the thief as he pushed the dagger into—
Another flash. Bronson looked on in horror as the man stepped off the curb.
“Can’t they drive all the scum out of the city and be done with it?” the man said.
Bronson didn’t want to help, but then he considered what happened when Spider-Man let a crook get away. He didn’t think he’d mind if something happened to his uncle… but if he wanted to honor his father’s legacy he needed to do something. Might as well have a little fun with him, he thought.
Bronson jumped up, spun his shoes around his head, then let go. They whooshed through the air, then wrapped around the man’s legs. He fell, screaming, into a giant depression in the street. Bronson saw the thief from his vision run off in the other direction. He’d never even seen the man or his alligator skin shoes. The man tossed Bronson’s shoes back at him.
“You just threw your whole life away, you little creep.” the man said.
“I was trying to help you, ya’ big jerk.”
“Police! Police! Come arrest this little deviant.” the man screamed. Nobody came. The man grabbed Bronson’s collar. “You’re going nowhere, young man.”
Bronson tried to break free but the man had too tight a hold on him. He looked around. A few big, burly men stood under an awning outside a bar.
“I don’t want to go with you. You aren’t my dad!” Bronson screamed at the top of his lungs. The three bruisers approached the man. He let go of Bronson’s collar and turned to face them.
“Now, fellas, this is all a big misunderstanding. This kid assaulted me.”
As the big men closed in Bronson retrieved his shoes then slipped away. He didn’t know what they’d do to the guy, but he wasn’t going to stick around to find out.
By the time Bronson got close to home the rain was down to a trickle. He rounded the corner to his street and saw a group of boys taking turns climbing up the side of a building. One boy made it to the third story before climbing back down. It fascinated Bronson. He walked up to one of the boys on the ground.
“What are you guys doing?” he asked.
“Dude, it’s parkour,” the kid explained.
“Never heard of it,” Bronson said.
“Bro, where you been?” the boy asked. “Parkour is no joke. You learn to move around a city—up walls, over fences, rooftop to rooftop, like you’d walk down the street. Easy.”
“Seems kinda dangerous,” Bronson said.
“Well, yeah… but it’s crazy fun too.”
“How do you do it?” Bronson asked.
“Get over here and I’ll show you.”
He followed the boy to a set of steps next to an office building. They led to a little area with a picnic table.
“If I asked you the best way to get down to those picnic tables what would you say?”
“Go down the stairs, I guess,” Bronson said, hoping that didn’t sound too obvious.
“Okay,” the boy said, “you ever play Tony Hawk?”
“Yeah, a few times.”
“Now if I ask how you would get down to those picnic tables on Tony Hawk what would you say?”
“I guess I’d grind down the rail on the steps there, jump up to that ledge, then do a 360 down to them.”
“Exactly. Now, we don’t got no skateboards but it’s basically the same idea. You’re looking for the most natural path from A to B. Here, I’ll show you.”
The boy ran back about ten feet, took a few breaths, then barreled toward the steps. He jumped off the top step up onto the railing then pushed off it to jump onto the ledge. He put his hands on the ledge then did a flip off it, landing right next to the picnic table.
“See,” he said, “smooth as butter.” He ran back up to Bronson. “I want you to try, but there are a few things you got to remember: You got to be natural while you’re doing this stuff. If it don’t feel right I don’t want your feet leaving the ground until it do. That means no fancy business like that flip I did unless you feel it. Okay?”
Bronson still felt a little unsure. “But what do you mean feel it?”
“You got to feel it. In every part of you, you got to feel it’s right. Take your time. Feel your body. Feel your environment. When you feel it you’ll know… then go for it.”
Bronson stepped back to where the boy started his run. He crouched down then examined the area.
“That’s right,” the boy said, “figure out where you’re gonna go before you do. I like to draw a little white line in my head of where I’m gonna hit.”
Bronson imagined a white line tracing along the ground from his feet over the whole path the boy had taken.
“Ok, I think I’m ready,” he told the boy.
“Ain’t no use thinking you’re ready. You got to know you’re ready.”
Bronson’s leg muscles tensed. His heart beat in his chest. He moved his shoe on the still-damp pavement. And then he knew. He took a run at the steps then jumped from the stair to the rail to the ledge. His feet hit the ledge. He knew he wasn’t ready for the flip, but he could handle another run and jump. If he rolled into it as he hit the ground he’d be alright. Run, jump, roll, then land down by the picnic tables.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” the boy said as ran down to Bronson.
“I did it,” Bronson said. “I did it. I did it. I did it. You were right, I just felt it. Even when I realized I couldn’t do the flip I kept feeling it.”
“That’s what parkour’s all about, dude. Once you can feel it you know it.”
“That was so awesome.”
“No prob. Glad I could show somebody the art. Where you from, kid?”
“Around the corner here. You?”
“I live down on the West Side, but I been staying up here with my grandma because of all the stuff that’s going down.”
“There were some kids missing down there, weren’t there?”
“My brother. Went for a field trip, never came back. ”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Look, I’d love to hang out longer but I need to get home,” Bronson said.
“You got it. We out here every Monday, dude.”
Bronson thanked the boy and headed toward the apartment building. He couldn’t believe how much fun he’d had. He almost felt like a real-life Spider-Man or something. If things went well tonight then he’d be a real-life superhero… and he couldn’t be more excited.
Bronson stood outside with his ear to the door when he got back to his uncle’s apartment. He was pretty sure he didn’t hear anything. He opened the door, hoping that Randolph was asleep so he could sneak to his room without talking to him.
Randolph sat on one of the egg crates in the center of the room. He sorted bills of several denominations into even, organized stacks. He looked up then went back to the money. Bronson leaned up against the wall in the corner of the room. He took a deck of his dad’s cards out of his backpack. He spread them out in a line in front of him then lifted the bottom card and slid it up. The other cards stood up with it. He slid the bottom card across the tops of the other upright cards. They moved with it back and forth and back and forth several times until they fell over. Bronson pulled them back into a stack then attempted the trick again.
“Can’t you do that in your room?” Randolph asked.
Bronson eyed the stacks of money. There were several stacks of one and five dollar bills, a single stack of twenties, and one small stack of fifties—a lot of money for someone who claimed he needed his orphaned nephew to find a job.
“What’s your job, Uncle Randolph?” he asked.
Randolph sneered at the boy. “Keep your runny nose out of it.”
“What’s the big deal?”
Randolph fanned out a stack of bills.
“Bronson, there are people in this world who get it all handed to them. They leave their mom’s bellies naked and cold then get wrapped up in silk sheets. I didn’t have their luck.”
“But my dad says you make your own luck,” Bronson replied.
“Said. Your dad said. He’s not saying much anymore. He didn’t make his, Bronson. No, sir. Fate isn’t our friend. Every once in a while it’ll give you something good. Dangle it like a master might dangle a string in front of his kitten. Then the master pulls the string away, puts it in his pocket, and walks to the other room. All the kitten has left is the memory along with the sneaking suspicion that it’s all for somebody else’s amusement.” Randolph shoved the cash in his pocket. “When I come back I don’t want you out here. You have your own room. Use it.”
Bronson walked over to his room. He turned around to face his uncle.
“Why are you being like this? If my parents knew how you were—”.
Randolph put a finger to his lips. “They’re dead, nephew. They no longer have a say in the matter.” Randolph hit the light switch then walked out the door, leaving Bronson standing in the dark.
Bronson pulled on his dog mask then opened the window in his room that led to the fire escape. He put a hand on it then pushed down hard to see if it would bear his weight. He climbed out then looked across the city. It was late but there were cars and some people walking around. Unlike his old neighborhood it seemed like every light in the city still glowed. He breathed in the scent of grilled onions filtered through his plastic mask. Not the most appetizing smell but he was getting used to it.
He ascended the fire escape, being careful not to draw the attention of other tenants in the tenement. Half the apartments seemed empty. The people in the occupied ones were either asleep or too distracted to notice him slipping past their window.
He hopped over a small ledge onto the roof. Most of the stuff in his father’s trunk had been off limits to him so he needed to teach himself how to use everything. Sure, he could see into the future but just knowing something was about to happen might not always be enough to prevent it. He needed to make sure he was prepared for any circumstance.
The first thing he decided to work on was his hero voice. It hadn’t fooled Arthur Tillman back home, and he wasn’t even that smart. He pressed his vocal cords together to replicate the gravelly voice he’d used.
“I am the night. I am vengeance. I AM DOGBOY.”
Even though it sounded intimidating it hurt his throat a lot. It would be hard to keep up for any amount of time, and it kind of sounded pretty fake anyway. If he used it on a criminal he figured he’d get laughed at. Besides, did he want to scare people? People don’t like people who scare them. No, even with the mask he was obviously a kid so he might as well use that to his advantage. No adult expects a kid to beat him up or stop him from doing something he shouldn’t be doing. In fact, it might work better if he tried to sound even more like a kid then he already did.
“Hi, I’m Dogboy,” Dogboy said a bit higher than normal. He didn’t sound exactly like himself, but if he talked to somebody who knew the real Bronson he’d know. It needed something else. He remembered his sixth grade class room where he and a few of the other kids took turns making funny voices. His friend Ryan had done a silly voice while holding his nose shut. It made him sounds stuffed up like he had a cold but also a little whiny. It didn’t seem like it would be practical to run around like that though. He took a package of tissues out of his pocket then took one tissue out of the pack and ripped it in half. He took both halves then balled them up real tight. One ball went up each of his nostrils. He could still breathe out of his nose a little if he tried. They weren’t too uncomfortable either.
“Hi, I’m Dogboy,” Dogboy said while still making his voice a little higher. Perfect. He wanted a tape recorder to double check it at some point. To his ears he sounded like a different person.
Now to work on perfecting his knife-throwing technique. He found a stack of plywood under a tarp on the south side of the roof then propped up a few pieces along the wall. He figured he’d try to hit the targets from about ten feet. His dad always held the knife by the blade when he threw it. Dogboy did the same then took careful aim at the center board. He extended his arm then let the knife fly.
It soared through the air—blade over handle then handle over blade—but when it reached the board the handle hit it and then bounced back and landed near his feet. Undeterred Dogboy picked up the knife to try again. This time the blade hit, but it didn’t stick. He tried a third time but as the knife left his hand the blade nicked his finger. He had to use another tissue from his pocket to stop the bleeding.
Dogboy held the knife up by his ear. He rocked the knife to get the feel of it. Slowly, back and forth he felt the air move around the knife… the weight of it in his fingers and shoulder. He imagined a white line between him and the board then imagined the knife leaving his hand and traveling along the line. It felt right. He threw the knife. This time it tumbled once in the air then leveled out with the blade facing its target. It sung in a high-pitched hum as it flew through the air. The knife stabbed four inches into the board.
Dogboy walked over to the board to admire the “kill” then pulled the knife back out with a small grunt. He walked to a spot fifteen feet away to try again.
Dogboy stayed there practicing until the sun peeked out over the buildings and the sounds of the city floated up from the street below. He gathered up his things then slipped down the fire escape and back into his bedroom window. Bronson took off his costume then locked it up in the trunk. When he lay down on his mattress he found it a little more comfortable than the night before. He wasn’t sure if he’d get used to it but he was too tired to care. He drifted off to sleep for an hour or so before he had to get ready for school.
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