Prompt Story
A Golden Opportunity
Get a grip on yourself, man! If I meant you harm you’d already be a toad…
The misty lawn glistened, a plump full moon reflected in the jeweled dewdrops coating each slim blade of grass. But the only reflection Arthur saw was his own failure, a vast sea of failed moments. How many bejeweled pathways had taunted, teased and enticed him for years beyond counting? Yet always, when he drew near, they proved to be but a trick of his imagination as yet another dream wisped away in a shimmer of light and shadow.
The echos of Joanna’s harsh words, like fresh wounds, drained what was left of his confidence.
“My little inventor! My little Einstein! You’re a failure, Arthur. You’ve accomplished nothing. And that’s what you’ve left us with. Nothing!”
Of course, she was right. She was always right. His latest endeavor, like all the others, had turned to dust. He winced as once again he heard the sharp crack in her voice rising in pitch up to that final empty word, that ultimate judgment of him and his life, that empty void that would be his legacy.
When he was young he would come out here at night and sit beneath the oak tree in this very swing, let his bare feet swish through the grass. He’d dream of a bright future filled with acclaim, success, and, of course, riches. Now he sat in the same swing, a tacit admission that he’d traveled not one inch along that road of dreams.
He peered into the vast leafy vault above him, recalling how easy it had been to hide there, invisible, safe, beyond the reach of mothers demanding homework or fathers wanting a lawn mowed. He got out of the swing and walked up to the stately trunk and ran his hand over the coarse bark — rough, uneven, like life itself.
Let’s see, he thought, I used to reach up right… here… of course it seemed a good deal higher then… pull myself up, wrap my legs around the branch, then grasp… here… where the trunk split… pull… climb… and — voila! Safely hidden from all prying eyes, a verdant shroud plucking him out of the normal flow of time and circumstance. Even now the feeling wrapped around him. The seclusion. The safety.
Well, maybe not. Though the moonlight couldn’t really penetrate the dense foliage, light still filtered through. As his eyes slowly adjusted, he noticed, casually and improbably swinging back and forth beside him… a foot!
“GAAAHHH!!” Arthur jumped backward so violently he nearly fell out of the tree. Actually, it wasn’t just a foot; it was encased in an oddly shaped boot, one with an acutely pointed toe and a broad curving extension rising back from the heel. And it was small. A child’s foot.
Soft chuckles wafted down from above, a musical sound reminiscent of pipes and a lute. It was a carefree melody, one without tension, pain or fear, accompanied by, unless Arthur was going mad, a flurry of tiny points of light falling around him like snow.
The foot withdrew, the branches shook, and then, there he was, standing on the limb, no more than three feet tall.
“Arthur,” he said in a surprisingly deep voice, extending a hand, “we finally meet.”
“Wh-who are you?” Arthur stammered.
Another chuckle. “I have a name you couldn’t pronounce if you tried, but don’t you really mean ‘What am I?’ “
He strode across the limb to thrust his face close to Arthur’s. “Go ahead, look closely. What do you see?”
Well… Arthur saw a long pointy nose… furiously arched eyebrows… lips that seemed locked into a devious grin — . And then Arthur knew he had truly gone mad. Those long, slender, pointed ears could have no other explanation.
“Oh my God… oh my God…”
A wave of casual dismissal. “Please, that’s a bit grandiose, even for me. Truth is, we try not to infringe on his territory. Much.”
“We…?” Arthur asked in a pale squeak.
“Whatever. Elf, imp, devil… We don’t care what you call us, though I’ve always been partial to leprechaun myself. Say, do you mind if I smoke while we talk?”
“N-n-no.”
“Get a grip on yourself, man! If I meant you harm you’d already be a toad.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a white clay pipe with a long curved neck ending in a small, elongated bowl which he now filled with what Arthur at first took to be tobacco. He changed his mind when he saw the subtle flashes of shifting color rippling through the substance. The leprechaun tamped it down, struck a match, and began to puff.
“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”
He cocked an eye in Arthur’s direction, expecting a reply.
“Oh… um, sure. Yes. Let’s.”
“You’ve been a real thorn in my side, Arthur. For years. Did you know that?”
“Oh. Gosh. I… no, I had no idea.”
Smoke rose from the pipe and puffed from his mouth in ever more furious clouds, these too shimmering with shifting colors and the ever-present sparkles of light. The surrounding leaves seemed to be far more sharply outlined, the intricacies of the veins becoming apparent.
“You, my friend, have managed to screw up every single opportunity I’ve placed in your path.”
“What opportunities?
“HA! What opportunities? he asks. Just like a mortal.”
“What are you saying? You’re my guardian angel, or something? If so, you’ve done a pretty lousy job.”
A loud gust of laughter at that.
“Don’t cop an attitude with me, Arthur. And don’t flatter yourself. We find you amusing is all, you fools stumbling through your brief little lives. You provide us with some diversions along the way as you struggle to race ahead, some winning, some crashing and burning. You have something similar, if I’m not mistaken. I believe you call it, NASCAR.”
His head was scarcely visible through the smoke. Arthur looked past him, past the leaves and branches, past his own life, past this universe, and, as if a curtain parting, saw revealed in terrible splendor all that lay behind, beneath, beside, below, and above what he’d always thought of as reality. He sensed the infinite expanse of timelessness, and he felt the incredibly minuscule nature of his own paltry perspective. And his irrelevance.
“You make it sound like we’re just a game for you.”
“Bingo! You’re smarter than I thought, Arthur. And, I must point out, a game that you and I have been losing. And Arthur… I don’t like to lose.”
He finished his pipe, tapped the ashes out, and put it back inside his coat. His hand plunged deep inside a pocket and emerged with a rolled-up parchment which he unscrolled with a theatrical flourish.
“So. You’re an inventor, are you? My, my, this is quite a list.”
He frowned dubiously as he studied the page.
“Ah yes — diet celery. That was sort of like making hummingbirds levitate, wasn’t it?”
Arthur squirmed uncomfortably.
“Then there was the electric dog washer. Oh dear: that was messy. Lots of hamburger from that one.”
He paused and looked up at Arthur. “This item here, the diaper alarm… the less said about that, the better. And let’s not forget the meditation bag…”
Arthur began to protest, but the leprechaun held up his hand to stop him. “I know, I know, technically the suffocations weren’t your fault. But it did cast a pall over the whole project, you must admit.”
He looked up at Arthur. “And what was this latest brainstorm? Motorcycle airbags…”
“I just invested in the company. It seemed like a golden opportunity to get in on the ground floor — ”
“No doubt, no doubt. I read about the indictments last week.” He peered over the top of the page. “Did anyone get their money back?”
Arthur hung his head in resignation.
“Arthur, we’ve reached an impasse. As much as I dislike the thought, I’m going to have to cut you loose.”
Arthur let out a long sigh.
“Cheer up, my boy, it’s not as bad as all that. Besides, I’m not totally blameless in this debacle.”
“How so?”
“The guy who had the idea for Pet Rocks was going to call you. It sounded dumber than diaper alarms and I made him lose your number.”
“So you’ve been the cause of my bad luck!”
“Luck schumck! It’s judgment and timing, and yours both suck.”
“So now what do I do?”
“Not my concern, Arthur. However….” He rolled up the parchment and returned it to his coat pocket, then dug deeper and pulled out first an apple, then a slender dagger with an ornately carved handle encrusted with jewels. He cut out a thin wedge, impaled it on the tip of the dagger and handed it to Arthur. “Snack?”
Arthur said, “I’ve lost my appetite. Probably for good.”
“Suit yourself.” The leprechaun shrugged and ate the slice. “Anyway, as I was saying, I’m leaving you with a parting gift. One last chance. Not even you can botch this one.”
He produced a large pocket watch.
“It is now ten minutes before midnight. At the stroke of twelve, you and I are finished. You’re on your own. You have ten minutes. Don’t waste it.”
He tossed the apple in Arthur’s direction. Arthur snatched it from the air. The apple’s unexpected weight surprised him as it slipped from his fingers and landed in the soft grass below with a heavy thud. In the reflected moonlight it glimmered with an unmistakable yellow sheen.
He looked at the leprechaun. “Is that what I think it is?”
The little man snapped a nearby leaf from its twig and handed it to Arthur. On contact with Arthur’s fingers it immediately turned heavy and solid and gave off the same golden hue.
“Ten minutes. Good luck.”
And he was gone.
As Arthur opened the old screen door it flashed with the now familiar golden brilliance. The rusty hinges were no match for this newly acquired weight and the whole assembly ripped off the door frame and crashed down the steps, clattering onto the walkway.
He carefully laid the precious objects he carried onto the counter top: a hand rake, hedge shears, a small spade, two screwdrivers, a hammer, a hand saw and, of course, the apple and a few leaves, each of them flawless in their golden perfection. He opened a drawer by its now golden handle and pulled out knives, forks, spoons, a spatula, a whisk, all to be added to the pile of treasure. Dishes, glasses, bowls, knick knacks from the window sill, all now objects of immeasurable value, all part of the growing pile.
And then, Joanna stood in the doorway. “What in the name of God is going on?” she demanded, clearly annoyed at having been awoken. “It sounds like you’re tearing apart the whole —”
She noticed the pile on the counter. No one could fail to recognize the wealth gathered there — absurd, impossible, yet undeniable. Her eyes widened and she stared in silence.
“Joanna,” said Arthur, “it’s a miracle. It’s a gift, and it’s all ours.”
She glanced his way, noticing him briefly, as one might note a fly on a curtain, and then moved, trancelike, to the pile of gold. She plunged her hands into the stack, held up a fork, a glass, laughed, cried, breathing harder now, eyes wide, losing their focus. A lifetime of waiting, a lifetime of disappointment, washed away in one quick moment…
“Joanna,” Arthur said, tenuously.
She turned and looked right through him. Arthur saw not one ounce of love, not one speck of caring, and he knew then what he’d always known: not for a single moment in their whole time together had she once supported him. Her anger and her scorn did not rise from his failure, but from her own greed, for that is what poured off her now — infinite, lustful greed.
He looked at the clock. It was almost midnight. The second hand made a long graceful sweep down past the five, the six.
“Joanna,” he said, “I’ll explain in a moment. But give me a hug, won’t you?”
She paused, a pause of cold calculation. Then a smile stretched unfamiliarly across her lips. She came to him, and for a moment, just a moment, he almost convinced himself that he saw the person he’d always hoped she would be. And then she flung herself into his arms with a cry of unbridled ecstasy.
A cry curiously foreshortened.
By the same author:
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