Penny Reid - Dr. Strange Beard

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the authors questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

Copyright 2018 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

Made in the United States of America

eBook Edition: July 2018

ISBN: 978-1-942874-33-1

The past beats inside me like a second heart.

John Banville, The Sea

*Roscoe*

M ost people have approximately eleven or twelve stories, and thats it.

When I was a kid, I used to think older people were just forgetful. A ten-year-old me considered folks over thirty-five older people. But as I grew older myself, I realized people of all ages were forgetful. Well, a lot more forgetful than me.

I also realized nobody wants to be told that theyre repeating themselves, that theyre sharing the same tales and anecdotes for the seventh, eighth, or twentieth time. Folks hate that, even more so if you remembered their story better than they did.

Every time I reminded someone that theyd already told me a particular story, on such and such date and time, or I tried to correct their recollection, theyd get irritable and frustrated. Like it was my fault for having a good memory and not theirs for having a poor one.

I learned to keep my trap shut. I let people tell me their eleven or twelve stories over and over, pretending each time like it was the first time Id heard it. This was a skill Id perfected, acting interested, surprised, laughing believably at the good parts or looking sad and troubled at the bad ones.

I was a real good actor. I was excellent at being disingenuous, and I rationalized the insincerity of my outward reactions by reminding myself that the deceit was due to necessity, not design. I sincerely didnt want to be obnoxious, or to piss people off.

Which, I suppose, is the main reason why I preferred my own company to anyone elses. Memories of solitude dont clutter the mind. But if I had to be around people, I preferred the company of strangers to longtime acquaintances, and my familys company over everyone elses.

Strangers stories are always new, so theres that.

I love my family, and their stories almost never got old. Though, every once in a while, if I wasnt in the mood for another telling of a familiar tale, I could get away with complaining about the repetition. They might get testy, but they had to love me, no matter what.

It wasnt until I was seventeen when I realized it was rare for people to tell stories for the benefit of the listener. Usually, but not always, a story is told mostly for the benefit of the teller. The story about how I got so drunk that one time I climbed the fence of that celebritys compound and was invited to breakfast, or how I rescued those folks from a rattlesnake demonstrates how the teller has lived a life full of adventure, of meaning; that theyre comical, self-deprecating, and brave; that theyre ultimately a person worth knowing.

Its as though folks need to remind themselves of their own worth, and they do this through telling and retelling their favorite eleven or twelve stories, the anecdotes that fundamentally define who they are.

And therein lies the burden of having an above-average memory, and why Im rather finicky about making memories.

I dont get to decide which stories to remember. The stories never fade. I remember them all. I have a lot of stories, ones I never tell, even though they might fundamentally define who I am, and many Id prefer to forget.

But I couldnt.

Thats why, sitting in my car, staring out my windshield and through the large wall of windows into the small roadside diner, I was undecided about what to do. I was also assaulted by a gamut of vivid memories. All my memories were vivid, but these were ones Id prefer to forget. But I couldnt.

Simone Payton wasnt supposed to be at Daisys Nut House.

Today was a Thursday, the last Thursday of the month. Simone wasnt home on Thursdays, and never during the last week of the month.

For five years now (five years, four months, and twelve days), Simone always arrived on the first Friday of the month, her flight landing at 5:16 PM at the Knoxville airport, which meant it was safe for me to grab dinner at Daisys until about 6:00 PM. After that, I knew to steer clear of the diner until Simone took her plane back to Washington, DC on Sunday night.

No doughnuts the first weekend of every month was a small price to pay for avoiding making any more memories of Simone Payton.

But here she was. On a Thursday. The last Thursday.

Frustrating.

I crossed my arms, I scratched my neck. Somewhere nearby, what sounded like a motorcycle engine roared past, seemed to draw closer, and then abruptly cut off. I hadnt yet cut my cars engine because I hadnt yet decided whether to stay or go. The question was, how badly did I want a doughnut?

Pretty bad.

Id just spent four hours on the road with several reoccurring thoughts occupying my mind, the most prevalent one being how nice it would be to treat myself to a fine doughnut from the original Daisys Nut House upon arrival in Green Valley. In fact, Id been feeling generous. The plan was to pick up three dozen for the next mornings breakfast, share them with the whole house.

And wouldnt they be surprised. Just last month, Cletusthats my middle brotherhad chewed me out for never thinking beyond my own nose, all because I moved his laundry out of the washer without putting it in the dryer.

First of all, the towels in the dryer werent completely dry. Instead of moving his wet clothes in, I restarted the dryer for the towels. And second, when the towels were dry, I needed to dry my own clothes if I wanted to get on the road prior to sundown. And third, I told him when I left the house that he needed to put his clothes in the dryer.

I did my due diligence, right?

He didnt think so and had called me seventeen times since, once for every article of clothing hed had in the washer, to leave a voicemail detailing how repugnant each item now smelled. I could even hear him sniff.

Long story short, Cletus overreacted, as he was prone to do.

Rolling my eyes at the memory, I brought my attention back to the beautiful girl pouring coffee for two localsGarrison Tyler and Jeff Templersitting at the counter. She flashed a smile, the sight making me grit my teeth at the reflexive twinge in my chest.

Tearing my eyes away, I admitted to myself that Simone wasnt a girl anymore. I reckoned she hadnt been a girl in quite a while, but Id missed all that.

I never did this. I never sought her out, and I certainly never watched her like a creeper, sitting in my dark car in one of the Nut Houses shadowed spots just after sunset. I avoided her, like my brother Cletus avoided stupid people. Id missed everything after wed turned sixteen ten years ago, and I had no plans on catching up now.

Maybe...

Maybe I could act like I was in a hurry. Maybe I could pretend I was on an important phone call, which would make meaningful interaction or even chitchat impossible. Maybe I could order, run out as though I needed to check something, and come back when I saw she had the doughnuts ready.