Free Tats Too by Layce Gardner Page B

jars of yellowish, sluggish liquid line each shelf. Jars and jars and jars, some big, some small, all stinky.
    I walk down the aisle peering at the jars. Each one holds its own special brand of unique grotesqueness. Some of the stuff I recognize. There’s a whole shelf of just two-headed critters: snakes, lizards, chickens without feathers—
    —A set of eyeballs peers back at me from one of the jars. The eyes are deep-set into a wrinkled old face. The face is wearing glasses and there’s a cigar sticking out of the grinning mouth. The eyes blink—
    —And I stumble backward damn near jumping clear out of my boots. I run for the entrance door, but it’s shut itself behind me. I’m grappling for the doorknob when a voice calls out, “Whoa there! Didn’t mean to scare you!”
    I wheel around and see George Burns walking toward me. I flatten my back against the door and take a deep shaky breath. I blink a couple of times because didn’t George Burns die already? Like when he was 104 years old or something? This little man looks like he could be that old, except he looks mostly alive. He’s got those funny round black glasses and an unlit cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth. Plus, he’s wearing a white three-piece suit with a red bow tie and doesn’t appear to be sweating. At least he’s only got one head.
    I shut my mouth real quick only to open it back up and blurt, “You look like George Burns.”
    “So they tell me,” he says with a small nod.
    I open the door with still-shaking hands and hurry out into the motel lobby where stuff is normal again. Or more normal, anyway. My butt’s clenched tight and my nipples are hard from the scare he gave me. I breathe deep trying to take my adrenaline down a notch.
    He trails after me. “I worked as Mr. Burns’s stunt double in the movies and TV for fifty plus years.”
    He ambles behind the counter, puffs out his scrawny chest and pokes the air between us with his wet cigar, saying, “Anytime you ever saw him take a fall or there was a shot of just his feet dancing?” He jabs the cigar at his own chest. “That was me.”
    “Impressive,” I draw out because I don’t know what else to say. I make small talk noises to cover my jangling nerves, “How’d you end up here?”
    “Heaven Chamber of Commerce offered me this job. Right after the Oh, God! movie came out. They came up with the bright idea that having God at The Pearly Gates to meet and greet would improve tourism.”
    “How’d that work out for you?” I ask sarcastically, but the sarcasm must zoom right over his head because he spreads out his arms, palms-up, gesturing at all the nothing and asks back, “Does it look like it worked? There’s nothing but lost stragglers working their way through to California or Vegas.”
    I glance out the window and see Vivian rooting through the saddlebags. Her ass is aimed in my direction and this is how shook up I am: it takes me a good three seconds to admire the view.
    George Burns interrupts me, saying, “You gotta pay for your little look-see.”
    “What?” I ask, turning my head back to him. Since when do I have to pay for the privilege of looking at Vivian’s ass?
    “You took the tour, but you didn’t buy a ticket.”
    Oh. He means the freak show.
    He rubs his thumb and fingers together in that universal money signal and it rubs me the wrong way. I don’t like being squeezed, so I pull a one-dollar bill out of my pocket and toss it on the counter between us. “I only saw a couple of things.”
    He grabs the bill in his gnarly fist and gums the cigar from one side of this mouth to the other. He drums his yellowed fingers on the counter and says, “I’ve seen a few things, too.”
    We stare at each other for a full three seconds. His eyes glance down at his fingers drumming away and that’s when I see it. There’s a Xeroxed picture of me and Vivian setting out on the counter plain as day. Looks like the hateful FBI woman has been through here