The sun has been gnawing on your neck for hours when you finally stumble across my cabin. You stumble up the steps with an open mouth dryer than the porch boards. You knock. I crack the door and you explain your broken down car, your lack of water, bar-less phone and blistered feet. I rasp through the crack, “You ever read Well Water?”
You are confused. You explain that you need a drink. I ask again, “Well Water? By Lyndsey Resnick, you ever read it?” A red liquid leaks from my mouth into my brillo-pad beard. You shake your head. I open the door and herd you inside into a kitchen chair. You sit with a creak and I disappear, reappearing with a dirty glass, cloudy water sloshing inside. You reach for it, but I pull it back, “Ah-Ah. You ain’t read Well Water, so I’m going to tell you about it — then the drink.”
Your tongue is a sandpaper lizard. You nod. I sit down and begin immediately, pushing a well-worn copy of the book toward you.
“Alright. I’m gonna learn you about this here collection,” I tap the book with a chumbled digit, wipe the red from my mouth, “lot of people doing collections and such, and I’m all for it, by all means, but ideally, you got to have a unifying factor. You with me now?”
You nod, staring at the opaque liquid.
“See now, Lyndsey’s got the unifying factor, at first I thought maybe I was imagining it, but more than a few of these stories had a reference to the next one right there in it, hiding. The title, the theme, what have you. Now, could be I am imagining it, but that just means these stories,” I tap the book again, you stare at the cup, sunbathing reptile sticking to your mouth, “these here stories fit together perfect-like. Some of them are unsettling, strange, maybe even a tad scary.”
Over my shoulder, the blanket on my single-sized bed shifts and you look up at it. I snap my fingers in your face, “Ah-Ah, eyes here. Don’t mind that old sleeping bag. Now, some of the stories are fun, good clean wholesome fun. But I’ll tell you what they all are,” I hold up two fingers, the only two on my left hand, “two things. First, they’re all excellent. No weak link, you with me?”
You nod. I grab a plate of cold scrambled eggs from the table, lean back and shovel them in with a bent fork.
“Second,” I say through egg, “they’re never what you’d expect. Always something up their sleeve.” I grab a bottle of tabasco and anoint the scrambled eggs, “unpredictable-like. In the best way.” Tabasco dribbles down my chin. I push the glass of water toward you with my fork. You chug it. A minute later, I shove you out the door with an empty glass and a copy of Well Water and Other Odd Tales in your back pocket. You still need help calling someone for your car. You step off the porch and your phone begins to ring.
Read original Note here.
