A Reader, a Rat, and a Pair of Rogues

Sunday Morning Giraffe

For Halloween this year, I am proud to present you with a pair of campfire stories from my collection Tales of a Lombard Alchemist. First up, a cautionary tale of what happens when a pair of self-involved parents force a precocious child to look for mentorship in unusual places…

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Sunday Morning Giraffe

A Lombard Alchemist Tale
by J. Daniel Sawyer

IT WAS 3AM on a Sunday, in December, and Aldo wanted a giraffe. If Aldo had lived in Kenya, this wouldn’t have been a problem. A broken-down gambling boomtown on the edge of nowhere in the high desert of Nevada, though, was less conducive to browsers.

But if Aldo didn’t get a giraffe, he wouldn’t sleep. And it couldn’t be a toy giraffe either—it had to be a proper, three-stories tall African savanna cow with an ultra long neck and brown spots. It might be enough to get him in close proximity with a giraffe, convince him that it was his, but housed at the zoo for safe-keeping. Too bad the zoo was closed for the winter.

If Aldo didn’t get his giraffe, nobody else in the house would get any sleep either, and they knew it. He’d scream, and cry, and wander the house all night in his slipper-foot PJs picking up knick-nacks and shaking them, as if he could evoke their inner giraffe-ness. That’s what he’d done before when he wanted a submarine, and the time before that when he wanted a dinosaur.

His parents, Bob and Judy, weren’t given to indulging him. When his strange requests started—it was water balloons at Thanksgiving—they told him not to be silly. They were proof against his preschool manipulation techniques. His mother, particularly, was 85 proof gin against his manipulation techniques, while his father’s resolve was borne of a successful military career, from which he retired with a full pension. They’d become parents late in life, after raising an orphaned niece and nephew had hardened them against childish desires. If the boy was unreasonable he deserved to meet with frustration. Water balloons at the Thanksgiving dinner table were absolutely unreasonable.

They’d put their foot down. There would be no water balloons.

Bob’s boss was over for dinner that day, and he’d worn a very formal, and very old, serge suit. A suit so old that it wasn’t fireproof. When passing the mashed potatoes, he’d lingered too long over the silver candelabra that Judy had set out as a centerpiece. The poor man went up like a torch. By the time they put him out, he had burns over his whole left side and had to be rushed to the hospital, but that was nothing to the steel-eyed anger in five-year-old Aldo’s eyes when the paramedics left.

“What’s wrong, Aldo?” Judy had asked.

“I said I wanted water balloons. You wouldn’t listen. You never listen.” Then he stormed out, and they didn’t see him again for several hours. After the afternoon’s excitement, they didn’t bother to follow him—they had other kinds of fretting to do.

It wasn’t until the incident with the submarine that they learned to indulge him when they could. He’d come in to his father’s study one Saturday night, insisting that he wanted a submarine. The next day, terrorists bombed the reservoir dam.

At that point, they got the idea: when Aldo wanted something totally inappropriate, they’d better listen. They didn’t know how he knew—they were very sure that he was too young to understand.

So, at three in the morning on a Sunday, when Aldo woke up his parents clutching his teddy bear, pulling at its ears, and demanding a giraffe in that half-absent way, Bob rolled out of bed and tried to find his pants without mooning his son. They drove immediately to the zoo, even though it was closed. On the road, Bob tried to pry details out of the boy, but all Aldo would say was “It is the will of Almighty Flarn.”

Flarn. The rodent deity on the boy’s favorite cartoon, some claptrap with talking barn animals. Bob gave up his probing.

The overcast which hung low in the winter lit the night red with reflected light from the city’s preferred industry. The zoo’s entrance, out on the north edge of town, was overgrown with long-dead ivy. The wan sodium streetlights did it no favors, splattering it with light the color of bile, making skeleton-finger shadows grow from the tangle on the ancient brick walls and wrought-iron gates.

Wrought-iron, chained against entry. Bob coaxed Aldo up onto his back and hiked around the side, looking for some kind of service entrance. Maybe they wouldn’t be worried about security this time of year—the only thing on this end of town in the winter were the snow plows, and the wolves.

Around the back they found a loading dock, and a garbage truck, and a custodian doing his late-night rounds with earphones on. Not hard to sneak past for a former infantry officer. Inside, Bob took his son to the tallest of the big barns in which, judging by the smell, the animals sheltered for the winter.

And in the tallest, there were three giraffes—two adults, tall as trees, and a juvenile. Bob let Aldo down and pranced up to the tall chain-link fence that cordoned off the entryway from the pen. “There you go, Aldo,” Bob said, “three giraffes.”

Aldo held the fence like a spider monkey. He didn’t respond to his father’s voice, but after a moment his hands came off the fence and folded over his chest. He turned around, stamping the ground with great purpose.

“I said I want a giraffe.”

“Aldo, those are giraffes.”

“I want a real giraffe!”

“Those are real giraffes.” And so it went, round and round, until Bob gave up and took Aldo around to all the other barns that weren’t locked. Maybe Aldo meant an elephant? A hippo? A parrot?

No such luck. He meant a giraffe, alright. But he seemed to think that real giraffes were smaller, and nothing Bob could say would make a difference. “Real” meant whatever Aldo said it meant, and Bob was already frightened enough of the boy that his pride kept well out of the way.

And so an early morning excursion in the name of getting the kid to shut up and go back to bed turned into an all day journey. First, they got caught by the custodian and kicked out of the zoo. Then, they visited animal shelters. Then, they visited pet shops. Nothing remotely fitting Aldo’s personal definition of “giraffe” came to hand.

Parents were stupid. Pretty much all adults were stupid, but parents especially. Okay, sure, they could read thicker books than he could, but only because they made him turn his lights off at nine o’clock and he sometimes lost the bookmark and had to start over. They didn’t listen to him, either, no matter how clear he made himself, because they thought he was stupid.

At least they were listening a little bit now. Good thing, because according to the word of Almighty Flarn, without a giraffe everything would be ruined. It had to be a particular kind of giraffe, too. Aldo knew that for sure. It couldn’t be an imaginary giraffe or a stuffed giraffe, it had to be as real as Legos. But it couldn’t be one of those mooking big ones, the ones from the zoo as tall as a building. How did his father think he’d fit that in his room?

He could see it in his head, but finding words that his stupid parents would understand was driving him bonkers, even though his dad got him ice cream for lunch. If he saw the inside of one more pet store or toy store he was going to throw a fit, just to teach the old man to listen. Or maybe he’d just shut up and say he didn’t want it anymore, and let them find out what happened when they didn’t listen. That would teach them but good.

They were starting to get into parts of town where Bob wasn’t comfortable bringing a child. Truth to tell, he wouldn’t want to be here on his own, either. Not at his age. He sold life insurance and knew the kind of surcharge they slapped on people who lived south of 50^th street. But short of going to the circus in the casino, the place down here was the last place to look.

It was a pawn shop on the edge of the old suburbs, where nobody lived since they did the bomb tests out in the desert when Bob was a boy. Radiation. Only the moron who owned the shop was crazy enough to stay out here.

Bob hadn’t heard of the place until the last two pet shops on 45^th. The sales girls at both places had told him about it after Aldo started pitching fits. They seemed to take pity—either on the boy, or on him. They both mentioned the pawn shop, saying “If it exists, that guy will have it. He’s creepy, though.” Or words to that effect.

If they hadn’t said, that, Bob would have gotten the idea the moment he walked through the door and found himself face-to-face with a stuffed, ravening wolverine. He jumped, which made little Aldo roll his eyes and growl. He and Judy were going to have to do something about that boy—these premonitions of his had given him entirely too high an idea of himself. Any self-respecting parent would have given the brat a thorough thrashing. Bob hadn’t, and he kicked himself every day for it.

Aldo, meanwhile, had had enough of Bob standing around looking at the wolverine, and scurried past.

“Aldo!” Goddamn kid wouldn’t listen. He just ran on in.

Bob entered with more caution, and then wished he hadn’t come down. The place was ice cold, even though a fire burned brightly in the hearth, and festooned with skulls and occult artifacts of the sort that he used to hear about in high school. The kind the kids that dressed in black always wore around their necks. This was probably the kind of place where they sold contracts with the devil.

Aldo was drawn right away to the display case, full of trinkets and collectibles. His little face pressed up against the glass as if there were puppies on the other side. “That’s it! That’s it! Daddy! That’s it!”

The object of Aldo’s affections was real, all right, and it was a giraffe, but Bob couldn’t figure out how it qualified as a real giraffe. Bob shrugged and rang the bell on the counter.

As if summoned from the pit of hell, a sharp-dressed young man appeared with an old, diseased cat on his shoulders. At Bob’s request, he produced the trinket from the showcase.

“Here we go,” he said in a gentle drawl, “genuine nineteen thirty-six giraffe pull-toy made by Lambert And Sons. Gorgeous condition.”

Pawnbrokers evidently had the same definition of “gorgeous” as used car dealers. The toy, eighteen inches tall, was scratched and beat up like it had been well used and then left to rot in a forgotten attic for sixty or seventy years. It’s left eye was missing, its left ear bent double and rusted on the exposed metal. The colors had faded from brown and white to a kind of dull purpleish over equally dull yellow, and its cast iron wheels were rusted solid in place.

The pawnbroker wanted three hundred bucks. Bob tried to dicker, but at the first suggestion that he might be willing to pass it up Aldo lost it. He ran in place and wailed loud enough to wake the dead—in this shop, Bob fully expected the dead to start shambling in and asking if they could hock their gold teeth.

“Okay okay okay, shut up,” he muttered, and dug into his pocket for a credit card. “Fine, I’ll take it.”

The proprietor looked at the little shit, then up at Bob, something approaching pity in his cold, dead eyes. “I’ll tell you what, cause you’ve had a bad day, I’ll take the kid off your hands.”

“What?” Bob reflexively pulled Aldo to him, but the offer wasn’t without its appeal.

The proprietor chuckled. It made the hairs on Bob’s neck crawl. “Just kidding. I’ll do a hundred fifty for you. Make your day a little better.”

“Oh.” Bob sighed with less relief than he really felt. “Okay.”

Ten minutes later, they left the shop with Aldo’s prize. All the boy’s peevishness was gone. He pranced and danced and held the ridiculous piece of trash up like it was the most beautiful prize a boy could ever get.

“Almighty Flarn!” Aldo laid down at the baseboard between his bed and the wall and whispered as loud as he dared. His parents were watching TV and having one of their “whatever shall we do about the boy” talks. Aldo had overheard a lot of them, and they were always nasty. They talked about things like boarding school, and reform school, and teaching him proper discipline, and taking away his books. So far, it hadn’t come to anything, but one of these days they’d figure out how to get rid of him.

At least, they thought so.

“Almighty Flarn!” he said, “I got it!”

A series of little scratches came from behind the wall. They ran along from the closet, along the baseboard, and around the corner to behind Aldo’s nightstand.

Good boy, came the small, but powerful, voice from behind the nightstand, I knew I could count on you.

“You wanna see it?” Aldo reached up on his bed and seized the toy, brought it back down to show it to the Almighty Flarn. “I’ve got it right here. Don’t worry, they’re watching TV.”

Tentatively, a little pink nose poked out from beneath the bedside bureau. The whiskers on the end twitched, making sure everything was clear. Then, the head of a large, tan rat poked out and looked around suspiciously. Once it was satisfied that nothing dangerous lurked nearby, it scampered the rest of the way out and ran up the giraffe.

You have done well, my boy, the rat said. This is the very thing.

Aldo smiled as big as his face would let him. Almighty Flarn was a wise old rat—he’d been giving Aldo secret missions for months now. Important things, for which he’d be richly rewarded. Almighty Flarn had promised that one day, there would be no more lights out time, and his parents would stop getting in his way, and he could read all night if he wanted to.

In fact, the kindly rat had promised he’d be getting his reward soon, after this mission was done.

“So?”

The rat seemed startled, and twitched its whiskers at him. Yes, young Aldo?

“When do I get my prize?”

All in good time, my boy.

Aldo crossed his arms and glared. “You promised!”

Yes, I promised. But this giraffe is the first step of your reward. The rest will become clear soon—maybe by Saturday, if we are very lucky.

Aldo chewed his lip cynically. Almighty Flarn hadn’t steered him wrong yet, but sometimes adults used delays as a way to weasel out of their promises. But Flarn was a rat, not a weasel, so it might be okay. “Okay,” he said, “Saturday. I’ll wait till then, but you better come through, or I won’t help you anymore.”

You are most fair, my friend. I shall endeavor to deliver by Saturday.

Aldo picked the rat up and pet him, then set him on his shoulder and crawled into bed. It had been a long day hunting giraffes, and he didn’t have to read more than a paragraph or two before he fell asleep.

* * *

Two days later, while Aldo read in the living room, his parents reset the traps to deal with their rat infestation and talked again about getting a cat. Judy didn’t want one—Aldo wouldn’t know how to behave around it, and he’d mess up the house when he changed the litter box. Bob, however, was sick of the whole rigmarole and insisted. They’d get one this weekend, come hell or high water, and Aldo could just suck it up. About time the boy learned some proper discipline anyway—Judy would just have to learn to be firm with him.

Aldo could hear the whole conversation. He shook with anger when they started arguing about whether to start him at a boarding school come the spring semester.

On the east end of town, however, events unfolded that would bear directly on their decision, and on Flarn’s promises. That evening, a certain man was getting out of jail.

An emaciated, wiry slip of a man, he was getting out on a normal good-behavior release for a felony burglary; a four year sentence reduced to eight months. At about four in the afternoon, he was hustled out the front gate with the clothes on his back and a wallet containing twenty dollars for bus fare in his pocket, in case his wife was working when he was released.

She wasn’t, though. Cynthia London was waiting in her denim jacket and threadbare jeans, leaning against his jalopy Camaro with a shit-eating grin on her face. When her man got out of the gate, she lit two cigarettes and held one out for him. He saw her and plodded across the lot, looking years older than when he’d gone in.

It wasn’t a sweet reunion. He didn’t want to talk about his time inside, and he got angry whenever she tried to talk about her life in the months he’d been gone. He’d served his time, and wanted to forget it. But once they were out of sight of the jail, his posture relaxed and a bit of a smile returned to his face.

A couple miles on, they pulled off onto a dirt road and screwed on the hood of the car—the best sex either of them had since before he was arrested. Mark had only had the guys in the shower, and he didn’t like any of them, or what they did to him, or how the prison guards seemed not to care except the one time when, fighting him off, he’d gotten his jaw broken. Cynthia had the landlord, because with Mark in jail they didn’t make enough to pay rent on their shitty little apartment, and she didn’t even want to think about him, let alone admit it to Mark. Besides, now that Mark was out, they could get a new place.

After they were done, and had good smiles all around, Mark asked the big question:

“You got the ticket?”

Cynthia pulled a yellowing pawn check out of her jacket pocket and held it up. He took it from her, and she bounced in place and squealed. “Oh, baby, we’re gonna be rich!”

He caught her up and gave her another good, solid kiss, then smacked her ass and sent her to the passenger side.

They got lunch on the way at a casino—the first honest-to-god steak that Mark had tasted in over eight months. A couple hours later, though, when they reached the rickety pawn shop on the edge of no-man’s-land, the smiles disappeared.

“You see, sir,” the proprietor said, “You didn’t collect your valuables in the time allotted. We put them out on sale two months ago. If you’ll read the back of your ticket...”

“Now look here,” Mark said, “I don’t give a flying fuck about the ticket. I need that toy! Who bought it? When?”

“I’m sorry, sir, that information is private.”

“Is it now? We’ll just have to see about that.”

Mark had learned a few things about persuasion in prison. Cynthia could see that. But if he didn’t get the info, Mark’s ire would turn on her, and she didn’t fancy a beating the first day he was out of the big house. She wanted her goddamn honeymoon.

She thought something like this might happen—and, truth to tell, she didn’t have the money to buy the toy back anyway—so she’d brought along their little revolver. She pulled it out of her purse and shot it at the floor.

“Now,” she said, “I’m thinkin’ you’re gonna give us that there address.”

He didn’t take a lot more persuading, but she smashed his nose with the gun afterward anyway. Mark needed to know she was still on his side, no matter what. Yeah, the guy might call the cops, but they’d be long gone by then. They wrapped him up in duct tape and took off for the swanky high-rent suburbs, where everyone had their own yard.

* * *

Aldo was reading. It was after nine, but he’d stolen his dad’s flashlight and snuck it under the covers. He used the extra thick blanket in the winter, and he was sure nobody would be able to see the light underneath.

Almighty Flarn sat on his shoulder while Aldo read aloud, whispering out the story of Treasure Island from his enormous illustrated edition.

“See, that’s Long John Silver there, with the peg leg. This parrot here on his shoulder is Cap’n Flint,” he pointed at the illustration, then flipped the page and started reading the narration again.

“Aldo!” his mother called. “I can hear you reading in there!” Her footsteps stalked down the hardwood hallway and he heard the door open. Almighty Flarn dashed into hiding. Aldo didn’t see where—he was too busy trying to douse the light quick as he could, but his hand slipped on the button. The covers wooshed away over his head.

His mother towered over him, vexed and red-faced as a damn dirty pirate. Aldo froze. She didn’t get that mad very often. “I’ve told you not to read after nine. You,” she snatched the book and the light from him, “are in big trouble. Your father’s right, you need discipline. You’re going to that boarding school next term, so help me God.”

“I am not! I’m not going to any damn school and you can’t make me!”

She smacked him across the face. “Language! Oh, Aldo, you’ve done it now. There’s nothing more I can do to protect you. Not one thing. I’m going to send your father in here and...”

Something in the front of the house crashed. Aldo heard his father yelling, and a woman screaming. His mother forgot all about him and dashed out the bedroom door, taking his book with her.

Aldo, frozen in shock, tried to fight back tears. If they saw him cry, he was a goner. They’d send him off for sure. Then how would he talk to Almighty Flarn?

The row in the front room was getting louder. People were using words he’d only heard late at night when he snuck out of bed to the balcony, when his father was watching war movies.

Aldo, came the small whisper from under his pillow, it’s time. Put the giraffe on the night stand and hide under the bed.

“But...but...”

Quickly, my boy. Your reward is here!

Aldo snapped to—he grabbed the giraffe from his toy shelf. A heavy thing, what with being made of metal and all. He set it on the night stand and dove under the bed. Almighty Flarn joined him. He pet the rat, it made him feel better, and the Almighty whispered reassurances. They won’t hurt you, young friend. I promise. My people will be free, and you will be free, and the world will be as it should once again.

In another part of the house, Aldo heard gunshots. The noise started him crying again, and he clutched Almighty Flarn to his chest. There were one, two, then silence. Then, nobody was yelling anymore. A second later, he heard two more. Then, the shouting started again, and he heard footfalls rushing through the house, and crashing noises like someone was knocking things off shelves. Then more shouting. More bad words.

Then, someone came into his room. His heart thumped so hard in his ears he was sure whoever-it-was could hear it. He held his breath. The steps stopped just inside the door, then a woman’s voice shouted “Mark! Mark! I found it!”

The woman’s feet ran around his bed to the night stand. He heard her lift up the giraffe and toss it onto the bed. He heard squeaking and rattling noises, and then heavier footsteps. Mark, he guessed, tramped into the room.

“You got it?”

More rattling. Then: “Woo! We got it baby! Fifty thousand fucking dollars!”

Almighty Flarn whispered They found the diamonds. You’re safe now. They won’t harm you.

“Are you sure?” Aldo whispered as quiet as he could, but on the bed above he heard the man say:

“Wait. What the fuck was that?”

A second later, the end of a gun raised the bedskirt and an ugly, leathery face peeked under the bed. “Well, what do we have here?” The man—Mark—chuckled. “You just come on outta there, boy.”

Aldo nodded. He stuffed Almighty Flarn down his shirt and scooted backwards until he was out from under the bed. The woman laid a hand on him, as if she wanted to protect him.

Across the bed, Mark stood up and fingered the gun. He looked to the woman, then down to Aldo, then stamped the ground and stalked in a circle. “Sheeit, what’re we gonna do now?”

“You wouldn’t tell no one,” the woman said, “Would you, darlin’?”

“Um...uh...” Aldo didn’t know what to say. But he heard Flarn’s small voice whispering from inside his pajamas.

Say it depends.

“It depends.”

“Depends huh?” Mark said. “Depends on what?”

Taking his cue from Almighty Flarn, Aldo said “Depends on if I can read until midnight.”

“Say that again, son?”

“Mom and dad are poop heads. They won’t let me read when I get in bed. Will you?” Aldo wasn’t sure about this, but he repeated Flarn’s words. He trusted Flarn. Flarn had never steered him wrong.

He looked up at the woman. She was smiling—a kind sort of smile, too. Not the strained tolerance his own mother always smiled with. She looked over at Mark, who looked like he was about to have the fall-aparts.

She patted him on the shoulder. “You stay here a moment, darlin’. I gotta talk to my man.” She walked around the bed and pulled Mark aside, but they talked loud enough for him to hear if he concentrated.

“Come on, baby, he’s a good kid, and we can’t have none of our own. We always wanted a smart boy like that—he’d grow up and help out, you know he would. Keep us right when we get old. Give us grandbabies maybe.”

“I...I don’t know. They’d find us.”

“Not if he was in with us. He wouldn’t run—he doesn’t like it here. Come on, honey, for me?”

“Well...” Mark scratched the gun barrel against his forehead, then winced. “Goddamn it. Ah, fucking burns! Shit. Okay, I can’t kill no kid. I say we take and dump him at the Salvation Army.”

“No, no, no, honey. Take a good look at him. He’ll be a good boy.”

Mark looked at Aldo. Aldo looked down at the bed, not sure what to do.

“You’ll be a good boy, won’t you honey?” the woman said. “Go on a trip with us? See the world?”

“Well...”

Say yes, Aldo. This is your reward. This is what I promised you.

“Well...”

Go on, Aldo. I’ll come with you. I’ll make sure they let you read as long as you want.

“Well, you promise you’ll let me read till midnight?”

“We can’t have you keeping us up, darlin’.”

“I’ll read under the covers. It won’t be any problem. But you’ll let me read? And get me books when I run out?”

“Any books you want, honey. I promise.”

Aldo looked up at Mark. The man’s eyes were wide, almost crossed, like he’d just seen a dog with a bird’s head. “Mark? You’ll let me read too?”

“Uh...sure. I’ll let you read. But you can’t tell nobody about us, or how you got hooked up with us. You tell people you’re our son, and you be a good boy.”

Aldo brightened. “I’ll be good, I promise! I can bring my rat?” Then he whispered to Almighty Flarn “You’ll come with me, like you promised?”

I will. My work here is done.

“Rat?” The woman looked vaguely horrified.

“Yeah.” He pulled Flarn out of his shirt and set him up on his shoulder. “He’s no trouble. He just likes to sit on my shoulder when I read. He likes lettuce and crackers.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” Mark said. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Aldo.”

“Okay, Aldo, you’re gonna need a new name. What you want we should call you when we’re out on the road?”

Aldo didn’t have to think twice. “Call me Jim.” The guy reminded him a bit of Long John Silver.

“Alright Jim. This here’s Cynthia, and she’s your new momma. You mind her and me, and we won’t have no trouble. Now you pack some clothes in a bag, and get your book, and we’ll be on our way.”

Aldo packed his bag, Almighty Flarn at his ear, telling him what to bring. He had to get his book from his mother—she was still clinging to it, trying to keep it from him, even though she was laying dead as a dirty sea dog in the foyer. They set off into the night, and Aldo hunkered down in the back seat with a blanket, and his flashlight, and his book, and Almighty Flarn, who was as true as his word.

And he got to read as long as he wanted. And nobody said anything different.

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Next time, we will learn what happens when a ghost, a witch, and a wedding crash a perfectly respectable funeral, in Funeral Hats. You can hear the opening pages of it here:

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About the Author

(i.e. I make my living as a freelancer and am actively looking to fill my caldendar for the next couple quarters, so here’s everything you should know about me)

J. Daniel Sawyer is a prolific producer of podcasts audiobooks, radio dramas, and video projects for artistic and corporate clients. He also works as a hired-gun strategic and logistical consultant for new media companies, Silicon Valley startups, law firms, and various nonprofits. For the last twenty-five years, his firm has provided voice over, design and commercial artwork, strategic consulting, book packaging, writing, copywriting, creative mentorship, and editorial services to clients ranging from independent authors to small publishing companies, new media firms and Silicon Valley startups, law firms and non-profits.

He also runs a small maker shop, where he builds tools, jewelry, and trinkets to order from wood, metal, and bone.

A smattering of recent commissions

To hire him, contact him through substack chat, by commenting on this post, or via email at dan at jdsawyer.net

To commission a custom tool, knife, or piece of jewelry, click here and fill out the form describing your project.