Nomadic tales

This week, I want to offer another bit of prose by Ted and demonstrate one way that the things in Lila’s outer and inner worlds connect.

In the game, there is a small village where nomads of a certain sort gather. It’s called Jalopy, and although it is a village, it has no true citizens because it’s a common stopping point for a group of nomads that travel with their houses, churches, and shops mounted onto their vehicles. While there, everyone enjoys entertainment by nomadic puppeteers and their giant puppets.

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Dad only calls him by his first name, Jerry. Mom says he’s a modern day hobo. Lila figures “hobo” must be a couch-surfing shower user, because on the rare occurrences he pops up, that’s all Jerry seems to require.

The door bell would ring — this is the era when mom and dad were still together — and dad would usher him into the living room. Mom’s back would stiffen, she’d crisply acknowledge him with a “Hello Jerome”, and then she’d disappear up to the bedroom, returning only once Jerry had disappeared for another 7 or 16 months.

Lila would watch dad and Jerry talk. Man-talk, adult-talk, in low tones. Lila would cast herself far enough away to give them privacy, but still see their faces. Dad’s large, dark eyebrows rising and falling, arching and pressing together; it looked like a woolly bear ballet. Jerry’s face reminded Lila of the neighbor’s basset hound, skinny and saggy. His jowls would wobble with agreement, swing and ripple.

Jerry’s visits perplexed Lila. She sensed that Dad was tickled and glum, all at the same time. When she asked where Jerry came from, Dad would only respond, “Oh he’s a friend from Wayback.” Lila looked in a school room atlas once: Wayback didn’t exist.

Mom was only too unhappy to talk about Jerry. “He’s homeless” “He’s a mooch.” “He’s a smoker.” “Your dad and Jerome went to college together. Jerome was too lazy to get his degree.” “Finish everything you start. Or you’ll be a Jerome too.”

Mom never said anything about Jerry talking to himself, but Lila noticed. He would go outside when he had his cigarettes. Their skin was so bright and clean compared to Jerry’s stubbly tan. The pumpkin-orange tip reflected in his eyes.

He’d gab with a mouth-shaped wrinkle of his trench coat. Or he’d move his toes in his boot and chat with the unglued sole as it flapped up and down. He’d laugh as his gloves danced — the two middle fingers making very convincing legs. He could animate the lips of his poor-boy hat, throw his voice into his breast pocket and make it squelch to a stop when he slid his pack of smokes back in.

He’d mediate arguments between paper bags when they accused their plastic cousins of ruining the environment. Effortlessly, he would create snaggle-toothed ghosts with Styrofoam cups and twigs of wood.

Watching and listening to him, the seams of her skull stretched to bursting with fascination. Lila so wanted to talk to him or his menagerie! But it always felt like she’d be interrupting. Something grandma said gave her the idea: “Never go to a full house empty-handed.”

Lila drew a picture of Jerry and all his friends clustered about him. Wriggling ghosts rose out of the smoke of his cigarette. Smiles and winks hid in the folds of his clothing. Weeds and porch knotholes angled their new-formed ears at him.

She held on to the picture through a Christmas, an Easter, the end of one school year and into the beginning of another. Finally the door-bell rang.

Later that evening, Jerry and a Kleenex-and-plastic-straw creature stopped their discourse about the silliness of baseball when Lila opened the screechy screen door. The Kleenex instantly lost its life and Jerry stubbed out his smoke. He smiled.

Lila gave him the picture. His eyes widened and spread. Grinning.

And from then on, Jerry’s traveling menagerie was eager to include her in their chin-wags. And every time Jerry left — apparently he had many friends with many couches — Lila would draw him more pictures, usually of the stories and descriptions relayed to her by his improvised puppet-friends.

The last time she saw Jerry, her dad hadn’t been home. Mom had Lila’s new “uncle” met Jerry at the door. The tone was terse, low. The sounds Ernest made when he saw another cat through the window. Jerry went away and a month later Mom and Dad split up.

Dad had to move out, so if Jerry had ever came back, well, Lila was sure her mom wouldn’t bother to tell him where Dad had gone. But Lila’s latest pictures, all 24 of them, were waiting.

* * *

You can find the concept art for Jalopy in the gallery.