Chapter #9Dry Cleaning and Donuts by: Unknown by Masktrix
“Sure? Ready? No take-backs...”
“Shut up man, just do it.”
“This is going to be awesome.” Caleb laughs from behind as you feel him grab your head. Buzzzzzzzzzz... “Holy shit! That came off easy! You’re gonna look like Marlon Brando. And I don’t mean young, cool Marlon. I mean old, crazy Marlon.”
You scrunch up your eyes and hope Caleb is joking. Your father gave you twenty dollars for a haircut. You need every dollar you can get. So right now you are trusting Caleb to take care of a little problem.
You open one eye and look in the mirror. Your friend is grinning wildly, laughing as he zips the clippers across your scalp. You close your eyes again. It’s too late for him to stop, now. All you can do is let him go.
“By the way, did you ever figure why you put a hair dryer in the time capsule?” He asks. You wince at your mad dash to come up with some bullshit essay earlier.
“Yeah. Because I’m having my head shaved. I told Walberg that it was an historical artefact for me.”
“What? Dude that makes no sense.”
“No,” you admit. “Probably why I’m looking at a C, tops.”
An hour later and you’re walking through downtown Saratoga Falls, the breeze playing strangely through your shorn hair. Caleb virtually shaved every lock off. You wonder, with growing horror, what your classmates are going to think. What your parents will think. How your brother is going to laugh. A tremble echoes through your body. What if you are grounded? Was that really worth twenty bucks?
You promise yourself it was, for two reasons. The first is Speedy’s. You step in, passing the chit to the owner, an old Korean man with as many wrinkles on his face as seem to be in your wizarding plans. You wait as he grabs a bundle of clothes.
“These are not yours,” he says, laying them out. You look. One security uniform. One black cocktail dress. One larger dress in silk, peach coloured. Obviously not for you.
“No. My sister’s.”
“Then your sister should come and pick them up.”
“She was busy. She asked me to come. See?” You hold up the ticket. “They’re for Pruitt. She works at Nirdlinger’s.” There is a quizzical look, and you hope it’s enough to get past the unexpected inquisition. Fortunately, the owner shrugs and takes the ticket.
“After the deposit, that’s fifteen dollars outstanding.”
The goods loaded in your car, next you need to use the mind strip. The easiest thing would be to head back to the department store, but that feels like a risk - the security cameras can’t ‘accidentally’ misplace a DVD again. Instead, you go and wait to see if your gut instinct pays off.
“That’ll be four dollars eighty-five.” The barista hands you a cup of coffee and an overpriced donut as you take a seat. Partytown Donuts is right across from the department store, and possibly the dumbest named shop in Saratoga Falls. Party town? Other than the Warehouse where are the parties? What kind of party has donuts? And why would you call your business that?
You shake off the questions and take a seat in a booth looking at the door. The store closes in ten minutes. Security, you assume, will leave shortly after. And you’re betting a rather terrible haircut that your target is going to fall to cop stereotype.
An hour passes as you watch from across the street. The shoppers leave. A few employees slip out under the closing security door. Then... nothing. Your donut is eaten. Your coffee has gone cold. The barista clearly wants you gone, but you pretend you’re on your phone and just there to skim the Wi-Fi.
Another half-hour passes. People come and go. Donuts are eaten. You start to feel hungry and, once again, dread returning home. Caleb texts you repeatedly, still elated he got to shave your head. This sucks.
You’re about to leave when she steps through the door. The guard. Paula Blart. You still don’t know her first name. Why didn’t you check that when you had her driver’s license? You make a note to get better at this whole identity theft thing.
It feels weird, watching her order a donut, heavy red coat hiding her frame, hair now cascading free behind her like a waterfall. Only a few nights ago you were her. It’s a surreal experience.
As she queues, you decide to take a chance, and walk up to the counter next to her.
“Hey, is it free refills here?” You ask, hoping that she’ll give away if she remembers you or not.
The barista snorts. “Does this look like Subway? No. We are a coffee shop.” She gives an exasperated look to the guard, who doesn’t react at all.
She doesn’t remember you. Or, at least, recognize you.
You smile apologetically and help yourself to a napkin. The guard pays for her order and walks to one of the tables around the corner, two donuts on her plate.
You follow. You feel your palms sweat, the ripped nail beds from your chewed fingers stinging. As she sits down, almost casually, you lean over and slap the band on her forehead. Then you scramble to a seat in the next booth, watching as her head sags unconscious. The band has gone. What’s happening?
The next minutes seem to drag on. Nobody takes any notice of the sleeping woman or you. People order. People type on laptops. The barista wants you all to buy donuts or die. Finally, there’s a ding. Standing up, you see the metal band next to her donuts. Quickly, you grab it and hurry home.
You rush up to your room, barely hollering a greeting to mom and dad. You have an arm full of women’s dresses, and a lack of hair. Either one could get you grounded. Furiously, you shove the dresses under the bed. You reckon you have an hour before your parents come up to check on you and see Caleb’s masterpiece. That gives you a chance to test the strip.
You look at it. Marion Miranda Pruitt is now written on one side. You take a deep breath... here goes nothing.
The world turns black, twists you around, sucks you down, down, down...
Why am I in a bedroom? Why am I in a kid’s bedroom? No, you think, fighting off nausea. This is my bedroom. The metal band! You reach up to your forehead, searching for it. It isn’t there. Quickly you rush to the mirror, looking at your head. It’s gone. It’s vanished. Did it work? And if it did why don’t I remember...
Watching myself in the mirror. Weight loss. Weight gain. Trying to slim down. Pastry-face Pruitt, always loved donuts. The mocking names echo in your ears...
Police entrance exam. Failed fitness. Trying again later this year. You close your eyes and look at yourself. No. You are Will Prescott. Will Prescott with a web of memories belonging to Marion Pruitt, a 26-year-old security guard who...
You suddenly feel a a twinge of panic. You rush to the dry cleaned clothes, pulling out the peach dress. The peach bridesmaid’s dress.
Marion Pruitt, who is going to a wedding next Saturday. The uniform and gown can be replaced, chalked up as lost or stolen by the suspicious kid with a chit she dropped somewhere.
This can’t. You’re going to have to get it back to Marion Pruitt.  | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
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