Loctopus

“Mail call, Moosie!” Vanessa bellows as she bursts through the front door of our apartment. She’s carrying a medium-sized package. Once I see the pink floral packing tape surrounding it, I know instantly that it’s from my Grandma Opaline, my family’s oldest flower child, who spends her senior years knitting, playing her harp, and reminiscing about the past, and how music was so much better fifty years ago.

Vanessa puts the box on the dining table. “I wonder what it is?” she says. “Were you expecting anything?”

“Nope,” I reply. “My birthday’s not until next month.”

“Well, get busy and open it! The suspense is killing you.”

I smile at my wife. “Heh. Not really.” Probably just some old pictures of me as a baby, or maybe a hand-knitted scarf that took her years to complete. Sure, it’s the thought that counts, but I live in Tucson, Arizona, and barely have a neck to speak of; what the heck am I gonna do with a scarf?

Inside the box is a black box with THE SHARPER IMAGE printed in silver on the top. The Sharper Image isn’t a place I’d expect a lady in her mid-eighties to frequent.

I open the black box and pull back the tissue paper. It’s a figurine of an octopus, slightly bigger than my hand. It’s painted in some kind of iridescent purple gloss. I turn it over; there’s a little button on the underside where an octopus’s ink sac would be (I guess; I’m no marine biologist). The button’s nearly invisible as it’s the same color as the rest of the creature. I push the button and the octopus vibrates.

A little black dot below its painted-on eyes flashes amber as the octopus starts talking. “Hi there, friend! Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Octavius Oswald Otterson VIII, but you can just call me Octy. I’m your new go-anywhere, do-almost-anything, audio companion! I’m made of the latest in space-age technology and can play sounds soft enough to lull you to sleep, or loud enough to rock a two-story dance club!”

Vanessa and I stare blankly at each other. Octy continues, “To start the music, press and hold my ink sac for five seconds and you can enjoy dozens of satellite radio stations, all for free! Each of my fully poseable tentacles can be preset to a station of your choosing. Go on, give ‘em a tug; you know you want to!”

I press and hold the button and “Amie” by Pure Prairie League starts playing. I’m no more an audiophile than I am a marine biologist, but even I can tell the sound quality coming out of this smallish figurine is impressive. I can’t even figure out where the speakers are on this thing, yet the room fills with stereophonic sound of classic rock.

“Let’s pull this one,” Vanessa says as she reaches out for Octy.

I snatch it away from her grasp. “Now hang on here. Whose gift is this?”

I tug on Octy’s rightmost tentacle and the music changes to “Guitar Man” by Bread. Tentacle number three plays “Livin’ Thing” by ELO. Not that I have anything against it, but are all the stations classic rock? I tug the other appendages: Tom Petty, The Doobie Brothers, Deep Purple…you get the idea.

“Hey Octy, you got any other genres of music in you?”

He doesn’t respond. I guess there’s no microphone on him.

“Try tugging on two at a time,” Vanessa says.

I do as suggested and Octy plays “Secret Love” by Doris Day, a decidedly non-classic rock tune. A lovely song, but still not really in my wheelhouse. I let it play out and the next song is “Hey Joe” by Jimi Hendrix. Quite the juxtaposition. I push the ink sac button and the music stops.

I sigh. “Okay, then. Thanks, Nana Opaline. Whenever I’m in the mood for classic rock and/or the occasional ‘50s showtune, I’ll give ol’ Octy a tug. Till then…” I toss Octy into our kitchen’s junk drawer.

#

Morning. Time to hit the road to my downtown dead-end job. My car doesn’t like to start up in the hot months, which here in Tucson is every month, but I’m delighted that I don’t have to fight with it too much this morning, as she starts up after only three tries.

The gas gauge is scraping E, but I think I know my car well enough to know that I can get at least two more trips to and from work before I have to borrow a few bucks from Vanessa or look around the house for something to sell for gas money. I wonder how much I could get for Octy on eBay?

When I get home that evening, I discover that the music I heard while walking down the hallway is coming from my apartment. I walk in and Vanessa’s folding laundry while Octy is blasting “Who Are You” by The Who.

“Welcome home, honey,” she says sweetly. “How was work?”

“A nonstop thrill ride, as usual,” I reply flatly. “I see you and Octy are getting along good.”

She blushes. “You don’t mind, do you? I forgot how much I love classic rock.”

“Especially when sung by an octopus?”

Vanessa laughs. “Oh, that reminds me. Opaline would like you to call her.”

“Huh? How do you know?”

“She called me.”

“Why? I know she’s got my number.”

“She’s an old lady, Moose. Just be glad she still remembers who you are. Call her back.”

On my way to the fridge for my last can of cheap domestic lager, I pull out my phone and tap Opaline’s name.

“Hi, Nana. It’s Moose.”

Opaline coos into the phone. “Oh, my dearest Meursault,” Nana Opaline loves calling me by my full name; so many others have trouble pronouncing it. “Did you get the package I sent you? I hope I got the address right.”

“Yes, I got it. I hope you don’t mind that I opened it already. My birthday’s not until March.”

“Oh, it’s not for your birthday; I have a nice long-sleeved shirt I’ll be sending you for that. This was just something that I saw while Andy and I were out shopping, and I immediately thought of you.”

“Um, who’s Andy?”

“He’s my boyfriend,” she says proudly.

“Oh?”

“Yes, Meursault. I don’t usually go for younger men, but he was just so handsome and polite, we hit it off great.”

“Younger?”

“Yes. He’s only seventy-two.”

I stifle a chuckle. “Cool. Say, you wouldn’t happen to know how to switch Octy to maybe play some ‘80s pop or old school R&B, would you?”

“…What’s that?”

“Well, all it plays is rock tunes from the ‘60s and ‘70s, which is cool, but…”

“It plays music?”

“Um, yeah. You didn’t know that?”

“No. I just thought it was a pretty purple spider. I know how much you like spiders.”

I don’t like spiders. And Octy is clearly an octopus. Nana Opaline continues, “I thought it would look nice on one of the shelves in your man cave.”

“It would at that,” I say to make her feel better. “You coming to visit soon?”

“Yes I am. Andy and I are planning a road trip next month.”

“Cool. It’d be great to see you.”

“You too, Meursault. You know you’ve always been my favorite grandson. But keep that between us, okay?”

“You got it.”

I hang up with Nana Opaline after a few more minutes of small talk. Vanessa’s now bopping along to “Life in The Fast Lane” by The Eagles.

“I think I’ll take Octy with me to work tomorrow,” I tell her.

“Aw, really?”

“Yep. Since I don’t have a radio in my car, y’know.” And because he’s mine.

“Life in The Fast Lane” ends, and there’s a short period of silence. Octy’s radio has never had “dead air” before. It probably needs to be charged, though I have no idea how to charge it.

Octy emits a low-pitched whine, then starts rattling off numbers: 22, 17, 6, 31, 38, 10. Then “Money” by Pink Floyd plays.

“What were those numbers?” Vanessa asks.

“Beats the heck outta me. Serial number, maybe?”

#

Octy sounds good in the car. Every other song or two, I’ll give two of the tentacles a tug and be treated to an old vocal standard by Ella Fitzgerald or Perry Como, just to break up the classic rock monotony.

I managed to cobble together enough coins to treat myself to a donut from one of the convenience stores on the way to work. The guy in front of me in line is one of those losers who buys lottery scratch off tickets, then proceeds to scratch them right there at the counter. Sometimes, if the line’s not long, he’ll just scratch the code and ask the cashier to scan it to see if it’s a winner. Toni, the cashier, and I exchange perturbed looks, but the guy remains unfazed and keeps scratching away.

“Anybody win the lotto jackpot yesterday?” he asks after blowing scratcher shrapnel off the counter.

“Don’t think so,” Toni replies.

“Let me get a printout of the numbers,” he says to her.

Toni gives him the little orange ticket with yesterday’s winning numbers. He looks them over and clicks his tongue. “Dammit. Missed all the numbers by one digit. Again.” He slams the ticket on the counter and storms out. So, he likes to lose at the lotto as well as the scratchers. That’s something I know now.

“Some people huh?” Toni says to me after punching the donut button on her POS device. “Anything else for ya?”

I wish, but I’m out of cash. “Nope, that’s all.” I glance at the printout that Lottery Loser Guy left behind. 6, 17, 22, 31, 38, and 10. Hm. Why do those numbers seem familiar to me? Aw, who the heck knows.

Wait a minute! I know! It hits me right before I get out of the car to go into the office. I’m 99% positive that Octy said those same numbers the other day. What a freaky coincidence. Isn’t it?

Is it?

#

I need to find out if my photographic memory for numbers is messing with me, so I listen to Octy pretty much all day for the next two days, waiting for it to go silent again before announcing another random set of numbers. Octy goes silent after “New Year’s Day” by U2 finishes playing (still classic rock, but at least it’s ‘80s).

“Hope you’re enjoying the music,” Octy says instead of saying numbers. I’m not sure if I should answer him or not.

“Unfortunately, it’s time to charge me,” Octy says. I still have no idea how. Octy continues, “Simply place me on any wireless charger with Qi technology for twelve hours, and I’ll give you five more days of unlimited music. Until then, goodnight!” Then more silence.

Vanessa has a wireless charger, I think. I find it on her dresser in the bedroom and place Octy on it. His usually yellow mouth glows an ominous red.

When I wake the next morning, Octy’s mouth is green, which I take to mean that he’s ready to go another five days.

While I’m driving to work and trying not to look at the needle on the fuel gauge after realizing I forgot to ask Vanessa for gas money, Octy plays “Life in The Fast Lane” again which makes me think of how Vanessa was dancing to it the last time it played. After the song’s over, Octy goes silent. I look at the calendar; it can’t be time to charge him again already, can it?

Octy then says, “11. 47. 20.”

I reach down between the front seats and on the passenger-side floor (while speeding down the Interstate) searching for something to write with. Octy continues with the numbers, but I can’t find a writing utensil. I try my best to remember the numbers, then I realize I can’t play the lotto today anyway; it costs a dollar, and I’m currently dollarless.

My phone’s text message tone goes off.

“Hi Meursault. I am hoping to come visit you next week,” read a text from Nana Opaline. Impressive that a woman her age knows about texting. Then again, maybe her boytoy Andy put her onto it. I laugh softly to myself as I put the phone away. Hopefully by the time she visits I’ll have more than two nickels to rub together.

#

No dead air from Octy lately. Maybe he only announces numbers after Eagles songs, and I’ve been too preoccupied with things to realize it. So, now I’m listening carefully to the ends of all tunes by The Eagles. Not my favorite band by any means, but at least it’s not Nickelback.

“Witchy Woman:” Nothing.

“Hotel California:” Nada.

“Already Gone:” Zilch.

I’m just about to the point where I’m ready to dismiss this Eagles thing as just the inklings of a sad, broke man, when “Life in The Fast Lane” comes on. Then, dead air. Then, here come the numbers. And I’m ready. I jot down each digit on a torn off page from Vanessa’s organizer and tuck it into my pocket.

“Vanessa,” I shout down the hallway as I head for the door, “I’ll be back in a few. Gonna run down to the store for uh…a pint of ice cream!”

“You sure you can spare the gas?” she yells back.

I totally can’t. “I’ll—I’ll walk! It’ll be good for my health!”

“Yes, it would! And the ice cream you’re going to buy certainly won’t erase all that exercise!”

Thankfully, I get out of there before she realizes that I couldn’t spare any money for ice cream or gas. Vanessa would kill me if she knew I was planning to waste money on a silly and improbable game of chance like the lottery, but I just gotta know.

#

“Hey Nessie!” I, Octy in my left hand, yell, after throwing our front door open. “Guess what?” My broad smile disappears after I see that Vanessa’s been crying. “Oh my god. What’s wrong?”

Vanessa wipes her eyes. “Oh, Meursault.”

Uh-oh. She said my full name. She even pronounced it correctly. Whatever it is, it’s some really heavy news.

“Hang on,” I say, before she can continue, “before you lay a bad trip on me, I have some fantastic news.” I don’t wait for her to object. I wave Octy in the air in front of me. “You know this guy, don’tcha? This silly little trinket that Nana Opaline gave me?”

“Yeah?” she sobs, more tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Well, he spat out some more numbers after playing “Life in The Fast Lane,” and I wrote them down. And guess what I did then? I played them in yesterday’s lotto.”

“You didn’t,” she says.

“I did! I wasted a whole dollar on that stupid game that only desperate losers and people with no retirement funds play. And baby, I hit every single one of those numbers. We won…the jackpot! Nine-point eight, million dollars! We are rich AF!”

Vanessa is silent. Stunned speechless, no doubt. Don’t blame her one bit.

She starts crying again. “Moose, this is no time to be a wise guy!”

“I’m not kidding! I’m so totally not kidding, Vanessa! Here’s the ticket. Go online and compare the numbers. Every one of them matches, or my name isn’t Meursault de Cordova Valentino St. Martin!”

Vanessa pulls up the lottery website on her laptop. “No. Freakin’. Way!”

“I know, right? When Nana Opaline hears about this, she might just drop d—”

“Moose! No! Don’t finish that!”

“Huh?”

Vanessa gets quiet. “I just got off the phone with your mother. I hate to spoil such a wonderful thing as winning millions, but I’m afraid I have to tell you Opaline…has passed away.”

“What? No. I was just talking to her a couple days ago.”

“I know, hon.” Vanessa sniffles. “The day she sent that text to you, she…she died, that same night.”

“And my mom is just telling us about it now? And she called you, instead of me?”

“Your mother knew how special Opaline was to you. A big piece of mail from your mother also came today. Over there, on the dining table.”

I’m a completely mixed-up gumbo of emotions. Here I am, the world’s newest multi-millionaire, all because of a gift that my eccentric grandmother gave me, and now to find out she’s not even alive for me to thank her.

My tears of joy from knowing I’ll never have to sell Octy (or anything else) for gas money, or punch a time clock, or worry about me or anyone I love being put out in the street, are mixed with tears of sadness at the passing of dear Nana Opaline. I mean, eighty-five years is a good run, but I figured if anyone was gonna make it to a century on this rock, it’d a be a wild spirit like her.

I pick up the large manila envelope that Mom addressed to me and open it. It’s an old sun-faded picture of a middle-aged woman, smiling brightly, a beer bottle filled with mostly foam in her left hand. She’s surrounded by women who are dressed in fringes and bellbottom jeans like hers and appear to be in various degrees of intoxication as well. A note stuck to the picture says, in Mom’s handwriting, “Dear Meursault, she wanted you to have this.”

She who?

“Cool pic,” Vanessa says, looking over my shoulder. “Who’s in it?”

“Don’t know.”

“Look on the back.”

I flip the picture over. My eyes well up immediately as I read,

1972 – Opaline at her first Eagles concert

End