As Expected

What, precisely, did Joseph expect? Aubrey Little, Wife to Joseph Little, teased her husband over breakfast one bright Saturday morning (eggs, biscuits, and enough gravy to all but entirely mask the grit of egg shells which crunched like sand with every bite).

What Joseph expected, “precisely,” was a distraction. Quirky, amusing, and if he was being honest with himself, ultimately sad and disappointing when all was said and done. That was one of the downsides of being the numbers 506 and 507 to cap off the previous town population of 505: there weren’t so many annoying people, but there also weren’t all that many interesting or exciting people (who weren’t addicted to meth).

And what would Joseph do if it turned out to be a prank--"I mean, a complete prank; a hoax”-- and nobody even showed up? There was a lot of work to be done around the house, and, Aubrey informed him with a sly smile and a kiss as Joseph pulled on his jacket, a lot of work to be done in the bedroom.

Then, in that eventuality, the event would indeed have lived up to all of his expectations, both as an utter disappointment, and as a distraction (at least for a little while), and he informed Aubrey that yes, he would finish remodelling the closet when he got home.

What time did Joseph think he would be back? And would he pick up a gallon of milk on his way home?

Joseph didn’t know. And yes, he would get milk.

“I love you,” said Aubrey, still in her bathrobe which threatened to envelope the petite woman, both in its oversizedness and in its incredibly plush, lime-green pile.

“I love you too.” Standing in the doorway, Joseph stooped to kiss his wife a second time, who rose on her bare toes to meet him. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get home,” he promised with a grin.

“Alright, be safe,” Aubrey wished of him in a tone that made it obvious that it was not a request: it was an order. She shrank involuntarily inside her robe, and shuffled back a step or two from the open door as the crisp Autumn breeze bit through the thick fabric.

“Will do.” Joseph turned to go out the door, but stopped short at a tug on the back of his shirt.

“Hey.”

Joseph turned back to face his wife, and the impish grin which had crept onto her face. With a dramatic flourish, Aubrey drew a rolled up newspaper from behind her back and held it aloft. “I hereby dub thee…” she brought the tube of paper on each shoulder and declared in a majestic tone, “Sir Manly-Dork, of Lower Engleton.”

Joseph rolled his eyes, and with a snort and a chuckle, stepped out into the chill, closing the door between them. The newspaper fell open, revealing the Community Announcements page, and the ad which read, in blocky, no-nonsense typeface:

Adventurers Wanted!

Quest: Slay the green dragon which 

lives beneath Hazim’s sandwich shop.

Date: Saturday, November 3rd

Location: Hazim’s Sandwichery

Reward: Your choice of sandwich.  

(chips extra)

There were several things that Joseph had expected on this outing, one of which had been Hazim, and the other of which had been, of course, sandwiches. There were several other things which Joseph had not expected. The first of which was the five foot tall, wizened Appalachian man dressed in the green robe, silver bangles, and a leather hat that could have easily passed itself off for an oversized, well-used bowling-ball bag. He had not expected the gnarled staff, nor the small rodent which perched on his shoulder, and who, upon the slightest movement on anybody’s part, would scurry back behind the briar of the man’s beard, resulting in everybody--a sallow-faced, lank-haired high school kid; the stubby mountain-man, and Joseph--having to sit or stand stock still because “Alexander gets ‘fraid if ya move too much, and I don’t want him havin’ a heart attack like mah last f’miliar did.” Thus, the tableau which Joseph walked into upon entering the sandwich shop didn’t not resemble a group of beset-upon live-action role players desperately trying not to be seen by an escaped tyrannosaurus rex. Joseph caught a brief glimpse of something brown with a bald tail before it vanished into the beard.

After having sat down and made introductions (Mikorax the Green being the old man, or “Mike” for short; and Conner Layton being the youth), came something expected. It came from Mike, and started with, “Now I know what must be goin’ through y’all’s minds right about now: what is this crazy old man thinkin’?” Unfortunately, this was then followed up with the unexpected conclusion of, “But let me put y’all’s fears to rest. This place is called a sandwichery, but I assure you, it has nothin’ to do with witches. If it was witches, then it would be “sandwitchery,” with a ‘t’. There isn’t nearly enough sand here for sand witches, thank God."

Joseph ordered a coffee from Hazim, who brought the cup to the table painfully slowly as not to startle Alexander, and sat through the next thirty minutes of battle strategies, first-aid training for green-dragon spittle (Step 1: douse the affected area with dry dirt, Step 2: cauterize the wound with the mini plumber’s torch that Mike kept strapped to his belt, Step 3: amputate the affected limb post-haste), and some sort of aptitude test which primarily consisted of Mike brushing the two of them with a turkey feather for ten minutes and then inspecting the feather under a jeweller’s lense, but also included a scent test and measurements of their foreheads, necks, and forefingers. Both students passed the test.

“These are,” Mike began, reaching into his robe, “the most ancient art’facts of my order, so treat them with care.” Out of the folds of his robe, the gnarled old man withdrew two straight bladed swords, whose mirrored polishes gleamed in the fluorescent lights. “Silver,” grunted Mike. “It’s the only thing that’ll put a dent in the scaly sons-of-bitches.

Later, Joseph would decide that this was the point where the weirdness meter, which had been bouncing on the rightmost limit which probably read, “SERIOUSLY, DON’T GO THIS HIGH!” finally shattered the glass and the rest of the encounter passed in a haze. He was an adventurer, a savior of the downtrodden, and the Lord knows why he didn’t object as a crazy mountain-wizard led him and a sixteen year old computer sciences geek into the back room and subsequent basement of the overpriced sandwich shop downtown. As they passed, Hazim whispered, “Allah be with you.”

Some things about Hazim’s basement, Joseph expected. He expected the ductwork, for example, and likewise, he expected the plumbing and the furnace. He was not particularly surprised to see the stacks of totes against one cement wall, probably containing miscellaneous possessions which there was no place for at home. But there are only a finite number of things that one can expect, even if taken down to the minute level (the layer of dust on the floor, the cinder blocks in the walls, the dampness seeping in from the outside), and unfortunately there is an infinite number of things that one can’t expect. Some of these things for Joseph included the acrid odor of bile that hung in the air, and the five-foot hole burrowed through the solid cement slab which continued into indeterminable darkness. He did not expect the barrels of pickles shattered and spilled all over the floor, their contents suspiciously absent. Nor did not expect the furrowed claw marks in the clay as the trio descended into the Earth, each carrying an electric lantern in front of himself, the sound of scaly rustling echoing off of the cavern walls, like the smooth, barely discernible hiss of a snake’s scales as they slide across each other. 

He did not expect the glob of caustic spittle that hurtled out of the darkness and caught Conner dead on his left forearm, knocking him back against the wall like a cannon shot, and instantly beginning to sizzle and burn. Distantly, Mike’s voice drifted to him through the darkness, as though under water, “DIRT, BOY! USE THE DIRT!” He used the dirt, and the torch after that. He did not expect how cleanly the razor sharp blade would slice through the elbow, severing the infection from the rest of the body.  

Nor did he expect the rush of air as a second globule screamed past his ear, or to turn and see the pinched, serpentine face of a six foot tall reptile scrambling towards him on two powerful, yet deceptively scrawny legs and its wings. “A wyvern, then,” some far away part of his brain noted calmly, the screaming in his head having been beaten into silence. The wyvern’s body was long and serpent-like, with a perpetually grinning, hatchet shaped face, a turtle-like beak, and a wicked array of horns. Scraps of white skin hung off its body in flakes, as if it had just finished molting.

Joseph did not expect to see a bloodied and haggard Mikorax the Green hurl himself on the creature’s mottled neck, banging on the back of its impervious skull with the hilt of his broken sword, robes smoking, and screaming with incoherent rage. To Joseph’s utter surprise, he suddenly found his own arm driving the blade of his own silver blade up under the creatures chin, effortlessly through the scaly hide, and through the top of the skull. The dragon abruptly ceased moving and slumped to the floor.

* * *

Joseph and Mike sat in silence under the flickering fluorescent lights of Hazim’s Sandwichery. The small pile of gold coins which Mike had collected into his hat sat separated into three piles on the vinyl-topped table between them, one of which Mike had promised to deliver to the hospital where the ambulance had taken Conner. As expected, Hazim paid the two of them in a sandwich of their choice (but no chips). Joseph sat and stared out the window, not touching his tuna sandwich. He had gotten his distraction for the day, that was for sure, though Aubrey would throw a fit when she saw the state of his clothes. Could he buy milk with gold coins? Dumbly, he raised the sandwich to his mouth and took a bite.  

He had expected rye bread.

It was whole wheat.