A Happy Magical Sunset

    Jack Lumberg marched drearily down the office corridor towards his Thursday sentence.  Working for the local business conglomerate, W.C. Westfield, Jack was obligated to be at his desk eight of the nine hours he was on the clock each day.  He made good money, enough so that he and his family could finally afford that new home out in the suburbs they had always dreamed of since he and his wife married.  Recently, Jack had purchased a fifty-inch television, surround sound system, and home entertainment center.  Never had he seen his son and daughter so happy as the day they got to watch football or “American Idol”.  Jack wished he could give that British guy a piece of his mind regarding common decency and human emotions.

      A sharp pain shot through Jack's head.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of Tylenol he carried with him, opened it and took out a few pills.  He stopped at the drinking fountain to take them, hoping his headache would subside faster than last time.  These headaches had gotten worse lately, and he seemed to be more and more resistant to the Tylenol he was taking.

      Eh, I feel just fine.  He thought to himself as he left the fountain.

      He wiped some sweat from his brow as he approached the last flight of stairs before his floor.  Jack had never been one to frequent the gym, and more and more these days he found himself paying for it.  He felt his stomach jiggle a little in his shirt as he climbed each new obstacle, finally making it to the third floor in a mildly sweaty triumph.  By now, all the preparation that had gone into his hair earlier had been soaked away in the accumulated sweat throughout his thickly covered scalp.  After the hike up to the third floor of the W.C. Westfield building, Jack found his office as he did every morning; organized and practically shining.  He handled the acquisition of permits for the company to carry out operations, be they construction of new facilities or permits to carry out certain business transactions.  Jack was the man who got it all done.  He took off his gray jacket and hung it behind his office door and sat his briefcase on the floor next to his desk.  His white, button-up shirt and light blue tie ruffled slightly when he eased himself back into his chair.  He sighed softly as he turned his chair to face the large window behind him and stare out into the world beyond his office, his work, his life.  Luckily, Jack had finished much of his work on Tuesday; meaning today was going to be one of those days where all he did was sit and wonder what he could be doing; what he should be doing.  Jack picked up his phone and his dialed the number to his neighbor's home.

      A feminine voice quickly greeted him.  “Hello?”

      “Hey Pam, it's me, Jack,” Jack replied, consciously trying to sound polite, knowing Pam was doing the same, “ I just wanted to see if Devin was free tonight to come over and watch the Wildcats game on my new T.V.”

      A slight pause, as though Pam was thinking, but then a seamless response.  “Actually, Jack, Devin has a thing he's going to tonight, so I don't think he'll be able to come over, besides, our kids have some stuff going on tonight too.  Sorry.”

      “No problem,” lied Jack, “I'll just try him again some other time.”

      Jack hung up his phone and sighed again, this time louder.  That made it a few months now since he had any kind of social contact with his neighbors other than the “hi, how ya' doin'?” he normally got when making an appearance around the neighborhood.  Even that last time probably didn't count.  That is, unless getting stuck in an elevator for four hours with someone you happen to live near counts as deep and meaningful social interaction.  He flipped on his computer, hoping he might find better news there to distract him.

      As Jack was opening his e-mail, he heard a knock at the door.  He looked up to see the short and stocky secretary to his boss standing before him. Sweat already began to show on the young man's face and balding head.  His plain white shirt also showed the signs of early morning fatigue in the form of sweat spots under his armpits and all over his back.  Jack could never remember the kid's name, but he did remind Jack of a younger version of George Kastanza.  The young man tossed a file onto Jack's desk.

      “Mr. Westfield wants the red-tape for this transaction cut by tomorrow Lumberg,” the young man bellowed as if he had real power, “it's for an extremely important account of ours, so don't dawdle.”

      The young man left as quickly as he arrived, rushing down the hall to his next unfortunate victim.  Jack didn't even think to open the envelope.  He had e-mail to check.

      Yet, that too held disappointments.  One of his friends whom he never got to see anymore had e-mailed him about coming over to see Jack's new house.  He could not come, he had obligations elsewhere.

      Jack's attention turned to the envelope.  Let's see what the Imperial Westfield Toady brought me today.

      He opened it and took out some documents, two photographs, and a sketch.  One photograph was of an old bar from the downtown area that used to be called Chucky's back when Jack was in college, but had to close over a decade ago.  Memories of college flooded Jack's mind, especially all the times he and his friends would find their way over to Chucky's and drink this night or that away.  Jack suppressed the nostalgia, however.  That was a different place and a different time, and Jack had been a different person then than he was today.

      Yeah, more impulsive and more idiotic.

      He refocused and looked back to the documents pulled from the envelope.  The other picture was of the now sorry state of that same building, long since abandoned.  The sketch was of a brand new W.C. Westfield consulting branch, sitting right in the place of a removed Chucky's.  Jack began to fill out the paperwork.


* * *


      The Chucky's project took more time than Jack anticipated, but by the end of the day, Jack had finished the legal documents and faxed them over to City Hall.  There, they would be processed, and W.C. Westfield would become the proud owner, and soon to be demolisher, of an abandoned bar downtown.  The process might take a few days, but City Hall never hesitated in granting Jack's employer almost anything it wanted.  It was just about how all Jack's tasks went.  Jack's drive home was just as monotonous as his day, with the same classic rock station playing the same songs he heard every other day of the week.  The sun hadn't yet reached the horizon when he pulled into his garage nice and slow, taking extra caution not to scrape anything on the way in.

      Upon entering his home, he hung up his gray jacket and slid his shining black shoes from his feet onto the shoe rack next to the garage door.  He walked into the living room, relaxed into his big recliner in front of his television, picked up his remote, and flipped it on.  It was apparently still on the channel his wife, Heather, had been watching earlier, as he found himself eye-to-image with another home decorator Jack was almost certain was gay.  He quickly flipped the channel to something else and soon found some show that had lots of guys in robot suits tramping around with laser rifles.

      Maybe a little too Star Wars-ish for me, thought Jack as he slouched a little more into his chair, but it'll do for now.

      He watched the storm trooper-looking soldiers fight aliens for over an hour, using their own sense of teamwork to overpower creatures many times their size and strength.  Jack suddenly felt envious.  As the soldiers were about to come face-to-face with a giant slug creature, Jack heard the garage door start opening.  Heather had come home from work.  Jack sat in place until Heather entered the living room, her red blouse and dress drawing his attention from the space warriors on his television.  She flashed her beautiful smile at Jack, and it reminded him of why he married her.

      “Hi honey,” she said, “how was your day?”

      Jack shrugged.  “Eh, none of the guys are gonna be able to come over to watch the game with me tonight.  You wanna do something Heather?  I know you don't really like basketball, but maybe we could do something else?  We could go out for dinner and maybe a movie if you want.”

      She replied with a forced smile that gave Jack all the answer he needed.  “I'm sorry honey, but I have some school stuff to take care of tonight.  You know, “Back to School Night” and all.”

      Jack smiled back, trying not to seem disappointed.  Defeat was already imminent.  “It's okay hon, maybe the kids can stay in with me tonight.”

      “But Jack,” Heather retorted, “they're both going out tonight.  Don't you remember?  Kelly has that American Idol party she's going to with all her friends and David has football practice late tonight.”

      Jack did, but he wished he could forget.  “Right, sorry honey, I should've been all over that.  I'm sure I'll be fine watching the game by myself.”

      Heather leaned down and kissed Jack on the cheek before going upstairs to get ready for her event later that evening.  It was already five o'clock and Jack was already mentally preparing himself for the game, wondering about the lineup and what kind of shot his team had.

      Pain shot through his head again and he reached for his Tylenol, only to find he had left it in his jacket pocket.  Mechanically getting up and taking a few tablets after getting some water, he headed back to his comfy seat.  He stopped at the fridge to get some cans of beer, Guinness of course, and some chips.  He plopped down into his recliner and started flipping again.  The game didn't start until seven, so he had some time to entertain himself.

      He flipped to a program called “Hitler Revealed”, which turned out to reveal little more than Hitler might have been a sexual deviant who was into midgets.  There were more shows about space soldiers and aliens, and Jack could have swore he saw a few clips of Conan the Barbarian thrown in there somewhere.  One thing he did know was that there were far too many Lucky Charms commercials on this late in the day.

      At six-thirty, Heather came downstairs looking far more glamorous than she had when she came home.  With her blonde hair pulled back and her face made up, you'd think she was going to a movie premiere and not a common school function.

      On her way out, she stopped to kiss Jack again.  “Night hon, hope your boys win.”

      Jack heard the garage door open again and heard his wife's car start up and pull away from their house.  He felt as if his last hope had just left.

      “Whatever,” Jack said to himself as he cracked open a Guinness, “I don't need other people to enjoy this.”


* * *


      The game turned into a rout five minutes in, with Jack's Wildcats down by over fifteen points early.  He sat in his chair, miserably sipping on his beer as he watched with a sneer on his face.

      “Wildcats suck.” he said softly to himself. “Pam sucks.  Devin sucks.  The kids suck.  They all suck, too good to spend one damn night with me anymore.  This really sucks.”

      Jack's vindictive train of thought was interrupted when something metallic hit him in the side of the head.  His head sprang up like a gazelle being hunted, looking for the perpetrator.  He spotted an empty can of Guinness on the recliner next to him and looked across the living room to see an extremely short, red-bearded man dressed in a green suit looking at him angrily as he walked from the kitchen into the living room, finally climbing up onto the couch.

      “Ya know,” the angry little man yelled at Jack with a strong Irish accent, “it's a crime where I come from ta let yer Guinness spill on yer floor like that.”

      Jack stared for a moment and then looked over to the carpet next to his recliner to find a huge, Guinness-colored stain.  “Okay, it makes me a little mad too, but why exactly is there a midget in a green suit on my couch throwing beer cans at me?  I thought the door was locked…”

      “Bah,” the short man shouted, “I'm a leprechaun ya ninny, not a midget.  All o' my people are small, and we have strict rules governing the wastage of Guinness.  Besides, I don't see many other people, big or small, lining up ta spend time with ya, Jack.”

      “I have to be hallucinating,” Jack said as he moved up in his chair, surprised in more ways than one “you can't be real, I mean, you're a leprechaun for cripes sake.”

      “Why, of course I'm real.” The little man stated as though it was common knowledge. “You're Jack Lumberg, second son of Glenda and Herbert Lumberg, graduated in 1991 from the University of Kentucky, and ya have the best taste in beer around.  Oh, and I also know that all ya friends and family left you home alone like they normally do.  Everybody's got something going on anymore, it's hard ta make time for anybody…what do ya think you're staring at Jack?”

      Jack shook his head fast, hoping the little man would disappear once his eyes refocused.  “Man, how much did I drink…?  No, I'm not buying this at all, even if I am in a drunken stupor…”

      The little man rolled his eyes.  “Ya only had about a can so buck up, you're not even close ta being in a “drunken stupor”.  My name's Mel, and I'm gonna hang out with ya tonight.”

      Jack didn't know what to say.  A leprechaun was sitting on his couch not ten feet from him.  “Well, not that it's any of your business, but I actually have lots of people coming over to watch the game tonight.  So, if you wouldn't mind, could you just vanish, or do whatever it is you did to get in here.  How did you get in here anyways…?”

      Mel hopped off Jack's couch.  “Okay, first of all, the game started over an hour ago, and I really don't see anyone but yer sorry self here, Jack.  Second, I know all yer friends and family members have other stuff ta do today; yer wife has that work thing, yer daughter's got that lame T.V. party, and yer son's playing football.  Not ta mention yer loser friends who can't make some time ta come hang out and just talk.  Thirdly, yer Wildcats are now down by over thirty, so I figure we should just go before ya get even more depressed.”

      “Wait a second there pal,” Jack said waving Mel away, “I happen to know for a fact that some of my friends are going to be over here tonight, not to mention my family is going to be here too, so just, oh, what do you people say…piss off.””

      “Well, maybe this'll change yer mind,” said Mel as he walked over to the discarded Guinness can from earlier, rolling his eyes.  He leaned down, picked it up, and immediately crushed it on his forehead.  Mel promptly threw the can again at Jack's head, hitting him harder this time.  Jack hoped the can hadn't left a mark.  “I'm going ta sit here and pelt ya until ya come to yer senses and come with me.”

      That was enough for Jack.  Jack Lumberg was not going to sit here and be hit with crushed beer cans all night. He began to get up out of his recliner.  “Fine, whatever.  I just hope like hell the people coming over aren't counting too much on my being here.  And since you seem to be so real, where are you planning on taking me, Mel?”

      Mel smiled.  “A place ya know quite well.”


* * *


      It didn't take long for Jack to figure out where Mel was directing him.  Mel was clearly leading the pair to what used to be Chucky's.  Jack was careful to park his car a few blocks away in a parking ramp he trusted it wouldn't be vandalized.  Walking the extra distance was definitely worth not getting a lecture from his wife later.  Once the two left the ramp, a sudden pain hit Jack's head once more.  He reached into his jacket and pulled out his bottle of Tylenol and took a few pills, gagging a little as they went down without liquid.  Jack was hoping the little man would let him turn back, or even just disappear altogether, but he found even that hope dashed.  The leprechaun had called Jack's bluff.

      Mel looked up at him.  “Ya never really do this kind o' thing anymore, do ya Jack?”

      “Mel, I have to level with you,” Jack body shook as he dry-swallowed more pills.  He checked to make sure he had most of the bottle left, “no one was actually coming over to watch the game with me tonight.”

      “I know, Jack.  That's why I came, because I know how disappointed it makes ya that no one has time ta talk anymore.”  Mel's accent was thick enough that Jack had a hard time making that sentence out, but he got the gist of what Mel was saying.

      “I know, it's like I've talked with you more tonight than I have with anyone in a long time, and I'm still not sure you're real.  Ever since Heather got a job at that private school, it's like…”

      “…she's grown further away from ya, right?” asked the short, green-clad man.

      “Right,” replied Jack, somehow soothed by Mel's reply, “and I feel terrible for thinking that way but…say, Mel, why exactly are we going to an abandoned bar?  You're not trying to rob me, are you?”

      Mel just continued to smile.  “Ya'll see when we get there.”

      Once they arrived at the boarded up building that was once Chucky's, Jack was still wondering.  Mel went in first, opening the door with a loud creak and entering.  Jack followed, checking out the windows before he entered to make sure he wasn't entering some sort of crack-house (Jack had heard there were many of these downtown).  Once he turned into the building, however, he could only stand and hold his breath in awe at what greeted him.

      The musty smell of wet canine, cigarettes, and booze hit Jack's nostrils immediately.  He watched and listened as a multitude of fantastic sights crossed his line of sight.  The varnished, plank wood floors and fans that looked like they were left over from the Roaring Twenties were rife with creatures and people Jack had only ever imagined.  Cowboys walked among monsters and swordsmen sat aside alien creatures, all abuzz about one thing or another.  No part of the ragtime bar was unvarnished, with the wood virtually gleaming all over the floors, ceilings, tables, and chairs.  The bar was an unusually conspicuous sight with various men in robotic suits sitting next to aliens of all different shapes, sizes, and colors.  Yet, Jack still found it hard to believe this was something other than a hallucination, his socially bankrupt life coming back to haunt him.

      As he and Mel stood in the doorway, a tall, shirtless, Germanic man walked immediately in front of them.  He had a disturbingly familiar rectangular mustache, and wore a leash that flowed down past his waist and into the hands of a leather-clad, three-foot tall woman.  She scowled at Jack before leading her leather-chap-wearing man-slave away.

      “Don't worry about him,” Mel said as Jack stared at the exiting couple, “he always gets what he deserves.  Ya should really get out and mingle.  There are a lot o' people here ya might find familiar.”

      Jack nodded, still in awe, and began walking around.  Too many people he vaguely remembered were here, and he never remembered meeting any of them in person.  Around the room, at various tables, sat an assortment of characters like Mel, fantastic mythical creatures who were supposed to be only imaginary, but every time he walked by a table, these beings cheered Jack on and asked him questions no one had asked him in awhile.

      An Asian man clad in Tibetan-looking saffron robes and busy using the phone and phone book asked Jack about his kids.  A short woman, about Mel's height, with wings asked him how that surgery he had last year was still treating him, and if he needed someone to talked to, he could always come to her. Jack had to ignore some of the questions as he made his way to the bar and pulled up a stool, somewhat exhausted. 

      As he sat down at the bar, he heard a monstrous roar from a little farther down, followed by a resounding thud on the sparkling countertop.

      Immediately, this was followed by an oddly human, yet mechanical chorus of “Boosh!”

      Jack turned to see a group of the space warriors gathered near a giant hairy beast that looked to be half-man, half dog. Its hair was matted and unkempt, yet the creature's gesticulations and demeanor made it seem both savage and civilized all at once. The robotic soldiers, however, found a different beast in front of them.

      “Sasquatch, you suck!” once of them shouted as the hairy beast flailed angrily, roaring incoherently at the soldiers around him.  “Ronnie's the lightest drinker here and you couldn't even beat him!”

      Another chorus erupted and all the robotic men lifted their shot glasses to the air. “Boosh!”

      The Sasquatch, however, did not seem to be impressed.  His steps boomed throughout the bar as he stomped towards the door, but stopped next to Jack for a moment.

      “Ya know, Jack,” the beast said in an extremely refined cockney accent, “we love 'aving ya 'ere.”

      Jack made eye contact with the monstrosity's human eyes for a moment, and knew what the Sasquatch said was true. He watched the towering beast stomp to the door and exit, slamming the door shut behind him with a boom. Jack smiled and felt his very soul calm.

      Someone tapped him on the shoulder.  Jack turned to see that he was sitting next to someone he did remember; one of the cybernetic space warriors from that science fiction movie he was watching earlier. Also probably one of those mechanical frat boys too.

      “Hey, man,” a robotic man started, his body slightly wavering back and forth as he talked, “you know what I, like, just found out today? I mean seriously, just today.”

      Jack rolled his eyes.  “What might that be?”

      “Dude,” the robotic man started again, “you can actually OD on Tylenol! Man, it's, like, the grossest thing ever too!  You start puking everywhere for awhile, then your liver shuts down. Extra gross.  It would be awesome to see though.”

      “You've got to be kidding me,” he mumbled under his breath, “a drunken robot?  I think I'd rather talk with that slightly less creepy British Sasquatch…”

      “Dude,” commented the robotic man, “I'm not a robot, I just wear this robot suit to fight aliens.  Man, you need to really chill out.  You need those…um…what're they called…Happy…um…Happy…”

      “…Magical Sunshine pills?” the voice of Mel surprised Jack as he turned to find the short man standing at the foot of his bar stool.

      “Yeah,” the robotic man replied, “Happy Magical Sunshine pills kick so much ass!”

      At that, everyone in the bar erupted in cheers and Mel looked up and made eye contact with a skeptical Jack Lumberg.  “They make you feel like all you're problems are gone Jack, and you have a bunch in your jacket right now, just waiting for you to take them.  Just take the whole bottle, and you can go home a happy and content man!”

      Jack blinked his eyes, confused.  “Wait a second, all I have in my pocket is a bottle of…”

      He reached into his pocket and pulled out what he thought was his bottle of Tylenol.  Yet, lo and behold, the label on the bottle said “Happy Magical Sunshine: A Bottle a Day Keeps Loneliness Away”.  Jack blinked a few times more, thinking, hoping the label would revert to something to do with Tylenol.  It did not.

      All around him, the entire bar was telling him to take them all.  Jack felt a sense of belonging that he hadn't felt since, well, the last time he had a few drinks at Chucky's.  He looked down and saw Mel look back with that friendly smile he had had on all night.  Jack took the plunge.  He ripped off the lid of his bottle of Happy Magical Sunshine and drank it until none was left.  He immediately felt better as the cheers around him erupted even louder.

      “You were right Mel,” Jack said once he finished, “I feel great!”

      “I know,” said the smiling leprechaun, “but maybe you should head home.  Heather's probably worried sick about you.”

      Jack shrugged.  He knew Mel was right.  Leaving his newfound friend at the bar and his empty bottle of Happy Magical Sunshine in his jacket pocket, Jack Lumberg headed home.

      It was ten o'clock when he returned, and he found his wife asleep in their bed.  He laid down next to her and fell into a happy, magical sleep.


END