DENIZENS

On that particular day Sanford Tuttle, known colloquially as “Sandy,” was dipping a wad of fine steel wool into a small plastic container full of acetone, and trying to scrub away the spray-paint that had appeared on the stone welcome sign at the edge of town during the night. The “punk pimple poppers,” as Sandy often referred to the teenage population of Bright Patch, had replaced the “r’s” with a couple of bright, neon-green, capital letter “L’s.” The sign, which resembled a white marble tombstone, now read “Welcome to ‘BLight’ Patch, Always Look on the BLight Side.”  

This was the third time this month that the pimple poppers had vandalized the sign, and the third time Sandy was awoken by Sam Doerr before his alarm went off, and ordered to attend to the clean up before the morning traffic kicked off, or as Doerr put it, “before the hub started to bub.” So, he had (quite literally) rolled out of bed, slid his thin and seemingly undernourished frame into his coveralls and work boots, and began driving down Union Street, one of only two roads in and out of Bright Patch, toward the sign. As he dipped and scrubbed, and dipped and scrubbed, he growled audibly under his breath, and when the first rain drops landed on the brim of his cap, he looked up at the graying sky and whispered “fuck.”  

Behind him, taped to the back of his town issued work truck, was an 8x10 picture of a small, brown eyed boy, with braces and a noticeable cowlick.  

On that particular day, less than a quarter mile and straight up Union Street, from where Sandy swore and scrubbed the befouled welcome sign, Kirsten Hoffs, restaurant manager and part time student, was flipping light switches on, one by one, illuminating the dining room. Granny’s Best Breakfast Cafe was a small establishment with three booths tucked in the far corner, and five tables spread evenly over the main floor. A long bar stretched its way across the length of the kitchen. There was a small window separating the dining room from the kitchen and a wisp of pleasant smelling smoke was drifting out of the opening. Kirsten made her way to the front door and flipped the sign around from closed to open and then walked back to a rickety stool behind the bar. She was sitting at the far end of the bar behind the till, chewing on the cap of a bright yellow highlighter, rocking back and forth on the uneven legs of the wooden stool, and picking idly at a cinnamon raisin bagel when the bell above the front door rang out. Sam Doerr was right on time.  

Kirsten sighed, took a deep breath, and forced a smile. She placed a bookmark between the pages of a textbook titled “Religions of the World,” and rose to greet her patron. 

Outside, those few drops of rain that had first struck Sandy Tuttle at the edge of town were beginning to multiply. The little droplet clones lightly peppered a picture that had been taped to the glass front door of the cafe. It was a picture of a small brown eyed boy, with braces and a noticeable cowlick.  

Just four doors down, Jesse Logan was shoving a key into the lock of Tome Grown Books of which she was the owner and operator. Deputy Tom Hess stood behind her, gripping two medium sized boxes against his chest and using his chin to keep the top box from sliding around. Jesse jiggled the lock, swung the door open, and kicked the little stopper down, so the door would remain ajar. Tom followed her in. 

“Where?” he asked. 

“Counter,” she said, “Next to the register.” 

Tom shuffled past her and clumsily dropped the boxes down on the countertop with a muddled thump. 

“Anything else?” 

“Yeah,” she replied. “Leave.”  

“Ouch,” he said, clutching his heart. “My feelings!” 

"Go cry somewhere else.” 

“You know, Mom used to say the same thing to me.” 

“Well, you always were a baby.” 

“Correction. I’m half baby, half man, all cop,” he said, tapping the badge on his jacket with his finger. 

Jesse rolled her eyes and shook her head in the way that only sisters, wives, and mothers have mastered. 

“Get out,” she said. 

“Copy that,” he replied, as he smiled, crossed his eyes and saluted sarcastically. 

Tom walked out of the store and opened the door to the cruiser he had parked on the curb out front. Jesse kicked up the stopper, letting the door swing slowly shut between them. Then, before it closed completely, she stuck her head through the opening and called after Tom. 

“Dinner is at seven!” she yelled. “And if you ever compare me to our mother again, I swear I really will make you cry!” 

Tom was already backing out of the space, and he smiled and waved at her through his open window. Jesse pulled her head inside and the door swung shut.  

Outside, under the gray canopy of clouds, the rain had become light but steady. Taped to the door of the shop and protected from the elements by the canvas awning, was a picture of a small, brown eyed boy with braces, and a noticeable cowlick. 

  Up Union Street and a few blocks down Slygood Road, Loren Logan pulled his ‘01 Chevy Malibu to the curb outside of a light green house with white cosmetic shutters, and a dilapidated wraparound porch that sunk and dipped along its rim. To the side, a long ramp jutted out into the driveway, before turning back on itself and ending at the concrete path leading from the street to the front steps. Loren leaned on his horn for a solid four seconds before releasing and then tapping out a brief “shave and a haircut” rhythm. He continued this pattern even after the front door opened and Adam Lefebvre, whom Loren, and their other friends, referred affectionately to as “Scootch” appeared in his custom wheelchair with his right middle finger extended. When Scootch hit the ramp, he used gravity to his advantage and extended the middle finger of his left hand, so that both birds were flying. Loren got out of car and ran around to the passenger side, where he opened the door and waited for him. When he reached the car, Scootch carefully stood up on his thin spindly legs. Balancing himself with his hand on the top of the Malibu, and with some difficulty, he sat down in the front seat, while Loren flattened the wheelchair and tossed it into the trunk. Loren made his way back to the driver side, slammed the door shut, spun the tires for a second and then sped off down Slygood road.  

Across the street, beyond the untrimmed hedges and the unraked leaves that covered the uncut lawn, Susan Piccolo sat quietly in her unlit living room. Through weary, bloodshot eyes, she peered through a crack in her curtains. Outside the rain had begun to fall in heavy wet sheets. Loren’s car sped down the road, spitting up curb water onto the sidewalk. A cat, fur disheveled from the rain, darted across the street and ducked into an open garage, two doors down. As Susan gazed out of her window, she saw none of this. The only thing she saw was a picture, taped to a telephone pole, of a small brown eyed boy, with braces and a noticeable cowlick. 

On that particular day, Alvie Thibodeaux was walking his 7 year-old beagle, Bug, on a short lead down Route 3 along a small clearing at the edge of Milton Woods. The rain was falling in large punishing curtains, but his hooded rubber coat was doing little to keep his feet dry. With each step he splashed and sent puddles of water rushing up and out like little bomb blasts. Bug, seemingly oblivious to the weather, trotted briskly on the shoulder, nose down, scanning for prey, though his short and stocky little frame would make capturing anything quite unlikely. It was then that Bug abruptly stopped walking. His head came up, ears at attention, and his cagey eyes locked onto the edge of the forest where the clearing met the trees. Alvie, who was used to Bug’s nose scanning the ground uninterrupted for the duration of most of their walks, was unprepared for this sudden stop and his momentum sent him tumbling over the beagles body. He landed on the wet ground with an unceremonious thud, his hands and wrists managing to absorb most of the impact. At the same time, he let fly some appropriately audible blasphemes. Bug then began to bark toward the forest line. This came out as more of a howl, and even more accurately like a scream. Alvie lifted his head and propped his torso up on his elbows. His hood had shifted down below his eyes, so he peeled it back over his head and gazed out in the direction of Bug’s attention. He saw a small shape ambling slowly out of the trees and into the clearing. His glasses had become fogged and riddled with drops of rain. He took them off and wiped them somewhat ineffectually on the collar of his shirt and then put them back on his face, hooking the flexible arms behind his ears. He looked again toward the forest.  

“My God, Bug,” he whispered. 

On that particular day, Noah Piccolo, a small brown eyed boy with braces and a noticeable cowlick, who had been missing without a trace for nearly 3 months, wandered out of Milton Woods on the edge of Bright Patch Township. And the blight followed with him.