Week 24 "I'm the Usain Bolt of Running from My Problems"
Intersection #2 with hwango.
Hwango and I began with the same starting point: the idea of putting your troubles under a rock, walking away, and leaving them behind. We traded a few ideas to see if the idea was workable, but we did not know what the other would write after that.
THE ROCK
Brigadoon was the last of the magical towns, but even its magic was finally wearing out. It used to appear for a day only once in a hundred years and then vanish again, but now it was every year and it stayed for a week. Before long, it might never disappear and then it would be just another quaint old town in Scotland with an unusual history, good for tourism but not much else.
Morris was part of the tourist horde that invaded the town after its recent appearance. He was not one of the gawkers who rudely took pictures of Dooners, as they called themselves, and interfered in their frantic efforts to re-stock the town before it disappeared again. Nor was he part of the other main group, the seekers, who hoped Brigadoon’s magic would rub off on them.
No, Morris was simply a common ordinary-grade sad sack.
“I need some magic in my life,” he had thought before getting on board an airplane to Scotland. “Maybe I can find it there.”
Like a few visitors every year, Morris planned to stay in the village until it disappeared, taking him with it and out of his miserable life. There were always a few each year, “stowaways” or “stowies” the Dooners called them, and one of the best events of the Return was the stowie round up, when the sheep dogs were used to drive them out of the village before the Disappearance. There was a prize for the dog who found the best-hidden stowie. That would never be Morris.
“I’ll just sit in the bar,” thought Morris, “until Brigadoon vanishes.”
Angus was the bartender at the Taigh-seinnse Brigadoon on Prìomh Shràid. [1] The pub looked “authentic” to gullible outsiders; its employees, except Angus, dressed in Renaissance costumes and the menu was printed in Olde English. It was only open during the Return and drew a huge crowd of outsiders looking for the true Brigadoon experience. This kept them away from the busy Dooners, which was its real purpose.
Angus was perfect for the job. He was gifted at making up genuine-sounding drinks, like the Bitter Widow, which tasted awful and were made from ingredients left over from the previous night. He also knew lots of toasts and jokes, and he could be both funny and a good listener. The Dooners thought he was more than a little bit elvish from the tell-tale golden flecks in his eyes. Several of his ancestors had been known to wander in the nearby Enchanted Forest to seek their company before the first Disappearance.
Once Morris entered the bar, it didn’t take him long to claim the stool at the far end, away from all the noise.
“He’s one of those,” thought Angus with a sigh.
Morris’s head hung low and his shoulders drooped. He didn’t respond to Angus except to nod when he wanted a new drink. Angus made a faint effort to draw him out, but soon gave up.
After his third Dooner Stout, Morris started mumbling to no one in particular.
“I’m so tired,” he said. No one replied.
“No matter how hard I worked, I was always a failure.”
Nearby customers started edging away.
“I just wanted a family, but look at me now.”
People near him started to leave.
Angus knew he had to do something. That kind of gloom could take over the whole bar and send a lot of people out into the streets, where they’d just be in the way.
“Having a bad day?” Angus said to Morris. “Have a Bitter Widow on me.”
Morris took a big swallow, made a face, then nudged it aside.
“I hate my life,” replied Morris. “My wife kicked me out, making the kids happy. I hate my job - never made enough money for them. Now I live in a crummy apartment near a bus depot, and my boss said if I don’t start performing, he’ll fire me.”
Angus tried to distract him with a pretty girl. He waved at a waitress to come over. She took one look at Morris and turned away. Morris gave a see-what-a-loser-I-am shrug and mistakenly took another swallow of the Bitter Widow.
Angus wanted to get Morris out without a fuss.
“Ever hear of the Trouble Stone?” asked Angus.
“What is it?” said Morris.
“It’ll get rid of your troubles,” he began. “We left it behind when we first disappeared. It’s in the Enchanted Forest near the town and it still has some magic in it.”
“Why should I care about some stupid rock?” said Morris.
“If you write your troubles on a piece of paper,” replied Angus, “and put it under the rock, then pour an offering over it and walk away, you can leave them behind.”
Morris had made a fool out of himself over stupider things and he’d had enough Dooner Stout to make this sound reasonable. Besides, he needed a walk to clear his head.
“O.K.” he said. “Give me some paper and a pen, and whatever the offering is. And some directions.”
Angus gave Morris everything he needed and sent him out the door. Now he could go about making the other customers happy again.
The directions read “Walk north out of Brigadoon, enter the Enchanted Forest near the stream, head for the big hill and find a sunny glade. The rock is in the middle. It’s about the size of small dog, round, and black with silver and red stripes.”
“Easy enough,” thought Morris. “But which way is north?”
Once he got squared away, he entered the Forest. It was very old and densely populated with lots of trees and thorny bushes. It had once been the home of elves, imps, and other fairy tale creatures, all of whom had left long ago.
He followed a vague path until he found what had once been a sunny meadow, but it had long since become overgrown with tall grasses and plants. Morris could not see any rock.
“You looking for me?” said a deep, gravelly voice.
Morris looked around, but he couldn’t see anyone.
“I’m right in front of you,” said the rock. “If you trip over me it’s gonna hurt, moron.”
“Where?” said Morris, as he started to search the grasses.
“For god’s sake,” said the rock, “even bats can echolocate.”
“I’m not a bat,” said Morris.
“EEW ay EEW ay EEW ay . . . .” yelled the rock until Morris finally found it, about five feet away. The rock was just as Angus had described it, black with silver and red streaks, and big enough to sit on.
“Get your ass off me!” said a muffled voice.
Morris jumped to his feet.
“Are you the Trouble Stone?” asked Morris.
“I’ll give you trouble if you sit on me again,” said the rock. “So, Angus sent you? He must have thought you were pretty pathetic. He only sends the worst. Are you gonna cry for me? No? Damn.”
“How can you . . .?” Morris started to say.
“Talk? Those godamm elves,” said the rock. “They started it and once I got the hang of it, they left. Go figure.”
“Can you help me with my problems, like Angus said?” asked Morris.
“Sure,” said the rock. “Just get on with it. I’ve been here since the last ice age. You got your list? Then put it under me.”
The rock was heavy but Morris was able to slide his paper under it.
“And the offering?” said the rock. “This is the best part.”
Morris got out the bottle Angus had given him and poured it over the rock.
“American beer?” said the rock. “That Budweiser swill? I told him Guinness!”
“Not my fault,” said Morris, his voice getting firm. He was tired of this.
“Ok, Ok,” said the rock. “Now comes the last part. Push me up on the other side and take out the paper.”
It was hard, but Morris managed to do it. On the paper was a list; the words were faded and smudged but still legible.
“My mother?” said Morris, “My kids? My ex? What is this?”
“These are your new troubles,” said the rock. “You didn’t think this was free, did you? What a chump! You leave your problems and get someone else’s; later, someone will get yours. If you want to leave yours, you’ve got to take Bonnie’s. Fair’s fair.”
“But I don’t want Bonnie’s troubles,” said Morris. “I want to start fresh.”
“That’s not how it’s played,” said the rock.
“Then let’s play another game,” said Morris, as he sat on the rock again.
“Get off me!”
“Are you sure about that?” said Morris. “I had a lot of beer at the bar, and if I stand up, I might have to piss on you.”
“Ok, ok,” said the rock. “But you have to do something for me.”
“What?” said Morris.
“First, get a wheelbarrow and I’ll tell you the rest,” said the rock. “But you don’t have much time.”
Morris ran back to Brigadoon, borrowed an unattended wheelbarrow, and took it back to the rock.
“Put me in it,” said the rock. “Then wheel me back to town. I wanted to be in it when it first disappeared, but those goddam Dooners just left me here.”
It was hard, but Morris managed to get the rock into the wheelbarrow and take him back to the bar. If anyone would know what to do with it, it would be Angus. Then he could get out of there and leave his troubles behind him.
The streets were empty. The dogs had rounded up the few stray outsiders and chased them out of town. Wee Jack, a Westie Terrier, had won first prize by finding someone hiding in an empty wine barrel in the basement of the church.
It was nearly time for Brigadoon to vanish for another year. Morris was too tired from moving the rock to worry. He left the wheelbarrow outside the Brigadoon Pub and went in. Angus was busy securing the bar before the Disappearance.
“What are you doing here?” he said. “Leave now!”
“I brought the rock,” said Morris. “It’s outside.”
“You didn’t . . .” Angus said. “You actually listened to a talking rock? You’re worse than I thought.”
“But you said if I . . .” replied Morris.
“It was a joke,” said Angus, “a way for the rock and me to have a bit of fun. No one can run away from their problems. The rock has been trying to get to Brigadoon since the first Disappearance. You were the first to fall for it. You’ve got to get out now and take that loudmouth with you.”
Suddenly, the town shook, like a small earthquake.
“Too late,” said the rock. “You’re stuck with me.”
Morris tried to run, but there was another, larger earthquake and Brigadoon was gone for another year.
The tourists waiting outside the village all cheered and then got in their busses, happy to have witnessed the last magical event left in the world.
No one knew where Brigadoon went or what happened while it was gone. The Dooners would never tell.
A year later, Brigadoon re-appeared.
Morris was now happy as Angus’s assistant. He had made a new life for himself and been accepted by the town as the first new Dooner in hundreds of years.
The rock was not so fortunate. It would never stop talking and the Dooners were forced to try something drastic. The village smith used his heaviest sledgehammer to break the rock into pieces.
“At last,” said one of the bigger pieces, “time for some real fun.”
The other pieces cheered.
The desperate Dooners gathered up all the rocks and put them in a box and stored them in a barn at the edge of town. The rocks didn’t mind - they had the best possible company.
At the next Reappearance, the first thing Morris did was take all the rocks back to the Enchanted Forest and dump them back in the old glade. They can still be found, talking to each other and heckling anyone unfortunate enough to walk by.
Angus no longer sends unhappy customers to the rock, but he knows a talking waterfall who could use some visitors. Best of all, it would stay put.
* * * * *
My intersection partner is hwango. His excellent intersection can be found here. If you enjoyed this story, you can vote for it along with many other fine entries here.
It was halfshellvenus’s idea to have the rock talk. Her imagination still amazes me.
The legend of Brigadoon is from the musical of the same name by Alan Jay Lerner (1947).
[1] Brigadoon Pub on Main Street. Scots Gaelic is second only to Welsh in its silliness, so I have relied on Google Translate.
Hwango and I began with the same starting point: the idea of putting your troubles under a rock, walking away, and leaving them behind. We traded a few ideas to see if the idea was workable, but we did not know what the other would write after that.
THE ROCK
Brigadoon was the last of the magical towns, but even its magic was finally wearing out. It used to appear for a day only once in a hundred years and then vanish again, but now it was every year and it stayed for a week. Before long, it might never disappear and then it would be just another quaint old town in Scotland with an unusual history, good for tourism but not much else.
Morris was part of the tourist horde that invaded the town after its recent appearance. He was not one of the gawkers who rudely took pictures of Dooners, as they called themselves, and interfered in their frantic efforts to re-stock the town before it disappeared again. Nor was he part of the other main group, the seekers, who hoped Brigadoon’s magic would rub off on them.
No, Morris was simply a common ordinary-grade sad sack.
“I need some magic in my life,” he had thought before getting on board an airplane to Scotland. “Maybe I can find it there.”
Like a few visitors every year, Morris planned to stay in the village until it disappeared, taking him with it and out of his miserable life. There were always a few each year, “stowaways” or “stowies” the Dooners called them, and one of the best events of the Return was the stowie round up, when the sheep dogs were used to drive them out of the village before the Disappearance. There was a prize for the dog who found the best-hidden stowie. That would never be Morris.
“I’ll just sit in the bar,” thought Morris, “until Brigadoon vanishes.”
Angus was the bartender at the Taigh-seinnse Brigadoon on Prìomh Shràid. [1] The pub looked “authentic” to gullible outsiders; its employees, except Angus, dressed in Renaissance costumes and the menu was printed in Olde English. It was only open during the Return and drew a huge crowd of outsiders looking for the true Brigadoon experience. This kept them away from the busy Dooners, which was its real purpose.
Angus was perfect for the job. He was gifted at making up genuine-sounding drinks, like the Bitter Widow, which tasted awful and were made from ingredients left over from the previous night. He also knew lots of toasts and jokes, and he could be both funny and a good listener. The Dooners thought he was more than a little bit elvish from the tell-tale golden flecks in his eyes. Several of his ancestors had been known to wander in the nearby Enchanted Forest to seek their company before the first Disappearance.
Once Morris entered the bar, it didn’t take him long to claim the stool at the far end, away from all the noise.
“He’s one of those,” thought Angus with a sigh.
Morris’s head hung low and his shoulders drooped. He didn’t respond to Angus except to nod when he wanted a new drink. Angus made a faint effort to draw him out, but soon gave up.
After his third Dooner Stout, Morris started mumbling to no one in particular.
“I’m so tired,” he said. No one replied.
“No matter how hard I worked, I was always a failure.”
Nearby customers started edging away.
“I just wanted a family, but look at me now.”
People near him started to leave.
Angus knew he had to do something. That kind of gloom could take over the whole bar and send a lot of people out into the streets, where they’d just be in the way.
“Having a bad day?” Angus said to Morris. “Have a Bitter Widow on me.”
Morris took a big swallow, made a face, then nudged it aside.
“I hate my life,” replied Morris. “My wife kicked me out, making the kids happy. I hate my job - never made enough money for them. Now I live in a crummy apartment near a bus depot, and my boss said if I don’t start performing, he’ll fire me.”
Angus tried to distract him with a pretty girl. He waved at a waitress to come over. She took one look at Morris and turned away. Morris gave a see-what-a-loser-I-am shrug and mistakenly took another swallow of the Bitter Widow.
Angus wanted to get Morris out without a fuss.
“Ever hear of the Trouble Stone?” asked Angus.
“What is it?” said Morris.
“It’ll get rid of your troubles,” he began. “We left it behind when we first disappeared. It’s in the Enchanted Forest near the town and it still has some magic in it.”
“Why should I care about some stupid rock?” said Morris.
“If you write your troubles on a piece of paper,” replied Angus, “and put it under the rock, then pour an offering over it and walk away, you can leave them behind.”
Morris had made a fool out of himself over stupider things and he’d had enough Dooner Stout to make this sound reasonable. Besides, he needed a walk to clear his head.
“O.K.” he said. “Give me some paper and a pen, and whatever the offering is. And some directions.”
Angus gave Morris everything he needed and sent him out the door. Now he could go about making the other customers happy again.
The directions read “Walk north out of Brigadoon, enter the Enchanted Forest near the stream, head for the big hill and find a sunny glade. The rock is in the middle. It’s about the size of small dog, round, and black with silver and red stripes.”
“Easy enough,” thought Morris. “But which way is north?”
Once he got squared away, he entered the Forest. It was very old and densely populated with lots of trees and thorny bushes. It had once been the home of elves, imps, and other fairy tale creatures, all of whom had left long ago.
He followed a vague path until he found what had once been a sunny meadow, but it had long since become overgrown with tall grasses and plants. Morris could not see any rock.
“You looking for me?” said a deep, gravelly voice.
Morris looked around, but he couldn’t see anyone.
“I’m right in front of you,” said the rock. “If you trip over me it’s gonna hurt, moron.”
“Where?” said Morris, as he started to search the grasses.
“For god’s sake,” said the rock, “even bats can echolocate.”
“I’m not a bat,” said Morris.
“EEW ay EEW ay EEW ay . . . .” yelled the rock until Morris finally found it, about five feet away. The rock was just as Angus had described it, black with silver and red streaks, and big enough to sit on.
“Get your ass off me!” said a muffled voice.
Morris jumped to his feet.
“Are you the Trouble Stone?” asked Morris.
“I’ll give you trouble if you sit on me again,” said the rock. “So, Angus sent you? He must have thought you were pretty pathetic. He only sends the worst. Are you gonna cry for me? No? Damn.”
“How can you . . .?” Morris started to say.
“Talk? Those godamm elves,” said the rock. “They started it and once I got the hang of it, they left. Go figure.”
“Can you help me with my problems, like Angus said?” asked Morris.
“Sure,” said the rock. “Just get on with it. I’ve been here since the last ice age. You got your list? Then put it under me.”
The rock was heavy but Morris was able to slide his paper under it.
“And the offering?” said the rock. “This is the best part.”
Morris got out the bottle Angus had given him and poured it over the rock.
“American beer?” said the rock. “That Budweiser swill? I told him Guinness!”
“Not my fault,” said Morris, his voice getting firm. He was tired of this.
“Ok, Ok,” said the rock. “Now comes the last part. Push me up on the other side and take out the paper.”
It was hard, but Morris managed to do it. On the paper was a list; the words were faded and smudged but still legible.
“My mother?” said Morris, “My kids? My ex? What is this?”
“These are your new troubles,” said the rock. “You didn’t think this was free, did you? What a chump! You leave your problems and get someone else’s; later, someone will get yours. If you want to leave yours, you’ve got to take Bonnie’s. Fair’s fair.”
“But I don’t want Bonnie’s troubles,” said Morris. “I want to start fresh.”
“That’s not how it’s played,” said the rock.
“Then let’s play another game,” said Morris, as he sat on the rock again.
“Get off me!”
“Are you sure about that?” said Morris. “I had a lot of beer at the bar, and if I stand up, I might have to piss on you.”
“Ok, ok,” said the rock. “But you have to do something for me.”
“What?” said Morris.
“First, get a wheelbarrow and I’ll tell you the rest,” said the rock. “But you don’t have much time.”
Morris ran back to Brigadoon, borrowed an unattended wheelbarrow, and took it back to the rock.
“Put me in it,” said the rock. “Then wheel me back to town. I wanted to be in it when it first disappeared, but those goddam Dooners just left me here.”
It was hard, but Morris managed to get the rock into the wheelbarrow and take him back to the bar. If anyone would know what to do with it, it would be Angus. Then he could get out of there and leave his troubles behind him.
The streets were empty. The dogs had rounded up the few stray outsiders and chased them out of town. Wee Jack, a Westie Terrier, had won first prize by finding someone hiding in an empty wine barrel in the basement of the church.
It was nearly time for Brigadoon to vanish for another year. Morris was too tired from moving the rock to worry. He left the wheelbarrow outside the Brigadoon Pub and went in. Angus was busy securing the bar before the Disappearance.
“What are you doing here?” he said. “Leave now!”
“I brought the rock,” said Morris. “It’s outside.”
“You didn’t . . .” Angus said. “You actually listened to a talking rock? You’re worse than I thought.”
“But you said if I . . .” replied Morris.
“It was a joke,” said Angus, “a way for the rock and me to have a bit of fun. No one can run away from their problems. The rock has been trying to get to Brigadoon since the first Disappearance. You were the first to fall for it. You’ve got to get out now and take that loudmouth with you.”
Suddenly, the town shook, like a small earthquake.
“Too late,” said the rock. “You’re stuck with me.”
Morris tried to run, but there was another, larger earthquake and Brigadoon was gone for another year.
The tourists waiting outside the village all cheered and then got in their busses, happy to have witnessed the last magical event left in the world.
No one knew where Brigadoon went or what happened while it was gone. The Dooners would never tell.
A year later, Brigadoon re-appeared.
Morris was now happy as Angus’s assistant. He had made a new life for himself and been accepted by the town as the first new Dooner in hundreds of years.
The rock was not so fortunate. It would never stop talking and the Dooners were forced to try something drastic. The village smith used his heaviest sledgehammer to break the rock into pieces.
“At last,” said one of the bigger pieces, “time for some real fun.”
The other pieces cheered.
The desperate Dooners gathered up all the rocks and put them in a box and stored them in a barn at the edge of town. The rocks didn’t mind - they had the best possible company.
At the next Reappearance, the first thing Morris did was take all the rocks back to the Enchanted Forest and dump them back in the old glade. They can still be found, talking to each other and heckling anyone unfortunate enough to walk by.
Angus no longer sends unhappy customers to the rock, but he knows a talking waterfall who could use some visitors. Best of all, it would stay put.
* * * * *
My intersection partner is hwango. His excellent intersection can be found here. If you enjoyed this story, you can vote for it along with many other fine entries here.
It was halfshellvenus’s idea to have the rock talk. Her imagination still amazes me.
The legend of Brigadoon is from the musical of the same name by Alan Jay Lerner (1947).
[1] Brigadoon Pub on Main Street. Scots Gaelic is second only to Welsh in its silliness, so I have relied on Google Translate.