Lydia Storm
Elm Street is rife with elms. And beater cars. And garbage cans and listing gates. Adam is a ninja. He disappears.
He’s a nerdy guy, a sweaty guy, a young guy in a short-sleeved white shirt, a black tie, black slacks, shiny black shoes.
A salvation salesman going solo, his selling partner Ed having crawled into bed with the beautiful man who clerks at the convenience store.
“You don’t have to take it so serious,” Ed had said.
Adam will never tattle on Ed to their supervisor. It’s one of several rules that makes this life possible.
Like being silent and invisible. Until he knocks on a door.
Adam picks a house with dry grass and tall stalks of some spare weed.
On the way up the crooked steps, he trips and makes a noise.
A dog barks behind the blue door.
The bark seems pitch-shifted down. A sound so deep and low it vibrates the bones of his pelvis. A sound that makes this house fit for a ninja’s courage.
Adam pauses to prepare for the game that makes doorbelling bearable. He picks an odd word and resolves to use it in his presentation.
If he uses the word “kohlrabi”—works it into his sales pitch about eternal salvation, righteousness, truth, virtue, and so on—he can quit doorbelling for the rest of the day.
The park will be quiet and shady.
There will be girls in T-shirts.
Someone will be playing Frisbee.
A soaring Frisbee removes the obligation to suffer for the second or three it manages to maintain its flight.
The door opens.
A floppy-eared Great Dane the size of a Shetland pony. Bucking. Flews flapping.
The smell of cannabis so strong it should have been visible as a billowing cloud.
“I’m here to tell you a story about kohlrabi,” Adam says. He’ll either get things going or get them over with.
The dog maneuvers its bulk half out of the door, positions itself against Adam’s thigh, and leans, nearly pushing him over.
The man is tall and slender and brown-eyed and has thick, wavy hair tucked behind his ears. Although he’s a bit disheveled and bleary-eyed, he smiles and cocks his head as if he’s willing to listen, then ushers Adam in. “Did you see the meteors last night, dude? I hear they’re even brighter in Colorado.”
Adam balances his supply of brochures on top of the crop of beer bottles rising out of the coffee table.
Adam shakes the man’s hand, which is callused and dry and warm.
The man smiles again. A good sign. “I’m Jason. Want a beer? Or a Coke?”
Adam’s pretty thirsty, but he declines.
Jason rubs his eyes and flops on the broken couch. “What were you saying about Colorado? My girlfriend moved to Colorado. I’ve never been.”
“I didn’t say anything about Colorado.”
“Oh. I thought you were going to tell me a story about Colorado.”
“No. Kohlrabi. I said kohlrabi.”
Adam pictures the park he has now earned several times over. T-shirts. Sprinkler rainbows. Spinning Frisbees.
“Isn’t kohlrabi a vegetable? Are you selling vegetables?”
Adam shakes his head and answers reflexively. “No sir, I’m bringing you the good news of salvation.”
“Oh. Religion. That’s cool, man, but I’d rather hear about Colorado.”
“In Colorado the sky is yellow,” Adam says. Maybe the weed is affecting him. He feels giddy and sinks onto the couch next to Jason.
“That right?” Jason grins as if he’s getting the joke. “In Wyoming the grass is purple.”
Adam pictures purple grass and yellow sky and begins to cry. He looks at his hands. His knuckles are bruised from punching a wall. His fingernails are bit to the quick. How did he get here?
Jason pats his shoulder. Hands him a beer and a tissue.
Adam wipes away his snot and tears, then gulps at the beer like a hungry baby. It tastes bad and somehow good. Warmth fills his stomach. He imagines he’s a beer-drinking dad. Someone with a wife and a house full of kids. Do invisible people have kids?
“Why are you sad?” Jason says. “Life?”
Calmer now, Adam shakes his head. “I believe my brain’s default mode network happens to bend light in a way that turns me invisible. It’s just physics.”
Jason narrows his eyes. “Really?”
Adam stays quiet long enough to turn invisible.
“Whoa,” Jason says. “That’s amaze-balls.”
Adam laughs. He’s not invisible when he laughs, but he can’t stop. Amaze-balls? Now that’s a funny expression.
Jason says, “Do it again.”
After several attempts, Adam manages to stop laughing. He’s invisible again. Jason reaches for his hand. Finds it by touch.
With Jason’s warm hand in his, Adam sees how distressed he’s been, how starved he’s been for simple human touch. He grasps Jason’s hand while the dog barks its tuba bark, then gives a squeeze of thanks and lets go.
“Don’t you like being invisible?” Jason asks.
“I don’t know,” Adam says. “I thought I didn’t have a choice.”
“When you talk, I can see you.”
“Yeah.”
“Keep talking, man. Or don’t. Whatever works.”
Whatever works. Whatever works. Adam leans back, rests. The tuba plays and the Frisbee rises and flies.
LYDIA STORM lives in Seattle where she writes stories, takes walks, listens to millions of audiobooks, and takes care of a small cockapoo.
