By Hannah Christensen

Author’s Note

I wrote this story in longhand long before COVID, but kept putting off the typing. 2020 almost did it in–why would I want to stir up that craziness and tension surrounding germs? I almost ditched the story. That said, the story was written not to be controversial nor political, but entertaining. It was written to play with developing extremes and oddities. At the time written, face masks were confined to surgeons and woodworkers and wearing one would have been understood as extreme and odd. If that’s going to bother you, skip this story. It’s just entertainment, not profound.

Oswald did not despise the Christmas season. He merely thought whoever had scheduled it thoughtless in the extreme. Why would anyone choose to place the holiday season that most demanded mingling with others so that it coincided with the flu and cold season?

So far he had managed to escape infection this year by heavy use of soap and water and diligent attention to a strict regimen of vitamins and supplemental juices.

His current situation would tax his precautions to the limit.

Small children ran about, smearing their germ-laden hands on everything. Coughs and sniffles teemed on every side, and one aunt made continual trips to the bathroom. It was Ronald, though, who promised to be his biggest threat.

Oswald had to continually slide a step backwards to maintain a polite two foot distance between himself and his sick cousin. He had purposely stopped counting after Ronald’s ninth nose swipe. He knew more were coming, and to know how many would only be depressing. What worried him was the hoarse, sore-throat voice and the sneezing.

“You really should come and see us, Ozzy!” said Ronald. “Especially when Dwain gets going on his saxophone.” He squeezed his eyes shut, stuck a foot forward, leaned back and swayed about, waggling his fingers.

He was probably miming playing a saxophone, Oswald realized as he glanced over his shoulder to see if it was safe to move backwards. He adjusted to the left to avoid running into the conversation on petroleum politics.

“He just goes to town,” said Ronald, his eyes open again. “Say, we’re having a gig next weekend. It’s even away from home, so you wouldn’t have to travel so far.”

“I am sorry, Ronny, but—”

“Hey! I could even swing by you apartment and pick you up! It would take longer, I know, but it would be totally worth it for the extra cousin time. It seems like I only see you at Christmas, and you’re always one of the first to go.”

“Yes, but—”

“Cookies, boys?” Aunt Minnie thrust a large platter of sundry flavored sugar at them. It was another part of the flu and cold season plot—immune system destructive sugar on every side, in enough varieties to tempt every palate.

“They look great! Thanks,” said Ronald, piling some into his hand.

“No, thank you,” said Oswald.

“You really should try some of Brenda’s oatmeal cookies,” said Ronald. “They aren’t up to Grandma’s level yet, but I can tell the improvement. Mm-mm!” He took a great big bite of cookie, then wiped his nose.

Oswald decided to use the distraction to his advantage. If he gave Ronald the chance to get back to the topic his gig performance and say, “It’s settled,” it would be too late to disagree. He whipped out his cell phone and tapped open his planner. “Not today, I’m afraid. And next weekend is not a good time, either. Perhaps we can schedule it for another time. Do you have anything in May?” Far, far from the flu season, where the only dribbles on sneezes were from non-contagious allergies.

“Mmw?” Ronald started to speak, but stopped to finish his mouthful. “We never plan that far ahead, man! Let me see what you’ve got.”

“Not in January.” Oswald pulled the phone away from Ronald, but tipped the screen so his cousin could see.

“Well, we were talking about one for Valentine’s Day, bu-uh-achoo!”

Germs spewed over Oswald’s phone and hand. Oswald looked down in distaste. “Excuse me,” he said.

Washing his hand was an easy matter. What to do about his phone was less straightforward. Oswald finally asked his sister for one of his niece’s baby wipes. He dabbed gently at the screen with it. It chimed once, and he paused to erase a double entry for the evening’s family Christmas party that popped up.

“Three more days to go,” he told himself quietly. Then the new year would begin in earnest, and everyone would drag back to work, all partying exhausted. There would still be hazards to navigate at work and grocery store and the like, but much more manageable. Especially since he had learned it paid to wear a carpenter’s dust mask in cold season when he had a list of errands. It not only helped filter out germs, but people tended to keep more of a distance.

Monday he slept in until sunlight glowed through the window, then read in his bathrobe for over an hour before beginning to prepare a leisurely brunch The rest of the day he spent in organization and and working on his current bottle diorama—a velociraptor hunt. The phone dingled a few times, but never outright rang, and he ignored it in peace.

January 2^nd started crisp and normal: three and a half minute shower, a fresh facemask in his briefcase, two eggs on rye toast, and half a grapefruit. The other half he carefully wrapped and refrigerated for later.

With eight minutes before time to leave, he pulled out his phone to check the day’s schedule.

His coffee almost came right back out of his mouth. He was sure the only thing that should be on there was the deadline for the safety cautions and warnings for Vortex’s new line of bladeless fans. But “Science Fiction Convention, Global Center,” was written right below. He stared at it for a bit, then packed an extra mask and made certain his wallet held enough money for the entrance fee.

Work was satisfactorily quiet—everyone was still worn out from their holiday partying. From there, Oswald took a bus to the Global Cultural Center. He stood outside the door for a few moments, collecting himself. Here was a rowdy group of people stretching out their holiday season a little bit longer. It wasn’t doing their immune systems any good, either. One man’s eyes were bloodshot and red rimmed. His face was even tinged green.

Oswald looked closer. Maybe that was just part of a costume.

Inside could have almost been a spaceport at the edge of an alien universe with all the strange sights and displays of vivid imagination. Oswald’s favorite displays were NASA’s on the far reaches of space as we can see it, and one which featured a medieval Germany-high technology hybrid world.

As he walked through yet another aisle, watching some attendees attempt to float balls through a brain-wave powered obstacle course, his elbow was seized by a vendor. Oswald stared down his nose at the offender who had waylaid his elbow. He had perfected this stare to be quite intimidating—or at least it was when his nose was not swaddled in a mask.

“I thought I wouldn’t snag your attention before you absquatulated my domain,” the stranger said. Red swirls framed his face like flame tongues, and he wore black coveralls with a utility belt filled with art supplies.

“I didn’t realize you required my attention.” Now the mask was muffling his Icy Voice.

“Yeah, I started thinking you might figure ‘suit’ meant spacer or alien. See, they’re more common than yours.”

Oswald looked down at his clothing. He was wearing a buttoned, collared shirt with his slacks, but no tie and certainly no suit. He looked back up as the vendor tugged him into his stall.

“I’ve been wanting to try a Taurineal Voxrif, but couldn’t ken the snout. Your facegear is perfect! Here, down.”

He pushed Oswald into a padded rolling chair, surrounded by garments of all sizes, lengths, and evident ally numbers of arm-and-leg sleeves. Oswald tried to stand. The chair’s wheels slid his feet out from gripping the floor.

“Banish your fears, the paint job’s free of charge,” said the vendor.

“Paint!” Oswald put a hand up to protect his face mask. “How am I supposed to breath through paint?”

The vendor stopped in the middle of pulling out paintbrushes from his belt. “Uh, watercolor? No, that’s not exact enough, and I don’t want to drown you while putting it on.” He tipped his head and tapped a brush handle on his knuckles. “We could put slits in the sides and let air sneak in that way.”

Oswald opened his mouth to protest the germs.

“Or—I’ve got it! The vendor snapped his fingers. “I’ve got some chalk around here somewhere, too. I’ll do the pale parts of your muzzle in yellow chalk. Some will rub off, but the white undertones will be perfect.” He unscrewed a bottle of green. “Now this shouldn’t take up more than 30 tickeroos—plenty of time for you to catch a Star Stage Showing before you blast back home.”

Before he could protest further, Oswald felt a brush of cold paint across his forehead. He sighed and leaned back. What worse would happen than needing to scrub his face down?

“That’s right, just—”

The chair back popped off.

His kidnapping artist sprang to catch it.

“—be careful! It does that sometimes.” He pushed it back together and hammered it down with his fist. “There you are. No harm done.”

Oswald sat at the edge of his seat.

“Relax,” said the vendor.

Oswald slowly leaned back, careful not to put pressure on the chair back. He didn’t even move to check on his phone when it chimed.

“There,” the artist vendor finally said. “If anyone asks about it, send them this way. I’ll charge $30. Unless you want a commission, then come along and I’ll charge $35.” He grinned.

Oswald excused himself and found the closest corner to walk around. Still, when he got home, he admitted the paint job had skill. He looked…quite alien.

Thursday morning he had another start. His calendar had him signed up for a scholar’s bowl at 11:30.

“Larenville? Who do I know in Larenville High School?” he asked the empty air. Not that it mattered. He would have to take an early, extended lunch to make the appointment. He deleted the engagement with just a touch of glee. He knew that was being contrary, but he would apologize and make it up once he found out who he had been going to see. Oswald spent the rest of the morning flopping between satisfaction in avoiding another germ-infested outing, and guilt for skipping out on—someone’s—scholar’s bowl.

At lunch he decided to engage more in conversation than normal to help ignore the guilt. Accordingly, he sat next to a co-worker known for her non-stop chatter. She hadn’t even opened her packaged salad and was already talking seventy miles a minute.

“—and he had promised, promised! to come. What kind of uncle skips out on his nephew’s band concert solo? And, Lindsey, you wouldn’t believe his flimsy excuse…”

Oswald’s stomach started thinking about guilt, too. Maybe it hadn’t been someone in Larenville; the team could have been traveling. Who could it be? Did Marylin have any kids in scholar’s bowl?

He peeled the lid off his tuna tin, but now he didn’t even smell the fish, only guilt. He was half way done before he realized he hadn’t put the tuna into his pita bread before eating it.

The next day when the phone announced a Bird Watchers Anonymous meeting in the evening, he wavered, but did not hit delete. He kept racking his brain to think of who might have asked him to attend such a thing. Aunt Marge? She was always watching the birds and Uncle Henry had always said she was hooked on building bird cities and needed to downsize her metropolis to a small village. Still, this seemed extreme.

“She needs your moral support,” Oswald told himself as he stared out the windshield at the dingy downtown building. Taking a deep breath, he did not take a mask out before getting out of his car.

Inside Oswald looked around for his aunt. People milled around, chatting while they waited for the meeting to start, but they were all strangers.

“Welcome! It’s good to see a new face. Are you new to the area?” An elderly gentleman with ruddy cheeks and slicked down gray hair had him by the hand.

Oswald tried not to grimace. “No, I’m just visiting.”

“Is that so? Delighted to have you anyway. Most of our visitors are Summer Migratories, if you know what I mean. That’s when most people think about birds. But winter is important, too. It’s when they need food, and a good time to build bird blinds to watch from. That’s what the lecture is on today.”

Oswald glanced around the room again. Maybe he was supposed to have picked up Aunt Marge.

“Name’s Don Woodward. Have a seat.” The gentleman pulled out a chair expectantly.

Oswald was trapped. He sat down to wait through a lecture on camouflage and bird watching. His Aunt Marge never appeared.

Oswald purposefully did not look at his calendar all weekend. There was no need. Nothing was scheduled. That’s how he kept assuring himself.

Monday morning, Oswald found himself putting a third layer of cream cheese on his blueberry bagel to delay checking his calendar.

Putting his knife down with a clatter, he pulled his phone to him and set his chin.

First, texts. He had missed several over the last few days of avoiding his phone. Next, check the weather. Cold and clear. Now…Oswald held his breath.

One item appeared for the day. Clean desk. His shoulders relaxed and he leaned back, but promptly sat back and looked over the next few days. Tuesday, clear. Wednesday, clear. Thursday—telegraphing class? Oswald deleted that. Who even sent telegraphs anymore?

Satisfied, he put his phone away and dug into his breakfast with relish.

At work, Oswald cleared his desk of three files of paperwork co-workers had inconsiderately thrown messily on his desk. Once they were straightened and neatly in the “In” box, he attacked the dust. Wendy poked her head in as he sorted pencils out of his pen holder.

“An ardent keeper of Clean Off Your Desk Day,” she said. “My sister always tried to get me to celebrate that one, but she wanted me to clean my whole side of the room. Do you still have the first draft of the baby bottle warmer instructions? Landis thinks he remembers a part that could be misunderstood in such a way as to make a hazard. I don’t think he’s right, but we ought to take a test run.”

Oswald pulled the file and handed it over.

“Thanks.” Wendy’s left cheek dimpled. “Wish us luck in out geyser experiment.”

Oswald frowned as she left. Clean Off Your Desk Day? Perhaps it was not his memory at fault. Perhaps he had a practical jokester in the office. He decided to keep a very close eye on his phone.

No one approached, but it kept chiming from time to time. Oswald checked, but there were no texts. He frowned down at his phone.

“Ozzy, you’re such a sweetheart!”

Oswald jumped t the voice behind him. Whirling, he found Mandy almost in his face. She smiled at him and actually batted her eyes. He took a step back.

“I never even knew there were harmonica concerts,” she gushed. “Thank you so much for inviting me! Were you thinking dinner, too?”

“Harmonica? No, I never knew—um, when—um…?”

“Fridays I usually get off early, so I would have plenty of time to dress.”

“F-Fridays…” Oswald fumbled up his phone and scrambled for the calendar. There, on Friday, right beneath “Cake Decorating Show” was “Philharmonic Harmonica Concert, 7 pm, Millenia Concert House.” Oswald swallowed hard. “I—I hadn’t really thought about it…harmonicas just seem—casual, somehow…but we could swing by Hardees on the way if you haven’t had a chance to eat yet.

Mandy stuck her lip out in a partly playful pout. “No, that’s not necessary. Just pick me up at 6:30. Do you have my address?”

No, the only reason he had her phone number was because sometimes they were assigned to the same team.

The rest of the week went on almost normally. Almost, because Mandy came around more than usual, flirting and smiling and sometimes even giggling. His phone also continued to make noises for no apparent reason. One whole lunch period he had stared at it non-stop. It had chimed and dingled and once outright rang, but besides the last, which was his boss, had almost nothing to show for it. Only an e-mail notification of his Polish library book coming due soon and 2 blank texts from himself. Almost he asked Frank to help him monitor if someone was tampering with his phone remotely, but hesitated because that was the exact type of thing Frank himself would think funny.

Friday evening Oswald spent too much time rummaging through his closet without actually seeing anything.

“Fancy enough for a concert, but not so fancy she thinks I changed my mind about dinner,” he muttered to himself. “Nice enough to not offend, but not so nice as to encourage her.” He finally settled on a suit from work, but with a bow tie. He glanced in the mirror one more time before leaving the room, and started to realize  his bow tie was bright green with sparkly polka-dots.

“Where did that even come from?” he demanded of the air, and stripping it off, threw it on the bed. A plain red one went on instead, and then it was time to go—no time for supper.

At Mandy’s apartment, Oswald knocked and tugged at his tie as he waited.

The latch clicked undone, and swirls of perfume rushed out through the cracks and spun about his head. He shifted his feet for balance to help counter the perfume induced light-headedness.

Then the door swung open.

Oswald staggered back. Mandy was not merely dressed for a harmonica concert. Her attire would have been equal to a royal opera. Sparkling midnight blue sheathed her, topped with a feathery black boa around her shoulders and rhinestones glittered in her hair. At least Oswald hoped they were rhinestones.

Mandy smiled coyly up.

Oswald swallowed and reached a hand back to find a support as he slid back another step. His foot slipped off the top of the stirs. Oswald wildly waved his arms, looking for support or at least balance. He found neither.

Thumpity-bumpity-thump.

“Oh my goodness, is it icy?” cried Mandy.

Oswald groaned and tried to peel himself off the chilly cement step.

“I hope you didn’t have this much trouble getting here.” Mandy was outside now, hovering. “At least I’m on the ground floor.”

Oswald rolled onto his back and slid down so he was sitting on a step. He rubbed his head cautiously, then slowly stood. “The trip was no trouble.” He immediately regretted saying that. “But if you think the roads should be bad, we can stay home.”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to waste your lovely tickets.” Mandy twined her hands about his arm. He felt more tipsy than before and wondered if it would be more gentlemanly to pry himself away or to collapse with her in tow. Of course, there was always the possibility that trying to pull away would cause a collapse. The car wasn’t that far away.

Oswald gingerly led the way. “I see I should have dressed in my suit and cane tonight,” he said.

She giggled, and said something probably at least as insipid, but he wasn’t listening. He was looking forward to the quiet, dark anonymity of the concert audience, and wondering how much tickets cost and if whoever set this up on him had at least had the decency to buy tickets, or would force him to spend at-the-door-pricing.

The parking lot was almost full.

“Who knew harmonicas were so popular,” he said, opening Mandy’s door.

“You chose a high occasion,” Mandy cooed.

Oswald shifted his balance from foot to foot. “Or maybe it’s just overflow parking from another event. There’s a cake decorating contest just over in the Global Center, you know.”

Inside was as crowded as out. Oswald was relieved to see that while some seemed dressed as for an occasion, other attendees wore jeans and shirts with logos on them. He was not under-dressed except compared with his partner—and that had its positive side, namely, making them look less like a pair.

He approached the ticket booth. “Oswald Decanter,” he said, hoping.

The little round fellow behind the glass flipped through his file. “I’m sorry, you don’t have a reservation,” he said.

“Actually, I was looking to purchase two tickets,” said Oswald. Would he have enough cash?

“I’m sorry, but we’re sold out.” The man on the other side smiled sadly. “And tomorrow only has one opening left. But next week we have Pub Songs Through the Ages. Would you be interested?”

Oswald mutely shook his head. He barely noticed Mandy growing stiff beside him as he turned them about and walked back out.

You mean you forgot to reserve tickets?” The hiss in his ear made him jump.

“I—I didn’t even know until today that you were coming,” he protested. He hadn’t known he was coming until this morning. He looked around quickly, hoping Ronald didn’t happen to come by and see him at someone else’s concert.

Mandy’s nails dug into his arm.

“But we can still go to the cake exhibit—and out for something to eat after,” he said.

She didn’t deign to answer, which was as ominous as it was unusual.

He hurried them over the walks to the Global Center. Maybe she would be distracted enough not to be disgruntled at him for months. Maybe she would even be pleased enough that he could pull off supper at some place he could afford to pay with cash.

At the cake display Mandy started to thaw once they passed the truly fascinating inanimate object cakes (a typewriter? Ships? Oswald wondered if he could make one of a dinosaur skeleton). By the wedding cake display, she was simply gushing. Oswald looked away in embarrassment as she sniffed at an icing flower.

No one around seemed to be giving it any mind. They just exclaimed and admired and took pictures like normal.

Oswald frowned. Except a large concentration of cameras seemed to be aimed at this cake. He tugged Mandy’s arm. “Let’s move on,” he whispered. “We don’t want to get in the way of the pictures.”

Mandy glided over to the next cake, going into raptures over its frills and lace, but the photographers seemed to be moving on as well. Oswald panicked. He didn’t want to be followed by cameras the rest of the evening. He needed to break their path. He tugged Mandy across the aisle this time.

“But I wasn’t done looking,” protested Mandy.

“We can come back later.” Oswald wasn’t changing courses.

But still they could not escape the cameras. If anything, they seemed to multiply. The whispers multiplied, too, and one kept surfacing–”Ms. Delassy…Ms. Delassy…Ms. Delassy.”

Oswald edged away from Mandy. He knew he couldn’t escape being caught on camera, but at least he could avoid being paired with Mandy in scrapbooks across the nation.

Then a fellow with a microphone showed up. Before he knew what was happening, Mandy was being interviewed.

“I’m afraid we’ve been backward in our welcome, but we had no idea you would grace us here tonight. Would you honor us by giving us a few answers from our very own Confectioner’s Queen?”

“Um, I think…” Oswald stammered, but no one noticed him.

“What is your favorite thing about cake decorating?”

“Wedding cakes! They’re the most glorious symbol of the most wonderful celebration of life! They radiate just like the bride herself.”

Oswald considered hiding in the bathroom for the next hour or so to escape what he felt must be a case of mistaken identity. Why didn’t she say anything?

“When did you first become interested in cake decorating?”

“Walking downtown as a girl with my mother, we often passed a baker’s shop. You could always tell when a wedding was coming up, because the cake was put on display a day or so before it was delivered.”

Oswald inched away. She probably wouldn’t even notice his absence, at least not until the cops came to arrest her for fraud.

“And is that what started you in confections, too?”

“Oh, I’ve always had a sweet tooth.”

Then again, bathrooms were full of germs and he always made a point not to use public bathrooms unless necessary. Would they even have seat covers? Not that he actually needed to use one except for, well, cover.

Oswald buried his head in his hands and stayed put. Now she was giving decorating tips. Put your whole heart in and don’t forget the sparkle? Well, it could be worse than nebulous.

Finally, the man with the microphone turned. “Let’s hear it for our Queen of Confections, Ms. Trina Delassy!”

The crowd thinned after that but never fully disappeared. After another hour of going over every wedding cake in detail and admiring most the other cakes as well, Oswald managed to pry Mandy away.

She walked in too much of a cloud to protest going to an ice cream shop for supper. The ice cream was actually quite fancy, and he sandwiches not bad, but Oswald doubted his co-worker tasted any of it.

He crashed for the rest of the weekend, and slept so much he feared he was catching a cold. Or worse.

Monday morning found him still fretting. “Ice cream,” he complained. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Ice cream in the middle of flu season.” He glared at his phone over the paper’s obituary section. It dingled at him weakly.

Oswald slammed down his paper. “That’s it,” he said. “I am not looking.” He reached over and turned the phone off. It powered down with a sigh.

He managed to leave it off for most of the day, until his boss came and scolded him for not answering a text that afternoon.

Mandy, however, he could not power down. Every time their paths crossed, she was talking someone’s ear off about Friday night.

“And then he showed me the most glorious wedding cakes…”

“…the cutest bow tie…”

“No, the only thing they had available was dreadful pub music…”

The week got worse as it went on. By Wednesday, Oswald was so discomfited by all the fluttering lashes, coy smiles, and breathy hellos coming his way that he drove by and missed the drugstore twice on the way home. When he finally noticed his blunder the second time, he pulled over with a gusty sigh and flipped on his phone’s piloting feature.

“I should have uncovered her as a fraud,” he grouched, dodging the cars honking towards him down the one-lane street. “It would have made work miserable for a while, but it couldn’t have been much worse than this.” He turned left to bump down a graveled alley. “I don’t know what to do!” He pulled to a stop at a dead end and stared at the wall in front of him. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” he asked the phone.

“Put car in reverse,” said the phone.

After only one near accident with a garbage man, Oswald pulled into his parallel parking spot and turned toward the drugstore. Only instead it was a coffee shop with a second-story gym over it. A banner hung in front, proclaiming “Kid Inventors’ Day”.

“What—” Oswald began.

Something round crashed out of an upper window and came screaming down toward him. It screeched across his windshield, shedding sparks, ricocheted off a lamp post, and went flying down the street.

A door on the side of the building burst open to let out a pack of boys.

“Sorry!” one yelled as they ran by.

“Where is it?” yelled another.

“Over there!”

They barged away in pursuit of the flying object.

Oswald looked down at his phone. It did not say “Philbook’s Drugs,” it said “Dillon’s Gym and Rec Center.” Suspicious, he switched to the calendar. Yes, January 17 was labeled “Kid Inventors’ Fair—Dillon’s Rec Center—6-8 pm.”

Oswald took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Never mind,” he said, shutting the power to his phone off. “Surely I can make it home on autopilot. And Grandmother always said epsom salts did wonders. An epsom salt bath it is tonight.”

A hot epsom salt bath and cup of green pomegranate tea did do wonders for both relaxing and clearing his brain. After a good night’s sleep, Oswald was armed with a plan.

He strode into the kitchen, loaded the toaster with raisin bread, and poured a cup of coffee. Smiling, he reached for his phone.

“And what do we have for today?” he asked, flipping to the calendar. “Nothing? Let’s try tomorrow, then.” He vehemently deleted “Love in the Bahamas” at the West Street Theater.

“I don’t need any extra assignments. Yes, from now on, it’s paper…just as soon as I get an e-mail from my boss confirming work dates.”

Things didn’t work out quite that simply. Oswald’s boss was busy with meetings all day, and Mandy’s attention did not waver. Then on Friday he had a movie on his calendar, this time, “Kazakhstan Killer.”

“Who keeps doing this?” grumbled Oswald, shoving his phone into his pocket. The phone gave a weak little dingle. “It must be some type of remote override.” He was just swinging into his cubicle when Mandy interrupted him.

“Oh, Ozzy!”

He flinched.

“I’m afraid I promised my cousins to go out tonight and see Saturday Sisters.”

Oswald snatched his phone back out to see if it said anything about another unintentional text to Mandy. It opened up on calendar, and there was another movie scheduled for him: Saturday Sisters. He deleted it as quickly as he could.

“But I’m free tomorrow if you are,” she said.

Oswald flipped to Saturday, hoping for once to see an unexpected event. He softened his sigh of relief. Penguin Awareness Day exhibit at the Tweloysky County Zoo.

“No, I’m booked.” He actually smiled at her.

“Sunday, maybe?”

“No, I never schedule things on Sunday.” Oswald ducked into his cubicle and started coding the hazard labels needed for the expanding hamster ball for The Petting Edge^TM (They had refused to give up the project due to rodent hazards).

So the next morning Oswald was feeling extremely grateful towards the penguins. He didn’t grumble at the cold, grey sky or frown when a zoo ticket cost almost $20. He marched straight for the penguin exhibit.

It wasn’t hard to find. Only the aviary separated it from the food court in the front.

A pale blue banner drooped across the top of the glass in front, proclaiming, “Penguin Awareness Day.” Several poster board signs hung in front of the empty enclosure, filled with handwritten lists of fact about penguins. They almost covered the smaller, more formal sign which read, “Penguins inside due to cold weather.”

Oswald frowned and looked at the permanent information sign. African Penguin. The sign included a map featuring southern Africa.

Oswald walked to the edge of the exhibit, leaning around the corner to try to get a better look. This side looked like cement on the bottom half of the wall. Above was covered in layers of reinforced mesh. The mesh at the top corner sagged off.

“Closed due to disrepair, more likely,” Oswald said. A chill breeze went by, and he shivered. No one else seemed to be visiting the penguins. A mother pushed a stroller quickly down the path, admonishing two boys who followed at a slower pace, trying to balance on top of the rail fence along the pathway. A teenage d couple walked together, their whole arms entwined, not heeding anything but each other.

Oswald tightened his mouth. If there was no one else around to appreciate the penguins, he would. He planted himself in front of the signs, prepared to be made aware.

The more he read, the more wound up he became. No wonder there was a penguin awareness day! He looked around when finished, but no one else seemed interested.

“What type of penguin awareness day is this, anyway? These birds deserve more.” Oswald paced a little, then stopped to assess the damaged mesh. A tree grew not so far away, and one branch hung over the top of the cage. Oswald stepped over the path’s fence and started climbing.

It was difficult at first—he was dreadfully out of practice—but he had his flannel scarves to help with handholds.

When he got out over the cage, the branch he was on started to dip, but that made the enclosure easier to reach. The flapping screen was almost open enough already, it just took a few tugs before it was ready for Oswald to reach down with his feet and feel for the bar framing underneath. Squeezing between the bars was close. He almost got stuck around his shoulders, but the branch had sprung away when he let go. Finally, he was down to the concrete. Oswald edged toward the back of the exhibit to avoid the iced-over water, and dropped the last bit. He didn’t catch himself, but sprawled on the ground. Gasps and titters wafted through the air. Looking toward the glass front, Oswald could see the beginnings of a small crowd.

Standing, he brushed himself off, then addressed his audience.

“Ladies and Gentleman, today is Penguin Awareness Day, and it is high time we were aware of penguins and the sacrifices they make to come and fulfill our curiosity. These amazing birds have traveled all the way from Africa, leaving behind companions and habitat. Yes, the zoo does what it can.” Here, he made a derisive wave toward the hole he had enlarged. “But penguins enjoy a diving depth of over 1800 feet.

“Where is the room to explore? To gyrate? Gone with their native weather—and not only for the Antarctic varieties! Of the 17 species of penguins, none—not one—lives in North America. In this zoo before your eyes, a huddle of penguins is hidden away in the safety of a building because it is too cold here—too cold! Did any of you know temperatures here could be too cold for a penguin? Yet here they are, exposing themselves to foreign climates and their germs—”

The door to the building that made up the left exhibit wall burst open, spilling out a zookeeper and three security men.

“—to be ignored!”

The security men grabbed Oswald, one at each arm with the third on behind, ready to snap on a pair of handcuffs.

“Open your eyes and be aware!” Oswald was yelling now. He braced his heels against the ground as he was dragged away. “Notice the penguins!”

The door thumped behind them and they were in a little building with a path wandering through pools of water with penguins basking on the banks. They hustled out a back door, and before he could collect himself, Oswald found himself pushed into a chair in a dim office.

“I think we may need psychiatric back-up,” one of the security men said into his radio.

Oswald slumped back and closed his eyes. He felt winded and lightheaded.

“Is he okay?”

A scuffle of activity ensued, and Oswald opened his eyes to locate the familiar sounding speaker. Ronald strained to push through a semi-circle of resisting staff.

“Ozzy, are you okay?”

“Sir, do you know this man?” asked the zookeeper.

“Oswald Capers. He’s my cousin.”

“I’m afraid, sir your cousin seems to be a bit unstable. Is there any procedure you take with him? Meds, perhaps?”

“Crazy?” Ronald shook his head. “Nah, Oswald’s not crazy. He’s just wound up. ‘Course, I haven’t seen him this riled since he was a boy and a bully stole his fossilized shark tooth and threw it in the dumpster. But I’ll take him home and put him to bed and even tag around when he goes on outings this next week if you want.”

The zookeeper stiffened. “Sir, you don’t understand—”

“I’m sure Ozzy will pay for any damages. He’s good that way.”

The zookeeper pursed her lips.

“I think you’ve got yourself a good deal, there, Ida,” said one of the security men. “I would run some record checks first, to make sure everything’s clear, then make the paperwork official. Probably put a visiting ban in, too, but there’s no real harm done. Lawyers are expensive, and bad publicity besides.”

“We’ll have to talk to Arnold,” she said.

“Of course.”

It was over an hour before Oswald was released, and then he had sheaves of papers to sign saying he would not sue Tweloysky County Zoo for enforcing their rules, and he would pay for any damages done, and that he promised not to come back until he had undergone a psychological exam and obtained permission from the zoo board. Through it all were lectures from one staff member after another. He was feeling quite worn out when Ronald drove him home.

“That was one amazing stunt you pulled,” Ronald told him. “Now climbing into the penguin cage was a bit over-the-top, but wow! I never knew you loved penguins.”

Oswald grunted.

Ronald pulled up to his parking spot and stopped. “Now I was serious about sticking around this week. Dolly took the kids to her mom’s, and I can do it. I know your January is full, but there’s no reason to get the zoo staff all worried or you clapped under house arrest. What type of events do have on your calendar?”

What events did he have on his calendar? Oswald opened his phone to look.

Day 21, Sunday           Squirrel Appreciation Day at Park Square

“No!” Oswald jammed his finger at delete. “That is too much.”

“What’s up?”

“I hate squirrels. They are a nuisance.”

“That’s no reason to get yourself in a tizzy. Here, let me see.” Ronald took the phone and scrolled through the week. “You have your calligraphy class on Tuesday. I’ve never tried that before.”

“Neither have I,” said Oswald.

“Hey, maybe I’ll join you, then. Do I need any supplies?”

“I have no idea, Ronald. No idea.”

Ronald handed Oswald the keys. “Just wait for me then, okay?” He stepped out of the car and looked for a taxi to bring him back to his own vehicle.

Tuesday evening was a relaxing one. Supplies cost extra, but the teacher did not even bat an eye at two extra students. The subject was Chinese calligraphy.

“Today we seek to master the word píngéng, balance,” he said. “Take your brushes…”

Oswald wondered if he should sign up to come regularly.

“Yours sure looks more balanced than mine,” said Ronald, squinting at his collection of criss-crossing lines. “Where did you find out about this place, anyhow?”

“Who knows.” Oswald studied his own paper critically. Not ready to be framed by a long shot, but probably close enough to be filed for reference.

“How’s that?”

“I have been having troubles with my phone.”

Ronald looked intrigued, so Oswald launched into the whole series of events.

At the end, Ronald shook his head. “Sounds like a saboteur, all right. Do you have any leads?”

“No one is around when it happens. I’ve watched my phone. I think it must be done remotely.”

“But surely someone is at least around to enjoy his snigger?”

“Not that I’ve seen. And I haven’t told anyone else about it.”

“Hmm…” Ronald flipped his calligraphy over and started to feel around on the table.

Oswald took a pen from his shirt pocket and handed it over.

“See if you can find any more on your phone,” said Ronald.

Oswald obliged. “There’s another one tomorrow. ‘Pick up your computer from Macintosh Store.’”

“No, don’t delete it. Maybe we can get a clue from them.”

“But not tonight.” Oswald stood. “It’s getting late.” He nodded toward their teacher, who was walking about the room, lighting candles.

“Okay, but wait for me.”

“Meet you over lunch break?”

Ronald agreed.

When Oswald arrived at IHOP the next day, Ronald was already there and waved him over to the booth he was at. As soon as they had ordered, Oswald got out his phone.

“I have the number,” he said. “Let’s start by seeing if they know anything about a computer in my name.”

“I thought you didn’t have one in.”

“I don’t, but I’m just covering all the bases.”

The phone rang.

“Apple Store Computers. Can I help you?”

“Yes. Do you have anything for Oswald Capers?”

Ronald took a pen from Oswald’s pocket and started scribbling on a napkin.

“Oswald Capers. No, I don’t know. Could you check both?”

Oswald drummed his fingers as on hold music droned. Ronald handed him the napkin. He had written, “Ask if they can track your phone.”

Oswald nodded. He had a representative talking again. “Nothing? No, that’s fine. Listen, do you service phones? Not exactly, but I’m dealing with enough sophistication you seemed the most likely place. Could you at least look at it, no hard feelings if there’s nothing you can do? Okay. Thanks. I’ll be there in a bit. Bye.” He hung up. “We’re on.”

“Perfect. And we can ask if he’s seen anyone suspicious around. Good thing pancakes are quick to eat.”

Oswald smiled. “I don’t want to inhale my ham and eggs, but I’ll ask for a take-home box if you’re ready to leave before I am.”

They managed to have time to drop off the phone before time to return to work, but hit the store right as the employees were getting ready for their lunch.

“I took your call,” said a fellow with ‘Aiden’ on his name tag. “Tell me what the problem is and I’ll take a look this afternoon.”

“I’ve been having problems with it doing things I haven’t told it to and wonder if it has anything to do with remote influence.”

Aiden smiled in a friendly manner, but he was on his feet.

The rest of the work day was a haze. Oswald took a break from writing electric staple remover instructions the last couple of hours to help test the miniature tri-copter. The safety research team wanted to know if sustained use would overheat it.

Finally, it was time to pack up. Finally, it was time to leave. Finally he pulled into a parking spot across from the computer shop. Ronald was already there walking up and down the sidewalk, jittering. He ran up to meet Oswald as his cousin crossed the street.

“One would suppose it was your phone,” said Oswald.

Ronald smiled lopsidedly. “I just can’t resist a good mystery,” he said.

Aiden looked up as they entered.

“Did you find anything?” asked Oswald.

“Yes, actually.” Aiden smiled. “Your phone has been infected.”

“Infected.”

“No reason to be alarmed. It’s just a minor virus, more like the flu than than, say, yellow fever. It’s subject to what we call involuntary reflexes, in your case mainly adding events to your calendar. You must have heard the extra chiming as it added things.”

The phone had been dinging more often than normal.

“Involuntary?” asked Ronald. “You mean, like, it sneezes dates onto the calendar?”

Aiden laughed. “That’s one way of looking at it. Anyway, I should be able to help, but I’ll have to take a couple of days to re-enforce it with boosters and make sure it’s not over-heating with high usage.”

“Shots and rest. Got it,” said Ronald.

“That will be fine,” said Oswald. “And thank you so much. Let me give you my e-mail.”

After filling out the needed paperwork, the two cousins turned to go.

“Anything on your schedule this weekend?” asked Ronald.

“No. Not a thing.” Oswald smiled.

“Well, how about attending a little concert? I know of one with a sweet saxophone player and a snazzy banjo, if I do say so myself.”

Oswald thought. If he restocked in vitamin C and echinacea, and had a few solid night’s sleep before then, he should be able to risk it. It would be a good reason to avoid Mandy, too. “That would be fine.”

Ronald linked arms. “I wonder what a phone with a drippy nose looks like.”

“I don’t know,” said Oswald. “And I never want to find out.”

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