The Other Otherworldly Visitor of Oscaloo

Note: This is Chapter 3 of The Otherworldy Visitor of Oscaloo

To read the prior chapters, click the following links:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

~*~
Joanne Rose was a pharmacist. She was nice. Niceness wasn’t so much a personality trait, it was her essence.

She even had niceness coded in her DNA. Her maternal grandparents—Ron and Linda Gibbons—owned and operated the Oscaloo Flamingo, a popular hotel resort whose heyday was in the 1950s and was said to revolutionize the entire hospitality industry. Tourists from all around the world would flock to the Flamingo to be treated to a relaxing, trouble-free weekend with very pink rooms and a staff that did nothing but smile and say nice things to them. There was even a local legend that the phrase “Have a nice day” originated at the Flamingo. 

 

Joanne was legendary in her own right around town as a peacemaker and paragon of decorum. When in high school, she was so successful in brokering a peace deal between the two most ruthlessly feuding girls of her class (head cheerleader Betsy Jonas vs. lead Mathlete Abigail Funk) that, today, they can be heard every Saturday morning on a local radio talk show titled “Best Friends with Betsy and Abigail.” If niceness was an art, Joanne surely would have been Ludwig Van Beethoven. Her good-natured celebrity, however, was about to be put to the test.

 

It was a busy day at the Oscaloo Mart-Shop pharmacy. Joanne was wrapping up old Mrs. Simmons’ prescription of arthritis medicine when she noticed a figure suddenly appear in her peripheral vision. When she turned to look, her eyes popped wide open, and she gasped. It was a man, the likes of which she’d never seen before, or anything like it.

 

“What are you supposed to be?” she cried.

 

She then covered her mouth with her palm in horror and looked as though she was about to sob. It wasn’t the sight of this man that frightened her so much as it was what she’d said to him: It wasn’t nice.

 

But even someone with a track record as unblemished as Joanne’s could hardly be blamed for having such a visceral reaction. The sight of the man was, to say the least, shocking.

 

He glowered at her with fire behind his eyes and grinned like a hyena. He was tall and skinny, and dressed in a white lab coat and donned green-tinted Coke bottle eyeglasses. He had butter-yellow teeth with a pronounced gap in between the front incisors. Crowning his grin was a stiff mustache in the shape of two perfect zig-zags. However, what was arguably his most conspicuous feature was a spiky mane of white hair that seemed to glow blue. He also smelled of ozone.

 

“Nya-Nyah,” he said to her in a menacing, high-pitched tone. 

 

If there was anything more confounding than the man’s look, it was that bizarre sound he’d just made.

 

Joanne started to tremble and said: “Excuse me?”

 

Then suddenly, the man relaxed his face.

 

“Good afternoon, madam,” he said, then in surprisingly monotone voice and an accent that seemed vaguely Eastern European. “I’m here to pick up a prescription.”

 

Joanne knitted her brows and narrowed her eyes.

 

“What?” 

 

The sound of something so banal coming out of his mouth was somehow even more off-putting than that Nya-Nyah he’d made earlier.

 

The man then rolled his eyes and repeated himself with such a weary look on his face it was as though he’d just entered the fifth hour of the most tedious lecture imaginable about the nematode.

 

“Oh,” Joanne said, blinking. She could feel herself start to regain feeling in her cheeks. “I’m afraid, sir, you’re going to have to wait your turn in line.”

 

“Line?” the man said. He scratched his head.

 

She pointed to the half dozen people who were lined up behind a nylon rope barrier, all staring at him, standing slack with their arms crossed and their mouths agape.

 

The man then held up clenched fists to his chest and pounded the air.

 

“Lines,” he said angrily, mostly to himself. “What’s this planet’s obsession with lines?”

 

That was a dead giveaway that the town of Oscaloo, Florida was graced with not one extra-terrestrial but two. Like George George, this man also hailed from the planet Jawae. He called himself Professor Fluke.

 

Fluke sighed miserably and muttered to himself as he got in the back of the queue, which left Joanne free to finish up with Mrs. Simmons.

 

“Next!” Joanne called out.

 

A middle-aged woman named Mrs. Gillian approached the pharmacy counter. Those who remained, including Fluke, took one step forward.

 

“Why must this be so tedious!” he wailed. He then addressed the five people in front of him. “Would anybody mind too terribly if I went next?”

 

The man directly in front of Professor Fluke had about enough of this strange man’s incessant outbursts. His name was Simon Bela. He was 79 years old and a retired dentist. All he wanted to do in that moment was stand in line and be left alone with his thoughts.

 

“Look, son,” Simon said to Fluke sternly with a gravelly voice and a thick Southern drawl. “I don’t know who—or what—you think you are, but when you are in a line, you remain quiet, you remain still, and most importantly, you wait your turn.”

 

Professor Fluke’s body went slack, and he rolled his eyes.

 

“But I have things to do, man!” he implored. “I simply do not have time to wait!”

 

Simon’s nostrils flared.

 

“We all have things to do, Sonny,” he retorted. “I don’t know where you need to get off to that’s so important dressed like that—a flunky convention for Mad Scientists, Willy Wonka’s Fizzy Lifting Factory, a matinee showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show—but you are not going to cut the line. And the sooner you get that through your skull, the easier it will be for all of us.”

 

The four people in front of Simon applauded, albeit rather lackadaisically.

 

Professor Fluke grunted. Since asking politely wasn’t going to work for him, he was going to have to resort to… less savory measures to skip the queue.

 

“Ahem,” Fluke said, calmly, pretending to clear his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen of this queue. I hate to be the bearer of terrible news, but you all must vacate this building at once. For it is on fire.”

 

Much to Professor Fluke’s chagrin, however, this announcement was met with no response whatsoever. He furrowed his brow. This lack of response puzzled Professor Fluke. 

 

“Are human beings just not concerned about burning in flames?” he thought. 

 

But then he took a closer look at what these five—

 

“Next!” Joanne called out.

 

—four people had in common. They tended to be of an older cohort. Perhaps, Professor Fluke considered, they might be hard of hearing. 

 

He pretended to clear his throat, louder that time.

 

“Everybody!” he said. “You must vacate this line, because this building is on fire!”

 

But again, stillness.

 

Then, in a moment of desperation, he screamed: “Do you all wish to perish in flames?”

 

Simon huffed and turned back around.

 

“Son,” he said. “Don’t you think if this building was actually on fire, we would also notice?”

 

Fluke scrunched his face and slapped a palm to his forehead. The man had an excellent point. It was back to the drawing board.

 

It didn’t take him long, however, for another lightbulb to go off in his head. His eyes widened, and he let out a large, self-satisfied grin. Once again, he pretended to clear his throat.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I do not wish to alarm you, but you must vacate this queue at once. For there is a tornado outside.”

 

Professor Fluke continued to beam and grin, anticipating everyone in the queue except for him to disperse in a panic. However, nobody moved a muscle except for Simon, who turned around once again to glower at him.

 

“Son,” he said. “You’re inside just like the rest of us. How in the dickens would you know if there was a tornado outside?”

 

Professor Fluke’s arms once again went slack in defeat. Again, he had an excellent point. Fluke pinned an elbow to his chest and rested his chin against his palm, ready to resign himself that he was just going to be the loser in this battle of wits.

 

“Next!” Joanne called. 

 

Then there were three.

 

But then Professor Fluke had another thought. Every culture has its monsters. Something they’re afraid of. What might that be for humans?

 

He looked around the store and the merchandise that surrounded him. Not too far from him, there was a display of plastic Tyrannosaurus Rex action figures.

 

Ah, he said to himself, That looks scary. All I have to do is convince these people that there is a Tyrannosaurus Rex loose in the building.

 

Professor Fluke cleared his throat once again and tapped Simon on the shoulder.

“Boy, what is it this time?” he said angrily as he turned around.

 

But when Simon locked eyes with Professor Fluke, he gasped.

 

“What in the blazes?” he cried.

 

Professor Fluke had morphed his head into that of a giant, scaly Tyrannosaurus Rex with a giant, curious grin full of sharp teeth.

 

Simon ran away. Then there were two. 

 

By the time the other two had turned around to see what the commotion was about, Professor Fluke had already morphed his head back into its human state. Fluke looked at them, shrugged, and twirled a finger at his ear.

 

They turned back around. 

 

Fluke took one step forward, and without delay he did the same thing with the next person, a woman named Pamela.

 

“Yikes!” she screamed. She ran away. Then there was one.

 

The remaining person in line was named Arthur who was 90 years old. He had a bent back and used a walking cane. Fluke tapped him on the shoulder.

 

Arthur slowly turned his body around and gaze upon Professor Fluke’s Tyrannosaurus Rex head. He squinted at him, shrugged, and said with the voice of dry leather: “Trick or treat!”

 

“Next!” Joanne called out.

 

Arthur slowly turned back around and inched his way to the pharmacy counter. While his ruse didn’t work on Arthur, it’d nevertheless managed to shave the queue of two whole people. Fluke chalked that up as a victory. He dusted off his hands and then rubbed them together.

 

The music over the store’s sound system had started to play “The Girl from Ipanema.” Fluke had never heard this song before, and he found it most bewitching. He started to hum along with the melody and dance, which involved bending his knees, shimmying his shoulders, wiggling his eyebrows, and moving his arms about in a garish and noodle-like fashion. He didn’t have much in terms of rhythm, but he knew how to move.

 

“Next!” Joanne called out.

 

Professor Fluke was grinning from ear to ear as he stepped forward to the pharmacy counter.

 

Joanne’s eyes widened slightly when she locked eyes with that stranger again, but this time she was prepared to say something nice to him.

 

“Sir, how may I help you today?” she asked.

 

Professor Fluke let out the grin of a Cheshire Cat.

 

“Madam,” he said. “I am here to pick up a prescription.”

 

“OK, I can certainly help you with that,” she said. She typed something at her computer terminal and asked: “What’s the name on that prescription?”

 

“The name,” Fluke said, “is Marianita Adorra.”

 

Joanne continued typing. When she saw that the name was not only real but there was a prescription waiting, her eyes lit up.

 

“OK,” she chirped, “It’ll just be a sec, hun.”

 

She disappeared into a back room for about 20 seconds, which gave Professor Fluke some more precious alone time with “The Girl from Ipanema.” He ceased dancing as soon as she came back in view, clutching a white paper bag. 

 

“Will that be all for you today?” she asked.

 

“Ah, one more thing,” he said. “I would like to purchase some tea.”

 

Joanne narrowed her eyes and said: “Tea?”

 

“Indeed, tea,” Fluke repeated.

 

“Well hun,” she said, speaking slowly. “This is the pharmacy counter, I can’t sell you tea here.”

 

“Then how would you suggest that I get it?” he asked.

 

“Well,” Joanne said carefully, “you’re just going to have to go grab it off the shelves and then go stand in that check-out line.”

 

Fluke turned to look at where she was pointing to see a group about 10 customers lined up with groceries waiting to be checked out.

 

Fluke’s eyes shot wide opened.

 

“Another line?”

 

He cried out in despair.

 

~*~

 

Professor Fluke returned to his adopted living quarters at the Oscaloo Funtimes Amusement Park. He’d found a cozy place for himself inside of an ersatz lumber mill—a building whose facade might be familiar to riders of the park’s Log Jam.

 

Today, the building is used mainly as storage for the remnants of long broken-down carnival rides. In the past, however, it had served as the main living quarters for a live-in maintenance engineer named Bob Cooper who had long stringy hair and rotten teeth.

 

Despite persistent rumors around Oscaloo that Bob had not only murdered his parents but had been known to occasionally snatch an unsuspecting kid from the Log Jam, he was a good employee. He died 32 years ago, and there’s a barely noticeable plaque on the corner of the building that commemorated his years of service to the Oscaloo Funtimes Amusement Park.

 

At any rate, thanks to the building’s prior usage as a home, the place was outfitted quite conveniently with a bathroom and kitchenette, even though the fixtures were rather antiquated.

 

Professor Fluke unlocked the door and kicked it open with his foot. He stood in the doorway, back-lit by the late afternoon sun, and glowered and grinned maliciously at his captive, Mimi’s grandmother Marianita. She was sitting on a gaudy old burlap sofa.

 

“Nya-Nyah,” he said to her in a high-pitched tone.

 

Marianita then sneered at him and yelled: “Oh, stop it.”

 

Professor Fluke went slack.

 

Marianita had a full face, large brown eyes, and long, wavy gray hair. On most days, she had the warmest smile imaginable. But she wasn’t smiling at this moment: She was fuming. She had her arms crossed and was shooting daggers at this bizarre man who abducted her and won’t even tell her why. Whenever she asks, all Professor Fluke does is make some kind of quacking noise and say: “That is none of your concern.” While Marianita was certainly worried for her own safety, what was more on the forefront of her mind was her granddaughter, Mimi. She imagined Mimi being home alone, wondering why her grandmother mysteriously disappeared and being worried sick. However, Marianita at least found some comfort in the thought that her granddaughter was exceptionally resourceful.

 

Marianita had immigrated to Oscaloo from El Salvador with her parents when she was 13 years old. She’d lived there ever since. She spent her working years as a journalist for the Oscaloo Chronicle where she covered City Council meetings and also ran a weekly nightlife column titled Around the ‘Loo. While her editors had intended ‘Loo to be a cute nickname for Oscaloo, it didn’t catch on. That was partly due to it gaining some inadvertent attention on the international scene when a prominent British late night talk show host noticed it and turned it into a running joke, predicated on loo being a common nickname in the United Kingdom for toilet.

 

“Did you get my medicine?” Marianita asked with tightened lips to her captor.

 

Professor Fluke rolled his eyes and held up the crumpled white paper bag in his hand and said: “Yes.”

 

“Did you get my tea?”

 

He held up a box of teabags in the other hand and said: “Yes.”

 

Marianita looked at that box of teabags and huffed.

 

“That isn’t my tea!” she said.

 

Professor Fluke looked at the box suspiciously and then narrowed his eyes back at her.

 

“Yes it is,” he said, carefully. “This is tea.”

 

She gestured at it angrily.

 

“That is black tea,” she yelled. “It has caffeine in it. That stuff will keep me up all night.”

 

Professor Fluke grumbled. As much as he loathed the idea of going back to the grocery store to purchase the appropriate kind of tea, the prospect of Marianita staying up all night seemed a whole lot worse to him.