Remarkably Bright Creatures(40)

Cameron lets out a hollow laugh at the thought owning real estate. “Yeah, no. Just up here looking for . . . family.”

The guy tilts his bald head. “Aye? Thought maybe you looked familiar.”

Cameron perks up; why didn’t he think of this angle right away? Red Beard is probably in his sixties, so older than his dad would be, but not by more than a decade or so. And he’s the sort of annoying guy who knows anyone and everyone; he said so himself.

“Yeah,” Cameron says. “Looking for my dad, actually.”

“What’s his name?”

“Simon Brinks. You know him?”

Red Beard’s eyes widen at the name. “Not personally, no. Sorry.”

Thumping bass pulses from the kitchen, some song Cameron has heard a million times but couldn’t name. Is this part of being in your thirties? Out of touch with the music kids like? He’d noticed the crowd seemed weirdly old at the last Moth Sausage show. Had they become classic rock?

Well, they weren’t anything anymore.

Red Beard frowns at the sound. “I’ll tell him to turn that nonsense down.” He starts to rise.

Cameron holds up a hand, a wave of empathy for poor Tanner washing over him. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“You kids and this racket you call music!” Red Beard shakes his head.

“Well, I don’t think it’s so bad, and as the lead guitarist of Moth Sausage, I know music.” He regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth. What an idiotic thing to bring up.

“Moth Sausage? The actual Moth Sausage?”

“You’ve . . . heard of us?” Cameron gapes. Their last single barely had a hundred downloads, and they’d assumed these were all Dell’s regulars, but maybe Red Beard was one of them. Brad will shit himself when he hears that someone listens to Moth Sausage a thousand miles away. He’ll probably even beg Cameron to get the band back together.

Red Beard nods gravely. “I’m a huge fan.”

“Wow,” says Cameron, truly out of words for once.

“Aww, don’t make that face. Now I feel terrible.” Red Beard’s cheeks flush to match his beard. “I was just yankin’ your chain.”

“Ah,” Cameron says, cheeks flaming.

“So you weren’t joking. What kind of bloody name is Moth Sausage?”

An asinine one.

Tanner appears booth-side. “House special.” With a disinterested sigh, he sets down an oval platter piled high with fries. Somewhere under there, presumably, is a sandwich. It smells unbelievably delicious.

“And?” Red Beard glares up at Tanner.

“And . . . enjoy?”

“What about the coffee!”

Cameron holds his hands up. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“It is not okay.” Red Beard’s nostrils flare. “Our customer ordered a black coffee, did he not? Get on it!” Then he turns to Cameron. “Sorry.”

Tanner sulks off toward the kitchen, presumably to prepare a cup of coffee. Cameron hopes the kid doesn’t spit in it.

“Well, coffee will be on the house, too. I’ll leave you to enjoy your lunch.” Red Beard slides out of the booth. “Best of luck tracking down your old man.”

CAMERON SQUINTS IN the grayish light as he leaves the store. How can it be both overcast and blinding white? He fumbles in his pocket for his Ray-Bans, which might be why he doesn’t notice something wrong with the camper until he’s halfway across the Shop-Way parking lot.

It’s leaning to one side.

“No. No, no, no,” Cameron groans, hurrying around the back of the camper to find exactly what he feared: the rear passenger tire completely flat. “Shit!” he shouts, and gives the hubcap a hard kick, which jams his big toe.

Wincing, he sits on the curb. His remaining money won’t last long after paying for a tow truck and a new tire. He checks his phone again to see if JoyJet has called with an update about his luggage. There’s nothing but a text from Elizabeth: How’s it going up there, Camel-tron?

“Horrible. Beyond horrible,” he mumbles the answer to himself. Then, humiliated, he sees Red Beard standing in front of the store, staring across the parking lot with his hand aloft on his forehead like a visor, his reddish beard fluffing in the breeze.

“Looks like you could use a hand, eh?” Red Beard comes strolling across the lot. He stops in front of Cameron and offers a literal hand. “By the way, name’s Ethan.”

“Thanks, man.” Cameron shakes and follows him back toward the store.





Day 1,322 of My Captivity


I ENJOY FINGERPRINTS, BUT THIS IS A BIT MUCH.

She has not come to clean in three days. The glass has become thick and rheumy. The floors are dull and caked with footprints. It is not good.

You know I have three hearts, yes? This must seem strange, considering that humans, and most other species, have only one. I wish I could claim a higher level of spiritual being on account of my multiple vascular chambers, but alas, two of my hearts basically control my lungs and gills. The other is called my organ heart, and it powers everything else.

I am accustomed to my organ heart stopping. It shuts down while I am swimming. It is one reason why I generally avoid the large main tank: too much swimming. Crawling is much gentler on my circulatory system, but the main tank floor, while rife with delicacies, is patrolled by the sharks. Swimming for long stretches tires me, so I suppose you could say I am well-suited for life in a small box.