XX.
One day, after years of dedication, Gretchen, rather than run home to care for her hundreds of millions of minions that she alone created for her Museum, Maggie invited her to go to the mall to get a new bathing suit. And Gretchen went. At the mall, Maggie asked Gretchen about that ‘stupid dollhouse,’ if she remembered, if she still had it, and Gretchen laughed while rolling her pretty doll eyes up to the sky.
XXI.
There are no women in the Museum of Oddities and Eccentricities, except for the Donor, but she never actually steps foot in the Museum. Gretchen endows the Museum entirely. Everything that happens within the confines of the Museum must be approved by the Donor first, and although the Donor is both kind and generous, she has her own unique vision for the Museum, and she rarely sways from her vision.
Only once have the employees convinced the Donor against her wishes, and they would not have been able to change her mind had they not gone on strike, and had their idea not been so very pragmatic that even the Donor could not deny its positive attributes. And after the quarrels and after the strike, after the mediations and after the negotiations, after the employees had their clear glass ceiling without even a smudge of discolored tinting, they began to think that maybe the whole thing was the Donor’s idea all along. They thought that maybe the Donor was playing coy so that they — the employees — would think they had some sort of autonomy where autonomy simply does not exist. Then, they think to themselves, We are fools! They think to themselves, We men are just such fools!!
XXII.
Curator 93 spends his days in the library researching for the Donor. The research topics are not disclosed to any other person. Curator 93 is given the wretched and insignificant task of gathering knowledge, recording history, and at times, doing homework for the Donor. Although it is not always a pleasurable endeavor, Curator 93 fully understands how important his job is, how important he is, and as such, the moment he received — or stole, depending on how you want to look at it — Curator 93’s placard, he pinned it to a shirt worn inside another shirt. The outside shirt displays some other curator number. This is the placard that is stolen and swapped, exchanged and shifted, but deep down, he is Curator 93. He has always been Curator 93, and he will always be Curator 93.
XXIII.
The employees do sometimes wonder what the Donor looks like, as they have never seen her. The Donor speaks through an intermediary who takes the form of a large, disembodied face. They have named the face Gretchen. She appears for several hours a day between Saturn and the Sun. Sometimes, she blocks the setting Vulcan, but this does not happen often. They can set their clocks to Gretchen, until one day, she stops appearing. Until one day, the Donor stops donating, and they are truly free.
XXIV.
Curator 72348 is the first to notice it. When Gretchen is not in the sky, the employees can look down at the Floor of Incarnations and see who they were before they were employees at the Museum of Oddities and Eccentricities. When Curator 72348 looks down, he sees not just a man but an entire family. They look familiar, but he cannot recognize himself. He calls up to Gretchen. He says, Gretchen! Gretchen! Who are these persons?
But Gretchen does not answer. Gretchen will never answer again. But that does not mean they do not stop calling to her.
XXV.
The Big Book clogs literature. The Big Book contradicts the hopeless fake. The Big Book insults the complaining critic. The Big Book bends the holy refrain and the provisional why. The Big Book is the nearest deterrent. The Big Book enlightens zeros and numbs heroes. The Big Book mends the empire. The Big Book hunts. The Big Book whistles outside a yard. The Big Book builds the unseen. The Big Book romances the unfamiliar rut. The Big Book shelves philosophy. The Big Book is an ink revolt. The Big Book balances the universe with wicked language. The Big Book bubbles and smokes. The Big Book is an unrestricted smile. The Big Book inspires resolve without a wreck. The Big Book hides the eminent dust. The Big Book completes an outdated trilogy.
james’s grandfather (from Trevor Dodge)
James’s grandfather always said that Frey was a dead ringer for the boys’ grandmother. He usually said this when Frey got himself into trouble, which he did every time he got near his grandfather. James, on the other hand, never gets caught.
Their grandfather would say, “Frey, you little fucker, you look just like your fucking grandmother when she’s fucking another man.”
And together, they’d pout their twin pout.
James’s grandfather just could not control himself when he saw them.
It was never clear to James or Frey as children why their grandparents lived in the same house. They fought violently over anything: what was cooked for dinner, the way it tasted in their old mouths, the matching silverware. They talked openly of their disgust for one another at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter dinners. They viciously plotted against each other by intentionally overdrawing their bank accounts and bouncing mortgage checks. It wasn’t that they didn’t have the money. They simply enjoyed watching the humiliation of the “declined” look some waiter or whoever would give. They would be even more proud, depending on how many other witnesses were present.
The grandparents kept their entire financial realities at the same bank where James’s mother worked, and because James’s mother wasn’t their daughter — family isn’t a technicality: you’re either family or you’re not — they took ready advantage of her willingness to clean up their messes:
“Now tell me dear, why would they call it overdraft ‘protection’ if we’re not really protected?” She could be so sweet when she felt like it, but this was rarely the case. James’s grandmother scowled and stood, her knobby fingers plunged into her hips.
“And what…”
James’s grandfather also stood, although he was always slightly stooped from years of bad posture.
“… are you implying?” the grandmother snapped. “That we need your credit?”
The grandmother’s scowl lunged deeply into the grandmother’s cheekbones. James’s grandfather shot a glance towards the thick oak door, but just as quickly, he corrected himself and returned his glossed eyes back onto James’s mother. She was sweating.
“I’m only ever going to say this once.” His eyes narrowed in perfect tense with his voice. “You are a whore.”
The grandmother knocked the knuckle of her index finger on top of her daughter-in-law’s desk before straightening, then wagging, the full, fleshy digit at James’s mother. “A fucking whore.”
That night, James’s grandparents tried anal sex for the first time in decades. The grandfather’s skin fell loose around his waist and abdomen. The grandmother grabbed until she felt moisture under her nails. That was the kind of woman she was. Then, she bent him over the lime green dresser that he’d painted for her a lifetime ago and pushed a Vaselined 7UP bottle up his ass.
As she worked him over the glass bottle, she thought about the first time they did this. She’d begged to use an unopened bottle, which he thought was a bad idea from the start, but she insisted it would increase the sensation. Said she’d done it a million times.