martinsmithstories

Image by Heather Plew from Pixabay

Warning: This story contains vulgarity.

Frank Hockley was midway through a game of Solitaire on his computer when the doorbell of his pawn shop tinkled. He looked up and watched in intrigue as an old man, stooped and grey, pushed open the glass door and entered. It wasn’t the old man who piqued Frank’s curiosity—for seniors often popped into his shop to pawn their worldly goods to generate a little cash to pay a power bill or to have a flutter at the pokies or to get through to their next pension payment—but, rather, what the old man pulled behind him in a rickety, rusty handcart: a mysterious bulk covered in a grey, ragged flannelette sheet.

The old man wheeled the trolley over to the shop’s counter, behind which Frank stood. The wheels squeaked and groaned under the weight of what seemed, to Frank, a heavy object under the sheet. Halting before the counter, the old man released the cart handle and steadied himself with a shaky hand placed upon the counter. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a pill box and dispensed himself a white tablet.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Frank said. ‘Are you OK? Can I get you a glass of water?’

The old man wiped his brow with a handkerchief and cleared his throat. ‘No, young man,’ he said, ‘but thank you for offering.’

‘That’s OK. So, how may I help you, today?’

‘I wish to sell my Simile Simulator.’

‘Your what?’

‘My Simile Simulator.’ The old man stepped back, and with a dramatic flourish of his hand, he pulled the sheet from the trolley and revealed a huge, battered suitcase.

Frank stepped around the counter and stood before the trolley. ‘Looks like an old suitcase to me, sir.’

‘No. Not the portmanteau. It’s inside.’

The old man unclicked the lock and opened the suitcase. A bright light burst out, and as Frank shielded his eyes with his hands, he stared in awe at the strangest object he’d ever seen, and that was something, given he’d seen some pretty weird shit over the twenty years he’d owned the pawn shop. There, suspended within the suitcase, floated a revolving glass globe the size of a soccer ball, emitting a bright white light that lit up the shop.

Frank ran his hand under the glowing ball. Twice. How the hell was that ball being held up? he thought.

‘What the hell?’ Frank whispered as he reached for and put on his sunglasses. He turned to the old man and said, ‘What did you say this thing was called?’

‘A Simile Simulator.’

‘Never heard of it. What’s it do?’

‘It lets people be what they want to be.’

‘How’s it work?’

‘Simple,’ the old man said as he unzipped the suitcase’s exterior pocket and removed a pair of glasses. ‘Wear these safety glasses, place your hands over the glowing sphere and say “I want to be”, followed by your desired simile. You know, something like “as rich as a king”. You will then transform into what you have said you want to be. The transformation lasts thirty minutes. A run-down clock is visible in your field of vision. At the end of thirty minutes, you’ll return to your initial state of being, but only if you’re still wearing the glasses. Lose them, and you’ll be stuck in your simile for the rest of your life.’

‘So … it’s a bit like one of those 3-D simulators?’

‘Sort of, except it’s a real environment, not some virtual realm. You actually are your desired simile.’

‘Really? So I can touch and feel things?’

‘Yes. You can touch, smell, taste, hear and see. You can eat, drink, defecate and pee. You can love, hate, hurt and have sex. You can even murder and return after the thirty minutes expire without there being any repercussions. But you must exert extreme caution, for if you die during your simile simulation, there’s no coming back. Just like real life, once you’re dead, you’re dead.’

Frank rubbed his chin, took another lap around the suitcase and pulled up in front of the old man again. This thing’s gotta be worth a frigging fortune, Frank thought.

‘So … how much do you want for it?’ Frank said.

‘A thousand dollars.’

‘A grand? Phew!’ Frank ran his fingers through his curly locks. ‘That’s a big ask. Look, I’ll be honest with you. I just don’t think there’d be much in the way of demand for one of these things. Your average Joe Blow doesn’t even know what a simile is, let alone how to use one. I’ll give you 50 bucks for it.’

‘What? Fifty?’ The old man coughed and spluttered until he blued in the face. He spilt tablets over the counter as he fumbled with his pill box. Having swallowed three tablets, he said, ‘That is an insult. This is a priceless relic.’

‘And yet here you are, looking to offload it for a grand. Look, buddy, by the time I cover my electricity, insurance, rent and all my other business expenses, I’d be lucky if I could afford to buy a decent pho for dinner if I sold this.’

‘How about eight hundred?’

Frank maintained his poker face. ‘No.’

‘Seven hundred?’

‘No.’

‘Five hundred, but that’s as low as I’ll go.’

He’ll go lower, Frank thought. They always do.

‘Like I told you, buddy, fifty bucks. That’s my offer. Like it or lump it. This thing’s junk.’

‘Junk? Junk? This is highway robbery, I tell you. You’re killing me!’

‘Fifty bucks, pal, or you can wheel that thing out of the shop and try your luck elsewhere.’

The old man looked at the Simile Simulator and reached for his chest, as if parting with it would break his heart.

‘O … O … OK. Fifty dollars.’

‘Great.’ Frank rang the register and handed the old man a crumpled fifty-dollar note. ‘And that’ll include the cart as well.’

‘Oh God! You’re killing me!’ The old man clutched his chest.

‘Look, the thing’s a rust bucket. I’m doing you a favour by taking it off your hands.’

‘You are killing me!’ The old man’s face purpled and he collapsed to the ground.

Frank ran around the counter and squatted and checked the man’s breathing. Nothing. He checked the man’s pulse. Nothing. He stood up and reached for the phone and dialled triple-zero. As the phone rang, he reached down and removed the fifty-dollar note that rested in the dead man’s hand and pocketed it.

***

It had taken until four o’clock to remove the old man’s body and for Frank to answer all the police questions and agree to visit the police station the next day to sign-off on his statement. And all that time, the Simile Simulator sat inside the closed suitcase in the middle of the shop floor.

‘Bye,’ Frank said to the officers as he escorted them to the front door, ‘and thanks for your help.’ Once the officers exited the shop and disappeared out of sight, Frank dropped his feigned smile, slammed the door shut and put the ‘Closed’ sign up. He rushed over to the Simile Simulator and, with much grunting and groaning, wheeled it out to the back of the shop.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s take this baby for a spin.’

He put on the safety glasses and opened the suitcase. Again the bright glare blinded him, but this time he noticed a glowing red ‘30:00’ in the bottom right-hand corner of his field of vision. The run-down clock.

Frank reached his hands out and steadied them over the revolving ball. As it spun below his fingers, he paused and pondered. So what did he want to be? Rich? Famous? Popular? Revered? No, none of those things. No, what he really wanted was to be no longer afraid, to be no longer scared of change and the big, wide world, to take that first step to becoming someone other than a shitty pawnbroker and to rise above being a pathetic omega male living alone in a bedsit above a business he didn’t really understand and which was on the verge of going bust. Yes, that’s what he wanted to be: brave. Brave enough to stand up for himself. Brave enough to walk out. Brave enough to survive and thrive in the jungle out there and to be, well, King of the Jungle. Yes, that’s what he wanted to be.

Frank closed his eyes, took a deep breath and said, ‘I want to be as brave as a lion.’

The ball’s spinning accelerated and its glow brightened. His hands snapped to the ball’s surface and pulled him forward. He braced his feet, but the more he tried to hold his ground, the more the pulling increased until he lost his footing and tumbled forward and fell into the great light.