text: Douglas Reiche Approx. 3,000 words 108 Bluffview Drive, Troy MO 618-317-6014 douglasreiche@gmail.com MR. MORE-PH by Douglas Reiche Mr. More-ph could not be late for his appointment, so he tossed his briefcase in the back seat and got into the rental car. Beautiful day for a trip, he thought, looking around. He was a short man of 121.925 centimeters, or 129.54 centimeters, dressed in his pork pie hat that almost touched his ears. He was dapper: light gray suit, light blue button-down shirt, and large brown tie shoes. Mr. More-ph was stout with short legs, so he walked with small, quick steps, slapping the pavement with the sole of his shoe. His eyes were round, eyebrows thin, with a dominant large nose under which he modeled a neatly trimmed mustache. When he turned the key, the car started with a bang and a puff of blue smoke. He checked his watch, a frequent habit. The on ramp to the interstate was, ah! - Where? There, to his right, he pointed, quickly crossing over an empty lane. With the pedal down, the car leaped ahead a few miles per hour faster. An 18-wheeler blew its air horn, which shook the car, and quickly dove around him as he merged with the traffic. It brought little concern to this road enthusiast. Besides, there were three lanes on this interstate. “I only took one. Is there a problem?” he shouted. There was a sign ahead: Mudpatch 207 miles. It would be an enjoyable day. “Beep! Beep!” Now what! He looked in the mirror. Is this guy going to try to pass me? In that thing? “Let me show you,” he said as he pushed on the accelerator. The car from behind shot around him in a flash. What kind of car was that anyway? It was just a speck going down the road. Even so, interstates were very convenient, he thought, much better than those two-lane highways. Sometime later, there were flashing red and blue lights ahead, “Shame! Speeding!” he shouted, pointing out the side window. “Ticket. Ticket. Who’s getting a ticket? Not me,” he said out loud, pointing to himself. Traffic zoomed past. Mr. More-ph was oblivious to what was going on. A red light was on as he looked down at the dashboard. Almost out of gas? Are you kidding me? The needle flipped back and forth. Where was the next exit? “What! Thirty-three miles?” he cried. “Who made these roads anyhow?” Suddenly, a bell rang, ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding. First, a light, then a bell. The bell should ring before you run out of gas, he cried. It felt like he had driven a hundred miles before the next sign appeared: 22A Mountain City, 3 miles. Ding-ding-ding-ding. He pounded on the dashboard. “Oh, shut up!” The tank was almost empty as he pulled into the station. He pumped the gas. Wow! $7.83. “What is this world coming to?” he remarked. Putting the hose back, he saw the small hole in the right fender, The rental agent said it might come in handy in a pinch. Whatever that meant? Ahead was the interstate sign with an arrow pointing straight. It went under an overpass, and now there were only two lanes. “What happened to the third lane?” he yelled, throwing his hands in the air. He almost looked around, but lucky for the people behind, he kept driving. When he settled in, he decided that a two-lane interstate was fine. So, he whistled for a while, nothing anybody would know. Sometime later, he looked at his watch: 10:46. Almost time for lunch. The next sign ahead read, Corkscrew, 45 miles. He laughed profusely. Who would name their city Corkscrew? Traffic was getting heavier now. More people honked their horn and drove past. Some even waived. “Look at that. He’s waving with his fist in the air.” He waived back. Later, his head nodded, so he turned on the radio, but it only made a lot of static noises even when he turned the knob. Nothing! How could that be? You never know about those AM stations anymore. He turned it off. The traffic slowed down. Everyone was driving at the same speed as he was. There were orange cones on the road. Traffic slowed down even slower. There were trucks ahead, striping the road. When he was maybe in kindergarten, there was a man striping a parking lot. It seemed like a fun thing to do. But now he thought it might be even more fun to drive the big orange truck that painted the strips on the highway. So, what if you turned to the left or the right a little while you were driving? “Whoops!” he cried. He found himself turning the steering wheel. He almost hit the lady in the car next to him. Will you look at that? She is waving at me just like the guy. “All right! All right!” he cried. “I only crossed the line a little.” It was getting warm so he rolled down the windows and sniffed. Now it smelled like paint. It was 11:17. The road striping ended, and the traffic picked up speed. Oh, look, Corkscrew 20 miles. At 50, he would be there before lunch. As more mile markers passed, his foot got heavy on the accelerator, so he drove close to 60. Later, another sign, Corkscrew 5 miles. The countdown had begun: 4 miles, 3 miles. The city caught his attention. He leaned forward in the seat. “This place is crazy. All the streets are curved.” Main Street went up a hill and across a bridge. It turned to the right and went under a bridge. A burger sign reminded him of lunch. Where to eat? There was the Cork & Cleaver, but it was closed. Another one was the Corner Restaurant. There were a few cars there. That is a dumb name for that restaurant. It isn’t even on a corner. Down the street on Circle Drive was a food truck with a sizable hotdog painted on the side. It was right next to a large park. There was a line of people, a good sign for any restaurant. The first parking place was down the street. Finally, he got in line. It would be his luck that they would run out of food before he could order. The line moved and then moved again. On the marquee was the Special of the day, Twins-in-a-Bed: two dogs in a bun, curly fries, and a drink. What was so special about two hotdogs in a bun, he thought? Like most everyone, he ordered the Special. However, he had trouble seeing over the counter to pay, so he had to use The Box. It was for kids to stand on to order. It had clown faces painted on it. When he ordered, he thought Twins-in-a-Bed was unique, but when he got his order, the dogs were skinny and shorter than the bun. The condiments were hard to reach. The line backed up. The mustard was stuck - oh! It squirted. No! - on the lady’s sleeve. There was a place at the end of a park bench, so he ate there. This entire thing about Twins-in-a-Bed was a gimmick. It made you stop and order something, he complained to himself. He hated gimmicks. His watch said: 12:09. The car started with a bang and a puff of blue smoke. Where was the interstate? He looked. It was impossible to find. The signs took him around the park and down several streets. The interstate went to the left, but Mr. More-ph went straight and got on the highway. It was nothing more than a two-lane road. The sign read, Mudpatch 73 miles, so he continued driving. If you are going in the same direction, you will eventually get to the same destination, he speculated. It was only a mile further, and he saw trucks ahead of him. The speedometer said forty-five. “Move it!” he cried, clutching the steering wheel. The road was bumpy and in need of repair. The car bounced around. I thought there was an interstate to Mudpatch. I guess not. How could he have made a mistake like that? He rarely did. Well, two lanes will do, he concluded. Calico 23 miles, the sign read. That might be as funny of a name for a city as Corkscrew. Suddenly, he burped. The Twins-in-a-Bed was a mistake. Then, quicker than he realized, Calico appeared as he rounded a curve in the road. There was a big sign: See the Calico Cat at the Country Village Museum. Calico was a small town. The sign read, Pop. 162. “They may have had to count everyone in the cemetery,” he said out loud with a chuckle. A block into Calico, there was a big white two-story house. There was a sign in the front yard: Country Village Museum. After he drove past, he stopped at the edge of town. He liked museums. He had stopped at many of them. Would he really like this museum? A Cat? Still, he had some time, and besides, what else could you do in a place like this. So, he turns around and went back. There were only three parking places. All three were empty. The sign on the door read, Come In. The screen door squeaked as he opened it, but the wooden door was stuck shut. He turned the big doorknob again and pushed hard with his shoulder. It gave way. A lady entered the room. She was 40-something, or maybe even 50, brown hair in a bun on her head. She was wearing a flower dress with a tan-laced apron. “Won’t you come in?” The place was full of - things: lamps, tables, knickknacks, quilts, dolls, an ornate dollhouse, a latte and a cappuccino machine, and the smell of fudge. Where were all the people who drank lattes, he wondered? It seemed like this whole house was misplaced. It was like it had moved from a different place to here. He looked around. One minute the lady was here. The next minute she was gone. He looked here and there. She was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she had gone to another room. Maybe she went - somewhere else. In one corner, several shelves had old trains. He was delighted that he had stopped now. Train shows didn’t have old trains like these. He examined them. Suddenly, the lady appeared again. She took him to the other side of the room and showed him to the Calico Cat. It was large, about 6 feet tall, and stitched together from orange, black, brown, and calico cloth. The double stitching was perfect. Without the patches, it just might have been alive. Mr. More-ph was dwarfed by it sitting on its hind legs. But he was mesmerized by its life-like eyes. It seemed to be staring back at him and - might it move about at any second? “Did it - no, it couldn’t have - there, see, it smiled, didn’t it?” Suddenly, he forgot about the trains. He had lost all track of time. The large grandfather clock chimed slowly twice. Bang, bang, it echoed in the room and brought him to his senses. He hurriedly paid for the latte and two pieces of chocolate almond bark, leaving the Calico Cat and everything else behind. He would have to hurry now to get to his destination on time. A block away from the museum, he was out of town again. The highway sign was ahead, so he kept driving. The piece of almond bark was great. Then he tried the latte. “Whatever happened to regular coffee?” There was another sign: Narrow Road Ahead. He drove about half a mile. There ahead of him was an old wooden plank one-lane bridge. He slowed down to go over the bridge when suddenly a speeding car raced across the bridge toward him; “B-e-e-p!” It left a plume of dust in its tracks. He saw nothing, but he rubbed his eyes. In a few moments, the dust had cleared. Had he been on the bridge - splat! Something not to think about. Apprehensively, he drove across the bridge. The planks were lengthways across the bridge. It creaked as he slowly crept across. The car wanted to slip off the planks. On the other side, he stopped the car, got out, and walked around. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. The road on this side of the bridge was much narrower. The sign ahead read, Mudpatch 51 miles. It was still a long way to go. It seems he had left all civilization. The car started with a bang and a puff of blue smoke. The pace was much slower now. A small creek ran through a culvert buried under the road. A house and barn near the creek had long since been abandoned. Only a shell of each remained. They were something left over from another time. The next sign appeared: Narrower Road. “How much narrower could this road get.” he complained. Within half-mile, another sign read: Narrower Bridge. “This is silly,” he said, slowing down as he approached the bridge. Again, he stopped and got out to look. No one was coming, he made sure. Still, the situation seemed hopeless. The bridge was too narrow. He went back and opened the trunk. To his surprise, he found the antenna that had broken off the car roof and a brass-plated key like you might use to wind up a clock, but much larger. This key must be what the rental agent was talking about. Maybe this is what the hole in the fender is for. After several attempts to pick it up, he slid it out of the trunk and rested it against the bumper. Then getting his breath, he tried again. He walked around to the right side of the car, and after some effort, he put the key into the mysterious hole in the fender. Which much effort, he began to crank the key clockwise, and to his amazement, the car slowly got narrower with each crank. Had he been taller and less stout, that might have helped some. He cranked the key again. Then he stood at the back of the car and analyzed the situation. He took his hat off and scratched his bald, shiny head. The car would make it now. But when he tried to put the key in the trunk, he realized the trunk had shrunk, but the key was still the same size. It stuck out of the back of the trunk. So, he tied the trunk lid down with a piece of rope. The car hesitated but then started with a puff of blue smoke. He clutched the steering wheel and drove across the bridge. This bridge was worse than the one before, and he noticed the car was driving funny. The road on this side was unpaved with a rock surface and weeds in the middle. If he went far enough, he thought, there might not be any road at all. The car leaned one way and then another as it climbed over one rock at a time. It seemed like it might tip over. Mr. More-ph bobbled up and down and bumped his head, but he was determined. A narrow place appeared in the road with large boulders on both sides. The key might work again. Untying the rope, he got out the key. To his surprise, it worked once again. The car was now no more than 4 feet wide. He checked the measurement between the rocks and then the width of the car and was confident the car would fit. However, the key was too big for the trunk. So, he left it beside the roadway, intending to pick it up on the way back. The car was much smaller, he realized. The front seat was way too narrow. So, he put the seat back, squeezed under the steering wheel, and jerked the door closed. The car made a funny noise, but there was a puff of blue smoke. The trees were taller now and came close to the road. They blocked out the sunlight. So, he turned on the headlights. Instantly, he thought he saw something in the woods. Maybe it was - or maybe not. He would keep an eye out for it. The road was curvy with deep ruts. There was a chance the car could bottom out and get stuck. There was no one within miles to pull him out. After much ado, Mr. More-ph saw another sign: Mudpatch 3 miles. He was elated. Mission accomplished: almost. He would have jumped up and down in the car, but he had wedged himself in on all sides. However, beyond that sign was a second sign, Interstate 5, 4 miles. “Do you believe that?” But there was nothing he could do about it now. Again, Mr. More-ph carefully drove down the road until it went up a steep hill. At the top, the road looked like a narrow point. To reach Mudpatch, he would have to drive up that hill. With resolve he started up the road. But the car banged and struggled. Blue smoke filled the air. Rocks kicked out from under the tires. “Come on,” he yelled, as if the car would do better. The road steadily narrowed. The tires wanted to slip off the roadway. He put the pedal down. The car suddenly lunged forward faster than he had ever expected, throwing rocks and dust everywhere. It shot up the hill and leaped into the air. A moment later, Poof! It burst into a million pieces of dust. Everything disappeared into Mudpatch. When Mr. More-ph was late, the town sent out a search party. Mr. More-ph was never found, nor his car. Only two things remain. They are his pork pie hat, found a bit soiled, and the large brass key left beside the roadway. THE END