A Dragon and A Shoe and A Chicken Bone pt. I
Harold was small by dragon standards, but not much smaller than his brother Kyle. And he had a nice smile which everyone agreed was, by far, his best feature.
But Harold liked to think his best feature was his feet. Not that they looked like anything special, though he did get a frequent pedicure at the nail salon around the corner from the deli where he worked (Mrs. Kim, Mr. Kim's sassy and emotionally vulnerable wife, was a wonder with the nail file), he just thought they were nice.
"Have you met Benji?" Mrs. Kim would ask. He had, of course. Benji was the deli's new delivery boy. He had trained Benji himself, even drew him a tiny little map of the town on a napkin with arrows and dots helping to illustrate several short cuts Harold had discovered on his own.
But he'd humor her every time she asked. "Yes, I have," Harold would reply, and Mrs. Kim would smile.
"He has a very nice butt."
"Yes," Harold would sigh as Mrs. Kim massaged the scales on his large, green heels.
Harold loved his feet. There was just something about them, something subtle, something that went on day after day unappreciated by anyone but himself.
It was odd, the town thought, that such a nice young dragon like Harold would spend so much time doting on his feet when he had such a pair of fantastical wings. For, while Harold was small, his wingspan was phenomenal.
Twice had he knocked over the display in the deli's window turning carelessly while helping a customer. After the second spill, spoiling over three pounds of fresh sliced bologna, Mr. Swanson, the store's round and proud Grecian owner, banished Harold back to the supply closet to spend his eight hour workdays emptying boxes and stocking shelves.
Here, in the supply room, is where Harold did most of his thinking. He thought about seagulls and orchids and existentialism and collectors plates, but mostly he thought about matrimony. At the age of 25 (26 in dragon years) Harold was beginning to grow lonely.
Harold had only had one girlfriend in his entire life. Her name was Stacey and was two years Harold's senior. They had met through his high school's drama program; Harold, a sophomore just finding his stride in the school's confusing and cliched social system, and Stacey, a well meaning girl failing to cope with the reality of her situation as a graduating senior.
They dated for two weeks but broke it off after Stacey's lactose intolerance grew out of any plausible control.
To be married and have a family, Harold would think to himself back in the deli's supply closet. That is my dream.
And while most dreams, I have never been more sorry to say, rarely come true, this was a dream Harold was determined to pursue.
But Harold liked to think his best feature was his feet. Not that they looked like anything special, though he did get a frequent pedicure at the nail salon around the corner from the deli where he worked (Mrs. Kim, Mr. Kim's sassy and emotionally vulnerable wife, was a wonder with the nail file), he just thought they were nice.
"Have you met Benji?" Mrs. Kim would ask. He had, of course. Benji was the deli's new delivery boy. He had trained Benji himself, even drew him a tiny little map of the town on a napkin with arrows and dots helping to illustrate several short cuts Harold had discovered on his own.
But he'd humor her every time she asked. "Yes, I have," Harold would reply, and Mrs. Kim would smile.
"He has a very nice butt."
"Yes," Harold would sigh as Mrs. Kim massaged the scales on his large, green heels.
Harold loved his feet. There was just something about them, something subtle, something that went on day after day unappreciated by anyone but himself.
It was odd, the town thought, that such a nice young dragon like Harold would spend so much time doting on his feet when he had such a pair of fantastical wings. For, while Harold was small, his wingspan was phenomenal.
Twice had he knocked over the display in the deli's window turning carelessly while helping a customer. After the second spill, spoiling over three pounds of fresh sliced bologna, Mr. Swanson, the store's round and proud Grecian owner, banished Harold back to the supply closet to spend his eight hour workdays emptying boxes and stocking shelves.
Here, in the supply room, is where Harold did most of his thinking. He thought about seagulls and orchids and existentialism and collectors plates, but mostly he thought about matrimony. At the age of 25 (26 in dragon years) Harold was beginning to grow lonely.
Harold had only had one girlfriend in his entire life. Her name was Stacey and was two years Harold's senior. They had met through his high school's drama program; Harold, a sophomore just finding his stride in the school's confusing and cliched social system, and Stacey, a well meaning girl failing to cope with the reality of her situation as a graduating senior.
They dated for two weeks but broke it off after Stacey's lactose intolerance grew out of any plausible control.
To be married and have a family, Harold would think to himself back in the deli's supply closet. That is my dream.
And while most dreams, I have never been more sorry to say, rarely come true, this was a dream Harold was determined to pursue.
posted by AHaynes at 12:31 AM
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