Page 17 of Reptile Dysfunction

MASON

“So you’re telling me that I’m the only one who's complained so far about the park?” Mr. Murphy’s wrinkles look especially pronounced this afternoon, but that could be because they’re mere inches away from my face.

“Dear, personal space,” a pleasant voice offers behind him. Mr. Murphy turns to stare daggers at his wife. His better half and one of the more helpful elves I’ve ever met, Mrs. Murphy gently pushes past her husband to stand across the table from me. She clasps her delicate hands together and smiles. “Don’t mind him.”

“I never do,” I say pleasantly, then wonder if what’s just fallen out of my mouth was wise or not.

Certainly, no one else heard. I look past the couple to the sea of mostly empty chairs as Mrs. Murphy lets out a slight giggle. None of the monsters seated and waiting their turn to speak looks the slightest bit interested in our discussion.

Are they all planning on approaching the table directly? Though there’s a podium to ask questions from, I never fault a citizen for bypassing the formality to look me square in the eye, especially when those citizens are hard of hearing. And seeing. Curiosity isn’t a busy city, it’s a real home.

Mr. Murphy’s eyes narrow, momentarily covered almost completely by two thick and grayish brows. “What’s that –”

“Especially when there are more pressing matters to remedy than my husband’s gripe,” Mrs. Murphy interrupts, and I wonder what exactly she’s referring to. “Such as a treehouse fund. I’ve been talking to the fairies, and they know a guy who knows a troll who knows a wendigo who –”

Mr. Murphy rolls his eyes and scoffs. I get the sense he’s heard this suggestion more than once. “Who’s dying to get a better view of that grass?” Mr. Murphy motions behind me, no doubt in the direction of the park a ways downtown.

“What’s wrong with the grass?” It’s definitely not the craziest thing I’ve had to ask, and I scan the room to read the faces of the other residents. Who else thought the grass was boring?

“‘What’s wrong with the grass?’” he mimics, then rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Only that there’s too much of it! It’s boring to look at. I feel like taking a nap when I’m out for a walk. Is that what you want? An old man falling asleep when he’s trying to get some exercise?”

I’m relatively sure Mr. Murphy means his words. I shake my head and pour myself a glass of water, gesturing for him to continue. I know a rhetorical question when I hear one.

“A treehouse is a perfect place for a nap. Very safe, with no grass,” Mrs. Murphy takes the water pitcher from me and continues to pour, leaving me nonplussed and the snakes on my head snickering. At least a few of them.

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Murphy notice, so I smile and continue. “I had no idea you were at such risk of… sudden sleep, Mr. Murphy. What’s your suggestion? More dirt?”

“Weeds, of course! They grow fast, take over a place real good, and if you splurge on a few rare species, we may be able to get our hands on some fine and poky ones.”

“Which would look great from on high,” Mrs. Murphy adds. “From the treehouse.”

“And walking next to,” Mr. Murphy replies.

I assure the couple I’ll look into it and let the rest of the monsters on the planning committee answer questions. When our open forum is over, I head to my office and grab my phone from the desk. I made a decision a long time ago to keep my cell tucked away while in meetings. Today I regret the decision.

Hey, Mason, it’s me. Sergeant Adams. I smirk at my screen. I imagine the monster scratching the bolts on his neck with a meaty, green-gray finger. Didn’t he know by now I’ve got him saved?

There’s something going on with the new reposdfknt side fis… I frown at the second text, then smirk at the third. Sorry. New phone. It’s resale card to text.

There’s a fourth text, followed by a few more.

It’s really hard to next.

Next.

Next.

Damn it! I meant next.

Ugh. Call me.

“How are things, Sergeant Adams?” I ask as soon as the monster picks up.

“I meant text. It’s really hard to text with my new phone. I didn’t think it through when they sold it to me.”

“I can relate,” I reply, though the towering cop and scientific wonder had at least a few inches on me.

“I need you to know if I could do more about this, I would,” he continues. “It’s really unprofessional what some so-called journalists choose to do with their time. I just can’t tell if she thinks it’s wrong or not.”