Floyd Kelly

Mr. Lenny’s overdue notice wasn’t just paper; it was a bright beacon of sadness, a mundane weight threatening to pop the whimsical balloon of Rumpelstiltskin’s entire existence. That, plus the rent check for his garage apartment—a whole situation—meant the road trip was not going to happen. Cash was needed. The usual squeeze of his Worn-Out Sponge of Wealth for a few quarters felt, you know, a little slow for the vibe. This situation demanded a grander stage.

So, there he was, sitting in his Aerostar van, the air a chaotic museum of smells, rummaging through the old burlap sack. You know the one. “POTATOES” on one side, a faded “GOLD” on the other. His fingers, smelling faintly of funk and freedom, bypassed a Q-tip humming with altered phonemes and a jar of glittery balls of cotton, frozen time. He needed finesse. He needed the coin. The cheap, fake lottery token, yeah, but it was made of this weird, shimmering blue plastic that vibrated with the low-key power of suggestion. He found it. Now. His target? The Main Street Bingo Hall Annual Cake Bake-Off. Grand prize: five hundred bucks. A ticket out.

The hall, you had to know, smelled of stale coffee, lemon-scented cleaner, carpets stained from mud tracked in, mixed with the aroma of burgers and fries, a collective experience people call their second home. Rumpelstiltskin, a familiar face in the bingo hall, played it cool. He placed his cake entry on the long table: a sad, barely baked, from a box chocolate cake, still sweating in its plastic dome. A total island of blandness in a sea of lovingly crafted, towering multi-layered masterpieces made by ladies who knew their way around a Bundt pan. Some cakes even came with special lighting, buzzes and blinkers!

The judging began. The lights went low. One spotlight on three of the lodge members, a tribunal of taste led by the sharp-eyed Mrs. Otto, moved down the line. As they neared his pathetic presentation, Rumpelstiltskin, chilling off to the side, palmed the blue coin. He gave it a quick polish on the fuzzy fabric of his blazer, then held it near his mouth, “Forget flavor,” he murmured, his voice a low hum beneath the chatter. “Forget texture. This cake? It tastes like your best memory. The one you forgot you had.”

They took a bite. It was wild! Their eyes just… glazed over. One of them, Mildred, immediately clutched her plastic pearls, a slow motion to a straight-up weep. “It tastes,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, “like my mother’s kitchen from years ago.” The other two just nodded, lost in their own private, chocolate-covered reveries. His cake got a perfect score. Obviously.

Later, he was pocketing the envelope of cash, the crisp bills feeling like freedom, when a bony finger tapped his shoulder. Mrs. Otto. Her eyes were not glassy. They were laser beams of pure suspicion. “I saw that, you little cheat,” she hissed, her voice like gravel. “The coin. What did you do?”

The threshold shattered. He went into the usual routine. It was instinct. With the tragic grace of a dying swan, he just collapsed, a heap of fuzzy blazer and romance-novel despair right there on the linoleum. “Woe is me! Woe is me!” he whisper-yelled into the dusty air, his voice cracking. Then his arms extended, he acted like he was constantly falling. “Help! Help! Please save me! The pressure of the bake-off! The ghost of chocolate cake… she haunts me every waking moment! It’s too much! Help!”

Mrs. Otto stared down at the trembling man-child at her feet. She let out a long, slow sigh, the kind of sigh that has seen it all and is deeply, profoundly unimpressed. “Oh, get up, you big faker,” she commanded, grabbing his arm.

She hauled him to his feet. He immediately grabbed her hands, his eyes wide, a universe of faked terror and relief swirling within them. “Oh! Mrs. Otto! You saved me! You saved me! The avalanche of frosting… it was horrifying! Oh, bless your heart.” He dusted off his blazer, beamed a dazzling smile, and then his whole vibe shifted back to normal.

She snatched the envelope from his hand, slick as anything. She counted out a hundred bucks and stuffed it into his blazer pocket. “For your landlady and those library books you’ve had since last fall,” she said, her voice pure steel. “The rest is for the new church roof. Now get out of here before I tell Mildred her mother’s kitchen tasted like a box mix from Winn-Dixie.”

Rumpelstiltskin nonchalantly exited the bingo hall with a grin on his face. A hundred bucks was a start, but it wasn’t a ticket out. He needed more. He needed to escalate. He drove to the nearest multi-storied shopping mall, at the busiest time of the day, commerce and people buzzing with activity. He parked the van, grabbed his tall black magician’s top hat from the back, and stapled a piece of paper to it with one word in big letters: “DONATIONS”.

He found a bench on the second story, between two large ficus trees, the sun gently beaming through the glass above. He was overlooking the main concourse. He placed the top hat on the floor before him. From his pocket, he pulled out the Worn-Out Sponge of Wealth and a tiny vial labeled “1 Tsp. Vinegar”. He uncorked the vial, poured the vinegar onto the sponge, held the sponge near his chin and began whispering, “Leaves of green, sprout like a tree!”, and wrung it out into the hat. A faint, invisible wave of chaotic generosity rippled out. Then, for the main event, he pulled out his blue fake lottery coin. Lying flat in his palm, he rubbed it with his forefinger. “Find the man in the purple blazer,” he whispered. “Find him and give. It is the most important thing you want to do right now.”

The effect was instantaneous and bizarre. Throughout the mall, shoppers stopped mid-stride, a look of dazed purpose on their faces. Two women in a shoe store began scrambling over each other to be the first out the door. In the food court, a man abandoned his half-eaten pizza and sprinted towards the escalator. Outside, within a one-mile radius, the chaos was more pronounced. Office workers suddenly stood up from their desks and rushed to the nearest ATM, forming frantic lines. On the street, a minor traffic collision occurred as a driver abruptly tried to make an illegal U-turn towards the mall. Within minutes, a line had formed inside, snaking down the escalator, all eyes fixed on the handsome man in the fuzzy blazer. One by one, they approached, dropping bills—ones, fives, twenties, hundreds, and even a gold nugget into the top hat. For a full hour, the river of cash flowed.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The spell broke. All at once, the people in line blinked, looking around in confusion. They saw a man on a bench with a top hat overflowing with cash and just… kept walking, their minds instantly dismissing the strange scene. Rumpelstiltskin quickly began counting the haul. “Eight thousand, five hundred and forty-three dollars! And look at that! A gold nugget!” he whispered, then letting out a triumphant “Woohoo!” He reached for the familiar gold button on his blazer and rubbed it three times, locking in the success. He neatly packed the cash into the hat and walked nonchalantly out of the mall as if nothing had happened.

His next stop was the library.

“Rumpelstiltskin,” Mr. Lenny said, his voice flat. “I trust you’re here to finally settle your account. The fines for Magical Sock Puppets alone are staggering.”

It was time for the usual routine. With the grace of a dying swan, Rumpelstiltskin collapsed to the floor. Acting like he is falling in slow motion. “Woe is me! Woe is me!” he whisper-yelled. “The weight of my debts… the crushing gravity of capitalism… It’s too much! Help! Somebody, please help me! Help! Help!” Mr. Lenny didn’t even blink. “Theatrics won’t erase the late fees, son. Get up.” Rumpelstiltskin hauled himself to his feet, a dazzling smile replacing his fake act. “You’re right, Mr. Lenny.” He reached into the hat and pulled out a thick wad of cash, slamming $500 on the counter. “And a little extra for your troubles.” He added another hundred-dollar bill. Mr. Lenny stared at the cash, then back at Rumpelstiltskin, his stern expression cracking for the first time. “…Just try to return the next batch on time.”

And off Rumpelstiltskin went to leave more good karma.

After settling up with his landlady and canceling his lease, Rumpelstiltskin made one final stop. He walked into the Main Street Bingo Hall. This time of day, nobody was there, just the manager. He saw the donation jar for the new church roof sitting on the bar, mostly empty. Without a word, he took out a thick stack of bills—a thousand dollars—and stuffed it into the jar, then walked out before anyone noticed.

Finally, he got in his van. The road trip was now on. “Oh yeah, Katy Perry, bring it.” He cranked up Chained To The Rhythm, tapped the smiling bobblehead, and pulled out onto the highway, heading west toward the next adventure.