Floyd Kelly

Rumpelstiltskin stared out at another usual Orlando afternoon and felt nothing. The day was too boring, too normal. He needed to change things up. The day called for a string of errands.

He stood, running a hand through his artfully chaotic brown hair to achieve peak chaos mode. A little mousse here, a bit of gel there. He shrugged into his go-to fuzzy purple and blue blazer—a garment of some renowned for its large, obnoxious gold buttons, for it was a whole look—and he headed for the door. His royal chariot, a 1997 dark green Aerostar van, smelled awful, as was the usual, a mix of wet dog, old tacos, fries and his own personal brand of funk. He upped the volume for Katy Perry, a ritual flick of a smiling bobble head, three times for good luck, and he was on his way.

His first stop was “Mama’s Pit Stop,” its air thick with the scent of stale coffee and cleaning supplies. He grabbed a candy and approached the counter, where Mark was scrolling absently through his phone. “Two-eighty,” he mumbled, not looking up. Rumpelstiltskin leaned in, his expression secretive. “Psst. … Hey, quick question. The Mumbo Jumbo Heebie Jeebie Stones… you guys keep those behind the counter, or are they in a locked case?” Mark’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with fun. Then, a smirk. “Aisle three, man. Next to the super duper ultra mega flaming corn chips.” He paid for his candy and bounced. The satisfaction? A solid 10/10.

Next, the library. He spotted Mr. Lenny, the librarian with his stern stare, a man already inside Rumpelstiltskin’s web of trickery. His enormous fees, late again and Mr. Lenny is on a mission. Then, with the grace of a dying swan, Rumpelstiltskin collapsed to the floor between “World History” and “Biographies.” He curled into a tight ball, his blazer bunching around him, and began to tremble, then his arms extended as if he is falling in slow motion. “Woe is me! Woe is me!” he whisper-yelled into the book-dusted air. “Help! Help! The Dewey Decimal System… it has me in its clutches! The numbers… They’re everywhere! Help me! Save me!” Mr. Lenny marched over, his shoes making angry thuds on the linoleum. He let out a sigh that contained the weary resignation of many such encounters. “Get up, Rumpelstiltskin,” he commanded, grabbing his arm. “The history section is for quiet, not your amateur theatrics.” He hauled him to his feet with surprising strength!

Rumpelstiltskin desperately grabbed Mr. Lenny by the shoulders, his eyes wide with feigned terror and relief. “Oh! Mr. Lenny! You saved me! You saved me!” as he faked being out of breath. “The vortex of numbers… It was horrifying! It was pulling me in! Thank you! Thank you!” He dusted off his blazer, reached for a familiar gold button on his blazer and rubbed it as if it had a meaning, he beamed a dazzling smile as if he’d just been saved from a dragon, gained his composure and nonchalantly strolled out, leaving Mr. Lenny shaking his head standing by books about fallen empires.

Rumpelstiltskin rode that wave of success to a new hardware store, smelling of formaldehyde, sawdust and ambition. With buying a pack of gum for cover, he located an employee in the lumber aisle. “Hey man, sorry to bother you,” he began, deploying the big innocent eyes. “I don’t need to buy anything, I’m just kind of loitering, just trying to get my bearings. Where do you keep the fine jewelry department?” The man stared, first at the gum, then at Rumpelstiltskin’s romance-novel face, before letting out a great laugh. “Buddy, if you find a jewelry department in here, it’s probably just a bunch of shiny bolts.”

Rumpelstiltskin let out a big “Woohoo!”

He hopped into his van and headed up the street to the usual low-key bookstore, named oddly, Just for the Pictures. He purchased some mints and whispered to Miriam at the register, “I know this is a long shot, but where can I find your bike repair department? My tricycle went flat again.” She did not even blink. She tapped her chin. “Rumpelstiltskin! You know, that’s a tough one. Most of our bike books are non-fiction, but the feeling of bike repair is pure poetry. I’d check both.”

Rumpelstiltskin giggled, zoomed out to his van again.

His final errand took him to the pharmacy. The pharmacist looked to be having a bad day. Perfect! “Excuse me,” he said, all serious. “I’m looking for your Fountain of Youth products.”

The pharmacist looked through his bifocals, “The what now?”

Rumpelstiltskin snickered, “Fountain of Youth”, then repeated it slowly.

Do you have it in a pill, syrup, spray, or… maybe a mist? Chewables are okay too.” The pharmacist gave him a long, blank stare for five full seconds, his eyes magnified through thick eyeglasses, then the corner of his mouth twitched. “Special order only,” he said, his voice cracking. “You gotta fill out one of those long-ass forms.” They broke into laughter.

And off he zoomed. Driving home, blasting Chained To The Rhythm, the itch for mischief was finally gone for the day. Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t pulled any huge scam, just a series of little interactions to make the day less basic. He had thrown some chaos into the world, made a few locals and strangers laugh, maybe given them a story to tell. Who knows? Low-key, he thought with a grin, that’s what it’s all about, right? Just dropping little sparks of weirdness into the daily grind. He looked over his treasured items in his van, “Now, c’mon magic realm, bring me some money!”