Floyd Kelly

The highway west out of Orlando was just a long, hypnotic ribbon of asphalt. Shimmering. Oppressive. After about 330 miles, the engine of the ‘97 Aerostar started making a sound like a moose in the wild, so Rumpelstiltskin pulled off. He rolled into DeFuniak Springs. A sleepy, historic town. The air here is different—thick with pine, oak trees, damp earth, the sweet perfume of maple. He found a room at The Sleepy Pelican Motel. Clean, faded. Run by the Bentons, a kind older couple.

One week became six months. Just like that. He became a fixture. The handsome, eccentric guy in Unit 7 with his purple blazer, his van, you know, always smelled faintly of wet dog and other funk. He learned the town’s rhythm. Made friendly acquaintances.

He also learned about the man next door in Unit 8. Maybe 25. Seemed to be a total introvert. Rumpelstiltskin, a keen observer of human habits, had the man’s routine clocked: no car, worked at the Waffle House, spent every other waking moment in his room. The faint glow of a TV, the sounds of video game battles leaking from under the door. The rumble of the bass vibrating through the wall.

On Rumpelstiltskin’s desk, next to a little Zen garden full of mismatched marbles, sat a Tupperware bowl with a few chocolate chip cookies. Their presence made a few of the marbles glow. So, a few times a week, just to see what would happen, Rumpelstiltskin would pluck a glowing marble from the sand. A little flick. A soft roll against their shared wall. On the other side? The game’s triumphant music would just die. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” a voice would yell. A beat of silence. Then, “NO! NO! NO! NOT AGAIN!” It was his own little long-term project, you know? Causing a “Game Over” and trying to get the man to walk outdoors and touch the grass. The yells Rumpelstiltskin heard through the motel wall over and over, I shall not repeat.

Rumpelstiltskin’s other project was more personal. A hunt. A daily hunt. Leading to an odd revelation.

One morning, while paying his weekly rate, he saw himself on the little black-and-white security monitor in the office. The video showed him from yesterday, strolling past the housekeeping cart, peering into the trash, shrugging. A failure. Mrs. Benton, seeing him watch, let out a warm giggle. “Checking that cart every day, dear,” she said. “Looking for buried treasure?” Rumpelstiltskin just beamed a dazzling smile. “Something like that. It’s for a… super duper uber cool modern art project.” The Bentons just chuckled, shaking their heads. It was through these small chats over months that he learned they were going through it. Their granddaughter was sick. The bills were piling up. A quiet weight.

Rumpelstiltskin’s natural itch for mischief returned. The Walton County Fair! He saw the flier. He suddenly had a bright idea.

He donned his usual purple blazer, teased his hair into its signature chaos mode, and just… inserted himself into the parade. Right between the troop of Shriners in their tiny, buzzing cars and a flatbed truck carrying a prize-winning pig.

It was a glorious, small-town affair. Horses. Dogs. Candy raining down. To the crowd, he was a total unknown. Just some handsome dude in a bizarre blazer who appeared to be a celebrity.

Rumpelstiltskin, of course, was in his element. He waved like visiting royalty. And the crowd, seeing his confidence, his dazzling smile, just accepted it. They beamed. They waved back. A beautiful, shared moment of harmless delusion. Then, disaster. Suddenly, a five-alarm need to pee. The kind of pee where you got to go pee now or it’s a big mess.

He fumbled through his burlap sack. Pulled out the Jar of Frozen Moments—cotton balls and gold glitter shimmering. He popped the lid. “Eyes be seen, eyes be closed,” he whispered. The world stopped. The crowd froze. The parade, still. The candy hung in the air. For a one-mile radius, everything stopped.

He ran into a nearby coffee shop, used the restroom like a gentleman. On his way out, he saw it. A flier. The Bentons’ smiling granddaughter. A plea for help. Help with medical bills. He stared for a few moments, then, his face changed to one of “Aha!”, and a new plan snapped into place.

He went back to his spot in the parade. He reached into his left pocket for the lid and the right pocket for the jar to bring them together and closed the jar. Time lurched forward. He suddenly sprinted ahead of the route, straight to The Sleepy Pelican Motel which is on the parade route. He pulled out the tall black magician’s hat out of his burlap sack, slapped the “DONATIONS” sign on it, and placed it on the sidewalk in front of the motel.

Rumpelstiltskin pulled out The Worn-Out Sponge of Wealth and a new vial filled with just one teaspoon of vinegar. “Leaves of green, sprout like a tree!” he whispered, wringing the sponge into the hat. An invisible wave of chaotic generosity rippled out. Then, the blue lottery coin, he placed it in his palm and ran his forefinger in a circle. “Find The Sleepy Pelican Motel,” he said. “Help the family. It is the most important thing you want to do right now.”

Before anyone on the street could react, the door to Unit 8 burst open. The quiet introverted neighbor suddenly acts in a panic. Eyes wide, glassy. The game controller clutched in one hand. He sprinted out, desperately fumbled for his wallet, pulled out a crumpled five, and ran to be the first to drop money in the hat. As the parade hit that block, the effect took hold. For a one-mile radius, people stopped what they were doing and suddenly had an urgent new focus. They turned as one toward the motel, swarming the hat, throwing cash at it. Some, climbing over each other at times! The parade slowed, drivers abandoned their motor floats, causing traffic problems. When the last float passed, the spell broke. The crowd blinked, shook their heads, and moved on, their minds instantly dismissing the strange impulse.

That evening, Facebook. A message from Uncle Skidmark. A blurry photo of a happy black lab. “Found this guy wanderin’ around the diner. Looks like your boy Beebers. He’s safe here.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s heart leapt to his throat. Beebers! Oh my! … Beebers! Beebers! His dog. Lost two years ago on a visit to Jefferson Parish. He went to his van and sat for a while, thinking about memories with Beebers at the lake, the source of the wet dog smell. The constant, heartbreaking reminder.

“On my way Uncle Skidmark!,” he typed back.

He packed the burlap sack, left the money people donated to the Bentons in a big overflowing envelope and a thank you card in their office slot. Walking to his van, he passed the housekeeping cart. And there it was. Sticking out of the trash. A used paper towel roll, glistening in the sun in a way that just wasn’t natural. He glanced around. Snatched it. A triumphant grin. He tucked it in the burlap sack with a sense of accomplishment and rubbed the familiar gold button on his blazer, three circles.

He got in the van. Cranked up Déjà Vu. The final ritual: a flick of the smiling bobble head. Three times. The road trip wasn’t just a whim anymore. This was a reunion! He was heading west. Louisiana. Leaving behind a small town a little richer, a whole lot weirder, and one magical paper towel roll poorer.