Seamus pointed at the bottle. “Silicone with Teflon. You won’t have any more squeaky hinges.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I owe you.”
His eyebrow arched at the statement. With the devious expression, I couldn’t tell if he was checking me out or if he had something more sinister in mind. He scanned the bottle, and the price appeared on the register.
“When you were little, you and your dad used to camp on my land.”
I had almost made it through an interaction without the weight of my past pressing down on my shoulders. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my credit card, praying he didn’t turn this into an interrogation.
“Pops was quite the survivalist.”
No. I could see the open-ended question. They had gotten to Seamus. He worked like a sleeper agent. Just when he had gained my confidence, he laid the trap. When he didn’t take my card, I extended my arm, trying to quicken the transaction.
“Yeah.”
“He teach you?”
“Yeah.”
Where was this going?
“Scout troop needs an instructor.”
“I’m not great with kids.”
“Neither am I.”
No. “I don’t think?—”
He gestured to the bottle. “You owe me.”
Wow. He hadn’t wasted any time using my words against me. “I’m not the right guy for the job.”
“Pops would say otherwise.”
It was one thing to take my words and dangle them in front of my face. Seamus had gone below the belt, invoking my dad’s name. While my jaw hung open, he didn’t flinch. If it were anybody else, I would have stormed off, offering a two-finger salute as I slammed the door. Seamus didn’t mince his words. He spoke as if they were simple truths.
“They could use a man with your skills.”
“A tattoo artist?”
“A survivalist.”
It wasn’t the intent, but the statement landed hard. On the horizon, I could see the storm of an identity crisis. Without the shop, with the guys, where did I belong? In this moment, who was I? I thought my midlife crisis would involve a big screen TV and a sports car. Seamus redirected it to involve campfires and stalking game.
His eyes softened. Perhaps it was the tone, or my state of mind, but they hit like a punch to the chest. We were talking about starting fires and fishing, but I couldn’t help but think they had another meaning. Survival meant coming out alive, no matter the environment. It didn’t matter what Firefly threw at me; I’d come out the other side. Pops would have said yes… part of me wanted the thought of him smiling with pride.
“Fine.”
“Good.”
What had I just agreed to? I wanted nothing to do with this town. I wanted to show up, help Mum, and as soon as feasible, escape. In true Firefly fashion, it wrapped its gnarly fingers around my ankles and dragged me in, kicking and screaming.
Seamus swiped my credit card and handed it back. Without another word, he handed me the bottle, and I turned around, stunned by the deft way he had manipulated me. I had barely reached the door when I heard him on the phone, “Hey, Tyler, I found you a Scout leader.”
Firefly had grabbed me by the ankles.
THREE GREMLINS, ONE HATCHET
