“Hello,” I call out, hoping I sound at least half as winsome as a Bulgarian chocolatier. “I’d like to request service.”
She turns a page in her book, ignoring me. What was it Hanry did to get her help last time?
“SOCKS!” I shout, remembering. “SOCKS.”
At last she deigns to offer me her notice. “You again. The gnomes not working out?”
“No, they’ve been great,” I say, tapping the counter. “Although I probably need to call them off. Maybe tomorrow. Higher priority: I want to pick up additional services.”
“There’ll be a late-night surcharge, I’m afraid.”
As if that matters.
“I can work with that,” I say. “I mean to say—my client can.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m at the corner of Tramway Plaza, my toes sticking out a few inches past the edge of the curb. I’ve just set up the mostunlikely group text ever, including Dave the deadbeat vampire whostillhasn’t paid me and other spooky folks I met while running Spüktacular Weddings. As I wait for them to confirm that they’re prepared to render last-minute, epic-scale wedding assistance, I do my best to look like the person in need of a paranormal pickup while also remaining inconspicuous to the rest of NYC. That said, my usual desire to be unnoticed is losing out to bouncing. It’s a light bounce, granted, but it’s definitely happening.
What’s also happening: a bright-yellow smear making its way across the gray-paved horizon. It’s the color of a taxi.
But it is not a taxi.
It’s longer, taller, and technically some kind of oblong sphere with cutout windows. Also, it’s being led by a team of unnecessarily regal white horses. When it stops in front of me, my senses confirm:
It’s a pumpkin.
A giant, horse-powered pumpkin.
“Technically, a gourd,” says the coachman, settled on a platform abutting the winter squash. He has absurdly long and spindly legs, so his knees reach his chin. Reins to the horses rest somewhere in his lap. He’s wearing a vest that looks like it was stolen from a Victorian-era traffic guard. Affixed to it is a lapel with a pin that reads, to my delight,SPECIAL SERVICES.
“And you?” I ask. “You’re… a person?”
I probably shouldn’t question him so publicly, but I think the ship of normalcy has sailed tonight.
“Of course,” the coachman huffs unconvincingly. Also, his eyes are bugging out. “Do come in. And keep the curtains closed.”
I ascend the steps into the hollowed-out carriage, well aware I’m catching the attention of passersby.
“What?” I call out. “You’ve never seen an art car before? Art. Car.”
When this fails to make an impact, I follow the coachman’s advice to slide the curtains across the pumpkin’s pulpy windows.
The carriage smells like Trader Joe’s in October. Having made a jack-o’-lantern with Hanry on one of our many impromptu dates, Ican appreciate the carving of the vehicle’s vegetably interior. Precision cutting. The seats aren’t the least bit stringy. Though pumpkin juice is seeping through my pantsuit and into my fresh pair of underwear. Oh well, better this than beer.
We bump and rattle our way across the Queensboro Bridge. I close my eyes, resting until the horses whinny with a touch of harmonic drama. When they bring us to a stop, I crack open the thick-fleshed pumpkin coach door to catch a glimpse of our progress. By which I mean I brace myself to witness—inevitably—the land of Fairy.
We’re in a forest. Mostly conifers. There’s an old Wegman’s bag on the side of the road.
“Hey, Jiminy Cricket,” I call to the driver, opening the door farther. “Where are we?”
“Hello, Miss Samantha! We’re outside of Albany.”
“What, like Albany,New York?”
The driver nods so hard, I feel sympathy whiplash. “Yes! Our destination is but a few dozen miles from here.”
Damn. I always heard Upstate New York was weird.
“I should’ve guessed”—I laugh in spite of myself—“that Fairy wasn’t far at all.”
