Page 4 of Possibly Texas

For a few moments, I considered asking the teenager what his freaking problem was—why he had flung himself off of a bridge into the creek below. Did he have any common sense? Did he need help? Did he need someone to talk to? Should I call an ambulance? Instead, I found myself deciding to let the teenager have a moment to himself. Obviously, the dude was going through…something.

“Uh, okay,” I responded. “Uh, hope, uh, you’re okay and stuff?”

“Fine,” he said.

That annoyed me. Tiny Tim was singing about being satisfied with life, my suitcases were laying in a dirty heap on the bridge, my feet ached, the sun was sweltering, and this guy was looney tunes. Like, Bugs Bunny taking a wrong turn at Albuquerque crazy.

I watched for a few more moments as the guy floated on his back, treading water with lazy kicks from his legs and flaps from his arms, fully clothed, and completely insane.

Who the crap is Emily? Isn’t that what he screamed before he jumped off of the bridge like a freak?

Contemplating what would make some weirdo throw himself off a bridge—which I quickly determined was over enough water and not high enough that anyone could really harm themselves—was pointless. I reminded myself that I was in the panhandle of Texas. Weird stuff was bound to happen. If I looked up and saw an opossum driving a Big Wheel over the bridge, sipping a bottle of malt liquor, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

Finally, I pried my eyes from the teenager floating in the creek and knelt down to snatch at the handles of my suitcases. Moments later, my now dusty brown shoes, and the wheels of the suitcases, were clop-clopping over the other half of the bridge. I found myself already mightily annoyed with Possibly, Texas. The sound of my shoes and the wheels on the wood slats, the weirdo who leapt off of the bridge and scared the crap out of me, the dirt road that probably ruined my shoes, and Tiny Tim’s high-pitched voice, were giving me a headache. Of course, some of that was still probably attributable to the heat and the sun beating down on me.

Hopefully, Jack will have indoor plumbing so I can have a glass of water—if that’s not too much to ask for in Possibly.

When I reached the other side of the bridge, finding that the roads in Possibly, though narrow, were actually paved, made me feel a little less grumpy. At least the wheels of my suitcases could actually perform their job. Everything else that I found on the other side of the bridge made me feel…confused. From the other side of the bridge, I was pretty sure I could see most of downtown Possibly, and what I saw was different.

To my right stood an old two-story clapboard house, painted teal, with red shutters affixed to its windows. However, it wasn’t a house. The sign out front proclaimed it to be the post office. To my left, further down a street that curved off of the one I was on, was a gas station. But I didn’t see any cars. Or employees. Straight ahead sat an honest-to-freaking-goodness pirate ship. The Jolly Roger even sailed from a mast that reached for the sky above it. A quick glance let me know that the ship had been converted into a shop of some kind, and a few people walked in and out as I stood there, staring like a simpleton.

Further on, just down the street from the pirate ship, was what looked like a mosque or holy temple of some kind. On the other side of the street sat two identical buildings, that could have been homes or businesses, as well as what looked like a very small reddish-orange circus tent. At the end of the street that the post office, pirate ship, and mosque were on was a street that ran perpendicular to it. Four simple looking, one-story houses lined that street, though I wasn’t sure if they were homes or businesses. If I squinted a bit, I could see that on the street behind the one with the pirate ship there were other businesses and what looked like…train tracks? Off to my right, and much further down the creek, I could see a big red barn. I assumed that was simply a barn, but this was Possibly, Texas. Maybe it was a church?

I didn’t see a graveyard. That’s what mom told me to look for when I got to Possibly. Scanning the town around me, I couldn’t image that I had missed it. There wasn’t all that much to see in the downtown area of Possibly, after all. My aching feet told my brain to just ask the first person I saw if they knew where the graveyard was in town. It would be a lot quicker than walking around like an idiot until I just happened to stumble upon it.

My hands clutched the suitcase handles firmly and I marched towards the pirate ship. Hopefully, whichever person I found to ask actually lived in town and wasn’t just visiting. Then again, from what I could see, I couldn’t imagine anyone visited Possibly unless forced. Like a teenager whose mother dropped him off on the highway and said: “Good luck!” I mean, essentially.

As I approached the massive pirate ship, plunked down in the center of town, I realized a swinging glass door was set in the side of the hull. A sign over it proclaimed the establishment to be Starbuck’s. Not Starbucks, but Starbuck’s. From the smells wafting out of the place, I could tell that the pirate ship was actually a coffee shop. The other thing that immediately got my attention was the man—or what I assumed was a man—standing to the side of the entrance in a green-screen suit. Like the kind used to do special effects in movies. The suit covered every inch of his body, including his face and his head, but certain things—around the waist area—led me to believe the person in the suit was male.

“Hey,” I said as I approached, “can you tell me—”

“You can’t see me.” The man cut me off.

“What?”

“I’m invisible today,” he said. “I’m part of the hull.”

“You’re part of the—”

“Shhhh!” He hissed. “Hulls can’t talk. Maybe waves slapping against them make some noise or something, but they can’t talk.”

I just stood there, dumbfounded.

“Crap.” The man groaned.

Then he was reaching up and snatching off the green hood that covered his head. Golden curls and the sun-tanned, freckled skin of a guy not much older than me appeared.

“I ruined it, didn’t I?” he asked, golden flecks in his brown eyes sparkling in the sun. “I shouldn’t have said anything, right? If you’re being a hull, you’re a hull. Hulls don’t talk. I talked. I’m hopeless, man.”

“Wh-what?”

“If you’re going to be a hull, you have to be the hull, right?” he explained. “Everyone always tells me, ‘Levi Lee, you have to commit. If you can’t commit, don’t bother!’ And here I am talking to you.”

“I’m sorry?” I giggled nervously. “What is going on?”

The man—Levi Lee—frowned at me for a second, his eyes wandering over me before landing on my suitcases.

“Oh!” He jumped suddenly, a smile splitting his face. “You’re not from here, are you?”