"Twenty bucks," I say with a sneer.
Finnick Matthews thins his gaze. His lips puff to a snicker.
"Fifty bucks,"
Preposterous. These hunks of trash for fifty bucks? Who is he fooling in this town? I have seen his yard sale and I am the first one to have bought something for days. He ain't fooling me.
"Twenty-five. The day’s been slow huh?"
"I know your game, Sean. Forty bucks. Take it or leave it."
Bah! He is good. Two can play that game.
"Thirty," He was about to retort "I'll slip in a nude of someone as well,"
One of his blonde brows rose inquisitively.
"Whose nude?"
"Jessica Cho. I know you have your eyes on her. Lucky for you and me, she's got an Onlyfans."
"Send me the link and I'll help you load this shit in your van."
---
The day is nice in Misty Hollow. And by nice, I mean the sun is obscured by clouds and most of the town is inside a blanket of thick fog. Misty Hollow has been my home ever since I was a child. It will probably be so until I die. The town is situated near the Western coast and a thicket of pine trees on the East. The place is so isolated that the nearest civilization is a five-hour drive through the mountains. And heaven bless you that you won't encounter falling rocks, bears, and crazy mountain people, along the way.
I parked the truck on the cliffside boulevard where my grandma's antique shop is standing. The place is moldy and worse, dusty for my allergies. If it weren't for my pesky immune system problem, I would wholeheartedly like working here. I guess not.
"Dearie, that is a large haul you got there.” Grandma Oriana said, her voice quavering due to age.
Normally, we have Big Joe hauling this stuff inside the shop. He is this 6-foot hunk of muscle, thick neck but not that blessed in maturity. He should be helping me here, but the election for the town is coming and he is helping grandpa in his campaign to get re-elected. I wish he’d stay in the office. His opponent, Alex Hill, seeks to welcome oil moguls in our town and build an oil platform in the ocean beyond. The town is poor but we are not that desperate for money.
It took an entire hour hauling this junk up the storage attic. A little cleaning and fixing, and we can call these things antique. That is the general gist of this shop ever since its conception. We buy stuff from yard sales. If they need refurbishing, I do it with my other expertise in fixing stuff. Like this old grandfather clock. Luckily, it is still working but the movement of the second’s hand is a tad bit too slow. One look on the Internet will find answers on how to fix this clock. But not for today. After finishing my job here in the shop, I am going to go visit the town square to see the preparations for the elections.
Many towns in the United States have their method of choosing their mayors. However strange or mundane, that important thing is that a mayor is chosen. The town of Mist Hollow is no exception where the mayoral elections last for two weeks. One week of preparation for the election, the election itself, and another week of celebration for the winner. Today is the preparation week and there are already food-stalls built in the square. There are going to be chowders on a cup, caramelized apples, funnel cakes, deep-fried butter, and so much more. I am going to call Ron to join me. Hopefully, that idiot already got that part-time job in the next-door ice cream salon.
“Is that the last one deary?”
“Yes, grandma.” Just this strange golden gilded looking-glass with a fucking heavy frame. It took several breathing stops to get that thing up the stairs. I sat by a footstool as I took a breath. The mirror shone golden in the damp light of the attic. The mirror itself is blurred and my reflection is a warped caricature. Under the oblong reflective surface, a plaque says ‘Say a name and live their fame’.
Heh. It sounds so stupid it’s funny. I can’t believe I am going to follow the orders of a tarnished plaque.
“Ron Norton,” I said.
Suddenly, the mirror lights up brighter than what light it should be reflecting. No. It’s not the reflection. The light is coming from its own. The gilds glowed like molten metal, hot to the eyes but not to the touch. The mirror is ice cold. Its reflective surface swirled in a miasma of red and black. A black singularity in the middle sucked the red clouds, like a black hole of sorts. The mirror shimmered like the waves. A head appeared from the mist, and it is a face I know too well.
It is that brown-haired idiot Ron. His disembodied head floated on the flat surface of the mirror. But it looked so real that I could just touch it. His eyes are closed but the head seems alive from its breathing. I snapped my fingers to awaken that thing if it was Ron in the first place, but it did not budge.
One thing I remember about his face is that he has this large mole on the point of his nose. That is why I approached him when we were children. I asked him if he was a dog then he hit me in the face. Then teenagehood came and he got too self-conscious about it. He got it removed like it was never there in the first place. His face was interesting then, now it is mundane like the others. That did not bother me that much. His goofy personality is the biggest reason why I stayed around to be his friend. Not many people in this town can be an idiotic good like him.
I was about to send a snapped picture of his disembodied head when I saw that the picture is corrupted. Several tries yielded the same result.
I was too enthralled with Ron’s stupid face that I did not realize, this should not happen at all. It is impossible. I am a man of Science and I know for a fact, faces do not appear in mirrors when you call them. Nor do they corrupt pictures when their pictures are taken. I do not want to call it magic just yet. I stepped closer in the mirror to observe for anything that would give meaning to its machinations. The plaque and its cheesy saying remain the same. The gildings still glow, albeit weaker this time. Ron’s head bobs up and down in the reddish abyss. When I came to touch the surface of the mirror, it did not behave as a normal mirror does. My fingers slipped right in like dipping into a jar of honey. It stuck to my finger when pulled and pushing goes against a small resistance. I pushed my hand further and reached for anything beyond. Nothing. There is nothing but a windless nothingness inside. I turned my head to the backside of the mirror but my hands were not there. I do not want to admit it but the explanations are now leaning in the realms of the supernatural.
My hand reached deeper, now accompanied by my other hand. Hand turned to elbows and turned to complete arms. I stepped inside, ever curious about what lays ahead. There is fear in my heart but the ecstasy in the journey to the unknown superseded it.
There is only darkness inside the mirror but I could see myself as if there is a glimmer shining on me. Time has no meaning in this place. My arms could move but the arms in my nearly-broken wristwatch do not. In the distance, I saw a budding light. It bloomed as it speeded right at me. Soon, the light overshadowed the darkness. There is only light and the sense that I have fallen from great heights.
I awoke to a room I have known far too well. The strewn clothes in the corner, the dripping poster of a movie poster, and the set of chullo hats hanging by the rack mean one thing. For whatever reason, I am inside Ron’s room. The whole mirror thing must be a dream from a fucked up mushroom trip we always did behind our parent’s backs. He must be downstairs splashing water on his face because that is always what he did after a trip.
“Ron?”
Is my voice always this nasally? I coughed to see whether I have phlegm. Nothing. Maybe I am still tripping balls.
I left the bed for the bathroom. In doing so, I noticed very strange things. First, my hands are different. They are far from the pristine lengthy fingers I always treasured. These fingers are somewhat stubby and the fingernails are ugly squares. Boring. Second, I never wore dark clothes. I pride myself on wearing clothes fit for the current season. Today is autumn so I must wear brown clothes, not black ones. And I would definitely not wear old clothes with a crusting picture of the Arizona desert and word-garble about men’s polo club of 1988. Lastly, why is my groin so heavy? It is tough to admit but I am not blessed in the downstairs department. I peeked inside my boxers to see a humongous snake resting on its twin pink eggs.
I gasp. These are not my hands. Not my clothes. And definitely not my balls.
I ran for the mirror, my feet striding in awkward paces. I saw the reflection and, it’s not me. This is not my short brown hair that splits to two sides on the front. There are not my hazel-eyes that I’ve poked fun for being too basic. These cheeks, pink and plump, are a far cry to my nearly hollowed thin face. This is not me. I am Sean Connors. Not Ron Norton.
What. The. Fuck.
I pinched myself, counted the fingers on my hands, and looked at the clock for a minute. This is not a dream. This is too fucked and it feels too real to be a hallucination. I grabbed the phone on the nightstand and saw it unlock at the sight of my face. At its opening, I saw my mocking reflection in the low-brightness surface of the phone. Who am I supposed to call for fucked up unexplainable shit I got myself into? There’s Ron but I am him right now. Wait. If I am him then where is he and where is my body?
I scrolled through the contacts and looked for my name,
“Sarah Ariandel,”
“Samantha Lewis,”
“Sandra Edington,”
There are so many girls in his contacts. I thought he’s gay? Is he becoming bisexual behind my back? Bah! Get focused here Sean. Oh, there it is.
“Sean Connors,” I mentioned.
It went dark. Like instantly dark at the mention of my real name. Then I felt a force pulling me from the abyss. That pull became a push that launched me away from the mirror. I was lucky that there was a dusty leather sofa that softened my landing. I looked around me, then my fingers and then my brown polo shirt. I have returned to my grandma’s dusty shop attic and I am definitely back in my real lanky body. The mirror stands in front of me. Its hum shrilled high before dying down, awaiting a new name for it to function.
‘Say the name and live their fame’
Now I get it. Good job, Sean.
I said Ron’s name once more and his head popped back in place. Then I said my grandpa’s name. Ron’s autumnal themed face wrinkled before my very eyes. Dark spots appeared here and there. His brown hair exploded into nothingness ‘cept for some whits wisps at the back of his ear. I have never seen my grandpa without his eyeglasses and golfer’s cap but I know that this reflection is my grandpa. I said Ron’s name and climbed once more into his life.
I was back in his room but I did not stay for long. It was a test to assure me that my real name is the ticket back to my original body. If Ron knew I had seen his member, let alone, maneuver his body, he would be livid.
My plans for going to the town square are excused for the day. I told my grandma that I grew fond of the mirror and would like to see it in my bedroom. Of course, she agreed. One less junk in the attic means more stuff to buy and sell in the future. I drove back home with this magical artifact in my possession. I lied. It does not go well in the general aesthetic of my room so I hid it inside my dresser room. There, I sat on the grey-brown carpeted floor looking at my blurred reflection. I could say a name, any name, and live their life. Or I could do something, tell someone of this mirror. It is merely 10 AM and the day is full of possibilities. What did I do?