It was a chilly evening in late November, and Little Craig was on his way home. Upon seeing Little Craig, most people would remark (not out loud, of course) that there was, in fact, nothing “little” about him. He was, in fact, quite large. If one were to have the courage, or simply the lack of manners, to ask him why a large man such as himself would suffer a name such as “Little Craig”, he would tell you, with a bit of a chuckle, that it was all in good cheer.
And Christmas, he would tell you, is all about cheer of the best of kinds. The lantern-lit streets of England had been decorated with signs and declarations of Christmas, as if to say, “Have yourself a merry little Christmas, Craig, and God bless.”
Craig rounded a turn at the corner of Baker and Seventh, his hands in his coat pockets. He saw – with a bit of a pang in his stomach – what appeared to be a homeless man, seated against the outer wall of a closed-down jewelry store. The man – the vagrant, Craig supposed – wore a colorful array of tattered clothes. His skin was a black as charcoal, and his eyes as blue as a cloudless summer sky. A bright red bowler cap rested upon his mane of unkempt hair. He was pressing a harmonica against his lips, breathing awkward, metallic notes into the instrument's rusting frame. The vagrant turned his eyes to Craig, smiling from behind the grille of his harmonica.
“Christmastime comin', sah,” he said in an accent that Craig couldn't quite put his finger on. “Play ya a song on my h'rmonica? Won't cost ya a dime, just a bit of yer time, to watch me rhyme!” His laugh was cackly and hoarse.
“Um,” said Little Craig, fumbling around in his brain for some measly excuse. “Well, I have this thing, and, um-”
“Oh,” said the vagrant, his blue eyes shot to the ground. “Well, nevah mind me. Nevah mind. Just, go on, and appreciate yer fortunes while ya got 'em.” He nodded, brandishing the most pathetic puppy dog face that Little Craig had ever seen. “Long life, and Merry Christmas.”
The vagrant turned his head away from Little Craig, who, in all his twenty-two years of living, had never felt so unspeakably evil.
“Well,” he said, almost a little too eagerly. “One song, I think, would be nice.”
The vagrant's face lit up like, ironically enough, a Christmas tree.
“Tha' right?” he said, fiddling with his harmonica. “Got any fav-o-rits-ah? I do a darn mean Little Drummer Boy, if I do say so myself. And I do say it so myself!”
“Little Drummer Boy, it is,” said Craig.
The vagrant smiled, pressed the harmonica up against his lips, and began playing what was quite possibly the worst thing that had ever screeched into Little Craig's eardrums. It didn't even sound like “Little Drummer Boy.” It sounded more like a throat cancer victim's attempt to do an Ozzy Osbourne harmonica cover. But Little Craig gritted his teeth, smiled, and nodded along to what melody the vagrant had achieved. When the song was finished, he nervously applauded, his ears' rejoicing that their torment was at last at an end.
“Oh, bravo!” said Little Craig as genuinely as he could. “Wish I could play like that. That was marvelous, sir.”
“Thankee, sah,” said the vagrant.
“So welcome,” said Little Craig, fishing into his pocket and pulling out a crumpled five-dollar bill. He proffered it to the vagrant, hand outstretched. “For the entertainment.”
The vagrant grinned at him, bright, crooked teeth showing behind cracked lips.
“Fuh me?” he said, astounded. “Oh, boss, ya shouldn't have!”
He reached out and tenderly took the bill out of Little Craig's hand. He carefully unfolded the paper and gazed at it as if it were treasure beyond wildest imagining.
“Wow,” said the vagrant. He turned his eyes, still bright and still blue, to Little Craig. “Thankah so much, sah. Name's Andy, by the by and by.”
He outstretched his hand to Little Craig, who tentatively reached out and shook it.
“Yah done me a good kindness, son,” said Andy, releasing Little Craig's hand. He reached up, popped the bowler hat off his head, and proferred it to his new friend. “To the best audience I evah done had, young'un.”
“Oh, I couldn't,” said Little Craig, and meant it. The hat looked more diseased and infested than the average used needle. He had no desire to touch it, much less put it on his head.
“Please, suh,” said Andy. “It's the least I can do.”
Eyes, like a lot of things, are storytellers. Eyes can show happiness, sadness, despair, elation, apathy, anger, love. This man's eyes said all that needed to be said. His eyes were old, withered, wounded.
“Please, suh,” Andy repeated.
Little Craig, accepting defeat, smiled politely and accepted the bowler hat.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Go on, then,” said Andy. “Let's see ya put it on.”
Little Craig reluctantly put the bowler on top of his head. He felt a warm, sticky liquid press against his upper left temple, and squirmed a little.
“There's a man,” said Andy smiling bright and nodding. “Go on, then. Youngster like you, I'm sure ya gots places to do, people to be. Take it easy there, buddy. And happy travels.”
Andy returned to the task of examining the five-dollar-bill that Little Craig had given him.
“Okay,” said Little Craig awkwardly. “Thanks for the hat.”
“Yeah,” said Andy. “Think I'll go away for a while. Hear Hawaii's nice and toasty this time of year.”
"Well," said Little Craig, fiddling with the hat in his hands. "Um, bye, I suppose..."
But Andy paid him no attention. It was clear that he was too busy contemplating his newfound fortune. Little Craig nodded politely and was on his way. The guys, he thought are going to think this is just hilarious.
When Little Craig arrived home that night, he had every intention of tossing the bowler cap into the garbage can and promptly wash his hair. Though he did not abandon the showering phase of the plan, he simply could not bring himself to throw the hat away. It was a gift, after all, and it would be awfully rude to just throw it away. So he placed it on his bedroom mantle-piece and pledged to decide the fate of the thing tomorrow.
He awoke the next day, in a completely different place, wearing completely different clothes, and with a completely different name.
First and foremost, the place. He was in a small, quaint little room about as spacious as an oversized closet. Aside from the bed and a small table in the corner, there were absolutely no furnishings whatsoever. Bright sunlight poured in through the window; it was clearly noontime, if not later.
Dazed, confused, and more than a little upset, Little Craig hopped out of the bed. He immediately tripped over something and landed on the cold marble floor. He spun around on his stomach to see that it was a small little box that had done the damage. He stood up, his joints aching, and picked up the box. There was a pink sticky-note stuck to its top.
On behalf of everyone here, I'd like to cordially welcome you to your new home here at the Farm! Sorry to move you abruptly like that! You kept slipping away like you did at Shanghai, we just couldn't risk you getting away from us again.
Anyway, just thought I'd wrap a few of your possessions from your old place. And if you need any help – any at all – in getting situated, come find me and I'll help you feel right at home!
Yours truly
SW
P.S. I see you've gained some weight, Mr. Baby-Face! Hopefully, with the help of some of our physical trainers, we can get you back in tip-top shape!
Little Craig read the letter twice, finding that it made even less sense the second time than it had the first. His head was spinning. Surely he was dreaming. He pinched himself, and felt a small sting of pain. No dream. Then kidnapping, perhaps? Yes, that had to be it. He read about this kind of thing all the time. Secret cults, government conspiracies. Or maybe he'd simply been institutionalized. He wasn't crazy, was he? And why in God's name was he in pink flannel pajamas?
He left the room and wandered out into the hallway. It was a perfectly ordinary hallway, just like the kind one would see in a hospital. Or a mental hospital, a voice inside his head declared. He slapped himself. Snap, he told himself, there's clearly been some kind of mix up here. Yes, that was it. A mix-up! He'd go to management and straighten this whole thing out. He would simply find someone to talk to and
Aha! There was a skinny, bald woman shuffling by on her walker. Probably a patient here.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I think I've been, um, misplaced.”
“How do you figure that, my dear?” she said.
“I'm not supposed to be here,” he said. “Where are we, anyway?”
“This is the Farm,” she said simply. “Who are you? You're not that blasted Humpty-Dumpty kid are you? Always falling on good folks, hurting their spines and whatnot.”
“I'm Craig,” he said simply. This woman clearly had some sort of dementia. It was probably better to stick to short, easy questions. “Where can I found S.W.?”
“Who?”
“The woman who left this?” he proffered her the sticky note. “It says her name is S.W. Or something like that. I honesty, I just, I don't know what's going on here. This place is a madhouse, I think.”
The bald woman examined the letter, her beady little eyes narrowing in some vain attempt to read the print.
“Oh,” she said. “You're looking for Snow, are you? She's probably at the courtyard right about now. Down the hall, out the left door. Probably doing that lambada nonsense. Hey, wait a minute, I know who you are.”
“You do?”
“You're that spider guy from Africa, aren't you? Nancy, I think the name was.”
“Sorry,” said Little Craig. “Wrong guy. I'm just Craig”
“I suppose. Good luck, Just Craig.”
And with that, she hobbled away on her walker.
“Name's Rapunzel, by the way. Hope you like it here at the Farm.”
What a strange name, thought Craig.
He wandered the halls, doing his best to follow Rapunzel's instructions. It was clear to him now that this wasn't a hospital at home. It was a retirement home. Everyone he saw, every last one of them, was old. And there was something about them, either something off-putting or just plain off. There was just something about this place that didn't sit right with him. The sooner he was out of here, the better.
The walls were lined with paintings. One, Little Craig noted, was of a small boy climbing what appeared to be an incredibly large tree that ascended all the way up into the sky. Another was of a lumbering man in Greek Armor wrestling with a lion. Another showed seven small, bearded crowded around a woman who appeared to be sound asleep in her bed.
Little Craig, following what the bald Rapunzel had said, found his way outside. The sunlight nearly blinded him. This clearly wasn't England, at least not the cold and raspy wintertime England that he had come to know and love. Here, the grass was emerald green, and the sky as blue as the ocean.
There were several old geezers in the courtyard, stretching and bending this way and that. A chubby woman with pale skin and olive-black hair was leading them; she was wearing a white t-shirt and black sweat pants. Little Craig somehow knew without having to ask that this woman was indeed Snow.
“Five, six, seven, and eight! Great job everybody! Great job!” She had an airy way of speaking, so sweet and innocent that it almost made Little Craig sick to his stomach. He tapped her on the shoulder, well-aware that he was currently being stared at by this section of Oldsville.
She turned to him, her smile bright and chipper.
“Yes?” she said in that painfully squeaky voice. “Oh, Anansi! Oh, it's been too long. Everybody, just do the next few exercise without me, kay? Oh, Jack, don't you give me that look.” She squealed with laughter. “Oh, you did! You did give me that look! Naughty, naughty boy!”
She put her arm around Little Craig's shoulder and ushered him away while the seniors resumed their exercise.
“I was wondering when you'd be up!” she said. “You've been out for a while! Three whole days, I think. That mean old Paul, always swinging that mean old club of his. Why, I have half a mind to put him back on bathroom patrol. You're cuter than when I last saw you, by the way. Much better than your last face; younger, too. Little chubby, though, but I can help you with that. ”
She sat down on a bright red bench and patted the empty space next to her, inclining him to join. Little Craig seated himself awkwardly, aware that the woman hadn't stopped staring at him since they met.
”Um, hi,” he said. “I'm Craig. I think, um, I think I'm the wrong place, you see.”
“Oh, Anansi, whatever do you mean?”
“That's the thing. I'm not this Anansi guy, and I'm not Humpty-Dumpty, either. I'm just Craig.”
“Oh, poor thing!” said Snow, rubbing his hair. “Why, you're about as jittery as a hydrophobic fish! Oh, poor baby! Paul must have hit you harder than I thought. I'm Snow, remember me? Snow White?”
“No offense, love, but your parents must have been right bonkers.”
She laughed again, this one even shriller than before.
“Of course, they weren't. Snow White is a pretty name, I think. Not as good as Anansi, though.”
“But I'm not Anansi!” he said.
“He really did hit you hard this time, didn't he? Unless...” her voice trailed off, and for a moment she seemed to be in deep thought. After a moment of contemplation, a smile crossed her lips.
“Oh, Anansi, you silly goose! I know what you're trying to pull. Well it's not gonna work on me, no sir-ree! Anansi, god of trickery and jokes, trying to pull one off on little old me! Why, I would call shame on you if you weren't so adorable. Anansi, you and I both know that there's only one hat like the one you have. It was one of the originals, no? Given to you by Edward Coke himself, I heard.” She patted him on the back. “Oh, the places we've been. But all that's over now, Anansi. You have to accept that. You can change faces and play charades all you want, but the fact of the matter is that it's time to settle down. We've had our time, honey. That's just the way the cookie crumbles, I'm afraid.”
She patted him on the back.
“Or try it, would you, just for me?”
Little Craig just stared at her.
“This is a retirement home?”
She nodded.
“Yes, of course. That's exactly what it is.”
“For who?”
“Why, people like us, of course. All the stories and fables of yesteryear. We have a home now, Anansi. You don't have to be alone anymore. It's better here, it really is. Just trust me, will you?”
He nodded, stupidly.
“Good,” she said. “Let me give you the grand tour.”
