By me, with art by the illustrious Sam Messerly.
Click here to read from the beginning.
I survived my first week as Warbell’s ambassador while also working my electrician’s job at the same time. There were a few other highlights actually—or lowlights, depending on how you look at it.
Twice I had curious gawkers trying to break into my home in the middle of the night because they wanted to see what a tyrannosaurus looks like sleeping. We have guards now.
I had a chance to pose for a picture with the star of the Dinosaur Yacht Slaughter series of films, Paul Gransmall. I got his autograph, and he got Warbell’s. I love those movies—especially Dinosaur Yacht Slaughter 5: No Hope Atoll. They have a sea serpent that gets seasick in that one.
On Friday, when Warbell was munching away at a maple tree, a confused squirrel dived down his throat and he actually coughed so hard that he launched the poor rodent into a passing convertible. Luckily the driver only screamed like a ninny as the panicked squirrel ran circles in the back seat before bounding out and down the street and up the nearest telephone pole.
And finally it was Saturday. Warbell had some kind of job interview—I couldn’t remember which one. While he was busy with that, I went to the park to meet Colander, though I arrived long before three in the afternoon. We had agreed to meet at a specific picnic table—the one near Lake Bunch closest to the dock. Before I met with Colander to talk about the (suspected) eggs, I was trying to collect my thoughts about everything that had happened that week. Part of my process of doing that was just writing down some of the most memorable events, like I shared above. But I also took stock about all the things I was afraid of, all my doubts about Warbell, all my frustrations and confusions.
Colander appeared at 3:05 wearing overalls, yellow tennis shoes with gaudy smiley-face pom-poms and a big smile as she bounced down the sidewalk. She was 35 and dressed like a sugar-rushed five-year-old, but it made me smile. Her eyepatch had an omelet design today, in honor of our meeting presumably.
“All right,” she said, hopping sideways and scooching into the picnic table seat then dropping her head low conspiratorially. “Boiled, scrambled, or fried?”
“Raw so far,” I said, and took out the two strange rocks and placed them on the table. They were almost perfectly round, like oversized softballs, but dark brown with a rough surface. I had washed them thoroughly before our meeting, so they were dust free. Colander rolled one of them around on the picnic table a few times.
“Want to just break one open?” she asked.
“Right here, where anyone can see us?” I asked. “Anybody walking by could catch a glimpse of what we’re doing. There could be a dinosaur inside!”
Colander picked up one of the rocks and shook it up and down, listened to it, gave it a long sniff, put it back down again.
“Nah,” she said. “Definitely not hollow. No dinosaurs in there.”
And with that, she whipped out a hammer and hit the egg with all her might.
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