The Fab Four were reunited and gathered together on Peyton’s couch. The television was a huge Samsung, the latest model, yet, underneath it was an ancient DVD player. Joca, Peyton’s father, had hundreds of DVDs in several bins in the basement, all the movies arranged in a half-hearted attempt at alphabetic order. He swore to always have a DVD player, nevermind that the world was streaming. This night, while her parents were off to dinner, Peyton and her friends were watching her copy of Gladiator. She had uncovered it in their collection a few days before, sloppily shoved between Gremlins 2: A New Batch and a different movie called Gladiator. Now she and her friends were about to enjoy the theatrical phenomenon of the year 2000.
When the pizza arrived, the movie party began. The pizza had cheese baked into the crust, which Lloyd had to talk the rest of them into ordering. He made a really good case for cheese in the crust, claiming it was the pizza innovation the world had been waiting for. His brother argued that it wasn’t something new, it was only new to Bowl Valley. Lloyd told Floyd that he was worse than Hitler. Cheesy crust it was.
The brothers had seen Gladiator before, but they remembered little enough that the movie felt almost new. Melanie didn’t like the violence, but Peyton thought it was all fun.
“Why are the swords so short?” asked Peyton.
“I asked that same question last time we saw this!” said Lloyd. “Why would you make them so short? Doesn’t that make it hard to cut people in half?”
Floyd shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“But you read all those fantasy books with swords and stuff in them.”
“Yeah. So?”
“They never mentioned why some swords are short and some are long?”
“No. It never came up.”
“I think that the Romans were really small,” said Peyton. “Maybe that has something to do with it. Probably not, though.”
“You mean, like, they weren’t strong enough to swing really long swords? They were too small?” asked Lloyd.
“I said ‘probably not’.”
“Yeah, but it could be true,” said Floyd.
“Superman’s dad is pretty tough,” Lloyd pointed out. “He’s way better in this than in Man of Steel.”
“It’s a way better movie,” said Peyton.
“It’s not way better, but it’s better.”
“I disagree,” said Floyd. “I think it’s way better.”
“Yeah, but you remember the fight in Metropolis? They tore that city up! They destroyed everything! It was like Superman didn’t care.”
“Oh, yeah. That was pretty awesome,” Floyd conceded.
About an hour into the film the party ran out of Coca-Cola. Peyton started getting up but Floyd stopped her. Determined to be her hero, he offered to get another 2-liter bottle out of the refrigerator. He whipped through the house and into the dark kitchen and flicked on the light. The door was stuck, which was a strange way for a seven-thousand dollar refrigerator to act. Floyd gave it a few yanks and the door finally swung open. A jar of pickles jumped out and plunked to the floor. He picked it up, then he smelled smoke.
Floyd takes smoke more seriously than most people. Where there’s smoke there’s fire. Floyd unquestionably believed that. Once, when he was eight-years-old, Floyd smelled smoke. With a quick look around he’d discovered, to his surprise, that his feet were on fire.
He set the bottle of Coke down and walked into the next room. When he turned on the light, his eyes immediately found the cause of the smell directly across from him. It was some kind of setup of flowers and candles. Although he could see that nothing was on fire, Floyd crossed the room to get a better look, anyway. It was some kind of a shrine chock full of unlit candles, flowers and little cacti. At the center of the jumble was a picture of some kind of holy figure. He wondered what it was. He was about to turn away when he heard someone come up from behind him. It was Peyton. She smiled. “I was wondering what was taking you so long.”
Floyd was embarrassed. “I’m sorry!” he blurted out. “I wasn’t trying to snoop. Really.”
Peyton waved her hands. “Don’t worry about it. No big deal,” she said.
“What is all this?” Floyd asked after a moment of comfortable silence, pointing to the shrine.
Peyton got a few steps closer. “This is an altar for Babalú-Ayé.”
“Oh, who is babaloo...eye...ay?” he asked, pronouncing the name carefully.
“He’s like a saint. The saint of misfortune and disease. Although, it’s way more complex than that.”
“Wow.”
“We don’t use this for worship. My father keeps it to honor the memory of my grandmother, who always kept an altar just like this her whole life. He started doing this just after she passed.”
“A shrine to disease and misfortune?” Floyd was a little nervous even saying ‘disease and misfortune’. Two things that were very Floydian.
“It’s not uncommon where my family comes from.”
“Oh,” Floyd replied with a nod. “Does it work?”
Peyton looked a little surprised. “Work? What do you mean?”
“Does it help? Ward off misfortune and disease?”
“Well, none of us have diseases. So, I guess we have good luck.”
“I wouldn’t mind a little good luck,” Floyd replied with a smirk.
“I think I have good luck.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she said, her smile growing as large as the moon. “I have the best friends.”
Peyton’s eyes locked on to his, and he got his first good, long look at them. They were a bewitching amber. Floyd, for the first time in his life, was absolutely positive what he was supposed to do. She wanted him to kiss her. Her long look was asking him, no, daring him to try. He felt the butterflies in his stomach begin to churn. Actually, it felt more like a clothes dryer set to tumble. How did he do this? Did he just lean in? He’d never kissed a girl. Not even close.
Was it always this scary? Their heads were just a couple of feet apart, but all he could do was glare at her sheepishly. She was watching him closely now, her eyes locked onto his, the look on her face was calm and inviting. He took a small step forward, getting ready to dive right in. Peyton reached out, took his hand. Her touch stopped him cold. She gave his hand a little tug and pulled him gently back toward the kitchen. It was too late. He’d missed his chance.
“We were watching a movie, remember?” she said.
For the rest of the night, he would brood over what a coward he was. Lloyd would have gone in. He would have taken the chance. Well, he figured, that’s why Lloyd is Lloyd, and Floyd is Floyd.
Two hours after the pizza party ended, Floyd was in bed, unable to even approach sleeping. He couldn't stop thinking about Peyton. He was certain that she wanted him to kiss her. She'd been waiting for it. It was the most important moment in his life and he'd screwed it up. When his phone beeped, announcing the arrival of a text message, he was grateful for the distraction. He knew exactly who it was.
FLOYD: What's up Piers
PIERS: Hey. I've got some things to talk about with you.
FLOYD: Hit me
PIERS: I've been thinking about something we haven't tried.
Floyd laughed a little, there in the dark. Piers would never change.
FLOYD: We already have the dice thing
PIERS: I know, just hear me out.
FLOYD: Okay. Go ahead
PIERS: We haven't tried something very obvious. Good luck tokens.
FLOYD: You mean like a rabbit's foot? Those things creep me out, tho
PIERS: I was thinking more traditional tokens. Things I've been reading about.
FLOYD: What kinds of things?
PIERS: Things passed on from ancient cultures who were more in tune with nature.
FLOYD: Oh. Like they lived in the woods and stuff?
PIERS: I suppose so. I've found some things in my home that may be useful.
FLOYD: But what things?
PIERS: There is a selection.
FLOYD: An example?
PIERS: A necklace. A few adornments like that.
Floyd didn't know what to say. This seemed way less scientific than the rolling dice scheme.
FLOYD: Hmm. I'm going to have to think about this
PIERS: Take your time.
It was a cold Monday morning, and Floyd Piccolo was well-rested. He always slept best in the cold. He'd rather bundle up for warmth in the winter than sleep above his sheets on a balmy summer night. The night before, he’d snuggled under a thick comforter and several pillows. Now he was awake and refreshed. Even on a school morning, it took him a while to get up the courage to step out from under the comforters. He feared the sting of the cold. Eventually, though, feet touched the floor. Wandering up to the window he looked out onto a nightmare landscape of ice and fear. A Floyd Piccolo nightmare. He lunged for his phone on the night table and immediately started composing a text.
FLOYD: Bring the junk over. I'm in.
Floyd's sense of danger, historically, has not been too keen. So, he’d learned to try and be aware as possible, always. However, he'd known there was a chance of rain the night before. With barely a glance out the window, he knew that it had rained under freezing temperature, leaving the entire world glazed with a thin sheet of ice. He'd seen an ice storm once before, on a winter day in the distant past that he would rather forget. But forgetting such a day was not an option, unfortunately.
An hour before school, Piers was standing in Floyd's room. He'd emptied a bag full of disparate items onto Floyd's bed. "I brought all the charms I could muster. It's not a lot, but you won't be going out there naked."
"Glad you're here, Piers," said Floyd sincerely.
"No problem," said Piers.
Piers held an item up for Floyd to examine. It was a wig, but not a normal wig that a person could possibly wear casually, it was an outlandish costume wig. Floyd looked upset. "What is that?" he asked.
Piers combed the hair with his fingers. "It's a periwig."
"A periwig? That looks like one of those old-timey King Louis kinds of things."
Piers nodded. "Yeah. A periwig."
"Right."
"The whole belief behind the wig is that it's supposed to confuse devils by changing your appearance. Of course, the ancient people who believed this also thought that the world was built on the back of a giant emu."
"So, it's like on Halloween?"
"Well, that's more about scaring them away. This wig isn't scary, really."
"Oh god, Piers," said Floyd miserably. He took the wig from his friend and lifted the huge thing up to get a better look at it. "This is...this...this is worse than I ever imagined."
"There's still more things. Here..." said Piers. He picked up some kind of feathery item.
"What's that? It looks like a chicken costume."
"Yeah," said Piers.
"You want me to wear a chicken costume to school?"
Piers paused and pondered the question for a moment. "I wouldn't say I want you to. ‘Want’ isn't the word, really."
"I don't mean...anyway. What is the point of dressing like a chicken?"
Piers frowned. Floyd’s reaction to his tokens made him feel disappointed with himself. "Well, it's supposed to be a rooster. Rooster calls are supposed to drive away night demons by calling the sun, but I don't have a rooster costume, unfortunately."
"I am surprised you had a chicken costume, actually,” Floyd said with a little amazement. “Not many people would have one just lying around."
"There's also this," said Piers showing off another item on the bed. Floyd took a step forward and got a closer look.
"Is that a..." said Floyd. "A necklace made of chili peppers?"
Piers held up the necklace. "They're fresh. They might burn your eyes a little, I'm not sure. I went and bought them fresh a couple days ago, anticipating we would need them."
Floyd was dumbfounded. "I am supposed to wear a necklace made of pizza toppings?"
"Well," said Piers with a shrug. "It's really not any worse than the costume."
"That's...that's...I don't know, Piers. I don't know which...which is the one most likely to help?"
"Which one?"
"Yeah."
Piers shook his head. "Oh, Floyd, you misunderstood. You're supposed to wear all of them."
Floyd froze. "You expect me to wear a wig and a chicken suit at the same time?"
Piers stood up straight, ready to defend himself. "Well, I expect that you will want to do all that you can to protect yourself. I mean, we are talking about your safety and well-being. What could be more important than that?"
"A lot of things, Piers. I don't know. A minute ago I would have said nothing. Right now, I can think of several things more important than that."
"Listen," Piers picked up the chicken costume. "It's like donning a suit of armor. Every piece is vital for protection. You don't go into battle without your helmet, or your chest plate, you go into battle wearing everything, because one missing piece leaves you vulnerable, even if you are wearing everything else. Leaving out one piece almost makes the whole point of wearing armor moot."
Floyd sulked. "I don't know, Piers."
"I just want to help, Floyd."
"I know you do. I know. It's just..." Floyd paused for what seemed like a long while.
"It's just what?" Piers asked, breaking the silence.
"Hmm. It's just that this seems a whole lot to go through for something I don't believe will work."
Piers nodded thoughtfully. "I understand," he said. "I know it may not work. Okay, it's likely that it won't work, but at least we'll have tried, Floyd. Don't you think that's important? I do."
"Yeah, Piers, but..." Floyd was thinking of looking stupid in front of Peyton but didn't want to admit that.
Piers' face got serious. "Think of what we gain, Floyd, if it works? Isn't that worth a little embarrassment?"
"But what am I gonna do, Piers, if it does work? Dress like a chicken for the rest of my life?"
"I don't know, but if it works, we have a new starting point. We'll have learned something invaluable. Who knows where that could lead us?"
Floyd took a long breath, then looked over the wig in his hand. It was heavy, and he wondered how bad it would itch. The doubt he had about this scheme was evident on his face, but his friend's passion was undeniable. The look of concern on Piers’ face was genuine. It was kind of moving. "Okay, Piers. You talked me into it."
Piers clapped excitedly. "I knew it! This is going to go great, Floyd. Trust me. Even if it fails, we always learn something. Every failure is a victory! That's how I look at it. Every failure of ours is a win."
Floyd simpered, as uncertain as he'd ever been in his life. "This is definitely going to be my failure."
The name Floyd Piccolo started to work its way around the halls of Bowl Valley High School on the day he showed up in a strange outfit. His peers didn’t know what to make of the boy in the wig and chicken suit, an assortment that made the necklace of chili peppers around his neck seemed not worth noting. His twin brother, younger by several minutes, was nowhere to be seen around him that day. He had wandered away from Floyd at about the same time they came in view of the school. Some kids laughed at him, some kids laughed good-naturedly, some merely watched him walk by. One fact kept him from exploding in a fit of tears, though. It was a fact that his peers couldn’t know, and that they wouldn’t understand the significance of if they did.
FACT: Floyd Piccolo had walked all the way to school, after an ice storm, and had not gotten hurt.
No avalanche of snow had tumbled off a neighbors’ roof and buried him underneath. No snow blower had exploded near him, stinging him with sharp metal flecks. No hole in the earth had suddenly opened up and swallowed him like a goldfish down the toilet bowl.
Nothing had happened at all.
And for the course of that day, students walked past a chicken wearing a huge periwig hanging down past his shoulders. It was odd, at first, but people got used to it, and they eventually stopped staring and pointing. But there did appear to be a lasting effect. Someone uttered a phrase and Floyd Piccolo became almost instantly a household name. The phrase was Avoid Floyd.
As Avoid Floyd echoed in the hallways, the real Floyd bumped into someone he only saw rarely during a regular school day. It was his friend Peyton Flores. When she saw him, her jaw dropped. She beamed at him and threw open her arms. “I didn’t believe it!” she cried, hugging him lovingly. His expression changed to something more relaxed. “You are such a nut, Floyd!”
After the hug broke up, Floyd was a little giddy. About as happy as he’d ever been in his life. “It’s just a joke,” he told her.
“It’s great! I love it! I’ll see you in drama!”
It had been a long time, the first month of Seventh Grade to be precise, since Floyd had perused a lunch time menu. Avoiding it had been a lesson hard learned, and best not relived if it could be avoided. Even though he'd now moved across town to the high school, nothing had really changed. He was still Floyd Piccolo, and that meant that somewhere in there, hidden in the mashed potatoes and the glazed carrot coins, the goose was crouched and ready to pounce. This weighed heavy on his mind as he slipped through the swinging cafeteria doors. He paused a second, pondering strategy. Then, for the first time in two years, he got in a lunch line.
Lunch had changed since last he'd participated in it. In Junior High, it had been mostly what he called 'goop foods'. These were defined as any vegetable or fruit (or mysterious miscellaneous lump) that had been violently mashed, pressed, or smooshed into a sloppy mess and splashed onto your tray by some tired-looking lunch lady. After that, it was your responsibility to get it into your stomach. Right in the middle of the mush was, usually, a solid entree, including, among other things: pizza, hamburger, lasagna, or the much-feared turkey roll.
Here in High School, the food seemed not so lumpy. There were three different lines: American foods, international foods, and health foods. The choices were so numerous that much of the time wasted in line was spent making decisions. Instead of scooped goop, almost everything was already on paper plates, paper trays, or pre-scooped into square, single-serve containers. And there was a salad area in the center of the room where you got to assemble the salad yourself with plastic tongs. It all gave off the impression that things were orderly, and that you were safe. This was not true.
He felt worried for the children standing in his vicinity. So far, the goose only ever targeted him. Nobody had ever been caught in the perimeter of a Floyd disaster. Piers had been there in the bathroom when all of that had gone down, but he really didn't get hurt, just wet, and one can get wet anywhere. That comforted Floyd. But just because it never happened, that didn't mean it wouldn't. However, judging by past trends, whatever happened today would most likely be contained to him. That mostly ruled out projectiles, explosions, fire, or acid clouds. He would be on the lookout for food contamination, for sure.
Floyd set his tray down on the shelf and slid it reluctantly along. He grabbed a chocolate milk, then headed into the danger zone. Now, for the first time ever, he had his eyes wide open. Piers' numerous theories had raised his awareness. Floyd noted how amazingly similar “being aware” was to “being scared out of your mind”. What was he scared about, though? What could possibly happen that hasn't happened to him before? He'd been through it all. Well, the bathroom thing was kind of new. He supposed fate had been brainstorming some new ideas that day.
Floyd encountered the first challenge. A little sign said 'Breakfast for Lunch'. There was Biscuits & Gravy, Cereal, French Toast with Syrup, and Pancake Sticks. Pancake Sticks? Floyd had never heard of such a thing, and that made it unpredictable. There are a million ways sticks can hurt you, even sticks made of pancake, and Floyd knew them all.
He blew past breakfast and entered into a world of lunch foods. Fish Tacos and Cole Slaw. Fish Tacos! Are the lunch people out of their minds? Fish meant fish hooks! You think a hook can't make its way from the sea, through a processing plant, and into a spicy taco without being noticed by someone? Well, you're wrong.
Bacon-Cheese Pizza Bombs? Floyd didn't even dignify that with a sneer. How stupid did they think he was? Nobody used the word 'bomb' when naming a food because it couldn’t explode. Tuna Salad Sandwich? Fish again. Nothing had changed about fish in the last fifteen seconds, so it was still NO.
PB & Jelly Sandwich? This gave Floyd some confidence. There were factors that recommended this food. 1) he'd eaten millions of these, supervising their construction personally, and he was familiar with every step in the procedure. At no point in the making of a PB & J did one encounter heat, sharp edges, or poison. Now and then, one might use a cutting knife to spread the PB or the J on the bread, but to do so one would have to be screamingly insane. But there was a problem here that was a bit hard to judge. The sandwich, for some reason, was served in a brown paper bag, just like a bag lunch. This threw him. He picked one up, almost tempted. Then, for some unknown reason, perhaps it was nerves, Floyd started improvising. He yanked his phone from inside his chicken suit and held it out next to the brown paper bag. He quickly ran the random number generator. The results were a three and a four. Seven. No.
He set the bag down. A girl in a purple shirt immediately snatched it up. She was safe. If the bag was dangerous, and he didn't think it was, it would be only to him. He took comfort in that. The purple-shirted girl was in for an uneventful meal.
Floyd then encountered a wild card: Vegetarian Chili Dog. This stopped Floyd in his tracks. Vegetarian hot dogs were a choking hazard. Everybody knew that. That being said, it was still a pretty boring food, bland and tasteless, which always made him feel safer. He finally selected it. The rest of the selection process was undramatic, and he ended up walking away with a bowl of nachos. After he left the line, he stopped at the salad bar and served himself a salad. It was covered in enough dressing and cheese to make the lettuce seem sad and neglected in a sea of junk food.
Floyd didn't even look around for a good seat. He was far too distracted. Companionship was a low priority today. Today was about survival. He sat down at the end of a long table, sliding carefully into the chair, never taking his eyes off his daunting meal.
What was he doing? Was Floyd just being Floyd, or was this different? One can be tossed under the bus, but this was him throwing himself under the bus. A self-throwing-under-the-busing? He cringed. He already had geese and goats; he didn't need buses, too. Forget self-busing. He was done creating doom phrases. Wait. Was 'doom phrase' another new phrase?
He stabbed his plastic fork into his salad and raised it halfway to his mouth. The ranch dressing seemed proud and boastful, daring him to bite. His mouth opened. The fork was poised for entry. This was the moment his entire life had been building up to. It was the goatiest of all goats.
A scream exploded from behind him, and he twisted around, forgetting his goat-moment, dropping his fork back into the salad. Who was screaming? It was the purple girl, he could see her stand in front of her seat, her hands clutching her own throat, her face turning as purple as her shirt. Floyd could hear her gurgling from a distance. The girl’s arms went limp, and she crashed to the floor. Floyd leaped, zooming around tables, crossing the room in a second. When he got there, sprawled out at his feet was the student, as knocked-out as Floyd had ever been.
Floyd hugged himself. His worst nightmare had come true. He'd gotten somebody goosed. It didn’t get worse than this.