In Their Debt

by C. A. Fulwell

It’s seven-thirty in the morning and it’s already too damn hot in the parking lot.

My name’s Chingatu. Mr and Mrs McLean call me Chinny. Have done for decades, now. I drag myself over to the Managers’ Office and rap on the door. I knock on it real good–Mrs McLean’s on the early shift so I have to be loud, else I’ll be out here all damn day.

“What?” Sally McLean, Co-Manager of the Heritage Park Motel, has not mellowed with age.

“That you, Chinny? Get your bony little goblin ass in here.”

I do as I’m told. Always have, since the day Sally and Bill McLean saved my skin. Goblins have a code. It’s unbreakable. These people saved my life, so I am indebted to them in the manner of their choosing. Only stops if they release me, or when they’re dead. The former ain’t happening.

I pass right through the door without opening it–something I have always been able to do, same as the rest of my clan. “Mornin’, Mrs McLean.” She grunts, screws up her wrinkled little mouth and fixes me with a look like she’s chewing something nasty.

  “Damn it, Chinny; how many times? No magic in this office. Open the door like a normal person.”

I’m not a person though, am I, Sally?

“Sorry, Mrs M.” I am weary of her bullcrap already. “Only, Mr M said to keep the doors closed on account of the AC.” They had air conditioning installed in the office the summer before last—it’s more magical to me than any of my powers.

            I hail from colder climes, way, way up north; the baked humidity of North Carolina does not agree with me. But that’s where the McLeans took over the running of this motel after they saved my bacon, so that’s where I am—enduring contradictory communication from two cantankerous creatures.

Sally grunts, waves me off and turns back to her computer. “Well, Bill ain’t here right now, so I expect you to do it my way, Chinny. Clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” For a minute, neither of us say anything. The cooling waves of the AC are a fair exchange for having to be this close to Sally when she’s in this sort of mood. I could stay here all day. Goblins are patient.

She turns with a start and peers down at me over her glasses. “Chinny! What in the Sam Hill are you still doin’ here?” A silent sigh escapes my nose. Third time this month this has happened, Sally.

“Well, Mrs M, I was wonderin’ if you had today’s list for me,” I say, knowing full well she has the list of maintenance jobs. It’s right there next to the keyboard, in front of the six—no, seven—dirty coffee cups, and various mail that’s been pinned to the corkboard on the wall. Those letters sure have a lot of red on them.

Sally harrumphs. She wriggles a little in her chair, which creaks in protest, then snatches up the list and thrusts it in my direction. “Best get to it, Chinny.”

“Yes ma’am.” I take a look at the piece of paper, fold it and slip it in the pocket of my shorts. I’m not required to wear a shirt. Bill prefers my upper body, dark-green and hard as oak, on display for when I have to do the other part of my job. He says it makes the right impression.

Today’s list ain’t that bad: clean out the pool, trim the hedges, scrub the patio, and so on and so forth… Sally pipes up, “Oh, Chinny, I almost forgot. The people in Room 14 need to go. They haven’t paid, second day on the bounce. Make an impression would you, Chinny?”

“Right you are, Mrs M.” I don’t mind turfing folk out. It’s a chance to let off steam, get a little creative. We get squatters at Heritage Park now and again, plus those of ‘dubious character’ as Bill calls them, as well as people who straight up can’t, or won’t, pay. They all have to go.

I reach up to the handle and swing the door wide open. The sweltering summer heat smacks me right in the face. From behind me, Sally bellows, “Jesus, Chinny, you’re lettin’ all the hot air in! Do your hocus-pocus-thing next time and keep the damn door shut.”

My right eye twitches. “Yes, ma’am.” I step out and shut the door behind me.

This could be a real long day.

Sally wasn’t always like this. Back when she and Bill saved me from those bigoted assholes, she had a good heart and was fierce as hell in defense of those that needed it. I miss that Sally.

~~~

Fifty-three years later, I can still see how it went down, clear as day. Goblins are blessed with life spans far beyond those of human beings, as well as flawless recall of everything we’ve seen, heard and felt. Truth be told, it’s less of a blessing and more of a curse, more often than not. I’d been making my way north on Route 64, hiking, hitchhiking—whatever kept me moving—when it happened.

The four Humanity First boys had me bound to a tree at the side of the road. They’d gagged me with a rancid tube sock and tied me tight with a gold chain, on account of precious metal holding back my powers; where these mouth-breathing morons had learned this, I’ll never know—it’s not like they’d have read it in a book.

These meatheads, so convinced of humanity’s dominion over my kind, were taking turns hucking baseballs right at me, a sitting duck, hooting and hollering to one another all the while.

They weren’t too good at it–sure, they were strong, but not all that accurate—so they kept stepping closer and closer to the target. The first of them got good about ten feet away.

Now, goblins’ skin is tough and our skulls are pretty thick—but we damn sure feel pain, and our vital organs can’t take that sort of pounding forever. Those boys didn’t care. I was in a real bad way and they weren’t letting up; from what I’d seen in the back of their truck, it was only a matter of time before they stopped pitching and stepped up to bat.

            I’ll always relish the looks on their faces when the Buick screeched to a halt and Sally McLean stepped out the passenger door, a shiny Winchester 1912 cocked and ready in her hands. Those chicken-shit losers may not have been naturals at baseball, but they sure showed potential as sprinters.

When the Humanity First boys were out of sight, Sally and Bill cut me loose and laid me gently on the back seat. They patched me up, treated me real nice—nicer than any humans had ever done. They took me all the way down Route 64 and beyond, out of West Virginia and down into North Carolina, chatting all the while about this fancy motel Bill had inherited from some cousin or other. Said they needed my help.

Even if I hadn’t been bound to serve those who saved my life, I’d have gone with them.

~~~

I shuffle toward the shade of the motel proper. The Heritage Park Motel, much like its owners, is not what it used to be. I do what I can to keep it together, but the whole place needs a deep clean, a couple of coats of paint and new windows—ones that open more than an inch would be a good start. All of these things cost money, and money is not in bountiful supply just now.

Time was, I’d have hung up the red ‘No Vacancy’ sign six days out of seven, right the way through the summer and a fair way into the fall. Some days, I could barely see the water in the pool for all those happy families and flirtatious couples splashing around, and I had to refill the soda machine three or four times a week. Bill didn’t so much as hint at me kicking any guests out for a good thirty years.

Now, if we’ve got three rooms filled at any one time, it’s a minor miracle. I’m not one for finance, but I don’t know how the hell the McLeans can keep this place open much longer.

My feet have barely touched the shaded concrete when Bill booms across the patio, “Hey, Chinny!” Bill is ensconced in the largest of the poolside chairs. His once barrel-chested frame has gradually melted and reshaped under the pressures of aging, as well as being fuelled by an overabundance of beer and pie. He waves me over. When he lifts his beefy arm, there are sweat patches the size of dinner plates in the armpits of his gray t-shirt.

“Yessir, be right there.” I wander over. Bill tucks the dog-eared little notebook, which never leaves his side, into the pocket of his shorts. He grunts, and has to lean sideways like a capsizing ocean liner to manage this feat. What happened to you, Bill? He fingers his beard, white and bushy, while he talks.

“So then, Chinny.” He pauses, nods and looks around as if he’s never seen the place before.

“Sally done told you about Room 14, right?”

“That’s right. It’s on the list, Mr M.” Rivulets of sweat wend their way down my exposed back. My kind don’t burn in the sun, but holy hell is it hot. I don’t like it. Not one bit.

“Good, good,” says Bill. I know what’s coming. You want me to make an impression, right?

“Chinny, my boy, I want you to make an impression on these individuals.” There it is. Bill never used to be this predictable. Or this vindictive. “Sally and I can’t have people of the mind that Heritage Park is a goddamn free ride. We’ll be overrun!”

There are two cars in the parking lot. One of them is Bill’s.

I nod—I’m in his debt, after all. “I’ll think of something.”

“See that you do, Chinny. Before I let you go: can you attend to that oak for me?” Bill lifts his chin, red like the rest of his face, in the direction of the enormous tree in the corner of the motel grounds. It’s the source of much of the shade from the merciless morning sun; I cross my fingers that he ain’t looking to have it cut down.

“Attend to it? How’s that, Mr McLean?”

Bill grins. Gone is the warm, invigorating smile from days gone by. In its place is a thin-lipped, tight grin, almost a grimace, that starts and stops at the mouth—it stops well short of those big brown eyes. “Well, Chinny, you might just find some inspiration at the foot of that there oak. I’ll say no more about it!” He laughs. There’s no joy in it.

Bill throws his hands up and heaves himself from the chair. “Well, back to it!” He lumbers off in the direction of Sally and the AC. It’s been some time since I could name what it is that he’s so set on getting back to.

Duty-bound, I trek over to the oak tree. A niggling hum gets louder with every step I take.

I know what Bill wants.

~~~

Back in the peace and love days, before Humanity First and their ilk strengthened their grip on America’s foundations, folk at the motel used to say I was at one with nature. That’s just a fancy way of saying that goblinkind can communicate with the natural world—influence it, as a matter of fact. Time was, out on my lonesome, that’d be a pleasant way to spend the time: conversing with the birds, squirrels and so forth.

Evicting people requires something else entirely.

There have been some bad apples at the Heritage Park, more so in the last few years. We’ve seen more than enough nefarious characters, on the lam, who thought nothing of threatening an old lady to keep her mouth shut. Then there’s the squatters: entitled assholes who think the world owes them a living and a place to stay (making a fine mess while they’re at it). Not to mention all the narcotics abuse and the prostitution, some of which did not appear to be consensual. Bill and Sally’s dream had already been gutted by recession, and the cookie cutter chain hotels down the road, before it was blighted by people of the worst kind.

            Most that needed removing weren’t a fan of goblins to start with, even less so when I passed through their door with half a dozen cooperative cottonmouths in tow—or flooded the room with scores of excitable rats in the dead of night. They all got the message. They all moved on pretty quick.

One time, some disgusting reprobate spat right in Sally’s eye when she asked him for payment, then snatched the room keys and sauntered off. It took me a few hours to track down a gator and bring him on back for a conversation with the gentleman in question, but it was worth it. Sure, he may have lost a couple of fingers, but he received a vital lesson in decency and manners. I made an impression, just like I need to do today.

~~~

The yellowjacket nest thrums with life, tucked into the base of the oak tree. I don’t believe Bill’s ever given me this level of detail in how he wants me to clear somebody out before. But I am in his debt, so I will do as I’m told.

I make my expectations and intentions known to the yellowjackets—they won’t sting me. We have an understanding. A mutual respect. I work my fingers right around the wasps’ nest and prise it gently from the tree. There are that many yellowjackets inside that the nest vibrates in my hands. I would not want to be the people in Room 14 today.

The nest is damn near the same size as me. No matter. I’m strong enough to carry it all the way to the motel rooms without incident or complaint, even in this nigh-on unbearable weather. I watch my footing on the chipped concrete steps leading up the rooms; my influence over the natural world only extends so far, and dropping the yellowjackets’ home on the hard ground would not end well.

At least two voices are bouncing around inside the confines of Room 14, all high-pitched and rapid. I didn’t lay eyes on these guests when they arrived the day before last and I’m not afraid to say that I don't like surprises.

I set the wasps’ nest down and take a breath, so as I can see what I’m dealing with.

A little face is pressed against the glass. A girl. No more than six-years-old, I reckon. Black hair flows well past her shoulders. Her eyes are bright and she’s smiling at me like I’m the most exciting thing she’s ever seen. The sad truth is that I might be. She waves at me, then calls behind her in what sounds like Spanish. She turns back and waves again. She’s cute. A baby cries somewhere behind the little girl. I tell the yellowjackets to stay put.

An arm wraps around the girl. A young woman—her mother—I assume, olive-skinned and dark-haired like her daughter, throws the threadbare curtain to the side and looks out of the window. She locks eyes with me.

When she spots the nest, her jaw drops. She shakes her head rapidly, scoops up the girl and heads deeper into the room. She moves wearily on account of her belly being swollen. Must be six, seven months along by now. My blood starts to boil.

What in all creation drives a mother to a place like this? What was she thinking, coming here and not paying, putting her little girl, her baby and her unborn child in such danger?

She’s louder now than before, and seems to be talking without pausing for breath. I may not share her language, but I know that sound.

She’s praying.

The path in front of me is thick with questions: what good would it do, to hurt these people? Could I really live with myself if I harm this young mother, this tiny, innocent girl? What about the baby? The unborn child?

They could be running from anything. Or anyone. Why not help them? On top of that, goblins don’t exactly have the best reputation with humans—following through would only make that a whole lot worse. This family would hate my kind forever. If they didn’t already, that is. More ammunition for Humanity First.

How many more Chingatus would be tied down at the side of the road and used as target practice—or worse? How many wouldn’t have the likes of young Sally McLean and her trusty Winchester 1912 swooping in like an avenging angel to save their asses?

The little girl is crying too, now. It’s a piercing wail—goes right through me. The yellowjackets are restless; I can’t keep them shut in the nest all day.

The mother is repeating the same thing over and over: ¡Por Dios! ¡Por Dios! ¡Por Dios!

Enough.

Enough, Chingatu. The truth is plain as day. Has been since before I set the yellowjackets’ nest down.

It doesn’t matter what I think—about any of this—the little girl, the expectant mother, the baby. Humanity First and others in their image. Other goblins. It doesn’t matter one little bit. I am here for a reason.

I hoist the wasps’ nest onto my shoulder and step forward. I do what needs to be done. A goblin’s code is unbreakable. I am only alive today because of Sally and Bill McLean.

I am in their debt.