From THIRTEEN ROOMS
RIVER GNOME DANCE
Why the hell was I here?
Actually, that was the wrong question. The answer to that was simple. I was here because Git was here. The appropriate question should have been: Why the hell was Git here?
Point Mountain Resort near Phoenix, Arizona: a tiny oasis of activity surrounded by miles of rock, cactus, and (probably) poisonous lizards. Heat-tempered inhospitable land stretched out for miles in all directions, promising any unwary traveler only hunger, thirst, and a slow painful death. Of course, Highway I-10 provided easy access to the airport from the resort, but so what? Where else was the road supposed to go? Third sand dune from the left?
Besides, Git didn’t like flying and was unlikely to head that way. Even grounded, the little bastard had already proven himself extremely mobile and difficult to catch. It was sheer dumb luck this time that one of our office techs, while visiting family, spotted him in the city.
From that initial sighting, I tracked him to the hotel without too much difficulty. Git stood out when he finally raised his head from hiding, which was not really that surprising when you consider that Git was a River Gnome. And a pretty mean one, at that.
Most River Gnomes existed quietly around unpopulated rivers, lakes, or damp rain forests, keeping to themselves and avoiding people at all costs. They were communal, peaceful, and generally timid creatures. Gnomes only survived this long by staying unnoticed. If they ever allowed themselves to be discovered they would be wiped out by hunters, scientists, and Dungeons & Dragons freaks willing to sell their own parents to own a real-live magical creature. The Gnomes knew this. That’s why they all stayed out of sight.
All, except Git.
Somehow, a few years ago, this particular malcontent got it into his slimy green head to go exploring. He discovered in his travels that he had a taste for human luxuries, including tobacco, alcohol, and – of all ridiculous things – cheesecake. None of these items were exactly prevalent where he came from, so Git decided to live around people.
As I said before, Git stood out.
The biggest rummy to ever stagger his way up to a bar stool is eventually going to notice a three-foot tall River Gnome pounding back beers on the seat next to him. Git started a few riots and frightened a lot of people. At first, he was more of a nuisance than any real problem, but nine months ago his status changed dramatically and he made his first appearance on my radar. He was out on one of his forays for booze, and he killed a local police officer who made the mistake of trying to arrest him.
I was assigned his case the next day. The best way to catch a creature that isn’t supposed to exist in the first place is with a person that isn’t supposed to exist. That’s me. Well, me and about six other agents – I’m not sure exactly how many of us there are – and a couple dozen office staff that kept us properly funded and equipped. All of us were highly trained, top secret, and completely expendable.
So, when this problem arose that needed to be dealt with quietly, it fell squarely in my lap. My job was to remove Git from the human population. If I could capture him alive, I would. If not….
After taking the assignment, I got close to him a couple of times, but he managed to slip away before I could physically get my hands on him. After our last encounter, he disappeared completely for over a month, and I admit I actually started to convince myself he was gone for good. Six weeks passed without so much as a single sighting. I should have known my luck couldn’t hold forever.
Git was moving again, and this time I did not plan on losing him.
Which left me with my original question: What the hell was a River Gnome doing in the middle of a desert?
Especially at this hotel on this particular weekend.
When I arrived I was met in the lobby by a large, black bulletin board announcing something called an Oireachtas occurring at this location over the next three days. Turns out, an Oireachtas was some kind of dance competition. Dancers from all over the Western United States descended on this resort hotel, tucked away in its own private corner of Hell, to perform and compete in Irish dancing. I couldn’t tell exactly what they were competing for, however. Maybe they were trying to determine who was going to be cast in the next Lord of the Dance road show. (Thank you Michael Flatly for unleashing that particular plague on humanity.)
I made the mistake of asking a woman at the hotel about it, and she treated me to a five-minute scathing discourse on proper Gaelic pronunciation. Apparently – for anyone who might harbor the slightest interest – the word is pronounced ee-rock-tis. Not, as I so errantly thought, oy-reach-tas. Silly me. Once she finished schooling me in my ignorance, she went on to explain that it would be ten dollars if I wanted to go in and watch the dancers, and would that be cash or charge?
Not having any idea where – or if – Git would turn up, I paid my entrance fee and received a Day-Glo-pink paper wrist band, as well as a stern warning not to take it off or lose it lest I be docked another ten-spot to replace it. I smiled my best I’m-trying-to-be-a-good-sport smile and dutifully taped it to my wrist. I escaped through the back lobby doors, just past a bank of elevators waiting to take the hotel guests up to their rooms, and walked out into the open courtyard.
A wall of noise struck me in the face with physical impact. The yard teemed with people milling about a collection of umbrella covered tables and shiny metal space heaters (that seemed very out of place on an eighty-five degree day). Humanity packed the courtyard from one garish, yellow stucco building to the next. Sitting, standing, laughing, shouting; people swarmed everywhere. And they were all loud.
I took a slow breath to ease the adrenaline kick I’d just received and cast myself adrift into the shifting currents of Oireachtas attendees. (Oireachtites?) As I pushed through the throng, being jostled first one way then another, I scanned the crowd hoping to catch a glimpse of Git.
I waded to the half-way point through the courtyard and glanced back toward the hotel lobby. For the first time I really took notice of the people flocking about me. I was surrounded by hundreds of little girls, most of them under the age of ten, very few over sixteen, and all of them were either dressed in knee socks and short, garishly embroidered skirts, or else running around in undershirts and dance shorts. Every one of them had their hair curled into tight ringlets that bounced comically up and down when they moved, and they all wore more makeup than I had ever seen on any human being not directly affiliated with a circus. Hundreds of miniature, beauty-queen caricatures flashed past me, ricocheting off of furniture, walls, and each other in bright undecipherable patterns. I felt like I had kicked an anthill in some Lewis Carroll fever dream and got caught in the resulting Technicolor stampede.
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